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 theones 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 inthe 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 Doña 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 Doña Maria.
That Mrs. Sanderson was selfish, worldly, and at times mercenary, I wellknew. 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. Hewas too blasé, 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 shepossessed 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 daykeyed 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 Doña 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 eventfulnight became a matter for our united thoughts, before it was at last satisfactorily designed.
It was all that the Doña 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 Doña Maria, for lilies.
Like a field of snow in the sunshine the tall, pure flowers bloomed in symbolicbeauty, 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 Doña 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 Doña 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 Doña 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. Inevery 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."
It had been an eventful day for Ethel Walton. Now but a brief half hour remained to determine the creditable success of the rose pageant.
With a sandwich in her hand, she had slipped into the rear passage leading to the door of Mrs. Sanderson's box.
"No, I can't come in," she replied to her friend's entreaty to enter. "I want just one little peep at the audience, while I eat my supper. I must feel particularly inspired in this last dreadful moment. And the house is grand," she exclaimed, triumphantly. "'Delightful to the ravished sense,'" she hummed, enveloping herself gleefully in the folds of a sheltering portière.
"What a relief, after all these weeks! Sister has just come from the front, where they are actually speculating on the tickets. It sounds too good to be true. I hear the distant strains of the new organ!" she cried, dramatically. "If only we canpostpone the murder of the calcium light man by our bloodthirsty Professor Tiptoe success is ours!"
She flew gaily from the box to attend to the last few arrangements that prefaced the overture.
Pasadena's handsome opera house had been, possibly, the supremest blessing of the great boom. At the time it was built, few doubted the absolute necessity of a rival city for the south of the State. Fortunately for beautiful Pasadena, the men with visions were ruthlessly awakened to find Los Angeles still the acknowledged commercial center of the valley. In the meantime, her aristocratic suburb had an opera house and a number of other delightful conveniences that might have been delayed in the absence of a boom.
The audience assembled upon the night of the pageant indicated assured prosperity. The sight was an opulent surprise for the uninstructed stranger. Not a vacant seat was visible. The upper galleries were crowded to the wall; many were standing in the aisles.
From our box we rejoiced for Ethel in the finished brilliancy of the scene.
"Every one in the set is here but the Prince of Wales," Mrs. Sanderson remarked, jestingly, as she surveyed with honest astonishment the elaborate equipments of the evening.
Extending completely around the balcony, across the proscenium, and encircling both upper and lower boxes, bloomed a variegated band of exquisite roses, four feet in width.
Here and there the luxurious band turned from a knot of glorious Duchesse into a stretch of Maréchal Neil, which farther on caught hold of the vivid Henrietta. Touching close the pure French rose-color, the simple, unaffected La Marque lay like a field of snow between voluptuous meadows—for next beyond, almost throbbing, scintillating with every change of the lights, shone the Gold of Ophir.
In its distinctive beauty, it seemed to steal from the wonderful galaxy of bloom the composite glory of all.
Last in the wonderful band, the Jacqueminot imparted its dark beauty, also its rich odor of high-born culture that lingers in the petals long after their color has fled.
Although the general scheme of the pageant had been a secret, it was soon understood that the roses used in the decoration of the auditorium were sympathetic representatives of those personified upon the stage.
Each dance was to be an idealization of a particular rose. In the audience, personal preferences were quite noticeable; for favorite dances were boldly championed, not only in corsage bunch and boutonnières, but by superb bouquets of enormous size.
It is doubtful if more beautiful floral decorations were ever seen. Viewed from the stage, the dress circle and parquet appeared a huge garden of beauty; the boxes, fairy bowers, twined with their representative roses.
Those attending, almost without exception, were in full evening dress.
Gay parties of visitors from the various hotels waited eagerly for the rise of the curtain, satisfied that the decorations of the house justified great expectations for the performance. Anon, were heard surprised confessions from the provincial Easterner, who had for the first timediscovered the existence of a civilized West.
