Mariposilla was the belle of the cotillion. Seated between Sidney and
Ethel Walton, she knew no embarrassment. When dancing, she was
absolutely free from self-consciousness.
I assisted Mrs. Sanderson at the favor tables, where I had every
opportunity of observing the girl's behavior.
She was constantly called out, and to my delight accepted her popularity
with gracious modesty.
Often, when she came for a favor, Mrs. Sanderson delayed her to whisper
a compliment, or else to lavish upon her a marked caress.
From first to last, the happy child was noticeably bedecked with
trophies of success. In her hair a number of gauzy butterflies of
different hues fluttered as she danced, encouraging the fancy that she
was truly related to the gorgeous little creatures after which she had
been named.
By the side of the Spanish child the other girls appeared artificial.
Their respective claims to beauty seemed easily determined, the limit of
their fascinations soon estimated.
"I never felt so blase in my life before," Ethel Walton whispered, as I
handed her a favor. Later, when there was an intermission in the
cotillion, she crossed the room and sat by my side.
"As I told you once, I feel dreadfully blase to-night," she said,
picking to pieces a rose which had fallen away from her stylish gown.
"To watch your wonderful protegee rejoicing over the sweet, uncertain
trophies of her first cotillion, is entirely refreshing. Her extravagant
happiness makes me feel as though I had finished my course and been
decidedly beaten."
"Did you ever see anyone so effulgent?" Ethel continued, following with
her eyes the outlines of Mariposilla's figure. "No one in the room can
approach her in beauty," she mused amiably. "And yet the girl inspires
no jealousy; for, like Donatello, her moral nature seems absolutely
undeveloped. Sometimes she seems like an exquisite link between nature
and the fallen angels."
"Have you, too, noticed this?" I exclaimed.
"Yes," Ethel replied, "I have been thinking about her ever since that
first visit to Crown Hill. If I am ever famous in the Salon, Mariposilla
shall be the theme for my picture."
"If you work I am sure you will succeed," I replied.
"I hope I shall continue to work," she answered, "but even work is an
uncertain proviso. Sometimes I wonder why God inconveniences the
ordinary mortal with an imagination. Why does he not reserve the
allurements of art for the genius of the century alone?"
"I so often envy my sister," the girl continued. "It is beautiful to
watch her at a high church service. This one exalted caprice seems to
satisfy entirely her cravings after the extraordinary. She believes the
tenets of her faith so implicitly that she is never beguiled into
uncomfortable doubts. She never reaches after unattainable things, and
is absolutely satisfied with the common conventions of life."
"Then surely she is happy?" I replied.
"Yes," answered Ethel, "but look at Sidney Sanderson. Certainly he is
in love with Mariposilla! Watch him a moment and see how he has
forgotten his blase part to-night. All things considered, I believe the
match would be a good one," she continued. "Sid is carnal enough to
appreciate Mariposilla's physical perfection, and I believe he could
easily dispense with moral and intellectual qualities."
Later, when Ethel bade me good-night, she whispered that I might depend
upon her as my ally. "If Mr. Sidney becomes too masterful let me know,"
she said, gaily, as she enveloped herself in the folds of her evening
cloak.
Long after the hotel had been hushed with the final hush which follows a
ball, I lay awake thinking of Mariposilla and the possible intentions of
Sidney Sanderson. Time after time her beautiful, passionate face
appeared before me, tortured, one moment, with wild, half-civilized
jealousy; the next, transcendent with blissful trust in the man she
loved.
When I awoke from my unrefreshing slumbers at the usual time, aroused by
Marjorie, who had crawled into my bed, I felt that I must invent a
pretext for returning Mariposilla as soon as possible to the care of her
mother.
The morning was dull. A prophetic contrast to the glorious Christmas
dawn of the day before. The rains had been threatening at intervals for
several weeks, but the sun had dissipated the clouds each day, leaving
always the impression of a pleasant trick arranged for the bewildered
tourist, who, contrary to the example of natives and adopted
Californians, lugged about persistently his mackintosh and umbrella,
declaring each cloudy morning that rain must certainly fall before
night. Then, suddenly, the gray clouds seemed to melt into the liquid
blue of the sky, while against the sides of the purple mountains only
one long streak of vapor rested, like the shroud of a giant.
