The Californians | Page 8

Helena gave a sudden furious war-whoop and slid down the

banisters.
The walls of the parlour were tinted a pale buff, the ceilings frescoed
with cherubs and flowers. On the great plate-glass windows were
curtains of dark red velvet trimmed with gold fringe. The large square
pieces of furniture were upholstered with red velvet. The floor was
covered with a red Brussels carpet with a design of squirming
devil-fish. Three or four small chairs were covered with Indian
embroidery, and there were two Chinese tables of teak-wood and
mottled marble. Gas having been an afterthought, the pipes were visible,
although painted to match the walls. Magdaléna had seen few rooms
and had not awakened to the hideousness of these; her aunt had
mingled little taste with her splendour, and the Belmont mansion was
furnished throughout its lower part in satin damask with no attempt at
art's variousness. Magdaléna opened the piano and felt vaguely for the
music in the keys. She forgot the star, remembered only her passionate
love of exultant sound, her longing to find the soul of this most
mysterious of all instruments. But her stiff fingers only sprawled
helplessly over the keys, and after a few moments she desisted and sat
staring with dilating eyes, the presentiment again assailing her. Her
shattered caballeros rose before her, but she shook her head; they,
under what influence she knew not, had faded out into ghost-land.
A carriage drove up to the door. She went forward and stood in the hall,
awaiting her parents. They entered almost immediately. Both kissed her
lightly, her mother inquiring absently if she had been a good girl, and
remarking that she had neuralgia and should go to bed at once. Her
father grunted and asked her if she and Helena Belmont had behaved
themselves, and, more particularly, if she had been outside the house
without an attendant; he never failed to ask this when he had been away
from the house for twenty-four hours. Magdaléna replied in the
negative, and did not feel called upon to confess her minor sins. She
had a conscience, but she had also a strong distaste for her father's
temper.
Don Roberto had been a handsome caballero in his youth, but his face,
like that of most Californians, had coarsened as it receded from its

prime. The nose was thick, the outlines of the jaw lost in rolls of flesh.
But the full curves of his mouth had been compressed into a straight
line, and the consequent elevation of the lower lip had almost
obliterated an originally weak chin. He was bald and wore a skull-cap,
but his black eyes were fiery and restless, his skin fair with the fairness
of Castile. He went to his room, and Magdaléna did not see him again
until dinner was announced. She saw little of her parents. There is not
much fireside life in California. There was none in the Yorba
household. Mrs. Yorba was a martyr to neuralgia, and such time as was
not passed in the seclusion of her chamber was devoted to the manifold
cares of her household and to her small circle of friends. Don Roberto
would not permit her to belong to charitable associations, nor to
organisations of any kind, and although she regretted the prestige she
might have enjoyed as president of such concerns, she had long since
found herself indemnified: Don Roberto's social restrictions had
unwittingly given her the position of the most exclusive woman in San
Francisco. As time went on, it gave people a certain distinction to be on
her visiting list. When Mrs. Yorba realised this, she looked it over
carefully and cut it down to ninety names. After that, hostesses whose
position was as secure as her own begged her personally to go to their
balls. Her own yearly contribution to the season's socialities was looked
forward to with deep anxiety. It was the stiffest and dullest affair of the
year, but not to be there was to be written down as second of the first.
So was greatness thrust upon Mrs. Yorba, who never returned to her
native Boston, lest she might once more feel the pangs of nothingness.
She loved her daughter from a sense of duty rather than from any
animal instinct, but never petted nor made a companion of her.
Nevertheless she watched over her studies, literary excursions, and
associates with a vigilant eye.
Magdaléna's companions were the objects of her severe maternal care.
Once a year in town and once during the summer in Menlo Park,
Magdaléna had a luncheon party, the guests chosen from the very inner
circle of Mrs. Yorba's acquaintance. The youngsters loathed this
function, but were forced to attend by their distinguished parents.
Magdaléna sat at one end of the table and never uttered