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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Readjustment, by Will Irwin
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Title: The Readjustment
Author: Will Irwin
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<hr class='pb' />
<p class='tp' style='font-size:2em;margin-top:1em;margin-bottom:4em;'>THE<br />READJUSTMENT</p>
<p class='tp' style='font-size:0.8em;'>BY</p>
<p class='tp'>WILL IRWIN</p>
<p class='tp' style='font-size:0.8em;margin-bottom:8em;'>AUTHOR OF “THE CITY THAT WAS,” ETC.</p>
<p class='tp'>NEW YORK</p>
<p class='tp' style='font-size:1.2em;'>B. W. HUEBSCH</p>
<p class='tp' style='font-size:0.8em;'>1910</p>
<hr class='pb' />
<p class='tp' style='font-size:0.8em;margin-top:2em;'>Copyright, 1910, by<br />
B. W. HUEBSCH</p>
<p class='tp' style='margin-top:4em;margin-bottom:2em;font-size:0.8em;'>PRINTED IN U. S. A.</p>
<hr class='pb' />
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_1' name='page_1'></a>1</span></div>
<h1>THE READJUSTMENT</h1>
<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
<a name='CHAPTER_I' id='CHAPTER_I'></a>
<h2>CHAPTER I</h2>
</div>
<p>After luncheon they walked over from
the ranch-house—more indeed a country
villa, what with its ceiled redwood walls,
its prints, its library, than the working house
of a practical farm—and down the dusty,
sun-beaten lane to the apricot orchard. Picking
was on full blast, against the all too fast
ripening of that early summer.</p>
<p>Judge Tiffany, pattern of a vigorous age,
seemed to lean a little upon his wife as she
walked beside him, her arm tucked confidently
into his; but it was a leaning of the
spirit rather than of the flesh. She, younger
than he by fifteen years, was a tiny woman,
her hair white but her waist still slim. She
seemed to tinkle and twinkle. Her slight
hands,—the nail of the little finger was like
a grain of popcorn—moved with swift, accurate
bird-motions. As she chattered of the
ranch and the picking, her voice, still sweet
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_2' name='page_2'></a>2</span>
and controlled, came from her lips like the
pleasant music of a tea bell. He was mainly
silent; although he threw in a quiet, controlled
answer here and there. One could
read, in the shadowy solicitude with which
she regarded him now and then, the relation
between that welded old couple—she the entertainer,
the hoarder of trivial detail from
her days; he the fond, indulgent listener.</p>
<p>“I think Eleanor must be back from the
city,” Mrs. Tiffany was saying, “I notice
smoke from the big chimney; and I suppose
she’ll be over before noon with the sulphur
samples. It’s amusing and homey in her—her
habit of flying to her own little nest before
she comes to us. She’ll inspect the
house, have dinner ordered, and know every
blessed detail of the picking before we catch
a glimpse of her.” Mrs. Tiffany smiled
sadly, as though this industry were somewhat
tragic.</p>
<p>“I wonder how long Eleanor will be contented
with such a way of life?” put in Judge
Tiffany.</p>
<p>“I’ve worried over that,” answered his
wife. “Suppose she should settle down to it?
It isn’t as though Eleanor hadn’t her chance
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_3' name='page_3'></a>3</span>
at travel and society and the things a girl of
her breeding should have. This is all her deliberate
choice, and I’ve done nothing to help
her choose. Perhaps I should have decided
for her. It’s curious the guard that girl
keeps over her deeper feelings. How unlike
she is to her mother—and yet how like—”
Her thought shifted suddenly with the direction
of her eyes. “Hasn’t Olsen overloaded
that little team?” she said.</p>
<p>The cutting-shed stood midway of their
course. Twenty women and girls, their lips
going as rapidly as their knives, sat on fruit
crates at long tables, slicing the red-and-gold
balls apart, flicking out the stones, laying the
halves to dry in wooden trays. A wagon had
just arrived from the orchard. Olsen, the
Swedish foreman, was heaving the boxes to
his Portuguese assistant, who passed them on
into the cutting shed. Further on stood the
bleaching kilns; still further, the bright green
trees with no artistic irregularities of outline—trees
born, like a coolie, to bear burdens.
Now the branches bent in arcs under loads
of summer-gilded fruit.</p>
<p>Long step-ladders straddling piles of boxes,
beside this row or that, showed where picking
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_4' name='page_4'></a>4</span>
was going forward. Mrs. Tiffany halted
under one tree to call pleasantries up to a
Portuguese, friend of many a harvest before.
Judge Tiffany proceeded on down the row,
pausing to inspect the boxes for any fruit
gathered before it was ripe.</p>
<p>The first picker was a Chinese. His box,
of course, showed only perfection of workmanship.
The Judge called up familiarly:</p>
<p>“Hello, Charlie!”</p>
<p>A yellow face grinned through the
branches; the leaves rustled as though some
great bird were foraging, and the answer
came back:</p>
<p>“Hello you Judge!” The Judge picked
over the next two boxes without comment; at
the third, he stopped longer.</p>
<p>“Too much greenery, young man!” he cried
at length. The branches of this tree rustled,
and a pair of good, sturdy legs, clad in corduroys,
appeared on the ladder; then the owner
of the legs vaulted from four feet high in the
air, and hit the ground beside his box.</p>
<p>He was a stalwart boy of perhaps two and
twenty, broad, though a bit over-heavy, in the
shoulders. That approach to over-heaviness
characterized his face, otherwise clean-cut
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_5' name='page_5'></a>5</span>
and fair. His eyes, long, brown and ingenuous,
rather went to redeem this quality of
face. Under his wide and flapping sombrero
peered the front lock of his straight, black
hair. Even before he smiled, Judge Tiffany
marked him as a pleasing youth withal; and
when he did smile, eyes and mouth so softened
with good humor that stern authority
went from the face of Judge Tiffany. He
stood in that embarrassment which an old
man feels sometimes in the presence of a
younger one, struggled for a word to cover
his slight confusion, and said:</p>
<p>“You are one of the college outfit camped
down by the arroyo, aren’t you?”</p>
<p>“I am,” said the youth. “I also picked the
fruit too green. I am here to take my beating.”</p>
<p>Judge Tiffany, who held (he thought) an
old-fashioned distaste for impudence, smiled
back in spite of himself.</p>
<p>“If you don’t attend to business in small
matters, how can you hope to succeed when
you go out into life?” he asked with some
pomposity. He had intended, when he opened
his mouth, to say something very different.
His pomposity, he felt, grew out of
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_6' name='page_6'></a>6</span>
his embarrassment; he had a dim feeling that
he was making himself ridiculous.</p>
<p>“I can’t,” said the youth with mock meekness;
and he smiled again. At that moment,
while the Judge struggled for a reply and
while the youth was turning back to the ladder
as though to mount it and be done with
the conversation, two things happened. Up
from one side came Mrs. Tiffany; and from
the other, where ran a road dividing the Tiffany
orchard from the next, approached a
buckboard driven by a lolling Portuguese.
Beside him sat a girl all in brown, dust-resistant
khaki, who curtained her face with a parasol.
Mrs. Tiffany ran, light as an elderly
fairy, down the rows.</p>
<p>“Eleanor!” she called.</p>
<p>“Dear, dear Aunt Mattie!” cried the girl.
Judge Tiffany, too, was hurrying forward to
the road. The youth had his hand on the
ladder, prepared to mount, when the parasol
dropped. He stopped short with some nervous
interruption in his breathing—which
might have been a catch in his throat—at the
sight of her great, grey eyes; stood still,
watching. Mrs. Tiffany was greeting the
girl with the pats and caresses of aged fondness.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_7' name='page_7'></a>7</span>
Out of their chatter, presently, this
came in the girl’s voice:</p>
<p>“And I was so excited about getting back
that when Antonio left the corral gate open
I never thought to speak to him. And Ruggles’s
Dynamo—they’ve let him run away
again—just walked in and butted open the
orchard bars and he’s loose now eating the
prune trees!”</p>
<p>“Edward, you must go right over!” cried
Mrs. Tiffany; and then stopped on the
thought of an old man trying to subdue a
Jersey bull, good-natured though that bull
might be. The same thought struck Judge
Tiffany. Antonio, the Portuguese, lolling
half-asleep against the dashboard, was worse
than useless; the nearest visible help was a
Chinaman, incompetent against horned cattle,
and another Portuguese, and—</p>
<p>“Let me corral your bull,” said the easy,
thrilling voice of the boy who stood beside the
step-ladder. Judge Tiffany turned in reproof,
his wife in annoyance, the girl in
some surprise. The youth was already walking
toward the buckboard.</p>
<p>“I guess that lets you out, John,” he said
to the Portuguese.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_8' name='page_8'></a>8</span></p>
<p>Something in him, the same quality which
had made the Judge smile back through his
rebuke concerning the green apricots, held
them all. The Judge spoke first:</p>
<p>“Very well, Mr.—”</p>
<p>“Chester—Bertram Chester,” said the
youth, throwing his self-introduction straight
at the girl.</p>
<p>“Mr. Chester is one of the University boys
who are picking for us this summer,” said
Judge Tiffany.</p>
<p>“Yes?” replied the girl in a balanced, incurious
tone. Her eyes followed Mr. Chester,
while he took the reins from the deposed
Antonio and waited for her to mount the
buckboard. As she sprang up, after a final
caution from Mrs. Tiffany, she perceived
that he was going to “help her in.” With a
motion both quick and slight, she evaded his
hand and sprang to the seat unaided.</p>
<p>Mr. Chester slapped the reins, clucked to
the horse, and bent his gaze down upon the
girl. He had seated himself all too close.
She crowded herself against the iron seat-rail.
It annoyed her a little; it embarrassed her
still more. She was slightly relieved when he
made a beginning of conversation.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_9' name='page_9'></a>9</span></p>
<p>“So you’re Judge Tiffany’s niece, the girl
who runs her ranch herself. I’ve heard
heaps about you.”</p>
<p>“Yes?” Embarrassment came back with
the sound of her own voice. She could talk
to Judge Tiffany or to any man of Judge
Tiffany’s age, but with her male contemporaries
she felt always this same constraint.
And this young man was looking on her insistently,
as though demanding answers.</p>
<p>“They say you’re one of the smartest ranchers
in these parts,” he went on.</p>
<p>“Do they?” Her tone was even and inexpressive.
But Mr. Chester kept straight
along the path he was treading.</p>
<p>“And that you’re also the prettiest girl
around Santa Lucia.”</p>
<p>“That’s very kind of them.”</p>
<p>“I haven’t seen your ranch, but about the
rest of it they’re dead right.”</p>
<p>To this, she made no answer.</p>
<p>“I’m just down for a few weeks,” he went
on, changing the subject when he perceived
that he had drawn no reply. “I’m a Senior
next year at Berkeley. Ever been over to
Berkeley?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_10' name='page_10'></a>10</span></p>
<p>“Ever go to any of the class dances?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Thought you might, being in the city winters.
I’m not much on dances myself. I’m
a barb.”</p>
<p>He peered, as though expecting that this
last statement would evoke some answer.
But her eyes were fixed on the little group
of buildings—a bungalow, a barn and a corral—which
had just come in sight around a
turn of the orchard road. For the first time,
she spoke with animation.</p>
<p>“There’s the house—and there he is, just
back of the stable!”</p>
<p>Dynamo, the bull, a black and tan patch
amidst the greenery, stood reaching with his
tongue at an overhanging prune branch,
bowed to the breaking point with green beads
of fruit. As they watched, he sucked its tip
between his blue lips, pulled at it with a twist
of his head; the branch cracked and broke.
Dynamo, his eyes closed in meditative enjoyment,
started to absorb it from end to end.</p>
<p>“Oh, dear, he’ll ruin it!” she cried. “Do
hurry! Hadn’t you better send for help?”</p>
<p>“I figure I can handle him,” said Bertram
Chester, bristling at the imputation. “Just
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_11' name='page_11'></a>11</span>
give me that halter and drive in back of the
corral, will you?”</p>
<p>“Please don’t let him trample any trees!”
she called after her champion as he vaulted
the fence.</p>
<p>Dynamo, seeing the end of his picnic at
hand, galloped awkwardly a few rods, the
branch trailing from his mouth. Then, with
the ponderous but sudden shift of bull psychology,
indignation rose in his bosom. He
stopped himself so short that his fore-hoofs
plowed two long furrows in the soft earth;
whirled, lifted his muzzle, and bellowed.
One fore-hoof tore up the dirt and showered
it over his back. He dropped to his knees
and rubbed the ground with his neck in sheer
abandonment to the joy of his own abandoned
wickedness. He rose up in the hollow which
he had dug, lowered his horns, and glowered
at the youth, who advanced with a kind of
awkward bull-strength of his own.</p>
<p>“Chase yourself!” cried Bertram Chester,
flicking the halter. For a second, Dynamo’s
eyelids fluttered; then, unaccountably, his
bull pride rose up in him. He stopped midway
of a bellow; his head went down, his tail
rose up—and he charged. The girl across
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_12' name='page_12'></a>12</span>
the fence gave a little scream. The youth,
stepping aside with a quickness marvelous
considering the size of his frame, avoided the
charge. As Dynamo tore past him, he struck
out—a mighty lash—with the halter. The
bull tore on until he smashed into a prune
tree. The green fruit flew like water splashing
from a stone; and Dynamo checked his
course, turned again, began to paw and challenge
as the preliminary to another charge.</p>
<p>“Oh, let him go—please!” cried Eleanor.
Whether he heard her or not made little difference
to the youth. Taking advantage of
Dynamo’s slight hesitation, he sprang in close,
caught him by the horn and the tender, black
nose; and back and forth, across the ruins of
the prune tree, which went flat at the first
rally, they fought and tugged and tossed.
Through the agonized half-bellows of Dynamo,
Eleanor caught a slighter sound. Her
champion was swearing! Raised a little
above her fears by the vicarious joy of fight,
she took no offence at this; it seemed part of
the picture.</p>
<p>No one can account for the emotional processes
of a bull. Just as suddenly as it rose,
Dynamo’s courage evaporated. Once more
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_13' name='page_13'></a>13</span>
was he brother to the driven ox. He ceased
to plant his fore feet; his bellow became a
moan; he gave backward; in one mighty toss,
he threw off his conqueror, turned, and galloped
down the orchard with his tail curved
like a pretzel across his back. Behind him
followed the youth, lashing him with the
halter as long as he could keep it up, pelting
him with rocks and clods as the retreat gained.
So, in a cloud of dust, they vanished into the
Santa Clara road.</p>
<p>When Bertram Chester came back panting,
to return the halter, Antonio had arrived and
was unhitching the bay mare from the buckboard.
Eleanor stood by the corral gate, her
Panama hat fallen back from her brown hair
and a little of the excitement left in her grey
eyes. Bertram approached, grinning; he
wore a swagger like that of a little boy who
has just turned a series of somersaults before
the little girls. Eleanor noticed this.
Faintly—and in spite of the gratitude she
owed him for turning a neighborly service
into a heroic deed—she resented it. Also,
Dynamo and Mr. Chester, between them, had
wholly ruined a good prune tree in the prime
of bearing.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_14' name='page_14'></a>14</span></p>
<p>“Say, we didn’t do a thing to that tree,”
said Bertram Chester, with the air of one who
deprecates himself that he may leave the road
wide open for praise.</p>
<p>“It doesn’t matter. It—it was very brave
of you. Thank you very much—are you
hurt?”</p>
<p>“Only mussed up a little.” He blinked
perceptibly at the coolness in her tone.
Then he leaned back against a fence-post
with the settled air of one who expects
to continue the conversation. She swayed
slightly away from him.</p>
<p>“Kind of nice place,” he said, sweeping
his eye over the shingled cottage whose rose-bushes
were making a brave fight against the
dry summer dust, over the tiny lawn, over
the Lombardy poplars.</p>
<p>“It’s nice of you to say so.”</p>
<p>Bertram turned his eye upon her again.</p>
<p>“Say,” said he, “I don’t believe the Judge
expects me back right away! Anything more
I can do around the place?”</p>
<p>Eleanor smiled through her slight resentment.</p>
<p>“I don’t think I care to take the responsibility.”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_15' name='page_15'></a>15</span>
In that moment, the butcher-wagon,
making the rounds from farm-house to farm-house,
appeared quite suddenly at the bend of
the road. Maria, wife of Antonio and cook
for Eleanor’s haciendetta, ran out to meet it.</p>
<p>“Oh, Maria—tell Mr. Bowles I want to
see him!” cried Eleanor, and hurried toward
the house. Bertram Chester stood deserted
for a moment, and then;</p>
<p>“Good bye!” he called after her.</p>
<p>“Good bye and thank you so much!” she
answered over her shoulder.</p>
<hr class='tb' />
<p>Two minutes later, Mr. Bowles, driver of
the meat wagon, was saying to Eleanor:</p>
<p>“Which was it—rib or loin for Saturday,
Miss Gray?”</p>
<p>“Was it?” said Eleanor, absently; and she
fell to silence. Maria and Mr. Bowles, waiting
respectfully for her decision, followed her
eyes. She was looking at a dust cloud which
trailed down the lane. When she came out
of her revery and beheld them both watching,
silent and open-mouthed, she flushed violently.</p>
<p>Bertram Chester, swinging between the
green rows, was whistling blithely:
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_16' name='page_16'></a>16</span></p>
<table style='margin: auto' summary=''><tr><td>
<p style='margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;'>
“Say coons have you ebber ebber seen ma Angeline?<br />
She am de swetes’ swetes’ coon you ebber seen.”</p>
</td></tr></table>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_17' name='page_17'></a>17</span></div>
<hr class='major' />
<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
<a name='CHAPTER_II' id='CHAPTER_II'></a>
<h2>CHAPTER II</h2>
</div>
<p>Every Sunday afternoon during the
picking season, Mrs. Tiffany served tea
on the lawn for the half-dozen familiar households
on the Santa Lucia tract. That was the
busy time of all the year, affording no leisure
for those dinners and whist parties which
came in the early season, when the country
families had just arrived from town, or in
the late season, when prune picking grew
slack. Night finds one weary in the country,
even when his day has brought only
supervision of labor. These town-bred folk,
living from the soil and still but half welded
to it, fell unconsciously into farmer habits in
this working period.</p>
<p>The Goodyears and the Morses, more formal
than their neighbors, did indeed give a
dinner once or twice a summer to this or that
visitor from San Francisco or San Jose.
Otherwise, the colony gathered only at this
Sunday afternoon tea of Mrs. Tiffany’s. Her
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_18' name='page_18'></a>18</span>
place lay about midway of the colony, her
lawn, such as it was—no lawn flourishes
greatly in that land of dry summers—was the
oldest and best kept of all; further, they had
acquired the habit. Already, these Californians
were beginning a country life remotely
like that of England; a country life made gracious
by all the simple refinements, from bathtubs
to books. They had settled, too, into the
ways of a clique; small and informal as their
entertainments were, minor jealousies of leadership
had developed already.</p>
<p>By a kind of consent never yet made law
by any contest, the Goodyears were leaders
and dictators. He, Raleigh Goodyear, was
passably rich; his wife was by birth of that
old Southern set which dominated the society
of San Francisco from its very beginning.
Until their only daughter married into the
army and, by her money and connections, advanced
her husband to a staff position in
Washington, Mrs. Goodyear had figured
among the patrons to those cotillions and assemblies
by which the elect, under selection
of a wine agent, set themselves off from the
aspiring. Them the colony treated with familiar
deference.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_19' name='page_19'></a>19</span></p>
<p>Mrs. Tiffany, whose native desire to please
and accommodate had grown with her kind
of matrimony, held social leadership of a different
kind. Her summer house was the
boudoir of this colony, as her town house was
the centre for quiet and informal entertainment
just tinged with Bohemia. Hers was
the gate at which one stopped for a greeting
and a chat as one drove past on the road; she
was forever running to that gate. She knew
the troubles of all her neighbors, both the
town dwellers of her set and the humbler folk
who made fruit farming more of a business.
That rather silent husband of hers—a man
getting an uncomfortable peace from the end
of a turbulent and disappointing life which
had just escaped great success—told her that
she had one great fault of the head. She
must always make a martyr of herself by bearing
the burdens of her world.</p>
<p>The Judge and Mrs. Tiffany sat now, in
the early afternoon of a summer Sunday,
under the gigantic live-oak which shadowed
their piazza. She was crocheting a pink
scarf, through which her tiny fingers flew like
shuttles; he was reading. Out beyond their
hacienda, the American “hands,” fresh-shaved
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_20' name='page_20'></a>20</span>
for Sunday, lolled on the ground over
a lazy game of cards. From the creek bottom
further on, came a sound which, in the
distance, resembled the drumming of cicadas—a
Chinese workman was lulling his ease
with a moon-fiddle. Near at hand stood the
tea things, all prepared before Molly, the
maid, started for her Sunday afternoon visit
to the camp of the women cutters. Factory
girls from the city, these cutters, making a
vacation of the summer work.</p>
<p>Mrs. Tiffany glanced up from her yarns at
the leonine head of her husband, bent above
“The History of European Morals,” opened
her mouth as though to speak; thought better
of it, apparently. Twice she looked up like
this, her air showing that she was not quite
confident of his sympathy in that which she
meant to bring forward.</p>
<p>“Edward!” she said at length, quite loud.
He lowered the book and removed his reading
glasses, held them poised—a characteristic
gesture with him. He said no word;
between them, a glance was enough.</p>
<p>“You remember the young man who went
over with Eleanor to drive away the Ruggles
bull?”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_21' name='page_21'></a>21</span></p>
<p>Judge Tiffany gave assent by a slight inclination
of his head.</p>
<p>“I went over to the camp of those University
boys yesterday,” she went on, running
loops with incredible speed, “and I don’t
quite like the way they are living there.
They associate too much with the cutting-women.
You know, Edward, that isn’t good
for boys of their age—and they must be nice
at bottom or they wouldn’t be trying to work
their way through college—”</p>
<p>She stopped as though to note the effect.
The ripple of a smile played under Judge
Tiffany’s beard. She caught at her next
words a little nervously.</p>
<p>“You know we have a responsibility for the
people about the place, Edward—I couldn’t
bear to think we’d let any nice college boy degenerate
because we employed him—and it is
so easy at their age.”</p>
<p>“Which means,” broke in the Judge, “that
you have asked this Mr. Chester up here to
tea.”</p>
<p>“If—if you wish it, Edward.”</p>
<p>“I can’t very well countermand your invitation
and tell him by the foreman not to
come. But I warn you that this social recognition
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_22' name='page_22'></a>22</span>
will serve as no excuse if I catch him
picking any more green apricots.”</p>
<p>Mrs. Tiffany, unturned by this breeze of
criticism, ran along on her own tack.</p>
<p>“His manners <i>are</i> a little forward, but he
has a nice way of speaking. I’m sure he is
a gentleman, at bottom. You can’t expect
such a young man, who has been obliged to
work his way, to have all the graces at once.
They’ve brought down their town clothes—I
saw them last Sunday—so you needn’t be
afraid of that. I’ve asked Mr. Heath,
too.”</p>
<p>“Is that by way of another introduction?”
asked Judge Tiffany. His eyes looked at her
severely, but his beard showed that he was
smiling gently again. Half his joy in a
welded marriage lay in his appreciation of
her humors, as though one should laugh at
himself.</p>
<p>“Oh, there’s no doubt that <i>he’s</i> a gentleman.
He is less loud, somehow, than Mr. Chester,
though he hasn’t his charm. It seems there
is the most wonderful boy friendship between
them.”</p>
<p>“Where did you get all this insight into the
social life of our employees?” asked Judge
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_23' name='page_23'></a>23</span>
Tiffany; and then, “Mattie, you’ve been exposing
yourself to the night air again.”</p>
<p>“Over at their camp last evening,” said
Mrs. Tiffany. “Well, and isn’t it my business
to look after—after that side of the
ranch?” she added.</p>
<p>The Judge had dropped the book now; his
senses were alert to the game which never
grew old to him—“Mattie-baiting” he had
named it.</p>
<p>“Mattie,” he said, “with a pretty and marriageable,
dowered and maiden niece on your
hands, a new era is opening in your life of
passionate self-sacrifice. It used to be orphan
children and neglected wives of farm hands.
Now it is presentable but neglected bachelors.
Your darling match for Eleanor, I suppose,
would be some young soul snatched from evil
courses, pruned, trimmed, and delivered at
the altar with ‘Made by Mattie Tiffany’
branded on his wings. Spare, O spare your
innocent niece!”</p>
<p>“Edward, I never thought of it in that
light!” cried Mrs. Tiffany; and she bent herself
to furious crocheting. After a time, and
when the Judge had resumed his book, she
looked up and added:
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_24' name='page_24'></a>24</span></p>
<p>“It might be worse, though, than a young
man who had made it all himself.”</p>
<p>Judge Tiffany burst into laughter. Then,
seeing her bend closer over her pink yarns,
he grew grave, reached for the hand which
held the needles, and kissed it.</p>
<p>That was her reward of childless matrimony,
as the appreciation of her humors was
his.</p>
<hr class='tb' />
<p>While they sat thus, in one of their comfortable
hours, the guests were come. The
Morses appeared first. He was a pleasant,
hollow-chested little man; his delicacy of
lung gave him his excuse for playing gentleman
farmer. She, half-Spanish, carried
bulk for the family and carried it well. The
Andalusian showed in her coy yet open air,
in her small, broad hand and foot, in a languorous
liquidity of eye. Their son, a well-behaved
and pretty youth of twelve, and their
daughter, two years older, rode behind them
on the back seat. The daughter bore one of
those mosaic names with which the mixed
race has sprinkled California—Teresa del
Vinal Morse. A pretty, delicate tea-rose
thing, she stood at an age of divided appreciations.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_25' name='page_25'></a>25</span>
In the informal society of the Santa
Lucia colony, she was listening half the time
to her elders, taking a shadowy interest in
their sayings and opinions; for the rest, she
was turning on Theodore, that childish
brother, an illuminated understanding.</p>
<p>The Goodyears arrived with a little flourish.
Their trap, which she drove herself and
which was perhaps a little too English to be
useful or appropriate on a Californian road,
the straight, tailor lines of her suit—all displayed
that kind of quiet, refined ostentation
which, very possibly, shrieks as loud to God
as the diamond rings on a soiled finger.
Mrs. Tiffany, who had met the Morses on
the lawn, tripped clear across the rose-border
to meet the Goodyears; did it with entire unconsciousness
of drawing any distinction.
As by right, Mrs. Goodyear appropriated the
great green arm-chair under the oak tree,
from which throne she radiated a delicate
patronage upon the company.</p>
<p>The others followed by twos and threes.
Montgomery Lee, fresh-faced English University
man, raising prunes on his patrimony
of a younger son; the Roach girls, plump
Californian old maids, and their pleasant
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_26' name='page_26'></a>26</span>
little Yankee mother; the Ruggleses, a young
married couple. Careless farmers, Mr. and
Mrs. Ruggles; but they had the good nature
which is the virtue of that defect. This, and
the common interest in their three plump,
mischievous babies, gave them general popularity
in the colony.</p>
<p>Within five minutes, the company had followed
the law of such middle-aged groups of
familiars, and separated by sexes. The men
drifted over to the piazza, lit cigars, hoisted
their knees, and talked, first, of the prune
picking, their trouble with help, the rather
bootless effort of a group in San Jose to form
a Growers’ Association; then of that city
where lay their more vital interests.</p>
<p>Goodyear had just been to San Francisco
on a flying trip; he brought back fresh gossip:
The Bohemian Club had the “Jinks” in rehearsal;
a new-discovered poet had written
the book; it was to be (so the Sire declared)
the greatest in club history.</p>
<p>“As usual,” smiled Judge Tiffany.</p>
<p>They were saying about the Pacific Union
Club that the Southern Pacific had raised its
rates to Southern points. One might have
sensed that shadow which hangs always over
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_27' name='page_27'></a>27</span>
commercial California in the sombreness
which froze the group at this news. From
five minutes of pessimistic discussion, Goodyear
led them by a scattered fire of personalities.
Billy Darnton was going to give a
bull’s head breakfast at San Jacinto. Al
Hemphill was coming to it all the way from
New York. Charlie Bates had pulled out
for the new gold diggings in the Mojave
desert, rich again in anticipation, although
he had to leave San Francisco secretly to
escape the process servers.</p>
<p>“Tea, gentlemen!” called Mrs. Tiffany,
from her nasturtium bower in the shadow of
the great oak.</p>
<p>“Just when we are getting comfortable,”
her husband growled pleasantly; and he made
no move to rise. The women sat at ease
about the tea-table. Their talk, beginning
with the marvelous Ruggles babies, had run
lightly past clothes and help, and fallen into
the hands of Mrs. Goodyear. She, too, was
full of San Francisco. Apart, under the
grape arbor, Teresa Morse and her brother
were snaring lizards—playing like two well-behaved
babies miraculously grown tall.</p>
<p>“There’s Eleanor,” suddenly spoke Teresa.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_28' name='page_28'></a>28</span>
At the word, she dropped her lizard, started
forward; and stopped as she came out into
full view of the road.</p>
<p>Eleanor, in fresh white, bareheaded under
her parasol, was approaching between two
young men. The slighter of the two men
moved a little apart; the heavier, in whom
Mrs. Tiffany recognized with some apprehension
the new protegé, Mr. Bertram Chester,
walked very close up. He was peering
under the parasol, which Eleanor dropped in
his direction from time to time without visibly
effecting his removal. It seemed from
his wide gestures, from the smile which became
apparent as he drew nearer, that he was
talking ardently.</p>
<p>In the other man, Mrs. Tiffany recognized
that Mr. Heath who had the boy friendship
with Bertram Chester. He was putting in a
word now and then, it appeared. When he
spoke, Eleanor turned polite attention upon
him; and then resumed her guarded attitude
toward that dynamo buzzing at her left. Insensible
of the company on the lawn, they
passed behind the grape arbor which fringed
the gate and which hid them temporarily
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_29' name='page_29'></a>29</span>
from view; and the one-sided conversation
became audible.</p>
<p>“It wasn’t a <i>patch</i> on fights I’ve had with
’em. Down home, I used to fight steers right
along. That’s nothing to a nigger who used
to work for us in Tulare. He’d jump on
their backs and reach over and bite their
noses till they hollered quits. Sure thing he
did!” It died out as they turned in at the
gate and faced the group about the trees.</p>
<p>Mrs. Goodyear made a gesture of an imaginary
lorgnette toward her high-bridged nose.
Mrs. Tiffany gathered herself and ran over
to the gate. It was Mr. Heath—she noticed
as she advanced—who was blushing. Bertram
Chester stood square on his two feet
smiling genially. As for Eleanor, she maintained
that sweet inscrutability of face which
became, as years and trouble came on, her
great and unappreciated personal asset.</p>
<p>Young Chester spoke first:</p>
<p>“I knew Miss Gray was coming down this
afternoon—so I laid for her on the road—didn’t
I, Miss Gray?”</p>
<p>“Very nice of you, I’m sure,” murmured
Mrs. Tiffany, though she bit her lip before
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_30' name='page_30'></a>30</span>
she spoke—“won’t you come over to meet our
friends?” Eleanor had darted ahead, to the
pats of the women and the adoring hugs of
Teresa Morse.</p>
<p>Mrs. Tiffany saw with relief that her disgraced
protegé managed his end of the introduction
very well, although he did make a
slight advance to shake hands with the critical
Mrs. Goodyear. He gave no sign to show
that he perceived the men over on the piazza.
Mr. Heath, his Fidus Achates, cast a slight
glance in their direction; then, seeing Bertram
settle himself down in an arm-chair and
begin at once to address Mrs. Goodyear, he
sat down likewise, suffused with an air of
young embarrassment. Mrs. Ruggles, seated
next to him, began with visible tact the effort
to put him at his ease.</p>
<p>Mr. Chester, as he talked to Mrs. Goodyear,
looked always toward Eleanor. She,
helping Mrs. Tiffany with the tea things,
turning a caressing word now and then toward
Teresa Morse, might not have noticed,
for all her expression showed.</p>
<p>The men came over for tea, were introduced.
Mrs. Tiffany, in her foolish anxiety
for the manners and appearance of her
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_31' name='page_31'></a>31</span>
protegé, noted that he was at home with men,
at least.</p>
<p>Mr. Goodyear, indeed, clutched with his
eye at the blue-and-gold button in the lapel of
Bertram’s coat, at the figure of him, and at
the name.</p>
<p>“You aren’t Chester who played tackle on
the Berkeley Varsity last season?” he asked.
An old Harvard oar, Goodyear kept up his
interest in athletics.</p>
<p>“Tackle and half,” said the youth. “Yes,
sir.”</p>
<p>“Well, well, I remember you in the game!”
said Goodyear.</p>
<p>Mrs. Tiffany, now that her protegé no
longer needed watching, had returned to her
tea things.</p>
<p>“Eleanor,” she called. “Will you run into
the house and get that box of chocolate wafers
that’s over the ice chest?”</p>
<p>“Let me carry ’em for you, Miss Gray,”
put in Chester, breaking through a college
reminiscence of Goodyear’s.</p>
<p>Eleanor never flicked an eyelash as she announced:</p>
<p>“I should be very glad.”</p>
<p>Tiffany, glancing over the group,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_32' name='page_32'></a>32</span>
noted with comparative relief that none but
she, Goodyear, and the young persons involved,
had heard this passage.</p>
<p>As they moved toward the house, Bertram
opened upon Miss Gray at once.</p>
<p>“This is the second chance I’ve had alone
at you,” he said.</p>
<p>“We are rather conspicuous,” she burst out.</p>
<p>“Oh, nobody’ll mind. A girl always
thinks everybody is looking at her. Besides,
I wouldn’t care if they were. I’ve wanted to
tell you something, and I couldn’t with Heath
trailing us. You’ve got awfully nice eyes.”</p>
<p>Eleanor seemed to see neither the necessity
nor the convenience of an answer.</p>
<p>“But you have!” he persisted. “They’re
better than pretty. They’re nice.”</p>
<p>Again Eleanor said nothing. It seemed to
her that there was nothing to say.</p>
<p>“I know why you’ve got it in for me,” he
burst out. “You have, you know. When I
speak to you, you never talk back, and yesterday
you wouldn’t let me stay after I had corralled
the bull. It’s because I’m working for
your uncle. It’s because I’m making a living,
not eating what someone else made for
me like—” he swept his hand backward toward
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_33' name='page_33'></a>33</span>
the company on the lawn—“like those
people out there.”</p>
<p>Stung, for a second, to a visible emotion,
Eleanor raised her grey eyes and regarded
him.</p>
<p>“You are assuming a little, aren’t you?”
said she.</p>
<p>“Then why can’t I come to see you sometime
in the evening if that isn’t so? I don’t
ask it of many nice girls.”</p>
<p>She caught at the delimiting phrase, “nice
girls,” and glanced up again. By this time,
they had passed through the living room;
and he had awkwardly opened the door into
the kitchen.</p>
<p>“I haven’t known you very long,” she said.</p>
<p>“There isn’t a lot to know about me,” he
grumbled. Then his face cleared like the
sunshine breaking through. “I could teach
you to savvey the whole works in an evening.”</p>
<p>“There are the chocolate wafers up over
the ice-chest—that brown tin box.” He
reached up and heaved the package down,
putting into that simple and easy operation
the energy of one lifting a trunk.</p>
<p>Annoyed, and a little amused, Eleanor
watched him. All at once, she felt a catch
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_34' name='page_34'></a>34</span>
in her throat, was aware of a vague, uncomprehended
fear—fear of him, of her loneliness
with him, of something further and
greater which she could not understand, did
not try to understand. She wanted air;
wanted to get away. When he turned about,
she stood holding open the kitchen door, her
eyes averted.</p>
<p>She felt that he was standing over her; she
felt his smile as he looked down.</p>
<p>“You needn’t be in such a terrible hurry,”
he said.</p>
<p>“They’ll be waiting for us on the lawn,”
she forced herself to answer. It required all
her energy to keep her voice clear and firm.
Then she hurried ahead into the open air.
Once in sight of the lawn party, she made herself
walk beside him, even smile up at him.</p>
<p>“It’s just as I said—” he had gone back to
his grumbling voice and his wholly presumptuous
manner—“Either you don’t like
me, or you’re sore on me because I’m working
for your uncle.”</p>
<p>To the great relief of Eleanor, Mrs. Tiffany
came out to meet them, took the box
from Bertram and accompanied them back to
the tea table. For the rest of the afternoon,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_35' name='page_35'></a>35</span>
Eleanor managed by one device or another
to save the situation. When, in the shifting
of group and group, she had no one else for
protection, Teresa Morse, following her like
a dog, ready to come to her side at a glance,
played the involuntary chaperone.</p>
<p>Judge Tiffany had no word alone with his
wife until the sun slanted low across the
orchard and the company broke up. When
he met her apart, he said:</p>
<p>“He ought to be a success, that protegé of
yours!”</p>
<p>“I have been dreadfully mortified!”</p>
<p>“Oh, not a social success, though that may
come too, if he ever perceives the necessity
for it. But a general success. Such simple
and unturned directness as his ought to win
out anywhere. It is more than enchanting.
