As Christmas approached, I found myself anticipating the festal time
with a restored interest as keen as the feigned enthusiasms of the
previous holiday season had been unbearable. But three weeks remained of
the old year, and already the new one seemed full of promises.
As I watched Marjorie and Mariposilla romp like kittens upon the Bermuda
grass, I wondered if my heart could ever ache again with the old,
tiresome pain. The morning was glorious, and I felt myself buoyed above
my most ardent hopes. Our new life was an elixir, that drove away sad
thoughts, while it invited pleasant memories. Nature had aroused once
more my sluggish sympathies, until I complied eagerly with all of her
coaxing demands. When her trees swayed, their quiet motion lulled me. If
her birds talked, I understood their pleasant assurances. With the sun
rose my heart. When it sank slowly to rest, I waited for its good-night
promise upon the mountains, and when they flushed rosiest, I, too,
glowed with a rapturous trust.
With Marjorie asleep in my arms, I heard my father calling dear names to
his own little girl. I felt my mother braid my hair, and saw her smile
at my fresh blue ribbons. Two handsome brothers teased me about the new
lover, who had driven away the other beaux. And then I felt again upon
my lips this lover's first true kiss. When my child laughed in her sleep
I laid her gently down, and lived once more the short, sweet romance of
my life.
Each day I was learning to go alone, gradually attaining the composure
of one who has survived a shock, realizing at last the odds of destiny,
and the necessity of making much of comfortable opportunities.
I am describing my feelings, not that I wish to write about myself, but
in order that I may be pardoned if later some may blame me for lack of
perception. If I was beguiled into unsuspiciousness by the peace of my
new life, I should be forgiven, for at that time God's whole creation
seemed as good as in the beginning.
Christmas was coming, I have said, and Marjorie was wild with
expectation. I could hear her merry treble entreating Mariposilla to
tell how Santa Claus could ever come to California, where there was no
snow, except upon the tops of the mountains.
When the Spanish girl failed to explain, the child grew flushed and
excited. Marjorie's vivid imagination was tempered by a rational
appreciation of consistency, and she declared indignantly that Santa
Claus always traveled in a sleigh. Without snow the reindeer would have
a difficult time, and she was pathetically certain that her stocking
would be quite empty upon Christmas morning. The little girl was a
stubborn logician. The form of her infantile dictum was often mixed, but
her mother generally perceived her difficulties, and drew from
sadly-muddled premises conclusions that were entirely satisfactory to
both. In the existing case she had foreseen the burst of skepticism that
was now distressing the child, and was well prepared to confute her
troublesome doubts. "Listen," she said, "and I will explain.
"Mariposilla ought to know that when Santa Claus comes to Southern
California he always lives upon the top of 'Old Baldy.' The beautiful
valley is too warm for him. So each year he builds a snow house upon the
mountain, and, with his pipe and reindeer for company, he works merrily
at the toys which he so skillfully fashions for the children of the far
West. When his loving labor is completed, he packs the wonderful
presents into a huge sleigh, and at twelve o'clock of the night before
Christmas, he feeds his reindeer, and hitches them to the great sledge.
When the children of the peaceful valleys are fast asleep, the dear old
Saint drives gaily down the steep, white side of the great mountain. At
its foot he blows a long, shrill whistle, and from the many canons of
the range come the fairies. The happy little people dearly love to be
useful. They have the greatest affection for Santa Claus, and they tell
him truthfully about all of his boys and girls; reporting both good and
naughty ones. But most tenderly do the fairies tell of the little sick
children who have come from faraway homes in the East to seek for
health in the land of sunshine. When the kind Saint is sure that no
child has been forgotten, he commands the fairies to finish his loving
work. He can go no farther with the reindeer, and so he intrusts his
beautiful gifts to the willing little helpers, who have swarmed at his
call. And now, at the bidding of the Fairy Queen, thousands of lily
chariots, drawn by dashing teams of bumblebees, form in long lines upon
the foothills. The white chariots, with their yellow daisy wheels, are a
wonderful sight in the early daylight.
