Trennahan did not see Magdalena until luncheon. She came in late, andher manner was a shade colder and more reserved than usual. After muchexcogitation, she had decided to leave the roses in her hair, but it hadtaken her ten minutes to summon up courage to go downstairs.
He understood perfectly, and his soul grinned. Then he sighed. Youth hadbeen very sweet to him, all manifestations of femininity in a woman verydear. There were four long windows in the dining-room, but the roof ofthe verandah, the thick vines springing from pillar to pillar, thelilac-trees and willows just beyond, chastened the light in the room.Magdalena looked almost pretty, with her air of proud reserve, the rosesnestling in her dark hair. Ten years ago he might have loved her,perhaps, in spite of her complexion.
Mrs. Yorba did not notice the roses. Her mind was blind with wrath: thecream sauce of the chicken was curdled. During at least half the mealshe did not utter a word; and Trennahan, wondering if fate were forcinghim into the permanent role of the garrulous American, a breed for whichhe had all the finely bred American's contempt, talked of the weather,the woods, the climate, the beauty of the Californian women, with littleor no assistance from Magdalena. The moment he paused, and he washungry, the catlike tread of the Chinese butlers was the only sound inthe large house; the silence was so oppressive that he reflected withgratitude that his visit would be done with the morrow's morn.
Finally, Mrs. Yorba left the table and stepping through one of the opencasements walked up and down the verandah. She was very fond of thislittle promenade between the last solid course of luncheon and thegriddle-cakes and fruit.
"I am glad you wear flowers in your hair," said Trennahan. "Your headwas made for them. I am certain your Ysabel What's-her-name must haveworn them just so the night her ardent lover conceived the idea ofrobbing the Mission of its pearls for her fair sake."
Magdalena's face glowed with its rare smile. "But Ysabel was sobeautiful," she said wistfully,--"the most beautiful woman inCalifornia."
"All women are beautiful, my dear Miss Yorba--when they are young. Ifgirls could only be made to understand that youth is always beautiful,they would be even prettier than they are."
Magdalena's eyes were large and radiant for a moment. She was disposedto believe in him implicitly. She determined that she would think nomore on the beautiful women of her race, but learn to make herselfattractive in other ways. Helena would return soon and would teach her.
"I have read in books that plain women are sometimes more fascinatingthan beautiful ones," she said. "How can that be? Of course you mustknow."
"A fascinating ugly woman is one who in the same moment sets the teethon edge and makes a beauty look like a daub or a statue. Her pitfall isthat she is apt to be lacking in pride: she makes too great an effort toplease. Your pride is magnificent. I say that in strict truth andwithout any desire to pay you a compliment. Had fate been so unkind asto make you an ugly woman, you would not have had a jot less; it is thefinest part of you, to my way of thinking. You are worrying now becauseyou have less to say than these girls who have travelled and beeneducated abroad, and who, moreover, are of lighter make. Don't try toimitate them. The knack of making conversation will come with time; andyou will always be appreciated by the men who are weary past your powerto understand of the women that chatter. If I buy this place, I shallread over some of my favourite old books with you,--that is, if you willlet me; and I believe that you will."
Magdalena's hands were clasped on the edge of the table; she was leaningforward, her soul in her eyes. For the moment she was beautiful, andTrennahan looked his admiration and forgot her lack of complexion. ToMagdalena there had been a sudden blaze of golden light, then a rift,through which she caught a brief flash of heaven. Her vague longingssuddenly cohered. She was to be solitary no longer. She was to have acompanion, a friend,--perhaps a confidante, a person to whom she mightspeak out her inmost soul. She had never thought that she should wish toopen her reserve to anyone, but in this prospect there was enchantment.
Mrs. Yorba returned to her seat and helped herself to hot cakes.
"When Miss Montgomery and Miss Brannan were leaving last night," shesaid, "they asked me to stop for them this afternoon, as they wished topersuade you that the Mark Smith place was exactly what you wanted, orsomething to that effect. So we shall stop for them. The char-a-bancwill be at the door at a quarter to four."
That was her last remark, as it had been her first, and some twentyminutes later the repast came to an end.