Mrs. Wilbur laughingly owned that her only opportunity for enjoying a peep at the notorious "wild and woolly" was one afternoon when she had gone into Los Angeles to a wild and woolly show from New York. The show pretended to represent the common peculiarities of the West, whereas she blushed to acknowledge it an embarrassing portrayal of Eastern conceit and prejudices.
Mariposilla was to dance in the Spanish dance. She was to personify the Gold of Ophir rose—their subtile charms would mingle at last.
It is hardly necessary to relate that our box bloomed with her chosen rose; that we ourselves heralded our devotion by wearing no rose but the Gold of Ophir.
As the overture died away, the curtain lifted upon a scene at once familiar with local beauty. The time of year was supposed to be November; and at the foot of the protecting Sierra Madre, whose tops stretched away in the distance, we beheld the old garden of Las Flores. The gray haze of summer still hung about thepeaks, for the Silver Harlequin, the son of the mighty Rain God, had not come.
Nature was inactive, as yet unable to overcome the lethargy of her annual rest.
In the garden, sheltered by interlacing trees and tall palms, upon a couch of verdure, slept the goddess Flora—her pagan spirit now at last purified and free, after weary wanderings in regions of ice and snow.
Close to the Goddess slumbered the golden Poppies, who ring always the first sweet bells of spring. The Poppies were dainty children, whose golden heads and gowns of yellow and green told instantly the story of the Foothills. The music, which from the first had been soft and dreamy, now suddenly grew harsh. Its poetry was gone, for stealing into the peaceful garden came the ashy Breath of the torrid Desert.
At last he had outwitted the Silver Harlequin, the son of the mighty Rain God! and his diabolical joy was horrible to behold. His agile movements were wonderful, as he appeared to actually float through the air. One moment he leered at the unconscious Goddess, the next hesatirized, in a demoniac dance, the belated Harlequin. Then, unable to control his mad fury longer, he summoned from his desert kingdom an army of Cacti to despoil the beautiful Valley. At the head of this evil legion, bristling with cruel needles, and grotesquely formidable in its reality, the Breath of the Desert took formal possession of the Happy Valley. Through excited gestures he commanded the Cacti to take root in the fruitful land, to spear the charming plants and choke the tender flowers; while he breathed upon the sleeping Flora his own fiery breath, that she might never again gaze into the shining face of the Silver Harlequin, or feel the touch of the gentle maiden, Spring.
But his conquest is short, for, even as he exults, the Silver Harlequin appears, glittering and strong, from the realms of the Rain God.
In his hand is the magic sword with which he fells to the ground the now powerless Cacti; then, in majestic anger, challenges to single combat the vile usurper.
A moment the irreconcilable enemiespause, and then ensues a deadly fight; thrilling and uncertain as the passionate music leads it on. Again and again each combatant strives for mastery. Implacable hate flashes from their burning eyes as their merciless swords strike fiercer and fiercer. Now, wilder grows the combat; wilder speaks the music, until at last the fatal plunge is made. The magic sword of the Rain God's son has triumphed. At the feet of the glittering Harlequin the Breath of the Desert falls.
The music then sank into a low, sweet whisper of melody, while at the same instant the precious rain was heard. The veil of mist ascended from the glad "Mother Mountains," and a glorious rainbow proclaimed the advent of the gentle maiden, Spring, who came joyfully from the Magic Cañon. In her train danced a company of wee, fairy raindrops, who deluged the Valley gleefully with showers from their sparkling wands.
Spring held in her hand the magic fern, stolen from the queen of the highest waterfall of the Enchanted Cañon. With her glittering band she descended the mountain to do obeisance before themighty Harlequin; then with the wonderful fern she awoke the golden Poppies and the sleeping Goddess.
In the second scene, Nature is fully aroused, and gracious Flora smiles again. The maiden, Spring, pulsing with joy, clad in a robe of palest green, adorned with sprays of maidenhair from the far, cool cañon, the breath of almond blossoms in her golden locks, dances before the Harlequin the dance of Spring. Gliding about the garden she tells her wonderful secret with poetic grace, falling at last upon her knees before her shining master, who commands her to bid the Poppies ring once more the glad, golden bells of Spring.
