The glad lady

The guests from Ribadesella were a stately old gentleman and his widowed daughter, a handsome young woman picturesquely wrapped in the mourning veil it is the custom in Spain for women to wear. It combined shawl and head covering, being an immense square of soft veiling which was draped around head and figure with graceful effect. Don Tomás was not at home, Doña Martina was busy with household matters, Paulette was giving her attention to the young widow, Señora Campos, while Don Juan was entertaining her father, Don Amable, being assisted in the performance by Don Felipe.

“Bother!” exclaimed Patty, after a brief colloquy with her sister. “Strangers are here. Will you stay and see them, Mr. Lisle?”

“Shall I not be in the way? I think I would better go on unless I can be of some use,” responded her companion.

“Do stay,” begged Doña Martina. “Tomás is off somewhere. The cook has a toothache and has her face tied up with a black rag. She is invoking all the saints to come to her aid, but will not resort to any reasonable means of relief. I shall have to send Anita into the kitchen to help, so Patty, if you will give an eye to the table, Mr. Lisle can go up and help Juan talk to the men. A new arrival will make them forget to wonder why our meal is late.” She bustled off, leaving Patty and the young man alone.

“We have our orders,” said Patty. “Mind you talk nicely to Don Amable. He speaks a little English, I believe, and then there is the handsome widow whom you can try your Spanish on. What you can’t say in words you can make up in telling glances.”

“The prospect positively scares me,” rejoined Robert, pulling out his handkerchief to fan himself in pretended agitation.

“Is this yours?” Patty stooped to pick up a sealed letter, her quick eye taking in the superscription on which read: “Miss Beatrice Moffatt.”

Robert took the letter mechanically, held it in his hand and looked at it gravely for a moment. “Yes, it is mine,” he answered. “I meant to post it this morning, but there is no hurry.” And he slipped it into his coat pocket, then went upstairs.

“Now, who is Miss Beatrice Moffatt?” said Patty to herself. “I never heard of her before.”

The visitors from Ribadesella had come to invite Don Juan and his friends to the coming fiesta of Santa Maria Marina, it being the event of the season for the little seaport, and, having given their invitation, taken their meal, and made many high-flown and elaborate speeches, they took their departure.

“Don Amable is a nice old chap,” Patty remarked, “but I don’t think his name suits him with that fierce moustache of his. Are we all going to the fiesta, and when is it to be, Juan? Where is Tomás? I want him to tell me about Santa Maria Marina.”

“Tomás has been gone since morning,” Doña Martina told her. “I believe he said he was going up the mountain.”

“May I not be your informant on the subject of Santa Maria Marina?” asked Don Felipe.

“Oh, I am not so curious but I can wait for Tomás,” replied Patty, lightly. “I couldn’t think of troubling you about so slight a matter. I hope he was properly snubbed,” she said afterward to Robert. “After the way he behaved about the donkey he can keep his old palace and all that is in it, for all me. Stingy old wretch, very likely he’d beat his wife as well as his donkey, if he had a wife.”

Robert beamed. “Then there’s only Tomás,” he remarked.

“Only Tomás? What on earth are you talking about?”

The young man made no reply except to draw from his pocket a letter which he deliberately tore into small pieces, then he stooped down, picked up a stick with which he dug a hole in the ground, and buried the bits therein, covering them up and stamping the earth down hard. “Peace be to her memory,” he said with a smile as he brushed the earth from his hands.

“The quiet girl’s. Let’s talk about something else, the fiesta, for instance.”

“I’d rather talk about ‘the quiet girl,’ as you call her. Who is she? Miss Beatrice Moffatt?”

“How do you know?”

“I saw the name on the letter.”

“And remembered?”

Patty flushed up. “Well, it wasn’t so long ago that I saw, just before lunch, and one doesn’t have to have an unusual memory to recollect that far back.”

“But that it should have made an impression at all.” Robert beat the earth from the little stick he held and looked down thoughtfully.

