A soothing peace possessed me, as I listened to the ringing of the old
bells. I left quietly the bedside of the aged sleeper to kneel a moment
later by that of my child. The healthy loveliness which I beheld
completed my restoration. As I kissed the dainty, dimpled hands, and
laid my cheek against the yellow curls, her warm, sweet breath infused
my flagging circulation with the energy of love.
I no longer forgot my plans for the morning. Hastily dressing, I
gathered as quickly as possible the various mysterious parcels secreted
about my room, glancing occasionally at Marjorie to be sure that no
possum slumbers hid beneath deceitful lashes. Satisfied that my schemes
were unsuspected, I fled eagerly, with ladened arms, from the silent
house out into the crisp, inspiring air of the sacred morning.
The sun was now well up. As it rose, it touched with magical radiance
the most distant reaches of the Christmas landscape.
Reverently I lingered, enthralled with the breath of Judea. Standing
beneath the old palms I listened to an anthem, led by a lark and
sustained by the lowing cattle, who seemed to tell, as at first, the
birth of the long-expected Saviour; while the rosebuds reflected from
jeweled hearts his pure parables.
About me the purple mountains gleamed with the fresh, cool touch of the
night. Between twin spurs, resting against the bosom of the sky, snow
had gathered, until in the distant outline a pure, white lamb appeared,
slain for the holy festival.
Old Baldy, the high priest of the morning, until now had withheld the
fullness of his majesty. Suddenly the sun with golden shafts rent far
asunder the misty veil that had enveloped his hoary summit. Transfigured
with supernatural glory, the morning seemed to pause for one still
moment, as if to receive his benediction.
"I, too, have been to the early celebration," I said to my heart, as I
turned reluctantly to the pressing demands of the now inaugurated day.
Hastily I hid the packages in various secret nooks, while I decorated a
great white rose tree with cornucopias and knicknacks.
Hardly had the last bauble been hung upon the magnificent Christmas tree
when I heard the plaintive voice of my child.
I hurried to the house to find the little girl upon the bed, struggling
bravely with her shoes and stockings.
"Did the fairies come?" she demanded, springing into my arms for her
Christmas kiss.
For my answer I carried her to the window, through which she beheld the
white rose tree.
"See," I said, "how good are the good little fairies to good little
girls."
"May I go as soon as I am dressed and pick the tree?" the child
besought, her eyes beaming with expectation.
"Yes," I said, "you may go, but I think the fairies would rather you
would wait until our kind Dona Maria and Mariposilla return from church.
The Dona Maria must be very weary; she has not slept all night for
watching at the bedside of the grandmother. I think I know a little girl
who might help to get breakfast, so that when the Dona Maria returns she
can refresh herself at once with some hot coffee. I wonder if the little
girl's name is Marjorie? Or perhaps I am mistaken; I may have forgotten
her name."
Marjorie took one long, regretful look at the rose-tree; then from her
baby heart there escaped a tragic little sigh that was half a sob.
"Please, dear mamma," she said, bravely, "I will mind the fairies."
Fortunately for both mother and child, their resolution was not long
tested.
It took but a few moments to prepare the toast and coffee, for Antonio
had unexpectedly lighted the fire and filled the water kettle. Before
our simple meal was quite ready the Dona Maria and Mariposilla had
arrived.
It was amusing to witness the Dona Maria's mortification when she
perceived that I had cooked the breakfast; her distress was genuine when
she declared that the Senora would certainly be ill. "I am ashamed that
I should have remained so long," she apologized. "The Senora should not
have arisen until our return. It is ill fortune that she has not
permitted me to prepare her a dainty holiday breakfast."
"Dear Dona Maria," I entreated, "why will you deplore what is already
accomplished? I have told you often that a simple breakfast is all that
I require, and our frolic has given me a fine appetite. See," I urged,
"is my toast not a delicious brown? Make haste and enjoy the coffee, or
I shall be greatly disappointed."
"The Senora is most kind," the Dona Maria replied, seating herself
submissively. With her dark hand she brushed away a tear. "We are ever
happy, my daughter and I, that we have known one so good and gentle,"
she added, feelingly.