It is magnificent. I’m willing to risk discipline
on the place just to study a specimen so
unusual. Mattie, this time I am going to
assist. I’m going to ask him to supper.”</p>
<p>“Edward, are you laughing at me again?”</p>
<p>“For once, my dear, no; not at least on the
main line. You’d better ask that Mr. Heath,
too.”</p>
<p>“And Eleanor?”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_36' name='page_36'></a>36</span></p>
<p>The Judge looked across to the oak tree,
where Eleanor was ostentatiously tying up
the brown braids of Teresa Morse. Bertram,
talking athletics with Goodyear, had
her under fire of his eyes.</p>
<p>“If any young person was ever capable to
make that choice, it is your niece Eleanor,”
he said. “It might afford study. Yes, ask
her, too.”</p>
<p>Mr. Chester and Mr. Heath were delighted;
though Mr. Chester said that he had
an engagement for the evening. (“What engagement
except with the cutting-women?”
thought Mattie Tiffany.) But Eleanor declined.
Some of the chickens were sick; she
was afraid that it might be the pip; she
doubted if Antonio or Maria would attend
to it; she would sup at home. Mrs. Tiffany,
anticipating the intention which she saw in
Bertram’s eyes, made a quick draft on her
tact and asked:</p>
<p>“Mr. Chester, would you mind helping me
in with the chairs?”</p>
<p>Seated at the supper table, Bertram Chester
expanded. The Judge took him in hand at
once; led him on into twenty channels of introspective
talk. Presently, they were speaking
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_37' name='page_37'></a>37</span>
direct to one another, the gulf that
separates youth from age, employer from employed,
bridged by interest on one side and
supreme confidence on the other. This
grouping left Mrs. Tiffany free to study
Heath. It grew upon her that she had overlooked
him and his needs through her interest
in the more obvious Chester. She noticed
with approval his finished table manners.
Mr. Chester, though he understood the
proper use of knife and fork and napkin, paid
slight attention to “passing things”; Heath,
on the contrary, was alert always, and especially
to her needs. “He had a careful
mother,” she thought. Gently, and with a
concealed approach, she led him on to his
family and his worldly circumstances. He
spoke freely and simply, and with a curious
frank assumption that anything his people
chose to do was right, because they did it.
He had come down to the University from
Tacoma; his father kept a wagon repair shop.
His people had gone too heavily into the land
boom, and lost everything.</p>
<p>“I felt that I could work my way through
Berkeley or Stanford more easily than
through an Eastern college,” he said simply.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_38' name='page_38'></a>38</span></p>
<p>“And then I shouldn’t be so far away from
home. Mother likes to see me at least once
a year.”</p>
<p>He was going home after the apricot picking
was over; he felt that in vacation he
should earn at least his fare to Washington
and back.</p>
<p>“I’m sure she must be a very good mother
to deserve that devotion,” said Mrs. Tiffany,
warming to him.</p>
<p>“She deserves more,” he said, a kind of
inner glow rising to his white-and-pink boyish
face. That same glow,—Mrs. Tiffany
might have noticed this and did not—illuminated
him whenever, from across the
table, Chester’s laugh or his energetic crack
on a sentence called a forced attention. Mr.
Heath deferred always to this louder personality;
kept for him the anxious and eager interest
of a mother toward her young. Gradually,
this interest absorbed both Mr. Heath
and Mrs. Tiffany. The table talk became a
series of monologues by young Bertram Chester,
Judge Tiffany throwing in just enough
replies to spur and guide him.</p>
<p>“No, I don’t belong to any fraternity,” said
the confident youth, “don’t believe in them.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_39' name='page_39'></a>39</span>
They plenty beat me for football captain last
year too. When I came to college, they
didn’t want me. After I made the team and
got prominent, they began to rush me. Then
I didn’t want <i>them</i>.”</p>
<p>“It might have been easier for Bert if he
<i>had</i> joined them,” said Heath. “They don’t
like to have their members working at—with
their hands; they always find them snap jobs
if they are poor and prominent.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I don’t know,” said Bertram. “The
barbs elected me business manager of the <i>Occident</i>
last season—I didn’t make the team
until I was a Sophomore, you know—and that
more than paid my way. This year I’ve got
a billiard hall with Sandy McCusick.</p>
<p>“He used to be a trainer for the track
team,” explained Bertram. “I steer him custom
and he runs it. Ought to get me through
next year over and above. That’s one reason
I’m picking fruit and resting my mind this
summer instead of hustling for money in the
city.”</p>
<p>“And then?” asked the Judge.</p>
<p>“Law, I guess.”</p>
<p>“I am an attorney myself.”</p>
<p>“I guess I know that!”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_40' name='page_40'></a>40</span></p>
<p>“What school have you chosen?”</p>
<p>“None, I guess. I don’t want to afford
the time. Yes, I know you want good preparation,
but I’d rather be preparing in an office,
making a little and keeping my eye open
for chances. I may find, before my three
years are up, that it isn’t law I want, but business.”</p>
<p>“I’m not a college man myself,” said the
Judge, “I got my education by reading nights
on the farm, and pounded out what law I
knew in an office at Virginia City. One
didn’t need a great deal of law to practice in
Comstock days—more nerve and mining sense.
But I’ve regretted always that I didn’t have a
more thorough preparation. Still, every man
to his own way. This may be best for you.”</p>
<p>“That’s what I think,” said Bertram Chester.
“When I got through High School in
Tulare, Dad said, ‘Unless you want to stay
on the ranch, you’d better foot it for college.’
I didn’t want to ranch it, and I saw that college
must be the best place for a start. Dad
put up for the first year. I might have
stretched it out to cover a little of my Sophomore
year if I’d been careful. I was a pretty
fresh Freshman,” he added.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_41' name='page_41'></a>41</span></p>
<p>“And your mother?” asked Mrs. Tiffany.
“I suppose she was crazy for you to go.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I suppose she would have been.
She’s been dead ten years. How hard is it
to get into a law office in San Francisco?” he
added, shifting.</p>
<p>Judge Tiffany met the direct hint with a
direct parry.</p>
<p>“We have five thousand attorneys in San
Francisco and only five hundred of them are
making a living.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I know it is overcrowded,” said Bertram
Chester, not a particle abashed.</p>
<p>After black coffee on the piazza, the two
college boys swung off down the lane, Bertram
smoking rapidly at one of the Judge’s
cigars.</p>
<p>“He can be almost anything,” said the
Judge, meditatively.</p>
<p>“Even a gentleman?” gently inquired Mrs.
Tiffany.</p>
<p>“Perhaps that isn’t necessary in our Western
way of life. Thank God, we haven’t come
yet to the point where the caste of Vere de
Vere is necessary to us.”</p>
<p>“I wish I had it,” he went on, a little wistfully.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_42' name='page_42'></a>42</span></p>
<p>“Gentility? why Edward, if anyone—”</p>
<p>“Oh no, my dear. I may say that was half
the trouble. So many considerations came up;
so many things I didn’t want to do, so many
it didn’t seem right to do. I was forever
turning aside to wrestle with my feelings on
those things, and forever hesitating. Half the
time, after the opportunity was gone by, I
discovered that my scruples had been foolish;
but I always discovered afterward. I don’t
believe that success lies that way in a new
world.”</p>
<p>He had risen; and now his wife rose and
stood beside him.</p>
<p>“You are forever talking as though you
were a failure. I know you’re not. Everyone
knows you’re not.”</p>
<p>“The parable of the ten talents, Mattie.
Not how much we’ve got, but how much interest
we’ve earned on our powers. However,
we had that out long ago, my dear. Yes,
I know. I promised not to talk and think
this way. But if I’d been like this boy! He’ll
seize the thing before him. No side considerations
in his mind!”</p>
<p>“It is a policy,” said Mrs. Tiffany in a tone
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_43' name='page_43'></a>43</span>
of injured partisanship, “that will land him
in jail.”</p>
<p>“No,” said the Judge, “success does not
lead towards jails. He’ll look out for that.”</p>
<hr class='major' />
<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_44' name='page_44'></a>44</span>
<a name='CHAPTER_III' id='CHAPTER_III'></a>
<h2>CHAPTER III</h2>
</div>
<p>In that immortal “middle period” of San-Francisco,
when the gay mining camp was
building toward a stable adjustment of society,
when the wild, the merry, the dissolute and
the brave who built the city were settling down
to found houses and cultivate respectability
in face of a constantly resurgent past—in
those days none who pretended to eminence
in the city but knew the sisters Sturtevant.
Members of that aristocracy which dwelt on
Rincon Hill, their names and fames quite
eclipsed those of their quiet, self-effacing
parents. Although they never called it that,
their establishment amounted to a salon.
Also, they never called their circle Bohemian,
yet it was tinged with an easy view on
the conventionalities, a leaning toward art and
the things of art, which meant Bohemia in
the time when that word was of good repute.
Spain, perpetual spring, the flare of adventure
in the blood, the impulse of men who packed
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_45' name='page_45'></a>45</span>
Virgil with their bean-bags on the Overland
journey, conspired already to make San Francisco
a city of artists. She had developed her
two poets, singers whose notes had sounded
round the world; the painters had followed.
The stir of a new life in art, a life which was
never quite to reach fulfilment, blew in the
bay air.</p>
<p>Centre for those awakening young painters,
those minor poets who carried in weaker hands
the torches of the two giant pioneers, was the
house of the Sturtevant sisters, the one a wit,
the other a beauty. Heaven was not grudging
with gifts to these two. Alice, the wit,
had also a hidden kind of beauty which was
not to be taken in on first sight, but which,
perceived by the painters of that set, made
some of them swear that she was the real
beauty of the two. Matilda, the beauty, had
if not wit a sprightly feminine fancy. Then,
too, her gentleness of judgment, her sweetness
of intention, and her illogic of loyalty, gave
her point of view a humorous quality. Her
circle, confident in her good-nature, was forever
leading her on, by this device or that, to
exhibit what John Stallard, the novelist, called
her “comedy of charity.” O’Ryan, that great,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_46' name='page_46'></a>46</span>
glowing failure whose name will outlive the
fame of the successful in San Francisco, used
to play ingenious jokes upon it. O’Ryan was
possibly the only man of any time who could
draw the sting of a practical joke.</p>
<p>They dwelt, twin-regnant over this world
of theirs, in sisterly harmony. Stallard declared
always that a final gift of fate and the
gods preserved them to harmony: their tastes
in men differed. They had choice enough,
God wot—poets and novelists struggling on
the verge of fame; attractive, irresponsible,
magnetic journalists, destined never to arrive
anywhere, but following a flowery path along
which a woman might smile; sons of new-rich
millionaires who followed and backed and
corrupted the artists of that budding Paris
which never blossomed; two painters, among
many, who got both fame and wealth before
they were done.</p>
<p>In his later years, one asked Tyson the English
novelist, connoisseur of women if there
ever was one, whom he esteemed the prettiest
and whom the wittiest among the women he
had known and studied.</p>
<p>“For wit, Lady Vera Loudon,” he said, “and
after her, a quite remarkable woman I met
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_47' name='page_47'></a>47</span>
in San Francisco out on the West Coast of
America—of all places.” Tradition has enlarged
this reply to make Matilda Sturtevant
his prettiest as Alice was his wittiest.</p>
<p>Matilda’s fresh beauty of the devil, her full
yet delicate beauty of the twenties and early
thirties, live in the galleries of Europe. The
painters all had their try at her; she lived in
creation which ran the line between miniatures
and heroic canvases. Lars Wark, perhaps the
least considered of all her painter friends, is
the one that triumphed most of all. Who does
not know his Launcelot and Enid? The Enid,
of a beauty so intelligent, so wistful and so
good—she is Matilda Sturtevant, hardly idealized.</p>
<p>These twin graces married within two years
of each other. Of course, they chose strangely.
Matilda, whose beauty might have graced the
head of the table in any one of three gaudy
mansions on Nob Hill, chose Edward C. Tiffany,
attorney, politician in a small but honorable
way, man about town—and much older
than she. Alice, following quietly, accepted
Billy Gray, journalist—a clever reporter with
no possibilities beyond that; a gentleman, it is
true, and a man of likeable disposition, but
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_48' name='page_48'></a>48</span>
on the whole the least desirable of all her followers.</p>
<p>Billy and Alice Gray lived out the three
years which were all they ever had of matrimony,
in a Latin quarter garret, transformed
into a studio. The intellectual centre of San
Francisco shifted to that garret; the gay, the
witty and the brilliant still followed wherever
Alice Gray might go. Billy, a type of the
journalist in the time when journalism meant
the careless life, left her a great deal alone
after the honeymoon. On his side, there was
no conscious neglect in this; on her side, there
was no reproach. It was just their way of
living. He adored her with a quiet, steady
flame of affection which was too fine to degenerate
into mere uxoriousness. Already, he was
a little too fond of his liquor—a peccadillo
which attracted little attention in that age of
the careless city. This troubled Alice Gray
less than it would have troubled her mother.
In the periods when she pulled herself up, she
worried to think how little she did care about
it. In fact, his remorseful recovery from his
debauches had become her occasion for pouring
out upon him the mother in her. She reveled
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_49' name='page_49'></a>49</span>
guiltily in this singular sacrament of her
singular love.</p>
<p>After three years Alice Gray gave birth to
a daughter—and died within a fortnight afterward.
In all truth, I may say that life, for
Billy Gray, ended that day. To lose this tenth
muse—I can think of nothing more complete
in tragedy except the loss of her father of
Marjorie Fleming. And he, like Marjorie
Fleming’s father, spoke her name no more—until
near the end. When after twenty years,
his own time came, Stallard, LeBrun the poet
and Lars Wark gathered to pay him their last
respects. LeBrun came all the way from New
Orleans, and Stallard delayed his journey to
the South Seas. They had drifted away from
him, such had become his ways and habits;
they came back in honor of the woman who
illuminated their youth. So long and so powerful
was the influence of her who never wrote
a line except in air and memory.</p>
<p>Billy Gray went on living for the sake of
his daughter; but he lived like a man driven
of the furies. He became one of those restless,
wandering journalists whose virtue to
their newspapers is their utter abandonment
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_50' name='page_50'></a>50</span>
of courage and enterprise, whose defect is their
love of drink.</p>
<p>Eleanor, they called the baby—Alice had
chosen that name “in case it is a girl.” Mrs.
Tiffany, childless herself, played second
mother during the first three years of Eleanor’s
healthy and contented little life. Perceiving
the growth of bad habits in that broken
brother-in-law, strong and generous enough to
face her perceptions, she called him back from
a desk in Los Angeles, where, gossip said, he
was drinking himself to death, and gave him
over his daughter to keep. From that time
on, during a succession of removes which took
him from Vancouver on the north to Los Angeles
on the south, Billy Gray had establishment
after establishment, housekeeper after
housekeeper for this daughter. Her face and
ways, the dim shadowing of her mother’s, were
the only hold on reality which he kept.</p>
<p>She grew up a rather grave little thing,
hardly pretty at all until she turned fifteen,
when she showed signs that the beauty of her
aunt, if not the wit of her mother, might live
again in her. Of wit, it seemed, she had
little; neither did she show any great talents
in her irregular schooling. Her longest term
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_51' name='page_51'></a>51</span>
at any one school was three years with the
Franciscan Sisters in Santa Barbara. They,
Spanish gentlewomen mainly, are the arbiters
and conservators of old fashioned manners on
the West Coast. Of them it is said, as it is said
of certain sisterhoods in France, that one may
know their graduates by the way they keep
their combs and brushes. In two years Eleanor
absorbed something of their grave gentility
from these Spanish women. Little
else she got from that education, seeing that
she was a Protestant and studied neither catechism
nor church doctrine. She did, indeed,
totter once on the brink of Rome—even dared
speak to her father about it. He accepted
the situation so carelessly and gave his assent
so easily that she was a little hurt. But the
next day, he quizzed her about the church and
its doctrines. Like a good lawyer, he slipped
in the crucial question of his cross-examination
between two blind ones.</p>
<p>“All who die outside of the church go to
Hell, don’t they?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Sister Sulpicia says so.”</p>
<p>“Then your grandmother” (Mrs. Sturtevant
had just died) “is in Hell?”</p>
<p>He pursued the line no further; he never
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_52' name='page_52'></a>52</span>
needed to; and after a time the storm of doctrine
died down in her. That phase of life
left another effect on her beside her manners—a
mark common enough among Protestant
women reared in the shadow of the Catholic
Church. Outside its pale by belief, she clung
to a few of its sacramentals for pet superstitions,
and to a few of its observances for her
consolation in trouble and her expression in
happiness.</p>
<p>She was sixteen, and about to graduate from
a Seminary in Oakland, when her call came
to her. In one moment, the secret of her father’s
long absence became plain; and her
whole way of life changed.</p>
<p>Billy Gray had drifted back to the city of
his beginnings and happiness; was writing
hack editorials and paragraphs for the little
weeklies which so infested San Francisco. She
knew that their fortunes were low, that only
her inheritance, left in trust by her grandparents,
kept them moving. Also, a dim suspicion
which she had held of her father for
years was taking shape in her mind—too young
that mind, yet, for any very strong belief in
human conduct not written in the tables of
the law or in the Etiquette Book.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_53' name='page_53'></a>53</span></p>
<p>The current which fused these amorphic
thoughts was generated in the most commonplace
manner. By custom, she went to the
seminary on Monday morning, staying there
until Friday evening. It happened that the
death of a teacher made Friday an unexpected
holiday. Returning on Thursday afternoon,
she found the house locked. She remembered
that this was “make-up day” at the weekly
which took most of her father’s work; he must
be in the office. She hesitated, wondering
whether to telephone for the key; decided to
walk down town, since it was a beaming,
windless afternoon.</p>
<p>She came about a corner of Montgomery
Street, turned in toward the office of <i>The
Whale</i>, and ran into the environs of a gathering
city crowd. The men were straining
over backs and shoulders to see; the women
were pressing their hands convulsively to
their faces with pity and disgust.</p>
<p>“What’s the answer?” some one called from
the fringe.</p>
<p>“A drunk,” came a voice from within,
“plain drunk.” The police arrived just then,
and cleared a way; through the rift they made,
she saw them lift—Billy Gray, her father.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_54' name='page_54'></a>54</span></p>
<p>In the limpness and horror of this, her first
crisis, she did nothing, said nothing; only stood
there. Presently, she was aware that a workman
in soiled overalls had joined the policemen.</p>
<p>“Now that’s all right,” he was saying, “he’s
only dead to the world, making no trouble for
nobody. He works for <i>The Whale</i> up above;
what’s the good to pinch him?” “<i>The
Whale</i>?” asked one of the policemen; and hesitated
on the word. In quick decision, then, he
whirled upon the crowd, pushed it back,
cleared a space. The other policeman and the
man in the soiled overalls—he was foreman of
<i>The Whale</i>—picked up Billy Gray, who was
turning and mumbling feebly, and started to
carry him upstairs. A sudden impulse of her
limbs, an instinct independent of her will,
drew her toward them. The policeman, clearing
away the crowd, laid hand upon her.</p>
<p>“You’ll have to get back little girl!” he said.</p>
<p>She looked him in the eye; the sudden
abandonment to her shame seemed to lift
and to exalt her; afterward, shuddering over
that day, she still remembered a certain perverse
pleasure in this moment. And she spoke
loud, so loud that all the crowd might hear.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_55' name='page_55'></a>55</span></p>
<p>“He is my father!”</p>
<p>The policeman gave way; she hurried up
the stairs. The bearers of Billy Gray were
resting on the top of the first flight. They
had braced him up against the banisters and
were trying to rub sense back into him. She
addressed herself straight to the foreman.</p>
<p>“Does this happen often?” she asked.</p>
<p>A good natured and communicative person,
he was also enough touched by his importance
as Good Samaritan to answer the question of
a stray little girl.</p>
<p>“Lord yes!” he replied. “Every pay day
nowadays. Used to be the brightest man in the
business, too.”</p>
<p>Then as she stood there, blown by all the
strong cross-winds of the world, Marshall the
editor, who knew Eleanor, came hurrying
down the stairs. He saw that wreckage, grown
familiar now to them all, saw the girl standing
white of face beside the balustrade; the situation
came over him at once. He opened the
door, drew in both the intoxicated Billy Gray
and his daughter. Half an hour later, when
Billy could walk a little—it was a dead, nerveless
intoxication with him nowadays—Eleanor
and the foreman took him home in a cab.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_56' name='page_56'></a>56</span></p>
<p>In that long day and night, Eleanor strung
together a thousand half-forgotten incidents,
neglects and irregularities of life, and perceived
the truth which her whole world had
been in conspiracy to keep from her. Out of
the cross-blowing impulses of an immaturity
which was still half childhood—self pity,
shame, heroic pride in her own tragedy, passionate
hatreds of a world which harbors such
things—she came to a resolve in whose very
completeness she was happy for a time.
When, before breakfast, she burst into Mattie
Tiffany’s boudoir, she had a saintly radiance
in her face. The elder woman, advised by the
first words that Eleanor knew, took the little,
cold body into bed with her, petted her back
to something like calm. Storm followed the
calm; Eleanor went all to pieces in a burst of
passionate crying.</p>
<p>After she had recovered a little, her purpose
came out of her. Considering her years, she
said it all quite simply and undramatically. It
was her business to be with her father. Her
mother would have wished it so. She was
going to leave school. That was her work.</p>
<p>Mattie Tiffany, with her passion for picturesque
philanthropies, knew right well that
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_57' name='page_57'></a>57</span>
she had neglected somewhat the plain, unpicturesque
philanthropy which lay close to her
hand. She had neither the heart nor the conscience
to deny Eleanor this sacrifice. In that
hour, there grew up between the childless aunt
and the motherless niece an understanding
which those three years of first infancy, when
Eleanor had lain on her breast like a daughter,
had never brought at all.</p>
<p>In three months more, during which time
Billy Gray reformed, lapsed, reformed, lapsed
again, the wiser head of Judge Tiffany found
the way. The Sturtevant estate, nearly fifty
thousand dollars in all, lay in his hands as
trustee. Upon Eleanor’s majority, it was to be
divided, one third accruing to her, the surviving
grandchild, and two-thirds to Mattie Tiffany.</p>
<p>Of late, Judge Tiffany had been turning
his mind toward the Santa Clara Valley fruit
farms, and especially toward the Santa Lucia
tract. He had made the struggle with his own
world and lost; that is another story. At sixty-eight,
life held little for him except an easy
descent into the grave after a career in which
he had played only too little. That leisurely
style of farming, which would permit him to
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_58' name='page_58'></a>58</span>
keep an eye on his dwindling law practice, attracted
him. And nothing, it seemed to him,
would better further the intention, now awakened
in all of them, to do something for Billy
Gray. He bought, therefore, two tracts, already
planted and bearing in diversified fruits;
one of forty acres, with a little cottage home,
for Eleanor; the other of eighty acres, with a
large bungalow, for himself.</p>
<p>So far as his intentions toward Billy Gray
went, Judge Tiffany made this venture with
little hope. Billy Gray had tried the Keeley
Cure twice. After each course of treatment,
he had “beaten it,” although he must gargle
whisky, through a deadly sickness, in order
to get back into the habit again. His was
that variety of drunkenness which is not only
an unnatural thirst, but also a mania to forget.
There on the Santa Lucia tract, Billy Gray,
sure of a living, might tilt at happiness
and success with that independent writing
which is the chimera of all newspaper men
until the end of their days; and Eleanor might
help him make the fight.</p>
<p>The next four years—they were a monotony
of variety. For her broken, incompetent father,
Eleanor learned the art and practice of
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_59' name='page_59'></a>59</span>
growing apricots and prunes. Lady of her
small manor, she made a business of it; got it
to pay after the second year. Billy Gray never
reformed; no one but Eleanor ever expected
that he would. He smuggled whisky in; he
stole away to get it; once he led the Judge and
Eleanor a chase through his old haunts in San
Francisco until they found him, broken all to
pieces, in the county hospital.</p>
<p>That incident—it appeared that he had been
beaten by a squad of drunken soldiers from the
Presidio—was the breaking strain. His constitution
gone, his mind and body weakened.
For twenty years, no one had ever heard him
speak the name of that Saxon Alice whose
death was the death of his soul. Now, he began
suddenly to babble to his daughter of her
mother. In his last delirium, he called her
“Alice.”</p>
<p>When he was dead and buried, Eleanor went
on for a year through her accustomed routine
of the ranch, letting life flow in again. Tired
at twenty-two, she overstated the feeling to herself
after the manner of youth, and thought
that heart and sense and feeling were dead
in her.</p>
<p>In all the years of passage from girlhood to
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_60' name='page_60'></a>60</span>
womanhood, she had lived alone with that dipsomaniac,
seeing only such society as frequented
her aunt’s lawn, and little of that.
Books, and such training in life as they give,
she had known; but she had never known a
flirtation, a follower or a lover. On the day
when Bertram Chester went with her to tame
the bull, she was as one who steps from the
door of a convent.</p>
<hr class='major' />
<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_61' name='page_61'></a>61</span>
<a name='CHAPTER_IV' id='CHAPTER_IV'></a>
<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2>
</div>
<p>As she left the Tiffany gate and emerged
into the main road between Santa Clara
and Los Gatos, Eleanor raised her serviceable
khaki-brown parasol. She was walking directly
toward the setting sun, which poured
into her eyes; yet she dropped the sunshade
behind her head as though to shield herself
against an approach from the rear. No one
followed; she had walked to the next fence corner
before she assured herself of that, dared to
shift that feminine buckler against the eye of
the sun, to slacken her pace, and to muse on
an afternoon whose events, so quiet, so undramatic,
and yet so profoundly significant,
buzzed still in her head. As she thought on
them, other things came into her mind as momentous
and worthy of attention before the
jump of the great event—that moment alone
with Bertram Chester, that panic of unaccountable
fear. Slow to anger as much by a
native and hidden sweetness as by that surface
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_62' name='page_62'></a>62</span>
control which puzzled her demonstrative
Aunt Matilda, she surprised her cheeks
burning and her blood beating in her throat.</p>
<p>With this physical agitation came an army
of disagreeable and disturbing thoughts. At
first they were only recollections of irritations
past; the tiny maladjustments of her life;
things by which she owed vengeance of slight
wrongs. They came together at length, into
one great, sore grievance—the forwardness,
the utter, mortifying impudence, of Mr. Chester.
It was long before she admitted this as a
cause of irritation; once admitted, it overshadowed
all her other complaints against life.</p>
<p>Timidly, she approached stage by stage that
scene on the lawn, that unaccountable moment
in the kitchen. Again she saw his great
shoulders heave with unnecessary strength at
the ridiculous cracker box; again she caught
the sense of confinement with a machine of
crushing strength and power. It seemed to
her that her retina still danced with the impression
of him as he turned to face her, as he
flashed upon her like a drawn weapon. She
found herself looking down at the dusty road;
suddenly she grew so sick and faint that the
breath deserted her body and she had to lean
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_63' name='page_63'></a>63</span>
against the gate post for support. The touch
of it against her body revived her with a start,
and brought to her mind the extent and folly
of her own imaginings. She pulled herself
together and dropped her parasol to shield her
face from Maria, who was hurrying over from
the kitchen garden.</p>
<hr class='tb' />
<p>Life flowed in immediately. A hundred details
of a household, of a fruit farm in the picking
season, awaited her attention. Her orchard
and the Tiffany orchard were conducted
together on a kind of a loose co-operative system
devised by the Judge to give her the
greatest amount of freedom with just as much
responsibility as would be good for her.
Foreseeing that Alice Sturtevant’s daughter
would never live on a farm indefinitely, that
marriage or her own kind would claim her in
the end, he arranged everything so that her
oversight might pass on short notice to Olsen
or to himself. In this harvest season, for example,
he secured for both farms the cutters
and pickers—the hardest problem for the Californian
farmer. Also, the fruit went to his
own sheds and yards for cutting and drying.
He was among the sturdy minority who stood
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_64' name='page_64'></a>64</span>
out against the co-operative driers which had
absorbed most of the fruit crop in the Santa
Clara Valley. The detail work about her
place—such as setting out the fruit boxes, selecting
the moment when apricots or pears
were ripe for the picking, seeing that the trees,
her permanent investment, were not injured
by wagon or picker, keeping her own accounts
in balance with those of Judge Tiffany—these
and a hundred other little things she did herself
and did them well. Especially was the
up-keep of the orchard her special care; and
this she managed with such native mother-sense
that one learned in trees might have told
just when he crossed the unfenced line from the
Gray orchard to the Tiffany orchard.</p>
<p>To-night, Olsen was waiting to know
whether she thought that the ten rows of Moor
Parks were ready for picking; he had just
finished the first crop of the Judge’s Royals
and a small gang would be without pressing
work on Monday morning. So they walked
over the orchard together, pressing a golden
ball here and there, and decided that the fruit
was ripe and ready. Eleanor summoned Antonio
for directions about boxes and ladders.
The hen-house had to be inspected, for Eleanor
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_65' name='page_65'></a>65</span>
was fumigating against the pip, brought
into the Santa Lucia by an importation of
fancy Eastern chickens. To-morrow’s menu
of the housekeeper was to be looked after.
The things kept her busy until her solitary
Sunday evening supper.</p>
<p>Eleanor had dined alone so much that she
had quite recovered from any self-pity on that
score. Like the daughter of convent manners
that she was, she kept up her self-respect
by a little ceremony at this meal. She dressed
for it usually; at least she put on fresh ribbons
and flowers, gave a touch here and there to the
table, held Maria to the refinements of service.</p>
<p>However, as she opened her napkin that
evening the rush and emotional strain of the
day brought a certain flash of introspection.
It came first when she lifted her eyes and
caught sight of herself in the mirror—dewy
eyed, fresh, a pink rose in her hair, a pink ribbon
at her throat. What was she, so young, so
feminine, doing there, supping alone in state?
She remembered the invitation of Lars Wark
in Munich; he and his wife, living the life artistic
away over there, had sent to ask her that
she visit them and share their winter in the
studio or their summer on the coast of Brittany.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_66' name='page_66'></a>66</span>
Why, in the face of that alluring invitation,
did she suffer her soul to keep her in
such prisons as this? She could afford it;
there was no question of money. According to
the books she had read, that solitary state belonged
to old, disappointed bachelors, old
maids, faded people generally. Here she sat,
a picture unseen, playing at age—and she less
than twenty-two. There was a kind of delicate
incongruity about it all. And watching her
own grey eyes, as they faced her in the mirror,
she half comprehended why she continued to
live so, even after her father died and took
away the reason for her old solitude. She had
been under the hypnotic suggestion of an event,
an impression. That moment on Montgomery
street, when she found her father lying drunk,
when tragedy and responsibility came together—that
moment had stretched itself out
to six years. She had lived by it; was living
by it now.</p>
<p>In some unaccountable fashion, that picture
would intertwine itself with the impression,
so new and vivid, which she had received that
afternoon. Momentarily, both united to produce
one emotion—profound disgust and dislike
for the coarseness, the brutality, of male
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_67' name='page_67'></a>67</span>
humanity, which had laid her father out on
the pavement for the sport of a mob, which
had made this perturbing young man trample
on all considerations and delicacies.</p>
<p>“You need not mind about dessert, Maria,”
she called out suddenly. She rose, hurried out
of doors, tore into the inspection of fruit crates
for to-morrow’s picking.</p>
<p>Night, falling with little twilight, as always
in those climes, found her still ranging the
house and barnyard, the rose incongruously in
her hair, the ribbon at her throat. When it
was too dark to find employment out of doors,
she hurried back to the house, tried to read.
But a sense of confinement drove her forth.
She started out toward the road, stopped by the
hedge gate, sat down finally on a bench under
her grape arbor. The leaves and the bunches
of swelling fruit hid her from sight of the
highway, overshadowed at that point by a
great bay tree.</p>
<p>A confusion of voices, masculine and
feminine, sounded in the distance. She
caught a shrill, rowdy laugh. “The cutting-women
and their men,” she thought dimly.
That social phenomenon of the picking season,
grown accustomed by six years of passing summers
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_68' name='page_68'></a>68</span>
and winters, drew no special attention
from her. But the noise continued; it became
plain that these reveling laborers were making
in her direction. Doubtless, they came from
the women’s camp at Judge Tiffany’s. The
night was bringing her peace and sleep of the
soul after a disturbing day; alone, that raucous
noise marred the calm.</p>
<p>She peered idly through the leaves. A half
a dozen women, their white dresses making
them visible in the dusk, a few men whose
forms loomed indistinctly against the edge of
the sky, noised past her and were gone down
the road. One couple, she perceived, lingered
behind. They had reached the shade of the
bay tree, were so close that she might have
reached out and touched them, before she realized
the situation. She was about to call out,
to cough, when the man spoke.</p>
<p>“No, I won’t hurt you,” he said, “I’m as gentle
a little kisser as you ever saw.” The voice
was that of Bert Chester.</p>
<p>“Aw, you’re too fresh,” came the voice of
the girl. But as they drew into deeper
shadow, she was not pulling away from him.</p>
<p>“Fresh as a daisy!” said the voice of Bertram
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_69' name='page_69'></a>69</span>
Chester. Followed a struggle, a faint “stop,
stop!” in the voice of the girl, the sound of
gross and heavy kissing. In a moment, the
white form of the girl broke down the road,
the greater, darker form of the man lumbering
after. He caught her, held her for a
longer time and a lesser struggle. She came
out of this one laughing, and down the road
they went, his arm a black shadow about her
waist.</p>
<p>Eleanor’s deeper and higher self—the self
that lay like a filmy, impalpable wrapper
about her conscious mind, so that at times she
appeared to herself as two persons—that consciousness
stood aloof in expectation of disgust,
revulsion, horror. It came as a confused surprise
that she felt nothing of the kind. A
cloying sweetness, a sensation purely physical,
as though a syrup had been poured into all the
channels of her nerves, began in her throat,
rushed through body and limbs. The sweet
tide surged backward, beat in a wave of faintness
upon her heart. Shame, like air into a
vacuum, followed with a rush. She sank to
the ground, clinging to the bench.</p>
<p>When she had so far mastered herself that
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_70' name='page_70'></a>70</span>
she could feel her own senses, she was praying
aloud—praying in the rite which held her
emotions while it failed with her reason.</p>
<p>“Ave Maria Sanctissima!” she was saying
over and over again.</p>
<hr class='major' />
<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_71' name='page_71'></a>71</span>
<a name='CHAPTER_V' id='CHAPTER_V'></a>
<h2>CHAPTER V</h2>
</div>
<p>“Match you to see whether it’s good,
old fifteen cent feed at the Marseillaise
or a four bit bust at the Nevada,” said
Bertram Chester.</p>
<p>“I’ll take you,” responded Mark Heath, flipping
a silver dollar as he spoke. “Heads the
Nevada; tails the croutons and Dago red.”</p>
<p>“Tails it is—aw, let’s make it the Nevada
to show there’s nothing in luck.”</p>
<p>“You quitter!”</p>
<p>“All right; but I hate to look cabbage soup
in the face,” grumbled Bertram. He resumed,
then, his languid occupation which this parley
had interrupted, and continued to review,
from an angle of Moe’s cigar stand, the passing
matinee parade.</p>
<p>The time was late afternoon of a fog-scented
October day. Through the wet air, street
lamps and electric signs had begun to twinkle.
Under the cross-light of retreating day
and incandescent globes, the parade of women,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_72' name='page_72'></a>72</span>
all in bright-colored silks and gauds, moved
solid, unbroken. Opera bags marked off those
who had really attended the matinees; but
only one in five wore this badge of sincerity.
The rest had dressed and painted and gone
abroad to display themselves just because it
was the fashion in their circles so to dress and
paint and display. Women of Greek perfection
in body and feature, free-stepping Western
women who met the gaze of men directly
and fearlessly, their costumes ran through all
the exaggerations of Parisian mode and tint.
Toilettes whose brilliancy would cause heads
to turn and necks to crane on the streets of an
Eastern city, drew here no tribute of comment.
