The glad lady

Spring in Paris, flower-girls on the corners, trees bursting into leaf in the parks re-created that longing which comes to young hearts who suffer, and coming in one day with her hands full of spring blossoms, Patty said, “Aren’t we going back, Tina? Think how lovely it would be to see the apple-trees in bloom, to watch the spring green creeping over the mountains. If we can’t be in Kentucky, can’t we be in Asturias?”

“Juan was saying the same thing to-day. Do you really want to go? Doesn’t Paris satisfy you?”

“Oh, no, it never could. You know I came only under protest, although I have liked it, and I am sure it has been better for me to be here, but I want to see Guido and the pigeons and all the dear warm-hearted people, even Don Felipe I wouldn’t mind seeing, and I am sure there will be much to talk about when we have been taken to the palacio to see what has been going on in the way of alterations. I wish Tomás could be with us,” she added after a pause.

“Poor boy, no doubt he wishes so, too. Have you heard from him to-day, Patty?”

“Yes, and he says my Spanish is improving. It was a good suggestion of yours that we should correspond, for I am sure it has helped me with the language, besides giving me something to do. I shall be very glib this time. Tomás can write quite a respectable letter in English, and sometimes almost clever ones. I really look forward to getting them.”

Her sister smiled. Spring was returning and should not joy come to life? When Tomás came back who knew what might happen? Maybe they would all go out to Mexico before the two years were over, and propinquity was such a factor in matters of the heart.

“What are you looking so pleased about?” asked Patty.

“Was I looking pleased? I was thinking about the letter, about Tomás and his English, and of the two or three words which were all he knew when we first met. Well, dearie, I am sure Juan will be only too glad to get back to his native heath. He can work better there, he says, and I am sure this book of his ought to be finished before fall. It has been hanging fire too long, and I know he will not object to the quiet of the country.”

Patty went to her room and began cheerfully to gather up some of her belongings to take away with her. She even sang a little tune to herself, and was glad, glad to think of the long carretera, of the purple mountains and blue skies of Spain, even of the creaking cow-carts and the lusty calls of the vaqueros. It would be good to see little gray Guido and to hear his blatant braying, to see Manuela’s welcoming smile, and to receive Don Felipe’s stale compliments would not seem hard. She wondered if the drops of wax from the candle before St. Anthony still remained as they had fallen that day so long ago, and if the winter rains had found their way through the roof of the old chapel.

All these things were discovered to be quite as she had left them when, a week later, she arrived with her sister and brother. “In Spain, at least, one is spared many changes,” she remarked to her sister, as she leaned over the balcony and dropped crumbs to the pigeons. “There are a few more pigeons, and the vines have climbed a little higher. I suppose Don Felipe will not have changed a tooth, nor have altered a hair. He will be coming as soon as he knows we are here.”

But no Don Felipe ever came riding that way again, for the day after their arrival Don Juan appeared with a grave face. “I have heard sad reports of our friend, Don Felipe,” he informed his wife and sister. “He is seriously ill.”

“Oh, dear, I am so sorry.” Patty spoke with genuine concern. “I really looked forward to his coming to-day.”

“I fear he will never come again,” said Don Juan.

“Is it as bad as that?” questioned his wife.

“It is very serious. He is in a state of coma and has been for some hours.”

The next day the great palacio of Felipe Velasco had lost its owner. The work was left unfinished where the men had been busy restoring the old rooms. The stuffs of rose and gold and crimson lay untouched, for the flowers which had climbed to window and balcony peeped in to see a still form lying with candles at head and feet.

“And Perdita?” said Patty, looking at her sister, when Don Juan, who had brought the news, left them alone. “What of Perdita and Tomás?”

“We can’t face that yet, Patty, dear.” Her sister shook her head sadly.

“But couldn’t I write to Tomás. It takes so long for a letter to reach him.”

“Wait a little and we shall be able to decide. It is a hard problem, dear, and we cannot hurry with it. Juan is too troubled over this loss of his friend to discuss anything else at present.”

So Patty was obliged to give in, though she yearned to tell the news. She felt really sorry that the old don had gone from them. She would miss seeing his coach driving up the road; she would miss, too, the sound of his cackling laugh over some joke of hers or her brother’s. She wondered who would live in the big house. She understood there were no very near relatives and she supposed the place would be shut up or occupied by strangers. “Poor old Don Felipe,” she sighed, “after all he didn’t get the thing he expected; who does in this world?”