“Oh, well, you see—” Patty strove for a proper excuse, “one comes in contact with so many Spanish names, you know,” she went on rapidly, “that when an English one meets your eye it makes an impression.”

“I see; a very good explanation. You wouldn’t be interested in Miss Moffatt. She is as unlike you as it is possible for anyone to be. She is like a neutral day, such as we had yesterday, while you resemble such a day as this, all sunshine and color and light. Miss Moffatt is a drab day, sky, earth, sea all one tint, no light and shade in it, not weepy, only quiet gray.”

“Such days are very restful sometimes.”

“Yes, but one wouldn’t care for them all the year round. Once in a while, perhaps. I enjoy Miss Moffatt sometimes; she is such a good listener.”

Patty laughed. “You shall tell me more of her sometime. My curiosity is satisfied for the moment. I see Tomás coming and now we can learn all about the fiesta.”

“We?”

“Yes, why not?”

“Oh, I shall be charmed to learn.”

“Where have you been, Tomás?” queried Patty, as the young man came up. “Gone all day, no one knows where.”

“I’ve been up on the mountain,” Tomás answered. “There is a little chapel up there. I know the cura very well, and I like to visit him sometimes. He has been wanting me to come and look over some figures of the saints and one of Our Lady; they are very old and the paint is quite worn off. He wished me to see if perhaps I could restore them.”

“And can you?”

“I think so; he will send them down.”

“Come into the garden and tell us about the fiesta at Ribadesella. We are all going. Don Amable and Doña Elvira have been here, and we are invited to their house to lunch. The town’s people keep open house, we hear, so the more the merrier, they said, or words to that effect. Come over to the chestnut tree, it is lovely there now.” They passed on and as they turned into the garden path someone came along the little road beyond; it was a peasant girl who stopped, looked, and then went hurriedly on.

At the same moment Tomás halted. “Perdita,” he said under his breath. “It is Perdita.”

“Is that Perdita?” asked Patty, over her shoulder. “She is such a pretty girl. We saw her at the chapel of our Lady of Pity this morning, but she did not see us. Does she live near there?”

“No, but she has a friend who does. Perdita lives in a village further up the mountain.”

“Then she is going home now, I suppose. She seems such a nice, ladylike sort of girl, quite unlike a peasant.”

Tomás made no reply, but presently launched forth into an account of the fiesta to which they were going. “Don Roberto accompanies you?” he said questioningly, looking at Robert.

“You are going, aren’t you?” Patty asked the young Englishman. “You are included in the invitation, you know.”

“Then I will go with pleasure.”

“And we shall have Don Felipe, I suppose. How about yourself, Tomás?”

“I? If you will excuse me, I think I will not go. I have seen the fiesta many times, and you will have an abundance of escorts without me.”

Patty thought he looked a little troubled. She wondered why. Could it be on Robert Lisle’s account? “Oh, if you don’t want to go,” she said aloud.

“This time I think I will not,” he answered without further excuse, and Patty made no protest. “If he wants to stay at home by himself, let him,” she said to herself.

An early start had to be made in order to take the only train which would reach the small town in time for the ceremonies. It was found to be a quaint little place, full of picturesque corners, archways, windows and doors. Just now it was ablaze with the red and yellow Spanish colors. When all else in the way of decoration failed a yellow bed-quilt was pressed into service. A handsome bed-quilt is a necessity in the eye of the Spanish housewife, and a yellow one is not to be despised since it lends itself to decoration on such occasions. Strips of red and yellow cloth waved in the breezes, banners floated from the windows, over the window ledges were hung anything red or yellow which was available.

“The church is scarcely worth seeing,” Don Juan told them, “but the town is and the little harbor.”

It was market day, although Sunday, and the square was full of market people, in vociferous tones crying their wares. There was no sign of a procession as yet.

“Shall we go to the church?” asked Don Juan, “or shall we go down by the quay and see what is going on there?”

“Oh, by all means the quay,” the girls decided. “There will be a second mass after a while and we can hear that.”

