The Sandersons did not remain long at the ranch. After their departure
Mariposilla saddled the pony, and, bidding us a gleeful adieu, cantered
away with the precious altar cloth.
At parting, the Dona Maria had given her child, for a surprise, a dozen
exquisite doilies of her own workmanship. They were bestowed as a reward
for the girl's recent industry, and she was permitted to sell them with
the altar cloth.
"Shall I not be rich?" she cried, brandishing in excitement a superb
riding whip, a remnant of former glories. "When I am come again the
senora will go with me to Los Angeles. There I shall buy beautiful
things for you all."
An instant later she was flying down the green tunnel. As she passed
between the mammoth century plants, she waved once more her whip--and
was gone.
"Dear child!" I said, as we entered the house.
"Yes," said the mother, "she is good of heart. If only she would listen
to the advice of Father Ramirez and marry Arturo, we might all be once
more joyful."
"Yes," I answered, "I hope it may yet be as you desire; but, if you will
pardon me, dear Dona Maria, for speaking plainly, let no priest or other
person come between your child and yourself. Mariposilla is still so
young that she is absolutely frightened at the thought of marriage. Let
her develop gradually in her own way, willful though it may appear.
"I am sure that after a time, when Arturo returns, handsome and
successful, she will accept his proffered love."
The Dona Maria's great, sad eyes filled with happy tears. "Blessings be
on you, dear lady!" she said; "I shall ever be happy that it has been
sweet to have given you our home."
Kind Dona Maria! it was exactly what she had done--she had given us her
home. Generously, she had taken two strangers into her great motherly
heart to dwell.
Mrs. Sanderson was to come this same afternoon, for a lesson in drawn
work.
As I dropped into my accustomed nook of the veranda, the industrious
Dona Maria hastened out to the kitchen to perform a remaining duty.
Then, before she had made the still rich, dark hair tidy, and perhaps
said a prayer to the little wooden Virgin in the corner of her bedroom,
her pupil had arrived. Mrs. Sanderson was driven by a groom; her son was
not with her.
Sidney had gone coursing with some people from East San Gabriel who kept
hounds, she explained.
I remember that I wondered instantly if the man had followed
Mariposilla.
As it was impossible to know, I could only appear interested in the
progress of the drawn work. For some unknown reason the lesson soon
lagged. Mrs. Sanderson grew irritable over her indifferent success, and
for the first time wearied me a little.
The lady was in one of her intolerant moods. Her captious rejoinders and
censorious criticisms upon the guests of the hotel annoyed me. I
realized for the first time that possibly I myself might sometime become
a target for my capricious friend's sarcasms.
Marjorie wanted to go for a walk, so, excusing myself, we departed.
Holding my little one's hand, I tried to forget, in her sweet,
unconscious talk, the caustic brilliancy of the woman I had left. Every
stray dog or resting bird that enlivened our walk delighted the child.
When we came to some anthills she grew flushed and excited as she built
a fence about the thriving city to protect it against the invasion of
tarantulas.
Ever since Antonio, the Mexican, had unearthed a tarantula one morning
in the corner of the orchard, Marjorie had regarded the ugly yet
comparatively harmless creature as California's one demon. Romancing in
her play, she slew the formidable monsters in single imaginary combat,
enjoying among the birds and butterflies the same enviable notoriety
that St. Patrick attained when the snakes fled from the Emerald Isle.
Watching my child at play, I scarcely realized that the short winter day
was rapidly settling into twilight. At once hastening home, we found
Mrs. Sanderson gone and the Dona Maria busy preparing supper. Half an
hour later it was dark and Mariposilla had not yet come.
I could see that the Dona Maria was uneasy, for she went often to the
door, once as far as the turn in the driveway. Supper was now waiting.
The frijoles were in steaming readiness, and yet Mariposilla was absent.
All were growing alarmed, when the dashing of horses' hoofs told me that
not one but two persons had arrived. In a moment, I had flashed the
light of the room through the open door into the night.
