CHAPTER XVI
I arrived in the kitchen the following morning, to discuss luncheonwith Norah, and found the entire kitchen-force massed at thescreened-door, watching Mercedes coquetting with Arthur. There was atemptation to draw an analogy between the brilliantly-plumaged,addle-pated bird and the decorative girl who stood at the cage-door,poking her white fingers perilously through the wiring and cooing tohim in softest Spanish. It must be admitted, that weeks of painstakingeffort on my part to win Arthur to a display of friendliness towardme, had resulted in nothing. But ten minutes with Mercedes had provedhis undoing: the bird was positively maudlin. I came out to the cage,and at once the half-closed orbs of Arthur underwent an unflatteringchange. He opened them to their widest and bleakest and said, hoarselysarcastic, "Pretty darling! Darling! Bow-wow-wow! Carramba!" at whichMercedes exclaimed delightedly,
"Oh, isn't he clever! Who taught him that?"
"The swearing, or the pet names?" I answered, stooping to saygoodmorning to Wiggles, "I haven't the remotest idea."
"Billy?" suggested my guest, touching her perfectly dressed hair withhighly manicured finger-tips.
"Possibly," I answered. "He invariably barks and then swears at me,before luncheon."
"Billy or Arthur?" inquired Mercedes with interest.
I laughed.
"Have you seen either of the men this morning?" I asked. "I heard themgo out early."
"They went to Crowell's," she answered. "I saw them off. They will notbe back before tea, Billy told me."
I tried to look as if I had heard these plans before, and merelyforgotten them for a moment.
"How nice!" I said, insincerely, "We will have a nice, long daytogether--with no disturbing male element," I added maliciously.
"I will like that too," said Mercedes, with great unexpectedness. "Younever let me talk to you alone, Mavis, and" she finished with a funnylittle undercurrent of wistfulness in her pretty voice, "I have nofriends my own age--women friends, I mean."
I had grown to be a little annoyed at my guest, but somehow, hersimple statement opened up a vista before me which I had not dreamedexisted. The child seemed, after all, hungry for companionship. It wasout of the question that she should find it with her own indolentmother, who treated her as if she were half plaything and half infant;or with her father, whose attitude toward her was a curiouscommingling of affectionate despotism and anxiety: and the basis onwhich she met all her many men-satellites was not one guaranteed toproduce comradeship.
I put my arm through hers and took her into the kitchen with me. Aftermy inconsiderable domestic task was completed, we went out on theverandah together, armed with sewing. Mercedes sewed beautifully, anart which her early convent education had taught her, and I took areal aesthetic pleasure in watching the smooth, dark head, bent overthe fine linen in her lap.
"What are you making?" I asked her, idly.
She exhibited the very feminine garment: exquisitely embroidered andsewn with the most exact and even of tiny stitches.
"I wish I could sew like that," I said, enviously, "but I should thinkyou would ruin your eyes."
She raised to mine the tremendous pools of liquid darkness inquestion.
"But no," she said. "All Spanish girls are clever with the needle. TheSisters taught me when I was very young."
I had been, with the Howells, to one of the convents near Havana, andI recalled now the sweet, patient faces of the nuns, and the marvelouswork they showed us. Some of it lay in one of my trunks now, a presentto Mrs. Goodrich from Bill and me. The thought of Mercedes behind theaustere cloister walls was incongruous.
"Were you long with the nuns?" I asked her.
"Seven years," she answered, and then, amazingly, "I was very happythere--for a long time I wanted to take the veil, but Father wassimply horrified at the idea."
I was somewhat horrified myself.
"I can't imagine it," I said flatly.
"Why?"
I didn't answer for a moment, and she went on,
"But I know why--you think me very light and frivolous, do you not,Mavis?"
"It would be difficult," I answered cautiously, "to imagine you as anun!"
"They are good women," she said, and was silent.
Suddenly I realized that I knew very little more about this girl thanI had known on the boat coming down to Havana, and yet, I had beenwith her almost constantly ever since.
