On our way to luncheon we drove between palms and flowers, the entire
length of a long, well-kept avenue. Located at its end is a group of
small hills, each of which has been eagerly selected for a home site
because of the incomparable advantages of the situation. Conspicuous
among these knolls is Crown Hill, the home of the Waltons. Unique as an
island in its individual charm, its gentle slopes are surrounded on all
sides by traveled roads which define perfectly its boundaries, while
they protect from intrusion the low-gabled country house which stands in
the heart of six acres, cresting hospitably the hill. The landscape upon
all sides is strikingly beautiful. From the south and west the pastoral
harmony of the view is enhanced by a chain of wooded hills evading the
advances of civilization, as they smile serenely upon extensive gardens
and picturesque homes. Upon other sides glorious snow-capped mountains,
glittering with Alpine splendor, intensify the rich, ever-changing tones
of the long, over-lapping chain. The day was so fresh and bright that as
we drove to Crown Hill a new luster seemed upon the earth. As we
ascended the gentle slope, Ethel waved us a welcome from the broad
veranda. When we alighted, too entranced to enter the house, the elder
sister appeared.
"Is it not lovely?" Ethel cried enthusiastically, perceiving our delight
at the unbroken landscape. "Don't hurry us, Margaret," the girl
implored, when Miss Walton began to evince a slight nervousness at our
delay in entering. "Daddy is not here to point out the unsurpassed
beauties of the hill; so his own girl must see that no points are
overlooked, even if luncheon does wait a minute. You see," Ethel
continued as we turned slowly to enter the house, drawn by the
persistent expression upon Miss Margaret's apprehensive countenance;
"this place belongs to Daddy and me. Mamma and Margaret own the house in
New York. Every year they go back to its dingy magnificence, and imagine
themselves supremely happy. When they sit in the middle drawing-room,
that looks so touchingly upon our neighbors' brick side-wall, their
enjoyment is rare. The place has to be lighted all day with electric
lanterns, but it matters not to these two deluded souls. They are
enjoying themselves in the swell room of the house--so very oriental,
don't you know?"
"Do be quiet, Ethel, and show our friends in," the elder sister
implored. "Margaret is an absolute tyrant," the girl replied, leading us
beyond the wide, inviting hall, into a large, sunny drawing-room that at
once captivated us with its individuality.
As we entered between the portieres I noticed that Mariposilla flushed
with delight. The child had never before been in so lovely a room. Its
warm delicacy was a strange contrast to the gaudy, half-grotesque,
half-religious apartments to which she had been accustomed. Ethel,
perceiving her pleasure, smiled encouragingly.
"You like my room?" she said, kindly. "It is all mine, and, to be
honest, I am proud of it. You see how differently I have worked for my
effects from the usual methods," she said, turning to Mrs. Sanderson,
who was exclaiming over the restfulness of the furniture. "I am so glad
that you are pleased," Ethel continued, "for I had much to combat before
I was allowed to fire oppressive upholsterings in favor of lovely Morris
cottons."
The girl had indeed caught the spirit of her semi-tropical climate; for
the room was charmingly in sympathy with the world outside of the
windows. The rough walls, pale yellow, in combination with the paneled
ceiling and colonial casings, painted cream, had surely created a
perfect background for the admirable furnishings. Never before had
quaint chairs and deep couches looked so inviting as these in Morris
cottons. Their creamy tone, relieved by soft browns and warm yellows,
defied the sordid observer, who could never quite estimate their yard
value. The broad windows were curtained in simple falls of dainty lace
of open texture that excluded neither sunlight nor landscape. In the
colonial fireplace burned a real fire of huge logs, that was never
allowed to die out, and warmed with irresistible comfort the fresh,
healthful atmosphere of the room. In unsuspected corners and in bold
situations, great satsuma jars filled with ferns and tall papyrus
emphasized the possibilities of a Pasadena home. Cheerful watercolors in
plain white frames adorned the walls, while above the fire, an old
French mirror caught from the picture-window opposite the distant
shadows and sunlit spurs of the peaceful Mother Mountains. Long-stemmed
roses and dear old silver candlesticks gleamed side by side upon a
quaint, inviting tea-table, which, close by the glowing fire, shone like
a glimpse from America's most picturesque period, adorned with the
dainty relics of a colonial tea-set.
