Never before had the unpretentious home of the Dona Maria Del Valle
appeared so complete a refuge as upon our return after the eventful day
in Pasadena. In the living-room our kind hostess had lighted a fire of
grotesque grape roots, that writhed like a holocaust of mummies. After
the gloom without, our welcome seemed perfect. The ruddy flames from the
fireplace, flickering against the dusky walls, had mercifully relieved
the row of saints, who in the daytime appeared to suffer persistently
the throes of indigestion. Likewise, from her frame above the chimney
shelf the little Spanish Virgin smiled serenely upon her holy Child. In
the firelight, she seemed to forget her atrocious finery in the sweet
consciousness of her maternity.
The aged grandmother dozed in her accustomed chair. At her feet the
grayhounds, Pancho and Pachita, sprawled in longitudinal grace, dead
dogs, to all appearances, until a trespassing footstep attested their
vigilance.
A faint, delicious odor of frijoles floated from the kitchen when the
Dona Maria opened the door to bid us welcome home.
Marjorie flew to the strong arms overjoyed; but Mariposilla avoided her
mother as she hastily retreated to her own room, remaining apart until
called to supper.
The watchful Dona Maria, observing that her child could eat nothing,
artlessly inquired the cause. "Are not the frijoles inviting?" she
asked, in simple distress. "I have prepared them most fresh, and the oil
is from a new bottle," the good woman pursued.
"Perhaps my child is not well; if so, it is unfortunate that she should
have gone from home, for the good Father and Sister Francisco came at
noon. While I served them with fruit and wine the Father told much of
our dear Arturo, expressing often great joy that so fine a youth grows
rich, soon to return to the friends who await him with so much
affection. Sister Francisco was grieved that the convent is no more dear
to her child. She requested that the days be few until a visit is paid,
and left with her love a little gift."
As the Dona Maria paused, she arose from the table and handed
Mariposilla a small religious book.
The child had controlled herself with stoical determination throughout
her mother's reproachful disclosures, but, unable to do so longer, she
burst into tears and fled from the room.
The calm Dona Maria took no notice of the tempestuous departure, but the
grandmother appeared distressed, muttering her disapproval in Spanish.
I confess that I felt annoyed at Mariposilla's conduct. I could see no
reason for the outburst of grief and felt myself an innocent agent in
unsettling her happiness and disturbing her family.
After supper, when I had undressed Marjorie, who was soon asleep, and
had put on a chamber gown preparatory to writing letters, a timid tap at
my door told me that Mariposilla was without. So fond had I become of
the child that I instantly forgot my recent resentment. Not waiting for
the penitent to come to me I met her at the door. Drawing her to the
couch I urged her to tell me quietly the cause of her unhappiness.
"The senora will think me unworthy of her love," she cried, chokingly.
"No, dear," I replied, "I shall always love you. I have had many sorrows
myself, and I know how hard it is to speak of them; but always when I
have confided in a true friend, I have felt better and sorry that I had
not sought relief sooner."
"I will tell you," she said, "and then you may despise me."
She was very beautiful as she half drooped before me, her great eyes
moist, her dark hair loose about her shoulders.
"Tell me all, dear child," I urged, as she still hesitated.
"I am most wicked!" she cried desperately. "I love not my people; I am
unhappy because I am not an American."
A gush of tears terminated the confession.
"Poor child!" I said, drawing her to my side; "I am glad that you have
told me your trouble, for I think I can help you very soon."
She lifted her face appealingly while I spoke.
"Yes," I continued, "I am sure that I understand your unhappiness. You
are not untrue to your people. You only desire to be an American because
you have perceived that they are more in touch with the times than your
own nation, who, from loss of fortune and other causes, are not what
they once were, or what they will some day be again. Your poor little
heart and mind are starving for food. You must be nourished, and then
you will be happy. It is perfectly right that you should admire the
superior attainments and polished manners of a race not your own. It
means no disloyalty to your people, only the desire for a broader life
and a higher culture.
"You may be sure, dear child, that no one is ever satisfied. The
yearnings of the heart after unattainable desires is common in God's
wide creation. The longings of the savage are only different in degree
from yours or mine. Race puts no limits upon pure and laudable ambition.
"It is not necessary for you to be an American to be all that a lovely
woman should be. The daughter of the brave, wonderful Dona Maria Del
Valle can make of herself whatever she determines."
Mariposilla was still weeping gently.
"You are very beautiful, dear child," I continued. "More beautiful than
any American girl I ever knew. Still there is a beauty which shines from
the soul and from the mind that you must try daily to acquire. Then you
will be lovely, without flaw.
"If only you will be patient and true to your best ambitions, I am sure
that a great happiness will some day come into your life. Try to be
contented. Be a dutiful daughter to your dear mother, who has seen so
much sorrow, and has left only her precious child. Please her in all
things that are possible, and if you will do this I am sure that after a
time you will understand how wise and unselfish she has always been."
Instantly the girl released herself, while she faced me with a
passionate despair I will never forget.
"I will do all," she cried, "but marry Arturo. If I do not that I have
done nothing. The priest and my mother and the sisters at the convent
will curse me if I refuse. They will call me a shame, and, although I
love not Arturo, they would sell me for his gold."
"No, dear," I entreated, "no one will compel you to marry Arturo.
Believe me, you shall do as you please, only you must not allow unjust
suspicions to make you miserable. Think no more for the present of
marriage, try only to learn things that will fit you for life and
happiness; after a time, if one should come whom you love, you can then
not only make him joyful with your great beauty, but he will love and
respect you, because you have acquired the knowledge that makes life
agreeable and comfortable long after youth and beauty have flown."
"The senora is most wise," the child assented calmly. "Perhaps she will
teach me a little from her books, that I, too, may learn of the great
world; for, indeed, I will be good," she cried, brightening with the
determination.
"Yes, Mariposilla," I replied; "each day you shall have a lesson in
English, and soon you will be able to enjoy all that I enjoy; only in
return you must teach me Spanish, that I may also understand the
language and literature of your famous race."
Thus the compact was sealed, and each day afterward found Mariposilla
seated quietly in my room, poring over an allotted task. Her stormy
passions seemed stilled. If the wind of destiny sometimes shrieked in my
watchful ears, it more frequently sighed plaintively as I devised new
educational schemes for my protegee.
No one was more delighted over Mariposilla's apparent reformation than
the Dona Maria.
Not only did the lessons progress with astonishing regularity, but work
on the altar cloth, which had been for long intervals neglected so that
its various stages of completion were easily detected in the several
soiled sections of the linen, was resumed with steady, plodding
determination. Now but one row of the little Jesus stitch remained to be
done in the beautiful cloth ordered months before by a wealthy devotee.
The Dona Maria was in ecstasies when her daughter brought the task
finished, two days before Christmas; at the same time begging permission
to ride to Pasadena that she might receive for her labor the great sum
of thirty dollars.
That same morning, when Mariposilla was pressing carefully the handsome
piece of linen, Father Ramirez had looked into the kitchen and praised
her industry.
"After all, she is a dear child," the old priest said, patting the dark
head. "She will yet make a true woman like her dear mother. Before long
Arturo will come, and the bells of Old San Gabriel shall ring again as
they rang for the Dona Maria long ago."
Mariposilla flushed not. A deadly pallor extinguished the healthy glow
that the light labor had produced. Turning disrespectfully away, she
darted through the open door, and was gone.
It was only after the old priest had left and the Sandersons had driven
into the long green tunnel that color shone again beneath the surface of
her cheeks.