No words are spoken. All is action—poetry in motion, intensified by music.
As the drop fell on each of the scenes, the house grew stormy with applause, the air sweet with flying bouquets; while the audience turned one to another to exclaim at what they had seen, and to speculate upon what was yet to come.
The curtain now rose upon the carnival of the Foothills.
The season had advanced to the latterpart of February, and from field and roadside trooped the wild flowers.
In a succession of charming dances and marches, children and young girls personified, in artistic and sympathetic costumes, the wealth of wild flowers which each year adorns the Southern California spring. First came the Poppies, ringing long chimes of golden bells to the music of their dainty yellow feet, while close to them marched, in bewildering phalanx, the delicate lavender Brodiæas. The Brodiæas were graceful maidens in æsthetic gowns, overlaid with the effective flowers that trailed from a belt, like green silk cords tipped with purple tassels. Their pilgrim hats were solid with purple bloom; their long pilgrim staves a marvel of loveliness, covered with ferns and nodding lavender flowers.
Next came the Wild Daisies—dear little girls in quaint, creamy gowns, sprinkled with yellow field flowers. On their heads, demure Dutch caps produced the impression of careworn Gretchens, as they sat upon three-legged daisy stools, knitting their stint of a daisy stocking. Last, from the Foothills came the Baby-Blue-Eyes—wee men in blue, trundling small wheelbarrows overflowing with starry blue flowers.
When each group of wild flowers had in turn completed the dance or march expressing its idealized part in the carnival, they together formed into a triumphant tableau as the curtain fell, stormed again with enthusiastic applause.
But the event of the evening was yet to come. The rose pageant was about to begin, and Mariposilla would soon dance.
Thus far there had been no delay in the performance, no uncertainty, no halt. We rejoiced momentarily for those who had worked so tirelessly.
The director of the orchestra, a German, intense and enthusiastic, had worked hand in hand with Ethel to interpret to the highest degree her poetic ideas. The little man's delight was visibly manifest as the performance proceeded. Not once did the music halt, not once did the intelligent leader fail to intensify the climax of the stage.
When the drop rose for the grand pageant of the season a hush was upon the house.
Then murmurs escaped from all.
"How superb" exclaimed Mrs. Sanderson, her handsome, critical face softening with pleasure.
It was now the season of Easter; the rapturous Valley was in its glory. High up in the mountains, in a wooded cañon, fringed with growing ferns, beneath a canopy of roses, we beheld the Goddess. The simple outlines of her classic robe defined her nobly. Her charming, gracious bearing was beyond expression, her serene beauty the theme of all.
Before her knelt the Silver Harlequin.
With dignity the smiling Flora commanded him to arise and produce the pageant of Roses, the glory of the year. Now, in obedience to the Harlequin's magic sword, the Spirit of Easter is felt in the land. Mission chimes smite suddenly the air. The music deepens into a grand march, while the bells strike time to its solemn measures. Then appears a wonderful procession moving slowly to the old church; for from the far-reaching ranchos of the Valley have assembled strong youths and sweet señoritas. The snowy robes of the neophytes areembellished with symbolic stoles of white roses; in their hands they carry long fronds from the date palm, that wave as they march to the victorious strains of the music. The girls follow, wonderfully beautiful in the ever-changing lights that intensify their pure robes, or color, with violet, and green, and amber, the long, floating veils fastened to crowns of white roses. Pure roses deck their throats and glistening arms, while in their hands they bear tall tapers in rose candlesticks. Like a beautiful vision they pass and repass, the waving palms and shining tapers telling a sweet story of youthful devotion to a poetic religion. Then the music deepens, the fickle lights intensify, and the old bells ring sadly and solemnly the chimes of a picturesque and dead past.
As the White Roses drifted away, the scene suddenly changed.