I heard distinctly the sweet, low voice of Mariposilla and saw her
lifted to the ground from her pony. In the uncertain light the strong
arms of Sidney Sanderson appeared to poise dangerously long the girlish
form that resisted not the delay of the transit.
I doubt if the Dona Maria saw what I believed that I saw, for at the
time I think she had turned to speak to the anxious grandmother; then,
satisfied that the child had returned, she left the room.
The barking of the vigilant dogs had drawn me instantly to the door, and
I remember how positively certain I then felt that Sidney had kissed
Mariposilla during her groundward journey.
At the moment I believed entirely that he had done this thing, I was
filled with indignation, and ready to denounce him fearlessly, until
Mariposilla, bounding to my side, radiantly innocent, from the uncertain
darkness, implored me to assist in detaining for supper the kind friend
who had proved himself so invaluable during the afternoon. I stood
bewildered as the child proceeded to disarm my suspicions. Calling her
mother from the kitchen, she begged her to press the invitation that
Sidney was hesitating to accept.
That Mariposilla could be acting a part seemed impossible. Involuntarily
I followed the girl from her disappearance between the century plants
early in the afternoon, up to the present time, when she stood before
me, dazzling and lovely, telling what to all appearance was nothing but
the truth.
As we seated ourselves about the supper table, I knew that my suspicions
were rapidly subsiding. Later I denounced myself humbly, for allowing my
imagination the absolute freedom of the night.
Sidney had never before appeared so manly or straightforward. He seemed
highly amused at Mariposilla's ecstasy over his apparently accidental
appearance upon the scene of her disasters, while he ate with innocent
relish the supper which the hospitable Dona Maria delighted to serve.
"I was ruined but for Mr. Sanderson," the Spanish girl explained
tragically. "I could not have gone to Los Angeles with the senora, and
the precious things for Christmas could not have been bought; because I
had stupidly lost the altar cloth and the gift of my mother. I was
returning home miserable, without the money for which I had labored;
wild with anger when I remembered how I had gone almost to Pasadena
before I knew that my treasures were lost. For wicked Chiquita had shied
in many places, and many strangers had passed upon the road, so I knew
that to search in hope would be useless. I could only weep upon the neck
of my bad Chiquita, feeling ashamed, but unable to forget my sorrow. It
was then that my friend saw me, and restored again my treasures.
"Was it not kind in our dear Lady to send him so quickly; almost as
soon as I had prayed through tears one little prayer?
"Oh! it was joy to see again my things in the hand of a friend, when I
had believed them found by a stranger."
As the child paused, she looked confidingly at Sidney, who smiled assent
to what she had been saying.
"Yes," he affirmed with unusual animation, "I was permitted to play, for
the first time in my life, the exalted role of the good old man who
comes out of the bushes just in time to save the beautiful princess from
disaster."
We all laughed, but Mariposilla sank her lovely face lower, while she
regarded her plate intently.
Suddenly she lifted her great earnest eyes fearlessly to my own. They
were full of light and happiness. I doubted no longer that she was
innocent of what I had imagined.
"I will call the senora early," Mariposilla said, when Sidney had gone
and we were parting for the night. She had been dancing about the room
clicking, in imitation of castanets, her cherished gold pieces.
"Is it not grand to be rich?" she cried. "How happy I am this night! I
shall never be so happy again."
She looked strangely prophetic as she spoke. She had not removed her
riding habit, and, while dancing, she caught up gracefully the
insubordinate skirt, which trammeled her exuberance. Floating about the
room, she appeared unconscious of everything but the delights of her
awakened body. Her feet and arms moved in an ecstasy of unrestraint. The
abandoned sway of her agile frame caught naturally each modulation of
the improvised castanets.
"Come, dear Butterfly," I said, when she threw herself panting into a
chair, her eyes shining with excitement. "Fly quickly to bed or the
pretty wings will be weary for the hard, long to-morrow."
"Oh, the beautiful to-morrow!" she cried, rapturously. "I will call the
senora early--that not one moment of the precious day may be lost."