"The room is superb," Mrs. Sanderson declared, as she surveyed
critically its artistic details. The rich oriental rugs and large white
Angora skins thickly strewn upon the straw matting completely captivated
Mariposilla. She timidly sank her feet into a rug lying before one of
the broad couches, blushing perceptibly, I thought, at the recollection
of her own humble home.
The simple child was nearly frightened by the prevalent luxury, and but
for the watchful attentions of Ethel, might have grown uncomfortable.
With infinite tact her pretty hostess led her about, with the
familiarity of a sister, often coaxing her into artless bursts of
enthusiasm.
"The library is papa's success," Ethel explained as we sauntered
reluctantly from the beautiful drawing room. "You see," she continued,
"Papa, too, has made a California room. Excepting his books, there is
hardly a vestige of civilization to be found."
It was even as the daughter had said, a room in which literature and the
odor of fragrant cigars alone suggested a modern epoch. The decorations,
if such they could be called, were all Indian. Rare tribe blankets
covered the floor and couches, serving not only for portieres, but in
parts of the room for wall hangings. Against these blankets were
displayed an unrivaled collection of rich old baskets. Upon one wall was
stretched a gorgeous Indian genealogy, the handiwork of a gifted squaw,
while the skin of a mammoth grizzly, the huge head still intact,
reposed in front of the fireplace. From chimney shelf to ceiling hung
weapons and finery pertaining to the aboriginal chase.
"Now," said Ethel, when Miss Margaret demanded once more our immediate
attendance upon luncheon, "we will strike for high civilization--my
sister's own kingdom!" Upon seating ourselves about the great round
table in the perfectly appointed dining-room, I observed that Sidney had
been placed between Ethel and Mariposilla, while Marjorie and I had been
assigned places opposite. I could see Mariposilla's every motion without
appearing to watch her, and I confess that I was at first slightly
agitated, fearing the ordeal might prove embarrassing, not only for the
child, but for ourselves.
I was sure that she had never before been seated at so stylish a
lunch-table. In spite of its cultivated informality, there was for the
unsophisticated girl an unintelligible problem close at hand in the
complicated appointments of her plate.
While we spoke of the exquisite long-stemmed pink roses that filled a
cut-glass punch-bowl in the center of the table, I could see Mariposilla
regarding quietly the array of silver encompassing her place. If I again
doubted the propriety of what we had done, it was evident that but one
method of escape remained--to make plain my every motion. Even as the
idea seized me I perceived that the Spanish child had hit upon the plan
herself, and was nervefully determined not to disgrace her friends.
As luncheon proceeded I almost forgot my fears in admiration for the
child's pluck. Her sensible, observant conduct delighted me, and I no
longer doubted her fitness for any social position to which she might be
raised.
Mrs. Sanderson, as usual, captivated the party with gay sallies of wit.
Her pretty allusions to the faultless details of Miss Walton's table won
for her at once Miss Margaret's approval.
"Your starched Celestial fills me with reverence," she declared, when
the impassible Wong left the dining-room, after depositing, with
majestic importance, a wonderful salad.
"He never allows the maid to bring in the salad," Ethel explained,
mirthfully. "He considers a salad the culmination of his art, and
generally announces for the benefit of our guests, 'Heap fine salad!
Muchey good.'"
"You tempt me to set up a house in Pasadena," Mrs. Sanderson said, "if
for no other reason than to eat, as often as possible before I die, a
perfect salad such as this. Shall we not start an establishment at once,
Sid? for the joy of a Wong who enjoys entertaining as much as does his
mistress? Can you invite friends in this irresponsible way at any time?"
the lady asked, earnestly.
"Oh, yes," answered Ethel, "nothing delights Wong so much as company.
You know, a good Chinese servant is quite ignorant of his spinal
organism. He expects to serve you well for what you pay him, exonerating
you delightfully from the heavy obligations often imposed in America by
ambitious females who assist at cooking for a pastime."