Down by the water’s edge the crowd was collecting, some leaning over the parapet to watch the flower-decked barges, some walking up and down, some standing in groups talking, rich and poor alike together. The little port was well situated and commanded a view of green hills, of a stretch of sandy beach and a bridge. Large and small crafts rocked on the waters of the bay; little rowboats plied back and forth.

At last there was a distant sound of music, the drone of a bag pipe, the tap of a drum, the blare of trumpets. Everyone rushed to the corner of the square. It was not a very imposing procession, this upon land; a few priests, and acolytes with swinging censers, with but a handful of followers, made up the body of those who attended the rude little figure of the venerated Virgin. This was borne to the water’s edge under a canopy. A decorated barge was in waiting. In this embarked priests, musicians and acolytes, the Virgin occupying a place in the center, and soon the barge moved slowly out.

“There is Don Amable,” cried Patty. And at the same moment her own party was recognized by the gentleman and his daughter.

“You are going with us on our boat?” said Don Amable. “Certainly, certainly you are. There is plenty of room. We have been expecting you.” And with as much haste as the occasion admitted, they were urged on board the boat which, taking its turn, was now waiting. A number of other guests were already seated upon the garlanded boat and these were presented with due ceremony. Everything moves slowly in Spain and it was some time before the whole line of some two dozen boats and barges, was ready to move. The larger crafts followed close in the wake of that which carried the priests and the sacred wooden figure; next came the smaller boats, the little rowboats bringing up the rear. Slowly, very slowly, the procession moved around the bay under the bluest of skies and on the bluest of waters.

“I wonder if the little plain old Virgin in her ancient costume enjoys all this,” said Patty to her neighbor, Robert Lisle.

“She looked very contented, I thought.”

“Yes, didn’t she? I should think she would look forward to being brought out of that dingy old church into the fresh air. Some of the boats are really very pretty. That one which is rose-wreathed is quite fetching, and there is another all green and white which I like. Imagine seeing anything like this on Sunday in our Puritan land. I have seen fêtes in France, of course, but somehow these appear even more festive.”

“I think one’s own mood has something to do with it.”

“That may be,” said Patty, thoughtfully.

Arriving at the little beach, mass was said in the open air, then St. Mary of the Sea was borne again to her shrine, her presence being believed to bring a blessing to waves and tide.

In spite of Don Amable’s urgent invitation, Don Juan’s party did not return with the others to the house, but took their dinner at one of the little fondas, promising to see their Spanish friends later. “I have almost forgotten where the place is,” Don Juan confessed. “Let Don Felipe take the lead.” And Don Felipe, bursting with importance, pompously strode on ahead with Paulette. After many turnings and twistings they paused before an old building, mounted two flights of stairs and found themselves in a plain little fonda where lunch was served after some waiting. A big dog which had followed them from the street stood with wagging tail in the entry.

Robert Lisle looked at Patty with a smile. “Shall we let him stay?”

“Oh do,” she made reply. “Perhaps he belongs to someone who lives here; at any rate he is doing no harm.” So Master Dog was allowed to remain. Patty stroked his soft ears and spoke a few words to him after which he lay down, evidently quite encouraged by what she said. As they came out of the comedor the dog was feasting on a plate of broken pieces which had been set for him by one of the maids.

“You see,” said Patty, “he does belong in this house. Probably he came with someone who takes his meals here.” However, when at last they were ready to go, the dog having consumed a second plate of food started to follow them again. “Oh, we mustn’t let him, must we?” said Patty. “He might get lost. Dear doggie, although we feel quite flattered by your evident favor we cannot take you with us.” She turned to the mistress of the house who was passing through the entry: “Your dog wants to go with us. Perhaps you’d better keep him with you for awhile.”

“My dog!” The woman’s face dropped. “Is he not yours?”

“Not ours; no indeed.”

“And I have ordered Maria to give him two plates of dinner,” she exclaimed. “The beast!”

