I
As Alexina followed her mother's eyes she flushed scarlet and turned
away her head. A young man was coming up the avenue. He was a very
gallant figure, moderately tall and very straight; he held his head
high, his features were strong in outline. But the noticeable thing
about him at this early hour of the morning and in the wake of a great
disaster was his consummate grooming.
"That--that--" stammered Alexina, "is Mr. Dwight. I met him last night
at the Hofers'."
The young man raised his hat and came forward quickly. "I hope you will
forgive me," he said with a charming deference, "but I couldn't resist
coming to see if you were all right. So many people are frightened of
fire--in their own houses."
"Mr. Dwight--my mother--"
He lifted his hat again. Mrs. Groome in her chastened mood regarded him
favorably, and for the moment without suspicion. At least he was a
gentleman; but who could he be?
"Dwight," she murmured. "I do not know the name. Were you born here?"
"I was born in Utica, New York. My parents came here when I was quite
young. We--always lived rather quietly."
"But you go about now? To all these parties?"
"Oh, yes. I like to dance after the day's work. But I am not what you
would call a society man. I haven't the time."
Mrs. Groome was not usually blunt, but she suddenly scented danger and
she had not fully recovered her poise.
"You are in business?" She disliked business intensely. All gentlemen
of her day had followed one of the professions.
"I am in a wholesale commission house. But I hope to be in business for
myself one day."
"Ah."
Still, all young men in this terrible twentieth century could not be
lawyers. Mrs. Groome knew enough of the march of time to be aware of
the increasing difficulties in gaining a bare livelihood. Tom Abbott
was a lawyer, like his father before him, and his grandfather in the
fifties. It was one of the oldest firms in San Francisco, but she
recalled his frequent and bitter allusions to the necessity of sitting
up nights these days if a man wanted to keep out of the poorhouse.
And at least this young man did not look like an idler or a wastrel. No
man could have so clear a skin and be so well-groomed at six in the
morning if he drank or gambled. Alexander Groome had done both and she
knew the external seals.
"Is Aileen Lawton a friend of yours?" she asked sharply.
"I have met Miss Lawton at a number of dances but she has not done me
the honor to ask me to call."
"I think the more highly of you. Judge Lawton is an old friend of mine.
His wife, who was much younger than the Judge, was an intimate friend
of my daughter, Mrs. Abbott. Alexina and Aileen have grown up together.
I find it impossible to forbid her the house. But I disapprove of her
in every way. She paints her lips, smokes cigarettes, boasts that she
drinks cocktails, and uses the most abominable slang. I kept my
daughter in New York for two years as much to break up the intimacy as
to finish her education, but the moment we returned the intimacy was
renewed, and for my old friend's sake I have been forced to submit. He
worships that--that--really ill-conditioned child."
"Oh--Miss Lawton is a good sort, and--well--I suppose her position is
so strong that she feels she can do as she pleases. But she is all
right, and not so different--"
"Do you mean to tell me that you approve of girls--nice
girls--ladies--painting themselves, smoking, drinking cocktails?"
"I do not." His tones were emphatic and his good American gray eyes
wandered to the fresh innocent face of the girl who had captivated him
last night.
"I should hope not. You look like an exceptionally decent young man.
Have you had breakfast? Alexina, go and ask Maggie, if she has
recovered herself, to make another cup of coffee."
II
Alexina disappeared, repressing a desire to sing; and young Dwight,
receiving permission, seated himself on the grass at Mrs. Groome's
feet. He was lithe and graceful and as he threw back his head and
looked up at his hostess with his straight, honest glance the good
impression he had made was visibly enhanced. Mrs. Groome gave him the
warm and gracious smile that only her intimate friends and paid
inferiors had ever seen.
"The young men of to-day are a great disappointment to me," she
observed.
"Oh, they are all right, I guess. Most of the men that go about have
rich fathers--or near-rich ones. I wish I had one myself."
"And you would be as dissipated as the rest, I presume."
"No, I have no inclinations that way. But a man gets a better start in
life. And a man's a nonentity without money."
"Not if he has family."
"My family is good--in Utica. But that is of no use to me here."
"But your family _is_ good?"
"Oh, yes, it goes 'way back. There is a family mansion in Utica that is
over two hundred years old. But when the business district swamped that
part of the old town it was sold, and what it brought was divided among
six. My father came out here but did not make much of a success of
himself, so that he and my mother might as well have been on the Fiji
Islands for all the notice society took of them."
