Part 15 (1/2)

Magdalena did not answer her. She was staring at her father, breathless for his next words.

”The ladies never write,” announced that grandson of old Spain. ”Nor the gentlemens. Always the common peoples write the books.”

”Oh, it's better now, really,” said Rose. ”Some people that write are said to be quite nice. Of course, one doesn't meet them in society,--in San Francisco society, at least,--but that may be the fault of society.”

”Of course,” said Tiny. ”I do not mean that people who write must be horrid. But I think I couldn't know a woman who made her name so public,--I mean if I hadn't been fond of her before; but I should really _hate_ to see a friend's name in print. You are not really thinking of writing a book, are you, Rose, dear?”

”I have not the slightest idea of writing a book--for the very good reason that I haven't brains enough. You needn't worry about any of us adding to the glory of California--unless, to be sure, 'Lena should be clever enough.”

She spoke at random, and Magdalena's face did not betray her; but she almost hated the girl who was forcing her to another of her mental crises.

”My daughter write!” shouted Don Roberto. ”A Yorba! She make a fool de my name like the play-actor that do the monkey tricks on the stage? Si she do that--”

”Here comes Mr. Trennahan,” said Magdalena, standing up. ”Mamma is not here. I must go to meet him.”

Trennahan threw the reins to his groom and sprang out of the cart. ”I could not wait till evening, you see,” he said, as he came up the steps.

”What is the matter? Something has gone wrong with you.”

She s.h.i.+vered. ”Yes. Something. I cannot tell you.”

”Can we have our ride to-morrow?”

”Yes, I can ride with you. Don't, d-don't--”

”Yes?”

”Don't talk to me when you get round there.”

”I won't; and I won't let them talk to you.”

Something _has_ gone wrong, he thought. She looks like a condemned criminal.

XXV

The next morning when Trennahan rode up, Magdalena was already on her horse, and they cantered off at once.

”I must teach you to trot,” he said. ”This is very old-fas.h.i.+oned. You must not be behind your friends, who would scorn to canter.”

”Very well. You can teach me.”

The next half-hour was given up to the lesson. Magdalena did not like the new method, but persevered heroically. A half-hour was all she could endure, and they cantered across the meadows to the back woods.

Magdalena was as pale as a swarthy person can be. Her eyes were heavy and shadowed.

”You did not sleep last night,” said Trennahan, abruptly. ”And something had happened yesterday before I came. What was it?”

”I don't think I can tell you. I don't like to talk about things--about myself.”