“Ave Maria,” said Manuela, who had come in, “but it will be a fine funeral.” She crossed herself devoutly. “God rest his soul, but he was a great man, little as he was in stature. Shall you go, señorita?”

“My brother and sister will, of course, and perhaps I may, too.”

“It will not pass here,” continued Manuela. “You have not heard, perhaps, who will take the oblada.”

“And what is that?” asked Patty curiously.

“Oh, surely you must know, señorita. It is the offering of meat and drink.”

“And what is done with it?”

“It is taken to the priest after the true funeral when the mass is said. Sometimes the branches are planted, but the corn never, for it would not grow.”

Patty looked inquiringly.

“You do not know what is in the macona, perhaps, señorita. Under the cloth are two bottles of wine and the corn; the branches are plain enough.”

Then Patty remembered to have seen in the funeral processions a woman walking directly behind the bier and carrying a macona, or round basket, covered with a white cloth. Always a green branch stood out each side of the basket, and the two hornlike protuberances under the cloth were the bottles of wine.

“There will be meat, too, no doubt, in the macona on the day of Don Felipe’s funeral,” went on Manuela.

“And the corn; you said it would not grow, Manuela. Why?”

The woman shook her head. “No one knows, señorita, but it is well known that the corn of an oblada never comes up if planted.”

The next day Patty had a chance to observe the oblada at the funeral of the old hidalgo, but it received little of her attention, for, to the surprise of all present, a young woman shrouded in black was the chief mourner. “It is Perdita,” whispered Patty to her sister. “I cannot be mistaken,” and her conjectures occupied more of her thoughts than the intoning of the priest. Had Don Felipe married the girl after all? He must have done so secretly and have then sent her back to the convent to complete her studies; there was no other explanation. It was well Patty had not written the letter to Tomás, as she had at first been eager to do, for she could not have given all the surprising news. Her thoughts ran on during all the rest of the service, and at last when she came away it was with a determination to hunt up Perdita the next day.

This she attempted to do, but no Perdita was at the little farmstead, neither was old Catalina there, and those who were either could not or would not tell of their whereabouts.

The following day, however, a servant came with a note, only a few lines for Patty. Could she come on a certain day and hour if she were sent for? The note was signed, “Perdita.” There was no hesitancy in Patty’s acceptance and she waited impatiently for the message. It came with the arrival from the palacio of Don Felipe’s coach, which had been sent for the Señorita Patty.

“Now we shall know all about it,” said Doña Martina with satisfaction, as she parted from her sister. “I shall be eager to hear what you have to tell, Patty, so don’t stay any longer than you can help.” Patty promised and drove away in state.

As she was taken up the long avenue her thoughts flew back to a year prior to this, when she had first entered the place and had been greeted so ceremoniously by its owner. What changes in a year. Now it was Perdita who stood at the head of the steps. Not the peasant girl, Perdita, but a tall queenly lady in deep mourning, who greeted her warmly, but with the manner of one who receives an equal.

Work on the various rooms had been arrested, but the restoration in most was carried so far as to give a different aspect to the place, a fact of which Patty was rather glad. Through a long suite of apartments Perdita led her friend. In one of the rooms was sitting old Catalina with still the peasant’s black handkerchief tied over her head. “Grandmother, this is the señorita Pattee, whom you will remember,” said Perdita.

Patty stopped for a moment to greet the old woman and then was ushered into the next room, the door was closed and she was alone with—Doña Perdita Velasco de Gonzalez, was it?

The room was one of the suite which Patty remembered Don Felipe had set aside for the use of “my young lady,” as he always said in referring to her, and was the one which Patty had suggested should be upholstered in rose-color. The walls and floors were finished, the former in French style with garlands of roses, the latter of polished wood was covered with Persian rugs in soft dull tints. The old furniture remained and the black rafters.

Perdita drew Patty to a seat by the window which overlooked stretches of mountain pasture. “Are you surprised to see me here?” she asked.

“Not altogether,” admitted Patty. “Not after seeing you at the funeral. Of course, Perdita, we were surprised then, for though we knew you would eventually be married we did not know that you were already Doña Perdita Velasco de Gonzalez.”