"Each one has a fairy driver, dressed in a Christmas suit, made from the
petals of a Marechal Neil rose. When the chariots are at last loaded to
their fullest capacity with the precious toys, old Santa Claus gives the
signal to start. Then the happy drivers spring upon their high, yellow
seats in the center of the chariots. Gripping firmly a long lash of blue
grass, each little fellow waves farewell to dear Santa Claus, who has
already started up the mountain, satisfied and happy that his holiday
work is done. Not until another Christmas will the valleys feel the
loving presence of the kind old Saint, for when the sun and the birds
have awakened his children he will be far away. But his beautiful gifts
will be hanging upon the great, white rose-trees--the Christmas trees of
our summer land."
When I had finished Marjorie clapped her hands and exclaimed with
delight, but Mariposilla said nothing. She was silently eloquent for
several moments, until, suddenly remembering that she ought to
acknowledge genius, she kissed me gently upon the cheek, much as she
would have kissed the wooden image of the Virgin that stood in the Dona
Maria's bedroom. Looking down into my face with her great, beautiful
eyes, she said, almost reverently: "The Senora knows much; she is a
great and wise Americana; I love her with great love."
Mariposilla had never before addressed me in the quaint, affectionate
style of her anglicized tongue, and as I caught her in my arms, laughing
at the sweet, sober compliment, I told her how I would always treasure
it for her sake--the most delightful praise I had ever received.
I remember it was about this time that I first became aware of the
girl's rare beauty. Suddenly she seemed to have commenced to mature, and
her radiance startled me. I wondered then if such ravishing charms were
to be desired, for it seemed hardly possible that she would be contented
with her available destiny.
I had already seen that her thoughts were not with her countryman and
kinsman, Arturo, but remote, engaged with intangible dreams of she knew
not what. I could not refuse to see, at times, in her restless,
unsatisfied expression, that she had outgrown the customs and
associations of her race. I saw that she was consumed with admiration
for Americans, attempting their fashions and manners with a
determination almost pathetic.
When the Sandersons came to the ranch, and we sat upon the veranda
chatting in the effervescent style of our Republic, Mariposilla listened
like a charmed bird, especially if Mrs. Sanderson chanced to relate a
story replete with inimitable shades and mannerisms. I am certain that
the lady herself realized and exerted unduly her magnetism upon the
unsophisticated girl. I often noticed her regarding with complacent
amusement the worshipful expression upon Mariposilla's face. Sometimes
she would abruptly summon her to her side, while she touched the dark
head with her beautiful jeweled hand. Perhaps she called her a pretty
name; or possibly joked her about her faith in the good stories of the
great Americanos, until the child's cheeks grew opalescent with happy
embarrassment. Then, before the lovely tints had paled, she would send
her away for a glass of water from the deep red olla, or for a rose from
a bush indicated by her fancy.
I remember that upon this particular morning I was troubling indirectly
about Mariposilla, thinking that perhaps her daily association with
Sidney might not be for the best. I had not then dreamed of inhuman
exertions on the part of the Sandersons to entrap the child. I simply
wondered if we were wise to expose the beautiful, immature girl to the
constant, flattering attentions of an impossible young man.
I remember that I decided to tell her, at my earliest opportunity, that
Sidney was destined to marry a New York heiress. However, as soon as the
thought had taken shape in my mind, I felt indignant for imagining
possibilities disagreeable enough to disturb the peace of our pleasant
social conditions. I said to myself that Mariposilla was still a child,
often the satisfied playmate of Marjorie. It would be easy, I was sure,
to observe the slightest vibration in the direction of a love affair.
The Dona Maria had assured me that her child was hard of heart, ever
scorning the devotion of lovers. Altogether I felt a ridiculous prude
when the gay trap of the Sandersons suddenly dashed into the avenue.
Sidney was driving the spirited team, with his mother behind him,
luxuriously wrapped for the December morning.
