The glad lady

It was not long after Perdita’s departure that Tomás, too, left home to take a position in Mexico which had been secured for him by some friends of his brother’s, and with him gone Patty felt that she had lost her last young companion. The two had become fast friends and comrades, and with the utter disappearance of Robert Lisle, and with Perdita removed, Don Juan and his wife sometimes whispered to one another that perhaps, after all, the one’s brother and the other’s sister might find consolation in a mature affection in the years to come. “One so seldom marries one’s first love,” remarked Doña Martina, “and they are all so young, of course they will recover, especially as they are so entirely separated from the objects of their affection.” She had, nevertheless, written to her Uncle Henry Beckwith, had asked if any news had been had of Robert Lisle, and in time received the reply that at last reports he was about to go to South Africa with a party of Englishmen, and that nothing had been heard from him since.

South Africa! To Patty this might as well have been out of the world. She could no longer be called the Glad Lady, though her natural exuberance would often come to the front, yet her face had become more thoughtful, the girlish roundness was departing from it, and the knowledge of womanhood’s reality showed in the expression of the lovely eyes. She spent much time in the little chapel where she and Robert had last met, and would sit there in front of St. Anthony lost in dreams. If only she had not gone that morning to Perdita’s with the earrings. Such a slight thing to change one’s whole life, “The little more and how much it is—” When her thoughts had traveled over and over the same ground till they maddened her, she would get up and go out to Guido, who, in these days, was more petted than ever before. He had grown so sleek and fat that his former master would never have recognized him. Indeed, with his pretty new harness and trappings, Patty had taken delight in showing him off to Don Felipe, who could scarcely believe this to be the forlorn, scrubby little beast which the beggar had ridden. “So, you see,” Patty had said, “after all, it was a great bargain,” a fact which Don Felipe was obliged to admit, if unwillingly.

The old don came often, generally with a roll of drawings tucked under his arm. These would be spread out and much discussed, for they represented plans for alterations or decorations, and in them Patty took a lively interest, although she felt many pangs of sympathy for Perdita, lonely and homesick away off in Madrid, for thus far had she gone.

“This room would be charming in rose pink,” said Patty one day, when she had been going over some plans with Don Felipe. “She would look lovely against such a background with her hair and eyes.”

The old don gave a suspicious glance from his sharp eyes.

“Oh, you needn’t think you are going to surprise us all so very much,” Patty went on, the old mischief returning to her face. “I have pretty good reasons for believing our friend Perdita will some day grace your palacio.”

“And why?” The man looked down and nervously fumbled at the edge of the paper he was holding.

“Well, in the first place, I saw you were much impressed the day I presented her as the Señorita Gonzalez, and in the second place, I happened to see you one day when you were having an interview with her grandmother, and then, when it became apparent that you were fitting up your house for the reception of a young wife, it was not difficult to draw conclusions, was it?”

Don Felipe smiled. “Well, you will admit that I have shown good taste,” he remarked.

“Excellent; I never saw a more beautiful girl, and she is as good as she is lovely.”

“I believe that, otherwise—but now, since you have put this and that together so cleverly, you must let me thank you for showing such favor to her, and for permitting me to become acquainted with the beauty and virtues of the future mistress of my house. I have but one more request to make, and that is that you will respect my secret until such time as I may be ready to make it public. It is a little whim of mine to give a surprise to my friends at large.”

“You do not mind my sister’s knowing, do you? She already suspects.”

“No, for I am sure you are both honorable ladies, who can be discreet as well as silent when occasion requires.”

“You can depend upon us, Don Felipe,” returned Patty quietly. Poor Perdita, so there was no longer any doubt, and poor Tomás!

When Don Felipe had carried off his papers and his coach had borne him away, Patty sought her sister. “It is quite true, Tina,” she said; “Don Felipe has confessed that it is Perdita for whom he is getting the house ready, but he bound me over to secrecy, or, at least, he said you could know, too, but he trusted to us not to tell anyone. He was really very nice about it, and if it were not for Tomás, I should feel that Perdita need not be pitied after all, for from her point of view she will be making a great match.”

