Jane Meredith
When Eileen came down to dinner that evening Linda understood at a
glance that an effort was to be made to efface thoroughly from the
mind of John Gilman all memory of the Eileen of the previous evening.
She had decided on redressing her hair, while she wore one of her most
becoming and attractive gowns. To Linda and Katy during the dinner she
was simply charming. Having said what she wanted to say and received
the assurance she desired, Linda accepted her advances cordially
and displayed such charming proclivities herself that Eileen began
covertly to watch her, and as she watched there slowly grew in her
brain the conviction that something had happened to Linda. At once she
began studying deeply in an effort to learn what it might be. There
were three paramount things in Eileen’s cosmos that could happen to a
girl: She could have lovely clothing. Linda did not have it. She could
have money and influential friends. Since Marian’s going Linda had
practically no friend; she was merely acquainted with almost everyone
living in Lilac Valley. She could have a lover. Linda had none. But
stay! Eileen’s thought halted at the suggestion. Maybe she had! She
had been left completely to her own devices when she was not wanted
about the house. She had been mingling with hundreds of boys and girls
in High School. She might have met some man repeatedly on the street
cars, going to and from school. In school she might have attracted
the son of some wealthy and influential family; which was the only
kind of son Eileen chose to consider in connection with Linda. Through
Eileen’s brain ran bits of the conversation of the previous evening.
She recalled that the men she had intended should spend the evening
waiting on her and paying her pretty compliments had spent it eating
like hungry men, laughing and jesting with Linda and Marian, giving
every evidence of a satisfaction with their entertainment that never
had been evinced with the best brand of attractions she had to offer.
Eileen was willing to concede that Marian Thorne had been a beautiful
girl, and she had known, previous to the disaster, that it was quite
as likely that any man might admire Marian’s flashing dark beauty as
her blonde loveliness. Between them then it would have been merely a
question of taste on the part of the man. Since Marian’s dark head had
turned ashen, Eileen had simply eliminated her at one sweep. That white
hair would brand Marian anywhere as an old woman. Very likely no man
ever would want to marry her. Eileen was sure she would not want to if
she were a man. No wonder John Gilman had ceased to be attracted by a
girl’s face with a grandmother setting.
As for Linda, Eileen never had considered her at all except as a
convenience to serve her own purposes. Last night she had learned that
Linda had a brain, that she had wit, that she could say things to which
men of the world listened with interest. She began to watch Linda. She
appraised with deepest envy the dark hair curling naturally on her
temples. She wondered how hair that curled naturally could be so thick
and heavy, and she thought what a crown of glory would adorn Linda’s
head when the day came to coil those long dark braids around it and
fasten them with flashing pins. She drew some satisfaction from the
sunburned face and lean figure before her, but it was not satisfaction
of soul-sustaining quality. There was beginning to be something
disquieting about Linda. A roundness was creeping over her lean frame;
a glow was beginning to colour her lips and cheek bones; a dewy look
could be surprised in her dark eyes occasionally. She had the effect of
a creature with something yeasty bottled inside it that was beginning
to ferment and might effervesce at any minute. Eileen had been so
surprised the previous evening and again before dinner, that she made
up her mind that hereafter one might expect almost anything from Linda.
She would no longer follow a suggestion unless the suggestion accorded
with her sense of right and justice. It was barely possible that it
might be required to please her inclinations. Eileen’s mind worked with
unbelievable swiftness. She tore at her subject like a vulture tearing
at a feast, and like a vulture she reached the vitals swiftly. She
prefaced her question with a dry laugh. Then she leaned forward and
asked softly: “Linda, dear, why haven’t you told me?”
Linda’s eyes were so clear and honest as they met Eileen’s that she
almost hesitated.
“A little more explicit, please,” said the girl quietly.
“_Who is he?_” asked Eileen abruptly.
“Oh, I haven’t narrowed to an individual,” said Linda largely. “You
have noticed a flock of boys following me from school and hanging
around the front door? I have such hosts to choose from that it’s going
to take a particularly splendid knight on a snow-white charger—I think
‘charger’ is the proper word—to capture my young affections.”
Eileen was satisfied. There wasn’t any he. She might for a short
time yet cut Linda’s finances to the extreme limit. Whenever a man
appeared on the horizon she would be forced to make a division at least
approaching equality.
