Excerpt
JESSICA DISAPPEARS
Mrs. Benton and Jessica were upon the south porch of the Sobrante ranch house, the former busy as usual, the latter idly enjoying her charming surroundings as she swung to and fro in her hammock.
Mighty vines of pale yellow roses, intermingled with climbing fuchsias, cast shade and sweetness over them; the porch was bordered by a wide swath of calla lilies, also in full flower, while just beyond these a great shrub of poinsettia dazzled the sight with its gleaming blossoms.
When a momentary silence of the other’s nimble tongue allowed her to speak, Jessica exclaimed:
“Aunt Sally, you’re the only person I know who can do three things at once. You sew as fast as you rock, and talk faster than either. You’re a very clever woman.”
The old lady answered complacently, as she bit off a fresh needleful of thread and looked at her companion over her spectacles:
“Yes, dearie, I expect I am. I can do more’n that, too. I can keep up a powerful thinking.”
“About what, pray?”
“How that life is a patchwork quilt. All the colors of the rainbow, and some that any self-respectin’ rainbow would scorn to own. Some scraps so amazing homely you hate to put ’em in, but just have to, else there wouldn’t be blocks enough to square it out.”
“What sort of a scrap am I, Aunt Sally?”
“Huh! Fair to middlin’. Neither very light, nor very dark. You’d be prettier, to my notion, if you’d fetch a needle and thread and sew a seam with me, ’stead of swinging yourself dizzy out of pure laziness.”
“Now, Aunt Sally! I call that unkind! I hate to sew.”
“I believe you. You’ll never put a stitch where a pin will do. But, never mind. If everybody else sets out to spoil you, I don’t know as it’s my call to interfere.”
There was so much tenderness in the glance that accompanied these words that nobody could resent them; least of all the girl, who now sprang from the hammock and curled herself at the other’s feet.
“Tell me those powerful thoughts, auntie, dear.”
Mrs. Benton sighed, but responded nothing loath:
“There’s your mother, Gabriella. Only child, left an orphan, raised by a second cousin once removed, who’d more temper than sense, and when your mother fell in love with your father, who’d more goodness than cash, shut the door on them both forthwith. So off they come to Californy and pitch their tent right here in the spot.”
“They couldn’t have chosen a lovelier place,” their daughter answered, with a sweeping glance over the fair land which formed her home.
“That’s true enough. Then him getting that New York company to buy Paraiso d’Oro Valley, so’s a lot of folks that was down in the world could come out here and live in it. Poor Cass’us dying, just as he’d got things to his liking; the losing of the title deed and your journeying to Los Angeles to get it back.”
“Not ‘lost,’ Aunt Sally. Poor Antonio hid it at El Desierto, in the cave of the Three Rocks. He––”
“Cat’s foot! Don’t you go to ‘pooring’ that snaky sneak, or you and me’ll fall out....