Part 33 (2/2)
Shall you go back to Santa Barbara? Don't you want to travel?”
”_Dios de mi alma_; no! I think I go to die on that treep from Santa Barbara--so jolt. I am too old to travel. Once I think I like see Spain; but now I only want be comfortable. Well, si you change the mind and come sometime, I am delight. But I go now: feel like I am old flower wither up, without the sun.”
XXVI
Mrs. Polk's large white face and throat had seemed to shed a measure of light in the dark house; when she left, the gloom seemed to get down and sit on one. Helena refused to enter by the front door, and lamenting that she was too big to climb the pillar, paid her visits by way of the kitchen and back stairs.
After the calls of condolence visitors came more and more rarely to the Yorba house. They said it depressed them for days after, and that while there they sat in mortal terror of hearing Don Roberto burst out of his den with the yell of a maniac. And as for dear Mrs. Yorba and Magdalena, they never had had much to say, but now they had nothing. They would not drop off altogether, for the old don was bound to follow his brother-in-law in course of time, and then his widow would once more be a useful member of society. Mrs. Montgomery, Mrs. Geary, and Mrs.
Cartright were more faithful than the others, but the affections Mrs.
Yorba had inspired during her long and distinguished sojourn in San Francisco were not very deep and warm.
The girls were sorry for Magdalena, and called frequently, conquering their horror of the gloomy echoing house; but they had less to endure than their elders, for they were received in Magdalena's own sitting-room, which, although spa.r.s.ely and tastelessly furnished, was always as cheerful as the weather would permit. They brought her all the gossip of the outside world, discussed the new novels with her, and occasionally induced her to spend a day with them.
At the end of the winter Ila was married; very grandly, in Grace Church.
All her friends but Magdalena were bridesmaids. The omission was a serious one, and all felt that it robbed the function of a last fine finish: each of the girls had counted upon having the last of the Yorbas for chief bridesmaid. Magdalena went and sat in a corner of the church and saw the first of her friends break the circle of their girlhood. Her present had been very meagre: it had come out of her monthly allowance.
Mrs. Polk was much too indolent to consider whether her niece was allowed an income suitable for her position or not, and Magdalena was much too proud to ask favours. She slipped out of the church just before the end of the ceremony, feeling like a poor relation.
She rarely saw her father. Occasionally she met him in the hall; he drifted past her like a ghost. Mr. Polk died in February. On the first of June Don Roberto had not been out of the house for three months, nor had he exchanged a word with his wife or daughter.
”He'll blink like an owl when he does go out,” said Mrs. Yorba. ”I wonder if he remembers that it is time to go to the country?”
”He never forgets anything. I'll pack his things if you like.”
But the day pa.s.sed and the next, and Don Roberto gave no sign of remembering that it was time to move. Then Mrs. Yorba drew several long breaths, went downstairs, and knocked at his door. There was no response, but she turned the k.n.o.b and went in. Don Roberto's face was between the large pages of a ledger. He looked round with a scowl.
”Everything is ready to move down. Are you not coming?”
”No; and you no going either. Letting the place.”
If the President of the United States had let the White House, Mrs.
Yorba could not have been more astounded.
”Let Fair Oaks! Fair Oaks?”
”Yes.”
”And where are we to go this summer?”
”We stay here.”
”Robert! You cannot mean that. No one stays here in summer. The city is impossible--those trade-winds--those fogs--”
”Need not go out. Can stay in the house.” And Don Roberto returned to his ledger.
Mrs. Yorba went straight to Magdalena's room, and for the first time in her daughter's experience of her, wept.
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