The glad lady

Doña Martina and Paulette were going to Llanes with Don Juan to do some shopping, but Patty declined to accompany them, having spent all her money on blind beggars she said. The truth was she had become a little tired of Paulette. It was all very well when she was one of a number at the convent, but, as she told her sister, “a daily diet of Paulette palls on me. I didn’t mean that for a pun, Tina. It isn’t that I don’t like her, for I do, but I weary of her little screams and affectations, her material way of looking at things. She isn’t exactly heartless, but she is calculating like her shop-keeping ancestors, and she has small frugalities which drive me mad. Moreover I am not quite sure how sincere she is. I can’t talk to her with half the freedom I do to Perdita, who is so open-hearted and natural.”

“Then you are sorry you brought Paulette with you? I was wondering at the time if it might not prove a mistake, but you were so sure you wanted her and I knew there would be but few young companions here for you.”

“I’m not sorry she came, at the same time I shall not be sorry to see her go. Paulette for breakfast, dinner and supper during three solid months wears on one. If Cary Logan hadn’t gone home I’d much rather have had her, but Paulette was the only one available and so—. Please take her off my hands for a day, Tina, and I will freshen up my jaded sensibilities while you are gone.”

So it was that Paulette and Doña Martina went off together while Patty was left to the comfort of a quiet day alone. She spent her first hour very idly. It was such a satisfaction to be lazy, not to hear Paulette’s little heels clicking along the floor, and to know her solitude would not be broken in upon by “Ma foi, Patty, what are you doing? Shall we walk? Shall we ride to-day? Shall we study the Spanish? Are you not going to do somesing?” “And now I am going to do exactly as I please, just as the spirit moves me,” she told herself as she leaned on the railing of the galleria, and looked up and down the long white road: “When I get tired of staying here I’ll do the next thing that occurs to me.” Yet being naturally an energetic person, she could but plan what she would do. That morning she would loaf. In the afternoon she would take Guido and have a drive. Perhaps she would drive home with Perdita after the French lesson, and would come around by an old house she knew where she had seen an ancient knocker on the gate. She would like to have the knocker because Don Felipe wanted it. They said he always got what he wanted, but this time she would have the thing he desired, because Pepe, who lived in the old house, had promised it to her if to anyone. She knew of another thing which Don Felipe had not secured, but about this she kept her own counsel. Along the long white road a constant procession passed, wagons of the viajantes, droves of cattle for the market, a woman with a macona balanced upon her head, others with tubs coming from the washing place, a child with a bucket so heavy as to make it hard for her to walk steadily, burros with loaded panniers, gipsies, gallegos, blind musicians, peddlers. Patty watched them all, her thoughts following them on, or taking a leap to the rough country road down which she had so often galloped on her little pony. She had traveled so far, and was so absorbed in her thoughts that she was startled when a voice below her spoke softly, “Señorita,” and looking down she saw Perdita smiling up at her.

“I have brought you some brevas,” said the girl.

“Brevas! How fine. You know how I like them. I’ll come down,” and she descended the stairs to receive this gift of early figs. “It was good of you to bring them, Perdita.”

“Oh, but señorita, how good you are. Tomás has told me.”

“That is nothing. We must have a long talk, Perdita. Can you not stay with me to-day? I am all alone, for they have everyone gone to Llanes, even Tomás, and I believe I should have been a little lonely after a while.”

“I can stay if you wish it, yes, señorita.”

“Then come in. Bring the brevas upstairs and we will eat them there. It is fortunate you came this morning, for now there will be no one to interrupt our talk. This afternoon we can have the French early and then go for a ride.” She set the basket of figs on the table in her own room and settled Perdita in one chair while she took one opposite. “Now,” she said in a satisfied tone, “we shall enjoy ourselves. So Tomás told you that I had made a discovery. I only guessed it, Perdita.”

“Yes, señorita.” Perdita cast down her eyes.

Patty sat peeling the green skin from a breva while she watched the girl’s face. “Do you know, Perdita,” she began, “that at first I thought he might be flirting—how shall I say that in Spanish?—that he was making a coqueteria with you—and I was angry.”

“You are so good, señorita.”

“Oh, but I am not, for there was a time when I tried to make sister think I was flirting with Tomás myself. She thinks now that we are in earnest. Perdita were you jealous?” She leaned over and took the girl’s toil-worn fingers in hers. “Were you zeloso?”

“Of you, señorita?”

“Yes, of me.”

“I am afraid I was, señorita. There were many days after you came that I did not see Tomás at all, and I was very unhappy.”

“Of course you were, poor dear, but he couldn’t help himself; we all kept him so busy, and I must admit that I was the one who demanded the most from him. You see, Perdita, I didn’t know then about you, and I liked Tomás very much, not in the way you do, but as a friend, and I like him still, and shall do all I can for him and you.”

