The glad lady

Robert Lisle walked home under the great stars that evening with a new sense of restlessness at heart. He was rather a lonely young man, feeling something of the alien in his grandfather’s house, yet having cut loose from the ties which bound him to his native land. His grandfather did not hesitate to remind him that he was not a Sterling in name and that therefore he could not expect that inheritance which might have fallen to him had he been born heir to a son of the house. The old man was not unkind, but he was not a companionable person. He had given his grandson the education which befitted his station, had equipped him with the profession the boy preferred, and had allowed him a place in his home whenever he should choose to accept his hospitality. Having done this much he felt that he had fulfilled his duty, and asked little in return. On one subject, however, he had expressed a decided opinion: Robert should marry money, should choose a wife of good family as well. Robert had tacitly accepted the arrangement in not differing with his grandfather when the subject was brought up, but to-night the idea suddenly became distasteful. Instead of Miss Moffatt, whose neutral tints were of mental as well as of physical quality, he saw a merry laughing witch of a maid, whose eyes could be meltingly tender or full of mischief, who, while she appeared only a little less than a trifler, nevertheless, had depths as yet unstirred in her nature.

He had had glimpses of this underlying the exterior; he knew all that her gay laughter hid. He had looked below the surface. The glad lady! How well the name suited her. How well she would love once she had given her heart. But—. He stood still in the road and looked back over the long white way, then with an impatient fling he turned and trudged on. “What’s the use,” he muttered. “I can’t afford it. I must not think of it. A penniless, struggling fellow, what have I to offer a girl? No, I must not think of it. Moreover, there is the old don, and if not, the other fellow whom she evidently favors.”

Meanwhile Don Felipe had ridden away, and out in the patio Tomás was teaching Patty the jota, while Doña Martina called to them from above, “Come in, come in, you scandalous pair,” she cried. “Don’t you know it is past midnight? Haven’t you had dancing enough?”

“We have only seen it, we haven’t taken part in it,” replied Patty, halting in her practice of the step. “We’ll come in presently, Tina. There may never come another day like this. Why grudge us a few moments?”

“This isn’t to-day, as you call it; it is to-morrow.”

“Then consider what a triumph. It ought to be put on record. I have beguiled one Spaniard into catching up with mañana.”

“Paulette has gone in,” Doña Martina said after watching the two for a few moments, “and I am so tired and so cold waiting here.”

“We’ll stop at once,” decided Patty. “Poor old Tina, I didn’t realize I was keeping you up, and it does warm one up so to dance the jota that I forgot you might be cold. I am a selfish pig. I’ll come right in, dear. Buenas noches, Tomás. Muchas gracias. It has been lots of fun, hasn’t it?”

“Shocking! Awful badth form,” returned Tomás, laughing.

Patty with a giggle of delight at the reply, ran in to find Paulette already fast asleep, and the house dark and silent. She, herself, however, was in no mood for slumbers. Her blood was tingling with excitement of the dance. She opened her window and went out on the balcony. The flowering branch set there that morning was withered and drooping. Patty looked at it thoughtfully. “Poor lad,” she murmured, “and he hasn’t two cents to rub together.” She leaned over the stone railing. Tomás was smoking a last cigarette before going to bed; the scent of it was borne upward with the odors from the garden beds. “It wouldn’t be so dreadful to live in Spain, to be near dear old Tina to—” Her meditations stopped short. Tomás was just below. She leaned over and dropped one of the flowers from her hair. Tomás caught it and looked up. “Shocking! Awful badth form,” said Patty mockingly, and disappeared within.

In spite of a waking resolution to fix his thoughts unwaveringly upon the quiet Miss Moffatt, Robert Lisle felt himself unresistingly drawn toward the Estradas house the next evening. “I was lonely; I had to come,” he said as he shook hands with Doña Martina.

“My dear man, you don’t have to make an excuse for coming. You know you are always welcome,” returned Doña Martina.

Robert flushed up. “But I come so often,” he stammered.

“Why shouldn’t you? Aren’t we birds of a feather who should flock together in a strange land? I’d feel very much hurt if you didn’t come often. The girls will be down directly. That witch of a Patty has some notion about going to the sea-caves to-night, a pretty rough walk, but there’s no doing anything with her once she sets her heart on a thing. She insists that she wants to visit the inxanos.”

“And what are they?”

“Here she comes; she will tell you.”

“I’ve changed my dress and put on thick shoes, Tina,” the girl began. “Oh, Mr. Lisle, you must go, too. It is just the sort of thing you would like. We are going to see where the inxanos live.”

“I’ve just been asking about them. Who, or what are they?”

“They are the little beings who build the caves, tiny creatures who live underground. I am delighted that the Spaniards have tales of something besides saints; I had enough of those at the convent. There are not only inxanos but xanos, and they pronounce their name as though it were written Shaughnessy, though they use an x instead of an sh. The inxanos are a sort of genii; they give you things when you ask them, but they, alas, like the genii generally require you to do something in return. I have written three wishes on a piece of paper and I am going to deposit the paper in one of the caves. Don’t you want to make three wishes, too?”

