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The Readjustment

by Will Irwin · English · Gutenberg #28443 · 315,693 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Readjustment

Author: Will Irwin


        
Release date: March 29, 2009 [eBook #28443]
                Most recently updated: January 4, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE READJUSTMENT ***




Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net









THE

READJUSTMENT

BY

WILL IRWIN

AUTHOR OF "THE CITY THAT WAS," ETC.

NEW YORK

B. W. HUEBSCH

1910




Copyright, 1910, by

B. W. HUEBSCH

PRINTED IN U. S. A.




THE READJUSTMENT

CHAPTER I


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.

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 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.

"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.

"I wonder how long Eleanor will be contented with such a way of life?"
put in Judge Tiffany.

"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 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.

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.

Long step-ladders straddling piles of boxes, beside this row or that,
showed where picking 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.

The first picker was a Chinese. His box, of course, showed only
perfection of workmanship. The Judge called up familiarly:

"Hello, Charlie!"

A yellow face grinned through the branches; the leaves rustled as
though some great bird were foraging, and the answer came back:

"Hello you Judge!" The Judge picked over the next two boxes without
comment; at the third, he stopped longer.

"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.

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 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:

"You are one of the college outfit camped down by the arroyo, aren't
you?"

"I am," said the youth. "I also picked the fruit too green. I am here
to take my beating."

Judge Tiffany, who held (he thought) an old-fashioned distaste for
impudence, smiled back in spite of himself.

"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 his embarrassment; he
had a dim feeling that he was making himself ridiculous.

"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.

"Eleanor!" she called.

"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. Out of their chatter, presently, this came
in the girl's voice:

"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!"

"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--

"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.

"I guess that lets you out, John," he said to the Portuguese.

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:

"Very well, Mr.--"

"Chester--Bertram Chester," said the youth, throwing his
self-introduction straight at the girl.

"Mr. Chester is one of the University boys who are picking for us this
summer," said Judge Tiffany.

"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.

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.

"So you're Judge Tiffany's niece, the girl who runs her ranch herself.
I've heard heaps about you."

"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.

"They say you're one of the smartest ranchers in these parts," he went
on.

"Do they?" Her tone was even and inexpressive. But Mr. Chester kept
straight along the path he was treading.

"And that you're also the prettiest girl around Santa Lucia."

"That's very kind of them."

"I haven't seen your ranch, but about the rest of it they're dead
right."

To this, she made no answer.

"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?"

"Yes."

"Ever go to any of the class dances?"

"No."

"Thought you might, being in the city winters. I'm not much on dances
myself. I'm a barb."

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.

"There's the house--and there he is, just back of the stable!"

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.

"Oh, dear, he'll ruin it!" she cried. "Do hurry! Hadn't you better
send for help?"

"I figure I can handle him," said Bertram Chester, bristling at the
imputation. "Just give me that halter and drive in back of the
corral, will you?"

"Please don't let him trample any trees!" she called after her
champion as he vaulted the fence.

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.

"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 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.

"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.

No one can account for the emotional processes of a bull. Just as
suddenly as it rose, Dynamo's courage evaporated. Once more 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.

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.

"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.

"It doesn't matter. It--it was very brave of you. Thank you very
much--are you hurt?"

"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.

"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.

"It's nice of you to say so."

Bertram turned his eye upon her again.

"Say," said he, "I don't believe the Judge expects me back right away!
Anything more I can do around the place?"

Eleanor smiled through her slight resentment.

"I don't think I care to take the responsibility." 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.

"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;

"Good bye!" he called after her.

"Good bye and thank you so much!" she answered over her shoulder.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Two minutes later, Mr. Bowles, driver of the meat wagon, was saying to
Eleanor:

"Which was it--rib or loin for Saturday, Miss Gray?"

"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.

Bertram Chester, swinging between the green rows, was whistling
blithely:

          "Say coons have you ebber ebber seen ma Angeline?
          She am de swetes' swetes' coon you ebber seen."




CHAPTER II


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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

"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.

"You remember the young man who went over with Eleanor to drive away
the Ruggles bull?"

Judge Tiffany gave assent by a slight inclination of his head.

"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--"

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.

"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."