"Then you really don't have to hold a preliminary caucus to ascertain
the state of the cook's health and temper before you can find courage
to invite a few friends to dinner?" Mrs. Sanderson answered,
interrogatively.
"Certainly not!" said Ethel. "A good Chinaman has the greatest reverence
for caste; his respect for his mistress depends largely upon what he
shrewdly determines in regard to her position in society. 'She very
high-tone lady,' is his favorite expression for a thoroughly admired
mistress. He considers it an honor not only to serve her to the best of
his ability, but regards her friends with equal consideration."
"How delightfully comfortable it all sounds! Yet is there not a
possibility of converting these same convenient heathen into a state of
uselessness, rather than to Christianity?" Mrs. Sanderson pursued. "I
have heard," the lady continued, "that enthusiasts are already
metamorphosing some of the best cooks into poets and orators, as well as
first-class laundrymen into political economists."
"Now," laughed Ethel, "you are tramping poor Margaret's toes. When we
first came to California my sister approved warmly of the education of
the downtrodden Celestial, but I fear that experience has withered her
philanthropy. One boy that we had, after professing a most devout
conversion, which necessitated his departure to school at the most
inconvenient times, suddenly conceived a renewed longing for the
exciting informalities of Chinese New Year.
"He told Margaret, as he bade her a polite good morning, that he 'no
likey be good velly long. Have more fun be heap bad some time. Good Boss
forgive sins all samey when you be heap solly after while.' Even sister
was crushed by the theology. Our next boy was a genuine heathen."
"I am astonished, Ethel," said Miss Walton, "I hope you will never again
repeat that blasphemous story."
"Forgive her," entreated Mrs. Sanderson, "I would not have missed it for
a great deal, and although it seems unfortunate that our romantic
philanthropy is often quenched by a downpour of common sense, yet it is
perhaps safest for the world after all. I shall never cease to enjoy
your story, Miss Ethel. When my sympathies threaten to melt my
judgments I shall think of your theological heathen who rose superior to
his instructors, able to grasp so cleverly the pleasant features of
Christianity without its inconveniences."
When Mrs. Sanderson finished her irreligious sally, Miss Walton's
pained, shocked expression was most apparent. She concentrated her
attention upon her jelly, with a well-bred annoyance that was readily
understood by the offender. The calculating woman, with no desire to
anger the truly conscientious girl, whose sectarian delight in the
teachings of her church made it impossible for her to tolerate the
semblance of skepticism, gracefully shifted the conversation to the
engrossing cotillion, afterward bearing down with conciliatory intent
upon the Christmas bazar soon to be held by the Guild of Miss Margaret's
church.
"We will all come," she said, as we left the table. "One soon loses step
with events in San Gabriel, but the bazar will help us to catch up with
the world," she added, mirthfully.
That Mrs. Sanderson was a scoffer of the most captivating and dangerous
type can not be denied. She loved to ridicule uninteresting things and
commonplace people; and doubtless this fact accounted for the dearth of
friends answering to her own age. It was to unthinking youth that the
flashing sarcasms and stinging flings at established usages and sacred
traditions appeared the embodiment of brilliant repartee. In complete
contradiction to her caustic beliefs, she seemed to the young the soul
of sincerity, working ever the most unselfish conditions for their
enjoyment.
Mrs. Sanderson disliked old people inhumanly, while she courted, with
every possible inducement, the society of the young.
"I have a morbid horror of growing old," she would say. "Sid won't
promise to poison me, so I suppose I must provide myself with a
daughter-in-law. My best blood is French, and when the illusions are
once dispelled each new wrinkle will torture." On the day of the
luncheon, as we sauntered from the drawing-room into the library, Mrs.
