ONLY A DONKEY
For two or three days longer nothing was seen of Robert Lisle, but Don
Felipe was much in evidence and Patty was enjoying herself hugely.
First she was teasing her sister, secondly she was bewildering the old
don, thirdly she was annoying Paulette. Such a combination of effects
was greatly to Patty’s mind. She did not mean the least harm. She
was simply bubbling over with the joy of living. Little Don Felipe’s
pomposity gave her intense amusement; he was so candidly conceited,
had such a way of swelling out his chest and strutting around “for
all the world like a little bantam rooster,” Patty declared. He was
not hard-hearted except when the matter clashed with his opinion,
for opinionated he was to a degree, and no one could differ with
him without bringing forth a burst of indignant protest. This Patty
delighted to do and having made the little man “dancing mad,” as she
expressed it, would go off into shrieks of laughter, then he would
stalk away in would-be dignity only to return at the first word of
flattery. That Patty knew well how to put her limited vocabulary to
the best use, when it came to flattery, Tomás perceived, at first
sulkily and then with pretended indifference, turning to Paulette for
consolation.
There came a morning, however, when Patty felt that a respite from
Don Felipe would be rather an agreeable change, so she started up the
road toward a certain spot which Tomás had pointed out to her in one
of their walks. It was removed from the _carretera_, so that only by
certain twistings and turnings along narrow paths could one reach
the silent shrine of _Nuestra Señora de Piedad_, whose tiny chapel
closely embowered in the protecting branches of tall trees, stood at
an angle of the wooded ways. Unfortunately for Patty’s desire for
solitude, fate sent two knights her way and turned the current of her
meditations. Just as she was about to leave the _carretera_ she espied
a wretched-looking beggar beating his donkey, for in Spain a beggar may
ride and has not the least shame of his profession. It is more noble
to beg than to work and no disgrace to be poor. The tender-hearted
Patty, who was nothing if not fearless, stopped short at sight of the
poor beast’s affliction. “What are you beating that donkey for?” she
demanded fiercely.
The man muttered something under his breath and then whined out a
petition for alms in the name of Mary.
[Illustration: “‘WHAT ARE YOU BEATING THAT DONKEY FOR?’”]
“Not a _perrono_ will I give to a man who treats his beast so,” said
Patty. “I should think you would be ashamed to beg, anyhow, a great
strong man like you. What has your donkey done that you should abuse
him? He looks thin enough, goodness knows.”
“He is an obstinate beast,” replied the man; “he threw me off in the
dust.”
“I don’t blame him for being an obstinate beast with such a master,”
returned Patty with spirit, “and I am glad he threw you off, poor
creature.”
The man cast a baleful glance at her and fell to belaboring the donkey
with redoubled energy. “Oh dear, oh dear!” Patty wrung her hands and
looked right and left for someone to appear to whom she could appeal.
Then out of a cloud of dust suddenly issued a horseman, a little spruce
old man on a black horse. “Don Felipe!” cried Patty, eagerly.
“Señorita!” exclaimed Don Felipe drawing up short. “What is the
matter?” he asked as he alighted.
“This man is beating his donkey unmercifully, and will not stop.”
Don Felipe smiled. “Only a donkey, señorita. You are too
tender-hearted. The man is but a beggar and is not fit for you to
speak to. Here,” and he threw the man a copper which was received
obsequiously and with whining thanks.
“Won’t you tell him not to abuse his donkey?” begged Patty. “It has to
work hard and looks so thin.”
“What would be the use, my dear young lady? As soon as our backs were
turned he would do it again; it is the way of these people; they are
ignorant and one must make some difference between man and beast. No
doubt the man is likewise hungry. Come, my dear young lady, let us go
on toward the village and leave this wretched beggar.”
“I am not going to the village,” said Patty determinedly.
“And may I not accompany you on your walk? Surely you will not go far
alone.”
“I shall go a little further,” said Patty evasively.
“On an errand of mercy? Ah, yes, you are always like that, so
tender-hearted. Then I shall go with you. I cannot permit a lady to be
alone upon the _carretera_.”
But Patty did not budge, she simply looked at the donkey which the
beggar was preparing to mount. “If I could only buy him,” she murmured.
“Are donkeys expensive?” she asked.
“Very cheap,” Don Felipe told her. “But this is laughable. What would
you do with a scrubby beast like that? Fancy your sister and brother
when you should appear with your purchase.”
Patty made no reply. She had not a penny with her and was helpless in
the face of such superior scorn. Don Felipe waited with ill-concealed
impatience. It was not the correct thing for a young lady to do
such wayward things. It was strictly unconventional to start off
unaccompanied, in the first place, and he would see that she went home
properly escorted, even though it meant an exercise of his legs to
which he was not accustomed.
But this necessity was obviated by the approach of another actor in the
drama, for who but Robert Lisle should suddenly alight from Victor’s
cart which was on its way to Ribadesella.
“Oh, Mr. Lisle!” Patty ran toward him. “I am so glad it is you. I know
you will try to make this man promise not to beat his poor little
donkey. Such cruel blows and it is so thin, the poor patient little
creature. If I could only buy him I would do it in a minute, but I have
no money with me.”
