Mariposilla Part 12

"Did you ever see anyone so effulgent?" Ethel continued, following with her eyes the outlines of Mariposilla's figure. "No one in the room can approach her in beauty," she mused amiably. "And yet the girl inspires no jealousy; for, like Donatello, her moral nature seems absolutely undeveloped. Sometimes she seems like an exquisite link between nature and the fallen angels."

"Have you, too, noticed this?" I exclaimed.

"Yes," Ethel replied, "I have been thinking about her ever since that first visit to Crown Hill. If I am ever famous in the Salon, Mariposilla shall be the theme for my picture."

"If you work I am sure you will succeed," I replied.

"I hope I shall continue to work," she answered, "but even work is an uncertain proviso. Sometimes I wonder why G.o.d inconveniences the ordinary mortal with an imagination. Why does he not reserve the allurements of art for the genius of the century alone?"

"I so often envy my sister," the girl continued. "It is beautiful to watch her at a high church service. This one exalted caprice seems to satisfy entirely her cravings after the extraordinary. She believes the tenets of her faith so implicitly that she is never beguiled into uncomfortable doubts. She never reaches after unattainable things, and is absolutely satisfied with the common conventions of life."

"Then surely she is happy?" I replied.

"Yes," answered Ethel, "but look at Sidney Sanderson. Certainly he is in love with Mariposilla! Watch him a moment and see how he has forgotten his blase part to-night. All things considered, I believe the match would be a good one," she continued. "Sid is carnal enough to appreciate Mariposilla's physical perfection, and I believe he could easily dispense with moral and intellectual qualities."

Later, when Ethel bade me good-night, she whispered that I might depend upon her as my ally. "If Mr. Sidney becomes too masterful let me know,"

she said, gaily, as she enveloped herself in the folds of her evening cloak.

Long after the hotel had been hushed with the final hush which follows a ball, I lay awake thinking of Mariposilla and the possible intentions of Sidney Sanderson. Time after time her beautiful, pa.s.sionate face appeared before me, tortured, one moment, with wild, half-civilized jealousy; the next, transcendent with blissful trust in the man she loved.

When I awoke from my unrefres.h.i.+ng slumbers at the usual time, aroused by Marjorie, who had crawled into my bed, I felt that I must invent a pretext for returning Mariposilla as soon as possible to the care of her mother.

The morning was dull. A prophetic contrast to the glorious Christmas dawn of the day before. The rains had been threatening at intervals for several weeks, but the sun had dissipated the clouds each day, leaving always the impression of a pleasant trick arranged for the bewildered tourist, who, contrary to the example of natives and adopted Californians, lugged about persistently his mackintosh and umbrella, declaring each cloudy morning that rain must certainly fall before night. Then, suddenly, the gray clouds seemed to melt into the liquid blue of the sky, while against the sides of the purple mountains only one long streak of vapor rested, like the shroud of a giant.

The week before Christmas the sky had smoothed away its every trace of rain. Light snows had sugared the feathery outlines of the distant peaks, and the delighted tourist had hung up his mackintosh and umbrella, deciding that the climates of Southern France and Italy were not to be considered with that of Southern California. Now the clouds had returned reenforced. The range had grown richer in color, almost black, except when the sun shot for a moment his presence in temporary triumph against a spur, that glistened responsively, while the canons scowled in dark disapproval. Then, all at once, a gloom, like a half-dropped curtain, settled back of the foothills, defying the prophecies of the most ancient mariner of the Coast.

As I awoke I felt with unusual depression the absence of the sun. And when I drew aside my curtains I peered in vain for streaks of gold threading the horizon. The morning was lifeless and gray. Even the great cl.u.s.ters of cactus, the remains of the natural wall planted by the good padres years ago for protection against the Indians, seemed an invasion of gray spirits. Not so when the sun glanced their bristling tops, for then they shone like knights in full armor.

