The Californians

  XVI

  When Magdalena went up to her room, she spread all her pretty gifts onthe table and asked herself if they were the secret of this novelfeeling of content with herself and her world. She studied the mirrorand fancied that she was not so plain as usual. Her eyes returned to herpresents, and she shook her head. Her mind worked slowly, but it workedlogically; nor was that imagination hers which keeps woman in a fool'sparadise long after all but the husk of her Adam has gone.

  "It is Mr. Trennahan," she admitted reluctantly but ruthlessly. "He isso clever and so agreeable--no, fascinating--that for the first time Iforgot myself, and when I remembered was not unhappy because I am notbeautiful nor clever. The world must be much nicer than I thought ifthere are many people like that in it."

  To love she did not give a thought, but she smiled to herself after thelight was out, and, still smiling, fell asleep.

  The next morning she was downstairs by six o'clock, but found Trennahanbefore her. As he approached her,--he had been sauntering up and downthe drive,--she wondered what he thought of her costume. As she was notallowed to leave the grounds, a habit had never been thought necessaryfor the heiress of the house of Yorba. She had worn for the past twoyears one of her mother's discarded black skirts and a cotton blouse.But it is doubtful if an inspired mind-reader could have made anythingof such thoughts as Trennahan wished to conceal.

  "You look as fresh as the morning," he said, with a gallantry which wasmechanical, but true and delightful to a girl in her first experience ofcompliments.

  "Did you sleep well?" she asked. "I hope the mosquitoes did not keep youawake. They are very bad."

  "I believe they are, but I received a friendly warning from Mr. Polk andrubbed the leather which protects my skull with vinegar. I think it wassuperfluous, but at all events I slept undisturbed."

  Magdalena regarded his skin attentively, much to his amusement. "It isthick," she said, feeling that she could not honestly reassure him, butquite positive that he expected her to answer.

  He laughed heartily. "Oh!" he said. "What a pity you must 'come out'! Iam a convert to the Old-Californian system. But here are the horses."

  The improvised groom, a sulky and intensely self-conscious stable-boy,led up the horses, and Magdalena put her foot in Trennahan's hand.

  "Oh!" he exclaimed, with a note of real admiration in his voice; andMagdalena nearly fell over the other side of her horse.

  They cantered off sharply, the boy following a good thirty yards behind,feeling uncommonly sheepish when he was not thinking angrily of hisneglected chores. It was not thought good form in Menlo Park to put onthe trappings of Circumstance. Mrs. Washington drove a phaeton and tooka boy in the rumble to open the gates; but the coachmen when driving theusual char-a-banc or wagonette performed this office while theirmistresses steered the horses through the gates. No one ever thought ofwearing a jewel or a decollete gown to a dinner or a dance. Mrs. Dillon,the Bonanza queen, having heard much of the simplicity of the worshipfulMenlo Park folk, had paid her first calls in a blue silk wrapper, but,conceiving that she had done the wrong thing, sheltered her perplexitiesin black silk thereafter. Her daughter upon the same occasion had worn avoluminous frock of pale blue camel's hair trimmed with flounces ofValenciennes lace, that being the simplest frock in her wardrobe; butshe privately thought even Mrs. Washington's apotheosised lawns andorgandies very "scrubby," and could never bring herself to anything lessexpensive than summer silks, made at the greatest house in Paris.

  "I am going to see the Mark Smith place this afternoon," said Trennahan."Your mother has very kindly offered to drive me over. I suppose it hasno woods on it. These are beautiful."

  "They are the only ones in the San Mateo Valley," replied Magdalena,experiencing the full pride of possession. "Are there such beautifulones in Europe?"

  "Those at Fontainbleau are not unlike. But in England you stand in themiddle of a wood and admire the landscape on either side."

  "Helena wrote me something like that. She said that she always put on aveil when she went into an English wood for fear she would getfreckled."

  "Who is Helena?"

  "She is my great friend. She is Colonel Jack Belmont's daughter, and themost beautiful girl in California. At least I think she is, for ofcourse I have not seen them all."

  "Are you always as conscientious as that? Why have I not seen thispeerless creature?"

  "She is in Europe. You will see her in December. Of course I do not knowif she is a 'type,' but I don't see how anybody else could be likeHelena. Mr. Rollins said last night that she was the concentratedessence of California."