Linda followed Eileen to the living room and sat down with a book
until John Gilman arrived. She had a desire to study him for a few
minutes. She was going to write Marian a letter that night. She wanted
to know if she could honestly tell her that Gilman appeared lonely
and seemed to miss her. Katy had no chance to answer the bell when it
rang. Eileen was in the hall. Linda could not tell what was happening
from the murmur of voices. Presently John and Eileen entered the room,
and as Linda greeted him she did have the impression that he appeared
unusually thoughtful and worried. She sat for half an hour, taking
slight part in the conversation. Then she excused herself and went to
her room, and as she went she knew that she could not honestly write
Marian what she had hoped, for in thirty minutes by the clock Eileen’s
blandishments had worked, and John Gilman was looking at her as if she
were the most exquisite and desirable creature in existence.
Slowly Linda climbed the stairs and entered her room. She slid the
bolt of her door behind her, turned on the lights, unlocked a drawer,
and taking from it a heap of materials she scattered them over a small
table, and picking up her pencil, she sat gazing at the sheet before
her for some time. Then slowly she began writing:
It appeals to me that, far as modern civilization has gone in
culinary efforts, we have not nearly reached the limits available
to us as I pointed out last month. We consider ourselves capable
of preparing and producing elaborate banquets, yet at no time are
we approaching anything even to compare in lavishness and delicacy
with the days of Lucullus. We are not feasting on baked swans,
peacock tongues and drinking our pearls. I am not recommending
that we should revive the indulgence of such lavish and useless
expenditure, but I would suggest that if we tire with the sameness
of our culinary efforts, we at least try some of the new dishes
described in this department, established for the sole purpose of
their introduction. In so doing we accomplish a multiple purpose.
We enlarge the resources of the southwest. We tease stale appetites
with a new tang. We offer the world something different, yet native
to us. We use modern methods on Indian material and the results
are most surprising. In trying these dishes I would remind you
that few of us cared for oysters, olives, celery—almost any fruit
or vegetable one could mention on first trial. Try several times
and be sure you prepare dishes exactly right before condemning
them as either fad or fancy. These are very real, nourishing and
delicious foods that are being offered you. Here is a salad that
would have intrigued the palate of Lucullus, himself. If you do
not believe me, try it. The vegetable is slightly known by a few
native mountaineers and ranchers. Botanists carried it abroad where
under the name of winter-purslane it is used in France and England
for greens or salad, while remaining practically unknown at home.
Boiled and seasoned as spinach it makes equally good greens. But it
is in salad that it stands pre-eminent.
Go to any canyon—I shall not reveal the name of my particular
canyon—and locate a bed of miner’s lettuce (_Montia perfoliata_).
Growing in rank beds beside a cold, clean stream, you will find
these pulpy, exquisitely shaped, pungent round leaves from the
center of which lifts a tiny head of misty white lace, sending up
a palate-teasing, spicy perfume. The crisp, pinkish stems snap in
the fingers. Be sure that you wash the leaves carefully so that no
lurking germs cling to them. Fill your salad bowl with the crisp
leaves, from which the flowerhead has been plucked. For dressing,
dice a teacup of the most delicious bacon you can obtain and fry
it to a crisp brown together with a small sliced onion. Add to the
fat two tablespoons of sugar, half a teaspoon of mustard; salt
will scarcely be necessary, the bacon will furnish that. Blend the
fat, sugar, and mustard, and pour in a measure of the best apple
vinegar, diluted to taste. Bring this mixture to the boiling point,
and when it has cooled slightly pour it over the lettuce leaves,
lightly turning with a silver fork. Garnish the edge of the dish
with a deep border of the fresh leaves, bearing their lace of white
bloom intact, around the edge of the bowl, and sprinkle on top the
sifted yolks of two hard-boiled eggs, heaping the diced whites in
the center.
Linda paused and read this over carefully.
“That is all right,” she said. “I couldn’t make that much better.”
She made a few corrections here and there, and picking up a coloured
pencil, she deftly sketched in a head piece of delicate sprays of
miners’ lettuce tipped at differing angles, fringy white with bloom.
