About ten o'clock Vandover went ashore in the ship's yawl and landed in
the city on a literally perfect day in early November. It seemed many
years since he had been there. The drizzly morning upon which the _Santa
Rosa_ had cast off was already too long ago to be remembered. The city
itself as he walked up Market Street toward Kearney seemed to have taken
on a strange appearance.
It was Sunday, the downtown streets were deserted except for the
cable-cars and an occasional newsboy. The stores were closed and in
their vestibules one saw the peddlers who were never there on week-days,
venders of canes and peddlers of glue with heavy weights attached to
mended china plates.
Vandover had had no breakfast and was conscious of feeling desperately
hungry. He determined to breakfast downtown, as he would arrive home too
late for one meal and too early for the other.
Almost all of his money had been lost with the _Mazatlan_; he found he
had but a dollar left. He would have preferred breakfasting at the
Grillroom, but concluded he was too shabby in appearance, and he knew he
would get more for his money at the Imperial.
It was absolutely quiet in the Imperial at the hour when he arrived. The
single bartender was reading a paper, and in the passage between the
private rooms a Chinese with a clean napkin wound around his head was
polishing the brass and woodwork. In the passage he met Toby, the
red-eyed waiter, just going off night duty, without his usual apron or
white coat, dressed very carefully, wearing a brown felt hat.
"Why, how do you do, Mr. Vandover?" exclaimed Toby. "Haven't seen you
round here for some time." Vandover was about to answer when the other
interrupted:
"Well, what's happened to _you_? Look as though you'd been drawn through
hell backward and beaten with a cat!"
In fact Vandover's appearance was extraordinary. His hat was torn and
broken, and his clothes, stained with tar and dirt, shrunken and
wrinkled by sea-water. His shoes were fastened with bits of tarred rope;
he was wearing a red flannel shirt with bone buttons which the
boatkeeper on the pilot boat had given him, tied at the neck with a
purple handkerchief of pongee silk; his hair was long, and a week's
growth of beard was upon his lip and cheeks.
"That's a fact," he answered grimly. "I do look queer. I was in a wreck
down the coast," he added hastily.
"The _Mazatlan!_" exclaimed Toby. "That's a fact; the papers have been
full of it. That's so, you were one of the survivors."
"The survivors!" echoed Vandover with wondering curiosity. "Tell me--you
know I haven't heard a word yet--were there many lives lost?" He
marvelled at the strangeness of the situation, that this bar waiter
should know more of the wreck than he himself who had been upon it.
"You bet there were!" answered Toby. "Twenty-three altogether; one boat
capsized; Kelly, 'Bug' Kelly, son of that fellow that runs the Crystal
Grotto, _he_ was drowned, and one of Hocheimer's--Hocheimer, the
jeweller, you know--one of his travelling salesmen was drowned; a little
Jew named Brann, a diamond expert; he jumped overboard and--"
"Don't!" said Vandover with a sharp gesture. "I saw him drown--it was
sickening."
"Were you in that boat?" exclaimed Toby. "Well, wait till I tell you;
the authorities here are right after that first engineer with a sharp
stick, and some of the passengers, too, for not taking him in. A woman
in one of the other boats saw it all and gave the whole thing away. A
thing like that is regular murder, you know." Vandover shut his teeth
against answering, and after a little Toby went on, willing to talk.
"You know, we've got a new man for the day-work down here now--George
isn't here any more. No, he's going to start a roadhouse out on the
almshouse drive in a few months; swell place, you know. I'll have him
send you cards for the opening."
Vandover ordered oysters, an omelette, and a pint of claret from the new
waiter who did the day-work, and ate and drank the meal--the like of
which he had not tasted since leaving Coronado--with delicious
enjoyment.
He delayed over it long, taking a great pleasure in satisfying the
demands of the animal in him. The wine made him heavy, warm, stupid; he
felt calm, soothed, and perfectly contented, and had to struggle
against a desire to go to sleep where he was. The atmosphere of the
Imperial was warm and there was a tepid languor in the air as of the
traces of many past debauches, a stale odour of sweetened whisky and of
musk. After the roughness and hardships of the last week he felt a
pleasant sense of quiet, of relaxation, of enervation. He even began to
wish that Flossie would come in. This, however, made him rouse himself;
he shook himself, and started home, paying his carfare with his last
nickel.
He sat on the outside of the car, wondering if any one he knew would see
him, half hoping that such a thing might happen, realizing the dramatic
interest that would centre about him now in his present condition as a
survivor of a wreck. The idea soon attracted him immensely and he began
to look out for any possible acquaintance as the car began to climb over
Nob Hill.