In a blaze of light and music, the Silver Harlequin now called before the Goddess an array of dainty color and grace. Stepping the faultless measures of a court quadrille came the ladies of the Duchesse Rose. Clad in Empire gowns of pink, garlanded with pink roses, wearing hugehats from under whose rose-laden brims they glanced with coquettish charm, they took all hearts by storm.
Next in the marvelous pageant came the Yellow Butterflies, born in the hearts of the great Maréchal Neil. One by one they flitted with bright yellow wings from the dark hiding-places of the garden.
The sixteen glancing creatures were blondes. Golden hair floated about their white shoulders, and golden crowns sustained the jeweled antennæ, which quivered while they danced. Maréchal Neil roses clung to their gowns and smiled into their faces, as they poised and wavered in the gorgeous, ever-changing lights.
Now from the distant Orient were seen approaching dark beauties clad in the purest rose color. They were borne by slaves of the Sultan in sumptuous sedans covered with rich Henrietta roses. As the beauties left their flower chairs, they posed gracefully before the goddess, then sped away to perform a charming tamborine dance, which fully realized the now exalted expectations of the audience.
Hardly had the roses of the Orient vanished before the garden was againbrilliant. The sweet Jacqueminots had come in dainty aprons, big kerchiefs, and colonial caps. Industriously the pretty maidens plied the rose-twined spinning wheels of their grandmothers, until the imaginary stint was spun; then, abandoning their picturesque wheels, they joined in an old-fashioned dance upon the green.
When the colonial maids had passed from sight, followed by rounds of patriotic applause, Mrs. Sanderson moved nearer to the front of the box.
"The señoritas have discharged their spiritual duties; they are coming now to dance," she said, smiling, as she eagerly scanned the side approaches of the stage.
She had but ceased to speak when from secluded Spanish gardens, flourishing now only in the imagination of the aliens who destroyed them, came the dark, happy, historic señoritas.
Emotional, fickle, passionate—rare personifications of their typified rose—the matchless, wonderful Gold of Ophir. A hush of surprise for a moment pervaded the house; then its enthusiasm burst forth, when the sixteen señoritas began to weaveand glance in the intricate measures of an old Spanish dance.
"Where," whispered Mrs. Wilbur, "did Miss Walton find these marvelous creatures? And how did she create such costumes?"
"The coloring is perfect," Mrs. Sanderson declared. "The fickle shading is all there, showing in every detail. See how the Ophir buds nestle in the yellow lace mantillas. The effect is thrilling."
Fast and daintily flew the thirty-two golden feet. Brilliantly flashed the jewels on the white arms, swung high at the bidding of castanets. Then the spirit of the music changed, and the señoritas vanished into the shadow of the trees, to return instantly with gorgeous hoops of Ophir roses. Dancing again, they formed at last on each side of the garden.
From this living phalanx of bloom, extending like twin sprays of the marvelous Ophir, sprang Mariposilla.
Shaming not her prototype, she stood before us, the vision of all that we had anticipated.
For a moment she hesitated, trembling like an Ophir bud in the breeze. Then herlovely, tearful eyes sought for Sidney. For once in his life, the man forgot himself. For once, honest emotion swayed him.
Leaning unconsciously from the box, enamored, forgetful of the audience, spellbound, he snatched from his coat the rose that Mariposilla had given him. Pressing it to his lips, he flung it at the feet of the trembling child.
It was enough. The dancer's response told passionately, without words, what she never could have said.
Her form seemed suddenly enveloped in translucent light. She was oblivious to everything but the rapturous moment.
Clad in the fatal satin skirt of the Doña Maria's little dead sister; about her throat, the coveted necklace of opals, and, draping her beautiful head, the filmy yellow wedding lace of her mother, she danced as she never danced before. She seemed a marvelous apparition, freed from a haunted chamber of the Alhambra. With every step, with every movement of the palpitating figure, with every droop of the deep-fringed eyelids and every fling of the glancing arms, the ecstatic passion of her young life was manifest.
Unconsciously she imparted to the dance of her nation the tragic possibilities of her nature.
Forgetting all restraint, all method, she abandoned her liberated body to the emotions of her throbbing soul.
