The Californians

by Atherton, Gertrude Franklin Horn

  "Wait till Helena comes," whispered Ila.

  * * *

  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 his inheritances which he had not permanently discarded, although he practised what he was pleased to call his American manners in the sanctity of his home.

  He bowed low, kissed their finger-tips, and handed them in turn to the chairs which he first arranged in a semi-circle about his own. When he resumed his former half-reclining attitude he had the air of an invalid sultan 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 to drive 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 the blandishments of pretty women as Jack Belmont, although their influence over his purse was an independent matter.

  "Very glad I am that I have the cold," he answered gallantly; "for it give 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 are back in Menlo again,—so many of us together. We used to love so to come here; it seems ages ago. And now that we have got 'Léna again, you must expect us to fairly overrun the house."

  "It is yours," said Don Roberto, in the old vernacular. "Burn it if you will."

  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 the golden 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 young again to see you here."

  "One would think you were old," said Tiny. "But do you really like to see us here? Should you mind if we came sometimes in the evening? It would be such fun to meet at each other's houses and talk on the verandahs."

  "Come all the evenings," said Don Roberto, promptly, "si you talk to me sometimes."

  "I want to do that. Ila plays, and Rose sings beautifully. Some evening 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 glance to Rose, who responded hurriedly, "Are you fond of music, Don Roberto? It will give me great pleasure to sing for you; and Ila has been learning some of my accompaniments."

  Don Roberto did not answer for a moment. His memory had played him a trick: it had leaped back to the days of guitars and gratings. He rarely sought the society of gentlewomen, not, at least, of those whose names were on visiting lists. There was something unexpectedly sweet and fragrant in the company of these three beautiful girls. Don Roberto's memories were hanging in a dusty cupboard, and his heart had shrunken like the meat of a nut too long neglected; but there was life at the core, and the memories came forth, wanting only a breath to dust them. Yes, he should like to have these girls about him. And Magdaléna had lived 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 send one man down. You can dance, too, si you like it. Always I like see the young peoples dance."

  Tiny clapped her hands. Ila leaned forward and patted his hand.

  "What an inspiration!" she exclaimed. "This will be a simply gorgeous house to dance in. Don Roberto, you certainly are an angel!"

  Don Roberto had never been called an angel before, but he smiled approvingly. "Some night this week we have the dance," he said. "My wife write you to-night."

  "I am on the verge of nervous prostration," whispered Rose, as his attention was claimed by Mrs. Cartright. "The effort of keeping my countenance—but the way you handle a trowel, Tiny, is a new chapter in diplomacy. Butter and molasses for fifty and after; a vaporiser and peau d'espagne for the sharp young things. I was just saying," she added hastily, as Don Roberto reclined suddenly and turned to her, "that young men are a nuisance. I am thinking of writing a book of advice—"

  "A book!" cried Don Roberto, his brows rushing together. "You no write the books?"

  "Of course she would never publish," interposed Tiny. "She would just write it for our amusement. I think it would be so horrid to publish the cleverest book," she said, turning to Magdaléna, unmistakable sincerity in her voice. "It has always seemed to me so—so—horrid for women to write things to print—for anybody to read."

  Magdaléna did not answer her. She was staring at her father, breathless for his next words.

  "The ladies never write," announced that grandson of old Spain. "Nor the gentlemens. Always the common peoples write the books."

  "Oh, it's better now, really," said Rose. "Some people that write are said to be quite nice. Of course, one doesn't meet them in society,—in San 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 be horrid. But I think I couldn't know a woman who made her name so public,—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 of writing a book, are you, Rose, dear?"

  "I have not the slightest idea of writing a book—for the very good reason that I haven't brains enough. You needn't worry about any of us adding to the glory of California—unless, to be sure, 'Léna should be clever enough."

  She spoke at random, and Magdaléna's face did not betray her; but she almost hated the girl who was forcing her to another of her mental crises.

  "My daughter write!" shouted Don Roberto. "A Yorba! She make a fool de my name like the play-actor that do the monkey tricks on the stage? Si she do that—"

  "Here comes Mr. Trennahan," said Magdaléna, standing up. "Mamma is not here. I must go to meet him."

  Trennahan threw the reins to his groom and sprang out of the cart. "I could 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 condemned criminal.

  * * *

  XXV

  The next morning when Trennahan rode up, Magdaléna was already on her horse, and they cantered off at once.

  "I must teach you to trot," he said. "This is very old-fashioned. You must not be behind your friends, who would scorn to canter."

  "Very well. You can teach me."