It had gone on all the afternoon. From the
Columbia Theatre corner, which formed one
boundary of “the line,” to the Sutler Street
corner of Kearney, five blocks away, certain
of these peacocks had been strutting back and
forth since two o’clock. The men who corresponded
in the social organization to these
paraders of vanity lined the sidewalks or lolled
in the open-air cigar stands, as did these two
young adventurers in life—Bertram Chester,
now a year and a half out of college, and Mark
Heath, cub reporter on the <i>Herald</i>.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_73' name='page_73'></a>73</span></p>
<p>When the homefarers from office and factory
had begun to tarnish the brilliance of this
show, when the women had begun to scatter—this
one to dinner with her man, that one back
to the hall-room supper by whose economies
she saved for her Saturday afternoon vanities—Bertram
and Mark drifted with the current
up Kearney street toward the Hotel Marseillaise.
In their blood, a little whipped already
by the two cocktails which they had felt able to
afford even while they debated over the price
of dinner, ran all the sparkling currents of
youth. They drew on past Sutler Street to
Adventurer’s Lane, the dingy section of that
street wherein walked the treasure-farers of all
the seven seas; and as they walked, Bertram began
to speak of the things which lay close to
his heart.</p>
<p>“I guess I’ll chuck the law,” he said.
“Maybe I’ll stay with Judge Tiffany a year or
so longer—until I get admitted anyway. A
bar admission might count if I wanted to go
into politics.”</p>
<p>“Politics is a pretty poor kind of business,”
responded Mark Heath. Old enough in journalism
to have recovered somewhat from his
first enchantment with the rush of life, he was
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_74' name='page_74'></a>74</span>
only just beginning to acquire the cynical pose.</p>
<p>“Hell, it’s all according to how you play
it,” said Bertram. “When you get to be Lincoln,
nobody calls it poor business. Do they
think any the worse of my old man because
he played politics to be sheriff of Tulare? If
I should go into the game down there, his pull
would help me a lot. But it’s me for this.”
His sweeping gesture took in the whole city.</p>
<p>He had missed Mark’s point. The latter
felt within him a little recoil from that loyalty
for his greater, more ready, more popular
friend, which had carried him, a blind slave,
through college, and which had helped him
make him settle in San Francisco instead of
Tacoma. Through his four years at the University,
Mark had shared his crusts with Bertram
Chester, yelled for him from the
bleachers, played his fag at class elections.
Now Mark was out in the world, practising
the profession of lost illusions; and a new
vision had been growing within him for many
days. He turned a grave face toward his
chum, and his lips opened on the impulse of
a criticism. But he thought better of it. His
mouth closed without sound.</p>
<p>“The real chances for a lawyer, though, are
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_75' name='page_75'></a>75</span>
in business,” Bertram went on. “Judge Tiffany
never grabbed half his chances. Attwood
in the office, says so.”</p>
<p>“He surely didn’t keep out of politics, that
Judge,” said Mark, remembering the turns of
fate which had almost—and ever not quite—made
the old Judge a congressman, a mayor,
and a Justice of the California State Supreme
Court.</p>
<p>“Oh, he had no call to be in politics. He
hasn’t the sand. Attwood says so. And he
stuck at his desk and let his business chances
go by. Myself, I’m keeping my lamps open.
Just because the Judge doesn’t watch his
chances, that office is a great place to pick
things up. Look at those tidewater cases of
ours over in Richmond. I know, from the inside,
that we’re going to lose our case, and lots
will go whooping up. I’ve written to Bob for
a thousand dollars to invest. I’ll double that
in a year and have my first thousand ahead.
Say, why don’t you try something in business
instead of sticking to newspapers? Let’s go
in together. Reporting is a rotten kind of
business.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I don’t know, I like it. I think I’ll
stay with it for a while.” Again Mark had
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_76' name='page_76'></a>76</span>
put back the thought of his heart. Like so
many of the loyal and devoted, he could hardly
bring himself to speak of his own deeper motives
and ambitions. Least of all could he reveal
them in this moment of disillusion. He
had never told Bertram about the four-act
comedy hidden in the writing desk of their
common room, to be mulled over during the
mornings of his leisure. “I think I’ll stay
with it for a while, anyway,” he added simply.</p>
<p>They had turned out of Kearney Street and
were mounting the hill-rise toward the Hotel
Marseillaise. These fringes and environments
of Chinatown had been residences for the
newly affluent in the days when the Poodle
Dog flourished and flaunted in the hull of a
wreck, in the days when that Chinatown site
was Rialto and Market-place for the overgrown
mining camp. The wall moss which
blew in with the trade winds, and the semi-tropic
growth of old ivies and rose-bushes, had
given to these houses the seasoning of two centuries.
Unpretentious hovels beside the structures
of stone turrets and mill-work fronts by
which later millionaires shamed California
Street and Van Ness Avenue, they had the
simple dignity of a mission, a colonial farm-house,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_77' name='page_77'></a>77</span>
or any other structure wherein love of
craft has supplanted scanty materials. Innumerable
additions of sheds and boxes, the
increment of their fallen social condition,
broke their severe lines. A massive door, a
carriage entrance, the remains of a balcony
faced to catch wind and air of the great
bay, recalled what they had been; as though a
washerwoman should wear on her tattered
waist some jewel of a wealth long past.</p>
<p>The Hotel Marseillaise occupied one of
these houses. Where it stood, the hill rose
steep. One might enter a narrow alley, skirt
a board fence, dodge into a box hall, seasoned
with dinners long past, and mount by a steep
staircase to the dining room; or he might
enter that dining room directly from the street,
such was the slope of the hill. A row of
benches parked the front door. On the fine,
out-of-doors evenings which came too seldom
in the City of Fogs, French waiters out of
work, French deserters from merchantmen in
the harbor below, French cabmen waiting for
night and fares, lolled on these benches while
they smoked their black cigarettes and chattered
in their heavy, peasant accent.</p>
<p>Within, Madame Loisel ruled with her cash
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_78' name='page_78'></a>78</span>
register at the cigar counter. She, bursting
with sweet inner fatness like a California nectarine,
kept in her middle age the everlasting
charm and chic of the Frenchwoman. This
Madame Loisel was a dual personality. She
of the grave mouth, the considering eye, the
business manner, who rung up dinner fees on
the cash register and bargained with the
Chinamen for vegetables at the back door,
seemed hardly even sister to the Madame
Loisel of Saturday afternoon on “the line”
or Sunday morning at the French Church.
By what process man may not imagine, this
second Madame Loisel took six inches from
her girth, fifty pounds from her weight, fifteen
years from her age. Her step was like a
dancer’s; her figure was no more than comfortably
plump; her Sunday complexion
brought the best out of her alluring eyes and
her black, ungrizzled hair; her hands, in their
perfect gloves, bore no resemblance to the
hands which had scraped pots for Louis
Loisel in the time before he could flaunt the
luxury of a cashier.</p>
<p>In Madame Loisel’s background lay the
ramblings of a house built for comfort and
large hospitalities. Gone were the folding
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_79' name='page_79'></a>79</span>
doors, bare the niches, empty the window-seats.
The old drawing-rooms, music-room,
dining-room, had become one apartment of a
sanded floor and many long tables. Through
this background of his wife moved Louis Loisel,
grizzled, fat and gay; never too busy
at his serving to exchange flamboyant banter
with a patron.</p>
<p>Hither the peasant French of San Francisco,
menials most of them, came for luncheons
and dinners of thick, heavy vegetable
soup, coarse fish, boiled joint, third-class
fruit and home-made claret, vinted by Louis
himself in a hand press during those September
days when the Latin quarter ran purple—and
all for fifteen cents! Thither, too,
came young apprentices of the professions,
working at wages to shame a laborer, who had
learned how much more one got for his money
at Louis’s than at the white-tiled American
places further down town. It stood for ten
years, this Hotel Marseillaise, the hope of the
impecunious. How many careers did it preserve,
how many old failures from the wreckage
of Kearney Street did it console!</p>
<p>Madame Loisel stood at her cash register
as the two young men entered. A fresh waist,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_80' name='page_80'></a>80</span>
a ribbon at her throat, a slimness of her waist
and an artificial freshness in her complexion
showed that she had been parading that afternoon.</p>
<p>“Bonsoir Madame—la la la-la-la!” called
Bertram.</p>
<p>Her face blossomed with coquetry, her teeth
gleamed, and:</p>
<p>“Bonsoir—diable!” she smiled back at him.
Mark Heath had greeted her more soberly.
Her eyes followed Chester’s big, square
frame as he moved with lumbering grace to a
corner table.</p>
<p>There he sat at the beginning of his career,
such as it was, this Bertram Chester—a
completed piece of work, fresh, unused, from
the mills of the gods. His strong frame was
beginning to fill out, what with the abandonment
of training for a year. He was a pretty
figure of a man in his clothes; and those
clothes were so woven and cut as to be in contrast
with his surroundings. A tailor of San
Francisco, building toward fashionable patronage,
had made him suits free during his
last year in college. Varsity man and public
character about the campus, Chester paid him
back in advertising of mouth. Guided by
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_81' name='page_81'></a>81</span>
that instinct of vanity and personal display
which runs in those who have to do with the
cattle range, he had learned to dress well before
he was really sure-mouthed in English
grammar.</p>
<p>His face, still, as when we first saw him, a
little over-heavy, had lightened with the
growth of spirit within him. This increase
of spirit and expression manifested itself in
his rolling and merry eye, which travelled
over all humanity in his path with an air of
possession, in the mobility of his rather thick-lipped
mouth. For the rest, the face was
all solidity and strength. His neck rose big
and straight from his collar, a sign of the
power which infused the figure below; his
square chin, in repose, set itself at a most
aggressive angle; his nose was low-bridged
and straight and solid. From any company
which he frequented, an attraction deeper than
his obviously regular and animal beauty
brought him notice and attention.</p>
<p>The son of Louis, a small, cheerful imitation
of his father, slammed a bowl of cabbage
soup down before them. Bertram, sighing
his young, ravenous satisfaction, sank the
ladle deep and stopped, his hand poised, his
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_82' name='page_82'></a>82</span>
eyes fixed. Mark followed the direction of
his glance. Louis Loisel, wearing his best
air of formal politeness, was bowing a party
of women to a table by the door.</p>
<p>“Slummers!” said Mark under his breath.
A habitué of the place, he had already developed
a resentment of outsiders.</p>
<p>Louis pulled out chairs, wiped the table
mightily; the French cabmen, the Barbary
Coast flotsam and jetsam, gazed over their
soup-spoons in silent, furtive interest.</p>
<p>“It’s her!” said Bertram, lapsing into his
native speech. Heath flashed a glance of
recognition at the same moment.</p>
<p>“Miss Gray—sure—Mrs. Tiffany’s niece.
I thought she was in Europe—didn’t she start
a week or two after we left the ranch?”</p>
<p>“Oh, I knew she was coming back. Mrs.
Tiffany told me. The Mrs. Boss isn’t so
sweet on me as she used to be, but I see her
in the office now and then.”</p>
<p>Bertram resumed his ladling. Both
watched furtively. It was a balanced party—three
men and three women. Among the
men, Mark Heath recognized him of the
pointed beard as Masters, the landscape
painter. The little, brown woman who sat
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_83' name='page_83'></a>83</span>
with her back to them must be his wife. The
other girl, a golden, full-blown Californian
thing—her, too, they marked and noted with
their eyes.</p>
<p>Recognition of a sort had come meanwhile
from the party at the guest table. Miss Waddington,
the full-blown golden girl, had
seated herself and cooed an appreciative word
or two about the quaintness and difference of
the Marseillaise, when her eyes clutched at the
two young men in the corner, whose dress made
them stand out so queerly among the lost and
soiled. As Bertram looked up with his glance
of recognition, her eyes caught his. She
glanced down at her plate.</p>
<p>“Eleanor,” she said, “is that a flirtation
starting, or do any of us know the two men
in the corner—there under that beer sign.”</p>
<p>Eleanor looked. Kate Waddington, her indirect
gaze still on that corner table, saw the
dark young man smile and bow effusively.
She slipped a sidling glance at Eleanor Gray.
Something curious, an intent look which
seemed drawn to conceal a tumult within,
had filmed itself over Eleanor’s grey eyes.
But she spoke steadily.</p>
<p>“Why, yes. I have met them both. They
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_84' name='page_84'></a>84</span>
used to do summer work on the ranch when
they were in college. I believe that the
darker one—Mr. Chester—is in Uncle Edward’s
law office now. I haven’t seen either
of them since I went abroad.”</p>
<p>“I should say that this Mr. Chester fancied
you, from his expression.”</p>
<p>“I suppose that he fancies every girl that
he sees—from his expression.”</p>
<p>Kate Waddington caught the shade of irritation,
uncommon with Eleanor, and noted
it in memory. Mrs. Masters, an eager little
woman who grasped at everything about her
like a child, broke in:</p>
<p>“If you know them, and they’re really frequenters
of the place, it would be fun to ask
them over. Sydney used to dine here a great
deal when he was young and poor, and he
has <i>such</i> stories of the people he used to know
then!”</p>
<p>Eleanor hesitated. Kate looked again toward
Bertram, who was talking rapidly
across his soup to Mark Heath, and:</p>
<p>“Do!” she murmured.</p>
<p>In that instant, Bertram himself cast the
die. This had been the debate across the
soup:
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_85' name='page_85'></a>85</span></p>
<p>“I’m going over to speak to her,” said Bertram.</p>
<p>“I shouldn’t butt in,” said Mark. “It’s a
balanced party.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I shan’t try to stay—coming along?”
He did not wait to see whether or not Mark
was following.</p>
<p>Miss Gray greeted him more cordially, altogether
more sweetly, than she had ever done
in their meetings on the ranch, and passed him
about the circle for introductions. Noticing,
then, that Mark had not followed, Bertram
turned and beckoned with impatience. Mark
crossed the room in some embarrassment.</p>
<p>“Is this your first visit to the Hotel Marseillaise?”
asked Mrs. Masters. Mark hesitated;
but Bertram laughed and beamed down
on her from his brown eyes.</p>
<p>“Only about my two hundred and first,” he
said. “Mr. Heath and I dine here every
night we haven’t the price to dine anywhere
else.”</p>
<p>Masters, with that ready tact which he
needed in order to live with Mrs. Masters,
rushed into the breach.</p>
<p>“And I should call it about my four hundred
and first,” he said. “It’s back to the old
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_86' name='page_86'></a>86</span>
scenes for the night. I haven’t tasted real
cabbage soup since the last time—it has been
a canned imitation. For goodness’ sake join
us and tell us the news!”</p>
<p>“Do!” said Miss Waddington with animation,
and “Please,” said those two escorts who
do not figure in this story. Eleanor said nothing,
but her expression was an invitation.</p>
<p>“Sure!” responded Bertram.</p>
<p>The Hotel Marseillaise had familiar customs
of its own. For one thing, guests bothered
the waiters as little as possible. Masters
smiled when the two unconscious youths
went back to their table, picked up the big
soup tureen, their knives and forks, their
plates, and transported them to the larger
table.</p>
<p>They were dragging the lees of a rather
squalid Bohemia, these two boys; a Bohemia
the more real because they were unconscious
in it. Its components were a cheap furnished
room, restaurants like this, adventurous companionship
in the underworld which thrust
itself to the surface here and there in that
master-port of the Saxon advance. Not for
months had either of them been in the society
of such women as these—women who preferred
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_87' name='page_87'></a>87</span>
cleanliness to display, women who
were nice about their nails and hair. A kind
of pleasant shyness crept over Mark Heath;
the spirit came into the face of Bertram Chester.
Masters, tactician that he was, put the
conversation into their hands. Presently,
they were telling freely about the fare at Coffee
John’s, about their familiars and companions
in the little Eddy-Street lodging house,
about the drifters of the Latin quarter. They
quite eclipsed the pale youth who was playing
escort to Eleanor, and the substantial person
in the insurance business who seemed to
be responsible for Kate Waddington. Heath,
speaking with a little diffidence and lack of
assurance, had twice the wit, twice the eye for
things, twice the illumination of Bertram
Chester; yet it was the latter who brought
laughter and attention. His personality,
which surrounded him like an aroma, his
smile, his trick of the eyes—one listened to
Bertram Chester.</p>
<hr class='tb' />
<p>When the son of Louis brought in the little
sweet oranges and arranged the goblets for
black coffee, talk shifted from monologue to
dialogue. Eleanor found herself talking to
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_88' name='page_88'></a>88</span>
Bertram. A kind of pride had been rising
in her all the evening; a pride born in recoil
from her latest recollection of him. The episode
of that night under the bay tree had
gone with her clear across the Atlantic. Even
the influence of the wholly new environment,
in which she had grown from a girl recluse
to a woman, had not served for a long time to
erase that ugly stain on her memory. Here
and now was the man who served so to perturb
her once—and she could look on him,
with her more mature eyes, as an attractive,
unlicked young cub. She surprised herself
taking revenge upon the past by a hidden patronage.
At once, then, she fell to talking of
Europe and the splendors she had lived there.</p>
<p>“This reminds me of the places one slips
into abroad,” she said, “Mr. and Mrs. Wark—Lars
Wark you know—took me to just such
an old ruin in Paris. We dined for thirty
centimes, I remember, but it was no better
than this. I’ve had to go away to know my
native city. That is the thing which strikes
you when you come back—San Francisco is
so like the Latin cities of Europe, and yet so
unlike!”</p>
<p>Kate leaned across her insurance man.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_89' name='page_89'></a>89</span></p>
<p>“The Society for the Narration of European
Travel is in session, Mr. Chester,” she said.
“I know the joy that Eleanor is having. It
was the passion of my life after I first got
back from abroad.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I eat it alive,” said Bertram. “I’m
strong for seeing Paris.” He turned back to
Eleanor; and her double embarrassment drove
her on.</p>
<p>“Such a good time as I had with the Warks—their
studio in Munich, where I met all the
German long-haired artists—a run to Paris
in the season—the dearest little village on the
Coast of Brittany last summer—and three
weeks in incomparable London at the end.
I haven’t thought of the ranch for a year and
a half—Uncle Edward pays me the compliment
of saying that my profits fell off twenty
per cent. under Olsen’s management—oh,
isn’t she a dear!”</p>
<p>For Madame Loisel, wearing a beaming
and affable manner, had come through the
door and approached their table. Madame
made it a point of business honor to promote
personal relations with her regular guests, asking
Jean how he liked the fish, assuring
Jacques that the soup would be better to-morrow.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_90' name='page_90'></a>90</span>
This visit of hers to the slumming party
came after a storm in the kitchen, whose
French thunders had reached the dining room
now and then. Louis, the conservative, hated
slummers and dreaded being “discovered.”
He ran a restaurant as a social institution as
well as a business venture. Madame Loisel,
with her eye on the cash register, longed ardently
for slummers who would give large
tips to Louis the younger, order expensive
wines, and put the Marseillaise on the way
to a twenty-five cent table d’hote dinner.
From that kitchen squabble, recurrent whenever
slummers visited them, Madame Loisel
swept in haughty determination, leaving Louis
to take it out on the pots. As she approached
the table, all the charm of France illuminated
her smile.</p>
<p>She invariably paid slummers the compliment
of addressing them in French.</p>
<p>“<i>Bonsoir—le souper, plait-il vous</i>?” she
asked.</p>
<p>Eleanor took her up in fluent French, and
the talk sparkled back and forth between
them—reminiscences of this or that restaurant
on the boulevards which Madame Loisel had
known in her youth and which Eleanor had
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_91' name='page_91'></a>91</span>
visited. Bertram, his mouth open, followed
that talk as though summoning all his Sophomore
French to match a word here and there.
Kate Waddington, leaning again across her insurance
man, was the first to break in.</p>
<p>“I myself used to be keen on French when
I came back from Europe, but I’m out of
practice. Please excuse me, Madame, if I
speak English. How can you do it at this
price?”</p>
<p>“It is kind of you to say so, Mademoiselle—economy
and honesty.”</p>
<p>Masters patted Mark Heath on the knee.</p>
<p>“We can’t let you fellows go away from
us now. One doesn’t get guides to the Latin
quarter for nothing. Take us somewhere,
Mr. Heath—unless you’re working to-night.”</p>
<p>“No, virtue has been rewarded,” said Mr.
Heath. “I’m off to-night as a testimonial of
esteem from the City Editor. What shall it
be?”</p>
<p>Bertram Chester, taking up the talk again,
laid out Kearney Street like a bill of fare.
Mrs. Masters, casting her vote as chaperone,
chose the Marionette Theatre tucked away
under the shadow of the Broadway Jail.</p>
<p>As Eleanor stepped out into California
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_92' name='page_92'></a>92</span>
Street, gathering her coat about her against a
night which had come up windy and raw,
Bertram took her side with a proprietary air.
She turned toward her appointed escort. It
happened that he was walking ahead with
Heath just then, holding an argument about
the drift of Montgomery Street when it was
the water front. For several blocks, then,
Bertram had her alone. It seemed to her
that he began just where he left off two years
or more ago.</p>
<p>“You’re even prettier than you used to be,”
he said caressingly; “you’ve bully eyes. I
think I told you that before.”</p>
<p>This time, she looked him full in the face
and smiled easily.</p>
<p>“Have I? Well I hope you don’t mind my
saying that they’re resting on a bonny sight!”</p>
<p>Somewhat taken aback by the directness of
this answer, so different from the artificial
coyness of the girls he knew best in that period
of his life, Bertram turned in his course.</p>
<p>“You’re joshing me,” he said.</p>
<p>“Truly I’m not. You are good to look at—eyes
and all.”</p>
<p>Although balked of his opening, Bertram
tried again.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_93' name='page_93'></a>93</span></p>
<p>“Well your mouth is just as good as your
eyes.”</p>
<p>The same quick look into his face, and the
same smile, as she answered:</p>
<p>“Yours is a little better if anything. It is
not only well formed, but it becomes delicious
when you smile, and it has most attractive
shadows in the corners.”</p>
<p>“Suppose we talk sense,” grumbled Bertram.</p>
<p>“Suppose we do; I know you can.” They
both laughed at this, and all the way up Kearney
Street she continued her chatter of
Europe. Lars Wark, who had known her
mother, had done everything for her. It had
been very different from the regular tour; she
came back ignorant of all the show places
from Cologne Cathedral to the Tower. But
it had been her privilege to see and meet wonderful
people. They would not do for regular
companionship, such people. They
struck one, in the end, as goblins and trolls;
but it had been an experience of a lifetime—while
it lasted. The Warks had taken her to
places which the tourist never sees—lost villages
in the Black Forest, undiscovered corners
of London, even.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_94' name='page_94'></a>94</span></p>
<p>After a little of this, she drew him on to
speak of himself. She had heard news of
him, she said, from her uncle, who said that
he was doing well and gave promise of a future
in the law. How long had he remained
on the ranch that summer? This reference
put him back into his presumptive mood.</p>
<p>“You went away without giving me a
chance to say good-bye,” he complained. “I
never saw you again after the party on the
lawn.”</p>
<p>Her tongue ran away with her.</p>
<p>“I saw you, though,” she said.</p>
<p>“Where?”</p>
<p>“Oh, at a distance.” He caught nothing
from her tone, yet a slight change did come into
her manner, as though something had been
drawn between them. Then her escort fell
in on the other side of Eleanor, appropriating
her by right and by consent of her attitude.</p>
<p>Now they were in Broadway, skirting the
small bake-shops, the dark alleys, all the picture
scenes of the Latin quarter. At that
very moment, Miss Waddington drew a little
apart from the group clustering about Masters
and Mark Heath. An Italian baby of three,
too late out of bed, stood by a cellar rail surveying
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_95' name='page_95'></a>95</span>
them with the liquid fire which was his
eyes. Kate Waddington stooped to pat his
head. As she raised herself, she was beside
Bertram. Nothing more natural than that
she should fall in, step by step, beside him.
He caught step with her, but he still looked
toward Eleanor.</p>
<p>“Wonderful girl, isn’t she?” asked Kate.</p>
<p>“She sure is.”</p>
<p>“Her mother,” said Kate, “had more wit
than any other woman in San Francisco—and
the men she had!”</p>
<p>“I think Eleanor has inherited <i>that</i> at any
rate,” she added after a pause.</p>
<p>They had reached the door of the Marionette
Theatre now. Afterward they drank
beer at Norman’s; and when they broke up,
Bertram Chester found himself with three invitations
to call.</p>
<hr class='tb' />
<p>Kate Waddington spent that night with
Eleanor Gray in the Tiffany House on Russian
Hill. While they sat before the fireplace,
in the half-hour of loosened hair and
confidences, Eleanor broke a minute of silence
with the inquiry:</p>
<p>“What did you think of him?” An instant
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_96' name='page_96'></a>96</span>
after she let slip this impersonal inquiry,
she would have given gold to recall it.
And if she had any hope that Kate Waddington
had missed the point, it died in her when
Kate answered in an indifferent tone:</p>
<p>“He? Oh, he seems to me to be a little promiscuous.”</p>
<hr class='major' />
<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_97' name='page_97'></a>97</span>
<a name='CHAPTER_VI' id='CHAPTER_VI'></a>
<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2>
</div>
<p>The Tiffany house—I spare you full description—rambled
with many a balcony
and addition over that hill which rose
like a citadel above San Francisco. From its
Southern windows, one looked clean over the
city, lying outspread below. Even the Call
building, highest eminence piled up by man in
that vista, presented its roof to the eye. I
can picture that site no better than by this;
Over Judge Tiffany’s front wall hung an apple
tree, gnarled, convoluted, by the buffets
of the sea wind. In autumn, when the fruit
was ripe, stray apples from this tree had been
seen to tumble from the wall and roll four
blocks down into the Latin quarter.</p>
<p>From the rear, the house looked out on a
hedged and sloping garden, quite old, as gardens
go in that land, for a pioneer planted it;
and from the rear gate of that garden it was
only a step to the hill mount. Thence one
came out suddenly to the panorama of the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_98' name='page_98'></a>98</span>
Bay, stretching on three sides; a panorama
divided, as by the false panels of a mural
landscape, into three equal marvels. To left,
the narrow gate, a surge like the rush of a
river always in its teeth and the bright ocean,
colored like smelt-scales, beyond. In front
the Roads, where all strange crafts from the
mysterious Pacific anchored while they waited
their turns at the docks. Both in foreground
and background, this panel changed day by
day. It might be whalers from the Arctic
which lay there in the morning, their oils making
noisome the breeze; it might be a fleet
of beaten, battered tramp wind-jammers, panting
after their fight about the Horn; it might
be brigs from the South Seas; it might be
Pacific steamers, Benicia scow-schooners,
Italian fishing smacks, Chinese junks—it
might be any and all of these together. As for
the background, that changed not every day
but every hour what with the shifts of wind,
tide and mists. Now its tinge was a green-gold
betraying pollution of those mountain
placers which fed the San Joaquin and the
mighty Sacramento. Now it was blue and
ruffled, now black and calm, now slate-gray,—a
mysterious shade this last, so that when the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_99' name='page_99'></a>99</span>
fog began to shoot lances across the waters,
these fleets at anchor by Quarantine wharf
seemed argosies of fairy adventure. Even
Tamalpais, the gentle mountain which rose beyond
everything, changed ever with the change
in her veil of mist or fog or rain-rift. The
third panel, lying far to the right, showed
first dim mountain ranges and the mouths of
mighty rivers, and then, nearer by, masts,
stacks and shipping, fringing the city roofs.</p>
<p>North into this garden ran a small wing
of the Tiffany house. Upon the death of
Alice Gray, Mattie Tiffany had set it apart
for Eleanor the baby. When, after her years
with Billy Gray, Eleanor came back, Mattie
had refurnished it for the grown baby. The
upper story held her bedroom and her closets.
Below was her own particular living-room.
This opened by a vine-bordered door into the
garden, into that path which led up to the
bay view.</p>
<hr class='tb' />
<p>Judge Tiffany, sitting within the front window
to watch the shimmer of a pleasant Sunday
afternoon on the city roofs below, perceived
that his wife had walked three times
to that garden wall which looked down along
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_100' name='page_100'></a>100</span>
the drop of Broadway to the Spanish Church.</p>
<p>The second time that he perceived this
phenomenon, his eyes showed interest; the
third he smiled with inner satisfaction and
rose to meet her return as though by accident.
He was leaning upon a cane, getting ease of
the sciatica which plagued him.</p>
<p>The Judge had aged during the two years
since he opened these events. He had settled
now into the worldly state of a man who rests
content with the warming sun and the bright
air which feed life. But the inner soul, whose
depth was his philosophy, whose surface his
whimsical humor—that still burned in his
dark blue eyes. Those eyes glistened a little
as he went on to this, his daily sport.</p>
<p>He met her on the piazza. She had raked
the rise of Broadway, which one mounted by
two blocks of hen-coop sidewalks; and now
she was inspecting the cross street.</p>
<p>“All the Sherlock Holmes in me,” said
Judge Tiffany, “tells me that Miss Eleanor
Gray is going to have a caller, and that Mrs.
Edward C. Tiffany is in a state of vicarious
perturbation.</p>
<p>“Further,” continued Judge Tiffany,
dropping his hand upon her arm with that affectionate
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_101' name='page_101'></a>101</span>
gesture which drew all sting his
words might have carried, “this is no common
caller. For that young civil engineer and
Mr. Perham the painter and Ned Greene,
Mrs. Tiffany never blushes; but these new
attentions to her niece—well, I hope my
approach drew as much blood from her
heart to her countenance twenty-five years
ago!”</p>
<p>“I—I <i>am</i> perturbed,” said Mattie Tiffany.
Running rose-bushes, just leafing out into
their fall greenery, overgrew the pillars beside
her. These she fell to pruning with her
hands, so that she turned away her face.</p>
<p>“I see that discipline is relaxing in this
family,” said Judge Tiffany. “Dear, dear,
after managing a wife bravely and well for
a quarter century, to fail in one’s age! Mattie,
he works in my office, this blush-compelling
caller; and I told you when I gave him
the position not to take him up socially for
the present!”</p>
<p>“But what was I to do when he telephoned
to Eleanor and asked her?” Mrs. Tiffany
turned her head with a turn of her thought.
“Did you hear him telephone—was that how
you knew?”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_102' name='page_102'></a>102</span></p>
<p>“I’d lose all hold on discipline if I revealed
my methods.”</p>
<p>Judge Tiffany settled himself in an armchair
as one prepared to make it a long session.
“Let’s begin at the start. How came
he to renew his acquaintance with Eleanor,
and when, and where—and how much had
Mattie Tiffany to do with bringing them together
again?”</p>
<p>“Not a thing—truly Edward! Some of
Eleanor’s slumming with Kate Waddington
and the Masters—they met by accident at a
restaurant—Eleanor asked him. You remember
he was taken with her that afternoon just
before she went to Europe—the time he mortified
me so dreadfully.”</p>
<p>“And the time he attracted my attention,”
said Judge Tiffany. “And now behold that
youth, who will always get what he wants by
frontal attack, reading my California cases
and wearing out my desk with his feet.”</p>
<p>“Do you think he will make a good lawyer?”
asked Mattie Tiffany. She turned full
around at this, and the glance she threw into
her husband’s face showed more than a casual
matchmaker’s interest.</p>
<p>“He’ll make a good something,” said the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_103' name='page_103'></a>103</span>
Judge. “So far as anyone can judge the race
from the start. But that isn’t why I have him
in the office. You know how little I care
in these days for such practice as I have left.
I tell myself, of course, that it is my lingering
interest in life as a general proposition
which made me do it—I am curious to see
before I die how this find of yours is coming
out. That is what I tell myself. Probably
in my very inside heart I know that it’s something
else.”</p>
<p>“What else?” asked Mattie.</p>
<p>“This is one of the hidden things which this
experiment is to discover,” said Judge Tiffany.
“What made me notice him in the first
place? What made you invite him to tea
on the lawn? What has made you and me
and Eleanor remember this chance meeting
so long—let me see—how long was it?”</p>
<p>“A year ago last June,” said Mattie. One
of her functions in their partnership was to
hold small details always ready to the hand
of the wide-thinking Judge.</p>
<p>“Will he go back on me—that’s the question,”
pursued the Judge. “Success is probably
at the end for him, but he has two ways
of success open. He may go slowly and well,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_104' name='page_104'></a>104</span>
or fast and ill. Road number one: he stays
with my moth-eaten old practice, he refurbishes
it, he earns a partnership; and so to conservative
clients and, probably, to genuine
success.” He hesitated.</p>
<p>“And the other road?” asked Mrs. Tiffany.</p>
<p>“Oh, that has many by-paths. He is trying
one of them already. The stealthy, invaluable
Attwood has told me about it. This Mr.
Chester has made an investment in Richmond
lots on information which he had no right to
use. Never mind the details. If he follows
that general direction, it will be a flashy success,
a pretty worm-eaten crown of laurels.”</p>
<p>“Like Northrup’s,” broke in Mrs. Tiffany.
That name always jarred on their ears.
Northrup, ex-congressman, flowery Western
orator, all Christian love on the surface, all
guile beneath—he had taken to himself that
success which Judge Tiffany might have had
but for his hesitations of conscience. Theirs
was a secret resentment. Judge Tiffany’s
pride would never have let him show the
world one glimmer of what he felt.</p>
<p>“Suppose he should follow that path—and
take up with Northrup,” went on Judge Tiffany.
“Mine honorable opponent has use for
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_105' name='page_105'></a>105</span>
such young men as our Mr. Chester will prove
himself if he follows that path—magnetic
young men to coax the rabble, young men not
too nice on moral questions. Well, a boy
isn’t born with honor, any more than he’s born
with courage; he grows to it. And God only
knows just when the boy strikes the divide
which will turn his course one way or the
other.”</p>
<p>“But Edward, you ought to warn him!”</p>
<p>“In the first place, it would do no good
to warn one of his age and temperament. In
the second place, it would spoil the experiment—but
I had commanded you to talk, and
here I am doing it all. How looked she;
what said he?”</p>
<p>“To-day—just before church—I was hooking
up Kate and Eleanor, and he telephoned.”</p>
<p>“Instinct, of course, informing you that it
was none other than he at the other end of
the wire?” On another tongue and in another
fashion of speech, this sentence might have
been offensive; between them, it was a part of
his perpetual game with her amiable weaknesses.</p>
<p>“If I did listen, it was no more than right.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_106' name='page_106'></a>106</span>
It was what a mother would have done by
Eleanor. I heard her say, ‘Good morning
Mr. Chester,’ not at all as though she were
surprised to have him call up; and I was
really quite disturbed. You had told me not
to invite him here for the present; and I
hadn’t the slightest reason for knowing that
Eleanor had seen him since she came back
from abroad. Her speaking so familiarly—well,
I wondered. But Kate—”</p>
<p>“Oh, she was listening too?”</p>
<p>“Well, I know that she hadn’t the excuse for
listening that I had; but I had stopped hooking
her up, and it was only natural that she
should listen too. Eleanor said, ‘Certainly I
shall be in,’ and Kate said, ‘That’s the old
friend we met with Mr. Masters last night
in the Hotel Marseillaise. He is prompt!’
Rather sharp in Kate, considering what Eleanor
has been doing for her!</p>
<p>“You’d have thought Eleanor had eaten the
canary bird when she came back. Of course,
she knew we had been listening. I wish she
hadn’t. I’d have liked to see whether she’d
have told us then, or waited for him to surprise
us. Kate was sharp again. I wonder
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_107' name='page_107'></a>107</span>
if she isn’t envious at bottom? After all
Eleanor is so much more a lady! Kate said
again, ‘The young man is prompt!’”</p>
<p>Judge Tiffany laughed.</p>
<p>“Oh, that women could dwell together in
peace and harmony! Can’t you grant my
playmate Miss Waddington a feminine jab or
two?”</p>
<p>“Well, she <i>is</i> nice to you!”</p>
<p>“Did it never occur to you as a virtue in her
that she puts herself out to entertain—even,
Madame, I flatter myself to fancy—a withered
old codger like me!”</p>
<p>Mrs. Tiffany’s first expression flooded her
eyes and said, “Is there anything strange in
liking you?” Her second expression set her
mouth hard and said, “What is her object?”
Her voice said nothing.</p>
<p>“And behold him now,” said Judge Tiffany.</p>
<p>There, indeed, came Bertram Chester, visible
over their garden wall as he toiled up the
hen-coop sidewalk. The Judge returned to
the house; Mattie Tiffany settled herself on
the piazza with the preen and flutter of a
female thing about to be wooed.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_108' name='page_108'></a>108</span></p>
<p>The Tiffany drawing-room, panelled simply
in woods, furnished with the old Sturtevant
mahogany, came upon Bertram Chester
like a stage setting as he entered with Mrs.
Tiffany. Upstage, burned a driftwood fire
in a low hearth of rough bricks; Judge Tiffany
sat there, in a spindle-backed chair, reading.