Long afterward, all remembered how she had swayed the great house into irresistible tumult; then suddenly had floated mysteriously away, lost in the dazzling retreat of the señoritas.
The pageant terminated with a superb tableau, symbolizing the end of the prolific rose season.
At Easter, and for a number of weeks after, nature grows prodigal. Then comes a lull. The roses have exhausted themselves. The brilliant carnival is over, and a number of weeks must now elapse before the vines and bushes gather strength to flower again.
With an appropriate accordance to reality, the closing tableau represented, with poetic significance, the return of Spring, accompanied by wild flowers and roses, to the Magic Cañon.
From the front of the garden the brilliant procession wound upward in tiers ofharmonious color, until, far above in the mountains, the Silver Harlequin and Spring stood close to the entrance of the Magic Cañon. From the heart of this enchanted spot all had issued—a divine secret; all were again returning to sleep until nature bid them once more arouse. This last magnificent spectacle was glorified by strong rose lights; while from above a silent rain of variegated rose petals fell like a soothing benediction.
When the curtain was at last down, the artistic and financial success of the pageant was the theme of the entire community.
The profits of the matinée, to be given the next afternoon, would more than defray expenses, and the proceeds of this victorious night would be safe.
Ethel and her able assistants were happy with excitement. Upon the now demoralized stage they were receiving congratulations from throngs of friends. Ethel stood like a delighted child between her father and the rector, when Mrs. Sanderson approached to utter the pretty things she always said so well.
At her side stood Mariposilla, flushedand submissive to the woman's bold caresses.
"Our little Butterfly is weary after her wonderful flight," the lady said, turning to the rector in her inimitable way. "Bring the little one's cloak, Sidney," she continued, addressing her son, who went at once to find a rich, fur-lined garment belonging to his mother.
"There," she said, when the young man returned with the wrap and placed it solicitously about Mariposilla, "the dear child will now be quite safe from a cold."
The running hither and thither was at last decreasing. The lights were growing dim and the performers were rapidly dispersing. We ourselves were just leaving the stage, when Ethel flew to my side and claimed Mariposilla for the night.
"She must come home with me," she declared. "I want to take care of her for to-morrow. It is perfect nonsense for her to drive to San Gabriel when she must return at noon to-morrow. I am determined to have my own way to-night," she cried. "It is the duty of all to spoil me this once," she declared, when Sidney interfered, volunteering to bringMariposilla to the opera house in good season the next day.
"No, sir," said the girl with an oracular shake of her finger, "Mariposilla belongs to me to-night. You may control her movements after to-morrow."
Reluctantly the child yielded to the decision of Ethel. As she parted from her lover she unconsciously smiled up into his face a regretful good-night that answered touchingly his own silent renunciation.
Ethel went early to the opera house the morning after the eventful night of the pageant. The flowers would need freshening, and the girl was determined that the matinée should give full satisfaction to those who had been denied the excitement of the opening night. She knew that many delicate persons and children would attend in the afternoon. There would also be critical ones, who, having failed to secure tickets in time for the evening performance, would come to the matinée, perhaps with ungenerous spirits. For these reasons Ethel desired that the decorations of the house and stage should both delight and astonish, as they had done upon the previous evening.
Afterward the girl told how she had felt almost like weeping when she entered alone the dark, chilly opera house.
"It seemed like a great tomb, with its thousands of wilting roses," she said. "Until joined by others, I was filled with ahorrible depression. I felt as if something miserable was about to happen. The flowers really looked no worse than I had expected, for the gorgeous band was still effective; but its first, perfect freshness was gone, its roses were dying, and I was alone at their death. Of course," she continued, "I felt better when we covered the withered places with fresh roses, but I was still restless and foolishly apprehensive."
Yet, with all the girl's uneasiness, she had little time for indulging nervous presentiments. There was much work to be done, and the time was short. Even when the decorations had been satisfactorily freshened, her unreliable performers would have to be looked after.
