XI

The Yorbas returned to town on the first of November. It was decided

that Magdaléna should continue her studies, but the rainy days and

winter evenings gave her long hours for her books. She found, to her

delight, that her brain was losing something of its inflexibility; that,

by reading slowly, one perusal of an ordinary book was sufficient. Her

memory was still incomplete, but it was improving. Her mother had ceased

to overlook her choice of books, being satisfied that Magdaléna would

never care for trash.

Magdaléna always found the big dark house oppressive after the months in

Menlo Park, and went out as often as she could. On fine days, attended

by Julie, she usually walked down to the Mercantile Library, and prowled

among the dusty shelves. The old Mercantile Library in Bush Street,

almost in the heart of the business portion of the city, had the most

venerable air of any building in California. There was, indeed, danger

of coming out covered with blue mould. And it was very dark and very

gloomy. It has always been suspected that it was a favourite resort for

suicides, but this, happily, has never been proved.

But Magdaléna loved it, for it held many thousand volumes, and they were

all at her disposal. Her membership was worth more to her than all her

father's riches. Julie, who hated the library, always carried a chair at

once to the register and closed her eyes, that she might not be

depressed to tears by the gloom and the walls of books, which were bound

as became all that was left of the dead.

It was during one of these visits that Magdaléna approached another

crisis of her inner life. She was wandering about aimlessly, hardly

knowing what she wanted, when her eye was caught by the title of a book

on an upper shelf: "Conflict between Religion and Science." She knew

nothing about science, but she wondered in what manner religion could

conflict with anything. She took the book down and read the first few

lines, then the page, then the chapter, still standing. When she had

finished she made as if to replace the book, then put it resolutely

under her arm, called Julie, and went home.

She read during the remainder of the afternoon, and as far into the

night as she dared. Before she went to bed she said her prayers more

fervently than ever, and the next morning considered deeply whether or

not she should return the book half read. She finally concluded to

finish it. Her intellect was voracious, and she had no other companion

but her religion. Moreover, if she was to aspire to a position in the

world of letters, she must equip her mind with the best that had gone

before. She had every faith in the power of the Catholic religion to

hold its own; her hesitation had been induced, not by fear of disturbing

her faith, but because she doubted, pricked by the bigotry in her veins,

if it was loyal to recognise the existence of the enemy.

However, she finished the book. On the following Saturday morning she

went down to the library and asked the librarian, who took some interest

in her, what he would advise her to read in the way of science; she had

lost all taste for anything else.

"Well, Darwin is about the best to begin on, I should say," he replied.

"He's easy reading on account of his style. And then I should advise you

to read Fiske's 'Outlines of Cosmic Philosophy' before you tackle

Herbert Spencer or Huxley or Tyndall."

Magdaléna took home Darwin's "Origin of Species" and "Descent of Man."

They so fascinated her that not until their contents had become a

permanent part of her mental furnishing did she realise their warfare on

revealed religion. But by this time science had her in its mighty grip.

She read all that the librarian had recommended, and much more. It was

some six months later that she fully realised that her faith was gone.

There came a time when her simple appeals to the Virgin stuck in her

throat; when she realised that her beloved masters, if they could have

seen her telling a rosary at the foot of her altar, would have thought

her a fool.

There was no struggle, for the work was done, and finally. But her grief

was deep and bitter. Religion had been a strong inherited instinct, and

it had been three fourths of her existence for nearly eighteen years.

She felt as if the very roots of her spirit had been torn up and lay

wilting and shrivelling in the cold light of her reason. She was

terrified at her new position. How was she, a mere girl, to think for

herself, to make her way through life, which every great writer told her

was a complex and crucifying ordeal, with no guide but her own poor

reason?

For the first time she felt her isolation. She had no one to go to for

sympathy, no one to advise her. Of all she knew, her parents were the

last she could have approached on any subject involving the surrender of

her reticence.

She lost interest in her books, and brooded, her mind struggling toward

will-o'-the-wisps in a fog-bank, until she could endure her solitary

position no longer; she felt that she must speak to some one or her

brain would fall to ashes. Her aunt was still in Santa Barbara, and

showed no disposition to return. A priest was out of the question. There

was no one but Colonel Belmont. Magdaléna knew nothing of his private

life: not a whisper had reached her secluded ears; but she doubted if

religion were his strong point. But he had always been kind, and she

knew him to be clever. It took her a week to make up her mind to speak

to him and to decide what to say; but when her decision was finally

reached, she walked through the connecting gardens one evening with firm

tread and set lips.

