Magdaléna had failed at every point. She had expected to fail, but she
felt miserable and discouraged, nevertheless. After dinner she went up
to her room and prayed to the Virgin. In time she felt comforted, her
tears ceased, and she sat thinking for some time at the foot of her
little altar. With the sad philosophy of her nature she put the
impossible from her, and considered the future. It had been arranged
long ago that she and Helena, Ila and Tiny, were to come out at the same
time; the great function which should introduce to San Francisco three
of its most beautiful girls, and its most favoured by lineage and
fortune, was to be given by Mrs. Yorba. The other girls would come out a
year earlier or later. Ila and Tiny were already in Europe. She had
three uninterrupted years before her. In those years she could do much.
When she was not studying, she would read the best authors and learn
their secret. Her father had no library, but Colonel Belmont had, and
she was a life member of the Mercantile Library; the membership had been
presented to her two birthdays ago by her luncheon guests, who respected
what they would not emulate. She pressed her face into her hands,
striving to arrange the nebulous thoughts and ambitions which burned in
her brain.
There was a wild ringing of bells. She raised her head and saw a red
glare, then rose and walked over to the window. She thought a fire very
beautiful; and as there were many in that city of wood and wind, she had
had full opportunity to observe their manifold phases. Her bedroom
adjoined the schoolroom, but was on the corner of the house at the back,
and overlooked not only the business part of the city between the foot
of the hill and the bay, but the region known as "South of Market
Street." This large valley had its aristocratic quarter, but it was now
largely given over to warehouses, dépôts, and streets of the poor. A
month seldom passed without a big blaze in this closely built
combustible section. To-night there was a long narrow ribbon of flame
twisting in the wind, which in a few moments would leap from block to
block, licking up the flimsy dwellings as a cat licks up milk. Above the
ribbon flew a million sparks, turning the stars from gold to white.
Every moment the wind twisted the ribbon into wonderful fantastic
shapes, which beset Magdaléna's brain for words as beautiful.
She listened intently. Some one was climbing a pillar of the balcony. It
was Helena, of course: she often chose that laborious method of entering
a house whose doors were always open to her. Magdaléna opened the back
window and stepped out onto the balcony.
"Is that you, Helena?" she whispered.
"Is it? Just you wait till you see me!"
A moment later she had clambered over the railing and stood before the
astonished Magdaléna.
"What--what--"
"Boys' clothes. Can't you see for yourself? I'm going to the fire, and
you're going with me."
"Of course I shall not. What possessed you--"
But the astute Helena detected a lack of decision in her friend's voice.
"You're just dying to go," she said coaxingly. "You adore fires, and
you'd love to see one close to. Put a waterproof on and a black shawl
over your head. Then if anybody notices you, they'll think you're a
_muchacha_ from Spanish town. As I am a boy, I can protect you
beautifully. We'll go to the livery stable and I'll make old Duff give
me a hack. I've a pocket full of boodle; papa gave me my allowance
to-day. Here, come in." She dragged the unresisting Magdaléna into the
room, arrayed her in a waterproof, and pinned a black shawl tightly
about the small brown face. "There!" she said triumphantly, "you look
like a poor little greaser, for all the world. Don Roberto would have a
fit. Do you think you can slide down the pillar?"
"I don't know--yes, I am sure I can if you can." Her Spanish dignity was
aghast, but her newborn creative instinct stung her spirit into a sudden
overpowering desire for dramatic incident. "Yes, I'll go," she
whispered, closer to excitement than Helena had ever, save once, seen
her. "I'll go."
"Of course! I knew you would. I always knew you were a brick; come!
Quick! I'll go first." She slid down the pillar, which she could easily
clasp with her long arms and legs; and Magdaléna, after a gasp,
followed, shivering with terror, but too proud to utter a sound. Before
she had reached the bottom she had lost all interest in the fire; she no
longer wanted to write poetry; she wished frantically to be back in the
security of her room. But she reached the ground safely; and although
she fell in a heap, she quickly pulled herself together and stood up,
holding her head higher than ever. And when she was on the sidewalk, in
disguise, unattended for the first time in her life, her very nerves
sang with exultation, and she was filled with a wild longing for a night
replete with adventure.
"'Léna!" whispered Helena, ecstatically. "Isn't this gorgeous?"