“Oh, never mind,” cried Patty, hurriedly taking out her purse and handing out a peseta; “that will pay for his dinner.”

“We don’t grudge him a little food,” said the woman, softening before this generosity, “but to steal in that way and impose himself upon us.”

“But it was so clever,” argued Patty, stroking the dog’s head as he stood looking from one to the other with wistful eyes. “He must belong to someone; he is far too nice a dog to be a stray, and I think he showed great cleverness to come in here with us.” All this was said in rather halting Spanish, but the woman understood and having been well paid, quite agreed with the señorita that it was a very clever dog.

“If I didn’t believe he would find his master,” said Patty to her companion, “I’d ask Juan to let us take him home.”

“And you already have Guido.”

“Yes, but you needn’t be jealous for Guido; he is in clover. Juan is negotiating for a donkey cart, and then his work will begin.”

“I can imagine what desperate burdens you will impose upon him. I can fancy your always walking up hill.”

“Just you wait and see. Now I know how strong the burros are I am going to make the most of Master Guido, though of course, I shall not want him overworked.”

They had promised Doña Elvira to take merienda with her, and therefore all turned in the direction of Don Amable’s house after some sauntering about the town. The place was gay enough now; merry-go-rounds were in lively competitions, vendors of sweets and balloons drove a good trade, and every house appeared to have emptied itself upon the streets. The principal houses were preparing for illumination and were thronged with guests. At Don Amable’s quite a company had gathered, and at four o’clock merienda was served, chocolate and cakes, wines and fruit, nuts and various sweets. Did the Inglesas prefer tea or coffee it could be offered, but the Inglesas preferred the excellent chocolate to the probably poor tea, declined cigarettes and partook of the appetizing little cakes.

Soon it was train time. Don Amable would see them to the station. The other guests with many a “Vaya V. con Dios,” “A los pies de V.” and “Beso á V. la mano,” bowed them out and they took their way through the quaint streets and under gray archways to the station, leaving the little wooden Virgin to the quiet of the dim church, but Don Felipe in the society of the handsome widow.

Tomás was not at home when they arrived, but Guido’s muzzle was thrust over the opening in the stable door and he gave a welcoming bray as he saw them approaching. The little village, however, seemed very quiet and more than ever afar from the haunts of men, with its sheltering mountains to keep off rough winds and its winding stream to feed its gardens.

“It is not like old Kentucky,” Patty observed to her sister, “but, after all, it isn’t a bad place to stay in and one could give the home touch to the house in time.”

Doña Martina gave a little sigh. “Yes, so one can, and I hope to, but when I think of living here a lifetime and perhaps losing you, Patty, it seems rather a desolate outlook.”

“Losing me?”

“Yes. I know I must in time, though if it should happen to be Tomás, we could be together as neighbors and as then it would not be so hard. There are only two of us left, and it would be hard to part.”

“But there is Juan.”

“Yes, but dear as he is, one does like one’s very own with whom one has been brought up, whose ways are the same, who understands something else than a Spanish point of view.”

“I see,” said Patty thoughtfully.

“Juan felt the same, no doubt,” Doña Martina went on. “I know he pined for these mountains, this very little village. I didn’t understand then why it was that I couldn’t make up for it all; now I do.”

Patty went up and put her arms around her sister. “Dear old Tina,” she said, “we mustn’t live apart; it wouldn’t do for either of us. I may be a wretched nuisance and an awful tease, but you are my all, Tina dear, and though I seem to conceal the fact sometimes, you are the most precious sister in the world.”

Perhaps it was because of this talk that Robert Lisle saw no more of Patty that evening, and that she elected to go off with Don Juan for a walk, leaving Robert to Paulette’s tender mercies. It is at least quite sure that the young man, when smoking his final pipe that evening, contemplated writing another letter to the quiet girl, and told himself that memories were the easiest things in the world to disinter, provided there were given sufficient cause for so doing. He did not finish his pipe, and it was not to Miss Moffatt that he gave his last waking thought.