The Californians

  III

  Mrs. Yorba was so ill when her daughter came that the child struggledmiserably into existence, and, failing to cry, was put away as dead, andforgotten for a time. It was discovered to be breathing by Mrs. Polk,who coaxed it through several months of puny existence with all a nativeCalifornian woman's resource. During this time it never cried, onlywhimpered miserably at rare intervals. It was finally discovered to betongue-tied, and as soon as it was old enough an operation wasperformed. After that the child's health mended, although she seemed inno hurry to use her tongue. As she progressed in years she still spokebut seldom, only mildly remonstrating when Helena Belmont pulled herhair or vented her exuberant vitality upon Magdalena's inferior person.Once only did she lose her temper,--when Helena hung up all her dolls ina row and slit them that she might have the pleasure of seeing thesawdust pour out,--and then she leaped upon her tormentor with a hoarsegrowl of rage, and the two pommelled each other black and blue. But as arule she was gentle and much-enduring, and Helena was very kind andclamoured constantly for her society. As the girls grew older theystudied together, and the friendship, born of propinquity, wasstrengthened by mutual tastes and sympathy. Helena was probably the onlyperson who ever understood the reticent, proud, apparently cold andimpassive temperament of the girl who was an unhappy and incongruousmixture of Spanish and New England traits; and Magdalena was Helena'smost enthusiastic admirer and attentive audience.

  Magdalena had one other friend, her aunt, Mrs. Polk, for whom she wasnamed. That lady was enormously stout and something of an invalid, butcarried the tokens of early beauty in a skin of brilliant fairness and apair of magnificent dark eyes fringed with lashes so long and thick thatMagdalena, when a child, found it her greatest pleasure to count them.Mrs. Polk knew little of her husband and liked him less. She had obeyedher brother's orders and married him, loving a dazzling caballero--whohad since gambled away his acres--the while. But Polk ministered to theluxury that she loved; and though his high-pitched voice never ceased toshake her nerves, and his hard cold face to inspire active dislike, asthe years went on and she saw how it was with her people, she acceptedher lot with philosophy, and finally--as youth fled--with gratitude.Mrs. Yorba she detested, but she loved the child she had saved to a lifeof doubtful happiness, and--she had no children of her own--would gladlyhave adopted her. She lived a life of retirement, and had a scantythough kindly brain: therefore she never understood Magdalena as well asHelena did at the age of six; but she could love warmly, and that meantmuch to her niece.

  The three large and aristocratically ugly mansions of Don Roberto Yorba,Hiram Polk, and Colonel "Jack" Belmont stood side by side on Nob Hill.Belmont was not as wealthy as the others, but a "palatial residence"does not mean illimitable riches even yet in San Francisco. Belmont hadmarried a Boston girl of far greater family pretensions than Mrs.Yorba's, but of no more stately appearance nor correct demeanour. Thetwo women were intimate friends until her husband's notoriousinfidelities and erraticisms when under the periodical influence ofalcohol killed Mrs. Belmont. Neither Don Roberto nor Polk drank toexcess, and they kept their mistresses in more decent seclusion than isthe habit of the average San Franciscan. It would never occur to Mrs.Yorba to suspect her husband or any other man of infidelity, did shelive in California an hundred years, and Mrs. Polk was too indifferentto give the matter a thought.

  Although she lived in retirement, rarely venturing out into the windsand fogs of San Francisco, Mrs. Polk surrounded herself with all theluxuries of a pampered woman of wealth and fashion. Her house wasmagnificent, her private apartments almost stifling in theirsumptuousness. Polk squeezed every dollar before he parted with it, buthis wife had long since accomplished the judicious exercise of a violentSpanish temper, and her bills were seldom disputed.

  Magdalena and Helena loved these scented gorgeous apartments, and ranthrough the connecting gardens daily to see her. Their delight was tosit at her feet and listen to the tales of California when the grandeeowned the land, when the caballero, in gorgeous attire, sang at thegratings of the beauties of Monterey. Mrs. Polk would sing these oldlove-songs of Spain to the accompaniment of the guitar which hadentranced her caballeros in the _sala_ of her girlhood; and Helena, whohad a charming voice, learned them all--to the undoing of her ownadmirers later on. It was she who asked a thousand questions of thatArcadian time, and Mrs. Polk responded with enthusiasm. Doubtless sheexaggerated the splendours, the brilliancy, the unleavened pleasure; butit was a time far behind her, and she was happy again in therememoration. As for Magdalena, she seldom spoke. She listened withfixed eyes and bated breath to those descriptions of the beautiful womenof her race, seeing for the time her soul's face as beautiful, gazing ather reflected image aghast when she turned suddenly upon one of the longmirrors. Her soul sang in accompaniment to her aunt's rich voice, andher hands moved unconsciously as those listless Spanish fingers sweptthe guitar. When Helena imperiously demanded to be taught, and quicklybecame as proficient as her teacher, Magdalena kept her eyes on thefloor lest the others should see the dismay in them. Had it occurred toMrs. Polk to ask her niece if she would like to learn these old songs ofher race, Magdalena would have shaken her head shyly, realising evensooner than she did that there was no medium for the music in her soul,as there was none for the thoughts in her mind. Although her aunt lovedher, she did not scruple to tell her that she was not to be either abeautiful or a brilliant woman; but although Magdalena made no reply,she had a profound belief that the Virgin would in time grant herpassionate nightly prayers for a beautiful face and an agile tongue.Beauty was her right; no woman of her father's house had ever beenplain, and she had convinced herself that if she were a good girl theVirgin would acknowledge her rights by her eighteenth birthday. As herintellect developed, she was haunted by an uneasy scepticism ofmiracles, particularly after she learned to draw, but she still prayed;it was a dream she could not relinquish. Nor was this all she prayedfor. She had all the Californian's indolence, which was ever at war withthe intellect she had inherited from her New England ancestors. Her mostdelectable instinct was to lie in the sun or on the rug by the fire allday and dream; and she was thoroughly convinced that the Virgin aidedher in the fight for mental energy, and was the prime factor in the longperiods of victory of mind over temperament.

  And only her deathless ambition enabled her to keep pace with Helena.She sat up late into the night poring over lessons that her brilliantfriend danced through while dressing in the morning. Her memory was bad,and she never mastered spelling; even after her schooldays were over,she always carried a little dictionary in her pocket. She laboured foryears at the piano, not only under her father's orders, but because shepassionately loved music, but she had neither ear nor facility, and toher importunities for both the Virgin gave no heed.

  And the bitterness of it all lay in the fact that she was not stupid;she was fully aware that her intellect was something more thancommonplace; but the machinery was heavy, and, so far as she could see,there was not a drop of cleverness with which to oil the wheels. She hadread extensively even before she was sixteen,--letters, essays,biographies, histories, and a number of novels by classic authors; andalthough she was obliged to read each book three times in order to writeit on her memory, she slowly assimilated it and developed her braincells. Up to this age she was seldom actively unhappy, for she had thehopes of youth and religion, her aunt, Helena, and, above all, her sweetinner life, which was an almost constant dwelling upon the poeticalpast, linked to a future of exalted ideals: not only should she be morebeautiful than Helena or Tiny Montgomery or Ila Brannan, but she shouldhold rooms spell-bound with her eloquence, or the music in herfinger-tips; and when in solitude her soul would rise to such heights asher fettered mind hinted at vaguely but insistently. Wild imaginings fora plain tongue-tied little hybrid, but what man's inner life is likeunto the husk to whose making he gave no hand?