I
"I won't study another word to-day!" Helena tipped the table, spilling
the books to the floor. "I want to go out in the sun. Go home, Miss
Phelps, that's a dear. Anyhow, it won't do you a bit of good to stay."
Miss Phelps, young herself, glanced angrily at her briery charge,
longingly at the brilliant blue of sky and bay beyond the long window.
"I leave it to Miss Yorba." Her voice, fashioned to cut, vibrated a
little with the vigour of its roots. "You seem to forget, Miss Belmont,
that this is not your house."
"But you are just as much my teacher as hers. Besides, I always know
what Magdaléna wants, and I know that she has had enough United States
history for one afternoon. When I go to England I'll get their version
of it. We're brought up to love their literature and hate them! Such
nonsense--"
"My dear Miss Belmont, I beg you to remember that you have but recently
passed your sixteenth birthday--"
"Oh, of course! If I'd been brought up in Boston, I'd be giving points
to Socrates and wondering why there were so many old maids in the world.
However, that's not the question at present. 'Léna, do tell _dear_ Miss
Phelps that she needs an afternoon off, and that if she doesn't take
it--I'll walk downstairs on my head."
Helena, even at indeterminate sixteen, showed promise of great beauty,
and her eyes sparkled with the insolence of the spoiled child who
already knew the power of wealth. The girl she addressed had only a pair
of dark intelligent eyes to reclaim an uncomely face. Her skin was
swarthy, her nose crude, her mouth wide. The outline of her head was
fine, and she wore her black hair parted and banded closely below her
ears. Her forehead was large, her expression sad and thoughtful. Don
Roberto Yorba was many times more a millionaire than "Jack" Belmont, but
Magdaléna was not a spoiled child.
"I don't know," she said, with a marked hesitation of speech; "I'd like
to go out, but it doesn't seem right to take advantage of the fact that
papa and mamma are away--"
"What they don't know won't hurt them. I'd like to have Don Roberto
under my thumb for just one week. He'd get some of the tyranny knocked
out of him. Jack is a model parent--"
Magdaléna flushed a dark ugly red. "I wish you would not speak in that
way of papa," she said. "I--I--well--I'm afraid he wouldn't let you come
here to study with me if he knew it."
"Well, I won't." Helena flung her arms round her friend and kissed her
warmly. "I wouldn't hurt his Spanish dignity for the world; only I do
wish you happened to be my real own cousin, or--that would be much
nicer--my sister."
Magdaléna's troubled inner self echoed the wish; but few wishes, few
words, indeed, passed her lips.
"Well?" demanded Miss Phelps, coldly. "What is it to be? Do you girls
intend to study any more to-day, or not? Because--"
"We don't," said Helena, emphatically. And Magdaléna, who invariably
gave way to her friend's imperious will, nodded deprecatingly. Miss
Phelps immediately left the room.
"She's glad to get out," said Helena, wisely. "She hates me, and I know
she's got a beau. Come! Come!" She pulled Magdaléna from her chair, and
the two girls ran to the balcony beyond the windows and leaned over the
railing.
"There's nothing in all the world," announced Helena, "so beautiful as
California--San Francisco included--in spite of whirlwinds of dust, and
wooden houses, and cobblestone streets, and wooden sidewalks. One can
always live on a hill, and then you don't see the ugly things below. For
instance, from here you see nothing but that dark blue bay with the dark
blue sky above it, and opposite the pink mountains with the patches of
light blue, and on that side the hills of Sausalito covered with
willows, and the breakers down below. And the ferry-boats are like great
white swans, with long soft throats bending backwards. I don't express
myself very well; but I shall some day. Just you wait; I'm going to be a
scholar and a lot of other things too."
"What, Helena?" Magdaléna drew closer. She thought Helena already the
most eloquent person alive, and she envied her deeply, although without
bitterness, loving her devotedly. The great gifts of expression and of
personal magnetism had been denied her. She had no hope, and at that
time little wish, that the last paucity could ever be made good by the
power of will; but that articulate inner self had registered a vow that
hard study and close attention to the methods of Helena and others
as--or nearly as--brilliant should one day invest her brain and tongue
with suppleness.
