WHY BLYTHE WAS LATE
When Blythe started forth on that summer day it was with all good and
dutiful intention to call for Christine and Alison and duly escort them
to his home, and he took pleasure in the errand although of late his
ardor had somewhat abated in Alison’s direction, a fact which he did
not confess to himself and would have repudiated had he been charged
with it. The young man was now twenty-one, entirely a marriageable age
in that southern country where eighteen was none too young for a man to
marry and where girls of fifteen were often wives. At twenty-five John
Ross and Neal Jordan were considered quite old bachelors. Blythe had
paid court to Alison from the time of his arrival in the neighborhood,
but had been treated as a mere comrade by the girl. During the period
of his enforced stay in Pedro’s little cabin when his mother was
established under the Rosses’ roof, he began to weary a little of
hearing Alison’s praises sung constantly by his mother and sisters,
and finally, in that spirit of contradiction which is so very human,
he wished that they could find her less desirable. What a young man’s
family are eager for him to possess seldom seems attractive to him,
however much he may have thought of the object in the first place. And
so because every one said what an admirable wife Alison Boss would make
for Blythe Van Dorn, he began to wonder if she would. Nevertheless he
did not cease his attentions and always enjoyed being in her company,
while she, never sentimentally inclined, had no disposition to alter
their relation.
Blythe pondered over the situation as he rode slowly along. There was
no other girl whom he had met who was so well suited to be his wife,
he was obliged to admit, yet while he gravely considered the question
of trying his fate, ever and anon in place of her merry face came a
more serious one, Madonna-like in its beauty, a pair of wonderful dark
eyes shaded by long lashes looked into his, and a gently anxious voice
said in hesitating English: “You are better, señor?” He persistently
put away the image and as persistently it recurred. He recalled days
of dull pain when the only pleasures were his mother’s presence and
the fleeting vision of that beautiful, serious face appearing once in
a while at the door. Later on, when only the languor and weariness
of convalescence possessed him, little Lolita sometimes sat an hour
with him while his mother took her meals, and then he found pleasure
in watching the fringe of eyelash droop over the clear pallor of the
cheek, and the grave red lips curve into a smile at some word of his.
The pretty hesitating English, too, amused him and at last became
truly fascinating, more so than Alison’s direct speech.
Yet anything more than a passing interest in pretty Lolita never
entered the lad’s mind, and when he finally returned to his own home it
was with no regret, though up to the last he could not resist making
pretty speeches for the sake of the drooping lids and the sudden smile.
Therefore it was no great disappointment to him when, upon reaching
the Rosses’ rancho, he found that Christine and Alison had departed.
Without inquiring into his motive he turned his horse towards Pedro’s
cabin; it was silent and deserted. In the fields beyond he saw Pedro
with the negro hands John had lately employed.
Blythe looked up and down at the closed door, at the window, half
open, in which stood a pot of flowers. “Lolita,” he called softly,
hoping to see the lovely face appear at door or window. But the silence
continued. The whir of insects in the grass, the note of a bird, the
laugh of one of the negroes working in the corn-field, alone broke the
stillness. The young man turned himself towards the flowery stretch of
prairie, his eyes seeking for some moving object. Was it the flowers
stirred by the wind or did he see afar off some one stooping then
rising? He let his horse fall into a walk and followed the road till
he came abreast of the bending figure. Then he perceived a dark head
against the background of mottled red and pink and purple. A figure in
the loose white costume worn by the Mexican women was moving towards
the small bayou where the magnolia-trees were at the last of their
bloom, sending forth a delicate odor from their large white blossoms.
Lolita was making her way towards one tree in particular; her hands
were already full of flowers, but these she laid down on a stone near
by.
Blythe alighted from his horse and tethered him, then started on foot
to the spot where the girl was standing on tiptoe reaching up for the
white blooms. The simple garment she wore, low-necked and sleeveless,
did not disguise the roundness of her arms, nor the graceful turn of
her throat as she clasped the bough overhead to bring it within her
grasp.