At the crossing of Polk Street he saw Ida Wade's mother in deep
mourning, standing near a grocery store holding a little pink parcel.
It was like a blow between the eyes. Vandover caught his breath and
started violently, feeling again for an instant the cold grip of the
hysterical terror that had so nearly overcome him on the morning after
Ida's death. It slowly relaxed, however, and by the time he had reached
the house on California Street he was almost himself again.
It was about church time when Vandover arrived at home once more. There
was a Sunday quiet in the air. The bells were ringing, and here and
there family groups on their way to church, the children walking in
front, very sedate in their best clothes, carrying the prayer-books
carefully, by special privilege.
The butler was working in the garden, as he sometimes did of a Sunday
morning, pottering about a certain bed of sweet-peas, and it was the
housekeeper who answered his ring. She recognized him with a prolonged
exclamation, raising her hands to heaven.
"O-oh, and is it you, Mr. Vandover, sir? Ah, how we've been upset about
you and all, and it's glad to see you back again your father will be!
Oh, such times as we had when we heard about the wreck and knowing you
were on it! Yes, sir, your father's _pretty_ well, though he was main
poorly yesterday morning. But he's better now. You'll find him in the
smoking-room now, sir."
Vandover pushed open the door of the smoking-room quietly. His father
was sitting unoccupied in the huge leather chair before the fireplace.
He was dead, and must have died some considerable time before, as he was
already cold. He could have suffered no pain, hardly a muscle had moved,
and his attitude was quite natural, the legs crossed, the right hand
holding the morning's paper. However, as soon as Vandover touched the
body it collapsed and slid down into a heap in the depth of the chair,
the jaw dropping open, the head rolling sidewise upon his shoulder.
Vandover ran out into the hall, waving his arms, shouting for the
servants. "Oh, why didn't you tell me?" he cried to the housekeeper "Why
did you let me find him so? When did he die?" The housekeeper was
distraught. She couldn't believe it. Only a little while ago he had
called her to say there were no more matches in the little brass
matchsafe. She began to utter long cries and lamentations like a hen in
distress, raising her hands to heaven. All at once they heard some one
rushing up the stairs. It was the butler, in his shirt-sleeves and his
enormous apron of ticking, still carrying his trowel in his hand. He was
bewildered, his eyes protruding, while all about him he spread the smell
of fresh earth. At every instant he exclaimed:
"What? What? What's the matter?"
"Oh, my dear old governor--and all alone!" cried Vandover through shut
teeth.
"Oh, oh, the good God!" exclaimed the housekeeper, crossing herself and
rolling her eyes. "And him asking for matches in the little brass box
only a minute since. Oh, the good, kind master!"
Suddenly Vandover rushed down the stairs and through the front hall,
snatching his hat from the hatrack as he passed. He ran to call the
family doctor, who lived some two blocks below on the same street. He
caught him just as he was getting into the carry-all with his family,
bound for church.
Vandover and the physician rode back together in the carry-all, the two
gray horses going up the steep hill at a trot. The doctor was dressed
for church; he wore red gloves with thick white seams, a spray of
lilies-of-the-valley in his lapel.
"I'm afraid we can do nothing," he said warningly. "It's your father's
old enemy, I suppose. This was--it was sure to happen sooner or later.
Any sudden shock, you know."
Vandover scarcely listened, holding the door of the carry-all open with
one hand, ready to jump out, beating the other hand upon his knee.
"Go back and take the rest of them to church now," said the doctor to
his coachman when the carry-all stopped in front of Vandover's house.
The whole house was in the greatest agitation all the rest of the day.
The curtains were drawn, the door bell rang incessantly, strange faces
passed the windows, and the noise of strange footsteps continually
mounted and descended the staircase. The hours for meals were all
deranged, the table stood ready all day long, and one ate when there was
a chance. The telephone was in constant use, and at every moment
messenger boys came and went, people spoke in low tones, walking on
tiptoe; the florist's wagon drove to the door again and again, and the
house began to smell of tuberoses. Reporters came, waiting patiently for
interviews, sitting on the leather chairs in the dining-room, or writing
rapidly on a corner of the dining-table, the cloth pushed back. The
undertaker's assistants went about in their shirt-sleeves, working very
hard, and toward the middle of the afternoon the undertaker himself tied
the crêpe to the bell handle.
Little by little a subdued excitement spread throughout the vicinity.
