The Californians

  XXIX

  It was early in the fourth year that Henry James swooped down upon SanFrancisco. He arrived in the train of Helena's triumphant return, underher especial patronage. Not that a few choice spirits in California hadnot discovered James for themselves long since; but James as a definiteentity, known and approved by Society, awaited the second advent ofHelena. He immediately became the fad; rather, Society split into twofactions and was threatened with disruption. One young woman of thedisapproving camp even went so far as to call an ardent advocate a"Henry James fool." All of which was doubtless due to the fact that thetraditions of action still lingered in California. Strangely enough,Tiny, who returned almost immediately after Helena, was one of the firstto take Mr. James under her small but determined wing. She regardedwell-read people as an unnecessary bore, and ambition of any sort asunsuited to the Land of the Poppy, but she had a feminine faith inexceptions, and joined the cult with something like enthusiasm. It wasshe who introduced him to Magdalena.

  Magdalena cared nothing for American latter-day authors, and gave noheed to Helena's emphatic approval of Mr. James. In fact, she and Helenahad so much else to talk about that they found little leisure for books.Helena had been abroad again, and the belle of a winter in Washington.She was more beautiful than ever, and, although somewhat subdued, wasfull of plans for the future. Her first ball--she arrived at the end ofthe winter season--determined that her supremacy, socially andsentimentally, was unshaken. Immediately after, she bought an oldSpanish house in the northern redwoods and provided new surprises forher little world. But there is no more room for Helena in thischronicle. Perhaps, if history shapes itself around her, she may one dayhave a chronicle to herself.

  Tiny called on Magdalena one afternoon with two volumes of Henry Jamesunder her arm. She took to her toes as the front door closed, and randown the long hall and up the stair to Magdalena's room.

  "I feel like a book agent," she said, trying not to pant, and hopingMagdalena would go down to the door with her when she left. "But youreally must read him, 'Lena. He's so fascinating: I think it's becausenothing ever happens, and that's so like life. I think I must alwayshave felt Henry Jamesish, and it seems to me that he is singularly likeMenlo,--when Helena is not there,--just jogging along in aristocraticseclusion punctuated by the epigrams of Rose and Eugene Fort. I'm sureMr. James could, write a novel of Menlo Park; he just revels inirradiating nothing with genius. There! I feel so guilty, for I reallydo love Menlo,--with intervals of Europe,--but I've been visiting Rose,and I'm afraid I'm plagiarising a little; you know I'm not one bitclever. Only I really feel so when I read Mr. James. And he'll be suchcompany in Menlo this summer. Just think, I shall be all alone there,when I'm not visiting Helena or Caro. Is--is--" she glanced aboutfearfully--"is there no hope of dear Don Roberto relenting?"

  "I am afraid not. But it is such a comfort to have you back. I heard youwere engaged--to an Englishman, or something?"

  Tiny blushed. She was on her way to a tea, and looked exquisitely prettyin a fawn-coloured _crepe de chine_ embroidered with wild roses, and abonnet of pink tulle crushed about her face. Magdalena wondered why someman had not married her out of hand, then reflected that Tiny was likelyto dispose of her own future.

  "I'm not quite sure," said Miss Montgomery, looking innocently at alithograph of the Virgin which still decorated the wall. "You see, hehas a title, and it's so commonplace to marry a title. But if I decideto, I'll let you know the very first."

  Shortly after she went away--and left Magdalena alone with Henry James.

  She took up one of the volumes. As she did so, something stirred in thecellars of her mind--beat its stiff wings against the narrowwalls--struggled forward and upward.

  She stood on the porch in the late evening: alone in a fog. Her youngmind opened to literary desire--preceding it was a swift disturbingpresentiment; it had recurred once, and again--but not for severalyears. What did it mean, here again? And what had Henry James to do withit? She dropped into a chair. Her hands trembled as they opened thebook.