“Yes, there is not a doubt of that, and of course we can understand that he doesn’t want the subject made the talk of the province, as it would be. I quite respect his desire to keep it a secret. I am surprised, however, that he should be spending all this on his house for a bride who is unused to any such splendor.”

“That is just it, I think; he wants to dazzle her, and play up to his character of King Cophetua. Then, too, I think he will enjoy seeing her beauty in a proper setting; he has not an inartistic taste, that old don.”

“I suppose he has made us the recipients of his confidences because he is aware that we know few people, and that, as two foreigners, we would be less likely to noise the matter abroad.”

“Very likely that is it, yet I think he is really fond of us, in his way.”

“I think he was very fond of you, and maybe still is, in a certain way. I am sure it was only Perdita who could have cut you out.”

Patty laughed. “Well, it is too late now for any regrets, isn’t it? I wouldn’t look badly myself in that rose-colored room. Tina,” she went on after a pause, “suppose he should die, or Catalina should, before the two years are up, no one could force her to marry him, for Tomás told me she has sworn that she will never, never consent willingly, and that she will be true to him.”

“She knows, then?”

“She suspects, or at least only suspected at first. Don Felipe had been to the house two or three times, had talked to her quite as one on intimate terms, and he gave her a parting gift of a handsome jewel, so you see she had to believe it, though she has all along clung to the idea that it was her father in South America who was doing all this for her. Her grandmother insisted that she should accept whatever Don Felipe offered and became very angry one day and threatened to tell the cura when Perdita protested. She still believes that her father may prove the one hope on which she can rely to escape, yet as she does not know where he is, and the grandmother would move heaven and earth in order to further this marriage, I don’t see that there is much chance. Tomás told me most of all this. Tina, if any one of these things did happen, would Juan be willing to accept Perdita?” the girl asked after a pause.

“Oh, my dear, I don’t know. He was much cut up when he first heard of the affair, but since all has turned out this way he has scarcely referred to the matter again, for, indeed, there seemed no need to.”

“Two years—they have been in love with each other for two years,” said Patty thoughtfully.

“How do you know?”

“Oh, they have confided everything in me. It was after his mother’s death, and Tomás was lonely and for a time not well. Perdita used to come to his housekeeper with messages from her grandmother, and once when the old housekeeper was ill Perdita stayed to help her, and in that way the two became better acquainted, and so it began. Then he would sometimes, as if by accident, walk in her direction, or they would meet on the road when he had been to see Father Ignacio, and after a while they met more and more frequently, then one day a vaquero coming along said something impertinent to Perdita and Tomás was furious; that was when they found out how much they cared, and after that they would meet secretly, for they did not want anyone to talk about them. Tomás felt that Perdita’s reputation must not suffer, though all the time Tomás declared they must marry as soon as they could. No doubt they would have done so, if we had not all appeared on the scene. Poor dears, how unhappy they must be.”

“It is a pity, a great pity,” said Doña Martina slowly. “That is what comes of shutting oneself away from companions of one’s own class. If Tomás had met girls of the proper kind, he would have escaped this unfortunate attachment.”

“But the poor lad; he couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t leave his mother when she needed him, and was the only child left to her.”

“I know, I know,” interrupted Doña Martina hastily. “I am not blaming him, Patty. I am only saying it was unfortunate.”

“And I am sure,” Patty went on, “that if Perdita is good enough for Don Felipe to marry, she ought to be good enough for Tomás.”

“We won’t discuss that,” said Doña Martina. “I am sorry Tomás is still so unhappy. I have no doubt the poor boy is homesick, yet there is nothing to be done, I am afraid.” She was too tactful to suggest that they would probably recover from their present state of unhappiness, that they were both too young to mourn long, for she knew that Patty, at least, was still sore at heart. She looked tenderly at the girl, who sat there with listless hands in her lap. “Poor darling,” she thought, “I wish we could help her, but there is no healer except Time.” “Shall you go to Paulette’s wedding?” she asked presently.