My heart went out in childish homesickness to the Dona Maria and the little nest I had prepared for myself in her simple Spanish home. While I dressed myself and Marjorie, I turned over and over the subject which had taken possession of my thoughts. How could I escape the complications of this inopportune visit? How could I, without offending the Sandersons and noticeably meddling with the discretion of the Dona Maria, return quietly with Mariposilla to the ranch?

But the problem grew more difficult as the day advanced, for Mariposilla was now in a seventh heaven, which surpa.s.sed entirely her expectations.

All at once she was the pet and sensation of the hotel. Mrs. Wilbur had conquered her pique of the previous evening, and, for reasons clear to herself, she flattered and patronized the child with unlooked-for benevolence. The gay young woman seemed to have recovered her lost temper, for she urged Sidney and Mariposilla to waltz after breakfast, volunteering, with sweet unselfishness, to furnish the music for the aimless crowd who had congregated in the ball-room. Later, the tennis experts insisted on a few last sets before the rain, and all sauntered in the direction of the courts, pairing off as they went, drawn by the flirtatious affinities of the moment.

However, tennis soon languished, and the crowd returned to the Sandersons' sitting-room to beguile the rest of the morning with guitars and banjos. Mrs. Wilbur professed unbounded admiration for Mariposilla's performances, and engaged to practice with her that same afternoon, when the present audience had dispersed for beauty naps.

"We could soon play together wonderfully well," she declared. The woman had evidently decided that her best game was to patronize Mrs.

Sanderson's guest, if she intended to regain the attentions of Sidney when the girl departed. Yet she loved to embitter the latent apprehensions of the poor child by constant reference to the face in the silver shrine. I could see that although Mariposilla carried herself with unusual composure, there was beneath her stifling calm a lurking tempest of doubt and jealousy. She seemed horribly fascinated by the unpleasant possibilities of the beautiful face that occupied so many conspicuous situations in the room. She gazed again and again at the lovely, aristocratic features which haunted her to despair. Once she locked them pa.s.sionately in their silver case. Quickly turning to a pile of music, she tried to hide her secret; but Mrs. Sanderson had observed her.

"Looking at my beautiful Gladys again?" she said, drawing the blus.h.i.+ng child to her side. "I hope you will know her some day, for Gladys would love you dearly. She adores everything beautiful."

The color deepened beneath the Spanish girl's cheek as Sidney's mother continued to explain the tender relations existing between herself and the New York heiress.

"Gladys is the daughter of a school friend, who died when her little one was but six years old. She is my G.o.dchild, and I have watched the motherless child grow up, thinking always of her loss. The dear girl has many lovers, but refuses them all. She lives only for her father, who is an invalid. She will never marry, I am afraid, during his life. I had hoped to bring them both to California, but, instead, they have gone to a sanatorium, about which Gladys has grown quite wild. The poor girl believes that her father is going to recover, and has shut herself away from society and friends, only to be disappointed," the lady added, with calculating sympathy.

"Perhaps her father will live many years," Mariposilla said, eagerly. To the suspicious child no Providential arrangement could be more satisfactory. That the father of Gladys might be spared to a green old age would now become a part of her prayers. She would say, that very evening, a double number of aves to our dear Lady. She would supplicate her to keep the beautiful Gladys with her father in the hospital for many years. Then, perhaps--she told her poor, foolish, jealous little heart--then, perhaps, Sidney would love only herself.

CHAPTER XVI.

For a brief period in the afternoon the clouds of the morning promised to disperse. The wind s.h.i.+fted from the rain quarter, and the sun made a sickly attempt to s.h.i.+ne.

Patches of yellow light tantalized the sulky sides of the mountains. A presumptuous rainbow started to span the sky, but parted in the middle and soon disappeared in the settled gloom which quickly followed.

When the sun first tried to break through the clouds, shortly after luncheon, Mrs. Sanderson proposed a walk.