Across a space broken only by a painting,
a Japanese print or so, and more spindle-backed
chairs, Eleanor and Kate had grouped
themselves by the piano. Eleanor, turning
the leaves on the music-rack, looked over
her shoulder at him. She was in pink that
day; the tint of her gown, blending into the
tint of her fresh skin, contrasted magically
with the subdued background. Kate, all in
white, sat on a hassock pulling a volume from
the low book shelf. All this came upon Bertram
with a soothing sense which he did not
understand in that stage of his development,
did not even formulate.</p>
<p>Kate, tripping across the rugs with a lightness
which perfectly balanced her weight,
greeted him first; Eleanor and Judge Tiffany
shook hands with more reserve. And as
Bertram settled himself in an arm-chair before
the fire, it was the ready Kate who put
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_109' name='page_109'></a>109</span>
him at his ease by opening fire of conversation.</p>
<p>“Did I tell you, Mrs. Tiffany, about the
restaurant which Mr. Chester found for us
last night? such an evening he gave us! Mr.
Chester, who is Madame Loisel—you should
have seen her, Judge Tiffany—you’d never
dine at home again. When these young
charms fade, I’m going to marry a French
restaurant-keeper and play hostess to the multitude
and be just plump and precious like
her. How can you ever get past the counter
with her behind it, Mr. Chester?”</p>
<p>“I’m generally hungry—that’s how!” said
Bertram Chester.</p>
<p>“That’s man for you!” responded Kate.
“Judge beloved, if you were a young man and
Eleanor—I’m too modest to mention myself,
you see—were what she’ll be at forty, and she
were behind a counter, and you before it,
would hunger tear you away? Oh dear, it’s
such a bore to keep one’s grammar straight!”</p>
<p>“I ask my wife’s permission before giving
the answer which is in my heart,” said Judge
Tiffany.</p>
<p>Eleanor broke into the laugh which followed.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_110' name='page_110'></a>110</span></p>
<p>“But I would like to know about Madame
Loisel.”</p>
<p>“Well, she’s certainly a ripe pippin; you’ve
seen that,” answered Bertram, his smile on
Eleanor. “And I’d like to know what she’s
saying when she parleys French to the garçons.
She’s all right if she’s feeling right,
but I’ve seen her tear the place up when the
service went bad. I guess she’s a square and
a pretty good fellow!”</p>
<p>“Tell us more about her—” this from Eleanor.</p>
<p>“About her squareness? Well, there was
the time Gentle Willie Purdy got drunk.
We call him Gentle Willie because he isn’t,
you know. About three o’clock in the morning,
he took the notion it was dinner time and
climbed the side gate to the Hotel Marseillaise
and pounded at the door. He faded out
about then, he says. When he woke up, he
was laid out on a couch, with a towel on his
head, and Madame was bringing him black
coffee. He tried to thank her after he felt
better; and what do you think she said?
‘Meester Purdy, nevaire, nevaire come to eat
in thees place again.’ She stayed with it too!”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_111' name='page_111'></a>111</span></p>
<p>“Good for her!” said Mrs. Tiffany, reaching
for her crewel work.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes,” responded Mr. Chester in the uncertain
tone of one who gives assent for politeness
without knowing exactly why.</p>
<p>“If I ever depart from the straight and narrow
paths and get drunk, may I have Madame
Loisel to hold my head,” cried Kate.</p>
<p>The talk ran, then, into conventional channels—the
news, the latest novel, and the
season’s picking at the ranch. Judge Tiffany
dropped out gradually, and resumed his book;
and more and more did Bertram direct his
talk, salted and seasoned with his magnetism,
toward Eleanor. Kate Waddington, left out
of the conversation through three or four exchanges,
crossed the room and draped herself
on a hassock at the feet of Judge Tiffany.</p>
<p>“Judge darling,” she said in an aside which
penetrated to the furthest corner of the
room, “I’m going back to my unsympathetic
home before tea. Don’t you think we’re well
enough chaperoned to go on with our flirtation
just where we left off?”</p>
<p>“Where was I when we were interrupted?”
asked Judge Tiffany, leaning forward.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_112' name='page_112'></a>112</span></p>
<p>“Twenty-fourth page, fifth chapter,” said
Kate. “I was just getting you jealous and you
were trying not to show it. Mr. Chester—oh
excuse me—well, I’ve broken in now, so I
might as well get the reward of my impoliteness—may
I use you to make Judge Tiffany
jealous?”</p>
<p>“Sure you can!” answered Bertram.</p>
<p>“Oh, he won’t do at all!” Kate was addressing
Judge Tiffany again. “He’s entirely too
eager. Who would be a good rival anyway,
Judge adored? Let’s create one, like the picture
of your future husband in a nickel vaudeville!”</p>
<p>“Eleanor,” spoke Mrs. Tiffany, “suppose
you show Mr. Chester your end of the house
and our garden—or would you like it, Mr.
Chester? We’re rather proud of the garden.”</p>
<p>“I’d like it,” answered Bertram; and he
rose instantly. Mrs. Tiffany made no move
to accompany them; she sat bent over her
yarns, her ears open. And she noticed, at the
moment when Bertram made that abrupt
movement from his chair, how Kate hesitated
in the middle of a sentence, as though confused.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_113' name='page_113'></a>113</span></p>
<p>The rehearsed flirtation between Kate and
Judge Tiffany faded into a game of jackstones
on the floor.</p>
<p>Mrs. Tiffany heard the double footsteps
fade down the hall, heard the garden door
open and close. After a short interval, she
heard the door again, and the dim footsteps
sounded for but a moment. They had turned,
evidently, into Eleanor’s own living room.
Would they stop there, these two, for a talk—yes,
her gentle treble, his booming bass,
drifted down the hall. Presently Mrs. Tiffany
heard Eleanor’s laugh, followed by his.
In that instant, she looked at the jackstone
players by the hearth. Kate, on the crackle
of that laugh, had arrested all motion. A
jack which she had tossed in the air, descended
with no hand to stop it. For a moment, Kate
held that intent pose; then,</p>
<p>“Judge wonderful, I’m a paralytic at times.
You for twosies.” She swept the jacks towards
him with one of her characteristic gestures,
free and yet deft.</p>
<p>A bell rang in the outer hall, and the maid
entered.</p>
<p>“Miss Waddington is wanted at the telephone,”
she announced.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_114' name='page_114'></a>114</span></p>
<p>Eleanor, when she saw that her visitor had
no intention of rejoining the party, commanded
him to smoke. He rolled a cigarette,
Western fashion, from powdered tobacco and
brown paper, and disposed himself in the
window-seat, one leg drawn up under him,
his big shoulders settled comfortably against
the wall. Eleanor began to talk fluently,
superficially, with animation. She felt from
the first that he was throwing himself against
her barriers, trying to reach at once the deeper
stages of acquaintance. His direct look
seemed both to plead and to command. She
outwitted two or three flanking movements
before he took advantage of a pause and
charged her entrenchments direct.</p>
<p>“I’ve said it before, but I’m going to keep
on. You are pretty.”</p>
<p>“Thank you,” she replied; and smiled—mainly
at the ingenuousness of this, although
partly at the contrast between her present view
of him and that old memory.</p>
<p>“Oh, it never seems to bother you when I
say that,” went on Bert Chester, bending his
rather large and compelling black-brown eyes
upon her. “Some girls would get sore, and
some would like it; you never pay any attention.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_115' name='page_115'></a>115</span>
That’s one of the ways you’re different.”</p>
<p>(“Heavens—is he making love already—he
is sudden!” thought Eleanor with amusement.)</p>
<p>“You are, you know. I picked you for different
the first time I saw you. I wondered
then if you were beautiful—I always knew
you had nice eyes—and it isn’t so much that
you’ve changed, as that the longer a man looks
at you the prettier you are.”</p>
<p>“Shall we discuss other things than me?”
asked Eleanor.</p>
<p>“Why shouldn’t we talk about you? I’ve
never had a chance before—just think, it’s the
first time ever I saw you alone—even that
time on the ranch a bull chaperoned us!”
This minor joke, like every play of his spirit,
gained a hundred times its own inherent effect
by sifting through his personality. She
smiled back to his smile at the boyish ripples
about his mouth and eyes.</p>
<p>“You see, it means a lot when a girl sticks
in a man’s mind that way,” he continued.
“Why, I’ve carried you around right through
my Senior year at college and my first year
out. So of course, it must mean something.”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_116' name='page_116'></a>116</span></p>
<p>The open windows of Eleanor’s bower
looked out upon a bay tree, a little thing
awaiting its slaughter—for shade trees might
not grow too near the windows in San Francisco.
It was flopping its lance-leaves against
the panes; puffs of the breeze brought in a
suggestion of its pungency. That magic
sense, so closely united with memory—it
brought back a faint impression upon her.
Her very panic at this ghost of old imaginations
inspired the inquiry, barbed and shafted
with secret malice:</p>
<p>“How many really nice girls have you
known in that time?”</p>
<p>Bertram, sitting in considerable comfort on
the window seat, flashed his eyes across his
shoulder to her.</p>
<p>“Oh, a few in my Senior year, not many
this year. What’s a man going to do on
twelve a week?” She noticed the indelicacy
of this, since he spoke in the house of his employer.
But the next sentence from him was
even more startling:</p>
<p>“The last time I was in love was down in
High School at Tulare. She’s married a fellow
in the salt business now. I guess she was
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_117' name='page_117'></a>117</span>
pretty: anyway, her hair was the color of
molasses candy. I wrote a poem to her the
first day I saw her.”</p>
<p>“A poem?” asked Eleanor.</p>
<p>“You do well to ask that,” said Bertram,
throwing on one of those literary phrases by
which, in the midst of his plain, Anglo-Saxon
speech, he was recalling that he was a university
man. “It rhymed, after a fashion.”</p>
<p>“You don’t know how to be in love until
you’re older,” he went on.</p>
<p>(“Even that bay scent brings up only wonder,
not emotion; and I can laugh at him all
the way,” she thought. Yet in this tiny triumph
Eleanor was not entirely happy. The
vision, a little disturbing, a little shameful,
but yet sweet, was quite gone.)</p>
<p>“Tell me about this girl with the molasses
hair. She interests me. And a lot about
yourself.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I’ve forgotten most about her long
ago. And I’ve something else to remember
now, I hope. I’d like to talk about myself,
though. I’d like some girl to hear about my
ambitions. I really think it would do me
good.”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_118' name='page_118'></a>118</span></p>
<p>He stopped, as though expecting an answer.
None came. He bent his eyes closer
on her and repeated:</p>
<p>“It would!”</p>
<p>And at that moment, a pair of high heels
tapped in the doorway, a cheerful voice called
for admission through the portières, and enter
Kate Waddington. Mr. Chester, Eleanor
saw, rose to her entrance as one who has not
always risen for women; there was something
premeditated about the movement.</p>
<p>“Mrs. Tiffany said you two were in here,”
she began in her full, rich contralto, “and I
made so bold, Nell—Mrs. Masters is taking
a party over to their ranch next Sunday. One
of her men has disappointed her and she’s
just telephoned to give me the commission to
fill his place. Mr. Chester, you are an inspiration
sent straight from Heaven. Any
other man, positively any other, would be a
second choice—but she didn’t know you when
she made up the party, so how could she have
invited you?”</p>
<p>She paused and threw an arch look past
Eleanor.</p>
<p>“Sure I’ll come!” said Bertram, jarred into
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_119' name='page_119'></a>119</span>
the vernacular by his internal emotion of pleasant
surprise. “Sure—I’d be delighted.”</p>
<p>“I told Mrs. Masters you’d be the ready
accepter,” said Kate.</p>
<p>“You’re going too, aren’t you?” asked Bertram
of Eleanor.</p>
<p>“No; I had to decline, I’m sorry to say.”</p>
<p>“And I’m sorry; blame sorry.” He turned
back toward Kate Waddington, and she, the
lightning-minded, read his expression. He
had made a great <i>faux pas</i>; he had seemed
more eager toward Eleanor, to whom he owed
no gratitude for the invitation, than toward
her.</p>
<p>“Would you care to drop in on Mrs. Masters
as you go down town to let her know that
you are coming? Or if you wish I’ll tell
them—I’m going now—that way.” Her tone
gave the very slightest hint of pique; her attitude
put a suggestion. The game, plain as
day to Eleanor, raised up in her only a film
of resentment. Mainly, she was enjoying the
humor of it.</p>
<p>Bertram rose promptly.</p>
<p>“It is time I was going,” he said. “I’ve
enjoyed myself very much, Miss Gray. If
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_120' name='page_120'></a>120</span>
you don’t mind, I’d like to come to see you
again.”</p>
<p>“And I’ll get into my things,” said Kate.</p>
<p>They all moved toward the door.</p>
<p>Kate passed first; then Eleanor. There
hung beside the door-casing a hook, designed
to hold the portière cord. Eleanor brushed
too close; it caught in the lace at her throat.
She pulled up with a jerk, gave a little cry;
the lace held fast. She turned—in the wrong
direction.</p>
<p>Bertram saw this tiny accident; he sprang
forward, caught the lace, disentangled her.
And to do so, he must reach about her so
that his arms, never quite touching her, yet
surrounded her as a circle surrounds its centre.
She turned and looked up to thank him, surprised
him, surprised herself, in that position.</p>
<p>And a wave which was fear and loathing
and longing and agitation ran over her with
the speed of an electric current, and left her
weak.</p>
<p>Her face, with its own sweet inscrutability,
showed little change of expression; but he
caught a dullness and then a glitter of her
eye, a heave of her bosom, a catch of her
breath. As he stood there, his great frame
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_121' name='page_121'></a>121</span>
towering above her, something which she
feared might be comprehension came into
his eyes. And—</p>
<p>“You make a picture—you two there!”
called Kate Waddington from without. The
transitory expression in his eyes—Eleanor saw
it now with triumph—was that of one who
has thrown a pearl away. But he followed.</p>
<hr class='tb' />
<p>Dining with Mark Heath in the Hotel
Marseillaise that night, Bertram fell into a
spell of musing, a visible melancholy uncommon
in him; for his ill-humors, like his laughters,
burned short and violent. Mark Heath—by
this time he was growing into a point
of view on his chum and room mate—remarked
it with some amusement and more
curiosity.</p>
<p>Mark was casting about for an opening,
when Bertram anticipated him. Staring into
the dingy wall of the Hotel Marseillaise, past
the laborers, the outcasts, the French cabmen
purring over their cabbage soup, he said in a
tone of musings:</p>
<p>“When Bert Chester grows up and gets rich,
he’ll take unto himself a wife. We’ll live in
a big house in the Western Addition with a
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_122' name='page_122'></a>122</span>
bay frontage. It will be furnished with
dinky old dull stuff, and those swell Japanese
prints and paintings. And I’ll have two
autos and a toy ranch in the country to play
with. We’ll give little dances in the big hall
downstairs. I’ll lead the opening dance with
the missus, and then I’ll just take a dance or
so with the best looking girls—the ones I take
a special cotton to. I’ll have my home sweet
home dance with the missus—” he fell again
to musing.</p>
<p>“A man up a tree,” said Mark Heath,
“would say you were in love.”</p>
<p>“I’ll be damned—I wonder if that ain’t the
matter?” said Bertram Chester.</p>
<hr class='major' />
<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_123' name='page_123'></a>123</span>
<a name='CHAPTER_VII' id='CHAPTER_VII'></a>
<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2>
</div>
<p>The Ferry, doorway to San Francisco,
wore its holiday Sunday aspect as Bertram
Chester approached it. A Schuetzen
Park picnic was gathering itself under the
arches, to the syncopated tune of a brass band.
The crowd blazed with bright color. The
young men, in white caps, yellow sashes of
their mysterious fraternity, and tinted neckties
like the flowers of spring, lolled and
larked and smoked about the pillars. Fat
mothers and stodgy fathers fussed over baskets
and progeny. Young girls, in white
dresses and much trimming of ribbons, coquetted
in groups as yet unbroken by the larking
young men. Over these ceremonial white
dresses of the Sunday picnic, they wore coats
and even furs against the damp, penetrating
morning—rather late in the season it was for
picnics. In the rests of the ragtime, rose the
aggressive crackle of that flat, hard accent,
with its curious stress on the “r,” which would
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_124' name='page_124'></a>124</span>
denote to a Californian in Tibet the native
of South of Market, San Francisco.</p>
<p>Bertram Chester, had he been accustomed
to spare any of his powers for introspective
imagination, might have beheld his crossroads,
his turning point, in this passage
through the South of Market picnic to the
little group waiting, by the Sausalito Ferry,
to take him to the Masters ranch. But a
month ago, he himself had whistled up that
infatuated little milliner’s apprentice who was
his temporary light of love, and had taken
her over to Schuetzen Park of a Sunday. He
had drunk his beer and shaken for his round
of drinks with the boys, had taken the girl
away from a young butcher, had fought and
conquered the bookmaker’s clerk who tried
to take away the milliner’s apprentice from
him, and had gone home, when the day was
done, with his head buried on that soft curve
of the feminine shoulder which was made to
receive tired male heads.</p>
<p>Now, without a backward look, he was
walking toward Sydney Masters, Mrs. Masters,
the sprightly and dainty Kate Waddington,
and those others, grouped about them,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_125' name='page_125'></a>125</span>
who might be guides and companions on his
new way.</p>
<p>Kate Waddington had acquainted him in
advance with the party, so that the introductions
brought no surprises. That young-old
man with the sharp little face was Harry
Banks, mine owner, millionaire, and figure
about town—every one in San Francisco knew
him or knew about him. That tall, swaying
girl with the repressed mouth, the abundant
hair coiled about her head, the rather dull
expression, was Marion Slater—“she paints
miniatures and hammers brass and does all
kinds of art stunts,” Kate had said. That tall
young man, who radiated good manners, was
Dr. Norman French; that little woman, all
girl, was Alice Needham, his fiancée. “They
play juvenile lead in this crowd,” had been
Kate’s phrase for them.</p>
<p>Kate, taking possession of Bertram at once,
gave him her bag to carry, and, as the gates
opened and the whistle blew, she walked beside
him. From the upper deck, this Masters
party watched that city panorama, spread
on the hills for all to see, roll away from
them, the wheeling flocks of gulls trailing the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_126' name='page_126'></a>126</span>
craft in the roads, the surge of golden waters
rolling in from the Gate. A morning mood
blew in upon the winds; the party became
gay.</p>
<p>Bertram, in the rise of his morning spirits,
performed certain cub-like gambols for the
benefit of Kate Waddington. The company
failed not to notice that he had assisted her
up the gangway by slipping his hand under
her elbow. On the deck, he cut her out immediately
from the rest, insisted on tucking
her veil into his pocket, made a pretence of
trying to take her hand. Even Kate found
it hard to parry these advances. Banks,
slouching back on a bench in his easy, indolent
attitude, looked over toward them, and
his mouth tightened and set. So much had
he been courted for his wealth and personality,
this Harry Banks, that among his familiars
he assumed the privilege of falling into
moods without reason or preliminary notice.
His present mood was a perverse one; and he
took it out on its reason for being—this presumptuous
outsider.</p>
<p>“Me Gawd, Jimmie, but me belt hurts!”
he called out suddenly in his richest imitation
of the South of Market dialect. With his
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_127' name='page_127'></a>127</span>
light step of a dancer, he skipped over to Kate
Waddington, whirled her to her feet, and began
to waltz about the forward deck, imitating
the awkward, contorted, cheek-to-cheek
style of the Schuetzen Park picnic.
Kate, who fell in at once with every invitation,
had laughed as he began to whirl her,
but she flushed too. The whole upper deck
was craning necks to stare. Mrs. Masters
caught her breath and whispered, “Oh,
don’t!” Dr. French and Alice Needham fell
to talking apart, as though repudiating, in
their embarrassment, such company. Marion
Slater, sitting at ease on her bench, cast one
glance at Harry Banks as he whirled to face
her. His eyes fell; on the next turn, he
waltzed Kate back to her seat. The relationship
between these two was a puzzle to their
familiars. He, the uncaught bachelor, the
flaneur, the epicurean, he who lived for his
pleasures, taking them with a calculated moderation
that he might preserve the power to
enjoy; she, the etiolated, the subtle, the earnest
follower of art, she who seemed always
a little too earnest and conventional for that
group of the frivolous and unconventional
rich—people had wondered for years how
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_128' name='page_128'></a>128</span>
there could be anything between them.
These two alone understood that the bond
was of the mind, not of the flesh or the spirit.
She but thought, and he thought with her;
she but lifted her eyebrow or moved her hand,
and the motion translated itself to speech in
his mind. That glance of her had made his
mind say, “I am making them all ridiculous.”</p>
<p>And, like the spoiled child that he was,
he ceased from one naughtiness only to
plunge into another and worse one. As Kate
dropped to the bench, he looked at Bertram
and said:</p>
<p>“You try it; I am a little rusty.” One of
his rare embarrassments flamed into the face
of Bertram Chester. The shot had gone
more truly than Harry Banks could have
known.</p>
<p>“No, thank you,” Bertram said simply, and
flushed again.</p>
<p>Masters spoke up from his corner:</p>
<p>“Well, Chester, you ought to be a good
dancer if build counts—though I shouldn’t
like to have you showing off your accomplishment
right here—you might lack the public
finish of the Banks style. You big football
fellows always have the call on the little men
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_129' name='page_129'></a>129</span>
in dancing. It is a matter of bulk and base,
I think.” The ferry boat was passing Alcatraz
now, and the populace had turned its
attention away from Harry Banks and his
party. The spoiled child kept straight ahead.</p>
<p>“They make real, ball-room gents,” he said.
He turned toward Marion on this; turned
as though he could not keep his look away.
She lifted her eyebrow again, and he fell into
a sulky silence.</p>
<p>The others rushed to the first refuge of
tact—personalities. After a moment, Banks
joined the talk; and then appeared another
aspect of his perverse mood. He took the
conversation into his own hands, and he
talked of nothing which could by any chance
include Bertram Chester, the callow newcomer,
the outsider. It was all designed to
show, it did show, how intimate they were,
how many old things they had in common—never
a passage in which Bertram could join
by any excuse. Even so did Banks direct it
as to draw Kate Waddington into the talk.
Bertram sat apart, then, his face showing all
his displeasure. His straight brows set themselves
in a frown, which he bent sometimes at
the group volleying personalities at Harry
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_130' name='page_130'></a>130</span>
Banks, and sometimes on the terraced hills of
Sausalito.</p>
<p>When they trooped off with the crowd,
Kate fell in beside Bertram again. Lagging
deliberately, she let a group of picnickers
come in between them and the rest of their
party. He was still frowning.</p>
<p>“I’d like to soak that man,” he said.
“Maybe I will.”</p>
<p>“No you won’t!” said she.</p>
<p>“Won’t I?” he replied.</p>
<p>“Oh, don’t think I haven’t seen it all. He
was horrid. You see, we’ve got used to him.
You’re meeting him new, and you don’t quite
understand him yet.”</p>
<p>“Well, I’m going to spend no sleepless
nights trying!”</p>
<p>“He’s really very clever and kind, at bottom.
You’ll come to like him as we all do.
And he’s a man that it’s good for you to
know.”</p>
<p>Bertram seemed to be considering this.</p>
<p>“Well, what did he mean, anyway?” he
snapped.</p>
<p>“Nothing. It’s just his foolery. We all
had to take it from him at first—and then we
came to appreciate him.”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_131' name='page_131'></a>131</span></p>
<p>Bertram answered with an impatient gesture.
Kate caught his arm, held it for just
a second.</p>
<p>“Now, you wouldn’t spoil my day, would
you?” she asked softly. “You know I’m responsible
for you—”</p>
<p>His frown melted into his smile.</p>
<p>“Sure, if you put it like that!”</p>
<p>“Now, you’re a sensible, accommodating,
self-restrained lad, and every other adjective
in Samuel Smiles. You could charm the buttons
off a policeman—and you’ll see how
really nice he can be.”</p>
<p>“You’ll take out time until I get over my
grouch?”</p>
<p>“Of course.” They were approaching
Masters and Dr. French, who stood waiting
by the train platform. “Late and happy!”
she called.</p>
<p>Harry Banks, walking ahead beside Marion
Slater, had taken his own wordless rebuke
from her. During the train passage, he made
the concession of keeping away from Bertram,
and grouped himself off in the other
double seat. Bertram, sitting with Kate and
the engaged couple, spoke but seldom and
then languidly. He did not come face to face
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_132' name='page_132'></a>132</span>
with Harry Banks again until the buckboards
had delivered them at the Masters ranch.</p>
<p>This estate bore the title of “ranch” only
by courtesy. Masters himself said that he
raised nothing but mild Hell on his forty
acres. He did have an olive orchard, a small
orange grove flourishing by luck of a warm
gorge in the hills, and a little fancy stock.
Kate and Masters took possession of the
new guest at the gate, and carried him over
the estate for inspection. Mainly, Bertram
took this entertainment sullenly. He
warmed a little at the sight of the cattle.
The house, built by Masters’s own design,
drew only the comment, “pretty nice.” After
that, Bertram was free to go to his room and
dispose his belongings. Returning in a marvelously
short time, he came out upon the
house-party, grouped all in the big, redwood
ceiled living-room.</p>
<p>A fire of driftwood snapped with metallic
crackling on the hearth. Alice Needham sat
with Dr. French beside it; Mrs. Masters,
pausing in a flight of supervision, had stopped
to speak with them; Alice was looking up
at her, presenting her fresh, full-faced view
to the gaze of the man on the staircase.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_133' name='page_133'></a>133</span>
Marion Slater stood with Masters by one of
the Dutch windows, criticizing the design
with a painter’s half-arm gestures. Banks,
by another window, sat dividing his time between
a book and the valley below.</p>
<p>It happened then, as Bertram stood there,
that Alice Needham looked in his direction.
It happened, also, that she was smiling. He
caught her smile and smiled back.</p>
<p>That smile was half the secret of his physical
charm. In the first place, it broke with
wholly unexpected force. His face, what
with its heaviness of feature, was a little forbidding
and severe. As he bent his unillumined
gaze, he appeared stern—even angry.
Then, with the sudden preliminary vibration
of an earthquake, that smile would begin to
quiver about his mouth, to start wrinkles
about his eyes. Next, as he bent his head
forward toward the target of his charms, it
drew back the corners of his mouth to show
his white teeth, it pulled eyelids and eyebrows
into a tiny slit, through which his pupils
twinkled like electric sparks. These movements—wholly
muscular at that—spiritualized
and transformed his face.</p>
<p>Mrs. Masters, looking up at the interruption,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_134' name='page_134'></a>134</span>
was caught in this flood of charm and
good will. Harry Banks, feeling a psychic
current running about the room, looked up
also; and that smile caught him. It carried
away the last trace of his perverse mood.
And Bertram heaved himself down the stairs
and crossed at once to seat himself beside
Alice Needham.</p>
<p>“I see at a glance I’m going to like this
party,” he said. On other lips there would
have been nothing to laugh at in this; but
they all did laugh. In a minute more, Harry
Banks had dropped his book and crossed over
to the fireplace. Bertram, leading the talk
now, took him in without a trace of apparent
resentment. Kate, emerging from the room,
dropped down beside Harry Banks on the
floor and joined her cheerful pipe to the symphony
of good fellowship. Before luncheon,
this find of hers was the centre of the party;
events were revolving about him.</p>
<p>In the lazy hour after meat, the engaged
couple found chance to slip out into the
orange grove. Masters, summoned by his
foreman, went to look after a sick cow, Harry
Banks went back to his reading, and Alice
Needham to a design for a window seat which
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_135' name='page_135'></a>135</span>
she was building for the Masters dining-room.
These pairings left Bertram and
Kate to each other; and presently they were
out-of-doors, drawing on into the woods.
Masters, from the barn, watched them and
noted what a goodly couple, what a faun and
dryad in clothes, they were. Kate Waddington
was turning over her shoulder her slow
and rather lazy smile, which began at her
lips and lit her green-grey eyes last of all.
That was her best attitude of head. Bertram
swung up the trail, making progress by main
force—not walking so much as lifting himself
on those sturdy, saddle-sprung legs of his.
He was making wide, sweeping gestures; and
Kate, as he talked, leaned a little toward him
now and then, like a woman absorbed.</p>
<p>Momentarily, she had him on the subject
of football. He was touching upon the subject
of one Bill Graham, Stanford tackle and
opponent in two varsity games, whom she
knew and whom he was teaching her to know
better. Bertram stooped and gathered a
handful of pebbles from the trail to show
how Bill Graham used to throw sand in his
eyes; he thrust his open hand against an
alder, bordering the trail, to show how he
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_136' name='page_136'></a>136</span>
contravened these tactics by slamming Bill
Graham in the face. Even so far did loosen
his tongue and spirit that he boasted of his
victories and excused his defeats. He went
further; he touched upon the most frightful
disappointment of his career.</p>
<p>“It was in the ten to nothing game,” said
he. “You remember, don’t you, how they
had us down on our ten yard line early in the
second half? We got the ball away. Nobody
had scored yet. Well, Stuffy Halpin
he gave the signal for a delayed pass on end.
That was a freak play we were trying out
that year—delayed pass first and then the
back passed to me. I jogged Bill Graham
and he stumbled down the field just bull-headed—he
never did have much football
sense. I looked down toward the goal”—(Bertram
had been gesticulating wildly; now
he gave the outstretched fingers of his right
hand a sudden fillip to show the changed direction
of his glance) “and I saw a clear field
right straight to the fullback or glory—”</p>
<p>“Gracious! What happened?” asked Kate.
She was capable, wit and social strategist that
she was, of assuming all this interest by way
of leading an inept youth to make a fool and
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_137' name='page_137'></a>137</span>
a braggart of himself for her amusement.
But she showed not a glimmer of irony,
neither in her mouth nor in her green-grey
eyes. She spoke with the straight, sincere interest
of a dairymaid listening to the self-told
heroisms of a stable boy.</p>
<p>“Stuffy tumbled all over himself and
dropped the ball!”</p>
<p>Bertram’s answer conveyed all the tragedy
in the world.</p>
<p>They were come now to a place where the
trail ran steep and the redwoods thickened to
make a Californian hillside. It was November,
but the season was late. The earth was
washed bright by the early rains and not yet
sodden with the later ones. The black,
shaded loam, bare of grass, oozed the moisture
it was saving for its evergreen redwoods
against a rainless summer. In the dark clefts
grew scentless things of a delicate, gnome
aspect—gold-back fern, maiden-hair overlying
dank, cold pools, sorrel, six-foot brake.
No blossoms blew among all this greenery;
only by that sign and by the wet, perspiring
earth might one know that it was autumn on
those hills.</p>
<p>The clean ooze and dew started a little
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_138' name='page_138'></a>138</span>
stream which ran, choked with maiden-hair,
to the trail, and formed a pool. Some philanthropic
camper had driven a nail into the
rock and hung there a tin cup. Kate (Bertram
still talking and gesticulating at her
left) threw a perceptive glance.</p>
<p>“How good the water looks!” she said. “I
believe I am thirsty!”</p>
<p>While he filled the cup, she seated herself
on the rock, disposed herself into a composition;
and after they had both drunk, she
showed no disposition to move from her
perch. In fact, she loosened her brown
student beri, shook her hair free, and sat there,
a wood-nymph framed by the ruddy brown
and dark green of redwood and laurel. He
crouched his big frame down beside her, so
that she leaned back against the rock. A
long silence, and:</p>
<p>“Nature is mighty nice!” he said.</p>
<p>Then, perceiving her as a part of the picture,
he added:</p>
<p>“And you’re the nicest thing about it.”</p>
<p>At this frontal attack, Kate waited to see
whether it meant further attack, skirmish, or
retreat. His general softness of expression,
showed that it meant attack.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_139' name='page_139'></a>139</span></p>
<p>Bertram, in fact, was in the mood for attack
on rose citadels. A year of life on
twelve dollars a week—cheap, crowded lodgings,
meals at the Hotel Marseillaise, the
landlady’s daughter and those of her kind for
companionship—and now, in a week, the refinements
of the Tiffany house, the refinement
plus entertainment of the Masters villa, and
these two lovely, fragrant women. It seemed
all to roll up in him as he sat there, the woods
about him and this golden creature at his side;
and it found half-unconscious expression on
his lips.</p>
<p>“I’m going to be rich some day,” he said.</p>
<p>“I hope so.”</p>
<p>“I am, sure. When I get rich I’m going
to have a place like this—I’ll have a long pull
by that time and be able to invite anybody
I want—this is the only way to live.” His
voice fell away.</p>
<p>Then he looked up and bent upon her that
smile.</p>
<p>“It’s great to have a girl like you to confide
in,” he said.</p>
<p>“Thank you; but you haven’t confided
much as yet,” responded Kate.</p>
<p>“I don’t suppose there is a whole lot to
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_140' name='page_140'></a>140</span>
confide. At least, things you’d want to tell a
girl like you. Only one thing. I’m in love!”</p>
<p>The arrest of all motion in Kate which followed
this declaration was like one of those
sudden calms which fall over a field at the
approach of evening. It descended upon her
in the mid-course of a gesture; it wrapped
her about in such a stillness that neither
breath nor blood stirred. Then, though only
her lips moved, her vocal cords responded to
her will.</p>
<p>“And she is to be mistress of the villa when
you get rich?”</p>
<p>“If she’ll take me,” said Bertram. “You
see, it is a brand new case. I’ve just got it—just
realized it. She’s up and I’m still
down, so it wouldn’t be square to say anything
about it, now would it?”</p>
<p>“No,” answered Kate softly, “though we
women like bold lovers too.”</p>
<p>“Yes, that’s so. And I suppose if I keep too
still about it, somebody else will come riding
onto the ranch and carry her off. It’s my
game, I guess, to stay around and watch.
And if I find any gazebo getting too thick
with her, then up speaks little Bertie for the
word that makes her his.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_141' name='page_141'></a>141</span></p>
<p>“If she’ll have me,” he added. “But she’s
a good many pegs above me just now and I’ve
got more than a living to make. Of course,
that’ll come all right if I have fair luck. If
it was easy money plugging my way through
college, it will be easy plugging it through
the world. Don’t you size it up about that
way?”</p>
<p>Kate clasped her hands and leaned forward.</p>
<p>“If you’re playing the long game, I suppose
so. But wouldn’t you do better at least
to hint to the girl?”</p>
<p>“I guess you can advise me about that,”
said he. “Better than anybody I know.
Suppose I tell you all about it?” A little
panic ran through the nerves of Kate.</p>
<p>“Now?” she said, “are—are you ready?”</p>
<p>“Now-time is good-time,” he said. “Well,
I guess you’ve savveyed just who it is and
what’s the matter. It’s—it’s Miss Gray—Eleanor
Gray.”</p>
<p>To the end of her days, Kate Waddington
remembered to be thankful for a certain cotton-tail
rabbit. At that moment precisely,
this fearling of the woods streaked down the
trail, pursued by a dog whose heavy crashing
sounded in the distance; came out upon them,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_142' name='page_142'></a>142</span>
whirled with a loud roaring of fern and
leaves, screamed the heart-rending scream of
a frightened rabbit, and dashed off into the
wood. The sound, coming in this tender moment,
betrayed Bert Chester into a guilty start.
So, when he looked back, her face was as
smoothly beautiful as ever and she was even
smiling.</p>
<p>“You lucky boy!” she said. And then, “I
don’t blame you. I wouldn’t blame any
man.” Bertram fairly glowed.</p>
<p>“I knew you’d agree with me,” he said.
“Say, what chance do I stand—honest, what
do you believe she thinks of me?”</p>
<p>“Honest, I never heard her say. It is
likely she hasn’t begun to think of it at all.
Women are slower than men about such
things. How long have you been—in love
with her?”</p>
<p>“Of course, I’ve been that way ever since
I saw her first—ever since I was a student,
picking prunes for her uncle, and went down
and helped her run a bull off her place. I
thought then that I never saw nicer eyes or
a more ladylike girl. She’s always given me
the glassy eye. I think she hates me—no, it
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_143' name='page_143'></a>143</span>
isn’t that, either. She just feels superior to
me.”</p>
<p>“Oh, perhaps not that!”</p>
<p>“Well, anyhow, I was in college and any
one girl looked about the same to me as any
other—” Bertram wrinkled his brows in
contempt for his utter, undeveloped youngness
of two years before—“but I remembered
her always. When I saw her sitting in the
Hotel Marseillaise that evening, I felt queer;
and after I called on her I just knew I had
it. Funny, you coming in that afternoon.