“Lolita!” called Blythe. She turned with a start, still holding the
bough.
Her face broke into a smile as she saw who it was. “Señor!” she
exclaimed. Then the bough flew up from her hand and she came forward.
“You look like a magnolia yourself,” said Blythe. “Now I know what it
is you have always reminded me of, Lolita; you are like a magnolia.”
The eyes drooped and a smile parted the girl’s lips. “You always say me
very pretty thing,” she murmured.
“Sit down here and tell me what you have been doing to-day,” Blythe
went on.
The girl hesitated. “You have seen Aleeson?” she asked.
“No, I must have missed them.” He involuntarily used the plural. “They
had gone when I reached the house. It is warm; I want my horse to rest
a little before I go back. Sit down and tell me what you have been
doing. Making tortillas, of course, and what else? Have you read from
the book I brought you?”
For answer Lolita seated herself and gravely drew from her dress a
small book. “I read a leetle,” she said.
Blythe sat down by her side and the two bent over the book together.
The lad had discovered that Lolita was by no means as ignorant as many
of her class, that her father had taught her to read her own language
very well, and she was desirous of learning to read English. Very
haltingly and with much mispronouncing she stumbled over the lines,
taking Blythe’s corrections meekly and making patient efforts to
improve. “I am wishful to surprise Aleeson,” she told him.
“And you will,” he encouraged her by saying. “You are getting on
famously.”
She looked up gratefully. “Some days I am spik English very good,
maybe?”
“You certainly will. You are a very industrious and patient little
girl. I wish I could learn Spanish as readily. Now you must give me a
Spanish lesson. What were those pretty words you taught me? Mi alma, mi
vida, mi corazon del oszos.” He pronounced the words lingeringly and
the dark lashes again drooped over the clear smooth cheek. Then for
some reason neither spoke for a few minutes. The flowers stirred around
them, the sluggish waters of the bayou plashed softly against the bank;
there was a whisper, whisper in the trees overhead. Brightly-colored
birds flashed out from the deep green of the live oaks making a vivid
streak against the shining leaves. Occasionally there was a rustle in
the grass as some small animal slipped to the bayou’s edge and glided
into the water. Blythe was absorbed in gazing at the girl’s beauty,
while she pulled from their centre the creamy petals of a magnolia
blossom.
“Don’t hurt it,” said Blythe, breaking the silence, and placing his
hand over hers to arrest the act of destruction.
The color flew to Lolita’s cheek and she sprang to her feet. “It comes
late,” she said. “My father returns. I have not his supper prepare, and
he will have an anger for me.” The ready tears started to her eyes.
“Oh, I hope not.” Blythe looked consciously around to see Pedro
returning home across the field. “I should not have kept you so long.
I, too, should have been at home by this time, but it was so pleasant,
wasn’t it, Lolita? Good-bye.” He held out his hand but she did not
respond to the gesture, instead she ran home with not a look behind,
leaving her flowers neglected on the stone. Blythe watched her as she
ran on without stopping, then he turned, gathered a flower from the
forsaken bunch, looked at it for a moment thoughtfully and stuck it in
his coat. He drew a long sigh and went to where he had picketed his
horse.
As he rode thoughtfully towards home he realized that he was on
dangerous ground. He was an honorable lad and had no idea of playing
fast and loose with the pretty Lolita, though she moved him strangely.
The daughter of a greaser, despised by Americans! Any nearer relation
was out of the question. He had his own share of family pride; he
valued public opinion; he was ambitious. His neighbors would consider
the plainest, most shiftless of snuff-rubbing damsels his equal so
long as she was an American, though she might be far more ignorant,
and in every way inferior to Lolita. Clearly Alison was his only
refuge. He must not repeat this dangerously fascinating experiment of
teaching Lolita to read English. Then his heart swelled within him
as he remembered the charm of her slow utterance, the sweet languor
of her movements, the soft dovelike expression of her eyes when they
were turned upon him for criticism. “No, it will not do,” he said to
himself, suddenly urging on his horse. And then he came face to face
with John.