He spoke with some bitterness, and Mrs. Groome, to whom dwelling beyond
the outer gates of San Francisco's elect was the ultimate tragedy,
responded sympathetically.
"Society here is not what it used to be, and no doubt is only too glad
to welcome presentable young men. I infer that you have not found it
difficult."
"Oh, I dance well, and my employer's son, Bob Cheever, took me in. But
I'm only tolerated. I don't count."
The old lady looked at him keenly. "You are ambitious?"
He threw back his head. "Well, yes, I am, Mrs. Groome. As far as
society goes it is a matter of self-respect. I feel that I have the
right to go in the best society anywhere--that I am as good as anybody
when it comes to blood. And I'd like to get to the top in every way. I
don't mean that I would or could do the least thing dishonest to get
there, as so many men have done, but--well, I see no crime in being
ambitious and using every chance to get to the top. I'd like not only
to be one of the rich and important men of San Francisco, but to take a
part in the big civic movements."
Mrs. Groome was charmed. She was by no means an impulsive woman, but
she had suddenly realized her age, and if she must soon leave her
youngest child, who, heaven knew, needed a guardian, this young man
might be a son-in-law sent direct from heaven--via the earthquake. If
he had real ability the influential men she knew would see that he had
a proper start. But she had no intention of committing herself.
"And what do you think of what is now called San Francisco society?"
she demanded.
He was quite aware of Mrs. Groome's attitude. Who in San Francisco was
not? It was one of the standing jokes, although few of the younger or
newer set had ever heard of her until her naughty little daughter
danced upon the scene.
"Oh, it is mixed, of course. There are many houses where I do not care
to go. But, well, after all, the rich people are rather simple for all
their luxury, and as for the old families there are no more real
aristocrats in England itself."
Mrs. Groome was still more charmed. "But you were at Mrs. Hofer's last
night. I never heard of her before."
"Her husband is one of the most important of the younger men. His
father made a fortune in lumber and sent his son to Yale and all the
rest of it. He is really a gentleman--it only takes one generation out
here--and at present he's bent upon delivering the city from this
abominable ring of grafters ... There is no water to put out the fires
because the City Administration pocketed the money appropriated for a
new system; the pipes leading from Spring Valley were broken by the
earthquake."
"And who was she?"
Mrs. Groome asked this question with an inimitable inflection inherited
from her mother and grandmother, both of whom had been guardians of San
Francisco society in their day. The accent was on the "who." Bob
Cheever, whose grandmother had asked or answered the same question in
dark old double parlors filled with black walnut and carved oak, would
have muttered, "Oh, hell!" but Mr. Dwight replied sympathetically:
"Something very common, I believe-south of Market Street. But her
father was very clever, rose to be a foreman of the iron works, and
finally went into business and prospered in a small way. He sent his
daughter to Europe to be educated ... and even you could hardly tell
her from the real thing."
"And you go down to Burlingame, I suppose! That is a very nest of these
new people, and I am told they spend their time drinking and gambling."
He set his large rather hard lips. "No, I have never been asked down to
Burlingame-nor down the Peninsula anywhere. You see, I am only asked
out in town because an unmarried dancing man is always welcome if there
is nothing wrong with his manners. To be asked for intimate week-ends
is another matter. But I don't fancy Burlingame is half as bad as it is
represented to be. They go in tremendously for sport, you know, and
that is healthy and takes up a good deal of time. After all when people
are very rich and have more leisure than they know what to do with--"
"Many of the old set in Alta, San Mateo, Atherton and Menlo Park have
wealth and leisure-not vulgar fortunes, but enough-and for the most
part they live quite as they did in the old days."
His eyes lit up. "Ah, San Mateo, Alta, Atherton, Menlo Park. There you
have a real landed aristocracy. The Burlingame set must realize that
they would be nobodies for all their wealth if they could not call at
all those old communities down the Peninsula."
"Not so very many of them do. But I see you have no false values. You.
must go down with us some Sunday to Alta. I am sure you would like my
oldest daughter. She is very smart, as they call it now, but distinctly
of the old régime."
"There is nothing I should like better. Thank you so much." And there
was no doubting the sincerity of his voice, a rather deep and manly
voice which harmonized with the admirable mold of his ancestors.