“It is the glad lady!” exclaimed the young man. “My dear Miss Patty, I
have money with me. Would you like me to buy the _burro_?”
“Oh!” The lovely eyes, half filled with tears, cast him a grateful
look. “Please, please. I know Tina and Juan will let me have him, and
I have the money at home. I would be willing to go without anything if
only I may have him.”
“But there is no need to do that, you see. I should like nothing better
than to be the means of allowing him to exchange a hard master for a
tender mistress,” said the young man. He stepped up to the beggar
who cunningly perceived that it was to his profit to remain near by.
“_Cuanto?_” said Robert, laying his hand on the donkey.
“One hundred pesetas,” answered the man, thinking to drive a fine trade.
“Bah!” exclaimed Robert, expressively, as he took out his purse. “I
will give you forty and not a penny more.”
The man’s greedy eyes devoured the money, the sight of which was too
much for his cupidity, and he held out the bridle of the donkey with
one hand, extending the other for the cash.
Robert counted it out gravely, took the donkey by the bridle and led it
over to where Patty stood.
By this time Don Felipe had remounted his steed and with a supercilious
smile as watching the transaction. “Seeing that I am of no use I will
go on and leave you to follow with your valuable purchase,” he said in
an amused tone, and the next minute he was clattering along the road.
Patty gently stroked the donkey’s soft nozzle. “He will soon learn that
there is such a thing as kindness in the world,” she said.
“I wouldn’t put too much faith in his good qualities; they can be nasty
little beasts,” Robert told her.
“Because they are often so badly treated. I know this one will be good.
You must let me pay for him, you know.”
“No, if you refuse to take him as a gift I shall keep him myself, and
the beggar’s treatment of him won’t be a patch upon my abuse.”
“Tell that to the marines. I will take him if Tina will let me, but
very likely she will not.”
“Why should you not accept from me a scrubby little donkey, worth less
than eight dollars, as well as a silver cup, worth much more, from Don
Felipe?”
“Because that is a horse of another color, or rather, I should say
donkey. However, we shall see.”
“Do you want to take the burro home now?”
“No, I think I should first like to take him to the chapel of Our Lady
of Pity where I was going. I shall ask her to bless him.”
“Is there a need? He has already been blessed by a lady of pity, though
I could wish she would not confine her compassionate acts to donkeys.”
“There are donkeys and--”
“Donkeys, you would say. I admit that, but why be kind to one variety
and cruel to another?”
“When was I cruel?”
“Didn’t you promise to go to the cave of the _inxanos_ with me, and
then only perform half of what you said?”
“I kept my promise. I said I would go with you, but I didn’t say I
would come back in your company.”
“Oh, I see. It was the donkey in me which prevented my taking that in.”
“Please don’t cast reflections on the dear burros. They are really very
clever.”
“And I am not?”
Patty laughed. “I can’t say that when you are so quick to draw
conclusions. I had a good reason for not wanting to come home with you.”
“What was it?”
“I can’t tell you now.”
“Will you some day? On the day you tell me the wishes? By the way, when
are we to look for our answers?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I shall have to ask Tomás about it. He knows a queer
witch woman who tells him all sorts of curious things.”
“If I may inquire, how did you and the old don happen to be on the
_carretera_ in company with a beggar?”
“Oh, I was taking a walk. I met the beggar first. I was expostulating
with him when Don Felipe came up. He is a mean old curmudgeon for he
wouldn’t back me up about buying the donkey, and he hasn’t a drop of
pity in his veins for he only laughed when I asked him to order the man
not to beat his burro.” Her expressive face was very serious. “You were
very good, Mr. Lisle. I haven’t thanked you for coming to the rescue.
I might have known an American and a Kentuckian would do so. In fact,
I was sure of it. Perhaps I have interrupted your morning’s excursion.
Were you going far with Victor?”
“I wasn’t going anywhere in particular. There was a vacant seat in the
cart and I thought I would go on to Ribadesella, perhaps, and come back
by train. This is much more of an adventure. Your praise is very sweet
and mine is all the pleasure. One doesn’t have an opportunity every
day, even in Spain, to come to the aid of a lady in distress. Do we
turn off here?”
“Yes, there is the chapel just ahead. I see someone there. Let us wait.”
The tiny chapel boasted a portico under whose shelter wayfarers might
pause for protection from sun or rain, and incidentally invoke the good
offices of the Virgin who smiled from her little shrine beyond the iron
grating. On the stone floor of the porch a girl was kneeling with arms
widely outstretched and face upturned.
“It is Perdita,” whispered Patty. “I wonder what she is asking for.
Did you ever see such an earnestly beautiful face? I hope, oh, I do
hope, she will get what she wants. She looks as if she wanted it so
dreadfully. Now, she is going. Don’t let her see that we have noticed
her.”
But Perdita did not turn her eyes as she arose from her knees, and,
after making her reverence and devoutly crossing herself, she went in
an opposite direction down a leafy road and was presently lost to
sight.
“Now,” said Patty, “you can stay here and I will go and ask the Virgin
to bless the donkey.”
