The glad lady

The gipsy was not far wrong in her estimate of the Glad Lady, “La Señorita Alegra,” as Perdita called her. She was more thoughtful than the casual observer gave her credit for being, and in spite of her gay sallies and pretended whimsies, there was, deep down in her heart, a steadfastness and loyalty which circumstance and experience would more fully develop. She had not the slightest idea of flirting with Tomás, and indeed their acquaintance was of the most sensible kind, in spite of the fact that the girl did her best to convey to her sister the impression that it was otherwise. Though Doña Martina had long held the position of mentor, she had not always exerted her authority with discretion, so that now, when Patty had left school, she rather resented the elder’s attitude and took the bit between her teeth with an intention of going her own gait. Even as a child she had rebelled against her sister’s attempts at coercion, once saying plaintively: “It isn’t that I don’t want to mind Tina, but it is the way she tries to force me that makes me disobey.” And in this case it was the way the law was enforced rather than the law itself which aroused Patty’s opposition. She would not have made Tomás unhappy for the world, and had long since discovered that she could not if she would, for she suspected that his heart beat fast at the approach of some other than herself. It was not Paulette, of that she was convinced, nor was it the handsome widowed daughter of Don Amable who brought a flush to his cheek and fire to his eye. In these last days Patty had discovered more than she was disposed to tell anyone, and the gipsy’s fortune-telling had but corroborated her suspicions. It was Perdita in whom Tomás was interested, and it was Tomás whom Perdita loved. She was so beautiful, it was not surprising, Patty reflected, that she should have attracted Tomás, and in those long months after his mother’s death, and before the arrival of his brother, he must have been lonely and it was no wonder he turned to someone and that the someone should be Perdita. The little village afforded few companions of the better class, the padre, the schoolmaster and his wife, and in summer one or two families who came up from Oviedo for a change of air, so unless he went to the larger towns near by, Tomás must seek such society as opportunity afforded.

As for Perdita, she was closely watched by her grandmother, and had no intimates among the girls of the pueblo. Living as she did some distance away, she had few chances of meeting, as the other girls did, her friends at the fuente or on the plaza. While all liked her, there was a little air of aloofness about her which prevented a too great familiarity, and she was called very proud.

Patty was not only tender-hearted, but romantic. Moreover, she appreciated less than one born under a monarchy, the differences in station, and she determined that so far as in her lay she would further the affair of Tomás and Perdita. She laughed a little to herself as she made certain plans. It would be great fun to mislead Tina by making her suppose it was entirely for her own ends that she lured Tomás off to take walks with her in order that they might meet Perdita somewhere along the way, or that she should urge him to join herself and Perdita in the little summer house where the daily lesson was had. Perhaps she realized, and perhaps she did not, that these daily meetings were golden opportunities for the pair, who had rarely seen each other of late, or at least had seldom met to have any word with one another.

It would be lovely, Patty thought, if it should turn out that she would eventually inherit something from that Americano father of hers. “I am sure no one could then object,” she told herself. “As it is, the Estradas are so proud that Juan would be shooting mad if Tomás suggested such a thing, and what a pity that the two brothers should quarrel just as they have been reunited. For my part,” her thoughts ran on, “I don’t see why Tomás hasn’t just as much right to marry out of his class as Juan did to marry out of his country.”

With these thoughts in her mind, the girl went singing down the steps the morning after her visit to the gipsies, pausing at the foot to give a gay “Buenas dias,” to Tomás standing in the doorway.

“Goodth morning, gladth ladthy,” responded Tomás. “You are look happy as a roses. You have been sleeping well, yes?”

“Very well.” Patty looked at him with a quizzical expression in her eyes and then laughed outright. It was so funny to be possessed of his secret and to have him in ignorance of her knowing.

“You are very gladth?” Tomás said inquiringly. “Something agreeable has happen-ed?”

“Yes, something agreeable is always happening, every day. Tomás, don’t you think Perdita is an uncommonly pretty girl?” She went nearer to him and looked up in his face.

He started, but immediately became composed and began slowly to roll another cigarette before he answered, “She is very pretty says everyone. It is not a new discovery, is it?”

“Oh, no, not at all, but she is really beautiful with those glorious eyes and that wonderful hair; then she has such a graceful svelt figure, so erect and splendid in a way. I never saw a girl I admired more. They say that in Andalusia one finds the most beautiful Spanish women, but surely none could exceed Perdita in looks. She is very intelligent, too, I find. Someone has been lending her books; I wonder who.”

Tomás did not reply at once. “The schoolmaster, Don Miguel, perhaps,” he said after a moment.

Patty smiled. She had her own suspicions, but it was evident Tomás was on his guard. She put another question. “Did you know she is studying French with me?”

Tomás was not to be caught. “Yes; so Martina said.”

Patty watched him run his tongue along the paper to seal his cigarette. There was a smile on her lips and laughter in her eyes as she said, “Oh, Tomás, Tomás, I am afraid that it is you Tina should bring to task for flirting. Aren’t you ashamed to play with poor Perdita’s heart?”

The hand which held the cigarette trembled so that the match went out. “Caracoles!” exclaimed Tomás under his breath.

