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diff --git a/old/67454-0.txt b/old/67454-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 911919f..0000000 --- a/old/67454-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,12693 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Rich Men’s Children, by Geraldine -Bonner - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Rich Men’s Children - -Author: Geraldine Bonner - -Illustrator: C. M. Relyea - -Release Date: February 20, 2022 [eBook #67454] - -Language: English - -Produced by: D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The - Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RICH MEN’S CHILDREN *** - - - - - -RICH MEN’S CHILDREN - -[Illustration: “Oh, Rose, if I could see you now and then--only for a - moment like this” _Page 282_] - - - - - RICH MEN’S CHILDREN - - _By_ - GERALDINE BONNER - - Author of - The Pioneer, Tomorrow’s Tangle, etc. - - WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY - C. M. RELYEA - - INDIANAPOLIS - THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY - PUBLISHERS - - - - - COPYRIGHT 1906 - - THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY - - OCTOBER - - - PRESS OF - BRAUNWORTH & CO. - BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS - BROOKLYN, N. Y. - - - - -CONTENTS - - - CHAPTER PAGE - - I THE BONANZA KING 1 - - II A YOUNG MAN MARRIED 17 - - III THE DAUGHTER OF HETH 28 - - IV OUT OF NIGHT AND STORM 44 - - V NURSE AND PATIENT 64 - - VI IN WHICH BERNY WRITES A LETTER 83 - - VII SNOW-BOUND 109 - - VIII THE UNKNOWN EROS 125 - - IX THE SONS OF THEIR FATHERS 146 - - X DOMINICK COMES HOME 172 - - XI THE GODS IN THE MACHINE 192 - - XII BERNY MAKES A DISCOVERY 214 - - XIII THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL 236 - - XIV THE GOD DESCENDS 248 - - XV THE MOONLIGHT NIGHT 270 - - XVI FAMILY AFFAIRS 284 - - XVII A CUT AND A CONFESSION 300 - - XVIII BUFORD’S GOOD LUCK 324 - - XIX ROSE’S POINT OF VIEW 334 - - XX THE LITTLE SPIDER 354 - - XXI THE LION’S WHELP 376 - - XXII OUT OF THE FULLNESS OF THE HEART 391 - - XXIII THE WALL ACROSS THE WAY 413 - - XXIV FRIEND OR FOE 432 - - XXV THE ACTOR’S STORY 447 - - XXVI THE LAST INTERVIEW 465 - - XXVII THE STORM CENTER MOVES 486 - - - - -RICH MEN’S CHILDREN - - - - -RICH MEN’S CHILDREN - - - - -CHAPTER I - -THE BONANZA KING - - -The cold of foot-hill California in the month of January held the -night. The occupants of the surrey were too cramped and stiffened by -it, and too uncomfortably enwrapped against it, to speak. Silence -as complete as that which lay like a spell on the landscape brooded -over them. At the last stopping place, Chinese Gulch, a scattering of -houses six miles behind them on the mountain road, they had halted at -the main saloon, and whisky and water had been passed to the driver -and to the burlier figure on the back seat. The watchers that thronged -to the saloon door had eyed the third occupant of the carriage with -the intent, sheepish curiosity of the isolated man in presence of the -stranger female. Afterward, each one was voluble in his impressions of -her face, pale in the smoky lamplight, and the hand that slid, small -and white, out of its loose glove when the warming glass was offered -her. - -Since then both she and her companion had leaned back in their several -corners and preserved an unbroken silence. Even the driver’s tongue had -showed the benumbing effects of the darkness and cold, and the flow of -conversation with which, earlier in the day, he had entertained his -fares, gradually languished and died. - -The surrey sped swiftly along the road which wound in spectral pallor -over the shoulder of the foot-hill, now dipping into the blackness -of a ravine, then creeping up a bare slope, where the horses’ hoofs -dug in laboriously amid loosened stones. The solemn loneliness of -the landscape, faintly revealed by the light of large, clear stars, -seemed to find appropriate expression in this frosty, smoke-breathing -stillness. There was not a sign of human life. The gray patches of -fields melted into the clouded darkness of trees. The domes of the -live-oaks were like cairns of funereal rock in the open spaces. -Steep, woody slopes swept upward, in the daytime shivering coppices -of wintry leafage pierced by spires of fir and pine, now densely -black and mysterious under the transforming magic of the night. Over -all an expanse of sky arched, the vast, calm sky of mountain regions -and Nature’s undesecrated places, crystal-clear and velvet-dark, the -light of its stars seeming to come, tapping messages in an unknown -telegraphy, from illimitable distances. - -The larger figure on the back seat moved, and turned a face, all of -which was hidden save the eyes, toward its companion. - -“Hungry?” queried a deep bass voice; the inquiring polysyllable shot -out suddenly over an upturned bulwark of collars. - -“Fearfully,” came the answer in a muffled feminine treble, that suited -the more diminutive bulk. - -“Get a move on, Jake,” to the driver. “This girl’s most famished.” - -“Hold your horses,” growled the other man; “we’re just about there.” - -At these words the woman pricked up her ears, and, leaning forward, -peered ahead. As they rounded a protruding angle of hill, a huddle of -roofs and walls spotted with lights came into view, and the sight drew -her hand forward with an eagerly-pointing finger. - -“So that’s Rocky Bar!” she cried. “Have we really got there at last?” - -The driver chuckled. - -“That’s Rocky Bar all right. Now get your appetite good and ready.” - -“No need,” she responded gaily; “it’s been ready and waiting for hours. -I was beginning to think that you’d lost your way.” - -“Me!” with an accent of incredulous scorn. “Ah, get out! How does it -come, Governor, that Bill Cannon’s girl don’t know no more about these -parts than a young lady from New York?” - -“She’s never been up here before,” said the man on the back seat, -beginning to untangle himself from his enfolding rugs. “I’ve brought -her up with me this time to show her some of the places where her pa -used to work round with the boys, long before _she_ was ever thought -of.” - -A loud barking of dogs broke out as they approached the first detached -houses of the settlement. Shapes appeared at the lighted doorways, -and as the surrey drew up at the hotel balcony a crowding of heads -was seen in the windows. The entire population of Rocky Bar spent its -evenings at this hospitable resort, in summer on the balcony under the -shade of the locust trees, in winter round the office stove, spitting -and smoking in cheery sociability. But at this hour the great event of -Rocky Bar’s day was over. The eight stages, the passengers of which -dined at the hotel, had long passed onward on their various routes up -and down the “mother lode” and into the camps of the Sierra. That the -nightly excitement of the “victualing up” was to be supplemented by a -late arrival in a surrey, driven by Jake McVeigh, the proprietor of -the San Jacinto stables, and accompanied by a woman, was a sensational -event not often awarded to Rocky Bar, even in the heyday of -summer-time. - -The occupants of the office crowded into the doorway and pressed -themselves against the windows. They saw that the man who alighted was -a thick-set, portly figure, with a short, gray beard and a suggestion -of gray hair below the brim of a black wide-awake. Of the lady, shown -but dimly by the light of the open door, only a slim, cloaked outline -and a glint of fair hair were discernible. But, anyway, it was a woman, -and of a kind unusual in Rocky Bar, and the men stared, sunk in bashful -appreciation of a beauty that they felt must exist, if it were only to -be in keeping with the hour, the circumstances, and their own hopeful -admiration. - -The hotel proprietor, an ancient man with a loosened vest, and trousers -tucked into long boots, dispersed them as he ushered the strangers into -the office. That they were travelers of distinction was obvious, as -much from their own appearance as from the fact that Jake McVeigh was -driving them himself, in his best surrey and with his finest team. But -just how important they were no one guessed till McVeigh followed them -in, and into ears stretched for the information dropped the sentence, -half-heard, like a stage aside: - -“It’s Bill Cannon and his daughter Rose.” - -Upon the proprietor it had an electric effect. He sped from the room -with the alertness of youth, promising “a cold lunch” in a minute. To -the others it came as a piece of intelligence that added awe to the -lighter emotions of the occasion. By common consent their eyes focused -on the great man who stood warming his hands at the stove. Even the -rare, unusual woman, revealed now as sufficiently pretty to be an -object of future dreams, was interesting only to the younger and more -impressionable members of the throng. All but these gazed absorbed, -unblinking, at Bill Cannon, the Bonanza King. - -He was used to it. It had been a part of his life for years. Eying -his admirers with a genial good humor, he entered into conversation -with them, his manner marked by an easy familiarity, which swept away -all shades of embarrassment, and drew the men around the stove, eager -to respond to his questions as to the condition and prospects of the -locality. The talk was becoming general and animated, when the ancient -man returned and announced that the “cold lunch” was ready and to -please “step after him into the dining-room.” - -This gaunt apartment, grimly unadorned and faintly illumined, an -occasional lantern backed by a tin reflector projecting a feeble -light into its echoing emptiness, was swept of all intruders, and -showed a barn-like bareness of wall and loftiness of roof. Lines of -tables, uncovered between flanking wooden benches, were arranged -down its length. Across the end of one of these a white cloth was -spread and three places set. Jake McVeigh, less innocently democratic -than the hotel proprietor, was about to withdraw from the society of -his distinguished patron and seat himself in seemly loneliness at an -adjacent table, when Bill Cannon’s voice arrested him. - -“What are you going off there for, sonny, as if you were a leper? Come -over here and sit side of us.” - -The driver, greatly pleased, not only to enjoy the companionship of -the richest man in California but to let the peeping heads in the -doorway see him in this moment of proud apotheosis, took the third seat -with modest complacence. Like most of his kind, the sense of social -inferiority was unknown to him. He was simply and naturally himself as -he would be anywhere in any company. Even the proximity of Miss Cannon -did not abash him, and he dexterously propelled the potatoes into his -mouth with his knife and cut fiercely at his meat with a sawing motion, -talking the while with all the freedom and more than the pleasure with -which he talked to his wife in the kitchen at San Jacinto. - -Cannon, his overcoat removed, was seen to be a powerful, thick-set man, -with a bulkiness that was more a matter of broad build and muscular -development than fat. His coat set ill upon him and strained at the -buttons. It had the effect of having worked up toward the shoulders, -noticeable in the clothes of men who are deep-chested and sit bunchily. -He had a short neck which he accommodated with a turn-down collar, a -gray beard, clipped close to his cheeks and square on the chin, and -gray hair, worn rather long and combed sleekly and without parting back -from his forehead. In age he was close to seventy, but the alertness -and intelligence of a conquering energy and vitality were in his -glance, and showed in his movements, deliberate, but sure and full -of precision. He spoke little as he ate his dinner, leaning over his -plate and responding to the remarks of his daughter with an occasional -monosyllable that might have sounded curt, had it not been accompanied -with a lazy cast of his eye upon her that was as full of affection as a -caress. - -The young lady, who had also put off her outer wraps, still wore her -hat, which was wide-brimmed and cast a shadow over the upper part of -her face. Below it her hair showed a fine, bright blonde, giving forth -silky gleams in the lamplight. To the peeping heads in the doorway she -seemed a creature instinct with romantic charm, which was expressed -in such delicacies of appearance as a pearl-white throat, a rounded -chin, and lips that smiled readily. These graces, eagerly deciphered -through dimness and distance, had the attraction of the semi-seen, -and imagination, thus given an encouraging fillip, invested Bill -Cannon’s girl with a haunting beauty. It was remarked that she bore no -resemblance to her father in coloring, features, or build. In talking -it over later, Rocky Bar decided that she must favor her mother, who, -as all California knew, had been a waitress in the Yuba Hotel at -Marysville, when Bill Cannon, then a miner in the Freeze-Out, had wooed -and won her. - -The conversation between the diners was desultory. They were beyond -doubt hungry. Even the young lady was seen to consume the viands set -before her with more gusto than a restraining sense of romantic fitness -would have dictated. Once or twice, as she bit a semicircle out of a -round of buttered bread, her eye, questing sidewise full of sly humor, -caught McVeigh’s, and a sputter of laughter left her with humped-up -shoulders, her lips lightly compressed on the mouthful. - -It was toward the end of the meal, that, looking at the opposite wall, -her glance was caught by a large clock to which she drew her father’s -attention: - -“Half-past nine! How fashionable we are! And when are you going to get -us up to Antelope, Mr. McVeigh?” - -McVeigh studied the clock ponderingly as he felt in his breast pocket -for his toothpick. - -“Well,” he said, “if we leave here at ten and make good time the hull -way--it’s up hill pretty much without a break--I’ll get you there about -midnight.” - -She made a little grimace. - -“And it will be much colder, won’t it?” - -“Colder ’n’ colder. You’ll be goin’ higher with every step. Antelope’s -on the slope of the Sierra, and you can’t expect to be warm up there in -the end of January.” - -“If you hadn’t wanted to come,” said her father, “you’d have been just -about getting ready for Mrs. Ryan’s ball. Isn’t this about the magic -hour when you begin to lay on the first layer of war-paint?” - -The girl looked at the clock, nodding with a faint, reminiscent smile. - -“Just about,” she said. “I’d have been probably looking at my dress -laid out on the bed and saying to myself, ‘Now I wonder if it’s worth -while getting into that thing and having all the bother of going to -this ball.’ On the evenings when I go out, there’s always a stage when -that happens.” - -McVeigh, with his toothpick in full operation, looked at her, admiring -and half comprehending, for the first time feeling himself an outsider. -She caught his eye, read its meaning, and with the quick tact of a -delicate nature, said: - -“It’s Mrs. Cornelius Ryan in San Francisco. She has a ball to-night -and I was going, but I came up here with papa instead. I don’t care for -balls.” - -“Sort of late to be primping up for a ball,” said McVeigh, restoring -the toothpick to his pocket and pushing back his chair. “I’ll go and -have a look at the horses. And, Governor, if you’ll be ready in fifteen -minutes I’ll be round at the porch waiting.” - -Cannon nodded, and, as the driver clumped off over the board floor, -said to his daughter, - -“I wonder if Dominick Ryan’ll be there--at the ball, I mean. His -mother’s made up her mind not to recognize the woman he’s married, and -to freeze her out, but I wonder if she’ll have the nerve not to ask her -to-night.” - -“I don’t see how she could do that,” said the girl. “This is one of the -largest balls ever given in San Francisco. She can’t leave her son out, -and she couldn’t ask him without his wife.” - -“Couldn’t she?” said the old man, with a narrowing of his eyes and a -knowing wag of his head. “You don’t know Delia Ryan. I do. I’ve known -her forty years, ever since she was first married and did washing on -the back porch of her shanty in Virginia City. She was a good deal of -a woman then, a strong, brainy woman, and she’s the same to-day, but -hard as nails. I’ll bet a hat she hasn’t asked Dominick’s wife to that -ball.” - -“What do you suppose he’ll do?” asked the daughter, somewhat aghast at -this glimpse of the Ryan family skeleton. - -“Don’t ask me such conundrums. I’m glad I’m not in it, that’s all I -know. When two women lock horns I’m ready to step quietly down and out. -I never to my knowledge saw Dominick’s wife, but I’ve heard about her, -and take it she’s a pretty hard kind of a proposition. They say she -married the boy for money and position, and hasn’t got either. Delia, -who has the money, hasn’t given them a cent since the marriage; made up -her mind, people say, to force Mrs. Dominick out. She doesn’t seem to -have done it, and I guess it’s been sort of aggravating to her. Just -the same I’d like to know if she’s had the nerve not to send the woman -an invitation to the ball. That would be pretty tough.” - -“I’ve never seen either Dominick or his wife,” said the girl. “It seems -odd when I know Mrs. Ryan and Cornelia so well. But he married the -year I came back from Europe, and he’s never been anywhere since. I -don’t believe he ever goes to his mother’s. There’s Mr. McVeigh in the -doorway; we’d better be going.” - -Once again in the carriage they were soon clear of the last straggling -shanty, and speeding along the pale, ascending road. The silence -that held the trio before their arrival at Rocky Bar again fell -on them. Wrapped in overcoats and rugs, Bill Cannon appeared to -slumber, every now and then--as the wheels jolted over a piece of -rough road-bed--shaken into growling wakefulness. McVeigh also rolled -sleepily in his seat, occasionally leaning sidewise to spit over the -wheel. Only the girl seemed alert and wide-awake, her face craning out -from the shadowed back seat, her eyes strained to pierce the obscurity -and see for the first time the landscape of foot-hill California, of -which her father had so often told her. - -Now it was all a dark, formless background of broken blacknesses, where -the light, open spaces of fields alternated with blotches of woods and -trees. At intervals they passed a lone cabin, solitary in its pale -clearing, the red eye of a stove sending a gleam through an uncurtained -pane. Once they woke the echoes in the single street of a tiny town, -sleeping behind its shuttered windows. Dogs barked, the shout of a -belated reveler rose from a congeries of gaudily-bright doorways, and -over all, imposing its mighty voice on the silence, came the roar -of the stamp-mill on the hill above. It rose into the night like a -fortress, a black mass looming from the slant of vast dumps, lines of -lit windows puncturing its sides. The thunder of its stamps was loud on -the night, fierce and insistent, like the roar of a monster round whose -feet the little town cowered. - -McVeigh looked back over his shoulder, saw the bright eyes under the -hat-brim, and said softly, - -“The Silver Crescent stamp-mill. The last big mine we’ll see.” - -It was the last town they passed; even the groups of buildings that -marked embryo mines grew rare. The dimly-seen country became wilder, -seemed to shake off the signs of man’s encroachment and to be sweeping -up into mountain majesty. The ascending road crept along the edges of -ravines whence the sound of running water came in a clear clinking, -dived down into black caverns of trees unlighted by the feeblest ray of -star-shine, and then climbed in slow, laborious loops the bare bulwarks -of the mountain. Had the girl been able to see plainly she would have -noticed the change in the foliage, the disappearance of the smaller -shrubs and delicate interlacement of naked boughs, and the mightier -growth of the pines, soaring shafts devoid of branches to a great -height. Boulders appeared among their roots, straight falls of rock -edged the road like the walls of a fort. - -McVeigh turned again, and again caught the bright eye. - -“Seems like your paw must think a lot of what he’s heard about the new -strike at Greenhide to come all this way,” he whispered. - -“I guess he does,” came the response in the same key. - -“It sort of stumps me to know why you came along with him,” he -continued, his eyes on the horses, but leaning back to catch her answer. - -“Mightn’t I just want to see the country?” - -“Well, mebbe you might, but it don’t seem to me that you’re seein’ much -of it to-night.” - -He heard her smothered laugh, shot his glance back to see her face, and -laughed himself, turning to his horses, and then turning back to her. - -“You’re a lively girl, ain’t you?” he said. - -“I don’t feel very lively just at this minute. I’m a cold girl, the -coldest in California, I think.” - -That made him laugh, too, but he turned back to his horses, saying with -quick consideration: - -“I guess you are. Come boys,” to the horses, “we’ve got to get a move -on. We can’t let this young lady catch cold.” - -The horses quickened their pace and there was no more talk. An hour -later the first broken lights of Antelope sparkled along the road. The -old mining camp, in a hollow between two buttresses of the Sierra, lay -shuttered and dreaming under the starlight. A lamp-lit window, here and -there, showed the course of its straggling main street, and where the -hotel stood, welcoming rays winked between the boughs of leafless trees. - -As the thud of the approaching hoof-beats woke the echoes a sudden -violent barking of dogs broke out. Antelope was evidently not as -sound asleep as it looked. At the hotel, especially, there was life -and movement. The bar disgorged a throng of men, and Perley, the -proprietor, had to push his way through them to welcome his midnight -guests. Antelope, though remote, was in telegraphic communication -with the world, and the operator at Rocky Bar had wired Perley to be -ready for the distinguished arrivals,--news that in a half-hour was -known throughout the town and had brought most of the unattached male -population into the hotel. - -Jake McVeigh was pulling the luggage from under the seats and Cannon -was interchanging the first greetings with his landlord, when the -girl, who had gone to the balcony railing and was looking out into the -darkness, cried: - -“Why, papa, snow!” - -The information seemed to startle every one. The men crowded from -the doorway and balcony into the street. McVeigh set down the bags, -and, turning his weather-beaten face to the sky, uttered a smothered -ejaculation of a profane character. Cannon came forward to where his -daughter stood and looked into the blackness beyond. The girl had drawn -off her glove and held her bare hand out, then stepping back to the -light of the window, she showed it to her father. The white skin was -sprinkled with snow crystals. - -“Sure enough,” he said in a thoughtful voice. “Well, it won’t be the -first time I’ve been snowed up at Antelope.” - - - - -CHAPTER II - -A YOUNG MAN MARRIED - - -That same evening, at the hour when Bill Cannon and his daughter were -setting out from Rocky Bar, Dominick Ryan was walking up Van Ness -Avenue toward his mother’s house. - -Dominick did not know at what hours balls of the kind Mrs. Ryan was -giving that evening were supposed to begin. It was nearly three years -since he had been a participant in such festal gatherings. He had not -been at a dance, or a dinner, or a theater party since his marriage. -He had heard that these “functions,” as people now called them, began -later than they did in his day. Stopping by a lamp he drew out his -watch--ten o’clock. It was later than he expected. In truth, as he had -seen the house looming massively from its less imposing neighbors, his -foot had lagged, his approach had grown slower and slower. It was his -mother’s home, once his own, and as he drew nearer to it his reluctance -to enter grew stronger, more overpoweringly oppressive. - -In the clear, lamp-dotted night it looked much larger and more splendid -than by day. When Cornelius Ryan had built it he had wanted to have -the finest house in San Francisco, and he certainly had achieved the -most spacious and ornate. Its florid ornamentation was now hidden by -the beautifying dark, and on its vast façade numerous windows broke the -blackness with squares of light. In the lower ones the curtains were -drawn, but slivers and cracks of radiance slipped out and penetrated -the dusk of a garden, where they encountered the glossy surfaces of -leaves and struck into whispering darknesses of shrubbery. - -The stimulating unquiet of festival was in the air. Round the mouth -of the canvas tunnel that stretched from the door a dingy crowd was -assembled, staring in at nothing more inspiring than the blank visage -of the closed portal. At every passing footstep each face turned to the -street, hopefully expectant of the first guest. The whining of catgut -strings, swept by tentative bows, struck on Dominick’s ear as he pushed -his way through the throng and passed up the tunnel. Before he touched -the bell the door swung back and a man-servant he had never seen before -murmured in politely low tones, - -“Gentlemen’s dressing-room first floor to the right.” - -Dominick stood uncertain. He was only a rare, occasional visitor at -his mother’s house, and to-night the hall stripped for revelry looked -strangely unfamiliar. The unexpectedness of a great, new mirror, -surmounted by gold heraldic devices, confused him. The hall chairs were -different. The music, loud now and beginning to develop from broken -chords and phrases into the languorous rhythm of a waltz measure, -came from behind a grove of palms that stood back under the stairs, -where the organ was built into the wall. Both to the right and left, -wide, unencumbered rooms opened, brilliantly lighted, with flowers -banked in masses on the mantels and in the corners. The scent of these -blossoms was rich on the air and seemed to blend naturally--like -another expression of the same sensuous delightfulness--with the dreamy -sweetness of the music. - -“Gentlemen’s dressing-room first floor to the right,” repeated the -servant, and Dominick became aware of the man’s eyes, fixed on him with -a gleam of uneasy scrutiny shining through cultivated obsequiousness. - -“Where is my----” he was going to say “mother,” but checked himself, -amending it with, “Where is Mrs. Ryan?” - -The servant indicated the open doorway to the right and Dominick -passed in. Through the vista of two rooms, their connecting archways -uncurtained, he saw the shining spaciousness of the ball-room, the -room his mother had added to the house when Cornelia, his sister, had -“come out.” It seemed empty and he walked toward it, stepping softly on -rugs of tiger skin and polar bear. He noticed the ice-like polish of -the oak floor, the lines of gilt chairs, and a thick, fat garland of -roses--leaves and blossoms combined--that was festooned along the wall -and caught up at each sconce. - -As he entered he saw his mother and Cornelia. They had been standing -in one corner, Cornelia adjusting the shade of an electric light. One -white arm was raised, and her skirt of lace was reflected clearly in -the parquet. The light shone along her bare shoulders, having a gloss -like old marble. From the nape of her neck her hair, a bright, coarse -red, was drawn up. She seemed all melting shades of cream color and -ivory, but for this flaming crest of copper color. - -Her mother was standing beside her watching the arranging hand. She was -sixty-eight years of age and very stout, but her great wealth made it -possible for her to employ dressmakers who were artists and experts, -and her Parisian costume made her look almost shapely. It fell about -her in dignified black folds, sparkling discreetly with some jetted -garnishings. With their shifting gleam the glint of diamonds mingled. -She also wore pearls round her neck and some diamond ornaments in her -elaborately-dressed gray hair. - -The coarseness of her early beginnings could not be hidden by the most -proficient artificers in millinery or jewels. Delia Ryan had come from -what are vulgarly called “the lower orders,” having, in her ragged -childhood, crossed the plains at the tail-board of an ox cart, and -in her girlhood been a general servant in a miners’ boarding-house -at Sonora. Now, as she stood watching her daughter’s moving hand, -her face, set in a frowning rigidity of observation, was strong but -unbeautiful. Her small eyes, shrewd and sharp, were set high in her -head under brows almost rubbed away. The nose was short, with an -undeveloped bridge and keen, open nostrils. Her mouth had grown thinner -with years; the lips shut with a significant firmness. They had never -been full, but what redness and ripeness they had had in youth were now -entirely gone. They were pale, strong lips, the under one a little more -prominent than the upper. - -“There!” said Cornelia. “Now they’re all even,” and she wheeled slowly, -her glance slipping along the veiled lights of the sconces. In its -circuit it encountered Dominick’s figure in the doorway. - -“Dominick!” she cried, and stood staring, naïvely astonished and -dismayed. - -Mrs. Ryan turned with a start, her face suffused with color. The -one word seemed to have an electrifying effect upon her, joyous, -perturbing--unquestionably exciting. - -“My boy!” she said, and she rustled across the room with her hands out. - -Dominick walked toward her. He was grave, pale, and looked thoroughly -miserable. He had his cane in one hand, his hat in the other. As he -approached her he moved the hat to his left hand and took hers. - -“You’ve come!” she said fondly, “I knew you would. That’s my boy. I -knew you’d come when your mother asked you.” - -“Yes, I’ve come,” he said slowly, and looking down as if desiring to -avoid her eyes. “Yes, I’ve come, but----” - -He stopped. - -His mother’s glance fell from his face to his figure and saw under -the loose fronts of his overcoat that he wore his business suit. Her -countenance instantly, with almost electric suddenness, stiffened into -antagonism. Her eye lost its love, and hardened into a stony look of -defiant indignation. She pulled her hand from his and jerked back the -front of his coat with it. - -“What’s this mean?” she said sharply. “Why aren’t you dressed? The -people will be here in a minute. You can’t come this way.” - -“I was going home to dress,” he said. “I am not sure yet that I can -come.” - -“Why?” she demanded. - -His face grew red. The mission on which he had come was more difficult, -more detestable, than he had supposed it would be. He looked down at -the shining strip of floor between them and said, trying to make his -voice sound easy and plausible: - -“I came to ask you for an invitation for Berny.” - -“Hah!” said his mother, expelling her breath in an angry ejaculation of -confirmed suspicion. “That’s it, is it? I thought as much!” - -“Mama!” said the girl who had been standing by, uneasily listening. -“Mama dear----” - -Her voice was soft and sweet, a placating woman’s voice. And as she -drew nearer to them, her figure seeming to float over the shining -parquet in its pale spread of gauzy draperies, her tone, her face, and -her bearing were instinct with a pleading, feminine desire to soothe. - -“Keep quiet, Cornie,” said her mother, “you’re not in this”--turning to -Dominick. “And so your wife sent you up here to beg for an invitation? -She’s got you under her thumb to that extent? Well, go back to her and -tell her that she can send you forty times and you’ll not get it. She -can make you crawl here and you’ll not get it--not while this is my -house. When I’m dead you can do what you like.” - -She turned away from him, her face dark with stirred blood, her body -quivering. Anger was not the only passion that shook her. Deeper than -this went outraged pride, love turned to gall, impotent fury that the -woman her son had married had power over him so to reduce his pride and -humble his manhood--her only son, the joy and glory of her old age, her -Benjamin. - -He looked after her, uncertain, frowning, desperate. - -“It’s not right,” he protested. “It’s not fair. You’re unjust to her -and to me.” - -The old woman moved across the room to the corner where she had been -standing when he entered. She did not turn, and he continued: - -“You’re asking people to this ball that you hardly know. Everybody in -San Francisco’s going. What harm has Berny done that you should leave -her out this way?” - -“I don’t want women with that kind of record in my house. I don’t -ask decent people here to meet that sort,” said his mother over her -shoulder. - -He gave a suppressed exclamation, the meaning of which it was difficult -to read, then said, - -“Are you never going to forget the past, mother?” - -She wheeled round toward him almost shouting, - -“No--no--no! Never! Never! Make your mind up to that.” - -They looked at each other across the open space, the angry defiance -in their faces not hiding the love and appeal that spoke in their -eyes. The mother longed to take her son in her arms; the son longed -to lay his head on her shoulder and forget the wretchedness and -humiliations of the last two years. But they were held apart, not -only by the specter of the absent woman, but on the one side by a -fierce, unbendable pride, and on the other by an unforgettable sense of -obligation and duty. - -“Oh, mother!” he exclaimed, half-turning away with a movement of -despair. - -His mother looked at him from under her lowered brows, her under lip -thrust out, her face unrelenting. - -“Come here whenever you like,” she said, “as often as you want. -It’s your home, Dominick, mine and yours. But it’s not your wife’s. -Understand that.” - -She turned away and again moved slowly toward the corner, her rich -skirts trailing fanwise over the parquet. He stood, sick at heart, -looking at the tip of his cane as it rested on the floor. - -“Dominick,” said his sister’s voice beside him, “go; that’s the only -thing to do. You see it’s no use.” She made a backward jerk of her -head toward their mother, and then, struck by the misery of the eyes -he lifted to her face, said tenderly, “I’m so sorry. You know I’d have -sent it if I could. But it’s no use. It’s just the same old fight over -again and nothing gained. Tell your wife it’s hopeless. Make her give -it up.” - -He turned slowly, his head hanging. - -“All right,” he said, “I’ll tell her. Good-night, mother.” - -“Good-night, Dominick,” came the answer. - -“Good-night, Cornie,” he said in a muffled voice and left the room. - -He passed through the brilliantly bright, flower-scented parlors and -was shown out by the strange man-servant. The crowd at the mouth of the -canvas tunnel had increased. Clumps of staring white faces edged the -opening and presented themselves to his eye, not like reality, but like -a painting of pale visages executed on the background of the night. -They drew away as he approached them, making a lane of egress for him, -then turned and eyed him--a deserter from the realms of joy--as he -stopped by a lamp-post to look at his watch. A quarter past ten. He had -been in the house only fifteen minutes. He did not need to go home for -a while yet. He could walk about and think and arrange how he would -tell Berny. - -He was a man in the full vigor of his youth, strong and brave, yet at -this moment he feared, feared as a child or a timid woman might fear, -the thought of his wife. He dreaded to meet her; he shrank from it, and -to put it off he wandered about the familiar streets, up one and down -the other, trying to overcome his sick reluctance, trying to make up -his mind to go to her, trying to conquer his fear. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -THE DAUGHTER OF HETH - - -He walked for nearly an hour, along quiet, lamp-lit streets where large -houses fronted on gardens that exhaled moist earth scents and the -breaths of sweet, unseen blossoms, up hills so steep that it seemed -as if an earthquake might have heaved up the city’s crust and bent it -crisply like a piece of cardboard. From these high places he looked -down on the expanse of the bay, a stretch of ink surrounded by black -hills, here and there spangled with the clustered sparklings of little -towns. In the hollows below him he saw the lights of the city swimming -on its darkness, winking and trembling on receding depths of blackness, -like golden bubbles seething on the surface of thick, dense wine. - -He looked down unseeing, thinking of the last three years. - -When he had first met Bernice Iverson, she had been a typewriter -and stenographer in the office of the Merchants and Mechanics Trust -Company. He was twenty-four at the time, the only son of Cornelius -Ryan, one of the financial magnates of the far West. The career of Con -Ryan, as he was familiarly called, had been as varied as the heart of -a public, who loves to dwell on the sensational fortunes of its great -men, could have wished. In the early days of Virginia City, Con Ryan -had been a miner there, had a claim of his own and lost all he had in -it before the first Crown Point excitement, had run a grocery store in -Shasta, moved to Sacramento, speculated successfully in mining stock -and real estate, and in the bonanza days had had money to play the -great game which made millionaires of the few and beggars of the many. -He had played it daringly and with profit. When he died he left his -widow complete control of a fortune of ten millions. - -She had been a sturdy helpmeet--it was generally said that she was -the best man of the two--and would keep the fortune safe for the two -children, Dominick and Cornelia. Neither she nor Con believed in young -men having control of large fortunes. They had seen what came of it in -the sons of their bonanza friends. Dominick was sent to the East to -college, and on his return, being then twenty-three years of age, was -placed in the Oregon and California Bank, of which his father had been -one of the founders. He was soon promoted to a position where he earned -a salary of three thousand a year. This was all he had when he met -Bernice Iverson. - -She was seven years older than he, but told him they were the same -age. It was not a wasted lie, as she undoubtedly looked much younger -than she was, being a slight, trimly-made woman who had retained a -girlish elasticity of figure and sprightliness of manner. She came of -respectable, hard-working people, her father, Danny Iverson, having -been a contractor in a small way of business, and her two sisters -being, one a teacher in the primary school department, the other a -saleswoman in a fashionable millinery. She herself was an expert in -her work, in office hours quiet, capable and businesslike, afterward -lively, easy-going and companionable. The entrapping of young Ryan -was a simple matter. He had never loved and knew little of women. He -did not love her, but she made him think he did, threw herself at -him, led him quickly to the point she wished to reach, and secretly, -without a suspicion on the part of her family, became his mistress. Six -months later, having driven him to the step by her upbraidings and her -apparent sufferings of conscience under the sense of wrong-doing, she -persuaded him to marry her. - -The marriage was a bombshell to the world in which young Ryan was a -planet of magnitude. His previous connection with her--though afterward -discovered by his mother--was at the time unknown. Bernice had induced -him to keep the marriage secret till its hour of accomplishment, for -she knew Mrs. Ryan would try to break it off and feared that she might -succeed. Once Dominick’s wife she thought that the objections and -resentment of the elder woman could be overcome. But she underrated the -force and obstinacy of her adversary and the depth of the wound that -had been given her. Old Mrs. Ryan had been stricken in her tenderest -spot. Her son was her idol, born in her middle-age, the last of four -boys, three of whom had died in childhood. In his babyhood she had -hoarded money and worked late and early that he might be rich. Now she -held the great estate of her husband in trust for him, and dreamed of -the time when he should marry some sweet and virtuous girl and she -would have grandchildren to love and spoil and plan for. When the news -of his marriage reached her and she saw the woman he had made his wife, -she understood everything. She knew her boy through and through and she -knew just how he had been duped and entangled. - -She was of that race of pioneer Californians who had entered an -uninhabited country, swept aside Indian and Spaniard, and made it their -own. They were isolated figures in a huge landscape, their characters, -uncramped and bold, developing unrestricted in an atmosphere of -physical and moral liberty. They grew as their instincts dictated; -the bough was not bent into convenient forms by expediency or pressure -from without. Public opinion had little or no weight with them, for -there was none. It was the pleasure of this remote group in this rich -and exuberant land to do away with tradition and be a law and precept -unto themselves. What other people thought and did did not influence -them. They had one fixed, dominating idea in a fluctuating code of -morals--they knew what they wanted and they were determined to get -it. They were powerful individualities whether for good or evil, and -they resented with a passion any thwarting of their plans or desires, -whether by the interposition of man or the hand of God. - -Delia Ryan’s life had been a long, ascending series of hardly-won -triumphs. She had surmounted what would have seemed to a less bold -spirit unsurmountable obstacles; gone over them, not around them. She -had acquired the habit of success, of getting what she wanted. Failure -or defiance of her plans amazed her as they might have amazed the -confident, all-conquering, pagan gods. The center of her life was her -family; for them she had labored, for them she would have died. Right -and wrong in her mind were clearly defined till it came to her husband -or children, and then they were transmuted into what benefited the -Ryans and what did not. Rigidly fair and honorable in her dealings with -the outside world, let a member of that world menace the happiness -of one of her own, and she would sacrifice it, grind the ax without -qualms, like a priestess grimly doing her duty. - -The marriage of her son was the bitterest blow of her life. It came -when she was old, stiffened into habits of dominance and dictatorship, -when her ambitions for her boy were gaining daily in scope and -splendor. A blind rage and determination to crush the woman were her -first feelings, and remained with her but slightly mitigated by the -softening passage of time. She was a partizan, a fighter, and she -instituted a war against her daughter-in-law which she conducted with -all the malignant bitterness that marks the quarrels of women. - -Dominick had not been married a month when she discovered the previous -connection between him and his wife, and published it to the winds. A -social power, feared and obeyed, she let it be known that to any one -who received Mrs. Dominick Ryan her doors would be for ever closed. -Without withdrawing her friendship from her son she refused ever to -meet or to receive his wife. In this attitude she was absolutely -implacable. She imposed her will upon the less strong spirits about -her, and young Mrs. Ryan was as completely shut off from her husband’s -world as though her skirts carried contamination. With masculine -largeness of view in other matters, in this one the elder woman -exhibited a singular, unworthy smallness. The carelessly large checks -she had previously given Dominick on his birthday and anniversaries -ceased to appear, and masculine gifts, such as pipes, walking-sticks, -and cigar-cases, in which his wife could have no participating -enjoyment, took their place. She had established a policy of exclusion, -and maintained it rigidly. - -Young Mrs. Ryan had at first believed that this rancor would melt away -with the flight of time. But she did not know the elder woman. She was -as unmeltable as a granite rock. The separation from her son, now with -age growing on her, ate like an acid into the mother’s heart. She saw -him at intervals, and the change in him, the growth of discouragement, -the dejection of spirit that he hid from all the world, but that her -eye, clairvoyant from love, detected, tore her with helpless wrath and -grief. She punished herself and punished him, sacrificed them both, in -permitting herself the indulgence of her implacable indignation. - -Bernice, who had expected to gain all from her connection with the -all-powerful Ryans, at the end of two years found that she was an -ostracized outsider from the world she had hoped to enter, and that the -riches she had expected to enjoy were represented by the three thousand -a year her husband earned in the bank. Her attempts to force her way -into the life and surroundings where she had hoped her marriage would -place her had invariably failed. If her feelings were not of the same -nature as those of the elder Mrs. Ryan, they were fully as poignant and -bitter. - -The effort to get an invitation to the ball had been the most daring -the young woman had yet made. Neither she nor Dominick had thought -it possible that Mrs. Ryan would leave her out. So confident was she -that she would be asked that she had ordered a dress for the occasion. -But when Dominick’s invitation came without her name on the envelope, -then fear that she was to be excluded rose clamorous in her. For days -she talked and complained to her husband as to the injustice of this -course and his power to secure the invitation for her if he would. By -the evening of the ball she had brought him to the point where he had -agreed to go forth and demand it. - -It was a hateful mission. He had never in his life done anything so -humiliating. In his shame and distress he had hoped that his mother -would give it to him without urging, and Bernice, placated, would be -restored to good humor and leave him at peace. She could not have -gained such power over him, or so bent him to her bidding, had she not -had in him a fulcrum of guilty obligation to work on. She continually -reminded him of “the wrong” he had done her, and how, through him, she -had lost the respect of her fellows and her place among them. All -these slights, snubs and insults were his fault, and he felt that this -was true. To-night he had gone forth in dogged desperation. Now in -fear, frank fear of her, he went home, slowly, with reluctant feet, his -heart getting heavier, his dread colder as he neared the house. - -It was one of those wooden structures on Sacramento Street not far -from Van Ness Avenue where the well-to-do and socially-aspiring crowd -themselves into a floor of seven rooms, and derive satisfaction from -the proximity of their distinguished neighbors who refuse to know them. -It contained four flats, each with a parlor bay-window and a front -door, all four doors in neighborly juxtaposition at the top of a flight -of six marble steps. - -Dominick’s was the top flat; he had to ascend a long, carpeted stairway -with a turn half-way up to get to it. Now, looking at the bay-window, -he saw lights gleaming from below the drawn blinds. Berny was still up. -A lingering hope that she might have gone to bed died, and his sense -of reluctance gained in force and made him feel slightly sick. He was -there, however, and he had to go up. Fitting his key into the lock he -opened the hall door. - -It was very quiet as he mounted the long stairs, but, as he drew near -the top, he became aware of a windy, whistling noise and looking into -the room near the stair-head saw that all the gas-jets were lit and -turned on full cock, and that the gas, rushing out from the burner in a -ragged banner of flame, made the sound. He was about to enter and lower -it when he heard his wife’s voice coming from the open door of her room. - -“Is that you, Dominick?” she called. - -Her voice was steady and high. Though it was hard, with a sort of -precise clearness of utterance, it was not conspicuously wrathful. - -“Yes,” he answered, “it’s I,” and he forgot the gas-jets and walked up -the hall. He did not notice that in the other rooms he passed the gas -was turned on in the same manner. The whistling rush of its escape made -a noise like an excited, unresting wind in the confined limits of the -little flat. - -The door of Berny’s room was open, and under a blaze of light from -the chandelier and the side lights by the bureau she was sitting in -a rocking-chair facing the foot of the bed. She held in her hand a -walking-stick of Dominick’s and with this she had been making long -scratches across the foot-board, which was of walnut and was seamed -back and forth, like a rock scraped by the passage of a glacier. As -Dominick entered, she desisted, ceased rocking, and turned to look at -him. She had an air of taut, sprightly impudence, and was smiling a -little. - -“Well, Dominick,” she said jauntily, “you’re late.” - -“Yes, I believe I am,” he answered. “I did not come straight back. I -walked about for a while.” - -He slowly crossed the room to the fireplace and stood there looking -down. There were some silk draperies on the mantel matched by those -which were festooned over the room’s single window. He fastened his -eyes on the pattern stamped on the looped-up folds, and was silent. He -thought Berny would realize from the fact that he had not come directly -home that the invitation had been denied. This was his bungling, -masculine way of breaking the news. - -“Took a walk,” she said, turning to the bed and beginning to rock. -“It’s a queer sort of hour to choose for walking,” and lifting the -cane she recommenced her occupation of scratching the foot-board with -it, tracing long, parabolic curves across the entire expanse, watching -the cane’s tip with her head tilted to one side. Dominick, who was not -looking at her, did not notice the noise. - -“I thought,” she said, tracing a great arc from one side to the other, -“that you were with your loving family--opening the ball, probably.” - -He did not move, but said quietly, - -“It was impossible to get the invitation, Berny. I tried to do it and -was refused. I want you to understand that as long as I live I’ll -never do a thing like that again.” - -“Oh, yes, you will,” she said, laughing and shaking her head like an -amused child. “Oh, yes, you will.” She threw her head back and, looking -at the ceiling, laughed still louder with a note of fierceness in the -sound. “You’ll do it and lots more things like it. You’ll do it if I -want you to, Dominick Ryan.” - -He did not answer. She hitched her chair closer to the bed as if -to return to an engrossing pastime, and, leaning back luxuriously, -resumed her play with the cane. This time Dominick noticed the noise -and turned. She was conscious that he was looking at her, and began to -scratch with an appearance of charmed absorption, such as an artist -might display in his work. He watched her for a moment in silent -astonishment and then broke out sharply, - -“What are you doing?” - -“Scratching the bed,” she responded calmly. - -“You must be mad,” he said, striding angrily toward her and stretching -a hand for the cane. “You’re ruining it.” - -She whipped the cane to the other side, out of his reach. - -“Am I?” she said, turning an eye of fiery menace on him. “Maybe I am, -and what’s that matter?” Then, turning back to the bed, “Too bad, isn’t -it, and the set not paid for yet.” - -“Not paid for!” he exclaimed, so amazed by the statement that he forgot -everything else. “Why, I’ve given you the money for it twice!” - -“Three times,” she amended coolly, “and I spent it on things I liked -better. I bought clothes, and jewelry with it, and little fixings I -wanted. Yes, the bedroom set isn’t all paid for yet and we’ve had it -nearly two years. Who would have thought that the son of Con Ryan -didn’t pay his bills!” - -She rose, threw the cane into the corner, and, turning toward him, -leaned back, half-sitting on the foot-board, her hands, palm downward, -pressed on its rounded top. The chandelier was directly over her head -and cast a powerful light on her face. This was small, pointed, and -of that sallow hue which is often noticeable in the skins of brunette -women who are no longer in their first youth. She had a nose that -drooped a little at the tip and an upper lip which was long and closed -firmly and secretively on the lower one. Her dark eyes, large and -brilliant, had the slightest tendency toward a slanting setting, the -outer corners being higher than the inner ones. Under the shower of -light from above, her thick hair, bleached to a reddish auburn and worn -in a loose knot on top of her head, cast a shadow over her forehead, -and below this her eyes blazed on her husband. Many men would have -thought her an unusually pretty woman, but no man, save one of her own -sort, could have faced her at this moment without quailing. - -Dominick and she had had many quarrels, ignominious and repulsive, but -he had never before seen her in so savage a mood. Even yet he had not -lost the feeling of responsibility and remorse he felt toward her. As -he moved from the mantelpiece his eye had fallen on the ball-dress that -lay, a sweep of lace and silver, across the bed, and on the bureau he -had seen jewels and hair ornaments laid out among the powder boxes and -scent bottles. The pathos of these futile preparations appealed to him -and he made an effort to be patient and just. - -“It’s been a disappointment,” he said, “and I’m sorry about it. But -I’ve done all I could and there’s no use doing any more. You’ve got to -give it up. There’s no use trying to make my mother give in. She won’t.” - -“Won’t she?” she cried, her voice suddenly loud and shaken with rage. -“We’ll see! We’ll see! We’ll see if I’ve married into the Ryan family -for nothing.” - -Her wrath at last loosened, her control was instantly swept away. In a -moment she was that appalling sight, a violent and vulgar woman in a -raging passion. She ran round the bed and, seizing the dress, threw it -on the floor and stamped on it, grinding the delicate fabric into the -carpet with her heels. - -“There!” she cried. “That’s what I feel about it! That’s the way I’ll -treat the things and the people I don’t like! That dress--it isn’t paid -for, but I don’t want it. I’ll get another when I do. Have I married -Con Ryan’s son to need money and bother about bills? Not on your life! -Did you notice the gas? Every burner turned on. Well, I did it just -to have a nice bright house for you when you came home without the -invitation. We haven’t paid the bill for two months--but what does that -matter? We’re related to the Ryans. _We_ don’t have to trouble about -bills.” - -He saw that she was beyond arguing with and turned to leave the room. -She sprang after him and caught him by the arm, pouring out only -too coherent streams of rage and abuse. It was the old story of the -“wrongs” she had suffered at his hands, and his “ruin” of her. To-night -it had no power to move him and he shook her off and left the room. She -ran to the door behind him and leaning out, cried it after him. - -He literally fled from her, down the hallway, with the open doorways -sending their lurid light and hissing noise across his passage. As he -reached the dining-room he heard her bang the door and with aggressive -noise turn the key in the lock and shoot the bolt. Even at that moment -the lack of necessity for such a precaution caused a bitter smile to -move his lips. - -[Illustration: Her wrath at last loosened, her control was instantly - swept away _Page 41_] - -He entered the dining-room and sat down by the table, his head on -his hands. It was very quiet; no noise came from the street outside, -sinking into the deep restfulness of midnight, and from within there -was only the tearing sound of the flaring gases and an occasional cool -dropping from the filter in the pantry. He sat thus for some hours, -trying to think what he should do. He found it impossible to come to -any definite conclusion for the future; all he could decide upon now -was the necessity of leaving his wife, getting a respite from her, -withdrawing himself from the sight of her. He had never loved her, but -to-night the pity and responsibility he had felt seemed to be torn from -his life as a morning wind tears a cobweb from the grass. - -The dawn was whitening the window-panes when he finally got pen and -paper and wrote a few lines. These, without prefix or signature, stated -that he would leave the city for a short time and not to make any -effort to find where he had gone or communicate with him. He wrote her -name on the folded paper and placed it in front of the clock. Then he -stole into his bedroom--they had occupied separate rooms for over six -months--and packed a valise with his oldest and roughest clothes. After -this he waited in the dining-room till the light was bright and the -traffic of the day loud on the pavement, before he crept down the long -stairway and went out into the crystal freshness of the morning. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -OUT OF NIGHT AND STORM - - -When Rose Cannon woke on the morning after her arrival at Antelope, a -memory of the snowflakes of the evening before made her jump out of -bed and patter barefooted to the window. It seemed to her it would be -“lots of fun” to be snowed up at Antelope, and when she saw only a thin -covering of white on the hotel garden and the diminishing perspective -of roofs, she drew her mouth into a grimace of disappointment. - -With hunched-up shoulders, her hands tucked under her arms, she stood -looking out, her breath blurring the pane in a dissolving film of -smoke. It was a cold little world. Below her the garden--the summer -pride of Perley’s Hotel--lay a sere, withered waste, its shrubs stiff -in the grip of the cold. The powdering of snow on its frost-bitten -leaves and grizzled grass added to its air of bleakness. Beyond rose -the shingled roofs of Antelope’s main street. From their white-coated -slopes black stovepipes sent aloft spirals of smoke, a thinner, -fainter gray than the air into which they ascended. The sky lowered, -low-hanging and full of menace. The snowflakes that now and then idly -circled down were dark against its stormy pallor. Rose, standing gazing -up, wondered if her father would go on to Greenhide, the new camp -twenty miles from Antelope, where an important strike had recently been -made. - -Half an hour later when they met at breakfast he told her he would not -leave for Greenhide that morning. Perley had warned him not to attempt -it, and he for his part knew the country well enough to realize that -it would be foolhardy to start under such a threatening sky. It would -be all right to stop over at Antelope till the weather made up its -mind what it meant to do. It might not be fun for her, but then he had -warned her before they left San Francisco that she would have to put up -with rough accommodations and unaccustomed discomforts. - -Rose laughed. Her father did not understand that the roughness and -novelty of it all was what she enjoyed. He was already a man of means -when she was born, and she had known nothing of the hardships and -privations through which he and her mother had struggled up to fortune. -Rocky Bar the night before and Antelope this morning were her first -glimpses of the mining region over which the pioneers had swarmed in -’49, Bill Cannon, only a lad in his teens, among them. - -Now she sat sidewise in her chair, sweeping with animated eyes the -primitive dining-room, its walls whitewashed, its low ceiling hung -with strands of pinked-out, colored paper, its board floor here and -there crossed by strips of cocoanut matting. At one end a hole in the -wall communicated with the kitchen and through this the naked arms of -the Chinaman, brown against the uprolled ends of his white sleeves, -protruded, offering dishes to the single waitress who was not always -there to receive them. - -The girl, Cora by name, was particularly delinquent this morning. -Several times the Chinaman was forced to remove his arms and substitute -his face in the opening while he projected an enraged yell of “Corla!” -among the hotel guests. Her dereliction of duty was caused by an -overpowering interest in the Cannons, round whom she hovered in -enchanted observation. On ordinary occasions Cora was content to wait -on the group of men, local bachelors whose lonely state made it more -convenient for them “to eat” at the hotel, and who sat--two bending -lines of masculine backs--at either side of a long table. Cora’s usual -method was to set the viands before them and then seat herself at the -end of the table and enliven the meal with light conversation. To-day, -however, they were neglected. She scarcely answered their salutations, -but, banging the dishes down, hasted away to the Cannon table, where -she stood fixedly regarding the strange young lady. - -Perley’s warnings of bad weather were soon verified. Early in the -afternoon the idle, occasional snowflakes had begun to fall thickly, -with a soft, persistent steadiness of purpose. The icy stillness of the -morning gave place to a wind, uncertain and whispering at first, but, -as the day advanced, gathering volume and speed. The office and bar -filled with men, some of them--snow powdered as if a huge sugar-sifter -had been shaken over them--having tramped in from small camps in the -vicinity. Clamor and vociferations, mixed with the smell of strong -drinks and damp woolens, rose from the bar. Constant gusts of cold air -swept the lower passages, and snow was tramped into the matting round -the hall stove. - -At four o’clock, Willoughby, the Englishman who had charge of the -shut-down Bella K. mine, came, butting head down against the wind, a -group of dogs at his heels, to claim the hospitality of the hotel. His -watchman, an old timer, had advised him to seek a shelter better stored -with provisions than the office building of the Bella K. Willoughby, -whose accent and manner had proclaimed him as one of high distinction -before it was known in Antelope that he was “some relation to a lord,” -was made welcome in the bar. His four red setter dogs, shut out from -that hospitable retreat by the swing door, grouped around it and -stared expectantly, each shout from within being answered by them with -plaintive and ingratiating whines. - -The afternoon was still young when the day began to darken. Rose -Cannon, who had been sitting in the parlor, dreaming over a fire of -logs, went to the window, wondering at the growing gloom. The wind had -risen to a wild, sweeping speed, that tore the snow fine as a mist. -There were no lazy, woolly flakes now. They had turned into an opaque, -slanting veil which here and there curled into snowy mounds and in -other places left the ground bare. It seemed as if a giant paint-brush, -soaked in white, had been swept over the outlook. Now and then a -figure, head down, hands in pockets, the front of the body looking as -though the paint-brush had been slapped across it, came into view, -shadowy and unsubstantial in the mist-like density. - -Rose looked out on it with an interest that was a little soberer than -the debonair blitheness of her morning mood. If it kept up they might -be snowed in for days, Perley had said. That being the case, this room, -the hotel’s one parlor, would be her retreat, her abiding place--for -her bedroom was as cold as an ice-chest--until they were liberated. -With the light, half-whimsical smile that came so readily to her lips, -she turned from the window and surveyed it judicially. - -Truly it was not bad. Seen by the light of the flaming logs pulsing -on the obscurity already lurking in the corners, it had the charm of -the fire-warmed interior, tight-closed against outer storm. A twilight -room lit only by a fire, with wind and snow outside, is the coziest -habitation in the world. It seemed to Rose it would make a misanthrope -feel friendly, prone to sociable chat and confidence. When the day grew -still dimmer she would draw the curtains (they were of a faded green -rep) and pull up the old horsehair arm-chairs that were set back so -demurely in the corners. Her eyes strayed to the melodeon and then to -the wall above it, where hung a picture of a mining millionaire, once -of the neighborhood, recently deceased, a circlet of wax flowers from -his bier surrounding his head, and the whole neatly incased in glass. -Washington crossing the Delaware made a pendent on the opposite wall. -On the center-table there were many books in various stages of unrepair -and in all forms of bindings. These were the literary aftermath left -by the mining men, who, since the early sixties, had been stopping at -Antelope on their hopeful journeys up and down the mineral belt. - -She was leaving the window to return to her seat by the fire when the -complete silence that seemed to hold the outside world in a spell was -broken by sudden sounds. Voices, the crack of a whip, then a grinding -thump against the hotel porch, caught her ear and whirled her back -to the pane. A large covered vehicle, with the whitened shapes of -a smoking team drooping before it, had just drawn up at the steps. -Two masculine figures, carrying bags, emerged from the interior, and -from the driver’s seat a muffled shape--a cylinder of wrappings which -appeared to have a lively human core--gave forth much loud and profane -language. The isolation and remoteness of her surroundings had already -begun to affect the town-bred young lady. She ran to the door of the -parlor, as ingenuously curious to see the new arrivals and find out who -they were as though she had lived in Antelope for a year. - -Looking down the hall she saw the front door open violently inward -and two men hastily enter. The wind seemed to blow them in and before -Perley’s boy could press the door shut the snow had whitened the damp -matting. No stage passed through Antelope in these days of its decline, -and the curiosity felt by Rose was shared by the whole hotel. The -swing door to the bar opened and men pressed into the aperture. Mrs. -Perley came up from the kitchen, wiping a dish. Cora appeared in the -dining-room doorway, and in answer to Miss Cannon’s inquiringly-lifted -eyebrows, called across the hall: - -“It’s the Murphysville stage on the down-trip to Rocky Bar. I guess -they thought they couldn’t make it. The driver don’t like to run no -risks and so he’s brought ’em round this way and dumped ’em here. There -ain’t but two passengers. That’s them.” - -She indicated the two men who, standing by the hall stove, were -divesting themselves of their wraps. One of them was a tall upright old -man with a sweep of grizzled beard covering his chest, and gray hair -falling from the dome of a bald head. - -The other was much younger, tall also, and spare to leanness. He wore a -gray fedora hat, and against its chill, unbecoming tint, his face, its -prominent, bony surfaces nipped by the cold to a raw redness, looked -sallow and unhealthy. With an air of solicitude he laid his overcoat -across a chair, brushing off the snow with a careful hand. Buttoned -tight in a black cutaway with the collar turned up about his neck, he -had an appearance of being uncomfortably compressed into garments too -small for him. His shiny-knuckled, purplish hands, pinching up the -shoulders of his coat over the chair-back, were in keeping with his -general suggestion of a large-boned meagerly-covered lankness. The -fact that he was smooth-shaven, combined with the unusual length of -dark hair that appeared below his hat-brim, lent him a suggestion of -something interestingly unconventional, almost artistic. In the region -where he now found himself he would have been variously set down as -a gambler, a traveling clergyman, an actor, or perhaps only a vender -of patent medicines who had some odd, attractive way of advertising -himself, such as drawing teeth with an electric appliance, or playing -the guitar from the tail-board of his showman’s cart. - -Now, having arranged his coat to its best advantage, he turned to -Perley and said with a curiously deep and resonant voice, - -“And, mine host, a stove in my bedroom, a stove in my bedroom or I -perish.” - -Cora giggled and threw across the hall to Miss Cannon a delighted -murmur of, - -“Oh, say, ain’t he just the richest thing?” - -“You’ve got us trapped and caged here for a spell, I guess,” said the -older man. “Any one else in the same box?” - -“Oh, you’ll not want for company,” said Perley, pride at the importance -of the announcement vibrating in his tone. “We’ve got Willoughby here -from the Bella K. with his four setter dogs, and Bill Cannon and his -daughter up from the coast.” - -“Bill Cannon!”