True to the arrangement, I heard the little bare feet patter across the
hall to my door with the first gleam of the bright December morning.
The Dona Maria had prepared an early breakfast, but Mariposilla could
eat nothing in her excitement. The gold pieces were carefully counted
into the little purse, and the deliberate Antonio was soundly scolded
for his delay in bringing around the pony hitched to the old buggy,
which I earnestly hoped would not fall to pieces short of the station.
As we parted from the Dona Maria, she requested me to select a
ready-made frock for Mariposilla, explaining that her daughter had been
invited to spend a week at the East San Gabriel Hotel with Mrs.
Sanderson.
I was so astonished at the announcement that I could hardly conceal my
surprise; but the Dona Maria not appearing to notice it, I replied that
I would be happy to serve her; at the same time, I decided to take
Marjorie and go myself to the hotel. Mrs. Sanderson had urged us to come
repeatedly, and I felt that now the invitation was imperative.
Mariposilla should not go to the Sandersons' alone. I had instituted
myself her guardian, and I would protect her not only from her
inexperience, but from unscrupulous attentions, selfishly bestowed.
I knew that Mrs. Sanderson had secured the Dona Maria's consent for her
daughter's visit to the hotel during my absence the previous afternoon;
and I saw at once that Mariposilla had not known of the plan before.
However, her first demonstrative joy was smothered in quiet ecstasy. All
the way to the city she was rapturously solemn. Only her telltale color
and her eyes confessed the exciting dreams which were filling her
innocent brain.
As the purchase of the dress had now become the mainspring of our
expedition, we went, at the termination of our short journey, directly
to a store, announcing through show windows its distinctive claim to
imported novelties. Upon the threshold we were met by a smiling French
saleswoman, possibly the only genuine importation in stock, but
wonderfully successful in discounting the abnormal developments of
Hebrew physiognomy visible in the ever watchful proprietor.
It was but the work of a moment to abandon ourselves completely to the
feminine joy of our undertaking. Once within the toils of the
Frenchwoman, escape appeared the height of ingratitude.
Mariposilla was soon radiant with delight as she tried on, for the first
time in her uneventful life, costume after costume, commenting
innocently upon the merits of one, while she deplored the deficiencies
of another. After many trials, she had almost decided to take a pretty,
rich blue serge, enlivened with touches of gay plaided silk, when the
wily saleswoman brought out unexpectedly from a perfumed box a beautiful
dress of cream cloth.
The child held her breath as she begged to try on the wonderful frock
with the jaunty, sleeveless jacket, worn over a soft, creamy silk waist,
the entire costume daintily brightened with bands, embroidered in gold
thread. When she stood arrayed before the long mirror, regarding
affectionately the stylish puff of the sleeves, and the circular,
girlish effect of the throat, outlined by a band of gold, her simple
vanity forgot concealment.
"Mademoiselle is most bewitching!" the Frenchwoman exclaimed. "She can
not find one other costume so becoming. Her complexion looks most
perfect! So harmonious! So delightful!"
In the mirror I could see reflected Mariposilla's extravagant joy. She
had never in her life before been so beautifully dressed. Instinctively
she snatched from her head her hat, discovering with quick perception
that its somber shabbiness detracted from the general effect of the
dainty costume. Standing for a moment unconscious of the audience, she
threw a kiss to her own lovely image. Realizing what she had done, she
flushed deeper and turned away.
"Mademoiselle is an artist! She perceives that she looks most
beautiful," the Frenchwoman pursued. "She must certainly buy the
costume. There is about it an air. It has just arrived, and will soon
be sold. Mademoiselle must not hesitate."
For the first time the thought of the price presented a possible
drawback to the inexperienced child. She turned from the mirror,
touchingly in earnest in her inquiry. "How much does it cost?" she
asked.
When the saleswoman named the amount the disappointed girl began
heroically to remove the jacket. As she laid it aside she turned
instinctively to me for sympathy.
