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MARIPOSILLA
A Novel
BY
MRS. CHARLES STEWART DAGGETT
[Illustration: Decoration]
CHICAGO AND NEW YORK:
RAND, McNALLY & COMPANY.
MDCCCXCVI.
Copyright, 1895, by Rand, McNally & Co.
MARIPOSILLA.
CHAPTER I.
When I abandoned the home of my girlhood, and took my delicate child to
California, I started upon the journey goaded only by apathetic hopes,
sustained only by the desperation of despair.
Marjorie was my all, and I could no longer endure the tension of her
gradual decline. As I watched her fade away, I realized that my closest
friends were becoming reconciled to my bereavement, with the
philosophical fortitude of spectators. When I was coolly advised "not to
sacrifice pecuniary interests for the sentiment of a hopeless
experiment," an outraged love grew strong and defiant. The calculating
counsel, so cruel and unexpected, strengthened, at last, the timid
resolution. Even the silent walls of my house oppressed, while an
absolute hatred of the machinery of life seized my tired soul. I
determined to be free at any price. Fresh courage entered my life, and
impelled me to remove, without a pang, most cherished household gods. My
relief was immoderate when everything was gone. Then I experienced for
the first time in years the sweet exhilaration that welcomes,
breathlessly, a change. In my dreams I had apparitions of purple
mountains, and long quiet days purified with sunshine. Suddenly, into my
sad life there came new hope, kindled, it seemed, from the very ashes of
an abortive past.
Before I realized the initial steps of my undertaking, anticipated
perplexities had been absorbed by the novel conditions of our journey.
Four days away from the old home and New York found me happier than for
months, when I saw for the first time a flush upon the pallid cheeks of
my child, the faintest reflection of the coveted boon I sought.
A fresh excitement made me strong for each new duty. The present at last
held all that I craved. When I watched my child among her pillows, so
much better that she prattled of great plans to be carried out on the
far away Coast, I loved even then the land. To see the little one sleep,
and watch for her awakening among the great quiet mountains, was to my
heart an ecstasy. "Dear Mamma," she cried, clasping her thin hands as
the train clambered close to the silent monarchs of the West, "I want to
touch they!"
"Yes, sweetheart," I said; "When Marjorie is strong and well, she shall
not only touch the dear mountains, but she shall crawl into their very
arms! Mamma will take her into the beautiful canons, where little
streams always sing to the tall ferns; we shall have a picnic, and
perhaps the fairies will come! When my little girl sees the Fairy Queen
she can ask for a boon, like Mabel in the song. Perhaps the Queen will
say: 'So this is little Marjorie, who came all the way from New York to
see us? Marjorie is a good child, and was very patient during her long
journey. She took her bitter medicine bravely, and now she must be
rewarded. What shall be done for her, my Fairies?'
"Then perhaps one kind fairy may say, 'Her cheeks must grow pink like a
La France rose'; and another, 'Her limbs must grow strong like a
perfect tree'; and a third, 'Her eyes must be bright like the stars, and
she must soon be well, and as happy as she is pretty.'"
Thus I romanced to my patient child, snatching an inspiration from every
mile that drove us into the far country.
When we entered the wide, trackless desert--the home of distorted
yuccas, which stretched gaunt arms to the cloudless sky, like hopeless
criminals doomed to the intermediate wastes of purgatory--I knew that
the "Happy Valley" lay beyond. Then my child was sleeping for long hours
at a time; nor did she awaken until the last yucca had vanished from the
desert's edge; then she opened her eyes in Wonderland! For the overland
train had completed its conquest. The great mountain chains had been
passed over in safety, while far behind, fields of snow and shrieking
blasts were forgotten, as we glided peacefully into the beautiful Valley
of San Gabriel, that Pet Marjorie might live.
Our long journey was ended. We could rest, although not perfectly until
after leaving the pleasant hotel known as the East San Gabriel, when I
hoped to find in the old Spanish home of the Dona Maria Del Valle the
coveted seclusion of which I had dreamed.
From the beginning of our journey, everyone had been interested in
Marjorie.
I soon found myself accepting small attentions from sympathetic
strangers as naturally as I would have accepted, a few weeks before, the
favors of old friends.
It thus happened that I first heard of the Dona Maria Del Valle, through
a lady and her son with whom I traveled. "A most perfect place for Pet
Marjorie would be with the Dona Maria Del Valle," Mrs. Sanderson had
told me, shortly after our arrival in San Gabriel, when I inquired of
all for a home that would shelter us for at least a year. Marjorie must
not live in a hotel, exposed to the constant excitement of robust
children and irresponsible strangers.
Besides, I desired to try not only the winter of Southern California,
but the long, unimpassioned summer, so conducive to the restoration of
the delicate.
My new friend had spent the previous season in San Gabriel; she was
familiar with the locality, and offered at once to intercede in our
behalf with the Dona Maria Del Valle. When she told, in her captivating
way, of the quaint, picturesque Spanish home, I could content myself
with no other retreat, and begged that the preliminary arrangements
might be made at once. From the first moment of our acquaintance, Mrs.