  The next half-hour was given up to the lesson. Magdaléna did not like the new method, but persevered heroically. A half-hour was all she could endure, and they cantered across the meadows to the back woods.

  Magdaléna was as pale as a swarthy person can be. Her eyes were heavy and shadowed.

  "You did not sleep last night," said Trennahan, abruptly. "And something had happened yesterday before I came. What was it?"

  "I don't think I can tell you. I don't like to talk about things—about myself."

  "Then let me tell you that no human being can go through life without help. With all your brain and your natural reticence, you are no exception to the rule. I am much older than you are. I know a great deal of the world. You know nothing of it. I can help you if you will let me."

  He was interested, and thought it probable that her trouble came from the depths o
f her nature. Nevertheless, she was very young, and he prayed that her grief were not the sequence of a rejected manuscript.

  Magdaléna flushed, then paled again. She remembered that she had wanted to speak out to him; but face to face with the prospect, the levelling of lifelong barriers appalled her. If she could only tell part and conceal the rest! But she was no artist in words. She drew a deep sigh and opened her lips, but closed them again.

  "It will be easier here in the woods," he said, as they rode into the deep shade. "The world always seems quite different to me in a wood." It did not in the least, but he knew that it did to her.

  "I should have to go back," she said finally. "I cannot begin with yesterday. And I talk so badly."

  "The longer the story, the more interested I shall be. And I like your direct simplicity. Let us walk the horses."

  "When I was a child I was very religious,—a Catholic. It was a very great deal to me. When I prayed to the Virgin about my wants and troubles, I felt quite happy and hopeful. I lost it a year or two ago. I had read a great many scientific books; and my religion fell to pieces like—like—There was a beautiful old tree on the edge of the woods once. It looked as if it would stand a century longer. One day there was a terrible wind, and it fell down. Its sap and roots were almost gone. I felt dreadfully—about the religion, I mean. I felt, somehow, as if my backbone had been taken out. I knew that one must have some sort of moral ideal. I thought a great deal, and finally I determined to make my conscience my religion. I made a resolution that I would never do, and try not even to think, what I believed to be wrong. When I was little, I followed Helena into a great many of her naughty escapades,—though nothing so bad as the fire,—and I did not tell my parents, as a rule, because I could not see that it did any good. When my New England conscience, as Helena calls it, got the best of me and I confessed about the fire, the consequences were so terrible that I made up my mind that I would do as I chose and say nothing about it. I kept to that until I lost my religion. Then I was careful about every little thing. It was easy enough for a year. Then—I don't think I can go on."

  "Then you wrote a book and your conscience hurts you because you have not told your parents."

  Magdaléna dropped her reins and stared at him. Had a voice leapt down from heaven, she could not have been more dumfounded.

  "I never told you," she said helplessly. "Can all the others know too?"

  "I am positive that no one suspects but myself. Do go on."

  "You have guessed something, but not all. I have only begun a book; and I am so ignorant, and my mind is so slow, that I know it will be years before I shall be able to write a book that anybody would read. At first this dismayed me. Now I do not care, so long as I succeed in the end; and it will be a pleasure to see myself improve. I have not thought it wrong not to tell my parents, so long as what I did could not affect them in any way. Do you not think I was right in that?"

  "Assuredly."

  "I believed that when I had done something excellent, if that time ever came, they would be proud of it. My mother was a school-teacher, you know; and I did not see why my father should care. He hates to hear women talk, but writing is different. At least I thought so. Yesterday, just before you came, the subject came up. Rose said she believed I could write a book, and papa was furious at the mere thought. I knew nothing about old-world prejudices, but it seems that a lady would be thought to have disgraced herself in Spain if she wrote a book: and papa is as Spanish as if he had never learned a word of English, although he would be ready to beat anyone that told him so. He did not have a chance to say much yesterday; but I saw what his ideas were and that nothing could change them.

  "I did not go to sleep at all last night. I sat up trying to think what I should do. Of course I need not tell him what I had done; but should I give it up? That was the question. If I continued, I must tell him of my intention to be a writer. He would forbid it. If I refused to obey, which I do not think I have any right to do, he is quite capable of locking me up. But I cannot go on writing in secret. That would be a great wrong; it would be living a lie. I could not make myself believe that I only wrote for the pleasure of writing: I should know that I longed for the time when I should see my book on somebody's shelf. It seems to me that I cannot give it up. I have much less in my life than most girls. In spite of the hard work, I have felt almost happy while writing. And I am afraid that I have as much ambition as pride. But he is my father. My first duty is to him—I cannot make up my mind. I suppose there should be no struggle; but there is, and I feel as if it were killing me."

