In the autumn she found an occupation which gave her a temporary place in the scheme of things.  Mrs. Yorba fell ill.  The sudden and complete change from a personage to a nobody, the long confinement,-she rarely put her foot outside the house lest her shabby clothes be remarked upon,-and a four years’ course of sensational novels induced a nervous distemper.  Magdalena, hearing the sound of pacing footsteps in the hall one night, arose and opened her door.  Mrs. Yorba, arrayed in a red flannel nightgown and a frilled nightcap, was walking rapidly up and down, talking to herself.  Magdalena persuaded her to go to bed, and the next morning sent for the doctor.  He prescribed an immediate change of scene,-travel, if possible; if not, the country.  Magdalena undertook to carry the message to her father.

Knowing that a knock would evoke no response, she opened the door of the study and went in.  Don Roberto, dirty, unshaven, looked like a wild man in a mountain cave; but his eyes were steady enough.  His table and the floor about his chair were piled high with ledgers.  On everything else the dust was inches thick, and the spiders had spun a shimmering web across one side of the room.  It hung from the gas-rod like a piece of fairy tapestry, woven with red and gold here and there, where the sun’s rays, scattering through the slats of the inside blinds, caressed it.  On the mantel-piece, supported on its broken staff, was the big American flag which had floated above the house of Don Roberto Yorba for thirty years.  It had been carefully washed, and although broken bits of spiders’ weavings hung to its edges, there were none on its surface.

Magdalena felt no desire to kiss her parent, although it was the first time for several years that she had stood in his presence.  She disliked and despised him, and thought no less of herself for her repudiation.  If she, a young, inexperienced, and lonely woman, could fight and conquer morbid fancies, why not he, who had been counted one of the keenest financial brains of the country?  She felt thoroughly ashamed of her progenitor as she stood looking down upon the little dirty shrunken shambling figure.

“Well?” growled Don Roberto, “what you want?”

“My mother is very ill.  This life is killing her.  The doctor says she must have a change.”

“All go to die sometime.  What difference now or bimeby?”

“Will you let us go to Santa Barbara to visit aunt?”

“Si she send you the moneys, I no care what you do with it.  I no give you one cents.”

“Very well; I shall ask my aunt.”

But Mrs. Yorba declared that she would not go to Santa Barbara:  she detested her sister-in-law, and would accept no favours from her, nor be forced into her society.  There was nothing for Magdalena to do but to nurse her, and a most exasperating invalid she proved.  Nevertheless, Magdalena, although a part of her duties was to read her mother’s favourite literature aloud by the hour, was almost grateful for the change.  She seldom found time for her daily walk, but at least she had little time to think.

When Mrs. Montgomery, Mrs. Geary, and Mrs. Brannan returned to town, they came frequently to sit with the invalid, and cheered her somewhat with talk of the coming summer, when they should take her down to their own houses in Menlo.

“And I shall go,” said Mrs. Yorba to her daughter, “if I haven’t a decent rag to my back.  They think nothing of that; I was a fool not to go before.  And I’m going to get well-against the time when that old fiend dies.  There!  I never thought I’d say that, for I was brought up in the fear of the Lord, but saying it is little different from thinking it, after all.  I’ve been thinking it for two solid years.  California’s not New England, anyhow.  When I do get the money, won’t I scatter it!  I’ve been economical all my life, for I had it in my blood, and it was my duty, as your father wished it; as long as he did his duty by me, I was more than willing to do mine by him:  he can’t deny it.  But we all know what reaction means, and it has set in in me.  When I am my own mistress, I’ll give three balls and two dinners a week.  I’ll have the finest carriages and horses ever seen in California.  I’ll have four trousseaux a year from Paris, and I’ll go to New York myself and buy the most magnificent diamonds Tiffany’s got.  I’ll refurnish this house and Fair Oaks.  The walls shall be frescoed, and every stick in them will come from New York-”

She paused abruptly, springing to her elbow.  The door was ajar.  Through the aperture came a long low chuckle.  Magdalena jumped to her feet, flung the door to, and locked it.

