Mariposilla Part 3

She had donned a black jacket, that was fortunately too small and obliged to flare, exposing the little velvet girdle and a dash of scarlet that emulated coquettishly the breast of a robin. Her hair was carefully twisted into a girlish coil, while upon her head she wore a large, picturesque black hat.

During the drive to Pasadena she was ecstatically solemn, and it was only when she turned her profile to reply almost in monosyllables to the ingenious questions of Sidney that I discovered how happy she was. Her cheeks had again a.s.sumed wonderful tints, occasioned by a renewed realization of her exalted privileges, and I could see that she was flattered beyond her most daring expectation. Sidney, usually so reticent, had suddenly maddened into an animated inquisitor. I observed that he never allowed his eyes to leave the girl's face, when she replied modestly to his volley of direct questions.

Necessarily, these recollections have now come back to me slightly embellished by the events which quickly followed this initial drive. It must have been a comprehension of the common failure to note the signs of a disaster in time to obviate it, which led the ecclesiastical composers to insert in the general confession of the Prayer Book the clause in which the sinner bewails not only his actually committed sins, but his pa.s.sive criminalities, born of neglect.

My conscience will ever ache with the knowledge of "things left undone"

for Mariposilla. I know now that I should have explained more decidedly to the child the impa.s.sable width of the social gulf, even at the risk of her loving me less. I should have protected her against herself, by showing her the truth without palliation. I should have told her how fraudulent and glittering are the attentions of fashionable men, and warned her against the cruel disappointments of society.

Doubtless the child would have disregarded my wisdom, for wilful, rapturous youth is slow to accept experience secondhand. At the time, it appeared only right and natural that Mariposilla should take part in our daily pleasures, while, in justice to myself, it did not occur to me to doubt the good intentions of the Sandersons, until too late to overcome the complications which arose by degrees from our general intimacy.

CHAPTER VII.

It was impossible for me to resist my impulses as we dashed through the sunshine. To be absolved from every responsibility as I breathed with joy the vigorous, sedative air--a mingled freshness of May and October--had intoxicated my nerves. Unconsciously I allowed sentiments to escape, which I usually restrained when in the society of the brilliant cynic by my side.

It seemed impossible that the most hardened wretch could be capable of criminality upon such a divine morning; and I enthusiastically aired my moral philosophy, much to the amus.e.m.e.nt of Mrs. Sanderson, who jestingly replied, as we turned from a long avenue into the princ.i.p.al business street of Pasadena--"As usual, my dear, you have caught entirely the local spirit of your environments. I am told that the millennium has already begun in Pasadena, and that even now there are more sanctified cranks to the acre than in any town in America."

As the lady spoke, a Salvation Army girl approached with the _War Cry_.

The fresh young face peering from beneath the ugly bonnet had a demure fascination, and rebellious to the scornful expression of my companion, I dropped the requested nickel into the extended hand of the pretty fanatic. As the young woman retired to the sidewalk, Mrs. Sanderson laughed a derisive little laugh.

"I am sure you will be doing something wild if you stay in this country long," she said. "If it were not for Marjorie I should feel alarmed. The noticeable attentions of the sallow, sanctimonious priest at the hotel may yet prove dangerous. I shall feel it my duty to keep an eye upon you both."

"Pray do," I replied coldly, as we left the trap and entered a dry-goods store, gay with Christmas decorations, and crowded with shoppers.

Wending our way to the ribbon counter we found it thronged by pretty girls, chattering merrily as they selected various shades from a gay labyrinth of color, that announced a sale of remnants.

It was evident that but one damsel of the group had troubled herself to remember that the month was December, for she alone did credit to her conventional convictions. She resembled, at first glance, a properly rolled umbrella. Her tailor-made gown was severe in the extreme, and her hat and carriage were harmoniously stiff. Her companions wore cheerful, girlish costumes, ranging in variety from a white flannel tennis frock, supplemented by fur cape and straw sailor hat, to the very correct street suit of the severe young woman. Bright eyes and glowing cheeks showed plainly that if cotillions were a frequent occurrence in Pasadena, as the conversation of the la.s.sies indicated, their disastrous ravages were providentially repaired by horseback riding and tennis the year round.

We had not expected to meet friends among the merry bevy, but as the young woman of the "tailor-made" turned to leave the store, Mrs.

Sanderson recognized her. She was Miss Walton, the daughter of an old friend, a wealthy New Yorker, who now lived most of his time in Pasadena.

The acknowledgement was instantaneous, and before the ladies had exchanged a dozen sentences they were joined by a younger sister who was quite a beauty.

"This encounter is delightful," said the younger girl, extending cordially a pretty bare hand slightly browned by the sun. "I am so glad you have come, for now we can have Mr. Sanderson for our cotillion. We were quite desperate for another man, as one of our dearest one-lungers has been forbidden to dance. The pretty, tall girl buying the pink ribbon is the unfortunate bereft of her partner. She will be delighted with her luck, when I tell her she is to dance with a man who will not be a responsibility."

"For shame, Ethel!" interrupted the tailor-made Miss Walton; "what will the ladies think?"

"The simple truth," replied the irrepressible Ethel. "The ladies have doubtless learned of the one drawback to our glorious climate--its dearth of able-bodied dancing men. Do you wonder, Mrs. Sanderson," the girl continued appealingly, "that we jump at the chance to dance once in a while with a man who is not delicate, who has never had a hemorrhage or organic heart trouble? Of course," she rattled on, "we have a few sound men, but this year has been an off year for the unengaged. The two dear fellows who made love collectively have gone East, so you see a new man is like balm in Gilead."

"Sidney must certainly attend the cotillion," his mother said, much amused.

