The Californians

  VIII

  Mrs. Yorba decided that it would be wiser for them all to go to FairOaks; no one would know whether Trennahan were their guest or not. Thiswas her first really gay winter, and could she have thought of aplausible excuse she would have delayed the marriage for a year or two.But both Don Roberto and Trennahan were determined that the weddingshould not take place later than June.

  They were to spend five days at Fair Oaks. Then Don Roberto, Mrs. Yorba,and Magdalena would go to Monterey, Trennahan to follow on the eveningof the ball.

  The winter woods were wet and glistening. Thick in the brush were thevivid red berries and the firm little snowballs. The air was of awonderful freshness and fragrance, cool on the cheek, but striking nochill to the blood. The grass tips in the meadows were close and green.There was no haze on the distant mountains: the redwoods stood outsharply; one could almost see the sun baldes crossing in their gloomyaisles. Close to the ground was a low, restless, continuous mutter,--thevoluntary of Spring.

  Trennahan and Magdalena rode or strolled in the woods during most of thehours of light. They could not sit on the damp ground, but they swunghammocks by the path-side to sit in when tired. Trennahan would haveslept on the verandah had not his enthusiasm for outdoor delights beencontrolled by his matter-of-fact brain, but he grudged the hours attable, and persuaded Magdalena to go early to bed that she might riseand go forth at five in the evening of night. After four months of snowand nipping winds and furnace heat, small wonder that he was as happy asa boy out of school, and that he made Magdalena the most wonderinglyhappy of women. He did little love-making; he treated her more as acomrade upon whose constant companionship he was dependent forhappiness,--his other part, with which he was far better satisfied thanwith the original measure.

  "We will camp out up there during all of July and August," he said toher one morning, as they stood on the edge of the woods and watched therising sun pick out the redwoods one by one from the black mass on themountain. "I can't imagine a more enchanting place for a honeymoon thana redwood forest. We'll take a servant, and a lot of books; but I doubtif we shall read much,--we'll shoot and fish all day. If we like it asmuch as I am sure we shall, we'll build a house there. Do you think youshould like it?"

  "Oh, I should! I should!"

  "You are so sympathetic in your own particular way; not temperamentallyso, which is pleasant but means little, but with a slow, sureunderstanding which goes forth to few people, but is unerring andpermanent."

  "I love no one but you and Helena. I have never cared to understandanyone else."

  "We all have great weaknesses in us. I wonder if mine were ever revealedto you--which God forbid!--if you have sympathy enough to cover those,too."

  "I am sure that I have. I am neither quick nor generally affectionate,but I do nothing by halves."

  "I believe you. You are the one person on whose mercy I would throwmyself. However,--it is a long time since we have spoken of anothersubject. Do you think no further of writing?"

  "I haven't lately. There has been no time. Some day--Oh, yes, I think Ishould never wholly give it up. Should--should you object?"

  "Not in the least. But I am afraid I sha'n't give you much time, either.What were you writing,--your Old-California tales?"

  "No,--an--an historical novel--English."

  "Of course! And with fresh and fascinating material begging for itsturn. I arrived in the nick of time. When you have transcribed thosestories into correct and distinguished English, you will have taken yourplace among the immortals. But style alone will give you a place inletters worth having. Always remember that. The theme determines popularsuccess, the manner rank. Don't misunderstand me; there is no greaterfraud or bore than the writer who has acquired the art of saying nothingbrilliantly. You must have both. And you are too ambitious, toointellectual, as distinguished from clever, too serious and logical, tobe contented with anything short of perfection. I shall be your severestcritic; but you yourself will work for years before you produce a linewith which you are wholly satisfied. Is not this true?"

  "Yes; I should always be my severest critic."

  He drew a long breath of relief. He had no desire for a literary wife;nor to be known as the husband of one. Magdalena should be as happy ashe could make her, but the sooner she realised that genius was not herportion, the better.