"I cannot pay the price," she whispered. "It would take all that I have,
and there would be nothing left to buy the shawl for my mother, or the
slippers for my grandmother, or the doll for Marjorie."
A moment longer she hesitated, the mist of disappointment gleaming in
her eyes. Then, with a quiet resolution that was wonderful, she
commanded the saleswoman to remove the coveted temptation, announcing
her determination to take the blue dress which she had previously
fancied.
I was delighted at the character she evinced. I knew how bitterly
disappointed she was, and I was proud not only of her quiet
self-control, but of the loving thoughtfulness she had displayed in
remembering that her little store of gold must be divided with the
toiling mother, the old grandmother, and my own little child.
"Do up both costumes," I said in undertone to the saleswoman, less
attentive now that she had discovered the extent of Mariposilla's
capital. Impertinently folding the discarded dress, she allowed
Mariposilla to struggle as best she could with her buttons.
At my announcement she flew to assist, but I commanded tartly the
packing of our purchases.
After we left the store I noticed several times during the day that the
child still remembered covetously the denied frock; but she behaved
sensibly, and after we had bought the shawl, and the slippers, and a
Chinese doll for Marjorie, and there was still money for a sailor hat
and a few trifles, she appeared satisfied. She enjoyed, with childish
appetite, our elaborate luncheon; while she evinced the warmest
interest in my selection of toys and books for Marjorie. When she
discovered that I had bought presents for her mother and the
grandmother, she seemed to have dismissed entirely the disappointment of
the morning.
We left the city by a late afternoon train, and already twilight had
ceased to linger. As we stepped blindly into the early winter darkness
at the end of our short journey, the voice of Sidney Sanderson sounded
pleasant and assuring.
"You see," he explained, as he unburdened our far-reaching arms, "I
fancied you would need assistance. Antonio gratefully resigned his
responsibilities, and I took the liberty of coming myself with a more
substantial vehicle."
The escape from the uncertainties of the old buggy, to say nothing of
the eccentricities of the pony, filled me with gratitude for our
deliverer. After the tiresome day, it was truly delightful to find a
friend in the depths of the darkness. As yet I had not attained the
independence exhibited by many unprotected women whom I met, and
Sidney's unexpected courtesy so touched my heart that I meekly
determined to forget forever my suspicions of the evening before.
I had never quite overcome my childish dread of the dark, and as we
stepped from the train to the wayside platform I shall never forget the
sickening wave of loneliness that deluged my courage. A longing for the
electric lights of the city, for the first time in months, fastened upon
me; while never before had a familiar voice sounded so welcome as did
Sidney's, coming from the uncanny denseness of the night. It was not
until we had reached the long dark tunnel of peppers that I regained the
composure which I felt continually from my first day with the Dona
Maria.
Through the open door streamed a bright welcome, checking effectually my
transient discontent; for midway in the flood of light danced
Marjorie--a sprite in white, flushed and joyous, she watched for our
return.
Within, the grape roots had been piled high. The supper table shone with
unusual luster. Old silver and rich red roses proclaimed the night a
gala one, and the kind Dona Maria, in her best black silk, bade us the
old-time welcome of Christmas Eve.
The grandmother, resplendent in great gold ear-rings, chattered
garrulously in Spanish, while Mrs. Sanderson smiled indulgently and
regally upon all.
The lady was in demi-evening toilet, and the delicate tone of her
French-gray gown, embellished with lace and caught at the half low
throat by flashing jewels, was to Mariposilla a revelation. To the
simple child the handsome woman appeared a wonderful vision, from which
she could not withdraw her eyes. For the first time she beheld Mrs.
Sanderson in her most captivating role; the conventional habit of day,
exchanged for one of rare artistic beauty, had given to the lady a
sudden fascinating youth which was startling. In the less impertinent
light of evening, the encroachments of time were effaced. The
aristocratic features and dazzling teeth belied the years of the woman
whose supreme object had been their preservation. The beautiful hands,
ablaze with jewels, seemed to smite the humble room with light, when the
lady caressed, with amused vanity, the bewildered child she had so
perfectly enthralled.