You and I have hit it off so well, and here
I’m confiding in you! It was a regular luck
sign, I think.”</p>
<p>Kate’s voice, when she spoke, fell to its
deeper, richer tones.</p>
<p>“And I’m sure I feel flattered—any girl
would. I really thank you—you don’t know
how much.”</p>
<p>“And you’ll help me, won’t you?”</p>
<p>“With my advice—yes.”</p>
<p>“Well, that’s all I want. If I win this
game, I want to win it square.</p>
<p>“Say, you are sure the goods. You’re as
pretty—it wouldn’t be natural for a man to
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_144' name='page_144'></a>144</span>
say you’re as pretty as she is, but a man can
just look at you and wonder—” and here he
dropped one of his hands gently upon hers.
She let it rest there a moment before she drew
away.</p>
<p>“We’d better be going back,” she said.
“They’ll think it’s I and not Eleanor, if we
stay so long.”</p>
<p>As they started, he stooped to get her another
drink. Standing above him, her hand
lifted toward her student beri, she bent her
gaze on his back. A peculiar look it was,
as though an effort against pain. It faded
into an expression like hunger.</p>
<hr class='major' />
<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_145' name='page_145'></a>145</span>
<a name='CHAPTER_VIII' id='CHAPTER_VIII'></a>
<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2>
</div>
<p>It seemed afterward to Bertram Chester,
reviewing the early events of a life in
which he was well pleased, that his real attack
on things, his virtual beginning, came
with that house-party of the Masters’s. The
victory of his smile on the staircase he followed
up that evening to a general conquest.
For Masters, when dinner was over, brewed
a hot punch. They drank it about the driftwood
fire, and even the severe Marion Slater
relaxed and made merry. The essence of the
gods strips self-control and delicacy first, so
that the finer wit goes by without tribute of
a laugh and the wit of poked fingers—especially
if it be sauced by personality—rules at
the board. After the punch had worked sunshine
in them, the poked finger of this young
barbarian was more compelling than the sallies
of Masters or the mimicry of Harry
Banks.</p>
<p>When the party dispersed at the Sausalito
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_146' name='page_146'></a>146</span>
Ferry and scattered for a workaday Monday,
he found himself accepting invitations left
and right. Dr. French asked him to motor
out to the Cliff House that very night; Mrs.
Masters wanted him to dinner; Harry Banks
must have him over to his ranch under Tamalpais.
Kate Waddington, mounting the steps
to Banks’s automobile, slipped him a farewell
word.</p>
<p>“You were a success,” she said. “That’s
the reward of naughty little boys when they
reform!”</p>
<p>“Well, I’d have liked to smash his face
just the same—then.”</p>
<p>“You’ve done better than that—you’ve
quite conquered him. I’ll see you Wednesday
at the Masters? Good bye!”</p>
<p>Bertram Chester sold forthwith the Richmond
lots, his first venture in business, to get
ready money for the wisest or the most foolish
investment which a young man of affairs
can make in the beginning of his career—general
society. With all his youth, his energy
and his eager attack on things, he plunged
into the life of San Francisco. Only in that
city of easy companionships and careless social
scrutinies would such a sudden rise have
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_147' name='page_147'></a>147</span>
been possible. His furnished room, where
he used to read and study of evenings in his
years of beginnings, knew him no more before
midnight. He dropped away from those
comrades of the lower sort with whom he
had found his recreation; abandoned and forgotten
were his old lights of love. The milliner’s
apprentice, a coarsely pretty little
thing, used to wait for him sometimes on the
doorstep. Mark Heath, coming home one
night earlier than usual, found her there, took
her for a walk about the block, and conveyed
to her the unpleasant news that Bertram was
now flying higher than her covey. After
that, she came no more; and the first phase of
his life in San Francisco drifted definitely
back of Bertram Chester.</p>
<p>We shall stop with him only three or four
times in the course of that winter wherein he
made his beginnings. Before it was over, he
had entered, by the special privilege accorded
such characters, the club about which man-society
in San Francisco revolved; he had
broken into a half a dozen circles of women
society; he had become hail-fellow-well-met
with the younger sons of the cocktail route,
the loud characters of flashy Latin quarter
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_148' name='page_148'></a>148</span>
studios, the returned Arctic millionaires of
the hour and day who kept the Palace Hotel
prosperous, the patrons and heroes of the
prize-fight games, the small theatrical sets of
that small metropolis. Sometimes he flashed
in a night through four or five such circles.</p>
<p>He hung of late afternoons over bars, exchanging
that brainless but well-willed talk
by which men of his sort come to know men.
He sat beside roped rings to witness the best
muscle of the world—and not the worst brain—revive
in ten thousand men the primeval
brute. He frolicked with trifling painters,
bookless poets, apprentice journalists, and the
girls who accrued to all these, through wild
studio parties in Latin quarter attics. He
sat before the lace, mahogany, crimson lights
and cut glass of formal dinners, whereat,
after the wine had gone round, his seat became
head of the table.</p>
<p>From these meetings and revels, whereby
he made his way along the path of dalliance
in the easiest, most childish, most accepting
city of the Western world, two or three kaleidoscopic
flashes remained in his maturer
memory. The night of the football game,
for example, he strayed into the annual
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_149' name='page_149'></a>149</span>
pitched battle of noise and reproach at the
Yellowstone between the California partisans
and the Stanford fanatics. A California
graduate, his companion along the cocktail
route, recognized him; immediately, he was
riding shoulder high. His bearers broke for
the sidewalk, and down Market Street he
went, a blue-and-gold serpentine dancing behind
him. There was his first Jinks at the
Bohemian club—an impromptu affair, thrown
in between the revelling Christmas Jinks in
the clubhouse and the formally artistic Midsummer
High Jinks in the Russian River
Grove. The Sire, noting his smile and figure,
impressed him into service for a small
part. This brought a fortnight of rehearsal
which was all play and expression of young
animal spirits, a night of revel refined by art,
an after-jinks dinner of the cast, whereat
Bertram, as usual, spoke only to conquer.
Memory held also one perfectly-blended
winter house-party at the Banks ranch, with
the rain swaying the eucalyptus trees outside
and a dozen people chosen from San Francisco
for their power to entertain, making two
nights and a day cheerful within.</p>
<p>Later in life, he, the unreflective, thought
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_150' name='page_150'></a>150</span>
that times had changed in his city; that men
were not so brilliant nor circles so convivial
as when he was very young. It was not in
him to know that neither times nor men had
changed; that he thought so only because he
looked on them no longer through the rose
glasses of youth.</p>
<p>He himself would have called it a season
of great change, and he would have missed, at
that, the greatest change of all—the transformation
in himself. The face on which we
saw so little written when he had that meeting
in the Hotel Marseillaise, the new sheet
straight from the mills of the gods, had now
a faint scratching upon it. The mouth was
looser in repose, firmer in action; the roving
and merry eye was more certain, more accurate
as it were, in its glances. His youthful
assurance had changed in him to something
like mature self-certainty. In those external
city manners which he had set about from the
beginning to acquire, he showed more ease.
Although he had lost the fragrance of an untouched
youth, he had become altogether a
prettier figure of a man.</p>
<p>He needed all the prodigal youth and the
cowboy strength in him to keep up his social
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_151' name='page_151'></a>151</span>
pace and still do his work, but he managed
it. Indeed, he became of distinct value to
the office through the business which he
brought in from his wandering and his revelling.
It seemed that he might refurbish that
old law practice and find his way to the partnership
which Judge Tiffany foresaw at the
end of one path.</p>
<p>Through this consideration and through
the partisan friendship of Mrs. Tiffany, he
became gradually a pet and familiar of the
Tiffany household, taking pot-luck dinners
with them, joining them once or twice on
their out-of-doors excursions. His big,
bounding presence, his good-natured gambols
of the Newfoundland pup order, transformed
that somewhat serious and faded
ménage, gave it light and interest, as from a
baby in the house. Although Mrs. Tiffany
mothered him, gave him her errands to do,
she made no mistake about the centre of attraction
for him. He was “after” Eleanor.
That young woman took him soberly and
naturally, laughing at his gambols, accepting
his attentions, but giving no sign to Mrs. Tiffany’s
attentive eyes that her interest was
more than indifferent friendship.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_152' name='page_152'></a>152</span></p>
<p>His wooing, in fact, went on in a desultory
fashion, as though he were following the
policy which he had expounded to Kate Waddington—“hang
around and watch.” He
paid no more compliments to grey eyes; he
paid no compliments at all. When they were
alone, he entertained her with those new tales
of his associations in the city, which pleased
her less, had he only known it, than his tales
of the ranch and gridiron. If he showed the
state of his feeling, it was no more than by
an occasional long and hungry look.</p>
<p>In one way or another, he saw nearly as
much of Kate Waddington, that winter, as he
did of Eleanor. Kate, too, was a ray of light.
She—“the little sister of the clever” her enemies
called her—made the Tiffany house a
bourne between her stops at her home in the
Mission and her rangings about Russian Hill.
Bertram noticed with sentimental pleasure
that the two girls were a great deal together.
He found them exchanging the coin of feminine
friendship in Eleanor’s living-room, he
met them on shopping excursions in Post
street. When the three met so, Kate always
sparkled with her best wit, her most cheerful
manner; but she showed, too, a kind of
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_153' name='page_153'></a>153</span>
deference toward Eleanor, an attitude which
said, “He is yours; I am intruding only by
accident.” The meaning in this attitude bore
itself in, at length, even upon Bertram Chester;
and he did not fail to glow with gratitude.
He expressed that gratitude once or
twice when he was alone with Kate. Somehow,
it was easy for him to talk to her about
such things.</p>
<hr class='major' />
<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_154' name='page_154'></a>154</span>
<a name='CHAPTER_IX' id='CHAPTER_IX'></a>
<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2>
</div>
<p>“Are you off the job to-night?” came
the resonant voice of Bertram Chester
over the telephone.</p>
<p>“Yes!” Eleanor laughed. “Are you coming
to play with us?”</p>
<p>“No. You’re coming to play with me.
One of our best little playmates leans over
my elbow as I indite these few lines—little
Katie. Mark Heath is reporting great doings
in Chinatown to-night, and he wants
assistance. Do you suppose your Aunt Mattie
will object to Chinatown?”</p>
<p>“Aunt Matilda never dictates—”</p>
<p>“Then it’s Chinatown! We’ll be along
for you in half an hour. We’re dining with
the Masters, who have inconsiderately refused
to come along. What’s happened to you?”</p>
<p>“Nothing—why?”</p>
<p>“Your voice sounds so chipper!”</p>
<p>“That shows I’m in a mood to play!”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_155' name='page_155'></a>155</span></p>
<p>“Then we’ll be along in a <i>quarter</i> of an
hour.”</p>
<p>“And I’ll be waiting at the garden gate!”</p>
<p>The swish and murmur of night, the rustle
of a steady sea breeze, the composite rumble
of the city far below, tuned with the song in
Eleanor’s blood as she stood waiting by the
front gate. She looked down on the pattern
of light and heavy shadow that was the city,
and a curious mood of exultation came over
her. Light foreshadowings of this mood had
touched her now and again during the past
two months; never before had these transitory
feelings piled themselves up into such a definite
emotion.</p>
<p>She could not trace its shy beginning, but
she was aware of it first as a sense of the
humanity in the cells of that luminous honeycomb
below, the struggling, hoping, fighting,
aspiring mass, each unit a thing to love, did
one but know the best. The wave of love
universal beat so strong on her heart that she
turned her eyes away for surfeit of rapture,
and looked up to the stars. They, the bright
angels of judgment whose infinite spaces she
could not contemplate without fear, united
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_156' name='page_156'></a>156</span>
themselves in some mysterious bond with the
little human things below; the sight of them
brought the same wave of rapture. Too
mighty long to be endured, the wave broke
into ripples of happy contemplation. Sounding
lines of forgotten poems ran through her
mind, movements of old symphonies, memories
of her vicarious raptures before the altar
in the convent, glimpses of hillsides and valleys
and woods in the winter rain which she
had seen unseeing that she might reserve their
deeper meaning for this deeper sight of the
spirit. “I wonder if this is not happiness;
if Heaven will not be so?” she thought. It
came, too, that if this exaltation lasted a moment
longer, she should know with God the
meaning of all things, the Reason which
united stars and space and men and the works
of men.</p>
<p>The resonant bass of Bertram Chester,
beating down Kate’s cheerful treble, floated
up from the sidewalk. The sound came almost
as a relief; yet on second thought she
was a little sorry for their intrusion into this
lonely rapture of the spirit. She looked over
the wall. Kate, revealed in the light of their
gate-lamp, walked between the two men, who
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_157' name='page_157'></a>157</span>
were bending toward her; now they were all
laughing together. She was radiant, this
firm-fleshed, golden flower of the West.
Eleanor dipped from her clouds of glory to
notice that she wore a new tailor gown, that
every touch of her costume showed how she
had got herself up for that special occasion.
And now the spiritual fluid in Eleanor transmuted
itself into a reckless gaiety. She
slipped down the steps and confronted them
on the sidewalk.</p>
<p>“Hello,” said Kate, looking her over.
“Well, who’s given you a present?”</p>
<p>Eleanor hugged her. “That’s just what’s
happened, Katie. Somebody <i>has</i> given me a
present—I believe it must have been the
stars.” She extended her hands, right and
left, to the men; holding them so, she rattled
on; “Boys and girls, there’s so much ego in
my cosmos to-night that it’s running out at
every pore. I’m sure there’s going to be a
party to-night, and I’m sure it’s got up for
my benefit. I’m going to play so hard—so
hard that they’ll put me to bed crying! Mr.
Heath, bring on your Chinese and let them
gambol and frisk. It’s my birthday. This
isn’t the date in the family Bible, as Kate
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_158' name='page_158'></a>158</span>
could tell you if she weren’t a lady, but I’m
sure my parents made a mistake. I just know
that some menial is coming in a minute with
a birthday cake—and the ring and the thimble
and the coin and everything will be in my
slice—Hello, Bert Chester!”</p>
<p>“Where do I come in?” enquired Kate.</p>
<p>“You? You come in as my dearest little
playmate, to whom I sent the first invitation.”</p>
<p>“I see at a glance,” rejoined Mark Heath,
“that we’ve got our work cut out for us. I
will now announce to the Little Girl who is
Having a Party the program of games and
sports. The festival of the women is on in
Chinatown.”</p>
<p>“I saw it from the car as I passed Dupont
Street,” chimed in Kate. “And the Quarter
is blazing like a fire in a tar barrel.”</p>
<p>In the most natural manner, Kate linked
herself to Mark Heath. She always yielded
the place beside Bertram when Eleanor was
present; quite as naturally, she herself took
that place when Eleanor was away. Bertram
cast a long look on his companion; and he
ventured for the first time in weeks, on something
like a compliment.</p>
<p>“What <i>has</i> happened to you? You look—hanged
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_159' name='page_159'></a>159</span>
if I can just tell you how you look,
but it’s great!”</p>
<p>“Oh, compliment me! I love compliments!
That’s my birthday present from
you. I wonder if the Chinese babies will be
out on the street—the little, golden babies.
Why haven’t they a legend about those babies?
Mr. Heath, do you know Chinese mythology?
Kate, aren’t you sure those children are primroses
transformed by the fairies to hide them
from the goblins?”</p>
<p>Bertram frowned a little as she drew the
other couple into their private conversation.
But he continued to study her. This lightness
and brightness which she had developed
so suddenly, seemed quite to dim the radiance
of his own personality. He fell into a quiet
which lasted far into the evening. She, on
her side, moved like one intoxicated by some
divine liquor. Never had she seemed so gay,
so young; and—though he did not wholly
formulate this—never had she seemed to him
so inaccessible.</p>
<p>They approached a dark alley beside an
Italian tenement. Eleanor, dancing around
the corner, came upon it suddenly. She drew
up.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_160' name='page_160'></a>160</span></p>
<p>“There’s an ogre in this dark den—I know
there is. I must see him! Just think, I’m
ten years old going onto eleven, and I never
yet saw a real ogre. Come on—we’re going
ogre hunting!” She plunged into the shadows.
Mark, laughing, followed.</p>
<p>Eleanor peeped into the door of a wine-house,
peeped over a board fence, and came
back to announce:</p>
<p>“He’s not in. I left my card—oh, there he
is—he’s visiting the goblin in that garden
across the street!” She skipped across to an
old stone wall which held its half-acre of
earth suspended over the hill-fall. Mark
skipped with her; Bertram followed at a distance
as one who plays a game of which he is
not sure. Eleanor brought up against the
wall.</p>
<p>“There he is—by the kitchen door. Of
course you see him! Good, Kind ogre, you
don’t eat little girls on their birthdays do
you?”</p>
<p>“Aren’t his red eyes beautiful and hasn’t he
a classy set of teeth?” rejoined Mark Heath.
“Be good, Fido, and you shall have a plumber
for breakfast.”</p>
<p>“But he’ll spare me! He says I’m too beautiful
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_161' name='page_161'></a>161</span>
to eat!” Eleanor was dancing back. “Oh
Kate, I’ve seen an ogre!”</p>
<p>Kate did not answer. She fell in with
Mark Heath, and as they drew ahead she murmured:</p>
<p>“I wonder what’s got into her?”</p>
<p>“Nothing I guess. I should rather say
she’d got out. I think it’s bully.”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes,” said Kate, drawing out the last
word.</p>
<p>They turned into the Quarter at Washington
Street, and at once they were in the midst
of the festival. From a doorway burst a
group of little, immobile-featured Cantonese
women, all in soft greens, deep blues, reds and
golds that glimmered in the gas-lights.
Banded combs in jade and gold held their
smooth, glossy black hair; their slender hands,
peeping from their sleeves, shone with rings.
The foremost among them, a doll-girl of sixteen
or so, tottered and swayed on the lily feet
of a lady. The rest walked upon clattering
pattens, like a French heel set by the cobbler’s
mistake at the instep.</p>
<p>Mark Heath, the young reporter, proud in
his knowledge of “the inside,” took up the
reins of conversation.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_162' name='page_162'></a>162</span></p>
<p>“A fairy story for you right at the start,
birthday lady! That little-foot girl is the
daughter of Hom Kip. You remember the
story, don’t you? The old plug tried to sell
this daughter of his for wife to a merchant in
Portland. She had her own ideas—she
eloped with the second tragedian from the
theatre over there. Hom Kip put detectives
on them, and caught her at Fresno. But she’d
already married her actor American fashion;
and the Portland bridegroom is waiting until
father makes his little blossom a widow.”</p>
<p>“As temporary Empress of Chinatown, I
order that he shall do nothing of the kind,”
said Eleanor.</p>
<p>“As your grand vizier, I shall put the
machinery in motion that will free the beautiful
young bride,” rejoined Mark Heath.</p>
<p>Kate broke in.</p>
<p>“What became of the actor? I’m one of
those dull persons who always wants the rest
of the story!”</p>
<p>“I told you, didn’t I, that father is going to
make her a widow? At least he was until the
Empress ordered otherwise. The actor has
probably abandoned his art, which gives him
undesirable publicity. And some day, if
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_163' name='page_163'></a>163</span>
father dares disobey the Empress, there’ll be a
mysterious murder in a backwoods laundry—police
baffled.”</p>
<p>Eleanor contemplated the lily-foot girl,
swaying about the corner into Dupont, her little
handkerchief in one hand, her proper fan
in the other.</p>
<p>“Poor little blossom—I wonder if she’ll
mourn for him? Faithful Grand Vizier,
don’t tell me sad facts on my birthday night.
I want only pretty things.”</p>
<p>“Whether she’ll mourn or not won’t make
much difference to father—or to the Highbinders.
Je-hoshaphat—look!”</p>
<p>For they had turned the corner into Dupont
Street, main avenue of the Quarter. Its narrow
vista came upon them at first as a smothered
flame. Innumerable paper lanterns,
from scarlet globes as big as a barrel to parti-colored
cones that one might hold in his palm,
blazed everywhere, making strange combinations,
incredible shades, in the flaring Chinese
signs, the bright dresses of the women. The
sidewalks quivered with life—soberly dressed
coolies, making green background for the
gauds of their women, bespangled babies late
out of bed that they might gain good luck
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_164' name='page_164'></a>164</span>
and blessing from those rites, priests in white
robes, dignitaries in long tunics, incongruous
Caucasian tourists and spectators.</p>
<p>A moment Eleanor drank it all in; then she
addressed her Grand Vizier.</p>
<p>“Inform my people, through your invaluable
publication, that their demonstration in
my honor is perfect.”</p>
<p>“It shall be done, liege lady—three column
spread on the front page. Oh, you’ve got to
have a shoe.” For a vendor was bearing down
on them, carrying a tray of pink paper shoes
like valentines. “That’s the symbol of this
festival—the goddess lost her shoe before she
died. How much, Charlie? Two bits two?
All light! Empress, permit me to present this
souvenir of a grateful people. Miss Waddington,
have a shoe on me!”</p>
<p>Eleanor hung the pink trifle to the pin at
her throat.</p>
<p>“I shall add it to the royal treasure trove,”
she said. It came across her then, as one of
the unrelated thoughts and fancies which
were coursing in such swarms through her
mind, that Bertram Chester, though he stuck
close to her side, had been unusually silent.
She drew him in at once.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_165' name='page_165'></a>165</span></p>
<p>“Does it become me?” she asked.</p>
<p>“Everything becomes you.”</p>
<p>“You don’t say anything about <i>my</i> shoes!”
said Kate.</p>
<p>Now the crowd began to eddy and to whirl
toward the next corner. There rose the clang
of gongs, the shrilling of a Chinese pipe
playing a mournful air in that five-toned scale
Whose combinations suggest always the mystery
of the East. About that corner swept the
procession of the Good Lady, priests before,
women worshippers behind. The priests set
up a falsetto chant, the banner-bearers lifted
their staves, and the parti-colored mass moved
down on them.</p>
<p>“It’s like a flower-bed on a landslide!” exclaimed
Eleanor.</p>
<p>Mark Heath gravely pulled out his left cuff
and took rapid notes with a pencil.</p>
<p>“That goes into the story—anything more
up your sleeve like that?”</p>
<p>“Wasn’t it good? Eleanor is always thinking
up clever things to say,” Kate came in.
Her voice was rather flat.</p>
<p>At the edge of the gutter where they stood,
a Chinese shoemaker had set out on a lacquer
tray his offering to the gods. Red candles
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_166' name='page_166'></a>166</span>
bordered it, surrounding little bowls of rice
and sweetmeats, a slice of roast pig, a Chinese
lily. As the banners approached, certain devout
coolies found room on the sidewalk to
prostrate themselves. Eleanor, absorbed now
in a poetic appreciation of all this glory of
color and spirit, felt a movement beside her.
She looked down. The shoemaker was flat
on his forehead beside his offering.</p>
<p>“Would you per-ceive that Chink grovel,”
spoke the voice of Bertram Chester.</p>
<p>Before Eleanor could turn on him, he was
addressing the shoemaker.</p>
<p>“Feel a heap better, Charlie? Say, who-somalla
you? Brush off your knees!” The
Chinese, if he understood, paid no more attention
than he paid to the lamp post in his
path. Gathering up his offering, he pushed
his way back through the crowd.</p>
<p>For the first time that evening, Eleanor became
somewhat like her normal self as she
said:</p>
<p>“Why, this is a religious ceremony, isn’t it—all
this light and color!”</p>
<p>“Yes,” responded the personal conductor of
the party, “but you have to pinch yourself to
remember it. For instance, you’ll be charmed
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_167' name='page_167'></a>167</span>
to know that I saw one of those priests, up in
front there, arrested last week in a raid on a
gambling joint. Morals haven’t an awful lot
to do with this religion. Maybe that fellow
on the pavement was praying that he’d have
a chance to murder his dearest enemy, and
maybe he was applying for luck in a lottery.
Empress of Chinatown, up yon frazzled flight
of stairs lurks the New York Daytime Lottery.
The agents of said lottery are playing
ducks and drakes right now with the pay of
the printers on the imperial bulletin which I
have the honor to represent. Some day, your
grand vizier and most humble servant is going
to do a Sunday story on a drawing in a
Chinese lottery.”</p>
<p>Eleanor showed no inclination to go on with
the game.</p>
<p>“Have another shoe—one shoe, Charlie, for
the little princess!” continued Mark Heath.
This one, displayed amid the cone-sticks and
New Years nuts of a sweetmeat stand, was
bright blue. Mark hung it on Eleanor’s
shoulder; then, as a kind of afterthought, he
bought a crimson tassel for Kate.</p>
<p>The procession was past, was breaking up.
The women, in knots of three or four, were
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_168' name='page_168'></a>168</span>
scattering to the night’s festivities. Mark, as
guide, let business go as he led them on his
grand tour of Chinatown. They stopped to
survey sidewalk altars of rice paper and jade,
where priests tapped their little gongs and
sang all night the glory of the Good Lady;
they visited the prayer store, emporium for
red candles, “devil-go-ways,” punks, votive
tassels, and all other Chinese devices to win
favor of the gods and surcease from demons;
they explored the cavernous underground
dwellings beneath the Jackson Street Theatre;
they climbed a narrow, reeking passage to
marvel at the revel of color and riot of
strange scent which was the big joss house.
Bertram’s spirits were rising by this time; he
expressed them by certain cub-like gambols
which showed both his failure to appreciate
the beauty in all this strangeness and his old-time
Californian contempt for the Chinese as
a people. Once he tweaked a cue in passing
and laughed in the face of the insulted Chinaman;
and once he made pretence of stealing
nuts from a sweetmeat stall.</p>
<p>Wherever Mark found a new design in toy
shoes, he bought one for Eleanor, until she
wore a string of them, like a necklace, across
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_169' name='page_169'></a>169</span>
her bodice. Yet had the illumination gone a
little out of her; she replied with diminishing
vivacity to Mark’s advances as he played the
birthday game.</p>
<p>When they mounted the joss house stairs she
lagged behind; and Bertram lagged with
her.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter?” he asked. “I never
saw you so bright and chipper as we were
awhile ago, and now—say, what’s the matter?”</p>
<p>“Nothing. Oh, Mr. Heath—” she raised
her voice, “are the actors allowed in the joss
house—and if not will you have it fixed for
me?”</p>
<p>After they had presented their votive punks
to the great high god, Kate announced that
she was footweary.</p>
<p>“Can’t we find a place to sit down?” she
asked. Mark took her up.</p>
<p>“That’s the signal for tea at the Man Far
Low restaurant. Ever been there? Tea
store below, fantan next floor, restaurant top
side all the way through the block. Come on,
Empress of Chinatown. The royal board
awaits.”</p>
<p>The Man Far Low was in the throes of
large preparation for the Chinese all-night
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_170' name='page_170'></a>170</span>
banquets which would close the festival.
The cashier wore his dress tunic, his cap with
the red button. The kitchen door, open on
the second landing, gave forth a cloud of steam
which bore odors of peanut oil, duck, bamboo
sprouts and Chinese garlic; through the
cloud they could see cooks working mightily
over their brass pots. Every compartment of
the big dining hall upstairs held its prepared
table; waiters in new-starched white coats
were setting forth a thousand toy devices in
porcelain. Though the Chinese feasting had
not yet commenced, it was plain, from the attitude
of the waiters, that slummers and tourists
were not wanted on that night. But still
the head waiter, when he came slipping
over on his felt shoes, led them to a table in
the Eastern dining room, from whose balconies
one overlooked Portsmouth Square.
His aspect, however, was anything but
cheerful.</p>
<p>“Say, you Chink, smile!” said Bertram as he
seated himself.</p>
<p>By a slight turn of the head, the very slightest
in the world, the Chinese showed that he
caught this in all its force. But he went
gravely on, setting out porcelain bowls. Eleanor’s
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_171' name='page_171'></a>171</span>
hand moved a little, as though in restraint.</p>
<p>“Cheer up, Charlie, crops is ripe!” resumed
Bertram.</p>
<p>“Don’t—please,” cried Eleanor. The first
word came short, sharp and peremptory; the
“please” was appealing.</p>
<p>The color rose under Bertram’s brown skin.
Kate, an outside party to this passage, smiled
a quiet smile; but she spoke to Mark Heath.</p>
<p>“What <i>are</i> those paintings on that screen—come
and tell me about them!”</p>
<p>Now Bertram and Eleanor stood alone with
the table between them.</p>
<p>“I was jollying him!” burst out Bertram.
Eleanor glanced at Kate, who stood profile-on
listening to the ready Heath.</p>
<p>“Shall we go out on the balcony?” She
stepped through the open French window.</p>
<p>As they stood in the shadow, the city at
their feet, neither spoke for a moment. Finally,</p>
<p>“It’s a call-down, I suppose?” began Bertram,
tentatively.</p>
<p>“Not necessarily.”</p>
<p>With a slam, he brought his hand down on
the balcony rail.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_172' name='page_172'></a>172</span></p>
<p>“You don’t give—you don’t give a damn—that’s
the trouble with you—you don’t care
what I do!”</p>
<p>Eleanor drew a little away from him before
she answered:</p>
<p>“I care if anyone is uncivil.”</p>
<p>“What is it but a Chink? They expect it!
Why, down in Tulare—” His voice fell
away as though he recognized the futility of an
attack in this form. She spoke:</p>
<p>“It is you who should not expect it.” And
then, “I am sorry I said what I did. It was
an impulse. We are all imperfect. I’ve
often been unkind myself.”</p>
<p>Bertram stood gripping the rail before him
as one caught and held by a new emotion.
When he spoke, his voice was low and rather
hard. At the first tone of it, she shrank from
the daimon in him.</p>
<p>“If you only cared enough to call me down!
That’s the trouble with you. Am I—am I
the dirt under your feet?”</p>
<p>“Oh, don’t please!” But he was going on,
too fast to be stopped.</p>
<p>“I’m afraid of you—that’s what’s the matter.
What have you got in you that I can’t
seem to melt? You kept away from me the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_173' name='page_173'></a>173</span>
first time ever I saw you. You’ve kept away
ever since. You don’t think I’m as good as
you—and I’m not. But it’s aggravating—it’s
damned aggravating—to have you rub it in.
You’ve got something about you that I can’t
touch anywhere.” And he paused, as though
expecting her to deny it.</p>
<p>“I don’t know what right you have to say
this,” she exclaimed.</p>
<p>In her swift rush to her own defence, she
had dropped her guard. She realized it on
the moment, heard his inevitable reply before
he opened his mouth to the swift-flashing answer
which, that outer self told her, was the
only possible answer for him to make.</p>
<p>“Only this right. I’m in love with you.
I’ve been in love with you ever since I saw you
down at the Judge’s ranch, only I didn’t know
it then. I love you.” Silence for a moment,
and then, “I love you!”</p>
<p>For just one instant, it seemed to her that
she was swaying toward him in spite of herself.
He made, curiously, no active motion
toward her. That outer self of Eleanor’s,
reigning as always over her conscious self,
commenting, criticising, seeing—that outer
self remembered, above her mental turmoil,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_174' name='page_174'></a>174</span>
that never in all their later acquaintance had
he tried even to touch her finger.</p>
<p>“Oh, don’t!” she cried, “please don’t!”</p>
<p>He made a growl in his throat, the adult
counterpart to a baby’s cry of disappointment.</p>
<p>“Didn’t I tell you?” he said, “and now I’ve
laid myself wide open for a throw-down.”</p>
<p>“If you call it that. Oh Bertram—” he
and she both noticed the shift to his familiar
name—“I’m afraid I haven’t been fair to you.
Oh, have I been fair?”</p>
<p>He paused as though considering a whole
new range of ideas.</p>
<p>“Yes, I guess you have,” he responded at
length.</p>
<p>“You’re a man,” she said, “and a big man.
I suppose I ought—to love you. To have the
power of loving you in me. And oh, there
have been moments when I thought I could.”
She stopped as though appalled by the lengths
to which she had gone. “You see, I’m trying
to be fair now. I’m telling you everything.”</p>
<p>And then, with the thought which succeeded,
it was as though she felt the physical
tingle of bay leaves in her nostrils, “or nearly
everything.”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_175' name='page_175'></a>175</span></p>
<p>Through the open French windows came
the cheery voice of Kate Waddington.</p>
<p>“Tea is served, ladies and gentlemen!”</p>
<p>“All right—be along presently!” called
Bertram. And then to Eleanor:</p>
<p>“You must tell me—you can’t keep me hanging
by the toes until I see you again.”</p>
<p>“The rest means—since I am being perfectly
fair to you—that I can’t tell.” Now something
like strong emotion touched her voice—“Don’t
think I am coquetting with you—don’t
believe that it is anything but my effort
to be fair.” She turned on this, and stepped
through the open window.</p>
<p>Bertram struggling to compose his face,
Eleanor wearing her old air of sweet inscrutability,
they faced the quick, perceiving
glance of Kate Waddington who sat pouring
tea from the crack between two shell bowls.</p>
<p>Eleanor settled herself on the teak-wood
stool.</p>
<p>“You <i>must</i> come out on the balcony before
we go,” she cried. “I never saw the city
lights so wonderful.”</p>
<p>“Well,” said Kate, “it all depends on the
company!”</p>
<hr class='major' />
<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_176' name='page_176'></a>176</span>
<a name='CHAPTER_X' id='CHAPTER_X'></a>
<h2>CHAPTER X</h2>
</div>
<p>Kate’s plump and inert mother, who always
regarded this daughter of hers
somewhat as a cuckoo in the nest, was in a
complaining mood this morning. She sat in
her dressing-gown embroidering peonies on
a lambrequin and aired her grievances. Kate,
writing notes at the old-fashioned black walnut
writing desk, looked up at the climaxes of
her mother’s address, bit her pen and frowned
over her shoulder. For the greater part of
the time, however, Mrs. Waddington spoke
to empty air.</p>
<p>“I never did see such a daughter,” said Mrs.
Waddington, jabbing with her scissors at a
loose end of pink silk. “As if it isn’t enough,
gallivanting around the way you do, fairly
living in other people’s houses, never bringing
any company home, but you can’t even
be decently civil when you <i>are</i> at home. We
might just as well be a hotel for all the respect
you pay us. What are you doing when you’re
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_177' name='page_177'></a>177</span>
away, I’d like to know? It’s all well enough,
the stories you tell—” Kate, resting between
notes, saw fit to parry this last thrust.</p>
<p>“I’ve always supposed I was capable of taking
care of myself,” she said. “At any rate,
you’ve let me proceed on that theory.”</p>
<p>It needed only the slightest flutter of an opponent’s
rapier to throw Mrs. Waddington on
the defensive.</p>
<p>“You never let me,” she mourned. “Goodness
knows, I gave you every chance to take
me along. When first you began going with
those painter people, you might have counted
me in.”</p>
<p>“You didn’t seem eager, perceptibly, until
I had made my own way,” Kate vouchsafed.
At that moment the telephone rang.</p>
<p>While Kate was in the house, no one else
thought of answering the telephone. Mrs.
Waddington would have been the last to
usurp the prerogative. For that instrument
was the tap root of her spy system over her
daughter. By it, she picked up things;
learned what this irresponsible responsibility
of hers was doing. Mrs. Waddington had
her mental lists of Kate’s telephonic friends.
She imagined that she could tell, by the tone
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_178' name='page_178'></a>178</span>
of her daughter’s voice, just who was on the
other end of the line.</p>
<p>“Oh, Bert Chester!” came Kate’s voice from
the hall. Mrs. Waddington made note number
one. This mention of the name was significant.
The discreet Kate, who knew her
mother’s habits, hardly ever called names over
the wire.</p>
<p>A pause for a very short reply, and then:</p>
<p>“Certainly. Zinkand at one. I’m beginning
to think it’s time I worked at my job
as confidant. What is the use of a confidant
if you don’t confide?”</p>
<p>Mrs. Waddington leaned forward while
Kate got her reply. The mother in her, unsensitized
though as it was, noted the sparkle
in Kate’s voice. But for the intervening door,
she might have seen a great deal more sparkle
in Kate’s face, down-turned to listen.</p>
<p>“Oh yes, I was aware of that!” Kate’s
voice went on. “Dolt! Did I catch it?
You’re a poor dissembler. You’re too honest.
You might tell the verdict before I tell you—”</p>
<p>Mrs. Waddington could stand it no longer.
It was so uncommon for her daughter to speak
thus freely and emotionally at the telephone,
that she must have a look. She rose, therefore,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_179' name='page_179'></a>179</span>
and crossed past the open hall door.
She noticed a certain tension in her daughter’s
face as she bent her head to await the reply.</p>
<p>“You poor, perplexed boy!” went on Kate’s
purring, caressing voice, “Then you need a
confidant. Zinkand’s at one—and I’ll look
my prettiest to draw you out!”</p>
<p>Mrs. Waddington, when her daughter was
come back into the room, renewed her plaint:</p>
<p>“I wish you’d save for your parents a little
of the graciousness you give your friends,”
she said. “I wouldn’t mind so much if you
were getting somewhere. But here you are,
nearly twenty-four years old and goodness
knows if you’ve had a young man, I don’t hear
about it. How can a respectable young man
want to marry a girl like you, I’d like to know?