"Which means," broke in the Judge, "that you have asked this Mr.
Chester up here to tea."

"If--if you wish it, Edward."

"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 will
serve as no excuse if I catch him picking any more green apricots."

Mrs. Tiffany, unturned by this breeze of criticism, ran along on her
own tack.

"His manners _are_ 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."

"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.

"Oh, there's no doubt that _he's_ 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."

"Where did you get all this insight into the social life of our
employees?" asked Judge Tiffany; and then, "Mattie, you've been
exposing yourself to the night air again."

"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.

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.

"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!"

"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:

"It might be worse, though, than a young man who had made it all
himself."

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.

That was her reward of childless matrimony, as the appreciation of her
humors was his.

                  *       *       *       *       *

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. 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.

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.

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
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.

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.

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.

"As usual," smiled Judge Tiffany.

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 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.

"Tea, gentlemen!" called Mrs. Tiffany, from her nasturtium bower in
the shadow of the great oak.

"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.

"There's Eleanor," suddenly spoke Teresa. At the word, she dropped
her lizard, started forward; and stopped as she came out into full
view of the road.

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.

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
from view; and the one-sided conversation became audible.

"It wasn't a _patch_ 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.

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.

Young Chester spoke first:

"I knew Miss Gray was coming down this afternoon--so I laid for her on
the road--didn't I, Miss Gray?"

"Very nice of you, I'm sure," murmured Mrs. Tiffany, though she bit
her lip before 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.

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.

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.

The men came over for tea, were introduced. Mrs. Tiffany, in her
foolish anxiety for the manners and appearance of her protegé, noted
that he was at home with men, at least.

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.

"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.

"Tackle and half," said the youth. "Yes, sir."

"Well, well, I remember you in the game!" said Goodyear.

Mrs. Tiffany, now that her protegé no longer needed watching, had
returned to her tea things.

"Eleanor," she called. "Will you run into the house and get that box
of chocolate wafers that's over the ice chest?"

"Let me carry 'em for you, Miss Gray," put in Chester, breaking
through a college reminiscence of Goodyear's.

Eleanor never flicked an eyelash as she announced:

"I should be very glad."

Tiffany, glancing over the group, noted with comparative relief that
none but she, Goodyear, and the young persons involved, had heard this
passage.

As they moved toward the house, Bertram opened upon Miss Gray at
once.

"This is the second chance I've had alone at you," he said.

"We are rather conspicuous," she burst out.

"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."

Eleanor seemed to see neither the necessity nor the convenience of an
answer.

"But you have!" he persisted. "They're better than pretty. They're
nice."

Again Eleanor said nothing. It seemed to her that there was nothing to
say.

"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 the company on the lawn--"like those people out there."

Stung, for a second, to a visible emotion, Eleanor raised her grey
eyes and regarded him.

"You are assuming a little, aren't you?" said she.

"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."

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.

"I haven't known you very long," she said.

"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."

"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.

Annoyed, and a little amused, Eleanor watched him. All at once, she
felt a catch 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.

She felt that he was standing over her; she felt his smile as he
looked down.

"You needn't be in such a terrible hurry," he said.

"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.

"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."

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, 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.

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:

"He ought to be a success, that protegé of yours!"

"I have been dreadfully mortified!"

"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."

"Edward, are you laughing at me again?"

"For once, my dear, no; not at least on the main line. You'd better
ask that Mr. Heath, too."

"And Eleanor?"

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.

"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."

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:

"Mr. Chester, would you mind helping me in with the chairs?"

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 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.

"I felt that I could work my way through Berkeley or Stanford more
easily than through an Eastern college," he said simply.

"And then I shouldn't be so far away from home. Mother likes to see me
at least once a year."

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.

"I'm sure she must be a very good mother to deserve that devotion,"
said Mrs. Tiffany, warming to him.

"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.

"No, I don't belong to any fraternity," said the confident youth,
"don't believe in them. 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
_them_."

"It might have been easier for Bert if he _had_ 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."

"Oh, I don't know," said Bertram. "The barbs elected me business
manager of the _Occident_ 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.

"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."

"And then?" asked the Judge.

"Law, I guess."

"I am an attorney myself."

"I guess I know that!"

