Suddenly, like a cyclone, like a typhoon, Dolores Tristeza cast herself upon me. "Virgin mawther of my soul," she howled, "do not leave me! I keel myself! Ella de la barba ees nawthing to me! Do not leave me to die with these so ugly strangers! No tengo más amiga que tu!" (Thou art my only friend!)
She was working up into a frenzy which made all her earlier efforts sound like lullabies with the soft pedal on, and she was shaking herself into convulsions and crying real tears. "Behold," she sobbed, "las lágrimas de la huérfanita!" (The tears of the little orphan!)
I counted ten. Then I turned to my new husband.
"Michael Daragh," I said, meekly, "will you take Randal with you and let me take Dolores with me?"
I wish you could have seen people's faces as we went off in a groaning taxi, ourselves, our luggage, Randal, white and protesting, Dolores, tearful but triumphant, José-María, snapping and snarling, Santa Catalina, strongly urging every one to shut his ugly mouth for the love of all the saints.
Sally, you've read a hundred stories, haven't you, which went like this—the ceremony, the good wishes, the rice, the old shoes, then—"he jerked down the curtain of the cab window,"—"Alone at last," he murmured, "my wife!" "He folded her in his arms."
I think Michael Daragh's feeling was that we were not entirely alone, and that it was a rather large order to fold in his arms a swearing parrot, a shivering, hairless dog, a robust Mexican orphan, a bride and a dope fiend, for he made not the first gesture of the above ritual.
It is after midnight. Dolores is asleep here in my stateroom, a smile of seraphic peace on her face, but in the room next door I hear the steady murmur of M.D.'s voice reading to poor Randal, who cannot sleep, who has tried to jump overboard. Michael dares not leave him for an instant, even to tell me good-night.
Sally, it is really funny, but I have to keep assuring and reminding myself that it is.
Jane.