PATTY IS PUZZLED
Fearing a second accident to the earrings Patty resolved the next day
to take them to Perdita whom she had not seen since the meeting on
the lonely hill. There was no fear of missing a visit from Robert,
since Patty in a tremor lest he should believe her too eager to see
him, had said she would not be at home till later. It was a fine calm
morning when she started out. Over the mountains was a blue haze, the
sky toward the west was golden clear, but along the mountain tops soft
mists drifted, once in a while lifting to show the outline of the range
which continued on and on to the sea. The summer was nearly over but
the air was still warm and balmy, and there was no prospect of chill in
it.
Leaving Ba-Ba bleating after her and Guido looking out from his stable
window the girl went on foot past the garden and up the long crooked
path leading to the mountain. The gipsies had long since departed,
only the blackened embers of their camp fire giving evidence of their
ever having been there. As she walked along, Patty pondered on the
gipsy’s prophecy. The fair-haired woman must be Miss Moffatt of whom
she no longer felt jealous. Why should she, since all that affair was
closed? Though perhaps, after all, the grandfather would be so angry
that Robert would not be able to stand out against him. Yet, it was a
comfort to know that so far there had been no sentimental passages in
the direction of “the drab girl,” as Patty had come to call her. As
for the rest, would all end as she wished? She was singularly light
of heart as she walked along. The world seemed suddenly brighter, her
troubles of less account. “I know now why I was unhappy,” she told
herself, “but I didn’t know till I saw him. I really didn’t, and that
is why I was afraid to see him this morning too early. I was afraid he
would find out too soon what I have only just learned myself. I can
appreciate now how Perdita felt. Poor Perdita, I wonder what will be
her future?”
She climbed on up the height till just ahead she saw the little
farmstead, then she suddenly stopped. Surely that was Don Felipe’s
horse! And, yes, it was Don Felipe himself standing there in earnest
conversation with old Catalina. Surely he was counting out money. Patty
crept behind the hedge and waited. She would not intrude. She would
stay where she was till the transaction was over. What did it mean? Was
he buying some curio? It must be very valuable, for that was the gleam
of gold and those were banknotes which Catalina was stowing away. Why
was Don Felipe so lavish all at once? Suddenly it came over her like a
flash that perhaps it was he who was educating Perdita, and that it was
Perdita whom he wanted to marry.
Her face dimpled. “What a joke on us if it is so,” she murmured. Then
she became very grave. Poor Perdita! poor Tomás! Was this why Perdita
had not appeared at the house for several days? Had she kept back a
part of her trouble, and was this why she had seemed so despairing?
Patty was puzzled.
She kept in hiding till Don Felipe had mounted his horse and had gone
trotting by, then she waited till a turn in the road hid him from view
before she crept out and went up to the house. Her knock at the door
was answered by Catalina. No, Perdita was not in; she had gone to the
village perhaps, or to the _cura_. Catalina did not know which. Would
the señorita come in and wait? She must be tired from the climb. How
was the good doctor and his señora? Praise the saints, she, Catalina
was well, and had nothing to complain of now that she had her eyes
again.
But Patty would not stay. She made her adieu and went off without
referring to the plans for Perdita’s future, and without mentioning
that she had been witness to Don Felipe’s visit. On the way home
conjectures were rife. She knew Catalina was avaricious and that for
money she would readily bargain with Don Felipe. Moreover, what a
triumph for her ambition if he were to marry her granddaughter. That he
was much impressed by the girl, Patty had every reason to know. “And it
is probably all my doing,” she said, ruefully. “If I had not dressed
her up that day he would never have noticed her one way or the other,
but what old man, or young one either, could resist anything so lovely
as she was. I never saw anyone so beautiful. No wonder he completely
lost his head. Poor Tomás! Poor Perdita! For of course she will have
to marry him, if he has the grandmother and the _cura_ on his side.
Fancy Perdita’s being at the head of that old _palacio_ and fancy the
surprise of Tomás.”
Arriving at home she found her sister at the door looking after a
figure which was fast disappearing down the road. “Robert has been
here; he has just gone.”
“Oh!” Patty felt bitter disappointment. Why couldn’t he have waited
five minutes longer, when she had told him she would not be back till
later in the morning? If he were so impatient to see her could he not
have remained till she returned? Yet none of this would she betray to
her sister, so she said with seeming indifference, “He seems to be in
a hurry. Heigho! it isn’t as cool as one would suppose. I have been
walking too fast. Has Tomás come back yet?”
“Yes, I believe so, though he has not arrived at the house. Come in,
Patty; or, no, let us go into the summer-house. I want to talk to you.”
Patty glanced at her sister. There was unusual gravity in her tones and
the girl’s heart beat fast. Had the moment arrived for revelations?
And was she ready to face them? She showed none of her perturbation,
however, but said lightly, “I went to carry Perdita her earrings, but
there seems to be a fatality about them, for I had to bring them back
again, as she was not there. I didn’t want to leave them, for I don’t
exactly trust that old grandmother. She said Perdita was not at home.”
“Yes, I know she was not.”
“Why, has she been here?”