Magdaléna nodded. Her brain and heart were throbbing too loud for
speech.
"I'm going to fires for the rest of my life," announced Helena, as they
turned the corner and walked swiftly down the hill. She was not of the
order which is content with one experience, even while that initial
experience is yet a matter of delightful anticipation.
When they reached the livery stable, Helena marched in, holding
Magdaléna firmly by the hand. "I want a hack," she said peremptorily to
the man in charge. "And double quick, too." The man stared, but Helena
rattled the gold in her pocket, and he called to two men to hitch up.
"Upon my soul," he whispered to his associates, "it's those kids of Jack
Belmont's and old Yorba's, or I'm a dead man. But it ain't none of my
business, and I ain't one to peach. I like spirit."
"We're going to the fire, and I wish the hack to wait for us," said
Helena, as he signified that all was ready. "I'll pay you now. How much
is it?"
"Ten dollars," he replied unblushingly.
Helena paid the money like a blood, Magdaléna horrified at the
extravagance. Her own allowance was five dollars a month. "Can you
really afford this, Helena?" she asked remonstrantly, as the hack slid
down the steep hill.
"I got fifty dollars out of Jack to-night. He's feeling awfully soft
over my going away. Poor old Jack, he'll feel so lonesome without me.
But we'll have a gay old time travelling together in Europe when I'm
through."
Magdaléna did not speak of her conversation with her own parent. She did
not want to think of it. This night was to be one of uniform joy. They
were a quarter of an hour reaching the fire. As they turned into the
great central artery of the city, Market Street, they leaned forward and
gazed eagerly at the dense highly coloured mass of men and women, mostly
young, who promenaded the north sidewalk under a blaze of gas.
"What queer-looking girls!" said Magdaléna. "Why do they wear so many
frizzes, and sailor hats on one side?"
"They're chippies," said Helena, wisely.
"What's chippies?"
"Girls that live south of Market Street. They work all day and promenade
with their beaux all evening. As I live, 'Léna, we're going down Fourth
Street. We'll go right through Chippytown."
They had been south of Market Street before, for Ila and Tiny lived on
the aristocratic Rincon Hill; but their way had always lain down Second
Street, which was old, but stately and respectable. Fourth Street, like
Market Street by night, would be a new country; but after a few moments'
eager attention Helena sniffed with disappointment. The narrow street
and those branching from it were ill-lighted and deserted; there was
nothing to be seen but low-browed shops. But there was always the red
glare beyond; and in a few moments the holocaust burst upon them in all
its terrible magnificence.
They sprang out of the hack and walked rapidly to the edge of the crowd,
which filled the street in spite of the warning cries of the firemen and
the angry shouts of the policemen. The fire was devouring four large
squares and sending leaping branches to isolated dwellings beyond. A
great furniture factory and innumerable tenements were vanishing like
icicles under a hot sun.
The girls, careless of the severe jostling they received, stared in
fascinated amazement at the red tongues darting among the blackened
shells, the crashing roofs, the black masses of smoke above, cut with
narrow swords of flame, the solid pillar of fire above the factory, the
futile streams of water, the gallant efforts of the firemen. Magdaléna,
hardly knowing why, reflected with deep satisfaction that a fire was
even more wonderful at close quarters than when viewed from a distance.
Every detail delighted her; but when a clumsy boy stepped on her toes,
she drew Helena into a sand lot opposite, where it was less crowded. It
was then that she noticed for the first time the weeping women gathered
about their household goods. She stared at them for a moment, then shook
the rapt Helena by the arm.
"Look!" she whispered. "What is the matter with those people?"
"What?" asked Helena, absently. "Oh, don't I wish I were on that house
with a hose in my hand! What a lovely exciting life a fireman's must
be!" Then, yielding to Magdaléna's insistence, she turned and directed
her gaze to the people in the lot behind her. "Oh, the poor things!" she
said, forgetting the fire. "They've been burnt out. Let's talk to them."
The two girls approached the unfortunate creatures, who were wailing
loudly, as if at a wake.
"Poor devils!" exclaimed Helena. "I am so glad I have some silver with
me."