Patty shook her head. “No, I shouldn’t enjoy it, and besides I want to be with you at Christmas. We haven’t had one together for two years.”

“We must try to make as happy a time of it as possible, then. Don’t look so hopeless, dear. You know that it isn’t impossible that we hear any day from Uncle Henry of someone’s whereabouts. He must write to his friends at Christmas time, so don’t be so downhearted.”

“South Africa seems out of the universe,” Patty made answer, “and then, too, there is Miss Moffatt; that is the worst part of it. If he turns to her there will be an end to it.”

“Yes, but we came to the conclusion that he must have been very decided about his intentions in that direction or else his grandfather would not have quarreled with him. We know they couldn’t be on good terms, else my letter would not have been returned in the way it was.”

“I have gone over all that times without number,” responded Patty wearily, “but just the same there is the chance of his making up with his grandfather on that very ground. That is the trouble and when we shall at last have heard it will be too late.”

There was nothing to say to this except, “But it may not be so. Let us look on the bright side and wait to see.”

“I am waiting. I have been waiting. It seems to me as if I must keep on waiting till I am old and worn out with it all,” returned Patty with a sudden burst of passion.

“You are too much alone,” her sister averred. “I quite agree with Juan that it would be best to winter in Paris. It may be a little more expensive, but I think it will be better for both of you. He is getting restless, and as for you, these lonely walks and rides are not the thing at all.”

“I’d really rather not go,” Patty rejoined. “I couldn’t take Guido nor the chapel, and they are such a comfort.”

Her sister shook her head. The girl must indeed be in a morbid state when these two things were all her solace, and she was more than ever decided that it would be best to make a change.

Therefore, to Paris they went, and if its gay scenes did not entirely satisfy Patty’s longings, they at least roused her to a more wholesome attitude of mind, so that the color came back to her cheeks and the shadows under her eyes lessened.

They stopped on their way at Poitiers in order to have a glimpse of Paulette, who, voluble and important, was absorbed in her coming wedding and displayed her trousseau with much satisfaction. She begged Patty to remain, but her refusal did not make for much disappointment, since Paulette’s own affairs were the main issue, and no one but her fiancé possessed powers to interfere with her content. He seemed a pleasant, commonplace person, distinctly bourgeois, but adoring his chic little betrothed, in whom he saw all the beauties and virtues of womanhood combined.

The finding of a proper apartment was at first a matter of interest, and Patty could but show some concern in this, then when it was finally decided upon, the getting settled and the becoming acquainted with the neighborhood served to take her thoughts from purely personal matters.

Perhaps the most interesting experience of the winter was the meeting of an English girl who knew the quiet Miss Moffatt, and who had met Robert Lisle. That there was no announced engagement, Patty learned to her satisfaction, that there ever would be was a matter of mere conjecture, for, said Alice Brainerd: “Beatrice has several admirers and you know it is ‘out of sight out of mind,’ more than once.” If this latter remark contained also a grain of discomfort, the other information overbalanced it, so that Patty was not quite so unhappy as she had been.

Once in a while came news from Kentucky, and sometimes there was a slight reference to Robert, but there was never any more said of his whereabouts, and Patty was as much in the dark as ever.

The English girl, Alice Brainerd, was a student at the art school where Doña Martina sometimes went to practise water-color, which she did rather well and of which she was very fond. She often brought Miss Brainerd home for a cup of afternoon tea and it was in this way that they all became good friends. Alice Brainerd came in one day with her sketch book, in which she had been making a pencil drawing at the afternoon sketch class.

Patty picked up the book and began looking it over. “Who is this?” she asked, pausing before the head of a meek looking girl with smooth hair and gentle eyes.

