GIPSIES
As if by common consent, Patty and Robert Lisle saw little of one
another during the next few days. It was the season of the year when
one _fiesta_ was followed closely by another with a _feria_ or two
interspersed. The haying was over and this harvest was one which called
men, women, and children into the field. Those too poor to possess
a cow and cart, carried home their bundles of hay upon their heads,
even the little children bearing as much as their powers would permit.
It was not an infrequent sight to see grandmother, mother, and two
or three children bowed under loads which nearly hid them from view.
It was, therefore, not remarkable that a _fiesta_ at the close of
the haying harvest should be held in honor of the Madonna, who, for
purposes best suited to her worshipers, was called _Nuestra Señora del
Henar_, Our Lady of the Hay. As each little pueblo favored some special
saint or Madonna, the country-side swarmed with gipsies, mendicants,
halt or maimed, blind musicians and strolling players, all of whom were
much in evidence whenever a fête or a fair was in progress.
Many were the tales told the _Inglesas_ of miracles performed by the
saints, tales which Patty declared were not more wonderful than those
the nuns in France had related to her, and she in return would recount
to Manuela or Anita or Consuelo the legends which she knew. In these
they delighted, and she was looked upon as less of a heretic than had
been supposed.
Especially did Patty enjoy Perdita’s stories, which had been told the
young peasant girl by her old grandmother, whom Don Juan had treated so
successfully, and there was scarce a day that Perdita did not appear,
it might be with no better present than a bunch of wild flowers or a
couple of new-laid eggs, but she always brought something. Don Juan,
it may be said in passing, was acquiring such a reputation among the
peasantry that he was obliged to set aside a certain hour in the day
when he would receive his charity patients.
“I don’t see why he doesn’t hang out his sign and practise regularly,”
said Patty to her sister.
“Oh, my dear, it wouldn’t be wise. A certificate legalizing him to do
so would cost several hundred dollars and these poor people could never
pay the fees he ought to ask. He would get nothing from most and those
who could pay at all would think a peseta or two quite enough for a
visit. Now, as it is, you see, they help out the larder with many a
present, and in many ways make it easy for us. While Juan is here doing
this special writing he’d better not practise regularly, for his book
will be more profitable. When he gets quite strong again we shall see
what is to be done.”
It was one morning just before the feast of the Hay that Perdita
appeared with a small cheese for the Señor Doctor. Patty stopped on the
way out. “Perdita,” she said, “I want to ask you about the gipsies. Are
you in a hurry to-day?”
“No, señorita. But the gipsies have the evil eye and one must be
careful, very careful. My grandmother tells me to avoid them.”
“Oh, but I want to see them. Did you never have your fortune told?”
Perdita hung her head. “No, señorita, but I should like to. One must
have silver for them, you see, and silver is not so plentiful.”
“Tell me about your home. I should like to see where you live. Is it
far?”
“It is perhaps two miles. We are not so badly off. We have our little
house, some land, a cow, a pig, chickens. It is hard work for us to
attend to all, but now the hay is in it will be easier.”
“Do you do all the work?”
“Most of it. The grandmother is getting old, yet she always is telling
me I needn’t work so hard.”
“Why?”
“I do not know. She is mysterious sometimes.”
“Has she a hoard, do you think? Money saved?”
Perdita shook her head. “Of that I cannot be sure, but when a thing
is needed there is always money for it. I have my Asturian dress, as
handsome as any; it is of good stuff, and my ornaments, too, are not
bad, my chain and brooch. Some day I hope I may have earrings of the
old sort.”
“I noticed how fine you were the first time I saw you, and I said then
you seemed superior to the rest. Your mother is not living?”
“No, señorita, she died when I was born.”
“And your father?”
“I do not know where he is. I have often asked my grandmother, but she
does not like to talk of him. She tells me I have seen him, that my
mother died a year after she was married and then my father took me in
his arms and swore I should never come to want, and so I never have.”
“But how strange, if he be living, that he does not come to you.”