She entered the house by a side door and went to the library, where she

knew Colonel Belmont smoked his after-dinner cigar when at home. A

cordial voice answered her knock. When she entered he rose and came

forward with the graceful hospitality which never failed him in the

moments of his liveliest possession, and with the acute interest which

anything feminine and young never failed to inspire.

"Well, honey!" he exclaimed, kissing her warmly and handing her to a

chair; "you might have done this before. I'm such a lonely childless old

widower."

"Oh!" said Magdaléna, with contrition; "I never thought you'd care to

see me." She could not know that he seldom permitted himself to be

alone.

"Well, now you know it, you'll come oftener, won't you? Have you heard

from my baby lately? I had a letter a yard long this morning. She can

write!"

"I had one too." She hesitated a moment, then determined to speak at

once. She could not hold this nor any man's attention in ordinary

conversation, and she wanted to finish before she wearied him.

"Uncle Jack," she said, "I've come to see you about something in

particular. I know so few people, or I wouldn't bore you--"

"Don't you talk about boring me, honey,--you! Why, your old Uncle Jack

would do anything for you."

A light sprang into Magdaléna's eyes. Colonel Belmont forgot for the

moment that she was not beautiful, and warmed to interest at once. Few

people had ever withstood Jack Belmont's magnetism, and Magdaléna found

it easy to speak.

"It is this," she said. "I have been reading books lately that have

taken my religion from me; it has gone utterly. I want to ask you what I

shall do,--if there is anything to take its place. I--I--feel as if I

could not get along without something."

Colonel Belmont made a faint exclamation and wheeled about, staring at

the fire. His first impulse was to laugh, so ludicrous was the idea that

anyone should come to him for spiritual advice; his second to get out of

the room. He did neither, however, and ordered his intelligence to work.

He did not speak for some time; and Magdaléna, for the first moment,

watched him intently, scarcely breathing. Then her attention wandered

from herself, and she studied his profile. She noted for the first time

how worn it was, the bags under the injected eyes, the heavy lines about

the mouth. She had no name for what she saw written in that face, but

she suddenly felt herself in the presence of one of life's mysteries. Of

man's life she knew nothing--nothing. What did this man do when he was

not at home? Who were his friends besides her morose father, her cold

dry uncle? She felt Belmont's difference from both, and could not know

that they had much in common. What circumstances had imprinted that face

so differently from the few faces familiar to her? For the first time

man in the concrete interested her. She suddenly realised how profound

was her ignorance, despite the lore she had gathered from

books,--realised dimly but surely that there was a vast region called

life for her yet to explore, and that what bloomed for a little on its

surface was called human nature. She gave an involuntary shiver and sank

back in her chair. At the same moment Colonel Belmont looked round.

"Someone walking over your grave?" he asked, smiling. "What you asked

came on me right suddenly, 'Léna. I couldn't answer it all in a minute.

You didn't say much--you never do; so I understand how you've been

taking this thing to heart. I'm sorry you've lost your religion, for it

stands a woman in mighty well. They have the worst of it in this life."

Perhaps he was thinking of his wife. His face was very sober. "But if

you have lost it, that is the end of the chapter as far as you are

concerned. All I can think of is this--" the words nearly choked him,

but he went on heroically: "Do what you think is right in little matters

as well as in great. You've been properly brought up; you know the

difference between right and wrong; and all your instincts are naturally

good, if I know anything about women. As you grow older, you will see

your way more clearly. You won't have the temptations that many women

have, so that it will be easier for you than for some of the poor little

devils. And you'll never be poor. You'll find it easier than most--and

I'm glad of it!" he added with a burst of warm sympathy. Emotional by

nature, the unaccustomed experience had brought him to the verge of

tears; and Magdaléna, forlorn and lonely, but thanking him mutely with

her eloquent eyes, appealed to the great measure of chivalry in him.

"I am glad I spoke to you, Uncle Jack," she said after a moment. "You

have given me much to think about, and I am sure I shall get along much

better. Thanks, ever so much."

She did not rise to go, but was silent for several moments. Then she

asked abruptly,--

"What do you mean by women having temptations? I know by the way you

said it that you don't mean just ordinary every-day temptations."