“Do you think he’s gone mad at last?” gasped Mrs. Yorba.

“It sounded like it.”

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t leave me for a minute.  You must sleep here at night.  There’s a cot somewhere,-in the attic, I think, if the rats haven’t eaten it.  What a life to live!” She fell to weeping, as she frequently did in these days.  Suddenly her face brightened.  “If he should make a will disinheriting us, we could easily enough prove him insane after the way he’s been acting these four years.  Thank Heaven, this is California!  General William could break any will that ever was made.”

Mrs. Yorba took an opiate and fell asleep.  Magdalena went out, locking the door behind her.  She determined to ascertain at once if her father was insane.  If he was, he should be confined in two of the upper rooms with a keeper.  The world should know nothing of his misfortune; but it would be absurd for herself and her mother to live in a constant state of physical terror.

As she descended the stair, the door of her father’s study opened abruptly and a man shot out as if violently propelled from behind.  The door was slammed to immediately.

Magdalena ran downstairs and toward the stranger.  He was a tall man greatly bowed, and as she approached him she saw that he was old and wore a long white beard.  His head was large and suggested nobility and intellect; but the eyes were bleared, the flesh of the face loose and discoloured, and he was shabby and dirty.  He looked like a fallen king.

“Was-was-my father rude?” asked Magdalena.  “He is not very well.  Perhaps I can do something.”  The man appealed to her strangely, and she had a dollar in her purse.

“We were great friends in our boyhood and youth,” replied the stranger.  He spoke with an accent, but his English was unbroken.  “And he has been my guest many times.  There was a time when he thought it an honour to know me.  When the Americans came, everything changed.  My career closed, for I would have nothing to do with them.  I had held the highest offices under the Mexican government.  I could not stoop to hold office under the usurpers-many of whom I would not have employed as servants.  Then they took my lands,-everything.  But I am detaining you, senorita.”

“Oh, no, no, indeed!  How could they take your lands?  Who are you?  Tell me everything.”

“They ‘squatted,’ many of them, almost up to my door.  The only law we could appeal to was American law, and California was a hell of sharpers at that time.  It is bad enough now, but it was worse then.  And then came the great drought of ’64, in which we lost all our cattle.  We never recovered from that, for we mortgaged our lands to the Americans to get money to live on with,-everything was three prices then; and when the time came they foreclosed, for we never had the money to pay.  And we were great gamblers, senorita, and so were the Americans-and far better ones than we were.  We were only made for pleasure and plenty, to live the life of grandees who had little use for money, and scorned it.  When the time came for us to pit ourselves against sordid people, we crumbled like old bones.  Your father has been very fortunate:  he had a clever man to teach him to circumvent other clever men.  Years ago, when I was prouder than I am now, I put my pride in my pocket and wrote, asking him for help.  I wanted a small sum to pay off the mortgage on a ranchita, upon which I might have ended my days in peace, for it was very productive.  He never answered.  To-day I came to ask him for money to buy bread.  He roared at me like a bull, and vowed he’d blow my brains out if I ever entered his house again.  He looks like-” He paused abruptly.  There was much of the old-time courtliness in his manner.

“I-I-am so sorry.  And I have little money to spend.  If you will leave me your name and address, I will send you something on the first of each month; and if-if ever I have more I will take care of you-of all of you.  I suppose there are many others.”

“There are indeed, senorita.”

“Some day I will ask you for all of their names.  And yours?”

He gave it.  It was a name famous in the brief history of old California,-a name which had stood for splendid hospitality, for state and magnificence, for power and glory.  It was the name of one of her beloved heroes.  She had written his youthful romance; she had described the picturesque fervour of his wooing, the pomp of his wedding; of all those heroes he had been the best beloved, the most splendid.  And she met him,-a broken-down old drunkard, in the dusty gloom of an old maniac’s wooden “palace,” in the fashionable quarter of a city which had never heard his name.

