In Southern California that part of the year extending from the middle
of November to the middle of May virtually represents to the stranger
its season.
The secret of the delightful summer, tempered, especially in the San
Gabriel Valley and the vicinity of Santa Barbara, by unfailing
sea-breezes, would astonish the infidel tourist who has flown excitedly
away, stubbornly denouncing the summer as unbearable. Perhaps he has
experienced two or three warm days in May that have played a trick on
the tardy trade winds. If so, he comprehends perfectly, from a few
weeks' sojourn, the imminent danger of climatic cremation.
He believes, ignorantly, that he has fled from the mid tropics, when he
mops the damp perspiration from his gigantic brain-front in the dizzy
June of an interior town. Devoutly thanking the kind Providence that has
returned him to Tuckersville, he proceeds to write for the Tuckersville
_Sun_ full particulars relating to the climate and limited resources of
Southern California.
Still, contrary to the slanders of the Tuckersville man, the weather,
with the exception of a few warm days in the early spring, remains
delightfully cool from the middle of April until the middle of August.
September is possibly less agreeable, for it is then that people are apt
to believe themselves tired or warm, and there is a general wishing for
change.
In the sweet, quiet summer, one wishes for nothing.
Refreshing breezes from the broad Pacific extend inland for many miles,
and if occasional warm days come, the coast is near by, always inviting
for a day those who do not care to stay long by the sea, or cannot
afford a protracted outing.
For those who desire weeks of recreation and salt bathing, the Pacific
coast offers every advantage. On the irresistible Santa Catalina Island,
at the pleasant hotels that dot the coast, or in the poor man's
sequestered canon close to the sea, there are opportunities of rest and
enjoyment for all.
To the resident of the San Gabriel Valley, who truly loves its grand,
natural beauty enough to enjoy the free gifts of each day, there is
about the summer a never-ending sense of peace and rest.
The winter months are restless and rushing--full of social excitement
and alive with indefatigable sight-seers. As long as the tourist is
abroad in the land his presence is a perpetual challenge. His
disappointments are personally felt each day by his friends.
It is unfortunate that much of the picturesque hospitality of earlier
days should have given way to a more laborious and less charming mode of
entertaining. Now, the Marthas of pretentious country houses and elegant
villas are "cumbered about much serving."
I had fortunately escaped both convention and routine in my life with
the Dona Maria Del Valle, but I had been drawn by degrees into an
experience that, from the beginning, was an anxious strain. I was now
almost ill; I needed a change and the sea.
Yet I dared not desert Mariposilla, for I felt daily the burden of the
part I had taken in establishing her intimacy with the Sandersons. I
was determined to restore, if possible, her stolen happiness. The child
seemed now comparatively docile and less changed than I had feared. I
did not expect her to resist at once her first crushing disappointment,
but in a few weeks I expected to take her to the seashore, when I hoped
to surround her with new friends and new pleasures.
Time alone could help her, and I was full of hope.
I had now fully determined to educate Mariposilla, to fit her, with the
Dona Maria's permission, for intimate contact with the dangerous world.
So infatuated I became with my plans that I again misunderstood the
girl, while I foolishly lost sight of her race inheritances.
I thought she would revive, after a time, as an American girl would have
revived. I expected her to be restored, with new beauties of mind and
character.
As the days went by and nothing unusual happened, I told myself,
joyfully, that experience was working the cure. I believed that soon a
womanly scorn would heal effectually the wound which Sidney Sanderson
had inflicted.
The girl had not grown less beautiful. With her trouble there had come
into her face, after the first wild paroxysms of grief, a look that I
could not interpret. I know now that it was the reflection of hope, a
hungry, superstitious expectancy that tugged hourly at her heart.
Sidney's parting note had inspired in the ignorant girl the faith that
he would return.
She had grown very gentle. She went regularly to mass, and arranged
flowers each day in front of the little Spanish Virgin. One day I
noticed that she had wreathed the picture in ivy, and ever after the
grotesque little Mother displayed her finery subdued by the dark, cool
leaves.
In the child's own room was carefully treasured every trifling relic of
Sidney's past devotion. She had decked the whitewashed walls, in
imitation of Ethel Walton's aesthetic chamber, with every small, sweet
souvenir of the winter. The favors she had received at the eventful
holiday cotillion surrounded the little looking-glass. Above her bed
hung a cane and a cast-off tennis cap of Sidney's; while tenderly
hidden from sight, except when she opened the drawer each day to weep,
were the innumerable trinkets and gifts that her false lover had given
her.
Every empty candy-box and every withered flower had been lovingly saved.
She still wore about her throat the little necklace, but the bracelet
she concealed pitifully beneath her sleeve.
Each day she dressed with unusual care, expecting always the return of
her lover.
One day a lover came. Not Sidney, for whom her poor heart pined, but
Arturo, her kinsman.
There was no scene, as we had feared, for the Dona Maria had warned the
young man to restrain, for the present, all signs of impatient passion.