Sanderson's attentions had been agreeable. As soon as we arrived at the
hotel she was perfectly at home. Every one hastened to serve her, and I
perceived that she was an acknowledged authority wherever she went. My
mind was not then equal to the analysis of character. I was unsuspicious
and willing to believe in the assumed qualities of those about me. It
was enough that my child was improving hourly in health, and that I had
found a congenial and sympathetic companion in my extremity.
Now that I have undertaken a story in which Mrs. Sanderson and her son
Sidney so conspicuously figure, I feel compelled to review carefully my
early and subsequent impressions of both, in order that the events of
our short and memorable acquaintance may be readily understood.
Doubtless my estimate of entire strangers would have been different
under less intense circumstances; but, at that time, any one who
appeared interested in my child was at once my friend--not only the
conspicuous and influential, but the humble and uncultivated, as well.
Looking back over those trying weeks, I now remember hosts of delicate
attentions dispensed by the unpretentious, that at the time were hardly
realized, owing to the effusive ostentations of the Sandersons.
Since I have studied carefully the events which followed rapidly from
the beginning of our acquaintance, I am certain that neither Marjorie
nor myself would have received the slightest notice from either Mrs.
Sanderson or her son, had we failed in their selfish entertainment. My
little girl, beautiful and bright, unconsciously stole into the coldest
hearts; but I know now that it was not her delicate frame, nor the
pathos of a defrauded childhood that won the devotion of Mrs. Sanderson.
It was simply that Marjorie was an additional amusement, an additional
effect, enlivening the small court which the lady invariably held. The
capricious woman petted the child only for entertainment. A
thoroughbred dog, or a kitten, could have won her interest as
successfully, had her passing mood been favorable to their antics. Her
fancy for myself was equally selfish. I was young enough to interest her
son, and from the first she evidently regarded me as a convenient and
suitable companion for the winter. I learned afterwards that Mrs.
Sanderson was notoriously fond of young widows. She treated them with
unusual favor in view of eventual schemes which she generally worked.
Her only idea of life was entertainment, and, in order to satisfy her
thirst for novelty, she had always chosen pretty widows to expand her
power and promote her individual caprices. Unincumbered by the
unreasonable demands of a husband, she regarded a pathetic young widow a
most desirable companion; always securing, if possible, a fresh one for
the nucleus of her social experiments.
Why I should have submitted to this woman's patronage, I can not
understand. My only excuse is the recollection of an unsuspicious joy,
that came like new life into my soul. Marjorie was getting well! and
there was no one who understood my happiness like Mrs. Sanderson. It
never occurred to me to doubt her sincerity. That she was often haughty
and disagreeable to others I saw, but for me she had only indulgence and
delicate sympathy. Under calming climatic influences my pagan intuitions
grew hourly. Beneath the lights and shadows of the prophetic mountains,
analytical tendencies ceased. Possibly my creeds became unorthodox, but
they expanded cheerfully each day, that they might hold more of God's
harmonious universe and less of man's deformity.
I believed afresh in universal philanthropy. The sweet lethargic days
were satisfying; I had no desire to analyze the motives of my
associates.
I was no longer interested in attenuated studies of character. The Book
of Nature, and the literal tales of "Mother Goose" now constituted my
library. For the present, the Wise Men of Athens were no wiser than the
man who so successfully evaded the consequences of the "bramble bush."
Now that my child had been given back to me, no unnecessary suspicions
disturbed my credulous content. I had been tired so long, that to rest,
at last, necessarily developed passive conditions over which I had but
languid control.
Mrs. Sanderson, crossing my path at this particular time, appeared to be
the very person to stimulate my reviving interest in life, and I
accepted eagerly and without analysis the friendship she offered.
From the first, I had been fascinated by her alertness. Unconsciously, I
felt indebted to her for my renewed fortunes. It was not until long
afterward that I discovered how very little she really did for me, or
for anyone else, when she appeared to be doing so much. She always
assumed the leadership of social affairs so cleverly, that to have
questioned her right would have proved fatal to the individual. It was
impossible to resist her personality when she chose to be engaging.
She was tall and slender, with the established slenderness that
emphasizes distinction at forty-five, when plump women often exhibit the
ripeness of decay.
In a word, Mrs. Sanderson eclipsed completely her feminine
contemporaries, often exciting jealous antagonisms.
The lady's superior preservation was at times exasperating, and her
scornful indifference to topics usually interesting to middle life
disconcerted and annoyed domestic women of her own age. Her infirmities
she heroically concealed, and was never surprised into the
acknowledgement of a physical weakness. The chronic afflictions of other
women never moved her to sympathetic confidences. In fact, she avoided
systematically the society of older women, while she ingratiated herself
irresistibly with young people of both sexes.
For these reasons, Mrs. Sanderson was frequently disliked, but as few
dared to oppose her openly, her sway always grew to be absolute.