“I will tell you what I think, señorita. I think he has gone to
America, to Cuba or Mexico, maybe, and that some day he will come back.”
“Yes, that might be very possible, so many do that.”
“It is what the señor doctor thinks, too, and so I look forward to the
return.”
“How nice it would be to have him come back. He would, perhaps, give
you fine clothes and build a nice house like other Americanos do who
return to their villages. No doubt he is waiting to make a fortune for
you. Of course you know his name.”
“Yes, it is Pedro. I was named Perdita because my father lost his wife
when I came into the world. Perdita Gonzalez I am called.”
“Gonzalez is your father’s name?”
“No; I take my mother’s name. You know it is so done in Spain, at least
the mother’s name is written last.”
“I remember that now. Then your father’s name is Pedro--what?”
“Pedro Ramon, my grandmother says.”
“You never write to him?”
“No; yet I can write, señorita, and read. I can embroider, too. That
I do in the long winter evenings. I will bring you a piece of my
embroidery.”
“You are too generous, Perdita, but I should like to see it. I notice
that most of the Spanish girls embroider. I see them sitting in front
of their doorways with their embroidery frames, and I like to watch
them. Are you fond of reading? Perhaps we could lend you some books.”
Perdita’s brown cheek took on a slight tinge of color. “I have a friend
who lends me books sometimes,” she said hesitatingly. “The _cura_ will
not always let me read them. He is very particular and there are but
few books he approves. He says a woman does not need to read any more
romantic and beautiful tales than the lives of the saints, but my
friend says our good old _padre_ is narrow minded and that while it
used to be the fashion for women in Spain to be content with knowing
little, to-day they are striving for knowledge, and many of them are
so highly educated as to put to shame the women of other countries. I
should like to be educated, señorita, but a peasant girl like me--” She
stopped with an expressive gesture.
“You don’t seem in the least like a peasant girl, Perdita. Perhaps
when your father comes home he will allow you to have a governess and
to learn languages. If one knows languages and the literature of the
various countries one is really well educated. Suppose I begin to teach
you French or English. French would be more useful, perhaps. Would you
like that?”
“Yes, señorita, I should like it very much, but--”
“You have not the time? An hour or even half an hour a day would do
wonders.”
“It is not that, señorita, but I should not like to take your time.”
“Oh, my time is of no value, though if you feel that way about it, you
can exchange with me and I will take Spanish conversation from you. Don
Tomás is very good about helping us, but neither Mlle. Delambre nor
myself like to call upon him too often. My brother-in-law says you
speak very good Spanish.”
“Yes, señorita, my grandmother is particular that I should. She belongs
to a good family; they have their coat-of-arms, but they became
impoverished and, like many others, had to work in the fields. There
is an old, a very old house which belongs to my grandfather’s family
and one can see the old escutcheon in stone upon the walls, though the
family are very poor now.”
“I can understand that. It is so in my own part of the country. There
are many who before our civil war had wealth and have had to sell their
fine old houses and who have to toil for their daily bread. How we
have run off the track. I began to talk of the gipsies, and here I am
forgetting all about them. Perdita, I want very much to have my fortune
told, but I do not want anyone to know it. I think I could understand
sufficiently well now, and if not you could explain afterward. Could
you go with me to a gipsy camp? Is there one near by? Could we go
without anyone’s knowing?”
Perdita thought over this for a moment. “Yes, señorita, I think I can
manage it,” she said presently. “To-morrow, if you will go home with
me, we shall pass a gipsy camp. It is not far. I will show you my
embroideries after we have seen the gipsies. We must not be too late,
for my grandmother does not like me near the camp late in the day.”
“That is a lovely plan, and you are very good to think of it. I will be
ready by the time you come for me, and no one will be the wiser. Must
you go now? Let me give you two or three French sentences to say over
as you are walking home.”
Perdita obediently repeated the words, and Patty watched her tall,
supple figure mount the hill behind the house.