Sanderson declared that she had conceived an idea for old age. "Your
father's study is an inspiration," she exclaimed, turning to Ethel. "As
soon as I am sixty I shall take down all the mirrors in my house and
prepare a similar retiring room, although more entirely barbaric. There
shall be no vestige of civilization in my den, nothing to encourage
reminiscences, nothing to suggest the masterful march of time. I see now
that it is the certainty of one's period which crushes. Indian
decorations mean absolutely nothing to the uninitiated. Wrapped in the
blanket of a remote chief one could forget even his birthday. There
shall be nothing in my room to remind me every hour that I am a
grandmother. Nothing to say--'You bought me thirty years ago,' or, 'We
are both growing threadbare together. Your hair is white and thin, while
I am quite out of style.' No, my dears, if I live to be old, I shall
never be tortured by relics of my own period. However," the cold,
worldly woman continued, smiling irresistibly upon her young companions,
who failed to comprehend her heartless theories, "I am not sixty. I have
several years before I must take to a blanket, so let us return to the
pretty drawing-room and Mariposilla will play one of her witching
Spanish dances."
"Be spry, Sid," she commanded, when the Spanish child obediently seated
herself upon a low chair preparatory to tuning the guitar, "a footstool
for the little feet; they look so pretty upon a cushion."
The lady's open flattery appeared no longer to embarrass Mariposilla;
she was gradually growing accustomed to that, but when Sidney placed in
front of her the footstool, a richer flush intensified her beauty.
"She must have a mantilla for her head," Mrs. Sanderson cried, as she
caught from her own shoulders the rich Spanish lace scarf, which she
wore in her drives as a throat protector. She threw it lightly over the
girl's dark head, allowing the ends to fall about her scarlet frock.
"There! is she not a divine senorita?" she exclaimed, as she viewed her
blushing plaything with critical delight. "Is she not exquisite?" she
continued shamelessly. "See how easily we have caught the loveliest
butterfly in all Old Spain! Play! Mariposilla, play!"
When the child obediently struck the strings of the guitar, Mrs.
Sanderson declared that American women knew nothing of dress. "Why do we
not burn our bonnets, that our lovers may kneel to our lace mantillas?"
she said to Ethel.
As Mariposilla paused in her playing, all applauded with the exception
of Miss Walton. From the first, she had appeared annoyed by the dramatic
conditions of the afternoon. As our hostess, she was oppressed with
suppression. I could see that the literal young woman, viewing all
things from a narrow and conventional standpoint, longed to escape from
the theatrical atmosphere which Mrs. Sanderson had so unexpectedly
created.
I myself may have doubted the propriety of Mrs. Sanderson's course, but
at the time, I did not doubt the woman, and was so completely bewitched
by Mariposilla's beauty, that I failed to disapprove what appeared to be
only a pleasant pastime.
Never before had I seen any one so lovely as this young girl. The rich
tints had kindled beneath her cheeks, while her eyes, when she lifted
them, shone with lambent reflections of wonderful, half-understood joy.
She appeared a vision from a lost century, playing upon the credulity of
the present.
I do not wish to give the impression that Mariposilla was a marvelous
musician, for such was not the case. She only played with an original
abandon which made her movements and the customary little tricks of her
instrument appear more masterly than in reality they were. Her playing
depended entirely upon her mood, and that she was now happy, carried far
away from vexation or possible disappointment, was plain; for the
slender brown fingers picked the strings as never before. She seemed
perfectly absorbed in her music, and only when the long lashes lifted
for a moment did her wonderful eyes proclaim the truth she was
attempting to hide. When the lashes again drooped, soft, telltale
shadows quivered beneath the dark fringe that hid her impassioned joy.
The ridges of her small ears grew pink, her lips richer. The merest
reflection of dimples fled and returned to the glowing cheeks, as each
new emotion revealed her happy secret.
The day, I have said, had been unusually warm. The sun had reached its
meridian without faltering; only above the mountains had the fathomless
blue of the sky been broken by a few thin clouds. Unexpectedly the air
grew chill as the sun fled behind a bank of fog, which spread each
moment with amazing density upon the valley.
With the first dimming of the day, a change appeared in Mariposilla;
while Miss Walton grew at once serene. Unexpectedly and discordantly the
Spanish child ended her performance. Like a frightened bird she
fluttered to my side, her color gone, her courage shaken.
"We must go," I said, turning to Mrs. Sanderson. "Marjorie must not be
exposed to the fog," I explained, as we bade good bye to Miss Walton and
Ethel. There appeared to be a mock significance in Miss Margaret's thin
voice when she invited us to repeat our visit. Ethel alone accompanied
us to the door.