Marjorie and Mariposilla had by this time declared it impossible to
resist longer the fascinations of the rose-tree, tantalizingly visible
through the open door. Gaining permission, they scampered away, followed
by the hounds. The dogs appeared to understand the occasion. They ran
forward, doubling over with excitement, as though expecting to find a
jack-rabbit suspended from a bough of the Christmas tree. The picture
was a pretty one, and none of us enjoyed it more than the Dona Maria,
who soon left the table and joined the children in their merry hunt for
the hidden parcels.
Marjorie led her about at will, compelling the sedate woman to stoop and
caper as she had not done for years. When the gifts had all been
discovered, we arranged them in rows upon the Bermuda grass, preparatory
to the untying of strings and ribbons.
Marjorie's row was long and diversified, while Mariposilla declared that
she had never before received so many gifts at one time.
"It is because we are so good," Marjorie explained; "for you know that
fairies never bring presents to naughty children, only just stones and
mud."
We all laughed as we continued our occupation each untying in turn a
parcel marked with the name of the recipient and the good fairy who had
been responsible for its safe delivery from the foot of Old Baldy.
With each discovery the air was flooded with shrieks of approval.
Marjorie rejoiced over every little treasure, while Mariposilla
embraced us excitedly at each happy surprise.
Even the Dona Maria grew artlessly gay, appearing to forget that the
grandmother might soon awaken, to be cared for like an infant, and that
Christmas was now but a colorless counterfeit of years past.
"Ah!" exclaimed the sympathetic mother, when Mariposilla held up for
admiration a little silver bracelet; "it is almost like the happiness of
the old days. Not the same; for the Spanish gave not gifts, but the good
cheer is most sweet. I grieve," she continued, "that the Senora and my
child should not have known those once glad days--now gone forever.
Then, all went about from rancho to rancho, free from sorrow; always
joyful in abundance. But the holiday is no more what it once was--so
full of mirth and sweet enjoyment for both old and young; yet ever
sacred, for none dared forget to go to the old church when the bells
rang lovingly the birth of the Holy Child.
"Dear Senora," she continued, her dark eyes intensifying with awakening
memories; "could you have seen the beauty of the old Spanish life,
then, with thy gentle heart, tears would now fall for those of us who
are left."
With increasing melancholy she explained that her child refused to
grieve for the departed glory of her family.
"I am often miserable when I remember how different I once felt, so full
of joy and pride when I dreamed that my children would thank always the
sweet Mother for the nobility of their father's name. Yet I blame not
Mariposilla; for she saw not my husband, Don Arturo. Her life was too
late to know of his goodness and beauty. I could forgive always her
thoughtless indifference, if only sometimes she would weep when I show
her the riding jacket embroidered with gold, and the botas of exceeding
richness, once worn by her dear father. But she is cold, and understands
not what she has lost. She would even profane the precious shawls of her
grandmother, urging that some be sold to envious Americans for gold!"
Poor Dona Maria! I feared that her transient happiness had fled. But she
soon controlled the dash of bitterness that tinctured for a moment her
reminiscences, and continued to describe the wonderful days, once
enjoyed by her now scattered and Americanized people.
"Think not, dear Senora, that I am ungrateful," she begged, sweetly. "It
is perhaps best that my child should grow like the Americans. Her older
kinsmen will soon be gone; the younger ones, like herself, care not to
continue in the old way, seeking to marry with strangers, forgetting
often even the religion of their childhood."
I was loath to interrupt the gentle complaints of the Dona Maria; for
beneath the shadow of the venerable palms her sweet, low, sympathetic
voice enthralled me with realistic glimpses of her picturesque past.
Tears dropped upon the brown cheeks when she told how she had knelt for
the communion that same morning, alone with her child, surrounded no
longer by dear, familiar faces.
"How different it once was!" she explained eagerly. "How sad, yet good,
to remember how once the altar rail was thronged with near relatives and
loving friends. To think how joyful were our hearts when we had
received and could go absolved from the cold church into the warm
sunshine, there to speak pleasant kind words and wish to each other a
merry day. How beautiful to listen to the gay greetings of the young, to
grasp the hands of dear ones, and hear, upon all sides, 'Feliz noche
buena!'"