“Snails!” cried Patty. “I always think that is such a lovely swear; it sounds so dreadful and means so little. I am wondering, however, if you intended it for me or the match.” She laughed teasingly. “I was thinking,” she went on, “that maybe you would like to join my French class. It would be useful to know French, you see, when you go to France to marry Paulette.”

“Paulette!” Tomás was taken off his guard, and felt himself in a mesh. He couldn’t be rude and run away; there was no one about and there was no excuse. “You don’t mind my cigarette?” He made the query lamely, for he knew she did not in the least mind.

“Oh, no,” was the answer. “Why should I suddenly conceive a dislike to tobacco smoke when I have been used to it all my life? You haven’t answered my question, Tomás. Should you like to join our class, Perdita’s and mine? Although I must say it seems rather tragic to ask you to study with Perdita in order that you may be proficient when you go to France to live.”

“I to live in France? Never.”

“Oh, but Tomás, Polly is a nice girl, not high-born, maybe, but her money would make you so comfortable.”

“Diablo!” cried Tomás. “I wish not be more comfortable. I am comfortable enough.”

“I shouldn’t gather so from your expression. You are so violent this morning,” Patty continued mildly. “I wonder what is the matter. You are usually so sweet-tempered, Tomás. Juan is the peppery one. Then you don’t want to study French?”

Tomás puffed at his cigarette and made no reply for a moment, then in an altered tone, he said, “Pattee, what is it you try do? Are you but torment me, or have you a reason for do this?”

“Nice sensible child,” said Patty, “you have at last arrived at a sane condition of mind. Come out into the summer-house and I will tell you.”

The little summer-house, clothed in vines, was a sure and safe retreat. No one would be liable to interrupt them here unless they were specially sought out, yet it was near enough to the house to observe any comings or goings. There was a long bench on one side, two stools on the other and a rude table in the middle, where merienda could be served. “You see,” began Patty, seating herself on one of the stools and resting her elbows on the table, “I know you can not visit Perdita openly on Juan’s account and for other reasons, and I am willing to help you two, but first I must be satisfied that you are not trifling. Perdita is too fine, too good for you to treat shabbily, to make unhappy, and I won’t have it. If you are just playing with her I shall make all the mischief I can, if by so doing I can put a stop to your philandering.” She was waxing very indignant as she considered that this might be the state of affairs. “You shall not make her unhappy,” she repeated.

Tomás gave a long sigh and gazed off with melancholy eyes at the blue mountains. “My dear Pattee, what can I do? My brother has just return to me in poor health, in nerves, in weakness. Shall I arouse the anger, destroy the health, make him unhappiness, and drive him from the home of youth by what I would do? I know too well his opinions, and so—we wait—that is all to do, to wait.”

“I understand all that,” returned Patty, “and I wish to help you, but only if you mean well, if you mean not to trifle with Perdita.”

“I mean well, the best. She is, as you say, so beautiful, so fine, so good, so worthy. I give her all the heart.” He spoke with emotion, stretching out his open palms upon the table.

“Then I will do all I can for you, Tomás, and it seems to me that as no one suspects the truth, it will be better if you two meet when I am a third, so that the surmise will be that it is I who am the attraction. I have an idea that Paulette has suspicions. She is very clever about such things, that Polly, and she may tell my sister. I am not sure that she has not already, for Tina was asking me some searching questions yesterday. I would rather she should think that you and I are having a desperate affair than that she should tell Juan and have him angry with you and Perdita. You understand?”

“Oh, yes, I undtherstandth.”

“Perdita must understand, too. I wonder—” Patty paused. She wondered if Perdita had been made to suffer in those early days when Tomás had been pressed into service every day and hour, and when there could have been no chance for the lovers to meet. She did not forget the little chapel with the figure of the girl kneeling before the shrine, the beautiful, unhappy, upturned face. Her intuitions told her that Perdita had been made unhappy because she believed that Tomás had transferred his affections to herself. She must know better now, or she would not be so friendly. “Unless,” Patty spoke out, “she is a saint, and I don’t believe she is quite that.”

“What are you to say?” asked Tomás.

“Oh, nothing. I was thinking aloud. Tomás, do you know anything of Perdita’s father?”

“No,” he shook his head.

“What do the people about here say?”

“They say he has gone to America to make a fortune for his daughter. They say he broke the heart when the mother of her is to die, and that he will not return till he have the richness to give this child of his.”

“If he should return with money, do you think that would make any difference in Juan’s feeling?”

“It is not the money; it is the family. The Estradas do not marry peasants, he has said so once very meaningly.”

“Yes, I supposed he would say that. Then, as you say, there is nothing to do but to wait. Perdita could not leave her grandmother now, anyhow, but later on, when Juan is quite well, you might go to America and take Perdita with you. Perhaps you could find out where her father is and go there. Why not? Mañana, mañana, yes, Tomás, this is a time when mañana is a wise thought. Meantime, I will keep your secret, for I like you and I am very fond of Perdita.” She held out her hand across the table. Tomás bent his head and kissed it. At the same moment Doña Martina paused in the doorway.