“I certainly do.”

“Oh, I knew you wouldn’t despise my fancy. You mustn’t tell your wishes, you know, or they may not come true. The inxanos are very particular. Tomás has been telling me the most delightful tales of all these strange creatures. What I couldn’t understand, Tina translated for me. I must warn you of the xanos; they are water nymphs who haunt the forest streams and springs. They are a sort of Lorelei who charm the young men that happen to pass that way. I should hate to think of your disappearing head first into some stream to-night on account of the tricksy little things, so be very careful that you don’t linger.”

As Robert looked at her he thought it was not only the xanos who could lure a man from the path of duty, for try as he would to keep the image of Beatrice Moffatt before him, it was so cast into the shade by the sparkling face before him, that the image appeared but a shadowy ghost, a pale and intangible memory.

“I must warn you, too, of the huestos,” Patty went on. “They are the evil spirits who work mischief to the utter destruction of human kind. Now, come in and write your three wishes. I have at last persuaded Polly to do hers, but I had an awful time to work upon her imagination sufficiently. She is so unsentimental, that Polly. When I had persuaded her to do it, she couldn’t make up her mind what to write. I knew in a minute.”

“Will you tell me if your wishes should chance to come true?”

“Will you promise to do the same?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“Then—Oh, I don’t know—Yes, I will tell, but I must do so in my own good time.”

“And when will that be?”

Patty laughed and shook her head. “You mustn’t pin me down. Remember it was you who said some day, when I asked you to tell me who fastened the blossomy branch by the window.”

“If you will let me walk with you to the caves I will tell you this very night.”

“Anything to have my present curiosity satisfied,” said Patty, with one of her most saucy smiles. “Come in. Polly must have made up her mind by this time, though we are not going just yet, for Tomás has promised to sing us some of those weird Asturian songs of his. He is perfectly adorable when he sings them.”

Robert followed her upstairs to where Tomás was softly playing a few chords on his guitar. The three wishes were soon written out and the paper tucked away in Robert’s waistcoat pocket.

“Now for the music,” said Patty. “Those songs of yours are just suited to out of doors, Tomás, so I think we’d better go out on the balcony. Sing that funny little song about Perequito, and that other, Dame la mano, paloma.”

Tomás twanged out his accompaniments and began the curious little melodies of the province, songs which ended in a long upward soaring note, suggesting a call of the mountaineers. They were generally in a minor key and uncertain in measure, but even Robert Lisle was obliged to confess them charming.

“No one but a true Spaniard can give them perfectly or even acceptably,” declared Doña Martina. “All imitations are absolutely colorless. We had some friends in Paris who tried them, but they did not sound like the same thing. Very little of the Asturian music is written, but Tomás has heard it all his life and knows it without notes.”

“Now for the caves,” said Patty. “It will be slower walking at night, and we’d better start, don’t you think?”

The night was soft and still, the mountain tops were faintly outlined against a starry sky, but were lost to view where the winding woodpath was entered. Tomás carried a lantern, yet they often stumbled over the rough places. “It is such a foolish thing to do at night,” said Doña Martina, pettishly. “I do hope, Patty, that you will not undertake any more such adventures.”

“What is the use of coming to Spain if you can’t have adventures,” Patty made reply. “You needn’t come when I feel the call of the wild, Tina.”

“But I have to. What would people think if I allowed you to go around unchaperoned?”

“Juan could go with me; he wouldn’t mind in the least.”

“As if he had time to follow your erratic movements. This coming out to-night is a perfectly foolish thing. I don’t see the sense of pretending you believe in inxanos and such nonsense.”

“Oh, Tina, you haven’t any imagination, while as for myself, I always did love make-believe plays.” Leaving her sister to the guardianship of Don Juan, Patty hurried ahead with Robert Lisle, in entire disregard of Tomás’ beacon light.

“It isn’t dark under the stars,” she remarked to her companion.

“It could never be dark where you are,” he replied.

“What a nice speech, quite as if you were a real Kentuckian. Isn’t it now the time and place to tell of the blossoming branch? Who put it in the window?”

“I did.”

“For—Paulette?”

“For you.”

“Oh!” Patty suddenly felt a little afraid—of what? She didn’t stop to question, but in her inattention to the path, she unwarily stumbled against a stone in the way and gave a sudden cry.

Robert caught her hand to steady her, and he held it for a moment. A mad fire seemed to race through his veins and he said unsteadily, “I am not taking good care of you. I am afraid you have hurt yourself, when I would rather have been battered to bits than that you should feel the slightest pain.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” Patty answered faintly. “I think—I think maybe we’d better wait for the light.”

He released her hand and they stood silent till the others came up. “Oh dear,” Patty was saying to herself. “Oh dear!”

The caves were not much further ahead, for the splash of waves beating upon the sands was now heard distinctly. Doña Martina refused to cross the stretch of pebbly beach which lay between the wooded path and the sea. “Juan and I will wait here while you silly children go ahead,” she said.