“No. Sit down, Patty, and let us talk things over. If I am not
mistaken, there has been some deception going on.”
Patty seated herself on the stool opposite her sister, in the same spot
she had occupied when Doña Martina looked in upon herself and Tomás
that fatal day. “What do you mean?” she asked faintly.
“I mean that either you and Tomás have been pulling the wool over my
eyes or that you and I both are greatly deceived. That sly, designing
girl!”
“Now, Tina, please--”
“I forget, you may not know, poor child. I must tell you, then, for
your own good, that this morning I started out to see one of Juan’s
patients and carry her some broth. I took a short cut through the woods
and suddenly saw ahead of me Tomás and Perdita. They were so absorbed
that they did not see me, and I turned back at once, so I suppose I
was not seen at all, though I made no mistake in recognizing them,
and then, Patty, dear, you were right in the very beginning. He is a
wolf in sheep’s clothing.” She stretched out her hand and clasped her
sister’s, “But it is better you should know before it is too late. He
had his arm around Perdita, her head was on his shoulder and she was
evidently crying while he tried to comfort her.” Doña Martina’s voice
shook as she spoke.
Patty nervously withdrew her hand. “I think I can explain it,” she
said. “I believe I know why Perdita was crying.” Then she told of what
she had seen that morning, and of the conclusion she had drawn. “So,
you see,” she said with a little half smile, “it will settle any affair
between Tomás and Perdita, and I suppose they were taking a last sad
farewell.”
Her sister regarded her with surprised eyes. “But, Patty,” she cried,
“you take it so calmly. Don’t you really care that Tomás has been
trifling with both of you?”
“He hasn’t been, Tina, dear. Oh, I know I am a sad sinner, but really
Tomás and I have never had the little tender meetings you imagine.
The whole world might have heard what we had to say, so far as we
personally are concerned. That day when you came upon us in here, I had
just promised to stand by him and Perdita, who have been in love with
each other for two years, and he was only expressing his gratitude.
Now, wait a minute before you say anything. They felt that they could
not grieve Juan, who has been so good to them both, and so they have
kept the affair a secret. Neither one would have been willing to marry
without Juan’s consent, and would even have given up one another, but
I advised them to wait and see what time would develop. You see what
has happened and you ought to feel terribly sorry for them instead of
blaming them. It is not in the least surprising that a young man left
entirely alone, as Tomás was, should find consolation in the loveliest
girl in the vicinity, or that she should give her love to him, and I
think they are to be pitied.”
“I do feel sorry for them. But, Patty, were you never the least in love
with Tomás?”
“Never, never. We are excellent friends, and all of that getting off
by ourselves and the whisperings were because we wanted to discuss
all this which I have been telling you. Perdita is a darling and I am
perfectly disgusted that she is to marry that old mummy.”
“But you only surmise that.”
“To be sure. Yet I think all points that way, don’t you?”
“I must confess I do.” Doña Martina sat silent with hands folded across
the table, a look of sadness upon her fine face. Presently she sighed
deeply. “Patty,” she said, “I didn’t think you could so deceive your
sister. I think that part grieves me more than all the rest.”
“Oh, I know I am a perfect wretch, but I didn’t realize till I was in
the thick of it, and then I didn’t like to go back on my word. At first
I did it only to tease you. I thought it was such fun to pretend that
Tomás and I were smitten with one another, but after a while I got
deeper and deeper into the affair. I felt so conscience-smitten and you
were such a darling. I realize that I am a perfect ingrate, and I feel
as grieved about myself as you do.” The tears came to her eyes. “It has
taught me a lesson and I shall never again put my finger into another
such a pie. Please say you forgive me, Tina, and that you are sorry for
Tomás and Perdita.”
“I forgive you, Patty, of course, though I am dreadfully hurt that you
should have acted so, yet on the whole I think I am relieved that it is
not Tomás. I tried to make the best of it and would have accepted the
situation gracefully, I hope, but now that it seems probable that Juan
will cut loose from here after a little, and that Tomás will probably
go to Mexico, we should have been separated after all, and I am glad to
keep my sister near me for a while, naughty as she is.”
“And are you sorry it is not for her that the grand _palacio_ is to be
fitted up?”
“Not in the least. I know your mind on that subject.” She was silent
for a moment, then she said, “There is another thing, Patty, although I
see now that I was wrong in thinking you might be trifling with Tomás;
what about Robert Lisle? I am afraid he thinks a great deal of you.”
Patty’s head drooped and she played nervously with her handkerchief,
folding and unfolding it on the table. “What makes you think that?” she
at last found voice to say.
“He has just been here, you know, and from what he said, I gathered
that he--cared--but, as he said, he has his way to make and he has
no right to speak. He said that in time he hoped to be sufficiently
established to be able to offer a home to the woman he wished to marry.
In the meantime, it was not honorable, he thought, for him to stand in
the way of a worthier man or of a more prosperous marriage, should one
offer. So he must keep silence.”
“And then?”
“And then,” her sister gave a searching look at the still downcast
face, “oh, Patty, I told him that it was Tomás, and oh, dear, he
looked like one smitten and I was afraid you have been playing with him
instead of Tomás. I was so possessed with the idea that it was Tomás,
you see, and I thought it would be kinder to let him go without seeing
you, and so--he has gone.”