Those they play with, they don’t marry.”</p>
<p>Kate’s mood had changed completely.
She advanced now with the prettiest caressing
gesture in the world, threw one arm across
the wrinkled skin and old lace of her mother’s
throat. Mrs. Waddington resisted for a moment,
her head turned away; then, gradually,
she let her being lap itself in this quieter air.
Her head settled down on Kate’s shoulder.</p>
<p>“Perhaps,” said Kate, “I may.”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_180' name='page_180'></a>180</span></p>
<p>“Well I wish you’d hurry up about it,” said
Mrs. Waddington. “Girls will be girls, I
suppose, and they’ve got to learn for themselves.
There, there—you’re mussing my
work.”</p>
<p>Kate dropped a kiss on her mother’s forehead
and vanished up the stairs.</p>
<p>Bert Chester, waiting before Zinkand’s an
hour later, picked her a block away from the
nooning crowd. Before he recognized the
olive-green tailor suit which he had come to
know, he noticed the firm yet gracile move of
her. As she came nearer, he was aware of two
loungers waiting, like himself, to keep appointments.
He caught this exchange from
them:</p>
<p>“Who? The girl in a kind of brownish
green?”</p>
<p>“Yes. Isn’t she a peach?”</p>
<p>Just then, it seemed to him, did the purely
physical charm of her burst upon him for the
first time. Supple and swaying, yet plump
and round; her head set square with some of
a man’s strength, on exquisitely sloping shoulders:
and the taste—he would have called it
so—of her dress! A discriminating woman
might have noticed that her costume bordered
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_181' name='page_181'></a>181</span>
on ostentatious unostentation. For it was designed
in every detail to frame the picture,
to set off not only that figure but also the
cream of her skin, the tawny hair, even those
firm, plump hands.</p>
<p>He found himself remembering that he had
just proposed to another girl. The thought
flashed in, and flashed out as quickly.</p>
<hr class='tb' />
<p>The Café Zinkand formed, at the time, a
social nodule in the metropolitan parish that
San Francisco was. As the Palace Hotel was
its Rialto, gathering-place for prosperous adventure,
so the Zinkand was its bourne. In
this mahoganied and mirrored restaurant with
its generous fare, its atmosphere of comfortable
extravagance, those who made the city
go, who gave its peculiar Saxon-Latin move
and glitter, were accustomed to gather and
gossip. It blazed with special splendor on
the nights when this or that “Eastern attraction”
showed at the Columbia Theatre. To
stand on such evenings at the Powell Street
terminus, to watch those tripping, gaily-dressed,
laughing Californian women thronging
the belt of city light from the theatre
canopy to the restaurant canopy—ah, that was
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_182' name='page_182'></a>182</span>
San Francisco! Not Paris, not Buenos Ayres—they
say who have travelled far—could
show such a procession of Dianaides, such a
Greek festival of joy in the smooth, vigorous
body and the things which feed and clothe
it. With that absence of public conventionality
which was another ear-mark of the old
city, all sorts and conditions of men and women
sat side by side at the tables. Harlots, or
those who might well pass as such, beside the
best morale there is in women; daughters of
washerwomen beside daughters of such proud
blood as we have; bookmakers’ wives, blazing
with the jewels which will be pawned to-morrow,
beside German housewives on a Saturday
night revel; jockies and touts from the race
tracks beside roistering students from Stanford
and Berkeley; soldiers of fortune blown
in by the Pacific winds, taking their first intoxicating
taste of civilization after their play
with death and wealth, beside stodgy burghers
grown rich in real estate; clerks beside magnates—all
united in the worship of the body.</p>
<p>At noon, however, its workaday aspect was
on; it was no more than a lunching place.
Chester and Kate found seats in a retired
corner.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_183' name='page_183'></a>183</span></p>
<p>She looked him over with cool mischief
while she drew off her gloves and let one white
hand, still creased in pink with the pressure
of the seams, drop toward him on the table.</p>
<p>“I am not exactly to congratulate you,”
she said, “but for a man who was turned
down last night you don’t seem exactly unhappy.”</p>
<p>Bertram let several expressions chase themselves
over his face before he blurted out:</p>
<p>“What’s the matter with me?”</p>
<p>“Not a great deal. Has she so refused you
as to make you conscious of sin?”</p>
<p>“It wasn’t a cold turn-down. I’d like it
better if it was. I’d have something to go on.
It’s—it’s like trying to bite into a billiard
ball. I—you know what I mean.”</p>
<p>“You mean that she holds herself above you—that
she feels superior to you?”</p>
<p>Bertram arrested all motion on that word,
sat with the menu card, which he had been
twirling, immovable between his hands.</p>
<p>“Yes. If you want to jolt it to me good
and hard that way. I guess that is what it
does mean.”</p>
<p>“I suppose then that the crisis—last night—came
about from your little passage with the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_184' name='page_184'></a>184</span>
Chinese waiter? It happened while you were
out on the balcony didn’t it?”</p>
<p>Bertram stared and glowed.</p>
<p>“Say, you’re a wonder. You reach out and
get things before they come to you at all.
That’s just what did happen.”</p>
<p>“And then? Or pardon me, I don’t want
you to tell me any more than it’s right for
you to tell—any more than you feel like telling.”</p>
<p>“Oh that’s all right. Well, when we got
outside it was the same old song. She didn’t
care enough even to call me down. And like
a fool I came out with it. What’s the use of
telling what she said or what I said? It was
just the same way. She kept me dancing.
She wouldn’t say yes and she wouldn’t say no.
She seemed anxious about only one thing.
She wanted to know if she’d been fair to me.”</p>
<p>“I suppose she has—!” Kate brought this
out as though he had put a question to her.
“And you want to know what I think?”</p>
<p>“I sure do.”</p>
<p>“I think she cares—at least a little—shall
I tell you all?”</p>
<p>Bertram, even in the hottest of this conversation,
did not forget the needs of his body.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_185' name='page_185'></a>185</span>
The waiter stood at his elbow. He rushed
through the order, and continued:</p>
<p>“I want to know everything.”</p>
<p>“Well, to begin with—Bert Chester, you’re
a man.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t ask for hot air.”</p>
<p>“That’s all of that. You’re an unfinished
man. You—haven’t had the chance to get all
the refinements which people like Eleanor
Gray have acquired. Do you see now?
You’ve made it—you’ve been making it—all
for yourself. You had no fortune. It’s
splendid the way you worked to get all these
things. I know the story of how you got
through college. Everyone who knows you is
proud of that. But—well Eleanor’s mother
was rich and proud before she married, and
her grandparents were richer and prouder.
Then she’s lived a great deal alone; and she
never really blossomed out until she went
abroad. So she learned her social ways from
Europeans. She’s got a lot of British and
Continental ideas.</p>
<p>“With the rest of us, you know, it doesn’t
make any difference. You could perceive
that by the way we’ve taken you in. Why,
it’s really a part of you. You’re only two
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_186' name='page_186'></a>186</span>
years out of college, hardly that; and you’re
still studying law; but think how people have
taken you up! It is simply that Eleanor looks
at it in a different way. It’s a pretty peculiarity
in one of the sweetest girls I know.”</p>
<p>Kate paused. Bert made no move to answer.
She went on:</p>
<p>“Now about the thing you can’t grasp in
Eleanor. It’s this way. You can’t see her
nature as another <i>girl</i> can. She’s just as
sweet and tender and delicate as she can be,
and she has high ideals—that’s one result of
her living away from the world. If she were
a little warmer in temperament, it might be
different, but—” Kate paused here as though
pondering whether to reveal or to conceal the
thought of her mind.</p>
<p>“But of course it is the coldness of a diamond
or a sapphire or something else very
pure and precious.”</p>
<p>Bertram Chester pulled himself up at this
point and plucked at a place away back in the
conversation.</p>
<p>“What are these things that I don’t know?
Where is it that I fall down?”</p>
<p>“They are some of the finer points.”</p>
<p>“Well tell me.” Kate noticed that the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_187' name='page_187'></a>187</span>
color had risen in his cheeks and that his eyes
drooped from hers.</p>
<p>“They must be corrected as we go on—provided
you’ll let me correct them.”</p>
<p>“That’s what I am asking for—but I’d
blame well like an example.”</p>
<p>“Well, now, we’ll take that waiter episode.
The kind of people she’d like to know treat
servants impersonally. Servants are just conveniences
to them, like dumb waiters. So of
course,—even if it was only a Chinaman—she
didn’t like your noticing him and she came
out of her shell for just a moment to say so.
Do you see now?”</p>
<p>Bertram’s dark complexion reddened with
the rush of his shame.</p>
<p>“Oh, that’s the idea is it? I thought from
something she said that she was afraid I’d
hurt his feelings. She wants me to put more
front on before ’em, does she?”</p>
<p>“Just about that. She doesn’t like to see
you put yourself on a level with them.”</p>
<p>“All right, that was straight over the plate
and I got it.”</p>
<p>Again Kate reached over to pat his hand.</p>
<p>“Now don’t take it seriously; I know—she
herself must know—how splendid and able
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_188' name='page_188'></a>188</span>
and promising you are—how much of a man!”</p>
<p>Bert spoke in some irritation.</p>
<p>“I always knew I wasn’t a gentleman,” he
said, “but this is the first time it was ever shot
straight at me that way.”</p>
<p>“Bert Chester, as long as I’m a friend of
yours don’t you ever dare say to me that you’re
not a gentleman. You’re one of the biggest
and strongest gentlemen I ever knew. Anyone
need only see you for five minutes to know
you’re that. But some people have certain
things which they attribute to a gentleman—notions,
as I’ve said. And Eleanor from her
European experiences has some of these notions.
Don’t you see?”</p>
<p>The smile, which always broke so suddenly,
came back to Bert Chester’s face.</p>
<p>“Well, of course that’s why I broke loose
from the ranch and went to college in the first
place. I wanted to be as good, every way, as
the best there is!”</p>
<p>“And you are already!”</p>
<p>He shook his head.</p>
<p>“No, or this wouldn’t have happened. I
want to be good enough to marry any girl, no
matter who. I’m going to amount to something.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_189' name='page_189'></a>189</span>
I’m going to be rich, too—and a darn
sight quicker than most people know. I don’t
know that we came here to talk about that,
though.”</p>
<p>“Please go on. We came here to talk about
you—anything about yourself.”</p>
<p>“That part of it has something to do with
the main issue. I’m going to pull out from
Judge Tiffany as soon as I go up against the
bar examinations next month. At least, I
want to pull out, and I’m only wondering how
the Judge will take it and how she will take
it. You see, I might just as well get admitted,
and then it is good-bye to law for me afterwards
unless I use it in politics. Law—”
Bertram rammed his finger on the table with
each word that followed “law is too blame
slow. Anyone could see that I couldn’t be
chasing about as I’m doing if I had to depend
on what Judge Tiffany is paying me as a clerk.
Why, I’ve made twice as much already whirling
at business. I’ll always have my admission
to the bar, too. If I want to settle down
on a law practice after I get rich, I can do
it.”</p>
<p>“That seems very promising to me.”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_190' name='page_190'></a>190</span></p>
<p>“But here’s the question. Is the Judge going
to take it for a throw-down, and how is
Eleanor going to like the program?”</p>
<p>Kate appeared to be considering. In fact,
she was considering a great many more things
than Bertram knew.</p>
<p>“I’m pretty sure Eleanor wouldn’t care,”
she said at length. “Hers isn’t a very practical
mind. It’s impossible to say about Judge
Tiffany. He’s crotchety. The right’s on
your side, for a man has a right to change his
employment, hasn’t he? And I’m sure you
have more than returned your little salary.
On the whole, I don’t know but it would be
better for you with Eleanor if the Judge did
get angry with you. A girl with ideals like
hers rather likes to have a man persecuted.
And you can’t let it stand in the way of your
career.”</p>
<p>“But—”</p>
<p>“Oh, it isn’t as though it were a choice between
the girl and the career. It isn’t at
all. The best way to win her is to build yourself
up to the big, splendid man she’d like
you to be. If you stay a little law clerk for
five years or so, you won’t have much inducement
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_191' name='page_191'></a>191</span>
to offer her! When you consider marriage,
you have to remember that a girl like
Eleanor can’t live on a trifle. I’d follow my
own career. It isn’t, you see, as though there
were anyone else in the field. Other men
come to the house, of course—men she’s met
at the Masters, old friends of the family—but
I don’t consider any of them as rivals.
I did think for a time that Ned Greene was
attracted, but he’s crazy now over Katherine
Herbert. So it isn’t a case for immediate action.”</p>
<p>“Do you think—have you ever heard her
speak of me?”</p>
<p>Kate’s answer came readily.</p>
<p>“She has spoken to me of you—the way
women do, so that you see under what they say.
We women are devils”—she smiled—“no, I
can’t tell you what she said. I’m in a peculiar
position about it. You see, her talk, as
it happens, is all twisted up in a confidence
she made to me—something else in her life—nothing
to do with you—and I can’t break it.
But I can do something without breaking any
confidence. I can tell you what I think you
ought to do.”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_192' name='page_192'></a>192</span></p>
<p>“Well, I guess that’s what I want—” with
the air of one who would have liked a great
deal more.</p>
<p>“The man who gets Eleanor Gray—and
especially if Bertram Chester is the man—cannot
take her by assault. If you reach out
to grasp her—you who are so strong—it will
only break something in that delicate nature
of hers. Don’t woo. Serve. Don’t even
see her too often. Don’t renew that scene on
the balcony—never make that mistake again.
When you are with her, show by your attitude
how you feel, and show her—well, that
you’re learning the things you’ve asked me to
teach you—the things I’m going to teach you.”</p>
<p>“It’s sure a pink tea program,” said Bertram.
Kate laughed.</p>
<p>“Bert Chester, when you make your dying
speech from the scaffold you’re going to say
something original and funny. You can’t
help it. Now can you?”</p>
<p>The smile broke again on Bertram’s face.</p>
<p>“Well, it has its funny side,” he admitted.
“All right. If refinement’s the game, me to
it.” His smile had caught Kate’s laugh, and
there came between them a kind of mental
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_193' name='page_193'></a>193</span>
click. Soft gratitude sprang into his heart
and quivered on his lips.</p>
<p>“You’re a bully girl! I don’t know what
I’d do if I didn’t have you to talk it over
with. And you really do understand lots
about women and those things—where did
you learn it?”</p>
<p>The smile went out of Kate. She drooped
her eyes and let her pink nails flutter on the
tablecloth.</p>
<p>“Suffering and experience, I suppose.”</p>
<p>“Could I—would you tell me about it?”</p>
<p>She looked up with an air of sweet sincerity.</p>
<p>“I should like very much to tell you. You
could help me as much as you say I’m helping
you. Some other time, we’ll have that all
out together. You see, when one has held a
thing in her heart for a long time—well, it’s
a struggle at first to get it out. But sometime
when I’m in the mood!”</p>
<p>And then he discovered that an appointment
at the office was overdue. While they
went through the formalities of checks and
wraps, she talked foolish nothings. He parted
with her hurriedly to run after a Market Street
cable car.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_194' name='page_194'></a>194</span></p>
<p>“We’re going to be the best chums in the
world,” he said as he shook hands.</p>
<p>“Indeed we are!”</p>
<p>She watched him as he ran after the car,
swung on the platform with the easy economy
of motion which belongs to the athlete. But
just before he set his foot on the platform and
looked back at her, she herself whirled and
started down the street, so that he saw only
her trim back-figure, the glint of her bronze
hair, the easy grace of her walk.</p>
<hr class='major' />
<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_195' name='page_195'></a>195</span>
<a name='CHAPTER_XI' id='CHAPTER_XI'></a>
<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2>
</div>
<p>So Bertram Chester went on, the easy familiar
of the Tiffany establishment, the
contriver of Mrs. Tiffany’s household assistances,
and the devoted follower of Eleanor.
He never referred in any way to the scene
on the restaurant balcony; he did nothing
formally to press his suit. Indeed, his occasional
air of gentle diffidence puzzled and
amused her. She had a queer sense, when she
beheld him so, that she liked it in him less
than some of his old uncouthness, and only a
trifle better than such roughness of the heart
as that passage with the Chinese waiter. This
new attitude was loose in the back, tight across
the shoulders, short in the seams—it was not
made to fit Bertram Chester. When he
launched out into rudimentary art criticism,
stringing together the stock slang which he
had picked up in the studios, when he tried
to impress her with his refined acquaintance,
his progress toward “society” of the conventional
kind, her amusement took another turn
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_196' name='page_196'></a>196</span>
in the circle of emotion, and became annoyance.</p>
<p>In general company, he reverted to type.
At their home dinners, when wine and good
fare had lit the fires of his animal spirits, he
still told his rambling, half-boastful stories
of the cow country and of College times, or
laid before these home-stayers the gossip of the
town. That manner of his, always more compelling
than either his substance or his words,
carried the plainest story; and he had at least
the art of brevity. One laughed when he
laughed, catching from his spirit the humorous
idea, even when its expression failed on
the tongue. Voice and gesture and an inner
appreciation which he could flash instantly to
his tongue contributed to these dazzling effects.
His new-made friends of the artistic
set used to tell him, “If you could only write
down your stories—what humor, what action!”
Mark Heath, with the information of
a room mate, the judging eye of a half-disillusionized
friend and the cynicism of a young
journalist, was first to perceive that a stenographer
concealed to transcribe his talk would
get only barren words.</p>
<p>In his fading and declining years, Judge
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_197' name='page_197'></a>197</span>
Tiffany leaned more and more upon Eleanor,
his business partner. Now it had come
spring. The trees were in bud along the
Santa Clara. They must begin preparing for
the season. The family did not move to the
ranch until apricot picking was afoot; but
from now on either Judge Tiffany or Eleanor
would run down every week to watch the
trees and to oversee the Olsen preparations for
harvest time. Purchase of supplies and the
business of selling last year’s stock, held over
for a rise in German prices, kept Eleanor
busy.</p>
<p>She dragged the Judge out of his library
one March afternoon, that he might inspect
with her a new set of sprayers which she was
considering. The Judge went to his office
all too seldom nowadays; Eleanor and Mrs.
Tiffany used continually all kinds of diplomacies
to keep him at his business, from which
he stubbornly refused to retire. When they
had driven their bargain, Eleanor guided and
wheedled him to the office. The methodical
Attwood, having his man there, thumped a
pile of papers down before the Judge, representing
that this demurrer must be in on
Tuesday, that case tried or continued next
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_198' name='page_198'></a>198</span>
week. The Judge sighed as he pulled the papers
toward him.</p>
<p>“They’ve nailed me, Nell,” he said.
“Here, I’ll appoint a substitute. Send for
Mr. Chester, Attwood—dining anywhere,
Chester? Then take pot luck with us and
pay me by escorting my business conscience
home. I’ll overwork myself if someone
doesn’t carry her away!”</p>
<hr class='tb' />
<p>The afternoon fog, forerunner of another
rain, floated in lances above Montgomery
Street. The interior valleys had felt their
first touch of baking summer, had issued their
first call on their cooling plant—the Golden
Gate, funnel for mist and rain-winds. The
moisture fell in sleety drops; yet only the
stranger and pilgrim took protection of raincoat
or umbrella. The native knew well
enough that it would go no further. On
these afternoons, neither cold nor hot, wet nor
wholly dry, the blood is champagne and the
heart a dancing-floor.</p>
<p>At the moment when Eleanor stepped out
into the home-going crowd, she, an instrument
tuned to catch delicate vibrations from earth
and sea and air, felt all this exhilaration. Life
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_199' name='page_199'></a>199</span>
was right; the future was right; the display
of a young female creature before the male—that
most of all was right. And Bertram
Chester, talking for the moment like his old,
natural self, was a main eddy in the currents
of joy-in-youth.</p>
<p>“You are bonny to-day!” she said quite naturally
as she looked him over.</p>
<p>He blushed happily. And the blush helped
restore him in her eyes as the natural Bertram
Chester.</p>
<p>“And you’re the bonniest of the bonny. I
never saw you look so full of ginger except—”
he hesitated there, and her words rushed
in to meet the emergency.</p>
<p>“Thank you! Though I wasn’t fishing, I
am grateful just the same.”</p>
<p>“Then you do find something now and then
that you can stand for in me?”</p>
<p>“I find a great deal—when you are Bert
Chester.” He seemed to puzzle over this, to
ponder it; so that she added:</p>
<p>“Let’s not talk conundrums in this air and
this crowd! We’re not blue-nosed, self-searching
New Englanders. Let’s keep away
from Market Street and walk through the
Quarter. They haven’t yet taken the Easter
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_200' name='page_200'></a>200</span>
things from the shop windows, and there’s
a darling atrocious group of statuary next
door to The Fior d’Italia which you must
see!” And then, as they turned the corner—</p>
<p>“What’s the crowd? I’m for disremembering
that I’m refined. I want to be curious!”</p>
<p>“Looks like a scrap—do you—”</p>
<p>“Nonsense! Come on. I divide women
into those who would like to see a prize fight
and admit it, and those who would like to
see a prize fight and deny it!”</p>
<p>“Gee whiz!” said Bertram. They had
reached the edge of the crowd, which circled
about some knot of violent struggle and gesture.
“Excuse me!” He had sprung from
her side and was breaking his way through.
By instinct, she followed into the hole back
of him, so that she found herself in the second
row of spectators to a curious struggle, the
details of which flashed in upon her all at
once.</p>
<p>Two laborers, gross, tanned, dirty, were
fighting. They had swung side-on as the
hole opened, and her glance focused itself
upon the smaller of the two. He was an old
man, quite gray; and down his scalp ran a
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_201' name='page_201'></a>201</span>
stream of bright blood which trickled upon
his ear. The thing which puzzled her was
the action of the older man. He seemed to
be hanging to the arms of his younger and
sturdier opponent; also he was talking rapidly,
excitedly; and she caught only one
phrase.</p>
<p>“Hit me with a nail, will you?”</p>
<p>And just then the younger man got his arm
free, and dove for the pavement—dove at precisely
the same instant with Bertram Chester.
Apparently, the younger fighter arrived first;
he backed off from the scuffle brandishing a
piece of packing box. Then she saw what the
old man meant. Pointing the weapon was a
nail, stained red.</p>
<p>As this rough fury poised himself for the
stroke, she took in the whole picture—a
young, tall, brute man, one eye puffing from
a new blow, the other blood-shot, the mouth
open and dripping, the right arm raised for
the murderer’s blow.</p>
<p>Bertram Chester came between as though
he had risen out of the earth. His left hand,
with a trained aptitude which made the motion
seem the easiest thing in the world,
caught the upraised wrist. The laborer
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_202' name='page_202'></a>202</span>
ripped out an unconsidered oath and struck
with his free fist at Bertram’s face. Bertram
evaded the blow, slipped in close. And then—in
a lightning flash of speed, Bertram’s
right hand, which had been resting loosely by
his side, shot upward. His whole body
seemed to spring up behind it. The blow
struck under the point of the chin. The head
of the young bruiser dropped, then his shoulders,
then his arms; his body sagged down
upon Bertram. The champion of age shook
him off; he dropped to the sidewalk. All
this in a flash, in a wink.</p>
<p>The crowd, curiously inert, as all city
crowds are until the leader appears, now followed
this leader. A clamor of many
tongues arose—“Get a cop!” “He’s killed
him!” “Do him up!” A short rush of half
a dozen boys toward the fallen bully met the
resistance of Bertram, who had turned as
though anticipating such a movement. He
shoved them back and raised his hand. His
eyes were bright, his face flushed, and that
smile which won and commanded men had
broken out on his lips.</p>
<p>“Say,” he said, “you all saw me do this
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_203' name='page_203'></a>203</span>
man fair and square. He isn’t dead. He’s
only put out. He’ll be all right in five minutes.
You know it was coming to him.
Now, I’ve got a lady with me, and I don’t
want her dragged into the police station.
The cops will be here in a minute. I’d like
to show this thing up in court, but we don’t
want to trouble the lady, do we? If I beat it,
how many of you will witness to the cops just
what happened?”</p>
<p>“I!” and “I!” and “I!” from the crowd
and “Me! God bless ye!” from the elder
warrior, who stood wiping the blood from his
ear. Bertram gave them no chance for reconsideration.
“All right!” he said, “here I
go!” He pushed his way out as he pushed
it in, swept Eleanor along with him. The
spectators lifted a cheer; but only a mob of
small boys followed.</p>
<p>“Beat it, kids, or the bulls will pipe me!”
called Bertram over his shoulder. At this
magic formula, the boys fell out. A half a
block away, Eleanor dared look back. A policeman
had just arrived; he was clubbing his
way stupidly through the crowd. Bertram
looked back too.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_204' name='page_204'></a>204</span></p>
<p>“All right,” he announced, “now don’t appear
to hurry.” At Kearney Street, he swung
her aboard an electric car.</p>
<p>“Victory!” she cried as the conductor rang
his two bells and the car gathered headway.
“It was perfect!”</p>
<p>He stared down at her.</p>
<p>“Well, I just had to put it through once I
got started, but say—I thought you’d sure be
sore on me.” His voice took on an apologetic
tone. “It seems to me when I see a scrap, I
constitutionally can’t keep out of it.”</p>
<p>“No more should you—such fights as that.”</p>
<p>“Then you make distinctions?” he asked.</p>
<p>“If you mean that I distinguish between
fighting just for the lust of it and fighting to
protect the helpless, I may say that I do.
You did well.”</p>
<p>“Thank you!” he said, half-earnestly. “I’d
have thought you wouldn’t like to see me muss
things up, that way.” He was letting his
voice slip away from him, both in volume and
in manner, and the car was crowded. A
panic necessity for concealment took possession
of her.</p>
<p>“Surely we’ve evaded the police—let’s get
out and have our walk through the Quarter.”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_205' name='page_205'></a>205</span></p>
<p>“I’m with you.” Kearney Street, that
thoroughfare which gathered into its two
miles every element in American life, here
struck its hill rise. Sheer above them hung
Telegraph Hill, attained by latticed sidewalks,
half stairs. The Latin quarter
thronged and played all about them in the
dusk and the fresh lamplight. And again,
mood and spirits rose in her. The event
whose swift, kaleidoscopic action still danced
on her retina, the very stimulus of brutal
youth in action, had conspired with the perfect
night to raise her above herself.</p>
<p>“Oh, talk to me about it!” she said. “How
did you do it—what do you call it—I want to
hear <i>you</i> tell about it.”</p>
<p>“I guess you saw it all—just a plain uppercut.
Those blame city crowds would see a
man killed before they’d think of anything
but the show. I’ve always said that, and now
I know it. I caught sight of the old man
side-on and I saw he was hurt by something
more than a punch. Far be it from me to
spoil a good scrap, but that wasn’t a fair shake.
So I dropped you and started in. And then
I saw that nail. I made a slip there,” he let
his voice fall in self-depreciation—“I should
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_206' name='page_206'></a>206</span>
have kicked that chunk of board away, instead
of diving for it. He beat me to it. The rest
was so easy it was a shame to take the money.
Up comes his head and up comes my
guard”—he stopped in the street to illustrate—“and
he couldn’t use his club any more
than a kitten. I’d have let him go, if he
hadn’t hit at me—and clipped me. For a
second, I could have bit nails in two. When
I pulled myself in close, there was his chin
just above me—a be-auty target. And an
uppercut was his medicine.” Bertram jerked
his right hand up from his hip to illustrate
the uppercut. Then he screwed up his face
and felt of his right shoulder. “He marked
me some,” he said in explanation.</p>
<p>“Did he hurt you?” she asked with real concern.
It ran into her mind that the conventional
hero of romance makes his wound a
scratch before his lady. If she expected that
from Bertram Chester, he disillusionized her.</p>
<p>“Well, you don’t take a punch like that,
even glancing on your shoulder, without
something getting loose,” he replied. “I
shouldn’t be surprised if I’d slipped a cog or
a tendon or something.”</p>
<p>“Why—let’s go home and see about it.”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_207' name='page_207'></a>207</span></p>
<p>“Oh, it isn’t bad enough for that!” Then
he fell into reminiscences. In their toilsome
passage up the hen-coop sidewalks of Broadway,
he gesticulated—with constrained motions
of his right arm—loosed the sparkle of
his energetic, magnetic talk upon her. She
drew close to him. Gradually, as the steps
became steep, her hand slipped under his arm.
She was only half-conscious of this motion;
her consciousness was full of a softening toward
him, a leaning upon that strength which
she had seen in action. On his side, he did
not fail to notice it—this first movement in
her which had seemed like an advance. He
stopped his buzz of talk at one moment and
all the lines of his face relaxed as though he
were about to say something softer and
deeper. But he only caught his breath and
changed to another story. He had remembered—and
just in time, he thought—the advice
of Kate Waddington.</p>
<p>But in spite of that remembrance, he permitted
himself the luxury of being natural;
and he talked continually until they were
within the Tiffany doors.</p>
<p>Mrs. Tiffany must hear all about it from
both of them. When they came to the hero’s
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_208' name='page_208'></a>208</span>
injury, she dismissed Eleanor, made him strip
his massy shoulder, and got out her pet liniment.
The Judge, coming home in the midst
of these surgical cares, heard the story retold
with heroic additions by his wife. Dinner
that night was a merry, a happy, an intimate
party.</p>
<p>When Bertram left, Mrs. Tiffany did not
follow him to the door, as was her old-fashioned
custom. He waited a moment, as
though expecting something. His eyes were
on Eleanor. She did not move. She only
bade him a simple and easy good night over
her shoulder.</p>
<p>The old couple sat for a long time before
the fire. Eleanor was gone—not to bed,
could they but have known it, but to sit by her
window and breathe bay-fragrance and drink
the foggy night air off the Gate.</p>
<p>The Judge smiled down on that faded
daintiness at his feet.</p>
<p>“Are we now to consider him in the light
of a nephew-in-law?” he asked.</p>
<p>“It has bothered me a good deal,” said
Mattie Tiffany. “What do you think I ought
to do?”</p>
<p>“If that frightful social responsibility of
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_209' name='page_209'></a>209</span>
yours drives you to anything,” responded the
Judge, “I should say you’d best leave it alone.”</p>
<p>“But Edward, dear, I’m just like a mother
to her—and goodness knows I haven’t always
been the best of mothers. There was her
father—you know how long I shirked that—”</p>
<p>“The sin of omission that you will carry to
your grave—”</p>
<p>“And somehow this is so like Billy Gray!
It was just this way in her mother’s case.
When Billy came around—you remember
how bonny a boy he was then, Edward—I,
her own sister, could never tell how she felt
toward him. I’ve always told you that Eleanor
has slipped a generation. She’s her
grandmother, not her mother, in mind. But
she’s just like her mother in one thing. You
can’t ever tell what she’s thinking about, and
the deeper her thoughts go the harder it is
to tell! That’s why I’m considering all this
so carefully—she doesn’t commit herself in
one way or the other. It’s a sign.”</p>
<p>“Knowing you, Mattie, I presume that
you’ve conducted researches into his desirability
as a nephew-in-law?”</p>
<p>“Well, shouldn’t I? Goodness knows, we
don’t lead a conventional life in this family,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_210' name='page_210'></a>210</span>
and I don’t chaperone her. I reproach myself
a little with that. When Mrs. Goodyear
wanted to take her up and put her into the
Fortnightly, it wasn’t so much Eleanor’s disinclination
as my own laziness about getting
up gowns and paddling about paying calls
which kept me back—and that’s God’s truth.”</p>
<p>“And these penitential exercises in detective
work—what have they brought forth?”</p>
<p>“He’s a little careless morally, I think.
He’s had too much conviviality about the
Club. I’m afraid he’s blossoming over
young. They can say all they want about
wild oats, but in this city it’s a mistake to
sow them all at once. That’s one reason why
I’ve been so good to him. I flatter myself
that a house like this is a moral influence on
him.”</p>
<p>“It’s all a concern for his soul with you,
then?”</p>
<p>“No. Frankly, I like him. Everyone
likes him. He’s a dear. But as to Eleanor—”</p>
<p>The Judge had risen and taken off his skull
cap.</p>
<p>“Well, she has run a ranch and she’s travelled
alone to Europe and back, and she’s
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_211' name='page_211'></a>211</span>
saved the soul if not the body of a father.
And I wonder whether a girl who’s all that
to her credit can’t be trusted to deal with the
problem of an undesirable though attractive
young man—”</p>
<p>“If I were only sure he was undesirable!”</p>
<p>“It is according,” responded the Judge, “to
your definition of undesirability. If you
mean worldly circumstances, you needn’t fear
for Bertram Chester. He resigns from my
firm this month.”</p>
<p>“What for?”</p>
<p>“Attwood brought me news of it. I don’t
know where he’s going. I’m not supposed to
know anything. But for to get rich, for one
thing.” He closed his book and restored it
to its place on the shelves. “He took the left-hand
road, you see. It was manifest destiny;
and you and I and Eleanor cannot move one
whit the career of that young man.”</p>
<hr class='major' />
<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_212' name='page_212'></a>212</span>
<a name='CHAPTER_XII' id='CHAPTER_XII'></a>
<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2>
</div>
<p>When Kate called him up over the telephone,
inviting him, second-hand, to
join a Masters party at Sanguinetti’s restaurant,
Bertram interrupted his banter to ask if
Eleanor were going.</p>
<p>“I’m sure I don’t know what her plans are,”
said Kate. “Why don’t you ask her?” The
tone was a little cold.</p>
<p>Remembering his duty, Bertram did ask
Eleanor over the telephone.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” answered Eleanor, “but I had
to decline.”</p>
<p>“Oh, duck your engagement if you have
any!” he said, pleading like a boy. “It’ll do
you good to jolly up!” But she was firm.
He matched the cool tone of Kate with the
equally cool tone of Eleanor, and wondered,
as he hung up the telephone, whether anything
had gone wrong between those girls.
He remembered now that he had not seen
Kate at the Tiffany’s since the expedition into
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_213' name='page_213'></a>213</span>
Chinatown. Had he but known it, he was
perceiving late a thing of which others were
making gossip already.</p>
<p>While Bertram freshened up his toilet in
his room and thought hard on this, Kate Waddington,
at home in the Mission, was making
certain special preparations of her own.
Mrs. Waddington could measure the importance
of her daughter’s engagements by the
care she took with her toilet. Fresh lace indicated
the first degree of importance, her
latest pair of shoes the second degree, and perfectly
fresh white gloves raised the engagement
to the highest degree of all. To-night,
all these omens served.</p>
<p>Further, Mrs. Waddington saw that Kate
was rummaging through the unanswered letters
in her writing desk, saw that she was
comparing two of them. Kate picked up the
larger one. She was wearing furs, since the
April night was chilly. This letter she
tucked carefully into her muff.</p>
<p>“Why in the name of common sense are you
taking that letter along to a dinner party?”</p>
<p>“Oh, something I want to show someone,”
answered Kate after a momentary pause.
Mrs. Waddington knew from old times the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_214' name='page_214'></a>214</span>
hidden meaning of that pause. Just so, when
at the age of seven they had caught her in
the sugar-bowl, Kate had paused before starting
her ready explanation. She had never
overcome it; and her mother was the last
person likely to acquaint her with that flaw
of method.</p>
<p>“It’s from Alice Johnstone, I judge by the
handwriting,” continued Mrs. Waddington.</p>
<p>“Oh, I guess so,” responded Kate. She
made rapidly for the door. “Good night,
mother. I’ll be home to-night, but rather
late.”</p>
<p>“Thank you for small favors—” but Kate
was gone.</p>
<p>Sanguinetti’s held a place in the old city
no less definite than that of Zinkand’s or the
Poodle Dog. In the beginning a plain Italian
restaurant, frequented by the Italian fishermen
whose sashes made so bright the water
front and whose lateen sails, shaped by the
swelling wind like a horse’s ear, gave delight
to the bay, it had existed since the Neapolitans
came to drag the Pacific with their nets.
Painters and art students from the attics of
the Quarter “discovered” it. When they
made a kind of Bohemia about it, “the gang”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_215' name='page_215'></a>215</span>
of tawdry imitators and posing professional
Bohemians followed as a matter of course.