"What school have you chosen?"

"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."

"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."

"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.

"And your mother?" asked Mrs. Tiffany. "I suppose she was crazy for
you to go."

"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.

Judge Tiffany met the direct hint with a direct parry.

"We have five thousand attorneys in San Francisco and only five
hundred of them are making a living."

"Yes, I know it is overcrowded," said Bertram Chester, not a particle
abashed.

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.

"He can be almost anything," said the Judge, meditatively.

"Even a gentleman?" gently inquired Mrs. Tiffany.

"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."

"I wish I had it," he went on, a little wistfully.

"Gentility? why Edward, if anyone--"

"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."

He had risen; and now his wife rose and stood beside him.

"You are forever talking as though you were a failure. I know you're
not. Everyone knows you're not."

"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!"

"It is a policy," said Mrs. Tiffany in a tone of injured
partisanship, "that will land him in jail."

"No," said the Judge, "success does not lead towards jails. He'll look
out for that."




CHAPTER III


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 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.

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, 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.

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.

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.

"For wit, Lady Vera Loudon," he said, "and after her, a quite
remarkable woman I met 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.

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.

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 on the whole the least desirable of all her
followers.

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 guiltily in this
singular sacrament of her singular love.

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.

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 of courage and enterprise, whose defect is their love of
drink.

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.

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 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.

"All who die outside of the church go to Hell, don't they?" he asked.

"Sister Sulpicia says so."

"Then your grandmother" (Mrs. Sturtevant had just died) "is in Hell?"

He pursued the line no further; he never 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.

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.

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.

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.

She came about a corner of Montgomery Street, turned in toward the
office of _The Whale_, 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.

"What's the answer?" some one called from the fringe.

"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.

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.

"Now that's all right," he was saying, "he's only dead to the world,
making no trouble for nobody. He works for _The Whale_ up above;
what's the good to pinch him?" "_The Whale_?" 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 _The
Whale_--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.

"You'll have to get back little girl!" he said.

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.

"He is my father!"

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.

"Does this happen often?" she asked.

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.

"Lord yes!" he replied. "Every pay day nowadays. Used to be the
brightest man in the business, too."

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.

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.

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.

Mattie Tiffany, with her passion for picturesque philanthropies, knew
right well that 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.

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.

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 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.

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.

The next four years--they were a monotony of variety. For her broken,
incompetent father, Eleanor learned the art and practice of 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.

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."

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.

In all the years of passage from girlhood to 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.




CHAPTER IV


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 control which puzzled her demonstrative
Aunt Matilda, she surprised her cheeks burning and her blood beating
in her throat.

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.

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 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.

                  *       *       *       *       *

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 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.

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 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.

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.

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. 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.

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
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.

"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.

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.

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 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.

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.

"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.

"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.

"Fresh as a daisy!" said the voice of Bertram 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.

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.

When she had so far mastered herself that she could feel her own
senses, she was praying aloud--praying in the rite which held her
emotions while it failed with her reason.

"Ave Maria Sanctissima!" she was saying over and over again.




CHAPTER V


"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.

"I'll take you," responded Mark Heath, flipping a silver dollar as he
spoke. "Heads the Nevada; tails the croutons and Dago red."

"Tails it is--aw, let's make it the Nevada to show there's nothing in
luck."

"You quitter!"

"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.

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, 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 _Herald_.

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.

"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."

"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 only just beginning to
acquire the cynical pose.

"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.

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.

"The real chances for a lawyer, though, are in business," Bertram
went on. "Judge Tiffany never grabbed half his chances. Attwood in the
office, says so."

"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.

"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."

"Oh, I don't know, I like it. I think I'll stay with it for a while."
Again Mark had 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.

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, 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.

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.

Within, Madame Loisel ruled with her cash 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.

In Madame Loisel's background lay the ramblings of a house built for
comfort and large hospitalities. Gone were the folding 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.

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!

Madame Loisel stood at her cash register as the two young men entered.
A fresh waist, 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.

"Bonsoir Madame--la la la-la-la!" called Bertram.

Her face blossomed with coquetry, her teeth gleamed, and:

"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.

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 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.

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.

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 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.