"And I have nothing to give them," thought Magdaléna, bitterly; but she
was too proud to speak. She stared at them, her brain a medley of new
sensations, as Helena went about, questioning, fascinating,
sympathising, giving. It was the first time she had seen poverty; she
had barely heard of its existence; it had never occurred to her that
great romanticists condescended to borrow from life. It was not abject
poverty that she witnessed, by any means. There were no hollow cheeks
here, no pallid faces, no shrunken limbs. It was, save for the passing
distress, to which they were not unaccustomed, a very jolly, hearty,
contented poverty. Their belongings were certainly mean, but solid and
sufficient. Nevertheless, to Magdaléna, who had been surrounded by
luxury from her birth, and had rarely been in a street of less
importance than her own, these commonly clad creatures, weeping over
their cheap household goods, seemed the very dregs of the earth. Her
keen enjoyment fled. She was sure she could never be happy again with so
much misery in the world. If her father would only--she recalled his
contempt for charities, the prohibition he had laid on her mother. She
determined to pray all night to the Virgin to soften his heart. When the
Virgin had been allowed a reasonable time, she would beg him to give her
a monthly allowance to devote to the poor. The Virgin had failed her
many times, but must surely hearken to so worthy a petition as this. She
stood apart. No one noticed her. She had nothing to give. They were
showering blessings upon Helena, who was walking about with a cocky
little stride, well pleased with herself.
Suddenly Helena wheeled and ran over to Magdaléna.
"I've given away my last red," she said. "It's lucky I paid for that
hack in advance. Let's get out. Those I haven't given any to will be
down on me in a minute. Besides, it's getting late. A-ou-u!"
A policeman had tapped her roughly on the shoulder. She gazed at him in
speechless terror for a half-moment, then gasped, "W-h-a-t do you want?"
"I want you two young uns for the lock-up," he said curtly. The
struggling crowd had lashed his pugnacity and ensanguined his temper. As
an additional indignity, the saloon had been burned, and he had not had
a drink for an hour. "I'll run you in for wearing boys' clothes; have
you ever heard the penalty for that, miss? And I'll run in this little
greaser as a vagrant."
Helena burst into shrieks of terror, clinging to Magdaléna, who
comforted her mechanically, too terrified, herself, to speak. Even in
that awful moment it was her father she feared, not the law.
"Shut up!" exclaimed the officer. "None of that." He paused abruptly and
regarded Helena closely. She was searching wildly in her pockets. "Oh,
if you've got a fiver," he said easily, "I'll call it square."
"I haven't so much as a five-cent piece," sobbed Helena, with a fresh
burst of tears. "Oh, 'Léna, what shall we do?"
"You'll come with me! that's what you'll do." He took them firmly by the
hand and dragged them through the crowd, a section of which had
transferred its attentions to the victims of the officer's wrath. But
the three were soon hurrying up a dark cross-street toward a car; and as
they went Helena recovered herself, and began to cast about among her
plentiful resource. She dared not risk telling this man their names, and
bid him take them home in hope of reward, for he would certainly demand
that reward of their scandalised parents. No, she decided, she would
confide in the dignitary in charge at the station; and as soon as he
knew who she was, he would be sure to let them go at once.
They went up town on a street-car. Helena had never been in one before,
and the experience interested her; but Magdaléna sat dumb and wretched.
She had been a docile child, and her father's anger had never been
visited upon her; but she had seen his frightful outbursts at the
servants, and once he had horsewhipped a Mexican in his employ until the
lad's shrieks had made Magdaléna put her fingers in her ears. He would
not whip her, of course; but what would he do? And this horrid man, who
was of the class of her father's coachman, had called her a "greaser."
She had all the pride of her race. The insult stifled her. She felt
smirched and degraded.
Nor was this all: she had had her first signal experience of the pall
that lines the golden cloud.
The officer motioned to the conductor to stop in front of a squat
building in front of the Old Plaza. The man, whose gall had been slowly
rising for want of drink, hurried them roughly off the car and across
the sidewalk into a dark passage. Their feet lagged, and he shoved them
before him, flourishing his bludgeon.
"Git on! Git on!" he said. "There's no gittin' out of this until you've
served your time."
The words and the dark passage made Helena shiver. What if they would
not give her a chance to speak, but should lock her up at once? She knew
nothing of these dark doings of night. Perhaps the policeman would take
them directly to a cell. In that case, she must confide in him.
They entered a room, and her confidence returned. A man sat at a desk,
an open ledger before him. He was talking to several tramps who stood in
various uneasy attitudes in front of the desk. His face was tired, but
his eyes had a humourous twinkle. He did not glance at the new-comers.