"What other things are you going to be, Helena?" she asked. "I know that
you can be anything you like."
"Well, in the first place, I am going to New York to school,--now, don't
look so sad: I've told you twenty times that _I know_ Don Roberto will
let you go. Then I'm going to Europe. I'm going to study hard--but not
hard enough to spoil my eyes. I'm going to finish off in Paris, and then
I'm going to travel. Incidentally, I'm going to learn how to dress, so
that when I come back here I'll astonish the natives and be the
best-dressed woman in San Francisco; which won't be saying much, to be
sure. Then, when I do come back, I'm going to just rule things, and,
what is more, make all the old fogies let me. And--_and_--I am going to
be the greatest belle this State has ever seen; and that _is_ saying
something."
"Of course you will do all that, Helena. It will be so interesting to
watch you. Ila and Tiny will never compare with you. Some people are
made like that,--some one way and some another, I mean.
Shall--shall--you ever marry, Helena?"
"Yes. After I have been engaged a dozen times or so I shall marry a
great man."
"A great man?"
"Yes; I don't know any, but they are charming in history and memoirs.
I'd have a simply gorgeous time in Washington, and ever after I'd have
my picture in 'Famous Women' books."
"Shall you marry a president?" asked Magdaléna, deferentially. She was
convinced that Helena could marry a reigning sovereign if she wished.
"I haven't made up my mind about that yet. Presidents' wives are usually
such dreary-looking frumps I'd hate to be in the same book with them.
Besides, most of the presidents don't amount to much. Truthful George
must have been a deadly bore. I prefer Benjamin Franklin--although I
never could stand that nose--or Clay or Calhoun or Patrick Henry or
Webster. They're dead, but there must be lots more. I'll find one for
you, too."
Again the dark flush mounted to Magdaléna's hair, as with an alertness
of motion unusual to her, she shook her head.
"Aha!" cried the astute Helena, "you've been thinking the matter over,
too, have you? Who is he? Tell me."
Magdaléna shook her head again, but slowly this time. Helena embraced
and coaxed, but to no effect. Even with her chosen friend, Magdaléna was
reticent, not from choice, but necessity. But Helena, whose love was
great and whose intuitions were diabolical, leaped to the secret. "I
know!" she exclaimed triumphantly. "It's a caballero!"
This time Magdaléna's face turned almost purple; but she had neither her
sex's quick instinct of self-protection nor its proneness to dissemble,
secretive as she was. She lifted her head haughtily and turned away. For
a moment she looked very Spanish, not the unfortunate result of coupled
races that she was. Helena, who was in her naughtiest humour, threw back
her head and laughed scornfully. "A caballero!" she cried: "who will
serenade you at two o'clock in the morning when you are dying with
sleep, and lie in a hammock smoking cigaritos all day; who will roll out
rhetoric by the yard, and look like an idiot when you talk common-sense
to him; who is too lazy to walk across the plaza, and too proud to work,
and too silly to keep the Americans from grabbing all he's got. I met a
few dilapidated specimens when I was in Los Angeles last year. One
beauty with long hair, a sombrero, and a head about as big as my fist,
used to serenade me in intervals of gambling until I appealed to Jack,
and he threatened to have him put in the calaboose if he didn't let me
alone--"
Magdaléna turned upon her. Her face was livid. Her eyes stared as if she
had seen the dead walking. "Hush!" she said. "You--you cruel--you have
everything--"
Helena, whose intuitions never failed her, when she chose to exercise
them, knew what she had done, caught a flashing glimpse of the shattered
dreams of the girl who said so little, whose only happiness was in the
ideal world she had built in the jealously guarded depths of her soul.
"Oh, Magdaléna, I'm so sorry," she stammered. "I was only joking. And my
statesmen will probably be horrid old boors. I _know_ I'll never find
one that comes up to my ideal." She burst into tears and flung her arms
about Magdaléna's neck: she was always miserable when those she loved
were angry with her, much as she delighted to shock the misprized. "Say
you forgive me," she sobbed, "or I sha'n't eat or sleep for a week." And
Magdaléna, who always took her mercurial friend literally, forgave her
immediately and dried her tears.