“Pretty safe to. The old people will give in; there is nothing really against Benamiel, only they preferred O’Shea! Small blame to them. O’Shea did not know that Trinidad and Benamiel had already settled things between them. When he found it out he went back to Cordova, where he is stationed, and, Trinidad says, wanted to give to Benamiel a bracelet he had bought for her. Nice boy, O’Shea. Why is it that the nice girls always take the wrong—well, there’s no use opening that chapter, if you must be going—it is time for your Spanish lesson—we’ll tackle it some other time when we have the night before us!”
Don Renaldo, the ex-ofeecial de marina, was waiting to give Patsy and me our lessons in vero Castellano. His method was simple; he talked, while we listened. He began by explaining his rusty mourning suit, as he drew off his worn old leather gloves. “It is the thirtieth anniversary of the death of my father,” he spoke slowly, so that we might follow him. “All the masses celebrated to-day in the church of San Sebastian will be applied to the repose of his soul.” Patsy said he would like to hear one of the memorial masses, but it was already too late, they were all over.
“He was the most kind of fathers, the most benevolent of men, his benevolence was the cause of all his misfortunes in this world! To oblige a friend he signed his name to a note, understanding that it was a mere form. With those two strokes of the pen he signed away his fortune.”
“He did not have a benevolent friend!” Patsy ejaculated.
“Hombré! He was a caballero, a gentleman of distinction—but—it is the truth, of business he was as ignorant as mi pobre papa! The catastrophe that ruined both, killed my papa; his friend died soon after of shame. Then Tio Jorge, my rich uncle, took me and brought me up as if I were his heir. Every year we went to Paris together; we lived with great elegance on the Rue de Rivoli; we had a box at the opera; I had my own carriage; my clothes came from Poole; at that time I was very elegant, and not, people said, bad looking. I am old now, but then!” He sighed and rolled up his eyes at the recollection of his elegant youth.
“You’re not old, you’re in the prime of life,” said Patsy. Though Don Renaldo was not even elderly, he had given up the fight, went shabby and unshaven, with buttons missing from his frayed shirt.
“Suddenly Tio Jorge had a stroke of apoplexy,—I was at Monte Carlo at the time. I hurried to his bedside and took all care of him till he died. It was very sad, but it was my duty to see everything done as he would have wished. His funeral was the most luxurious ever seen in Valladolid. He was followed to the grave by the aristocracy, civil and military authorities, and whole communities of monks and nuns. There was a multitude of carriages, and to every coachman I gave a propina of fifty pesetas. After the funeral the will was opened. Well, what do you think he left me?”
“That depends upon whether or not you were the only heir,” Patsy answered soothingly.
“He left me nothing! Money, palace, horses, plate, jewels, everything went to found a home for the widows and daughters of navy officers! the preference always to be given to the handsomest ones. The will was published; there followed ridicule the most painful from half the papers of Europe, from the Argentine, from all over the world. They called Tio Jorge a modern Don Juan Tenorio!”
“The old hunks deserved something worse than to be laughed at. I hope he’s getting it now,” murmured Patsy.