One girl had left a candlestick, which must be retrimmed; another had forgotten to take home her hoop, which had to be twined with fresh Gold of Ophir roses. Last of all she must collect and sort carefully all the necessary articles that would be called for by fair irresponsibles at the very last moment.
When I joined her in the green room at one o'clock, she looked anything butdejected, as she dabbed energetically the contents of a rouge pot onto the cheeks of a procession of maidens, filing in turn before her.
"There! go in peace, and dance your best," she cried, flinging away the ruddy rag as the last of the file passed on to the artist who was doing the eyes.
"Everything moves anxiously to-day," the girl said, pathetically, while she rested a moment against the wall. "I suppose I am a simpleton, but I feel as if the crack of doom were at hand. Mariposilla is late, although I told them to send her at half past twelve, and the Harlequin's wife has forgotten his cap," she said, almost hysterically, as she turned from my side to answer a volley of unnecessary questions.
"Where shall we go, Miss Walton?"
"Miss Walton, can't I have some paint on my cheeks?"
"Please, Miss Walton, my slipper is untied!"
"Miss Walton, my sister has lost her hat."
"Go directly onto the stage and stay, in readiness for your positions," the girl answered, distractedly.
"Come," I said, hoping to take her a moment out of herself, "Come with me into one of the flies; I have something to tell you."
"Dear me," she exclaimed, "what can have become of Mariposilla?"
"She is safe to-day," I answered, as we entered the fly. "She is safe to-day! But what will become of her to-morrow? The Sandersons have gone!"
"The Sandersons gone!" the girl repeated, in excitement. "Where have they gone?"
"They left to-day at noon for New York, to enable Sidney to marry, if possible, Gladys Carpenter. Her father has just died. With his death the daughter inherits three millions."
The words had but escaped my lips when a commotion in the adjoining fly betokened some catastrophe. In a second we had pushed through a crowd of frightened girls, to bend in horror over the prostrate form of Mariposilla.
"She is dead," cried Ethel. "She heard what we said and our words have killed her."
"Hush!" I whispered, "she has only fainted. Get water quickly."
Ethel flew at my bidding, while I unfastened the little bodice that but a moment before had heaved so lightly with the pulsations of a happy heart. Dear little Butterfly, I thought, how cruelly have your poor little wings been crushed!
Hot, indignant tears rained from my eyes, as I superstitiously unclasped the opal necklace, once worn by the beautiful, unfortunate Lola.
Ethel had now returned with the water, and the crowd, still pressing about us, was creating a panic.
"Stand back," I cried. "Don't you see you are taking every breath of the air?" As I spoke, the excited, curious, theatrical throng fell away.
Enveloped in her mother's wedding lace, that in the fall had shrouded her with prophetic significance, Mariposilla lay like one dead, unconscious of a miserable awakening. As I bent beside her I almost dreaded to see the heavy fringes lift from the beautiful eyes that I feared would never shine again with their old happy light.
"Dear child!" I whispered, as I applied the water, "what can we do to mend your poor little broken heart?"
While I yet spoke, the delicate eyelids began to quiver, and a little hand to tremble. A tired sigh and then a stifled sob burst from the lips.
"Darling, be brave, you have only fainted. I will take you home to the dear Doña Maria," I said, as naturally as I could.
Mariposilla lifted her great sorrowful eyes in mute entreaty; then two heavy tears rolled to her cheeks, imploring me to fulfill my promise. I knew that it was best to take her home while she wished it.
In her weakness she had not the strength to realize her sorrow. She seemed almost to have forgotten the occasion of her shock, for she closed her eyes at once, and submitted almost unconsciously to her transportation to the carriage. Tenderly we placed her on the very cushions from which she had sprung, but a few hours before, radiant and expectant.