“So this is where you two are,” she said. “We have been wondering what had become of you. There is a feria going on near Ribadesella and you should see the people coming in with their droves of wild ponies from the mountains, and, oh, the cheeses! the odor of them fills the air. I am surprised you haven’t noticed the noise and clatter outside.”

“We have been busy talking.” Patty looked conscious as she made the excuse.

“Well, heaven knows, you have opportunities enough for talking, but you, Patty, can’t see wild ponies every day. Come up on the balcony with me. I have no doubt Tomás has seen ferias by the score.”

Patty followed meekly. Her sister looked at her sharply once or twice. After a while she put an arm around her. “Well, Patty?” she said.

“Well?”

“That was a pretty scene from the doorway of the summer-house.”

“Yes, I always did think that such a very pretty scene from that point,” returned Patty with a great show of enthusiasm.

Her sister withdrew her arm and led the way to the house without another word.

“Now she’s mad,” thought Patty. “But what could I do or say other than I did?”

There was no French lesson that afternoon, for the ladies were whirled away in Don Felipe’s coach to the feria, which, after all, was not much of a sight. A great many very dirty gipsies were much in evidence, this being the occasion for a great trading of horses, mules and donkeys; there were numerous booths for eating and drinking, strolling musicians trolled out their ditties, and dancing went on beyond the cattle pens.

Since the affair of the donkey, Patty had not shown much favor to the old don, who now turned his attentions to Paulette and received sufficient encouragement for Patty to wonder if her friend really would marry him if the opportunity afforded. Once during the afternoon, Patty caught sight of the yellow kerchief and silver ornaments of the pretty fortune-teller, but made haste to turn in another direction, desiring no recognition. She did not enjoy the afternoon very much, feeling something lacking, whether the presence of Tomás or someone else she would not question.

Paulette, on the contrary, was in high feather. She had taken pleasure in walking about with Don Felipe strutting by her side, and in seeing that they were remarked by so many. “They remind me of a little buff hen and a tiny Bantam rooster,” Patty remarked to her sister when they were following in the wake of the pair.

“You are always so severe on the poor little don,” said Doña Martina. “I am sure he can’t help being so small.”

“He can help being so deadly important. He always reminds me of that line in the Psalter, where it speaks of those with ‘a proud look and a high stomach.’ I never appreciated it quite so much as since I met Don Felipe.”

“But you enjoyed riding in his coach.”

“Oh, not so very much. I think Paulette enjoyed it more. I’d much rather have come with Tomás in the little cart and have driven my dear asnillo.”

“Oh, I suppose so. Anywhere so you are alone with Tomás.”

“Yes; aren’t you glad we should have become such good friends?” returned Patty heartily. At this juncture, Don Felipe paused before a booth, where he ordered refreshments, and Doña Martina had no opportunity of answering.

A couple of saucy Gallegos paused before the party to improvise ditties in praise of the strangers, a proceeding which always amused bystanders and one to which the Inglesas had become accustomed, so they were in nowise abashed in being relegated to high places or in being complimented as highly as flowery phrases would admit. They knew they would be expected to pay for the flattery and meantime it was rather amusing to discover how ingenious the singers could be.

When they reached home Tomás was absent, but he came in later and a significant glance passed between him and Patty, which was followed up later by the whispered question, “Have you seen her?”

“Yes,” came the answer.

“She understands?”

“Yes, and will come to-morrow.”

“It seems to me that you and Tomás have a great many secrets,” said Paulette that evening, when she and Patty were preparing for bed.

“Yes, it is nice, isn’t it, to have confidences with one’s sister’s new brother. I quite enjoy it, never having had a brother of my own. And have you no secrets, Polly?”

Paulette considered before she answered, “Not yet.”

Patty came over and sat on the arm of Paulette’s chair. “Would you really marry Don Felipe, if he asked you?” she inquired.

“Why not? He is a great match. My guardian would be greatly pleased.”

“Oh, dear, but do you love him?”

“Why should I? He is rich and no doubt would make an excellent husband. What more could I ask?”

“I suppose,” said Patty running her fingers through Paulette’s bright hair, “that it is enough for you, but it wouldn’t be for me. I should die, die, die.” She emphasized the words with a tap of her finger on Paulette’s head.

“I would not do that. I would live and very happily in that great palacio.”

“Which you pretended I was welcome to when I suggested Tomás and love in a cottage.”

“Ah, yes, but—Tomás—”

“What of him?”

“Has his mind set elsewhere. He has become distrait, that young man, and when he has not whispers for you he has eyes for someone else.”

Patty was silent for a moment, then with a sort of bravado she said: “Oh well, you will see. It is only a question of time. Meanwhile dream of your palacio and I will dream, too.”

“Of what?”

Patty would not tell, but before she went to sleep her thoughts wandered back to a box-hedged garden, the one of which she and Robert Lisle had talked. Where was he? Not a word of him since he bade them farewell and departed for Santander. “That chapter is closed,” sighed Patty, as she turned on her pillow. “I have presented a palace to Polly, a heart to Perdita, and there is nothing left for me.”