But no one except Lolita knew why Blythe was late to supper that night,
nor did any one suspect it till afterwards, not even Alison who greeted
him with her usual unembarrassed friendliness of manner. He seemed
more than usually grave and distrait, she thought, but did not wonder
at that, a little later, when the others gathered in a corner of the
gallery and she found herself alone with Blythe on a rustic seat in the
garden where Laura pointedly left them.
“Your wits certainly are wool-gathering to-night,” she said, rallying
him upon his silence. “I have asked you the same question twice and I
am still waiting for an answer.”
“Oh, are you?” Blythe had picked up a stick and was making indefinite
figures upon the ground. “I suppose I was thinking of a question I
wanted to ask you. Will you marry me, Alison?”
“For pity’s sake!” Alison looked at him in surprise. “What in the world
did you ask me that for?”
“Haven’t I been devoted to you long enough for you to expect it? My
mother and sisters would be delighted if I could tell them you had
accepted me.”
Alison gave her head a little toss. “I don’t purpose marrying any man’s
sisters and mother. No, I will not marry you.”
“Why not, Alison?”
“One reason is because you are not in love with me, and another is
because I am not in love with you. I think those two reasons are quite
sufficient for the occasion.”
“Why do you say I am not in love with you? I protest----”
“No, don’t protest,” Alison raised her hand. “I think for a little
while you thought you cared, but you are bravely over it, and I am very
glad of it. When a man begins to tell a girl how pleased his mother
and sisters will be before he has said a word of his own feelings, it
is quite evident that he is not as much in love as he would have it
believed he is. We have been good friends and we will continue so to
the end of the chapter. I am devoted to your mother and the girls,
and I know exactly how they feel towards me, for they have told me
so. I know, too, that my sister and yours have hashed up some sort of
scheme by which they think our future is to be arranged; but we are
not puppets to be pulled by a string and I shall marry a man of my own
selection if it happens to be Bud Haley or a Mexican greaser.”
“You wouldn’t marry a greaser, Alison; you couldn’t.”
“Why not? I would if I loved him.”
“Could you love one?”
“I don’t know. Like the boy who was asked if he could play the violin I
can answer, ‘I don’t know; I never tried.’ Some of those Mexicans are
very handsome. If Lolita had a brother as fascinating as she is, I am
sure I could not resist him.”
By what fatality, thought Blythe, had the conversation turned upon
that subject? “Oh, yes, Lolita,” he began lamely and then stopped.
But something in his tone and in his embarrassed manner, a quick and
suspicious look that he cast upon his companion, suddenly gave her an
inspiration.
“Blythe Van Dorn,” she said, leaning towards him, “why were you late
for supper?” There was mockery, a confidential sort of sympathy and
amusement in her voice.
“Why do you ask?” he said, nervously digging holes with his stick. “I
shouldn’t think you would be particularly interested after you have
just refused me.”
Alison’s laugh rang out unaffectedly. “Now, look here, Blythe Van Dorn,
don’t pretend any longer; you don’t have to. I am sure I don’t know why
in the world you asked me that silly question a while ago, unless you
had promised your mother you would, for you know perfectly well that
you are not a bit cut up about my answer. Confess, are you?”
He remained silent for a minute. “You are the only girl about here that
is worth having,” he remarked after the pause.
“That’s begging the question. I am not the only girl in the world.
There’s--Lolita.”
Blythe threw away his stick. “That’s all nonsense. You know it is out
of the question.”