Would she not see Sidney! The cruel night, and the long, uneventful forenoon were at last over. Now she could dance again for her lover. When it was all over, she would ride away with him in the gaytrap. He would tell her once more how fondly he loved her. Tell her how beautiful she was—how much more beautiful than the cold, wise Gladys. Then she would go again to the dear, bright hotel for dinner. She would sit by Sidney. He would watch her every desire, and when dinner was ended they would go to the pretty sitting-room, where she would look fearlessly into the silver shrine; for never again would she be jealous and weep. No, no! not when her lover had sworn that he loved not the cold, beautiful Gladys; that he cared not for her riches or accomplishments. Then, after a while, all would go to the ball-room; Sidney would lead her to dance, and Mrs. Wilbur would be unhappy. But she—she, Mariposilla, would be joyful!
Poor, foolish little Butterfly, flitting eagerly from flower to flower, drinking, unconsciously, deadly poison with honey, how cruelly different from the sweet dreams of the morning would be the realities of the evening!
While she ran gaily from the carriage at noon, full of sweet, innocent visions, the ironic interpretation of her pitiful fatewas even then decided. For, flying from rash promises, flying from the distractions of her beauty, flying from the tardy entreaties of conscience—Sidney Sanderson and his mother had gone.
With every intervening mile they were outstripping her ruined love, were nearing the selfish goal of the mother's ambitions; nearing the desolate Gladys, who, bowed with grief, and ignorant of all, would take, at the entreaty of her dead mother's friend, the reluctant lover who could never make her happy.
Poor Gladys! Poor Mariposilla!
Even before I allowed myself to acknowledge the perfidy of the woman with whom I had been so intimately associated, I began to understand her, when, early in the morning, a groom from the hotel brought me a note, asking me to drive over at once, as they were to leave that day at noon for the East.
"Duty compels us to go," Mrs. Sanderson wrote, shamelessly.
The word "duty" aroused at once my suspicions. I felt with a creeping certainty that Gladys Carpenter was the woman's prey. I believed that someunexpected turn of fortune had revived Mrs. Sanderson's ambitions.
I was sure that she had at one time relinquished all hope of obtaining the heiress for her son; but I felt on my way to the hotel a sudden presentiment that, on account of some unlooked-for occurrence, she was going to New York to revive her abandoned schemes.
I felt an uncomfortable stiffness as I entered the once familiar sitting-room, now in a state of wild disorder.
Mrs. Sanderson was on her knees, packing the last trunk. Upon the floor were piles of clothing and innumerable trifles, which she had torn from the wall.
"Dear child! How good of you to come!" she said, extending her hand with brazen determination. "It would have broken our hearts to have left without seeing you. And dear Mariposilla! and Pet Marjorie, and the good Doña Maria—how can we ever be reconciled to leave them?"
"Why is your departure compulsory?" I asked, coldly.
The woman perceived instantly that I understood her, but her control wasperfect. Her will was diabolical, yet for a moment a gleam of anger darkened her eyes. Then she answered naturally:
"Dear Gladys has lost her father. She is perfectly crushed, and has wired us to come at once."
I stood like a stone, while she told again of the intimate relations that had always existed between the families.
"Gladys is just like my own child," she continued, turning away her face with the pretense of forcing a protruding Indian basket into the trunk. "We are so disappointed to miss the matinée," she said, with her face still in profile. "Sid begged to stay until to-morrow, just to see Mariposilla dance, but I persuaded him that it would be brutal to neglect Gladys one moment longer than the necessary time for our miserable journey."
Before I could reply she had crossed the room to her son, who was fumbling over a finished trunk.
"Don't touch the things in the tray," she cried, nervously. "I never saw such a boy. This morning he actually packed books on top of my best tea-gown."
I knew that the insolence of the womanhad cowed me. She was sublime in her villainy.
I stood helplessly rooted to the spot which I had first selected upon entering the room. Too weak to stand unsupported, I leaned against the table. My perverse silence must have astonished the woman, but she talked on loquaciously, appearing not to notice my lack of interest.
How I despised her! How hard she looked to-day, when only the night before I had thought her charming and humane.
Doubtless she had slept but little since she left the box in the Pasadena opera house. In the strong morning light she looked old and strangely haggard. Dark circles defined more clearly the faint network of wrinkles beneath her eyes. Her whole countenance was drawn with the tension of her anxious night.
