Each year, when the Gold of Ophir illuminates the valley with its
passionate bloom, I think of Mariposilla. Under the spell of the
transient radiance of the rose, her beauty comes to me like a lovely
dream. The flashing lights and subtile shades of the marvelous flower
seem to communicate a wild sensation of the child's presence; for ever
since I first beheld her close to the rose, there has been in my mind a
fancy that between these two children of the valley there existed a
bond, an almost supernatural kinship, that betrayed itself with each
quiver of the atmosphere.
So impressed I became with the idea, that I unconsciously sought for
Mariposilla's mood in the changing color of the rose. During the
eventful weeks of which I shall write, when the rose and the girl began
and finished their one exciting drama, bursting together into fullest
perfection, I found myself associating them constantly in my thoughts.
So essential each appeared to the other, that when Mariposilla stood
beneath the Gold of Ophir she seemed to absorb its every tint, while at
the same time its golden sprays glowed with the effulgence of her
glorious proximity. Their harmony appeared perfect, their united beauty
the personification of carnal and ethereal blending. When the sun shone
early, with no rebuff from the occasional fog, thousands of buds and
blossoms bloomed upon the somber adobe, and even while one looked,
indescribable tones of gold, and pink, and yellow appeared to creep from
the passionate hearts of the buds onto the glorified edges of the
full-blown flowers. Then, too, Mariposilla dazzled. Her very being
flashed with a phosphorescence akin to nothing human, but so like the
luster of the rose that each must have been created that the other might
bloom. Both seemed children of the sun, entrusted with opalescent
secrets that nothing but his rays could reveal; for, if the day grew
chill, both Mariposilla and the Gold of Ophir paled. The fire left the
edges of the rose petals, and the blood retreated from the surface of
the girl's creamy flesh. Her great luminous eyes grew dull, as she
sought listlessly her neglected lace frame, drawing silently the threads
of the linen, ignoring the whining questions of her old grandmother,
completely lost in the indifference of her mood.
Or perhaps, disregarding the commands of her mother, she tossed aside
the lace frame and crept into a silent corner of the room to play upon
her guitar wild, turbulent music, until the Dona Maria, angry and
impatient, commanded her to finish at once the altar cloth ordered
months before by the lady from Pasadena. At the same time she bade her
mind with care to cross herself at the little Jesus stitch, else a curse
would come upon them all.
Even yet I dread to think of this strange child out of the sunshine. I
would always have kept her under the influence of soothing warmth.
Mariposilla--little butterfly--how well she idealized her name. Born of
the sun and for the sun, no real butterfly ever rivaled her. Why could I
not protect her passionate, capricious young heart, as the flowers
enfold at night the dazzling, thoughtless beauties of a summer's day?
Alas! destiny seemed kinder to the insect than to the child.
Viewing in retrospect the girl's rapid and eventful development, I now
remember vividly each incident in her little history. When she came into
my life like a picturesque plaything, I failed to realize that she was
other than a beautiful child. I was then totally ignorant from
experience of the premature blooming of Spanish girls. From history I
knew that they developed young; but history is easily forgotten. It was
natural to expect Mariposilla to pursue the same pace that once upon a
time I had taken myself. We are all miserable egotists, without
realizing the weakness; and I fell at once into the fallacy of believing
that all girls develop in the same way. Mariposilla was only sixteen,
and at sixteen most girls are children. I recalled my own blushes, as I
remembered drawing-room miseries to which I was at that age subjected.
When my grown brothers insisted upon presenting me to college chums, I
flew at my earliest opportunity from the ordeal, cheered by the thought
of a toboggan slide with my nice boy beau. Yes, I had a boy beau, who
was truly delightful. It was only when he went away to college that I
ceased to care for him, and bestowed my smiles upon a new flame across
the way, who was yet a boy. At sixteen I regarded men as formidable
creatures, to be encountered when school days were over, and childhood
had come to an end. When I heard later that my gay Freshman smoked! and
was engaged to a young woman of his college town, six years his senior,
I wondered how I had ever consented to sit upon a sled with such a
monster. At sixteen my ideas of love were as vague as they were
wholesome. In my young healthiness I doubted seriously if any girl ever
died for love outside of a book. Thus recalling my own girlhood, I at
first felt no misgivings in exposing Mariposilla to the apparently
innocent attentions of Mr. Sidney Sanderson, especially as his mother
and myself were always about. It seemed only sensible to believe that
the Spanish child would receive real benefit from her new associations.
I did not realize the narrow boundaries of her young life, nor did I
then understand how she adored Americans, whom she regarded as models
of refinement and wisdom. When the Dona Maria told me of her
grandnephew's love for her daughter I felt it an outrage that so young a
girl should have been spoken to about marriage.
I was secretly glad that Mariposilla had repulsed her second cousin, and
I could not cease to wonder why the Dona Maria, so sensible in most
respects, should desire her only child to accept at sixteen the only man
she had ever known. It delighted me to believe that Mariposilla found
full enjoyment in the society of Marjorie. They were great friends, and
at times Marjorie seemed almost as mature as the older girl. Each day
they played with the hounds upon the Bermuda grass, as happy and free
from responsibility as the dogs. Thus time slipped away. Peace and
contentment filled our lives, while my child and her Spanish playmate
rivaled each day in healthy beauty the roses, now responding to the
first welcome rains.