At the first sound of the horses' hoofs upon the driveway, Mariposilla
vanished. I could see at a glance, upon her return, that she had been
before the little mirror in her bedroom, for the betumbled appearance
occasioned by her romp with Marjorie had disappeared; likewise she had
embellished her scarlet frock with a little black velvet girdle that
emphasized the costume with an irresistible touch of Spain.
I perceived that Sidney was unmistakably pleased with the child's
appearance; but I could not consistently blame him for our common crime,
for never before had I been so impressed with the superb type of
Mariposilla's beauty.
Mrs. Sanderson was most winning. She had come, she said, in search of
good company for a drive. She was going to Pasadena for two yards of
yellow ribbon. Was it not absolutely delightful to drive eight miles for
a couple of yards of ribbon? Such irresponsible pleasure made one scorn
philanthropy. Why should one desire to reconcile happy Hottentots to
Parisian costume? Why be perpetually annoyed with grave and difficult
questions, when all could be easily dismissed in a drive after ribbon?
She lamented that she had not come to San Gabriel years ago, before
there was so little to prolong. She was sure native Californians were
born without nerves. It rested her more than a whole year at a
sanitarium to look at Mariposilla. What a perfect beauty she was, this
minute, in her red frock. She must gain at once the Dona Maria's consent
and come for a drive. All must make haste, for it was criminal to lose
one moment of the morning.
Mariposilla, as usual, had stood unconsciously enthralled by Mrs.
Sanderson's wonderful personality. The child had not understood the
lady's ironic sallies, but the invitation to drive had been plain.
Instantly the absent, incomprehensible look fled from her eyes; they
seemed suddenly bathed in lambent joy, while an emotional radiance
enveloped her form. Resembling the beautiful little creature after which
she had been named, she appeared to dart through the sunshine, then to
vanish in the doorway of the somber adobe, like a lost meteor. Her
marvelous, unstudied motions seemed the reflection of fickle twilight.
"Will she come back? or has she flown forever into an old legend of
Spain?" Mrs. Sanderson demanded, tragically. "She will return as demure
as a novitiate," I replied.
A few moments later the truth of the statement was verified. The girl's
first intense emotions had been forcibly quieted by her desire to be
thought conventional. When she reappeared, prepared for the drive, she
walked slowly, almost stiffly--"like a lady," the Sisters at the Convent
would have said.
She had donned a black jacket, that was fortunately too small and
obliged to flare, exposing the little velvet girdle and a dash of
scarlet that emulated coquettishly the breast of a robin. Her hair was
carefully twisted into a girlish coil, while upon her head she wore a
large, picturesque black hat.
During the drive to Pasadena she was ecstatically solemn, and it was
only when she turned her profile to reply almost in monosyllables to the
ingenious questions of Sidney that I discovered how happy she was. Her
cheeks had again assumed wonderful tints, occasioned by a renewed
realization of her exalted privileges, and I could see that she was
flattered beyond her most daring expectation. Sidney, usually so
reticent, had suddenly maddened into an animated inquisitor. I observed
that he never allowed his eyes to leave the girl's face, when she
replied modestly to his volley of direct questions.
Necessarily, these recollections have now come back to me slightly
embellished by the events which quickly followed this initial drive. It
must have been a comprehension of the common failure to note the signs
of a disaster in time to obviate it, which led the ecclesiastical
composers to insert in the general confession of the Prayer Book the
clause in which the sinner bewails not only his actually committed sins,
but his passive criminalities, born of neglect.
My conscience will ever ache with the knowledge of "things left undone"
for Mariposilla. I know now that I should have explained more decidedly
to the child the impassable width of the social gulf, even at the risk
of her loving me less. I should have protected her against herself, by
showing her the truth without palliation. I should have told her how
fraudulent and glittering are the attentions of fashionable men, and
warned her against the cruel disappointments of society.
Doubtless the child would have disregarded my wisdom, for wilful,
rapturous youth is slow to accept experience secondhand. At the time, it
appeared only right and natural that Mariposilla should take part in our
daily pleasures, while, in justice to myself, it did not occur to me to
doubt the good intentions of the Sandersons, until too late to overcome
the complications which arose by degrees from our general intimacy.