"Speak to her not of love," she said, sadly, when she had confided to
the burning, indignant youth by her side the present state of
Mariposilla's feelings. "The poor, foolish child yet believes that the
American will return," she explained. "Be patient, dear son," the Dona
Maria besought when Arturo chafed under his tedious restraint; "the
American will soon marry the choice of his mother; then will my poor
deluded child lie crushed; yet, by the will of God, she will revive.
"Tell her not yet of love, only of the success and riches which you have
gained. Treat her gently, as a sister, and in time all may be as we
desire."
It was surprising how considerate the handsome, hot-headed Arturo
remained, restrained always by the quiet persuasions of the firm, quiet
Dona Maria.
The boy's unexpected return had been full of comfort to the lonely
Spanish woman. She loved her grandnephew as a son; while she rejoiced
daily that the young man was growing more and more like her own lost
Arturo, whose name he bore.
As the summer wore away, the Dona Maria grew content. She believed that
Mariposilla would outgrow her sorrow, that in time Arturo would be
successful in his suit, and that she might yet live to hold in her arms
the children of her dear ones--dark, rich little beauties, who would
preserve through yet another generation the inheritance of the Spanish
blood.
"How often did I weep when I thought of my child united not with one of
her own race. When I saw in my dreams grandchildren--pale little ones
that I could not love, I cared scarcely to live," she said,
pathetically.
With the exception of the Dona Maria's mother, who was now confined to
her bed, our household moved as usual.
Arturo took a masterful charge of the neglected ranch, and, as the
summer advanced, a gradual calm pervaded both the land and the family.
Through the middle of the day all enjoyed the refreshing siesta, and by
the early afternoon the ocean breeze was stirring delightfully. Great
baskets of luscious fruits were picked daily and placed about the
veranda. In the grape arbor a table held always a pitcher of cool
lemonade, delightfully softened with fruit flavorings.
The Dona Maria loved to prepare pleasant drinks, and, now that Arturo
had returned and Father Ramirez came more often to the ranch, the good
woman had frequent opportunities for serving her friends.
She revived the pleasant Spanish custom of gathering in the arbor for
light refreshments. Each day she grew happier and more hopeful in regard
to the future of her child.
The old priest also believed that Mariposilla would soon recover from
her childish disappointment and be but too willing to accept for a
husband the handsome Arturo, who had now a half interest in a large
quicksilver mine in Old Mexico.
During the quiet afternoons Arturo took the greatest pains to explain to
Father Ramirez his plans and ambitions. In the old summer house the
young man would spread out the map of Mexico, tracing eagerly the new
railroads, while he located, enthusiastically, his mine.
"There is no country like it," the younger man would declare, joyfully.
"I am impatient every moment that I remain away.
"Of course, the American hounds are stealing in, just as they stole into
California. Their cursed gold ought to buy them Paradise; yet, in Mexico
they can never be the aristocracy. The gates and doors of the old
families will always remain barred to the pale thieves who seek to
enter."
"Be not so angry with the strangers, my son," replied the old priest.
"Remember that gold and brains are both necessary in the development of
any undeveloped country. The Americans have both. Love of race is noble,
but often it dwarfs the mind. The cosmopolitan will ever succeed, while
the narrow and revengeful will generally fail. But here comes the Dona
Maria, we will contend no more," the old priest exclaimed, joyfully, as
he clasped the hand of his dear old friend.
"Arturo is a true son of Spain," he said, gazing into the burning face
of the youth he had always loved. "He is unlike his generation. He
should have lived earlier."
I had heard without attempting to listen. Through my open window I often
caught snatches of conversation that gave me a pleasant insight into the
lives of these most interesting people. The warm, unrestrained affection
and tender social relations existing between the old priest and his
parishioners were things that I had not until now understood.
I often heard, in quiet, half undertone, the name of Mariposilla.
Sometimes Arturo grew passionate in spite of his discretion. Then the
old priest would reprove him gently; for he was a born Jesuit,
restraining all those about him with calm determination.
"Peace, my son, always peace!" he would say. "Time alone can do for us
what haste could never accomplish. Soon the blow will descend, for the
false lover will marry the heiress. The poor little one will be crushed
for a time, and then she will revive.
"Remember, through these hard weeks of waiting, only your love. Let not
anger or revenge fill your young heart. Keep that ever clean and pure,
ready for the treasure it shall some day hold."
"I will try to obey, Father," the young man replied, rebelliously. "It
is easy for you to reprove," he exclaimed. "You who have never known the
misery of a hopeless love."
A strange shadow flitted across the old priest's face. "How knowest
thou, my son, that I never battled with unrequited affection? Judge not
that the old father is stone. He was once even as thyself. But God
forbid that he should think of aught now but the world beyond, and poor
souls trying to find it."
"Forgive me, Father," the young man said, tenderly. "I will be a good
son, and, in return for my obedience, you shall one day order the chimes
of Old San Gabriel to ring for my wedding."