THE LONG WHITE ROAD
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--”
[Illustration: “‘AT YOUR FEET, LADIES.’”]
“To be sure, I am forgetting Tomás. Well he is an old man, is Don
Felipe, and perhaps he would not live long and then you would be a rich
widow who could marry whom you pleased.”
Perdita looked shocked. Her simple mind could not grasp the wild
imaginings of the fly-away Patty. “_Ave Maria_,” she said, crossing
herself, “so proud a man as Don Felipe would never think of a peasant
like me. There is none so proud as Don Felipe, and they say it is
because of his pride that he has never married, that nothing but a
_marquesa_ or a _condessa_ at least would satisfy him.”
“Oh, when men become as old as he, youth and beauty are far greater
attractions than position and wealth or family,” said Patty sagely.
“That might all have been true when he was young. He can buy all the
antiques he wants, but it isn’t every day so lovely a creature comes
his way.”
“You mock me, señorita,” said Perdita, a little offended.
“Indeed I do not, my dear; it is quite true. I could see how much he
was struck by your appearance. Why, he scarcely took his eyes off you,
and had none for me. Have you ever spoken to him before?”
“No, señorita. Everyone knows Don Felipe, of course. So great a man as
he is always pointed out, but ah, it is fine feathers make fine birds,
and I am sure he did not recognize me in the peasant girl he has passed
many times on the road and to whom he has never given a glance. It
is known that he is so proud he will scarce turn his head when he is
riding along.”
“Well he certainly should know you again, if looking can familiarize
one with a face, and unless I am mistaken, he will be asking me
questions about my beautiful friend, the señorita Gonzalez. No, don’t
take off the gown; I want you to wear it to _almuerzo_ with me. I
will dress up, too, and we will pretend that you are the señora Doña
Perdita Velasco de Gonzalez, while I am--let me see--nothing short of a
_condessa_ could breakfast with anyone so magnificent as you will be.”
By this time Perdita had begun to see through Patty’s make-believes,
and entered into the spirit of the thing, and it must be confessed,
sometimes aping Patty’s airs and graces. At breakfast, however, she was
ill at ease, though taking to heart the object lessons Patty’s table
manners offered. One must not eat with a knife, she discovered, nor
wipe her mouth upon the back of her hand, and one must eat mincingly,
taking small pieces of bread instead of biting off large mouthfuls.
There was much to learn, Perdita perceived humbly, but she was grateful
for the opportunity of learning, whether the lesson was intended or not.
“I wish Tomás could see you,” Patty remarked, as Perdita at last
declared she must again assume her own dress. “No, I don’t either, for
he would be crazier than ever and would spoil all your chances of
becoming Don Felipe’s bride.”
“You always make the joke, señorita, yet I know now it is but a joke
which you mean, for you have promised to be the friend of Tomás and me.”
“But I would be your friend just the same, for who knows how long you
may have to wait? You might have to wait less time to be a widow.”
“Señorita!”
“Never mind, Perdita. I suppose I do shock you. It is true I am only
joking. I will not play that way any more, for I really do not mean it.
My imagination flies away with me sometimes. I mean to be perfectly
loyal to you and Tomás in spite of Don Felipe or anyone else, so don’t
mind my nonsense. If you feel uncomfortable we will take off these fine
feathers, as you call them, I have no doubt you would rather wear what
you are accustomed to. Then we will have the French lesson.”
The French lesson over, Perdita departed leaving Patty in the little
summer-house. Now and then an iris-necked pigeon would patter in, look
around inquiringly and patter out again, or a bird would twitter in the
branches over the door. “I am having a lovely, peaceful time,” sighed
Patty. “When Polly goes I suppose there will be plenty of such hours,
and I shall get deadly lonely. There will always be Perdita though,
when Tina hasn’t time to spare me. Perdita has much charm, and I do
not think it would be hard to fit her to be my sister’s sister-in-law.
Ah, here comes Tomás, the first to arrive. I shall have much to tell
him.”
An hour later when the rest of the party returned, Patty and Tomás were
still sitting in the summer-house, and there Doña Martina found them,
but she did not frown, she only said, “Have you had a good day, Patty?”
“A lovely day,” was the answer. “Don Felipe was here and you know that
made sunshine for all the hours.”
“Absurd child,” said her sister, giving her a soft tap and looking at
Tomás as if to say, we understand.
That night as Patty was ready for sleep her sister came in; Paulette in
the next room was already bound in slumbers, being tired out with the
day’s shopping. “Patty,” said her sister, sitting down on the bed by
her side, “we have had a long talk, Juan and I, about you and Tomás,
and dear, we do not want you to think we are so unsympathetic as will
make you withhold your confidence. We will do all we can. Of course
ever since that day in the summer-house when I saw him kiss you--”
“Only my hand, Tina; that was nothing.” Patty lifted herself from the
pillows in protest.
“Oh well, never mind, it was enough to show what you both felt, and
Juan says we can give up this house to you if you would rather live
here, though he thinks Tomás should do more, that he should not settle
down to this hum-drum existence, this village life. He is going to
see about sending him to South America or Mexico where he will have
opportunities. If he succeeds, why, then--But, oh my dear--” she leaned
over and took Patty in her arms, “it will be hard to give you up, to
send you off there, and I am selfish enough to wish for us all to stay
right here and live together. Yet if it will be for your happiness, I
shall be satisfied either way.”
Then Patty burst into tears and wept on her sister’s shoulder.
“I’m a horrid girl,” she wailed. “You don’t know how horrid. Please
don’t talk about anything now. I want only you.” And she clung to her
sister till the tears ceased, and with gentle good-nights they parted.