“Gracias, señorita, you are so very good, but—.” The lovely face took on an expression of sadness.

“What is it?”

“I know at last we must part. I try not to think of that mañana, for when Tomás is near me he assures me it will not be so, and I think only of the happiness I have. But it would be very wrong to marry below one’s station as he would do. I asked the padre if one would do right to marry beneath him, and he said no, though sometimes if there was no one to offend it might not be out of place. You see there is someone to offend. Don Juan it is, and how could I do him a wrong who has been so good to us, who has restored to my grandmother her sight? No, señorita, it cannot be, unless Don Juan were to say so. When you came I knew it would be a proper thing if he married the sister of his brother’s wife, so that there would be one happy family. I told him this and said I could never marry him; that was after I had asked the padre.”

“And poor Tomás believed you, I verily think, for I am certain that he tried for a time to do as you had suggested, that is to grow very fond of me.”

“Yes, he tried,” replied Perdita, with perfect honesty, “but he came back to me one day and said he, too, was very unhappy, and that the sight of me had put to flight all other thoughts. What could I do? What could I do then? I was so miserable, I could have died with misery before that, and when he said he could not love any other, ah, señorita, it was such happiness.”

“I think I remember the time,” said Patty slowly. “Well then, Perdita?”

“Then he said he would wait; it was all we could do. I have prayed Our Lady to have pity on us and perhaps she will, though if it is wrong, as the padre says, of course she would not. She could not allow us to do wrong, you see.”

“I cannot see why it would be wrong,” Patty declared. “You tell me you come of good family.”

“My mother did, yes, but of my father what do I know?”

“True, yet I am convinced it will all be well some day. You are young, both of you, and can wait. How old are you, Perdita?”

“I am twenty, señorita.”

“Just my age, and goodness knows I haven’t the slightest idea of marrying anyone. Even supposing you two could marry now, I am sure you would appear well. Dressed like a lady you would seem far more like one than many I could mention.”

“I resemble my mother they say, señorita. I do not look at all like my father, and I am told my grandmother was very proud of my mother’s appearance.”

“Perdita!” Patty suddenly had an inspiration. “Wouldn’t you like to see how you would look dressed like a lady?”

“Oh, señorita!”

“It would be great fun.” Patty sprang to her feet and opened the door of a clothes-press. “You are only a little taller than I, though I am more slender. Let me see.” She took down one garment after another and flung them on the bed. “There,” she said. “I think those will suit you. But first I must do your hair.”

“Oh, but señorita, I cannot allow you to serve me.”

“I’m not serving; I am only amusing myself.” She let down the wavy, rich, brown hair which fell in thick masses over the girl’s shoulders. Deftly she piled it up, giving it a tuck-in here, a pat there, then she stood off to view the effect. “That is fine,” she pronounced. “Now, on with these. I’ll hook you into them.” She slipped a soft trailing silk over Perdita’s head, pulled it snugly together, touched it off with a necklace and a pair of long gloves, which latter were a little too large for herself, then after another dive into a box brought forth a wide-brimmed Paris hat which she set upon the girl’s head. “Now you’ll do,” she announced. “You look perfectly stunning. Come into the other room and see. There is a long mirror there.” She ran ahead, Perdita following as best she could with the long skirt to which she was unaccustomed.

“There,” cried Patty, as they stopped before the mirror, “look at yourself and say that you are not as fine a lady as the best.”

Perdita half ashamed, half pleased, could but realize that the vision reflected in the glass was a charming one. The hat with graceful drooping plumes was becoming as the gown and the whole effect was beyond what she had ever dared to hope she could present.

Their fun was suddenly broken in upon by Anita’s voice announcing, “The señor Don Felipe, señorita.” A hot flush mounted to Perdita’s cheek. There was no way of escape, for Don Felipe was already upon the threshold. To Patty, however, the occasion presented only a further incident in the little comedy. With dancing eyes she led the shrinking Perdita forward. “Buenas dias, señor,” she said, “allow me to present you to my friend the señorita Gonzalez.”

Don Felipe made one step forward, “Dios mio!” he exclaimed as he took in the charming figure from head to foot, then, bowing low, he said, “at your feet, ladies.” But he did not tarry long, to Patty’s relief. He had but stopped to leave a book for Don Juan, he explained. He must go on. Yet all the time he remained, Patty caught him casting stealthy glances at Perdita who, with eyes downcast, sat without saying a word.

When the sound of horses’ hoofs was heard on the stones below, Patty looked Perdita up and down smiling the while. “I believe you have made a conquest, cara mia,” she said. “My faith, how fast he is galloping off. I should think he would go slowly and would look back often. How should you like to live in a palacio, Perdita, and eat from silver dishes?”

“Oh, señorita!” Perdita looked troubled.

“It would be fine if he were to select you after all. He would dress you up so grandly, and I should see you driving around in that great coach.”

“Oh, but señorita, Tomás—”