A mysterious smile came to Perdita’s lips. “I am not married,” she said, “but I am the señorita Perdita Velasco de Gonzalez.”

“What do you mean?” asked Patty, in bewilderment, differences of Spanish titles being as yet a little unfamiliar to her.

“I mean,” said Perdita, “that Don Felipe was my father.”

“Perdita!” Patty nearly jumped from her seat in surprise. “How long have you known this?”

“Only for a very few days. I was hurriedly sent for to return home. The sisters hastened me off, one of them came with me. I went to my grandmother who was much agitated. ‘Your father is very ill,’ she said. ‘You must remain here with me till we see what happens.’ The next day Don Felipe died. He was unconscious and I did not see him, for which I am very sorry. My grandmother then told me.”

“But she had said your father’s name was Pedro Ramon.”

“She was right; his name was Don Pedro Felipe Ramon Velasco. She was afraid he might not acknowledge me, but yesterday the lawyer opened the will and he has left nearly all he possessed to me, his daughter, Perdita. There are some bequests to the church and to one or two friends. I will tell you of these later; but I am his acknowledged daughter and heiress.” She threw up her head proudly, then her eyes softened and she stretched out her hands. “Tell me of Tomás, and will they object now?”

“Oh, Perdita, how could they? Oh, my dear, I am so glad for you, so very glad. And after all, Don Felipe was laughing in his sleeve while he prepared his surprise. He admitted it was you for whom he was getting his house ready, and he asked us to keep it a secret which of course we did. I remember now that he never referred to you as anything but ‘mia señorita.’ How clever he was to fool us all, poor old Don Felipe.”

Perdita sighed. “I am sorry he did not live long enough for me to give him a daughter’s affection, yet, my dear friend, I believe if it had not been for you I might never have come to this estate, for do you remember that time you dressed me up and he seemed so aghast at my appearance?”

“Indeed, I remember well, and we thought it an old man’s admiration for a beautiful girl.”

“It was more than that; it was because I appeared to him as a vision of my mother whom they say I am very like. He truly loved her and carried her miniature with him to the day of his death. I will show it to you and you can see my resemblance to her. Would you like to hear how he came to marry her?”

“I would indeed.”

“She was a peasant girl such as I was, and one day he came to my grandmother’s home, being belated by a storm and his horse having gone lame. They took him in and my mother served him with the best the house could afford. Don Felipe was even then an elderly man, fifty or more, but he was much overcome by my mother’s looks, her sweetness and modesty. He came again and again, always with some excuse. There was a young man who wished to marry my mother and when Don Felipe found this out he was wild with jealousy. No one had ever thwarted him and he was bound to possess a girl so lovely as my mother. He went to my grandmother and told her if she would consent to a secret marriage that he would take her and her daughter to Paris and marry my mother there; that he would always love her and be kind to her, but he could not bring himself to acknowledge her openly. If my grandmother swore never to disclose the secret while he lived he would see that she always had enough and to spare. It was not difficult to persuade my grandmother who saw comfort for the rest of her days and who could see only advantage in honorable marriage with so great a man, so she spoke to my mother, who it seems had no great fancy for anyone else, and who was really impressed by the favor of Don Felipe. So to Paris they went and were married. My grandmother went with them and after the ceremony was safely over she came back home telling her neighbors that my mother was married to one Pierre Raymond and was living in Paris, so no more was thought of it. My mother and father lived in Paris a year and my grandmother said it was Don Felipe’s pleasure to dress up his wife and admire her in her fine clothes, so that no wonder he was so overcome when he saw me. At the end of a year my mother died in giving birth to me. My father was wild with grief and refused to even look at me at first, and told my grandmother to take me away and never let him see me again, so she took me home with her and I was brought up as you know in the little pueblo on the mountain.”

“And he never saw you in all those years?”

“Not to know me. My grandmother grew very fond of me, and was afraid when I grew older that he might change his mind and take me from her, so she never let him know I was the daughter on the rare occasions when she did see him, but led him to believe I was at a convent school, for the expense of which he paid. The money he gave her for this she kept for my dowry, she says, for she feared he would leave all his wealth to the church and she thought it but right that I should have whatever she could save from what he allowed for my support.”