"Didn't you care for college?" I inquired, rather diffidently.
Her great eyes lighted up.
"It was wonderful--in some ways--" she said slowly, "so many girls, ofall classes, gathered together. At first I could not understand. Athome, you know, one is very careful whom one knows. It is changing alittle now. I remember I was scandalized, my first months at college,to find that the President of the Senior class was a waitress in oneof the campus houses--actually waiting on the table! It was tooincredible! I wrote home, and Mother begged Father to send for me atonce. She was even more shocked than I! But Father laughed, she said,and told her it would do me good. He said it was high time that alittle of my American blood came to the fore. Later I learned thatthis girl, the Senior President, had practically worked her waythrough the four years of college. She was the daughter of a very poorman--a peasant, we would call him. And yet there was hardly a girl inthat great college who would not have given everything she had for therespect and admiration and love which that quiet, plain-featured girlhad won and held from students and faculty alike."
"You too?" I asked.
"I, too," said Mercedes simply. She bent her head a little lower overthe white fabric in her lap and went on, not quite clearly. "I was notvery popular. Some liked me, yes. They even asked me to their homesfor the shorter vacations. But they liked me because I was'different': because it was 'smart' to say that they had aSpanish-American girl as a friend: or because I was pretty and brightand did not care much to study. But I made no real friendships."
I was, by now, very interested. Here was a cross-section of life thatI had no knowledge of. A feeling of sympathy stirred in me: this gay,alien little creature, with the blood of two widely dissimilar nationswarring in her, coming fresh from her convent to the democraticfreedom of an American college. I said,
"Tell me a little about it all, Mercedes. I only know college-lifesecond hand, for, as perhaps Bill has told you, I was a helplessinvalid for eleven years. But I was fortunate in my friends, althoughI had few of my own age, and in a Father who was my greatestplayfellow and my most understanding comrade."
The quick, facile tears rose to the big eyes. She pulled her chair alittle closer and laid her warm, vibrant hand on mine.
"I didn't know," she said. "I'm so sorry. Billy told me that you hadbeen ill--but I didn't dream.--You're wonderful, Mavis," she said,"delicate and lovely as an orchid. I always feel clumsy and toohighly-colored beside you. And you have been so kind and sweet--"
I grew very remorseful: my feelings toward Mercedes Howells had beenanything but "kind and sweet." They had been distinctly critical andalmost unfriendly. For the first time, I did not resent her easy useof my husband's given name: for the first time I realized the oldtruth that to know people is to like them.
I gave the narrow, high-bred hand a little squeeze.
"Don't be silly, child," I said lightly. "And tell me more about yourAmerican impressions."
"You sound just like the reporter who came on the boat, my first tripNorth," said Mercedes, with a little giggle. "Such a nice young man!But the things he put in the paper about me! 'BeautifulSpanish-American heiress screams with delight at the first glimpse ofher father's country.' I didn't really scream," she explainedconscientiously, "but I talked more than I should have. Father wroteme quite an angry letter about it. He is very well known," she added,without pride, "and it annoyed him. He says no woman can hold hertongue, anyway! But how was I to know that the nice young man was areporter?"
I had a vision of Mercedes, hands flying, eyes everywhere, babblingand bubbling for the
_New York Press_. It was too amusing. No wonderMr. Howells had been 'annoyed.'
"Go on," I said encouragingly.
"The girls I went home with," she said, after a while, "they lived inwonderful houses and had such beautiful clothes. But I didn't likethem, somehow. You see, at home we are very strictly brought up. Aftera girl is out, she has some freedom, of course, and, after shemarries, it is quite different--she can do as she likes. And untilFather had insisted upon my being educated in the States, my Motherhad had all the care of me. And I was brought up as the Spanish girlsare, as my Mother was in her own Madrid. These American girls Ivisited thought of nothing but good times. They spoke no language buttheir own--"
"How many do you speak, Mercedes?" I interrupted, curiously.