"Slummers!" said Mark under his breath. A habitué of the place, he
had already developed a resentment of outsiders.

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.

"It's her!" said Bertram, lapsing into his native speech. Heath
flashed a glance of recognition at the same moment.

"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?"

"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."

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 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.

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.

"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."

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.

"Why, yes. I have met them both. They 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."

"I should say that this Mr. Chester fancied you, from his
expression."

"I suppose that he fancies every girl that he sees--from his
expression."

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:

"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 _such_ stories of the people he
used to know then!"

Eleanor hesitated. Kate looked again toward Bertram, who was talking
rapidly across his soup to Mark Heath, and:

"Do!" she murmured.

In that instant, Bertram himself cast the die. This had been the
debate across the soup:

"I'm going over to speak to her," said Bertram.

"I shouldn't butt in," said Mark. "It's a balanced party."

"Oh, I shan't try to stay--coming along?" He did not wait to see
whether or not Mark was following.

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.

"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.

"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."

Masters, with that ready tact which he needed in order to live with
Mrs. Masters, rushed into the breach.

"And I should call it about my four hundred and first," he said. "It's
back to the old 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!"

"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.

"Sure!" responded Bertram.

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.

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 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.

                  *       *       *       *       *

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 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.

"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!"

Kate leaned across her insurance man.

"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."

"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.

"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!"

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. 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.

She invariably paid slummers the compliment of addressing them in
French.

"_Bonsoir--le souper, plait-il vous_?" she asked.

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 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.

"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?"

"It is kind of you to say so, Mademoiselle--economy and honesty."

Masters patted Mark Heath on the knee.

"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."

"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?"

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.

As Eleanor stepped out into California 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.

"You're even prettier than you used to be," he said caressingly;
"you've bully eyes. I think I told you that before."

This time, she looked him full in the face and smiled easily.

"Have I? Well I hope you don't mind my saying that they're resting on
a bonny sight!"

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.

"You're joshing me," he said.

"Truly I'm not. You are good to look at--eyes and all."

Although balked of his opening, Bertram tried again.

"Well your mouth is just as good as your eyes."

The same quick look into his face, and the same smile, as she
answered:

"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."

"Suppose we talk sense," grumbled Bertram.

"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.

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.

"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."

Her tongue ran away with her.

"I saw you, though," she said.

"Where?"

"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.

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 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.

"Wonderful girl, isn't she?" asked Kate.

"She sure is."

"Her mother," said Kate, "had more wit than any other woman in San
Francisco--and the men she had!"

"I think Eleanor has inherited _that_ at any rate," she added after a
pause.

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.

                  *       *       *       *       *

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:

"What did you think of him?" An instant 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:

"He? Oh, he seems to me to be a little promiscuous."




CHAPTER VI


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.

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 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 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.

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.

                  *       *       *       *       *

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 the drop of Broadway to the Spanish Church.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

"Further," continued Judge Tiffany, dropping his hand upon her arm
with that affectionate 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!"

"I--I _am_ 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.

"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!"

"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?"

"I'd lose all hold on discipline if I revealed my methods."

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?"

"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."

"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."

"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.

"He'll make a good something," said the 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."

"What else?" asked Mattie.

"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?"

"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.

"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, 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.

"And the other road?" asked Mrs. Tiffany.

"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."

"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.

"Suppose he should follow that path--and take up with Northrup," went
on Judge Tiffany. "Mine honorable opponent has use for 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."

"But Edward, you ought to warn him!"

"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?"

"To-day--just before church--I was hooking up Kate and Eleanor, and he
telephoned."

"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.

"If I did listen, it was no more than right. 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--"

"Oh, she was listening too?"

"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!

"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 if she isn't
envious at bottom? After all Eleanor is so much more a lady! Kate said
again, 'The young man is prompt!'"

Judge Tiffany laughed.

"Oh, that women could dwell together in peace and harmony! Can't you
grant my playmate Miss Waddington a feminine jab or two?"

"Well, she _is_ nice to you!"

"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!"

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.

"And behold him now," said Judge Tiffany.

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.

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.

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 him at his
ease by opening fire of conversation.

"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?"

"I'm generally hungry--that's how!" said Bertram Chester.

"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!"