  "Describe her to me." He was delighted at the prospect of drawing herout on any subject.

  Magdalena hesitated, wondering if she should have the courage tocontinue, did she begin a monologue. She recalled the sustainedanimation of the girls at her dinner, and moved as if to shake her head,then recollected her ambition to shine in conversation. To no one hadshe ever found it so easy to express herself as to this man. Why nottake advantage of that fact? And that represented but the half of herpresent ambition. If she could only interest him!

  He watched her closely, divining some cause of her hesitation, but notall. Her complexion was even less desirable by day than by gas, but herhair was tumbled, her eyes were sparkling softly; and the deep greenarbours of the wood were an enchanting aid to youth.

  "She has curly shining hair about the colour of mahogany, andbig--long--dark blue eyes that look as if they were not afraid ofanything, and make you afraid sometimes, and regular features, and awhiter skin than Tiny's, with a beautiful pink colour--" She stoppedshort, feeling that her attempt at description was as ineffective as thehours wasted upon her much modelled hero.

  "That sounds very charming, but still--never mind her appearance. Tellme what you so much admire in her."

  "She talks so much, and she isn't afraid of anybody. She says shewouldn't lie because she wouldn't pay anyone that compliment. She lovesto 'cheek' and shock people. She walks all round the outside of thehouse--upstairs--on a narrow ledge, and she runs to fires--at least sheran to one--and she won't study when she doesn't feel like it.And--and--she even snatched off papa's skull-cap once."

  Trennahan threw back his head and laughed loud and long. "And you wouldhave me believe that all that is what moves you to admiration. Don't youknow, my dear child, that you love your friend in spite of her tomboyeccentricities, not because of them? You wouldn't be or do one of thosethings if you could."

  Again Magdalena hesitated. The implied approval was delightful; but shewould not hold it on false pretences. She answered firmly,--

  "I went to the fire with her."

  "You? Delightful! Tell me about it. Every detail."

  She told him everything except the terrible sequel. It was lamelypresented, but he cared nothing for the episode. His sympathies wereimmediate if temporary, and experience had eaten off the very cover ofthe book of seals. He followed her through every mental phase sheunconsciously rehearsed; and when she brought the story to an abruptclose, lacking the art to run it off into generalities, he inferredsomething of the last development and did not press her to continue. Hepitied her grimly. But he was an intensely practical man.

  "You must never think of doing that sort of thing again," he said."Unless a person is naturally eccentric, the attempt to be sodemoralises him, because there is nothing so demoralising asfailure--except on one's own particular lines. Did you, for instance,jump on a horse and career barebacked through Menlo Park like a wildIndian,--a performance which your friend would probably carry off withany amount of dash and _chic_--you would feel a hopeless fool; whereas,"he gave her a keen side glance, "if you felt that you possessed atalent--for music, say--and failed forty times before achieving success,you would feel that your failures partook of the dignity of their cause,and of your own character."

  She turned to him with quickening pulse. "Do you think," she faltered,hunting for phrases that would not commit her, "that if a pe
rson lovedan art very much, even if he could not be sure that he had genius, thathe would be right to go on and on, no matter how often he becamediscouraged?"

  Her eyes were staring at her horse's neck; she did not see him smile. Hehad felt quite sure that she sought relief for the silences of her lifein literary composition. When an unattractive woman has not talent shefinds a double revenge in the torture of words, he thought. What shall Isay to her? That she is whittling thorns for her own soul? Bah! Did Inot find enjoyment once in the very imaginings of all that has scourgedme since? Would I have thanked anyone for opening my eyes? And thepositive is the one thing that grips the memory. It is as well to havewhat high lights one can.

  She had raised her head and was looking at him expectantly.

  "Certainly," he said. "He should go on, by all means. Love of an artpresupposes a certain degree of talent."--May Heaven forgive me for thatlie, he thought.

  She detected his lack of spontaneity, but attributed it to the fact thathe had not guessed her personal interest in the question. "Have you metmany literary people?" she asked. "But of course you must. Did you likethem very much?"

  "I have inquired carefully, and ascertained that there are none inMenlo. If there were, I should not think twice about the Mark Smithplace."

