The breath of Easter was in the air. It was hard, even in that last
penitential week, to renounce the seductive wooings of those first April
days. In the little Episcopal chapel, or in the venerable Mission, we
acknowledged each evening our infirmities; but with all our abnegation,
there was for some of us an heterodox satisfaction in hastening away
from our prayers.
We wanted to exult, rather than to bemoan "our manifold sins and
wickedness."
We were not sufficiently impressed with our depravity to smell
brimstone, when the air was richly purified with the scent of orange
blossoms and millions of newborn roses.
Doubtless our lenten orthodoxy would have developed more strongly in the
cutting blast of a Manitoba blizzard. We would have felt more contrite,
drawn by the persuasive chastisements of a sweet spring cyclone. But in
such days as the ones which followed each other like glad birds in a
flock, it was difficult to assume a despondency adequate to the
penitential demand.
The Gold of Ophir rose and Mariposilla were now blooming together. The
old house was bright, outside and in, with light and glory.
From the veranda and the crest of the roof, long sprays of dazzling
bloom swept voluptuously to the sky. In the blushing hearts of myriads
of buds and blossoms, the sun whispered each day his rapturous secrets.
Wonderful from its first hour of triumph until its last pale,
dilapidated petals have fallen to the ground--a moral to its transient
magnificence--this rose is tragic.
It seems always the glorious prototype of Mariposilla, who ever stole
its fickle lights and shades. As I watched, through those eventful
weeks, the marvelous unfolding of bud to flower and child to maiden, I
was never able to separate them in my thoughts. Their analogy was
captivating.
I have already said that I learned instinctively to watch for the girl's
mood in the complexion of the rose. When the edges of its petals burned
with fire, I knew that Mariposilla, too, glowed with hope and ecstasy.
When the fog smote sullenly the golden heart of the Ophir, I felt
without looking that the girl, too, was pale, tortured with jealousy,
and indefinite forebodings. Thus for me there will always remain the
fancy that between this rose and the Spanish child there existed a
kinship--a subtile sympathy, that each unconsciously felt when the other
was near.
Looking back over those happy days, they seem fraught with no ordinary
conditions. Unconsciously all took part in the several acts of a
realistic drama.
I see now, as I could not then see, the innumerable cues, the important
by-play and scenic situations, which eventually led up to an inevitable
climax.
As the weeks glided away, I no longer doubted Sidney Sanderson's love
for Mariposilla. Had there been a sign of opposition on the part of his
mother, I would have warned the Dona Maria. But, to the contrary, Mrs.
Sanderson increased her affection daily for her pretty plaything; often
alluding to the girl's beneficial influence upon her son.
"The scamp is head and ears in love!" she said one day. "Just look at
him. I should die of rage and jealousy if I didn't adore his sweetheart
myself," she confided.
Mariposilla and Sidney were at the far end of the veranda, oblivious to
all but each other.
The woman then went as far as to intimate that a few years in a
fashionable New York school would do all that was necessary for
Mariposilla.
"Beauty such as hers would be ruined by rigorous education. Fortunately,
Sid hates wise women. Imagine Mariposilla developing the occult
transitions of theosophy. Come here, you pretty butterfly!" she cried.
"Sid is a greedy boy to keep you away so long. Go fetch the guitar; I am
just in the humor for music."
Thus the woman countenanced the wooing, petting, and enriching with
gifts the happy child, while she silenced my own doubts and those of the
Dona Maria.
That Mrs. Sanderson was selfish, worldly, and at times mercenary, I
well knew. However, these very attributes led me to believe that she
would gratify herself and her son. I knew how thoroughly she would enjoy
the absolute control of Mariposilla, how extravagantly she would equip
her with the elegancies of life, exulting that Sidney's wife eclipsed
always the beauty of other women.
Beauty she worshipped.
It had never occurred to her that Sidney might possibly marry a plain
woman.
"If Sid should marry a homely girl, I should hate her," she said, one
day. "Is he not splendid?" she would ask, when her son chanced to dwarf
physically his associates.
And Sidney's exterior was admirable. He dressed perfectly, and there was
about him the freshness of perpetual bathing. To Mariposilla he was the
ideal type of masculine American elegance.
She scorned each day in her secret soul the careless, unconventional
dress of the remaining Spanish men of her acquaintance, feasting her
eyes with childish delight upon every detail of her lover's faultless
attire.
Yet, withal, Sidney was not a fop. He was too blase, and at times too
sullen, to represent the gibbering class to which his immaculate and
ultra-fashionable clothes might have otherwise attached him. But his
unbounded reticence was his greatest protection; while it gave him, with
some, a reputation for depth. Many believed that, although not brilliant
in conversation, he sympathized silently with culture, and was shrewd in
business affairs. In truth, Sidney had never taken an active part in his
mother's financial transactions; but that her son was a dummy she
carefully concealed. There was a laudable spirit in the woman's
attitude. Her affectionate subserviency to her boy in the eyes of their
friends was admirable.
I had so often seen wealthy mothers humiliate and belittle their sons,
that, although I believed Mrs. Sanderson to be the business brains of
the family, I was glad that she abstained from flaunting the fact.