But no one was told of the plan to visit Perdita until the next day
when the peasant girl appeared, and then Patty put her head into the
room where her sister was. “I am going home with Perdita to see her
embroideries,” she announced.
“With Perdita?” said Doña Martina.
“Yes. She was here yesterday, and we had a long, interesting talk, in
the course of which I improved my Spanish. In two months of steady
study I have become fairly proficient, don’t you think?”
“You have certainly not wasted your time. Juan was saying yesterday
that your progress was surprising. Well, I suppose there is no
objection to your going with Perdita. I’d like to go myself, but I
can’t this morning. How about Paulette? Have you asked her?”
“No, and she wouldn’t care to go. She isn’t interested in any
embroideries but her own. Besides, I heard her say that Don Felipe
would be here this morning, and had promised to bring a rare old missal
to show her; she’d rather stay and see that, but I will ask her, though
I know she won’t go.”
Having smoothed the way for her expedition, Patty started off with
Perdita. They soon left the village behind them, and by one of the
winding roads climbed the mountain. Once in a while the buzzing,
droning sound of an approaching cow-cart reached them on the narrow
way, but the slow-stepping cows always gave them plenty of time to move
aside. “I used to wonder why they never greased their carts,” said
Patty, looking after one which had just passed, “but now I know; it is
because the creak serves as a warning to get out of the way.”
“It is not only that,” rejoined Perdita, “but the noise keeps the
devils away.”
“I should think it would be a most efficient means of doing that,”
Patty replied, laughing.
Near a little stream, leaping its course toward the valley, they came
upon the gipsy camp. Their first knowledge of it was derived from the
sudden appearance of three impish looking little creatures, who were
dancing forward and poking out their fingers at a turkey gobbler, which
they were challenging in some outlandish tongue. When he stretched out
his neck and gobbled, making as if to run at them, they shrieked with
glee and raced off, half in fear, half in bravado. The eldest was the
ringleader, and was by far the most fascinating, Patty thought. Around
her brown, naked, little body she had wound a strip of scarlet cloth;
this she clutched with one hand, to prevent its dropping from her
utterly. When she ran the scarlet ends trailed after her, discovering
bare arms, legs, and thighs. Her black elfish locks hung around her
face, and her burning dark eyes were full of mischief.
“What an enticing little creature,” said Patty, standing still. At
the appearance of the two strangers the children first fled away
startled, but presently she of the scarlet cloth returned and whined
out a petition for a penny. “You are certainly worth it,” said Patty,
in English, as she deposited a _perrono_ in the dirty little hand.
The child stared, showed her white teeth, dextrously tied the coin
in a fold of her rags and ran off. The girls followed and presently
a pretty woman came forward, walking with that peculiar movement of
the hips practised by these gipsies and considered quite an elegant
accomplishment. Dirty she was beyond words, but this did not disguise
her beautiful face nor lessen the glory of her lustrous eyes.
Could she tell the _señorita’s_ fortune? Cross her palm with silver and
it should be done.
“I suppose I’d better make it worth while to have a fair fortune,”
said Patty, opening her purse and handing out a two _peseta_ piece, a
larger sum than was expected, without doubt.
“_Dame la mano, señorita_,” said the gipsy. Patty held out her hands
and the woman gazed at the rosy palm earnestly. “You have crossed the
water,” she said at last, “and will cross it again more than once. A
fair-haired woman is your rival, but she is a stranger to you. There
are two men who desire to marry you. Like yourself, one comes from
across the water. The other does not. He is small, dark and has wealth.
I do not see great money for you, however, yet you will never come to
want. You will not rise to great estate, but you will have happiness.
You are of a merry, joyous disposition, yet it is hard to discover your
true heart. You will love deeply and sacrifice much for that love. I
see death which will affect someone near you.”
This talk of death scared Patty, who withdrew her hand. “That will do,
thank you,” she said.
“It is a good fortune? Enough?” asked the gipsy.
“Quite enough. Now read my friend’s hand.” She produced another
_peseta_, and before Perdita could expostulate had handed it over and
Perdita was urged to extend her palm.