"English, Spanish, French, of course," she answered, "and a littlesmattering of Italian and German. I had governesses until I was ten,and then I went to the convent. And much emphasis was laid onlanguages."
I suppressed a gasp, and she went on.
"It was from them--my college friends--that I learned that it is easyto deceive one's parents. And that it is quite right and proper tohave as many cavaliers as one can. 'Scalp-hunting' they called it--"
I thought of Mercedes' not inadept efforts along the line of scalps,and thinking, asked,
"But haven't Spanish girls--and girls all over the world--very muchthe same ambitions along that line?"
Mercedes knitted her brows, and as she looked at me, I was startled,for, for the first time, I saw in her a very definite resemblance toher father. There was a strength of jaw there, to which the rounded,soft chin had blinded me: a certain Northern keenness in the Southerneyes.
"Why yes," she answered, "but it is--to marry that they--shall Isay--hunt? But it was not that with my New York friends. They had nodesire to marry: many of them told me that they would hate being tieddown, that they disliked children. No, it was not to marry--but merelyto play and to be amused--"
I laughed.
"It's the motive then," I said, "that makes the difference in youreyes?"
"Of course," she said frankly. "To marry, to have a family, to bemistress in one's own home, that is--"
"The legitimate ambition of every woman," I concluded for her.
"Si, Senora," she answered, laughing in spite of herself.
"But," I argued, "you must have met other American girls whoseinterest was not solely centered in the fine art of flirtation."
"I understood them--those you speak of, even less!" said Mercedesguilelessly. "My roommate was such a one. She wanted to be an engineerjust fancy! And she was so pretty too!"
"An engineer!" I ejaculated, for even to my American mind this was anunusual ambition for my sex to harbor. "And she had no use for men,too?" I asked.
"That was just it," said Mercedes, in obvious wonderment. "She had anynumber of men friends: corresponded with them, saw them at dances:they even called upon her at college. But a flirt she was not. Theywere her friends, she said. And she was like another boy with them. Iwent to her home once, a little town in Massachusetts, and I could notunderstand her at all. She was like a sister to her mother, a son toher father, and a comrade to her dance-partners. It was too amazing!"
There was the whole thing in a nutshell, I thought. She couldunderstand but not condone the promiscuous flirtations of her Americansisters: but the girl who was comrade to a man, and friend, and wholooked on him as such, and not as an extra "scalp" or a possiblehusband, was beyond her comprehension.
"But," I argued, "returning to the butterflies, surely, Mercedes, youhave quite as much freedom now as any American girl. And, forgive me,my dear, but you employ it in much the same manner."
Her glance was mischievous and rather child-like.
"That has only been since my return home," she said. "Mother is notpleased, but Father says, 'let her go ahead.' And--as to what you say,I am trying very hard to be American now."
"Not the comrade sort, such as your mechanical roommate?" I suggested.
She regarded me in amazement.
"But most of the men I meet are Cubans," she stated. "Do you think_they_ would understand it--if I could be like that little MaryAdams?"
I considered, shook my head.
"Of course not," she said, answering her own question. "They wouldlaugh and shrug--and be, perhaps, disagreeable. They can accept such amanner in an American girl. They do not like it, or comprehend it, butsome of them have learned their lesson. And they must respect it.But--in a Spanish girl--it would be unthinkable. Besides," she addedfrankly, "I couldn't--"
She was right. Temperamentally unfit, emotionally too highly developed.
"And--as to the flirting," she said shyly, "I--I like to attractpeople. I like to make them laugh and say nice things. And perhaps myAmerican friends have taught me something of their methods."
"And your motive--?" I asked.
She stretched her graceful arms wide. Her hair had a blue sheen in theshaded light of the verandah and her skin was magnolia-white.
"I haven't any!" said Mercedes frankly.
"Not even a small gold band in the perspective?" I said.
