Mr. Mechlin replied that they would decide upon that after New Years, but he was evidently pleased at the prospect of returning to Alamar.
The Alamar house looked once more as it had in the days of old, before squatters invaded the place; it was full of people, and music and laughter resounded under the hospitable roof. Mercedes, however, sat silent, and though she smiled her own sweet smile, it was too sad; it failed to deepen the cunning little dimples as it did in other days. The Don and Mr. Mechlin, too, were not as cheerful as they used to be. In that visit to San Francisco “a change came over the spirit of their dream,” and it seemed to have come to quench the light of their lives.
But the young people wanted to decorate the house with green boughs and have a huge Christmas-tree, and the Don himself went to help them to get pine branches and red “fusique” berries. The tree would be in honor of his two grandchildren; they were now eighteen months old, and the proud mammas said they were so intelligent that they would surely appreciate the tree.
Everett, Alice, Rosario and Victoriano were the committee on decorations; Carlota, Caroline, Lucy and Webster were the committee on refreshments. While the laughter of the young people came ringing out through the parlor windows, Don Mariano and Mr. Mechlin slowly walked up and down the back veranda in earnest conversation.
“Yes,” Mr. Mechlin said, as if to reiterate some previous assertion, “yes, I have lived my allotted term; my life is now an incumbrance—nay, it is a burden on those who love me. If I were not living, George could take his wife, his mother and sister, to reside in New York, but because I cannot live in that climate, all those dear ones remain in this exile.”
“But why should you call it exile? They don't think it is; and even if it were, my friend, you have no right to cut your life off at your will,” said Don Mariano.
“Why not? Life is a free gift, and often a very onerous one. Why keep it, when to reject it would be preferable? when it would release others from painful obligations?”
“But are you sure that the grief and horror of knowing that you took your own life would not be a million times worse than the supposed exile you imagine to be so objectionable?”
“Perhaps so; but I assure you, since I have lost all my money, and when I am too old to make another fortune, my health has begun to fail again. I hate life without health, and these constant annoyances of financial difficulties will end by prostrating me on a sick-bed again. Now, when I have lost nearly all the money I invested in San Diego, now they come down on me to pay a note of ten thousand dollars which I endorsed, with five others. Why don't the others pay their share? I am willing to pay two thousand dollars, but not the entire sum.”
“I don't see why you should, either. What does your lawyer say?”