Mariposilla.

by Mary Stewart Daggett.

CHAPTER I.

When I abandoned the home of my girlhood, and took my delicate child to California, I started upon the journey goaded only by apathetic hopes, sustained only by the desperation of despair.

Marjorie was my all, and I could no longer endure the tension of her gradual decline. As I watched her fade away, I realized that my closest friends were becoming reconciled to my bereavement, with the philosophical fort.i.tude of spectators. When I was coolly advised "not to sacrifice pecuniary interests for the sentiment of a hopeless experiment," an outraged love grew strong and defiant. The calculating counsel, so cruel and unexpected, strengthened, at last, the timid resolution. Even the silent walls of my house oppressed, while an absolute hatred of the machinery of life seized my tired soul. I determined to be free at any price. Fresh courage entered my life, and impelled me to remove, without a pang, most cherished household G.o.ds. My relief was immoderate when everything was gone. Then I experienced for the first time in years the sweet exhilaration that welcomes, breathlessly, a change. In my dreams I had apparitions of purple mountains, and long quiet days purified with sunshine. Suddenly, into my sad life there came new hope, kindled, it seemed, from the very ashes of an abortive past.

Before I realized the initial steps of my undertaking, antic.i.p.ated perplexities had been absorbed by the novel conditions of our journey.

Four days away from the old home and New York found me happier than for months, when I saw for the first time a flush upon the pallid cheeks of my child, the faintest reflection of the coveted boon I sought.

A fresh excitement made me strong for each new duty. The present at last held all that I craved. When I watched my child among her pillows, so much better that she prattled of great plans to be carried out on the far away Coast, I loved even then the land. To see the little one sleep, and watch for her awakening among the great quiet mountains, was to my heart an ecstasy. "Dear Mamma," she cried, clasping her thin hands as the train clambered close to the silent monarchs of the West, "I want to touch they!"

"Yes, sweetheart," I said; "When Marjorie is strong and well, she shall not only touch the dear mountains, but she shall crawl into their very arms! Mamma will take her into the beautiful canons, where little streams always sing to the tall ferns; we shall have a picnic, and perhaps the fairies will come! When my little girl sees the Fairy Queen she can ask for a boon, like Mabel in the song. Perhaps the Queen will say: 'So this is little Marjorie, who came all the way from New York to see us? Marjorie is a good child, and was very patient during her long journey. She took her bitter medicine bravely, and now she must be rewarded. What shall be done for her, my Fairies?'

"Then perhaps one kind fairy may say, 'Her cheeks must grow pink like a La France rose'; and another, 'Her limbs must grow strong like a perfect tree'; and a third, 'Her eyes must be bright like the stars, and she must soon be well, and as happy as she is pretty.'"

Thus I romanced to my patient child, s.n.a.t.c.hing an inspiration from every mile that drove us into the far country.

When we entered the wide, trackless desert--the home of distorted yuccas, which stretched gaunt arms to the cloudless sky, like hopeless criminals doomed to the intermediate wastes of purgatory--I knew that the "Happy Valley" lay beyond. Then my child was sleeping for long hours at a time; nor did she awaken until the last yucca had vanished from the desert's edge; then she opened her eyes in Wonderland! For the overland train had completed its conquest. The great mountain chains had been pa.s.sed over in safety, while far behind, fields of snow and shrieking blasts were forgotten, as we glided peacefully into the beautiful Valley of San Gabriel, that Pet Marjorie might live.

Our long journey was ended. We could rest, although not perfectly until after leaving the pleasant hotel known as the East San Gabriel, when I hoped to find in the old Spanish home of the Dona Maria Del Valle the coveted seclusion of which I had dreamed.

From the beginning of our journey, everyone had been interested in Marjorie.

I soon found myself accepting small attentions from sympathetic strangers as naturally as I would have accepted, a few weeks before, the favors of old friends.

It thus happened that I first heard of the Dona Maria Del Valle, through a lady and her son with whom I traveled. "A most perfect place for Pet Marjorie would be with the Dona Maria Del Valle," Mrs. Sanderson had told me, shortly after our arrival in San Gabriel, when I inquired of all for a home that would shelter us for at least a year. Marjorie must not live in a hotel, exposed to the constant excitement of robust children and irresponsible strangers.