"I ask my wife's permission before giving the answer which is in my
heart," said Judge Tiffany.

Eleanor broke into the laugh which followed.

"But I would like to know about Madame Loisel."

"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!"

"Tell us more about her--" this from Eleanor.

"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!"

"Good for her!" said Mrs. Tiffany, reaching for her crewel work.

"Oh, yes," responded Mr. Chester in the uncertain tone of one who
gives assent for politeness without knowing exactly why.

"If I ever depart from the straight and narrow paths and get drunk,
may I have Madame Loisel to hold my head," cried Kate.

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.

"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?"

"Where was I when we were interrupted?" asked Judge Tiffany, leaning
forward.

"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?"

"Sure you can!" answered Bertram.

"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!"

"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."

"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.

The rehearsed flirtation between Kate and Judge Tiffany faded into a
game of jackstones on the floor.

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,

"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.

A bell rang in the outer hall, and the maid entered.

"Miss Waddington is wanted at the telephone," she announced.

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.

"I've said it before, but I'm going to keep on. You are pretty."

"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.

"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. That's one of the ways you're different."

("Heavens--is he making love already--he is sudden!" thought Eleanor
with amusement.)

"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."

"Shall we discuss other things than me?" asked Eleanor.

"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.

"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."

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:

"How many really nice girls have you known in that time?"

Bertram, sitting in considerable comfort on the window seat, flashed
his eyes across his shoulder to her.

"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:

"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 pretty:
anyway, her hair was the color of molasses candy. I wrote a poem to
her the first day I saw her."

"A poem?" asked Eleanor.

"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."

"You don't know how to be in love until you're older," he went on.

("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.)

"Tell me about this girl with the molasses hair. She interests me. And
a lot about yourself."

"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."

He stopped, as though expecting an answer. None came. He bent his eyes
closer on her and repeated:

"It would!"

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.

"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?"

She paused and threw an arch look past Eleanor.

"Sure I'll come!" said Bertram, jarred into the vernacular by his
internal emotion of pleasant surprise. "Sure--I'd be delighted."

"I told Mrs. Masters you'd be the ready accepter," said Kate.

"You're going too, aren't you?" asked Bertram of Eleanor.

"No; I had to decline, I'm sorry to say."

"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 _faux pas_; he had seemed more eager toward Eleanor, to whom he
owed no gratitude for the invitation, than toward her.

"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.

Bertram rose promptly.

"It is time I was going," he said. "I've enjoyed myself very much,
Miss Gray. If you don't mind, I'd like to come to see you again."

"And I'll get into my things," said Kate.

They all moved toward the door.

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.

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.

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.

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 towering above her, something which she feared might be
comprehension came into his eyes. And--

"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.

                  *       *       *       *       *

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.

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:

"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 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.

"A man up a tree," said Mark Heath, "would say you were in love."

"I'll be damned--I wonder if that ain't the matter?" said Bertram
Chester.




CHAPTER VII


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 denote to a Californian in Tibet the native of South of
Market, San Francisco.

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.

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, who might be guides and companions on his
new way.

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.

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 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.

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.

"Me Gawd, Jimmie, but me belt hurts!" he called out suddenly in his
richest imitation of the South of Market dialect. With his 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
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."

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:

"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.

"No, thank you," Bertram said simply, and flushed again.

Masters spoke up from his corner:

"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 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.

"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.

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 Banks, and sometimes on
the terraced hills of Sausalito.

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.

"I'd like to soak that man," he said. "Maybe I will."

"No you won't!" said she.

"Won't I?" he replied.

"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."

"Well, I'm going to spend no sleepless nights trying!"

"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."

Bertram seemed to be considering this.

"Well, what did he mean, anyway?" he snapped.

"Nothing. It's just his foolery. We all had to take it from him at
first--and then we came to appreciate him."

Bertram answered with an impatient gesture. Kate caught his arm, held
it for just a second.

"Now, you wouldn't spoil my day, would you?" she asked softly. "You
know I'm responsible for you--"

His frown melted into his smile.

"Sure, if you put it like that!"

"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."

"You'll take out time until I get over my grouch?"

"Of course." They were approaching Masters and Dr. French, who stood
waiting by the train platform. "Late and happy!" she called.