Her aristocratic nose seemed elongated with the avaricious thinness noticeable in grayhounds when the chase is at its height. Even the delicate, shapely hands appeared parched and old.
Never again would I think of the woman as beautiful.
I saw her now for the first time in hertrue, deplorable character. With but one object to accomplish, her masterful selfishness had taken possession of her soul. Closing tightly its chamber, she refused to hear the entreaties of the outraged voice that plead in vain. For Mrs. Sanderson, retribution was the ghost of the cowardly; repentance, a science to be skillfully ignored.
I could endure my thoughts no longer.
"Good bye," I said, coldly, as I walked mechanically to the door.
As I spoke, the woman raised herself with decision from the floor. With outstretched hands she attempted a fraudulent embrace; but I anticipated the movement in time to escape.
"No, no!" I cried, in childish tremolo; "you must not touch me. I will not pretend that I am sorry that I will never see you again. I will never forget what you have done. Now I will go away, despising you, to the unhappy child whose life you have ruined for selfish amusement and the idle entertainment of your son!"
At last I had spoken, and at last she recoiled before me.
Without waiting to hear what she wouldattempt to say, I fled like Lot from the City of Destruction. But fatal curiosity I had not, and I cared not how the Sandersons writhed in the fire of my indignation.
My only desire was to get out of the house and never see them again.
As I left the hotel the groom in waiting advanced to drive me home.
"I will walk," I said curtly, spurning even this last attention from the woman I had left.
Later in Pasadena, when I heard the departing shriek of the Overland, with its echo flung fatefully back from the mountains as the train rounded a curve, I knew that the Sandersons had cut loose forever from the complications of their San Gabriel episode.
In justice to Sidney, I believe him to have been the better of two bad people. I believe that in his sensual selfishness he would willingly have resigned his mother's ambitions in regard to a marriage with Gladys Carpenter, glad to enjoy, for a time at least, the simple fascinations and marvelous beauty of Mariposilla.
The man was so perfectly carnal, soeasily bored by the least intellectual superiority in a woman, that I believe he would have remained true to his own choice, had it not been for his mother's threats and positive command to marry, if possible, the three millions at hand.
I know that the thought of the classic, high-bred, sorrow-bowed Gladys must have been a cold shock, after his recent associations with Mariposilla. He must have remembered long how the Spanish girl adored him openly with all her young heart. Perhaps even as he went away the man held in cowardly reserve the possibilities of a refusal from the heiress.
I knew without being told that the conflict between the mother and son had been bitter. The mother had conquered, but Sidney had managed to write a parting note to his abandoned sweetheart, which the poor child unfortunately received. His slender promises only delayed her final despair, making it hopeless for those about her to arouse her pride or to graft in her trusting heart a proper disdain for the false lover.
I afterwards read his cowardly note, and saw clearly its import.
Now that Mrs. Sanderson had at last wearied of her infatuation, the proud, high-born Gladys, with her millions, would eclipse a dozen Spanish beauties. Soon she would laugh and jest over the affair with her New York friends, describing Mariposilla delightfully, while she enlarged upon the poor child's passion for her son.
I have since wondered if the Spanish girl would have been happy had Fate consented to her choice. I sometimes believe that eventually the restraints and requirements of the untried life would have wearied her. I also believe that with a nature so true, so simple and affectionate, she would have done her best to excel in the eyes of those she loved. In a responsive atmosphere her proud ambition would have fulfilled her will. With the cold and critical she would have lost her subtile charm. Away from her mountains and unconventional life she might have learned sad lessons. She could never have conned them alone without an aching heart; for, like her rose, she would have grown pale and dejected away from the sunlight of love.
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 TuckersvilleSunfull 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 cañon close to the sea, there are opportunities of rest and enjoyment for all.
To the resident of the San GabrielValley, 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 Doña 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 withthe 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 Doña 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 æsthetic 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; whiletenderly 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 Doña 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 Doña 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 Doña 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 Doña 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 Doña 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 Doña 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 alwaysremain 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 Doña 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. ButGod 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."