  Trennahan had been the confidant of many women, had listened to many tragic confessions, had seen women in agonies of remorse; but nothing had ever touched him as did this bald statement, abrupt with repressed feeling, of a girl's solitary tragedy. Had her hero been a lover instead of an art, he would have met her confidence with platitudes and a suppressed yawn; but her lonely attitude in the midst of millions and friends, her terrible slavery to an ideal, to a scourging conscience which was at war with all the secretiveness, self-indulgence, and haughty intolerance of restraint which she had inherited with her father's blood, interested him even more profoundly than it appealed to his sympathies. He determined not only to help her, but to watch her development.

  "You have honoured me with your confidence," he said. "Don't doubt for a moment that I do not appreciate the magnitude of that honour. I know just how proud and reticent you are, how much it cost you to speak. I believe that I have enough wisdom to help you a little. Go on with your work. If you have a talent, you get it, one way or another, from your parents, and it is as much entitled to your consideration as your health or your riches. The birthright of every mortal is happiness. Some philosopher has said that happiness is the free exercise of the higher faculties of a man's nature. If that is your instinct, pursue it. Of course we have no right to claim our happiness at the expense of others. But your father is safe for the present. No matter what your talent, you will not know enough, nor have had sufficient bare practice with your pen, to write even a short story of first-rate merit for ten years to come. You may count it a blessing that various causes are preventing you from rushing into print. At the end of that period your father will be ten years older. He will probably be much softened and will look at things differently; or he may be dead. Or you may be—and most likely will be—married. You need only concern yourself with the present. It is possible that you have discovered your only chance of happiness. Do not commit the incredible folly of strangling that chance before it is born. This is not my day for lecturing, but I am going to take your conscience in hand. It needs training. Before you know it, you will be morbid. That means brain rot, and no chance of the commonest sort of enjoyment."

  "You are very good; no one has ever been so good. You ought to know far better than I what is right and what is wrong."

  "I am afraid I do. Promise me this: that you will do nothing decisive until the end of the summer. Take that time to think it over. There will be little time to write in any case. I shall monopolise a good deal of your time, and I fancy they intend to be rather gay here. Six months from now we will talk it over again. Will you agree to that?"

  "I must think it over. My mind is a slow one. But I think you are right."

  And several days later, when he was dining at the house, she told him briefly that she should take his advice and write no more until the summer was over.

  * * *

  XXVI

  Mrs. Yorba, who did not like to have her plans made for her, decided to give the party on the evening of Saturday week. The floor was to be canvased, and three musicians were engaged. She promised the girls that after this initial party they should dance informally at Fair Oaks as often as they wished.

  It was some time before Magdaléna rode alone with Trennahan again. The other girls rode every morning and claimed him. Magdaléna joined these parties as soon as her habit was finished, and met him every afternoon at one or other of the
new tennis courts, which consisted merely of chalked lines and a net,—Ila had introduced tennis to Menlo,—but either Ila or Caro possessed him with the tentacles of their kind. Mrs. Yorba had made it understood that her party was to be the first of the season, so the evenings alone were unoccupied. Trennahan dined twice at Fair Oaks, but Don Roberto and Mr. Polk claimed him. Magdaléna wondered if he had forgotten his original programme. But with four handsome girls demanding his attentions, a literary friendship was doubtless a dream of the future. She felt an unaccountable depression, and wondered if she were going to be ill.

  By the time the evening of the party arrived, the nervousness which had assailed her when the subject was broached had been tempered by time and constant association with many who would be present. Tiny and the other girls had promised to make "things go." There were to be no ball gowns, and the whole affair was to be as informal as possible. She even harboured pleasurable anticipation. Parties, she had read and heard, were brilliant exhilarating affairs, and she loved dancing as only a Spanish woman can. In this, at least, she should excel her fellows. She had taken lessons once a week for the last two years from a solemn and automatic person who had rarely opened his lips except to complain of the heavy carpets in the cavernous Yorba parlours.

  Magdaléna dressed immediately after dinner; the guests were expected by nine. She wore her white organdie, but fastened crimson roses in her hair and belt. She was by no means satisfied with her appearance,—she was too ardent an admirer of beauty for that,—but she knew that she looked far better than she had on the night of her dinner. She shuddered at the memory of that white ribbon about her swarthy throat.

  She went downstairs, and thought the big rooms looked very inviting with their white floors; the folding-doors had been rolled back, and the parlour and dining-room made an immense sweep. The vases on the mantels were full of flowers. In the distance she heard the tuning of a fiddle.