“What a romantic story,” Patty commented. “I never expected to meet a heroine who might have come out of a book. I do not see, however, why your father did not recognize you sooner.”

“He was very strong in his opinions, as you may remember, and as my grandmother tells me. He never tried to see me and never came near me in all those twenty years. My grandmother thinks he was afraid to become fond of me lest I, too, should be taken from him and so he resolved it would be better not to permit me to enter his life. Yet, after he did see me dressed like a lady it seemed to him, so he told my grandmother, as if my mother had come back and as if it were she whom he was neglecting. Then he resolved to recognize me openly. He was very angry when he found out that I had not been sent to the convent school where he supposed me to be all that time, and he charged my grandmother with having grossly deceived him by pretending it was a child of my mother’s brother who was living with her. He said it was a disgrace that she should have allowed his daughter to work in the fields and my grandmother told him it was no more of a disgrace than that he should have neglected me for twenty years; so they had it. And at last it was agreed that I should be sent to school and learn to do as a lady should, so that when he took me home to him I need not make him ashamed of me. Have I improved, Patty? I have tried hard.”

“Oh, Perdita, I think you were naturally a lady, for blood will tell, yet I can see that you are more at ease; you have more savoir faire, and you speak less like a child.”

“My father said in his will that, in case of his death, he wished the improvements to be carried on as he had planned and therefore they are to be continued. I am glad, so glad that you have come back, for I should be lonely in this great house. My old neighbors will be shy of me, but you have always, always been good to me and have made a comrade of me, so I have at least one friend of my own station. And Tomás, you have not told me of Tomás? Ah, Patty, for his sake I rejoice in all this.”

“He was well when we last heard, though poor lad, he has been very homesick. Have you never heard from him at all, Perdita?”

“No, señorita,” the girl for a moment lapsed into the old phrase; “I was not allowed to receive letters at the convent, you remember.”

“I do remember, for otherwise I should have written to you myself.”

“Do you think he will come back, Patty? Do you think he will be the same? that he will not let all this come between us? He was willing to take me to his heart when he believed me poor and beneath him, will he be too proud, now I am his equal?”

“Oh, Perdita, why should he when each has proved to the other the sincerity of the love you feel. Why do you not write to him yourself?”

“Señorita, I am afraid. I cannot tell you why, but I am. He may have changed and then how pitiful to have offered myself to one who does not care.”

“I don’t believe he has changed in the least and I shall write to him myself this very night.”

“That is as the good friend you have always been,” returned Perdita, gratefully.

“Have you ever thought of the gipsy’s prediction, Perdita?” Patty asked after a pause. “It has come true, or very nearly so, in your case. It is very strange, isn’t it? Quite uncanny, I think. How could she have known?”

“I asked the cura and he said it was not so strange or mysterious as many other things. She no doubt had noticed me in passing, and seeing me in your company, thought that either I was dressed below my station or was above it in reality. She, too, had probably seen me with Tomás at some time. They are very quick-witted, these gipsies, and she may have perceived that we were interested in one another, so it was easy to guess that I would rise above a peasant life. As to the death, that comes to all and it was no more than a chance hit. She looked so hard at me that I think she saw by my face when the prophecies came near the truth.”

“No doubt that would explain much of it. As for mine, well, I do not think there was much mystery there, for it was easy to see I was not a Spaniard and an Inglesa would have to cross water. As for the rest—well, life is not over.”

There was much more to talk about and the two girls spent hours together, so that when Patty did at last return home her sister had grown so impatient at the long absence she could scarcely restrain her curiosity till Patty was safely indoors.

However, when Patty had told her tale her sister exclaimed: “Well, I certainly don’t wonder that you didn’t come home sooner. With such a tale as that to gather up I can’t blame you. It is like a thunderbolt from a clear sky. What a surprise Don Felipe left us as a legacy. Juan will be dumb with amazement.”

“And Tomás?”

“Ah, and Tomás. There goes my beautiful castle for you two, my dear. Since he has done so well out there in Mexico, I did hope you might yet become fond of one another.”

“We are fond of one another, and if I am not to have your castle in Spain, Tomás will have a palacio which is quite as good to have in the family, for of course, now—”

“Oh, of course, now—” responded her sister.