"Of course he must," the girl replied, gaily. "He will be the belle of the ball. When I tell the girls confidentially that he won't have to be saved a particle, won't they dote on him? You see it is simply crushing to have the responsibility of a one-lunger for a whole evening. Delicate men are always idiotic about getting in a draught, and as stubborn as mules about not putting on overcoats when healthy people are freezing.

It certainly is not pleasant to stop a man in the middle of a waltz when you see his wind giving out, or to be blamed the next day when he is absolutely ill. Of course you have to be sympathetic, send him dainties, and take him to drive as soon as he is out again, but the responsibility after a time becomes too serious to be interesting."

"Ethel!" said her sister, "what do you mean? She is really not as heartless as she appears," Miss Walton continued, turning to Mrs.

Sanderson. "I trust you will make due allowance for a young lady who persists in coming to town in a tennis costume; but as my father has always allowed her to act like a barbarian, mamma and I can do nothing."

"She seems delightfully hopeless," Mrs. Sanderson replied. "We must have the pretty barbarian at San Gabriel as soon as possible. Sid would find your case most interesting, Miss Ethel, but perhaps you are not aware of his missionary tendencies?"

Ethel laughed, but Miss Walton took no pains to conceal her annoyance, although she politely seconded her sister's invitation to lunch that same day at Crown Hill.

"You shall not escape us," Ethel said, gaily, as we hesitated on account of our number, explaining that five hungry people were too many to usher unexpectedly upon even the most long-suffering cook. "Not at all," the girl declared. "Wong would be in despair if no company came, as he was expecting guests who at the last moment sent word that it would be impossible for them to come."

Her father and mother, too, were away, and "but for the delightful accident of the morning my sister and I would have been all alone," she added, convincingly.

Promising to accept the invitation at the time appointed, we left the store in search of Sidney and the children.

Looking about, we perceived the team hitched across the street, while those we sought had gone into a confectory close by. I could see Marjorie dancing in front of the door with a box of candy.

The child was still too delicate for rash experiments, and I hastily rushed to her rescue. Mrs. Sanderson cynically remarked that possibly Marjorie might find it less easy to be good than her mother, adding that if the divine climatic restraints had not proved stronger than her temptation I must be merciful. I could not help feeling irritated by the sarcastic remark, and replied with spirit. Mrs. Sanderson must have seen the uncomfortable flush that I felt mounting to my cheeks, for in her inimitable way she apologized.

"Dear little saint," she said, coaxingly; "forgive me if I am less sentimental than yourself. It is, perhaps, because I have lived too long in this stupid world to believe in it very much. Alas! I am not a poet, and my blood runs cooler every day." A half tragic expression, the suggestion of regret, darkened the woman's handsome, composed face. In an instant it fled, leaving no trace of emotion.

I was much relieved to find that Mariposilla had kindly restrained Marjorie's saccharine yearnings. The child was obediently awaiting permission to eat a chocolate cream.

Mariposilla, too, had a box of candy. Sidney gallantly handed about another, which I saw was intended to insure the Spanish girl's individual claim to the little gift he had just made her.

As we left the shop, Mrs. Sanderson's eye caught sight of a window just beyond, in which was displayed a choice collection of Indian baskets.

The craze had seized the lady the year before, returning with renewed vigor, she laughingly owned, when Sidney attempted to restrain her covetous longings. Her son declared that it would even now be impossible to take home all the trash she had acc.u.mulated.

"Never mind," she insisted, "we shall look at the collection. I can see at a glance that it is a fine one, and it is not yet time to go to the Waltons'."

The collection in question, we learned, was a private one offered for sale by a boom victim, whose inflated ideas of Pasadena real estate had at one time stimulated his artistic desires to ruinous extravagance. At that time he had ransacked the country for miles around for rare baskets, regardless of price, which now he was obliged to sell.

I learned later that Mrs. Sanderson was ever upon the look-out for forced sales. Keenly alive to chances for procuring things at half price, she was always alert for the critical moment.

Her enthusiasms over the existing opportunities were those of a connoisseur loaded with the offered commodity, yet unable to endure the thought of a Philistine invasion.

She said it was wrong for her to consider the purchase of another Indian basket, but if the beautiful cora with the feathers was not so extravagant in price she might possibly add it to her collection.

The clerk in attendance now signaled the owner of the baskets from the rear of the store. The gentleman came at once, and tried in vain to convince Mrs. Sanderson that the cora with the feathers was so unusually rare that it was worth much more than the price demanded. He said pathetically that his collection was very dear to him, he loved each basket with a different degree of affection, for he had discovered them all. Each had a little history.

Dearest of all was the beautiful cora which the lady admired, and nothing but absolute necessity compelled him to part with it.

Mrs. Sanderson replied that she understood perfectly his feelings. She, too, had always been a great collector. She had even at this late day discovered baskets, and knew now of a Mexican settlement where valuable things were still in hiding. She thought she would soon go upon a tour of discovery, and perhaps she might find a cora with feathers. She was sorry not to a.s.sist the gentleman in his difficulties. She would be very fond of the feather basket, she knew, and if the price were reduced upon three larger baskets as well as upon the one she admired, she might possibly take all four. However, she had best flee from temptation. It was getting late, after twelve, and the Waltons were expecting them at one.

With her inimitable smile she bade us make haste to depart, while she sympathetically hoped, in the hearing of the obsequious clerk who opened the door, that the feather basket might soon find a purchaser who would appreciate its beauty.

As she left the store her deliberation was masterly. Before she had reached the sidewalk the clerk had motioned her back. The four baskets were hers at half their value.

CHAPTER VIII.