XXVIII
Caro married her Englishman, and on a thriving grape-farm entertainedother Englishmen. Rose went East and triumphantly captured a Baltimoreanof distinguished lineage and depleted exchequer. Tiny went to Europeagain. Magdalena was practically alone. Her father still lived in histwo rooms downstairs and never spoke to anyone but Ah Kee. Once heforgot to close his study door, and Magdalena, who happened to bepassing, paused and looked at him. His face had shrunken and was crossedwith a thousand fine and eccentric lines; like the palm of a man singledout for a career of trouble. He had let his hair and beard grow, and helooked uncouth and dirty.
Mrs. Yorba still read novels. She no longer paid calls, for herallowance, now reduced to fifty dollars a year, was quite inadequate tomeet the requirements of a dignified member of society. She received herfew intimate and faithful friends in her bedroom; the first floor wasnever dusted nor aired. The house smelt musty and deserted; the lowerrooms were as cold and damp as underground caverns; the spiders spununheeded; when the front door was opened, the festoons in the hall swunglike hammocks. Even the gloom of the house seemed to accentuate with theyears. Magdalena wondered if the inside of the old Polk house looked anymore haunted than this; and even the Belmont house was acquiring anexpression of pathos, peculiar to desertion in old age. Magdalenafancied that the three houses must be pointed out to visitors as thesarcophagi of the futile ambitions of three Californian millionaires.
In her own rooms she toiled on, absorbed in her work, loving it with thebeggared passion of her nature, experiencing two or three moments ofcreative ecstasy and many hours of dull discouragement. She wrote herstories and rewrote them; then again, and again. Her critical facultytook long strides ahead of her creative power, and she rarely ceased tobe uneasy at the disparity between her work and her ideals. ButTrennahan had said that it would be ten years before she could attainexcellence, and she was willing to serve a harder apprenticeship thanthis. Had it not been for her work and the books of those who hadclimbed the heights and slept beneath the stars, she might have becomemorbid and melancholy in her unnatural surroundings. But although themonotony of her life was never broken by a day in the country, she hadalways the beauty of bay and hill and sky beyond her window; and thereare certain months in the spring and autumn when San Francisco is aslovely and brilliant as the southern shores of California. The tradesare hibernating in the caves of the Pacific, and the fogs exist only inthe spray of the ponderous waves. On such days and evenings Magdalenasat for hours on her little balcony, forgetting her work, dreaming idly.It was inevitable, in her purely mental and imaginative life, that sheshould apprehend in Trennahan the lover again. She wove her own romanceas ardently and consecutively as that of any of her heroines. In time hewould forget Helena; his love for her had been one of those suddeninsane passions of which she had read,--which she tried to depict in herSouthland tales,--and in time it would fall from him, and he would hearthe tinkle of the chain forged in long hours of perfect sympathy. Theywould both be older and wiser and more sad: the better, perhaps.Loneliness and the peculiar circumstances of her life inclined her toborderland sympathies; she believed that if he died suddenly she shouldbecome immediately aware of the fact.
Her love for Trennahan by no means interfered with her literaryambitions. All others had failed her; she knew now that with the best ofopportunities she should never have cut a brilliant figure in society.But she did not care; letters were a far more glorious goal. Helenaadored great military heroes, great imperialists like Clive andHastings, even great tyrants like Napoleon. Herself reverenced the greatnames in literature, and could think of no destiny so exalted as to beenrolled among them. And if she succeeded, what would have matteredthese long years of dull loneliness, of denial of all that is dear tothe heart of a girl? Sometimes she even thought the tarrying ofTrennahan mattered little; for there is no tyrant so jealous as Art.
Once she read her stories aloud to her mother; and Mrs. Yorba waspleased to observe that they were much better than she could haveexpected, but that on the whole she preferred "The Duchess." She hadgrown quite fond of her daughter, and often sat in her room while shewrote. The intimacy and isolation of the two women had made it easy andnatural for Magdalena to confide in her mother, but she was forced toconfess that she had not inherited her critical faculty from hermaternal parent. Nevertheless, she was glad of the meagre encouragementand plodded on.