“I don’t know anything of the kind. She is a dear sweet thing. She is
not like those dreadful mixy people half Indians and half Spaniards
or with a mixture of negro, Spanish and Indian, Mestizos, or Castigos
or whatever they are. She is almost pure Spanish, she told me so. Her
father’s people came from Spain, but being born in this country he
is a Creole. Her mother’s father was a Mestizo, for his father was a
Spaniard and his mother an Indian, though Lolita’s mother’s mother was
a Mestizo who married a Spaniard, so you see except for that little
drop of Indian blood she is Spanish, and who would hesitate to marry
a Spaniard? She is so beautiful and has such a lovely disposition and
such a good mind. Really, Blythe, I don’t wonder at you.”
“But consider how Mexicans are regarded by our countrymen,” said
Blythe, denying nothing; “they are regarded almost as the negroes are.”
“That is because sometimes they intermarry with the negroes, but Lolita
has no relatives but her father, not any at all, and you would not
need to worry about that. I think it is very unusual and in this case
very lucky, for she is proud and feels as we do about such things. You
must have noticed how old Pedro, though he is on good terms with the
ordinary greasers, holds himself a little aloof from them and never
allows Lolita to go to fandangoes and such things. He is too poor to
associate with the upper classes and too proud not to work at anything
he can do. I think he is much pleased to live with us, for he is
ambitious for Lolita and does not care to have her associate with those
whose circumstances are similar. No, Blythe, you need have no reason to
be ashamed of Lolita.”
For some minutes Blythe made no remark. He was surprised at Alison’s
quick comprehension of the situation. How could this girl intuitively
guess his attitude of mind? How could she so readily put into speech
those vaguely formed arguments which he had scarcely made to himself?
“Alison,” he said solemnly, “you are a wonderful girl.”
“And why, Judge Van Dorn?” she ask laughing. “Because I am good at
guessing?”
“Yes. How did you know I saw Lolita to-day?”
“I didn’t know. I jumped at the conclusion. You were embarrassed and
nervous when I happened to mention her. I assure you I didn’t suspect
before that. Then I remembered that you had gone over quite early for
Christine and me, and had come back late. You met John near our house;
so, you see, judge, my legal mind immediately followed out the line of
circumstantial evidence, and I drew my conclusions. You did see her
then, and probably more than once you have met her in the same way.
I am not sure what old Pedro would say, but as for myself, I cannot
blame you. However, Blythe,” she dropped her bantering tone, “there
is one thing of which I must warn you. If you make that dear child
unhappy, I shall despise you.”
“I declare to you, Alison, I never dreamed of doing such a thing. I
confess I admire her immensely. She is a bewitching little girl, but I
never thought of marrying her.”
“But if you were also a Mexican, how would you feel about it then, Mr.
Blythe? What then? Answer me that, if you please.”
“Alison, you are the most desperate cross-questioner I ever met. I am
not a Mexican, so how can I tell? I am pleased to know she is of better
stock than I feared, I confess that.”
“And you can confess more, if you will inquire of your own heart more
closely. If Lolita were here instead of me, and you knew there was not
the least obstacle in the way of your marrying her, what would you do?”
The young man arose and paced the walk. “Alison, Alison, you are a
temptress. Why do you suggest such things? You know what my family
would say.”
“True. I should have thought of that. I allowed my interest in the
subject to carry me beyond bounds. Of course, as you say, it is out of
the question. It is really impossible.”
“I didn’t say impossible.”
“Well, never mind what you said; we have settled the matter and I will
give you a parting word. I will stand by you if you need me, and if you
will stop pretending that you are in love with me. As I think of it,
I suppose I should be feeling quite aggrieved that I am only second
best and that you offered me less than half a heart. Still, as I did
not take it, we are quits and we can still be the good friends we have
always been.” She held out her hand and Blythe clasped it warmly.
“You are even finer than I thought you were, Alison,” he declared. “It
will be a lucky man who wins you, and as for me I am your friend for
life.”
“I may need your friendship when you are judge,” laughed Alison,
rising. “We must be going, for it is growing late. Come over just as
usual, Blythe, and we will talk over this difficult question whenever
you are put to it to restrain your emotions, and until you set your
affections upon some other girl. I will not vouch for your constancy.”
And with a laugh she preceded him to the house.