"Come," she said, rising; "my mother still sleeps, and I will show you
the silken shawls, the lace mantillas, and the embroidered garments of
our family."
Gladly I followed her to the little chamber, where she opened reverently
a huge chest, from which she drew, one by one, the beautiful relics of
her prosperity.
With loving care she took from scented wrappings gorgeous shawls of
crepe, blooming on both sides with rich, yet delicately wrought flowers,
mantillas of wonderful lace, and dainty bits of Spanish finery, that
brought to my lips repeated exclamations of wonder and delight.
"I am happy to have shown the Senora my treasures," she said, flushing
with pleasure, as she drew, from a silken bag embroidered with silver, a
scarf which she had reserved until the last, as the most precious and
beautiful heirloom in her possession.
Draping it pathetically about her somber figure, she urged me to admire
the delicate green which displayed so marvellously the butterflies
embroidered in pink and gold, studded with real jewels.
"See!" she cried, caressing tenderly the clinging fabric; "is it not
wonderful! So bright and sparkling after all the sad years!"
"The Senora will understand how dear is the scarf of the butterflies,
when I relate to her its story, explaining how it came from Spain, the
gift of my husband's grandmother; how I wore it to church upon our
wedding day to shield from the sun the neck and arms that were once my
foolish pride; how, when we were returning from our marriage, mounted
upon horses decked with roses and splendid with silver and jewels, my
husband, desirous that all should see the magnificence of my satin gown,
caught away playfully the scarf, throwing it about his own shoulders,
while he declared that all must behold the beauty of his bride. After a
time, when our child was born, my husband brought again the scarf of the
butterflies, commanding my mother to wrap it about our boy, that he
might carry him upon the veranda to be admired by our assembled
household.
"Ah! Senora, was not my husband proud the day he went with a company to
the church for the christening of our child? Many relatives had arrived
from Los Angeles and from Ventura, so that our house was overflowing
with cheer. The kitchen and the court were gay with preparations from
morning until evening. Although I could not go myself to the church, my
husband told me joyfully how the dear old Father who had married us the
year before took in his arms our boy, blessing him with double certainty
when he kissed his little cheek.
"But too beautiful to live was our baby, and in one short year we gave
him tearfully to the sweet Mother of Heaven, who heard not our prayers
when our little one lay ill. Two more sons, grown almost to manhood, we
lost; and then my brave husband, who had ever grieved sorely for his
boys, went too.
"I alone remained with my mother and my unborn child, who came not
until her father had been five months dead.
"See," she said, wiping away the tears that suffused her great, sad
eyes; "see, dear Senora, the little petticoats of my dead babies, all
now yellow with age.
"Who will care, when I am gone, for the worthless garments of my little
ones? Surely not Mariposilla, for she understands not why I should still
grieve, after the long years that have passed.
"She loves, however, the scarf of the butterflies, and begs often to
possess it. When I am taken she may do as she desires with it, for it
will then be her own, to treasure or to resign unto strangers.
"Yet I pray that she may always hold sacred the gift of her father's
grandmother; for she, too, was carried to her christening wrapped in the
beautiful shawl.
"Well do I remember how sore was my heart the day that my mother went
alone to the church with my fatherless child. So ill was I, that I cared
not even to name my little daughter, entreating my mother to consult
with the priest, who might choose for us.
"But my good mother was wiser than I, and when she had thought much she
remembered the butterflies upon the beautiful scarf, and how my husband,
Don Arturo, had delighted to behold them glistening in the sunlight when
I first wore the shawl to my bridal; how, afterwards, he insisted that
his children should first be shown to his household wrapped in the
splendid gift of his grandmother. Wisely she remembered these things,
and when, weeks after, I asked her the name of my child, I wept for joy
when she said, 'She is Mariposilla.'"
Tenderly the dark hand folded and replaced in its embroidered bag the
precious scarf of the butterflies. Tearfully she laid it away by the
side of the sparkling riding-jacket and gorgeous botas of the dead
Arturo, while she reverently closed the old chest, relegating to its
scented depths the fading remnants of her former grandeur, together with
the sad, sweet memories of her poetic life.