The glad lady

As if by common consent, Patty and Robert Lisle saw little of one another during the next few days. It was the season of the year when one fiesta was followed closely by another with a feria or two interspersed. The haying was over and this harvest was one which called men, women, and children into the field. Those too poor to possess a cow and cart, carried home their bundles of hay upon their heads, even the little children bearing as much as their powers would permit. It was not an infrequent sight to see grandmother, mother, and two or three children bowed under loads which nearly hid them from view. It was, therefore, not remarkable that a fiesta at the close of the haying harvest should be held in honor of the Madonna, who, for purposes best suited to her worshipers, was called Nuestra Señora del Henar, Our Lady of the Hay. As each little pueblo favored some special saint or Madonna, the country-side swarmed with gipsies, mendicants, halt or maimed, blind musicians and strolling players, all of whom were much in evidence whenever a fête or a fair was in progress.

Many were the tales told the Inglesas of miracles performed by the saints, tales which Patty declared were not more wonderful than those the nuns in France had related to her, and she in return would recount to Manuela or Anita or Consuelo the legends which she knew. In these they delighted, and she was looked upon as less of a heretic than had been supposed.

Especially did Patty enjoy Perdita’s stories, which had been told the young peasant girl by her old grandmother, whom Don Juan had treated so successfully, and there was scarce a day that Perdita did not appear, it might be with no better present than a bunch of wild flowers or a couple of new-laid eggs, but she always brought something. Don Juan, it may be said in passing, was acquiring such a reputation among the peasantry that he was obliged to set aside a certain hour in the day when he would receive his charity patients.

“I don’t see why he doesn’t hang out his sign and practise regularly,” said Patty to her sister.

“Oh, my dear, it wouldn’t be wise. A certificate legalizing him to do so would cost several hundred dollars and these poor people could never pay the fees he ought to ask. He would get nothing from most and those who could pay at all would think a peseta or two quite enough for a visit. Now, as it is, you see, they help out the larder with many a present, and in many ways make it easy for us. While Juan is here doing this special writing he’d better not practise regularly, for his book will be more profitable. When he gets quite strong again we shall see what is to be done.”

It was one morning just before the feast of the Hay that Perdita appeared with a small cheese for the Señor Doctor. Patty stopped on the way out. “Perdita,” she said, “I want to ask you about the gipsies. Are you in a hurry to-day?”

“No, señorita. But the gipsies have the evil eye and one must be careful, very careful. My grandmother tells me to avoid them.”

“Oh, but I want to see them. Did you never have your fortune told?”

Perdita hung her head. “No, señorita, but I should like to. One must have silver for them, you see, and silver is not so plentiful.”

“Tell me about your home. I should like to see where you live. Is it far?”

“It is perhaps two miles. We are not so badly off. We have our little house, some land, a cow, a pig, chickens. It is hard work for us to attend to all, but now the hay is in it will be easier.”

“Do you do all the work?”

“Most of it. The grandmother is getting old, yet she always is telling me I needn’t work so hard.”

“Why?”

“I do not know. She is mysterious sometimes.”

“Has she a hoard, do you think? Money saved?”

Perdita shook her head. “Of that I cannot be sure, but when a thing is needed there is always money for it. I have my Asturian dress, as handsome as any; it is of good stuff, and my ornaments, too, are not bad, my chain and brooch. Some day I hope I may have earrings of the old sort.”

“I noticed how fine you were the first time I saw you, and I said then you seemed superior to the rest. Your mother is not living?”

“No, señorita, she died when I was born.”

“And your father?”

“I do not know where he is. I have often asked my grandmother, but she does not like to talk of him. She tells me I have seen him, that my mother died a year after she was married and then my father took me in his arms and swore I should never come to want, and so I never have.”

“But how strange, if he be living, that he does not come to you.”

“I will tell you what I think, señorita. I think he has gone to America, to Cuba or Mexico, maybe, and that some day he will come back.”

“Yes, that might be very possible, so many do that.”

“It is what the señor doctor thinks, too, and so I look forward to the return.”

“How nice it would be to have him come back. He would, perhaps, give you fine clothes and build a nice house like other Americanos do who return to their villages. No doubt he is waiting to make a fortune for you. Of course you know his name.”

“Yes, it is Pedro. I was named Perdita because my father lost his wife when I came into the world. Perdita Gonzalez I am called.”

“Gonzalez is your father’s name?”

“No; I take my mother’s name. You know it is so done in Spain, at least the mother’s name is written last.”

“I remember that now. Then your father’s name is Pedro—what?”

“Pedro Ramon, my grandmother says.”

“You never write to him?”

“No; yet I can write, señorita, and read. I can embroider, too. That I do in the long winter evenings. I will bring you a piece of my embroidery.”

“You are too generous, Perdita, but I should like to see it. I notice that most of the Spanish girls embroider. I see them sitting in front of their doorways with their embroidery frames, and I like to watch them. Are you fond of reading? Perhaps we could lend you some books.”