“I’ve just thought,” said Patty to Robert, “that I’ve written my wishes in English. Do you suppose the inxanos understand anything but Spanish?”

“Genii ought to understand everything,” returned he. “Mine are in English, too.”

“Well there is some comfort in that, for if they can’t read mine, neither can they yours, and if you are denied your wishes so shall I be. There is the moon, Tomás; we shall not need the lantern. Leave it with Juan and Tina; it is much more romantic without it.”

They reached the caves without difficulty. Strange structures they were; great archways rising each side the opening to the beach and obstructing a clear view of the sea till one had passed under or beyond them. “What wonderful little people the inxanos must be to build such places,” said Patty’s companion as they solemnly deposited their wishes in a crevice of the caverns.

“We shall think them more wonderful if they grant our wishes,” she said. Then she touched Tomás softly on the arm. “Come,” she said to him in Spanish.

He followed willingly and they disappeared around the corner of the rocks. “Let us explore a little further,” said Patty. “I don’t want to go just yet. You know the place well, don’t you, Tomás?”

“Perfectly.”

“Then let us watch the moon on the water for a few minutes. If they get tired they can go on. They know it is light enough for us to find the way without the lantern. Do you mind, Tomás?”

“When you have given me the flower from your hair?”

“Don’t get sentimental. That was only a little joke. You see you are a sort of brother and I can ask you to do things because we seem both to be of one family.”

“Yes, that is it of course. You have no other reason?”

“Certainly I have not. Now, Tomás, don’t try to look heart-broken. You know it is simply pretense.”

“How do I know? I am not at all sure.”

“Oh, yes you are, and if you are not you must be, for I am perfectly sure we don’t want to spoil our fun by any silliness. Just peep around the rocks and see if they have started yet. If they have we will follow. I hope the inxanos will be good to us. You see I am doing this—I mean I wanted to wait here as a sort of propitiation to the inxanos, so they would know I am really in earnest. Do you think there could be any inxanos there in that cave? I see some little shadowy thing.”

Tomás fell in with her mood. “Shall we go see?”

“If you like. They do appear to people, you know.” This conversation carried on partly in Spanish and partly in English was not perfectly understood on either side, but each managed to get the gist of what the other was saying.

They clambered down the crags to enter the caves, a lofty aperture in the rocks, open on two sides. The shadowy form resolved itself into gray stone as they approached. They passed through to the pebbly-strewn stretch of sand on the further edge of which they had left Doña Martina. The four were standing there parleying.

As the two figures came out from the cave Doña Martina called to them, “We are going.”

“So are we,” returned Patty. “Don’t wait. We will follow.” And the party took up its tramp back through the woods by the winding stream.

Robert Lisle did not tarry when the house was reached, but cutting his adieux short at the gate, strode off down the road.

Patty looked after him pensively. “It was so romantic,” she remarked. “I wish Don Felipe had been there.”

“Patty,” her sister began.

“What, dear,” said Patty sweetly.

“I am displeased with you.”

“Dear me, what have I done?”

Her sister took her arm and walked with her to the house. The others had gone on ahead. “Don’t you know it wasn’t the thing for you and Tomás to go flocking off by yourselves in that way?”

“I asked him.”

“So much the worse; it was very marked.”

“And who was there to criticize?”

“Mr. Lisle and Paulette.”

“Oh, they don’t count. When you go seeking inxanos you can’t be conventional, Tina. There is no sense in getting vexed over a little thing like that. Wait till I do something really outrageous.”

“Which I suppose you are bound to do if you keep on.”

“Rather than disappoint you, I will try, my dear. At present I don’t feel the least ‘compuncted,’ as Tomás said to-day. He is getting on, that Tomás.”

“You mean—?”

“With his English. We begin to understand each other at last.”

“Oh, Patty, why will you?”

“What will I?”

“Flirt with Tomás.”

“My dear girl, just because I say we are beginning to converse intelligently you put that construction upon the matter. Such a suspicious old gooseberry as you are.”

“I wish I could believe there were no grounds for my suspicion.”

“There aren’t any. If I am to flirt at all it will be with Don Felipe. He is well seasoned and can stand it. Good night, beloved. Don’t lie awake thinking over my peccadilloes. They are really the most harmless in the world. Good night,” and Patty flitted up the stairway in the wake of Paulette.

“Did you have a pleasant walk home?” Patty asked her friend.

“No,” was the reply. “Your Englishman was as mopey as an owl. He knows no French and is none too talkative in English. Why did you permit him to walk with me when he does not know my language?”

“I thought a change would be good for him,” returned Patty.

“But not for me.”

“For you, too, perhaps. Why don’t you teach him French? He ought to know it.”

“No, thank you, I have all I can do with Spanish.”

“So I think have I,” responded Patty. “One would have to be very fluent to direct a houseful of servants properly, wouldn’t one?”

Paulette vouchsafed no answer to this, and Patty saw that she was none too well satisfied with her evening.