“O God!” she said.  “O God!” and she was glad that she had burned her manuscripts.  She took the dollar from her pocket and gave it to him.

He accepted it eagerly.  “God bless you, senorita!” he said.  “And you can always hear of me at the Yosemite Saloon, Castroville.”

He passed out, neglecting to shut the door behind him, but Magdalena did not notice the unaccustomed rift of light.  She sank into a chair against the wall and wept heavily.  They were the last tears she shed over her fallen idols.  When the wave had broken, she reflected that she was glad to know of the distress of her people; it should be her lifework to help them.  When she came to her own she would buy them each a little ranch and see that they passed the rest of their lives in comfort.

She leaned forward and listened intently.  Loud mutterings proceeded from her father’s room.  She wondered if there was a policeman in the street.  She and her mother were very unprotected.  The only man in the house besides her father was the Chinaman, and Chinamen are as indifferent to the lives of others as to their own.  Don Roberto had ordered the telephone and messenger call removed years ago.  The sounds rose to a higher register.  Magdalena, straining her ears, heard, delivered in rapid defiant tones, the familiar national cry, “Hip-hip-hooray!”

She went over softly, and put her ear to the thick door.  The tones of the old man’s voice were broken, as if by muscular exertion, and accompanied by a curious bumping.  Magdalena understood in a moment.  He was striding up and down the room, waving the American flag, and shouting, “Hip-hip-hooray!  Hip-hip-hooray! hoo_ray_! hoo_ray_! hoo_ray_!”

She ran down the hall to summon Ah Kee and send him for a doctor, but before she reached the bell she heard the front door close, and turned swiftly.  A man had entered.

She went forward in some indignation.  So deep was the gloom of the hall that she could distinguish nothing beyond the facts that the intruder was tall and slight, and that he wore a light suit of clothes.  When she had approached within a few feet of him, she saw that he was Trennahan.

For the moment she thought it was the soul of the man, so ghostly he looked in that dim light, in that large silence.

His first remark was reassuring:  “I rang twice; but as no one came, and the door was open, I walked in,-as you see.”

“We have so few servants now.  Won’t you come and sit down?”

He followed her down to the reception-room.  She jerked aside the curtains, careless of the bad house-keeping the light would reveal.  It streamed in upon him.  He was deeply tanned and indescribably improved.

They sat down opposite each other.  Magdalena, recalling her tears, placed her chair against the light.  “When did you get back?” she asked.

“The ship docked an hour ago.”

“You look very well.  Have you been enjoying yourself?”

“I have been occupied, and useful-I hope.  At least, I have collected some data and made some observations which may be new to the world of Science.  I found the old love very absorbing.  And, you will hardly credit it, I have lived quite an impersonal life.”

“Have you come back to California again because you think it a good place to die in?”

“I came back to California, because it is a good place to write my book in, and because you are here.”

“Ah!”

“Don’t misunderstand me.  I am not so conceited as to imagine that I can have you for the asking.  But-listen to me:  I had a brief but very genuine madness.  When I recovered I knew what I had th-lost.  I argued-even during my convalescence-that I had been wholly right in believing that you were the one woman for me to marry, and, that fact established, you must believe it no less than I. But for a long time I was ashamed to come back, or to write.  Later, I went where it was impossible.  Moreover, in solitude a man comes into very close knowledge of himself.  After a few months of it I knew that I should never be contented with mere existence again.  I determined to take advantage of what might be the last chance granted me to make anything of my life; I had thrown away a good many chances.  I also argued that if you loved me, you would wait for me; that you were not the sort to marry for any reason but one.  At least, perhaps you will give me another trial.”