"Fly, Butterfly," she coaxed, as Mariposilla lingered by her side; "Sid
is starving! and so are we all. Cast aside the old, dull frock and
dazzle us in the new one."
I had always noticed that Mrs. Sanderson was exuberant in the evening.
To her theatrical nature there was something exhilarating in the flicker
of artificial lights. When high noon told her unpleasant truths, she
forgot them the same evening, amid shaded lamps and candles. An open
fire could warm her usually chilly sympathies, until she sometimes
forgot her selfishness in genuine kindness. At such times, occasionally,
she grew honest, and often liberal.
She had declared that misfortunes and ugly surroundings would soon make
her a devil. It was only when deceived by luxury and flattery that she
was capable of good thoughts.
"I am naturally depraved before I have had my bath and my early coffee,"
she would say, jestingly, to the amazement of the literal, whom she
delighted to shock. "Sid, the scamp, knows better than to cross me
before luncheon. In the evening he is safe. When he sees that I am in
the ecstasies of dotage, a perfect old egotist, happy with illusions, he
imposes upon me shamefully."
Strange, worldly woman that she was, it was impossible to condemn her
brilliancy.
She had told us that her great grandmother was a Frenchwoman of rank,
and as I regarded her this Christmas Eve, I seemed to see the proud dame
of the fallen monarchy living again in the imperious form of her
descendant.
I had not completed my hasty toilet when Mariposilla came flying to my
door, breathless. She held in her arms the dress of cream and gold.
"See," she cried; "they have made a mistake! and I must again part with
the beautiful dress. Can I not wear it this once that my friends may see
it?"
I had not the heart to rebuke her; she was so lovely in her ignorance. I
could only smile indulgently, as I bade her enjoy the frock, which was
to be her Christmas present.
"Dear, kind Senora," she exclaimed, passionately kissing my hand; "I
will indeed be good! I will indeed learn fast."
"Very well," I replied, "if you are good I shall always be glad that I
was able to please you. But come, dear child," I urged; "make haste, for
the Dona Maria is calling. She will be deeply annoyed if we allow her
supper to cool."
It was astonishing how quickly Mariposilla complied with my command. Her
transformation appeared to occupy but a moment. And never was the
awakening of an actual butterfly more surprising or triumphant.
Her joy in her enhanced beauty was rapturous and innocent. When we
entered the living-room she hugged herself with delightful vanity as she
approached the astonished Dona Maria.
"Am I not grand? Am I not beautiful?" she demanded. "Is not my dress
more rich than the dresses in the green chest of my grandmother? Be
happy with me, dear mother. Kiss thy child, and give her at last the
little necklace of opals. See," she continued, coaxingly, peering into
a mirror, "see how sweetly the necklace will lie against my throat; just
as my beautiful Aunt Lola once wore it," she entreated in Spanish.
"Hush, foolish child," the Dona Maria commanded sternly; for at the
first mention of the necklace the grandmother had shown ominous signs of
dissatisfaction. When Mariposilla persistently mentioned the name of the
dead Lola the old woman screamed angrily, growing each moment more
excited, until the patient Dona Maria coaxed her gently from the room.
"I am so sorry," cried the penitent child, when the door closed upon the
now shrieking and unmanageable Spanish woman. "I am so sorry that I
compelled my grandmother to make a noise. She approves not of joy; and
my mother, too, is often sad when I am happy; for she then thinks only
of my dead father and the evil fortunes which have befallen us."
For answer, Mrs. Sanderson drew the unhappy girl within the charmed
circle of her arms. With her soft, jeweled hands she clasped about her
throat a pretty string of gold beads. "Say no more about the opal
necklace," she said; "the little beads will do until you are older."
When the Dona Maria returned, Mariposilla had recovered her spirits. She
was talking gaily with Sidney, unconscious of everything but the delight
of the moment. As her mother approached, she flew to her side, that she
might admire the necklace she had just received. With pretty entreaty
she begged the Dona Maria to thank once more the dear friends who had
given her so much joy.
