“That was well thought, Cousin Jessica. Your mother must have trained you better than I feared, living so in the wilderness.”
“Oh! it isn’t a wilderness, not in the least. It is the most beautiful spot in all the world! New York can’t compare with our lovely Sobrante—not compare! And I hope she didn’t have to ‘train’ me to do a thing like that, which nobody could help doing, could they?”
“Came naturally, eh? Better still. Sit down. It tires me to see you standing. Luncheon will be served at one and it is almost that time now. Sit down and tell me about your journey—or anything you choose. Only speak low. I observe that by nature, if you are not excited, your voice is fairly good. Gentlewomen are never noisy nor obtrusive. Remember that.”
Jessica would rather have remained standing, or, better still, have stepped through the long open window out into that rain-drenched old garden, a-glitter now in the sunshine that was almost as bright as Sobrante’s. But she reflected that here was her first chance to “obey” and placed herself on a low stool near her hostess, fixing her gaze upon the lady’s face with a curiosity that failed to offend, it was so full of admiration. Yet finding that serene scrutiny somewhat trying, Mrs. Dalrymple herself opened the conversation by asking:
“Does Gabriella, your mother, keep her good looks? Or is she faded from that rude life she leads and the sorrow she has met?”
“Faded? My—mother—faded? Why, how queer! Cousin Margaret Dalrymple, she is almost the most beautiful woman in all southern California. Truly! Mr. Ninian says so, and Mr. Hale did, and—and I think so! She is just like the Madonna picture in Fra Sebastian’s house, she is so lovely. Her hair—her hair isn’t quite as white as yours, it is a beautiful dark gold color—but she has almost as much as you. She doesn’t wear it in that puffed up, frizzly kind of way, but just turns it back in one big coil that is—is lovely.”
Mrs. Dalrymple slightly winced. She did wear a profusion of snow-white locks, as became a venerable woman of fashion, and Jessica was not wise enough, as yet, to know that such headgear may be bought in a shop and put on or off at will. The next question followed rather soon and sharply:
“Does she still sing? She once had a charming voice.”
“Oh! it is like the birds in the trees along the arroyo to hear my mother sing! She doesn’t often now, it makes her think so much of my father. Why, all the ‘boys’ say that it was something wonderful when they two sang together of a Sunday morning, or sometimes at night. John Benton said it was as near like the music of Heaven as anything on the earth could be. John is very religious, John is; only, sometimes, when Aunt Sally tries his patience very much he says—he says things that don’t sound nice. But Samson is religiouser even than John. They’re both of them just perfectly splendid ‘boys.’ Oh! all our ‘boys’ are fine, just fine! You’d love them every one!” answered Jessica with enthusiasm.
“Humph! I was never any too fond of ‘boys,’ and Gabriella must be crazy to try and run a ranch by the aid of a few ‘boys.’ Why doesn’t she employ men, if so be she will persist in living in such an outlandish place?”