IX
Magdalena was languid and content. She put the terrible experienceswhich had preceded her illness behind her without effort. Her mind dweltupon the joy of living in the sunshine, and upon the hopes of thefuture. She admitted frankly that she was glad to be rid of her parents,and only longed for Helena. That faithful youngster wrote, twice a week,letters which were a succession of fireworks embellished by caricaturesof such of her teachers and acquaintance as had incurred herdisapproval. Her aunt, Mrs. Edward Forbes, who was one of the leaders ofNew York society and a beauty, was giving her much petting and wouldtake her abroad later.
Magdalena read these letters with delight stabbed with doubt. More thanonce she had wondered if Helena had been born to realise all her ownambitions. Even her letters were clever and original.
In a week Magdalena was strong enough to walk in the woods, and MissPhelps placed no restraint upon her. She re-read what books she had,then made out a list and sent it to her father to purchase, believingthat he would refuse her nothing after her illness. Don Roberto read thenote, grunted, and threw it into the waste-paper basket. He abominatederudite women, and had the scorn of the financial mind for thesuperfluous attributes of the intellectual. Magdalena waited areasonable time, then after a day's hard fight with the reticence of hernature, wrote and asked Colonel Belmont for the books. He sent them atonce, with a penitent note and an order on the principal bookseller ofthe city for all that she might want in the future. "I will say a prayerto the Virgin for him," thought Magdalena, with a glow at her heart,oblivious that the Virgin had refused to intercede with her father.
The packet contained the lives of a number of men and women who haddistinguished themselves in letters; but although Magdalena read themtwice they told her little, save that she must read the works of themasters and puzzle out their methods if she could.
Meanwhile, in spite of her studies, she was growing strong, for shespent the day out of doors; and when her parents came down on the firstof June, they found her as shy and cold as ever, but with sparkling eyesand a faint glow in her cheeks.
"But never she is beauty," said Don Roberto, that evening to Polk, asthe two men sat on the verandah, smoking. "Before, I resent very much,and say damnation, damnation, damnation. But now I think I no mind. Sishe is beauty I think more often by that time--no can help. I wonder sithere are the beautiful women in the South now, like before; but, byJimminy! I like forget the place exeest. I am an American. Yes, GreatScott!"
He stretched out his little fat legs and rested his third chin on hisinflexible shirt-front. He felt an American, every inch of him, andhated anything that reminded him of what he might become did he yield tothe natural indolence and extravagance of his nature. He would gladlyhave drained his veins and packed them with galloping American blood. Itgrieved him that he could not eliminate his native accent, and he waspersuaded that he spoke the American tongue in all its purity, beingespecially proud of a large assortment of expletives peculiar to theland of his adoption.
Polk gave a short dry laugh and stretched out his long hard Yankee legs.Even in the dusk his lantern jaws stood out. There was no doubt abouthis nationality. Those legs and jaws were the objects of Don Roberto'sabiding envy.
"Pretty women in the family are a nuisance," said Polk. "They want theearth, and don't see why they shouldn't get it. I wouldn't have thatHelena for another million. By the way, Jack told me a good story on youyesterday."
Don Roberto grunted. His Spanish pride had not abated an inch. Heresented being discussed.
Polk continued: "There were seven or eight men talking over oldtimes in the Union Club the other night; that is to say, they werereminiscing over the various enterprises they had been engaged in, andthe piles they had made and lost. Our names naturally came up, andBrannan said, slowly, as if he were thinking it over hard,'I--don't--think--I--had--any--dealings--with--Yorba--ever.' WhereuponWashington replied, quick as a shot, 'You'd remember it if you had.'"
Don Roberto scowled heavily. It was one of his fictions that hehoodwinked the world. He never snapped his fingers in its face as Polkdid: exteriorly a Yorba must always be a Yorba.
"Some day when the bank have lend Meester Washington one hundredthousand dollars, I turn on the screw when he no is prepare to pay," hesaid. And he did.