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 with Harry Banks again until the buckboards had delivered them
at the Masters ranch.

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.

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. 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.

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.

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.

Mrs. Masters, looking up at the interruption, 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.

"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.

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 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.

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 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.

"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--"

"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 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.

"Stuffy tumbled all over himself and dropped the ball!"

Bertram's answer conveyed all the tragedy in the world.

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.

The clean ooze and dew started a little 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.

"How good the water looks!" she said. "I believe I am thirsty!"

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:

"Nature is mighty nice!" he said.

Then, perceiving her as a part of the picture, he added:

"And you're the nicest thing about it."

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.

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.

"I'm going to be rich some day," he said.

"I hope so."

"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.

Then he looked up and bent upon her that smile.

"It's great to have a girl like you to confide in," he said.

"Thank you; but you haven't confided much as yet," responded Kate.

"I don't suppose there is a whole lot to confide. At least, things
you'd want to tell a girl like you. Only one thing. I'm in love!"

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.

"And she is to be mistress of the villa when you get rich?"

"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?"

"No," answered Kate softly, "though we women like bold lovers too."

"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.

"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?"

Kate clasped her hands and leaned forward.

"If you're playing the long game, I suppose so. But wouldn't you do
better at least to hint to the girl?"

"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.

"Now?" she said, "are--are you ready?"

"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."

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, 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.

"You lucky boy!" she said. And then, "I don't blame you. I wouldn't
blame any man." Bertram fairly glowed.

"I knew you'd agree with me," he said. "Say, what chance do I
stand--honest, what do you believe she thinks of me?"

"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?"

"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 isn't that, either. She just feels
superior to me."

"Oh, perhaps not that!"

"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."

Kate's voice, when she spoke, fell to its deeper, richer tones.

"And I'm sure I feel flattered--any girl would. I really thank
you--you don't know how much."

"And you'll help me, won't you?"

"With my advice--yes."

"Well, that's all I want. If I win this game, I want to win it
square.

"Say, you are sure the goods. You're as pretty--it wouldn't be natural
for a man to 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.

"We'd better be going back," she said. "They'll think it's I and not
Eleanor, if we stay so long."

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.




CHAPTER VIII


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.

When the party dispersed at the Sausalito 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.

"You were a success," she said. "That's the reward of naughty little
boys when they reform!"

"Well, I'd have liked to smash his face just the same--then."

"You've done better than that--you've quite conquered him. I'll see
you Wednesday at the Masters? Good bye!"

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 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.

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 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.

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.

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 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.

Later in life, he, the unreflective, thought 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.

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.

He needed all the prodigal youth and the cowboy strength in him to
keep up his social 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.

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.

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.

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 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.




CHAPTER IX


"Are you off the job to-night?" came the resonant voice of Bertram
Chester over the telephone.

"Yes!" Eleanor laughed. "Are you coming to play with us?"

"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?"

"Aunt Matilda never dictates--"

"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?"

"Nothing--why?"

"Your voice sounds so chipper!"

"That shows I'm in a mood to play!"

"Then we'll be along in a _quarter_ of an hour."

"And I'll be waiting at the garden gate!"

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.

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 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.

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 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.

"Hello," said Kate, looking her over. "Well, who's given you a
present?"

Eleanor hugged her. "That's just what's happened, Katie. Somebody
_has_ 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 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!"

"Where do I come in?" enquired Kate.

"You? You come in as my dearest little playmate, to whom I sent the
first invitation."

"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."

"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."

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.

"What _has_ happened to you? You look--hanged if I can just tell you
how you look, but it's great!"

"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?"

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.

They approached a dark alley beside an Italian tenement. Eleanor,
dancing around the corner, came upon it suddenly. She drew up.

"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.

Eleanor peeped into the door of a wine-house, peeped over a board
fence, and came back to announce:

"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.

"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?"

"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."

"But he'll spare me! He says I'm too beautiful to eat!" Eleanor was
dancing back. "Oh Kate, I've seen an ogre!"

Kate did not answer. She fell in with Mark Heath, and as they drew
ahead she murmured:

"I wonder what's got into her?"

"Nothing I guess. I should rather say she'd got out. I think it's
bully."

