Magdaléna was languid and content. She put the terrible experiences
which had preceded her illness behind her without effort. Her mind dwelt
upon the joy of living in the sunshine, and upon the hopes of the
future. 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 caricatures
of such of her teachers and acquaintance as had incurred her
disapproval. Her aunt, Mrs. Edward Forbes, who was one of the leaders of
New York society and a beauty, was giving her much petting and would
take her abroad later.
Magdaléna read these letters with delight stabbed with doubt. More than
once she had wondered if Helena had been born to realise all her own
ambitions. Even her letters were clever and original.
In a week Magdaléna was strong enough to walk in the woods, and Miss
Phelps 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, believing
that he would refuse her nothing after her illness. Don Roberto read the
note, grunted, and threw it into the waste-paper basket. He abominated
erudite women, and had the scorn of the financial mind for the
superfluous attributes of the intellectual. Magdaléna waited a
reasonable time, then after a day's hard fight with the reticence of her
nature, wrote and asked Colonel Belmont for the books. He sent them at
once, with a penitent note and an order on the principal bookseller of
the city for all that she might want in the future. "I will say a prayer
to the Virgin for him," thought Magdaléna, 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 had
distinguished themselves in letters; but although Magdaléna read them
twice they told her little, save that she must read the works of the
masters and puzzle out their methods if she could.
Meanwhile, in spite of her studies, she was growing strong, for she
spent the day out of doors; and when her parents came down on the first
of June, they found her as shy and cold as ever, but with sparkling eyes
and a faint glow in her cheeks.
"But never she is beauty," said Don Roberto, that evening to Polk, as
the two men sat on the verandah, smoking. "Before, I resent very much,
and say damnation, damnation, damnation. But now I think I no mind. Si
she is beauty I think more often by that time--no can help. I wonder si
there are the beautiful women in the South now, like before; but, by
Jimminy! I like forget the place exeest. I am an American. Yes, Great
Scott!"
He stretched out his little fat legs and rested his third chin on his
inflexible shirt-front. He felt an American, every inch of him, and
hated anything that reminded him of what he might become did he yield to
the natural indolence and extravagance of his nature. He would gladly
have drained his veins and packed them with galloping American blood. It
grieved him that he could not eliminate his native accent, and he was
persuaded that he spoke the American tongue in all its purity, being
especially proud of a large assortment of expletives peculiar to the
land 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 about
his nationality. Those legs and jaws were the objects of Don Roberto's
abiding envy.
"Pretty women in the family are a nuisance," said Polk. "They want the
earth, and don't see why they shouldn't get it. I wouldn't have that
Helena for another million. By the way, Jack told me a good story on you
yesterday."
Don Roberto grunted. His Spanish pride had not abated an inch. He
resented being discussed.
Polk continued: "There were seven or eight men talking over old
times in the Union Club the other night; that is to say, they were
reminiscing over the various enterprises they had been engaged in, and
the piles they had made and lost. Our names naturally came up, and
Brannan said, slowly, as if he were thinking it over hard,
'I--don't--think--I--had--any--dealings--with--Yorba--ever.' Whereupon
Washington replied, quick as a shot, 'You'd remember it if you had.'"
Don Roberto scowled heavily. It was one of his fictions that he
hoodwinked the world. He never snapped his fingers in its face as Polk
did: exteriorly a Yorba must always be a Yorba.
"Some day when the bank have lend Meester Washington one hundred
thousand dollars, I turn on the screw when he no is prepare to pay," he
said. And he did.
X
During the following week all Menlo, which had moved down before Mrs.
Yorba, called on that august leader. She received every afternoon on the
verandah, clad in black or grey lawn, stiff, silent, but sufficiently
gracious. On the day after her arrival, as the first visitor's carriage
appeared at the bend of the avenue, its advent heralded by the furious
barking of two mastiffs, a bloodhound, and an English carriage dog,
Magdaléna gathered up her books and prepared to retreat, but her mother
turned to her peremptorily.
"I wish you to stay," she said. "You must begin now to see something of
society. Otherwise you will have no ease when you come out. And try to
talk. Young people must talk."
"But I can't talk," faltered Magdaléna.
"You must learn. Say anything, and in time it will be easy."
Magdaléna realised that her mother was right. If she was to overcome her
natural lack of facile speech, she could not begin too soon. Although
she was terrified at the prospect of talking to these people who had
alighted and were exchanging platitudes with her mother, she resolved
anew that the time should come when she should be as ready of tongue and
as graceful of speech as her position and her pride demanded.
