It has appeared wise to relate at once my warranted impression of Mrs.
Sanderson. Having failed so completely in the early part of our intimacy
to penetrate her character, I offer the reader an advantage; and that
the events which follow may be better understood, I have endeavored to
make plain her supreme selfishness.
As previously stated, it was she who first told me about the home of the
Del Valles. The year before, she had gone to the ranch in quest of the
exquisite drawn work, done upon the finest linen, for which the Dona
Maria was famous; and so charmed had the lady been with the recollection
of the picturesque visit, that she hastened, upon her return to San
Gabriel, to renew the acquaintance.
She was surprised to find the family much less prosperous than formerly,
and the ranch mortgaged for almost its value. The proud Dona Maria told
her, with quiet tears, how all was wrong; how her grandnephew Arturo
had gone to Old Mexico to renew, if possible, the failing fortunes of
his family, while upon her, assisted by an idle Mexican, had fallen the
sole responsibility of the ranch; how it was impossible not to neglect
many things now that Arturo was gone, for her aged mother was again bad
with the old spells, and soon must make a great care. But most
deplorable of all, her little Mariposilla was growing up in idleness,
caring not for the teachings of the good Sisters at the Convent, hating
persistently the drawn work, trying only to be like the Americans in
disobedience and manners, forgetting each day how once it was glorious
to have been born a Del Valle. The result of these confidences was a
second visit from Mrs. Sanderson, this time accompanied by Sidney, who
at once suggested the ranch as a home for myself and Marjorie.
Mrs. Sanderson had captivated the Dona Maria with the rest of us, and
had no difficulty in persuading the unfortunate woman to receive us into
her household. She dilated with her usual flow upon the mutual
advantages of the arrangement, until I was charmed with her
disinterested kindness. Not even now do I charge the woman with a
premeditated plot. If one existed then, it existed for Sidney alone--the
shadow of a foul possibility. Neither do I believe that Mrs. Sanderson
cared to befriend either the Dona Maria Del Valle or myself.
Our residence at the ranch might prove another opportunity for enjoyment
during the winter, an added zest to the California sojourn. Picturesque
situations were the chief articles in the woman's creed; to entertain
Sidney, her religion.
She was so supremely worldly, so accustomed to her own selfishness, that
the possibility of harm, developed by the franchise of pleasure, was not
considered in her schemes for entertainment. She thought it natural and
amusing "that Sid should flirt with the pretty Mariposilla," and soon
played herself, with the emotions of the unsuspicious child, as a cat
would have played with the life of a mouse.
In a word, when Marjorie and I had once been established at the ranch of
the Dona Maria Del Valle, there would be constant opportunities for
pleasure, mingled with novelty. If the hotel grew intolerable, with an
influx of stupid, dissatisfied tourists, the ranch might prove a haven
in which one could safely linger, sheltered from the interrogations of
the irrepressible "tenderfoot." Upon the shaded veranda of the old
adobe, fancy work could be pleasantly pursued, or one could simply idle
the time, which in Southern California seems without limit, surrounded
by congenial society and picturesque associations.
Thus it came about that, believing in the generous sympathy of my new
friend, I went with my child to live in the old Spanish home of the Dona
Maria Del Valle.
Pervading my satisfaction was a sincere admiration for the woman who
could arrange so readily tiresome details, sequestering us, almost
immediately upon our arrival in a strange country, in one of the fairest
spots of the rare San Gabriel Valley.