"Oh, yes," said Kate, drawing out the last word.

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.

Mark Heath, the young reporter, proud in his knowledge of "the
inside," took up the reins of conversation.

"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."

"As temporary Empress of Chinatown, I order that he shall do nothing
of the kind," said Eleanor.

"As your grand vizier, I shall put the machinery in motion that will
free the beautiful young bride," rejoined Mark Heath.

Kate broke in.

"What became of the actor? I'm one of those dull persons who always
wants the rest of the story!"

"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 father dares disobey the Empress, there'll be a
mysterious murder in a backwoods laundry--police baffled."

Eleanor contemplated the lily-foot girl, swaying about the corner into
Dupont, her little handkerchief in one hand, her proper fan in the
other.

"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."

"Whether she'll mourn or not won't make much difference to father--or
to the Highbinders. Je-hoshaphat--look!"

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 and blessing from those rites, priests in
white robes, dignitaries in long tunics, incongruous Caucasian
tourists and spectators.

A moment Eleanor drank it all in; then she addressed her Grand
Vizier.

"Inform my people, through your invaluable publication, that their
demonstration in my honor is perfect."

"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!"

Eleanor hung the pink trifle to the pin at her throat.

"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.

"Does it become me?" she asked.

"Everything becomes you."

"You don't say anything about _my_ shoes!" said Kate.

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.

"It's like a flower-bed on a landslide!" exclaimed Eleanor.

Mark Heath gravely pulled out his left cuff and took rapid notes with
a pencil.

"That goes into the story--anything more up your sleeve like that?"

"Wasn't it good? Eleanor is always thinking up clever things to say,"
Kate came in. Her voice was rather flat.

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
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.

"Would you per-ceive that Chink grovel," spoke the voice of Bertram
Chester.

Before Eleanor could turn on him, he was addressing the shoemaker.

"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.

For the first time that evening, Eleanor became somewhat like her
normal self as she said:

"Why, this is a religious ceremony, isn't it--all this light and
color!"

"Yes," responded the personal conductor of the party, "but you have to
pinch yourself to remember it. For instance, you'll be charmed 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."

Eleanor showed no inclination to go on with the game.

"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.

The procession was past, was breaking up. The women, in knots of three
or four, were 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.

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 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.

When they mounted the joss house stairs she lagged behind; and Bertram
lagged with her.

"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?"

"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?"

After they had presented their votive punks to the great high god,
Kate announced that she was footweary.

"Can't we find a place to sit down?" she asked. Mark took her up.

"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."

The Man Far Low was in the throes of large preparation for the Chinese
all-night 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.

"Say, you Chink, smile!" said Bertram as he seated himself.

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 hand moved a
little, as though in restraint.

"Cheer up, Charlie, crops is ripe!" resumed Bertram.

"Don't--please," cried Eleanor. The first word came short, sharp and
peremptory; the "please" was appealing.

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.

"What _are_ those paintings on that screen--come and tell me about
them!"

Now Bertram and Eleanor stood alone with the table between them.

"I was jollying him!" burst out Bertram. Eleanor glanced at Kate, who
stood profile-on listening to the ready Heath.

"Shall we go out on the balcony?" She stepped through the open French
window.

As they stood in the shadow, the city at their feet, neither spoke for
a moment. Finally,

"It's a call-down, I suppose?" began Bertram, tentatively.

"Not necessarily."

With a slam, he brought his hand down on the balcony rail.

"You don't give--you don't give a damn--that's the trouble with
you--you don't care what I do!"

Eleanor drew a little away from him before she answered:

"I care if anyone is uncivil."

"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:

"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."

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.

"If you only cared enough to call me down! That's the trouble with
you. Am I--am I the dirt under your feet?"

"Oh, don't please!" But he was going on, too fast to be stopped.

"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 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.

"I don't know what right you have to say this," she exclaimed.

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.

"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!"

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, that never in all their later acquaintance
had he tried even to touch her finger.

"Oh, don't!" she cried, "please don't!"

He made a growl in his throat, the adult counterpart to a baby's cry
of disappointment.

"Didn't I tell you?" he said, "and now I've laid myself wide open for
a throw-down."