She sat down by one of the guests and stammered out something about the
violets. The young woman she addressed was of delicate and excessive
beauty: her brunette face, under a hat covered with corn-coloured
plumes, was almost faultless in its outline. She wore an elaborate and
dainty French gown the shade of her feathers, and her small hands and
feet were dressed to perfection. Magdaléna had heard of the beautiful
Mrs. Washington, and felt it a privilege to sun herself in such
loveliness. The three elderly ladies she had brought with her--Mrs.
Cartright, Mrs. Geary, and Mrs. Brannan--were dressed with extreme
simplicity.
"Yes," replied Mrs. Washington, "they are lovely,--they are, for a fact.
Mine have chilblains or something this year, and won't bloom for a cent.
Hang the luck! I'm as cross as a bear with a sore head about it."
"Would you like me to pick some of ours for you?" asked Magdaléna,
wondering if she had better model her verbal accomplishments on Mrs.
Washington's. She thought them even more picturesque than Helena's.
"Do; that's a jolly good fellow."
When Magdaléna returned with the violets, they were received with a
bewitching but absent smile; another carriage-load had arrived, and all
were discussing the advent of a "Bonanza" family, whose huge fortune,
made out of the Nevada mines, had recently lifted it from obscurity to
social fame.
"It's just too hateful that I've got to call," said Mrs. Washington, in
her refined melodious voice. "Teddy says that I must, because sooner or
later we've all got to know them,--old Dillon's a red Indian chief in
the financial world; and there's no use kicking against money, anyhow.
But I can't cotton to that sort of people, and I just cried last night
when Teddy--the old darling! I'd do anything to please him--told me I
must call."
"It's a great pity we old families can't keep together," said Mrs.
Brannan, a stout high-nosed dame. "There are plenty of others for them
to know. Why can't they let us alone?"
"That's just what they won't do," cried Mrs. Washington. "We're what
they're after. What's the reason they've come to Menlo Park? They'll be
'landed aristocracy' in less than no time. Hang the luck!"
"Shall you call, Hannah?" asked Mrs. Cartright. "Dear Jack never imposes
any restrictions on me,--he's so handsome about everything; so I shall
be guided by you."
"In time," replied Mrs. Yorba, who also had had a meaning conference
with her husband. "But I shall not rush. Toward the end of the summer,
perhaps. It would be unwise to take them up too quickly."
"I've got to give them a dinner," said Mrs. Washington, with gloom. "But
I'll put it off till the last gun fires. And you've all got to come.
Otherwise you'll see me on the war-path."
"Of course we shall all go, Nelly," said Mrs. Yorba. "We will always
stand in together."
The conversation flowed on. Other personalities were discussed, the
difficulty of getting servants to stay in the country, where there was
such a dearth of "me gentleman frien'," the appearance of the various
gardens, and the atrocious amount of water they consumed.
"I wish to goodness the water-works on top wouldn't shut off for eight
months in the year," exclaimed Mrs. Washington. "Whenever I want
something in summer that costs a pile, Teddy groans and tells me that
his water bill is four hundred dollars a month." And Mrs. Washington,
whose elderly and doting husband had never refused to grant her most
exorbitant whim, sighed profoundly.
Magdaléna did not find the conversation very interesting, nor was she
called upon to contribute to it. Nevertheless, she received every day
with her mother and went with her to return the calls. At the end of the
summer she loathed the small talk and its art, but felt that she was
improving. Her manner was certainly easier. She had decided not to
emulate Mrs. Washington's vernacular, but she attempted to copy her ease
and graciousness of manner. In time she learned to unbend a little, to
acquire a certain gentle dignity in place of her natural haughty
stiffness, and to utter the phrases that are necessary to keep
conversation going; but her reticence never left her for a moment, her
eyes looked beyond the people in whom she strove to be interested, and
few noticed or cared whether or not she was present. But at the end of
the summer she was full of hope; society might not interest her, but the
pride which was her chief characteristic commanded that she should hold
a triumphant place among her peers.
She had told neither of her parents of the books Colonel Belmont had
given her, knowing that the result would be a violent scene and an
interdiction. At this stage of her development she had no defined ideas
of right and wrong. Upon such occasions as she had followed the dictates
of her conscience, the consequences had been extremely unpleasant, and
in one instance hideous. She was indolent and secretive by nature, and
she slipped along comfortably and did not bother her head with problems.