The Californians
Page 24
XXIV
Don Roberto rose as they approached. He did not take off his skull-cap,but he received them with the courtly grace of the caballero, one of hisinheritances which he had not permanently discarded, although hepractised what he was pleased to call his American manners in thesanctity of his home.
He bowed low, kissed their finger-tips, and handed them in turn to thechairs which he first arranged in a semi-circle about his own. When heresumed his former half-reclining attitude he had the air of an invalidsultan holding audience.
"We are _so_ sorry that you have _such_ a dreadful cold," said Tiny,with her sweetest smile and emphasis; "and _so_ glad that we happened todrive up. You couldn't come for a drive with us, could you? We should_love_ to have you."
Don Roberto rose to the bait at once. He was as susceptible to theblandishments of pretty women as Jack Belmont, although their influenceover his purse was an independent matter.
"Very glad I am that I have the cold," he answered gallantly; "for itgive me the company of three so beautiful ladies. I no can go for drive,for it blow, perhaps; but I no care, so long as you here with me sit."
"Well, we are going to stay a _long_ time; and we are _so_ glad we areback in Menlo again,--so many of us together. We used to love so to comehere; it seems _ages_ ago. And now that we have got 'Lena again, youmust expect us to fairly overrun the house."
"It is yours," said Don Roberto, in the old vernacular. "Burn it if youwill."
Tiny, who had never heard even an anecdote of the early Californians,gave a quick glance at the whiskey flask, but replied undauntedly,--
"How gallant you are, Don Roberto! The young men say such stupid things.But you _always_ were so original!"
"Poor old dear, I feel like wiping it off," whispered Rose to Ila.
But it was evident that Don Roberto's vision was powdered with thegolden dust of flattery. He smiled approvingly into Tiny's pretty face."But I say true, and the young mens do not sometimes. It make me youngagain to see you here."
"One would think you were _old_," said Tiny. "But do you _really_ liketo see us here? Should you mind if we came sometimes in the evening? Itwould be such _fun_ to meet at each other's houses and talk on theverandahs."
"Come all the evenings," said Don Roberto, promptly, "si you talk to mesometimes."
"_I_ want to do that. Ila plays, and Rose sings _beau_tifully. Someevening we will get up charades--to amuse you."
"On Saturday, Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday nights I am here."
"Those will be our evenings to come here." She gave a peremptory glanceto Rose, who responded hurriedly, "Are you fond of music, Don Roberto?It will give me great pleasure to sing for you; and Ila has beenlearning some of my accompaniments."
Don Roberto did not answer for a moment. His memory had played him atrick: it had leaped back to the days of guitars and gratings. He rarelysought the society of gentlewomen, not, at least, of those whose nameswere on visiting lists. There was something unexpectedly sweet andfragrant in the company of these three beautiful girls. Don Roberto'smemories were hanging in a dusty cupboard, and his heart had shrunkenlike the meat of a nut too long neglected; but there was life at thecore, and the memories came forth, wanting only a breath to dust them.Yes, he should like to have these girls about him. And Magdalena hadlived the life of a hermit. It was time for her to enjoy her girlhood.
"Yes," he said, "alway I like the music. Si the piano need tune, I sendone man down. You can dance, too, si you like it. Always I like see theyoung peoples dance."
Tiny clapped her hands. Ila leaned forward and patted his hand.
"What an inspiration!" she exclaimed. "This will be a simply gorgeoushouse to dance in. Don Roberto, you certainly are an angel!"
Don Roberto had never been called an angel before, but he smiledapprovingly. "Some night this week we have the dance," he said. "My wifewrite you to-night."
"I am on the verge of nervous prostration," whispered Rose, as hisattention was claimed by Mrs. Cartright. "The effort of keeping mycountenance--but the way you handle a trowel, Tiny, is a new chapter indiplomacy. Butter and molasses for fifty and after; a vaporiser and_peau d'espagne_ for the sharp young things. I was just saying," sheadded hastily, as Don Roberto reclined suddenly and turned to her, "thatyoung men are a nuisance. I am thinking of writing a book of advice--"
"A book!" cried Don Roberto, his brows rushing together. "You no writethe books?"
"Of course she would never publish," interposed Tiny. "She would justwrite it for our amusement. I think it would be so horrid to publish the_cleverest_ book," she said, turning to Magdalena, unmistakablesincerity in her voice. "It has always seemed to me so--so--_horrid_ forwomen to write things to print--for _anybody_ to read."
Magdalena did not answer her. She was staring at her father, breathlessfor his next words.
"The ladies never write," announced that grandson of old Spain. "Nor thegentlemens. Always the common peoples write the books."
"Oh, it's better now, really," said Rose. "Some people that write aresaid to be quite nice. Of course, one doesn't meet them in society,--inSan Francisco society, at least,--but that may be the fault of society."
"Of course," said Tiny. "I do not mean that people who write must behorrid. But I think I couldn't know a woman who made her name sopublic,--I mean if I hadn't been fond of her before; but I should really_hate_ to see a friend's name in print. You are not really thinking ofwriting a book, are you, Rose, dear?"
"I have not the slightest idea of writing a book--for the very goodreason that I haven't brains enough. You needn't worry about any of usadding to the glory of California--unless, to be sure, 'Lena should beclever enough."
She spoke at random, and Magdalena's face did not betray her; but shealmost hated the girl who was forcing her to another of her mentalcrises.
"My daughter write!" shouted Don Roberto. "A Yorba! She make a fool demy name like the play-actor that do the monkey tricks on the stage? Sishe do that--"
"Here comes Mr. Trennahan," said Magdalena, standing up. "Mamma is nothere. I must go to meet him."
Trennahan threw the reins to his groom and sprang out of the cart. "Icould not wait till evening, you see," he said, as he came up the steps."What is the matter? Something has gone wrong with you."
She shivered. "Yes. Something. I cannot tell you."
"Can we have our ride to-morrow?"
"Yes, I can ride with you. Don't, d-don't--"
"Yes?"
"Don't talk to me when you get round there."
"I won't; and I won't let them talk to you."
Something _has_ gone wrong, he thought. She looks like a condemnedcriminal.