"Sit down," commanded the policeman, "and wait your turn."
The girls sat down uncomfortably on the edge of a bench. In a moment
they noticed a young man sitting near the desk and writing on a small
pad of paper. He looked up, looked again, regarding them intently, then
rose and approached the policeman.
"Hello, Tim," he said. "What have you got here? A girl in boys'
clothes?"
"That's about the size of it."
Helena pulled her cap over her eyes and reddened to her hair. For the
first time she fully realised her position. She was Colonel Jack
Belmont's daughter, and she was waiting in the city prison as a common
vagrant. Magdaléna bent her head, pulling the shawl more closely about
her face.
The young man looked them over sharply. "They are the kids of
somebodies," he said audibly. "Look at their hands. There's a 'story'
here."
Helena turned cold and set her teeth. She had no idea who the young man
might be, but instinct told her that he threatened exposure.
A few moments later the tramps had gone, and the man at the desk asked
the policeman what charge he preferred against his arrests.
"This one's a girl in boys' clothes, sir, and both, I take it, are
vagrants. The House of Correction is the place for 'em, I'm thinkin'."
Magdaléna's head sank still lower, and she dug her nails into her palms
to keep from gasping. But Helena, in this crucial moment, was game. She
walked boldly forward and said authoritatively,--
"I wish to speak alone with you."
The sergeant recognised the great I AM of the American maiden; he also
recognised her social altitude. But he said, with what severity he could
muster,--
"If you have anything private to say, you can whisper it."
Helena stepped behind the desk and put her lips close to his ear. "I am
Colonel Jack Belmont's daughter," she whispered. "Send me home, quick,
and he'll make it all right with you to-morrow."
"A chip of the old block," muttered the sergeant, with a smile. "I see.
And who is your companion?"
Helena hesitated. "Do--do I need to tell you?" she asked.
"You must," firmly.
"She's--you'll never breathe it?"
"You must leave that to my discretion. I shall do what is best."
"She is the daughter of Don Roberto Yorba."
"O Lord! _O_ Lord!" He threw back his head and gave a prolonged chuckle.
The young man edged up to the desk.
"Who is that man?" demanded Helena, haughtily. She felt quite mistress
of the situation.
"He's a reporter."
"What's that?"
"Why, a reporter for the newspapers."
"I know nothing of the newspapers," said Helena, with an annihilating
glance at the reporter. "My father does not permit me to read them."
The sergeant sprang to his feet. "This _is_ no place for you," he
muttered. "That's the best thing I've heard of Jack Belmont for some
time. Here, come along, both of you."
He motioned to the girls to enter the passage, and turned to the
officer. "Don't let anybody leave the room till I come back," he said;
and the reporter, who had started eagerly forward, fell back with a
scowl. "There's no 'story' in this, young man," said the sergeant,
severely; "and you'll oblige _me_," with significant emphasis, "by
making no reference to it."
"I think you're just splendid!" exclaimed Helena, as they went down the
passage.
"Oh, well, we all like your father. Although it would be a great joke on
him,--Scott, but it would! However, it wouldn't be any joke on you a few
years from now, so I'm going to send you home with a little good
advice,--don't do it again."
"But it's such fun to run to fires!" replied Helena, who now feared
nothing under heaven. "We _did_ have a time!"
"Well, if you're set on running to fires, go in your own good clothes,
with money enough in your pocket to grease the palm of people like our
friend Tim. Here we are."
He called a hack and handed the girls in.
"Please tell him to stop a few doors from the house," said Helena;
"and," with her most engaging smile, "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to
pay him. If you'll give me your address, I'll send you the amount first
thing to-morrow."
"Oh, don't mention it. Just ask your father to vote for Tom Shannon when
he runs for sheriff. It's no use asking anything of old Yorba," he
added, with some viciousness. "And I'd advise you, young lady, to keep
this night's lark pretty dark."
The remark was addressed to Magdaléna, but she only lifted her head
haughtily and turned it away. Helena replied hastily,--
"My father shall vote for you and make all his friends vote, too. I
won't tell him about this until next Wednesday, the day before I leave
for New York; then he'll be feeling so badly he won't say a word, and
he'll be so grateful to you that he'll do anything. Good-night."