“Not gone altogether? He is coming back to say good-bye to me? You
don’t mean gone away from here?” Patty stretched out her hands
imploringly.
“I am afraid so. It did seem better. He left his good-byes and best
wishes for your happiness.” There was real distress in Doña Martina’s
tones.
“And he will go to England, and she has light hair!” cried Patty
wildly. “Oh, Tina, what have you done? What have you done?”
“I didn’t know, dear. I didn’t know. Oh, if you had only confided in
me.”
“I didn’t confide in myself, and I didn’t know either, not till this
time when he came back. I had been unhappy sometimes, but I didn’t know
why, and when he came into the chapel yesterday I was never so glad
to see anyone in all my life and then--I knew--but I thought he was
going to stay on and on and on, and it was like a beautiful dream that
I didn’t want to waken from. I thought--I almost knew he cared--but I
wanted the secret all to myself until--until he really said so. Oh,
Tina, don’t say he has actually gone. He couldn’t have. Why, it is
only a few minutes ago I saw him walking down the road.”
“I know dear child, but I think he meant to put the matter to a test
to-day, for he told me he should be able to make the train, and I have
heard it whistle since we sat here. I fancy he was prepared for what he
might hear from me.”
Patty still held out shaking hands. “Why didn’t you tell me at once--at
once?” She felt that she could have rushed after him, have gone on
wings of mad longing and have intercepted him before he should get away.
“Because, dear, as I have told you, I didn’t dream but that it was
Tomás, and I was so full of that as the prime matter of importance that
I let the other go till I should have discussed the thing that was
uppermost in my mind. However,” she added comfortingly, “I will send a
note to the _fonda_ at once, in case he is still there. I will go now
and write so that Anita can take it.”
“Did he say where he was going from here?” inquired Patty, lifting her
head, which she had dropped on her arms.
“No. He said he would write me when he felt equal to it, poor boy.”
“Don’t, don’t,” wailed Patty. “It isn’t your fault, Tina; it is all
mine, all, all. I’ve been an idiot all the way through. I’ve been a
silly, stupid, ungrateful wretch and I haven’t been true to anyone.”
“Except Tomás and Perdita, dear girl, and you have been too true to
them. After all, as I think of it, I am the only one with whom you have
not been quite sincere, for now I know about Tomás, I don’t see that
you have been untrue to any other than your cross old sister.”
“You’re not cross; you are a darling; the best sister in the world. It
is I who have been all in the wrong and I am being punished for it.”
She dropped her head again.
Her sister leaned over and passed her hand caressingly over the dark
hair. “I will go and send the note now, dear, and if he has not gone we
can soon set the matter right. Do you care so much you would be willing
to wait, perhaps for years, Patty, darling?”
“I’d wait for him years, yes, a lifetime. I am young and I have
you, Tina. Oh, keep me close beside you. I am so miserable! I am so
miserable! How can anyone be so unhappy all of a sudden?”
“It isn’t irretrievable, dearest.” Her sister knelt down beside her. “I
can write to England; we know where his grandfather lives, and I will
send a letter there telling of my mistake.”
“Oh, but you mustn’t--you mustn’t say it makes any difference to me; I
couldn’t stand that.”
“Dear little sister, trust to me. I will manage so he will know that
it is not Tomás, and that will be enough.”
With this comfort and the hope that the young man really might not
have gone, Patty was obliged to be satisfied, but she sat in the
summer-house alone while her sister went to despatch the note. She
heard Anita go forth and knew it would be nearly an hour before she
could be expected to return, yet still she sat and waited. After a long
time she heard her sister’s footsteps, though she did not dare to hope,
but,--ah, if it should be!
Doña Martina came softly in and laid a hand on the bowed head. “I am so
grieved to tell you, dear little girl, but he had gone.”
“I knew it, I knew it,” murmured Patty.
“Tomás has come in and he looks as unhappy as you. Oh, you poor
children, you poor children, all of you so miserable. I think, dear, if
you will consider, the plight of Tomás and Perdita is far worse than
yours, for theirs is hopeless while yours is not.”
“We don’t know that,” returned Patty, whose thoughts had been very
busy. “He may go straight off and marry Miss Moffatt.”
“And who is she?”
“The girl his grandfather wants him to marry.”
“Oh, I didn’t know about her. I must not delay in writing to him,
then. I will find an excuse this very night and I will make a point
of putting my own name and address on the outside of the envelope.”
This she did, and the days lagged heavily enough till a reply might be
expected, but none came; instead the letter was returned with “Address
unknown” written across it.
Meanwhile Perdita had gone to Llanes to remain a couple of weeks
while her wardrobe was being prepared. Only once had Patty seen her
and that was when she came to say good-bye. With heavy eyes the two
looked on one another, each so filled with her own sorrow that she had
nothing but commonplaces in the way of speech. Patty gave the earrings
as a parting gift; Perdita brought as a last token a piece of her
embroidery. So they parted and who could tell what turn of fate would
bring them together again?