DON FELIPE’S SURPRISE
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 _vacqueros_. 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.