--the two men stared and the younger one said, - -“Bill Cannon, the Bonanza King from San Francisco?” - -“That’s him all right,” nodded Perley. “Up here to see the diggings at -Greenhide and snowed in same as you.” - -Here, Rose, fearing the conversation might turn upon herself, slipped -from the doorway into the passage and up the stairs to her own room. - -An hour later as she stood before the glass making her toilet for -supper, a knock at the door ushered in Cora, already curled, powdered -and beribboned for that occasion, a small kerosene lamp in her hand. -In the bare room, its gloom only partly dispelled by the light from -a similar lamp on the bureau and the red gleam from the stove, -Miss Cannon was revealed in the becoming half-dusk made by these -imperfectly-blending illuminations, a pink silk dressing-gown loosely -enfolding her, a lightly brushed-in suggestion of fair hair behind her -ears and on her shoulders. Her comb was in her hand and Cora realized -with an uplifting thrill that she had timed her visit correctly and was -about to learn the mysteries of Miss Cannon’s coiffure. - -“I brung you another lamp,” she said affably, setting her offering -down on the bureau. “One ain’t enough light to dress decently by. I -have three,” and she sank down on the side of the bed with the air of -having established an intimacy, woman to woman, by this act of generous -consideration. - -“Them gentlemen,” she continued, “are along on this hall with you and -your pa. The old one’s Judge Washburne, of Colusa, a pioneer that used -to know Mrs. Perley’s mother way back in Sacramento in the fifties, and -knew your pa real well when he was poor. It’s sort of encouraging to -think _your_ pa was ever poor.” - -Rose laughed and turned sidewise, looking at the speaker under the arch -of her uplifted arm. There were hair-pins in her mouth and an upwhirled -end of blond hair protruded in a gleaming scattering of yellow over her -forehead. She mumbled a comment on her father’s early poverty, her lips -showing red against the hair-pins nipped between her teeth. - -“And the other one,” went on Cora, her eyes riveted on the -hair-dressing, her subconscious mind making notes of the disposition of -every coil, “his name’s J. D. Buford. And I’d like you to guess what -he is! An actor, a stage player. He’s been playing all up the state -from Los Angeles and was going down to Sacramento to keep an engagement -there. It just tickles me to death to have an actor in the house. I -ain’t never seen one close to before.” - -The last hair-pin was adjusted and Miss Cannon studied the effect with -a hand-glass. - -“An actor,” she commented, running a smoothing palm up the back of her -head, “that’s just what he looked like, now I think of it. Perhaps -he’ll act for us. I think it’s going to be lots of fun being snowed up -at Antelope.” - -The sound of a voice crying “Cora” here rose from the hallway and that -young woman, with a languid deliberation of movement, as of one who -obeys a vulgar summons at her own elegant leisure, rose and departed, -apologizing for having to go so soon. A few minutes later, the hour of -supper being at hand, Rose followed her. - -She was descending the stairs when a commotion from below, a sound -of voices loud, argumentative, rising and falling in excited chorus, -hurried her steps. The lower hall, lit with lamps and the glow of its -stove, heated to a translucent red, was full of men. A current of cold -could be felt in the hot atmosphere and fresh snow was melting on the -floor. Standing by the stove was a man who had evidently just entered. -Ridges of white lay caught in the folds of his garments; a silver hoar -was on his beard. He held his hands out to the heat and as Rose reached -the foot of the stairs she heard him say, - -“Well, I tell you that any man that started to walk up here from Rocky -Bar this afternoon must have been plumb crazy. Why, John L. Sullivan -couldn’t do it in such a storm.” - -To which the well-bred voice of Willoughby answered, - -“But according to the message he started at two and the snow was hardly -falling then. He must have got a good way, past the Silver Crescent -even, when the storm caught him.” - -A hubbub of voices broke out here, and, seeing her father on the edge -of the crowd, Rose went to him and plucked his sleeve, murmuring, - -“What’s happened? What’s going on?” - -He took his cigar out of his mouth and turned toward her, speaking low -and keeping his eyes on the men by the stove. - -“The telegraph operator’s just had a message sent from Rocky Bar that a -man started from there this afternoon to walk up here. They don’t think -he could make it and are afraid he’s lost somewhere. Perley and some of -the boys are going out to look for him.” - -“What a dreadful thing! In such a storm! Do you think they’ll ever find -him?” - -He shrugged, and replaced his cigar in his mouth. - -“Oh, I guess so. If he was strong enough to get on near here they ought -to. But it’s just what the operator says. The feller must have been -plumb crazy to attempt such a thing. Looks as if he was a stranger in -the country.” - -“It’s a sort of quiet, respectable way of committing suicide,” said the -voice of the actor behind them. - -Rose looked over her shoulder and saw his thin, large-featured face, no -longer nipped and reddened with cold, but wreathed in an obsequious and -friendly smile which furrowed it with deep lines. Her father answered -him and she turned away, being more interested in the preparations for -the search party. As she watched these she could hear the desultory -conversation behind her, the actor’s comments delivered with an -unctuous, elaborate politeness which, contrasted with her father’s -gruff brevity, made her smile furtively to herself. - -A jingle of sleigh bells from without threw the party into the sudden -bustle of departure. Men shrugged themselves into their coats and tied -comforters over their ears. Perley emerged from the bar, shrouded in -outer wrappings, and crowding a whisky flask into his pocket. The -hall door was thrown open, and through the powdery thickness of the -atmosphere the sleigh with its restive horses could be seen drawn up -at the porch steps. Those left behind pressed into the doorway to -speed the departure. Shouted instructions, last suggestions as to the -best methods for conducting the search filled the air, drowning the -despairing whines that Willoughby’s dogs, shut in the bar, sent after -their master. With a broken jingle of bells the sleigh started and in a -moment was swallowed up in the blackness of the storm. - -Supper was an animated meal that evening. The suddenly tragic interest -that had developed drew the little group of guests together with the -strands of a common sympathy. The judge and the actor moved their seats -to the Cannons’ table. Cora was sent to request the doctor--a young -man fresh from his graduation in San Francisco who took his meals -at the bachelor’s table--to join them and add the weight of medical -opinion to their surmises as to the traveler’s chances of survival. -These, the doctor thought, depended as much upon the man’s age and -physical condition, as upon the search party’s success in finding him. -And then they speculated as to the man himself, drawing inferences from -the one thing they knew of him, building up his character from this -single fact, deducing from it what manner of man he should be, and why -he should have done so strangely foolhardy a thing. - -After supper they retired to the parlor, piled the fire high and sat -grouped before it, the smoke of cigars and cigarettes lying about their -heads in white layers. It was but natural that the conversation should -turn on stories of the great storms of the past. Rose had heard many -such before, but to-night, with the wind rocking the old hotel and the -thought of the lost man heavy at her heart, she listened, held in a -cold clutch of fascinated attention, to tales of the emigrants caught -in the passes of the Sierra, of pioneer mining-camps relieved by mule -trains which broke through the snow blockade as the miners lay dying -in their huts, of men risking their lives to carry succor to comrades -lost in their passage from camp to camp on just such a night as this. -Now and then one of Willoughby’s dogs, long since broken from the -confinement of the bar, came to the door and put in an inquiring head, -the ears pricked, the eyes full of hopeful inquiry, a feathered tail -wagging in deprecating friendliness. But its master was not there and -it turned away, disappointed, to run up the hall, sniffing under closed -doors and whimpering in uneasy loneliness. - -Rose sat crouched over the fire, and as the fund of stories became -exhausted and silence gradually settled on the group, her thoughts -turned again to the traveler. She had been shocked at first, as the -others were, by the thought of a fellow creature lost in the storm; but -as the evening advanced, and the talk threw round his vague, undefined -figure the investiture of an identity and a character, she began to see -him less as a nebulous, menaced shape than as a known individuality. He -seemed to be advancing out of the swirling blackness of the night into -extending circles of the acquainted and the intimate. He was drawing -near, drawing out of the limbo of darkness and mystery, into the light -of their friendly fire, the grasp of their welcoming hands. He took -shape in her imagination; she began to see his outline forming and -taking color. With every tick of the clock she felt more keenly that he -was some one who needed her help, and whom she must rescue. By ten she -was in a ferment of anguished expectancy. The lost traveler was to her -a man who had once been her friend, now threatened by death. - -The clock hand passed ten, and the periods of silence that at intervals -had fallen on the watchers grew longer and more frequent, and finally -merged into a stillness where all sat motionless, listening to the -storm. It had increased with the coming of the dark and now filled the -night with wildness and tumult. The wind made human sounds about the -angles of the house, which rocked and creaked to its buffets. The gale -was fitful. It died away almost to silence, seeming to recuperate its -forces for a new attack, and then came back full of fresh energies. It -struck blows on the doors and windows, like those of a fist demanding -entrance. Billowing rushes of sound circled round the building, and -then a rustling passage of sleet swept across the curtained pane. - -It was nearly eleven, and for fifteen minutes no one had spoken a word. -Two of the dogs had come in and lain down on the hearth-rug, their -noses on their paws, their eyes fixed brightly and ponderingly on the -fire. In the midst of the motionless semicircle one of them suddenly -raised its head, its ears pricked. With its muzzle elevated, its eyes -full of awakened intelligence, it gave a low, uneasy whimper. Almost -simultaneously Rose started and drew herself up, exclaiming, “Listen!” -The sound of sleigh bells, faint as a noise in a dream, came through -the night. - -In a moment the lower floor was shaken with movement and noise. The bar -emptied itself on to the porch and the hall doors were thrown wide. The -sleigh had been close to the hotel before its bells were heard, and -almost immediately its shape emerged from the swirling whiteness and -drew up at the steps. Rose, standing back in the parlor doorway, heard -a clamor of voices, a rising surge of sound from which no intelligible -sentence detached itself, and a thumping and stamping of feet as the -searchers staggered in with the lost traveler. The crowd separated -before them and they entered slowly, four men carrying a fifth, their -bodies incrusted with snow, the man they bore an unseen shape covered -with whitened rugs from which an arm hung, a limp hand touching the -floor. Questions and answers, now clear and sharp, followed them, like -notes upon the text of the inert form: - -“Where’d you get him?” - -“About five miles below on the main road. One of the horses almost -stepped on him. He was right in the path, but he was all sprinkled over -with snow.” - -“He’s not dead, is he?” - -“Pretty near, I guess. We’ve pumped whisky into him, but he ain’t shown -a sign of life.” - -“Who is he?” - -“Search me. I ain’t seen him good myself yet. Just as we got him the -lantern went out.” - -There was a sofa in the hall and they laid their burden there, the -crowd edging in on them, horrified, interested, hungrily peering. Rose -could see their bent, expressive backs and the craning napes of their -necks. Then a sharp order from the doctor drove them back, sheepish, -tramping on one another’s toes, bunched against the wall and still -avidly staring. As their ranks broke, the young girl had a sudden, -vivid glimpse of the man, his head and part of his chest uncovered. Her -heart gave a leap of pity and she made a movement from the doorway, -then stopped. The lost traveler, that an hour before had almost assumed -the features of a friend, was a complete stranger that she had never -seen before. - -He looked like a dead man. His face, the chin up, the lips parted under -the fringe of a brown mustache, was marble white, and showed a gray -shadow in the cheek. The hair on his forehead, thawed by the heat, was -lying in damp half-curled semicircles, dark against the pallid skin. -There was a ring on the hand that still hung limp on the floor. The -doctor, muttering to himself, pulled open the shirt and was feeling -the heart, when Perley, who had flown into the bar for more whisky, -emerged, a glass in his hand. As his eye fell upon the man, he stopped, -stared, and then exclaimed in loud-voiced amaze: - -“My God--why, it’s Dominick Ryan! Look here, Governor”--to Cannon who -was standing by his daughter in the parlor doorway, “come and see for -yourself. If this ain’t young Ryan I’m a Dutchman!” - -Cannon pushed between the intervening men and bent over the prostrate -figure. - -“That’s who it is,” he said slowly and unemotionally. “It’s Dominick -Ryan, all right. Well, by ginger!” and he turned and looked at the -amazed innkeeper, “that’s the queerest thing I ever saw. What’s brought -him up here?” - -Perley, his glass snatched from him by the doctor who seemed entirely -indifferent to their recognition of his patient, shrugged helplessly. - -“Blest if I know,” he said, staring aimlessly about him. “He was here -last summer fishing. But there ain’t no fishing now. God, ain’t it a -good thing that operator at Rocky Bar had the sense to telegraph up!” - - - - -CHAPTER V - -NURSE AND PATIENT - - -When Dominick returned to consciousness he lay for a space looking -directly in front of him, then moved his head and let his eyes sweep -the walls. They were alien walls of white plaster, naked of all -adornment. The light from a shaded lamp lay across one of them in a -soft yet clear wash of yellow, so clear that he could see that the -plaster was coarse. - -There were few pieces of furniture in the room, and all new to him. A -bureau of the old-fashioned marble-topped kind stood against the wall -opposite. The lamp that cast the yellow light was on this bureau; its -globe, a translucent gold reflection revealed in liquid clearness in -the mirror just behind. It was not his own room nor Berny’s. He turned -his head farther on the pillow very slowly, for he seemed sunk in an -abyss of suffering and feebleness. On the table by the bed’s head was -another lamp, a folded newspaper shutting its light from his face, and -here his eyes stopped. - -A woman was sitting by the foot of the bed, her head bent as if -reading. He stared at her with even more intentness than he had at the -room. The glow of the lamp on the bureau was behind her--he saw her -against it without color or detail, like a shadow thrown on a sheet. -Her outlines were sharply defined against the illumined stretch of -plaster,--the arch of her head, which was broken by the coils of hair -on top, her rather short neck, with some sort of collar binding it, -the curve of her shoulders, rounded and broad, not the shoulders of a -thin woman. He did not think she was his wife, but she might be, and he -moved and said suddenly in a husky voice, - -“What time is it?” - -The woman started, laid her book down, and rose. She came forward and -stood beside him, looking down, the filaments of hair round her head -blurring the sharpness of its outline. He stared up at her, haggard -and intent, and saw it was not his wife. It was a strange woman with -a pleasant, smiling face. He felt immensely relieved and said with a -hoarse carefulness of utterance, - -“What time did you say it is?” - -“A few minutes past five,” she answered. “You’ve been asleep.” - -“Have I?” he said, gazing immovably at her. “What day is it?” - -“Thursday,” she replied. “You came here last night from Rocky Bar. -Perhaps you don’t remember.” - -“Rocky Bar!” he repeated vaguely, groping through a haze of memory. -“Was it only yesterday? Was it only yesterday I left San Francisco?” - -“I don’t know when you left San Francisco--” the newspaper shade -cracked and bent a little, letting a band of light fall across the -pillow. She leaned down, arranging it with careful hands, looking from -the light to him to see if it were correctly adjusted. - -“Whenever you left San Francisco,” she said, “you got here last night. -They brought you here, Perley and some other men in the sleigh. They -found you in the road. You were half-frozen.” - -He looked at her moving hands, then when they had satisfactorily -arranged the shade and dropped to her sides, he looked at her face. Her -eyes were soft and friendly and had a gentle, kind expression. He liked -to look at them. The only woman’s eyes he had looked into lately had -been full of wrathful lightenings. There seemed no need to be polite or -do the things that people did when they were well and sitting talking -in chairs, so he did not speak for what seemed to him a long time. Then -he said, - -“What is this place?” - -“Antelope,” said the woman. “Perley’s Hotel at Antelope.” - -“Oh, yes,” he answered with an air of weary recollection, “I was going -to walk there from Rocky Bar, but the snow came down too hard, and -the wind--you could hardly stand against it! It was a terrible pull. -Perley’s Hotel at Antelope. Of course, I know all about it. I was here -last summer for two weeks fishing.” - -She stretched out her hand for a glass, across the top of which a book -rested. He followed the movement with a mute fixity. - -“This is your medicine,” she said, taking the book off the glass. “You -were to take it at five but I didn’t like to wake you.” - -She dipped a spoon into the glass and held it out to him. But the young -man felt too ill to bother with medicine and, as the spoon touched his -lips, he gave his head a slight jerk and the liquid was spilt on the -counterpane. She looked at it for a rueful moment, then said, as if -with gathering determination, - -“But you _must_ take it. I think perhaps I gave it wrong. I ought to -have lifted you up. It’s easier that way,” and before he could answer -she slipped her arm under his head and raised it, with the other -hand setting the rim of the glass against his lips. He swallowed a -mouthful and felt her arm sliding from behind his head. He had a hazy -consciousness that a perfume came from her dress, and for the first -time he wondered who she was. Wondering thus, his eyes again followed -her hand putting back the glass, and watched it, white in the gush of -lamplight, carefully replacing the book. Then she turned toward him -with the same slight, soft smile. - -“Who are _you_?” he said, keeping his hollowed eyes hard on her. - -“I’m Rose Cannon,” she answered. “Rose Cannon from San Francisco.” - -“Oh, yes,” with a movement of comprehension, the name striking a chord -of memory. “Rose Cannon from San Francisco, daughter of Bill Cannon. Of -course I know.” - -He was silent again, overwhelmed by indifference and lassitude. She -made a step backward from the bedside. Her dress rustled and the same -faint perfume he had noticed came delicately to him. He turned his head -away from her and said dryly and without interest, - -“I thought it was some one else.” - -The words seemed to arrest her. She came back and stood close beside -him. Looking up he could see her head against the light that ran up -from the shaded lamps along the ceiling. She bent down and said, -speaking slowly and clearly as though to a child, - -“The storm has broken the wires but as soon as they are up, papa will -send your mother word, so you needn’t worry about that. But we don’t -either of us know your wife’s address. If you could tell us----” - -She stopped. He had begun to frown and then shut his eyes with an -expression of weariness. - -“That doesn’t matter,” he said. “Don’t bother about it. Let her alone.” - -Again there was one of those pauses which seemed to him so long. He -gave a sigh and moved restlessly, and she said, - -“Are your feet very painful?” - -“Yes, pretty bad,” he answered. “What’s the matter with them?” - -“They were frost-bitten, one partly frozen.” - -“Oh--” he did not seem profoundly interested. It was as if they were -some one else’s feet, only they hurt violently enough to obtrude -themselves upon his attention. “Thank you very much,” he added. “I’ll -be all right to-morrow.” - -He felt very tired and heard, as in a dream, the rustle of her dress -as she moved again. She said something about “supper” and “Mrs. Perley -coming,” and the dark, enveloping sense of stupor from which he had -come to life closed on him again. - -Some time later on he emerged from it and saw another woman, stout and -matronly, with sleekly-parted hair, and an apron girt about her. He -asked her, too, who she was, for the fear that he might wake and find -his wife by his bedside mingled with the pain of his feet, to torment -him and break the vast, dead restfulness of the torpor in which he lay. - -It broke into gleams of interest and returning consciousness during -the next two days. He experienced an acuter sense of illness and -pain, the burning anguish of his feet and fevered misery of his body, -bitten through with cold, brought him back to a realization of his own -identity. He heard the doctor murmuring in the corner of “threatened -pneumonia” and understood that he was the object threatened. He began -to know and separate the strange faces that seemed continually to be -bending over him, asking him how he felt. There was the doctor, Perley, -Bill Cannon, and the old judge and three different women, whom he had -some difficulty in keeping from merging into one composite being who -was sometimes “Miss Cannon,” and sometimes “Mrs. Perley,” and then -again “Cora.” - -When on the fourth day the doctor told him that he thought he would -“pull through” with no worse ailment than a frozen foot, he had -regained enough of his original vigor and impatience under restraint -to express a determination to rise and “go on.” He was in pain, mental -and physical, and the ministrations and attentions of the satellites -that so persistently revolved round his bed rasped him into irritable -moodiness. He did not know that all Antelope was waiting for the latest -bulletins from Mrs. Perley or Cora. The glamour attaching to his -sensational entry into their midst had been intensified by the stories -of the wealth and position that had been his till he had married a poor -girl, contrary to his mother’s wishes. He was talked of in the bar, -discussed in the kitchen, and Cora dreamed of him at night. The very -name of Ryan carried its weight, and Antelope, a broken congeries of -white roofs and black smoke-stacks emerging from giant drifts, throbbed -with pride at the thought that the two greatest names of California -finance were snow-bound in Perley’s Hotel. - -The doctor laughed at his desire to “move on.” The storm was still -raging and Antelope was as completely cut off from the rest of the -world as if it were an uncharted island in the unknown reaches of the -Pacific. Propping the invalid up among his pillows he drew back the -curtain and let him look out through a frost-painted pane on a world -all sweeping lines and skurrying eddies of white. The drifts curled -crisp edges over the angles of roofs, like the lips of breaking waves. -The glimpse of the little town that the window afforded showed it -cowering under a snow blanket, almost lost to sight in its folds. - -“Even if your feet were all right, you’re tied here for two weeks -anyway,” said the doctor, dropping the curtain. “It’s the biggest storm -_I_ ever saw, and there’s an old timer that hangs round the bar who -says it’s as bad as the one that caught the Donner party in forty-six.” - -The next day it stopped and the world lay gleaming and still under -a frosty crust. The sky was a cold, sullen gray, brooding and -cloud-hung, and the roofs and tree-tops stood out against it as -though executed in thick white enamel. The drifts lay in suave curves, -softly undulating like the outlines of a woman’s body, sometimes -sweeping smoothly up to second stories, here and there curdled into an -eddy, frozen as it twisted. A miner came in from an outlying camp on -skees and reported the cold as intense, the air clear as crystal and -perfectly still. On the path as he came numerous fir boughs had broken -under the weight of snow, with reports like pistol shots. There was -a rumor that men, short of provisions, were snowed up at the Yaller -Dog mine just beyond the shoulder of the mountain. This gave rise to -much consultation and loud talking in the bar, and the lower floor of -Perley’s was as full of people, noise and stir, as though a party were -in progress. - -That afternoon Dominick, clothed in an old bath-robe of the doctor’s, -his swathed feet hidden under a red rug drawn from Mrs. Perley’s -stores, was promoted to an easy chair by the window. The doctor, who -had helped him dress, having disposed the rug over his knees and tucked -a pillow behind his back, stood off and looked critically at the effect. - -“I’ve got to have you look your best,” he said, “and you’ve got to act -your prettiest this afternoon. The young lady’s coming in to take care -of you while I go my rounds.” - -“Young lady!” exclaimed Dominick in a tone that indicated anything but -pleasurable anticipation. “What young lady?” - -“_Our_ young lady,” answered the doctor. “Miss Cannon, the Young Lady -of Perley’s Hotel. Don’t you know that that’s the nicest girl in the -world? Maybe you don’t, but that’s because your powers of appreciation -have been dormant for the last few days. The people here were most -scared to death of her at first. They didn’t know how she was going to -get along, used to the finest, the way she’s always been. But, bless -your heart, she’s less trouble than anybody in the place. There’s -twelve extra people eating here, besides you to be looked after, and -Mrs. Perley and Cora are pretty near run to death trying to do it. Miss -Cannon wanted to turn in and help them. They wouldn’t have it, but they -had to let her do her turn here taking care of you.” - -“It’s very kind of her,” said the invalid without enthusiasm. “I -noticed her here several times.” - -“And as easy as an old shoe,” said the doctor. “Just as nice to -Perley’s boy, who’s a waif that the Perleys picked up in the streets -of Stockton, as if he was the Prince of Wales. I tell you heredity’s -a queer thing. How did Bill Cannon come to have a girl like that? Of -course there’s the mother to take into account, but--” - -A knock on the door interrupted him. To his cry of “Come in,” Rose -entered, a white shawl over her shoulders, a book in her hand. While -she and Dominick were exchanging greetings, the doctor began thrusting -his medicines into his bag, alleging the necessity of an immediate -departure, as two cases of bronchitis and three of pneumonia awaited -him. - -“You didn’t know there were that many people in Antelope,” he said as -he snapped the clasp of the bag and picked up his hat. “Well, I’ll -swear to it, even if it does seem the prejudiced estimate of an old -inhabitant. So long. I’ll be back by five and I hope to hear a good -report from the nurse.” - -The door closed behind him and Dominick and the young girl were left -looking rather blankly at each other. It was the first time he had seen -her when he had not been presented to her observation as a prostrate -and fever-stricken sufferer of whom nothing was expected but a docile -attitude in the matter of medicines. Now he felt the subjugating power -of clothes. It did not seem possible that the doctor’s bath-robe and -Mrs. Perley’s red rug could cast such a blighting weight of constraint -and consciousness upon him. But with the donning of them his invalid -irresponsibility seemed gone for ever. He had a hunted, helpless -feeling that he ought to talk to this young woman as gentlemen did who -were not burdened by the pain of frozen feet and marital troubles. -Moreover, he felt the annoyance of being thus thrust upon the care of -a lady whom he hardly knew. - -“I’m very sorry that they bothered you this way,” he said awkwardly. -“I--I--don’t think I need any one with me. I’m quite comfortable here -by myself,” and then he stopped, conscious of the ungraciousness of his -words, and reddening uncomfortably. - -“I dare say you don’t want me here,” said Rose with an air of meekness -which had the effect of being assumed. “But you really have been too -sick to be left alone. Besides, there’s your medicine, you must take -that regularly.” - -The invalid gave an indifferent cast of his eye toward the glass on the -bureau, guarded by the familiar book and spoon. Then he looked back at -her. She was regarding him deprecatingly. - -“Couldn’t I take it myself?” he said. - -“I don’t think I’d trust you,” she answered. - -His sunken glance was held by hers, and he saw, under the deprecation -of her look, humor struggling to keep itself in seemly suppression. He -was faintly surprised. There did not seem to him anything comic in the -fact of her distrust. But as he looked at her he saw the humor rising -past control. She dropped her eyes to hide it and bit her under lip. -This did strike him as funny and a slow grin broke the melancholy of -his face. She stole a stealthy look at him, her gravity vanished at -the first glimpse of the grin, and she began to laugh, holding her -head down and making the stifled, chuckling sounds of controlled mirth -suddenly liberated. He was amused and a little puzzled and, with his -grin more pronounced than before, said, - -“What are you laughing at?” - -She lifted her head and looked at him with eyes narrowed to slits, -murmuring, - -“You, trying to get rid of me and being so polite and helpless. It’s -too pathetic for words.” - -“If it’s pathetic, why do you laugh?” he said, laughing himself, he did -not know why. - -She made no immediate reply and he looked at her, languidly interested -and admiring. For the first time he realized that she was a pretty -girl, with her glistening coils of blond hair and a pearl-white skin, -just now suffused with pink. - -“Why did you think I wanted to get rid of you?” he asked. - -“You’ve almost said so,” she answered. “And then--well, I can see you -do.” - -“How? What have I done that you’ve seen?” - -“Not any especial thing, but--I _think_ you do.” - -He felt too weak and indifferent to tell polite falsehoods. Leaning his -head on the pillow that stood up at his back, he said, - -“Perhaps I did at first. But now I’m glad you came.” - -She smiled indulgently at him as though he were a sick child. - -“I should think you wouldn’t have wanted me. You must be so tired of -people coming in and out. Those days when you were so bad the doctor -had the greatest difficulty in keeping men out who didn’t know you and -had never seen you. Everybody in the hotel wanted to crowd in.” - -“What did they want to do that for?” - -“To see you. _We_ were the sensation of Antelope first. But then you -came and put us completely in the shade. Antelope hasn’t had such an -excitement as your appearance since the death of Jim Granger, whose -picture is down stairs in the parlor and who comes from here.” - -“I don’t see why I should be an excitement. When I was up here fishing -last summer nobody was in the least excited.” - -“It was the way you came--half-dead out of the night as if the sea had -thrown you up. Then everybody wanted to know why you did it, why you, a -Californian, attempted such a dangerous thing.” - -“There wasn’t anything so desperately dangerous about it,” he said, -almost in a tone of sulky protest. - -“The men down stairs seemed to think so. They say nobody could have got -up here in such a storm.” - -“Oh, rubbish! Besides, it wasn’t storming when I left Rocky Bar. It was -gray and threatening, but there wasn’t a flake falling. The first snow -came down when I was passing the Silver Crescent. It came very fast -after that.” - -“Why did you do it--attempt to walk such a distance in such uncertain -weather?” - -Dominick smoothed the rug over his knees. His face, looking down, had a -curious expression of cold, enforced patience. - -“I was tired,” he said slowly. “I’d worked too hard and I thought the -mountains would do me good. I can get time off at the bank when I want -and I thought I’d take a holiday and come up here where I was last -summer. I knew the place and liked the hotel. I wanted to get a good -way off, out of the city and away from my work. As for walking up here -that afternoon--I’m very strong and I never thought for a moment such a -blizzard was coming down.” - -He lifted his head and turned toward the window, then raising one hand -rubbed it across his forehead and eyes. There was something in the -gesture that silenced the young girl. She thought he felt tired and had -been talking too much and she was guiltily conscious of her laughter -and loquacity. - -They sat without speaking for some moments. Dominick made no attempt to -break the silence when she moved noiselessly to the stove and pushed in -more wood. His face was turned from her and she thought he had fallen -asleep when he suddenly moved and said, - -“Isn’t it strange that I have never met you before?” - -She was relieved. His tone showed neither feebleness nor fatigue, in -fact it had the fresh alertness of a return to congenial topics. She -determined, however, to be less talkative, less encouraging to the -weakening exertions of general conversation. So she spoke with demure -brevity. - -“Yes, very. But you were at college for four years, and the year you -came back I was in Europe.” - -He looked at her ruminatingly, and nodded. - -“But I’ve seen you,” he said, “at the theater. I was too sick at first -to recognize you, but afterward I knew I’d seen you, with your father -and your brother Gene.” - -It was her turn to nod. She thought it best to say nothing, and waited. -But his eyes bent inquiringly upon her, and the waiting silence seemed -to demand a comment. She made the first one that occurred to her: - -“Whom were _you_ with?” - -“My wife,” said the young man. - -Rose felt that an indefinite silence would have been better than this. -All she knew of Dominick Ryan’s wife was that she was a person who had -not been respectable and whose union with Dominick had estranged him -from his people. Certainly, whatever else she was, young Mrs. Ryan -was not calculated to be an agreeable subject of converse with the man -who in marrying her had sacrificed wealth, family, and friends. The -doctor’s chief injunction to Rose had been to keep the invalid in a -state of tranquillity. Oppressed by a heavy sense of failure she felt -that nursing was not her forte. - -She murmured a vague sentence of comment and this time determined not -to speak, no matter how embarrassing the pause became. She even thought -of taking up her book and was about to stretch her hand for it, when he -said, - -“But it seems so queer when our parents have been friends for years, -and I know Gene, and you know my sister Cornelia so well.” - -She drew her hand back and leaned forward, frowning and staring in -front of her, as she sent her memory backward groping for data. - -“Well, you see a sort of series of events prevented it. When we were -little our parents lived in different places. Ages ago when we first -came down from Virginia City you were living somewhere else, in -Sacramento, wasn’t it? Then you were at school, and after that you went -East to college for four years, and when you got back from college I -was in Europe. And when I came back from Europe--that’s over two years -ago now--why then----” - -She had again brought up against his marriage, this time with a shock -that was of a somewhat shattering nature. - -“Why, then,” she repeated falteringly, realizing where she was--“why, -then--let’s see--?” - -“Then I had married,” he said quietly. - -“Oh, yes, of course,” she assented, trying to impart a suggestion of -sudden innocent remembrance to her tone. “You had married. Why, of -course.” - -He vouchsafed no reply. She was distressed and mortified, her face -red with anger at her own stupidity. In her embarrassment she looked -down, smoothing her lace cuffs, and waiting for him to say something -as he had done before. But this time he made no attempt to resume the -conversation. Stealing a sidelong glance at him she saw that he had -turned to the window and was gazing out. There was an expression of -brooding gloom on his profile, his eyebrows drawn low, his lips close -set. She judged rightly that he did not intend to speak again, and she -took up her book and opened it. - -Half an hour later, rising to give him his medicine, she saw that -he had fallen asleep. She was at his side before she discovered it, -thinking his eyes were drooped in thought. Standing with the glass -in her hand she looked at him with something of a child’s shrinking -curiosity and a woman’s pity for a strong creature weakened and brought -low. The light in the room was growing gray and in it she saw his -face, with the shadows in its hollows, looking thin and haggard in -the abandonment of sleep. For the first time, seeing him clothed and -upright, she realized that he was a personable man, a splendid man, and -also for the first time she thought of him outside this room and this -house, and a sort of proud resentment stirred in her at the memory of -the marriage he had made--the marriage with the woman who was not good. - -An hour later when the doctor came back she was kneeling on the -floor by the open stove door, softly building up the fire. From the -orifice--a circle of brilliance in the dim room--a red glow painted -her serious, down-bent face with a hectic color, and touched with a -bright, palpitating glaze the curves of her figure. At the sound of the -opening door she looked up quickly, and, her hands being occupied, gave -a silencing jerk of her head toward the sleeping man. - -The doctor looked at them both. The scene was like a picture of some -primitive domestic interior where youth and beauty had made a nest, -warmed by that symbol of life, a fire, which one replenished while the -other slept. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -IN WHICH BERNY WRITES A LETTER - - -The morning after the quarrel Bernice woke late. She had not fallen -asleep till the night was well spent, the heated seething of her rage -keeping the peace of repose far from her. It was only as the dawn paled -the square of the window that she fell into a heavy slumber, disturbed -by dreams full of stress and strife. - -She looked up at the clock; it was nearly ten. Dominick would have left -for the bank before this, so the wretched constraint of a meeting with -him was postponed. Sallow and heavy-eyed, her head aching, oppressed by -a sense of the unbearable unpleasantness of the situation, she threw on -her wrapper, and going to the window drew the curtain and looked out. - -The bedroom had but one window, wedged into an angle of wall, and -affording a glimpse of the green lawn and clipped rose trees of the -house next door. There was a fog this morning and even this curtailed -prospect was obliterated. She stood yawning drearily, and gazing out -with eyes to which her yawns had brought tears. Her hair made a wild -bush round her head, her face looked pinched and old. She was one of -those women whose good looks are dependent on animation and millinery. -In this fixity of inward thought, unobserved in unbecoming disarray, -one could realize that she had attained the thirty-four years she could -so successfully deny under the rejuvenating influences of full dress -and high spirits. - -During her toilet her thoughts refused to leave the subject of last -night’s quarrel. She and her husband had had disagreements before--many -in the last year when they had virtually separated, though the world -did not know it--but nothing so ignominiously repulsive as the scene of -last evening had yet degraded their companionship. Bernice was ashamed. -In the gray light of the dim, disillusioning morning she realized that -she had gone too far. She knew Dominick to be long-suffering, she knew -that the hold she had upon him was a powerful one, but the most patient -creatures sometimes rebel, the most compelling sense of honor would -sometimes break under too severe a strain. As she trailed down the long -passage to the dining-room she made up her mind that she would make -the first overture toward reconciliation that evening. It would be -difficult but she would do it. - -She was speculating as to how she would begin, in what manner she would -greet him when he came home, when her eyes fell on the folded note -against the clock. Apprehension clutched her as she opened it. The few -lines within frightened her still more. He had gone--where? She turned -the note over, looking at the back, in a sudden tremble of fearfulness. -He had never done anything like this before, left her, suddenly cut -loose from her in proud disgust. She stood by the clock, staring at -the paper, her face fallen into scared blankness, the artificial -hopefulness that she had been fostering since she awoke giving place to -a down-drop into an abyss of alarm. - -The door into the kitchen creaked and the Chinaman entered with the -second part of the dainty breakfast cooked especially for her. - -“What time did Mr. Ryan leave this morning?” she said without turning, -throwing the question over her shoulder. - -“I dunno,” the man returned, with the expressionless brevity of his -race particularly accentuated in this case, as he did not like his -mistress. “He no take blickfuss here. He no stay here last night.” - -She faced round on him, her eyes full of a sudden fierce intentness -which marked them in moments of angry surprise. - -“Wasn’t here last night?” she demanded. “What do you mean?” - -He arranged the dishes with careful precision, not troubling himself -to look up, and speaking with the same dry indifference. - -“He not here for blickfuss. No one sleep in his bed. I go make bed--all -made. I think he not here all night.” - -His work being accomplished he turned without more words and passed -into the kitchen. Berny stood for a moment thinking, then, with a shrug -of defiance, left her buckwheat cakes untasted and walked into the -hall. She went directly to her husband’s room and looked about with -sharp glances. She opened drawers and peered into the wardrobes. She -was a woman who had a curiously keen memory for small domestic details, -and a few moments’ investigation proved to her that he had taken some -of his oldest clothes, but had left behind all the better ones, and -that the silver box of jewelry on the bureau--filled with relics of the -days when he had been the idolized son of his parents--lacked none of -its contents. - -More alarmed than she had been in the course of her married life she -left the room and passed up the hall to the parlor. The brilliant, -over-furnished apartment in which she had crowded every fashion in -interior decoration that had pleased her fancy and been within the -compass of her purse, looked slovenly and unattractive in the gray -light of the morning. The smell of smoke was strong in it and the butts -and ashes of cigars Dominick had been smoking the evening before lay -in a tray on the center-table. She noticed none of these things, which -under ordinary circumstances would have been ground for scolding, for -she was a woman of fastidious personal daintiness. A cushioned seat -was built round the curve of the bay-window, and on this she sat down, -drawing back the fall of thick écru lace that veiled the pane. Her -eyes were fastened with an unwinking fixity on the fog-drenched street -without; her figure was motionless. - -Her outward rigidity of body concealed an intense inward energy of -thought. It suddenly appeared to her as if her hold on Dominick, which -till yesterday had seemed so strong that nothing but death could break -it, was weak, was nothing. It had been rooted in his sense of honor, -the sense that she fostered in him and by means of which she had been -able to make him marry her. Was this sense not so powerful as she -believed, or--dreadful thought!--was it weakening under the friction of -their life together? Had she played on it too much and worn it out? She -had been so sure of Dominick, so secure in his blind, plodding devotion -to his duty! She had secretly wondered at it, as a queer characteristic -that it was fortunate he possessed. Deep in her heart she had a slight, -amused contempt for it, a contempt that had extended to other things. -She had felt it for him in those early days of their marriage when he -had looked forward to children and wanted to live quietly, without -society, in his own home. It grew stronger later when she realized he -had accepted his exclusion from his world and was too proud to ask his -mother for money. - -And now! Suppose he had gone back to his people? A low ejaculation -escaped her, and she dropped the curtain and pressed her hand, clenched -to the hardness of a stone, against her breast. - -The mere thought of such a thing was intolerable. She did not see how -she could support the idea of his mother and sister winning him from -her. She hated them. They were the ones who had wronged her, who had -excluded her from the home and the riches and the position that her -marriage should have given her. Her retaliation had been her unwavering -grip on Dominick and the careful discretion with which she had -comported herself as his wife. There was no ground of complaint against -her. She had been as quiet, home-keeping and dutiful a woman as any in -California. She had been a good housekeeper, a skilful manager of her -husband’s small means. It was only within the last year that she had, -in angry spite, run into the debts with which she had taunted him. No -wife could have lived more rigorously up to the letter of her marriage -contract. It was easy for her to do it. She was not a woman whom light -living and license attracted. She had sacrificed her honor to win -Dominick, grudgingly, unwillingly, as close-fisted men part with money -in the hope of rich returns. She did not want to be his mistress, but -she knew of no other means by which she could reach the position of his -wife. - -Now suppose he had gone back to his people! It was an insupportable, a -maddening thought. It plunged her into agitation that made her rise and -move about the room with an aimless restlessness, like some soft-footed -feline animal. Suppose he had gone home and told them about last night, -and they had prevailed upon him not to come back! - -Well, even if they had, hers was still the strong position. The -sympathy of the disinterested outsider would always be with her. If she -had been quarrelsome and ugly, those were small matters. In the great -essentials she had not failed. Suppose she and the Ryans ever did come -to an open crossing of swords, would not her story be _the_ story of -the two? The world’s sympathy would certainly not go to the rich women, -trampling on the poor little typewriter, the honest working-girl, who -for one slip, righted by subsequent marriage, had been the object of -their implacable antagonism and persecution. - -She said this opposite the mirror, extending her hands as she had seen -an actress do in a recent play. As she saw her pointed, pale face, her -expression of worry gave way to one of pleased complacence. She looked -pathetic, and her position was pathetic. Who would have the heart to -condemn her when they saw her and heard her side of the story? Her -spirits began to rise. With the first gleam of returning confidence she -shook off her apprehensions. A struggle of sunshine pierced the fog, -and going to the window she drew the curtains and looked out on the -veil of mist every moment growing brighter and thinner. The sun finally -pierced it, a patch of blue shone above, and dropping the curtains she -turned and looked at the clock. It was after eleven. She decided she -would go out and take lunch with her sisters, who were always ready to -listen and to sympathize with her. - -These sisters were the only intimate friends and companions Bernice -had, their home the one house to which she was a constant visitor. With -all her peculiarities and faults she possessed a strong sense of kin. -In her rise to fairer fortune, if not greater happiness, her old home -had never lost its hold upon her, nor had she weakened in a sort of -cross-grained, patronizing loyalty to her two sisters. This may have -been accounted for by the fact that they were exceedingly amiable and -affectionate, proud to regard Bernice as the flower of the family, -whose dizzy translation to unexpected heights they had watched with -unenvious admiration. - -Hannah, the oldest of the family, was the daughter of a first -marriage. She was now a spinster of forty-five, and had taught school -for twenty years. Hazel was the youngest of the three, she and Bernice -having been the offspring of Danny Iverson’s second alliance with a -woman of romantic tendencies, which had no way of expressing themselves -except in the naming of her children. Hazel, while yet in her teens, -had married a clerk in a jewelry store, called Josh McCrae. It had been -a happy marriage. After the birth of a daughter, Hazel had returned to -her work as saleslady in a fashionable millinery. Both sisters, Josh, -and the child, had continued to live together in domestic harmony, in -the house which Hannah, with the savings of a quarter of a century, -had finally cleared of all mortgages and now owned. No household could -have been more simply decent and honest; no family more unaspiringly -content. In such an environment Bernice, with her daring ambitions and -bold unscrupulousness, was like that unaccounted-for blossom which in -the floral world is known as a “sport.” - -But it did not appear that she regarded herself as such. With the -exception of a year spent in Los Angeles and Chicago she had been -a member of the household from her childhood till the day of her -marriage. The year of absence had been the result of a sudden revolt -against the monotony of her life and surroundings, an upwelling of -the restless ambitions that preyed upon her. A good position had been -offered her in Los Angeles and she had accepted it with eagerness, -thankful for the opportunity to see the world, and break away, so she -said, from the tameness of her situation, the narrowness of her circle. -The spirit of adventure carried her farther afield, and she penetrated -as far across the continent as Chicago, where she was employed in -one of the most prosperous business houses, earning a large salary. -But, like many Californians, homesickness seized her, and before the -year was out she was back, inveighing against the eastern manners, -character, and climate, and glad to shake down again into the family -nest. Her sisters were satisfied with her account of her wanderings, -not knowing that Bernice was as much of an adept at telling half a -story as she was at taking down a dictation in typewriting. She was too -clever to be found out in a lie; they were altogether too simple to -suspect her apparent frankness. - -After the excursion she remained at home until her marriage. Her -liaison with Dominick was conducted with the utmost secrecy. Her -sisters had not a suspicion of it, knew nothing but that the young man -was attentive to her, till she told them of her approaching marriage. -This took place in the parlor of Hannah’s house, and the amazed -sisters, bewildered by Berny’s glories, had waited to see her burst -into the inner circles of fashion and wealth with a tiara of diamonds -on her head and ropes of pearls about her throat. That no tiara was -forthcoming, no pearls graced her bridal parure, and no Ryan ever -crossed the threshold of her door, seemed to the loyal Hannah and Hazel -the most unmerited and inexplicable injustice that had ever come within -their experience. - -It took Bernice some time to dress, for she attached the greatest -importance to all matters of personal adornment, and the lunch hour -was at hand when she alighted from the Hyde Street car and walked -toward the house. It was on one of those streets which cross Hyde near -the slope of Russian Hill, and are devoted to the habitats of small, -thrifty householders. A staring, bright cleanliness is the prevailing -characteristic of the neighborhood, the cement sidewalks always swept, -the houses standing back in tiny squares of garden, clipped and trimmed -to a precise shortness of grass and straightness of border. The sun -was now broadly out and the house-fronts engarlanded with vines, their -cream-colored faces spotless in fresh coats of paint, presented a line -of uniform bay-windows to its ingratiating warmth. Hannah’s was the -third, and its gleaming clearness of window-pane and the stainless -purity of its front steps were points of domestic decency that its -proprietor insisted on as she did on the servant girl’s apron being -clean and the parlor free from dust. - -Berny had retained her latch-key, and letting herself in passed -into the dustless parlor which connected by folding doors with the -dining-room beyond. Nothing had been changed in it since the days -of her tenancy. The upright piano, draped with a China silk scarf, -stood in the old corner. The solar print of her father hung over the -mantelpiece on which a gilt clock and a pair of China dogs stood at -accurately-measured distances. The tufted arm-chairs were placed far -from each other, severely isolated in the corners, as though the room -were too remote and sacred even to suggest the cheerful amenities of -social intercourse. A curious, musty smell hung in the air. It recalled -the past in which Dominick had figured as her admirer. The few times -that he had been to her home she had received him in this solemn, -unaired apartment in which the chandelier was lit for the occasion, -and Hannah and Hazel had sat in the kitchen, breathless with curiosity -as to what such a call might portend. She had been married here, in -the bay-window, under a wedding bell of white roses. The musty smell -brought it all back, even her sense of almost breathless elation, when -the seal was set on her daring schemes. - -From beyond the folding doors a sound of conversation and smitten -crockery arose, also a strong odor of cooking. The family were already -at lunch, and opening the door Berny entered in upon the midday meal -which was being partaken of by her two sisters, Josh, and Hazel’s -daughter Pearl, a pretty child of eight. - -Neither of her sisters resembled her in the least. Hannah was a -woman who looked more than her age, with a large, calm face, and -gentle, near-sighted eyes which blinked at the world behind a pair of -steel-rimmed glasses. Her quarter-century of school teaching had not -dried or stiffened her. She was fuller of the milk of human kindness, -of the ideals and enthusiasms of youth, than either of her sisters. All -the love of her kindly, maternal nature was given to Pearl, whom she -was bringing up carefully to be what seemed to Hannah best in woman. - -Hazel was very pretty and still young. She had the fresh, even bloom -of a Californian woman, a round, graceful figure, and glossy brown -hair, rippled and arranged in an elaborate coiffure as though done by -a hair-dresser. She could do this herself as she could make her own -clothes, earn a fair salary at the milliner’s, and sing to the guitar -in a small piping voice. Her husband was ravished by her good looks -and accomplishments, and thought her the most wonderful woman in the -world. He was a thin, tall, young man with stooping shoulders, a long, -lean neck, and an amiable, insignificant face. But he seemed to please -Hazel, who had married him when she was nineteen, being haunted by the -nightmare thought that if she did not take what chances offered, she -might become an old maid like Hannah. - -Berny sat down next to the child, conscious that under the pleasant -friendliness of their greetings a violent curiosity as to whether she -had been to the ball burned in each breast. She had talked over her -chances of going with them, and Hazel, whose taste in all such matters -was excellent, had helped her order the dress. Now, drawing her plate -toward her and shaking out her napkin, she began to eat her lunch, at -once too sore and too perverse to begin the subject. The others endured -their condition of ignorance for some minutes, and then Hazel, finding -that to wait was useless, approached the vital topic. - -“Well, Berny, we’ve been looking over the list of guests at the ball in -the morning papers and your name don’t seem to be down.” - -“I don’t see why it should,” said Berny without looking up, -“considering I wasn’t there.” - -“You weren’t there!” ejaculated Hannah. “They didn’t ask you?” - -“That’s right,” said Berny, breaking a piece of bread. “They didn’t ask -me.” - -“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” exclaimed Josh. “That beats the Dutch!” - -“I didn’t believe Mrs. Ryan would do that,” said Hannah, so pained that -her generally observant eye took no note of the fact that Pearl was -putting her fingers in her plate. “You’re as good as her own flesh and -blood, too,--her son’s wife. It’s not Christian, and I don’t understand -it.” - -“It’s tough,” said Josh, “that’s what it is, tough!” - -“If I were you,” said Hazel with spirit, “husband or no husband, I’d -never want to go inside that house or have any dealings with that crowd -again. If they were down on their knees to me I’d never go near them. -Just think what it would be if Josh’s mother thought herself too good -to know me! I’d like to know what I’d feel about it.” - -“But she wouldn’t, dearie,” said Josh placatingly. “She’d be proud to -have you related to her.” - -“I guess she’d better be,” said Hazel, fixing an indignant glare on her -spouse. “She’d find she’d barked up the wrong tree if she wasn’t.” - -Considering that Josh’s mother had been dead for twelve years and in -her lifetime had been a meek and unassuming woman who let lodgings, -Hazel’s proud repudiation at her possible scorn seemed a profitless -wasting of fires, and Josh forthwith turned the conversation back to -the ball. - -“Perhaps they did send you an invitation,” he said to Berny, “and it -got lost in the mails. That does happen, you know.” - -Berny’s cheeks, under the faint bloom of rouge that covered them, -flamed a sudden, dusky red. She had never been open with these simple -relations of hers and she was not going to begin now. But she felt -shame as she thought of Dominick’s humiliating quest for the invitation -that was refused. - -“Oh, no,” she said hurriedly. “It wasn’t sent, that’s all. Mrs. Ryan -won’t have me in the house. That’s the fact and there’s no use trying -to get round it. Well, she can do without me. I seem able to support my -existence without her.” - -Her tone and manner, marked by a sort of hard bravado, did not deceive -her sisters, who had that extreme naïveté in expressing their intimate -feelings which is peculiar to Californians. They looked at her with -commiserating sympathy, not quite comprehending her attitude of -independence, but feeling sorry for her, whatever pose she adopted. - -“And your dress,” said Hazel, “what will you do with that? When will -you ever wear it--a regular ball-dress like that?” - -“Oh, I’ll wear it,” said Berny with an air of having quantities of -social opportunities not known by her sisters. “It won’t be a loss.” - -“You could put a guimpe in and have sleeves to the elbow and wear it -to the theater. With a white hat with plumes it would be a dead swell -costume. And if you met any of the Ryans they’d see you were holding up -your end of the line and not _quite_ ready yet to go to the alms-house.” - -Hannah shook her head. - -“I don’t see how she could do that--transparent neck and all. I don’t -think that’s the kind of dress to wear in a theater. It’s too sort of -conspicuous.” - -“I think Hannah’s right,” said Josh solemnly, nodding at Berny. “It -don’t seem to me the right thing for a lady. Looks fast.” - -“What do you know about it, Josh McCrae?” said Hazel pugnaciously. -“You’re a clerk in a jewelry store.” - -“Maybe I am,” retorted Josh, “but I guess that don’t prevent me from -knowing when a thing looks fast. Clerks in jewelry stores ain’t such -gummers as you might think. And, anyway, I don’t see that being a clerk -in any kind of a store has anything to do with it.” - -Hazel was saved the effort of making a crushing repartee, by Pearl, who -had been silently eating her lunch, now suddenly launching a remark -into the momentary pause. - -“Did Uncle Dominick go to the ball?” she asked, raising a pair of -limpid blue eyes to Berny’s face. - -An instantaneous, significant silence fell on the others, and all eyes -turned inquiringly to Berny. Her air of cool control became slightly -exaggerated. - -“No, he stayed at home with me,” she replied, picking daintily at the -meat on her plate. - -“But I suppose he felt real hurt and annoyed,” said Hannah. “He -couldn’t have helped it.” - -Berny did not reply. She knew that she must sooner or later tell -her sisters of Dominick’s strange departure. They would find it out -otherwise and suspect more than she wanted them to know. They, like the -rest of the world, had no idea that Berny’s brilliant marriage was not -the domestic success it appeared on the surface. She moved her knife -and fork with an arranging hand, and, as Hazel started to speak, said -with as careless an air as she could assume, - -“Dominick’s gone. He left this morning.” - -The news had even more of an effect than she had expected. Her four -companions stared at her in wonderment. A return of the dread and -depression of the morning came upon her when she saw their surprise. -She felt her heart sink as it had done when she read his note. - -“Gone where?” exclaimed Hazel. This was the test question and Berny had -schooled herself in an answer in the car coming up. - -“Oh, up into the country,” she said nonchalantly. “He’s worn out. They -work the life out of him in that horrible bank. He’s getting insomnia -and thought he’d better take a change now before he got run completely -down, so he left this morning and I’m a gay grass widow.” - -She laughed and drank some water. Her laugh did not sound to her own -ears convincing and she was aware that, while Hannah was evidently -satisfied by her explanation, Hazel was eying her ponderingly. - -“Well, if he’s got insomnia,” said Hannah, “he’d better take his -holiday right now. That’s the best thing to do. Take it in the -beginning. Before father took ill----” - -Here Josh interrupted her, as Hannah’s reminiscences of the late -contractor’s last illness were long and exhaustive. - -“Where’d you say he’d gone?” he queried. - -“I can’t remember the name,” Berny answered with skilfully-assumed -indifference; “somewhere down toward Santa Cruz and Monterey, some new -place. And he may not stay there. If he doesn’t like it, he’ll just -move around from place to place.” - -“Why didn’t you go, too?” said Pearl. - -This was the second question Berny had dreaded. Now suddenly she felt -her throat contract and her lips quiver. Her usually iron nerve had -been shaken by her passion of the night before and the shock of the -morning. The unwonted sensations of gloom and apprehension closed in on -her again, and this time made her feel weak and tearful. - -“I didn’t want to. I hate moving round,” she said, pushing her chair -back from the table. Her voice was a little hoarse, and suddenly -feeling the sting of tears under her eyelids she raised her hands to -her hat and began to fumble with her veil. “Why should I leave my -comfortable flat to go trailing round in a lot of half-built hotels? -That sort of thing doesn’t appeal to me at all. I like my own cook, and -my own bed, and my own bath-tub. I’m more of an old maid than Hannah. -Well, so long, people. I must be traveling.” - -She laid her napkin on the table and jumped up with an assumption -of brisk liveliness. She paid no attention to the expostulations -of her relatives, but going to the glass arranged her hat and put -on her gloves. When she turned back to the table she had regained -possession of herself. Her veil was down and through it her cheeks -looked unusually flushed, and her dark eyes, with their slanting -outer corners, brighter and harder than ever. She hurried through her -good-bys on the plea that she had shopping to do, and almost ran out of -the house, leaving a trail of perfumery and high, artificial laughter -behind her. - -For the next week she waited for news from Dominick and none came. -It was a trying seven days. Added to her harassment of mind, the -loneliness of the flat was almost unendurable. There was no one to -speak to, no one to share her anxieties. Her position was unusually -friendless. When her marriage had lifted her from the ranks of working -women she had shown so cold a face to her old companions that they had -dropped away from her, realizing that she wished to cut all ties with -the world of her humble beginnings. New friends had been hard to make. -The wives of some of the bank officials, and odd, aspiring applicants -for such honors as would accrue from even this remote connection with -the august name of Ryan, were all she had found wherewith to make a -circle and a visiting list. - -But she was intimate with none of them and was now too worried to -seek the society of mere acquaintances. She ate her solitary meals -in oppressive silence, feeling the Chinaman’s eyes fixed upon her -in ironic disbelief of the story she had told him to account for -Dominick’s absence. Eat as slowly as she would, her dinner could not be -made to occupy more than twenty minutes, and after that there was the -long evening, the interminable evening, to be passed. She was a great -reader of newspapers, and when she returned from her afternoon shopping -she brought a bundle of evening papers home in her hand. She would -read these slowly, at first the important items, then go over them for -matters of less moment, and finally scan the advertisements. But even -with this occupation the evenings were of a vast, oppressive emptiness, -and her worries crowded in upon her, when, the papers lying round her -feet in a sea of billowing, half-folded sheets, she sat motionless, -the stillness of the empty flat and the deserted street lying round her -like an expression of her own blank depression. - -At the end of the week she felt that she must find out something, -and went to the bank. It was her intention to cash a small check and -over this transaction see if the paying teller would vouchsafe any -information about Dominick. She pushed the check through the opening -and, as the man counted out the money, said glibly, - -“Do you hear anything of my wandering husband?” - -The teller pushed the little pile of silver and gold through the window -toward her and leaning forward, said, with the air of one who intends -to have a leisurely moment of talk, - -“No, we haven’t. Isn’t it our place to come to you for that? We were -wondering where he’d gone at such a season.” - -Berny’s delicately-gloved fingers made sudden haste to gather up the -coins. - -“Oh, he’s just loafing about,” she said as easily as was consistent -with the disappointment and alarm that gripped her. “He’s just -wandering round from place to place. He was getting insomnia and wanted -a change of scene.” - -She snapped the clasp of her purse before the man could ask her further -questions, nodded her good-bys, and turned from the window. Her face -changed as she emerged on the wide, stone steps that led to the street. -It was pinched and pale, two lines drawn between the eyebrows. She -descended the steps slowly, the flood of magnificent sunshine having -no warming influence upon the chill that had seized upon her. Many -of the passing throng of men looked at her--a pretty woman in her -modishly-made dress of tan-colored cloth and her close-fitting brown -turban with a bunch of white paradise feathers at one side. Under her -dotted veil her carefully made-up complexion looked naturally clear and -rosy, and her eyes, accentuated by a dark line beneath them, were in -attractive contrast to her reddened hair. But she was not thinking of -herself or the admiration she evoked, a subject which was generally of -overpowering interest. Matters of more poignant moment had crowded all -else from her mind. - -The next week began and advanced and still no news from Dominick. He -had been gone fourteen days, when one evening in her perusal of the -paper she saw his name. Her trembling hands pressed the sheet down on -the table, and her eyes devoured the printed lines. It was one of the -many short despatches that had come from the foot-hill mining towns on -the recent storms in the Sierra. It was headed Rocky Bar and contained -a description of the situation at Antelope and the snow-bound colony -there. Its chief item of information was that Bill Cannon and his -daughter were among the prisoners in Perley’s Hotel. A mention was -made, only a line or two, of Dominick’s walk from Rocky Bar, but it was -treated lightly and gave no idea of the real seriousness of that almost -fatal excursion. - -Berny read the two short paragraphs many times, and her spirits went up -like the needle of a thermometer when the quicksilver is grasped in a -warm hand. Her relief was intense, easeful and relaxing, as the sudden -cessation of a pain. Not only was Dominick at last found, but he was -found in a place as far removed from his own family and its influences -as he was from her. And best of all he was shut up, incarcerated, with -Bill Cannon, the Bonanza King. What might not come of it? Berny was -not glad of the quarrel, but it seemed a wonderful piece of luck that -that unpleasant episode should have sent him into the very arms of the -man that she had always wanted him to cultivate and who was the best -person in the world for him to impress favorably. If Bill Cannon, who -had been a friend of his father’s, took a fancy to Dominick, there was -no knowing what might happen. In a sudden reaction of relief and hope -Berny saw them almost adopted children of the Bonanza King, flouting -the Ryans in the pride of their new-found honors. - -It made her feel lenient to Dominick, whose indifference and neglect -had put her to the torments of the last fortnight. After all, he could -not have let her know his whereabouts. The wires were only just up, -and the rural mail-carrier had not yet been able to effect an entrance -into the snow-bound town. Why Dominick had chosen to go in this -direction and had attempted an impossible walk in a heavy snowstorm -Berny did not know, nor just now care much. A sensation as near remorse -and tenderness as she could feel possessed her. Under its softening -influence--spurred to generosity and magnanimity by the lifting of the -weight of anxiety--she decided that she would write to him. She would -write him a letter which would smooth out the difficulties between them -and bring him home ready to forgive and be once more his old self, -kind, quiet, and indulgent, as he had been in the first year of their -marriage. - -Then and there, without further waiting, she wrote the letter. It ran -as follows: - - “MY DEAR HUSBAND:--I have only just seen in the paper where you - are, and, oh, the relief! For two weeks now I have been half crazy, - wondering about you, waiting to hear from you. And nothing ever - came. Dominick, dear, if you had seen me sitting here alone in the - den every evening, thinking and waiting, looking at the clock and - listening all the time, even when I was trying to read--listening - for your footsteps which never came--you would have felt very sorry - for me; even you, who were so angry that you left me without a word. - It’s just been hell this last two weeks. You may not think by the - way I acted that I would have cared, but I did, I do. If I didn’t - love you would I mind how your people treated me? That’s what makes - it so hard, because I love you and want you to be happy with me, - and it’s dreadful for me to see them always getting in between us, - till sometimes lately I have felt they were going to separate us - altogether. - - “Oh, my dear husband, don’t let that happen! Don’t let them drive me - away from you! If I have been bad-humored and unreasonable, I have - had to bear a lot. I am sorry for the past. I am sorry for what I - said to you that night, and for turning on the gas and scratching - the bed. I am ready to acknowledge that I was wrong, and was mean - and hateful. And now you ought to be ready to forgive me and forget - it all. Come back to me. Please come back. Don’t be angry with me. I - am your wife. You chose me of your own free will. That I loved you - so that I forgot honor and public opinion and had no will but yours, - you know better than any one else in the world. It isn’t every man, - Dominick, that gets that kind of love. I gave it then and I’ve never - stopped giving it, though I’ve often been so put upon and enraged - that I’ve said things I didn’t mean and done things I’ve been ready - to kill myself for. Here I am now, waiting for you, longing for you. - Come back to me. - Your loving wife, - - BERNY.” - -She read the letter over several times and it pleased her greatly. So -anxious was she to have it go as soon as possible that, though it was -past ten, she took it out herself and posted it in the letter-box at -the corner. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -SNOW-BOUND - - -While the world went about its affairs, attended to its business, read -its papers, sent its telegrams and wrote its letters, the little group -at Antelope was as completely cut off from it as though marooned on -a strip of sand in an unknown sea. A second storm had followed the -original one, and the end of the first week saw them snowed in deeper -than ever, Antelope a trickle of roofs and smoke-stacks, in a white, -crystal-clear wilderness, solemn in its stillness and loneliness as the -primeval world. - -The wires were down; the letter-carrier could not break his way in to -them. They heard no news and received no mail. Confined in a group -of rude buildings, crouched in a hollow of the Sierra’s flank, they -felt for the first time what it was to be outside that circle of busy -activity in which their lives had heretofore passed. They were face -to face with the nature they thought they had conquered and which -now in its quiet grandeur awed them with a sense of their own small -helplessness. Pressed upon by that enormous silent indifference they -drew nearer together, each individual unit gaining in importance -from the contrasting immensity without, each character unconsciously -declaring itself, emerging from acquired reticences and becoming bolder -and more open. - -They accepted their captivity in a spirit of gay good humor. The only -two members of the party to whom it seemed irksome were Bill Cannon -and the actor, both girding against a confinement which kept them -from their several spheres of action. The others abandoned themselves -to a childish, almost fantastic enjoyment of a situation unique in -their experience. It was soon to end, it would never be repeated. It -was an adventure charged with romance, accidental, unsought, as all -true adventures are. The world was forgotten for these few days of -imprisonment against the mountain’s mighty heart. It did not exist for -them. All that was real was their own little party, the whitewashed -passages and walls of Perley’s, the dining-room with its board floor -and homely fare, and the parlor at night with a semicircle of faces -round the blazing logs. - -On the afternoon of the sixth day Dominick made his first appearance -down stairs. He achieved the descent with slow painfulness, hobbling -between Perley and the doctor. The former’s bath-robe had been cast -aside for a dignified dark-brown dressing-gown, contributed to his -wardrobe by Cannon, and which, cut to fit the burly proportions of -the Bonanza King, hung around the long, lank form of the young man in -enveloping folds. - -The parlor was empty, save for Miss Cannon sitting before the fire. -Dominick had ceased to feel bashfulness and constraint in the presence -of this girl, who had been pushed--against his will if not against -her own--into the position of his head attendant. The afternoon when -they had sat together in his room seemed to have brushed away all -his shyness and self-consciousness. He thought now that it would be -difficult to retain either in intercourse with a being who was so -candid, so spontaneous, so freshly natural. He found himself treating -her as if she were a young boy with whom he had been placed on a sudden -footing of careless, cheery intimacy. But her outward seeming--what she -presented to the eye--was not in the least boyish. Her pale, opaque -blondness, her fine, rich outlines, her softness of mien, were things -as completely and graciously feminine as the most epicurean admirer of -women could have wished. - -Now, at the sight of her bending over the fire, he experienced a -sensation of pleasure which vaguely surprised him. He was hardly -conscious that all the time he had been dressing and while he came down -stairs he had been hoping that she would be there. He sent a quick -glance ahead of him, saw her, and looked away. The pain of his feet -was violent, and without again regarding her he knew that while he was -gaining his chair and his attendants were settling him, she had not -turned from her contemplation of the fire. He already knew her well -enough to have a comfortable assurance of her invariable quick tact. It -was not till the two men were leaving the room that she turned to him -and said, as if resuming an interrupted conversation, - -“Well, how do you like the parlor? Speak nicely of it for I feel as if -it belonged to me.” - -“It’s a first-rate parlor,” he answered, looking about him. “Never saw -a better one. Who’s the gentleman with the wreath of wax flowers round -his head?” - -“That’s Jim Granger. He comes from here, you know; and you mustn’t -laugh at those flowers, they came off his coffin.” - -“My father knew him,” said the young man indifferently. “There were -lots of queer stories about Jim Granger. He killed a man once up at -Bodie. You’ve a fine fire here, haven’t you?” - -“Fine. It’s never allowed to go out. What do you think I intend to do -this afternoon? I’ve a plan for amusing and instructing you.” - -“What is it?” he said somewhat uneasily. “I don’t feel in the least as -if I wanted to be instructed.” - -She rose and moved to the center-table which was covered with an -irregular scattering of books. - -“Before you came down I was looking over these books. There are lots of -them. Mrs. Perley says they’ve been accumulating for years. Mining men -have left them and some of them have the names of people I know written -in them. I thought perhaps you might like to read some of them.” - -Dominick sent a lazily disparaging glance over the books. He was not -much of a reader at the best of times. - -“What are they,” he said, “novels?” - -“Mostly.” She sat down by the table and took up the volume nearest to -her. “Here’s _Tale of Two Cities_. That’s a fine one.” - -“I’ve read it. Yes, it’s splendid. It’s all about the French -Revolution. The hero’s like a real person and heroes in books hardly -ever are, only I’d have liked him better if he’d stopped drinking and -married his girl.” - -“I thought perhaps you might like me to read to you,” she said, turning -a tentative glance on him. “That’s how I was going to amuse and -instruct you.” - -“I’m sure it would be much more amusing and probably just as -instructive if you talked to me.” - -“You’ve got to stay down here two hours. How could I talk and be -amusing and instructive for two hours? You’d probably have a relapse -and I’m quite sure the doctor’d find me in a dead faint on the hearth -when he came in.” - -“All right. Let’s try the books. Don’t let’s risk relapses and dead -faints.” - -“Very well, then, that’s understood. We’ll go through the library now. -I’ll read the titles and you say if you like any of them.” - -“Suppose I don’t?” - -“You’ll surely have a preference.” - -“All right. I’ll try to. Go on.” - -“Here’s _Foul Play_, by Charles Reade. It seems to have been a good -deal read. Some of the paragraphs are marked with a pencil.” - -“I think I’ve read it, but I’m not sure. It sounds like a murder story. -No, let’s pass on that.” - -“Well, here’s _Mrs. Skaggs’ Husbands_, by Bret Harte. Does that sound -as if you’d like it?” - -“‘Husbands!’ No. We don’t want to read about a woman who has husbands. -Pass on that, too.” - -“The next is very nicely bound and looks quite fresh and new, as if -nobody had read it much. It’s called _The Amazing Marriage_.” - -“Oh, pass on that! I had it once and stuck in the third chapter. The -last time I went East somebody gave it to me to read on the train. I -read three chapters and I was more amazed than anybody in sight. The -porter was a fresh coon and I gave it to him as my revenge. I’ll bet -it amazed him.” - -“You don’t seem to have anything in the nature of a preference, so far. -I wonder how this will suit you. _Notre Dame de Paris_, by Victor Hugo.” - -“I don’t understand French.” - -“It’s in English and it’s quite worn out, as if it had been read over -and over. Several of the pages are falling out.” - -“Oh, I’ve read that. I just remember. It’s a rattling good story, too. -About the hunchback and the gipsy girl who tells fortunes and has a pet -goat. The priest, who’s a villain, falls off the steeple and clings -to a gutter by his finger nails with his enemy watching him. It’s the -finest kind of a story.” - -“What a pity that you’ve read it! Oh, here’s one that’s evidently -been a great favorite. It’s in paper and it’s all thumbed and torn. -Somebody’s written across the top, ‘Of all the damned fool people----’. -Oh, I beg your pardon, I read it before I realized. The name is _Wife -in Name Only_. It doesn’t seem the kind of title that makes you want to -read the book, does it?” - -“‘Wife in Name Only!’” he gave a short laugh. “It certainly isn’t the -kind of name that would make _me_ want to read a book.” - -“Nor me,” said a deep voice behind them. - -They both turned to see Buford, the actor, standing back of the table, -his tall, angular figure silhouetted against the pale oblong of the -uncurtained window. He was smiling suavely, but at the same time with -a sort of uneasy, assumed assurance, which suggested that he was not -unused to rebuffs. - -“That, certainly,” he said, “is not a name to recommend a book to any -man--any man, that is, who has or ever had a wife.” - -He advanced into the circle of the firelight, blandly beaming at the -young man, who, leaning back in his chair, was eying him with surprised -inquiry, never having seen him before. The look did not chill the -friendly effusion of the actor who, approaching Dominick, said with the -full, deep resonance of his remarkable voice, - -“Congratulations, my dear sir, congratulations. Not alone on your -recovery, but on the fact that you are here with us at all.” He held -out his large hand, the skin chapped and red with the cold, and the -long fingers closed with a wrenching grip on Dominick’s. “We were not -sure, when you arrived among us a few nights ago, that we would have -the felicity of seeing you so soon up and around--in fact, we were -doubtful whether we would _ever_ see you up and around.” - -“Thanks, very kind of you. Oh, I’m all right now.” Dominick pressed the -hand in return and then, bending a little forward, sent a glance of -imploring query round the stranger’s shoulder at Rose. - -She caught the eye, read its behest, and presented the new-comer: - -“Mr. Ryan, this is Mr. Buford who is snowed in here with us. Mr. Buford -came here the same day as you, only he came on the Murphysville stage.” - -Buford sat down between them on one of the horsehair chairs that were -sociably arranged round the table. The firelight threw into prominence -the bony angles of his thin face and glazed the backward sweep of his -hair, dark-brown, and worn combed away from his forehead, where a -pair of heavy, flexible eyebrows moved up and down like an animated -commentary on the conversation. When anything surprising was said they -went up, anything puzzling or painful they were drawn down. He rested -one hand on his knee, the fingers turned in, and, sitting bolt upright, -buttoned tight into his worn frock-coat, turned a glance of somewhat -deprecating amiability upon the invalid. - -“You had a pretty close call, _a-pretty-close-call_,” he said. “If the -operator at Rocky Bar hadn’t had the sense to wire up here, that would -have been the end of _your_ life story.” - -Dominick had heard this from every member of the snowed-in party. -Repetition was not making it any more agreeable, and there was an -effect of abrupt ungraciousness in his short answer which was merely a -word of comment. - -“Didn’t the people at the Rocky Bar Hotel try to dissuade you from -starting?” said Buford. “They must have known it was dangerous. They -must have been worried about you or they wouldn’t have telegraphed up.” - -“Oh, I believe they did.” The young man tried to hide the annoyance the -questions gave him under a dry brevity of speech. “They did all that -they ought to have done. I’ll see them again on my way down.” - -“And yet you persisted!” The actor turned to Rose with whom, as he -sat beside her at table, he had become quite friendly. “The blind -confidence of youth, Miss Cannon, isn’t it a grand, inspiring thing?” - -Dominick shifted his aching feet under the rug. He was becoming -exceedingly irritated and impatient, and wondered how much longer he -would be able to respond politely to the conversational assiduities of -the stranger. - -“Now,” continued Buford, “kindly satisfy my curiosity on one point. -Why, when you were told of the danger of the enterprise, did you start?” - -“Perhaps I liked the danger, wanted it to tone me up. I’m a bank clerk, -Mr. Buford, and my life’s monotonous. Danger’s a change.” - -He raised his voice and spoke with sudden rude defiance. Buford looked -quickly at him, while his eyebrows went up nearly to his hair. - -“A bank clerk, oh!” he said with a falling inflection of -disappointment, much chagrined to discover that the child of millions -occupied such a humble niche. “I--I--was not aware of that.” - -“An assistant cashier,” continued Dominick in the same key of -exasperation, “and I managed to get a holiday at this season because my -father was one of the founders of the bank and they allow me certain -privileges. If you would like to know anything else ask me and I’ll -answer as well as I know how.” - -His manner and tone so plainly indicated his resentment of the -other’s curiosity that the actor flushed and shrank. He was evidently -well-meaning and sensitive, and the young man’s rudeness hurt rather -than angered him. For a moment nothing was said, Buford making no -response other than to clear his throat, while he stretched out one arm -and pulled down his cuff with a jerking movement. There was constraint -in the air, and Rose, feeling that he had been treated with unnecessary -harshness, sought to palliate it by lifting the book on her lap and -saying to him, - -“This is the book we were talking about when you came in, Mr. Buford, -_Wife in Name Only_. Have you read it?” - -She handed him the ragged volume, and holding it off he eyed it with -a scrutiny all the more marked by the way he drew his heavy brows down -till they hung like bushy eaves over his eyes. - -“No, my dear young lady. I have not. Nor do I feel disposed to do so. -‘Wife in Name Only!’ That tells a whole story without reading a word. -Were _you_ going to read it?” - -“No; Mr. Ryan and I were just looking over them. We were thinking about -reading one of them aloud. This one happened to be on the pile.” - -“To me,” continued Buford, “the name is repelling because it suggests -sorrows of my own.” - -There was a pause. He evidently expected a question which undoubtedly -was not going to come from Dominick, who sat fallen together in the -arm-chair looking at him with moody ill-humor. There was more hope from -Rose, who gazed at the floor but said nothing. Buford was forced to -repeat with an unctuous depth of tone, “Suggests sorrows of my own,” -and fasten his glance on her, so that, as she raised her eyes, they -encountered the commanding encouragement of his. - -“Sorrows of your own?” she repeated timidly, but with the expected -questioning inflection. - -“Yes, my dear Miss Cannon,” returned the actor with a melancholy which -was full of a rich, dark enjoyment. “_My_ wife is one in name only.” - -There was another pause, and neither of the listeners showing any -intention of breaking it, Buford remarked, - -“_That_ sorrow is mine.” - -“_What_ sorrow?” said Dominick bruskly. - -“The sorrow of a deserted man,” returned the actor with now, for the -first time, something of the dignity of real feeling in his manner. - -“Oh,” the monosyllable was extremely non-committal, but it had an air -of finality as though Dominick intended to say no more. - -“Has she--er--left you?” said the girl in a low and rather awe-stricken -voice. - -The actor inclined his head in an acquiescent bow: - -“She has.” - -Again there was a pause. Unless Buford chose to be more biographical, -the conversation appeared to have come to a deadlock. Neither of the -listeners could at this stage break into his reserve with questions and -yet to switch off on a new subject was not to be thought of at a moment -of such emotional intensity. The actor evidently felt this, for he said -suddenly, with a relapse into a lighter tone and letting his eyebrows -escape from an overshadowing closeness to his eyes, - -“But why should I trouble you with the sorrows that have cast their -shadow on me? Why should my matrimonial troubles be allowed to darken -the brightness of two young lives which have not yet known the joys and -the perils of the wedded state?” - -The pause that followed this remark was the most portentous that had -yet fallen on the trio. Rose cast a surreptitious glance at the dark -figure of young Ryan, lying back in the shadows of the arm-chair. As -she looked he stirred and said with the abrupt, hard dryness which had -marked his manner since Buford’s entrance, - -“Don’t take too much for granted, Mr. Buford. I’ve known some of the -joys and perils of the wedded state myself.” - -The actor stared at him in open-eyed surprise. - -“Do I rightly understand,” he said, “that you are a married man?” - -“You do,” returned Dominick. - -“Really now, I never would have guessed it! Pardon me for not having -given you the full dues of your position. Your wife, I take it, has no -knowledge of the risk she recently ran of losing her husband?” - -“I hope not.” - -“Well,” he replied with a manner of sudden cheery playfulness, “we’ll -take good care that she doesn’t learn. When the wires are up we’ll -concoct a telegram that shall be a masterpiece of diplomatic lying. -Lucky young man to have a loving wife at home. Of all of us _you_ are -the one who can best realize the meaning of the line, ‘’Tis sweet to -know there is an eye to mark our coming and----’” - -Dominick threw the rug off and rose to his feet. - -“If you can get Perley to help me I’ll go up stairs again. I’m tired -and I’ll go back to my room.” - -He tried to step forward, but the pain of his unhealed foot was -unbearable, and he caught the edge of the table and held it, his face -paling with sudden anguish. The actor, startled by the abruptness of -his uprising, approached him with a vague proffer of assistance and was -arrested by his sharp command: - -“Go and get Perley! He’s in the bar probably. I can’t stand this way -for long. Hurry up!” - -Buford ran out of the room, and Rose somewhat timidly drew near the -young man, braced against the table, his eyes down-bent, his face hard -in the struggle with sudden and unfamiliar pain. - -“Can’t I help you?” she said. “Perley may not be there. Mr. Buford and -I can get you up stairs.” - -“Oh, no,” he answered, his words short but his tone more conciliatory. -“It’s nothing to bother about. I’d have wrung that man’s neck if I’d -had to listen to him five minutes longer.” - -Here Perley and Buford entered, and the former, offering his support to -the invalid, led him hobbling out of the door and into the hall. The -actor looked after them for a moment and then came back to the fire -where Miss Cannon was standing, thoughtfully regarding the burning logs. - -“I’ve no doubt,” he said, “that young Mr. Ryan is an estimable -gentleman, but he certainly appears to be possessed by a very -impatient and ugly temper.” - -Buford had found Miss Cannon one of the most amiable and charming -ladies he had ever met, and it was therefore a good deal of a surprise -to have her turn upon him a face of cold, reproving disagreement, and -remark in a voice that matched it: - -“I don’t agree with you at all, Mr. Buford, and you seem quite to -forget that Mr. Ryan has been very sick and is still in great pain.” - -Buford was exceedingly abashed. He would not have offended Miss Cannon -for anything in the world, and it seemed to him that a being so compact -of graciousness and consideration would be the first to censure an -exhibition of ill-humor such as young Ryan had just made. He stammered -an apologetic sentence and it did not add to his comfort to see that -she was not entirely mollified by it and to feel that she exhaled a -slight, disapproving coldness that put him at a great distance and made -him feel mortified and ill at ease. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -THE UNKNOWN EROS - - -The ten days that followed were among the most important of Dominick -Ryan’s life. Looking back at them he wondered that he had been so -blind to the transformation of his being which was taking place. Great -emotional crises are often not any more recognized, by the individuals, -than great transitional epochs are known by the nations experiencing -them. Dominick did not realize that the most engrossing, compelling -passion he had ever felt was slowly invading him. He did not argue that -he was falling in love with a woman he could never own and of whom it -was a sin to think. He did not argue or think about anything. He was as -a vessel gradually filling with elemental forces, and like the vessel -he was passive till some jar would shake it and the forces would run -over. Meantime he was held by a determination, mutinous and unreasoning -as the determination of a child, to live in the present. He had the -feeling of the desert traveler who has found the oasis. The desert lay -behind him, burning and sinister with the agony of his transit, and -the desert lay before him with its horrors to be faced, but for the -moment he could lie still and rest and forget by the fountain under the -cool of the trees. - -He did not consciously think of Rose. But if she were not there he was -uneasy till she came again. His secret exhilaration at her approach, -the dead blankness of his lack of her when she was absent, told him -nothing. These were the feelings he had, and they filled him and left -no cool residue of reason wherewith to watch and guard. He was taken -unawares, so drearily confident of his allegiance to his particular -private tragedy that he did not admit the possibility of a defection. -A sense of rest was on him and he set it down--if he ever thought of -it at all--to the relief of a temporary respite. Poor Dominick, with -his inexperience of sweet things, did not argue that respite from pain -should be a quiescent, contented condition of being, far removed from -that state of secret, troubled gladness that thrilled him at the sound -of a woman’s footstep. - -No situation could have been invented better suited for the fostering -of sentiment. His helpless state demanded her constant attention. The -attitude of nurse to patient, the solicitude of the consoling woman -for the disabled, suffering man, have been, since time immemorial, -recognized aids to romance. Rose, if an unawakened woman, was enough -of one to enjoy richly this maternal office of alternate cossetting -and ruling one, who, in the natural order of things, should have stood -alone in his strength, dictating the law. Perhaps the human female so -delights in this particular opportunity for tyranny because it is one -of her few chances for indulging her passion for authority. - -Rose, if she did not quite revel in it, discreetly enjoyed her period -of dominance. In the beginning Dominick had been not a man but a -patient--about the same to her as the doll is to the little girl. Then -when he began to get better, and the man rose, tingling with renewed -life, from the ashes of the patient, she quickly fell back into the -old position. With the inherited, dainty deceptiveness of generations -of women, who, while they were virtuous, were also charming, she -relinquished her dominion and retreated into that enfolded maidenly -reserve and docility which we feel quite sure was the manner adopted by -the ladies of the Stone Age when they felt it necessary to manage their -lords. - -She was as unconscious of all this as Dominick was of his growing -absorption in her. If he was troubled she was not. The days saw her -growing gayer, more blithe and light-hearted. She sang about the -corridors, her smile grew more radiant, and every man in the hotel -felt the power of her awakening womanhood. Her boyish frankness of -demeanor was still undimmed by the first blurring breath of passion. -If Dominick was not in the parlor her disappointment was as candid as -a child’s whose mother has forgotten to bring home candy. All that she -showed of consciousness was that when he was there and there was no -disappointment, she concealed her satisfaction, wrapped herself in a -sudden, shy quietness, as completely extinguishing of all beneath as a -nun’s habit. - -The continued, enforced intimacy into which their restricted quarters -and indoor life threw them could not have been more effectual in -fanning the growing flame if designed by a malicious Fate. There was -only one sitting-room, and, unable to go out, they sat side by side in -it all day. They read together, they talked, they played cards. They -were seldom alone, but the presence of Bill Cannon, groaning over the -fire with a three-weeks-old newspaper for company, was not one that -diverted their attention from each other; and Cora and Willoughby, -as opponents in a game of euchre, only helped to accentuate the -comradeship which leagued them together in defensive alliance. - -The days that were so long to others were to them of a bright, -surprising shortness. Playing solitaire against each other on either -side of the fireplace was a pastime at which hours slipped by. Quite -unexpectedly it would be midday, with Cora putting her head round -the door-post and calling them to dinner. In the euchre games of the -afternoon the darkness crept upon them with the stealthy swiftness of -an enemy. It would gather in the corners of the room while Cora was -still heated and flushed from her efforts to instruct Willoughby in -the intricacies of the game, and yet preserve that respectful attitude -which she felt should be assumed in one’s relations with a lord. - -The twilight hour that followed was to Dominick’s mind the most -delightful of these days of fleeting enchantment. The curtains were -drawn, a new log rolled on the fire, and the lamp lit. Then their -fellow prisoners began dropping in--the old judge stowing himself away -in one of the horsehair arm-chairs, Willoughby and Buford lounging in -from the bar, Mrs. Perley with a basket of the family mending, and the -doctor all snowy from his rounds. The audience for Rose’s readings had -expanded from the original listener to this choice circle of Antelope’s -elect. The book chosen had been _Great Expectations_, and the spell of -that greatest tale of a great romancer fell on the snow-bound group and -held them entranced and motionless round the friendly hearth. - -The young man’s eyes passed from face to face, avoiding only that of -the reader bent over the lamp-illumined page. The old judge, sunk -comfortably into the depths of his arm-chair, listened, and cracked the -joints of his lean, dry fingers. Willoughby, his dogs crouched about -his feet, looked into the fire, his attentive gravity broken now and -then by a slow smile. Mrs. Perley, after hearing the chapter which -describes Mrs. Gargery’s methods of bringing up Pip “by hand,” attended -regularly with the remark that “it was a queer sort of book, but some -way or other she liked it.” When Cora was forced to leave to attend to -her duties in the dining-room, she tore herself away with murmurous -reluctance. The doctor slipped in at the third reading and asked Rose -if she would lend him the book in the morning “to read up what he had -missed.” Even Perley’s boy, in his worn corduroys, his dirty, chapped -hands rubbing his cap against his nose, was wont to sidle noiselessly -in and slip into a seat near the door. - -The climax of the day was the long evening round the fire. There was no -reading then. It was the men’s hour, and the smoke of their pipes and -cigars lay thick in the air. Cut off from the world in this cranny of -the mountains, with the hotel shaking to the buffets of the wind and -the snow blanket pressing on the pane, their memories swept back to the -wild days of their youth, to the epic times of frontiersman and pioneer. - -The judge told of his crossing of the plains in forty-seven and the -first Mormon settlement on the barren shores of Salt Lake. He had -had encounters with the Indians, had heard the story of Olive Oatman -from one who had known her, and listened to the sinister tale of the -Donner party from a survivor. Bill Cannon had “come by the Isthmus” -in forty-eight, a half-starved, ragged lad who had run away from -uncongenial drudgery on a New York farm. His reminiscences went back -to the San Francisco that started up around Portsmouth Square, to the -days when the banks of the American River swarmed with miners, and the -gold lay yellow in the prospector’s pan. He had worked there shoulder -to shoulder with men who afterwards made the history of the state and -men who died with their names unknown. He had been an eye witness of -that blackest of Californian tragedies, the lynching of a Spanish girl -at Downieville, had stood pallid and sick under a pine tree and watched -her boldly face her murderers and meet her death. - -The younger men, warmed to emulation, contributed their stories. Perley -had reminiscences bequeathed to him by his father who had been an -alcalde in that transition year, when California was neither state nor -territory and stood in unadministered neglect, waiting for Congress -to take some notice of her. Buford had stories of the vicissitudes -of a strolling player’s life. He had been in the Klondike during the -first gold rush and told tales of mining in the North to match those -of mining on the “mother lode.” Willoughby, thawed out of his original -shyness, added to the nights’ entertainments stories of the Australian -bush, grim legends of the days of the penal settlements at Botany -Bay. Young Ryan was the only man of the group who contributed nothing -to these Sierran Nights’ Entertainments. He sat silent in his chair, -apparently listening, and, under the shadow of the hand arched over his -eyes, looking at the girl opposite. - -But the idyl had to end. Their captivity passed into its third week, -and signs that release was at hand cheered them. They could go out. The -streets of Antelope were beaten into footpaths, and the prisoners, with -the enthusiasm of children liberated from school, rushed into open-air -diversions and athletic exercise. The first word from the outside world -came by restored telegraphic communication. Consolatory messages poured -in from San Francisco. Mrs. Ryan, the elder, sent telegrams as long -as letters and showered them with the prodigality of an impassioned -gratitude on the camp. Perley had one that he could not speak of -without growing husky. Willoughby had one that made him blush. Dominick -had several. None, however, had come from his wife and he guessed that -none had been sent her, his remark to Rose to “let her alone” having -been taken as a wish to spare her anxiety. It was thought that the mail -would be in now in a day or two. That would be the end of the fairy -tale. They sat about the fire on these last evenings discussing their -letters, what they expected, and whom they would be from. No one told -any more stories; the thought of news from “outside” was too absorbing. - -It came in the early dusk of an afternoon near the end of the third -week. Dominick, who was still unable to walk, was standing by the -parlor window, when he saw Rose Cannon run past outside. She looked in -at him as she ran by, her face full of a joyous excitement, and held up -to his gaze a small white packet. A moment later the hall door banged, -her foot sounded in the passage, and she entered the room with a rush -of cold air and a triumphant cry of: - -“The mail’s come!” - -He limped forward to meet her and take from her hand the letter she -held toward him. For the first moment he looked at her, not at the -letter, which dwindled to a thing of no importance when their eyes met -over it. Her face was nipped by the keen outside air into a bright, -beaming rosiness. She wore on her head a man’s fur cap which was pulled -well down, and pressed wisps of fair hair against her forehead and -cheeks. A loose fur-lined coat enveloped her to her feet, and after she -had handed him his letter she pulled off the mittens she wore and began -unfastening the clasps of the coat, with fingers that were purplish and -cramped from the cold. - -“There’s only one for you,” she said. “I waited till the postmaster -looked all through them twice. Then I made him give it to me and -ran back here with it. The entire population of Antelope’s in the -post-office and there’s the greatest excitement.” - -Her coat was unfastened and she threw back its long fronts, her figure -outlined against the gray fur lining. She snatched off her cap and -tossed it to an adjacent chair and with a quick hand brushed away the -hair it had pressed down on her forehead. - -“I got seven,” she said, turning to the fire, “and papa a whole bunch, -and the judge, quantities, and Willoughby, three. But only one for -you--poor, neglected man!” - -Spreading her hands wide to the blaze she looked at him over her -shoulder, laughing teasingly. He had the letter in his hands still -unopened. - -“Why,” she cried, “what an extraordinary sight! You haven’t opened it!” - -“No,” he answered, turning it over, “I haven’t.” - -“I’ve always heard that curiosity was a feminine weakness but I never -knew it till now,” she said. “Please go on and read it, because if you -don’t I’ll feel that I’m preventing you and I’ll have to go up stairs -to my own room, which is as cold as a refrigerator. Don’t make me -polite and considerate against my will.” - -Without answering her he tore open the letter and, moving to the light -of the window, held the sheet up and began to read. - -There was silence for some minutes. The fire sputtered and snapped, and -once or twice the crisp paper rustled in Dominick’s hands. Rose held -her fingers out to the warmth, studying them with her head on one side -as if she had never seen them before. Presently she slid noiselessly -out of her coat, and dropped it, a heap of silky fur, on a chair beside -her. The movement made it convenient to steal a glance at the young -man. He was reading the letter, his body close against the window-pane, -his face full of frowning, almost fierce concentration. She turned -back to the fire and made small, surreptitious smoothings and jerks of -arrangement at her collar, her belt, her skirt. Dominick turned the -paper and there was something aggressive in the crackling of the thin, -dry sheet. - -“Perley got a letter from your mother,” she said suddenly, “that he was -reading in a corner of the post-office, and it nearly made him cry.” - -There was no answer. She waited for a space and then said, projecting -the remark into the heart of the fire, - -“Yours must be a most _interesting_ letter.” - -She heard him move and looked quickly back at him, her face all gay -challenge. It was met by a look so somber that her expression changed -as if she had received a check to her gaiety as unexpected and -effectual as a blow. She shrank a little as he came toward her, the -letter in his hand. - -“It _is_ an interesting letter,” he said. “It’s from my wife.” - -Since those first days of his illness, his wife’s name had been rarely -mentioned. Rose thought it was because young Mrs. Ryan was a delicate -subject best left alone; Dominick, because anything that reminded him -of Berny was painful. But the truth was that, from the first, the -wife had loomed before them as a figure of dread, a specter whose -presence congealed the something exquisite and uplifting each felt -in the other’s heart. Now, love awakened, forcing itself upon their -recognition, her name came up between them, chilling and grim as the -image of death intruding suddenly into the joyous presence of the -living. - -The change that had come over the interview all in a moment was -startling. Suddenly it seemed lifted from the plane of every-day -converse to a level where the truth was an obligation and the language -of polite subterfuge could not exist. But the woman, who hides and -protects herself with these shields, made an effort to keep it in the -old accustomed place. - -“Is--is--she well?” she stammered, framing the regulation words almost -unconsciously. - -“She’s well,” he answered, “she’s very well. She wants me to come home.” - -He suddenly looked away from her and, turning to the chimneypiece, -rested one hand upon it and gazed down at the logs. A charred end -projected and he pushed it in with his slippered foot, his down-bent -face, the lips set and brows wrinkled, looking like the face of a -sullen boy who has been unjustly punished. An icy, invading chill of -depression made Rose’s heart sink down into bottomless depths. She -faltered in faint tones, - -“Well, you’ll be there soon now.” - -“I don’t know,” he answered without moving. “I don’t know whether I -shall.” - -“You don’t know whether you’ll be home soon? The roads are open; the -postman has come in.” - -“I don’t know whether I’ll go home,” he repeated. - -The snapping of the fire sounded loud upon the silence that followed. -The thrill of strong emotions rising toward expression held them in a -breathless, immovable quietude. - -“Don’t you want to go home?” said the young girl. Her voice was low and -she cleared her throat. In this interchange of commonplace sentences -her heart had begun to beat so violently that it interfered with the -ease of her speech. - -Dominick leaned forward and dropped the crumpled letter into the fire. - -“No, I don’t want to. I hate to.” - -To this she did not reply at all, and after a moment he continued: -“My home is unbearable to me. It isn’t a home. It’s a place where I -eat and sleep, and I’d prefer doing that anywhere else, in any dirty -boarding-house or fourth-rate hotel--I’d rather----” - -He stopped abruptly and pushed the log farther in. The letter was -caught up the chimney in a swirl of blackened scraps. - -“But your wife?” said Rose. - -This time her voice was hoarse but she did not know it. She had lost -the consciousness of herself. It was a profound moment, the deepest she -had so far known, and all the forces of her being were concentrated -upon it. The young man answered with deliberation, still not moving. - -“I don’t want to see my wife. We are--we are--uncongenial. There is -nothing but unhappiness between us.” - -“Don’t you love her?” said the girl. - -“No. I never did,” he answered. - -For a moment neither dared speak. They did not look at each other -or stir. They hardly seemed to breathe. A movement, a touch, would -have rent the last thin crust of reserve that covered what were no -longer unsuspected fires. Dominick knew it, but the girl did not. She -was seized by what to her was a sudden, inexplicable fear, and the -increased, suffocating beating of her heart made her feel dizzy. She -suddenly wished to fly, to escape from the room, and him, and herself. -She turned to go and was arrested by Cora’s voice in the hall: - -“Say, you folks, are you in there?” - -Cora’s visage followed her voice. She thrust it round the door-post, -beamingly smiling under a recently-applied coat of powder. - -“Do you want to tackle a game of euchre? Mr. Willoughby and I’ll lay -you out cold unless that British memory of his has gone back on him and -he’s forgot all I taught him last time.” - -They were too bewildered to make any response. Rose gathered up her -coat and dropped it again, looking stupidly from it to the intruder. -Cora turned back to the passage, calling, - -“Here they are, Mr. Willoughby, all ready and waiting for us. Now we’ll -show them how to play euchre.” - -Before Willoughby appeared, responsive to this cheerful hail, Cora had -pulled the chairs round the table and brought out the cards. A few -moments later, they were seated and the game had begun. Cora and her -partner were soon jubilant. Not only did they hold the cards, but their -adversaries played so badly that the tale of many old scores was wiped -off. - -The next day the first movements of departure began. Early in the -afternoon Buford and Judge Washburne started for Rocky Bar in Perley’s -sleigh. The road had been broken by the mail-carrier, but was still -so deeply drifted that the drive was reckoned a toilsome undertaking -not without danger. Perley’s two powerful horses were harnessed in -tandem, and Perley himself, a mere pillar of wrappings, drove them, -squatted on a soap box in front of the two passengers. There were cries -of farewell from the porch and tappings on the windows as the sleigh -started and sped away to the diminishing jingle of bells. A sadness -fell on those who watched it. The little idyl of isolation was over. - -On the following day Bill Cannon and his daughter were to leave. A -telegram had been sent to Rocky Bar for a sleigh and horses of the -proper excellence to be the equipage of a Bonanza Princess. Rose had -spent the morning packing the valises, and late in the afternoon began -a down-stairs search for possessions left in the parlor. - -The dusk was gathering as she entered the room, the corners of which -were already full of darkness, the fire playing on them with a warm, -varying light. Waves of radiance quivered and ran up the ceiling, here -and there touching the glaze on a picture glass or china ornament. The -crude ugliness of the place was hidden in this unsteady, transforming -combination of shadow and glow. It seemed a rich, romantic spot, -flushed with fire that pulsed on an outer edge of mysterious obscurity, -a center of familiar, intimate life, round which coldness and the dark -pressed. - -She thought the room was unoccupied and advanced toward the table, then -started before the uprising of Dominick’s tall figure from a chair -in a shadowed corner. It was the first time they had seen each other -alone since their conversation of the day before. Rose was startled -and agitated, and her brusk backward movement showed it. Her voice, -however, was natural, almost easy to casualness as she said, - -“I thought there was no one here, you’ve hidden yourself in such a dark -corner. I came to gather up my books and things.” - -He advanced into the light, looking somberly at her. - -“It’s true that you’re going to-morrow?” he said almost gruffly. - -“Oh, yes, we’re really going. Everything’s been arranged. Horses and a -sleigh are expected any moment now from Rocky Bar. They rest here all -night and take us down in the afternoon. I think papa’d go crazy if we -had to stay twenty-four hours longer.” - -“I’ll follow in a day or two,” he said, “probably go down on Tuesday, -the doctor says.” - -She began gathering up the books, reading the titles, and putting aside -those that were not hers. - -“I’m so sorry it’s over,” she said in a preoccupied voice without any -particular regret in it. “_The Mill on the Floss_ is Mrs. Perley’s, I -think.” - -“I’m sorry, too,” he commented, very low. - -She made no reply, selected another book, and as she held it up looking -at the back, said, - -“But it’s not like a regular good-by. It’s not as if you were going -in one direction and we in another. We’ll see you in San Francisco, of -course.” - -“I don’t think so,” he answered. - -She laid the book on the table and turned her face toward him. He stood -looking into the fire, not seeing the face, but conscious of it, of its -expression, of its every line. - -“Do you mean that we’re not going to see you down there at all?” - -“Yes, that’s just about what I meant,” he replied. - -“Mr. Ryan!” It was hardly more than a breath of protest, but it was as -stirring to the man as the whisper of love. - -He made no comment on it, and she said, with a little more of -insistence and volume, - -“But why?” - -“It’s best not,” he answered, and turned toward her. - -His shoulders were squared and he held his head as a man does who -prepares himself for a blow. His eyes, looking straight into hers, -enveloped her in a glance soft and burning, not a savage glance, but -the enfolding, possessive glance, caressing and ardent, pleading and -masterful, of a lover. - -The books that she was holding fell to the table, and they looked at -each other while the clock ticked. - -“It’s best for me not to come,” he said huskily, “never to come.” - -“Very well,” she faltered. - -He came a little nearer to her and said, - -“You know what I mean.” - -She turned away, very pale, her lips trembling. - -“And you’d like me to come if I could--if I were free?” - -He was close to her and looked down to see her face, his own hard, the -bones of the jaw showing through the thin cheeks. - -“You’d like me to?” he urged. - -She nodded, her lips too dry to speak. - -“O Rose!” he whispered, a whisper that seemed to melt the strength -of her heart and make her unvanquished, maiden pride dissolve into -feebleness. - -He leaned nearer and, taking her by the arms just above the elbows, -drew her to himself, into an embrace, close and impassioned, that -crushed her against him. She submitted passively, in a dizzy dream that -was neither joy nor pain, but was like a moment of drugged unreality, -fearful and beautiful. She was unconscious of his lips pressed on her -hair, but she felt the beating of his heart beneath her cheek. - -They stood thus for a moment, rising above time and space. They seemed -to have been caught up to a pinnacle of life where the familiar world -lay far beneath them. A joy, divine and dreamy, held them clasped -together, motionless and mute, for a single point of time beyond and -outside the limitations that had heretofore bound them. - -Bill Cannon had a question to ask his daughter and he came down stairs -to the parlor where she had told him she was going. He had dressed -himself for supper, the most important item of his toilet being a -pair of brown leather slippers. They were soft and made no sound, and -stepping briskly in them he advanced to the half-open parlor door, -pushed it open and entered the quiet room. On the hearth-rug before the -fire stood a woman clasped in the arms of Dominick Ryan. - -Though the face was hidden, the first glance told him it was his -daughter. The young man’s head was bowed on hers, his brown hair rising -above the gleaming blondness of hers. They were absolutely motionless -and silent. For an amazed moment the father stared at them, then turned -and tiptoed out of the room. - -He mounted several steps of the staircase and then descended, stepping -as heavily as he could, and, as he advanced on the parlor, coughed -with aggressive loudness. He was on the threshold when he encountered -his daughter, her head lowered, her gait quick, almost a run. Without -a word he stepped aside and let her pass, the rustling of her skirt -diminishing as she ran up the hall and mounted the stairs. - -[Illustration: They stood thus for a moment, rising above time and - space _Page 143_] - -Dominick was standing on the hearth-rug, his head raised like a stag’s; -his eyes, wide and gleaming, on the doorway through which she had -passed. Cannon stopped directly in front of him and fixed a stony, -menacing glare on him. - -“Well, Dominick Ryan,” he said in a low voice, “I saw that. I came in -here a moment ago and saw that. What have you got to say about it?” - -The young man turned his eyes slowly from vacancy to the angry face -before him. For a moment he looked slightly dazed, staring blankly at -Cannon. Then wrath gathered thunderously on his brow. - -“Let me alone!” he said fiercely, thrusting him aside. “Get out of my -way and let me alone! I can’t talk to you now.” - -He swept the elder man out of his path, and, lurching and staggering on -his wounded feet, hurled himself out of the room. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -THE SONS OF THEIR FATHERS - - -It was at the end of the Bonanza times, that period of startling -upheavals and downfalls, when miners had suddenly become millionaires, -and rich men found themselves paupers, that Bill Cannon built his -mansion in San Francisco. He had made his fortune in Virginia City, -not in a few meteoric years, as the public, who loves picturesque -histories, was wont to recount relishingly, but in a series of broken -periods of plenty with lean years in between. The Crown Point and -Belcher rise made him a man of means, and its collapse was said to -have ruined him. Afterward, wiseacres shook their heads and there were -rumors that it was not Bill Cannon who was ruined. In the dead period -which followed this disastrous cataclysm of fortune and confidence, he -was surreptitiously loyal to the capricious town from which men had -withdrawn their affection and belief as from a beguiling woman, once -loved and trusted, now finally proved false. - -In those short years of mourning and lost faith between the downfall of -Crown Point and the rise of the Con. Virginia and the Rey del Monte, -Bill Cannon “lay low.” His growing reputation as an expert mining man -and a rising financier had suffered. Men had disbelieved in him as they -did in Virginia, and he knew the sweetness of revenge when he and the -great camp rose together in titanic partnership and defied them. His -detractors had hardly done murmuring together over the significant fact -that Crown Point “had not scooped every dollar he had” when the great -ore-body was struck on the thousand-foot level of the Rey del Monte, -and Bill Cannon became a Bonanza King. - -That was in seventy-four. The same year he bought the land in San -Francisco and laid the foundation for the mansion on Nob Hill. His wife -was still living then, and his son and daughter--the last of seven -children, five of whom had died in infancy--were as yet babies. A year -later the house was completed and the Cannon family, surrounded by an -aura of high-colored, accumulating anecdote, moved down from Nevada and -took possession. - -Mrs. Cannon, who in her girlhood had been the prettiest waitress in -the Yuba Hotel at Marysville and had married Bill Cannon when he was -an underground miner, was the subject of much gossip in the little -group which at that time made up San Francisco’s fashionable world. -They laughed at her and went to her entertainments. They told stories -of her small social mistakes, and fawned on her husband for positions -for their sons. He understood them, treated them with an open cynical -contempt, and used them. He was big enough to realize his wife’s -superiority, and it amused him to punish them for their patronizing -airs by savage impertinences that they winced under but did not dare -resent. She was a silent, sensitive, loving woman, who never quite -fitted into the frame his wealth had given her. She did her best to -fill the new rôle, but it bewildered her and she did not feel at ease -in it. In her heart she yearned for the days when her home had been -a miner’s cabin in the foot-hills, her babies had known no nurse but -herself, and her husband had been all hers. Those were her _beaux -jours_. - -She died some twelve years after the installation in San Francisco. -Bill Cannon had loved her after his fashion and always respected her, -and the withdrawal of her quiet, sympathetic presence left a void -behind it that astonished, almost awed him. The two children, Eugene -and Rose, were eighteen and thirteen at the time. She had adored -them, lived for them, been a mother at once tender and intelligent, -and they mourned her with passion. It was to dull the ache left by -her death, that Gene, a weak and characterless changeling in this -vigorous breed, sought solace in drink. And it was then that Rose, -assuming her mother’s place as head of the establishment, began to show -that capacity for management, that combination of executive power and -gentle force--bequests from both parents--that added admiration to the -idolizing love the Bonanza King had always given her. - -The house in which this pampered princess ruled was one of those -enormous structures which a wealth that sought extravagant ways of -expending itself reared upon that protuberance in the city’s outline -called by San Franciscans Nob Hill. The suddenly-enriched miners of the -Comstock Lode and the magnates of the railway had money waiting for -investment, and the building of huge houses seemed as good a one as any -other. - -Here, from their front steps, they could see the city sweeping up from -its low center on to the slopes of girdling hills. It was a gray city, -crowding down to the edge of the bay, which, viewed from this height, -extended far up into the sky. In summer, under an arch of remote, cold -blue, its outlines blurred by clouds of blown dust, it looked a bleak, -unfriendly place, a town in which the stranger felt a depressing, -nostalgic chill. In winter, when the sun shone warm and tender as a -caress, and the bay and hills were like a mosaic in blue and purple -gems, it was a panorama over which the passer-by was wont to linger. -The copings of walls offered a convenient resting-place, and he could -lean on them, still as a lizard in the bath of sun. - -Bill Cannon’s house had unbroken command of this view. It fronted on -it in irregular, massive majesty, with something in its commanding -bulkiness that reminded one of its owner. It was of that epoch when -men built their dwellings of wood; and numerous bay-windows and a -sweep of marble steps flanked by sleeping stone lions were considered -indispensable adjuncts to the home of the rich man who knew how -to do things correctly. Round it spread a green carpet of lawns, -close-cropped and even as velvet, and against its lower story deep -borders of geraniums were banked in slopes of graduated scarlet and -crimson. The general impression left by it was that of a splendor that -would have been ostentatious and vulgar had not the studied elegance of -the grounds and the outflung glories of sea, sky and hills imparted to -it some of their own distinction and dignity. - -On the day following their departure from Antelope, Cannon and his -daughter reached home at nightfall. The obsequiously-welcoming -butler--an importation from the East that the Bonanza King confided to -Rose he found it difficult to refrain from kicking--acquainted them -with the fact that “Mr. Gene had been up from San Luis Obispo” for two -days, waiting for their arrival. Even as he spoke a masculine voice -uttered a hail from the floor above and a man’s figure appeared on the -stairway and ran quickly down. Cannon gave a careless look upward. - -“Ah there, Gene,” he observed, turning to the servant who was helping -him off with his coat. “Come up to town for a spell?” - -The young man did not seem to notice anything especially ungracious in -the greeting or probably was used to it. - -“Yes, just up for a look around and to see how you and Rosey were. Got -snowed in, didn’t you?” he said, looking at his sister. - -She kissed him affectionately and drew him to the light where she -subjected him to a sharp, exploring scrutiny. Evidently the survey was -satisfactory, for she gave him a little slap on the shoulder and said, - -“Good boy, Gene, San Luis is agreeing with you. Yes, we were snowed in -for nearly three weeks. Papa’s been half crazy. And you’ve been in town -two days, Prescott says. It must have been dull here all alone.” - -“Oh, I haven’t been dull. I’ve been going round seeing the boys -and”--his sister’s sudden, uneasy look checked him and he answered -it with quick reassurance of glance and tone. “Everything strictly -temperance. Don’t you get uneasy. I’ve lived up to my promises. The -ranch is mine all right, father.” - -He had a high, rather throaty voice, which, without seeing his face, -would have suggested weakness and lack of purpose. Now as he looked at -his father with a slight and somewhat foolish air of triumph, the old -man responded to his remark with a sound which resembled a grunt of -scornful incredulity. - -“Really, Gene,” said his sister, her manner of fond gratification in -marked contrast to her father’s roughness, “that’s the best news I’ve -heard for a year. It’s worth being snowed up to hear that when you come -out. Of course you’ll get the ranch. I always knew you would. I always -knew you could pull up and be as straight as anybody if you tried.” - -The old man, who had been kicking off his rubbers, here raised his head -with a bull-like movement, and suddenly roared at the retreating butler -who was vanishing toward the dining-room. - -“My cigars. Where in hell are they? Why doesn’t somebody attend here?” - -The servant, with a start of alarm and a murmured excuse, disappeared -for a moment, to reappear, hurrying breathlessly with a box of cigars. -Cannon selected one and turned to the stairway. - -“How long are you down for?” he said to his son as he began ascending. - -“I thought a week, perhaps two,” answered the young man. “A feller gets -darned lonely, down there in the country.” - -There was something apologetic, almost pleading in his words and way -of speech. He looked after his father’s receding figure as if quite -oblivious to the rudeness of the large, retiring back and the manner of -careless scorn. - -“Make it three,” said the Bonanza King, turning his head slightly and -throwing the sentence over his shoulder. - -Gene Cannon was now twenty-nine years of age and had drunk since his -eighteenth year. His mother had died in ignorance of his vice. When -his father discovered it, it simply augmented the old man’s impatience -against the feeble youth who would carry on his name and be one of -the inheritors of his fortune. Bill Cannon had never cared much for -his only son. He had early seen the stuff of which the boy was made. -“Doesn’t amount to a hill of beans,” he would say, throwing the words -at his wife over the bitten end of his cigar. He could have forgiven -the drinking, as he could other vices, if Gene had had some of his own -force, some of that driving power which had carried him triumphant over -friend and foe. But the boy had no initiative, no brains, no energy. -“How did _I_ ever come to have such a son?” he queried sometimes in an -access of disgust in which the surprise was stronger than the disgust. -The question possessed a sort of scientific interest for him which was -deeper than the personal and over which the disappointed magnate would -ponder. - -As Gene grew older and his intemperance assumed more serious -proportions, the father’s scorn grew more open and was augmented by -a sort of exasperated dislike. The Bonanza King had no patience with -those who failed from ill-health or the persistent persecutions of -bad luck. His contention was that they should not have been ill, and -they should have conquered their bad luck. He had no excuses for those -who were beaten back against the wall--only death should be able to -do that. But when it came to a useless, hampering vice, a weakness -that in itself was harmless enough, but that was allowed to gain -paralyzing proportions, his original contempt was intensified into a -fierce intolerance which would have been terrifying if it had not been -tempered with an indifferent disdain. - -Rose’s attitude toward her brother was a source of secret wonder to -him. She loved the feeble youth; a tie of the deepest affection existed -between them, upon which Gene’s intemperance seemed to have no effect. -The Bonanza King had always admitted that the ways of the gentler sex -were beyond his comprehension, but that the two women he had known -best--his wife and his daughter--should have lavished the tenderest -love upon an intemperate, incompetent, useless weakling was to him one -of the fathomless mysteries of life. - -It was Rose’s suggestion that Gene should be withdrawn from temptation -by sending him to the country. As the only son of Bill Cannon he was -the object of a variety of attentions and allurements in the city to -which a stronger-willed man might have succumbed. The father readily -agreed to the plan. He could graciously subscribe to all Rose said, as -the removal of Gene’s amiable visage and uninspired conversation would -not cause him any particular distress or sense of loss. - -But when Rose unfolded the whole of her scheme he was not so -enthusiastically in accord with her. It was that Gene should be put on -his father’s ranch--the historic Rancho of the Santa Trinidad near San -Luis Obispo--as manager, that all responsibility should be placed in -his hands, and that if, during one year’s probation, he should remain -sober and maintain a record of quiet conduct and general good behavior, -the ranch should be turned over to him as his own property, to be -developed on such lines as he thought best. - -The Rancho of the Santa Trinidad was one of the finest pieces of -agricultural property in California. The Bonanza King visited it once -a year, and at intervals received crates of fruit and spring chickens -raised upon it. This was about all he got out of it, but when he heard -Rose calmly arranging to have it become Gene’s property, he felt like -a man who suddenly finds himself being robbed. He had difficulty in -restraining a roar of refusal. Had it been any one but Rose he would -not have restrained it. - -Of course he gave way to her, as he always did. He even gave way -gracefully with an effect of a generosity too large to bother over -trifles, not because he felt it but because he did not want Rose to -guess how it “went against him.” Under the genial blandness of his -demeanor he reconciled himself to the situation by the thought that -Gene would certainly never keep sober for a year, and that there was -therefore no fear of the richest piece of ranch land in the state -passing into the hands of that dull and incapable young man. - -The year was nearly up now. It had but three months to run and Gene’s -record had been exemplary. He had come to the city only twice, when -his father noticed with a jealously-watchful eye that he had been -resolutely abstemious in the matter of liquor and that his interest -in the great property he managed had been the strongest he had so far -evinced in anything. The thought that Gene might possibly live up -to his side of the bargain and win the ranch caused the old man to -experience that feeling of blank chagrin which is the state of mind of -the unexpectedly swindled. He felt like a king who has been daringly -and successfully robbed by a slave. - -At dinner that evening Gene was very talkative. He told of his life on -the ranch, of its methodical monotony, of its seclusion, for he saw -little of his neighbors and seldom went in to the town. Rose listened -with eager interest, and the old man with a sulky, glowering attention. -At intervals he shot a piercing look at his boy, eying him sidewise -with a cogitating intentness of observation. His remarks were few, but -Gene was so loquacious that there was little opportunity for another -voice to be heard. He prattled on like a happy child, recounting the -minutest details of his life after the fashion of those who live much -alone. - -In the light of the crystal lamp that spread a ruffled shade of yellow -silk over the center of the table, he was seen to be quite unlike his -father or sister. His jet-black hair and uniformly pale skin resembled -his mother’s, but his face in its full, rounded contours, slightly -turned-up nose, and eyebrows as thick as strips of fur, had a heaviness -hers had lacked. Some people thought him good-looking, and there was -a sort of unusual, Latin picturesqueness in the combination of his -curly black hair, which he wore rising up in a bulwark of waves from -his forehead, his white skin, and the small, dark mustache, delicate -as an eyebrow, that shaded his upper lip. It was one of his father’s -grievances against him that he would have made a pretty girl, and that -his soft, affectionate character would have been quite charming in -a woman. Now, listening to him, it seemed to the older man as if it -were just the kind of talk one might expect from Gene. The father had -difficulty in suppressing a snort of derision when he heard the young -man recounting to Rose his troubles with his Chinese cook. - -Before dinner was over Gene excused himself on the plea that he was -going to the theater. - -“I’m such a hayseed now,” he said as he rose, “that I don’t want to -miss a thing. Haven’t seen a play for six months and I’m just crazy to -see anything, _Monte Cristo_, _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_, _East Lynne_. I’m -not proud, anything’ll suit me.” - -“Don’t you ever go into San Luis?” growled his father sulkily. “They -have plays there sometimes, I suppose.” - -“Oh yes, but I’m keeping out of harm’s way. The boys in San Luis don’t -know how it is with me. They don’t understand and I’m not going to put -myself in the way of temptation. You know, father, I _want that ranch_.” - -He turned a laughing glance on his father; and the old man, with a -sheepishly-discomfited expression, grunted an unintelligible reply and -bent over his plate. - -He did not raise his head till Gene had left the room, when, looking -up, he leaned back in his chair and said with a plaintive sigh, - -“What a damned fool that boy is!” - -Rose was up in arms at once. - -“Why, papa, how can you say that! Especially when you see how he’s -improved. It’s wonderful. He’s another man. You can tell in a minute -he’s not been drinking, he takes such an interest in everything and is -so full of work and plans.” - -“Is he?” said her father dryly. “Maybe so, but that don’t prevent him -from being a damned fool.” - -“You’re unjust to Gene. Why do you think he’s a fool?” - -“Just because he happens to be one. You might as well ask me why I -think the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. That’s what it -does, and when I say it does, I’m not criticizing or complaining, I’m -only stating the plain facts.” - -Rose made a murmur of protest and he went on. - -“You’re queer cattle, you women. I suppose a feller could live in the -world a hundred years and not understand you. There’s Delia Ryan, for -example, the brainiest woman I know, could give most men cards and -spades and beat ’em hands down. Last night at Rocky Bar they were -telling me that she’s written to the operator there and told him she’ll -get him a position here in the Atlantic and Pacific Cable Company, -in which she’s a large stock-holder, that’ll double his salary and -give him a chance he’d never have got in this world. She wants to pay -off a mortgage on a ranch Perley has in the Sacramento Valley and -she’s sent Mrs. Perley a check for five hundred dollars. She’s offered -Willoughby a first-rate job on the Red Calumet group of mines near -Sonora in which Con had a controlling interest, and she’s written to -the doctor to come down and become one of the house physicians of the -St. Filomena Hospital, which she practically runs. She’s ready to do -all this because of what they did for Dominick, and yet she, his own -mother, won’t give the boy a cent and keeps him on starvation wages, -just because she wants to spite his wife.” - -He looked at his daughter across the table with narrowed eyes. “What -have you got to say for yourself after that, young woman?” he demanded. - -Rose had evidently nothing to say. She raised her eyebrows and shook -her head by way of reply. Her face, in the flood of lamplight, looked -pale and tired. She was evidently distrait and depressed; a very -different-looking Rose from the girl he had taken away with him four -weeks earlier. He regarded her for an anxiously-contemplative moment -and then said, - -“What’s the matter? Seems to me you look sort’er peaked.” - -“I?” she queried with a surprised start. “Why, I’m quite well.” - -“Well’s you were before you went up to the mines?” - -A color came into her cheeks and she lowered her eyes: - -“I’m a little tired, I think, and that always makes me look pale. It -was a hard sort of trip, all those hours in the sleigh, and that hotel -at Rocky Bar was a dreadful place. I couldn’t sleep. There was a cow -somewhere near--it sounded as if it were in the next room--and the -roosters all began to crow in the middle of the night. I’ll be all -right to-morrow.” - -Her father drew his coffee-cup toward him and dropped in a lump of -sugar. No word had passed between him and his daughter as to the scene -he had witnessed two days before in the parlor of Perley’s Hotel. She -was ignorant of the fact that he had seen it and he intended that -she should remain ignorant of it. But the next morning he had had -an interview with Dominick Ryan, in which the young man, confronted -with angry questions and goaded past reserve by shame and pain, had -confessed the misery of his marriage and the love that in an unguarded -moment had slipped beyond his control. - -Cannon had said little to him. Beyond telling him that he must not see -Miss Cannon again, his comments on Dominick’s confessions had been -brief and non-committal. It was not his business to preach to Delia -Ryan’s boy, and a large experience of men had given him a practically -limitless tolerance of any and all lapses of which the human animal -is capable. They only concerned him as they bore on his own affairs. -In this particular case they did bear on his affairs, closely and -importantly, on the affair of all others dearest and nearest to -him--the happiness of his daughter. He knew that in this three weeks of -imprisonment she had come to feel for Dominick Ryan a sentiment she had -never before felt for any man. He had seen her in the young man’s arms, -and, knowing Rose as he knew her, that was enough. - -Driving down from Antelope in the sleigh he thought about it hard, -harder than he had ever before in his life thought of any sentimental -complication. He was enraged--coldly and grimly enraged--that his girl -should have stumbled into such a pitfall. But it was not his habit to -waste time and force in the indulgence of profitless anger. The thing -had happened. Rose, who had been courted many times and never warmed -to more than pity for her unsuccessful suitors, had suddenly, by a -fateful, unpremeditated chance, met her mate--the man she loved. And -the most maddening part of it was that he was the man of all others her -father would have chosen for her had such a choice been possible. - -He bit on his cigar, turning it over between his teeth, and looked -sidewise at her as she sat silent in the sleigh beside him. She -was unquestionably pale, pale and listless, her body wrapped in -enveloping furs, sunk in an attitude of weariness, her eyes full of -dejected reverie. Even to his blindly-groping, masculine perceptions -her distrait looks, her dispirited silence, told of melancholy -preoccupation. She was not happy--his Rose, who, if she had wanted it -and he could have bought, begged or stolen it, would have had the moon. - -To-night, in her white dress, the mellow radiance of the lamp throwing -out her figure against the shadowy richness of the dining-room walls, -she bore the same appearance of despondency. Her luster was dimmed, her -delicate skin had lost its dazzling, separated bloom of pink and white, -her glance was absent and unresponsive. Never, since the death of her -mother, now ten years back, had he seen her when it was so obvious that -she harbored an inner, unexpressed sense of trouble. - -“I guess the city’s the best place for you,” he said. “Roughing -it don’t seem to suit you if cows and chickens keep you awake all -night. I’ve seen the time when the hotel at Rocky Bar would have been -considered the top notch of luxury. I wish you could see the places -your mother lived in when I first took her up there. You’re a spoiled -girl, Rose Cannon.” - -“Who spoiled me, I wonder?” she said, looking at him with a gleam of -humor in her eyes. - -“We’re not calling names to-night,” he answered, “anyway, not since -Gene’s gone. All my desire to throw things and be ugly vanishes when -that boy gets out. So the noises at Rocky Bar kept you awake?” - -“Yes, and I was wakeful, anyway.” - -She looked down at her cup, stirring her coffee. He thought she -appeared conscious and said, - -“What made you wakeful, guilty conscience?” - -“Guilty conscience!” she repeated in a tone that was full of indignant -surprise. “Why should I have a guilty conscience?” - -“Lord knows! Don’t fire off these conundrums at me. I don’t know all -your secrets, honey.” - -She did not answer. He glanced furtively at her and saw that her face -had flushed. He took a cigar from the box the butler had set at his -elbow and bit off the end: - -“How should I know the secrets of a young lady like you? A long time -ago, perhaps, I used to, after your mother died and you were my little -Rosey, fourteen years old. Lord, how cunning you were then! Just -beginning to lengthen out, a little woman and a little girl, both in -one. You didn’t have secrets in those days or wakeful nights either.” - -He applied a match to the end of the cigar and drew at it, his ears -strained for his daughter’s reply. She again made none and he shot a -quick glance at her. She was still stirring her coffee, her eyebrows -drawn together, her eyes on the swirl of brown in the cup. He settled -himself in his chair, a bulky figure, his clothes ribbed with creases, -his head low between his shoulders, and a reek of cigar smoke issuing -from his lips. - -“How’d you like it up there, anyway?” - -“Up where?” - -“Up at Antelope. It was a sort of strange, new experience for you.” - -“Oh, I liked it so much--I loved part of it. I liked the people much -better than the people down here, Mrs. Perley, and Cora, and Perley, -and Willoughby--did you ever know a nicer man than Willoughby?--and -Judge Washburne. _He_ was a real gentleman, not only in his manners but -down in his heart. And even Perley’s boy, he was so natural and awkward -and honest. I felt different from what I do here, more myself, less as -if outside things were influencing me to do things I didn’t always like -to do or mean to do. I felt as if I were doing just what I ought to -do--it’s hard to express it--as if I were being true.” - -“Oh,” said her father with a falling inflection which had a sound of -significant comprehension. - -“Do you know what I mean?” she asked. - -“I can make a sort of guess at it.” - -He puffed at his cigar for a moment, then took it from his mouth, eyed -the lit end, and said, - -“How’d you like Dominick Ryan? You haven’t said anything about him.” - -Her voice, in answering, sounded low and careful. She spoke slowly, as -if considering her words: - -“I thought he was very nice, and good-looking, too. He’s not a bit like -Cornelia Ryan, or his mother, either. Cornelia has such red hair.” - -“No, looks like the old man. Good deal like him in character, too. -Con Ryan was the best feller in the world, but not hard enough, not -enough grit. His wife had it though, had enough for both. If it hadn’t -been for her, Con would never have amounted to anything--too soft and -good-natured, and the boy’s like him.” - -“How?” She raised her head and looked directly at him, her lips -slightly parted. - -“Soft, too, just the same way, soft-hearted. An easy mark for any one -with a hard-luck story and not too many scruples. Why did he marry that -woman? I don’t know anything about it, but I’d like to bet she saw the -stuff he was made of and cried and teased and nagged till she got him -to do it.” - -“I don’t see that he could have done anything else.” - -“That’s a woman’s--a young girl’s view. That’s the view Dominick -himself probably took. It’s the sort of idea you might expect him to -have, something ornamental and impractical, that’s all right to keep in -the cupboard and take out and dust, but that don’t do for every-day -use. That sort of thing is all very well for a girl, but it doesn’t -do for a man. It’s not for this world and our times. Maybe it was all -right when a feller went round in armor, fighting for unknown damsels, -but it won’t go in California to-day. The woman was a working woman, -she wasn’t any green girl. She earned her living in an office full of -men, and I guess there wasn’t much she didn’t know. She saw through -Dominick and gathered him in. It’s all very well to be chivalrous, but -you don’t want to be a confounded fool.” - -“Are you a ‘confounded fool’ when you’re doing what you think right?” - -“It depends on what you think right, honey. If it’s going to break up -your life, cut you off from your kind, make an outcast of you from your -own folks, and a poverty-stricken outcast at that, you’re a confounded -fool to think it’s right. You oughtn’t to let yourself think so. That -kind of a moral attitude is a luxury. Women can cultivate it because -they don’t have to get out in the world and fight. They keep indoors -and get taken care of, and the queer ideas they have don’t hurt -anybody. But men----” - -He stopped, realizing that perhaps he was talking too frankly. He -had long known that Rose harbored these Utopian theories on duty and -honor, which he thought very nice and pretty for her and which went -gracefully with her character as a sheltered, cherished, and unworldly -maiden. It was his desire to see what effect the conversation was -having on her that made him deal so unceremoniously with ideals of -conduct which were all very well for Bill Cannon’s daughter but were -ruinous for Dominick Ryan. - -“If you live in the world you’ve got to cut your cloth by its measure,” -he continued. “Look at that poor devil, tied to a woman that’s not -going to let him go if she can help it, that he doesn’t care for----” - -“How do you know he doesn’t care for her?” The interruption came in a -tone of startled surprise and Rose stared at him, her eyes wide with it. - -For a moment the old man was at a loss. He would have told any lie -rather than have let her guess his knowledge of the situation and the -information given him by Dominick. He realized that his zeal had made -him imprudently garrulous, and, gazing at her with a slightly stupid -expression, said in a slow tone of self-justification, - -“Well, that’s my idea. I guessed it. I’ve heard one thing and another -here and there and I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s no love -lost between them. It’s the natural outcome of the situation, anyway.” - -“Yes, perhaps,” she murmured. She placed her elbow on the table and -pressed the tips of her fingers against her cheek. Her hand and arm, -revealed by her loose lace sleeve, looked as if cut out of ivory. - -“And then,” went on her father remorselessly, “the results of being a -confounded fool don’t stop right there. That’s one of the worst things -of allowing yourself the luxury of foolishness. They go on--roll right -along like a wheel started on a down-hill grade. Some day that boy’ll -meet the right woman--the one he really wants, the one that belongs -to him. He’ll be able to stand it all right till then. And then he’ll -realize just what he’s done and what he’s up against, and things may -happen.” - -The smoke wreaths were thick in front of his face, and peering through -them he saw the young girl move her fingers from her cheek to her -forehead, where she gently rubbed them up and down. - -“Isn’t that about the size of it?” he queried, when she did not answer. - -“Yes, maybe,” she said in a voice that sounded muffled. - -“It’ll be a pretty tough proposition and it’s bound to happen. A decent -feller like that is just the man to fall in love. And he’d be good to -a woman, he’d make her happy. He’s a good husband lost for some nice -girl.” - -Rose’s fingers ceased moving across her forehead. Her hand rested -there, shading her eyes. For a moment the old man--his vision -precipitated into the half-understood wretchedness of Dominick Ryan’s -position--forgot her, and he said in a hushed voice of feeling, - -“By God, I’m sorry for the poor boy!” - -His daughter rose suddenly with a rustling of crushed silks. The sound -brought him back in an instant and he leaned over the arm of his chair, -his cigar in his left hand, his right waving the smoke wreaths from -before his face. Rose’s hand, pressing her crumpled napkin on the -table, shone pink in the lamplight, her shoulder gleamed white through -its lace covering, but her face was averted. - -“Going up now?” he asked, leaning still farther over the chair-arm to -see her beyond the lamp’s wide shade. - -She appeared not to hear and moved toward the door. - -“Going to bed already, Rosey?” he asked in a louder key. - -“Yes, I’m tired,” her voice came a little hoarse and she did not -look at him. At the doorway she stopped, her hand on the edge of the -portière, and without turning, cleared her throat and said, “The cow -and the chickens were too much for me. I’m too sleepy to talk any more. -Good night, papa.” - -“Good-night, Rosey,” he answered. - -The portière fell softly behind her, and her footfall was lost in the -thickness of the carpets. Though he had not seen her face, her father -had an alarming, an almost terrifying idea, that his darling had left -the table in tears. - -He sat on for some time, stonily motionless, save for the movement of -his lips as he puffed out clouds of smoke. The soft-footed servants, -coming to clear the table, fled before his growled command to “get out -and let him alone.” As he smoked he looked straight before him with -fixed, unwinking eyes, his face set in furrows of thought. At long -intervals he stirred in his chair, ponderously, like an inert, heavy -animal, and now and then he emitted a short sound, like a grunted -comment on some thought, which, by its biting suddenness, seemed to -force an ejaculation out of him. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -DOMINICK COMES HOME - - -Three days after the return of the Cannons, Dominick Ryan also came -home. He had answered Berny’s letter the day the Cannons left, a few -hours after that interview with the Bonanza King, in which, driven to -bay by the old man’s questions, he had torn the veil from his married -life. - -After that there was a period of several hours when he sat in his room -thinking over what had happened. It seemed to him that he had played -a dastardly part. He saw himself a creature of monumental, gross -selfishness, who had cajoled a young girl, in a moment of softness -and sentiment, into an action which had done nothing but distress and -humiliate her. He, who should have been the strong one, had been weak. -It was he who should have seen how things were going; he, the married -man, who had allowed himself to feel and to yield to a love that ought -to have been hidden for ever in his own heart. - -He felt that it would be a sort of expiation to go back to his wife. -That was where he belonged. Rose must never again cross his path, have -a place in his thoughts, or float, a soft beguiling image, in his -memory. He had a wife. No matter what Berny was, she was the woman he -had married. She had not deceived him. It was he who had done her a -wrong, and he owed her a reparation. - -In his raw state, his nerves still thrilling with the memory of that -moment’s embrace, he saw Berny from her own point of view. He lost -the memory of the complacent mistress in the picture of the unloved -wife, on whose side there was much to be said. Morbidness colored his -vision and exaggerated his sense of culpability. If she had an ugly -temper, had it not been excited, fed and aggravated by the treatment -she had received from his family? If they had maintained a different -attitude toward her, the poor girl might have been quite a pleasant, -easy-going person. In all other ways she had been a good wife. Since -their marriage, no other man had ever won a glance from her. She had -often enough assured Dominick of that fact, and he, for his part, knew -it to be true. She had struggled to keep a comfortable home on their -small income. If she was not congenial to him--if her companionship was -growing daily more disagreeable--was it all her fault? He had known her -well before he married her, six months of the closest intimacy had -made him acquainted with every foible of her character. It was no story -of a youth beguiled and deceived by a mature woman in the unequal duel -of a drawing-room courtship. - -Her letter intensified his condition of self-accusation, chafed and -irritated his soreness of shame till it became a weight of guilt. It -also stirred afresh the pity, which was the strongest feeling he had -for her. It was the tenderest, the most womanly letter, Berny had -ever written him. A note of real appeal sounded through it. She had -humiliated herself, asked his pardon, besought of him to return. As he -thought of it, the vision of her alone in the flat, bereft of friends, -dully devoid of any occupation, scornful of her old companions, -fawningly desirous of making new ones who refused to know her, smote -him with an almost sickening sense of its pitifulness. He felt sorry -for her not alone because of her position, but because of what she was, -what her own disposition had made her. She would never change, her -limitations were fixed. She would go on longing for the same flesh-pots -to the end, believing that they represented the highest and best. - -Berny had realized that her letter was a skilful and moving production, -but she did not know that it was to gain a hundredfold in persuasive -power by falling on a guilty conscience. It put an end to Dominick’s -revolt, it quenched the last sparks of the mutinous rage which had -taken him to Antelope. That same afternoon in his frigid bedroom at -the hotel, he answered it. His reply was short, only a few lines. In -these he stated that he would be back on the following Saturday, the -tenderness of his injured foot making an earlier move impossible. - -The letter reached Berny Friday and threw her into a state of febrile -excitement. Her deadly dread of Dominick’s returning to his family had -never quite died out. It kept recurring, sweeping in upon her in moods -of depression, and making her feel chilled and frightened. Now she knew -he was coming back to her, evidently not lovingly disposed--the letter -was too terse and cold for that--but, at any rate, he was coming home. -Once there, she would set all her wits to work, use every art of which -she was mistress, to make him forget the quarrel and enter in upon a -new era of sweet reasonableness and mutual consideration. - -She set about this by cleaning the house and buying new curtains for -the sitting-room. Such purifications and garnishments would have -agreeably impressed her on a home-coming and she thought they would -Dominick. In the past year she had become much more extravagant than -she had been formerly, a characteristic which had arisen in her from a -state of rasped irritation against the restricted means to which Mrs. -Ryan’s rancor condemned her. She was quite heavily in debt to various -tradespeople; and to dressmakers and milliners she owed sums that -would have astounded her husband had he known of them. This did not -prevent her from still further celebrating his return by ordering a new -dress in which to greet him and a new hat to wear the first time they -went out together. How she was to pay for these adornments, she did -not know nor care. The occasion was so important that it excused any -extravagance, and Berny, in whose pinched, dry nature love of dress was -a predominant passion, was glad to have a reason for adding new glories -to her wardrobe. - -On the Saturday morning she went out betimes. Inquiry at the railway -office told her that the train which connected with the branch line -to Rocky Bar did not reach the city till six in the evening. She -ordered a dinner of the choicest viands and spent part of the morning -passing from stall to stall in the market on Powell Street spying about -for dainties that might add a last elaborating touch to the lengthy -menu. The afternoon was dedicated to the solemn rites of massaging, -manicuring, and hair-waving at a beauty doctor’s. On an ordinary -occasion these unwonted exertions in the pursuit of good looks would -have tired her, but to-day she was keyed to a pitch where she did not -notice small outside discomforts. - -Long before six she was dressed, and standing before the mirror in her -room she laid on the last perfecting touches with a short stick of -hard red substance and a circular piece of mossy-looking white stuff, -which she rubbed with a rotary motion round and round her face. Her new -dress of raspberry pink crape betrayed the hand of an expert in its -gracefully-falling folds and the elegance with which it outlined her -slim, long-waisted shape. Her artificially-reddened hair waved back -from her forehead in glossy ripples; her face, all lines and hollows -rubbed from it, looked fresh and youthful. With the subdued light -falling on her through the silk and paper lamp shades, she looked a -very pretty woman, the darkness of her long brilliant eyes thrown into -higher relief by the whiteness of her powdered face. - -She was tremulously nervous. Every sound caused her to start and -move to that part of the parlor whence she could look down the long -passageway to the stair-head. Large bunches of greenery were massed -here in the angles of the hall and stood in the corners of the -sitting-room. Bowls filled with violets and roses were set on the table -and mantelpiece, and the scent of these flowers, sweet and delicate, -mingled with the crude, powerful perfume that the woman’s draperies -exhaled with every movement. At intervals she ran into her bedroom, -seized the little, round, soft wad of white and rubbed it over her -face with a quick concentric movement, drawing her upper lip down as -she did so, which gave to her countenance with its anxious eyes an -exceedingly comical expression. - -It was nearly seven o’clock when the bell rang. With a last hasty look -in the glass, she ran down the passageway to the stair-head. It was -necessary to descend a few steps to a turn on the stairs from whence -the lever that opened the door could be worked. As she stood on the -small landing, thrown out in bright relief by a mass of dark leafage -that stood in the angle of the wall, the door opened and Dominick -entered. He looked up and saw her standing there, gaily dressed, a -brilliant, animated figure, smiling down at him. - -“Ah, Berny,” he said in a quiet, unemotional voice, “is that you?” - -It was certainly not an enthusiastic greeting. A sensitive woman -would have been shriveled by it, but Berny was not sensitive. She had -realized from the start that she would probably have to combat the -lingering surliness left by the quarrel. As Dominick ascended, her -air of smiling welcome was marked by a bland cheery unconsciousness -of any past unpleasantness. She was not, however, as unconscious as -she looked. She noted his heaviness of demeanor, the tired expression -of his lifted face. He came up the stairs slowly, not yet being -completely recovered, and it added to the suggestion of reluctance, of -difficult and spiritless approach, that seemed to encompass him in an -unseen yet distinctly-felt aura. - -As he rose on a level with her, she stretched out her hands and, laying -them on his shoulders, drew him toward her and kissed him. The coldness -of his cheek, damp with the foggy night air, chilled the caress and she -drew back from him, not so securely confident in her debonair, smiling -assurance. He patted her lightly on the shoulder by way of greeting and -said, - -“How are you? All right?” - -“Oh, I’m all right,” she answered with brisk, determined sprightliness. -“You’re the one to ask about. You walk stiff, still. How are your feet?” - -She was glad to turn her eyes away from his face. It looked very tired, -and the slight smile with which he had greeted her stayed only on his -lips and did not extend to his fatigued eyes. He was evidently angry -still, angry and unforgiving, and that he should be so, when she was -so anxious to forget the ugly episode of the quarrel and be gay and -friendly again, dashed her spirits and made her feel unsure of herself -and upset. She was determined, however, to show him that she had -forgotten all about it, and as he turned the angle of the stairway she -thrust her hand inside his arm and walked up beside him. They might -have been a happy married couple, reunited after an absence, slowly -coming up the stairs together arm in arm. - -A few minutes later they were seated opposite each other at dinner. -The little table glowed and gleamed, all Berny’s bravery of silver and -glass mustered for its adornment. The choice and delicate dinner began -with a soup that Dominick especially liked, a fact which Berny hoped -he would notice and mention. She was one of those women who have an -unfailing memory for what people like to eat; a single expression of -preference would remain in her mind for years. Dominick and she had not -lived together for a month before she knew everything in the way of -food he liked or disliked. When she was annoyed with him, or especially -bitter against his mother, she would order nothing but dishes that -he did not care for, and when she was in a more friendly mood, as -to-night, she would take pains and time to arrange a menu composed -of those he preferred. He usually did not notice these rewards and -punishments, but Berny always thought he did and was “too stubborn,” as -she expressed it to herself, to show that he was affected by them. - -She observed to-night that he neither remarked, nor seemed to relish -his food, but she made no comment, talking on in a breathless, lively -way, asking questions of his trip, his accident, and the condition of -his feet, as though there were no mortifying recollections connected -with the cause of his sudden departure. Her only indication of -embarrassment was a tendency to avoid anything like a moment of silence -and to fly from one subject to another. Dominick answered her questions -and told her of his wanderings with a slow, careful exactness. Save in -the freezing of his feet, which matter he treated more lightly than it -deserved, he was open with her in recounting the small happenings of -what he called “his holiday,” from the time of his walk from Rocky Bar -to the day of his departure from Antelope. - -They had progressed through the fish to the entrée when her questions -passed from his personal wanderings and adventures to his associates. -She had been very anxious to get to this point, as she wanted to know -what degree of intimacy he had reached with the Bonanza King. Several -times already she had tried to divert the conversation toward that -subject, but it had been deflected by the young man, who seemed to -find less personal topics more to his taste. Now she was advancing -openly upon it, inquiring about the snow-bound group at Perley’s, and -awarding to any but the august name for which her ears were pricked -a perfunctory attention. It was part of the natural perversity of -man that Dominick should shy from it and expend valuable time on -descriptions of the other prisoners. - -“There was an actor there,” he said, “snowed in on his way to -Sacramento, a queer-looking chap, but not bad.” - -“An actor?” said Berny, trying to look interested. “What did he act?” - -“Melodrama, I think. He told me he played all through the northwest and -east as far as Denver. The poor chap was caught up there and was afraid -he was going to lose a Sacramento engagement that I guess meant a good -deal to him. He was quite interesting, been in the Klondike in the -first rush and had some queer stories about the early days up there.” - -Berny’s indifferent glance became bright and fixed under the steadying -effect of sudden interest. - -“Been in the Klondike?” she repeated. “What was his name?” - -“Buford, James Defay Buford. He’d been an actor at the opera house at -Dawson.” - -“Buford,” said Berny, turning to place a helping of pease on the plate -the Chinaman held toward her. “I never heard of him. I thought perhaps -it might have been some actor I’d seen play. I’d like to know an actor -in private life. They must be so different.” - -She ladled a second spoonful of pease on to her own plate, and as she -began to eat them, said, - -“It must have been interesting having the Cannons up there. When I read -in the paper that they were up at Antelope too, I was awfully glad -because I thought it would be such a good thing for you to get to know -the old man well, as you would, snowed in that way together.” - -“I knew him before. My father and mother have been friends of his for -years.” - -“I know that. You’ve often told me. But that’s a different thing. I -thought if he got to know you intimately and liked you, as he probably -would”--she glanced at him with a coquettish smile, but his face was -bent over his plate--“why, then, something might come of it, something -in a business way.” She again looked at him, quickly, with sidelong -investigation, to see how he took the remark. She did not want to -irritate him by alluding to his small means, anyway on this night of -reconciliation. - -“It would be so useful for you to get solid with a man like Bill -Cannon,” she concluded with something of timidity in her manner. - -Despite her caution, Dominick seemed annoyed. He frowned and gave his -head an impatient jerk. - -“Oh, there was nothing of that kind,” he said hurriedly. “We were just -snowed in at the same hotel. There was no question of intimacy or -friendship about it, any more than there was between Judge Washburne -and me, or even the actor.” - -Berny was exceedingly disappointed. Had the occasion been a less -momentous one she would have expressed herself freely. In her mind she -thought it was “just like Dominick” to have such an opportunity and let -it go. A slight color deepened the artificial rose of her cheeks and -for a moment she had to exert some control to maintain the silence that -was wisdom. She picked daintily at her food while she wrestled with her -irritation. Dominick showed no desire to resume the conversation, and a -silence of some minutes’ duration rested over them, until she broke it -by saying with a resolute cheerfulness of tone, - -“Rose Cannon was there too, the paper said. I suppose you got to know -her quite well?” - -“I don’t know. I saw a good deal of her. There was only one -sitting-room and we all sat there. She was there with the others.” - -“What’s she like?” said Berny, her curiosity on the subject of this -spoiled child of fortune overcoming her recent annoyance. - -“You’ve seen her,” he answered, “you know what she looks like.” - -“I’ve never seen her to know who she was. I suppose I’ve passed her on -the streets and at the theaters. Is she cordial and pleasant, or does -she give herself airs because she’s Bill Cannon’s daughter?” - -Dominick moved his feet under the table. It was difficult for him to -answer Berny’s questions politely. - -“She doesn’t give herself the least airs. She’s perfectly simple and -natural and kind.” - -“That’s just what I’ve heard,” his wife said, giving her head an -agreeing wag. “They say she’s just as easy and unassuming as can be. -Did you think she was pretty when you saw her close to?” - -“Really, Berny, I don’t know,” answered the victim in a tone of goaded -patience. “She looks just the same close to as she does at a distance. -I don’t notice people’s looks much. Yes, I suppose she’s pretty.” - -“She has blonde hair,” said Berny, leaning forward over her plate -in the eagerness of her interest. “Did it look to you as if it was -bleached?” - -He raised his eyes, and his wife encountered an unexpected look of -anger in them. She shrank a little, being totally unprepared for it. - -“How should I know whether her hair was bleached or not?” he said -sharply. “That’s a very silly question.” - -Berny was quite taken aback. - -“I don’t see that it is,” she said with unusual and somewhat stammering -mildness. “Most blonde-haired women, even if they haven’t bleached -their hair, have had it ‘restored.’” - -Dominick did not answer her. The servant presented a dish at his elbow -and he motioned it away with an impatient gesture. - -Berny, who was not looking at him, went on. - -“What kind of clothes did she wear? They say she’s an elegant dresser, -gets almost everything from Paris, even her underwear. I suppose she -didn’t have her best things up there. But she must have had something, -because the papers said they’d gone prepared for a two weeks’ trip.” - -“I never noticed anything she wore.” - -“Well, isn’t that just like you, Dominick Ryan!” exclaimed his wife, -unable, at this unmerited disappointment, to refrain from some -expression of her feelings. “And you might know I’d be anxious to hear -what she had on.” - -“I’m very sorry, but I haven’t an idea about any of her clothes. I -think they were always dark, mostly black or brown.” - -“Did you notice,” almost pleadingly, “what she wore when she went out? -Mrs. Whiting, the forelady at Hazel’s millinery, says she imported a -set of sables, muff, wrap and hat, for her this autumn. Hazel says it -was just the finest thing of its kind you ever laid your eyes on. Did -she have them up there?” - -“I couldn’t possibly tell you. I don’t know what sables are. I saw -her once with a fur cap on, but I think it belonged to Willoughby, an -Englishman who was staying there, and used to have his cap hanging on -the pegs in the hall. It’s quite useless asking me these questions. I -don’t know anything about the subject. Did you wind the clock while I -was away?” - -He looked at the clock, a possession of his own, given him in the days -when his mother and sister delighted to ornament his rooms with costly -gifts and in which he had never before evinced the slightest interest. - -“Of course, I wound it,” Berny said with an air of hurt protest. -“Haven’t I wound it regularly for nearly three years?” - -This brought the subject of Rose Cannon to an end and she was not -alluded to again during the dinner. The conversation reverted to such -happenings in the city as Berny thought might interest her husband, -and it seemed to her that he was more pleased to sit and listen to her -chatter of her sisters, the bank, the theaters, and the shops, than to -dilate any further on his adventures in the snow-bound Sierra. - -When the dinner was over, they returned to the front of the flat, -where next to the parlor there was a tiny hall-room fitted up as -a smoking-room and den. It was merely a continuation of the hall, -and “the cozy corner” which Berny had had a Polk Street upholsterer -construct in it, occupied most of the available space, and crowded such -visitors as entered it into the corners. It had been Berny’s idea to -have this room “lined with books” as she expressed it, but their joint -possessions in this line consisting of some twenty-five volumes, and -the fact that the contracted space made it impossible to accommodate -both the books and the cozy corner, Berny had decided in favor of the -latter. She now seated herself on the divan that formed the integral -part of this construction, and, piling the pillows behind her, leaned -luxuriously back under the canopy of variegated stuffs which was -supported by two formidable-looking lances. - -Dominick sat in his easy chair. He always smoked in this room and read -the papers, and presently he picked them up from the table and began -to look them over. The conversation languished, became spasmodic, and -finally died away. Berny, leaning back on the cushions, tried several -times to revive it, but her husband from among the spread sheets of -the evening press answered her with the inarticulate sounds of mental -preoccupation, and sometimes with no sound at all, till she abandoned -the attempt and leaned back under the canopy in a silence that was not -by any means the somnolent quietude of after-dinner torpor. - -The clock hands were pointing to half-past nine when a ring at the bell -was followed by the appearance of the Chinaman at the door, stating -that the expressman had come with Mr. Ryan’s valises. Dominick threw -down his papers and left the room. As Berny sat silent, she could hear -the expressman’s gruff deep voice in the hall and the thuds of the -valises as he thumped them down at the stair-head. Dominick answered -him and there were a few more remarks, followed by the retreating -sound of the man’s heavy feet on the stairs and the bang of the hall -door. She sat looking at the clock, waiting for her husband to return, -and then as he did not come and the hall seemed singularly quiet she -leaned forward and sent an exploring glance down its dim length. -Dominick was not there, but a square of light fell out from the open -doorway of his room. - -“Dominick,” she called, “what are you doing?” - -He came to the door of the room in his shirt-sleeves, a tall figure -looking lean and powerful in this closer-fitting and lighter garb. - -“I’m unpacking my things, and then I’m going to bed.” - -“Oh!” she answered with a falling inflection, leaning forward, with her -elbows planted on her knees, craning her neck to see more plainly down -the narrow passageway. “It’s only half-past nine; why do you want to go -to bed so early?” - -“I’m tired, and it will take me some time to get these things put away.” - -“Can I help you?” she asked without moving. - -“No, thanks. There’s nothing much to bother about. Good night, Berny,” -and he stepped back into the room and shut the door. - -Berny sat as he had left her for a space, and then drew back upon the -divan and leaned against the mound of pillows. She made the movement -charily and slowly, her face set in a rigidity of thought to which -her body seemed fixed and obedient. She sat thus for an hour without -moving, her eyes staring before her, two straight lines folded in the -skin between her brows. - -So he was still angry, angry and unforgiving. That was the way she -read his behavior. The coldness that he exhaled--that penetrated even -her unsensitive outer shell--she took to be the coldness of unappeased -indignation. He had never before been just like this. There was a -something of acquired forbearance and patience about him--a cultivated -thing, not a spontaneous outward indication of an inner condition of -being--which was new to her observation. He was not sulky or cross; he -was simply withdrawn from her and trying to hide it under a manner of -careful, guarded civility. It was different from any state she had yet -seen him in, but it never crossed her mind that it might be caused by -the influence of another woman. - -He was still angry--that was what Berny thought; and sitting on the -divan under the canopy with its fiercely-poised lances she meditated on -the subject. His winning back was far from accomplished. He was not as -“easy” as she had always thought. A feeling of respect for him entered -into her musings, a feeling that was novel, for in her regard for her -husband there had previously been a careless, slighting tolerance -which was not far removed from contempt. But if he had pride enough -to keep her thus coldly at arm’s length, to withstand her attempts at -forgiveness and reconciliation, he was more of a man than she thought, -and she had a harder task to handle than she had guessed. She did not -melt into anything like self-pity at the futility of her efforts, -which, had Dominick known of them, would have seemed to him extremely -pathetic. That they had not succeeded gave her a new impetus of force -and purpose, made her think, and scheme with a hard, cool resolution. -To “make up” and gain ascendancy over Dominick, independent and proudly -indifferent, was much more worth while than to bully Dominick, patient, -enduring, and ruled by a sense of duty. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -THE GODS IN THE MACHINE - - -On the second Sunday after their return from Antelope, Bill Cannon -resolved to dedicate the afternoon to paying calls. This, at least, was -what he told his daughter at luncheon as he, she, and Gene sat over -the end of the meal. To pay calls was not one of the Bonanza King’s -customs, and in answer to Rose’s query as to whom he was going to honor -thus, he responded that he thought he’d “start in with Delia Ryan.” - -Rose made no comment on this intelligence. The sharp glance he cast -at her discovered no suggestion of consciousness in the peach-like -placidity of her face. It gratified him to see her thus unsuspecting, -and in the mellowing warmth of his satisfaction he turned and addressed -a polite query to Gene as to how he intended spending the afternoon. -Gene and Rose, it appeared, were going to the park to hear the band. -Gene loved a good band, and the one that played in the park Sunday -afternoons was especially good. The Sunday before, Gene had heard it -play _Poet and Peasant_ and the _Overture of William Tell_, and it -was great! That was one of the worst things about living on a ranch, -Gene complained, you didn’t have any music except at the men’s house at -night when one of the Mexicans played on an accordion. - -The old man, with his elbow on the table, and a short, blunt-fingered -hand stroking his beard, looked at his son with narrowed eyes full of -veiled amusement. When he did not find Gene disagreeably aggravating as -his only failure, he could, as it were, stand away from him and realize -how humorous he was if you took him in a certain way. - -“What’s the Mexican play?” he growled without removing his hand. - -“_La Paloma_,” answered Gene, pleased to be questioned thus amicably -by his autocratic sire, “generally _La Paloma_, but he _can_ play _The -Heart Bowed Down_ and the Toreador song from _Carmen_. I want him to -learn the _Miserere_ from _Trovatore_. It’s nice to sit on the porch -after dinner and listen while you smoke.” - -“Sort of Court Minstrel,” said his father, thumping down his napkin -with his hand spread flat on it. “Don Eugenio Cannon, with his minstrel -playing to him in the gloaming! It’s very picturesque. Did you ever -think of having a Court Fool too, or perhaps you don’t feel as if you -needed one?” - -He arose from his chair before Gene, who never quite understood the -somewhat ferocious humor of his parent, had time to reply. - -“Well, so long,” said the old man; “be good children and don’t get -into mischief, and Rose, see that your brother doesn’t get lost or so -carried away by the _Poet and the Peasant_ that he forgets the dinner -hour. _Adios_, girlie.” - -A half-hour later he walked down the flight of marble steps that -led in dignified sweep from the front door to the street. It was a -wonderful day and for a moment he paused, looking with observing eyes -at the prospect of hill and bay which seemed to glitter in the extreme -clearness of the atmosphere. Like all Californians he had a strong, -natural appreciation of scenic and climatic beauty. Preoccupied with -thoughts and schemes which were anything but uplifting, he yet was -sensitively responsive to the splendors of the view before him, to -the unclouded, pure blue of the vault above, to the balmy softness of -the air against his face. Some one had once asked him why he did not -live in Paris as the ideal home of the man of great wealth and small -scruples. His answer had been that he preferred San Francisco because -there were more fine days in the year there than anywhere else he knew -of. - -Now he paused, sniffing the air with distended nostril and inhaling -it in deep, grateful inspirations. His eye moved slowly over the -noble prospect, noted the deep sapphire tint of the bay, the horizon, -violet dark against a pale sky, and the gem-like blues and amethysts -of the distant hills. He turned his glance in the other direction and -looked down the gray expanse of the street, the wide, clear, stately -street, with its air of clean spaciousness, sun-bathed, silent, almost -empty, in the calm quietude of the Sabbath afternoon. The bustling -thoroughfares of greater cities, with their dark, sordid crowds, their -unlovely, vulgar hurry, their distracting noise, were offensive to him. -The wonder crossed his mind, as it had done before, how men who could -escape from such surroundings chose to remain in them. - -He walked forward slowly, a thick-set, powerful figure, his frock-coat -buttoned tight about the barrel-like roundness of his torso, a soft, -black felt hat pulled well down on his head. His feet were broad and -blunt like his hands, and in their square-toed shoes he planted them -firmly on the pavement with a tread of solid, deliberate authority. -His forward progress had something in it of an invincible, resistless -march. He was thinking deeply as he walked, arranging and planning, and -there was nothing in his figure, or movements, or the expression of his -face, which suggested the sauntering aimlessness of an afternoon stroll. - -When he turned into Van Ness Avenue the Ryan house was one block -beyond him, a conglomerate white mass, like a crumbling wedding cake -slowly settling on a green lawn. He surveyed it as he approached, -noting its ugliness with a musing satisfaction. Its size and the -bright summery perfection of surrounding grass and flower beds lent it -impressiveness and redeemed it from the position of a colossal blight -on the prospect to which architect and builder had done their best to -relegate it. Prosperity, a complacent, overwhelming prosperity, was -suggested not only by its bulk but by the state of studied finish and -neatness that marked mansion and grounds. There did not seem to be -a wilting flower bed or withered leaf left on a single stalk in the -garden borders. Every window-pane gleamed like a mirror innocent of -dust or blemishing spot. The marble steps up which Cannon mounted were -as snowily unsullied as though no foot had passed over them since their -last ablution. - -The door was opened by a Chinaman, who, taking the visitor’s card, -left him standing in the hall, and, deaf to his queries as to where -he should go, serenely mounted the stairs. Cannon hesitated a moment, -then hearing a sound of voices to his right, entered the anteroom that -gave on that suite of apartments into which Dominick had walked on the -night of the ball. They were softly lit by the afternoon sun filtering -through thin draperies, and extended in pale, gilt-touched vista to -the shining emptiness of the ball-room. The old man was advancing -toward the voices when he suddenly saw whence they proceeded, and -stopped. In the room just beyond him Cornelia Ryan and a young man -were sitting on a small, empire sofa, their figures thrown out in high -relief against the background of silk-covered wall. Cornelia’s red head -was in close proximity to that of her companion, which the intruder -saw to be clothed with a thatch of sleek black hair, and which he -recognized as appertaining to a young man whose father had once been -shift boss on the Rey del Monte, and who bore the patronymic of Duffy. - -Cornelia and Jack Duffy had the appearance of being completely -engrossed in each other’s society. In his moment of unobserved survey, -Cannon had time to note the young woman’s air of bashful, pleased -embarrassment and the gentleman’s expression of that tense, unsmiling -earnestness which attends the delivery of sentimental passages. -Cornelia was looking down, and her flaming hair and the rosy tones -of her face, shading from the faintest of pearly pinks to deepening -degrees of coral, were luminously vivid against the flat surface of -cream-colored wall behind her, and beside the black poll and thin, -dark cheek of her companion. That something very tender was afoot was -quickly seen by the visitor, who softly withdrew, stepping gingerly -over the fur rugs, and gaining the entrance to the hall with a -sensation of flurried alarm. - -An open door just opposite offered a refuge, and, passing through it -with a forward questing glance alert for other occupants who might -resent intrusion, the old man entered a small reception-room lit by -the glow of a hard coal fire. The room was different in furnishings -and style from those he had left. It had the austere bleakness of -aspect resultant from a combination of bare white walls and large -pieces of furniture of a black wood upon which gold lines were traced -in ornamental squares. An old-fashioned carpet was on the floor, and -several tufted arm-chairs, begirt with dangling fringes, were drawn -up sociably before the fire. This burned cheerily, a red focus of -heat barred by the stripes of a grate, and surmounted by a chastely -severe white marble mantelpiece. He had been in the room often before -and knew it for Mrs. Ryan’s own particular sanctum. When a celebrated -decorator had been sent out from New York to furnish the lower floor of -the house, she had insisted on retaining in this apartment the pieces -of furniture and the works of art which she approved, and which the -decorator wished to banish to the garret. Mrs. Ryan had her way as -she always did, and the first fine “soote” of furniture which she and -Con had bought in the days of their early affluence, and various oil -paintings also collected in the same era of their evolution, went to -the decking of the room she used for her own and oftenest sat in. - -Cannon approached the fire, and stood there looking up at the life-size -portrait in oils of the late Cornelius Ryan, which hung over the -chimneypiece. The artist had portrayed him as a thickly-whiskered -man with the complexion of a healthy infant and eyes of baby blue. A -watch chain, given him by his colleagues in the old days at Shasta, -and formed of squares of quartz set in native gold, was painted with -a finished carefulness which had pleased Mrs. Ryan even more than the -likeness had done. In showing the picture, she was wont to say proudly, -“Just look at the watch chain! Seems as if you could almost hear the -ticking of the watch.” - -Cannon was speculating as to the merits of the likeness when he heard -the silken rustling of skirts, and turned to greet his old friend. -She came in smiling, with extended hand, richly clad, the gleam of -a fastening jewel at her neck. Her hair was dressed with a shining, -smooth elaboration, drawn up tightly at the sides and arranged over her -forehead in careful curls. As she and her visitor exchanged the first -sentences of greeting he noticed that she looked much older and more -worn than she had done the last time he had seen her, but her face was -as full of pugnacious force as ever. While Delia Ryan’s body lived her -spirit would hold its dominion. She had ruled all her life and would do -so to the end. - -They sat down on either side of the fire and the old man said, - -“I don’t know whether I ought to be in here. The Chinaman left me to my -fate, and I had to nose about myself and find out where I belonged.” - -“Oh, that’s Lee,” she answered with a short laugh. “He waits on the -door every other Sunday. We’ve had him ten years and no one’s ever -been able to make him show people into the parlor. He thinks it better -to leave them standing in the hall till one of us sees the card. Then -he’ll go down and tell them as sociably as you please ‘to go right in -and sit down.’ I asked him why he didn’t do it at first, and he said -‘they might steal something.’” - -Cannon looked into the fire with an amused eye. - -“I guess he thought I was after the spoons. It’s a dangerous habit, for -I took the first turning to the right and butted into Cornelia and a -young man who gave me to understand I’d come the wrong way around.” - -“What did they say?” said the mother, her face stiffening with sudden -disapproving surprise. - -“They didn’t say anything. That was just it. They didn’t even see me. -But they certainly led me to believe that I’d got somewhere where I -wasn’t wanted. I may not be smart, but a hint doesn’t have to be much -harder than the kick of a mule for me to see it.” - -Mrs. Ryan looked at him consideringly. - -“Yes,” she said, nodding, “it’s a case, I guess.” - -“It ought to be satisfactory,” he answered. “Pat Duffy, the father of -those boys, was one of the finest fellers I ever knew. He was shift -boss on the Rey del Monte in seventy-one when I was the superintendent. -He got out of Virginia with his pile, didn’t lose it like the others. -He had an easy three million when he came down here and bought the -Bristed house on Pine Street. And Jack’s the best of his children. -Maggie, who married the English baronet, was a nice sort of girl, but -she’s never come back, and Terry’s smart enough, but not the kind you -can bank on. Jack’s a good, straight boy. Cornelia couldn’t do better.” - -“That’s what I think,” said the mother, who, however, looked grave and -worried. “Cornelia’s thirty. It’s time for her to settle, and she’ll -make a good wife. They’ll live here, too. There’ll be no kicking up of -their heels and going off to Europe or New York and thinking themselves -too good to come back to California, like Maggie Duffy and her baronet. -I want them here. I want to see some grandchildren round this house -before I die. I want to know where Con’s money is going to.” - -She sighed, and it was obvious that her heart was heavy. - -“Yes,” she said, “it’s a good marriage and I’m pleased at it. Jack’s a -Roman Catholic but you can’t have everything down here in this world.” - -The Ryans were Protestants, almost the only prominent Irish-American -family in San Francisco which belonged to that church. Cornelius Ryan -had been a North-country man, and went out with the Orange men when -they paraded. He had been firm in his faith and so had his wife, and -with the Hibernian’s violent devotion to creed they had made public -their antipathy to the Church of Rome and their hopes that their -children would not make alliances with its members. - -“Oh well,” said Cannon with a shrug of vague tolerance, “a man’s -beliefs don’t matter. With a woman it’s a different thing. She brings -up the children and takes her religion hard. Jack won’t interfere with -Cornelia that way.” - -“Perhaps not,” said the mother. There was a slight pause and then she -said with a sigh, - -“Well, thank God, one of my children’s going to marry as I want.” - -She was gazing into the fire and did not notice the quick look, sly -and piercing, that her companion shot at her. The conversation had -suddenly, without any effort of his, fallen upon the subject to which -he had intended directing it. - -“Yes,” he said, looking away from her, “you’ve had one disappointment. -That’s enough.” - -“Disappointment!” she echoed in a loud voice. “Disappointment? I’ve -lost my son; lost him as if he was dead--worse than if he was dead, for -then I’d know he was happy and safe somewhere.” - -It was a cry of pain, Rachel mourning for her child. The note of -feeling in it checked the remark on Cannon’s lips. He understood what -her suffering was and respected it. - -“Why, Bill Cannon,” she went on, turning the perturbed fierceness of -her face on him, “how often do you think I see my boy? What ties do you -think he has with his home? He came up here after he’d got back from -Antelope, but before that I’d only seen him once in six weeks.” - -“That’s pretty hard,” he commented, his elbow on the arm of the chair, -his chin sunk in the cup of his up-curled hand. “That’s pretty tough. I -didn’t know it was as bad as that.” - -“Nobody knows anything about him. He won’t let them. He won’t let me. -He’s proud, and trying to hide it all. That’s the reason he comes up -here so seldom. He knows I can see into him, see through him, clear -through him, and he don’t want me to see how miserable he is.” - -“Oh!” said the old man, moving slightly and raising his eyes to look -at her. The interjection was full of significance, pregnant with -understanding, appreciation and enlightenment. He was surprised -himself. He had thought, and had understood from Dominick, that no -one, especially no one of his own people, knew of the young man’s -domestic infelicities. Neither of them was shrewd enough to realize -that the mother would guess, would know by instinct. - -“And what do you suppose he came up for that once?” pursued Mrs. Ryan. -“You could guess a lot of times but you’d never strike it. He came up -here the night of my ball to ask me to give him an invitation for his -wife!” - -She stared at her visitor with her face set in a stony hardness, a -hardness reminiscent of that which had marked it when Dominick had -asked for the invitation. Cannon saw it and checked the remark that -rose to his lips. He was going to say “Why didn’t you give it to -him?” and he saw that it was too light a comment for what had been a -tragic occasion. All he did was to utter a grunt that might have meant -anything and was consequently safe. - -“That’s what his marriage has done for him, and that’s the state that -woman has ground him down to. She’d worked on him till she’d got him to -come up here and ask for it a few minutes before the people began to -arrive! That’s what she made him do.” - -“And you wouldn’t give it?” he inquired mildly, inwardly surprised, as -he had been often before, at the rancor displayed by women in their -quarrels. - -“Give it?” she exclaimed, “well, I guess not. It would have been my -surrender. I’d have thrown up the fight for ever when I did that.” -And then as if she had read his thoughts: “It’s not natural meanness -either. There’s only one hope for me--for me and for Dominick, too. -Divorce.” - -He did not move his chin from its resting-place in his up-curled hand, -but made a slight assenting motion with his head, and said, - -“I suppose that’s the only thing.” - -“That’s been my hope since the day when I first saw her. I didn’t know -then she’d been anything to Dominick before the marriage, but I knew -the first look I had at her what she was. That long, mean nose and -those sly eyes, and seven years older than the boy if she was a day. -You didn’t have to tell me any more. I saw then just like a flash in -the dark what my son had let himself in for. And then, not a month -after, I heard the rest about her, and I knew that Dominick had started -in to ruin his life about the best way he knew how.” - -Cannon gave another grunt, and this time it contained a recognizable -note of sympathy. She went on, absorbed in her recital, anxious to pour -out her griefs, now that she had begun. - -“Right there from the start I thought of divorce. I knew it was the -only way out and was bound to come in time. The woman had married -Dominick for money and position. I knew that, saw it in her face along -with other things. There was no love in that face, just calculation, -hard and sharp as a meat ax. I shut down on the money right there and -then. Dominick had three thousand a year, so I knew he couldn’t starve, -but three thousand a year wasn’t what she’d married him for.” - -“She’s got along on it for over two years.” - -“That’s it. She’s beaten me so far. I’m the keeper of Con Ryan’s -fortune and I just closed my hand on it and said to her in so many -words, ‘Not a cent of this for you.’ I thought she’d tire of struggling -along in a flat with one Chinaman and not a soul to come near her. -But she’s stood it and she’s going to go on standing it. Where she’s -concerned, I did something the smartest men and women sometimes -do--underrated the brains of my enemy.” - -“She’s pretty smart, I guess,” said Cannon, raising a gravely-commenting -eye to his companion’s face. - -“That’s what she is,--smart and long-headed. She’s more far-sighted -than women of her kind usually are and she’s got her eye on the future. -She’s not going to give us a chance for divorce. She’s not going to -make any breaks or mistakes. There’s not a more respectable woman in -San Francisco. She doesn’t go with any one but her husband and her -own sisters, two decent women that you can’t believe have the same -blood in them. She’s the quietest, most domestic kind of a wife. It -don’t matter, and nobody knows, that she’s making her husband the most -miserable man in the country. That doesn’t cut any ice. What does is -that there’s no ground for divorce against her. If she had the kind of -husband that wouldn’t put up with anything from a woman, all he could -do would be to leave her and she’d go round then getting everybody’s -sympathies as a virtuous, deserted wife.” - -The old man gave his head an appreciative jerk, and murmured, - -“A pretty smart woman, all right.” - -“She’s all that--that and more. It’s the future that she’s banking -on. I’m nearly seventy years of age, Bill Cannon, and this has broken -me up more than anything that’s gone before. I’m not the woman I was -before my boy married. And what’s going to happen when I die? I’ve only -got two living children. Outside them there’s nobody but some distant -relations that Con made settlements on before he died. If I left all -I’ve got to Cornelia, or divided it up between Cornelia and charity, -cutting off my son because he’d made a marriage I didn’t like, would -such a will as that stand? Why had I left nothing to my only son? -Because he’d married a woman I didn’t think good enough? And what was -there against her? She’d been a typewriter and her husband’s mistress -for six months before he married her. The mistress part of it had -been condoned by marriage and good conduct--and after all, how many -families in San Francisco and other places were founded on just those -beginnings? As for her being a typewriter, Delia Ryan herself had been -a washerwoman, washed for the miners with these hands;”--she held out -her blunt, beringed hands with one of those dramatic gestures natural -to the Irish--“when Con was working underground with his pick I was -at the wash-tub, and I made money that way for him to run the mine. -Where’s the California jury that would hesitate to award Dominick, and -through him, his wife her part of the fortune that Con and I made?” - -“Well, that’s all possible,” Cannon said slowly, “but it’s so far off. -It’s all surmise. You may live twenty years yet. I fancy she’d find a -twenty-years’ wait under the present conditions rather wearying.” - -The old woman shook her head, looking very sad. - -“I’m not the woman I was,” she repeated, “this last thing’s broken me -more than anything that went before. I lost three children by death, -and it wasn’t as hard as losing my youngest boy the way I have.” - -“Have you any idea whether Dominick has ever thought of divorce?” he -asked. - -“I’ve the clearest kind of an idea that he hasn’t. You don’t know -Dominick. He’s the best boy in the world. He’ll blame himself for -everything that’s gone wrong, not that woman. She’s smart enough to -let him, too. And suppose he was a different kind and did think of -it? That’s all the good it would do him. Men don’t sue women for -divorce except under the greatest provocation, and Dominick’s got -no provocation at all. My hopes were that the woman herself would -sue--that we’d freeze her out with small means and cold shoulders--and -you see that’s just what she’s determined not to do!” - -Cannon dropped his supporting hand on the chair-arm and began to caress -gently a large tassel that hung there. - -“She could be approached in another way,” he said with a suggestion of -pondering deliberation. - -“What way?” - -“You say she married Dominick for money. Have you never thought of -buying her off?” - -He looked at Mrs. Ryan and met her eyes staring anxiously and, in a -sort of way, shyly into his. - -“Yes,” she said in a low voice, “I have.” - -“Have you tried it?” - -“No,--I--I--I don’t think I dared,” she said almost desperately. “It -was my last trump.” - -He realized, and, though he was unmoved by it, felt the pathos of this -admission from the proud and combative woman who had so long and so -successfully domineered over her world. - -“I suppose it _is_ a sort of death-bed remedy,” he said, “but it seems -to me it’s about time to try it. Your idea that she’s going to wait -till you die and then claim part of the estate as Dominick’s wife is -all very well, but she’s not the kind of woman to be willing to wait -patiently through the rolling years on three thousand dollars per -annum. She’s a good bit older than he is and it isn’t making her any -happier to see her best days passing with nothing doing. I should think -you stood a pretty good chance of getting her to listen to reason.” - -“Offering her a sum down to leave him?” she said, looking at the fire, -her brows knit. - -“Exactly. Offer her a good sum on the stipulation that she leaves him -and goes away to New York or Europe. Then in the course of time she -can write him asking him to grant her a divorce on some such technical -grounds as desertion, or incompatibility, or anything else that’s -respectable. He’ll have to give it to her. He can’t do anything else. -And there you are!” - -“What if she refuses?” she said in a low voice, and he saw she was -afraid of this refusal which would shatter her last hope. - -“Raise your offer,” he answered briskly. “She probably will refuse the -first time.” - -She pondered, eying the fire with heavy immobility. - -“Yes,” she said, nodding. “It sounds reasonable. It’s about the only -thing left.” - -“If I can be of any assistance to you,” he said, “you just call on me. -I’m willing to help in this thing all I can. It goes against me to see -Dominick caught in a trap this way just at the beginning of his life.” - -“A boy,” said his mother, “that would have made some good girl so -happy.” - -Cannon rose from his chair. - -“That’s just it!” he said, “and there are not so many of ’em round that -we can afford to lose one of the best. I’ve always liked Dominick and -getting to know him so well up at Antelope I grew downright fond of -him. He’s a fine boy.” - -He smiled at her with his most genial air, beaming with disinterested -affection for Dominick and the desire to be helpful in a grievous -strait. Mrs. Ryan looked brighter and more hopeful than she had done at -the beginning of the interview. - -“It’s very good of you,” she said, “to come and listen to an old -woman’s complaints. But as we get on, we seem to take them harder. And -you know what my boy was to me?” - -“About the same thing that my girl is to me,” Cannon answered as he -turned away to look on the table for his hat. - -There was a little more talk, and then the set phrases of farewell -brought the interview to a close. Though momentous, it had not lasted -long. As he left the room, Cannon heard the single note of half-past -three chime from the clock on the mantelpiece. - -Outside he stood for a moment on the top of the marble steps, looking -downward with absent eyes. He was completely engrossed with the -just-ended conversation, parts of which repeated themselves in his mind -as he stared unseeingly down the wide, unencumbered vista of the street. - -Carriages flashed past through strips of sunshine; automobiles whirred -by, leaving dust and gasoline in their wake. On the sidewalks there -were many foot passengers: lazily sauntering couples, lovers, family -parties, and little groups bound for the cars which would whisk them -over the dunes to the park. As he slowly began to descend, one of -these groups, formed of three women, a man, and a child, approached -the bottom of the steps. They were walking down the avenue in a close, -talkative bunch. The descending magnate was apprised of their proximity -by the high, cackling sound of the women’s voices and an aura of -perfume which extended from them into the surrounding ether. He paid no -attention to them, his eye, with its look of inward brooding, passing -indifferently over the faces turned eagerly toward him. - -They were not so unmoved. Their glances were trained full on him, their -eyes wide in the unblinking intensity of their scrutiny. Even the -child, who was skipping along beside the eldest of the women, inspected -him with solemn care. Brushing by in their gay Sunday raiment they -drew together to discuss him, their heads in a cluster, their voices -lowered. He was so used to being the object of such interest that he -did not bother to look at them, and was therefore unaware that one of -the women, quite pretty, with reddish hair and dark eyes, had turned as -she moved away and surveyed him over her shoulder. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -BERNY MAKES A DISCOVERY - - -It was near eleven o’clock on that same Sunday morning, when Berny, -wrappered and heavy-eyed, emerged from her room. She shuffled down the -passage to the dining-room, sending her voice before her in a shrill -summons to the Chinaman. The morning papers were scattered over the -table as Dominick had left them and she gathered them up, sitting -sidewise in her chair and running her eye down their columns, while -the servant set out her breakfast. She was still sleepy, and frequent -yawns interrupted her perusal of the lines of print which interested -her above all written matter. A kimono clothed her slim form and from -beneath its hem her foot protruded, thrust bare into a furred slipper. -She folded the paper over to bring the society column into a prominence -easy of access, and, propping it up against a bowl of fruit, read as -she ate her breakfast. - -Toward the end of the meal she inquired of the servant at what time her -husband had gone out, and received the reply that Mr. Ryan had had -his breakfast and left the flat two hours earlier. There was nothing -disconcerting or unusual about this, as Dominick always went for a -walk on fine Sunday mornings, but her mind was far from easy and she -immediately fell to wondering why he had departed so early, and the -slight ferment of disquietude that was always with her stirred again -and made her forget the society column and let her Spanish omelet grow -cold. - -There was something strange about Dominick since he had come back, -something that intrigued her, that she could not satisfactorily -explain. She assured herself that he was still angry, but in the deeper -places of her understanding the voice that whispers the truth and -will not be gainsaid told her it was not that. Neither was it exactly -antagonism. In a way he had been studiously kind and polite to her, a -sort of consciously-guarded politeness, such as one might practise to -a guest with whom one was intimate without being friendly. She tried -to explain to herself just what this change was, and when it came to -putting the matter in words she could not find the right ones. It was -a coldness, a coldness that was not harsh and did not express itself -in actions or phrases. It went deeper; it was exhaled from the inner -places of his being. - -Sometimes as she talked to him she would meet his eyes fixed on her -with a deep, vacant glance, which she suddenly realized was unseeing -and unheeding. In the evening as he sat reading in the cramped confines -of the den she surreptitiously watched him and saw that a moment often -came when he dropped his book, and with his long body limp in the -arm-chair, his chin sunk on his breast, would sit with a brooding gaze -fixed on nothing. Once, as he was dreaming this way, she said suddenly, - -“What are you thinking of, Dominick? Antelope?” - -He started and turned upon her a face that had reddened consciously. - -“Why should I think of Antelope?” he said, and she was aware that her -remark had startled him and made him uncomfortable. - -“For no particular reason,” she answered lightly; “you just looked as -if you were thinking of something a long way off.” - -She tried to reassure herself that it all rose from the quarrel. To -believe that comforted her and gave her confidence, but it was hard to -think it, for not only did her own instinct proclaim against it, but -Dominick’s manner and attitude were in distinct refutation of any such -theory. He was not sullen, he was absent; he was not resentful, he was -indifferent. And in small outward ways he tried to please her, which -was not after the manner of a sore and angry man. On this very Sunday -he had agreed to meet her and her family in the park at the band stand -at four. She always dined with her sisters on Sunday and if the weather -was fine they went to the park and listened to the music. It was nearly -a year now since Dominick had joined these family parties, preferring -to walk on the Presidio hills and the Cliff House beach with a friend -from the bank. But on the evening before he had promised to meet them; -been quite agreeable about it, Berny had thought, when her pleadings -and importunities had finally extorted from him a promise to join them -there. - -She left the dining-room and walked up the hallway to the parlor, her -head drooped, anxieties gnawing at her. The little room was flooded -with sunshine, and she parted the lace curtains and, throwing up the -window, leaned out. The rich, enveloping warmth surrounded her, clasped -her, seemed to sink deep into her and thaw the apprehensions that -were so cold at her heart. She drew in the sweet, still air, that did -not stimulate but that had in it something of a crystalline youth and -freshness, like the air of an untainted world, concerned with nothing -but the joy of living. The scents of flowers were in it; the mellowness -of the earth and its fruits. Peace was the message of this tranquil -Sunday morning, peace was in the sunshine, in the sound of bells with -which the air was full, in the fall of feet--light, joyous feet--on -the pavement, in the voices of passers-by and the laughter, sweet and -broken, of children. It was not right for any one to harbor cankering -cares on such a day. The earth was happy, abandoned to the sunshine, -irresponsible, care free, rejoicing in the perfect moment. The woman -felt the restoring processes that Nature, in its tireless generosity, -offers to all who will take them. She felt eased of her troubles, -soothed and cheered, as though the enwrapping radiance that bathed -her held an opiate for jangled nerves. Blinking in the brightness she -leaned on the window-sill, immovable, quieted, feeling the warmth -suffuse her and dissipate those alarms that half an hour earlier had -been so chill and heavy. - -As she dressed, the sense of well-being and confidence increased. She -looked very well this morning. Since Dominick’s return she had looked -haggard and thin. Sometimes she had seemed to see, showing shadowy -through her reflected face in the mirror, the lines and hollows of -that face when time should have put a stamp on it that neither massage -nor pigments would efface. A sudden moment of revelation showed her -herself as an old woman, her nose pointed, her mouth a thin, tight -line. This morning the glass gave her back none of these disconcerting -hints. She was at her best, and as she dressed carefully and slowly, -she had the satisfaction of seeing that each added article of apparel -increased her good looks. When she finally put on her new hat--the one -she had bought in celebration of Dominick’s return--and over it tied -a white and black dotted veil, she was so gratified with the picture -she presented that she was reluctant to leave it and pirouetted slowly -before the glass, surveying her back and side views, and finally -lifting her skirt that she might see the full effect of her lilac -petticoat as it burst into sight in an ebullition of pleats and frills. - -Walking up the avenue she was bridlingly conscious that her brilliant -appearance drew its tribute of glances. Many people looked at her, and -their sidelong admiration was an even more exhilarating tonic than the -sunshine. She walked with a light, elastic step, spreading perfume on -the air, her progress accompanied by a rich, seductive rustle. Once or -twice she passed members of that exclusive world from which she had -stolen Dominick. She swept by them, languidly indifferent, her eyes -looking with glacial hauteur over their heads. The sound made by her -brushing silk petticoats was gratifyingly aggressive. She imparted to -them a slight disdainful swing, and lifted her dress skirt daintily -higher, conscious of the impeccable amplitude of her emerging lilac -frills. - -The habit of dining with her own people on Sunday had been one she had -never abandoned, even in the first aspiring days of her marriage. -It was a sort of family reunion and at first Dominick had been a not -unwilling participant in its domestic festivities. The solid bourgeois -respectability of his wife’s relations appealed to him. For all his -advantages in money and education he was of the same class himself, -and while Berny was, if not a beloved spouse, a yet endurable one, he -had found the Sunday gatherings and subsequent hejira to the park not -entirely objectionable. For over a year now he had escaped from it, -pleading the need of open air and exercise, and his sisters-in-law, who -had at first protested, had grown used to his absence and accepted it -as something to bear uncomplainingly. - -The day was so fine that they hurried through their dinner, a hearty -and lavish meal, the _chef-d’œuvre_ of Hannah’s housekeeping, and, -loath to lose a moment of the sunshine, determined to walk down to Van -Ness Avenue and there catch an outgoing car to the park. It was the -middle of the afternoon and the great thoroughfare lay still and idle -in the slanting light. There was something foreign, almost tropical -in its vista, in the scene that hung like a drop curtain at the limit -of sight--pale blue hills dotted with ochre-colored houses--in the -background of sky deep in tint, the foliage dark against it as if -printed upon its intense glaring blue, in the sharp lines of palms -and spiky leaves crossing stuccoed walls. The people that moved slowly -along the sidewalks fitted into this high-colored exotic setting. -There was no hurry or crowding among them. They progressed with an -un-American deliberation, tasting the delicate sweetness of the air, -rejoicing in the sky and the sun, pausing to look at the dark bushiness -of a dracæna against a wash of blue, the skeleton blossom of a Century -plant, the pool of thick scarlet made by a parterre of geranium. - -The three sisters--Hannah and Pearl leading, Berny and Hazel walking -behind with Josh--fared buoyantly down the street. As they passed, they -commented on the houses and their inmates. They had plenty of stories -of the dwellers in those solemn palaces, many of whom were people whose -humble beginnings they knew by heart, and whose rapid rise had been -watched almost awe-stricken by an admiring and envious community. - -As the Ryan house loomed into view their chatter ceased and their eyes, -serious with staring attention, were fixed on the mansion which had -so stubbornly closed its doors on one of them. Sensations of varying -degrees of animosity stirred in each of them, except the child, still -too young to be tainted by the corroding sense of worldly injustice. -She skipped along sidewise, her warm, soft hand clasped in her Aunt -Hannah’s decently-gloved palm. Some wave or vibration of the intense -feelings of her elders passed to her, and as they drew nearer the house -she, too, began to grow grave, and her skipping quieted down into a -sober walk. - -“That’s Uncle Dominick’s house, isn’t it?” she said to Hannah. - -Hannah nodded. By far the most amiable and wide-minded of the sisters, -she could not rise above the sense of rankling indignation that she -felt against the Ryans for their treatment of Berny. - -“That’s the biggest house in San Francisco,” said Pearl over her -shoulder to her parents. “Ain’t it, Popper?” - -“I guess it is,” answered Josh, giving his head a confirmatory wag, -“and even if it ain’t, it’s big enough, the Lord knows!” - -“I can’t see what a private family wants with all that room,” said -Hannah with a condemnatory air. “There must be whole sootes of rooms on -that upper floor that nobody lives in.” - -“Don’t you fret. They’re all occupied,” said Berny. “Each one of them -has their own particular soote. Cornie has three rooms all of her own, -and even the housekeeper has a private bath!” - -“And there’s twelve indoor servants,” said Hazel. “They want a lot of -space for them. Twelve servants, just think of it!” - -“Twelve servants!” ejaculated Hannah almost with a groan. “Well, that -don’t seem to me right.” - -They were close to the house now and silence fell on them, as though -the antagonism of its owners was exhaled upon them from the mansion’s -aggressive bulk, like an unspoken curse. They felt overawed, and at -the same time proud that one of their number should have even the most -distant affiliations with a family too exclusive to know her. The -women with their more responsive and sensitive natures felt it more -delicately than Josh, who blunderingly expressed one of the thoughts of -the moment by remarking, - -“Some day you’ll live in there, Berny, and boss the twelve servants.” - -“Rats!” said Berny, giving her head an angry toss. “I’d rather live in -my flat and boss Sing.” - -Josh’s whistle of facetious incredulity died away incomplete, for at -that moment the hall door opened and a portly masculine shape emerged -upon the porch. Berny, at the first glance, was not sure of its -identity, but her doubts were dispelled by her brother-in-law’s quick -sentence, delivered on the rise of a surprised breath. - -“Bill Cannon, by gum! What’s he doing there?” - -This name, as powerful to conjure with in the city as in the -mining-camps, cast its instantaneous spell upon the sisters, who stared -avid-eyed upon the great man. He for his part seemed oblivious to -their glances and to their presence. He stood on the top step for a -musing moment, looking down with that sort of filmy fixity of gaze -which is noticeable in the glance of the resting eagle. His appearance -was a last crowning touch to the proud, unapproachable distinction of -the Ryans. - -“Don’t he look as if he was thinking?” said Hazel in a whisper. “I -wonder what’s on his mind.” - -“Probably that Monday’s pay-day and he don’t know whether he can -scratch through,” said the jocose Josh. - -Berny did not say anything. She felt the interest in Cannon that she -did in all conquering, successful people, and in her heart it gave her -a sense of added importance to think that the family she had married -into and who refused to know her was on friendly terms with the Bonanza -King. - -A half-hour later they had found seats in front of the band stand in -the park, and, settling themselves with a great rustling and preening -of plumage, prepared to enjoy the music. Hannah and Pearl were given -two chairs at the end of a row, and Hazel and Berny, with Josh as -escort, secured four on the line immediately behind. Dominick had not -yet appeared, so the sisters spread their skirts over a vacant seat -between them, and Berny, in the intervals of inspecting the people -around her, sent exploring glances about for the tall figure of her -husband. - -She was very fond of the park and band stand on such Sunday afternoons. -To go there had been one of the great diversions of her girlhood. She -loved to look at this holiday gathering of all types, among which her -own class was largely represented. The outdoor amphitheater of filled -benches was to her what the ball-room and the glittering horseshoe at -the opera are to the woman of society. She saw many old friends among -the throng, girls who had been contemporaries of hers when she had -first “gone to work,” and had long since married in their own world and -now dragged children by the hand. She looked them over with an almost -passionate curiosity, discomfited to see the fresh youth of some, and -pleased to note that others looked weighed down with maternal cares. -Berny regarded women who had children as fools, and the children -grouped about these mothers of her own age--three and four sometimes, -with the husband carrying a baby--were to her only annoying, burdensome -creatures that made the party seem a little ridiculous, and had not -half the impressiveness or style of her elegant costume and lilac -frills. - -The magnificent afternoon had brought out a throng of people. Every -seat in the lines of benches was full and foot passengers kept -constantly coming up, standing for a few measures, and then moving on. -They were of all kinds. The beauty of the day had even tempted the more -fashionable element out, and the two sisters saw many elegantly-dressed -ladies of the sort on whom Hazel fitted hats all day, and that evoked -in Berny a deep and respectful curiosity. Both women, sitting high in -their chairs, craned their necks this way and that, spying through -breaks in the crowd, and following attractive figures with dodging -movements of their heads. When either one saw anything she liked or -thought interesting she laid a hand on the other’s knee, giving it a -slight dig, and designated the object of her attention in a few broken -words, detached and disconnected like notes for a sentence. - -They were thus engaged when Hazel saw Dominick and, rising, hailed -him with a beckoning hand. He made his way toward them, moving -deliberately, once or twice pausing to greet acquaintances. He was -taller than any man in the surrounding throng and Berny, watching -him, felt a sense of proprietary pride swelling in her when she noted -his superiority. The son of an Irish laborer and a girl who had begun -life as the general servant in a miner’s boarding-house, he looked as -if his forebears might have been the flower of the nation. He wore a -loose-fitting suit of gray tweed, a wide, gray felt sombrero, and round -his waist a belt of yellow leather. His collar turning back from his -neck exposed the brown strength of his throat, and on lifting his hat -in a passing salutation, his head with its cropped curly hair, the ears -growing close against it, showed golden brown in the sunlight. - -With a phrase of greeting he joined them, and then as they swept their -skirts off the chair they had been hiding, slipped in front of Berny -and sat down. Hazel began to talk to him. Her conversation was of a -rallying, joking sort, at which she was quite proficient. Berny heard -him laugh and knew by the tone of his voice that he was pretending -and was not really amused. She had nothing particular to say to him, -feeling that she had accomplished enough in inducing him to join them, -and, sitting forward on the edge of her chair, continued to watch the -people. A blonde coiffure some rows in front caught her eye and she was -studying its intricacies through the interstices that came and went -between the moving heads, when the sudden emergence into view of an -unusually striking female figure diverted her attention. The woman had -come up from behind and, temporarily stopped by the crowd, had come -to a standstill a few rows in front of where the sisters sat. She was -accompanied by a young man dressed in the Sunday dignity of frock-coat -and silk hat. As he turned to survey the lines of filled chairs, Berny -saw that he had a pale skin, a small black mustache, and dark eyes. - -But her interest in him was of the slightest. Her attention was -immediately riveted upon the woman, who became the object of a glance -which inspected her with a piercing eagerness from her hat to the hem -of her shirt. Berny could not see her face, but her habiliments were of -the latest mode and of an unusual and subdued elegance which bespoke an -origin in a more sophisticated center than San Francisco. Berny, all -agog with curiosity, stared at the lady’s back, noting not only her -clothes but a certain carelessness in the way they were put on. Her hat -was not quite straight. The comb, which crossed the back of her head -and kept her hair smooth, was crooked, and blonde wisps hung from it -over her collar. The hand that held up her skirt in a loose perfunctory -manner, as though these rich encasings were possessions of no moment, -was covered by a not particularly clean white glove. - -Such unconsciousness added the distinction of indifference to the -already marked figure. Berny wondered more than ever who it was and -longed to see the averted face. She was about to lean across Dominick -and attract Hazel’s attention by a poking finger directed against her -knee, when the woman, with a word to her companion, moved her head and -let a slow glance sweep over the rows of faces. - -“Hazel,” Berny hissed across Dominick, “look at that girl. Who is she?” - -She did not divert her eyes from the woman’s face, which she now saw -in profile. It was pretty, she thought, more from a rich, unmingled -purity of coloring than from any particular beauty of feature. The head -with its gravely-traveling glance continued to turn till Berny had the -satisfaction of seeing the face in three-quarters. A moment later the -moving eyes lighted indifferently on Hazel, then ceased to progress, -suddenly, bruskly, as though checked by the imperative stoppage of -regulating machinery. - -Only a person watching closely would have noticed it, but Berny was -watching with the most vigilant closeness. She saw the infusion of a -new and keener interest transform the glance, concentrate its lazy, -diffused attention into something that had the sharpness and suddenness -of a leaping flame. The next moment a flood of color rose clearly pink -over the face, and then, most surprising of all, the lady bent her head -in a grave, deliberate bow. - -Berny turned, startled--and in a vague, undefined way, disturbed, -too--to see who had been the object of this salutation. To her -astonishment it was Dominick. As she looked at him, he replaced -his hat and she saw--to the augmentation of that vague sense of -disturbance--that he was as pale as the bowing woman was pink. - -“Dominick,” she exclaimed, “who’s that?” - -“Miss Cannon,” he said in a low tone. - -“Rose Cannon?” hissed Hazel on the other side of him, her face thrust -forward, and tense in the interest of the moment, “Bill Cannon’s -daughter?” - -“Yes. I met her at Antelope.” - -“Berny, did you see her dress?” Hazel hung over her brother-in-law in -her excitement. “That’s straight from Paris, I’ll bet you a dollar.” - -“Yes, I saw it,” said Berny in a voice that did not sound particularly -exhilarated; “maybe it is.” - -She looked back at Miss Cannon who had turned away and was moving off -through the crowd with her escort. Then she leaned toward Dominick. His -voice had not sounded natural; as she placed her arm against his she -could feel that he trembled. - -She said nothing but settled back in her chair, dryly swallowing. In -those few past moments her whole world had undergone a revolution -that left her feeling dazed and a little sick. It was as if the earth -had suddenly whirled around and she had come up panting and clutching -among familiar things reversed and upset. In an instantaneous flash -of illumination she saw everything--the look in the woman’s eyes, her -rush of color, Dominick’s voice, his expression, the trembling of his -arm--it was all perfectly plain! This was the girl he had been shut in -Antelope with for three weeks. Now she knew what the change was, the -inexplicable, mysterious change that had so puzzled her. - -She felt bewildered, and under her bewilderment a pain, a fierce, -unfamiliar pain, gripped her. She did not for the moment say anything -or want to speak, and she felt as a child does who is dazed and -stupefied by an unexpected assault of ill treatment. The slight -sensation of inward sinking, that made her feel a little sick, -continued and she sat in a chilled and drooping silence, all her -bridling conceit in herself and her fine clothes stricken suddenly out -of her. - -She heard Hazel asking Dominick questions about Miss Cannon, and she -heard Dominick’s answers, brief and given with a reticent doggedness. -Then Hazel asked him for the time and she was conscious of his elbow -pressing against her arm as he felt for his watch. As he drew it out -and held it toward the questioner, Berny suddenly leaned forward, and, -catching his hand with the watch in it, turned its face toward her. -The hand beneath hers was cold, and shook. She let it go and again -sank back in her chair. The feeling of sickness grew stronger and was -augmented by a sense of physical feebleness, of being tremulous and -cold deep down in her bones. - -Hazel rose to her feet, shaking her skirts into place. - -“Let’s go on,” she said, “it’s getting chilly. Come along, Josh. I -suppose if you were let alone, you’d sit here till sundown listening to -the music in a trance.” - -Dominick and Josh rose and there was an adjusting and putting-on of -wraps. Berny still sat motionless, her hands, stiff in their tight -gloves, lying open on her lap. - -“Come along, Berny,” said Hazel. “It’s too cold to sit here any longer. -Why, how funny you look, all pale and shriveled up! You’re as bad as -Josh. You and he ought to have married each other. You’d have been a -prize couple.” - -Josh laughed loudly at this sally, leaning round the figure of his wife -to present his foolish, good-humored face, creased with a grin, to -Berny. - -“Are you willing, Berny?” he cried gaily. “I can get a divorce whenever -you say. It will be dead easy; brutal and inhuman treatment. Just say -the word!” - -“There’ll be brutal and inhuman treatment if you don’t move on and stop -blocking the way, Josh McCrae,” said Hazel severely. “I want to go out -that side and there you are right in the path, trying to be funny.” - -The cheerful Josh, still laughing, turned and moved onward between the -seats, the others following him. The mass of the crowd was not yet -leaving, and as the little group moved forward in a straggling line -toward the drive, the exciting opening of the _William Tell Overture_ -boomed out from the sounding board. It was a favorite piece, and they -left lingeringly, Hazel and Josh particularly fascinated, with heads -turned and ears trained on the band. Josh’s hand, passed through his -wife’s arm, affectionately pressed her against his side, for despite -the sharpness of their recriminations they were the most loving of -couples. - -Berny was the last of the line. In the flurry of departure her silence -had passed unnoticed, and that she should thus lag at the tail of the -procession was not in any way remarkable, as, at the best of times, -she was not much of a walker and in her high-heeled Sunday shoes her -progress was always deliberate. - -Looking ahead of her, she saw the landscape still as a picture under -the slanting, lurid sunlight. It seemed to be painted with unnaturally -glaring tints, to be soaked in color. The grass, crossed with long -shadows, was of the greenness of an aniline dye. The massed foliage -of tree groups showed a melting richness of shades, no one clearly -defined, all fused in a thick, opaque lusciousness of greens. The -air was motionless and very clear. Where a passing carriage stirred -the dust the powdery cloud rose, spreading a tarnishing blur on the -crystalline clarity of the scene. The sun injected these dust films -with gold, and they settled slowly, as if it made them heavy like -ground-up particles of metal. - -Yet, to Berny, this hectic prospect looked gray; all color seemed -sucked from it. It appeared pale and alien, its comfortable intimacy -gone. She was like a stranger walking in a strange place, a forlorn, -remote land, where she felt miserable and homesick. The sense of being -dazed was passing from her. Walking forward with short, careful steps, -she was slowly coming to the meaning of her discovery--adjusting -herself to it, realizing its significance. She had an uncomfortable -sensation of not being able to control the muscles round her mouth, so -that if spoken to she would have had difficulty in answering, and would -have been quite unable to smile. - -An open carriage passed her, and she drew aside, then mechanically -looked after it as it rolled forward. There was a single figure in -it--a woman. Berny could see her head over the lowered hood, and the -little parasol she held, white with a black lace cover and having a -joint in the handle. Her eyes followed this receding head, moving so -evenly against the background of trees. It soared along without sinking -or rising, with the even, forward flight of a bird, passed Hannah and -Josh and Hazel, turning to drop on them quick looks, which seemed, from -its elevated position and the shortness of the inspection, to have -something of disdain in them. - -As the carriage drew near Dominick, who walked at the head of the line -with Pearl by the hand, Berny saw the head move, lean forward, and -then, as the vehicle overhauled and passed the young man, turn at right -angles and bow to him. The wheel almost brushed his shoulder. He drew -back from it with a start and lifted his hat. Hazel, who was walking -just in front of Berny, turned and projecting her lips so that they -stood out from her face in a red circle, hissed through them, - -“Old Lady Ryan!” and then in a slightly louder key, - - “You take a hatchet and I’ll take a saw, - And we’ll cut off the head of my mother-in-law.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL - - -The conversation with her old friend had upset Mrs. Ryan. These were -grievances she did not talk of to all the world, and the luxury of such -plain speaking was paid for by a re-awakened smart. The numb ache of a -sorrow was always with her, but her consciousness of it was dulled in -the diversion of every day’s occupations. Bringing it to the surface -this way gave it a new vitality, and when the conversation was over and -the visitor gone it refused to subside into its old place. - -She went slowly up stairs, hearing the low murmur of voices from the -sitting-room where Cornelia and Jack Duffy were still secluded. Even -the thought of that satisfactorily-budding romance did not cheer her as -it had done earlier in the day. As she had told Cannon, she was not the -woman she had been. Old age was coming on her and with it a softening -of her iron nature. She wanted her son, her Benjamin, dearly beloved -with all the forces of her maturity as his father had been with all -the glow of her youth. - -In her own room she threw aside the lace curtains, and looking out on -the splendor of the afternoon, determined to seek cheer in the open -air. Like all Californians she had a belief in the healing beneficence -of air and sunlight. As the sun had soothed Berny of her sense of care -so now it wooed her enemy also to seek solace in its balm. She rang for -the servant and ordered the carriage. A few minutes later, clad in rich -enshrouding black, a small and fashionable bonnet perched on her head, -she slowly made her way down stairs and out to the sidewalk where the -victoria, glittering in the trim perfection of its appointments and -drawn by a pair of well-matched chestnuts, stood at the curb. - -The man on the box touched his hat with respectful greeting and the -Chinese butler, who had accompanied her down the steps, arranged the -rug over her knees and stepped back with the friendly “good-by,” which -is the politeness of his race. They respected, feared, and liked her. -Every domestic who had ever worked in Delia Ryan’s service from the -first “hired girl” of her early Shasta days to the staff that now -knew the rigors of her dominion, had found her a just and generous -if exacting mistress. She had never been unfair, she had never been -unkind. She was one of themselves and she knew how to manage them, -how to make them understand that she was master, and that no drones -were permitted in her hive; how to make them feel that she had a heart -that sympathized with them, not as creatures of an alien class remotely -removed from her own, but as fellow beings, having the same passions, -griefs and hopes as herself. - -As the carriage rolled forward she settled back against the cushioned -seat and let her eyes roam over the prospect. It was the heart of the -afternoon, still untouched by chill, not a breath stirring. Passing up -the long drive which leads to the park, the dust raised by wheels hung -ruddy in the air. The long shadows of trees striped the roadway in an -irregular black pattern, picked out with spatterings of sunshine, like -a spilled, gold liquid. Belts of fragrance, the breaths of flowering -shrubs, extended from bushy coppices, and sometimes the keen, acrid -odor of the eucalyptus rose on the air. From this lane of entrance -the park spread fan-like into a still, gracious pleasance. The rich, -golden light slept on level stretches of turf and thick mound-shaped -groups of trees. The throb of music--the thin, ethereal music of -out-of-doors--swelled and sank; the voices of children rose clear and -fine from complicated distances, and once the raucous cry of a peacock -split the quietness, seeming to break through the pictorial serenity of -the lovely, dreamy scene. - -Mrs. Ryan sat without movement, her face set in a sphinx-like -profundity of expression. People in passing carriages bowed to her but -she did not see them and their salutes went unreturned. Her vision was -bent back on scenes of her past, so far removed from what made up the -present, so different and remote from her life to-day, that it did not -seem as if the same perspective could include two such extremes. Even -her children were not links of connection between those old dead times -and now. They had been born when Con’s fortunes were in the ascendant. -They had known none of the privations of the brave days when she and -her man had faced life together, young, and loving, and full of hope. - -The carriage ascended a slight rise, and the sea, a glittering plain, -lay in full view. It met the sky in a white dazzle of light. All its -expanse coruscated as if each wave was crested with tinsel, and where -they receded from the beach it was as though a web of white and shining -tissue was drawn back, torn and glistening, from the restraining clutch -of the sand. The smooth bareness of fawn-colored dunes swept back from -the shore. They rose and fell in undulations, describing outlines of a -suave, fluid grace, lovely as the forms of drifting snow, or the swell -of waves. Ocean and dunes, for all the splendor of sky and sun that -overarched and warmed them, suggested a gaunt, primeval desolation. -They had the loneliness of the naked earth and the unconquerable -sea--were a bit of the primordial world before man had tamed and -softened it. - -Mrs. Ryan swept them with a narrow, inward gaze which saw neither, -but, in their place, the house in Virginia City, where she and Con -had lived when they were first married in the early sixties. It was -of “frame”--raw, yellow boards with narrow strips of wood nailed over -every seam to keep the wind out. There had been a rough porch on one -side where her wash-tub had stood. Out-of-doors there in the summer -weather she had bent over the wash-board most of the day. She had made -enough money to furnish the prospect hole that Con was working, with -tools and miner’s supplies. Little Dick was born there; he had died -afterward in Shasta. He used to lie in a wash-basket on the soiled -linen in the sun. He would have been forty-five now, sixteen years -older than Dominick. - -She gave an order to the coachman who, drawing up, turned the horses, -and the carriage started on its return trip. The sun was behind it, -painting with level, orange rays the thick foliage of trees and the -backs of foot passengers. Whatever it touched had the appearance of -being overlaid with a gilded glaze through which its natural colors -shone, deepened and brilliant. - -Mrs. Ryan’s memories had leaped from Virginia City to Shasta. -After Con’s prospect at Gold Hill had “petered” they had moved to -California, been members of that discouraged route which poured, -impoverished in pocket and enfeebled in health, from the wreck of the -gutted Nevada camp back to their own Golden State and its beguiling -promises. They had opened a grocery in Shasta in sixty-eight, first a -little place where Con and she waited behind the counter, then, when -they began to prosper, a big store on the corner. “Ryan’s” was written -over the entrance in the beginning, when they had no money to spend, in -black on a strip of canvas, after that in gold letters on a handsome -sign. She had kept the books there while Con had managed the business, -and they had done well. It was the beginning of their prosperity and -how they had worked for it! Night after night up till midnight and the -next morning awake before the birds. Two children had died there and -three had been born. It had been a full life, a splendid life, the best -a woman could know, working for her own, making them a place in the -world, fighting her way up, shoulder to shoulder with her man. - -Money had been her goal. She had not wanted to hoard it; of itself it -meant nothing to her. She had wanted it for her children: to educate -them better than she had been educated, to give them the advantages -she had never known, to buy pleasures and position and consideration -for them. She had felt the insignificance of poverty, and she was -determined that they should never feel it. They should have the power -that it seemed to Delia Ryan money alone gave, the thing she had none -of, when, in her ragged girlhood, she winced and chafed under the -dominance of those she felt to be her inferiors. She was a materialist -by nature, and life had made her more of one. Money conquered, money -broke the trail that led everywhere, money paid the gate entrance to -all paradises. That was what she had always thought. And now when she -was close on seventy, and her strength to fight for the old standards -and ward off the creeping chill of age was weakened, she had come to -realize that perhaps it was not the world-ruling power she had thought -it. She had come to see it could turn upon one in strange ways. It -carried power and it carried a curse. Dominick, whose life it was to -have made brilliant, whose career it was to have crowned, Dominick had -lost all through it. - -She was thinking this as the carriage swept into the wider reach of -the drive near the band stand. Though the music was still throbbing -on the air, people were already leaving. Broken lines were detaching -themselves from the seated mass in the chairs, disappearing among -the trees, and straggling out into the road. The wheels of the -victoria almost brushed the shoulders of a little party that moved -in irregular file between the grass edge and the drive. Mrs. Ryan let -her uninterested glance touch the hatted heads of the women and then -move forward to the man who headed the column. He held by the hand a -pretty, fair-haired child, who, leaning out from his restraining grasp, -walked a little before him, looking back laughingly into his face. Mrs. -Ryan’s eyes, alighting on his back, became suddenly charged with a -fierce fixity of attention. The carriage overhauled him and before he -looked up she leaned forward and saw his profile, the brow marked by a -frown, the child’s gay prattle causing no responsive smile to break the -brooding gravity that held his features. - -As he felt the vibration of the wheel at his shoulder he started -aside and looked up. When he recognized his mother his face reddened, -and, with a quick smile, he lifted his hat. Her returning salute was -serious, almost tragically somber. Then the victoria swept on, and he -and the child, neither for a moment speaking, looked after the bonneted -head that soared away before them with a level, forward vibration, like -a floating bird, the little parasol held stiffly erect on its jointed -handle. - -As Mrs. Ryan passed down the long park entrance she thought no more -of the past. The sight of her son, heading the file of his wife’s -relations, his face set in an expression of heavy dejection, scattered -her dreams of retrospect with a shattering impact. She had never seen -him look so frankly wretched; and to intensify the effect of his -wretchedness was the sprawling line of Iversons which surrounded him. -They seemed, to her furious indignation, like a guard cutting him off -from his kind, imprisoning him, keeping him for themselves. They were -publicly dragging him at their chariot wheels for all the world to see. -His wife instead of getting less was getting more power over him. She -had made him ask for the invitation to the ball and now she made him -escort herself and her sisters about on holidays. - -The old woman’s face was dark with passion, her pale lips set into a -tight line. Money! Money might make trouble and bring disappointment, -but it would talk to those people. Money was all they were after. Well, -they could have it! - -She let three days go by before she made the move she had determined -on ten minutes after she had passed Dominick. The Wednesday morning -following that Sunday--apparently a day of innocuous and simple -happenings, really so fraught with Fate--she put on her outdoor things -and, dispensing with the carriage, went down town on the car to see -Bill Cannon. - -The Bonanza King’s office was on the first floor of a building owned -by himself on one of the finest Montgomery Street corners. It had been -built in the flush times of the Comstock and belonged to that epoch of -San Francisco architecture where long lines of windows were separated -by short columns and overarched by ornate embellishments in wood. As -Mrs. Ryan approached, the gold letters on these windows gleamed bravely -in the sun. They glittered even on the top-story casements, and her -eye, traveling over them, saw that they spelled names of worth, good -tenants who would add to the dignity and revenues of such an edifice. -She owned the corner opposite, and it gave her a pang of emulative envy -to notice how shabby her building looked, a relic of the sixties which -showed its antiquity in walls of brick, painted brown, and a restrained -meagerness of decoration in the matter of cornices. For some time she -had been thinking of tearing it down and raising a new, up-to-date -structure on the site. It would yield a fine interest on the investment -and be a good wedding jointure for Cornelia. - -With her approach heralded by a rustling of rich stuffs and a subdued -panting, she entered the office. A long partition down one side of the -room shut off an inner sanctum of clerks. Through circular openings she -could see their faces, raised expectantly from ledgers as their ears -caught the frou-frou of skirts and a step, which, though heavy, was -undoubtedly feminine. She stopped at one of the circular openings where -the raised face looked older and graver than its fellows, and inquired -for Mr. Cannon, giving her name. In a moment the clerk was beside -her, knocking at a door which gave egress to still more sacred inner -precincts. Opening this, he bowed her into the dimly-lit solemnity -of the Bonanza King’s private office. Back in the outer room among -the clerks he relieved the strained curiosity of their faces with the -remark, - -“Greek’s meeting Greek in there. It’s Mrs. Con Ryan.” - -The private office looked out on an alley shut in a perpetual twilight -by the towering walls of surrounding buildings. The long windows that -ran from the floor to the ceiling could not let in enough light ever to -make it a bright room, and the something of dimness seemed appropriate -to the few massive pieces of furniture and the great safe in the -corner, with its lock glimmering from the dusk of continual shadow. Men -from windows across the alley could look into the office and see to -whom Bill Cannon was talking, and it was known that, for this reason, -he had another suite of rooms on one of the upper floors. But that that -most competent of business women, Con Ryan’s widow, should come to his -lair to parley with him was natural enough, and if the watchers across -the alley saw her it only added to their sober respect for the man who -was visited in his office by the richest woman in California. - -She did not waste time beating about the bush. Sitting beside the desk, -facing the pale light from the long windows, she very quickly plunged -into the matter of her errand. It was a renewal of the conversation -of the previous Sunday. Cannon sat in his swivel chair, looking -meditatively at her. He had expected her, but not so soon, and as he -watched her his face showed a mild friendly surprise breaking through -its observant attention. It would have been difficult for any one, -even so astute a woman as Mrs. Ryan, to guess that her request for his -assistance in severing Dominick’s marriage bonds was affording the old -man the keenest gratification. - -Their talk lasted nearly an hour. Before the interview ended they had -threshed out every aspect of the matter under discussion. There would -be no loose ends or slighted details in any piece of work which engaged -the attention of this bold and energetic pair of conspirators. The men -on the other side of the alley looked down on them, wondering what -business was afoot between Mrs. Con Ryan and Bill Cannon, that they -talked so long in the big dim office with its gloomy mahogany furniture -and the great black safe looming up in the corner. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -THE GOD DESCENDS - - -Two days after this momentous combination of her enemies, Berny was -sitting in the parlor of her flat, writing a letter. It was three -o’clock in the afternoon and she had just dressed herself for her -daily jaunt down town, where she spent an hour or two looking into -the shop windows, pricing articles of apparel, taking a glass of soda -water, and stopping for chats with acquaintances under awnings and -in open doorways. Her life was exceedingly barren of occupation and -companionship. When she had married, she had dropped all work save -such as seemed to her fitting for the wife of a rich man. Outside her -sisters she had no friends. She knew the wives of several of the bank -officials and to them, as representing a rise in the social scale, she -clung hopefully. The letter she was now writing was to one of them who -had taken a sick child to the country. - -She had finished it, and was inscribing her signature, when a ring at -the bell caught her ear. She raised her head listening, and then bent -it again over the letter. Visitors were too rare at the Sacramento -Street flat for her to cherish any delusive hopes. Writing the address -in her best hand, she did not hear a foot ascending the stairs, nor -know that it actually was a visitor, till a tap on the door-post of the -room made her turn and ejaculate a startled “Come in!” The door that -led from the parlor to the hall had been removed, and a bamboo portière -hung in the opening. A large masculine hand thrust apart the hanging -strands, and Bill Cannon, hat in hand, confident and yet apologetic, -entered the room. - -He had been surprised when he had seen how small and unpretentious -was the home of Con Ryan’s only son. He was more than ever surprised -when the Chinaman, with the unveiled impudence of those domestics when -the employes of masters they do not like, had waved his proffered -card aside, and with a jerk of his head motioned him forward to a -doorway at the end of the passage. Now, on entering, he took in, in an -impressionistic sweep, the overcrowded, vulgar garishness of the little -room, saturated with the perfume of scents and sachets, and seeming to -be the fitting frame for the woman who rose from a seat by the desk. - -She looked at him inquiringly with something of wariness and distrust -in her face. She was the last of the ascending scale of surprises he -had encountered, for she was altogether better-looking, more a person -to be reckoned with, than he had expected. His quick eye, trained to -read human nature, recognized the steely determination of this woman -before she spoke, saw it in the level scrutiny of her eyes, in the -decision of her close mouth. He felt a sensation, oft experienced and -keenly pleasurable, of gathering himself together for effort. It was -the instinct of an old warrior who loves the fray. - -Berny, on her side, knew him at the first glance, and her sensations -were those of disturbance and uneasiness. She remembered him to be a -friend of the Ryans’, and she had arrived at the stage when any friend -of the Ryans’ was an enemy of hers. She was instantly in arms and on -the defensive. Rose had not yet taken shape in her mind as a new, -menacing force conniving against her. Besides, she had no idea that -Rose reciprocated the sentiment that Dominick cherished for her. Her -discovery had only made her certain that Dominick loved another woman. -But this had shaken her confidence in everything, and she looked at the -old man guardedly, ready for an attack and bracing herself to meet it. - -“You’ll pardon this intrusion, won’t you?” he said in a deep, -friendly voice, and with a manner of cordial urbanity. “I tried to -do it correctly, but the Chinaman had other designs. It was he who -frustrated me. Here’s the card I wanted him to take to you.” - -He approached her, holding out a card which she took, still unsmiling, -and glanced at. Her instinct of dissimulation was strong, and, uneasy -as she was, she pretended to read the name, not wanting him to see that -she already knew him. - -“Mr. William G. Cannon,” she read, and then looked up at him and made -a slight inclination of her head as she had seen actresses do on the -stage. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Cannon?” she added, and completed the -impressiveness of her greeting by a gesture, which also suggested a -histrionic origin, toward an adjacent chair. - -He backed toward the chair, pulling it out into the unencumbered space -in the middle of the floor, his movements deliberate and full of -design, as if he felt comfortably at home. Subsiding into the seat, -which had arms and was rather cramped for his large bulk, he laid his -hat among the knick-knacks of a near-by table and said smilingly, - -“Now, let me make my apologies for coming. In the first place, I’m an -old man. We’ve got a few privileges to compensate us for the loss of so -much that’s good. Don’t you think that’s fair, Mrs. Ryan?” - -Berny liked him. There was something so easy and affable in his manner, -something that made her feel he would never censure her for her past, -or, in fact, think about it at all. But she was still on her guard, -though the embarrassment she had felt on his entrance disappeared. - -“I don’t know,” she said vaguely. “I don’t know why an old man should -have more privileges than a young one.” - -“But you do know,” he said quickly, and giving a short, jolly laugh, -“that an old man who’s known your husband all his life can have the -privilege of calling on you without an introduction. You’ll admit that, -won’t you?” - -He leaned out of the narrow chair, his broad face creased with a -good-humored smile, and his eyes, keen and light-colored, sharp on -hers. Berny felt doubtful as to whether she liked him so much. She, -too, had a large experience of men, and the hard intelligence of the -eyes in the laughing face made her more than ever on the defensive. - -“I’m sure I’m very glad you came,” she said politely; “any friend of -Dominick’s is welcome here.” - -“I’ve been that for a good many years. My friendship with the Ryans -goes back to the days before Dominick was born. I knew Con and Delia -well in the old times in Virginia when we were all young there -together, all young, and strong, and poor. I’ve known Dominick since he -was a baby, though I haven’t seen much of him of late years.” - -“Nor of his wife either,” Berny was going to say, but she checked -herself and substituted, “Is that so?” a comment which seemed to -her to have the advantages of being at once dignified and elegantly -non-committal. - -“Yes, I knew Con when he was working on a prospect of his own called -the Mamie R at Gold Hill. I was a miner on the Royal Charles close by -on steady wages. Con was in for himself. He was playing it in pretty -hard luck. If it hadn’t been for his wife he couldn’t have hung on as -long as he did. She was a fine, husky, Irish girl, strong as a man; and -the washing she used to do on the back porch of the shanty kept them.” - -“Yes, I’ve heard that,” said Berny, much interested, and hoping that -her visitor would continue to indulge in further reminiscences of Mrs. -Ryan’s lowly beginnings. - -“That was forty-five years ago,” he went on, “and the fellows that were -on top then are underneath now, and vice versa. But Delia Ryan’s just -about the same. There’s no shifting, or changing, or not knowing her -own mind about her. She’s one of the strongest women in California; one -of the biggest women anywhere.” - -This was not what Berny had expected, and was more than she could -subscribe to. The distinguished position of her guest made her want to -be polite, but there was a limit to her powers of diplomatic agreement. -A silver blotter stood on the desk, and she took it up and began -absently rolling it back and forth over her letter. - -“She seems to be a great friend of yours?” she said, watching the -blotter with lowered eyes. - -“She’s all that,” he answered heartily. “One of the greatest. She is -to any one who knows her well. She’s a big nature; nothing picayune -or small about her. A true friend and a fair enemy. She’s the most -generous woman I ever knew.” - -“We haven’t seen much of her generosity,” said Berny. Her words did -not come with suddenness, but slowly, with a measured and biting -deliberation. - -“You’ve got your chance to see it now,” answered the old man. - -Berny looked at him, a side glance from the corner of one long, dark -eye. Her face was perfectly grave and the eyes fixed on him were imbued -with a considering, apprehensive expectancy. He looked very large, -squeezed into the small chair, but he seemed oblivious to the fact that -there was anything ridiculous in his appearance, as well as to his own -discomfort. The easy good-humor had gone from his face. It was alert, -shrewd, and eagerly interested. Berny knew now that he had not come to -pay his respects to Dominick’s wife. A sensation of internal trembling -began to possess her and the color deepened in her face. - -“How have I got my chance?” she said. “I guess if you know the Ryans -so well you must know that they won’t have anything to do with me.” - -“They’ll have a good deal to do with you if you’ll let them,” he -answered. - -There was a momentary pause, during which--now conscious of battle and -menace--Berny strove to control her rising excitement and keep her head -cool. He watched her with a glance which had the boring penetration of -a gimlet. - -“That’s funny,” she said, “not wanting to speak to me for two years and -then all of a sudden wanting to have a good deal to do with me. It’s a -sort of lightning-change act, like you see at the Orpheum. I guess I’d -understand it better if I knew more about it.” - -“Then I’ll tell you. Will you let me speak frankly, Mrs. Ryan? Have I -got your permission to go right ahead and talk the plain talk that’s -the only way a plain man knows?” - -“Yes,” said Berny. “Go right ahead.” - -He looked at the carpet for a considering moment, then raised his eyes -and, gazing into hers with steady directness, said, - -“It wouldn’t be fair if I pretended not to know that you and your -husband’s family are unfriendly. I know it, and that they have, as you -say, refused to know you. They’ve not liked the marriage; that’s the -long and the short of it.” - -“And what right have they got--” began Berny, raising her head with a -movement of war, and staring belligerently at him. He silenced her with -a lifted hand: - -“Don’t let’s go into that. Don’t let’s bother ourselves with the -rights and wrongs of the matter. We could talk all afternoon and be -just where we were at the beginning. Let’s have it understood that -our attitude in this is businesslike and impersonal. They don’t like -the marriage--that’s admitted. They’ve refused to know you--that’s -admitted. And let us admit, for the sake of the argument, that they’ve -put you in a damned disagreeable position.” - -Berny, sitting stiffly erect, all in a quiver of nerves, anger, and -uncertainty, had her eyes fixed on him in a glare of questioning. - -“That’s all true,” she said grimly. “That’s a statement I’ll not -challenge.” - -“Then we’ll agree that your position is disagreeable, and that it’s -been made so by the antagonism of your husband’s family. Now, Mrs. -Ryan, let me tell you something that maybe you don’t understand. You’re -never going to conquer or soften your mother-in-law. I don’t know -anything about it, but perhaps I can make a guess. You’ve thought you’d -win her over, that you’d married her son and made him a good wife and -that some day she’d acknowledge that and open her doors and invite you -in. My dear young lady, just give up building those castles in the -air. There’s nothing in them. You don’t know Delia Ryan. She’ll never -bend and the one thing that’ll break her is death. She’s got no hard -feelings against you except as her son’s wife. That’s the thing she’ll -never forgive you for. I’m not saying it’s not pretty tough on you. I’m -just stating a fact. What I do say is that she’s never going to be any -different about it. She’s started on her course, and she’s going to -go straight along on the same route till she comes to the place where -we’ve all got to jump off.” - -At the commencement of this speech, a surge of words had boiled up -within Berny. Now as he stopped she leaned toward him and the words -burst out of her lips. - -“And what right has she got to act that way, I’d like to know? What’s -she got against me? What’s wrong with me? Dominick Ryan married me of -his own free will. He chose me and he was of age. I’d been a typewriter -in the Merchants and Mechanics Trust Company, honestly earning my -living. Is that what she don’t like about me? I might have got my -living another way, a good sight easier and pleasanter, but I wasn’t -that kind. Maybe she didn’t like a decent working-girl for her son’s -wife? And what was she to kick? Didn’t you just say now she washed for -the miners in Virginia? Didn’t she used to keep a two-room grocery at -Shasta? I don’t see that there’s anything so darned aristocratic about -that. There were no more diamond tiaras and crests on the harness in -her early days than there are in mine. She’s forgetting old times. You -can just tell her I’m not.” - -She came to a breathless close, her body bent forward, her dark eyes -burning with rage and excitement. This suddenly sank down, chilled, -and, as it were, abashed by the aspect of her listener, who was sitting -motionless in his chair, his hands clasped over the curving front of -his torso, his chin sunk on his collar, and his eyes fixed upon her -with a look of calm, ruminating attention. Her words had not only -failed to heat him to controversy, but he had the air of patiently -waiting for them to cease, when he could resume the matter under -discussion. - -“It’s natural enough that you should feel that way about it,” he said, -“but let’s put out of the argument these purely personal questions. -You think one way and Mrs. Ryan thinks another. We recognize that and -assume that it is so. We’re not passing judgment. I’d be the last one -to do that between two ladies. What I came to talk of to-day was not -the past but the present; not the wrongs you’ve suffered from the -Ryans, but the way they can be righted.” - -“There’s only one way they can be righted,” she said. - -“Well now, let’s see,” persuasively. “We’re both agreed that your -position in San Francisco is hard. Here you are in the town where you -were born and raised, leading a lonely life in what, considering your -marriage, we might call reduced circumstances. You have--you’ll excuse -my plain talking--little or no social position. Your life is monotonous -and dull, when, at your age, it should be all brightness and pleasure. -In the height of your youth and beauty you’re cramped in a small flat, -deprived of the amusements of your age, ostracized from society, and -pinched by lack of money. That seems to me a pretty mean position for a -woman of your years and appearance.” - -Berny made no answer. She was confused by his thus espousing her cause, -using almost the words she herself would have used in describing her -unmerited trials. She was one of those women who, with an almost -unbreakable nerve, when attacked or enraged, tremble. She was seized -now with this trembling and to control it clasped her hands tight in -her lap and tried to hold her body stiff by will power. - -“It is from this situation,” he went on, his voice slightly lowered, -“that Mrs. Ryan offers to release you.” - -A gleam of light zigzagged through the woman’s uncomprehension, and the -trembling seemed to concentrate in her knees and stomach. - -“To release me?” she repeated with a rising inflection. - -“Yes. She’ll make it possible for you to escape from all this, to live -in the way you ought to live, and to have the position and amusements -you are entitled to. As I said to you before, she’s got no ill feeling -toward you except as her son’s wife. She wishes you well, and to prove -it she is ready to make you the most generous offer.” - -Berny’s rigidity relaxed and she leaned against the chair-back. She -said nothing, but her eyes remained fixed on his face. - -“I told you she was generous and see if I am not right,” he continued. -“She will make you a rich woman, independent of any one, the money -yours to do with as you like, if you’ll consent to the few conditions -she exacts.” - -“What are they?” - -“That you will leave your husband for a year and at the end of that -time ask him to give you your liberty, he suing you for divorce on the -ground of desertion.” - -There was a pause. Berny had moved her eyes from the old man’s face, -and was looking at the blotter upon which her hand had again closed. -The cheek turned to him was a deep rose pink. He looked at her -unembarrassed and inquiring, as though he had made an ordinary business -proposition. - -“It’s a bribe,” she said slowly, “a bribe to leave my husband.” - -“Oh, I wouldn’t say _that_,” he answered with a deprecating shrug. -“Call it a deal, a settlement. The terms are easy and favorable. You’ll -not find one of them unjust or unfair. You’re to leave the city, going -preferably to Chicago or New York and staying there for the period of -desertion. Seven thousand dollars will be set aside for your expenses. -At the end of the year you are to write to Dominick telling him you no -longer want to live with him and asking him to give you your freedom. -After the divorce is granted the sum of fifty thousand dollars will be -handed over to you, the one condition being that you will leave the -country and go to Europe. It is also understood, of course, that the -matter’s to be kept a secret from Dominick. He must think that you are -acting entirely from your own free will. He mustn’t guess his mother’s -had any part in it.” - -“She’s not ashamed to try to buy me off, but she’s ashamed to have her -precious boy know it!” - -The old man looked at her with a slight, indulgent smile, inwardly -wondering how Dominick Ryan had endured life with this woman. - -“Oh, it’s best not to have Dominick know,” he said easily; “not because -there’s anything to be ashamed of, but on general principles it’s best -to have as few complications as possible in the way of other people’s -butting in. What good would there be in Dominick’s knowing?” - -She rolled the blotter back and forth for a moment without answering, -then said, - -“So Mrs. Ryan offers me fifty thousand dollars to desert my husband?” - -“With one condition--that you leave the country. Just look what that’s -going to mean!” He rose from the narrow, upholstered seat, took a light -chair that stood near by and, setting it close to her, sat sidewise on -it, one hand extended toward her. “Fifty thousand dollars is a good -bit of money over here, but over there it’s a fortune. You’d be a rich -woman with that amount in your own right. You could take an apartment -in Paris, or a slice of some prince-feller’s palace down in Rome. On -the income of that capital, safely invested, you could live in a style -that only a millionaire can manage over here--have your own carriage, -dress like a queen, go to the opera. They like Americans, especially -when they’ve got money. First thing you know you’d be right in it, -knowing everybody, and going everywhere. You’re nobody here, worse than -nobody. Over there you’d be one of the people everybody was talking -about and wanted to know. You’re not only a pretty woman, you’re a -smart woman; you could get on top in no time, marry into the nobility -if you wanted.” - -Berny, her eyes on the blotter, said nothing. - -“And what’s the alternative over here?” the tempter continued. “Staying -on as an outsider, being in a position where, though you’re lawfully -married and are living decently with your husband, you’re ostracized as -completely as if you weren’t married at all; where you’ve hardly got -enough to pay your way, cramped up in a corner like this, never going -anywhere or seeing anybody. Does that kind of life appeal to you? Not -if _I_ know anything.” - -Berny lifted her head and looked at him. The color was now burning in -her cheeks and her eyes seemed to hold all the vitality of her rigid -face. - -“You tell Mrs. Ryan,” she said slowly, “that I’ll lie dead in my coffin -before I’ll take her money and leave my husband.” - -They looked at each other for a silent moment, two strong and -determined antagonists. Then the old man said mildly and pleasantly, - -“Now don’t be too hasty; don’t jump at a decision in the heat of the -moment. Just at the first glimpse this way, you may feel surprised--may -take it as sort of out of the way and interfering. But when you’ve -thought it over, it will look different. Take time. You don’t have to -make your mind up now, or to-morrow, or the day after. Turn it over, -look at the other side, sleep on it for a few nights. Think a bit of -the things I’ve said. You don’t want to be hasty about it. It’s not the -kind of offer you get every day.” - -“No, it’s not!” said Berny fiercely. “It’s too dirty for most people. -It’s too dirty for any one but Mrs. Ryan, and you can tell her I said -so.” - -She rose to her feet, still clenching the blotter in her hand. He rose -too, interested, annoyed and disappointed, for he knew with a cynical -certainty just about what she was going to say. - -“Yes,” she cried, stiff and quivering like a leaf, “go and tell her! -Tell her just what I said. I’ll see her in hell before I’ll take a cent -of her money, or budge an inch out of this house. She’s a fine one to -give herself such airs, and think herself too good to know me and then -offer to buy me off like a kept woman. Tell her I’m her son’s wife, and -I’ll stay so till she’s good and dead, and Dominick’s got his share of -his father’s estate. Tell her I’m here to stay, right here, here in -this flat, just round the corner from where she lives, and that I’m -Mrs. Ryan as well as she is, and that I’m going to stay so. This is my -home, here in San Francisco, where she’s tried to ruin me and freeze me -out, and here I stick.” - -She glared at him as he stood, one hand on the back of his chair, his -eyes thoughtfully fixed on her. - -“I wouldn’t be too hasty if I were you,” he said pacifically. “Things -done in a hurry are rarely satisfactory. It’s a bad way to do business. -You’re apt to let good chances slip by.” - -[Illustration: “I’ll lie dead in my coffin before I’ll take her - money” _Page 263_] - -“Don’t be afraid,” she said with grim significance. “I’m not going -to let mine slip by. I’ve married Dominick Ryan and I’m going to stay -by him.” - -He turned to the table and picked up his hat, which was a soft, black -felt wide-awake. As he dented it into shape, he said, - -“You’re sort of heated up and excited now, and a person’s brain don’t -work well in that state. You don’t want to come to any important -conclusions when you’re not cool and able to think. Sleep on this thing -for one night, anyway. You can call me up on the telephone to-morrow, -or probably it would be better to send a line by a messenger.” - -“You’re very much interested in this affair, aren’t you?” she said with -sudden malicious meaning. - -For the first time in the interview he was slightly taken aback. Her -face held a reserve of knowledge with which she seemed to be silently -taunting him. - -“Naturally,” he said with an air of simple frankness, “as an old family -friend would be.” - -“And that’s the only reason?” - -“What other could there be?” - -“Oh, I don’t know”--she turned and dropped the blotter on the desk with -a nonchalant movement--“I was just wondering.” - -He eyed her for a second without speaking, and in this one moment of -scrutiny allowed a look of dislike and menace to creep into his face. -Then he said genially, - -“Well, I guess this brings our interview to an end. It’s not been just -what you’d call a pleasant one, but I for one can say it’s left no hard -feelings. I hope you’ll admit as much.” - -She shrugged her shoulders and turned to the desk. - -“I’m not a good one at lies,” she said. “I leave that to the Ryans and -their old family friends.” - -He laughed good-humoredly and answered, - -“That’s all right. You never can hurt me by plain speaking. That’s the -only kind I know. I guess we’re neither of us great at guff. Remember -that I’ll expect a visit or a letter from you.” - -“You’ll have to wait a long time for either,” she said without moving. - -“Well, I’m a patient man, and everything comes to him who waits.” - -She looked over her shoulder with a slight acid smile. - -“Not _everything_,” she said. - -“So long,” he answered, giving his hat a farewell wave at her. “I’ve -enjoyed meeting you and hope we’ll soon meet again in a more friendly -way. _Hasta Manana, Señora!_” - -She wheeled so that she faced him and gave a short nod, then watched -him as he walked to the door. Here he turned, bowed deeply and -respectfully, and passed out into the hall, the bamboo strands of the -portière clashing together behind him. A moment later she heard the -bang of the street door. - -She stood motionless in the middle of the room, her face deeply -flushed, her eyes fixed on the swaying curtain. For the first few -moments a blind excitement held her, and then from the welter of this, -her thoughts separated themselves and took definite directions. Rage, -triumph, bewilderment, alarm, surged to the surface of her mind. -Shaken by one after another she stood rigid in the intensity of her -preoccupation, not noticing the shaking of her knees or the thumping of -her heart. - -Her two predominant sensations were rage and triumph. The insult of the -bribe burned in her--this flinging money at her as it might be flung at -a cast-off mistress. It deepened her detestation of the Ryans, and at -the same time gave her a sense of intimacy with them. It made them more -on a par with her, drew them down from the lofty heights whence they -had scornfully ignored her, to a place beside her, a place where they, -as well as she, did underhand, disreputable things they did not want -known. - -And it showed her her power. Standing in the middle of the room with -her eyes still staring at the now motionless portière strands, she saw, -stretching away into a limitless gilded distance, her negotiations -with her husband’s family. If their desire to rupture the marriage took -them thus far, where might it not take them? She stared into a future -where she saw herself extracting money in vast amounts from them. It -was fortune--twice, three times this first paltry sum--waiting for her -when she chose to stretch her hand and take it. She could be rich, as -the old man said; she could go abroad, see the world, have all the joys -that riches give, when she chose to let Mrs. Ryan humbly pay her such a -sum as she would accept. - -With a quick catch of her breath, she turned and moved to the window, -stirred to her depth with the exultation of unexpected power. And -standing there, the thought of the old man suddenly swept across -her, and with it, transfixing her in an attitude of frozen, inward -contemplation, the memory of his daughter. New vistas, extending away -through the abruptly-illuminated dimness of her previous ignorance, -suddenly opened before her, and she sent her startled vision exploring -down them. At the end of them, waiting for Dominick in an attitude of -welcome, was the pink and white girl she had seen in the park. - -The discovery was made so quickly, came upon her flushed complacency -with such a shock of unexpectedness, that even her sharp, suspicious -mind could not for the moment take it in. Then Miss Cannon’s face, -as she had seen it in that moment of recognition in the park, rose -with confirming clearness on her memory, and she saw straight to the -heart of the plot. It was not the Ryans alone who wanted to buy her -off. It was the Cannons as well. They not only wanted Dominick to get -rid of her; they wanted him to get rid of her so that he could marry -Rose Cannon. The other girl was behind it all, accounted for the -participation of the Bonanza King, accounted probably for the whole -move--the pink and white girl in the French clothes who had all her -life had everything and now wanted Berny Iverson’s husband. - -Poor Dominick, whom Berny had held contemptuously as a disappointing -and aggravating appurtenance of hers, suddenly rose in her estimation -into a valuable possession whose worth she had not before realized. -It was enough that another woman wanted him, was, through underhand -channels, trying to get him. All in a minute, Berny had changed from -the negligent proprietor of a valueless and lightly-held object, to the -possessor of an article of rare worth, which she was prepared jealously -to guard. With a sort of proud challenge she felt that she stood -valiantly facing the marauders, protecting her treasure against their -predatory advances. And her hatred against Mrs. Ryan began to extend -toward Bill Cannon, and beyond him toward the fair-faced girl, who grew -red to her forehead when she accidentally encountered Dominick Ryan. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -THE MOONLIGHT NIGHT - - -A few nights after this, there was a full moon. Dominick, walking -home from the bank, saw it at the end of the street’s vista, a large, -yellowish-pink disk floating up into the twilight. The air about it was -suffused with a misty radiance, and its wide glowing face, having a -thin look like a transparency of paper with a light behind it, seemed, -though not yet clear of the housetops, already to dominate the sky. -The evening was warm, like the early summer in other climates; and -Dominick, walking slowly and watching the great yellow sphere deepening -in color as it swam majestically upward, thought of evenings like this -in the past when he had been full of the joy of life and had gone forth -in the spirit of love and adventure. - -The sight of his home dispelled these memories and brought upon him -the sense of his daily environment and its distastefulness. The -determination to accept his fate which had been with him on his return -from Antelope had of late been shaken by stirrings of rebellion. -Uplifted by the thought of his love for a woman hopelessly removed from -him, but who would always be a lodestar to worship reverently and to -guide him up difficult paths, he had been able to face his domestic -tragedy with the high resolution of the martyr. But this exalted -condition was hard to maintain in the friction of daily life with -Berny. Before, she had merely been a disagreeable companion of whom he -had to make the best. Now, she was that, intensified by a comparison -which threw out her every fault and petty vulgarity into glaring -prominence. And more than that--she was the angel with the flaming -sword, the self-incurred, invited, domesticated angel--the angel come -to stay--who barred the way to Paradise. - -She seemed to him to have changed within the last week. When he had -first come home from Antelope she had been Berny in one of her less -familiar but recognizable moods--Berny trying to be agreeable, wearing -her best clothes every day, ordering the things for dinner he liked, -talking loudly and incessantly. Then, quite suddenly, he became aware -of a change in her. She grew silent, absent-minded, morose. He had -tried to make their lives easier by always being polite and carefully -considerate of her and she had responded to it. For the last few days -she had made no effort to assist him in this laudable design. Instead, -she had been unresponsive, preoccupied, uninvitingly snappish in her -replies. Several times he had been forced into the novel position of -“making conversation” throughout dinner, exerting his wits for subjects -to talk about that he might lift the gloom and elicit some response -from the mute, scowling woman opposite. - -To-night, the period of ill-humor seemed over. Berny was not only once -again her animated self, she was almost feverishly garrulous. Dinner -had not progressed past the fish when she began to question him on his -recent experiences at Antelope. The subject had come up several times -since his return, but for the last few days he had had a respite from -it, and hoped its interest had worn away. She had many queries to make -about Bill Cannon, and from the father it was but a natural transition -to the daughter, so much the more attractive of the pair. Dominick was -soon inwardly writhing under an exceedingly ingenious and searching -catechism. - -Had he been less preoccupied by his own acute discomfort, he might have -noticed that Berny herself gave evidence of disturbance. As she prodded -him with her questions, her face was suffused with unusual color, and -the eagerness of her curiosity shone through the carelessness with -which she sought to veil it. Certain queries she accompanied with a -piercing glance of investigation, watching with hungry sharpness the -countenance of the persecuted man. Fearful of angering her, or, still -worse, of arousing her suspicions, Dominick bore the examination with -all the fortitude he had, but he rose from the table with every nerve -tingling, rasped and galled to the limit of endurance. - -He did not come into the den immediately but roamed about, into the -parlor, down the passage, and into his own room. He spread the scent of -his cigar and its accompanying films of smoke all through the flat, a -thing that Berny would never have ordinarily allowed. To-night she was -too occupied in listening to his prowling steps to bother about minor -rules and regulations. She saw in his restlessness a disturbance evoked -by her questionings. - -“Aren’t you coming into the den?” she called, as she heard him pacing -steadily along the passageway. - -“No,” he called back. “The moonlight’s shining in at every window. It -makes me restless. I don’t feel like sitting still.” - -She sat on the divan, a paper spread before her face, but her eyes -were slanted sidewise, unblinking in the absorption of her attention. -Suddenly she heard a rattling sound which she knew to be from the canes -and umbrellas in the hat-rack. She cast away the paper, and, drawing -herself to the edge of the divan, peered down the passage. Dominick was -standing by the hat-rack, his hat on the back of his head, his hand -feeling among the canes. - -“You’ve got your hat on,” she called in a high key of surprise. “You’re -not going out?” - -“Yes, I am,” he answered, drawing out the cane he wanted. “It’s a fine -night, and I’m going for a walk.” - -“For a walk?”--there was hesitancy in her tone, and for a horrible -moment, he thought she was going to suggest coming with him. “Where are -you going to?” - -“Oh, I don’t know, just prowl about. I want some exercise.” - -“Are you going to your mother’s?” she ventured, not without some -timidity. - -“No,” he said, “I’m not going anywhere in particular. Good night.” - -She sat forward, listening to his descending feet and the bang of the -hall door. A glance at the window showed her it was, as he said, a fine -night, deluged with the radiance of the moon. Probably he _was_ just -going out for a walk and not to see anybody. He was always doing queer -things like that. But,--Berny sat staring in front of her, biting her -nails and thinking. Uneasiness had been planted in her by Dominick’s -flight to Antelope. More poignant uneasiness had followed that first -attack. Now the bitter corrosive of jealousy began to grow and expand -in her. Sitting huddled on the divan, she thought of Dominick, walking -through the moonlight to Rose Cannon, and another new and griping pang -laid hold upon her. - -Outside, Dominick walked slowly, keeping to the smaller and less -frequented streets. It was a wonderful night, as still as though the -moon had exerted some mesmeric influence upon the earth. Everything was -held motionless and without sound in a trance-like quietude. In the -gardens not a blossom stirred. Where leaves extended from undefined -darknesses of foliage, they stood out, stem and fiber, with a carven -distinctness, their shadows painted on the asphalt walks in inky -silhouette. There was no lamplight to warm the clear, still pallor of -the street’s vista. It stretched between the fronts of houses, a river -of light, white and mysterious, like a path in a dream. - -It was a night for lovers, for trysts, and for whispered vows. -Dominick walked slowly, feeling himself an outsider in its passionate -enchantment. The scents that the gardens gave out, and through which -he passed as through zones of sweetness, were part of it. So were the -sounds that rose from the blotted vagueness of white figures on a -porch, from impenetrable depths of shadow--laughter, low voices, little -cries. In the distance people were singing snatches of a song that rose -and fell, breaking out suddenly and as suddenly dropping into silence. - -His course was not aimless, and took him by a slow upward ascent to -that high point of the city, whence the watcher can look down on the -bay, the rugged, engirdling hills, and the hollow of North Beach. Here -he stood, resting on his cane, and gazing on the far-flung panorama, -with the white moon sailing high and its reflection glittering across -the water. Along the bases of the hills the clotted lights of little -towns shone in faintly-glimmering agglomerations. At his feet the -hollow lay like a black hole specked with hundreds of sparks. Each -spark was the light of a home, symbol of the fire of a hearth. He stood -looking down on them, thinking of what they represented, that cherished -center round which a man’s life revolves, and which he, by his own sin -and folly, had lost for ever. - -He walked on, skirting the hollow, and moving forward through streets -where old houses brooded in overgrown gardens. The thin music of -strings rose on the night, and two men passed him playing on the -mandolin and guitar. They walked with quick, elastic steps, their -playing accurately in accord, their bodies swaying slightly to its -rhythm. They swung by him, and the vibrating harmonies, that sounded so -frail and attenuated in the suave largeness of the night, grew faint -and fainter, as if weighed upon and gradually extinguished by the dense -saturation of the moonlight. - -Music was evidently a mode of expression that found favor on this -evening of still brilliance. A few moments later a sound of singing -rose on the air and a youthful couple came into view, walking close -together, their arms twined about each other, caroling in serene -indifference to such wayfarers as they might meet. They passed him, -their faces uplifted to the light, their mouths open in the abandon -of their song. Unconscious of his presence, with upraised eyes and -clasping arms, they paced on, filling the night with their voices--a -boy and girl in love, singing in the moonlight. Dominick quickened his -steps, hastening from the sound. - -The moon was now high in the sky and the town lay dreaming under its -spell. Below him he could see the expanse of flat roofs, shining -surfaces between inlayings of shadow, with the clefts of the streets -cut through at regular intervals like slices made by a giant knife. Now -and then he looked up at the dome above, clear and solemn, the great -disk floating in solitary majesty across the vast and thoughtful heaven. - -That part of California Street which crested the hill was but a few -blocks beyond him, and before his mind would acknowledge it, his feet -had borne him that way. He thought only to pass the Cannon house, to -look at its windows, and see their lights. As it rose before him, a -huge, pale mass checkered with shadows, the longing to see it--the -outer shell that hid his heart’s desire--passed into a keener, -concentrated agitation that seemed to press out from his soul like a -cry to her. - -The porch yawned black behind pillars that in the daytime were painted -wood and now looked like temple columns wrought in marble. Dominick’s -glance, sweeping the lines of yellowed windows, finally rested on this -cavern of shadow, and he approached stealthily, as a robber might, his -body close to the iron fence. Almost before his eyes had told him, he -knew that a woman was standing there, leaning against the balustrade -that stretched between the columns. A climbing rose spread, in a -mottling of darkness, over the wall beside her. Here and there it was -starred with the small white faces of blossoms. As the young man drew -near she leaned over the balustrade, plucked one of the blossoms, and, -slowly shredding the leaves from the stem, stretched out her hand and -let them fall, like a languid shower of silver drops, to the grass. - -Dominick halted below her, leaning against the fence and looking up. -She did not see him and stretched out her hand again for another -blossom. The petals of this one fell through her fingers, one by one, -and lay, a scattering of white dots, on the darkness of the grass. She -bent over the balustrade to look at them, and in doing so, her eyes -encountered the man below. - -For a moment they looked at each other without speaking, then she -said, her voice at the lowest note that would reach him, - -“What are you doing there?” - -“Watching you.” - -“Have you been standing there long?” - -“No, only a few minutes. Why are you pulling the roses to pieces?” - -She gave a little laugh and said something that sounded like “I don’t -know,” and moved back from the balustrade. - -He thought she was going, and clutched the iron spikes of the fence, -calling up to her in a voice of urgent feeling, curiously out of -keeping with the words, the first remark that came into his head: - -“This is very different from Antelope, isn’t it?” - -She came forward again and looked out and up at the sky. - -“Yes,” she said gravely, “we had no moonlight there, nothing but storms -and gray clouds.” - -“But it was lovely,” he answered in the same key. “The clouds and the -storms didn’t matter. Those were three--three great weeks.” - -He ended lamely but they were the best words he could get, trying to -say something that would keep her there, trying to see her through the -vaporous light. She bent over the railing looking for another rose, but -there were no more within her reach and she gave the short, nervous -laugh she had given before and turned her eyes on him again. Then -he realized that she was agitated. The knowledge augmented his own -perturbation and for a moment he did not trust himself to speak. He -gazed at her fixedly, the look of a lover, and was not conscious that -she wavered under it, till she suddenly drew a quick breath, turned her -head sidewise, and said, with an effort at naturalness, - -“Well, I must go in. The roses are all picked and papa’ll be wondering -where I am.” - -It seemed to Dominick just then that he could not lose her. She must -stay a moment longer. Urgency that was imploring was in his voice as he -said, - -“Don’t go! don’t go! Stay just one moment longer! Can’t you come down -and talk for a minute? Come part of the way down. I want to speak to -you for a little bit longer. It may be months before I see you again.” - -She listened, wavered, and was won over. Without answer she turned from -the shadow of the porch into the light on the top of the steps, and -from there slowly descended, her skirt gathered in one hand, and the -other touching the baluster. She was in black and from its dead density -her arms, bare to the elbow, shone as white as the arms of a marble -woman. The baluster ended in a lion crouching in sleep on a slab of -stone, and she paused here and Dominick went up the few steps from the -street to meet her. With the sleeping lion between them they looked at -each other with troubled eyes. - -The moonlight seemed to have drawn from the meeting the artificialities -of worldly expression, which in the sensible, familiar daylight would -have placed it on the footing of a casual, to-be-expected encounter. -The sun beating down on lovers beats some of their sentimental -transports out of them. Now in this mystic, beautifying luminosity, -the acquired point of view, the regard for the accepted conventions -of every-day seemed to have receded to a great distance, to be thin, -forgotten things that had nothing to do with real life. For a moment -Berny ceased to be a living presence, standing with a flaming sword -between them. They almost forgot her. The memory that pressed upon them -was that of their last meeting. It shone in their eyes and trembled -on their lips. The sleeping lion that separated them was a singularly -appropriate symbol. - -Low-voiced and half-spoken sentences belonged to this romantic moment. -The moonlit night around them was still and empty, but Dominick spoke -as though other ears than hers were listening: - -“I’ve wanted so to see you. I came by to-night hoping that perhaps I -could catch a glimpse of your shadow on the curtain. I didn’t expect -anything like this.” - -He stopped, looking at her, and not listening to the few words of her -answer. - -“I think I wanted you so that my will called you out,” he said in an -impassioned whisper. - -She said nothing and suddenly his hand sought hers, clasped it tight on -the head of the lion, and he whispered again, - -“Oh, Rose, if I could see you now and then--only for a moment like -this.” - -He felt her hand, small and cold, crush softly inside his, and almost -immediately was conscious of her effort to withdraw it. He instantly -loosened his fingers, let hers slide from his grasp, and drew back. - -“Good night,” she said hurriedly, and without looking at him turned and -went up the steps. - -“Good night,” he called after her, following her ascending figure with -his eyes. - -When she reached the shadow at the top of the steps, she called -“Good-by,” passed into the engulfing blackness, and was gone. He waited -till he heard the door bang behind her, then descended the steps and -walked slowly home, his eyes on the pavement. - -Berny was in her own room ready for bed when she heard his ascending -footsteps. She was occupied in rubbing a skin-food into her face, with -careful circular motions and pinchings of her finger-tips. It was a -task that required deep attention and which she performed three nights -in the week with conscientious regularity. With her face gleaming with -grease she crept to her door and listened, heard his cane slide into -the umbrella holder, and the door of his room shut with a softness -which told her that he thought her asleep. She walked back to the glass -and resumed her manipulations, but with diminished zeal. The clock -on the bureau marked the hour at half-past ten. Dominick had been -out two hours. Would a man walk round a city--even a crank like her -husband--all by himself for two hours? - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -FAMILY AFFAIRS - - -Every summer afternoon the trade winds blow through San Francisco, -winging their way across miles of chill, salt sea, and striking the -bulwarked city with a boisterous impact. The long streets seem as -paths, lines of least resistance, and the winds press themselves into -the narrow limits and whoop buoyantly along, carrying before them dust, -rags, scraps of paper--sometimes hats. - -Their period of highest recognized activity is from May till September, -but before that, vagrant breezes, skirmishers sent out in advance, -assault the city. They follow on still, sunny mornings, which show not -the slightest warning symptom of the riotous forces which are designing -to seize upon and disrupt the tranquillity of the afternoon. Eleven -sees them up and stirring; by midday they have begun the attack. The -city, in a state of complete unpreparedness, is at their mercy and -they sweep through it in arrogant triumph, veiled in a flying scud of -dust. Unsuspecting wayfarers meet them at corners, and stand, helpless -victims of a playfulness, fierce and disconcerting as that of tigers. -Hats, cleverly running on one rim, career along the sidewalk. Ladies -have difficulties with parasols, heretofore docile and well-behaved. -Articles of dress, accustomed to hang decorously, show sudden ambitions -to rise and ride the elements. And those very people who in winter -speak gratefully of the winds as “the scavengers of San Francisco” may -be heard calling curses down on them. - -Such a wind, the first of the season, was abroad on a bright morning in -early April, and Cornelia Ryan was out in it. It was a great morning -for Cornelia. Even the wind could not ruffle her joyousness. She was -engaged. Two evenings before, Jack Duffy, who had been hovering round -the subject for a month, poised above it, as a hawk above delightful -prey, had at last descended and Cornelia’s anxieties were at an end. -She had been so relieved, elated, and flustered that she had not -been able to pretend the proper surprise, but had accepted blushing, -stammering and radiant. She had been blushing, stammering and radiant -when she told her mother that night, and to-day, forty-eight hours -later, she was still blushing, stammering, and radiant. - -It was not alone that she was honestly in love with Jack, but Cornelia, -like most maidens in California and elsewhere, was in love with being -admired, deferred to, and desired. And despite her great expectations -and her prominent position, she had had rather less of this kind of -delightful flattery than most girls. Walking down town in the clear, -sun-lit morning, she was, if not handsome, of a fresh and blooming -wholesomeness, which is almost as attractive and generally wears -better. The passers-by might readily have set her down as a charming -woman, for whom men sighed, and in this surmise been far from the -mark. She had had few lovers before Jack Duffy. That matter-of-fact -sturdiness, that absence of softness and mystery so noticeable in -Californian women, was particularly accentuated in her case, and had -robbed her of the poetic charm of which beauty and wealth can never -take the place. - -But to-day she was radiant, a sublimated, exultant Cornelia, loved -at last and by a man of whom she could completely and unreservedly -approve. There were times when Cornelia--she was thirty--had feared -that she might have to go abroad and acquire a foreign husband, or, -worse still, move to New York and make her selection from such relics -of decayed Knickerbocker families as were in the market. She was woman -enough to refuse to die unwed. Now these dark possibilities were -dispelled. In her own state, in her own town, she had found her mate, -Jack Duffy, whose father had known her father and been shift boss under -Bill Cannon in the roaring days of Virginia City. It was like royalty -marrying into its own order, the royalty of Far Western millions, -knowing its own ramifications having its own unprinted Almanach de -Gotha--deep calling unto deep! - -The wind was not yet out in force; its full, steady sweep would not be -inaugurated till early in the afternoon. It came now in gusts which -fell upon Cornelia from the back and accelerated her forward progress, -throwing out on either side of her a flapping sail of skirt. Cornelia, -who was neat and precise, usually resented this rough handling, but -to-day she only laughed, leaning back, with one hand holding her hat. -In the shops where she stopped to execute various commissions she had -difficulty in suppressing her smiles. She would have liked to delay -over her purchases and chat with the saleswomen, and ask them about -their families, and send those who looked tired off for a month into -the country. - -It was after midday when she found herself approaching that particular -block, along the edge of which the flower-venders place their baskets -and display their wares. In brilliantly-colored mounds the flowers -stood stacked along the outer rim of the sidewalk, a line of them, -a man behind each basket vociferating the excellence of the bouquet -he held forward to the passer’s inspection. In the blaze of sun that -overlaid them, the piled-up blossoms showed high-colored and variegated -as a strip of carpeting. - -Cornelia never bought flowers at the street corners. The town house -was daily supplied from the greenhouses at the country place at Menlo. -When sick friends, anniversaries, or entertainment called for special -offerings they were ordered from expensive florists and came in made-up -bunches, decorated with sashes of ribbon. But to-day she hesitated -before the line of laden baskets. Some of the faces behind them looked -so dreary, and Cornelia could not brook the sight of a dreary face on -this day of joy. The dark, wistful eyes of an Italian boy holding out -a bunch of faded jack roses, stiffly set in a fringe of fern, made a -sudden appeal to her and she bought the roses. Then the old man who was -selling carnations looked so lean and grizzled that he must be cheered, -and two bunches of the carnations were added to the roses. The boys and -men, seeing that the brilliant lady was in a generous mood, collected -about her, shouting out the excellences of their particular blossoms, -and pressing sample bunches on her attention. - -Cornelia, amused and somewhat bewildered, looked at the faces and -bought recklessly. She was stretching out her hand to beckon to the -small boy with the wilted pansies, who was not big enough to press -through the throng, when a man’s voice behind her caught her ear. - -“Well, Cornelia, are you trying to corner the curb-stone market?” - -She wheeled swiftly and saw her brother, laughing and looking at the -stacked flowers in the crook of her arm. - -“Dominick!” she exclaimed, “you’re just the person I want to see. I was -going to write to you. I’ve got lots to tell you.” - -“Come along then and take lunch with me. I was on my way up to -Bertrand’s when I saw you. They’ll give us a good lunch there and you -can tell me all your secrets.” - -The flower sellers, who had been listening with unabashed eagerness, -realized that their prey was about to be ravished from them, and raised -their voices in a chorus of wailing appeal. As Cornelia moved forward -they moved round her, thrusting bouquets under her eyes in a last hope, -the boy with the wilted pansies, on the brink of tears, hanging on the -outskirts of the crowd. Cornelia might have forgotten him, but her eye, -sweeping back for an absent moment, saw his face, bereft of all hope--a -face of childish despair above his drooping pansies. - -“Here, boy with the pansies,” she called, and sent a silver dollar -through the air toward him, “that’s for you. Keep it and the flowers, -too. I’ve too many now and can’t carry any more. Maybe he’ll sell them -to some one else,” she said to Dominick, as they crossed the street. -“He’s such a little boy to be earning his bread!” - -They walked up the street toward Bertrand’s, a French restaurant which -for years had enjoyed the esteem of the city’s gourmets. The wind was -now very high. It tore at Cornelia’s clothes and made it necessary for -Dominick to hold his hat on, his hand spread flat on the crown. A trail -of blossoms, torn from the flowers each carried, sprinkled the pavement -behind them. Cornelia, with her head down and her face toward her -brother, shouted remarks at him, every now and then pausing in a stifle -of laughter to struggle with her draperies, which at one moment rose -rebellious, and at the next were wound about her in an umbrella-like -sheath. - -They had often met this way in the past, when the elder Mrs. Ryan’s -wrath had been in its first, untameable freshness, and her son had -seen her seldom. In those days of estrangement, Cornelia had been the -tie between Dominick and his home. She loved her brother and was sorry -for him, and had felt the bitterness of the separation, not alone as -a family misfortune, but as a scandal over which mean people talked. -Had it rested with her, she would long ago have overlooked the past -and have opened the door to her sister-in-law. Not that she felt any -regard or interest in Berny Iverson; her feeling for her was now, and -always would be, largely composed of that undying unfriendliness and -repugnance that the naturally virtuous woman feels for her sister with -the _tache_. But Cornelia was of a younger and milder generation -than her mother. She had not fought hard for what she had and, like -Dominick, there was more of the sunny-tempered, soft-hearted Con Ryan -in her than of the strong and valiant woman who had made him and given -him his place in the world. - -In the restaurant they found a vacant table in a corner, and Cornelia -had to bottle up her good news while Dominick pondered over the bill -of fare. She was impatient and drummed on the table with her fingers, -while her eyes roamed about the room. Once or twice, she bowed to -people that she knew, then let her glance pass in an uninterested -survey over the bare walls and the long line of windows that gave -on the street. The place had an austerely severe, unadorned air. -Its bleakness of naked wall and uncovered stone floor added to the -foreignness that was contributed by the strong French accent of the -waiters, and the arrangement of a cashier’s desk near the door, where a -pleasant-faced woman sat between a large bouquet of roses and a drowsy -gray cat. - -The orders given and the first stages of lunch appearing, Cornelia -could at last claim her brother’s full attention. Planting her elbows -on the table and staring at him, she said, - -“I told you how awfully anxious I was to see you, and how I was going -to write to you, didn’t I?” - -Dominick nodded. He was buttering a piece of bread and showed no -particular acceleration of curiosity at this query. - -“Well, now, what do you suppose I was going to write about?” asked his -sister, already beginning to show a heightened color. - -“Can’t imagine. Nothing wrong with mother, I hope?” - -Since his marriage Cornelia had been in the habit of communicating -frequently with her brother by letter. It was the best way of keeping -him informed of family affairs. The telephone at the senior Ryan -house was sufficiently secluded to make it a useful medium of private -communication, but the telephone at the junior Ryan house did not share -this peculiarity, and Dominick discouraged his sister’s using it. - -“No, mother’s all right,” said Cornelia. “And it’s nothing wrong -about anybody. Quite the other way; it’s something about me, and it’s -something cheerful. Guess!” - -Her brother looked up and his eye was caught by her rosily-blushing -cheeks. - -“Dear me, Cornie,” he said with a look of slowly-dawning comprehension, -“it really isn’t--it really can’t be----?” - -The waiter here interrupted further confidence by setting forth the -lunch with many attentive bowings and murmurings. By the time he had -presented one dish for Cornelia’s approval, removed it with a flourish -and presented another, her impatience broke out in an imploring, - -“Yes, Etienne, it’s all _perfectly_ lovely. _Do_ put it on the table -and let’s eat it. That’s what it’s for, not to hand round and be stared -at, as if it were a diamond necklace that I was thinking of buying.” - -Etienne, thus appealed to, put the viands on the table, and Dominick, -deeply interested, leaned forward and said, - -“What is it? Go ahead. I’m burning up with curiosity.” - -“Guess,” said his sister, bending over her plate. - -“Is it that you’re going to be married? Oh, Cornie, it can’t be.” - -“And why can’t it be?” looking very much hurt. “What’s there so queer -about that?” - -“Nothing, only I meant that I hadn’t heard any rumors about it. _Is_ it -_that_?” - -“Yes, it is, Dominick Ryan, and I don’t see why you should be so -surprised.” - -“Surprised! I’m more than surprised. I’m delighted--haven’t been so -pleased for years. Who is it?” - -“Jack Duffy.” - -“Oh, Cornie, that’s the best yet! That’s great! It’s splendid. I wish I -could kiss you, but I can’t here in the open restaurant. Why didn’t you -tell me somewhere where we would be alone? I’d just like to give you a -good hug.” - -Cornelia, who had been a little hurt at her brother’s incredulity, was -now entirely mollified and once again became bashfully complacent. - -“I thought you’d like it,” she said. “I thought you’d think that was -just about right. Any girl would be proud of _him_.” - -“He’s one of the best fellows in the state--one of the best anywhere. -He’ll make you a first-rate husband. You’re a lucky girl.” - -“I know I am. You needn’t tell me. There are not many men anywhere -like Jack Duffy. I’ve always said I wouldn’t marry the tag, rag and -bobtail other girls are satisfied with. _My_ husband was going to be a -gentleman, and if Jack’s anything, he’s that.” - -“You’re right there. He’s one of Nature’s gentlemen--the real kind.” - -Cornelia thought this savored of condescension, and said, rallying to -the defense of her future lord, - -“Well, that’s all right, but he’s educated too. He’s not one of those -men who have good hearts and noble yearnings but look like anarchists -or sewing-machine agents. Jack graduated high at Harvard. He went there -when he was only eighteen. There’s no one’s had a better education or -done better by it. His father may have been Irish and worked as shift -boss on the Rey del Monte, but Jack’s quite different. He’s just as -much of a gentleman as anybody in this country.” - -Cornelia’s attitude on matters of genealogy was modern and -Californian. Ireland was far behind her and Jack, as were also those -great days in Nevada of which her mother and Bill Cannon spoke, as the -returned Ulysses might have spoken of the ten years before Troy. She -and Jack would eventually regard them as a period of unsophistication -and social ferment which it were wisest to touch on lightly, and of -which they would teach their children nothing. - -“And then,” Cornelia went on, determined not to slight any detail of -her fiance’s worthiness, “there’s never been anything fast or wild -about Jack. He’s always been straight. There’s been no scandalous -stories about him, as there have about Terence.” - -“Never. Terence committed all the scandals for the family.” - -“Well, Terence is in New York, thank Heaven!” said Cornelia with pious -fervor, “and we won’t have to have anything to do with him or his wife -either. Even if we go to Europe, we need only stay there a few days.” - -The irregular career of Terence had been a thorn in the side of -the respectable Duffys, he, some years earlier, having married his -mistress, a chorus girl in a local theater, and attempted to force her -upon the exclusive circles in which his people moved. It was not the -least galling feature of Terence’s unconventional course that, having -doubled his fortune by successful speculations, he had removed to New -York where, after several spirited assaults and vigorous rebuffs, his -wife had reached social heights toward which other Californians of -spotless record and irreproachable character had clambered in vain. - -“Well,” said Dominick, “mother ought to be satisfied with _this_ -marriage. It’s a good thing one of her children is going to settle down -the way she likes.” - -“Oh, she’s delighted. She’s not been in such good spirits for a long -time, and she’s as interested as I am in arranging everything. We -want to have a large house wedding; the two families and all their -connections, and all our intimate friends, and all the people who’ve -entertained us,--and--and--the whole crowd. Of course, it’ll be a lot -of people. Mommer said she didn’t see how we could cut it down to less -than five or six hundred. But I don’t see why we need to, the house is -big enough.” - -“Plenty,” said Dominick. He set down his knife and fork and looked at -his sister. “Our family don’t take up much room. There’s just three of -us.” - -“Then you’re coming?” she said quickly, her anxiety flashing out into -an almost pained intensity of eagerness. “You’ll come? You must, -Dominick. You’ve got to give me away.” - -He looked away from her in moody discomfort. The eternal discussions -created by his marriage were becoming more and more hateful to him. -Why should his unloved and unloving wife perpetually stand between -him and his own people--his mother and sister--women to whom he owed -allegiance, even as he did to her? The call of his home and the binding -ties of kin were growing stronger as the obligation of his marriage had -weakened and lost its hold. - -Cornelia leaned across the table and spoke with low-toned, almost -tremulous earnestness: - -“You know that if it were I, I’d ask your wife. You know that all the -hard feelings I may once have had against her have gone. If it were for -me to say, I’d have received her from the start. What I’ve always said -is, ‘What’s the good of keeping up these fights? No one gets anything -by them. They don’t do any one any good.’ But you know mommer. The -first thing she said when we talked about the house wedding, and I said -you’d give me away, was, ‘If he’ll come without his wife.’ Those were -her very words, and you know when she says a thing she means it. And, -Dominick, you _will_ come? You’re the only brother I’ve got. You’re the -only man representative of the family. You can’t turn me down on my -wedding day.” - -There were tears in her eyes and Dominick saw them and looked down at -his plate. - -“All right,” he said quietly. “I’ll come. When is it to be?” - -“Oh, Dominick,” his sister breathed in an ecstasy of relief and -gratitude. “I knew you would. And I’ll do anything for you I can. If -mommer wouldn’t get so dreadfully angry, I’d call on your wife, but you -know I can’t offend her. She’s my mother, and I can’t stand up against -her. But some day I’ll pay you back--I will indeed.” - -“Oh, that’s all right, Cornie,” he said, turning to summon the waiter. -“I can’t let my sister get married without me. Tell mother I’ll come. -You haven’t yet told me when it’s to be.” - -“June,” said the prospective bride, once more beginning to blush and -beam, “early in June. The roses are so fine then, and we can have -the house so beautifully decorated. We’ve already begun to plan the -trousseau. It’s going to be just stunning, I tell you; the dresses from -New York and all the lingerie and things like that from Paris. Mommer -says she’ll give me fifteen thousand dollars for it. And she’s going to -give me, besides, a string of pearls that hangs down to here”--Cornelia -indicated a point on her person with a proud finger--“or else a house -and lot anywhere in town that I like. Which would you take?” - -Dominick was saved from the responsibility of stating a preference on -this important point by Etienne, the waiter, presenting his hat to him -with the low bow of the well-tipped garçon. With a scraping of chair -legs, they rose and, threading their way among the now crowded tables, -passed out into the wind-swept streets. Here they separated, Cornelia, -with her armful of wilting flowers, going home, and Dominick back to -the bank. - -He was entering the building when he met Bill Cannon, also returning -to his office from a restaurant lunch at a small Montgomery Street -chop-house, where, every day at one, he drank a glass of milk and ate -a sandwich. The Bonanza King stopped and spoke to the young man, his -greeting marked by a simple friendliness. Their conversation lasted a -few minutes, and then Dominick entered the bank. - -Two hours later, while he was still bending over his books, in the -hushed seclusion of the closed building, Bill Cannon was talking to -Berny in the parlor of the Sacramento Street flat. This interview was -neither so long, and (on Berny’s part) did not show the self-restraint -which had marked the first one. The offer of one hundred thousand -dollars which the old man made her was refused with more scorn and less -courtesy than had been displayed in her manner on the former occasion. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - -A CUT AND A CONFESSION - - -Berny was extremely unsettled. She had never been in such a -condition of worry and indecision. She was at once depressed and -elated, triumphant and cast down, all in a bubble of excitement and -uncertainty. A combination of violent feelings, hostile to one another, -had possession of her and used her as a battle-ground for shattering -encounters. - -She loved money with the full power of her nature--it was her -strongest, her predominating passion--and now for the first time in her -life it was within her grasp. She could at any moment become possessed -of a fortune, undisputedly her own, to do with as she liked. She lay -awake at night thinking of it. She made calculations on bits of paper -as she footed up the bills at her desk. - -But then on the other hand, there was Dominick, Dominick suddenly -become valuable. He was like a piece of jewelry held in slight esteem -as a trifling imitation and suddenly discovered to be real and of rich -worth. Insignificant and strange are the happenings which determine -the course of events. The sage had told her that one more inch in the -length of Cleopatra’s nose would have altered the face of the world and -changed the course of history. Had Berny not gone to the park on that -Sunday afternoon, and seen a woman’s face change color at the sight of -her husband, she might have come to terms with Mrs. Ryan and now have -been on her way to Chicago in the first stage of the plan of desertion. - -It was another woman’s wanting Dominick that made Berny more determined -to cling to him than if he had been the Prince Charming of her dreams. -She carried about with her a continual feeling of self-congratulation -that she had discovered the full significance of the plot in time. -Her attitude was that of the quarreling husband and wife who fight -furiously for the possession of a child for which neither cares. To -herself she kept saying, “They want my husband, do they? Well, I’ll -take mighty good care, no matter how much they want him and he wants to -go, they don’t get him.” - -It made her boil with rage to think of them all, with Dominick at their -head, getting everything they wanted and sending her off to Paris, even -though Paris might be delightful, and she have a great deal better time -there than she ever had in San Francisco. - -All these thoughts were in her mind as she walked down town one -afternoon for her usual diversion of shopping and promenading. Of late -she had not been sleeping well and the fear that this would react -upon her looks had spurred her to the unwonted exertion of walking. -The route she had chosen was one of those thoroughfares which radiate -from Market Street, and though not yet slums, are far removed from -the calm, wide gentility of the city’s more dignified highways. With -all her cleverness, she had never shaken off the tastes and instincts -of the class she had come from. She felt more at home in this noisy -byway, where children played on the pavements and there were the -house-to-house intimacies, the lack of privacy, of the little town, -than she did on the big, clean-swept streets where the houses presented -a blank exterior to the gaze, and most of the people were transported -in cars or carriages. Even the fact that the Tenderloin was in close -proximity did not modify her interest with a counteracting disgust; -though she was not one of the women who have a lively curiosity as to -that dark side of life, it did not, on the other hand, particularly -repel her. She viewed it with the same practical utilitarianism with -which she regarded her own virtue. That possession had been precious to -her for what she could gain with it. When she had sacrificed it to her -ambition, she had not liked giving it up at all, but had reconciled -herself to doing so because of the importance of the stake involved. - -Walking loiteringly forward she crossed Powell Street, and approached -the entrance of that home of vaudeville, the Granada Theater. This -was a place of amusement that she much favored, and of which she was -a frequent patron. Dominick did not like it, so she generally went to -the matinée with one of her sisters. There had been a recent change of -bill, and as she drew near she looked over the posters standing by the -entrance on which the program for the coming week was printed in large -letters. Midway down one of these, her eye was caught by a name and she -paused and stood reading the words: - - “JAMES DEFAY BUFORD - _The Witty, Brilliant and Incomparable_ - MONOLOGIST - _In His Unrivaled Monologue - Entitled_ - KLONDIKE MEMORIES” - -She remembered at once that this was the actor Dominick had spoken of -as having been snowed in with them at Antelope. Dominick had evidently -not expected he would come to San Francisco. He had said the man had -been going to act in Sacramento. After standing for some moments -looking at the words, she moved on again with the short, mincing step -that was habitual to her, and which always made walking a slow and -undesirable mode of progression. She seemed more thoughtful than she -had been before she saw the program, and for some blocks her face wore -an absent and somewhat pensive air of musing. - -Her preoccupation lasted up Grant Avenue and down Post Street till -it was finally dispelled by the sight of that attractive show-window -in which a large dry-goods establishment exhibits the marvels of new -millinery. It was April, and the spring fashions were just in from -Paris, filling the window with a brilliant display of the newest -revolutionary modes of which San Francisco had so far only heard. Women -stood staring, some dismayed at the introduction of styles which they -felt would have a blighting, not to say obliterating effect on their -own beauty. Others, of practical inclinations, studied the new gowns -with an eye to discoveries whereby their wardrobes might be induced to -assume a deceptive air of second youth. - -Berny elbowed her way in among them and pressed herself close to the -glass, exploring, with a strained glance, the intricacies of back -draperies turned from view. She wished Hazel was there with her. Hazel -was wonderfully sharp at seeing how things were put together, and -could carry complications of trimming and design in her head without -forgetting them or getting them mixed. The discovery that skirts -were being cut in a new way gave Berny a shock of painful surprise, -especially when she thought of her raspberry crape, still sufficiently -new to be kept in its own box between layers of tissue paper, and yet -at the stage when the necessity of paying for it was at a comfortable, -unvexing distance. - -She was standing with her back to the street when a woman next her -gave a low exclamation and uttered the name of Mrs. Con Ryan. Berny -wheeled about just as the exceedingly smart victoria of Mrs. Cornelius -Ryan drew up at the curb and that august matron prepared to descend -from it. In these afternoon shopping excursions she had often met her -mother-in-law, often met her and invariably seen her turn her head and -fix her eyes in the opposite direction. Now, however, matters were on -another footing. If Mrs. Ryan had not recognized Berny, or spoken to -her, or received her, she had at least opened negotiations with her, -negotiations which presupposed a knowledge of her existence if not a -desire for her acquaintance. Berny did not go so far as to anticipate -a verbal greeting, but she thought, in consideration of recent -developments, she was warranted in expecting a bow. - -She moved forward almost in Mrs. Ryan’s path, paused, and then -looked at the large figure moving toward her with a certain massive -stateliness. This time Mrs. Ryan did not turn her head away. Instead, -she looked at the young woman directly and steadily, looked at her full -in the eye with her own face void of all recognition, impassive and -stonily unmoved as the marble mask of a statue. Berny, her half-made -bow checked as if by magic, her face deeply flushed, walked on. She -moved down the street rapidly, her head held high, trembling with -indignation. - -Such are the strange, unaccountable contradictions of the female -character that she felt more incensed by this cut than by any previous -affront or slight the elder woman had offered her. The anticipated bow, -neither thought of nor hoped for till she had seen Mrs. Ryan alighting -from the carriage, was suddenly a factor of paramount importance in -the struggle between the two. So small a matter as a nod of the elder -woman’s head would have made the younger woman more pliable, more -tractable and easily managed, than almost any other action on her -mother-in-law’s part. Berny, bowed to, would have been a more docile, -reasonable person than either Mrs. Ryan or Bill Cannon had had yet to -deal with; while Berny, cut, flamed up into a blaze of mutinous fury -that, had they known it, would have planted dismay in the breasts of -those bold conspirators. - -As she walked down the street she was at first too angry to know where -she was going, but after a few moments of rapid progress she saw that -she was approaching the car line which passed close to her old home. -In the excitement of her wrath, the thought of her sisters--the only -human beings who could be relied on unquestioningly and ungrudgingly to -offer her sympathy--came to her with a sense of consolation and relief. -A clock in a window showed her it was nearly five. Hannah would have -been home for some time, and Hazel might be expected within an hour. -Without more thought she hailed an up-town car. - -As the car whisked her up the long hill from Kearney Street she thought -what she would say to her sisters. Several times of late she had -contemplated letting them into the secrets--or some of the secrets--of -her married life and its present complications. She wanted their -sympathy, for they were the only people she knew who were interested -in her through affection, and did not blame her when she did things -that were wrong. She also wanted to surprise them and to impress them. -She wanted to see their eyes grow round, and their faces more and more -startled, as she told of what Mrs. Ryan was trying to do, and how the -sum of one hundred thousand dollars was hers--their sister’s--when she -chose to take it. They were good people, the best people for her to -tell it to. They did not know too much. They could be relied upon for a -blind, uninquiring loyalty, and she could now (as she had before) tell -them, not all--just enough--suppressing, as women do, those facts in -the story which it were best for her to keep to herself. - -She found them both at home, Hazel having been allowed to leave her -work an hour earlier than usual. Sitting in a small room in the back of -the house, they were surrounded by the outward signs of dressmaking. -Yards of material lay over the chairs, and on a small wooden table, -which fitted close to her body and upon which portions of the material -lay neatly smoothed out, Hannah was cutting with a large pair of shears. - -Hazel sat near by trimming a hat, a wide, flat leghorn, round which -she twined a wreath of brier roses. Black velvet bows held the wreath -in place, and Hazel skewered these down with long black pins, several -of which she held in her mouth. Berny knew of old this outburst of -millinery activity which always marked the month of April. It was the -semi-annual rehabilitation of Pearl’s wardrobe, and was a ceremonial -to which all the females of the family were supposed to contribute. In -her own day she herself had given time and thought to it. She had even -been in sympathy with the idea of the family’s rise and increase of -distinction through Pearl, who was going to be many steps farther up -the social ladder than her mother and her aunt, if those devoted women -could possibly accomplish it. - -Now, watching her sisters bent over their tasks after the heat and -burden of their own day’s work, she felt a deep, heartfelt sense -of gratitude that she had escaped from this humble, domestic sphere -in which they seemed so content. Whether Pearl’s summer hat should -be trimmed with pink or blue had once been a question which she had -thought worthy of serious consideration. How far she had traveled from -the world of her childhood could not have been more plainly shown her -than by the complete indifference she now felt to Pearl, her hat, and -its trimmings. - -She had come prepared to surprise her sisters, and to shake out of -them, by her revelations, the amazed and shocked sympathy she felt -would ease her of her present wrath and pain. She was too overwrought -to be diplomatic or to approach the point by preparatory gradations. -Thrown back in the one arm-chair in the room, her head so pressed -against its back that her hat was thrust forward over her forehead, -she told them of her meeting with Mrs. Ryan, and the cut which she had -received. - -Neither Hannah nor Hazel expressed the outraged astonishment at -this insult that Berny had anticipated. In fact, they took it with -a tranquillity which savored of indifference. For the moment, she -forgot that they knew nothing of her reason for expecting Mrs. Ryan -to recognize her, and to her quivering indignation was added a last -wounding sense of disappointment. The sight of Hazel, holding the -leghorn hat off at arm’s length and studying it with a preoccupied, -narrowed eye, was even more irritating than her remark, made mumblingly -because of the pins in her mouth: - -“I don’t see why you should feel so bad about that. I should think -you’d have got sort of used to it by this time. She’s been cutting you -for over two years now.” - -“Do you think that makes it any better?” said Berny in a belligerent -tone, not moving her head, but shifting her eyes to stare angrily at -Hazel from under her projecting hat-brim. “Do you think you’d get used -to it if Josh’s mother cut you on the street?” - -It was hard to compass the idea of Josh’s deceased parent, who had left -behind her a memory of almost unique meekness, cutting anybody. It made -Hazel laugh and she had to bend her head down and take the pins out of -her mouth before she could answer. - -“Well, if she’d been doing it for over two years, I think I’d have got -sort of broken to it by now,” she said. “What makes you so mad about it -all of a sudden?” - -“Maybe things aren’t just the same as they’ve been for the last two -years,” said Berny darkly. “Maybe there’s a reason for Mrs. Ryan’s -bowing to me.” - -These words had the effect that the victim of the cut desired. Her -sisters paused in their work and looked at her. There had been times -lately when Hannah had felt uneasy about Berny’s fine marriage, and -she now eyed the younger woman with sober intentness over the glasses -pushed down toward the tip of her nose. - -“Reason?” said Hazel. “What reason? Have you and she been trying to -make up?” - -“I don’t know whether you’d call it that or not,” said Berny. - -“Have things really changed between you and her, Berny?” she asked -gravely. - -Hannah put down the shears and laid her hands on the table. She felt -the coming revelations. - -“Well, yes, I guess you’d say they have,” said Berny slowly, letting -every word make its impression. “She’s trying to buy me off to leave -Dominick. I suppose you’d call that a change.” - -If Berny wanted to surprise her sisters, she certainly now had the -satisfaction of realizing her hopes. For a moment they stared at -her, too amazed to speak, even Hannah, who had scented difficulties, -being completely unprepared--after the way of human nature--for the -particular difficulty that had cropped up. It was Hazel who first spoke. - -“Buy you off to leave Dominick? Give you money to go away from him, do -you mean?” - -“That’s what I said,” returned her sister with dry grimness. “She’s -made me two offers to leave my husband, wants me to get out and, after -I’ve gone for a year, ask him to bring suit for desertion.” - -“My Lord!” murmured Hannah in a hushed voice of horror. - -“Well, that beats anything I’ve ever heard!” exclaimed Hazel. “That -beats the ball, and not speaking to you, and all the rest. It’s the -worst yet! What’s made her do it? What’s the matter with her?” - -“The same thing that’s always been the matter with her--she doesn’t -like me, she wants to get rid of me. She tried to freeze me out first -by not speaking to me, and leaving us to scramble along the best way we -could on Dominick’s salary. Now, she’s seen that that won’t work, and -she’s gone off on a new tack. She’s a woman of resources. If she finds -the way blocked in one direction, she tries another.” - -“She’s actually offered you money to leave Dominick?” asked Hannah. -“Said she’d give it to you if you’d desert him and let him get a -divorce?” - -“That’s it,” returned her sister, in the same hard tone, tapping with -her finger-tips on the arms of the chair. “That’s the flattering offer -she’s made me twice now.” - -“How much did she offer you?” said Hazel. - -This was a crucial question. Berny knew its importance and sat up, -pushing back her disarranged hat. - -“One hundred thousand dollars,” she said calmly. - -There was a second pause which seemed charged with astonishment, as -with electrical forces. The sisters, their hands fallen in their laps, -fastened their eyes on the speaker in a stare of glassy amaze. - -“A hundred thousand dollars!” gasped Hazel. “Why--why--Berny!” - -She stopped, almost trembling in the excitement of her stunned -incredulity. - -“_A hundred thousand dollars!_” Hannah echoed, each word pronounced -with slow, aghast unbelief. “Oh, it _can’t_ be that much!” - -“It’s that much now,” said Berny, her calmness accentuated to the point -of nonchalance, “and if I want I can make them double it, raise it to a -quarter of a million. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars isn’t so -much when you’ve got millions in trunks. What’s that to the Ryans?” - -She looked at her sisters with a cool, dispassionate glance, feeling -that it had been worth while to tell them. Hannah’s face was a pale, -uninteresting mask of shocked surprise--the kind of face with which -one would imagine Hannah’s greeting such intelligence. But through -the astonishment of Hazel’s a close and intimate understanding of the -possibilities of the situation, an eagerness of rising respect for it -and for the recipient of such honors, was discernible and appealed to -Berny’s vanity and assuaged her more uncomfortable sensations. - -“You could get a quarter of a million?” Hazel persisted. “How do you -know that?” - -Berny looked at her with disdain which was softened by a slight, -indulgent smile. - -“My dear, if they want it bad enough to offer one hundred thousand, -they want it bad enough to offer two. The money is nothing to them, -and I’m a good deal. I shouldn’t be surprised if I could get more.” -She thought of Bill Cannon’s participation in the matter, and let an -expression of sly, knowing mysteriousness cross her face. But Bill -Cannon’s participation was a fact she did not intend to mention. He was -a part of the story that she had decided to suppress. - -“But two hundred and fifty thousand dollars!” said Hazel. “Why, it’s -a fortune! The interest on it alone would make you rich. You could go -to Europe. You could have a house on Pacific Avenue. Just fancy! And -three years ago you were working for twenty a week in the Merchants and -Mechanics Trust Company. Do you remember when they agreed to give you -that you thought you were on velvet? Twenty dollars a week! That looks -pretty small now, doesn’t it?” - -“But she doesn’t intend to take it, Hazel McCrae!” said Hannah in a -deep voice of shocked disapproval. “You talk as if she was going to -accept their outrageous offer.” - -Hazel’s face, which, as her fancy ranged over these attractive -possibilities, had shown varying stages of flushed and exhilarated -excitement, now suddenly fell. Conscious that she had exhibited a -condition of mind that was low and sordid, she hastily sought to -obliterate the effect of her words by saying sharply, - -“Of course, I knew she wasn’t going to accept. I never had such an -idea. I’d be the first one to turn it down. I was just thinking what -she _could_ do if she _did_.” - -“Oh, there’s any amount of things I could do,” said Berny. “They want -me to go abroad and live there. That was”--she was going to say “one -of the conditions,” but this, too, she decided to suppress, and said -instead--“one of the things they suggested. They told me the income -of the money would go twice as far there. Then the year while I was -deserting Dominick--I was to go to Chicago, or New York, and desert him -that way--I’d have seven thousand dollars for my expenses. They weren’t -mean about it, I’ll say that much for them.” - -“And then laying it all out like that!” said Hannah. “It’s just the -most scandalous thing I’ve ever heard of. I’ve never had much opinion -of Mrs. Ryan, but I really didn’t believe she’d go that far.” - -“But Dominick?” said Hazel suddenly; “what about Dominick? What did he -say?” - -The matter of Dominick was the difficult part of the revelation. Berny -felt the necessity of a certain amount of dissembling, and it helped to -chill the excitement and heat that had carried her up to her sisters -and on to this point. Dominick’s part of the story was one of the -subjects upon which she had decided to let her remarks be as notes -about the text, and expurgated notes at that. Now, she realized it was -a complicated matter of which to tell only half, and looking on the -floor pricked the carpet with the tip of her parasol, and tried to -maintain her tone of airy indifference. - -“Dominick doesn’t know anything about it,” she said. “He’s never to -know. They were pretty decided on that point. He’s to be deserted -without his own knowledge or consent.” - -“But to take his wife away from him!” Hannah cried. “To rob him of her! -They must be crazy.” - -“Dominick can get along all right without me,” said Dominick’s wife, -looking at the tip of her parasol as she prodded the carpet. - -Hazel, the married sister, heard something in these words that the -spinster did not recognize. A newly-wakened intelligence, startled and -suspicious, dawned on her face. - -“Dominick’s not so dead in love with me,” continued Berny, with her -eyes following the parasol tip. “He could manage to bear his life -without me. He--” she paused, and then said, enraged to hear that her -voice was husky--“doesn’t care a button whether I live or die.” - -The pause that greeted this statement was entirely different from its -predecessors. There was amazement in it, and there was pain. Neither -listener could for a moment speak; then Hannah said with a solemnity -full of dignity, - -“I can’t believe that, Berny.” - -“You needn’t if you don’t want to,” returned Berny, still not looking -up. “If you like to keep on believing lies, it’s all the same to -me. But I guess I know more about Dominick Ryan, and what he feels, -than you do, and I tell you he doesn’t care a hang for me. He gave -up caring”--she paused, a memory of the ball, the quarrel, and the -fatal visit to Antelope flashing through her mind--“over a year ago. I -guess,” she raised her head and looked coolly at her sisters, “he won’t -lay awake nights at the thought of losing me.” - -They looked at her without speaking, their faces curiously different -in expression from what they had been after her first confessions. All -excitement had gone from them. They looked more wounded and hurt than -she did. They were women, dashed and mortified, by a piece of news that -had abashed them in its admitted failure and humiliation of another -woman. - -“I--I--can’t believe it,” faltered Hannah. “Dominick’s always so kind, -so attentive, so----” - -She came to a stop, checked by an illuminating memory of the Sundays -on which Dominick now never came to dinner, of his absence from their -excursions to the park, of his mysterious mid-winter holiday to the -Sierra. - -“Have you had a row?” said Hazel. “Everybody has them some time and -then you make up again, and it’s just the same as it was before. -Fighting with your husband’s different from other fighting. It doesn’t -matter much, or last.” - -Berny looked down at the parasol tip. Her lips suddenly began to -quiver, and tears, the rare burning tears of her kind, pricked into her -eyes. - -“We haven’t lived together for over eight months,” she said. - -The silence that greeted this remark was the heaviest of all the -silences. - -“Why didn’t you tell us before?” said Hazel, in a low, awed voice. - -For a moment, Berny could not answer. She was ashamed and angry at the -unexpected emotion which made it impossible for her to command her -voice, and made things shine before her eyes, brokenly, as through -crystal. She was afraid her sisters would think she was fond of -Dominick, or would guess the real source of the trouble. - -“I was afraid something was wrong,” said Hannah, mechanically picking -up the shears, her face pale and furrowed with new anxieties. - -The concern in her tone soothed Berny. It was something not only to -have astonished her family, but to have disturbed their peace by a -forced participation in her woes. It had been enraging to think of them -light-heartedly going their way while she struggled under such a load -of care. - -“It was all right till last autumn,” she said in a stifled voice, “and -then it all got wrong--and--and--now it’s all gone to pieces.” - -“But what made Dominick change?” said Hazel, with avid, anxious -eagerness. “Everything was happy and peaceful a year ago. What got hold -of him to change him?” - -Berny felt that she had told enough. It had been harder telling, too, -than she had imagined. The last and greatest secret that she had -determined to keep from her sisters was that of Dominick’s love for -another woman--what she regarded as his transfer of affection, not yet -having guessed that his heart had never been hers. Now she raised her -head and looked at the two solemn-faced women, angrily and bitterly, -through the tears that her eyes still held. - -“I don’t know, and I don’t care what’s changed him,” she said -defiantly. “I stood by my side of the bargain, and that’s all I know. -I’ve made him a good wife, as good a one as I knew how. I’ve been -bright and pleasant when his family treated me like dirt. I’ve not -complained and I’ve made the best of it, staying indoors and going -nowhere, when any other woman would have been getting some sort of fun -out of her life. I’ve managed that miserable little flat on not half -enough money, and tried to keep out of debt, when any one else in the -world would have run up bills all over for Mrs. Ryan to pay. Nobody can -say I haven’t done my part all right. Maybe I’ve got my faults--most of -us have--but I haven’t neglected my duty this time.” - -She rose abruptly from her seat, pushing it back and feeling that -she had better go before she said too much. She realized that in her -hysterical and overwrought state she might become too loquacious and -afterward regret it. For the moment she believed all she said. Her -sisters, full of sincere sympathy for her, believed it too, though in -periods of cooler reflection they would probably question some of her -grievances; notably that one as to the small income, three thousand a -year, representing to them complete comfort, not to say affluence. - -As she rose, Hazel rose too, her face full of suspicious concern. - -“It’s not another woman, is it, Berny?” she almost whispered. - -Berny had told so many lies that she did not bother about a few more. -Moreover, she was determined not to let her sisters know about Rose -Cannon--not yet, anyway. - -“No,” she said with short scorn, turning to pick up her feather boa. -“Of course it’s not. He’s not that kind of a man. He’s too much of a -sissy. Another woman! I’d like to tell him that.” - -She gave a sardonic laugh and turned to the glass, disposing her boa -becomingly and adjusting her hat. Hannah, shaking herself loose from -the encircling embrace of the cutting table, rose too, exclaiming, - -“Don’t go yet. You must tell us more of this. I’ve not heard anything -for years that’s upset me so. If Dominick’s not in love with somebody -else, what’s got into him? Why doesn’t he care for you any more? A man -doesn’t stop loving his wife for no cause whatever. It isn’t in human -nature.” - -“Well, it’s in Dominick’s nature,” said Dominick’s wife, pulling on her -gloves. “Maybe that isn’t human nature, but it’s the nature of the man -I’m married to and that’s all that concerns me. Remember, you’re not to -say a word about this. It’s all a secret.” - -“Why should we talk about it?” said the practical Hazel. “It’s bad -enough to have had it happen. You don’t want to go round gossiping -about a member of your family getting thrown down.” - -To their pressing invitations to remain longer, Berny was deaf. She had -said her say and wanted to go. The interview had undoubtedly eased her -of some of the choking exasperation that had followed Mrs. Ryan’s cut; -and it was a source of comfort to think that she had now broken the ice -and could continue to come and pour out her wrongs and sorrows into -the ever-attentive ears of her sisters. But now she wanted to get away -from them, from their penetrative questions, and their frank curiosity, -the curiosity of normal, healthy-minded women, whose lives had lacked -the change and color of which hers had been full. She cut her good-bys -short and left them to their own distracted speculations, staring -blankly at each other, amid the scattered millinery of the disordered -room. - -When she reached home, she found on the hall table a note which the -Chinaman told her had been left by a messenger. It was from Bill Cannon -and contained but a few lines. These, of a businesslike brevity, -expressed the writer’s desire to see her again, and politely suggested -that, if she could come to his office on any one of the three specified -afternoons, between the hours of two and four, he would be deeply -honored and obliged. - -Berny, frowning and abstracted, was standing with the note in her -hand when Dominick opened the hall door and came up the stairs. His -eye casually fell on the square of paper, but he asked no question -about it, hardly seemed to see it. Yet her state of suspicion was so -sensitively active that his lack of interest seemed fraught with -meaning, and pushing the letter back into its envelope she remarked -that it was a note from her dressmaker. Even the fact that his answer -was an indifferent, barely-articulated sound seemed significant to her, -and she took the letter into her bedroom and hid it in her handkerchief -box, as though her husband, instead of being the least, was the most -curious and jealous of men. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - -BUFORD’S GOOD LUCK - - -In his “Klondike Monologue” at the Orpheum, Buford, the actor, made -a sudden and unexpected hit. The morning after his first appearance, -both Dominick and Berny read in the paper eulogistic notices of the -new star. Dominick was particularly interested. He remembered Buford’s -state of worry while at Antelope and was glad to see that the unlucky -player was, in the parlance of his own world, “making good.” - -The evening papers contained more laudatory paragraphs. Buford’s act -was spoken of with an enthusiasm which taxed the vocabulary of the -writers who found that the phrases they had been using to describe the -regular vaudeville performances were not adequate for so sparkling an -occasion. - -It was a rambling monologue of mining-camp anecdotes, recollections, -and experiences, delivered with confidential, simple seriousness. -Buford’s appearance in an immense, fur-lined overcoat with buttons made -of gold nuggets and a voluminous fur cap on his head, was given the -last touch of grotesqueness by a tiny tinsel spangle fastened on the -end of his nose. This adornment, on his entrance hardly noticeable, was -soon the focusing point of every eye. It looked as if it grew on its -prominent perch, and as he spoke, a slight, vibrating movement, which -he imparted to that portion of his visage, made the tinsel send out -continuous, uneasy gleams. The more serious his discourse was and the -more portentously solemn his face, the more glimmeringly active was the -spangle, and the more hysterically unrestrained became the laughter -of the audience. Altogether, Buford had made a success. Three days -after his first appearance, people were talking about “The Klondike -Monologue” as a few weeks before they had been talking about the last -play of Pinero’s as presented by a New York company. - -From what Buford had told him, Dominick knew that the actor’s luck had -been bad, and that the period of imprisonment at Antelope was a last, -crowning misfortune. Through it he feared that he had forfeited his -Sacramento engagement, and the young man had a painful memory of the -long jeremiad that Buford, in his anxiety and affliction, had poured -out to himself and Rose Cannon. That the actor was evidently emerging -from his ill fortune was gratifying to Dominick, who, in the close -propinquity forced upon them by the restricted quarters of Perley’s -Hotel, had grown to like and pity the kindly, foolish and impractical -man. - -Now, from what he heard, Buford’s hard times should be at an end. Such -a hit as he had made should give him the required upward impetus. Men -Dominick knew, who had theatrical affiliations, told him that Buford -was “made.” The actor could now command a good salary on any of the -vaudeville circuits in the country, and if “he had it in him” he might -ascend the ladder toward the heights of legitimate comedy. His humorous -talent was unique and brilliant. It was odd, considering his age, that -it had not been discovered sooner. - -Berny was very anxious to see him. Hazel and Josh had seen him on one -of the first evenings and pronounced him “simply great.” She extorted -a promise from Dominick that, at the earliest opportunity, he would -buy tickets for her, and, if he could not accompany her himself, she -could go with one of her sisters. Dominick did not want to go. He had -no desire to see Buford and be reminded of the three weeks’ dream which -had interrupted the waking miseries of his life, and more than that he -hated, secretly and intensely, sitting beside Berny, talking to her -and listening to her talk, during the three hours of the performance. -The horrible falseness of it, the appearance of intimacy with a woman -toward whom he only felt a cold aversion, the close proximity of her -body which he disliked, even accidentally, to brush against, made him -shrink from the thought as from the perpetration of some mean and -repulsive deception. - -He stopped to buy the tickets one midday on his way to lunch. He made -up his mind to buy three, then Berny could either take her two sisters, -or Hazel and Josh, whose craving for the theater was an unassuageable -passion. The good seats were sold out for days ahead and he had to be -content with three orchestra chairs for an evening at the end of the -following week. He was turning from the ticket office window when a -sonorous voice at his elbow arrested him: - -“Mr. Ryan,” it boomed out, “do I see you at last? Ever since my -arrival in the city I have hoped for the opportunity of renewing our -acquaintance.” - -It was Buford, but a rejuvenated and prosperous Buford, the reflection -of his good fortune shining from his beaming face and fashionable -figure. The red rasped look had left his features and the hollows -beneath his high cheek-bones were filled out. He was dressed in -gray with an almost foppish nicety, a fedora hat of a paler tint on -his head, and a cravat of a dull red rising in a rich puffed effect -below his collar. His shoes shone with the glassy polish of new -patent leather; the red-brown kid gloves that he carried exhaled an -attractive odor of russia-leather. He held out his hand to Dominick, -and the young man grasped it with real heartiness. - -“Glad to see you, Buford,” he said, “and glad to hear you’ve made such -a success of it. I haven’t seen it myself, but I hear it’s a great -show.” - -Buford, who had seen him buying the tickets, said blandly, - -“But you’re going? You’ve been buying tickets, haven’t you? Oh, I’ve -got to have your opinion--nobody’s I’d think more of than Mr. Dominick -Ryan’s.” - -Dominick, with the consciousness that he had just been planning not to -go reddening his face, stammered with embarrassed evasiveness, - -“I’ve just been buying tickets and couldn’t get them before the end of -next week. You’re such a confounded success that everything’s sold out -days ahead. My wife wants to see you, and that’s the best I could do -for her. Her sister went on the second night and says you’re the hit of -the program. And then the papers! You’ll soon be one of the stars of -the nation.” - -Buford acknowledged these compliments with cool, acquiescent -complacence. - -“I have struck my gait,” he said, nodding his head in condescending -acceptance. “I have at last won my spurs.” - -“But you didn’t expect to come down here when you were at Antelope. -Didn’t you tell me your engagement was for two weeks in Sacramento, and -that you were afraid you’d forfeited it by being snowed in there? How -was it you came down after all?” - -“The luck turned. The tide that comes in the affairs of men came in -mine. I must say it had got down to about the lowest ebb. You’re right -about forfeiting my engagement. Got to Sacramento three weeks behind -time and found they’d procured a substitute, and all I had for my pains -was a blackguarding because the Lord had seen fit to snow me in in the -Sierras.” - -Dominick laughed, and the actor allowed a slight, sour smile to disturb -the professional gravity of his face. - -“Yes,” he nodded, “that’s the way of the transgressor, especially when -his transgressions ain’t of his own doing. After I’d been there two -weeks, I hadn’t a V between me and starvation. I looked for jobs with -the water squelching in my boots, and finally I had to do a turn in a -fifth-rate variety performance that showed in a sort of cellar down -a flight of stairs. That’s where the ‘Klondike Monologue’ was born. -Like lots of other good things, it had a pretty mean beginning. I just -pieced it together from bits and scraps that were the tailings of the -two years I had spent in that Arctic mill up there. It caught on from -the start--let the public alone to recognize a good thing when they -see one! That dirty cellar was pretty well sprinkled the first week, -and the second they had the standing room signs out. I didn’t introduce -the spangle till the end of the engagement. Some people think it a -great touch.” - -He looked with sober questioning at Dominick, who said apologetically, - -“So I hear, but I haven’t seen it.” - -Buford raised his flexible brows with an air of stimulated, excusing -memory. - -“True, true,” he replied, “I had forgotten. Two nights after I had -introduced the spangle, one of the ‘Granada’ people saw me. I didn’t -know it at the time, but I am a true artist; whatever my audience, I -give it of my best, and, in that instance, it was only one more case of -bread cast upon the waters. There’d been a vacancy here. Estradilla, -the Spanish Snake Dancer, was taken suddenly sick, collapsed after her -third performance, tied her intestines up in a knot with her act, they -say, and the wonder was she hadn’t done it before. Anyhow, they had to -substitute in a hurry, heard of my Klondike act and sent a man up to -see if I’d do to fill in. The next week I was here and--you know the -rest.” - -“They say every man has his chance. You didn’t suppose the snowstorm -that caught you at Antelope was going to be the foundation of yours?” - -Buford raised his brows till they about touched his hair, and said with -his most magisterial sonority of tone, - -“No, no indeed. The ways of Fate--or let me say Providence--are truly -inscrutable. I thought that lock-up in the Sierras would be my undoing, -and I’m sure I never imagined the two years I spent in that accursed -Arctic were going to return to roost as blessings. I turned my face to -the North in a bitter hour, and it was in a bitter hour that I adopted -the stage.” - -Dominick was exceedingly surprised. He had supposed Buford always to -have been an actor, to have been born to it. If he had heard that the -man had made his debut as an infant prodigy or even in his mother’s -arms in swaddling clothes, he would have felt it was in keeping -with Buford’s character, and just what he suggested. Now, in a tone -expressing his surprise, the young man queried, - -“Then you went on the stage up there? You’ve only been on a few years?” - -“Nearly four,” said the actor. He looked down at his shoe for a moment -as if considering, and repeated without looking up, “It will be four -next September. Trouble drove me to those far distant lands and hard -luck drove me on the stage. I’d never had anything to do with it till -then; I hadn’t a stage game about me. There’d even been a time when I -had a strong prejudice against the theater and never went to one. But -a man must live and----” - -He stopped, his attention arrested by a hand laid softly on his sleeve. -A youth of Hebraic countenance had issued from a door behind him, and, -touching his arm with a hesitating, unclean finger, began to speak in -a low tone. Buford turned to the boy. Dominick backed away from them -toward the box-office window. As they conferred he took a card out of -his wallet, and hastily traced the address of the flat below his name. -He had it ready to offer Buford, when the actor, his conference over, -came toward him. - -“Duty calls,” said Buford. “I am sorry, but they want me inside. But -this is not going to be our only meeting. I’m booked for two weeks -longer here, and I’m hoping to see something more of you.” - -Dominick gave him the card, with assurances that he would be glad to -see him, and that his own home was a better meeting-place than the -bank. At this mark of friendship, the actor was openly gratified. He -looked at the card with a smile and said, - -“Most certainly I’ll avail myself of this privilege. I hope later to be -able to place a box at your disposal. Madame, you say, is very desirous -of seeing me. Well, I’ll see to it that she does so under the most -favorable conditions. Though I have never met her, I think I may ask -you to convey my respects to her.” - -He bowed impressively as though saluting Berny in person, and then, -with a last dignified farewell to Dominick, turned toward the door -which opened at his approach, disclosing the waiting Jew boy. As -the actor drew near, Dominick heard the boy break into low-toned -remonstrances, and then the door closed upon Buford’s sonorous and -patronizing notes of reproval. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - -ROSE’S POINT OF VIEW - - -The following Sunday, at ten o’clock in the morning, Dominick -noiselessly descended the stairs of the flat and let himself out into -the street. He had had a sleepless night, and as he stood in the -dazzling sunshine, debating which way he should go, his face showed the -hollows and lines left by hours of worried wakefulness. - -His day--the holiday of his week of steady work--was without -engagement. The friend with whom he usually walked over the suburban -hills had moved to the country. His rest from labor would take the form -of a day spent away from his home in the open air. As he had eaten -his breakfast he had planned his itinerary, carefully considering the -best distribution of these twelve treasured hours of liberty. He would -spend the morning walking, anywhere--the direction did not matter -much--anywhere where there was quiet and a view. He would take his -lunch at any little joint--country hotel, city chop-house--he happened -to pass, and in the afternoon he would walk again, on for hours, -probably over the Presidio Hills where the poppies were beginning to -gild the slopes, or along the beach where there were unfrequented nooks -in which a man could lie and look at the water, and think. A whole -day away from Berny and the flat, in the healing balm of the sunshine -and the clean, untroubled air, was the best way to renew the fund of -philosophy and patience that of late he had felt was almost exhausted. - -The ferment of his wakeful night was still in his blood as he walked -across the city, aiming for the eminence of Telegraph Hill. He walked -slowly without looking up; his eyes on the tip of his cane as it struck -the pavement. It was a superb day, calm, still, breathing peace, like -that other Sunday when he had gone to the park with the Iversons and -seen Rose Cannon. But the splendors of the morning did not divert -his mind from its heavy musings. With down-drooped head, watching -the striking tip of the cane as though in it there lay some mystic -solution of his difficulties, he walked on, a slow-moving figure, a man -wrestling with his own particular world-problem, facing his fate and -repudiating it. - -There had been times lately when he had felt he could no longer -endure the present conditions of his life. As he had lain thinking in -the darkness of the previous night, it had come upon him, with the -clearness of conviction, that he could not stand it. The future with -Berny had loomed before him, crushing, unbearable, and he had seen no -end to it, and repeated to himself that he must be free of it. It had -been awful as a nightmare, and turning on his bed he had wondered how -he had endured the situation so long. - -Now, as he walked through the sweet, gay morning he felt a renewal -of courage and reasoned with himself, using the old arguments with -which for two years he had been subduing his rebellion and curbing -the passion and impatience of his youth. Because a man had married -an uncongenial woman, was that an excuse for him to leave her, to -put her away from him when she had honestly tried to live up to her -marriage contract? Summing it all up in a sentence--his wife had a bad -temper and he had ceased to care for her, was that a reason for him to -separate from her? - -Last night he had used none of these arguments. He had felt too -strongly to reason about the righteousness of moral obligation. Lying -in the dark, listening to the striking of the clocks, he had said to -himself that he could not stand Berny any longer--he could not live -in the house with her. He did not hate her, it was far from that. He -wished her well; to hear that she was happy and prosperous somewhere -where he did not have to dine with her and sit in the den with her -every evening, would have given him the greatest satisfaction. He felt -that the sight of her was daily growing more unbearably and unnaturally -obnoxious to him. Little personal traits of hers had a strange, -maddening power of exciting his dislike. In the evening the rustling of -the sheets of the newspaper as she turned and folded them filled him -with a secret anger. He would sit silent, pretending to read, waiting -for that regular insistent rustling, and controlling himself with an -effort. As they sat opposite each other at breakfast, the sound she -made as she crunched the toast seemed to contain something of her -own hard, aggressive personality in it, and he hated to hear it. In -the dead depression of the night, he had felt that to listen to that -rustling of newspapers every night and that crunching of toast every -morning was a torment he could no longer bear. - -In the clear light of the morning, patience had come and the old -standards of restraint and forbearance reasserted themselves. The -familiar pains, to which he had thought himself broken, had lost much -of their midnight ghoulishness. The old ideals of honor and obligation, -with which he had been schooling himself for two years, came back -to his mind with the unerring directness of homing pigeons. He went -over the tale of Berny’s worthiness and his own responsibility in the -misfortunes of her life and disposition. It was a circular process of -thought that always returned to the starting place: what right had he -to complain of her? Had not most of the disappointments that had soured -and spoiled her come from his doing, his fault, his people? - -He breathed a heavy sigh and looked up. To this question and its humbly -acquiescing answer these reflections always brought him. But to-day -it was hard to be acquiescent. The rebellion of the night was not -all subdued. The splendor of the morning, the pure arch of sky, the -softness of the air, called to him to rejoice in his strength, to be -glad, and young. He raised his head, breathing in the sweet freshness, -and took off his hat, letting the sun pour its benediction on his head. -His spirit rose to meet this inspiring, beneficent nature, not in -exhilaration, but in revolt. The thought of Rose gripped him, and in -the strength of his manhood he longed for her. - -He ascended the hill by one of the streets on its southern slope, -violently steep, the upward leaps of its sidewalk here and there -bridged by flights of steps. Every little house was disgorging its -inmates, garbed in the light Sunday attire of the Californian on -pleasure bent. The magnificent day was calling them, not to prayer and -the church, but to festival. Families stood on the sidewalks, grouped -round the Sunday symbol of worship, a picnic-basket. Lovers went by in -smiling pairs, arm linked in arm. A pagan joy in life was calling from -every side, from the country clothed in its robe of saffron poppies, -from the sky pledged to twelve hours of undimmed blue, from the air -mellowed to a warmth that never burns, from the laughter of light -hearts, the smiles of lovers, the eyes of children. - -Dominick went up the hill in the clear, golden sunlight, and in his -revolt he pushed Berny from his mind, and let Rose come in her place. -His thoughts, always held from her, sprang at her, encircled her, -seemed to draw her toward him as once his arms had done. She was a -sacred thing, the Madonna of his soul’s worship, but to-day she seemed -to bend down from her niche with less of the reverenced saint than of -the loving woman in the face his fancy conjured up. - -Standing on the summit of the hill, where the wall of the quarry drops -down to the water front and the wharves, he relinquished himself to -his dream of her. The bay lay at his feet, a blue floor, level between -rusty, rugged hills. There was an island in it, red-brown, incrusted -with buildings, that seemed to clutch their rocky perch with long -strips and angles of wall. In the reach of water just below there was -little shipping, only a schooner beating its way to sea. The wind -was stiffer down there than on the sheltered side of the hill. The -schooner, with sails white as curds against the blue, was tacking, a -long, slantwise flight across the ruffled water. She left a thin, -creamy line behind her which drifted sidewise into eddying curves like -a wind-lashed ribbon. Dominick, his eyes absently on her, wondered if -she were bound for the South Seas, those waters of enchantment where -islands, mirrored in motionless lagoons, lie scattered over plains of -blue. - -A memory crossed his mind of a description of some of these islands -given him by a trader he had once met. They were asylums, lotus-eating -lands of oblivion, for law-breakers. Those who had stepped outside the -pale, who had dared defy the world’s standards, found in them a haven, -an elysian retreat. They rose before his mental vision, palm-shaded, -lagoon-encircled, played upon by tropic breezes, with glassy waves -sliding up a golden beach. There man lived as his heart dictated, -a real life, a true life, not a bitter tale of days in protesting -obedience to an immutable, heart-breaking law. There he and Rose might -live, lost to the places they had once filled, hidden from the world -and its hard judgments. - -The thought seized upon his mind like a drug, and he stood in a tranced -stillness of fascinated imagination, his eyes on the ship, his inner -vision seeing himself and Rose standing on the deck. He was so held -under the spell of his exquisite, enthralling dream, that he did not -see a figure round the corner of the rough path, nor notice its slow -approach. But he felt it, when its casual, roaming glance fell on him. -As if called, he turned sharply and saw Rose standing a few yards away -from him, looking at him with an expression of affrighted indecision. -As his glance met hers, the dream broke and scattered, and he seemed -to emerge out of a darkness that had in it something beautiful and -baleful, into the healthy, pure daylight. - -The alarm in Rose’s face died away, too. For a moment she stood -motionless, then moved toward him slowly, with something of reluctance -about her approach. She seemed to be coming against her will, as if -obeying a summons in his eyes. - -“I wasn’t sure it was you,” she said. “And then when I saw it was, I -was going to steal away before you saw me. But you turned suddenly as -if you heard me.” - -“I felt you were there,” he answered. - -It was natural that with Rose he should need to make no further -explanation. She understood as she would always understand everything -that was closely associated with him. He would never have to explain -things to her, as he never, from their first meeting, felt that he -needed to talk small talk or make conversation. - -She came to a stop beside him, and they stood for a silent moment, -looking down the bare wall of the quarry, a raw wound in the hill’s -flank, to the docks below where the masts of ships rose in a forest, -and their lean bowsprits were thrust over the wharves. - -“You came just in time,” he said. “I walked up here this morning to -have a think. I don’t know where the think was going to take me when -you came round that corner and stopped it. What brought you here?” - -“Nothing in particular. It was such a fine morning I thought I’d just -ramble about, and I came this way without thinking. My feet brought me -without my knowledge.” - -“My think brought you,” he said. “That’s the second time it’s happened. -It was a revolutionary sort of think, and there was a lot about you in -it.” - -He looked down at her, standing by his shoulder, and met her eyes. They -were singularly pellucid, the clearest, quietest eyes he thought he had -ever looked into. His own dropped before them to the bay below, touched -and then quickly left the schooner which was beating its way toward -them on the return tack. - -“If you could only always come this way when I want you, everything -would be so different, so much easier,” he said in a low tone. “I was -surrounded by devils and they were getting tight hold of me when you -came round that corner.” - -He glanced at her sidewise with a slight, quizzical smile. - -This time she did not answer his look, but with her eyes on the bay, -her brows drawn together, asked, - -“New devils or old ones?” - -“The old ones, but they’ve grown bigger and twice as hard to manage -lately. They----” he broke off, his voice suddenly roughened, and said, -“I don’t seem to know how to live my life.” - -He turned his face away from her. The demons she had exorcised had left -him weakened. In the bright sunshine, with the woman he loved beside -him, he felt broken and beaten down by the hardships of his fate. - -“Sit down and talk to me,” she said quietly. “No one can hear you. It’s -like being all alone in the world up here on the hilltop. We can sit on -this stone.” - -There was a broken boulder behind them, close to the narrow foot-way, -and she sat on it, motioning him to a flat piece of rock beside her. -Her hands were thrust deep in the pockets of her loose gray coat, the -wisps of fair hair that escaped below the rim of her hat fanning up and -down in faint breaths of air, like delicate threads of seaweed in ocean -currents. - -“Tell me the whole thing,” she said. “You and I have never talked much -about your affairs. And what concerns you concerns me.” - -He pricked at the earth with the tip of his cane, ashamed of his moment -of weakness, and yet fearing if he told her of his cares it might -return. - -“It’s just what you know,” he began slowly. “Only as every day goes by -it seems to get worse. I’ve never told you much about my marriage. I’ve -never told anybody. Many men make mistakes in choosing a wife and find -out, and say to themselves early in the game, that they _have_ made a -mistake and must abide by it. I don’t think I’m weaker than they are, -but somehow----” - -He stopped and looked at the moving tip of his cane. She said nothing, -and after taking a deep breath he went on. - -“I knew all about her when I married her. I was young, but I wasn’t a -green fool. Only I didn’t seem to realize, I didn’t guess, I didn’t -dream, that she was going to stay the way she was. I seemed to be at -the beginning of a sort of experiment that I was sure was going to turn -out well. I didn’t love her, but I liked her well enough, and I was -going to try my best to have things go smoothly and make her happy. -When she was my wife, when I’d try to make everything as comfortable -and pleasant as I could, then I expected she’d--she’d--be more like the -women men love, and even if they don’t love, manage to get on with. But -it didn’t seem to go well even in the beginning, and now it’s got worse -and worse. Perhaps it’s my fault. I’m not one of those fellows who -can read a woman like a book. When a person tells me a thing, I think -they mean it; I’m not looking into them to see if they mean just the -opposite.” - -He stopped again and struck lightly at a lump of earth with his cane. -He had pushed his hat back from his forehead and his face bore an -expression of affected, boyish nonchalance which was extremely pathetic -to Rose. - -“Maybe there are men who could stand it all right. She’s very nice part -of the time. She’s a first-class housekeeper. I give her two hundred -dollars a month, and on that little bit she runs the flat beautifully. -And she’s quiet. She doesn’t want to be out all the time, the way some -women do. She’s as domestic as possible, and she’s been very decent -and pleasant since I came back. The way she was treated over the ball -would have r’iled any woman. I didn’t tell you about that--it’s a mean -story--but she got no invitation and was angry and flared up. We had -a sort of an uncomfortable interview, and--and--that was the reason I -went to Antelope. I didn’t think I’d ever go back to her then. I was -pretty sore over it. But--” he paused, knocking the lump of clay into -dust, “I thought afterward it was the right thing to do. I’d married -her, you see.” - -Rose did not speak, and after a moment he said in a low voice, - -“But it’s--it’s--awfully hard to live with a person you don’t get on -with. And it’s the sort of thing that goes on and on and on. There -isn’t any end; there isn’t any way out.” - -Once more he stopped, this time clearing his throat. He cleared it -twice, and then said, - -“I oughtn’t to say this. I oughtn’t to complain. I know I’m a chump and -a coward to talk this way to you, but--” he dropped his voice to a note -of low, inward communing, and said, “it’s so hopeless. I can’t see what -to do.” - -He leaned forward and rested his forehead on the head of his cane, -hiding his face from her. The silence between them vibrated with -the huskiness of his voice, the man’s voice, the voice of power and -protection, roughened with the pain he was unused to and did not know -how to bear. - -Rose sat looking at him, her soul wrung with sympathy. Her instinct was -to take the bowed head in her arms and clasp it to her bosom, not as a -woman in love, but as a woman torn by pity for a suffering she could -not alleviate. She made no movement, however, but kept both hands deep -in her pockets, as she said, - -“I don’t see why you shouldn’t talk this way to me. I think I’m the one -person in the world that you ought to speak to about it.” - -“I can’t talk to anybody else, not to any friend, not to my own mother. -It’s my affair. No one else had any responsibility in it. I brought -it on myself and I’ve got to stand by it myself. But you--you’re -different.” - -He drew himself up, and, staring out into the great wash of sun and air -before him, went on in a louder voice, as if taking a new start. - -“I was thinking last night about it, looking it in the face. The -dark’s the best time for that, you seem to see things clearer, more -truthfully. And I came to the conclusion it would be better if I ended -it. I didn’t see that I had any obligation to go on martyrizing myself -for ever. I didn’t see that anybody was benefiting by it. I thought -we’d be happier and make something better of our lives if we were -apart, in different houses, in different towns.” - -“Does she want to leave you?” - -The question seemed to touch a nerve that startled and then stiffened -him. He answered it with his head turned half toward her, the eyebrows -lifted, a combative note in his voice: - -“I don’t know whether she does or not.” He stopped and then said, with -his face flushing, “No, I don’t think she does.” - -“How can you leave her then?” - -“Well, I can--” he turned on her almost angrily and met her clear eyes. -“Oh, I can’t go into particulars,” he said sharply, looking away again. -“It’s not a thing for you and me to discuss. Incompatibility is a -recognized ground of separation.” - -He fell to striking the lump of clay again, and Rose said, as if -offering the remark with a sort of tentative timidity, - -“You said just now you had nothing to complain of against her. It -doesn’t seem fair to leave a woman--a wife--just because she’s hard to -live with and you no longer like her.” - -“Would you,” he said with a manner so full of irritated disagreement as -to be almost hectoring, “advocate two people living on together in a -semblance of friendship, who are entirely uncongenial, rub each other -the wrong way so that the sight of one is unpleasant to the other?” - -“Are you sure that’s the way she feels about you?” - -He again looked away from her, and answered in a sullen tone, as though -against his will, - -“I don’t know.” - -They were silent for a space, and he went on. - -“Doesn’t it strike you as wrong, cowardly, mean, for a man and woman -to tear their lives to pieces out of respect for what the world says -and thinks? Every semblance of love and mutual interest has gone from -our companionship. Isn’t it all wrong that we should make ourselves -miserable to preserve the outward forms of it? We’re just lying to the -world because we haven’t got the sand to tell the truth. You ask me if -my views on this matter are hers. I don’t know, that’s the truth.” A -memory of Berny’s futile and pathetic efforts to make friends with him -on his return swept over him and forced him to say, “Honestly, I don’t -think she wants to leave me. I think the situation doesn’t drive her -crazy the way it does me. I think she doesn’t mind it. I don’t know -why, but she doesn’t seem to. But surely, any woman living would rather -be free of a man she no longer cared for, than forced to live on in -a false relation with him, one irritating the other, the two of them -every day growing more antagonistic.” - -“She would not want to be free if she loved him.” - -“Loved him!” he ejaculated, with angry scorn. “She never loved me or -anybody else. Love is not in her. Oh, you don’t know! I thought last -night I’d offer her all I had, the flat, the furniture, my salary, -everything I could rake and scrape together, and then I’d tell her -I was going to leave her, that I couldn’t stand living that way any -longer. I was going to take a room somewhere and give her everything I -could. I was going to be as generous to her as I knew how. I’d not say -one word against her to anybody. That was what I thought I’d do last -night.” - -“But this morning you think differently.” - -“How do you know that?” - -“Because those are not your real thoughts--they’re the dark, -exaggerated ones that come when a person lies awake at night. It’s as -if, because you couldn’t see your surroundings, you were in another -sort of world where the proportions are different. You couldn’t do that -to your wife. You couldn’t treat her that way. You say in many ways -she’s been a good wife. It isn’t she that’s stopped caring, or finds -her life with you disagreeable.” - -“Then, am I to suffer this way for ever--see my life ruined for a fault -man after man commits and goes scott free?” - -“Your life isn’t ruined. Things don’t last at such a pressure. -Something will change it. By and by, you’ll look back on this and -it’ll seem hundreds of miles away and you’ll wonder that you were so -discouraged and hopeless.” - -“Yes,” he said bitterly, “maybe when I’m fifty. It’s a long time -between then and now, a long time to be patient.” - -Manlike, he was wounded that the woman of his heart should not side -with him in everything, even against his own conscience. Had Rose been -something closer to him, a sister, a wife, this would have been one of -the occasions on which he would have found fault with her and accused -her of disloyalty. - -“I thought you’d understand,” he said, “I thought you’d see how -impossible it is. You make me feel that I’m a whining coward who has -come yelping round like a kicked dog for sympathy.” - -“I care so much that I do more than sympathize,” she said in a low -voice. - -This time he did not answer, feeling ashamed at his petulance. - -“With any one else it would be just sympathy,” she said, “but with you -there’s more than that. It’s because I care, that I expect more and -demand more. Other men can do the small, cowardly, mean things that -people do, and find excuses for, but not you. I could make excuses for -them too, but I must never have to make excuses for you. You’re better -than that, you’re yourself, and you do what’s true to yourself and -stand on that. You’ve got to do and be the best. Maybe it won’t be what -you want or what’s most comfortable, but that mustn’t matter to you. -If you’re not to be happy that mustn’t matter either. What pleases you -and me mustn’t matter if it’s not the thing for a man like you to do. -You can’t shirk your responsibilities. You can’t stick to something -you’ve done just while it’s pleasant and then, when it’s hard, throw -it up. Lots of people do that, thousands of them. Just as you said -now--hundreds of men do what you have done and go scott free. That’s -for them to do if they want to, but not for you. Let them drop down if -they want, that’s no reason why you should. Let them go on living any -way that’s agreeable to them, _you_ know what you ought to do and you -must do it. It doesn’t matter about them, or the world, or what anybody -says. The only thing that matters is that the thing you know in your -heart is the thing that’s true for you.” - -“You expect too much of weak human nature,” he said. - -“No,” she answered, “I don’t. I only expect what you can do.” - -He turned and looked at her. - -“Then I’m to live for the rest of my life with a wife I don’t care for, -separated from the woman I love? What is there in that to keep a man’s -heart alive?” - -“The knowledge that we love each other. That’s a good deal, I think.” - -It was the first time she had said in words that she loved him. There -was no trace of embarrassment or consciousness on her face; instead -she seemed singularly calm and steadfast, much less moved than he. -Her words shook him to the soul. He turned his eyes from her face and -grasping for her hand, clasped it, and pressed it to his heart, and to -his lips, then loosed it and rose to his feet, saying, as if to himself, - -“Yes, that’s a good deal.” - -There was silence between them for some minutes, neither moving, both -looking out at the hills and water. From the city below, sounds of -church bells came up, mellow and tranquil, ringing lazily and without -effort. Other sounds mingled with them, refined and made delicate by -distance. It was like being on an island floating in the air above the -town. Rose got up and shook the dust from her coat. - -“The churches are coming out, it must be nearly one. It will be -lunch-time before I get home.” - -He did not turn or answer, but stood with his hand on the metal rope -that protected the quarry’s ledge, looking down. Her eyes followed his, -and then brought up on the schooner bearing away on its long tack, -strained and careening in the breeze that, down there in the open, blew -fresh and strong from the great Pacific. - -“It’s a schooner,” she said absently. “Where do you suppose it’s going?” - -“I don’t know. Somewhere a long way off, I hope. My devils are sailing -away on it.” - -They stood side by side, gazing down at it till she moved away with a -sudden “Good-by.” - -“Good-by,” he answered, and stretched out his hand. - -But she was already some feet in advance and had begun to move quickly. - -“Good-by, Rose,” he cried after her, with something in his voice of the -wistful urgency in a child’s when it is left behind. - -“Good-by,” she called over her shoulder without looking back. “Good-by.” - -He followed her with his eyes till she disappeared round the bend of -the path, then turned back and again dropped his glance to the schooner. - -He stood watching it till it passed out of sight beneath the shoulder -of the hill, straining and striving like a wild, free creature in its -forward rush for the sea. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - -THE LITTLE SPIDER - - -Berny had been turning over in her mind the advantages of accepting the -money--had been letting herself dwell upon the delights of possible -possession--when at the Sunday dinner that afternoon Josh McCrae threw -her back into the state of incensed rejection with which she had -met the first offer. With his face wreathed in joyous grins, he had -apprised her of the fact that only an hour earlier, while walking on -Telegraph Hill, he had seen Dominick there talking with Miss Cannon. - -A good deal of query followed Josh’s statement. There was quite an -outburst of animated interrogations rising from the curiosity the -Iversons felt concerning Bill Cannon’s daughter, and under cover -of it Berny controlled her face and managed to throw in a question -or two on her own account. There had been a minute--that one when -Josh’s statement had struck with a shocking unexpectedness on her -consciousness--when she had felt and looked her wrath and amaze. -Then she had gripped her glass and drunk some water and, swallowing -gulpingly, had heard her sister’s rapid fire of questions, and Josh, -proud to have imparted such interesting information, answering -importantly. Putting down her glass, she said quite naturally, - -“Where did you say you saw them--near the quarry?” - -“Just by the edge, talking together. I was going to walk along and join -them, and then I thought they looked so sort of sociable, I’d better -not butt in. Dominick got to know her real well up in the Sierra, -didn’t he?” - -“Yes, of course,” she said hurriedly. “They grew to be quite friends. -They must have met by accident on the hill. Dominick’s always walking -in those queer, deserted places.” - -“You haven’t got acquainted with her yet, have you?” said the simple -Josh, whose touch was not of the lightest. “It would be a sort of grind -on the Ryans if you get really solid with her.” - -“Oh, I can know her whenever I want,” Berny answered airily, above a -discomfort of growing revelation that was almost as sharp as a pain. -“Dominick’s several times asked me if I wanted to meet her, but it -always was at times when I’d other things to do. We’re going to ask her -to the flat to tea some time.” - -On ordinary occasions, Berny would never have gone to this length of -romantic invention, for she was a judicious liar and believed, with -the sage, that a lie was too valuable a thing to waste. But just now -she was too upset, too preyed upon by shock and suspicion, to exercise -an artistic restraint, and she lied recklessly, unmindful of a future -when her listeners would expect to see her drafts on the bank of truth -cashed. - -She was quiet for the rest of the afternoon, but it was not till she -had reached her own home, silent in its untenanted desertion, that she -had an opportunity to turn the full vigor of her mind on what she had -heard. - -She had been jealous of Rose since that fatal Sunday when she had -discovered why Dominick was changed. It was not the jealousy of -disprized love, it was not the jealousy of thwarted passion. It -was a subtle compound of many ingredients, the main one a sense of -bursting indignation that two people--one of them a possession of -her own--should dare to seek for happiness where she had found only -dullness and disappointment. She had an enraging premonition that Rose -would probably succeed where she had failed. It made her not only -jealous of Rose, it made her hate her. - -Josh’s words increased this, and caused her suspicions, which, if not -sleeping, had of late been dormant, to wake into excited activity. -Dominick’s lonely Sunday walks she now saw shared by the girl -who was trying to buy his freedom. Incidents that before she had -taken at their face value now were suddenly fraught with disturbing -significance. Why did Dominick go out so often in the evening? Since -the moonlight night, he had been out twice, once not coming back till -eleven. The confirmation of sight could hardly have made her more -confident that he must spend these stolen hours with Rose Cannon in -the palatial residence on Nob Hill. And it was not the most soothing -feature in the case that Berny should picture them in one of the -artistically-furnished parlors of which she had heard so much and seen -nothing but the linings of the window curtains. Here, amid glories of -upholstery, from the sight of which she was for ever debarred, Rose and -Dominick talked of the time when he should be free. Berny, like the -tiger lashing itself to fury with its own tail, thought of what they -said, till she became sure her imaginings were facts; and the more she -imagined, the more enraged and convinced she became. - -She put from her mind all intention of ever taking the money. She -wanted it desperately, terribly; she wanted it so much that when she -thought of it it made her feel sick, but the joys of its possession -were at the unrealizable distance of dreams, while the fact of her -husband’s being enticed away by another woman was a thing of close, -immediate concern, a matter of the moment, as if some one were trying -to pick her pocket. As an appurtenance of hers, Dominick might not have -been a source of happiness, but that was no reason why he should be a -source of happiness to some one else. - -Berny did not argue with any such compact clearness. She was less -lucid, less defined and formulated in her ideas and desires than she -had been when Bill Cannon made the first offer. Anger had thickened and -obscured her clarity of vision. Suspicions, harbored and stimulated -by a mind which wished for confirmation of the most extravagant, had -destroyed the firm and well-outlined conception of what she wanted and -was willing to fight for. In fact, she had passed the stage in the -controversy when she was formidable because she stood with the strength -of sincerity in her position, her demands, and refusals. Now the -integrity of her defiance was gone. She wanted the money. She wanted -to take it, and her refusal to do so was false to herself and to her -standards. - -She knew that the interview for which Bill Cannon had asked was for a -last, deciding conversation. He was to make his final offer. It was a -moment of torture to her when she wondered what it would be, and her -mind hovered in distracted temptation over the certain two hundred -thousand dollars and the possible quarter of a million. It was then -that she whipped up her wrath, obscured for the moment by the mounting -dizziness of cupidity, and thought of Rose and Dominick in the Japanese -room, or the Turkish room, or the Persian room, into which she had -never been admitted. The thought that they were making love received a -last, corrosive bitterness from the fact that Berny could not see the -beautiful and expensive surroundings of these sentimental passages. - -She was in this state of feverish distractedness when she went to -Bill Cannon’s office. She had chosen the last of the three days he -had specified in his note, and had left the flat at the time he had -mentioned as the latest hour at which he would be there. She had -chosen the last day as a manner of indicating her languid interest in -the matter to be discussed, and had also decided to be about fifteen -minutes late, as it looked more indifferent, less eager. Bill Cannon -would never know that she was dressed and ready half an hour before -she started, and had lounged about the flat, watching the clocks, and -starting at every unrecognized sound. - -She was received with a flattering deference. As her footstep sounded -on the sill of the outer office, a face was advanced toward one of the -circular openings in the long partition, immediately disappeared, and -then a door was thrown back to admit to her presence a good-looking, -well-dressed young man. His manner was all deferential politeness. -A murmur of her name, just touched with the delicately-questioning -quality imparted by the faintest of rising inflections, accompanied -his welcoming bow. Mr. Cannon was expecting her in the private office. -Special instructions had been left that she should be at once admitted. -Would she be kind enough to step this way? - -Berny followed him down the long strip of outer office where it flanked -the partition in which the regularly-recurring holes afforded glimpses -of smooth bent heads. She walked lightly, and had an alert, wary air -as though it might be a good thing to be prepared for an ambush. She -had been rehearsing her part of the interview for days; and like -other artists, now that the moment of her appearance was at hand, -felt extremely nervous, and had a sense of girding herself up against -unforeseen movements on the part of the foe. - -Nothing, however, could have been more disarmingly friendly than the -old man’s greeting. As the door opened and the clerk pronounced her -name, he rose from his seat and welcomed her in a manner which was a -subtle compound of simple cordiality and a sort of masonic, unexpressed -understanding, as between two comrades bound together by a common -interest. Sitting opposite him in one of the big leather chairs, she -could not but feel some of her resentment melting away, and her -stiffly-antagonistic pose losing something of its rigidity as he smiled -indulgently on her, asking about herself, about Dominick, finally about -her sisters, with whose names and positions he appeared flatteringly -familiar. - -Berny answered him cautiously. She made a grip at her receding anger, -conscious that she needed all her sense of wrong to hold her own -against this crafty enemy. Even when he told her he had heard with -admiration and wonder of Hannah’s fine record in the primary school -department, her smile was guarded, her answer one of brief and watchful -reserve. She wished he would get to the point of the interview. Her -mind could not comfortably contain two subjects at once, and it was -crammed and running over with the all-important one of the money. Her -eyes, fixed on him, did not stray to the furnishings of the room or the -long windows that reached to the ceiling and through the dimmed panes -of which men on the other side of the alley stood looking curiously -down on her. - -“Well,” he said, when he had disposed of Hannah’s worthiness and even -celebrated the merits of Josh in a sentence of appreciation, “it’s -something to have such a good sterling set of relations. They’re -what make the ‘good families’ in our new West out here. And they’re -beginning to understand that in Europe. When they see your people in -Paris, they’ll recognize them as the right kind of Americans. The -French ain’t as effete as you’d think from what you hear. They know -the real from the imitation every time. They’ve had their fill of Coal -Oil Johnnys and spectacular spenders. What they’re looking for is the -strong man and woman who have carved out their own path.” - -Berny’s eyes snapped into an even closer concentration of attention. - -“Maybe that’s so,” she said, “but I don’t see when my sisters are ever -going to get to Paris.” - -“They’ll go over to see you,” he answered. “I guess I could manage now -and then to get ’em passes across the continent.” - -He rested one elbow on the desk against which he was sitting, and with -his hand caressing his short, stubby beard, he looked at Berny with -eyes of twinkling good nature. - -“Come to think of it,” he added, “I guess I could manage the -transportation across the ocean, too. It oughtn’t to cost ’em, all -told, more’n fifty dollars. It seems hard luck that Miss Hannah, after -a lifetime of work, shouldn’t see Paris, and----” - -“What makes you think I’m going to be there?” said Berny sharply. She -found any deviation from the subject in hand extremely irritating, and -her manner and voice showed it. - -“Oh, of course you are,” he said, with a little impatient, deprecating -jerk of his head. “You can’t be going to persist in a policy that’s -simply cutting your own throat.” - -“I rather fancy I am,” she answered in a cool, hard tone. To lend -emphasis to her words, she unbent from her upright attitude and leaned -against the chair-back in a sudden assumption of indifference. Her -eyes, meeting his, were full of languid insolence. - -“I don’t feel that I’ll go to Paris at all,” she said. “I think little -old San Francisco’s good enough for me.” - -He looked away from her at the papers on the desk, eyed them for a -thoughtful moment, and then said, - -“I didn’t think you were as short-sighted as that. I’ll tell you fair -and square that up to this I’ve thought you were a pretty smart woman.” - -“Well, I guess from this on, you’ll have to put me down a fool.” - -She laughed, a short, sardonic laugh, and her adversary smiled politely -in somewhat absent response. With his eyes still on the papers, he said, - -“No, no--I can’t agree to that. Short-sighted is the word. You’re not -looking into the future, you’re not calculating on your own powers of -endurance. How much longer do you think you can stand this battle with -your husband and the Ryans?” - -In the dead watches of the night, Berny had asked herself this -question, and found no answer to it. She tried to laugh again, but it -was harder and less mirthful than before. - -The old man leaned forward, shaking an admonitory forefinger at her. - -“Don’t you know, young woman, that’s a pretty wearing situation? -Don’t you know to live in a state of perpetual strife will break down -the strongest spirit? The dropping of water will wear away a stone. -You _can’t_ stand the state of siege and warfare you’ve got yourself -into much longer. Your rage is carrying you along now. You’re mad as -a whole hive full of hornets and the heat of it’s keeping you going, -furnishing fuel to the engines, so to speak. But you can’t keep up such -a clip. You’ll break to pieces and you’ll break suddenly. Then what’ll -happen? Why, the Ryans’ll come with a big broom and sweep the pieces -out. They won’t leave one little scrap behind. That flat on Sacramento -Street will be swept as clean of you as if you’d never had your dresses -hanging in the cupboard or your toothbrush on the wash-stand. Old -Delia’s a great housekeeper. When she gets going with a broom there’s -not a speck escapes her.” - -His narrowed eyes looked into hers with that boring steadiness that -she was beginning to know. He was not smiling now, rather he looked a -man who knew he was talking of very momentous things and wanted his -companion to know it too. - -“That’s all talk,” Berny snapped. “If that’s all you’ve got to say to -me, I’d better be going.” - -“No, no,” he stretched out an opened hand and with it made a -down-pressing gesture that was full of command. “Don’t move yet. These -are just suggestions of mine, suggestions I was making for your good. -Of course, if you don’t care to follow them, it’s your affair, not -mine. I’ve done my duty, and, after all, that’s what concerns me most. -What I asked you to come here for to-day was to talk about this matter, -to talk further, to thresh it out some more. I’ve seen Mrs. Ryan since -our last meeting.” - -He paused, and Berny sat upright, her eyes on him in a fixity of -listening that was almost a glare. She was tremulously anxious and yet -afraid to hear the coming words. - -“What did she say?” she asked with the same irritation she had shown -before. - -“She doubles her offer to you. She’ll give you two hundred thousand -dollars to leave her son.” - -“Well, I won’t,” said Berny, drawing herself to the edge of the chair. -“She can keep her two hundred thousand dollars.” - -“That two hundred thousand dollars, well invested, would give an income -of from twelve to fifteen thousand a year. On that, in Paris, you’d be -a rich woman.” - -“I guess I’ll stay a poor one in San Francisco.” - -He eyed her ponderingly over the hand that stroked his beard. - -“I wonder,” he said slowly, “what’s making you act like this? You stump -me. Here you are, poor, treated like dirt, ostracized as if you were a -leper, with the most powerful family in California your open enemy, and -you won’t take a fortune that’s offered you without a condition, and go -to a place where you’d be honored and courted and could make yourself -anything you’d like. I can’t make it out. You beat me.” - -Berny was flattered. Even through the almost sickening sense of longing -that the thought of the lost two hundred thousand dollars created in -her, she was conscious of the gratified conceit of the woman who is -successfully mysterious. - -“Don’t bother your head about it,” she said as lightly as she could. -“Think I’m crazy, if that makes it any easier for you.” - -“I can’t think _that_,” he answered, conveying in the accented -monosyllable his inability to think lightly of her mental equipment. -“There’s something underneath it all I don’t know. You’ve not been -quite open, quite as open as I think _my_ frankness deserves. But, of -course, a man can’t force a lady’s confidence. If you don’t want to -give me yours, I’ve got to be content without it.” - -Berny emitted a vague sound of agreement. She once more drew herself to -the edge of the chair, taking the renewed, arranging grip of departure -on her purse. She wanted to go. - -“Well,” she said with the cheerful lengthening of the word, which is -the precursor of the preliminary sentence of farewell, “I guess----” -but he stopped her again with the outspread, authoritative hand. - -“Don’t be in such a hurry; I’ve not finished yet. There’s more to be -said, and it’s worth losing a few moments over.” His face was so much -more commanding than his words that she made no attempt to move, though -each minute deepened her desire to leave. - -“This is just between you and me,” he went on slowly, his voice -lowered, dropped to the key of confidences. “It’s a little matter -between us that no one else needs to know anything about. My part of -it just comes from the fact that I want to do a good turn not only to -Delia Ryan, but to you. I’m sorry for you, young woman, and I think -you’re up against it. Now, here’s my proposition; I’ll add something -to that money myself. I’ll give you another hundred thousand. I’ll put -it with Mrs. Ryan’s pile, and it’ll run your fortune up well past a -quarter of a million.” - -His eyes fixed upon her were hard in his benevolently-smiling face. - -“What do you think about it?” he asked, as she was speechless. “Three -hundred thousand dollars in a lump’s a goodish bit of money.” - -Berny felt dizzy. As her rancor had seemed slipping from her in the -earlier part of the interview, now she felt as if her resolution was -suddenly melting. She was confused between the strangling up-rush of -greed and the passion that once again rose in her against the old man, -who showed such a bold determination to sweep her from his daughter’s -path. She was no longer mistress of herself. Inward excitement, the -unfamiliar struggle with temptation, had upset and unnerved her. But -she did not yet know it, and she answered slowly, with a sort of -sullenness, that might have passed as the heaviness of indifference. - -“What do you want to give it to me for?” - -“Because I’m sorry for you. Because I want you to get out of this hole -you’re in, and go and make something of your life.” - -Before she knew it, Berny said low, but with a biting incisiveness, - -“Oh, you liar!” - -Cannon was surprised. He looked for a staring moment at her pale face, -stiff over its strained muscles, and said in a tone of cheerful amaze, - -“Now, what do you mean by that?” - -“Just what I say,” she said. “You’re a liar and you know it. Every word -you’ve said to me’s been a lie. Why, Mrs. Ryan’s better than you. She -don’t come covering me with oily stories about wanting me to be happy. -You think that I don’t know why you’re offering me this money. Well, -old man, I do. You want to get my husband for your own daughter, Rose -Cannon.” - -It was Cannon’s turn to be speechless. He had not for years received so -unexpected and violent a blow. He sat in the same attitude, not moving -or uttering a sound, and looking at Berny with a pair of eyes that each -second grew colder and more steely. Berny, drawn to the edge of her -chair, leaned toward him, speaking with the stinging quickness of an -angry wasp. - -“You thought I didn’t know it. Well, I do. I know the whole thing. I’ve -just sat back and watched you two old thieves thinking everything was -hidden, like a pair of ostriches. And you being so free with your glad -hand and being sorry for me and wanting me to make the most of my life! -You said I was a smart woman. Well, I’m evidently a lot smarter than -you thought I was.” - -“So it seems,” he said. “Smart enough to do some very neat inventing.” - -“Inventing!” she cried, “I wish there was some inventing about it. _I_ -don’t take any pleasure in thinking that another woman’s trying to buy -my husband.” - -He dropped his hand from his chin, and moved a little impatiently in -his chair. - -“Come,” he said with sudden authority, “I can’t waste my time this -way. Are you going to take the money or not?” - -His manner, as if by magic, had changed. Every suggestion of deference, -or consideration had gone from it. The respect, with which he had been -careful to treat her, had suddenly vanished; there was something subtly -brutal in his tone, in the very movement of impatience he made. It was -as if the real man were at last showing himself. - -She uttered a furious phrase of denial and sprang to her feet. His -manner was the last unbearable touch on the sore helplessness of her -futile rage. His chair had been standing sidewise toward the desk, and -now, with a jerk of his body, he swept it back into position. - -“All right, then go!” he said, without looking at her. - -Berny had intended going, rushing out of the place. Now at these words -of dismissal, flung at her as a bone to a dog, she suddenly was rooted -to the spot. All her reason, balance, and common sense were swept away -in the flood of her quivering, blind anger. - -“I will _not_ go,” she cried, at the pitch of folly, “I will _not_ till -I’m good and ready. Who are you to order me out? Who are you to tell -me what I’m to do? A man who tries to buy another woman’s husband for -his daughter, and then pretends he and she are such a sweet, innocent -pair! Wouldn’t people be surprised if they knew that Miss Rose Cannon -wanted my husband, was getting her father to make bids for him, and was -meeting him every Sunday!” - -“Stop!” thundered the old man, bringing his open hand down on the table -with a bang. - -The tone of his voice was bull-like, and the blow of his hand so -violent that the fittings of the heavy desk rattled. Berny, though not -frightened, was startled and drew back. For a moment she thought he -was going to rise and forcibly put her out. Then she looked sidewise -and saw two men at a window on the other side of the alley gazing -interestedly down at them. Cannon was conscious of the observers at the -same time. He restrained the impulse to spring to his feet which had -made her shrink, and rose slowly. - -“Look here,” he said quietly, “you don’t seem to understand that this -interview’s at an end.” - -“No,” she said with a stubborn shake of her head, “I’m not through yet.” - -“There’s nothing more for you to say unless you want to accept Mrs. -Ryan’s offer.” - -“Yes, there is, there’s lots more for me to say, but since you seem in -such a hurry to get rid of me, I’ll have to wait and say it to your -daughter next time I see her.” - -She paused, daring and impudently bold. She was a woman of remarkable -physical courage, and the old man’s aspect, which might have affrighted -a less audacious spirit, had no terrors for her. He stood by the desk, -his hands on his hips, the fingers turned toward his back, and his -face, the chin drawn in, fronting her with a glowering fixity of menace. - -“When do _you_ ever see my daughter?” he asked, the accented pronoun -pregnant with scorn. - -“Oh, on the streets, in the stores, walking round town. I often meet -her. I’ve wanted several times lately to stop and tell her what I think -of the way she’s acting. She doesn’t think that I know all about what -she’s doing. She’ll be surprised when she hears that I do and what _I_ -think about it.” - -She faced the old man’s motionless visage with an almost debonair -audacity. - -“You can offer me money,” she said, “but you can’t muzzle me.” - -Cannon, without changing his attitude, replied, - -“I can do a good many things you don’t think of. Take my advice, young -woman, and muzzle yourself. Don’t leave it for me to do. I’ve had -nothing but friendly feelings for you up to this, and I’d hate to have -you see what a damned ugly enemy I can be.” - -He gave his head a nod, dropped his hands and turned from her. As he -moved, a small spider that had been hidden among the papers on the -desk started to scuttle over the yellow blotting pad. It caught his eye. - -“Look there,” he said, indicating it, “that little spider thinks it can -have things all its own way on my desk. But--” and he laid his great -thumb on it, crushing it to a black smudge--“that’s what happens to it. -Now, Mrs. Dominick Ryan, that’s not the first little spider that’s come -to grief trying to run amuck through my affairs. And it don’t seem, as -things look now, as if it was going to be the last. It’s not a healthy -thing for little spiders to think they can run Bill Cannon.” - -He rubbed his soiled thumb on the edge of the blotter, and Berny looked -at the stain that had been the spider. - -“Best not butt into places where little spiders are not wanted,” he -said, and then looking at her sidewise, “Well, is it good-by?” - -Something in the complete obliteration of the adventurous insect--or -the words that had accompanied its execution--chilled Berny. She -was not frightened, nor less determined, but the first ardor of her -defiance was as though a cold breath had blown on it. Still she did not -intend to leave, ignominiously withdrawing before defeat. She wanted to -say more, rub it in that she knew the reason for his action, and let -him see still plainer in how slight esteem she held his daughter. But -the interlude of the spider had been such a check that she did not know -exactly how to begin again. She stood for a moment uncertain, and he -said, - -“Will you take the money?” - -“No!” she said loudly. “Don’t ask me that again!” - -“All right,” he answered quietly, “that ends our business. Do you know -your way out, or shall I ring for Granger to see you to the door?” - -There was a bell on the desk and he extended his hand toward it. She -guessed that Granger was the polished and deferential young man who had -greeted her on her entrance, and the ignominy of being escorted out -under a cloud--literally shown the door by the same youth, probably no -longer polished or deferential, was more than she could bear. - -“I’m going,” she said fiercely. “Don’t dare to touch that bell! But -just be sure of one thing, Bill Cannon, this is not the last you or -your daughter will hear of me.” - -He bowed with an air of irony that was so slight it might not have been -noticed. - -“Any messages from you will be received by me with pleasure. But when -it comes to other things”--her hand was on the door-knob but she had to -listen--“remember the little spider.” - -“Rats!” she said furiously, and tore open the door. - -“Good afternoon, Mrs. Ryan,” he cried. “Good afternoon!” - -She did not answer, but even in her excitement was conscious that the -clerks behind the partition might be listening, and so shut the door, -not with the bang her state of mind made natural, but with a soft, -ladylike gentleness. Then she walked, with a tapping of little heels -and a rustle of silken linings, down the long, narrow office and out -into the street. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - -THE LION’S WHELP - - -It was late, almost dark, that evening when Cannon left his office. He -had sat on after Berny’s departure, sunk in a reverie, which was not -compounded of those gentle thoughts that are usually associated with -that state of being. In the past, when he had been struggling up from -poverty, he had had his fierce fights, and his mortifying defeats. He -had risen from them tougher and more combative than ever, filled with -the lust of vengeance which in the course of time was assuaged. But of -late years few (and these antagonists of his own measure) had had the -temerity to cross swords with him. - -Now he had been defied in his stronghold and by the sort of person -that he looked upon as a worm in the path--the kind of worm a man did -not even tread on but simply brushed aside. It was incredible in its -audacity, its bold insolence. As he walked down Montgomery Street -to the car, he pondered on Berny, wonderingly and with a sort of -begrudging, astonished admission of a courage that he could not but -admire. What a nerve the woman had to dare to threaten him! To threaten -Bill Cannon! There was something wild, uncanny, preposterous in it -that was almost sublime, had the large, elemental quality of a lofty -indifference to danger, that seemed to belong more to heroic legend -than to modern life in the West. But his admiration was tempered by his -alarm at the thought of his daughter’s learning of the sordid intrigue. -The bare idea of Rose’s censuring him--and he knew she would if she -ever learned of his part in the plot--was enough to make him decide -that some particularly heavy punishment would be meted out to the woman -who dared shatter the only ideal of him known to exist. - -But he did not for a moment believe that Berny would tell. She was -angry and was talking blusteringly, as angry women talk. He did not -know why she was in such a state of ill temper, but at this stage of -the proceedings he did not bother his head about that. For the third -time she had refused the money--that was the only thing that concerned -him. If she refused three hundred thousand dollars, she would refuse -anything. It was as much to her as a million would be. She would know -it was as large a sum as she could expect. If that would not buy her, -nothing would. Her threats were nonsense, bluff and bluster; the -important thing was, she had determined, for some reason of her own, -to stick to Dominick Ryan. - -How she had found out about Rose he could not imagine, only it was -very enraging that she should have done so. It was the last, and most -detestable fact in the whole disagreeable business. Brooding on the -subject as the car swept him up the hill, he decided that she had -guessed it. She was as sharp as a needle and she had put this and that -together, the way women do, and had guessed the rest. Pure ugliness -might be actuating her present line of conduct, and that state of mind -was rarely of long duration. The jealous passions of women soon burn -themselves out. Those shallow vessels could not long contain feelings -of such a fiery potency, especially when harboring the feeling was so -inconvenient and expensive. No one knew better than Berny how well -worth her while it would be to cultivate a sweet reasonableness. This -was the only gleam of hope left. Her power to endure the present -conditions of her life might give out. - -That was all the consolation the Bonanza King could extract from the -situation, and it did not greatly mitigate his uneasiness and bad -humor. This latter condition of being had other matter to feed it, -matter which in the interview of the afternoon had been pushed into -the background, but which now once again obtruded itself upon his -attention. It was the first of May. By the morning’s mail he had -received a letter from Gene announcing, with the playful blitheness -which marked all the young man’s allusions to the transfer of the Santa -Trinidad Ranch, that the year of probation was up and he would shortly -arrive in San Francisco to claim his own. - -Gene’s father had read this missive in grim-visaged silence. The -sense of self-approval that he might have experienced was not his; he -only felt that he had been “done”. Two months before, thinking that -the ranch was slipping too easily from his grasp, that he was making -too little effort to retain his own, he had hired a detective to go -to San Luis Obispo and watch the career of Gene for signs of his old -waywardness. On the thirtieth of April the man had reported that Gene’s -course had been marked by an abstinence as genuine and complete as the -most exacting father could wish. - -The old man crumpled up the letter and threw it into the waste-paper -basket, muttering balefully, like a cloud charged with thunder. It -was not that he wished Gene to drink again; it was that he hated most -bitterly giving him the finest piece of ranch land in California. It -was not that he did not wish his son to be prosperous and respectable, -only he wished that this happy condition had been achieved at some one -else’s expense. - -His mood was unusually black when he entered the house. The servant, -who came forward to help him off with his coat, knew it the moment -he saw the heavy, scowling face. The piece of intelligence the man -had to convey--that Mr. Gene Cannon had arrived half an hour earlier -from San Luis Obispo--was not calculated to abate the Bonanza King’s -irritation. He received it with the expressionless grunt he reserved -for displeasing information, and, without further comment or inquiry, -went up the stairs to his own rooms. From these he did not emerge till -dinner was announced, when he greeted Gene with a bovine glance of -inspection and the briefest sentence of welcome. - -Gene, however, was not at all abashed by any lack of cordiality. At -the best of times, he was not a sensitive person, and as this had been -his portion since his early manhood, he was now used to it. Moreover, -to-night he was in high spirits. In his year of exile he had learned -to love the outdoor life for which he was fitted, and had conceived -a passionate desire to own the splendid tract of land for which he -felt the love and pride of a proprietor. Now it was his without let or -hindrance. He was the owner of a principality, the lord of thousands -of teeming acres, watered by crystal streams and shadowed by ancient -oaks. He glowed with the joy of possession, and if anything was needed -to complete his father’s discomfiture, it was Gene’s naïve and bridling -triumph. - -Always a loquacious person, a stream of talk flowed from him to which -the old man offered no interruption, and in which even Rose found it -difficult to insert an occasional, arresting question. Gene had any -number of new plans. His head was fuller than it had been for years -with ideas for the improvement of his land, the development of his -irrigating system, the planting of new orchards, the erecting of -necessary buildings. He used the possessive pronoun continually, rolled -it unctuously on his tongue with a new, rich delight. He directed most -of his conversation toward Rose, but every now and then he turned -on his father, enthusiastically dilating on a projected improvement -certain to increase the ranch’s revenues by many thousands per annum. - -The old man listened without speaking, his chin on his collar, his eyes -fixed in a wide, dull stare on his happy boy. At intervals--Gene almost -clamoring for a response--he emitted one of those inarticulate sounds -with which it was his custom to greet information that he did not like -or the exact purport of which he did not fathom. - -The only thing which would have sweetened his mood would have been a -conversation, peaceful and uninterrupted, with his daughter. He had not -seen as much of her as usual during the last few days, as she had been -confined to her room with a cold. This was the first evening she had -been at dinner for four days, and the old man had looked forward to -one of their slow, enjoyable meals together, with a long, comfortable -chat over the black coffee, as was their wont. Even if Rose did not -know of his distractions and schemes, she soothed him. _She_ never, -like this chattering jackass from San Luis Obispo--and he looked -sulkily at his son--rubbed him the wrong way. And he had hardly had a -word with her, hardly, in fact, had heard her voice during the whole -meal. - -When it was over, and she rose from her seat, he asked her to play on -the piano in the sitting-room near by. - -“Give us some music,” he said, “I want to hear something pleasant. The -whole day I’ve been listening to jays and knaves and fools, and I want -to hear something different that doesn’t make me mad or make me sick.” - -Rose left the room and presently the sound of her playing came softly -from the sitting-room across the hall. Neither of the men spoke for a -space, and the old man, casting a side look at Gene, was maliciously -gratified by the thought that his son was offended. But he had reckoned -without his offspring’s amiable imperviousness to the brutalities -of the parental manner, wrought to-night to a condition of absolute -invulnerability by the young man’s unclouded gladness. Gene, his eyes -on his coffee-cup, was in anything but a state of insulted sullenness, -as was proved by his presently looking up and remarking, with innocent -brightness, - -“You didn’t expect I’d get it, did you, Pop? I knew from the start you -were sure I’d slip up before the year was out.” - -His father eyed him without replying, a blank, stony stare, before -which Gene did not show the slightest sign of quailing. He went on -jubilantly in his high, throaty voice. - -“I wasn’t dead certain of it myself at the start. You know it isn’t -the easiest thing in the world to break off drinking habits that have -had you as long as mine had me. But when I went down there and lived -right on the land, when I used to get up in the morning and look out -of my window across the hills and see the cattle dotted all over them, -and the oaks thick and big and bushy, and feel the air just as soft as -silk, I said to myself, ‘By gum, Gene Cannon, you’ve got to have this -ranch if you die for want of whisky.’” - -“Well, you’ve got it!” said his father in a loud, pugnacious tone. -“You’ve got it, haven’t you?” - -“Well, I guess I have,” said Gene, his triumph tempered by an air of -modesty, “and I guess I earned it fair. I stuck to the bargain and -there were times when I can tell you it was a struggle. I never once -slipped up. If you don’t believe my word, I can bring you men from down -there that know me well, and they’ll testify that I speak the truth.” - -The father raised his eyebrows but said nothing. If there was anything -further needed to show him what a complete, consistent fool his son -was, it was the young man’s evident impression that the Santa Trinidad -Ranch had been relinquished upon his own unsupported testimony. That -was just like Gene. For weeks the detective had trotted at his heels, -an entirely unsuspected shadow. - -“It was Rose who really put me up to it,” he went on. “She’d say to me -I could do it, I only had to try; any one could do anything they really -made their minds up to. If you said you couldn’t do a thing, why, then -you couldn’t, but if you said you could, you got your mind into that -attitude, and it wasn’t hard any more. And she was right. When I got -my mind round to looking at it that way, it came quite easily. Rose’s -always right.” - -This, the first statement of his son’s to which the Bonanza King could -subscribe, did not placate the old man. On the contrary, it still -further inflamed his sense of angry grievance. It was bad enough to -have Gene stealing the ranch--that’s all it was--but to have him -chuckling and grinning over it, when that very day Rose’s chances of -happiness had come to a deadlock, was just what you might expect of -such a fool. Out of the fullness of the heart the mouth spoke, growled -rather, - -“I was just waiting to hear you give some credit to Rose. Here you are -talking all through dinner like a megaphone all about yourself and your -affairs, and not giving a thought to your sister.” - -Gene stared at his parent in ingenuous, concerned amaze. - -“Not a thought to Rose?” he repeated, in a high, surprised key. “Oh, -yes I have--lots of thoughts. I was just telling you now about how she -braced me up.” - -“Braced you up! Of course she braced you up. Hasn’t she been doing it -all her life? But you can’t think of anything but yourself. Don’t you -ever look at your sister and think about her and how _she_ feels?” - -“Yes,” said Gene, giving his head a confirmatory wag, “I do, I do -whenever I’m in town. You see, being away on the ranch so much----” - -The old man leaned back in his chair, emitting a loud, interrupting -groan. Gene stared at him with a dawning uneasiness. He had begun -to grasp the fact that his father was in a state of mind which had -complications that included more than the old familiar contemptuousness -of his every-day mood. He decided to advance more gingerly, for even -Gene’s imperviousness to snubs did not make him proof against the -Bonanza King’s roused displeasure. - -“I’m sure,” he said mildly, “no man ever had a more unselfish sister -than I have, or was more devoted to her than I am.” - -“Then, why the hell,” said the old man, “do you go on talking about -yourself and your damned concerns, bothering the life out of her when -she’s got troubles of her own?” - -The look of foolish amaze on Gene’s face deepened into one of genuine -concern. - -“Troubles of her own? What troubles has she got?” - -One of the most aggravating features of the situation was that Gene -could not be told why Rose was troubled and his father was cross. While -they were bent under unaccustomed cares, he went happy and free, with -nothing to think of except the ranch he had stolen. If he had been -any other kind of person, he could have been taken into the secret -and might have helped them out. The Bonanza King had thought of ways -in which a young and intelligent man could have been of assistance in -inducing Mrs. Dominick Ryan to listen to reason. Gene, if he’d had any -ability, if he’d had the brains of a mouse, could have made love to -her, induced her to run away with him, and then they could have given -her the money and got rid of her without any more fuss. He could have -been of incalculable value and here he was, perfectly useless, too much -of a fool even to be _told_ the position, moved by the mere gross -weight of his stupidity into an outside place of tranquil ignorance. -That his father could not force him to be a sharer in the family -troubles made the old man still more angry, and it was a poignant -pain to him that the only way he could show his rage was by roaring -wrathfully. - -“Yes, Rose has troubles. Of course she has, but what have they got to -do with you, who don’t care about a thing but your damned ranch?” - -“What’s the matter with her?” said Gene, roused into active uneasiness -and quite oblivious to his father’s insults. “I didn’t know anything -was wrong. She didn’t tell me.” - -“No, and she won’t,” said the father. “And let me tell you if I catch -you asking her any questions or giving her any hints that I’ve said -anything to you, you can stay on your ranch and never come back into -this house. I won’t have Rose worried and upset by every fool that -comes along.” - -“Well, but how am I to find out what’s the matter with her,” said the -altogether baffled brother, “if you won’t tell me, and I’m not to ask -her?” - -“You needn’t find out. It’s her affair--hers and mine. Don’t you go -poking your nose in and trying to find out. I don’t want you butting -into Rose’s affairs.” - -“Just now,” said Gene in an aggrieved tone, “you said I didn’t take -any interest in anything but my ranch. Now, when I want to take an -interest in Rose, you tell me not to butt in. I love my sister more -than most men, and I’d like to know if anything’s wrong with her.” - -“She’s got a cold,” said Cannon. - -He spoke sharply and looked at Gene with a sidelong eye full of -observant malice. The young man gazed back at him, confused, for -a moment half inclined to laugh, thinking his father, in a sudden -unaccustomed playfulness, was joking with him. - -“Well, if it’s only a cold,” he stammered, “it’s nothing to tear up the -ground about. I thought it was something serious, that Rose was unhappy -about something. But a cold----” - -He was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Rose herself, her hand -drawing back the portière that veiled the doorway. She, who knew her -father so well, had decided that in his present mood it was better to -curtail his after-dinner chat with Gene. Her quick eye took in their -two faces, and she felt that her brother had probably had a trying -half-hour. - -“I’m tired of making music,” she said. “I’ve played my whole -repertoire. Now I want Gene to come back into the sitting-room with me -and tell me about the linen and the furniture I’m to send down to the -ranch. We’ll talk it over to-night and make a list and arrange for the -packing to-morrow.” - -The young man rose, very glad to go with her, still uneasy and puzzled. - -“How’s your cold, Rosey?” he said. “I didn’t know it was bad or I’d -have asked more about it.” - -“Oh, it’s all right,” she said carelessly. “It was never really bad, -but I stayed in my room for a few days to be safe.” Her eye caught -her father’s, half-shut and full of brooding scorn, shot through with -a gleam of sardonic humor. Gene’s half-hour must have been even more -trying than she had at first thought. - -“Come along, Gene,” she said, holding out her hand to him, “we’ll leave -the old man to his dreams. I know he never listened to a note of my -music and only told me to play as an excuse to get rid of me.” - -She threw a laughing look at her father, who answered it with a lazy, -fond cast of his eye in her direction. Taking Gene’s hand, she drew him -into the hall and dropped the portière. The father could hear their -voices diminishing and growing muffled as they passed up the hall to -the sitting-room. - -He sat on as they had left him in his favorite crumpled-up attitude. -After all, it was a good thing the boy did not know, was of the kind -who could not be trusted with any information of importance. He did -not want Gene or anybody else to interfere. He, Rose’s father, and he -alone, without any outside assistance, would reach up and pick out -for her any star that sparkled in the heavens, any moon for which she -might choose to cry. She wanted Dominick Ryan for her husband. She -should have him and it would be her father who would get him for her. -He would give her Dominick Ryan, as he would a pearl necklace or a new -automobile to which she had taken a fancy. - -It whetted the old man’s lust of battle that Dominick was so hard to -get. Sitting fallen together in his chair he thought about new ways of -approaching Berny, new ways of bribing, or wheedling, or terrifying -her into giving up her husband. He was not at the end of his rope -yet, by any means. And it lent an added zest to the game that he had -an adversary of so much spirit. He was beginning to respect her. Even -if he had not been fighting for Rose, he would have gone on with the -struggle for its own sake. It was not Bill Cannon’s way to enter a -contest, and then be beaten--a contest with a spitfire woman at that. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - -OUT OF THE FULLNESS OF THE HEART - - -That night it was Berny’s turn to be wakeful. In the silence of the -sleeping house and the warm darkness of her curtained room, she lay -tossing on her bed, hearing the clear, musical striking of the parlor -clock as it marked the hours. When the first thin streak of gray -painted a pale line between the window curtains she rose and took a -sleeping powder and soon after fell into a heavy slumber. - -This held her in the dead, motionless unconsciousness that a drug -brings, through the long morning hours. Dominick’s noiseless departure -hardly disturbed the hushed quiet of the little flat. The Chinaman, -trained by his exacting mistress to make no sound while she slept, went -about his work with a stealthy step and cautious touch, even in the -kitchen, shut off by space and muffling doors, continuing his care. He -had had more than one experience with the wrath of Mrs. Ryan when she -had been roused from late slumbers by a banged door or a dropped pan. - -It was nearly lunch-time when she awoke, slowly emerging from the -black, unbroken deadness of her sleep to a momentarily augmenting -sense of depression. She rose, her body seeming to participate in the -oppressed discomfort of her mind, and, going to the bedroom window, -drew the curtain and looked out. - -The day promised little in the way of cheering influences. Fog hung -heavy in the air, a gray veil depending from a gray haze of sky. -That portion of her neighbor’s garden which the window commanded was -drenched with it, the flowers drooping moistly as if it weighed on -them like a heavy substance under the pressure of which they bent and -dripped. The stretch of wall that she could see gleamed with dampness. -A corner of stone, on which a drop regularly formed, hung and then -fell, held her eyes for a few vacantly-staring moments. Then she turned -away, muttering to herself, - -“Good Lord, what a day!” - -She was at her lunch when the telephone bell rang. She dropped her -napkin and ran to the instrument which was in the hall. She did not -know what she expected--or rather she did not expect anything in -particular--but she was in that state of feverish tension when she -seemed the focus of portentous happenings, the point upon which events -of sinister menace might, at any moment, bear down. Bill Cannon might -be calling her up, for what purpose she could not guess, only for -something that would be disagreeable and perturbing. - -It was, however, her husband’s voice that answered her. He spoke -quickly, as if in a hurry, telling her that he would not be home to -dinner, as a college friend of his from New York had just arrived and -he would dine and go to the theater with him that evening. Berny’s -ear, ready to discover, in the most alien subjects, matter bearing -on her husband’s interest in Rose Cannon, listened intently for the -man’s name. As Dominick did not give it she asked for it, and to her -strained and waiting attention it seemed to come with an intentional -indistinctness. - -“What is his name?” she called again, her voice hard and high. “I -didn’t catch it.” - -It was repeated and for the second time she did not hear it. Before she -could demand it once more, Dominick’s “Good-by” hummed along the wire -and the connection was cut. - -She did not want any more lunch and went into the parlor, where she -sat down on the cushioned window-seat and looked out on the vaporous -transparencies of the fog. She had waked with the sense of weight -and apprehension heavy on her. As she dressed she had thought of the -interview of yesterday with anger and also with something as much like -fear as she was capable of feeling. She realized the folly of the rage -she had shown, the folly and the futility of it, and she realized the -danger of an open declaration of war with the fierce and unscrupulous -old man who was her adversary. This, with her customary bold courage, -she now tried to push from her mind. After all, he couldn’t kill her, -and that was about the only other way he could get rid of her. Even -Bill Cannon would hardly dare, in the present day in San Francisco, -cold-bloodedly to murder a woman. The thought caused a slight, -sarcastic smile to touch her lips. Fortunately for her, the lawless -days of California were passed. - -With the curtain caught between her finger-tips, her figure bent -forward and motionless, she looked out into the street as if she -saw something there of absorbing interest. But she saw nothing. All -her mental activity was bent on the problem of Dominick’s telephone -message. She did not believe it. She was in that state where trifles -light as air all point one way, and to have Dominick stay out to dinner -with a sudden and unexpected “friend from New York” was more than a -trifle. She assured herself with slow, cold reiteration that he was -dining with Rose Cannon in the big house on California Street. If they -walked together on Sunday mornings, why shouldn’t they dine together -on week-day nights? They were careful of appearances and they would -never let themselves be seen together in any public place till they -were formally engaged. The man from New York was a fiction. She--that -immaculate, perfect girl--had invented him. Dominick could not invent -anything. He was not that kind of man. But Berny knew that all women -can lie when the occasion demands, and Rose Cannon could thus supply -her lover’s deficiencies. - -With her blankly-staring eyes fixed on the white outside world, her -mental vision conjured up a picture of them at dinner that night, -sitting opposite each other at a table glistening with the richest -of glass and silver, while soft-footed menials waited obsequiously -upon them. Bill Cannon was not in the picture. Berny’s imagination -had excluded him, pushing him out of the romance into some unseen, -uninteresting region where people who were not lovers dined dully by -themselves. She could not imagine Rose and Dominick otherwise than -alone, exchanging tender glances over the newest form of champagne -glasses filled with the choicest brand of champagne. - -A sound escaped her, a sound of pain, as if forced from her by the -grinding of jealous passions within. She dropped the curtain and rose -to her feet. If they married it would be always that way with them. -They would have everything in the world, everything that to Berny made -life worth while. Even Paris, with her three hundred thousand dollars -to open all its doors, would be a savorless place to her if Rose and -Dominick were to be left to the enjoyment of all the pleasures and -luxuries of life back in California. - -Unable to rest, fretted by jealousy, tormented by her longing for the -offered money, oppressed by uneasiness as to Cannon’s next move, the -thought of the long afternoon in the house was unendurable to her. She -could not remain unemployed and passive while her mind was in this -state of disturbance. Though the day was bad and there was nothing to -do down town, she determined to go out. She might find some distraction -in watching the passers-by and looking at the shop windows. - -By the time she was dressed, it was four o’clock. The fog was thicker -than ever, hanging over the city in an even, motionless pall of vapor. -Its breath had a keen, penetrating chill, like that exhaled by the -mouth of a cavern. Coming down the steps into it she seemed to be -entering a white, still sea, off which an air came that was pleasant -on the heated dryness of her face. She had no place to go to, no -engagement to keep, but instinctively turned her steps in the down-town -direction. Walking would pass more time than going on the car, and -she started down the street which slanted to a level and then climbed -a long, dim reach of hill beyond. Its emptiness--a characteristic -feature of San Francisco streets--struck upon her observation with a -sense of griping, bleak dreariness. She could look along the two lines -of sidewalk till they were lost in the gradual milky thickening of -the fog, and at intervals see a figure, faint and dreamlike, either -emerging from space in slow approach, or melting into it in phantasmal -withdrawal. - -It was a melancholy, depressing vista. She had not reached the top -of the long hill before she decided that she would walk no farther. -Walking was only bearable when there was something to see. But she did -not know what else to do or where to go. Indecision was not usually a -feature of her character. To-day, however, the unaccustomed strain of -temptation and worry seemed to have weakened her resourcefulness and -resolution. The one point on which she felt determined was that she -would not go home. - -The advancing front of a car, looming suddenly through the mist, -decided her. She hailed it, climbed on board, and sank into a seat on -the inside. There was no one else there. It smelt of dampness, of wet -woolens and rubber overshoes, and its closed windows, filmed with fog, -showed semicircular streaks across them where passengers had rubbed -them clean to look out. The conductor, an unkempt man, with an unshaven -chin and dirty collar, slouched in for her fare, extending a grimy paw -toward her. As he took the money and punched the tag, he hummed a tune -to himself, seeming to convey in that harmless act a slighting opinion -of his passenger. Berny looked at him severely, which made him hum -still louder, and lounge indifferently out to the back platform where -he leaned on the brake and spat scornfully into the street. - -Berny felt that sitting there was worse than walking. There was no -one to look at, there was nothing to be seen from the windows. The -car dipped over the edge of an incline, slid with an even, skimming -swiftness down the face of the hill, and then, with a series of small -jouncings, crossed the rails of another line. Not knowing or caring -where she was, she signaled the conductor to stop, and alighted. She -looked round her for an uncertain moment, and then recognized the -locality. She was close to the old Union Street plaza on which the -Greek Church fronted. Here in the days before her marriage, when she -and Hazel had been known as “the pretty Iverson girls,” she had been -wont to come on sunny Sunday mornings and sit on the benches with such -beaux as brightened the monotony of that unaspiring period. - -She felt tired now and thought it would not be a bad idea to cross to -the plaza and rest there for a space. She was warmly dressed and her -clothes would not be hurt by the damp. Threading her way down the -street, she came out on the opening where the little park lies like an -unrolled green cloth round which the shabby, gray city crowds. - -She sank down on the first empty bench, and looking round she saw other -dark shapes, having a vague, huddled appearance, lounging in bunched-up -attitudes on the adjacent seats. They seemed preoccupied. It struck her -that they, like herself, were plunged in meditation on matters which -they had sought this damp seclusion silently to ponder. The only region -of activity in the dim, still scene was where some boys were playing -under the faintly-defined outline of a large willow tree. They were -bending close to the ground in the performance of a game over which -periods of quietness fell to be broken by sudden disrupting cries. As -Berny took her seat their imp-like shapes, dark and without detail, -danced about under the tree in what appeared a fantastic ecstasy, -while their cries broke through the woolly thickness of the air with -an intimate clearness, strangely at variance with the remote effect of -their figures. - -The fact that no one noticed her, or could clearly see her, affected -her as it seemed to have done the other occupants of the benches. She -relaxed from her alert sprightliness of pose, and sank against the -back of the seat in the limpness of unobserved indifference. Sitting -thus, her eyes on the ground, she heard, at first unheeding, then -with a growing sense of attention, footsteps approaching on the gravel -walk. They were the short, quick footsteps of a woman. Berny looked up -and saw the woman, a little darker than the atmosphere, emerging from -the surrounding grayness, as if she were slowly rising to the surface -through water. - -Her form detached itself gradually from the fog, the effect of -deliberation being due to the fact that she was dressed in gray, a -long, loose coat and a round hat with a film of veil about it. She -would have been a study in monochrome but for the color in the cheek -turned to Berny, a glowing, rose-tinted cheek into which the damp -had called a pink brighter than any rouge. Berny looked at it with -reluctant admiration, and the woman turned and presented her full face, -blooming as a flower, to the watcher’s eye. It was Rose Cannon. - -If in these wan and dripping surroundings the young girl had not looked -so freshly fair and comely, Berny might have let her pass unchecked. -But upon the elder woman’s sore and bitter mood the vision of this -rosy youthfulness, triumphant where all the rest of the world sank -unprotesting under the weight of a common ugliness, came with a sense -of unbearable wrong and grievance. As Rose passed, Berny, with a sudden -blinding up-rush of excitement, leaned forward and rose. - -“Miss Cannon,” she said loudly. “Oh, Miss Cannon,--just a moment.” - -Rose turned quickly, looking inquiringly at the owner of the voice. She -had had a vague impression of a figure on the bench but had not looked -at it. Now, though the face she saw was unfamiliar, she smiled and said, - -“Did you want to speak to me?” - -The ingratiating amiability of her expression added to Berny’s swelling -sense of injury and injustice. Thus did this siren smile upon Dominick, -and it was a smile that was very sweet. The excitement that had seized -upon the older woman made her tremble, but she was glad, fiercely, -burningly glad, that she had stopped Miss Cannon. - -“Yes,” she said, “just for a moment, if you don’t mind.” - -Rose had never seen the woman before, and at the first glance supposed -her to be some form of peddler or a person selling tickets. The -daughter of Bill Cannon was eagerly sought by members of her own sex -who had wares for sale, and it did not strike her as odd that she -should be stopped in the plaza on a foggy afternoon. But a second -glance showed her that the woman before her was better dressed, more -assured in manner than the female vender, and she felt puzzled and -interested. - -“You had something to say to me?” she queried again, the questioning -inflection a little more marked. - -“Yes, but not much. I won’t keep you more than a few moments. Won’t you -sit down?” - -Berny designated the bench and they sat on it, a space between them. -Rose sat forward on the edge of the seat, looking at the strange woman -whose business with her she could not guess. - -“You’ve never seen me before, have you, Miss Cannon?” said Berny. “You -don’t know who I am?” - -The young girl shook her head with an air of embarrassed admission. - -“I’m afraid I don’t,” she said. “If I’ve ever met you before, it must -have been a long time ago.” - -“You’ve never met me,” said Berny, “but I guess you’ve heard of me. I -am the wife of Dominick Ryan.” - -She said the words easily, but her eyes were lit with devouring fires -as they fastened on the young woman’s face. Upon this, signs of -perturbation immediately displayed themselves. For a moment Rose was -shaken beyond speech. She flushed to her hair, and her eyes dropped. To -a jealous observation, she looked confused, trapped, guilty. - -“Really,” she said after the first moment of shock, “I--I--I really -don’t think I ever did meet you.” With her face crimson she raised her -eyes and looked at her companion. “If I have, I must have forgotten it.” - -“You haven’t,” said Berny, “but you’ve met my husband.” - -Rose’s color did not fade, but this time she did not avert her eyes. -Pride and social training had come to her aid. She answered quietly and -with something of dignity. - -“Yes, I met Mr. Ryan at Antelope when we were snowed up there. I -suppose he’s told you all about it?” - -“No,” said Berny, her voice beginning to vibrate, “he hasn’t told me -_all_ about it. He’s told me just as much as he thought I ought to -know.” - -Her glance, riveted on Rose’s face, contained a fierce antagonism that -was like an illumination of hatred shining through her speech. “He -didn’t think it was necessary to tell me _everything_ that happened up -there, Miss Cannon.” - -Rose turned half from her without answering. The action was like that -of a child which shrinks from the angry face of punishment. Berny -leaned forward that she might still see her and went on. - -“He couldn’t tell me _all_ that happened up at Antelope. There are some -things that it wouldn’t have done for him to tell me. A man doesn’t -tell his wife about his affairs with other women. But sometimes, Miss -Cannon, she finds them out.” - -Rose turned suddenly upon her. - -“Mrs. Ryan,” she said in a cold, authoritative voice, “what do you want -to say to me? You stopped me just now to say something. Whatever it is, -say it and say it out.” - -Berny’s rages invariably worked themselves out on the same lines. With -battle boiling within her, she could preserve up to a certain point a -specious, outward calm. Then suddenly, at some slight, harmless word, -some touch as light as the pressure on the electric button that sets -off the dynamite explosion, the bonds of her wrath were broken and -it burst into expression. Now her enforced restraint was torn into -shreds, and she cried, her voice quavering with passion, shaken with -breathlessness: - -“What do you suppose I want to say? I want to ask you what right you’ve -got to try and steal my husband?” - -“I have _no_ right,” said Rose. - -Berny was, for the moment, so taken aback, that she said nothing but -stared with her whole face set in a rigidity of fierce attention. After -a moment’s quivering amaze she burst out, - -“Then what are you doing it for?” - -“I am not doing it.” - -“You’re a liar,” she cried furiously. “You’re worse than a liar. You’re -a thief. You’re trying to get him every way you know how. You sit there -looking at me with a face like a little innocent, and you know there’s -not a thing you can do to get him away from me you’re not doing. If -a common chippy, a gutter girl, acted that way they’d call her some -pretty dirty names, names that would make you sit up if you thought -any one would use them to you. But I don’t see where there’s any -difference. You think because you’re rich and on top of the heap that -you can do anything. Just let me tell you, Miss Rose Cannon, you can’t -steal Dominick Ryan from me. You may be Bill Cannon’s daughter, with -all the mines of the Comstock behind you, but you can’t buy my husband.” - -Rose was aghast. The words of Berny’s outburst were nothing to her, -sound and fury, the madness of a jealous woman. That this was a loving -wife fighting for the husband whose heart she had lost was all she -understood and heard. That was the tragic, the appalling thought. The -weight of her own guilty conscience seemed dragging her down into -sickened silence. The only thing it seemed to her she could honestly -say was to refute the woman’s accusations that Dominick was being -stolen from her. - -“Mrs. Ryan,” she implored, “whatever else you may think, do _please_ -understand that I am not trying to take your husband away from you. -You’re making a mistake. I don’t know what you’ve heard or guessed, but -you’re distracting yourself without any necessity. How could I ever do -that? I never meet him. I never see him.” - -She leaned forward in her eagerness. Berny cast a biting, sidelong look -at her. - -“How about Sunday morning on Telegraph Hill?” she said. - -“I did meet him there, that’s true,”--a memory of the conversation -augmented the young girl’s sense of guilt. If half this woman said was -madness, half was fact. Dominick loved Rose Cannon, not his wife, and -to Rose that was the whole tragedy. Meetings, words, renouncements were -nothing. She stammered in her misery. - -“Yes,--but--but--you must believe me when I tell you that that time -and once before--one evening in the moonlight on the steps of our -house--were the only times I’ve seen your husband since I came back -from Antelope.” - -“Well, I don’t,” said Berny, “I don’t for a moment believe you. You -must take me for the easiest fruit that ever grew on the tree if you -think I’ll swallow a fairy tale like that. If you met once on Telegraph -Hill, and once in the moonlight, what’s to prevent your meeting at -other times, and other places? You haven’t mentioned the visits up at -your house and the dinner to-night.” - -Rose drew back, frowning, uncomprehending. - -“What dinner to-night?” she said. - -“The one you’re going to take with my husband.” - -For the first time in the interview, the young girl was lifted from the -sense of dishonesty that crushed her by a rising flood of angry pride. - -“I take dinner with my father to-night in our house on California -Street,” she said coldly. - -“Bosh!” said Berny, giving her head a furious jerk. “You needn’t bother -wasting time on lies like that to me. I’m not a complete fool.” - -“Mrs. Ryan,” said Rose, “I think we’d better end this talk. We can’t -have any rational conversation when you keep telling me what I say is -a lie. I am sorry you feel so badly, and I wish I could say something -to you that you’d believe. All I can do to ease your mind is to assure -you that I never, except on those two occasions, have seen your husband -since his return from the country and I certainly never intend to see -him again.” - -She rose from the bench and, as she did so, Berny cried, - -“Then how do you account for the money that was offered me yesterday?” - -“Money?” said the young girl, pausing as she stood. “What money?” - -“The three hundred thousand dollars that your father offered me -yesterday afternoon to leave my husband and let him get a divorce from -me.” - -Rose sat down on the bench and turned a startled face on the speaker. - -“Tell me that again,” she said. “I don’t quite understand it.” - -Berny gave a little, dry laugh. - -“Oh, as many times as you like,” she said with her most ironical air -of politeness, “only, I should think it would be rather stale news to -you by this time. Yesterday afternoon your father made me his third -offer to desert my husband and force him to divorce me at the end of -a year. The offers have gone up from fifty thousand dollars--that was -the first one, and, all things considered, I thought it was pretty -mean--to the three hundred thousand they tried me with yesterday. Mrs. -Ryan was supposed to have made the first offer, but your father did -the offering. This last time he had to come out and show his hand and -admit that one-third of the money was from him.” She turned and looked -at Rose with a cool, imperturbable impudence. “It’s good to have rich -parents, isn’t it?” - -Rose stared back without answering. She had become very pale. - -[Illustration: “Then how do you account for the money that was offered - me yesterday?” _Page 407_] - -“That,” said Berny, giving her head a judicial nod, and delivering -her words with a sort of impersonal suaveness, “is the way it was -managed; you were kept carefully out. I wasn’t supposed to know there -was a lady in the case, but of course I did. You can’t negotiate the -sale of a husband as you do that of a piece of real estate, especially -when his wife objects. That, Miss Cannon, was the difficulty. While -all you people were so anxious to buy, _I_ was not willing to sell. It -takes two to make a bargain.” - -Rose, pale now to her lips, said in a low voice, - -“I don’t believe it. It’s not true.” - -Berny laughed again. - -“Well, that’s only fair,” she said with an air of debonair -large-mindedness. “I’ve been telling you what you say is lies and now -you tell me what _I_ say is lies. It’s not, and you know it’s not. How -would I have found out about all this? Do you think Dominick told me? -Men don’t tell their wives when they want to get rid of them. They’re -stupid, but they’re not _that_ stupid.” - -Rose gave a low exclamation and turned her head away. Berny was waiting -for a second denial of her statements, when the young girl rose to her -feet, saying in a horrified murmur, - -“How awful! How perfectly awful!” - -“Of course,” Berny continued, addressing her back, “I was to understand -_you_ didn’t know anything about it. I had my own opinions on that. -Fathers don’t go round buying husbands for their daughters unless they -know their daughters are dead set on having the husbands. Bill Cannon -was not trying to get Dominick away from me just because he wanted to -be philanthropic. Neither was Mrs. Ryan. You’re the kind of wife she -wanted for her boy, just as Dominick’s the husband your father’d like -for you. So you stood back and let the old people do the dirty work. -You----” - -Rose turned quickly, sat down on the edge of the bench, and leaned -toward the speaker. Her face was full of a quivering intensity of -concern. - -“You poor, unfortunate woman!” she said in a shaken voice, and laid her -hand on Berny’s knee. - -Berny was so astonished that for the moment she had no words, but -stared uncomprehending, still alertly suspicious. - -“You poor soul!” Rose went on. “If I’d known or guessed for a moment -I’d have spoken differently. I can’t say anything. I didn’t know. I -couldn’t have guessed. It’s the most horrible thing I ever heard of. -It’s--too--too----” - -She stopped, biting her lip. Berny saw that she was unable to command -her voice, though she had no appearance of tears. Her face looked quite -different from what it had at the beginning of the interview. All its -amiable, rosy softness was gone. The elder woman was too astounded -to say anything. She had a feeling that, just for that moment, -nothing could be said. She was silenced by something that she did not -understand. Like an amazed child she stared at Rose, baffled, confused, -a little awed. After a minute of silence, the young girl went on. - -“I can’t talk about it. I don’t altogether understand. Other -people--they must explain. I’ve been--no, not deceived--but kept in the -dark. But be sure of one thing, yesterday was the end of it. They’ll -never--no one that I have any power over--will ever make you such -offers again. I’ll promise you that. I don’t know how it could have -happened. There’s been a mistake, a horrible, unforgivable mistake. -You’ve been wronged and insulted, and I’m sorry, sorry and humiliated -and ashamed. There are no words----” - -She stopped again with a gesture of helpless indignation and disgust, -and rose to her feet. Berny, through the darkness of her stunned -astonishment, realized that she was shaken by feelings she could not -express. - -“You didn’t know anything about it then?” the wife said sullenly, -wanting still to be defiant and finding all her defiance overwhelmed by -an invading sensation of feeling small, mean and contemptible. - -“Know it?” said the girl, letting a glance of scorn touch the -questioner. “Know it and let it go on? But I suppose you’ve a right to -ask me such a question.” - -“I guess I have,” said Berny, but her voice did not have any assurance -of her conviction on the subject. It sounded flat and spiritless. - -“You have. You seem to me to have a right to say anything savage and -angry and insulting. And I can only say to you I’m sorry, I’m sorry, -and I ask your pardon--for me and for the others. And that doesn’t make -it any easier for you to bear, or do you any good.” - -Berny swallowed dryly and said, - -“No, it doesn’t.” - -“All I can do now is to promise you that it stops to-day and for ever. -You’ll never be bothered again by anything of the kind. You can go back -to your home and feel that never again will any one belonging to me try -to come between you and your husband. I can’t say any more. I can’t -talk about it. Good-by.” - -She turned away as she spoke and without a backward look walked rapidly -down the gravel walk to the street. With an immovable, unwinking gaze, -Berny followed her figure as it melted into the fog. It seemed only a -moment before it was gone, appearing to dissolve into the curd-like -currents that surrounded it. - -Berny sat without moving on the bench, staring in the direction in -which it had disappeared. Her hands lay limp in her lap, the fog beaded -in a crystal hoar on her clothes. She did not notice its growing chill -nor the rapid downcoming of the dark. Her body was as motionless as a -statue, but her mind was like a still, rankly-overgrown lake, suddenly -churned into activity by unexpected gales of wind. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - -THE WALL ACROSS THE WAY - - -It was dark when Rose reached home. She had walked rapidly, -mechanically taking familiar turns, cresting the long slope of the hill -at a panting speed, rounding corners where gushes of light revealed her -as a dark, flitting figure hurrying by almost at a run. - -She was as oblivious to her surroundings as Berny, left motionless on -the park bench. Never before in her life had anything like this touched -her. Such few troubles as she had known had been those of a sheltered -domestic life--the life of a cherished child whose dainty self-respect -had never been blurred by a coarse breath. Now had come this horrible -revelation. It shook the pretty world she had lived in like an -earthquake. Idols lay broken in the dust. She had often seen her father -rough and brutal as he was to Gene, but that was a different thing to -her father’s buying that wretched woman’s husband, buying him for her. -Berny’s face rose upon the darkness with its pitiful assumption of -jaunty bravado, its mean shrewishness under the coating of powder and -rouge. - -“How could they do it?” the girl panted to herself. “How could they -ever do such a thing?” - -She did not suspect Dominick. She could not have believed he was party -to such an action unless he had told her so with his own lips. As she -hurried on the thought that this was the woman he had bound himself to -for the rest of his life mingled with the other more poignantly-hateful -thoughts, with a last sickening sense of wretchedness. The sudden, -aghast consciousness of chaos, of an abrupt demolishing of the -pleasant, familiar settings of a life that never comes to some, came to -Rose that evening as she ran home through the fog. - -She entered the house noiselessly and sped up to her room. It was time -to dress for dinner, and an old woman-servant who had once been her -nurse was waiting to help her. The mistress and maid were on terms of -affectionate intimacy and the progress of the toilet was generally -enlivened by gossip and laughter. To-night the girl was singularly -silent, responding with monosyllables and sometimes not at all to -the remarks of her assistant. As the woman drew the fastenings of -the dress together, she could feel that the body the gown clipped so -closely quivered, like the casing of machinery, vibrating to powerful -concussions within. - -The silence that continued to hold her throughout dinner passed -unnoticed, as Gene was there and enlivened the passage of the meal by -contributing an almost unbroken stream of talk. The night before he had -been to a play, the plot of which, and its development in four acts, he -now related with a fullness of detail which testified to the closeness -of his attention and the accuracy of his memory. As each course was -removed from the table, and the young man could once more give his -undivided attention to the matter of discourse, he leaned back in his -chair and took up the dropped thread with a fresh zest and some such -remarks as: - -“In the beginning of the next act, the hero comes in with his hat on, -and first he says”--and so on. - -With each of these renewals of the narrative the Bonanza King subsided -against his chair-back in a limp attitude, staring with gloomy fixity -at his boy, and expelling his breath in a long audible rush of air, -which was sometimes a sigh and sometimes approached the proportions of -a groan. - -At the end of dinner, when Gene announced his intention of leaving as -he was to attend a vaudeville performance, the old man began to show -signs of reviving animation, going so far as politely to ask his son -where he was going and with whom. His manner was marked by a warm, -hearty encouragement, as he said, - -“Get the whole vaudeville program down by heart, Gene, and you can tell -it to us to-morrow night. There’ll be about twelve parts to it, and -Rose can order two extra courses for dinner, and we might hire some men -with stringed instruments for an accompaniment.” - -Gene, with innocent good-humor, responded gaily. - -“All right, father, I’ll give it my best attention, and if there’s -anything especially good, I’ll report to you. You and Rose might like -to go some night.” - -His father, disappointed that his shaft had made no impression upon the -young man’s invulnerable amiability, emitted a scornful snort, and made -no further response to Gene’s cheery “Good night.” - -“There,” he said, in tones expressing his relief, as the portière -dropped behind his son’s departing figure, “he’s gone! Now, Rosey, you -and I can have a talk.” - -“Yes,” said his daughter, looking at her coffee-cup, “that’s what I -wanted. I want to have a long talk with you to-night, papa.” - -“Fire away,” said the old man. “I’ve had to listen to that fool for an -hour, and it’s broken my spirit. You can say anything you like.” - -“Not here,” said his daughter; “in the sitting-room. I’ll go in there -and wait for you.” - -“Why not here? What’s the matter with here? I like it better than the -sitting-room. I’m more comfortable.” - -“No, the servants will want to clear the things away, and I don’t want -them to hear what I say.” - -“Tell the servants to go to hell,” said the old man, who, relieved by -Gene’s departure, was becoming more cheerful. - -“No, this is something--something serious. I’ll go into the -sitting-room and wait for you. When you’ve finished your coffee, come -in.” - -She rose from her chair and walked to the door. He noticed that she was -unusually unsmiling and it occurred to him that she had been so all -through dinner. - -“What is it, honey,” he said, extending his hand toward her, “short on -your allowance?” - -“Oh, no, it’s just--just something,” she said, lifting the portière. -“Come when you’re ready, I’ll be there.” - -She walked up the hall to the sitting-room and there sat down in a low -chair before the chimneypiece. The chill of the fog had penetrated -the house and a fire had been kindled in the grate. On its quivering -fluctuation of flame she fixed her eyes. With her hands pressed between -her knees she sat immovable, thinking of what she was going to say, and -so nervous that the blood sang in her ears and the palms of her hands, -clasped tight together, were damp. She had never in her life shrunk so -before an allotted task. It sickened her and she was determined to -do it, to thresh it out to the end. When she heard her father’s step -in the passage her heart began to beat like a woman’s waiting for her -lover. She straightened herself and drew an inspiration from the bottom -of her lungs to try to give herself breath wherewith to speak. - -The old man flung himself into an arm-chair at one side of the -fireplace, jerked a small table to his elbow, reached creakingly for an -ash tray, and, having made himself comfortable, took his cigar from his -mouth and said, - -“Well, let’s hear about this serious matter that’s making you look like -a tragedy queen.” - -“It _is_ serious,” she said slowly. “It’s something that you won’t like -to hear about.” - -“Hit me with it,” he said, wondering a little what it could be. “Gene’s -gone and a child could eat out of my hand now.” - -Looking into the fire, Rose said, - -“I was out walking this afternoon and down in the Union Street plaza -a woman stopped me. I’d never seen her before. She was Mrs. Dominick -Ryan.” - -The old man’s face became a study. A certain whimsical tenderness that -was generally in it when he spoke to his daughter vanished as if by -magic. It was as if a light had gone out. He continued to look at her -with something of blankness in his countenance, as if, for the first -moment of shock, every faculty was held in suspense, waiting for the -next words. He held his cigar, nipped between a pair of stumpy fingers, -out away from him over the arm of the chair. - -“Well,” he said quietly, “and what had she to say to you?” - -“The most disagreeable things I think any one ever said to me in my -life. If they’re true, they’re just too dreadful----” she stopped, -balking from the final disclosure. - -“Suppose you tell me what they were?” he said with the same almost -hushed quietness. - -“She said that you and Mrs. Ryan were offering her money--a good -deal of money, three hundred thousand dollars was the amount, I -think--to leave her husband so that he could get a divorce from her, -and then--” she swallowed as if to swallow down this last unbearable -indignity,--“and then be free to marry me.” - -So Berny had told all. If deep, unspoken curses could have killed her, -she would have died that moment. - -“Is it true?” Rose asked. - -“Well, yes,” said the old man in a perfectly natural tone of dubious -consideration, “it’s a fairly accurate statement.” - -“Oh, papa,” cried his daughter, “how could you have done it? How could -you have done such a thing? Such a hateful, horrible thing.” - -“Horrible thing?” he repeated with an air of almost naïve astonishment. -“What’s horrible about it?” - -“You know. I don’t have to tell you; you know. Don’t say to me that you -don’t think it’s horrible. Don’t make me feel as if we were suddenly -thousands of miles apart.” - -The Bonanza King knew that in many matters, in most matters involving -questions of ethics, they were more thousands of miles apart than she -even now suspected. That was one of the reasons why he would have liked -to kill Berny, who, for the first time, had brought this dissimilarity -in their points of view to his daughter’s unwilling consideration. He -spoke slowly and vaguely to gain time. He knew it was a critical moment -in the relations between himself and the one creature in the world he -loved. - -“I don’t want you to feel that way, dearie,” he said easily. “Maybe -there are things in this matter you don’t know about or understand. -And, anyway, what’s there so horrible in trying to separate a man and -woman who are unhappily married and can’t bear the sight of each other?” - -“You were separating them for me,” she said in a low voice. - -“Well, now,” he answered with a slight rocking movement of his -shoulders and a manner of almost bluff deprecation, “I can say that I -wasn’t, but suppose I was?” - -She paid no attention to the last part of the sentence, and replied, - -“The woman said you were.” - -He did not answer for a minute, the truth being that he did not know -what it was best to say, and wanted to wait and let her make statements -that he could either contradict or seek to justify. - -“What made you think I wanted to marry Dominick Ryan?” she said slowly, -her eyes on the fire. - -This was a question that went to the core of the subject. He knew -now that he could not put her off, or slip from the responsibilities -of the occasion. Drawing himself to the edge of his chair, he leaned -forward and spoke with a sincerity and feeling that made his words very -impressive. - -“One evening when I was at Antelope, I came into the sitting-room and -saw my daughter in the arms of Dominick Ryan. I knew that my girl -wasn’t the woman to let a man do that unless she loved him. That was -how I came to know.” - -“Oh,” said Rose in a faint tone. - -“Afterward I heard from Dominick of what his marriage was. I heard from -his mother, too. Then I saw his wife and I got a better idea from her -what it was than I did from either of the others. That fellow, the man -my daughter cared for, was tied up in a marriage that was hell. He was -bound to a woman who could only be managed with a club, and Dominick -was not the kind that uses a club to a woman. What liking he’d had for -her was gone. She stuck to him like a barnacle because she wanted to -get money, was ready to hang on, feet and hands, till Delia Ryan was -dead and then put up a claim for a share of the estate. Do you think a -man’s doing such a horrible thing to break up a marriage like that?” - -“Yes,” said Rose, “I do. It was a marriage. They’d taken each other -for better or for worse. They’d made the most solemn promises to each -other. Neither you nor any one else had a right to interfere.” - -She spoke with a hard determination, with something of an inflexible, -unrelenting positiveness, that was very unusual in her, which surprised -and, for the moment, silenced her father. It rose from a source of -conviction deeper than the surface emotions of likes and dislikes, of -loves and hates, of personal satisfactions and disappointments. At the -core of her being, with roots extending through all the ramifications -of her mental and moral nature, was a belief in the inviolability of -the marriage tie. It was a conviction founded on neither tradition, -nor reason, nor expediency, a thing of impulse, of sex, an hereditary -instinct inherited from generations of virtuous women, who, in the -days of their defenselessness, as in the days of their supremacy, -knew that the most sacred possessions of their lives--their husbands, -their children, their homes--rested on its stability. All the small, -individual preoccupations of her love for Dominick, her pity for his -sufferings, were swept aside by this greater feeling that she did not -understand or reason about. She obeyed an instinct, elemental as the -instinct of motherhood, when she refused to admit his right to break -the bond he had contracted. - -Her father stared at her for the moment, chilled by a sense of -unfamiliarity in her sudden assumption of an attitude of challenge -and authority. He had often heard her inveigh against the divorces so -lightly obtained in the world about them. He had thought it one of -those pretty ornamental prejudices of hers, that so gracefully adorned -her youth and that he liked her to have when they did not interfere -with anything of importance. Now, set up like a barrier in the path, he -stopped before this one particular prejudice, perplexed at its sudden -intrusion, unwilling to believe that it was not a frail, temporary -obstruction to be put gently aside. - -“Now listen, honey,” said he persuasively, “that’s all very well. I’ve -got no right to interfere, and neither, we’ll admit, has anybody. -But sometimes you have to push away these little rights and polite -customs. They’re very nice for every-day use, but they’re not for big -occasions. I suppose the Good Samaritan didn’t really have any right -to stop and bind up the wounds of the man he found by the wayside. But -I guess the feller he bound up was almighty glad that the Samaritan -didn’t have such a respect for etiquette and wait till he’d found -somebody to introduce them.” - -“Oh, papa, that was different. Don’t confuse me and make me seem -a fool. I can’t talk like you. I can’t express it all clearly and -shortly. I only know it’s wrong; it’s a sin. I wouldn’t marry Dominick -Ryan if he was divorced that way if it killed me to give him up.” - -“So if the woman voluntarily took the money and went away and got -Dominick to grant her the divorce, Dominick being, as we know, a man of -good record and spotless honor, you’d refuse to marry him?” - -“I would, certainly I would. It would be perfectly impossible for me to -marry him under those circumstances. I should consider I was committing -a sin, a particularly horrible and unforgivable sin.” - -“See here now, Rosey, just listen to me for a minute. Do you know what -Dominick Ryan’s marriage is? I don’t suppose you do. But you do know -that he married his mistress, a woman who lived with him eight months -before he made her his wife. She wasn’t an innocent young girl by any -means. She knew all right where she was going. She established that -relation with him with the intention of marrying him. She’s a darned -smart woman, and a darned unscrupulous one. That’s not the kind of -woman a man feels any particular respect for, or that a girl like you’d -give a lot of sympathy to, is it?” - -“I don’t see that that would make any difference,” she said. “I’m not -thinking of her character, I’m thinking of her rights.” - -“And don’t her character and her rights sort of dovetail into each -other?” - -“No, I don’t see that they do. The law’s above the character or the -person. It’s the law, without any question of the man or the woman.” - -“Oh Rosey, dear, you’re talking like a book, not like a girl who’s got -to live in a world with ordinary people in modern times. This woman, -that you’re arguing about as if she was the mother of the Gracchi, -hasn’t got any more morality or principle than you could put on the -point of a pin.” - -“She’s been quite good and proper since her marriage.” - -“Well, now, let’s leave her and look at Dominick’s side. He marries her -honorably and lives with her for nearly three years. Every semblance -of affection that he had for her gets rubbed off in those three years, -every illusion goes. He’s tied to a woman that he can’t stand. He went -up to Antelope that time because they’d had some sort of a scrap and -he felt he couldn’t breathe in the same house with her. He told me -himself that they’d not lived as man and wife for nearly a year. Now, I -don’t know what you’re going to say, but _I_ think to keep on living in -_that_ state is all wrong. I’ll borrow your expression, I think it’s a -sin.” - -She answered doggedly: - -“It’s awful, but she’s his wife. Oh, if you’d seen her face when she -talked to me, her thin, mean, common face, all painted and powdered and -so miserable!” - -He thought she was wavering, that he saw in this unreasonable, -illogical dodging of the point at issue a sign of defeat, and he pushed -his advantage. - -“And you--a girl of heart and feeling like you--would condemn that man -and woman to go on living that lie, that useless, purposeless lie? I -can’t understand it. What good comes of it? What’s the necessity for -it? Do you realize what a man Dominick might be if he was married to -the right woman, and had a decent home where he could live like a -Christian? Why, he’d be a different creature. He’d have a future. He’d -make his place in the community. All the world would be before him, and -he’d mount up to where he belongs. And what is he now? Nothing. All the -best in him’s paralyzed by this hell of a box he’s got himself into. -The man’s just withering up with despair.” - -It was almost too much. For a moment she did not answer, then said in a -small voice like a child’s, - -“You’re making this very hard for me, papa.” - -“My God, Rosey!” he cried, exasperated, “you’re making it hard for -yourself. It’s you with your cast-iron prejudices, and your obstinacy, -who are making it hard.” - -“Well, I’ve got them,” she said, rising to her feet. “I’ve got them, -and they’ll stay with me till I die. Nothing’s going to change me in -this. I can’t argue and reason about them. They’re part of me.” - -She approached the mantelpiece, and, leaning a hand on it, looked down -at the fire. The light gilded the front of her dress and played on her -face, down-drooped and full of stern decision. - -“It’s quite true,” she said slowly, “that I love Dominick. I love him -with the best I’ve got. It’s true that I would like to be his wife. It -would be a wonderful happiness. But I can’t have it, and so there’s no -good thinking about it, or trying to bring it about. It can’t be, and -we--you too, papa--must give it up.” - -He pressed himself back in his chair, looking at her with lowering, -somber disapprobation--a look he had seldom had cause to level at his -daughter. - -“So you’re going to condemn this poor devil, who loves you and whom you -say you love, to a future that’s going to kill any hope in him? You’re -going to say to him, ‘You can be free, and make something of your life, -and have the woman you want for your wife, but _I_ forbid all that, and -I’m going to send you back to prison.’ I can’t seem to believe that -it’s my Rosey who’s saying that, and who’s so hard and inhuman.” - -Rose turned from the fire. He noted an expression almost of austerity -on her face that was as new to him as the revelation of obstinacy and -indifference to his will she had shown to-night. - -“Papa, you don’t understand what I feel. It’s not what you want, or -what I want, or what Dominick wants. It’s not what’s going to please -us and make us comfortable and happy. It’s something that’s much more -important than that. I can’t make Dominick happy and let him make his -life a success at the expense of that woman. I can’t take him out -of prison, as you call it, because he’s got a responsibility in the -prison, that he voluntarily took on himself, and that he’s got to stand -by. A man can’t stay by his marriage only as long as it’s pleasant. He -can’t throw down the woman he’s made his wife just because he finds he -doesn’t like her. If she’s been disagreeable that’s a misfortune, but -it doesn’t liberate him from the promises he’s made.” - -“Then you think when a man like Dominick Ryan, hardly more than a boy, -makes a mistake that ruins his life, he’s got to stay by it?” - -“Yes, he must. He’s given a solemn promise. He must keep it. Mistake or -sin doesn’t matter.” - -The old man was silent. He had presented his case as strongly and -persuasively as he knew how, and he had lost it. There was no longer -any use in arguing with that unshakable feminine obstinacy, rooted, -not in reason but in something rock-like, off which the arguments of -reason harmlessly glanced. He had a dim, realizing sense that at the -bottom of the woman’s illogical, whim-driven nature, there was that -indestructible foundation of blind, governing instincts, and that in -them lay her power. - -“I guess that lets me out,” he said, turning to knock off the long ash -on his cigar. “I guess there’s no use, Rosey, for you and me to try to -come to an agreement on this matter.” - -“No, there isn’t. And don’t let’s talk about it any more.” She turned -from the fire and came toward him. “But you must promise me one -thing--that that woman is to be let alone, that no one--you or any one -you have any control over--makes any more offers of money to her.” - -She came to a stand beside his chair. He wanted to hold out his hand to -her as was his custom when she stood near him, but he was afraid that -she might not take it. - -“Yes, I can promise that,” he said. “I’ll not offer her any more money. -I don’t want to see her again, God knows.” - -It was an easier promise to make than Rose guessed. The old man, under -an air of mild concurrence in her demands, experienced a sensation of -cynical amusement at the thought that the first move for a reopening of -negotiations must come from Berny. - -“Oh, yes, I’ll promise that,” he said amicably. “You needn’t be afraid -that I’m going to go on offering her a fortune. The thing’s been done, -the woman’s refused it, and there it stands. I’ve no desire to open it -again.” - -She leaned down to take his hand. He relinquished it to her with an -immense lightening of his heart, and peace fell on him as he felt her -rub her cheek against his knuckles. - -“So you’re not mad at the old man, after all?” he said almost shyly. - -“No,” she murmured, “not at _him_. I was angry at what he was doing.” - -It was a subtly feminine way of getting round the delicate points -of the situation--that inconsistently feminine way which separates -judgment of the individual from judgment of his acts. But it relieved -the Bonanza King of the heaviest weight that had lain upon him for many -years, and, for once, he gave thanks for the irrationalness of women. - -“Well, good-night, honey,” he said, “no matter what crazy notions -you’ve got you’re the old man’s girl all right.” - -She kissed him. - -“And you won’t forget your promise?” she murmured. - -“Of course not,” he said stoutly, not sure just what she was alluding -to. “Any promise I make to you stands put till the Day of Judgment. -Good night.” - -When she left him, he lit another cigar, sank lower in his chair and -stared at the fire. - -It was a deadlock. In his helplessness, the enraged helplessness of the -man who had ridden triumphantly over all obstacles that fate had set -in his path, his prevailing thought was how much he would like to kill -Berny. She had done all this. This viper of a woman, the kind to tread -on if she raised her head, had baffled and beaten them all. He could -not murder her, but he thought with grim lips of how he could crush and -grind her down and let her feel how heavy Bill Cannon’s hand could be. - -It seemed for the moment as if everything were over. They had reached -a place where a blank wall stretched across the road. Berny’s refusing -the money had been a serious obstacle, but not an unconquerable one. -Rose to-night had given the whole plot its death blow. With lowering -brows he puffed at his cigar, groping in his mind for some way that -might yet be tried. He could not brook the thought of defeat. And yet -the more he meditated the more impregnable and unscalable appeared the -wall that stretched across the way. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - -FRIEND OR FOE - - -For some time after Rose had left her, Berny remained on the bench, not -moving, her glance resting on that part of the path whence the young -girl’s figure had faded from view. - -The night slowly deepened, impregnating the gray atmosphere with -a velvety depth of shadow that oozed through it like an infusion -of a darker, denser element. Lights came out. First sporadically, -here and there blooming through the opaque dusk, not suddenly, but -with an effect of gradualness, as though the air was so thick it -took some time to break through it. Then came more. Rows of windows -appeared in long, magnified sputters. All round the plaza there was a -suggestion of effaced brightness, as of a painting which had once been -sharply outlined and brilliant but was now rubbed into a formless, -impressionist study of shadows and undefined, yellow blurs. The golden -halos of lamps blotted the dark at intervals, and now and then the -figures, which had occupied the benches, passed into the circles of -vaporous illumination, and passed out of them, as if they had been -crossing the stage of a theater. - -Berny did not move and did not notice the increasing chill of the -hour or the moisture beading on her clothes like wintry rime. She was -sunk in an abyss of thought, a suspended trance of contemplation, of -receptivity to new ideas. In one hour her basic estimate of human -nature, her accepted measurement of motives and standards, had been -suddenly upset. Her point of view was like a kaleidoscope, which is -unexpectedly turned. Sitting motionless on the bench she saw the -familiar aspect of life fallen into new shapes, taking on alien forms. - -She realized that Dominick had never been happy with her, and, for -the first time, she understood the gulf between them. She saw what -the life was that he had wanted to lead, and that he could have led -with the other woman. It would have been that very form of existence -which Berny had always derided, and thought an outward expression of -the inward dullness of people who had children, looked shabby, and did -not care for money. Now she felt unsure as to whether her scorn of it -was not foolish and unenlightened. As in a sudden forward shoot of a -search-light, she saw them--Dominick and Rose--happy in a way she had -never dreamed of being happy, in a world so far from hers that she had -never before had a clear look at it, a man and woman concentrated upon -the piece of life that belonged to them, living passionately for each -other, indifferent to all that seemed to her of value. - -She brought her mental vision back from this upon herself and felt -shaken and slightly sick. Seeing beyond the circle of her own -experience and sensation for the first time, she would have said to -any companion who might have shared her thoughts, “No wonder Dominick -didn’t get on with me!” For a dispassionately-contemplative moment she -saw herself in Dominick’s eyes; she saw their married life as it had -been to him. She felt sorry for both of them--for him in his forced -acquiescence with the conditions around him, for herself because of her -ignorance of all he had wanted and expected. - -“I couldn’t be any different,” she whispered to herself, “that’s the -way I am.” - -She never could be any different. She was one kind of woman and Rose -Cannon was another, and Dominick belonged to Rose Cannon’s kind. She -did not know that it was so much better than her kind but it was -different. They made her feel like an outsider in a distant world, and -the feeling gave her a sensation of deadly depression. The burning heat -of resentment that had made her speak to Rose was gone. All the burning -heats and angers of the last two months seemed to belong to the past. -An icy, nostalgic ache of loneliness had hold of her. The accustomed -sense of intimacy and warm, enjoying interest in the world--what we -mean when we talk of “living”--had been completely drawn out of her. - -The cold, biting in to her marrow, at last woke her to a realization of -her surroundings, and she sat upright, looking blinkingly to the right -and left. The half-lit plaza lay like a lake of shadow surrounded by a -circlet of light and girdled by noise. It was like the brightness and -animation of the world flowing round her but not touching her, as she -sat alone in the darkness. - -She rose suddenly, determined to escape from her gloomy thoughts, and -walked toward the upper end of the square, directing her steps to the -Spanish and Italian section of the city which is called the Latin -Quarter. She walked slowly, not knowing where to go, only determined -that she would not go home. She thought for a moment of her sisters’, -where she could have dinner and find the cheer of congenial society. -But on consideration she felt that this, too, was more than she could -just now bear. They would torment her with questions and she felt in no -mood to put them off or to be confidential. Finally she remembered a -Mexican restaurant, to visit which had at one time been a fashion. She -had been there with Hazel and Josh, and once in a party with some of -the bank people. She knew where the place was and felt that she could -dine there with no fear of encountering any one she knew. - -With an objective point in view, her step gained decision, and she -moved forward briskly, leaving the plaza and plunging into the -congeries of picturesque streets which harbor a swarming foreign -population. The lights of shops and open stalls fell out into the -fog, transforming it into thick, churning currents of smoky pallor. -Wet walls and sidewalks showed a gold veneer, and lingering drops, -trembling on cornices, hung like tiny globes of thin yellow glass. - -People and things looked magnified and sometimes horrible seen through -this mysterious, obscuring medium. Once behind a pane of glass she -saw lines of detached, staring eyes, fastened glaringly on her as she -advanced. It was the display in an optician’s show-window, where glass -eyes were disposed in fanciful lines, like a decoration. She looked at -them askance, feeling that there was something sinister in their wide, -unwinking scrutiny. She hurried by the market stalls, where the shawled -figures of women stood huddled round the butcher’s block. They looked -as if they might be grouped round a point of interest, bending to stare -at something lying there, something dreadful, like a corpse, Berny -thought. - -When she saw the Mexican restaurant she felt relieved. The strange -atmospheric conditions seemed to have played upon her nerves and she -was glad to get somewhere where she could find warmth and light and -people. The place, a little shabby house dating from the era of the -projecting shingle roof and encircling balcony, stood on a corner with -windows on two streets. It was built upon a slope so sharp that the -balcony, which in front skirted the second story, in the back was on -a level with the sidewalk. The bright light of gas-jets, under shades -of fluted white china, fell over the contents of the show-window. They -were not attractive. A dish of old and shriveled oranges stood between -a plate of tamales and another of red and green peppers. There were -many flies in the window, and, chilled by the cold, they stood along -the inside of the glass in a state of torpor. - -Berny pushed open the door and entered. The front part of the place was -used as a grocery store and had a short counter at one side, behind -which stood shelves piled high with the wares demanded by the Mexican -and Spanish population. Back of this were the tables of the restaurant. -The powerful, aromatic odors of the groceries blended with the even -more powerful ones of the Mexican menu. The room was close and hot. In -a corner, his back braced against the wall, a Spaniard, with inky hair -and a large expanse of white shirt bosom, was languidly picking at a -guitar. - -Berny knew that there was an inner sanctum for the guests that -preferred more secluded quarters, and walked past the counter and -between the tables. An arched opening connected with this room. -Coarse, dirty, lace curtains hung in the archway and, looped back -against gilt hooks, left a space through which a glimpse of the -interior was vouchsafed to the diners without. It was smaller than the -restaurant proper, and was fitted up with an attempt at elegance. Lace -curtains--also coarse and dirty--veiled the windows, and two large -mirrors, with tarnished and fly-spotted gilt frames, hung on the wall -opposite the entrance. - -Just now it was sparsely patronized. In one corner two women in -mourning and a child were sitting. They glanced at Berny with languid -curiosity and then resumed a loud and voluble conversation in -Spanish. A party of three Jews, an over-dressed woman and two young -men--evidently visitors from another part of town--sat near them. On -the opposite side there was no one. Berny slipped noiselessly into a -chair at the corner table, her back against the partition that shut -off the rest of the dining-room. She felt sheltered in this unoccupied -angle, despite the fact that the mirror hanging opposite gave a -reflection of her to any one standing in the archway. - -The cloth was dirty and here and there showed a hole. Her ineradicable -fastidiousness was strong in her even at this hour, when everything -that was a manifestation of her own personality seemed weak and -devitalized. She was disgustedly clearing away the crumbs of the last -occupant with daintily-brushing movements of her finger-tips, when the -waiter drew up beside her and demanded her order. It was part of this -weird evening, when natural surroundings seemed to combine with her own -overwrought condition to create an effect of strangeness and terror, -that the waiter should have been an old, shriveled man of shabby and -dejected mien, with a defect in one eye, which rendered it abnormally -large and prominent under a drooping, reddened lid. In order to see -well it was necessary for him to hold his head at a certain angle and -bring the eye, staring with alarming wildness, upon the object of his -attention. His aspect added still further to Berny’s dissatisfaction. -She resolved to eat little and leave the place as soon as possible. - -When her soup came, a thin yellow liquid in which dark bits of leaves -and herbs floated, she tasted it hesitatingly, and, after a mouthful or -two, put down her spoon and leaned back against the wall. She felt very -tired and incapable of any more concentration of mind. Her thoughts -seemed to float, disconnectedly and indifferently, this way and that, -like a cobweb stirred by air currents and half held by a restraining -thread. To her dulled sense of observation the laughter of the Jewish -party came mingled with the tinkling of the guitar outside, and the -loud, continuous talk from the Spanish women in the corner. - -The waiter brought fish--a fried smelt--and she roused herself and -picked up her fork. She did not notice that a man was standing near her -in the archway, the edge of the lace curtain in his hand, looking about -the room. He threw a side glance at her which swept her shoulders, her -hat, and her down-bent profile, and looked away. Then, as if something -in this glimpse had suddenly touched a spring of curiosity, he looked -back again. His second survey was longer. The glance he bent upon her -was sharp and grew in intensity. He made no attempt to enter or to move -nearer her, but any one watching him would have seen that his interest -increased with the prolongation of his scrutiny. - -As if afraid of being observed he cast a quick surreptitious look over -the room, which in its circuit crossed the mirror. Here, reflected -from a different point of view, Berny was shown in full face, her -eyes lowered, her hands moving over her plate. The man scanned the -reflection with immovable intentness. Berny laid down her fork and -pushed the fish away with a petulant movement, and the watcher drew -back behind the lace curtain. Through its meshes he continued to stare -at the mirror, his lips tightly shut, his face becoming rigid in the -fixity of his observation. - -The waiter entered, his arms piled with dishes, and she made a -beckoning gesture to him. He answered with a jerk of his head, and, -going to the table where the Spanish women sat, unloaded his cargo -there, as he set it out exchanging remarks with the women in their own -language and showing no haste to answer Berny’s summons. She moved -in her chair and muttered angrily. The man behind the lace curtain -advanced his head and through the interstices of the drapery tried to -look directly at her. In this position he could only catch a glimpse of -her, but he saw her hand stretched forward to take one of the red beans -from the glass saucer in the middle of the table. It was an elegant -hand, the skin smooth and white, the fingers covered with rings. She -again beckoned, this time peremptorily, and the waiter came. The -listener could hear her voice distinctly as he watched her reflection -in the glass. - -“Why didn’t you come when I beckoned?” she said sharply. - -“Because I had other people to wait on,” said the waiter with equal -asperity. “They was here before you.” - -“What’s the matter with the dinner to-night? It’s all bad.” - -“I ain’t cooked it,” retorted the man, growing red with indignation, -his swollen eye glaring fiercely at her. “And no one else’s complained. -I guess it’s what’s the matter with you?” - -Berny made an angry movement--sometimes alluded to as “flouncing”--and -turned her head away from him. - -“Get me an enchilada,” she said peremptorily, “and after that some -frijoles. I don’t want anything else.” - -The waiter moved away and the man behind the curtain, as if satisfied -by his long survey, also turned back into the general room. Close to -the opening there was an unoccupied table, and at this he sat down, -laid his hat on the chair beside him, and unfastened his coat. To the -servant who came for his order, he asked for a cup of black coffee and -a liqueur glass of brandy. He also requested an evening paper. With the -sheet open before him he sat sipping the coffee, the slightest noise -from the inner room causing him to start and lift the paper before his -face. - -He sat thus for some fifteen minutes. The Spanish women and the child -emerged from the archway and left the restaurant, and a few moments -later he heard the scraping of chair legs and Berny’s voice as she -asked for her bill. He lifted the paper and appeared buried in its -contents, not moving as Berny brushed back the lace curtain and passed -him. Her eyes absently fell on him and she had a vague impression of -the dark dome of a head emerging from above the opened sheets of the -journal. As she rustled by he lowered the paper and followed her with -a keen watchful glance. He did not move till the street door closed -behind her, when he threw the paper aside, snatched up his hat and -flicked a silver dollar on to the cloth. - -“No change,” he said to the waiter, who came forward. - -The surprised servant, unaccustomed to such tips, stared astonished -after him as he hurried down the passage between the tables, quickly -opened the door and disappeared into the darkness of the street. - -Berny was only a few rods away, moving forward with a slow, loitering -step. It was an easy night to follow without being observed. Walking at -a prudent distance behind her, he kept her in sight as she passed from -the smaller streets of the Latin Quarter into the glare and discord -of the more populous highways, along Kearney Street, past the lower -boundary of Portsmouth Square. He noticed that she walked without -haste, now and then glancing at a window or a passer-by. She was like a -person who has no objective point in view, or at least is in no hurry -to reach it. - -But this did not seem to be the case, for when she reached the square -she took her stand on the corner where the Sacramento Street cars -stop. The man drew back into a doorway opposite. They were the only -passengers who boarded the car at that corner, Berny entering the -closed interior, the man taking a seat on the outside. He had it -to himself here, and chose the end seat by the window. Muttering -imprecations at the cold, he turned up his overcoat collar and drew -his soft felt hat down over his ears. By turning his head he could -see between the bars that cross the end windows, the interior of the -car shining with light, its polished yellow woodwork throwing back -the white glare of the electricity. There were only three passengers, -two depressed-looking women in dingy black, and Berny on a line with -himself in the corner by the door. He could see her even better here -than in the restaurant. She sat, a small dark figure, pressed into -the angle of the seat, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes down. -Her hat cast a shadow over the upper part of her face, and below this -the end of her nose, her mouth and chin were revealed as pale and -sharply-cut as an ivory carving. She seemed to be sunk in thought and -sat motionless; the half of her face he could see, looking very white -against her black fur collar. - -He was furtively surveying her, when she started, glanced out of the -window and signed to the conductor to stop. The man on the front -dropped to the ground and stole lightly round the car, so that its -moving body hid him from her. Emptiness and silence held the street, -and he could easily follow her as she walked upward along the damp and -deserted sidewalk. Halfway up the block a building larger than those -surrounding it rose into the night. A mounting file of bay-windows -broke its façade, and, a few steps above the level of the pavement, -a line of doors with numbers showing black on illuminated transoms -revealed it to the man opposite as a flat building. Here Berny stopped -and without hesitation, evidently as one who was familiar with the -place, mounted the steps and walked to the last of the doors. - -The man, with soft and careful footsteps, crossed the street. As he -drew nearer he saw that she was not using a latch-key, but was waiting -to be admitted, leaning as if tired against the wall. He had reached -the sidewalk when the door opened, vouchsafing him a bright, unimpeded -view of a long flight of stairs carpeted in green. Berny entered and -for a moment, before the door closed, he saw her mounting the stairs. -She had not asked for any one, or indeed made a sound of greeting or -inquiry. She was therefore either expected or an habitué of the place. -When the door was shut he, too, mounted the porch steps and read the -number on the transom. He whispered it over several times, the light -falling out on his thin, aquiline face with a sweep of dark hair -drooping downward toward his collar. - -Satisfied with his investigation, he left the porch and walked rapidly -down the street to the corner. Here there was a lamp, and halting -under its light he drew from his pocket a leather wallet and took -therefrom Dominick Ryan’s card with an address written on it. The -penciled numbers were the same as those on the door he had just left, -and he stood looking fixedly at the card, an expression of excitement -and exultation growing on his face. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - -THE ACTOR’S STORY - - -The afternoon of the next day Dominick came home earlier than usual. -His New York friend, who was en route to Japan, had but a couple of -days in San Francisco, and again claimed his company for dinner. The -theater was to follow and Dominick had come home to change his clothes, -and incidentally either to see Berny and explain his absence or to -leave a message for her with the Chinaman. - -He felt rather guilty where she was concerned. He had seen nothing -of her for two days. The only time they met was in the evening after -business hours, the only meal they took together was dinner. With every -spark of affection dead between them, their married life the hollowest -sham, she had so long and so sternly trained him to be considerate of -her and keep her on his mind, that he still instinctively followed the -acquired habit of thinking of her comfort and arranging for it. He knew -she would be annoyed at the two lonely dinners, and hoped to see her -before he left and suggest to her that she telephone for one of her -sisters to join her. - -The flat was very quiet when he entered, and after looking into one or -two rooms for her he called the Chinaman, who said Mrs. Ryan had gone -out early in the afternoon, leaving no message except that she would be -home to dinner. Dominick nodded a dismissal and walked into the den. -He carried the evening papers in his hand, and looking at the clock he -saw that he had an hour before it would be necessary for him to dress -and leave the house. Berny would undoubtedly be home before then; she -was rarely out after six. Meantime, the thought that she was not in -and that he could read the papers in unmolested, uninterrupted silence -caused a slight sense of relief to lighten the weight that was now -always with him. - -He had hardly opened the first sheet when a ring at the bell dispelled -his hopes. It was one of his wife’s habits never to carry a latch-key, -which she looked upon as a symbol of that bourgeois, middle-class -helpfulness that she had shaken off with her other working-girl manners -and customs. Dominick dropped the paper, waiting for her entrance, and -framing the words with which he would acquaint her with the fact that -he was to be absent again. Instead, however, of the rustle of feminine -skirts, he heard the Chinaman’s padding steps, and the servant entered -and presented him with a card. Traced on it in a sprawling handwriting -was the name “James Defay Buford.” Dominick remembered his invitation -to the man to call, and realized that this probably was the only time -that the actor could conveniently do so. There was an hour yet before -dinner would be served, and turning to the servant Dominick told him to -show the gentleman up. - -A moment later, Buford entered, smiling, almost patronizingly urbane -and benign. He was dressed with a rich and careful elegance which gave -him a somewhat dandified air. After bestowing upon Dominick greetings -that sounded as unctuous as a benediction, he took his seat at the -end of the cozy corner facing the door which led into the hall. From -here he looked at the young man with a close, attentive scrutiny, very -friendly and yet holding, under its enfolding blandness, something of -absence, of inattention, as though his mind were not in the intimate -customary connection with the words that issued from his lips. This -suggestion of absence deepened, showed more plainly in an eye that -wandered to the door, or, as Dominick spoke, fell to the carpet and -remained there, hidden by a down-drawn bush of eyebrow. Dominick was -in the middle of a query as to the continued success of the “Klondike -Monologue” when the actor raised his head and said politely, but with -a politeness that contained a note of haste and eagerness beneath it, - -“Is Madame at home?” - -“No, she’s not at home,” said Madame’s husband. “But she may be in any -moment now. She generally goes out for the afternoon and gets back -about this time.” - -“Perhaps you can tell me,” said Buford, looking sidewise at his gloves -and cane as they lay on the end of the divan, “who--you’ll pardon my -seeming curiosity, but I’ll explain it presently--who was the lady that -came in here last night at about half-past seven?” - -He looked up and Dominick was suddenly aware that his face was charged -with the tensest, the most vital interest. Thrust forward, it showed a -hungriness of anticipation that was almost passionate. The young man -was not only surprised at the expression but at the question. - -“I haven’t an idea,” he said. “I wasn’t home to dinner last night, and -didn’t get in till late. Why do you want to know?” - -“For many reasons, or for one, perhaps--for one exceedingly important -reason.” - -He paused, his eyes again turned slantingly on the stick and gloves, -his lips tight-pressed, one against the other. - -“How did you know any woman came in here last night at that hour? Did -you come up to call?” asked Dominick. - -“No--no--” the other spoke with quick impatience evidently from the -surface of his mind, “no, it was--at first, anyway--purely accidental. -I saw the woman--and--and--afterward I saw her enter here. Mr. Ryan,” -he said suddenly, looking at his vis-à-vis with piercing directness and -speaking with an intensity of urgency that was almost a command, “can -you give me half an hour of your time and your full attention? I want -to speak to you of a matter, that to me, at least, is of great--the -greatest--importance. You can help me; at least you can, I hope, throw -some light on what is a dark subject. Have I your permission to talk -freely to you, freely and at length?” - -Dominick, who was beginning to feel as if he were in a play, and was -exceedingly surprised and intrigued, nodded, remarking, - -“Why, certainly, go on. If I can be of any help to you or explain -anything for you, nothing would give me greater pleasure. Let me hear -what it is.” - -The actor dropped his glance to the floor for what seemed an -anxiously-considering moment, then he raised his head and, looking -directly at his host, said, - -“You may remember that, while at Antelope, I once spoke to you of -having been married--of having, in fact, been unfortunate enough to -lose my wife.” - -Dominick remembered, but it seemed imperfectly, for he said in a -doubtful tone, which had more than a suggestion of questioning, - -“She--er--she died?” - -“No,” said the other, “she did not die. I lost her in a way that I -think was more painful than death. She left me, voluntarily, of her own -free will.” - -“Oh, of course,” said the young man hastily. “I remember perfectly, one -day by the sitting-room fire. I remember it all as clearly as possible -now.” - -“That was the time--the only time I mentioned the subject to you. On -another occasion I spoke to that lovely and agreeable young lady, Miss -Cannon, on the matter, and told her more fully of my domestic sorrows. -But to you I made but that one allusion. May I now, more at length, -tell you of the misfortunes--I may say tragedy--of my married life?” - -Dominick, mystified, nodded his head. He could not imagine why Buford -should come to him at this particular moment and in this particularly -theatrical manner with the history of his domestic troubles. But he -was undeniably interested, and feeling himself more than ever like a -character in a play, said, - -“Go on. Tell me anything you like. And if in any way I can be of use to -you, I’ll be only too happy to do it.” - -Looking at the carpet, a heat of inward excitement showing through the -professional pomposity of his manner, Buford began slowly and solemnly: - -“I’ll go back to seven years ago, when I was in Chicago. Previous to -that, Mr. Ryan, I will tell you in confidence I had been a preacher, a -Methodist, of good reputation, though, I am fain to confess, of small -standing in the church. I left that esteemed body as I felt there -were certain tenets of the faith I could not hold to. I am nothing -if not honest, and I was too honest to preach doctrines with all of -which I could not agree. I left the church as a pastor though I have -never deserted it as a disciple, and have striven to live up to its -standards.” - -He paused, and Dominick, feeling that he spoke sincerely, said, - -“That was the only thing to do.” - -“So it seemed to me. I left the town where I was living and moved -to Chicago where, through the influences of a friend, I obtained a -position in a school of acting and elocution. I instructed the pupils -in voice production. You may have noticed that I have an unusually deep -and resonant voice. Through that, I obtained this work and received -the stipend of thirty-five dollars a week. It was fairly good pay, the -hours were not too long, there was no demand made of a sacrifice of -conscience, and I confess that I felt much freer and more contented -than I had in the church. - -“It was at this stage of my career that I met the lady who became -my wife. We lived at the same boarding-house--Mrs. Heeney’s, a most -elegant, well-kept place, and Mrs. Heeney a lovely woman of one of -the best southern families. It was at her table that I met the girl -who was destined to have such a fatal influence on my life. She was a -stenographer and typewriter in one of the largest firms in the city, -earning her twenty dollars a week, as she was an expert and not to -be beaten in the state. She was very pretty, the brunette type of -beauty, black-eyed, and as smart as a steel trap. She was as dainty as -a pink, always well-dressed and up-to-date, never anything sloppy or -slouchy about her. Ask her to go to the theater and there wouldn’t be -a woman in the house who could beat her for looks and style. Besides -that, she was a fine conversationalist, could talk as easily as a book -on any subject. If I brought her a novel, she’d read it and have the -whole plot at her finger-ends, and be able to talk it all over, have -her own opinions about every character. Oh, she was an accomplished, -fascinating woman, if I say it myself! Any man might have taken to her. -She was for ever telling me about California, and how she wanted to get -back there--” - -“California?” interrupted Dominick. “Did she come from California?” - -“From here--from San Francisco. She was a native daughter of the state -and the town. I was interested in California myself at that time, -though I’d never seen it, and we’d talk of that and other things till, -bit by bit, we drifted nearer and nearer together and the day came when -we were engaged. I thought that was the happiest day of my life, and it -would have been if she’d stayed true to her promises.” - -The clock struck the single silvery note of the half-hour and Dominick -heard it. He was interested in the story, but he had only another -half-hour to give, and said as Buford paused, - -“Go on. It’s very interesting. Don’t stop.” - -“The first step in our married life that seemed to me strange, that -cast, not what you’d call a cloud, but a shadow, over my happiness, -was that she insisted on keeping the marriage secret. She had several -reasons, all of which seemed good and sufficient to her. She said her -people would not like her marrying a stranger away from home, and that -they’d cut up very ugly when they heard it. Her principal reason, and -the only one that seemed to me to have any force, was that she feared -she’d lose her job. She had it on good authority that the firm where -she worked wouldn’t employ married women, and if they knew she’d got -a husband who was making a fair salary, they’d give her the sack. -Whether it was for all the reasons together, or for just this one I -don’t know, but she’d only marry me if I’d solemnly promise to keep -the matter secret. I’d have promised her anything. She’d out and out -bewitched me. - -“So we were married and went to housekeeping in a little flat in a -suburb. We had our mail sent to our old address at Mrs. Heeney’s. She -was in our secret, the only person who was. We had to let her know -because of the letters, and inquiries that might have been made for -us from time to time. We were married in the winter, and that winter -was the happiest time of my life. I’ll never forget it. That little -flat, and that little black-eyed woman,--they were just Paradise and -the angel in it for me. Not but what she had her faults; she was -hot-tempered, quick to flare up, and sharp with her tongue. But _I_ -never cared--just let her sputter and fizz till she’d worked it all -off and then I’d take things up where they were before the eruption -began. It was a happy time--a man in love and a woman that keeps him -loving--you can’t beat it this side of Heaven.” - -Dominick made no answer. The actor for a moment was silent and then -with a sigh went on. - -“I suppose it was too good to last. Anyway, it ended. We’d lived that -way for six months when in the beginning of June the Dramatic School -failed and I lost my job. It came on us with almost no warning, and it -sort of knocked us out for a bit. _I_ wasn’t as upset by it as Mrs. -Carter was, but she--” - -“Who’s Mrs. Carter?” said Dominick. - -“My wife. That’s my name, Junius Carter. Of course the name I use on -the stage is not my own. I took that in the Klondike, made it up from -my mother’s and the name of a pard I had who died. Well, as I was -saying, Mrs. Carter took it hard. She couldn’t seem to get reconciled -to it. I tried to brace her up and told her it would only be temporary, -and I’d get another place soon, but she was terribly upset. We’d lived -well, not saved a cent, furnished the flat nicely and kept a servant. -There was nothing for it but to live on what she made. It was hard on -her, but I’ve often thought she might have been easier on me. I didn’t -_want_ to be idle or eat the bread she paid for, the Lord knows! I -tried hard enough to get work. I tramped those streets in sun and rain -till the shoes were falling off my feet. But the times were hard, money -was tight, and good jobs were not to be had for the asking. One of the -worst features of the case was that I hadn’t any regular line of work -or profession. The kind of thing I’d been doing don’t fit a man for any -kind of job. If I couldn’t do my own kind of stunt I’d have to be just -a general handy-man or stevedore, and I’m not what you’d call rugged. - -“It was an awful summer! The heat was fierce. Our little flat was -like an oven and, after my long day’s tramp after work, I used to go -home just dead beat and lie on the lounge and not say a word. My wife -was worn out. She wasn’t accustomed to warm weather, and that and the -worry and the hard work sort of wore on her, and there were evenings -when she’d slash round so with her tongue that I’d get up, half-dead -as I was, and go out and sit on the door-step till she’d gone to bed. -I’m not blaming her. She had enough to try her. Working at her machine -all day in that weather would wear anybody’s temper to a frazzle. But -she said some things to me that bit pretty deep. It seemed impossible -it could be the same woman I’d got to know so well at Mrs. Heeney’s. -We were both just about used up, thin as fiddle-strings, and like -fiddle-strings ready to snap at a touch. Seems queer to think that -thirty-five dollars a week could make such a difference! With it we -were in Paradise; without it we were as near the other place as people -can get, I guess. - -“Well, it was too much for her. She was one of those women who can’t -stand hardships and she couldn’t make out in the position she was -in. Love wasn’t enough for her, there had to be luxury and comfort, -too. One day I came home and she was gone. No,” in answer to a look -of inquiry on Dominick’s face, “there was no other man. She wasn’t -that kind, always as straight as a string. No, she just couldn’t stand -the grind any longer. She left a letter in which she said some pretty -hard things to me, but I’ve tried to forget and not bear malice. It -was a woman half crazy with heat and nerves and overwork that wrote -them. The gist of it was that she’d gone back to California, to her -sisters who lived there, and she was not coming back. She didn’t like -it,--marriage, or me, or Chicago. She was just going to throw the whole -business overboard. She told me if I followed her, or tried to hold -her, she’d disappear, hinted that she’d kill herself. That was enough -for me. God knows if she didn’t want me I wasn’t going to force myself -upon her. And, anyway, she knew fast enough I couldn’t follow her. -I hadn’t money to have my shoes patched, much less buy a ticket to -California. - -“After that there were some dark days for me. Deserted, with no money, -with no work, and no prospects--I tell you that’s the time the iron -goes down into a man’s soul. I didn’t know what was going to become of -me, and I didn’t care. One day on the street I met an old chum of mine, -a fellow called Defay, that I hadn’t seen for years. He was going to -the Klondike, and when he heard my hard-luck story, he proposed to me -to join forces and go along with him. I jumped at it, anything to get -away from that town and state that was haunted with memories of her. - -“It was just the beginning of the gold rush and we went up there and -stayed for two years. Defay was one of the finest men I ever knew. -Life’s all extremes and contrasts; there’s a sort of balance to it if -you come to look close into it. I’d had an experience with the kind of -woman that breaks a man’s heart as you might a pipe-stem, then I ran -up against the kind of man that gives you back your belief in human -nature. He died of typhoid a year and a half after we got there. I had -it first and nearly died; in fact, the rumor went out that it was I -that was dead and not Defay. As I changed my name and went on the stage -soon afterward, it was natural enough for people to say Junius Carter -was dead. - -“I was pretty near starving when I drifted on the stage. I had learned -some conjuring tricks, and that and my voice took me there. I just -about made a living for a year, and then I floated back down here. -I never played in San Francisco till now. I acted on the western -circuits, used to go as far East as Denver and Kansas City, and then -swing round the circle through the northwestern cities and Salt Lake. I -managed to make a living and no more. I was cast in parts that didn’t -suit me. The ‘Klondike Monologue’ was the first thing I did that was in -my line.” - -“Did you never see or hear of your wife?” - -“Not a word. I didn’t know whether she was dead or living till last -night.” - -Buford raised his eyes and looked piercingly into the young man’s face. -Dominick forgot the time, his engagement, Berny’s anticipated entrance. -He drew himself up in his chair and said in a loud, astonished voice, - -“Last night? Then the woman you saw here last night was your _wife_?” - -The actor gravely inclined his head. - -“I saw my wife,” he said solemnly, “last night at Deledda’s restaurant. -It was entirely by accident. I liked the Mexican cooking and had been -more than once to that place. Last night I was about to enter the -back part of the restaurant when I saw her sitting there alone in the -corner. For a moment I could not believe my eyes. I got behind a lace -curtain and watched her. She was changed but it was she. I heard her -speak to the waiter and if I’d never seen her face I’d have known the -voice among a thousand. She’d grown stouter and I think even prettier, -and she looked as if she were prosperous. She was well-dressed and her -hands were covered with rings. When she went out I followed her and she -came straight here from the restaurant and rang the bell and came in.” - -“Are you sure she didn’t go into one of the other flats? There are four -in the building.” - -“No, she came in here. I compared the number on the transom with the -address you’d given me on the card.” - -“What an extraordinary thing!” said Dominick. “It’s evidently some one -my wife knows who came to see her that evening, probably to keep her -company while I was out. But I can’t think who it could be.” - -He tried to run over in his mind which one of Berny’s acquaintances the -description might fit and could think of no one. Probably it was some -friend of her working-girl days, who had dropped out of her life and -now, guided by Fate had unexpectedly reappeared. - -“It’s certainly a remarkable coincidence,” he went on, “that she should -have come to this flat, one of the few places in the city where you -know the people. If she’d gone to any of the others----” - -A ring at the bell stopped him. - -“There!” he said, “that’s Mrs. Ryan. Now we’ll hear who it was.” - -For a moment they both sat silent, listening, the actor with his face -looking sharp and pale in the suspense of the moment, the muscles of -his lean cheeks working. The rustle of Berny’s dress sounded from the -stairway and grew in volume as she slowly ascended. The two men rose to -their feet. - -“Come in the den for a moment, Berny,” Dominick called. “There’s a -gentleman here who wants to see you.” - -The rustle advanced up the hall, and the portière was drawn back. -Bernice, brilliantly dressed, a mauve orchid pinned on her bosom, stood -in the aperture, smiling. - -Buford’s back was against the light, and, for the first moment she -only saw him as a tall masculine outline and her smile was frank and -natural. But he saw her plain as a picture and before Dominick could -frame the words of introduction, started forward, crying, - -“Bernice Iverson!” - -She drew back as if struck and made a movement to drag the portière -over her. Her face went white to the lips, the patches of rouge -standing out on her cheeks like rose-leaves pasted on the sickly skin. - -“Who--who’s that?” she stammered, turning a wild eye on Dominick. - -“Mr. Ryan,” the actor cried, beside himself with excitement, “_this_ -is my wife! This is the woman I’ve been talking of! Bernice, don’t you -know me? Junius Carter?” - -“He’s crazy,” she faltered, her lips so loose and tremulous they could -hardly form the words. “I never saw him before. I don’t know what he’s -talking about. Who’s Junius Carter?” - -“This is my wife, Mr. Buford,” said Dominick, who had been staring from -one to the other in blank astonishment. “We’ve been married nearly -three years. I don’t understand----” - -“It’s Bernice Iverson, the girl I married in Chicago, that I’ve -just been telling you about, that I saw last night at the Mexican -restaurant. Why, she can’t deny it. She can’t look at me and say she -doesn’t know me--Junius Carter, the man she married in the Methodist -chapel, seven years ago, in Chicago. Bernice----” - -He approached her and she shrank back. - -“Keep away from me,” she cried hoarsely, stretching out a trembling -hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re crazy. Junius -Carter’s dead--” then suddenly turning on Dominick with a blazing look -of fury--“It’s you that have done this! It’s you, you snake! I’ll be -even with you yet!” - -She tore herself out of the folds of the portière which she had -clutched to her and rushed into the hall and into her own room. The -banging of the door behind her shook the house. - -The two men stood as she had left them, staring at each other, not -knowing what to say, speechless and aghast. - -[Illustration: “Mr. Ryan,” the actor cried, “_this_ is my wife” - _Page 463_] - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - -THE LAST INTERVIEW - - -The night was falling when Buford left. He and Dominick had sat on in -the den, talking together in low voices, going over past events in the -concatenation of circumstances that had led up to the extraordinary -situation in which they now found themselves. Both listened with -strained ears for the opening of Bernice’s door, but not a sound came -from her room. Each silently, without expressing his thoughts to the -other, wondered what she would do, what sensational move might now be -expected of her. While they talked, it was evident she intended to make -no sign of life. - -After Buford had left, Dominick called up his friend on the telephone -telling him that he would be unable to meet him at dinner. He knew that -Berny could hear every word he uttered, and with indescribable dread -he expected that she would open her door and accost him. But again she -preserved an inviolate invisibility, though beneath her portal he could -see a crack of light and could hear her moving about in the room. - -He went into his own room, lit the gas, and began packing his trunks. -He was dazed and stupefied by what had occurred, and almost the only -clearly-defined idea he had was to leave the house and get far from the -presence of the woman who had so ruthlessly poisoned his life. He was -in the midst of his packing when the Chinaman summoned him to dinner, -but he told the man he cared for nothing and would want no breakfast -on the following morning. The servant, who by this time was well aware -that the household was a strange one, shrugged his shoulders without -comment and passed on to the door of his mistress’ room, upon which he -knocked with the low, deferential rap of the Chinese domestic. Berny’s -voice sounded shrilly, through the silence of the flat: - -“Go away! Let me alone! If that’s dinner I don’t want any.” - -The sound of her voice pierced Dominick with a sense of loathing -and horror. He stopped in his packing, suddenly deciding to leave -everything and go, go from the house and from her as soon as he could -get away. He thrust into a valise such articles as he would want for -the night and set the bag by the stair-head while he went into the -parlor to find some bills and letters of his that he remembered to -have left in the desk. As he passed Berny’s door, it flew open and she -appeared in the aperture. The room behind her was a blaze of light, -every gas-jet lit and pouring a flood of radiance over the clothes -outspread on the bed, the chairs, and the floor. She, herself, in a -lace-trimmed petticoat and loose silk dressing-sack, stood in the -doorway staring at Dominick, her face pinched, white, and fierce. - -“What are you doing?” she said abruptly. “Going away?” - -“Yes,” he answered, stopping at the sight of the dreaded apparition. -“That’s my intention.” - -“Where are you going?” she demanded. - -He gave her a cold look and made no answer. - -“Are you going to your mother’s?” she cried. - -He moved forward toward the parlor door and she came out into the -passage, looking after him and repeating with a tremulous, hoarse -persistence, “Dominick, answer me. Are you going to your mother’s?” - -“Yes, I am,” he said over his shoulder. - -He had an unutterable dread that she would begin to speak of the -situation, of Buford, of her past life; that she would try to explain -and exonerate herself and they would be plunged into a long and -profitless discussion of all the sickening, irremediable wretchedness -of the past. He could not bear the thought of it; he would have -done anything to avoid it. He wanted to escape from her, from the -house where she had tortured him, where he seemed to have laid down -his manhood, his honor, his faith, and seen her trample on them. -The natural supposition that he would want to confront her with her -deception and hear her explanation was the last thing he desired doing. - -“Don’t go to your mother’s,” she cried, following him up the hall, “for -to-night, Dominick, please. And don’t tell her. I beg, I pray of you, -don’t tell her till to-morrow.” - -Her manner was so pleadingly, so imploringly insistent, that he turned -and looked somberly at her. She was evidently deeply in earnest, her -face lined with anxiety. - -“This is the last thing I’ll ever ask of you. I know I’ve got no right -to ask anything, but you’re generous, you’ve been kind to me in the -past, and it’ll not cost you much to be kind just once again. Go to a -hotel, or the club, or anywhere you like, but not to your mother’s and -don’t tell her till to-morrow afternoon.” - -He stared at her without speaking, wishing she would be silent and -leave him. - -“I’ll not trouble you after to-morrow. I’ll go, I’ll get out. You’ll -never be bothered by me any more.” - -“All right,” he said, “I’ll go to the club. Let me alone, that’s all, -and let me go.” - -“And--and,” she persisted, “you won’t tell her till to-morrow, -to-morrow afternoon?” - -He had entered the parlor in which the Chinaman had lit the lamps, -and opening the desk began hunting for his papers. To her last words -he returned no answer, and she crept in after him and stood in the -doorway, leaning against the woodwork of the door-frame. - -“You won’t tell her till to-morrow--to-morrow, say, after three?” - -He found the letters and drew them out of their pigeonhole. - -“All right,” he almost shouted. “I won’t tell her. But, for God’s sake, -leave me alone and let me go. If you keep on following me round this -way I won’t answer for what I’ll do.” - -“You promise then,” she said, ignoring his heat. “You promise you’ll -not tell her till after three?” - -He turned from the desk, gave her a look of restrained passion, and -said, “I promise,” then passed by her as she stood in the doorway and -walked to the stair-head. Here his valise stood, and snatching it up he -ran down the stairs and out of the house. - -Bernice, hearing the door shut, returned to her room and went on with -the work of sorting her wardrobe and packing her trunks. She did it -deliberately and carefully, looking over each garment, and folding the -choicer articles between sheets of tissue paper. At midnight she had -not yet finished, and under the blaze of the gases, looking very tired, -she went on smoothing skirts and pinching up the lace on bodices as she -laid them tenderly on the trays that stood on the bed, the table, and -the sofa. The night was far spent before everything was arranged to her -satisfaction and she went to bed. - -She was up betimes in the morning. Eight o’clock had not struck -when she was making a last tour of the parlor, picking up small -articles of silver and glass that she crowded down into cracks in the -tightly-packed trunks. At breakfast the Chinaman, an oblique, observant -eye on her, asked her what he should prepare for lunch. Conscious -that if she told him she would not be back he might become alarmed at -the general desertion and demand his wages, she ordered an even more -elaborate menu than usual, telling him she would bring home a friend. - -She breakfasted in her wrapper and after the meal finished her toilet -with the extremest solicitude. Never had she taken more pains with -herself. Though anxiety and strain had thinned and sharpened her, the -fever of excitement which burnt in her temporarily repaired these -ravages. Her eyes were brilliant without artificial aid; her cheeks -a hot dry crimson that needed no rouge. The innate practicality of -her character asserted itself even in this harassed hour. Last night -she had put the purple orchid in a glass of water on the bureau. -Now, as she pinned it on her breast, she congratulated herself for -her foresight, the pale lavender petals of the rare blossom toning -altogether harmoniously with her dress of dark purple cloth. - -Before she left the room she locked the trunks and left beside them a -dress suit-case packed for a journey. Standing in the doorway she took -a hurried look about the apartment--a last, farewell survey, not of -sentiment but of investigation, to see if she had forgotten anything. A -silver photograph frame set in rhinestones caught her eye and she went -back and took it up, weighing it uncertainly in her hand. Some of the -rhinestones had fallen out, and she finally decided it was not worth -while opening the trunks to put in such a damaged article. - -It was only a quarter past nine when she emerged from the flat. She -took the down-town car and twenty minutes later was mounting the -steps to Bill Cannon’s office. She had been motionless and rigidly -preoccupied on the car, but, as she approached the office, a change was -visible in her gait and mien. She moved with a light, perky assurance, -a motion as of a delicate, triumphant buoyancy seeming to impart itself -to her whole body from her shoulders to her feet. A slight, mild smile -settled on her lips, suggesting gaiety tempered with good humor. Her -eye was charged with the same expression rendered more piquant by a -gleam--the merest suggestion--of coquettish challenge. - -The Bonanza King was already in his office. The same obsequious clerk -who had shown her in on a former occasion took her card in to the inner -sanctum where the great man, even at this early hour, was shut away -with the business which occupied his crowded days. In a moment the -young man returned smiling and quite as murmurously polite as he had -been on her former visit, and Berny was once again ushered into the -presence of the enemy. - -The old man had read the name on the card with a lowering glance. His -command to admit the visitor had been hardly more than an inarticulate -growl which the well-trained clerk understood, as those about deaf -mutes can read their half-made signs. Cannon was not entirely surprised -at her reappearance, and mingled feelings stirred in him as he turned -his swivel chair away from the table, and sat hunched in it, his elbows -on its arms, his hands clasped over his stomach. - -She came in with an effect of dash, confidence, and brilliancy that -astonished him. He had expected her almost to sidle in in obvious, -guilty fear of him, her resistance broken, humbly coming to sue for -the money. Instead, a rustling, scented apparition appeared in the -doorway, more gracious, handsome, and smiling than he had ever thought -she could be. She stood for a moment, as if waiting for his invitation -to enter, the whole effect of her rich costume, her feverishly high -coloring, and her debonair and self-confident demeanor, surprising -him into silence. A long white feather on her hat made a background -for her darkly-flushed face and auburn hair. There were some amethysts -round her neck, their purple lights harmonizing richly with the superb -flower pinned on her breast. Her eyes looked very black, laughing, and -provocative through her spotted veil. - -“Well,” she said in a gay voice, “here I am again! Is it a surprise?” - -She advanced into the room, and the old man, almost unconsciously, rose -from his chair. - -“Yes, sort of,” he said dryly. - -She stopped by the desk, looked at him sidewise, and said, - -“Do we shake hands?” - -His glance on her was hard and cold. Berny met it and could not -restrain a sinking of the courage that was her most admirable -characteristic and that she had screwed far past its ordinary -sticking-point that morning. She sank down into the same arm-chair that -she had occupied on her former visit and said, with a little languid -effect of indifference, - -“Oh, well, never mind. We don’t have to waste time being polite. That’s -one of the most convenient things about our interviews. We just say -what we really think and there’s no need bothering about humbug.” - -“So glad to hear it,” said the old man with his most ironical air. -“Suppose then you let me know what you’ve come down to say.” - -“Can’t you guess?” she answered, with an expression that was almost one -of flirtatious interrogation. - -“Nup,” he answered, looking steadily at her. “I have to have it said in -that plain style with no politeness that you say is the way we always -talk.” - -“All right,” she answered briskly. “Here it is as plain as A B C. I’ve -decided to accept your offer and take the money.” - -She looked up at him, smiling gallantly. But as her eye caught his her -smile, try as she would to keep it, died. He suddenly realized that she -was extremely nervous, that her lips were dry, and the hand she put up -to adjust her veil, and thus hide her intractable mouth, was shaking. -The admiration he had of late felt for her insolent fearlessness -increased, also he began to feel that now, at last, he was rising to -the position of master of the situation. He leaned back in the swivel -chair and glowered at her. - -“You know,” he said slowly, “you’ve a gall that beats anything I’ve -ever seen. Two days ago you busted this business higher than a kite by -stopping my daughter on the public street and telling her the whole -story. You did the one thing you knew I’d never forgive; and you ended -the affair, hammered the nails in its coffin and buried it. Now you -come flourishing into my office as if nothing had happened and say -you’ll take the money. It beats me how you’ve got the nerve to dare to -show your face in here.” - -Berny listened with the hand holding the veil pressed against her mouth -and her eyes staring over it. - -“It’s all straight enough,” she burst out, “what you say about telling -your daughter. I did it and I was crazy. I’ll admit that. But you’ll -have to admit on your side that it was pretty rough the way I was -treated here, ordered out like a peddler. I was sore, and it was you -that made me so. And I’ll not deny that I wanted to hit you back. But -you brought it on yourself. And, anyway, what does it matter if I go? -Maybe your daughter’s mad and disgusted now, but women don’t stay that -way for ever. If I get out, drop out of sight, the way I intend to do, -give Dominick his freedom, isn’t she going to forget all about what I -said? Wouldn’t any woman?” - -The Bonanza King made no answer. He had no intention of talking with -this objectionable woman about his daughter. But in his heart hope -sprang at the words. They were an echo of his own desires and opinions. -If this woman took the money and went, would not Rose, in the course of -time, relent in her attitude of iron disapproval, and smile on the man -she loved? Could any woman hold out for ever in such a position? - -“See here,” Berny went on, “I’ll leave a statement. I’ll put it in your -hands that I changed my mind and voluntarily left. I’ll draw it up -before a notary if you want. And it’s true. She needn’t think that I’m -being forced out to make a place for her. I’m glad to go.” - -She had leaned nearer to him from the chair, one finger tapping the -corner of the desk to emphasize her words. Scrutinizing her as she -spoke, he became more than ever impressed with the conviction that she -was held in a tremor of febrile excitement. Her voice had an under note -of vibration in it, like the voice of one who breathes quickly. The -orchid on her breast trembled with the trembling of her frame. - -“Look here,” he said quietly, “I want to understand this thing. What’s -made you change your mind so suddenly? A few days ago you were all up -on fiddle-strings at the suggestion of taking that money. Here, this -morning, in you pop, and you’re all of a tremble to get it. What’s the -meaning of it?” - -“I can’t stand it any more,” she said. “When you said I couldn’t the -other day, that I’d break down, you were right. I can’t stand it. -Nobody could. It’s broken me to pieces. I want to get away from it all. -I want to go somewhere where I’m at peace, where the people don’t hate -me and hound me----” - -Her voice suddenly grew hoarse and she stopped. He looked at her in -surprise. She bent her face down, biting her under lip, and picked -tremulously at the leaves of the purple orchid as if arranging them. - -“You’ve beaten me,” she said in a suddenly strangled voice, “you’ve -beaten me. I can’t fight any longer. Give me some money and let me go. -I’m beaten.” - -She lowered her head still farther and burst into tears. So unexpected -were they that she had no preparations for them. Her handkerchief -was in the bead purse that hung on her wrist, and, blinded by tears, -she could not find the clasp. Her fumbling hand tried for a possible -reserve supply in her belt, and then in despair went up to her face and -lifted her veil trying to brush away the falling drops. The Bonanza -King stared at her amazed, as much surprised as if he had seen a man -weep. Finally he felt in his own pocket, produced a crisply-laundered -square of white linen and handed it to her, observing soothingly, - -“Here, take mine. You’re all broke up, aren’t you?” - -She seized his offering and mopped her cheeks with it, sniffing and -gasping, while he watched her in genuine solicitude. - -“What’s wore you down to this state?” he said. “You’re the nerviest -woman I ever saw.” - -“It’s--it’s--all this thing,” she answered in a stifled voice. “I’m -just worn out. I haven’t slept for nights,”--a memory of those -miserable nights of perturbation and uncertainty swept over her and -submerged her in a wave of self-pity. The tears gushed out again, and -she held the old man’s large handkerchief against her eyes, uttering -small, sobbing noises, sunk in abandoned despondence in the hollow of -the chair. - -The Bonanza King was moved. The facile tears of women did not affect -him, but the tears of this bold, hard, unbreakable creature, whom -he had regarded only as an antagonist to be vanquished, stirred -him to a sort of abashed sympathy. There was something singularly -pathetic about the completeness of her breakdown. She, who had been so -audacious an adversary, now in all her crumpled finery weeping into his -handkerchief, was so entirely and utterly a feeble, crushable thing. - -“Come, brace up,” he said cheeringly. “We can’t do any talking while -you’re acting this way. What’s the proposition again?” - -“I want some money and I want to go.” She raised her head and lowered -the handkerchief, speaking with a strained, throaty insistence like a -child. “I can’t live here any more. I can’t bear it. It would give a -prize fighter nervous prostration. I can’t bear it.” Her voice grew -small and high. “Really I can’t,” she managed to articulate, and then -dissolved into another flood. - -The old man, high in his swivel chair, sat with his hands in his -pockets, his lips pursed and his eyes on the floor. Once or twice he -whirled the chair slightly from one side to the other. After a pause of -some minutes he said, - -“Are you prepared to agree to everything Mrs. Ryan and I demanded?” - -After the last outbreak she had completely abandoned herself to the -hysterical condition that was beyond her control. Now she made an -effort to recover herself, sat up, swallowing and gasping, while she -wiped her eyes. - -“I’m ready to do it all,” she sniffed, “only--only--” she paused on the -verge of another collapse, suppressed it, and said with some show of -returning animation, “only I must have some money now--a guarantee.” - -“Oh,” he said with the descending note of comprehension. “As I -remember, we agreed to pay you seven thousand dollars for the first -year, the year of desertion.” - -She lowered the handkerchief entirely, presenting to him a disfigured -face, all its good looks gone, but showing distinct signs of attention. - -“I don’t want the seven thousand. I’ll waive it. I want a sum down, a -guarantee, an advance. You offered me at first fifty thousand dollars. -Give me that down and I’ll go this afternoon.” - -“That wasn’t our original arrangement,” he said to gain time. - -“Deduct it from the rest. I must have it. I can’t go without it. If you -give me the check now I’ll leave for New York to-night.” - -Her reviving interest and force seemed to have quenched the sources of -her tears as suddenly as her exhausted nerves had made them flow. But -her disfigured face, her figure which seemed to have shrunken in its -fine clothes, were extremely pathetic. - -“If you don’t trust me send one of your clerks with me to buy my -ticket, send one to see me off. I’ve left my husband for good, for -ever. I can’t live here any longer. Give me the money and let me go.” - -“I don’t see that I’m going to have any security that you’re going to -carry out the whole plan. How do I know that you’re not going to New -York to have a good time and then, when you’ve spent the money, come -back here?” - -She sat up and sent a despairing look about the room as if in a wild -search for something that would convince him of her sincerity. - -“I _swear_, I _promise_,” she cried with almost frantic emphasis, “that -I’ll never come back. I’m going for good and I’m going to set Dominick -free. Oh, _do_ believe me. _Please._ I’m telling the truth.” - -He was impressed by her manner, as he had been by her tears. Something -undoubtedly had happened which had suddenly caused her to change her -mind and decide to leave her husband. He did not think that it was what -she had told him. Her excitement, her overwrought condition suggested -a cause less gradual, more like a shock. He ran over in his mind the -advantages of giving her the money. Nothing would be jeopardized by it. -It would simply be an advance made on the sum they had agreed upon. - -“Fifty thousand’s too much,” he said slowly. “But I’ll be square to you -and I’ll split the difference and give you twenty-five. I’ll give you -the check now and you can take it and go to-night.” - -She shook her head obstinately. - -“It won’t do,” she said. “What difference does it make to you whether -you give it to me now or next year? I’ll give you a receipt for it. -There won’t be any trouble about it. It’s as broad as it’s long. It’s -simply an advance on the main sum.” - -He looked moodily at her and then down. Her demand seemed reasonable -enough, but he distrusted her. - -“If you don’t believe me,” she insisted, “send out that clerk of yours -to buy my ticket to New York. Tell him to go up to the flat and he’ll -see my trunks all packed and ready. I tell you you’ve beaten me. You -and Mrs. Ryan are one too many for me.” - -He again looked at her, his lips pressed together, his eye coldly -considering. - -“I’ll give you thirty thousand dollars and it’s understood that you’re -to leave the city to-night.” - -She demurred, but with less show of vigor, and, for a space, they -haggled over the sum till they finally agreed upon thirty-five thousand -dollars. - -As the old man drew the check she watched him with avid eagerness, -restraining by force the hand that trembled in its anxiety to become -possessed of the slip of paper. He noticed, as she bent over the desk -to sign the receipt, that her fingers shook so they could hardly direct -the pen. She remarked it herself, setting it down to her upset nerves, -and laughing at the sprawling signature. - -With the check in her hand she rose, something of the airy buoyancy of -demeanor that had marked her on her entrance returning to her. - -“Well,” she said, opening her purse, “this is the real beginning of our -business relations. I feel as if we were partners.” - -The old man gave a short, dry laugh. He could not rid his mind of -suspicions of her and the whole proceeding, though he did not see just -how she could be deceiving him. - -“Wait till next year,” he said. “When I see the divorce papers I’ll -feel a lot surer of the partnership.” - -She snapped the clasp of her purse, laughing and moving to the door. -She was wild to get away, to escape from the dark room that held such -unpleasant memories, and the old man, whose steely penetrating eye, -fastened on her, was full of unsatisfied query. - -“Well, so long!” she cried, opening the door. “Next time we meet it -will be more sociable, I hope. We really ought to be old friends by -this time.” - -She hardly knew what she was saying, but she laughed with a natural -gaiety, and in the doorway turned and bowed her jaunty good-bys to -him. He stood back and nodded good-humoredly at her, his face showing -puzzlement under its slight, ironic smile. - -Once in the street her demeanor again changed. Her step became sharp -and quick, her expression keenly absorbed and concentrated. A clock -showed her that it was nearly half-past ten, and she walked, with a -speed that was as rapid a mode of progression as it could be without -attracting attention, to the great bank on which the check was drawn. -On the way down on the car she had thought out all her movements, just -what she would do, and where she would go. Her mind was as clear, her -movements as systematic as though she were moved by mechanism. - -She ran up the steps to the bank and presented the check at the paying -teller’s window. - -“In one-thousand dollar bills, if you please,” she said, trying not to -speak breathlessly, “all but five hundred, and you can give me that in -one-hundreds.” - -The man knew her, made some vaguely-polite remark, and took the slip -of paper back into unseen regions. Berny stood waiting, throbbing from -head to foot with excitement. She was not afraid they would refuse to -cash the check. Her sole fear was that Cannon, as soon as she was gone, -might have regretted his action and telephoned from his office to stop -the payment on it. She knew that once the money was hers he would not -make any attempt to get it back. His own reputation and that of his -daughter were too inextricably bound up with the transaction for him to -dare to apprehend or punish Berny for her deception. - -Her heart gave a wild leap as she saw the teller returning, and then -pause behind the netting of his golden cage while he counted out the -bills. She tried to speak lightly to him as he laid them one by one -on the glass slab. She was hardly conscious of what she said; all -she realized was that the crisp roll of paper in her fingers was her -possession, if not of great fortune, at least of something to stand -between her and the world. - -When she left the bank she walked forward slowly, the excitement which -had carried her on to this point having suddenly left her feeling weak -and tired. She entered the railway office and bought her ticket for -New York for that evening’s train. Then once more emerging into the -sunshine she directed her steps to the car which would take her to her -sisters. She had decided to spend her last day in San Francisco with -them. As the car whisked her up the hills she carefully pondered on how -much she would tell them, where truth was advisable and where fiction -would serve a better purpose. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - -THE STORM CENTER MOVES - - -As soon as Berny had left his office Bill Cannon wrote a note to -Mrs. Ryan, telling her of the interview he had just had with her -daughter-in-law. He did not mention the check, simply stating Berny’s -decision to accept their proposal and leave her husband. The matter was -of too intimate a nature to trust to the telephone and he sent the note -by one of his own clerks, who had instructions to wait for an answer, -as the old man did not know what Mrs. Ryan might already have heard -from Dominick. - -It threw its recipient into a state of agitated, quivering exultation. -Mrs. Ryan had heard nothing from her son, and her hopes of the -separation had sunk to the lowest ebb. Not so prudent as Cannon, she -called up Dominick at the bank, asking him if it were true that his -wife had left him, and beseeching him simply to tell her “yes” or “no.” -The young man, hampered by the publicity of his surroundings and his -promise to Berny, answered her with the utmost brevity, telling her -that there had been a change in his domestic life but that he could not -enter into details now. He begged her to ask him no further questions -as he would be at home at three o’clock that afternoon, when he would -explain the whole matter to her. - -She wrote this to the Bonanza King and sent it by his waiting -messenger. The old man felt relieved when he read the letter. He was -confident now that Berny had not deceived him. She had told the truth, -and was leaving the town and her husband, for what reason he could not -yet be sure, but there seemed no doubt that she was going. They would -ignore the subject before Rose, and, in the course of time, Dominick -would break down the unflinching resistance she had threatened to make -to his suit. The old man felt buoyant and exhilarated. It looked as if -things were at last going their way. - -He sent a message to Mrs. Ryan, asking her to let him know as soon as -possible what Dominick said, and waited in his office in a state of -tension very foreign to his usual iron stolidity. It was four o’clock -before word came from her in the form of a telephone message, demanding -his presence at her house at the earliest possible moment. He responded -to it at once, and in the sitting-room of the Ryan mansion heard from -Dominick’s own lips the story of his false and tragic marriage. - -The old man listened, unwinking, speechless, immovable. It was the one -thing he had never thought of, a solution of the situation that was as -completely unexpected to him as death would have been. He said nothing -to Dominick about the money he had given Berny, did not mention having -seen her. A sharp observer might have noticed that he looked a little -blank, that, the first shock of surprise over, there was a slight -expression of wandering attention in his eye, a suggestion of mental -faculties inwardly focusing on an unseen point, about his manner. - -He walked home, deeply thinking, abashed a little by the ease with -which Fate unties the knots that man’s clumsy fingers work over in -vain. And it was untied. They were free--the boy and girl he loved--to -realize his and their own dreams. It would need no years of wooing to -melt Rose from stony resistance. Nobody had been sacrificed. - -He felt a sense of gratitude toward Berny. Down in his heart he -was conscious of a stirring of something that was kindly, almost -affectionate, toward her. It did not require a great stretch of -imagination to see himself and her as two knowing, world-battered -rogues who had combined to let youth and innocence have their -happiness. He could almost feel the partnership with her she had spoken -of, a sort of bond of Masonic understanding, a kindred attitude in -matters of ethics. They had a mutually low estimate of human nature, -a bold, cool unscrupulousness, a daring courage that never faltered. -In fact, he was sorry he had not given Berny the whole fifty thousand -dollars. - -“She could have got it out of me,” he said to himself, pondering -pensively. “If she’d stuck out for it I’d have given it to her. And she -might just as well have had it.” - -That evening for the first time in nearly three years Dominick Ryan -dined with his mother in the great dining-room of the Ryan mansion. -Cornelia was out with Jack Duffy, so Mrs. Ryan had her boy all to -herself and she beamed and glowed and gloated on him as he sat opposite -her, the reddened light of the candles falling on his beloved, familiar -face. - -After dinner they went into the sitting-room, the sanctum with the -ebonized cherry furniture where the family always retired when -important matters were afoot. Here, side by side, they sat before the -fireplace with the portrait of the late Cornelius Ryan looking benignly -down on them. They did not talk much. The subject of the young man’s -marriage had been thoroughly gone over in the afternoon. Later on, his -mother would extract from him further particulars, till she would be as -conversant with that miserable chapter of his life as if she had lived -it herself. - -To-night they were both in the quiescent state that follows turmoil -and strife. They sat close together, staring into space, now and then -dropping one of the short disconnected sentences that indicate a fused, -understanding intimacy. The young man’s body was limp in his chair, his -mind lulled in the restorative lethargy, the suspension of activities, -that follows a struggle. His thoughts shrank shudderingly from the -past, and did not seek to penetrate the future. He rested in a torpor -of relief through which a dreamy sense of happiness came dimly, as if -in the faintest, most delicate whispers. - -His mother’s musings were definite and practical. She could now make -that settlement, share and share alike, on both children that she -had long desired--Cornelia’s would be a dowry on her wedding day and -Dominick’s--well, Dominick had had hard times enough. She would go down -to-morrow morning and see her lawyer about it. - -At the same hour, in the house of the other rich man, the Bonanza King, -having driven the servants from the room with violent words that did -not indicate bad humor so much as high spirits, told his daughter the -story. He told it shortly, hardly more than the main facts, and when it -was concluded, forbore to make comments or, in fact, to look at her. -It was a great deliverance, but he was not quite sure that his darling -would experience the frank, unadulterated joy that had possessed both -himself and Mrs. Ryan without restraining qualms. He did not know what -to say to Rose. There were mysterious complexities in her character -that made him decide to confine his statement to a recital of facts, -eliminating those candid expressions of feeling which he could permit -himself when talking to Mrs. Ryan or Berny. - -As soon as he had told it all he rose from his chair as if ending the -interview. His daughter rose too, pale and silent, and he put his arm -round her shoulders and pressed her against his chest in a good-night -hug. She kissed him and went up stairs to her own rooms, and he -returned to his arm-chair at the end of the dining-table. Here, as was -his wont, he sat smoking and pondering, turning over in his head the -various aspects of the curious story and its unexpected outcome. Once, -as the memory of Berny weeping into his handkerchief recurred to him, -he stirred uneasily and muttered to himself, - -“Why didn’t the damned fool stick out for the whole fifty thousand? I’d -have given it to her as soon as not.” - -Meantime the storm center, the focus round which the hopes and angers -and fears of this little group had circled, was speeding eastward in -the darkness of the early night. Berny sat in the corner of her section -with her luggage piled high on the seat before her, a pillow behind her -head. In the brightly clear light, intensified by reflections from -glazed woodwork and the surfaces of mirrors, she looked less haggard, -calmer and steadier, than she had looked for many weeks. Relief was at -her heart. Now that she had turned her back on it she realized how she -had hated it all--the flat, the isolation, the unsuccessful struggle, -Dominick and his superior ways. - -The excitement of change, the desire of the new, the unfamiliar, the -untried, which had taken her far afield once before, sang in her blood -and whispered its siren song in her ear. She had missed a fortune, but -still she had something. She was not plunging penniless into the great -outside world, and she pressed her hand against her chest where the -thirty-five thousand dollars was sewed into the lining of her bodice. -Thirty-five thousand dollars! It was a good deal if it wasn’t three -hundred thousand. - -As the train thundered on through the darkness she saw before her the -lights of great cities, and heard the call of liberty, the call of the -nomad and the social vagabond, the call of the noisy thoroughfare, of -the bright places, of the tumult and the crowd. The roving passion of -the wanderer, to whom the spell of home is faint as a whisper in the -night, passed into her veins like the invigorating heat of wine. She -exulted in the sense of her freedom, in the magic of adventure, in the -wild independence of the unknown. - - - - -TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: - - - Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. - - Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. - - Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. - - Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RICH MEN’S CHILDREN *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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