The week before Christmas the sky had smoothed away its every trace of
rain. Light snows had sugared the feathery outlines of the distant
peaks, and the delighted tourist had hung up his mackintosh and
umbrella, deciding that the climates of Southern France and Italy were
not to be considered with that of Southern California. Now the clouds
had returned reenforced. The range had grown richer in color, almost
black, except when the sun shot for a moment his presence in temporary
triumph against a spur, that glistened responsively, while the canons
scowled in dark disapproval. Then, all at once, a gloom, like a
half-dropped curtain, settled back of the foothills, defying the
prophecies of the most ancient mariner of the Coast.
As I awoke I felt with unusual depression the absence of the sun. And
when I drew aside my curtains I peered in vain for streaks of gold
threading the horizon. The morning was lifeless and gray. Even the great
clusters of cactus, the remains of the natural wall planted by the good
padres years ago for protection against the Indians, seemed an invasion
of gray spirits. Not so when the sun glanced their bristling tops, for
then they shone like knights in full armor.
My heart went out in childish homesickness to the Dona Maria and the
little nest I had prepared for myself in her simple Spanish home. While
I dressed myself and Marjorie, I turned over and over the subject which
had taken possession of my thoughts. How could I escape the
complications of this inopportune visit? How could I, without offending
the Sandersons and noticeably meddling with the discretion of the Dona
Maria, return quietly with Mariposilla to the ranch?
But the problem grew more difficult as the day advanced, for Mariposilla
was now in a seventh heaven, which surpassed entirely her expectations.
All at once she was the pet and sensation of the hotel. Mrs. Wilbur had
conquered her pique of the previous evening, and, for reasons clear to
herself, she flattered and patronized the child with unlooked-for
benevolence. The gay young woman seemed to have recovered her lost
temper, for she urged Sidney and Mariposilla to waltz after breakfast,
volunteering, with sweet unselfishness, to furnish the music for the
aimless crowd who had congregated in the ball-room. Later, the tennis
experts insisted on a few last sets before the rain, and all sauntered
in the direction of the courts, pairing off as they went, drawn by the
flirtatious affinities of the moment.
However, tennis soon languished, and the crowd returned to the
Sandersons' sitting-room to beguile the rest of the morning with guitars
and banjos. Mrs. Wilbur professed unbounded admiration for Mariposilla's
performances, and engaged to practice with her that same afternoon, when
the present audience had dispersed for beauty naps.
"We could soon play together wonderfully well," she declared. The woman
had evidently decided that her best game was to patronize Mrs.
Sanderson's guest, if she intended to regain the attentions of Sidney
when the girl departed. Yet she loved to embitter the latent
apprehensions of the poor child by constant reference to the face in the
silver shrine. I could see that although Mariposilla carried herself
with unusual composure, there was beneath her stifling calm a lurking
tempest of doubt and jealousy. She seemed horribly fascinated by the
unpleasant possibilities of the beautiful face that occupied so many
conspicuous situations in the room. She gazed again and again at the
lovely, aristocratic features which haunted her to despair. Once she
locked them passionately in their silver case. Quickly turning to a pile
of music, she tried to hide her secret; but Mrs. Sanderson had observed
her.
"Looking at my beautiful Gladys again?" she said, drawing the blushing
child to her side. "I hope you will know her some day, for Gladys would
love you dearly. She adores everything beautiful."
The color deepened beneath the Spanish girl's cheek as Sidney's mother
continued to explain the tender relations existing between herself and
the New York heiress.
"Gladys is the daughter of a school friend, who died when her little one
was but six years old. She is my godchild, and I have watched the
motherless child grow up, thinking always of her loss. The dear girl has
many lovers, but refuses them all. She lives only for her father, who is
an invalid. She will never marry, I am afraid, during his life. I had
hoped to bring them both to California, but, instead, they have gone to
a sanatorium, about which Gladys has grown quite wild. The poor girl
believes that her father is going to recover, and has shut herself away
from society and friends, only to be disappointed," the lady added, with
calculating sympathy.
"Perhaps her father will live many years," Mariposilla said, eagerly. To
the suspicious child no Providential arrangement could be more
satisfactory. That the father of Gladys might be spared to a green old
age would now become a part of her prayers. She would say, that very
evening, a double number of aves to our dear Lady. She would supplicate
her to keep the beautiful Gladys with her father in the hospital for
many years. Then, perhaps--she told her poor, foolish, jealous little
heart--then, perhaps, Sidney would love only herself.