“Oh, that is Beatrice Moffatt. Didn’t I ever show it to you? It is not so very good, however.”

Patty studied the face long and earnestly. “She looks as if she were very good,” at last she said.

“She is good; very pious, you know, very gentle, yet she can be as obstinate as anybody. That meek sort of person often is. I don’t believe Bee has an enemy, yet she can be the most exasperating person I ever saw.”

“Yes?” Patty turned over the pages and suddenly the color rushed to her face. She closed the book hurriedly and went to the window. “Tea does make one so warm,” she presently remarked. Yet an irresistible force drew her back to the book. Now that she was forewarned she could continue her inspection, and she did so leisurely, beginning back of the page which had so stirred her emotions and inquiring who this or that one might be. “Who is this?” finally she asked after a seemingly indifferent glance at the drawing of a man in a Norfolk jacket with golf stick in hand.

“Oh, don’t you recognize that? It doesn’t speak very well for my powers of portraiture. That is Rob Lisle,” came the answer. “I did that the only time I ever met him. He came down to the Moffatts’ for the week’s end, and I was there at the time.”

“O, yes, I believe I do recognize it,” said Patty lightly, as she handed the book to her sister. “It isn’t bad, is it, Tina?”

Doña Martina took the book and gazed at the figure. Miss Brainerd had caught a characteristic pose and an expression as well. “It is really quite like,” she declared, then looking up she read an appealing look in Patty’s eyes, a look she could not stand. “Do you care for it, Miss Brainerd? I mean would you spare it? I’d really like to have a drawing of yours and you know we agreed to exchange sometime.”

“Fancy your liking it. I have later things that are much better,” returned Miss Brainerd.

“Well, you see it has the double advantage of being your work and of being the portrait of a friend, one might really say a connection. You may choose from any of these in exchange;” and she opened a portfolio of her own water-colors.

“I’m decidedly getting the best of the bargain,” maintained Miss Brainerd, turning over the sheets before her.

“If you feel that way about it, I surely don’t,” return Doña Martina lightly. “Then I may cut this out? Patty, there is a penknife on my desk yonder.”

Patty brought the knife, as she did so stooping to give her sister’s shoulder a loving pat. “Darling,” she whispered.

Doña Martina smiled a response. She knew what it would mean to the girl to possess the little sketch, and at the same time she could but regret a little her own impetuosity in securing it. However, she did not hesitate to hand the drawing to Patty after Miss Brainerd had gone and she received such thanks as robbed her of all regrets in the matter.

The little picture was a great comfort to its possessor. Somehow it seemed to bring Robert nearer to her; Africa did not appear such an unreal place with those eyes looking straight out at her below the level brows. Clear blue eyes they were, steadfast and honest. “I don’t believe it will be Miss Moffatt,” Patty soothed her fears by saying, “and if it is ever anyone else it will not be for some time.” So she took heart of grace and pinned the picture on her wall, where it performed the office of consoler during many days to come.

Of Perdita they never heard. Behind convent walls she was kept strictly and, as was expected, was allowed no intercourse with her friends. Paulette came up for her wedding trip, serene and triumphant in new clothes, and very self-satisfied with her big stupid husband, who could stand, smile, and admire, if he could do nothing else. The wedding being over the next matter of interest was the home, and of this Paulette chattered continually, till all were rather relieved when the two departed. There were a few days given to the sisters in the convent where Patty had spent her two years and where she as visitor was made much of by Sister Cecile and the rest. The peace of it all went to Patty’s heart, and she came back to alarm her sister by saying that she would like to be a nun, though credit must be given to Miss Brainerd’s sketch for quickly shattering that dream and after twenty-four hours no more was said of it.

So the winter days passed, not unpleasantly, and, at times, even gayly, while each day brought more buoyancy to the girl’s heart and newer hope to her future. Possibilities loomed up grandly at times, and imagination carried her across seas to a meeting which some day might take place.