Besides, I desired to try not only the winter of Southern California, but the long, unimpa.s.sioned summer, so conducive to the restoration of the delicate.

My new friend had spent the previous season in San Gabriel; she was familiar with the locality, and offered at once to intercede in our behalf with the Dona Maria Del Valle. When she told, in her captivating way, of the quaint, picturesque Spanish home, I could content myself with no other retreat, and begged that the preliminary arrangements might be made at once. From the first moment of our acquaintance, Mrs.

Sanderson's attentions had been agreeable. As soon as we arrived at the hotel she was perfectly at home. Every one hastened to serve her, and I perceived that she was an acknowledged authority wherever she went. My mind was not then equal to the a.n.a.lysis of character. I was unsuspicious and willing to believe in the a.s.sumed qualities of those about me. It was enough that my child was improving hourly in health, and that I had found a congenial and sympathetic companion in my extremity.

Now that I have undertaken a story in which Mrs. Sanderson and her son Sidney so conspicuously figure, I feel compelled to review carefully my early and subsequent impressions of both, in order that the events of our short and memorable acquaintance may be readily understood.

Doubtless my estimate of entire strangers would have been different under less intense circ.u.mstances; but, at that time, any one who appeared interested in my child was at once my friend--not only the conspicuous and influential, but the humble and uncultivated, as well.

Looking back over those trying weeks, I now remember hosts of delicate attentions dispensed by the unpretentious, that at the time were hardly realized, owing to the effusive ostentations of the Sandersons.

Since I have studied carefully the events which followed rapidly from the beginning of our acquaintance, I am certain that neither Marjorie nor myself would have received the slightest notice from either Mrs.

Sanderson or her son, had we failed in their selfish entertainment. My little girl, beautiful and bright, unconsciously stole into the coldest hearts; but I know now that it was not her delicate frame, nor the pathos of a defrauded childhood that won the devotion of Mrs. Sanderson.

It was simply that Marjorie was an additional amus.e.m.e.nt, an additional effect, enlivening the small court which the lady invariably held. The capricious woman petted the child only for entertainment. A thoroughbred dog, or a kitten, could have won her interest as successfully, had her pa.s.sing mood been favorable to their antics. Her fancy for myself was equally selfish. I was young enough to interest her son, and from the first she evidently regarded me as a convenient and suitable companion for the winter. I learned afterwards that Mrs.

Sanderson was notoriously fond of young widows. She treated them with unusual favor in view of eventual schemes which she generally worked.

Her only idea of life was entertainment, and, in order to satisfy her thirst for novelty, she had always chosen pretty widows to expand her power and promote her individual caprices. Uninc.u.mbered by the unreasonable demands of a husband, she regarded a pathetic young widow a most desirable companion; always securing, if possible, a fresh one for the nucleus of her social experiments.

Why I should have submitted to this woman's patronage, I can not understand. My only excuse is the recollection of an unsuspicious joy, that came like new life into my soul. Marjorie was getting well! and there was no one who understood my happiness like Mrs. Sanderson. It never occurred to me to doubt her sincerity. That she was often haughty and disagreeable to others I saw, but for me she had only indulgence and delicate sympathy. Under calming climatic influences my pagan intuitions grew hourly. Beneath the lights and shadows of the prophetic mountains, a.n.a.lytical tendencies ceased. Possibly my creeds became unorthodox, but they expanded cheerfully each day, that they might hold more of G.o.d's harmonious universe and less of man's deformity.

I believed afresh in universal philanthropy. The sweet lethargic days were satisfying; I had no desire to a.n.a.lyze the motives of my a.s.sociates.

I was no longer interested in attenuated studies of character. The Book of Nature, and the literal tales of "Mother Goose" now const.i.tuted my library. For the present, the Wise Men of Athens were no wiser than the man who so successfully evaded the consequences of the "bramble bush."

Now that my child had been given back to me, no unnecessary suspicions disturbed my credulous content. I had been tired so long, that to rest, at last, necessarily developed pa.s.sive conditions over which I had but languid control.