That invasion put it on the fair way toward
failure. But Sanguinetti’s saved itself by
dropping one degree lower. “South of
Market” discovered it. That district is
somewhat to San Francisco as the East Side
to New York, though with an indescribable
difference. Then came the milliner’s apprentice
who slaved all the week that she
might brighten the “line” on Saturday afternoon,
with the small clerk, her companion or
the butcher-boy her beau. There came also
the little people of the race track, as jockies
out of a job, touts, bookmakers’ apprentices—tawdry
people mainly, but ever good-humored
and ready to loosen restraint of custom
after the second quart of Steve Sanguinetti’s
red wine. So this place came to have
an air of loose, easy, half-drunken camaraderie,
which seldom fell into roughness. It
was the home of noise and song and easy
flirtations which died at the door. When this
transformation was fully accomplished, the
painters and art students and seekers after
“life” came back again. This time, they did
not spoil its flavor. The fishermen had been
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_216' name='page_216'></a>216</span>
shy folk who fled from the alien invasion; no
shyness about South-of-Market people on a
holiday!</p>
<p>This Sanguinetti dinner party of Sydney
Masters’s differed but slightly, after all, from
other slumming parties in the hostelry of
touch-and-go familiarities. Amused outsiders,
they watched the growth of swift flirtations,
passed comments on the overdressed
women, joined in the latest Orpheum songs
which started when the cheap wine made
music in the throat, chucked quarters into the
banjoes of the two negro minstrels who came
in at eight o’clock to stimulate merriment.
Bertram, in his position as jester to King
Masters, went a little further than the others.
It was he who bought out the stock of a small
Italian flower-vendor, that he might present
a bouquet “to every lady in the place.” His
attention brought from the ladies varying degrees
of gratitude, and from their escorts
degrees of resentment which varied still more.
Running out of flowers before he had gone
clear around the room, he built up on toothpicks
bouquets of celery and radishes, which
he fastened to the corks of empty claret bottles
and gave, with elaborate presentation
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_217' name='page_217'></a>217</span>
speeches, to the merrier and prettier of the
neglected ladies.</p>
<p>From this expedition, he returned leading
a little, sad man, who had the look of a boy
grown old by troubles. A bleached-blonde
woman followed them half-way across, but
centre room she turned back with a stamp of
her foot and a flourish of her shoulders.</p>
<p>“Ladies and gentlemen,” Bertram announced,
“I desire the privilege of introducing
Teddy Murphy, California’s premier
jockey, lately set down on an outrageously
false charge of pulling a horse. He is here,
ladies and gentlemen, to tell you his
troubles!”</p>
<p>A moment of silent embarrassment on both
sides.</p>
<p>“Here—take my chair, Mr. Murphy!”
spoke Kate from the foot of the table. The
next table, set <i>a deux</i>, had just become vacant.
Kate slipped into its nearest chair. Bertram’s
seat was back by the wall; to reach it, he
must step over feet and so interrupt Mr.
Murphy’s tale of wrong. Nothing was more
natural than that he should take the seat opposite
Kate. And instantly—he having heard
the story already—Bertram lost interest.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_218' name='page_218'></a>218</span></p>
<p>“Would you mind getting my muff?” asked
Kate. “I think my handkerchief is in it.”</p>
<p>As Bertram handed over the muff, she was
smiling up at him. She did not look down
until she had taken out her handkerchief,
flirted out its folds. Then a little, disconcerted
“oh!” escaped her.</p>
<p>“What is it?”</p>
<p>Kate was shaking out her skirt, was glancing
rapidly to right and left. “Goodness!”
she cried.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter?”</p>
<p>“A letter. Have you seen it?”</p>
<p>Bertram looked under the table. There it
lay, by his chair. He picked it up and passed
it over.</p>
<p>“Oh!” she cried again, this time in a tone
balanced between relief and embarrassment.
She tucked it back into her muff, and her eyes
avoided his. He noted all this pantomime,
and he was about to speak, when Mrs. Masters
touched Kate on the shoulder. “My
dear, you’re missing this!” she whispered.</p>
<p>Kate put all her attention upon Mr. Murphy
and his burning story about the pulling
of Candlestick. Mr. Murphy grew a little
too broad; Mrs. Masters, as the easiest way
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_219' name='page_219'></a>219</span>
rid of him, rose and asked for her wraps. As
Bertram assisted Kate, he saw her reach an
anxious hand into her muff.</p>
<p>Outside, she contrived a loose shoe lace, so
that she and Bertram fell behind. She did
not approach the subject of the letter; that
came up later and, of course, quite incidentally.</p>
<p>“Anything to confide in me to-night?” she
began.</p>
<p>“Oh, nothing much. Gee, you can’t tell
about her, can you? Say, are you sure about
your system? She was with me last Tuesday
when I punched the jaw off a man, and she
hasn’t treated me so well since I knew her
as she did after that. I was blame near opening
on her again. Blame near. What’s the
answer?”</p>
<p>“A passing mood, perhaps.”</p>
<p>“Well, I’d like to get her in that mood
often.”</p>
<p>“And you’ll find that she’s furthest from
you in those moods—it’s in them that she’s
least herself.”</p>
<p>“This general girl proposition is a tough
one,” commented Bertram. “All right.
You know the dope.”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_220' name='page_220'></a>220</span></p>
<p>“You poor, perplexed boy!”</p>
<p>“Say, isn’t it time you began confiding?”</p>
<p>“Oh, you caught it—the letter I mean—There
are few things those eyes of yours don’t
see!”</p>
<p>“Man?” he continued, ignoring the compliment.</p>
<p>“Yes. It’s a dreadful perplexity.”</p>
<p>“Tell your old uncle!”</p>
<p>“Perhaps.”</p>
<p>“You’re in love?”</p>
<p>“I—I was. You see—ah, it’s gone past the
place where it should have ended!”</p>
<p>“Then why don’t you break it off?”</p>
<p>“That’s all very well to say, but he’s a good
man, and he says he’s crazy about me. Do
I seem happy to you?”</p>
<p>“Middling.”</p>
<p>“I am—sometimes. Then something like
to-day comes, and it puts me clear down in
the heart. I have to keep up laughing and
being gay when I’m all torn to pieces. I feel
that I oughtn’t to keep him in suspense this
way. He’s young, he’s fairly rich—if that
counted. When he’s here, I often think I do—love
him. When he writes, I know I
don’t.”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_221' name='page_221'></a>221</span></p>
<p>“Poor little girl!” said Bert, catching sympathetically
at the half-sob in her voice.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” answered Kate on an indrawn
breath. And then, “What would you
do? I’m only a girl after all, am I not?
Here I’m leaning on you, asking for advice.”</p>
<p>Bertram did not answer for a time. Then:</p>
<p>“Sure you don’t love him?”</p>
<p>“Not—not entirely. I might if he made
me.”</p>
<p>Bertram was looking straight down on her.
His mouth was pursed up.</p>
<p>“Suppose he made you—and after you’d
married him you got to feeling again as you
do now. That wouldn’t be square to him,
would it?”</p>
<p>“I—perhaps not. But oh, it would hurt
him so!”</p>
<p>“I guess he could live through it. They
usually do, and don’t lose many meals at that.
I think he’s running a bluff, myself.”</p>
<p>Kate drew slightly away from him.</p>
<p>“That’s a poor compliment.”</p>
<p>Bertram studied her meaning.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“To say that a man <i>couldn’t</i> get crazy over
me.”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_222' name='page_222'></a>222</span></p>
<p>“Oh! Not on your life. Sure thing no.
I don’t know a girl anywhere that a man has
more license to get crazy over. You’re a
beauty and you’re just about the best fellow
I know.”</p>
<p>“I suppose you <i>had</i> to say that!”</p>
<p>“I figure that I wanted to. If I haven’t
said it before, it’s because—” he stopped;
Kate, as though it were an actual presence,
could see the figure of Eleanor rising between
them.</p>
<p>“Yes, I know—” she said quickly. “You
do think I’m attractive then—cross your
heart.”</p>
<p>“Cross my heart, you’re a beaut.”</p>
<p>“But that doesn’t get me any further with
my troubles.”</p>
<p>“What are his bad points that make you
hold off?”</p>
<p>“Nothing more than a feeling, I suppose.
No, it’s more than that—something definite.
It’s—I find this thing hard to say. Not exactly
weakness in him—more a lack of proved
strength. He inherited his money; he’s had
the regular Eastern education. He’s at work,
managing his properties. But I’d feel so
much more secure of his strength if he had
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_223' name='page_223'></a>223</span>
made it for himself. That is the thing I
could admire most in a man; more even than
kindness. To have him succeed from nothing
because his strength was in it. I don’t
care how unfinished he might be—that would
show he was a man!”</p>
<p>Bertram was still pausing on this, when
Kate touched his arm.</p>
<p>“I’m afraid,” she said, “that we must join
the others. They’ll be talking about us if we
don’t, and we mustn’t have that—for Eleanor’s
sake if for no other!” They hurried
ahead, therefore, and walked beside Mr. and
Mrs. Masters all the way in.</p>
<p>At the studio door, Kate declined a half-accepted
invitation to remain for the night.</p>
<p>“Mother isn’t wholly well,” she said, “and
I can be fearfully domestic in emergency!
It’s only a step to the Valencia Street cars,
and Mr. Bertram will get me home.”</p>
<p>It was still too early for the theatre crowd;
they found themselves alone on the outer seat
of a “dummy” car, one of those rapid transit
conveyances by which San Francisco of old
let the passenger decide whether that amorphic
climate was summer or winter.</p>
<p>He had, it seemed, to shake her back into
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_224' name='page_224'></a>224</span>
the story of her love-affair. Three times he
approached the subject, and each time she
fended it off. They had passed clear into the
Mission, were more than three-quarters of the
way home, before he launched one of his
frontal assaults.</p>
<p>“You might give me some more work at
my job of confidant,” he said.</p>
<p>She began again, then; a story without detail;
more a sentimental exposure of her feelings.
The thing was growing like a canker;
she fought it, but the decision, the feeling of
his unhappiness should she give him final rejection,
roosted on her pillow. It had never
come to an engagement; it had been only an
understanding; but she thought of dreadful
things, even of his possible suicide, whenever
she contemplated giving him the final blow.</p>
<p>The old-fashioned Waddington house stood
on a big Spanish lot far out in the Mission.
There was ground to spare; enough so that
its original owners had room to plant trees
without shading light from the windows. As
they walked into the deep shadows, her voice
took on an intonation like a suppressed sob.</p>
<p>“It is a comfort now to have said it, and
it’s a new life to have you for support. Oh,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_225' name='page_225'></a>225</span>
Bertram, what a big, strong friend you are!
Be good to me, won’t you?”</p>
<p>She had stopped; in the shadows the
clouded moon of her face looked up into his.</p>
<p>“Oh, won’t you be good to me?”</p>
<p>He slipped his arm about her; and suddenly
he kissed her.</p>
<p>She suffered his kiss for only a moment;
then she moved away. He let her go, and
she rushed ahead to the door. When he
reached the step, she had faced about.</p>
<p>“Consider my <i>feelings</i>, Bert Chester,” she
said; and the screen door slammed.</p>
<hr class='major' />
<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_226' name='page_226'></a>226</span>
<a name='CHAPTER_XIII' id='CHAPTER_XIII'></a>
<h2>CHAPTER XIII</h2>
</div>
<p>Just where the Santa Eliza trail commanded
sight of the main travelled road,
Eleanor sat on a rock watching the hill-shadows
lengthen on the valley below, watching
a mauve haze deepen on the dark-green tops
of redwood trees. The time was approaching
when she must hurry back to Mrs. Goodyear’s
bungalow for a dinner which she
dreaded. Three weeks of perplexity had
bred in her a shrinking from people. She
had found excuse to wander away alone.</p>
<p>That lazy spring of the North woods, so
like to early fall in other climates, had given
her at first the healing of spirit which she
needed. She wandered hither and yon as her
fancy led her, following this trail, pushing
into that opening in the chapparal. She had
come out upon the Santa Eliza trail and
gained sight of the road before she realized
with a kind of inner shame the way in which
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_227' name='page_227'></a>227</span>
her feet of flesh had been tending, the direction
in which she had been turning her eyes
of the spirit.</p>
<p>Three miles away on the summit of the
next ridge was the Masters ranch, and there
rested the centre of her soul-storm. Bertram
Chester, she knew by chance, was spending
the week-end with the Masters.</p>
<p>She stopped by the rock, then; and immediately
nature went out of her heart and the
world entered. For three intolerable weeks,
this heaviness had been descending upon her
as by a whimsy of its own. Like the water
of those cupped wheels in her little irrigation
plant at the ranch, this black liquid, when it
had filled its vessel to the brim, would empty
automatically without touch on the spring of
her will. When this came, she would feel
rested, healed, in a state of dull peace. Now
the struggle of thought was on her again.
As always before, it began with an arraignment
of the facts in the case, a search of memory
for any forgotten data which might lead
to a conclusion.</p>
<p>The first crisis arrived on the evening when
Judge Tiffany came home in a plain mood
of disgust, and announced baldly:
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_228' name='page_228'></a>228</span></p>
<p>“Well, Mattie; our young friend did everything
I expected of him.”</p>
<p>He went on quite simply with the news.
Bertram Chester had left him almost without
notice. But that was to be expected.
The rest was the worst. Bertram had gone
to Senator Northrup—as manager of his real
estate interests. The name Northrup was as
the name of the devil in that household.
Northrup’s operations included not only law
and politics but latterly speculative and unprincipled
ventures in business. A dying
flash of his old fire woke in Judge Tiffany
when he spoke as he felt about this young cub
who had bitten his caressing hand.</p>
<p>Eleanor left the dinner table as soon as she
had a fair excuse. She found herself unable
to bear it. Had she remained, she must have
defended him. But alone in her living room
she look counsel of this treason and agreed in
her heart with her uncle. The very manner
in which he had done it—never a hint, never
a preliminary mention of Northrup—appealed
to her as the deepest treason of all.</p>
<p>The next evening, Bertram Chester had the
superb impudence to call. Eleanor was alone
in the house that night. She hesitated when
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_229' name='page_229'></a>229</span>
the maid brought in his name, then shook
herself together and went out to face him.</p>
<p>He met her with an imitation of his old
manner, an assumption that his change in
employment would make no difference in his
social relations with the Tiffanys. What
words had she used to let him know her feelings?
She could not remember now. But it
had come hard; for the unmoral half of her
perceptions was noting how big and beautiful
he looked, how his blush, as of a stripling
facing reproof, became him.</p>
<p>He pleaded, he stormed, he presumed, he
passed in and out of sulky moods, he began
to defend himself against the silent attack of
her look. Why hadn’t he a right to do it?
A man should look out for himself. But
he’d have stayed and rotted with the old law
office if he’d felt that she would take it that
way.</p>
<p>“You mean more to me than success!” he
said.</p>
<p>“No more of that, please!” she cried.
After that cry, she fell into dignified silence
as the only defence against the double attack
from him and from the half of her that
yearned for him. From her silence he himself
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_230' name='page_230'></a>230</span>
grew silent until, with a boyish shake of
his shoulders—lovable but comically inadequate—he
bade her good night.</p>
<p>“You’ll cool off!” he said at the door.</p>
<p>“Good bye,” she responded simply.</p>
<p>“No, it’s good night,” he answered.</p>
<p>She woke next morning with a sense of
vacancy in heart and mind. Something was
gone. She did nothing for a week but justify
herself for calling that something back, or
nerve herself to let it go.</p>
<p>On the one hand, her mind told her that he
had done the ungrateful, the treasonable
thing. It did not matter that he might have
done it through mere lack of finer perception.
That was part of his intolerability. On the
other hand, her heart ran like a shuttle
through a web of his smiles, his illuminations,
the shiver, as from a weapon suddenly drawn,
of his unexpected presence, even his look
when he stood at the door to receive her final
good bye. The woof of that web was the
sense of vacancy in her—the unconquerable
feeling that a thing by which she had lived
was utterly lost.</p>
<p>And where would he go if she let him go?
Ah, the inn was ready, the room was swept.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_231' name='page_231'></a>231</span>
He would go inevitably to Kate Waddington.
That would be hard to bear. Sense of justice
was strong in Eleanor; she realized the
ungenerosity of this emotion while she continued
to harbor it. But was there not justice in
it after all? Kate Waddington could grasp,
could guide, only the worst part of him.
Kate Waddington had in her no guidance for
the better Bertram Chester, who must be in
him somewhere. She hugged this justification
to herself. Perhaps it was not right to
let him go; perhaps her heart and her duty
were as one.</p>
<p>A cock quail came out from the chapparal,
saw her, and bobbed back; the feet of his
flock rustled the twigs. Now he was raising
his spring call—“muchacho!” “muchacho!”
Clearer and slighter came the call of his
mate—“muchacho!” “muchacho!” A ground
squirrel shook the laurel-bush at her side, so
that its buds brushed her shoulder. The cock
quail came back into the pathway, slanted his
wise head, plumed in splendor, to find whether
she were friend or enemy, saw that she made
no move, and fell to foraging among the
leaves. She had sat so long and so quietly
that the little people of the ground were accepting
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_232' name='page_232'></a>232</span>
her as part of the landscape. She
began dimly to perceive these things, to take
joy in them. And then they colored her
mood.</p>
<p>What was she but a young, female thing, a
vessel of life universal? What was her attraction
toward Bertram Chester but a part of
the great, holy force which made and moved
hills, trees, the little people of hills and trees?
What was she, to have resisted the impulse in
her because of a few imperfections, a little
lack of development in civilized morals?</p>
<p>Her perception of nature died away, but
the slant which it had given her thoughts
persisted.</p>
<p>When she felt and spoke as she had done
that night in the Man Far Low, she was unwholesome,
super-refined, super-civilized—she
was proceeding by the hothouse morals
which she had learned in books and in European
studios. When she felt as she did on
that first night under the bay tree, she was
wholesome and eternally right.</p>
<p>How much greater in her, after all, if she
had followed the call, had taken him for the
man in him, to develop, to guide as a woman
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_233' name='page_233'></a>233</span>
may guide! Ah, by what token could she call
him back?</p>
<p>Her gaze of meditation had been fixed on
the road below. She had been half-consciously
aware for some time of a figure which
lost itself behind one of the hill-turns, reappeared
again, became wholly visible in a band
of late afternoon sunshine.</p>
<p>It was Bertram Chester. The vision came
without any shock of first surprise. He had
been so much part of her thoughts that it
seemed the most natural presence in the
world. He was swinging along the road in
her direction, heaving his massive shoulders
with every stride; he stopped, took off his
cap, wiped his forehead with a motion which,
seen even at that distance, conveyed all his
masculinity, and strode on again.</p>
<p>Would he keep on along the road, or would
he turn toward her up the Santa Eliza trail?
And if he did keep on, would those roving
eyes of his perceive her sitting there? Why
not leave everything to that chance? If he
looked up and saw her there on her rock, if
he turned into the trail and passed her—that
was a sign. She found herself, nevertheless,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_234' name='page_234'></a>234</span>
humanly striving to cheat fortune and the
gods by fixing all her mind and eyes upon
him, as though she would hypnotize him into
looking up.</p>
<p>But her mind and eyes had no power over
him. He kept on with his even gait until he
was lost behind the clump of trees which
marked the branching of the trail. One
chance was gone; she might not know the
issue of the other until time and waiting informed
her. How long before she should
know? She crouched low on the rock and
tried not to think.</p>
<p>The twigs and pebbles crunched under
heavy feet; the branches shook and rustled;
a blue sweater became visible in the shadows.
She looked away.</p>
<p>“Well, I’ll be—eternally blowed!” His
voice came out like an explosion. Much as
she expected it, she started. When, after a
moment, she dared look up, he stood over her.</p>
<p>“Are you going to run away?” he asked.
His voice, with its ripple like laughter,
showed that he expected nothing of the kind.</p>
<p>“No,” she answered, superfluously.</p>
<p>He seemed, then, to feel the necessity for
explanation.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_235' name='page_235'></a>235</span></p>
<p>“I hadn’t an idea—”</p>
<p>“Neither had I.” She broke in to anticipate
his thought. Each was lying a little;
and both knew it. She rushed to commonplaces.</p>
<p>“Uncle Edward and I are at Mrs. Goodyear’s
bungalow over Sunday. It’s our last
expedition out of town before we go down to
the ranch.”</p>
<p>“Well, I must have had a hunch! I’m at
the Masters ranch over Sunday. I got a
freak idea to take a walk alone. It sure was
a hunch!” Soft sentiment tinged his voice.
She answered nothing.</p>
<p>“A hunch that you were alone here, nobody
to interrupt—say, are you still sore on
me?”</p>
<p>“I—I didn’t run away—”</p>
<p>“Oh, I knew you’d get over it. I think
even the Judge will get over it. I don’t believe
he’d care anyhow, if it wasn’t for his
old grouch on Senator Northrup.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps. He’s said nothing—to me—”</p>
<p>“But it’s you I care about. Only you. I
told you that and I mean it. I don’t want
you to be sore—I’d go back and bury myself
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_236' name='page_236'></a>236</span>
in the old office for life if I thought it would
make it different with you.”</p>
<p>“Would you, Bertram?”</p>
<p>He leaned close to her; she could feel his
compelling eyes burning into her averted face.
With one part of her, she was conscious that
here was a crisis too great for her fully to
feel; with the other part, she was aware that
an ant, dragging a ridiculously heavy straw,
was toiling up her rock.</p>
<p>Now he had her hand, which lay inert in
his; now his arm was about her shoulder; and
now he was speaking again:</p>
<p>“Can’t you? Can’t you stop looking down
on me and believe I’m going to be good
enough for you?”</p>
<p>She found power of speech.</p>
<p>“I never—I don’t think that I’m too good
for you!” Her Rubicon was crossed. It
was a strangely long time before he kissed her,
but the silent interval after the kiss was
stranger and longer still.</p>
<p>“Tell me what you plan for our future,
Bertram, for I am afraid!” she whispered at
length.</p>
<p>“It’s got to be a wait—that’s the risk you
take with a comer. I’ll go on twice as fast
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_237' name='page_237'></a>237</span>
for you. What do you want—shall we tell
about it, girlikins?”</p>
<p>“As you wish, Bertram.”</p>
<p>“I guess we’d better not, then—not until
the old Judge gets his back down. Let’s have
it just between me and my little girl.</p>
<p>“Say!” he added, the sentiment blowing
out of his tone, “what was the matter, anyhow,
that night on the restaurant balcony?
Why did you turn me down then, and what
made you so sore? I’ve never quite got to
your thoughts, you know. But I’m going
to!” He drew her closer. “Every one of
them!”</p>
<p>She dropped her face on his shoulder.</p>
<p>“Ah, we’ve so many things to talk about,
Bertram, and there’s so much time! I’ve
been a girl that didn’t know her mind.
Shan’t we let that rest now? Shan’t we be
contented with what to-day has brought you
and me?”</p>
<p>A film clouded his face.</p>
<p>“Yes—if you want it that way.”</p>
<p>“Hoo-ooo-ooo!” Clear and high, but
quavering, a masculine voice was calling
across the ridge. Eleanor sprang up.</p>
<p>“That’s Uncle Edward—it’s dinner-time—do
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_238' name='page_238'></a>238</span>
you want him to find you—you’d better
go!”</p>
<p>He stood as though considering.</p>
<p>“All right. When are you going back?”</p>
<p>“We catch the seven train to-morrow afternoon
at Santa Eliza.”</p>
<p>“Darn! I’d engaged to take on the five-ten
at Las Olivas. I’ve half a notion to
change and join you and see what the old
man says—”</p>
<p>“No, Bertram, it’s better not. We’ll find
a way. Go now!”</p>
<p>“You bet we will—good bye, girlikins!”
He made no move to kiss her again; he turned
and crashed down the trail.</p>
<p>Eleanor sped up the trail. Safe on the
summit of the ridge, her secret hidden behind
her, she answered the call. Then she
dared look back at the figure vanishing in
deep shadow below. Her expression and attitude,
soft-eyed and drooping though they
were, showed other emotions than unmixed
happiness.</p>
<hr class='major' />
<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_239' name='page_239'></a>239</span>
<a name='CHAPTER_XIV' id='CHAPTER_XIV'></a>
<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2>
</div>
<p>Judge Tiffany turned from a consideration
of the hillside to a closer consideration
of Eleanor, who rode beside him
in the Goodyear trap. She sat very straight,
her hands folded in her lap, her grave, grey
eyes staring not at hillsides nor spring skies,
but into the far horizons.</p>
<p>Since he recovered from that purely human
rage against this youth who had betrayed him
to his dearest enemy, the Judge had been
watching, with all his old interest, the surface
indications of Eleanor’s moods. Last night,
it had been a kind of gaiety; to-day the mood
was quiet, but not at all despondent; there
was life in it. Judge Tiffany held his own
views on the relations between his niece and
Bertram Chester, and on the right or convenience
of interfering. Twice he had been on
the point of telling her that his feeling toward
Bertram Chester should not color hers;
that his house was still open to the young
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_240' name='page_240'></a>240</span>
man. But the curiosity of philosophical age
to see how things will turn out had prevented
him.</p>
<p>It was just as well. They were on the eve
of their summer flight to the ranch, where
she would have other things to think about
than young men. That was his half-expressed
theme when he spoke:</p>
<p>“Well, girl, will you be glad to get back
to work again? You missed last summer.”</p>
<p>Eleanor started as out of sleep.</p>
<p>“I think I am glad of everything!” she said
cryptically. As though to turn the subject,
she indicated a buckboard which was coming
down an intersecting by-road at crazy speed.</p>
<p>“Why are they driving so fast?”</p>
<p>The Goodyear driver turned with the familiarity
of a country henchman.</p>
<p>“That’s the doctor’s rig from Las Olivas,”
he said, “and he’s sure going some!” Followed
a monologue on the doctor and his
habits.</p>
<p>About the next bend of the road, a little
boy rushed from a wayside camp which
looked strangely deserted for supper-time of
Sunday afternoon. He waved both arms before
his face.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_241' name='page_241'></a>241</span></p>
<p>“Hey, mister, take me to the wreck!”</p>
<p>“What wreck, kid?”</p>
<p>“The five-ten is over the trestle, and they
went off and left me!”</p>
<p>Judge Tiffany took the information calmly,
even selfishly. “I wonder if we’d better turn
back and give it up to-night, or go on?”</p>
<p>Eleanor spoke with a catch of the breath,
a drawn-in tone.</p>
<p>“Go on! Oh, tell him to go on!”</p>
<p>The Judge peered at her. She was pale,
but, as always in her crises, the curtain of inscrutability
made her face a mask. “Oh, do
go on!” she repeated. Then, as though it all
needed explanation, she added:</p>
<p>“We might be able to help!”</p>
<p>“Drive on, then—fast!”</p>
<p>Absolutely passive, Eleanor swayed a little
with the trap, but made no motion of her own.
Indeed, there was little motion within. The
train had gone over the trestle, that was all.
Bertram Chester was on that train. She must
not try to think it out—must only hold tight
to herself until she found how God had decided
for her. Once it did occur that she had
fretted her heart away over shadowy ills, toy
troubles, while Bertram walked the earth
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_242' name='page_242'></a>242</span>
free and healthy. How trivial those troubles
seemed beside this real apprehension! Once
again, she wondered how she had been cruel
enough to hold him at arm’s length so long.
Was this to be the punishment for her folly?</p>
<p>A buckboard, driven furiously, came over
the hill-rise before them—the doctor’s rig.</p>
<p>“Ask him—ask him!” she called to her
driver. As they drew up alongside, the doctor’s
driver began talking without need for
inquiries.</p>
<p>“Spread rail! The rear car just bucked
over the trestle—”</p>
<p>“Anybody dead?”</p>
<p>“Two that I saw—and everybody in the
rear car hurt. They’re loading ’em on the
front car to take ’em to town. Good bye—I’ve
got to bring back medicine before they
start!”</p>
<p>The chances were even—the chances were
even. If he had been in the front car—relief.
If he had been in the rear car—</p>
<p>The thing opened before them like a panorama
as they topped the hill. The engine
puffing regularly, normally, the baggage car
and one coach on the rails behind it; a little
crowd buzzing and rushing up and down the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_243' name='page_243'></a>243</span>
trestle; a black, distorted mass of iron and
splinters at the edge of the water below.
Three or four heads appeared above the
trestle, and the people swarmed in that direction.
The heads grew to four men, carrying
between them a bundle covered by a red
blanket.</p>
<p>Judge Tiffany spoke for the first time.</p>
<p>“You’d better not see it, Nell!”</p>
<p>His words seemed to draw the curtain away
from her self-control.</p>
<p>“Oh, go on—for God’s sake, go on!”</p>
<p>As they drew up beside the undamaged
coach, the bearers had just arrived with another
body. Eleanor jumped down, rushed
to the platform. The thing under the blanket
was a woman. She turned into the coach,
apprehension growing into certainty. She
had not seen him in the crowd. If he were
unhurt, he must be first and foremost among
the workers.</p>
<p>The coach was a hospital—limp, bandaged
people propped up on every seat; in a little
space by the further door, a row of quiet figures
which lay as though sleeping. Above
them bent two men. Their business-like
calm showed that they were physicians. The
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_244' name='page_244'></a>244</span>
half of her which stood aloof, observing all
things, wondering at all things, the half whose
influence kept her now so calm and sane,
marvelled that she heard no moaning, tormented
sounds. They were in the second
stage of injury; the blessed anæsthesia of
nature was upon them. For human speech,
she heard only the low, quick voices of those
who healed and nursed.</p>
<p>She saw a bare arm lifted from the press of
huddled forms, saw that a physician had
pressed a black bulb to it. The hand—the
inevitable configuration of that arm which she
had never seen bare—and she knew him.</p>
<p>Bertram lay on his side. His eyes were
closed, his whole figure huddled; yet something
more than the quiver of his body at
the prick of the syringe told her that he was
alive. His color had changed but little; hovering
death showed mainly by a sharpening of
all the lines of his face. Yet it did not seem
to be Bertram, but rather some statue, some
ghastly replica of him.</p>
<p>The physician stood up and stretched his
back. She came close.</p>
<p>“Will he live?”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_245' name='page_245'></a>245</span></p>
<p>He turned impatiently, but he caught her
eyes.</p>
<p>“He has a chance. He’s young and strong—Is
he—yours?”</p>
<p>“Yes—yes! What shall I do for him?”</p>
<p>“Are you sure you’re strong enough—you
won’t faint nor carry on?”</p>
<p>“No—no! I’m sure of that. What may
I do?” Judge Tiffany was beside her
now. He looked, understood, and said nothing.</p>
<p>“Thank God for you, then! With all the
crowd we haven’t sane people enough to
nurse one baby! Everything’s the matter
with him—broken arm, broken collar-bone,
shock, and maybe he’s injured internally.
We can’t be sure about that yet. I’m trying
to make him comfortable, but”—here the agitated
man broke through the calm physician
for a moment—“No braces, no slings, no anything!
We’re going to town as soon as this
company will let us. And he must be held.
It’s the only way to keep him comfortable.
Come!”</p>
<p>Judge Tiffany touched the doctor’s arm,
but he spoke to Eleanor.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_246' name='page_246'></a>246</span></p>
<p>“Nell—you’d better let a man do that.”</p>
<p>“No. You may help. How shall I hold
him?”</p>
<p>All her will concentrated on obedience to
direction, she followed the doctor while he
drew Bertram’s bare arm over her shoulder,
set a cushion at his back, showed her how she
must support his neck with her right hand.</p>
<p>“Hold him as long as you can, then have
your friend relieve you. But change no
more often than you find necessary. He’ll
get jostled enough before we reach town.”</p>
<p>The Judge seated himself calmly. She was
alone with the care of her dying. The necessity
for comforting and reassuring him came
into her mind.</p>
<p>“It’s all right, Bertram; it’s all right!” she
whispered. He returned no answer, even of
a flickering eyelash. He lay still, inert, a
great bulk that tugged at the muscles of her
arms.</p>
<p>After a time, her frame adjusted itself to
the position. Her perceptions, still keenly
alive, told her that her doctor was working
over a woman in the corner. Just as the
train started, she saw him rise, wipe his hands
on his handkerchief, and motion calmly to
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_247' name='page_247'></a>247</span>
two of the men. They lifted the woman.
Eleanor realized all at once what the motion
signified. They had taken her to join the
dead in the baggage car.</p>
<p>Next to Bertram lay an old man, his head
so wrapped in bandages that she could see
only the tip of his grey beard. A middle-aged
woman—Eleanor recognized her as a
camper whom they had passed on the road
but yesterday—knelt beside him, talking into
his ear about his soul. “Do you lean on your
Savior?” she whispered. A kind of passing
impatience touched Eleanor. So much had
her sympathetic spirit absorbed the feelings
of these dying ones, that she resented this as
an intrusion, an unwelcome distraction from
the business of sloughing off the flesh.</p>
<p>A little sag of Bertram’s body, which
alarmed her for a moment until she saw that
the movement came from relaxation of her
own arms, called her back to responsibility.
The realization that it <i>had</i> called her back
brought with it the amazing, shameful realization
that it had ever wandered away.</p>
<p>Why—</p>
<p>From the moment when she took him into
her arms, she had never thought of him as
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_248' name='page_248'></a>248</span>
her dying lover—never as her lover at all!</p>
<p>A man in extremis, a thing so beaten and
suffering that she called for it on her Christ—he
was all that, in common with the other
beaten and battered and senseless wrecks
about them. But the feeling that he was her
own, about to go from her, had never entered
her heart. She was ashamed while she
thought of it; but it persisted. Not hers?
Why, she had suffered him to kiss her only
yesterday! Must she think of such things
with a life to save?</p>
<p>Now, her body was giving way with weariness;
it seemed that she could hold him no
longer. She nodded to Judge Tiffany, therefore;
the old man rose and gently took her
burden from her. She sank back on the
empty seat. When the faintness of fatigue
had passed, she fixed her eyes on the still face
of him who had been her lover.</p>
<p>Why was it? The clear-cut profile, so refined
and beautiful since suffering gave it the
final touch, had thrilled her only yesterday
and through a succession of yesterdays. It
had no power to thrill her now. She tried
to put back this unworthy thought, but it persisted.
In spite of pity and all decency of
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_249' name='page_249'></a>249</span>
the heart, that outer self of hers kept saying
it to her like an audible voice. Were he to
die now, in her arms, she should work and
weep and pray over his passing—but only as
she would work and weep and pray over that
alien old man who lay beside him, that woman
whom they had just carried away.</p>
<p>The Judge was flagging. He glanced
wearily over his shoulder, as though he hesitated
to ask for relief. She rose; and without
a word she took his place. And now, as she
knelt with Bertram’s slight yet heavy breathing
in her ear, her thoughts became uncontrollable
nightmare—scattered visions and
memories of old horrors, as when she saw her
father drunk on the pavement; a multitude of
those little shames which linger so long. One
incident which was not quite a shame thrust
itself forward most insistently of all. It was
that episode under the bay tree, when she was
only a little girl. Why did that memory
start to the surface those tears which had been
falling so long within? Her weeping seemed
to lift her to a tremendous height of perception,
as though that outer self had flowed in
upon her.</p>
<p>That which had lured her and dragged her
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_250' name='page_250'></a>250</span>
to him in the end, was the life in him, the
strong, vigorous body, the gestures, the smiles.
That which had held her away from him was
the soul within him—high and clean enough
as souls go, but not one which she could ever
know, and not one which could ever know
hers. In this struggle of passing, he was all
soul; the body was not in it.</p>
<p>She held the plan of her puzzle; it was
necessary only to set the scattered blocks into
place.</p>
<p>She found herself whispering to him; she
checked herself until she remembered that he
could not hear:</p>
<p>“O Bertram, you are not mine! O Bertram,
you could never be mine!”</p>
<p>Now she could look straight at the possibility
of his death or recovery. And she
could weigh and choose, in case it was life,
between telling him what she felt, or going
on with him to the end—walking with a soul
apart, yet choosing paths for it, too. That
last might be the road of honor. That fine
and heroic course, indeed, came to her with
a high appeal. She had made her one resolve
of duty. Perhaps it was her destiny to
immolate herself for duty to the end.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_251' name='page_251'></a>251</span></p>
<p>The train bowled on, stopping for no stations.
The old man in the corner was unconscious
or asleep; the woman who tended
him had stopped her spiritual ministrations.
A child, propped up in one of the rear seats,
had awakened to cry, fallen asleep, awakened
and wept again. She had in her voice a
thick, mucous note, which became to Eleanor
the motif in that symphony of misery.
Otherwise, no one seemed to be making
sound except the two physicians. Her own
doctor came up once, pressed a syringe again
into the bare arm, whispered that it was all
going well.</p>
<p>A whistle came muffled through the fog;
they were slowing down. It was a station;
the lights, the clamor of human voices, proved
it. Eleanor looked out of the window. A
knot of young men had broken for the platform;
and she could distinguish the black
boxes of cameras. There arose a sharp parley
at the rear door; her doctor muttered
“reporters—damn!” and hurried back.