The gipsy looked long and intently, frequently following the lines
with her dirty finger or raising her eyes to look searchingly into
Perdita’s face, muttering sometimes to herself. “It is strange, very
strange,” she said at last. “You are born in a peasant’s home, yet
you come of good station. You are not what you seem. Yes, yes, the
lover must hesitate, he cannot do otherwise; he does not know. Here is
a death--oh, yes, that will change all. You will then be a lady and
possess great estates. I see them everywhere; in the mountains, in the
valleys and your lover--”
“Will he be true?” breathed Perdita through parted lips.
“He will be true. There is the cross of marriage for you, but death
will come first. One who is near you will die--an old person.”
“My grandmother, maybe?”
“No, a man it is. I see many strange things, but a good ending. You
love above your station and this love is a sorrow to you, but all ends
well.”
The girls had heard enough and were ready to go, but their departure
was delayed by swarming children begging for pennies, the inconsiderate
display of wealth by the first little girl being too much for their
cupidity. So it was with difficulty that Patty got away with a penny in
her purse; indeed, she did give up all her pennies, reserving only the
silver.
“What did you think of it, Perdita?” she asked, when they were fairly
free from the itching palms. “Did you ever know such filth, and wasn’t
the fortune-teller a beauty? Shall you tell your grandmother about
what she said?”
“No, señorita; she would disapprove. Better say nothing. It is all
foolishness of course.”
“Yes, of course--but--”
Perdita nodded. “I understand--but--”
They were both silent for a moment, then Patty said, “Do you think any
of it could be true?”
“Some of it was true,” replied Perdita, crossing herself. “I shall have
to confess it to the _cura_ and I will do penance, yet somehow I am not
sorry to have heard what she said.”
“Nor I. There was a great deal about deaths and things that I didn’t
like; that seemed silly, I thought. By the time I have done with making
wishes for _inxanos_ and hearing fortunes from gipsies I shall be as
superstitious as any old woman; I must stop it.”
They followed the road to the house of Perdita’s grandmother, a low
white dwelling in the style of most, though better than many. It had
balconies above, the patio below, the hay-loft at the side, the _orrio_
a little beyond the house. This small grain house, peculiar to this
part of Spain, stood upon four piles of stones, four or five feet high;
on these were placed stone slabs to keep out the rats and mice. It was
covered with a thatch of straw and added to the picturesque aspect of
the little farmstead. The house was neat and clean and fairly well
furnished. Old Catalina, with her black handkerchief tied over her
head, was the very type of the ordinary peasant, and Patty decided that
it was not from her grandmother that Perdita inherited her beauty.
The old woman did not talk much, but Patty felt that she was closely
scrutinized. Perdita displayed her beautiful embroidery and pressed one
piece after another upon her guest, till Patty felt that she did not
dare to admire, lest she be called upon to accept it all. She suddenly
realized, however, that this was the Spanish form of politeness, and
was as profuse in her gracious refusals as Perdita in her offers, so
the matter was adjusted.
They walked back together to the edge of town, where Perdita left her
visitor, promising to come the next day for a lesson in French. She had
already learned perfectly the few sentences Patty had taught her and
was eager for more.
Don Felipe was on hand when Patty came in and she felt that she was
expected to listen to his little set speeches and flowery compliments
for the rest of the evening. But that night, as she was leaning over
the balcony looking at the starlight on the mountains, her sister came
to her side. “What are you thinking about, Patty?” she said. “You
haven’t answered, though I called you twice. Where is the letter you
wanted to show me, the one from Uncle Henry?”
“I was wondering what was the color of Miss Moffatt’s hair,” was the
answer.
“Miss Moffatt? Who in the world is she?”
“Oh, I forgot; you don’t know her. Never mind. Uncle Henry’s letter is
on the table in my book of Spanish verbs.” She did not offer to get
it, but stood leaning on the ledge, thinking, thinking long after the
lights were out.