Mrs. Sanderson, crossing my path at this particular time, appeared to be the very person to stimulate my reviving interest in life, and I accepted eagerly and without a.n.a.lysis the friendship she offered.

From the first, I had been fascinated by her alertness. Unconsciously, I felt indebted to her for my renewed fortunes. It was not until long afterward that I discovered how very little she really did for me, or for anyone else, when she appeared to be doing so much. She always a.s.sumed the leadership of social affairs so cleverly, that to have questioned her right would have proved fatal to the individual. It was impossible to resist her personality when she chose to be engaging.

She was tall and slender, with the established slenderness that emphasizes distinction at forty-five, when plump women often exhibit the ripeness of decay.

In a word, Mrs. Sanderson eclipsed completely her feminine contemporaries, often exciting jealous antagonisms.

The lady's superior preservation was at times exasperating, and her scornful indifference to topics usually interesting to middle life disconcerted and annoyed domestic women of her own age. Her infirmities she heroically concealed, and was never surprised into the acknowledgement of a physical weakness. The chronic afflictions of other women never moved her to sympathetic confidences. In fact, she avoided systematically the society of older women, while she ingratiated herself irresistibly with young people of both s.e.xes.

For these reasons, Mrs. Sanderson was frequently disliked, but as few dared to oppose her openly, her sway always grew to be absolute.

CHAPTER II.

Mrs. Sanderson, at the various stations of her social pilgrimage, had managed to create fresh enthusiasms for every shrine. Each year found her alert, subst.i.tuting new images for those cast down, and, withal, grading so ingeniously the declivities of time, that the world failed to detect the skillful engineering, because for her there had been none of those abrupt drops so disastrous to the grace of womanhood.

She was always in sympathy with the age. For this reason she was perpetually surrounded by young people, who referred to her upon all questions, accepting her decree as preeminent.

Her distinguished bearing and captivating manners were so infectious that, before she had been in San Gabriel a week, she was the recognized authority of the hotel.

It was suicidal to one's standing with a laundress to advocate the doctrines of unfluted linen, contrary to the opinion of Mrs. Sanderson.

Even the non-emotional Wing Lee replied to my entreaty "to handle less roughly Marjorie's frocks": "High tone lady _she_ muchey likey my washey! my starchey!" I felt the propriety of the rebuke when Mrs.

Sanderson at that moment sauntered past my door.

Having established her position, even in the estimation of the domestics and Celestials, it is not surprising that at the end of two weeks she was widely known in the district of San Gabriel. Devoutly feared by the usual social barometers of the hotel, adored by all on whom she smiled, and hated by the unfortunate few ostracized from her favor, she seemed the sun of the San Gabriel social system, compelling Sidney and every one about her to reflect modestly the capricious beams she magnanimously bestowed. In the meantime, a marvelous change had taken place in the bare apartments that, up to the present time, had not been distinguished as the choice of a popular leader. The rooms were no longer suggestive of the fluctuating tourist, but suddenly became rich in abiding personality and comfort.

It was observable that the obsequious housekeeper had rifled other apartments, and that couches and easy chairs had materialized with a due conformity to the prolific climate.

The formerly obtrusive white walls soon grew companionable, as pictures, draperies, j.a.panese plaques, and characteristic Indian baskets sprouted upon them each night. In all directions were strewn evidences of travel and refinement.

In the bepillowed alcove a dainty tea table invited the five o'clock teabibbers of the circle elect, while a piano and stringed instruments allured the musical, and always the young.

More noticeable, however, than all else in the rooms was the display of attractive photographs, indicating for the Sandersons a large and distinguished acquaintance of beautiful women.

"Sid's sweethearts!" the mother said playfully, to the girls who questioned her about the rival beauties, and when a pert miss bravely intimated that young Sanderson must be "a kind of a Blue Beard," the lady good-naturedly replied: "Oh, yes, Sid is terribly fickle. Most of the dear ones have been beheaded long ago, and now the naughty boy is only in love with his mother."

At the same time, we noticed that the face of one beautiful girl was repeated many times in the collection, and inferred that this particular beauty still found favor.

The son was noncommittal. He submitted indifferently to the attentions of the various young women who thronged his mother's rooms, yet more often appeared bored than entertained.