"Good-night, miss, and I guess you'll get along in this world."
As the carriage drove off, Helena threw her arms about Magdaléna, who
was sitting stiffly in the corner. "Oh, darling, dearest!" she
exclaimed. "_What_ have I made you go through? And you're so generous,
you'll never tell me what a villain I am. But you will forgive me, won't
you?"
"I am just as much to blame as you are. I was not obliged to go."
"But it was dreadful, wasn't it? That horrid low policeman! The idea of
his daring to put his hand on my shoulder. But we'll just forget it, and
next week, to-morrow, it will be as if it never had happened."
Magdaléna made no reply.
"'Léna!" exclaimed Helena, sharply. "You're never going to own up?"
"I must," said Magdaléna, firmly. "I've done a wicked thing. I've
disobeyed my father, who thinks it's horrible for girls to be on the
street even in the daytime alone, and I've nearly disgraced him. I've no
right not to tell him. I must!"
"That's your crazy old New England conscience! If you were all Spanish,
you'd look as innocent as a madonna for a week, and if you were my kind
of Californian you'd cheek it and make your elders feel that they were
impertinent for taking you to task."
"You are half New England."
"So I am, but I'm half Southerner, too, and all Californian. I'm just
beautifully mixed. You're not mixed at all; you're just hooked together.
Come now, say you won't tell him. He's a terror when he gets angry."
"I must tell him. I'd never respect myself again if I didn't. I've done
lots of other things and didn't tell, but they didn't matter,--that is,
not so much. He's got a _right_ to know."
"It's a pity you're not more like him, then you wouldn't tell."
"What do you mean, Helena? I am sure my father never told a lie."
Helena was too generous to tell what she knew. She asked instead, "I
wonder would your conscience hurt you so hard if everything had turned
out all right, and we were coming home in our own hack?"
Magdaléna thought a moment. "It might not to-night, but it would
to-morrow. I am sure of that," she said.
Helena groaned. "You are hopeless. Thank Heaven, I was born without a
conscience,--that kind, anyhow. I intend to be a law all to myself. I'm
Californian clear through into my backbone."
The hack stopped. The girls alighted and walked slowly forward. Mr.
Belmont's house was the first of the three.
"Well," said Helena, "here we are. I'm going to climb up the pillar and
walk along the ledge. How are you going in?"
"Through the front door."
"Well, if you will, you will, I suppose. Kiss me good-night."
Magdaléna kissed her and walked on. A half-moment later Helena called
after her in a loud whisper,--
"Take off that shawl!"
Magdaléna lifted her hand to her chin, then dropped it. When she reached
her own home, she rang the bell firmly. The Chinaman who opened the door
stared at her, the dawn of an expression on his face.
"Where is Don Roberto?" she asked.
"In loffice, missee."
Magdaléna crossed the hall and tapped at the door of the small room her
father called his office. Don Roberto grunted, and she opened the door
and went in. He was writing, and wheeled about sharply.
"What?" he exclaimed. "What the devil! Take that shawl off the head."
Magdaléna removed the shawl and sat down.
"I went to a fire," she said. "I got taken up by a policeman and went to
the station. A man named Tom Shannon said he wouldn't lock me up, and
sent me home. He paid for the carriage." She paused, looking at her
father with white lips.
His face had turned livid, then purple. "_Dios!_" he gasped. "_Dios!_"
And then she knew how furious her father was. When his life was in even
tenor he never used his native tongue. "_Dios!_" he repeated. "Tell that
again. You go with that little devil, Helena Belmont, I suppose. _Madre
de Dios!_ Again! Again!"
"I went to a fire--south of Market Street. A policeman arrested me for a
vagrant. He called me a greaser--"
Her father sprang to his feet with a yell of rage. He caught his
riding-whip from the mantel.
She stumbled to her feet. "Papa!" she said. "Papa! You will not do
that!"
A few moments later she was in her own room. The stars shone full on her
pretty altar. She turned her back on it and sat down on the floor. She
had not uttered a word as her father beat her. Even now she barely felt
the welts on her back. But her self-respect had been cut through at
every blow, and it quivered and writhed within her. She hated her father
and she hated life with an intensity which added to her misery, and she
decided that she had made her last confession to any one but the priest,
who always forgave her. If she did wrong in the future and her father
found it out, well and good; but she would not be the one to tell him.