For a moment the mother seemed to forget everything but the touching
happiness of her child. A tender light shone in the great, dark eyes
when she thanked us in a little speech displaying the fervent
characteristics of her simple nature.
The supper was now steaming upon the table. A great platter of chicken
tamales had been prepared, as none but the Dona Maria knew how to
prepare them. The fragrant coffee, the dainty biscuit and the rich
preserves and cream, tempted us delightfully with the unconventional
perfection of Spanish hospitality.
The only restraint upon our complete enjoyment was the consciousness of
the protesting grandmother. Mrs. Sanderson, I perceived, was intensely
annoyed.
Her hatred of the imbecile tyranny of age was plain when the Dona Maria
excused herself, finding it impossible to remain longer away from her
unreasonable charge, now protesting in methodical shrieks.
"Be happy, dear friends," she said. "Mind not the infirmities of my
mother. I will soon soothe her--in time--to sleep; when she will forget
for a season the sorrows of her life. Make free with all that is ours,
and enjoy, if possible, the supper which I have prepared. My daughter
will serve, and may the night be happy!"
Dear, brave Dona Maria! how could we reverence her enough? How forget in
mirth the pathos of her noble unselfishness?
Long after the Sandersons had gone, long after Mariposilla had ceased to
rejoice over her splendid fortunes, forgetting in the natural slumbers
of youth the caressing pressure of the gold beads, or the sweet secret
of the little bracelet hugging her arm, that she must not show, but
could kiss in solitude, long after the gorgeous air castles, built by
the ignorant, innocent young architect, had crumbled for the night, and
I had ceased to listen to the faint noises from the adjoining room, did
the patient Dona Maria keep her vigil.
As I dropped to sleep I heard her tender voice soothing like an infant
the aged mother, who at last sank away into a long, irresistible
slumber.
When the clear, yellow dawn of Christmas morn awakened the cocks of the
corral, I heard the Dona Maria knocking at her daughter's door. Opening
my own I inquired if her mother still slept, begging that I might
relieve for a time her patient watch.
"The Senora is kind," she said, "but my mother will now sleep for many
hours. The Senora need not fear; she will scream no more. She has taken
the sleeping potion, and now I am free to go with my child to the early
celebration."
Mariposilla was now awake. Her hair had fallen over her shoulders and
the little necklace still encircled her throat. About her eyes lingered
the rosy flush of her unbroken sleep. She sat up as we entered, pushing
quickly beneath her nightgown sleeve a tiny rim of gold.
"Come, my child," said the Dona Maria, "make haste and prepare for the
early celebration. Our sufferer sleeps at last, and we may now go
together to the church and thank once more the sweet Mother for the
birth of the Holy Child."
I went back to my room as Mariposilla began to dress. A few moments
later I heard the outer door close gently, and knew that the Dona Maria
and her child had gone.
A strange fear fastened upon me, driving me irresistibly to the
adjoining door. I opened it. The darkened room was a fascinating terror.
I entered, and approached the bed of the sleeping Spanish woman. Her
stillness was terrible. The old horror seized me. I felt once more the
power of my old enemy. Death seemed to be facing me again. The same
cruel, dreadful certainty that I knew so well! I staggered forward to
flee. I must have fainted, for when I revived I was lying upon the floor
in front of the little wooden Virgin. The blessed sunlight was peeping
from the sides of the window curtains, while above the head of the
image there hung a golden beam.
I arose and stood calmly by the bed of the Spanish woman.
The linen was spotless; the pillow cases and night-dress of the sleeper
elaborate with the drawn needlework of the Dona Maria. The snowy
whiteness of the counterpane contrasted strangely with the bronzed,
weather-beaten features and large, gnarled hands of the woman beneath,
so like a mummy that her breathing alone seemed human.
Yet regular and warm as an infant's, her breath issued through her
half-open mouth. No muscle stirred. No sound broke the silence; until,
in the distance, floating above the orange groves, and on to the
Christmas day, rang the bells of old San Gabriel.