III
Alexina appeared. "Breakfast is ready for all of us," she announced.
"We cooked it on the old stove in the woodhouse. I helped, for Maggie
is a wreck. Martha has swept the plaster out of the dining-room. Come
along. I'm starved."
Young Dwight sprang to his feet and stood over Mrs. Groome with his
charming deferential manner, but he had far too much tact to offer
assistance as she rose heavily from her chair.
"Are you really going to give me breakfast? I am sure I could not get
any elsewhere."
"We are only too happy. Your coming has been a real God-send. Will you
give me your arm? This morning--not the earthquake but those dreadful
fires--has quite upset me."
He escorted her into the dark old house with glowing eyes. He had seen
so little of the world that he was still very young at thirty and his
nature was sanguine, but he had never dared to dream of even difficult
access to this most exclusive home in San Francisco. Its gloom, its
tastelessness, relieved only by the splendid Italian pieces, but served
to accentuate its aristocratic aloofness from those superb but too
recently furnished mansions of which he knew so little outside of their
ballrooms.
And he was breakfasting with the sequestered Mrs. Groome and the
loveliest girl he had ever seen, at seven o 'clock in the morning.
He looked about eagerly as they entered the dining-room.. It was long
and narrow with a bow window at the end. The furniture was black
walnut; two immense sideboards were built into the walls. It looked
Ballinger, and it was.
It was heavily paneled; the walls above were tinted a pale buff and set
with cracked oil paintings of men in the uniforms of several
generations. The ceiling was frescoed with fish and fowl. There had
been a massive bronze chandelier over the table. It now lay on the
floor, but as James had turned off the gas in the meter while the
earthquake was still in progress the air of the large sunny room was
untainted, and the windows were open.
The breakfast was smoked but not uneatable and the strong coffee raised
even Mrs. Groome's wavering spirits. They were all talking gayly when
James entered abruptly. He was very pale.
"City's doomed, ma'am. Thirty fires broke out simultaneous, and the
wind blowing from the southeast. A chimney fell on the fire-chief's bed
and he can't live. People runnin' round like their heads was cut off
and thousands pouring out of the city--over to Oakland and Berkeley.
Lootin' was awful and General Funston has ordered out the troops. Pipes
broken and not a drop of water. They're goin' to dynamite, but only the
fire-chief knew how. Everybody says the whole city'll go, Doomed,
that's what it is. Better let me tell Mike to harness up and drive you
down to San Mateo."
Mrs. Groome had also turned pale, but she cut a piece of bacon with
resolution in every finger of her large-veined hands.
"I do not believe it, and I shall not run--like those people south of
Market Street. I shall stay until the last minute at all events. The
roads at least cannot burn."
"This house ought to be safe enough, ma 'am, standin' quite alone on
this hill as it does; but it's a question of food. We never keep much
of anything in the house, beyond what's needed for the week, and the
California Market's right in the fire zone. And the smoke will be
something terrible when the fire gets closer."
"I shall stay in my own house. There are grocery stores and butcher
shops in Fillmore Street. Go and buy all you can." She handed him a
bunch of keys. "You will find money in my escritoire. Tell the maids to
fill the bathtubs while there is any water left in the mains. You may
go if you are frightened, but I stay here."
"Very well, and you needn't have said that, ma'am. I've been in this
family, man and boy, Ballinger and Groome, for fifty-two years, and you
know I'd never desert you. But no doubt those hussies in the kitchen
will, with a lot of others. A lot of stoves have already been set up in
the streets out here and ladies are cookin' their own breakfasts."
"Forgive me, James. I know you will never leave me. And if the others
do we shall get along. Miss Alexina is not a bad cook." And she
heroically swallowed the bacon.
IV
James departed and she turned to Dwight, who was on his feet.
"You are not going?"
"I think I must, Mrs. Groome. There may be something I can do down
there. All able-bodied men will be needed, I fancy."
"But you'll come back and see us?" cried Alexina.
"Indeed I will. I'll report regularly."
He thanked Mrs. Groome for her hospitality and she invited him to take
pot luck with her at dinner time. After he had gone Alexina exclaimed
rapturously:
"Oh, you do like him, don't you, mommy dear?"
And Mrs. Groome was pleased to reply, "He has perfect manners and
certainly has the right ideas about things. I could do no less than ask
him to dinner if he is going to take the trouble to bring us the news."