Perdita’s brown cheek took on a slight tinge of color. “I have a friend who lends me books sometimes,” she said hesitatingly. “The cura will not always let me read them. He is very particular and there are but few books he approves. He says a woman does not need to read any more romantic and beautiful tales than the lives of the saints, but my friend says our good old padre is narrow minded and that while it used to be the fashion for women in Spain to be content with knowing little, to-day they are striving for knowledge, and many of them are so highly educated as to put to shame the women of other countries. I should like to be educated, señorita, but a peasant girl like me—” She stopped with an expressive gesture.

“You don’t seem in the least like a peasant girl, Perdita. Perhaps when your father comes home he will allow you to have a governess and to learn languages. If one knows languages and the literature of the various countries one is really well educated. Suppose I begin to teach you French or English. French would be more useful, perhaps. Would you like that?”

“Yes, señorita, I should like it very much, but—”

“You have not the time? An hour or even half an hour a day would do wonders.”

“It is not that, señorita, but I should not like to take your time.”

“Oh, my time is of no value, though if you feel that way about it, you can exchange with me and I will take Spanish conversation from you. Don Tomás is very good about helping us, but neither Mlle. Delambre nor myself like to call upon him too often. My brother-in-law says you speak very good Spanish.”

“Yes, señorita, my grandmother is particular that I should. She belongs to a good family; they have their coat-of-arms, but they became impoverished and, like many others, had to work in the fields. There is an old, a very old house which belongs to my grandfather’s family and one can see the old escutcheon in stone upon the walls, though the family are very poor now.”

“I can understand that. It is so in my own part of the country. There are many who before our civil war had wealth and have had to sell their fine old houses and who have to toil for their daily bread. How we have run off the track. I began to talk of the gipsies, and here I am forgetting all about them. Perdita, I want very much to have my fortune told, but I do not want anyone to know it. I think I could understand sufficiently well now, and if not you could explain afterward. Could you go with me to a gipsy camp? Is there one near by? Could we go without anyone’s knowing?”

Perdita thought over this for a moment. “Yes, señorita, I think I can manage it,” she said presently. “To-morrow, if you will go home with me, we shall pass a gipsy camp. It is not far. I will show you my embroideries after we have seen the gipsies. We must not be too late, for my grandmother does not like me near the camp late in the day.”

“That is a lovely plan, and you are very good to think of it. I will be ready by the time you come for me, and no one will be the wiser. Must you go now? Let me give you two or three French sentences to say over as you are walking home.”

Perdita obediently repeated the words, and Patty watched her tall, supple figure mount the hill behind the house.

But no one was told of the plan to visit Perdita until the next day when the peasant girl appeared, and then Patty put her head into the room where her sister was. “I am going home with Perdita to see her embroideries,” she announced.

“With Perdita?” said Doña Martina.

“Yes. She was here yesterday, and we had a long, interesting talk, in the course of which I improved my Spanish. In two months of steady study I have become fairly proficient, don’t you think?”

“You have certainly not wasted your time. Juan was saying yesterday that your progress was surprising. Well, I suppose there is no objection to your going with Perdita. I’d like to go myself, but I can’t this morning. How about Paulette? Have you asked her?”

“No, and she wouldn’t care to go. She isn’t interested in any embroideries but her own. Besides, I heard her say that Don Felipe would be here this morning, and had promised to bring a rare old missal to show her; she’d rather stay and see that, but I will ask her, though I know she won’t go.”

Having smoothed the way for her expedition, Patty started off with Perdita. They soon left the village behind them, and by one of the winding roads climbed the mountain. Once in a while the buzzing, droning sound of an approaching cow-cart reached them on the narrow way, but the slow-stepping cows always gave them plenty of time to move aside. “I used to wonder why they never greased their carts,” said Patty, looking after one which had just passed, “but now I know; it is because the creak serves as a warning to get out of the way.”

“It is not only that,” rejoined Perdita, “but the noise keeps the devils away.”

“I should think it would be a most efficient means of doing that,” Patty replied, laughing.

Near a little stream, leaping its course toward the valley, they came upon the gipsy camp. Their first knowledge of it was derived from the sudden appearance of three impish looking little creatures, who were dancing forward and poking out their fingers at a turkey gobbler, which they were challenging in some outlandish tongue. When he stretched out his neck and gobbled, making as if to run at them, they shrieked with glee and raced off, half in fear, half in bravado. The eldest was the ringleader, and was by far the most fascinating, Patty thought. Around her brown, naked, little body she had wound a strip of scarlet cloth; this she clutched with one hand, to prevent its dropping from her utterly. When she ran the scarlet ends trailed after her, discovering bare arms, legs, and thighs. Her black elfish locks hung around her face, and her burning dark eyes were full of mischief.

“What an enticing little creature,” said Patty, standing still. At the appearance of the two strangers the children first fled away startled, but presently she of the scarlet cloth returned and whined out a petition for a penny. “You are certainly worth it,” said Patty, in English, as she deposited a perrono in the dirty little hand. The child stared, showed her white teeth, dextrously tied the coin in a fold of her rags and ran off. The girls followed and presently a pretty woman came forward, walking with that peculiar movement of the hips practised by these gipsies and considered quite an elegant accomplishment. Dirty she was beyond words, but this did not disguise her beautiful face nor lessen the glory of her lustrous eyes.