  Magdalena felt herself burning to her hair. She glanced at him quickly,but he averted his eyes and called her attention to a magnificent oakwhose limbs trailed on the ground. Should I tell him? she thought, everynerve quaking. _Should_ I? Then she set her lips in scorn. He spoke of"literary" people, she continued. It will be many a day before I amthat. Meanwhile, as Helena would say, what he doesn't know won't hurthim.

  He had no intention of letting her make any such confidences. "Tell me,"he said. "I have heard something of the old Spanish families ofCalifornia. You, of course, belong to them. That is what gives you yourdelightful individuality. I should like to hear something of that oldlife. Of course it interests you?"

  "Oh, I love it,--at least, I loved it once. My aunt, my father's sister,used to talk constantly of that time, but I have no one to talk to of itnow; she has lived in Santa Barbara for the last three years. She toldme many stories of that time. It must have been wonderful."

  He drew one leg across the horse's neck and brought him to a stand. Theyhad entered the backwoods and were walking their horses. The groom wasnowhere to be seen. He was, in fact, awaiting them at the edge of thewoods, his beast tethered, himself prone, the ring-master of a tarantulafight.

  "Tell me those stories," commanded Trennahan. He knew they would borehim, but the girl was very interesting.

  Magdalena began the story of Ysabel Herrara. At first she stumbled, andwas obliged to begin no less than three times, but when fairly startedshe told it very well. Many of her aunt's vivid picturesque phrasessprang from their dusty shelves; her own early enthusiasm revived. Whenshe had finished she passed on to the pathetic little histories of ElenaDuncan and Benicia Ortega. She had told over those stories many times toherself; to-day they were little more than the recital of a well-studiedlesson. The intense earnestness of Trennahan's gaze magnetised her outof self-consciousness. When she was concluding the third, his horseshied suddenly at a snake, and while he quieted it she tumbled back tothe present. She sat with parted lips and thumping heart. Had she talkedas well as that? She, Magdalena Yorba, the dull, the silent, theterrified? She felt a glad pride in herself, and a profound gratitude tothe wizard who had worked the spell.

  "I have never been more interested," he said in a moment. "Howdelightfully you talk! What a pity you don't write!"

  Magdalena's heart shook her very throat, but she managed to answer, "Andthen you wouldn't buy the Mark Smith place?"

  "Well, no, perhaps I wouldn't," he answered hurriedly, lest she might bemoved to confidence. He had a lively vision of Magdalena reading hermanuscripts to him, or sending them to him for criticism. "But you musttell me a story every time we--I am so fortunate as to have you all tomyself like this. I suppose we should be going back now."

  Magdalena took out her watch. The little air of pride in her newpossession amused Trennahan, although he saw the pathos of it.

  "Yes," she said; "it is nearly eight. We must go. Papa does not like usto be late for breakfast."

  As they reached the edge of the woods, Magdalena gave an exclamation ofdisgust; but Trennahan leaned forward with much interest. The twotarantulas, after tearing each other's fur and legs off, were locked inthe death embrace, leaping and rolling.

  "Get on your horse at once," said Magdalena, sternly. "You are a cruelboy."

  "But that is very interesting," said Trennahan; "I never saw it before."

  "They are always doing it here. They pour water--" She turned to theboy, who was mounted, and close behind them, now that they were likelyto come within the range of the old don's vision at any moment. "Dick,"she said sternly, "how did you get those tarantulas up? Have you awhiskey flask about you?"

  She spoke with all her father's harsh pride when addressing an inferior:Don Roberto regarded servants, in spite of the heavy wage theycommanded, as he had the Indians of his early manhood. Trennahan watchedher closely, remarking upon the variety a man might find in a woman ifhe chose to look for it.

  The boy assured Magdalena that the tarantulas had been above ground. Sheshrugged her shoulders and turned her back expressively upon him.

  "You see those little round holes covered with white film?" she said toTrennahan. "They lead down to the tarantulas' houses,--real littlehouses, with doors on hinges. People pour water down, and the oldtarantula comes up--back first, dragging his legs after him--to see whatis the matter. Then they set two of them at each other with sticks, andthey--the tarantulas--never stop fighting until they have torn eachother to death: they have two curved sharp teeth."

  Good sport for variety's sake, thought Trennahan. I see myself engagedon warm afternoons.