Below she printed: “A delicious Indian salad. The second of a series
of new dishes to be offered made from materials used by the Indians.
Compounded and tested in her own diet kitchen by the author.” Swiftly
she sketched a tail piece representing a table top upon which sat a
tempting-looking big salad bowl filled with fresh green leaves, rimmed
with a row of delicate white flowers, from which you could almost scent
a teasing delicate fragrance arising; and beneath, in a clear, firm
hand, she stroked in the name, Jane Meredith. She went over her work
carefully, then laid it flat on a piece of cardboard, shoved it into
an envelope, directed it to the editor of _Everybody’s Home_, laid it
inside her geometry, and wrote her letter to Marian before going to bed.
In the morning on her way to the street car she gaily waved to a
passing automobile going down Lilac Valley, in which sat John Gilman
and Peter Morrison and his architect, and as they were driving in
the direction from which she had come, Linda very rightly surmised
that they were going to pick up Eileen and make a tour of the valley,
looking for available building locations; and she wondered why Eileen
had not told her that they were coming. Linda had been right about the
destination of the car. It turned in at the Strong driveway and stopped
at the door. John Gilman went to ring the bell and learn if Eileen were
ready. Peter followed him. Henry Anderson stepped from the car and
wandered over the lawn, looking at the astonishing array of bushes,
vines, flowers, and trees.
From one to another he went, fingering the waxy leaves, studying the
brilliant flower faces. Finally turning a corner and crossing the
wild garden, to which he paid slight attention, he started down the
other side of the house. Here an almost overpowering odour greeted his
nostrils, and he went over to a large tree covered with rough, dark
green, almost brownish, lance-shaped leaves, each branch terminating in
a heavy spray of yellowish-green flowers, whose odour was of cloying
sweetness. The bees were buzzing over it. It was not a tree with which
he was familiar, and stepping back, he looked at it carefully. Then at
its base, wind-driven into a crevice between the roots, his attention
was attracted to a crumpled sheet of paper, upon which he could see
lines that would have attracted the attention of any architect. He went
forward instantly, picked up the sheet, and straightening it out he
stood looking at it.
“Holy smoke!” he breathed softly. “What a find!”
He looked at the reverse of the sheet, his face becoming more intent
every minute. When he heard Peter Morrison’s voice calling him he
hastily thrust the paper into his coat pocket; but he had gone only
a few steps when he stopped, glanced keenly over the house and lawn,
turned his back, and taking the sheet from his pocket, he smoothed
it out, folded it carefully, and put it in an inside pocket. Then he
joined the party.
At once they set out to examine the available locations that yet
remained in Lilac Valley. Nature provided them a wonderful day of
snappy sunshine and heady sea air. Spring favoured them with lilac
walls at their bluest, broken here and there with the rose-misted white
mahogany. The violet nightshade was beginning to add deeper colour to
the hills in the sunniest wild spots. The panicles of mahonia bloom
were showing their gold colour. Wild flowers were lifting leaves of
feather and lace everywhere, and most agreeable on the cool morning
air was a faint breath of California sage. Up one side of the valley,
weaving in and out, up and down, over the foothills they worked their
way. They stopped for dinner at one of the beautiful big hotels,
practically filled with Eastern tourists. Eileen never had known a
prouder moment than when she took her place at the head of the table
and presided over the dinner which was served to three most attractive
specimens of physical manhood, each of whom was unusually well endowed
with brain, all flattering her with the most devoted attention. This
triumph she achieved in a dining room seating hundreds of people, its
mirror-lined walls reflecting her exquisite image from many angles, to
the click of silver, and the running accompaniment of many voices. What
she had expected to accomplish in her own dining room had come to her
before a large audience, in which, she had no doubt, there were many
envious women. Eileen rayed loveliness like a Mariposa lily, and purred
in utter contentment like a deftly stroked kitten.
When they parted in the evening Peter Morrison had memoranda of three
locations that he wished to consider. That he might not seem to be
unduly influenced or to be giving the remainder of Los Angeles County
its just due, he proposed to motor around for a week before reaching
an ultimate decision, but in his heart he already had decided that
somewhere near Los Angeles he would build his home, and as yet he had
seen nothing nearly so attractive as Lilac Valley.