A TWILIGHT SERENADE
After dinner that night in the beautiful summer dining room which opened
upon a broad side veranda, tropically picturesque with palms and
oleanders, Marjorie and Ronny repaired to their favorite haunt. It was a
second-story balcony which overlooked a rose garden. There Wen Lo, the
enigmatic-faced Chinese butler, long in the service of the Lynnes,
brought them their dessert of ices and sweets and coffee. Mr. Lynne had
declined dessert and gone into the library to enjoy an after-dinner
cigar and a new book on fruit culture which had been written by his
Chinese friend and ranch neighbor, Sieguf Tah.
“You must be feeling both glad and sorry about going back to Hamilton,
Ronny,” Marjorie said presently drawing in a deep breath of the
fragrant, rose-scented air. “Glad to be at Hamilton, and with us; sorry
to leave Manaña. It’s so beautiful at all times. One day I think I love
the early mornings best. Next day, it’s the sunset that seems most
beautiful. Now the twilight’s coming on, and the roses are so sweet.
Oh-h-h!”
A sturdy trellised vine, odorous with scented clusters of pinkish-yellow
roses clambered up and over the balcony. Marjorie bent and buried her
face in the clustered riot of bloom.
“You’ve learned, even in this short time, to love Manaña in the way I
love it,” Ronny said softly.
A pleasant silence ensued between the two friends, Ronny, gazing
absently into the approaching twilight, seemed lost in reverie. Her
finely-chiseled profile turned toward Marjorie gave her the look of a
young Greek goddess, dispassionately viewing a world of her own ruling.
As the twilight merged into dusk and the first stars of evening lit
their twinkling lamps, from underneath the balcony the musical beat of a
guitar rose in rhythmic measure. Came a characteristic Spanish prelude,
then an old Mexican love song floated out upon the rose-scented dusk,
sung by a trio of golden-voiced Mexican boys.
“_La serenata_ (the serenade),” Ronny murmured, “How dear in Father. He
has asked Teresa’s sons to serenade us. They are singing a very old
Mexican song called, ‘_Mi novia_.’ That means ‘my sweetheart.’”
Ronny became silent again with this brief explanation. The dulcet,
mellow voices of the Mexican boys swelled enchantingly upon the
stillness of the evening. Marjorie was sure she had never before
listened to anything more tenderly romantic than the plaintive rise and
fall of the old song. More than once she had heard from Ronny of the
fine singing voices which were the natural heritage of the Spanish
Mexicans.
The singers followed their tuneful offering with another old Spanish
ballad which Ronny told Marjorie was called “The Love Tears.”
_“Cuando de tu lado ausente,
Triste muy triste es mi vida!”_
rose the high sweet tenor of Ricardo, Teresa’s oldest son.
“When thou art absent from my side,
Sad, how sad, is my life!”
Ricardo was eighteen and still heart-whole yet the Latin inheritance of
heartbreak was in his voice. All the sadness of an unrequited love,
which he had certainly never yet experienced, rang in his impassioned
singing. Nor were the voices of his younger brothers scarcely less
emotional. The wistful yearning golden notes were no more than the
heritage of romance and sentiment so peculiarly Spanish.
When the song was done Ronny leaned over the balcony and called softly
down to them in Spanish: “_Hermosa_ (beautiful). _Que se repetia_
(please sing again). _Muy bien venido, amigos. Nos alegramos mucho de
que nos honre con su compania._ (Welcome, friends. We are glad of the
honor of your company.)”
The serenaders had been standing well under the overhanging balcony. Now
they stepped out from its shadow a little, three dark outlines in the
paler dusk.
“_Muchas gracias, Señorita Veronica_ (thank you, Miss Veronica).” came
the full-toned voice of Ricardo in pleased return. He went on to say in
English. “Señor Lynne, your father, has asked us to give you the
serenade on our way to the _fiesta_ this evening which is to be at
Pedro’s house in honor of his birthday. We are pleased to sing for you
and the señorita from the East. Now we will sing for you your favorite
song, ‘_Pregunte las estrelles_.’ Then we must hurry or be late to sing
the birthday song for Pedro.”
“_Muchas gracias_, Ricardo. Señorita Dean and I love your songs.
Presently we shall walk over to Pedro’s _casa_ (house) to look in upon
the _fiesta_. We have been invited by Annunciata, his wife. Tomorrow
evening I wish you to bring Donna Teresa with your brothers to a
_fiesta_ here. The mother and father of Señorita Dean will then be
there. They will wish to hear you sing.”
Followed a quick flow of appreciative Spanish, then a pair of musicianly
hands picked out a ravishing little prelude on the guitar. Again the
three in the soft darkness below took up the heart-stirring, painful
sweetness of one of the old-time Spanish _cantares_ (songs).
“Perhaps the stars in Heaven
Know this night how much I love:”
Marjorie had learned a few Spanish words since she had come to Manaña.
She could not understand those of the song. Nevertheless she understood
its import. Ronny had translated the title for her. She was now lost in
happy wonderment as to whether the stars in Heaven could possibly know
how truly she loved Hal.
With the ending of the song she called down pleasantly to the three
young men. “Thank you for your beautiful singing. I think ‘The Stars’ is
the sweetest song you sang.”
“We are happy to have pleased you, _hermosa_ (beautiful) señorita. It is
the song we also like best.” Ricardo added something daringly respectful
to Ronny in Spanish. She laughingly translated his speech as the three
dark figures strode away across the lawn. “Ricardo says that you are the
most beautiful young lady he has ever seen.”
_“Oh, bother.”_ Marjorie’s tone was half vexed. “I wish I had a pug nose
and freckles. No. I’m glad I haven’t them.” She turned the subject
abruptly with: “I should not have understood the beauty of those songs
last year as I do now. Love has opened a new, wonderful world to me.”
“And this is hard-hearted Marjorie Dean to whom I’m listening,” Ronny
said in a tone of light incredulity. Candidly she added: “I know how you
feel about love. I feel so about it now. I see nothing deeper in
Ricardo’s songs than beauty of voice and unconscious expression. Teresa
says Ricardo has never been in love. His brothers are young boys of only
twelve and fourteen. But the Spanish Mexicans have emotion in their
voices when they are mere babies.”
“Have you ever known a young man you thought you cared a little for?”
Marjorie asked half curiously. She could not recall in her several years
of friendship with Ronny that her brilliant talented friend had ever
accorded more than careless attention to a young man of her
acquaintance.
“No, I have not, and I don’t wish to,” Ronny replied with considerable
emphasis. “I never expect to meet any such person. I couldn’t fall in
love if I tried.”
“That’s what I used to think.” Marjorie held up a warning hand. “Be
careful,” she continued, laughing softly. “The moment when you are the
most certain that you can _never_ fall in love may be the signal for a
change in your destiny. You may never _fall_ in love. You may just
_tumble_ into it someday without a sign or word of warning.”
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