Could she tell the señorita’s fortune? Cross her palm with silver and it should be done.

“I suppose I’d better make it worth while to have a fair fortune,” said Patty, opening her purse and handing out a two peseta piece, a larger sum than was expected, without doubt.

“Dame la mano, señorita,” said the gipsy. Patty held out her hands and the woman gazed at the rosy palm earnestly. “You have crossed the water,” she said at last, “and will cross it again more than once. A fair-haired woman is your rival, but she is a stranger to you. There are two men who desire to marry you. Like yourself, one comes from across the water. The other does not. He is small, dark and has wealth. I do not see great money for you, however, yet you will never come to want. You will not rise to great estate, but you will have happiness. You are of a merry, joyous disposition, yet it is hard to discover your true heart. You will love deeply and sacrifice much for that love. I see death which will affect someone near you.”

This talk of death scared Patty, who withdrew her hand. “That will do, thank you,” she said.

“It is a good fortune? Enough?” asked the gipsy.

“Quite enough. Now read my friend’s hand.” She produced another peseta, and before Perdita could expostulate had handed it over and Perdita was urged to extend her palm.

The gipsy looked long and intently, frequently following the lines with her dirty finger or raising her eyes to look searchingly into Perdita’s face, muttering sometimes to herself. “It is strange, very strange,” she said at last. “You are born in a peasant’s home, yet you come of good station. You are not what you seem. Yes, yes, the lover must hesitate, he cannot do otherwise; he does not know. Here is a death—oh, yes, that will change all. You will then be a lady and possess great estates. I see them everywhere; in the mountains, in the valleys and your lover—”

“Will he be true?” breathed Perdita through parted lips.

“He will be true. There is the cross of marriage for you, but death will come first. One who is near you will die—an old person.”

“My grandmother, maybe?”

“No, a man it is. I see many strange things, but a good ending. You love above your station and this love is a sorrow to you, but all ends well.”

The girls had heard enough and were ready to go, but their departure was delayed by swarming children begging for pennies, the inconsiderate display of wealth by the first little girl being too much for their cupidity. So it was with difficulty that Patty got away with a penny in her purse; indeed, she did give up all her pennies, reserving only the silver.

“What did you think of it, Perdita?” she asked, when they were fairly free from the itching palms. “Did you ever know such filth, and wasn’t the fortune-teller a beauty? Shall you tell your grandmother about what she said?”

“No, señorita; she would disapprove. Better say nothing. It is all foolishness of course.”

“Yes, of course—but—”

Perdita nodded. “I understand—but—”

They were both silent for a moment, then Patty said, “Do you think any of it could be true?”

“Some of it was true,” replied Perdita, crossing herself. “I shall have to confess it to the cura and I will do penance, yet somehow I am not sorry to have heard what she said.”

“Nor I. There was a great deal about deaths and things that I didn’t like; that seemed silly, I thought. By the time I have done with making wishes for inxanos and hearing fortunes from gipsies I shall be as superstitious as any old woman; I must stop it.”

They followed the road to the house of Perdita’s grandmother, a low white dwelling in the style of most, though better than many. It had balconies above, the patio below, the hay-loft at the side, the orrio a little beyond the house. This small grain house, peculiar to this part of Spain, stood upon four piles of stones, four or five feet high; on these were placed stone slabs to keep out the rats and mice. It was covered with a thatch of straw and added to the picturesque aspect of the little farmstead. The house was neat and clean and fairly well furnished. Old Catalina, with her black handkerchief tied over her head, was the very type of the ordinary peasant, and Patty decided that it was not from her grandmother that Perdita inherited her beauty. The old woman did not talk much, but Patty felt that she was closely scrutinized. Perdita displayed her beautiful embroidery and pressed one piece after another upon her guest, till Patty felt that she did not dare to admire, lest she be called upon to accept it all. She suddenly realized, however, that this was the Spanish form of politeness, and was as profuse in her gracious refusals as Perdita in her offers, so the matter was adjusted.

They walked back together to the edge of town, where Perdita left her visitor, promising to come the next day for a lesson in French. She had already learned perfectly the few sentences Patty had taught her and was eager for more.

Don Felipe was on hand when Patty came in and she felt that she was expected to listen to his little set speeches and flowery compliments for the rest of the evening. But that night, as she was leaning over the balcony looking at the starlight on the mountains, her sister came to her side. “What are you thinking about, Patty?” she said. “You haven’t answered, though I called you twice. Where is the letter you wanted to show me, the one from Uncle Henry?”

“I was wondering what was the color of Miss Moffatt’s hair,” was the answer.

“Miss Moffatt? Who in the world is she?”

“Oh, I forgot; you don’t know her. Never mind. Uncle Henry’s letter is on the table in my book of Spanish verbs.” She did not offer to get it, but stood leaning on the ledge, thinking, thinking long after the lights were out.