Colonel Belmont glanced about helplessly. His eloquence had carried him

away; he had not paused to take feminine curiosity into account. He

encountered Magdaléna's eyes. They were fixed on him with solemn

inquiry, and they were very intelligent eyes. Did he take refuge in

verbiage, she would not be deceived. Did he refuse to continue the

conversation, she would be hurt. In either case her imagination would

have been set at work, and she might go far, and in the wrong direction,

to satisfy her curiosity. Once more he stared at the fire.

To his daughter he could have said nothing on such a subject: he was too

old-fashioned, too imbued with the chivalrous idea of the South of his

generation that women were of two kinds only, and that those who had

been segregated for men to love and worship and marry must never brush

the skirts of their thought against the sin of the world. They were

ideal creatures who would produce others like themselves, and men--like

himself.

But as he considered he realised that he had a duty toward Magdaléna,

which grew as he thought: she needed help and advice and had come to

him, having literally no one else to go to. After all, might she not

have temptations which would pass his beautiful, quick-witted,

triumphant daughter by? Helena, with the world at her feet, would have

little time for brooding, little time for anything but the lighter

pleasures of life under his watchful eye, until she loved and passed to

the keeping of a man who, he hoped, would be far stronger and finer than

himself. But Magdaléna? Repressed, unloved, intellectual, disappointed

at every turn, passionate undoubtedly,--there was no knowing to what

sudden extremes desperation might drive her. And the woman, no matter

how plain, had yet to be born who could not be utterly bad if she put

her mind to it. It was not only his duty to warn Magdaléna, but to give

her such advice as no mortal had ever heard from his lips before, nor

ever would hear again.

He drew a long breath and wheeled about. Magdaléna was leaning forward,

staring at him intently. There was no self-consciousness in her face,

and he realised in a flash that he would merely talk into a brain. Her

woman's nature would not be awakened by the homily of an elderly man.

The task became suddenly light.

"Well, it's just this: There's no moral law governing the animal

kingdom; but men and women were allowed to develop into speaking,

reasoning, generally intelligent beings for one purpose only: to make

the world better, not worse. Their reasoning faculty may or may not be a

spark of the divine force behind the universe; but there's no doubt

about the fact, not the least, that every intelligent being knows that

he ought to be at least two thirds good, and in his better

moments--which come to the worst--he has a desire to be wholly good, or

at least better than he has ever been. In other words, the best of men

strive more or less constantly toward an ideal (and the second-best

strive sometimes) which, if realised, would make this world a very

different place. I believe myself that it is this instinct alone which

is responsible for religions,--a desire for a concrete form of goodness

to which man can cling when his own little atom is overwhelmed by the

great measure of weakness in him. Do you follow me?"

Magdaléna nodded, but she did not look satisfied.

"Well, this is the point: The world might be prosaic without sin, but it

is right positive that women would suffer less. And if it could be

pounded into every woman's head that she was a fool to think twice about

any man she could not marry, and that she threatened the whole social

structure every time she brought a fatherless child into the world; that

she made possible such creatures as you saw in Dupont Street, and a long

and still more hideous sequelæ, every time she deliberately violated her

own instinct for good,--we'd all begin to develop into what the Almighty

intended us to be when He started us off on our long march. Don't

misunderstand me! Even if I were not such a sinner myself, I'd be deuced

charitable where love was concerned, marriage or no marriage--O Lord! I

didn't mean to say that. Forget it until you're thirty; then remember it

if you like, for your brain is a good one. Look, promise me something,

'Léna;" he leaned forward eagerly and took her hand. "Promise me, swear

it, that until you are thirty you'll never do anything your instincts

and your intelligence don't assure you is right,--really right without

any sophistry. Of course I mean in regard to men. I don't want you to

make yourself into a prig--but I am sure you understand."

"I think I do," said Magdaléna. "I promise."

"Thank goodness, for you'll never break your word. You may be tempted

more than once to kick the whole stupid game of life to the deuce and go

out on a bat like a man, but console yourself with this: you'd be a long

sight worse off when you got through than when you started, and you'd

either go to smash altogether or spend the rest of your life trying to

get back where you were before; and sackcloth hurts. There isn't one bit

of joy to be got out of it. If you can't get the very best in this

world, take nothing. That's the only religion for a woman to cling to,

and if she does cling to it she can do without any other."

Magdaléna rose. "Good-night," she said. "I'll never forget a word of it,

and I'm very much obliged."

She kissed him and had half crossed the room before he sprang to his

feet and went hastily forward to open the door. He went to her father's

house with her, then returned to his library fire. To the surprise of

his servants, he spent the evening quietly at home.