"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?"

He paused as though considering a whole new range of ideas.

"Yes, I guess you have," he responded at length.

"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."

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."

Through the open French windows came the cheery voice of Kate
Waddington.

"Tea is served, ladies and gentlemen!"

"All right--be along presently!" called Bertram. And then to Eleanor:

"You must tell me--you can't keep me hanging by the toes until I see
you again."

"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.

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.

Eleanor settled herself on the teak-wood stool.

"You _must_ come out on the balcony before we go," she cried. "I never
saw the city lights so wonderful."

"Well," said Kate, "it all depends on the company!"




CHAPTER X


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.

"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 _are_ at home. We might just as well be a
hotel for all the respect you pay us. What are you doing when you're
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.

"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."

It needed only the slightest flutter of an opponent's rapier to throw
Mrs. Waddington on the defensive.

"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."

"You didn't seem eager, perceptibly, until I had made my own way,"
Kate vouchsafed. At that moment the telephone rang.

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 of her daughter's voice, just who was on the
other end of the line.

"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.

A pause for a very short reply, and then:

"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?"

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.

"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--"

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, 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.

"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!"

Mrs. Waddington, when her daughter was come back into the room,
renewed her plaint:

"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."

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.

"Perhaps," said Kate, "I may."

"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."

Kate dropped a kiss on her mother's forehead and vanished up the
stairs.

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:

"Who? The girl in a kind of brownish green?"

"Yes. Isn't she a peach?"

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 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.

He found himself remembering that he had just proposed to another
girl. The thought flashed in, and flashed out as quickly.

                  *       *       *       *       *

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 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.

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.

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.

"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."

Bertram let several expressions chase themselves over his face before
he blurted out:

"What's the matter with me?"

"Not a great deal. Has she so refused you as to make you conscious of
sin?"

"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."

"You mean that she holds herself above you--that she feels superior to
you?"

Bertram arrested all motion on that word, sat with the menu card,
which he had been twirling, immovable between his hands.

"Yes. If you want to jolt it to me good and hard that way. I guess
that is what it does mean."

"I suppose then that the crisis--last night--came about from your
little passage with the Chinese waiter? It happened while you were
out on the balcony didn't it?"

Bertram stared and glowed.

"Say, you're a wonder. You reach out and get things before they come
to you at all. That's just what did happen."

"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."

"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."

"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?"

"I sure do."

"I think she cares--at least a little--shall I tell you all?"

Bertram, even in the hottest of this conversation, did not forget the
needs of his body. The waiter stood at his elbow. He rushed through
the order, and continued:

"I want to know everything."

"Well, to begin with--Bert Chester, you're a man."

"I didn't ask for hot air."

"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.

"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 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."

Kate paused. Bert made no move to answer. She went on:

"Now about the thing you can't grasp in Eleanor. It's this way. You
can't see her nature as another _girl_ 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.

"But of course it is the coldness of a diamond or a sapphire or
something else very pure and precious."

Bertram Chester pulled himself up at this point and plucked at a place
away back in the conversation.

"What are these things that I don't know? Where is it that I fall
down?"

"They are some of the finer points."

"Well tell me." Kate noticed that the color had risen in his cheeks
and that his eyes drooped from hers.

"They must be corrected as we go on--provided you'll let me correct
them."

"That's what I am asking for--but I'd blame well like an example."

"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?"

Bertram's dark complexion reddened with the rush of his shame.

"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?"

"Just about that. She doesn't like to see you put yourself on a level
with them."

"All right, that was straight over the plate and I got it."

Again Kate reached over to pat his hand.

"Now don't take it seriously; I know--she herself must know--how
splendid and able and promising you are--how much of a man!"

Bert spoke in some irritation.

"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."

"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?"

The smile, which always broke so suddenly, came back to Bert Chester's
face.

"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!"

"And you are already!"

He shook his head.

"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. 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."

"Please go on. We came here to talk about you--anything about
yourself."

"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."

"That seems very promising to me."

"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?"

Kate appeared to be considering. In fact, she was considering a great
many more things than Bertram knew.

"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."

"But--"

"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 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."

"Do you think--have you ever heard her speak of me?"

Kate's answer came readily.

"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

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