“I shall marry you, I suppose; I have wanted to so long, and I never had any pride where you were concerned.  A few months ago I should have flown into your arms; and I had felt sure that you would return.  But lately I have not been able to care about anything.  I am not the least bit excited that you are here.  It merely seems quite natural and rather pleasant.”

“Is anything the matter?” he asked anxiously.  “You look very thin and worn, and the house-it was like entering the receiving vault on Lone Mountain.  I thought when I came in that you were having a funeral, at least.”

“It has been like that for four years.  Uncle died, and papa was afraid to trust himself in the world for fear he would relapse into his natural instincts.  So he shut himself up, makes us live on next to nothing, and of course we go nowhere, for we have no clothes.  Mamma has been ill with nervous prostration for months, and now I feel sure that papa has gone insane.  I have only spoken to him once in four years; but I have been certain that he would lose his mind finally, and I have just discovered that he is quite mad.”

“Good God!  We’ll be married to-morrow.  I never imagined your father would hit upon any new eccentricities.  You poor little hermit!  I fancied you going to parties and plodding at your stories.  I never dreamed that you were shut up in a dungeon.  I shall see that you are happy hereafter.”

“I feel sad and worn out.  I don’t think I can ever feel much of anything again.”

“Oh, you’ll get over that,” he replied cheerfully; he was as practical as ever.  “What you want is plenty of sun and fresh air and a rest from your family.  If your father is insane, he’ll go into an asylum; and a rest cure is the place for your mother.  That will dispose of her while we are taking our honeymoon in the redwoods.  Do you think you could stand camping out?”

“I could stand anything so long as it was the country once more,” she said, with her first flash of enthusiasm.  “But there is something I should tell you.  Perhaps after you hear it you won’t want to marry me.  I tried to kill Helena once.”

“You did what?” he said, staring at her.

“She came to me just after leaving you, on the night of your last interview.  I was very much worked up before she came, had been for a long while; and when she told me that she had treated you badly and had thrown you over, after taking you away from me, I suddenly wanted to kill her, and I took my dagger out of the drawer beside me.  It was very dark, but she had an instinct, and she jumped up and ran away.  I never knew I could feel so; but every bit of blood in my body seemed shrieking in my head, and if she had not gone I should have jumped on her and hacked her to bits.  I must go up to my mother now.  You can think it over and come back again.”

“I don’t need to think it over,” he said, smiling.  “That was all you needed to make you quite perfect.  You are a wonderful example of misdirected energies.  Where is your father?  I will go and look after him at once.”

He took her suddenly in his arms and compelled her to kiss him; and then Magdalena knew how glad she was that he had come.

She went with him to the door of the study.

“He is quiet,” she whispered.  “Perhaps he is asleep.”

She left him and went down the hall, turning to wave her hand to him.  Trennahan knocked.  There was no answer.  He opened the door softly, then gave a swift glance over his shoulder, entered hurriedly, and closed the door behind him.

Suspended from the gas pipe, which was bent and leaking, was Don Roberto.  The light was dim.  The purple face on the languidly revolving body was barely visible; but as it turned slowly to the door, it occupied a definite place among the shadows.  Trennahan flung back the curtains and opened the window, closing the lower inside blinds.  A cloud hurried across the face of the sun, as if light had no place in that ghastly room.  About the limp body and sprawling hands clung the delicate prismatic tapestry of the spiders.  It was rent in twain, and it quivered, and threatened to drop and trail upon the floor.  The little weavers were racing about, full of anger and consternation, bent on repair.  A number had already gathered up the broken strands and were fastening them across the body.  Had Don Roberto remained undiscovered for twenty-four hours, he might have been wrought into the tissue of that beautiful delicate web, a grotesque intruder over whom the spiders would doubtless have held long and puzzled counsel.

The cloud passed.  The sun caught a brilliant line of colour.  Trennahan went forward hastily, and examined the long knotted strip between the body and the ceiling.

Don Roberto had hanged himself with the American flag.