She looked down at her ringless hands: at the heap of fragrant linenlying in her lap.
"This is to be part of my trousseau," she answered, indirectly, "partof what you call a 'Hope Chest.' All girls of my class sew a greatdeal and lay it all away until they marry. And, after all, I am notlike my New York cousins, for where they say 'perhaps--when I gettired of playing,' I say, 'someday, when I meet the right man.' Andso, you see, I am not like my Mother's people either--not quite. Forthey say, 'someday when my parents are satisfied--and let us hope itwill be soon!'"
I didn't wonder that Bill--that the men found her charming. Themixture of innocence and sophistication, the innate and the acquiredworldliness was really delicious.
"Do you talk to many people like this?" I asked curiously.
"Of course not," she answered, wide-eyed. "I know of no one who wouldunderstand. There are times," she admitted, with a little sigh, "WhenI really do not understand myself."
At the luncheon table I found myself looking at Mercedes, half as ifshe were a stranger, half as if she were an old friend.
"I envy you and Bill, Mavis," she said, once, when Fong had left theroom, "you have so much to make you happy. He's a very lucky man."
I smiled. It was not a subject on which I wished to be interrogated.
"And you," she went on, "are a lucky girl. He's awfully fine, thathusband of yours."
She played for a moment with her tea-spoon, and looked at me, ratherpathetically.
"I like the way American men are with their wives," she said, "I wishI could have met a Billy--"
I might have responded that, in a few months' time, my husband wouldbe legally free to take an interest in such remarks, but I refrained.
"You must have met a number of men, in two years," I said.
"Not Billies," she answered firmly, "awfully young they were, and--"she paused.
Fong came in just then, and the conversation took a more discreetturn. After luncheon, siesta-ing in the two big swings down among thepalms, I brought up the subject again.
"So, after all," I said, "the 'right man' must be an American,Mercedes?"
I had not calculated on the effect of my idle words. A vivid scarletspread to the roots of the black hair.
"On the boat," she answered, "we talked, your Bill and I--and sincethen, also. And I have learned a little of the reverence for womenthat your fine men have: a little of the way they guard and protectthem--not by bars and bolts and commands, but by love and chivalry andthoughtfulness. I have seen that too, in my Father, a little. But,after all, my Father married Mother, and so, it is different with him.And he has never talked to me as he would to the daughter, perhaps, ofan American wife--"
I thought of my own Father and knew a swift pang of pity, for thisrather rudderless little craft.
"It was through Billy that I got to know you," Mercedes went on
--"hewas always talking about you. And you--you always held me off--"
Something very warm and sweet crept into my heart, and I put my handout, across the space between.
"I'm sorry," I said, "awfully sorry, Mercedes,--you see, perhaps Iwasn't quite used to girls."
"You'll really be my friend now?" she asked, naively: and I wasconscious that I spoke the whole truth as I answered,
"I am your friend, Mercedes,--never doubt it."
Our hands clasped on that, and within ten minutes, her quiet breathingtold me that she slept. I lay awake a little longer, thinking veryhard. So Bill had really seen the best of her after all. He had nottold me, for I had never tried to know, even second hand. He wouldhave let me go on believing the girl to be heartless and silly, andadmiration-loving, nothing else. It was not fair! And then I stoppedto realize that I had not _wanted_ to believe her anything else.Before I fell asleep, I had absolved Mercedes Howells fromdeliberately trying to flirt with my husband. She would have been myfriend more than his, had I wished her to be. Failing that, she hadturned to the person, who, oddly enough, had apparently comprehendedher little complexities. I looked over at the serene face, the heavy,white lids, with their weight of dark lashes, folded over the bigeyes. A little smile curved the lovely, full mouth, and she slept, asa child sleeps, one hand under her soft cheek.
It was very still. The palm leaves rustled faintly over my head, andthe sunlight fell hot and golden through the trees. My eyes closed inspite of myself, and with a very tender impulse toward my new friend,I turned on my side and slept.