The neighbours appeared at their windows, looking down into the street,
watching everything that went on. It was a veritable event, a matter of
comment and interest for the whole block. Women found excuses to call on
each other, talking over what had happened, as they sat near their
parlour windows, shaking their heads at each other, peering out between
the lace curtains. The people on the cable-cars and the pedestrians
looked again and again at the crêpe on the bell handle, and the
curtained windows, craning their necks backward when they had passed.
The neighbours' children collected in little groups on the sidewalk near
the house, looking and pointing, drawn close together, talking in low
tones. At last even a policeman appeared, walking deliberately, casting
the shadow of his huge stomach upon the fence that was about the vacant
lot. He frowned upon the children, ordering them away. But suddenly he
discovered an acquaintance, the driver of an express-wagon that had just
driven up with an enormous anchor of violets. He paused, exclaiming:
"Why, hello, Connors!"
"Why, hello, Mister Brodhead!"
Then a long conversation was begun, the policeman standing on the
curbstone, one foot resting upon the hub of a wheel, the expressman
leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, twirling his whip between his
hands. The expressman told some sort of story, pointing with his elbow
toward the house, but the other was incredulous, gravely shaking his
head, putting his chin in the air, and closing his eyes.
Inside the house itself there was a hushed and subdued bustling that
centred about a particular room. The undertaker's assistants and the
barber called in low voices through the halls for basins of water and
towels. There was a search for the Old Gentleman's best clothes and his
clean linen; bureau drawers were opened and shut, closet doors softly
closed. Relatives and friends called and departed or stayed to help. A
vague murmur arose, a mingled sound of whispers and light foot-steps,
the rustle of silks, and the noise of stifled weeping, and then at last
silence, night, solitude, a single gas-jet burning, and Vandover was
left alone.
The suddenness of the thing had stunned and dizzied him, and he had gone
through with all the various affairs of the day wondering at his
calmness and fortitude. Toward eleven o'clock, however, after the
suppressed excitement of the last hours, as he was going to bed, the
sense of his grief and loss came upon him all of a sudden, with their
real force for the first time, and he threw himself upon the bed face
downward, weeping and groaning. During the rest of the night pictures of
his father returned to him as he had seen him upon different occasions,
particularly three such pictures came and went through his mind.
In one the Old Gentleman stood in that very room, with the decanter in
his hand, asking him kindly if he felt very bad; in another he was on
the pier with his handkerchief tied to his cane, waving it after
Vandover as though spelling out a signal to him across the water. But in
a third, he was in the smoking-room, fallen into the leather chair, his
arm resting on the table and his head bowed upon it.
After the funeral, which took place from the house, Vandover drove back
alone in the hired carriage to his home. He would have paid the driver,
but the other told him that the undertaker looked out for that. Vandover
watched him a moment as he started his horses downhill, the brake as it
scraped against the tire making a noise like the yelping of a dog. Then
he turned and faced the house. It was near four o'clock in the
afternoon, and everything about the house was very quiet. All the
curtains were down except in one of the rooms upstairs. The butler had
already opened these windows and was airing the room. Vandover could
hear him moving about, sweeping up, rearranging the furniture, making up
the bed again. In front of him, between the horse-block and the front
door, one or two smilax leaves were still fallen, and a tuberose,
already yellow. Behind him in the street he had already noticed the
marks of the wheels of the hearse where it had backed up to the curb.
The crêpe was still on the bell handle. Vandover did not know whether it
had been forgotten, or whether it was proper to leave it there longer.
At any rate he took it off and carried it into the house with him.
His father's hat, a stiff brown derby hat, flat on the top, hung on the
hatrack. This had always been a sign to Vandover that his father was at
home. The sight was so familiar, so natural, that the same idea occurred
to him now involuntarily, and for an instant it was as though he had
dreamed of his father's death; he even wondered what was this terrible
grief that had overwhelmed him, and thought that he must go and tell his
father about it. He took the hat in his hands, turning it about
tenderly, catching the faint odour of the Old Gentleman's hair oil that
hung about it. It all brought back his father to him as no picture ever
could; he could almost _see_ the kind old face underneath the broad curl
of the brim. His grief came over him again keener than ever and he put
his arms clumsily about the old hat, weeping and whispering to himself:
"Oh, my poor, dear old dad--I'm never going to see you again, never,
never! Oh, my dear, kind old governor!"
He took the hat up to his room with him, putting it carefully away. Then
he sat down before the window that overlooked the little garden in the
rear of the house, looking out with eyes that saw nothing.