“Are you a Roman Catholic?”
“No, but Guido is.”
“Guido?”
“Yes, that is the donkey’s name, I have decided. It is the Spanish for
Guy and he does look such a guy, poor dear.”
She went to the chapel and knelt for a few minutes upon the stone
floor, then she returned to her companion. “It is so lovely here that
I always want to stay awhile,” she told him. “I like the way they
have shelter and seats for the weary on these porches. Fasten Guido
somewhere and come up on the porch. You can see the Virgin inside
there. She is a very plain little person, for she is very ancient, and
you can see she wears the Asturian dress. She seems such a nice, simple
sort of body that I don’t wonder the peasants love her. You see,” she
went on, after Robert had made his survey of the interior, “I have
a great respect for the Roman Catholics, for I have lived with the
sisters so long and they have told me many things. I know the stories
of the saints by heart. Sometimes they used to bore me dreadfully,
but after all I am glad to become acquainted with the legends of the
church for they explain a great many things to you when you travel. I
never dared to say how much I believed and how much I didn’t, but the
dear sisters had faith enough for both. While I was at the convent I
went always to chapel and am as much at home with the Roman Catholic
services as with my own. Of course, here in Spain, one must be a Roman
Catholic to be thoroughly respectable, but so far I have never had to
discuss the question. Isn’t this a peaceful spot?”
There was no disputing the peacefulness. Far removed from the highway
as the little chapel was, a stranger would come upon it quite unawares
in its sheltering green. A small stream went singing upon its way near
by; the birds called to one another from the grove; wild flowers nodded
in the breeze. The far off creak of a cow-cart droned out once in a
while from a distance.
“And you like it?” Robert turned to his companion. “You don’t find it
wearisome, with no gayeties, no city sights? You don’t miss social
entertainments?”
“Do you?”
“No, but I should think you would, glad lady.”
“That is where you are mistaken. Of course I like good times, and young
companions. I like pretty gowns and all the whirl of entertaining and
being entertained, but it isn’t everything. I’d far rather live the
life we used to have with those I loved in the dear old home, with the
neighbors we cared for and who cared for us, a visit to town once in a
while, part of a winter, maybe, and the rest of the year the freedom,
the peace, the joy of the country among green growing things, flying
along down the country roads on horseback, sitting in the garden to
watch the sunset, grubbing among the flowers. Oh!” She drew a long
breath. “It is all over, what is the use of thinking and longing for
what you cannot have back again? I shall try to be content wherever
I am. There is too much misery in the world for one to whine who has
enough.”
“That is a brave saying,” returned Robert, gravely. “The don and his
palace do not loom up so largely then?”
“Dear me, no.” She gave a little laugh. Robert looked at her
inquiringly.
“I am just thinking,” she said, “of what a good time Polly must be
having with me away. I badger her to death, and his donship, too. I
think he is disgusted with me for this morning’s actions.”
“He has poor taste, then. Do you think that Miss Paulette would like to
be Mrs. Don?”
“I don’t know. A girl like that doesn’t wish to be left behind in a
race. It may be she simply wants to prove her powers, yet, Polly is
rather a canny person, I am beginning to think. I am fond of her but
her French thrift does crop up once in a while and a practical marriage
would have no fears for her. What a nice comfortable time they are all
having, to be sure, Tina and all of them. The opinion that sister has
of me is appalling.”
“I imagine it perhaps, a case of John Smith’s opinion of himself, his
friends’ opinion, and the real John Smith. I fancy your real self is
pretty well hidden under an assumption of character which belies you.”
“Is that flattery or not?”
“You just said your sister had an appalling opinion of you.”
“Then I begin to see the compliment glimmering through the obscurity of
the setting. From certain signs which may be diagnosed as the pangs of
hunger I think it is time to go back. Moreover, I am sure Guido ought
to have a good and sufficient meal and be given a thorough cleaning. I
wonder why the Lord bestowed anything so ludicrous and at the same time
so heart-rending as a donkey’s bray upon the poor creatures, and is it
because of that they are always objects of derision?”
“That is a puzzling question, and one for which I doubt if any answer
can be found.”
“It will be hot on the _carretera_, but I have an umbrella and we can
keep in the shade wherever there is any. That is one of the advantages
of this delightful climate, no matter how hot the sun is one can always
be comfortable in the shade.”
They trudged back over the dusty _carretera_. Few people were
encountered, though the women were working in the fields and by the
singing stream a company of laundresses were still at work rubbing
their wash upon the stones.
Don Felipe had recounted the story of the donkey, so that Master
Guido’s appearance was not unexpected, but at Patty’s recital of the
tale her sister entirely sympathized with her and pledged herself to
petition her husband that Guido be allowed to become Patty’s property.
“He will not grudge the poor little creature food and shelter,” Doña
Martina said, “but whether he will think it proper for you to accept
him from Robert Lisle is another thing.” However, Robert made much of
the relationship, and upon these grounds Patty was allowed to accept
the gift. But that was not till the following day. Don Juan was busy
with guests when Guido arrived, so that Patty handed her charge over to
the gardener, who promised to give him proper care.