"Come," she said, "I must have the air. One can not house up in California. Even one day indoors stifles. Mariposilla has arranged to practice duets with Mrs. Wilbur. Sid is obliged to go to Los Angeles; Marjorie is asleep. Our best plan is to walk down to the Mission and back."

We had gone but half way to the old church when we perceived that a rain storm was now indeed coming. Each moment the air grew colder. The wind suddenly ceased to compromise with the south, changing almost immediately into the east. The mountains disappeared, and soon the foothills were hidden beneath a smooth veil of mist. Several immense drops announced the gathering downpour.

"Come," said Mrs. Sanderson, "let us make haste, before we are drenched."

We were both famous pedestrians, yet before we had reached the hotel the rain was pelting our faces with stinging persistency. We barely reached the veranda when the deluge came.

Those who have seen a California rainstorm, watching for days, perhaps weeks, the baffled efforts of the clouds to wipe out the landscape, will understand the term. No word but "deluge" describes adequately the steady, unremitting torrent which breaks at last from the sky.

As we entered the house I felt like crying. I was chilly and tired, and had the feeling that I had been beaten even by Nature. There was now no excuse for returning to the ranch until after the rain. I had foolishly pleaded the danger of exposing Marjorie to the drive, in case of a storm, and now the rain had come--come to stay for several days; perhaps for a week. I could not consistently depart until the downpour had ceased.

When I said early in the day to Mrs. Sanderson that the weather had become so threatening that I would very much prefer taking the children home, she silenced me by reminding me that Mariposilla was visiting with the full consent of the Dona Maria.

"The child would be heart-broken to lose one day of her promised week.

As for yourself, you need a change to wake you up. It is absurd for one so young to refuse the natural enjoyments of youth, and I think your determination not to dance a pretty but silly affectation. California is not the place to mourn in. The climate is opposed to dejection. The natives go to funerals in the morning and chase with the hounds in the afternoon."

"Don't," I cried peremptorily. "Don't make me believe that you mean what you say."

"All the same, I do," she replied. "I am a fatalist, and while I am permitted to enjoy myself, I shall avoid sackcloth and ashes."

Perceiving that I was hurt, she endeavored to appease me.

"Never mind, little dignity," she said, smiling her rarest smile. "You are always preaching me silent sermons; though you don't mean to scorn me, I feel your principle in the air, until I am wild to shock you in return."

Later, we went for our walk, each a little uncomfortable, as each began to wonder why she had chosen the other for her friend.

Upon our return Mrs. Sanderson had remained in the corridor in front of the open fire attempting to dry her dress. I went above at once. As I pa.s.sed the familiar sitting-room I saw through the open door that the room was deserted. Mrs. Wilbur and Mariposilla had evidently not made a success of the practicing. Without stopping I went to my own rooms, where I found Marjorie still asleep.

Pus.h.i.+ng open a communicating door, I saw Mariposilla upon her bed. Her head was buried in the pillow, while long, choking sobs caught and held her breath. She had been so happy but a short time before, flattered and pleased because Mrs. Wilbur had invited her to practice duets, that I was surprised at her condition.

"Tell me, dear child," I said, gently, "what has happened."

For several moments she refused to speak, but after a time she grew more composed. It was clear to me at once that Mrs. Wilbur was responsible for the girl's pa.s.sionate grief.

"Never mind my unhappiness, dear Senora," she said at last, touchingly.

"I am a poor, foolish girl, and must weep when I am sad; just as I rejoice when I am happy. It is not so with the Americans--they smile always, even though they are miserable."

I found it impossible to insist upon a confidence.

"Yes, dear," I agreed, "as people grow wise and worldly, they generally grow deceitful. I dare not advise you to cultivate insincerity; but for convenience you must endeavor to control your emotions. You will, after a time, learn that it is often best to smile, even though you feel sore. Often a heartache or a heart hunger will go away when we have bravely concealed it."