I think I understood the elements of Mrs. Sanderson's character at that
time quite well, with one exception. Unfortunately, I stopped too soon
in my analysis. I innocently took it for granted that she possessed a
moral side to her worldly and perhaps frivolous nature. Here was my
fatal mistake. I did not understand that the woman would unflinchingly
sacrifice any one for selfish, momentary enjoyment.
In all cases her own pleasure was suggested by the inclinations of her
son. To keep him contented and passably respectable, she would have
ruined her dearest friend.
Ethel Walton was arranging an entertainment to take place shortly after
Easter. The girl was an enthusiast. Everything that she did called for
her heart's best efforts.
Her present schemes were charitable. The Episcopal church needed an
organ, and Ethel had determined that the necessary money should be
raised. Her artistic and really poetic nature had found an outlet in the
existing emergencies of her church, and she boldly originated a grand
rose pageant. Each day she grew more enthusiastic over her prospects of
success.
All the youth and beauty of Pasadena had been pressed into the carnival.
The opera-house had been generously donated by the owner; while the
papers each day keyed to the highest pitch the expectations of the
public, by promising the most ravishing display of beauty and flowers
ever gathered upon the celebrated Pacific Coast.
Even the Dona Maria had been beguiled into loaning treasures from the
sacred green chest. But, best of all, she had generously consented to
allow Mariposilla to dance, when Ethel explained, in her pretty way,
that everyone was taking part, for the glory of Pasadena, if not for the
church.
"Will you believe it?" she said; "I have had scarcely any opposition. My
dances are all full, and I have two magnificent marches composed of
beauties, whose scrupulous parents can't quite go the tripping, but are
delighted to allow their consciences a constitutional walk."
The rehearsals were, of course, an interesting excuse to go to Pasadena;
and each week we drove over with Mariposilla. At home she was
continually practicing her steps, and the clicking of castanets soon
grew familiar. She was alive with enthusiasm and expectation; while her
costume to be worn upon the eventful night became a matter for our
united thoughts, before it was at last satisfactorily designed.
It was all that the Dona Maria could do to restrain her restless child
through the long, religious hours of Good Friday. When they knelt
together in the old church, Mariposilla listened not to the solemn
prayers. Sternly her mother rebuked her inattention; but the girl's eyes
were flooded with happy dreams, and she forgot over and over again the
crape-draped cross. The pictures of the stern, gloomy saints failed to
frighten her into a state of contrition. Only to the Virgin did she
sometimes lift her wandering eyes to implore protection for the lover
now absent from her side.
When the sun rose gloriously upon the last day of the penitential
season, Mariposilla's spirits rose too. Nothing could restrain her.
"I am most tired of prayers!" she cried, innocently joyous in her
emancipation, as we went together, at the request of the Dona Maria, for
lilies.
Like a field of snow in the sunshine the tall, pure flowers bloomed in
symbolic beauty, for the world's glad festival. Our offering to the
sweet Mother and the holy Child was a thousand--and on Easter day they
would make glorious the old church.
For years the Dona Maria had dressed the ancient Mission for Easter, and
for several seasons her daughter had also assisted. Now for the first
time the girl plead excuses.
She wanted to go to Pasadena with Sidney and Mrs. Sanderson, as there
was to be a rehearsal of her dance in the afternoon and Ethel had urged
them to drive over early and lunch at Crown Hill.
Sadly the Dona Maria turned from the basket of white roses she had just
gathered.
"What!" she exclaimed, "does my child refuse to honor the sweet Mother
and the holy Child? Never before has she thought it other than joy to
arrange the holy altar."
"Forgive Mariposilla, dear Dona Maria," I said. "Let me assist this
year, and later, when the work is completed, I will drive the child
myself to the rehearsal."
To this arrangement the mother agreed, and in consequence we had gone
for the lilies early, reaching the old church in advance of other
workers.
As we drove through the long, shaded roads of San Gabriel, the waysides
seemed lined with devotees. Everyone was going to some church with
flowers. Wagon-loads of lilies and roses were soon a common, though not
less beautiful spectacle. Loveliest of all were the little children,
hastening eagerly upon their sweet errand, with arms almost hidden
beneath fragrant burdens.
We met one small child carrying in proud distinction a cross of violets.
Another bore a crown of golden poppies, smiling with the light of the
foothills.
When we approached the Mission, groups of Mexican children, many of them
in their bare feet, thronged about us with funny little offerings,
composed of flowers whose astonishing tones were often a mad blending of
orange and deep pink.
The near advent of the happy festival had awakened in these humble
breasts and uncultivated natures a God-given love for the beautiful.
Each arrangement of flowers told a touching story. In every bunch was
hidden the angel of the child who gathered it.
When we halted with our fresh burden, Father Ramirez, who was standing
in the doorway of the ancient church, hastened with courtly
consideration to assist us. The old priest commanded the staring
children (in Spanish) to carry the flowers into the church, as he
gallantly hitched our horse.
Once free from the wagon, I found it impossible to resist the
picturesque old stone stairway, which leads from the ground to the choir
above. Stealing a moment from my duties, I ran up the rough, time-worn
steps, and from a little overhanging balcony caught the morning vision
of the valley, stretching peacefully beyond.
"Some time I must come here in the moonlight," I said, as I descended
and entered the chilly old church. "Surely I would learn sweet secrets
which the sun each day effaces."