Judge Tiffany rose and followed him. Over
her shoulder Eleanor caught the white, intent
face of Mark Heath. “He knows; they have
told him,” she thought.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_252' name='page_252'></a>252</span></p>
<p>Judge Tiffany, his mind on the practical
necessities of the case, still had it in him to
admire the control of that good soldier, the
modern reporter. When he told simply what
had happened, how the issue lay balanced between
life and death, Mark only said:</p>
<p>“My God!—and me with the story to do!”
Then his eye caught Eleanor.</p>
<p>“Did she—has she been nursing him?”</p>
<p>Judge Tiffany glanced at the other reporters,
clustered about the conductor, at the photographers,
holding animated wrangle with
the physicians about flashlights.</p>
<p>“Keep her out of your story—you can do
that. Say I found him on the train—put me
in—that’s a good story enough. Keep my
niece out. Keep the others off. Keep those
flashlights muffled!”</p>
<p>Mark hurried forward. One look, a look
which contorted his face, he bent on Bertram.
Then he spoke puzzles to Eleanor.</p>
<p>“You’re Miss Brown, a camper at Santa
Eliza, if anyone asks you—and when we leave
this train you stay by me and do everything
I tell you.”</p>
<p>“Very well.”</p>
<p>Mark touched Bertram’s face with a tenderness
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_253' name='page_253'></a>253</span>
almost feminine. “Poor old man!”
he whispered; and he hurried back.</p>
<p>A shock-headed youth accosted him.</p>
<p>“What’s up there?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Good story,” answered Mark. “I’ve got
it all—don’t you fellows bother. Bertram
Chester, old California Varsity tackle, real
estate manager for Northrup and Co., seriously
injured, may not recover. Get his injuries
from the doctor. His late employer,
Judge Edward C. Tiffany, reached this train
at Santa Eliza and has been taking care of
him.”</p>
<p>A voice came from the group of reporters:</p>
<p>“Why, he’s your roommate!”</p>
<p>“I know it—damn it! Keep on. Judge
Tiffany has been caring for him, holding him
up so he could bear it, assisted by Miss Sadie
Brown, a camper at Santa Eliza. She’s the
one I was talking to.”</p>
<p>“Who is she? Any chance for a photograph?”</p>
<p>“I braced her for a picture. She wouldn’t
stand for it.”</p>
<p>“Let me try! I’ll get it.”</p>
<p>“See here, you fellows, I’ll attend to that.
I’ll let you all in if she gives up. I’ll play
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_254' name='page_254'></a>254</span>
you square. He’s my roommate—can’t you
trust me to handle it? Keep on. Miss Sadie
Brown, works at the Emporium, lives 2196
Valencia—” Mark was reading from a perfectly
blank sheet of copy paper—“Judge
Tiffany will take him home. He wired
ahead for a private ambulance from Havens.
That’s all of that. Now what have you fellows
got? Help me out; it’s none too easy
for me.”</p>
<p>As he took notes, asked questions, formed
his “story” in his mind, Mark never took his
eyes off that group in the corner.</p>
<p>Now they were racing down the last stage
of the trip, with full freeway. Now they
were drawing into the ferry station. Under
the lights stood a buzzing crowd, its blacks
shot with the white coats of hospital orderlies.
A dozen ambulances, their doors open, stood
backed to the platform. Eleanor sagged
down on the floor with a sigh as two orderlies
lifted Bertram’s arms from her shoulders,
made shift to get him upon their stretcher.</p>
<p>But the doctor stopped them.</p>
<p>“Get this old man first,” he said, “and be
careful. That young fellow ought to pull
through.”</p>
<hr class='major' />
<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_255' name='page_255'></a>255</span>
<a name='CHAPTER_XV' id='CHAPTER_XV'></a>
<h2>CHAPTER XV</h2>
</div>
<p>Toward morning, Eleanor managed to
get a little sleep. When full daylight
wakened her to the dull realization of her
situation and burdens, she hurried into clothes,
crept to the solid, old-fashioned best bedroom
where they had put Bertram, and took counsel
of the nurse. Everything was hopeful;
she got that from the professional patter of
temperatures and reactions. It seemed that
there might be no internal hurt. He had
roused from his shock in the night; had
seemed to know where he was and what had
happened. He lay now in a natural sleep,
but he must be kept very quiet.</p>
<p>On the way downstairs, Eleanor met face to
face with her aunt. Mrs. Tiffany had been
awake since the ambulance brought responsibility;
but her eyes showed more than want
of sleep. The two women stopped, looked
long at each other; then Mrs. Tiffany took
Eleanor tenderly in her arms and kissed her.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_256' name='page_256'></a>256</span></p>
<p>“Don’t you worry, dear,” she whispered,
“he will get well, and everything will be all
right with Edward and me.”</p>
<p>Eleanor did not answer at first. She drew
a little away from her aunt’s embrace, before
she found tongue to say:</p>
<p>“Please don’t speak of that, Aunt Mattie—oh,
not of that now!”</p>
<p>As she made her way out to the piazza, in
an instinctive search for air and room, she
was crying.</p>
<p>In the limpness of reaction, she sank into
a chair. Every joint and muscle, she realized
now, ached and creaked. She could lift her
arms only after taking long thought with herself;
and the soul within was as burned paper.</p>
<p>The front gate clicked. The first, doubtless,
of those inquiring visitors who would
read a meaning into the adventures of last
night. That, too, was to be faced this day!
The pattering, hurrying footsteps sounded
near to her before she looked up and recognized
Kate Waddington.</p>
<p>If Kate had been crying, the only evidence
was a hasty powdering which left streaks of
white and pink before her ears. On first
glance, Eleanor marvelled at her appearance
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_257' name='page_257'></a>257</span>
of control, at the lack of emotion in her face.
But insight rather than conscious vision told
Eleanor of the currents which were running
under that mask. At the bottom Eleanor detected
a fear which was not only apprehension
of the news from Bertram Chester, but also a
cowardly shrinking from the situation. She
fancied that she could even trace Kate’s
consideration of the proper shade of acting
in the circumstances. All this in the moment
before Kate sprang up the steps and
asked:</p>
<p>“Oh, will he live?”</p>
<p>A baser nerve in Eleanor quivered with the
desire to be cruel. She had to put it down
before she could tell the simple truth. One
little corner of Kate’s mouth quivered and
jerked for a second under her teeth before she
caught herself and resumed the impersonation
of a solicitous friend.</p>
<p>“Tell me all about it,” she said.</p>
<p>“Ah, I am too tired!” Nevertheless, Eleanor
did manage a plain tale, ending with the
nurse’s report and with her own conviction
that he would live.</p>
<p>“Oh, of course he will live!” And then—“Who
is nursing him?”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_258' name='page_258'></a>258</span></p>
<p>She looked up on this question, which was
also an appeal, a begging.</p>
<p>“We have a nurse,” answered Eleanor
shortly. It gratified her a little, in her low
state of consciousness, to be thus abrupt. The
better part of her realized this; saw how she
was wreaking the revenge of an old emotion.
A reaction of generosity prompted her next
words; but she spoke with an effort.</p>
<p>“You may help if you want to. Uncle
Edward must go to the ranch this week—unless—don’t
you want to come here and stay in
my spare room?” It seemed to Eleanor that
she had never made a harder sacrifice than
the one which she sealed with that invitation.</p>
<p>This, too, brought Kate out of her impersonation.
Her whole figure straightened for
a second, and—</p>
<p>“Oh, might I?” she said.</p>
<p>“I should be very glad. Will you come up
to see him—one may look in at the door. He
is in Uncle Edward’s spare chamber.”</p>
<p>As they threaded the involved halls of that
rambling dwelling, Kate hurried on ahead.
Eleanor, from the rear, threw out a word or
two by way of direction. At the door,
opened to get air of a dull and heavy morning,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_259' name='page_259'></a>259</span>
they peered into the grim order of the
sick room. The nurse had already stripped
it to hospital equipment. His face, refined
almost into beauty by pain and low-running
blood, lay tilted to one side as he slept. The
nurse touched her lips. Eleanor nodded.
The nurse turned back toward her patient.
Eleanor dared look at Kate.</p>
<p>Her color had changed from pale, back to
the pink of life; now it was turning pale
again. She noticed neither Eleanor nor the
nurse; she stood as one in a universe unpeopled
save by herself and another. Once, her
two arms quivered with an involuntary outward
motion, and once she swayed against the
lintel.</p>
<p>And Eleanor, watching her through this
wordless passage, gathered all the currents
that had been running through her will into
an indeterminate determination. In that moment
she realized the full bitterness of a renunciation
that does not mean renouncing a
wholly dear and desired thing, but does mean
renouncing the beloved thing which one is
better without.</p>
<p>Kate turned at length. Eleanor, as their
eyes met, could read in her face and body the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_260' name='page_260'></a>260</span>
change as the actress took command once
more. Kate flew at once to her hollow conventional
phrases.</p>
<p>“The poor, poor boy!” she said. “Oh, we
must all help!”</p>
<p>Eleanor turned away with the feeling that
this made it harder for her to perform her
renunciation—if real renunciation it were.</p>
<p>The day brought too much work, activity,
purely material anxiety, for a great deal of
thought. They had cut off the telephone in
the main wing of the Tiffany house and
switched the current to the instrument in
Eleanor’s living-room. Most of the day she
spent answering that telephone. People of
whom she had never even heard, made anxious
inquiries about the condition of Mr. Chester.
Before night the newspapers became a plague.
For in the afternoon, winged reporters, shot
out in volleys for a “second day story,” had
called at 2196 Valencia and found there no
Sadie Brown. Hurrying down the back trail
to the Emporium, they did discover an indignant
little shop-girl of that name. Those reporters
who had been with the wreck the
night before found no resemblance in her to
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_261' name='page_261'></a>261</span>
the mysterious lady. Then came a bombardment,
in person and by telephone, of the Tiffany
house. The Judge, meeting all callers
at the front door, lied tactfully. The city
editors gave up sending reporters and took to
bullying over the telephone; so that the burden
of an unaccustomed lying fell upon Eleanor.
At eleven o’clock, and after one voice
had declared that the <i>Journal</i> had the whole
account and would make it pretty peppery if
the Tiffanys did not confirm it, Eleanor took
the telephone off the hook and went to bed.</p>
<p>The morning papers did pretty well with
what they had. “Mysterious Woman Nurses
Prominent Varsity Athlete”—“Who Is The
Pretty Girl that Nursed Society Man in Las
Olivas Horror?”—“Modest Heroine of Las
Olivas Holocaust.” But the secret, thanks to
Mark Heath, was safe.</p>
<hr class='tb' />
<p>She slept that night. Far along in the
morning she awoke to the delicious sense of
physical renewal. The situation crept into
her mind stage by stage, as such things do
arrive in the awakening consciousness. She
was calm now, what with her rest of body, her
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_262' name='page_262'></a>262</span>
decision of soul. She could think it out; her
course of action and how she might accomplish
it.</p>
<p>A knock at her door roused her from half-sleep
and meditation to full wakening. Kate
Waddington had entered—Kate, transformed
into a picturesque imitation of a nurse. She
was all in grass linen, the collar rolled away
to show her round, golden throat. Her flowing
tie was blue, and a blue bow completed
the knot of her hair. She looked cool, efficient,
domestically business-like.</p>
<p>“He’s better!” Kate burst out with the
news as Eleanor turned her head. “There’s
really no danger now. The nurse says that he
roused this morning and showed a positively
vicious temper because they would not let him
see anyone.”</p>
<p>“That’s pleasant news. I was sure that he
would recover.” Eleanor caught an unconsidered
expression, no more than a glint and a
drooping, in Kate’s eyes. This answer, so
calm, so entirely unemotional, had touched
curiosity if nothing more. But Kate chirped
on:</p>
<p>“I’m playing Mama’s little household fairy—how
do you like the way I dress the part?
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_263' name='page_263'></a>263</span>
I sent for these clothes last night. Now
you’re to lie abed and let me bring you your
breakfast. Are you rested, dear? It was
enough to kill two women!”</p>
<p>“Quite rested, I think.”</p>
<p>Kate opened the window, bustled about
putting the room to rights.</p>
<p>“Shall I bring your coffee now?” she asked
at last.</p>
<p>“Yes, thank you.”</p>
<p>Kate was back in ten minutes with table
and tray. Whatever she did had an individuality,
a touch. That tray, for example—nothing
could have been better conceived to
tempt the appetite. She set out the breakfast
and remained to pour coffee and to talk.</p>
<p>“And isn’t it good—mustn’t you be thankful—that
it won’t leave him lame or disfigured
or anything like that! His shoulder
may be weak, but what does a man need of
shoulders after he’s quit football?”</p>
<p>Eleanor just glanced over her coffee-cup,
but she made no answer. Kate turned her
course.</p>
<p>“Won’t you let me open your egg for you?”</p>
<p>“No, thank you.” Then, “You’re very
kind, Kate.”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_264' name='page_264'></a>264</span></p>
<p>“I am the original ray of light. Do let
me fix those pillows. You’re going to lie in
bed all the morning, you know. Shall I
bring you the papers? You should see them!
They’ve got you a heroine.”</p>
<p>“Me!” Now Eleanor showed animation.</p>
<p>“Oh, not you. We’ve all kept the secret
well. You’re a mystery, a pretty shop-girl
to the rescue. I hope the weeklies don’t find
the real story.”</p>
<p>“I hope so.”</p>
<p>Kate rose, made another pretense at setting
things right in the room, and moved toward
the door. A relief, a lowering of tension,
came over Eleanor. But at the threshold,
Kate turned.</p>
<p>“Oh, I nearly forgot! They sent up from
Mr. Northrup’s office this morning for some
documents or deeds or something which they
thought Mr. Chester might have in his pockets.
The nurse brought out his clothes so
that Mrs. Tiffany and I might go through
them—I felt like a pickpocket. And we
came across a package of proofs—photographs
of him. We opened it to see if the
old deeds might be in there. And they’re
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_265' name='page_265'></a>265</span>
such stunning likenesses—Muller, you know—that
I thought it would do you good to see
them.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, I should like to.”</p>
<p>Kate drew the photographs from her bosom
and handed them over. As Eleanor took
them and began mechanically to inspect them,
she caught an unconsidered trifle. Kate was
not leaving the room. She had stepped over
to the cheval-mirror, which faced the bed, and
was adjusting the ribbon in her hair. Looking
across the photographs through her lashes,
Eleanor saw that the counterfeit eyes of Kate
in the mirror were trained dead upon her.</p>
<p>She examined them, therefore, with indifference;
she stopped in the middle of her inspection
to ask if Judge Tiffany were up yet.</p>
<p>“They’re excellent likenesses,” she went on
indifferently. “That’s a good composition.
I don’t care so much for this one. That’s a
poor pose.” She had come now to the bottom
of the pile. This last print was one of
those spirited profiles by which Muller, master-photographer,
so illuminates character.</p>
<p>“Oh, that’s a wonder,” cried Eleanor.
“Such a profile!” Then, at the thought how
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_266' name='page_266'></a>266</span>
Kate might misinterpret this purely artistic
enthusiasm, she dropped her voice to indifference
again.</p>
<p>“Won’t you please tell Aunt Mattie that
I will get up if I can be of any use?” And
she held out the package.</p>
<p>Kate packed up the tray and withdrew.
Eleanor heard the muffled tap of her heels in
the hall. The sound stopped abruptly. It
was fully a minute before they went on again.</p>
<p>Kate, in fact, had rested the tray on a hall
table, drawn out the photographs, and run
over them, looking at them with all her eyes.
The profile was at the bottom of the package.
When she reached that, she hesitated a moment;
then, with a quivering motion that ran
from her fingers over her whole body, she tore
it in two. Short as this explosion was, her
recovery was quicker. She glanced with apprehension
over her shoulder at the door of
Eleanor’s room, tucked the photographs back
in her bosom, and took up the tray again.</p>
<p>Eleanor, when the sound of the tapping
heels had quite died away, turned her face toward
the wall and gave herself to thought.
She had gathered up the last strand of the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_267' name='page_267'></a>267</span>
tangled web. Nothing was left but the unweaving.</p>
<p>First, his soul was not hers, as her soul was
not his. That impression, received in a crisis
which, she felt, was to be the crisis of her
life, had grown to be an axiom. His youth,
his vigor, the pull of a stalwart vitality which
made his coarseness almost beauty—that had
been the attraction. His spirit, so blazing
but so full of flaws—that had been the repulsion.</p>
<p>Did not her own spirit have its flaws?
Doubtless. Who was she, then, to judge
him? Ah, but they did not fit into her flaws!</p>
<p>Kate Waddington now—Eleanor turned
her thoughts in that direction with difficulty—her
flaws were akin to his. Kate could
tolerate and admire the whole of him. His
lapses in finer standards, such as that desertion
to Northrup—did they not fit like the
segments of a broken coin with Kate’s diplomacies
of that very day, her subtle reaching
to discover if Eleanor were really a rival?
Kate would weigh his compromises with
honor as lightly as he would weigh those
pretty treacheries. He would be successful;
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_268' name='page_268'></a>268</span>
everyone had felt that in him from his very
first flash on the horizon. Kate would help
him to the kind of success he wanted. Her
tact, her diplomacies, her <i>flair</i> for engrafting
herself, would be the very best support
to his direct methods of assault. They belonged
to each other; and since now Kate’s
desires in the matter had become manifest,
only one thing remained.</p>
<p>All this allowed, what should her own line
of conduct be? How should she bear herself
in the days and weeks when pure human kindness
must inhibit her from delivering a shock?
Would it be necessary to commit the inner
treason of posing to him as a secret fiancée?
Well, that must be lived out, step by step.
She could at least take all possible means,
within the bounds of kindness, of withdrawing
herself gradually from him, of paving the
way for the ultimate confession. Kate Waddington
would help in that. There, her own
game and Kate’s ran parallel.</p>
<p>This discovery of Kate at the end of the
tangled strings brought a tug at her heart,
a black cloud to her spirit. She hated Kate
Waddington. It made her grip the pillows
to think how much she hated. Her mood descending
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_269' name='page_269'></a>269</span>
into a bitter, morbid jealousy which
had no reason for being, but which momentarily
swept all her resolutions away, sent her
mind and body whirling back toward Bertram
Chester.</p>
<p>That passed. The last trace of her wild
animal hatred for Kate Waddington was
borne away on a prayer of the old faith which
held her instincts. She rose from her bed in
a state of fixed determination that never
faltered again.</p>
<p>When Eleanor was dressed, she turned not
to the front of the house where the business of
drawing back a life was afoot, but to the fresh
silences of her garden. She walked to the lattice
whose view commanded the bay and the
distant Gate. It was a quiet, dull-gold morning
on the Roads. A tug fussed about the
quarantine wharf; the lateen fisher-boats
were slipping out towards the Sacramento.
And white and stately, between the pillars of
the Gate, a full-rigged ship was making out
to sea on a favoring breeze.</p>
<p>Eleanor watched the sea-birds bending toward
it, the mists creeping down to cover it.
The soul within her leaped toward it and
seized it as a symbol.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_270' name='page_270'></a>270</span></p>
<p>“O ship,” she whispered, “take this too
away with you! I give it to the pure seas.
Take this little love away with you!”</p>
<p>That rite, with its poetry and its self-pity,
brought exaltation into her resolution. The
sacrifice was complete.</p>
<hr class='major' />
<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_271' name='page_271'></a>271</span>
<a name='CHAPTER_XVI' id='CHAPTER_XVI'></a>
<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2>
</div>
<p>Life and spirit came back to Bertram
Chester with a sudden bound. By the
fourth day, he was so much alive, so insistent
for company, that it became a medical necessity
to break the conventional regulations for
invalids, and let him see people. As it happened,
his father was the first visitor. Judge
Tiffany, who thought of everything, had telegraphed
on the night of the accident, and had
followed this dispatch, as Bertram improved,
with reassuring messages. Bert Chester the
elder, it appeared, was off on a long drive
into Modoc; two days elapsed before his
vaqueros, left on the ranch, could reach him.</p>
<p>He arrived with his valise on the morning
of that fourth day when Bertram roared for
company. He was a tall, calm man, with a
sea-lion mustache, a weather-beaten complexion
and the Chester smile in grave duplicate.
He was obviously uncomfortable in his town
clothes; and, even at the moment when they
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_272' name='page_272'></a>272</span>
were leading him solemnly to the sick room,
he stepped in awe through the Tiffany splendors.
When Mrs. Tiffany told him that Bert
was doing well, would doubtless recover and
without disability, he said “That’s good!” and
never changed expression. Mrs. Tiffany,
lingering at the door, saw and heard their
greeting.</p>
<p>“How are you, Bert?” said Chester senior.</p>
<p>“Pretty well, Dad,” said Bertram. Then
awkwardly, with embarrassed self-consciousness
of the rite which he was performing, Mr.
Chester shook his son’s hand.</p>
<p>After their short interview, Mr. Chester,
a cat—or a bear rather—in a strange garret,
roamed the Tiffany home and entertained her
who would listen. He warmed to Kate especially,
and that household fairy, in her
flights between errands of mercy, played him
with all the prettiness of her coquetry. At
luncheon he quite lost his embarrassment and
responded to the advances of three friendly
humans. Yes ma-am, he had been glad to
learn that Bertram was doing well in the
city. He had five sons, all doing well. He’d
risked letting Bert try college, and it had
turned out all right. There wasn’t much
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_273' name='page_273'></a>273</span>
more left in the cattle business; but he was an
old dog to learn new tricks. If he had it to
do over again, he’d try fruit in the Santa
Clara Valley, just like they had done.</p>
<p>As the afternoon wore away bringing its
callers, its telephone messages and its consultations
of doctors, his mood shifted to uneasiness.
He spent an hour walking back and
forth in the garden. Just before dinner-time
he approached Mrs. Tiffany and Kate, who
were sewing in the living-room, and said
simply:</p>
<p>“Well, I guess I’ve got to be going.”</p>
<p>“Why, we’re just getting acquainted!” cried
Kate.</p>
<p>Mrs. Tiffany merely flickered an eyelash
at the assumption of privilege which this implied.
But she answered, after a moment,
“We should like to have you stay. Even at
that, don’t consider us when it is a case of being
near your son.”</p>
<p>“Well,” answered the older Chester, ponderously,
“you see it ain’t like I had only this
one son and hadn’t been through trouble.
There’s Bob now. I worried quite a lot more
than was necessary when the Artiguez outfit
shot him up, but he pulled through. And
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_274' name='page_274'></a>274</span>
after Pete got scrambled by a riata, and a few
more things of that kind happened, I stopped
worrying any more than was necessary.
He’ll get well, and you’re handling him fine.
You’ve been blame good to the boy,” he said;
and the touch of sentimental softness in his
voice showed how genuine was his hardly expressed
gratitude. He began talking rapidly,
as though ashamed of it. He hoped they all
could come to see him on the ranch some time,
though there wasn’t much there to attract a
lady. Still, the boys had pretty good times
now and then. If the Tiffanys liked fresh
venison, the boys always got some deer in the
season.</p>
<p>“It’s lovely down there, I know. Bertram—your
son—has told me so much about it!”
broke in Kate.</p>
<p>“We’d like to see you, too,” said Mr.
Chester. Then, catching the implication,
embarrassed by it, he retreated to his room
and came back in an incredibly short time
with his valise. He had turned toward the
door when Mrs. Tiffany said:</p>
<p>“I think Bertram is well enough so that
you might see him again.”</p>
<p>“Oh, sure,” replied Mr. Chester, as recalling
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_275' name='page_275'></a>275</span>
a neglected trifle. He dropped his valise
and strode back to the sick-room for a short
stay.</p>
<p>All that day, Eleanor harbored a dread,
which turned toward night to a relief—dread
of the first interview, relief that Bertram had
not sent for her. Kate, waiting her chance,
slipped secretly into the room after Mr.
Chester had gone. Bertram was awake. He
smiled in a measured imitation of his old
smile when she entered, and extended his uninjured
hand. She did not take it; instead,
she patted it with her cool, long fingers, made
to soothe. And considering that the nurse
was watching, she looked a long time into
his eyes.</p>
<p>“They sure smashed me up some,” he said.
“But I’m a-knitting. How did it happen that
they swore you in?”</p>
<p>“I wanted to help!”</p>
<p>“That was being pretty good to little Bertie!”
He withdrew his hand to drop it above
hers, and he looked long into her face.
“Pretty good to little Bertie,” he repeated,
“and now I want you to be better, and not
ask any questions about it. Is Miss Gray—Eleanor—about
the house?”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_276' name='page_276'></a>276</span></p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“I thought she might have gone to the
ranch. Well, just about to-morrow, will you
get her in here—alone?”</p>
<p>“Are you ready—to be agitated?”</p>
<p>“Now you don’t know what I want—or
you wouldn’t be asking questions. Will
you?”</p>
<p>“Yes, Bertram.”</p>
<p>“You mustn’t talk any more,” spoke the
nurse from the corner. And Kate withdrew.</p>
<p>When, next morning, the two girls met in
the hall before breakfast, Kate repeated the
message simply, carelessly. Eleanor found
herself struggling to keep face and color. In
spite of her long inner preparation, the emergency
came to her with a sense of surprise.
How should she carry off this interview?
Though her respite had been long, though she
had thought much, she had no prepared plan
of campaign. Must she lie for the sake of his
bodily health, assume the part which she had
been playing when he went out of life? Even
the question how to get rid of the nurse was
a tiny embarrassment.</p>
<p>She mustered her voice to say:
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_277' name='page_277'></a>277</span></p>
<p>“I think I’ll look in now. Invalids are
likely to be awake at this hour of the day.”</p>
<p>“Yes, you must be eager!” dabbed Kate.</p>
<p>The nurse was no obstacle. She looked up
toward the figure in the door, said: “A young
lady to see you, Mr. Chester,” and withdrew.
Eleanor stood alone by the foot of the bed,
looking into the eyes of her problem.</p>
<p>He made no motion. He did not even put
out his hand. He regarded her with the
frown which usually broke into a smile.
Now, it continued a frown.</p>
<p>“Well, things happened, didn’t they?” he
said. His voice burst out of him with almost
its normal force.</p>
<p>“Yes, Bertram. A great deal.”</p>
<p>“And I thank you. It was bully work. I
don’t see how you stood it, holding me up the
way you did—it ought to have killed off a
man, let alone a girl. Didn’t hurt you anywhere,
did it?”</p>
<p>“No—who told you?” Her voice was
hard and constrained.</p>
<p>Now Bertram smiled. It was different,
this smile, from the old illumination of his
features. She could not tell, in the moment
she had to think, whether it was his illness
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_278' name='page_278'></a>278</span>
that changed it so, or whether it really held
a bitterness which, superficially, she read into
it.</p>
<p>“That’s the answer,” he said enigmatically.
“You didn’t know I was onto everything, did
you? I never went out but once—just after
the crash when the car turned over. I began
to know things while they were carrying me
up the bank. From that time, I was just like
a man with his wind knocked out. It didn’t
hurt much, but I couldn’t move a finger or a
toe. I didn’t want to move if I could. I was
too busy just keeping alive. I couldn’t open
my eyes, but I heard everything. You just
bet I heard everything!”</p>
<p>This descent of the conversation into reminiscence
and apparent commonplace gave
Eleanor an opening into which she leaped.
It was wonderful; she had read of such cases.
Had he heard that child crying in the corner,
and had it bothered him? Had he been conscious
that it was Mark Heath and none other
who was asking so many questions? Mark
Heath had done so much for them—she
would tell him about it some other time. But
Bertram still lay there with his frown of a
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_279' name='page_279'></a>279</span>
petulant boy on his face, and her voice ran
down into nothing for lack of sympathy in her
listener.</p>
<p>“Do you remember all you said?” he asked
when she was quite silent.</p>
<p>“I think so—why?” The question had
brought a little, warm jump of her nerves.</p>
<p>“Everything? Something you said to
me?”</p>
<p>“I think so, Bertram.”</p>
<p>“Did I dream it, then?”</p>
<p>She made no answer to this, but her knees
failed under her so that she sat down on the
bed. Had she—had she said it aloud?</p>
<p>“Something like this: ‘Bertram, we don’t
belong to each other’?” He laughed a little
on this; even a certain blitheness came into
his laugh, as though he should say, “the joke
is on you.”</p>
<p>A sense of the shock she might give him
moved her to temporize.</p>
<p>“Let us not talk of it now, Bertram. Let
it be as it was until you’re better.”</p>
<p>“I’ll be a blame sight better after I get
this off my system. You see—well I couldn’t
think just then, but now, when my think tank
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_280' name='page_280'></a>280</span>
has resumed business, I savvey a heap of
things. One is that you weren’t telling me
any news.”</p>
<p>“What makes you say that?” Eleanor bent
her grave grey eyes on him.</p>
<p>“I had the signal already. I mightn’t have
seen it fully if this smash hadn’t come, but
just the same I caught it away ahead of you.
That afternoon up on the Las Olivas trail
when we came together. When I kissed
you.”</p>
<p>Had she ever let him kiss her?</p>
<p>He made an incurved gesture of his free
hand, as though joining two wires.</p>
<p>“It didn’t connect. That’s all. I was acting
on a hunch when I told you to keep it
dark. Told anyone?”</p>
<p>Not until afterward did she think to be
offended by this question. At the time, she
answered with a simple negative.</p>
<p>“That’s good. It is just between us now.
I suppose the matter with me was that I
wanted to fly high, and you were about the
highest thing in sight—”</p>
<p>“Don’t, Bertram. I’m not high. Am I
hurting you? Oh, am I unkind when you are
ill?”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_281' name='page_281'></a>281</span></p>
<p>“Oh, if you think it’s hurting me, you’re
off. This is a swell way to talk, isn’t it, considering
that I’m here—” his eyes swept the
aristocratic comforts of the Tiffany spare
room.</p>
<p>“We mustn’t think of that. It’s too big to
think of that!”</p>
<p>“I guess you’re right. Now that is finished,
going to forgive me because I walked over to
Northrup?”</p>
<p>“I’ve nothing of any kind to forgive. It’s
you, I think, that must forgive.”</p>
<p>“Oh, it’s all square, everything’s all
square. I want to be good friends with you
if you’ll let me. I hope,” his voice was almost
tender, “you connect with the right man.
He won’t have any too much blood in his
neck, but he’ll have a lot of general culture
in his system.”</p>
<p>Here she realized that she had something
to forgive. She repeated, mentally, her act
of renunciation as she said:</p>
<p>“You’re a great, strong, generous man. I
can’t tell you how much I thank you for the
course you’ve taken to-day. You’re going to
succeed and—some woman—is going to be
proud of you.” She had avoided by a thread
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_282' name='page_282'></a>282</span>
naming the woman. “I shall be glad I knew
you, and I shall be your friend as long as
you’ll let me.”</p>
<p>He smiled his old smile and his uninjured
hand went out.</p>
<p>“Shake!” he said.</p>
<p>Yet it was a relief that the nurse came back
and said quietly, “You’ve talked enough.”
As she walked to the door, Eleanor found that
her will was focused on the operation of her
feet, commanding them to move with decent
slowness. Had she obeyed her impulse, she
should have run. She forced herself to turn
at the door and smile back, forced herself to
bridle her emotions and go quietly to breakfast
and to her ordeal with the lightning
thrusts of Kate Waddington.</p>
<hr class='tb' />
<p>Two days later, Eleanor followed Judge
Tiffany to the ranch. A perplexing fruit
season brought her fair excuse. The year before,
the Japanese, adventurers in minor
labors, had begun to flood the Santa Lucia
tract. They drove out the Chinese; when
that spring brought picking contracts, no
Oriental was to be had save a Japanese. In
the first rush of that season, the Japanese
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_283' name='page_283'></a>283</span>
pickers on the Tiffany ranch, in concert with
all the other Japanese of Santa Lucia, had
thrown down their baskets, repudiated their
agreements, and struck. It needed more than
Judge Tiffany’s failing strength, more than
Olsen’s methodical plodding, to conquer this
situation.</p>
<p>She must be a post now, not a rail, Eleanor
told Mrs. Tiffany. And Kate would help until
Mr. Chester could be moved. At further
acceptance of Kate, Mrs. Tiffany rebelled.
Kate had foisted herself on them. Goodness
knew, Mrs. Tiffany couldn’t tell why they had
ever accepted that situation. It didn’t seem
to her even decent.</p>
<p>“You’ll perplex me greatly, dear Aunt
Mattie, if you don’t let her remain now!” said
Eleanor, looking up from her packing.</p>
<p>This remark, cryptic though it was, came
as a fresh shower to Mrs. Tiffany’s curiosity.
Never before had Eleanor so nearly
committed herself on the subject which lay
like lead on her aunt’s responsibilities. It
prompted Mrs. Tiffany to try for a wider
opening.</p>
<p>“Would you like it, dear, if we brought
Mr. Chester down to the ranch to recuperate
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_284' name='page_284'></a>284</span>
when he is better? I’m sure Edward
wouldn’t object. After all, he’s ready to forgive
the Northrup affair.”</p>
<p>Eleanor looked up significantly.</p>
<p>“If you’re consulting my wishes, certainly
not!” she said.</p>
<p>The sigh which Mrs. Tiffany drew expressed
deep relief. Thereafter, they proceeded
straight ahead with the arrangement.
Eleanor went on to the ranch. Kate, remaining,
made herself so useful in a hundred ways
that Mrs. Tiffany’s irritation wore itself
away.</p>
<p>The old combination of Eleanor and an attractive
though undesirable young man had
moved her to a perilous sympathy. Now
that it was over, now that she had no more responsibility
in the matter, she transferred
some of that vivid and friendly interest to the
new arrangement. She caught herself resisting
a temptation to spy on their conversations;
she watched Kate’s face for tell-tale expression
whenever Bertram’s name came up in
their luncheon-time chats.</p>
<p>Kate usurped all the finer prerogatives of
the nurse. Hers it was to arrange the sick-room,
to put finishing touches on bed and
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_285' name='page_285'></a>285</span>
table, to feed him at his meals. Her tawny
hair made sunshine in the chamber, her cool
hands, in their ministration, had the caress of
breezes. He was getting to be an impatient
invalid; he bore the confinement
harder than he did the ache of knitting bones.
Kate’s part it was to laugh away these irritations,
so that she always left him smiling.</p>
<p>He went on mending until they could get
him out of bed; until, on an afternoon when
the sun was bright and the wind was low, they
could take him into the garden for a breath of
air and view. He made the journey out-of-doors
with Kate supporting him unnecessarily
by the armpit. She set out a Morris chair
for him by the lattice, so that he could overlook
the Bay, she tucked the robes about him,
she parted the vines that he might have better
view.</p>
<p>For a moment he swept the bay with his
eyes and opened his lungs to the out-door
room and air. Then his gaze returned to
Kate’s strong, vigorous yet feminine back, as
she stood, arms outstretched, hooking vines
on the trellis. The misty sunshine was making
jewels in her hair.</p>
<p>“Say!” He spoke so suddenly and with
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_286' name='page_286'></a>286</span>
such meaning in the monosyllable that Kate
blushed as she turned. “Say! is that fellow
still writing to you—the one with the Eastern
education and the money?”</p>
<p>Kate dropped her eyes.</p>
<p>“No,” she said softly. “I told him—I
have broken it off—lately.”</p>
<p>Bertram laughed—his old, fresh laugh of a
boy.</p>
<p>“You saved me trouble then. I was just
about to serve notice on him that henceforth
no one but little Bertie was going to be allowed
on this ranch.”</p>
<p>Kate did not speak. She continued to look
down at the gravel walk.</p>
<p>“Now don’t you go pretending you don’t
know what I mean,” Bertram went on. “Just
for that, I won’t tell you what I mean. But
you know.”</p>
<p>“What about Eleanor?” murmured Kate.</p>
<p>“You little devil!” answered Bertram.
“Come over here.”</p>
<p>Kate sank down on the edge of his chair,
and dropped one arm about his neck.</p>
<p>Mrs. Tiffany, viewing the morning from
the window of her room, saw them so. At
first, she smiled; then a heavier expression
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_287' name='page_287'></a>287</span>
drew down all the lines of her face. She
crossed to her dresser, where a long frame
of many divisions held the photographs of
all whom she had loved. The first in order
was of a woman who had a face like
Eleanor’s; a more beautiful Eleanor, perhaps,
but with no such grave light of the spirit in
her eyes. This she touched with her finger
tips. But her look was bent upon the second,
the portrait of a young man whose attitude,
defying the conventional pose of old-fashioned
photography, showed how blithe and
merry and full of life he must have been.</p>
<p>“Ah, Billy Gray!” she whispered, “Billy
Gray, you know, <i>you</i>, how sincerely Eleanor
and I ought to thank God!”</p>
<p style='text-align:center; margin-top:1.5em; margin-bottom:2em;'>THE END</p>
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