Tamea was awakened by Julia at six o’clock. At seven she and Dan
breakfasted together; at seven-thirty they entered Dan’s limousine, the
smiling Julia tucked the robe in around her charge, took her seat beside
Graves, and the homeward hegira began. At San José they looked in on the
Mother Superior of a splendid convent that catered to the educational
needs of young ladies of high school age, and Dan made arrangements to
enter Tamea there the following day.
And this he did. Tamea had quite a wild weeping spell at the parting and
Dan had to promise to write to her daily. Then the necessity for
abandoning Julia was provocative of another outburst of grief, and to
add to the complications this proof of devotion so touched Julia, all
unused to such appreciation, that she wept loudly and copiously and was
pathetically homely after two minutes of it. Dan, aware that all
incoming and outgoing mail would be censored at this convent, realized
that he, faced daily the awful task of composing an innocuous little
letter to Tamea, and he was troubled with the thought that Tamea might
not understand and go into open revolt as a result.
Finally the ordeal was over and Dan motored back to San Francisco. Here
he discovered that there was trouble in the Seattle office of Casson and
Pritchard and that it was necessary for him to go there at once. He
welcomed the opportunity. Promptly he wrote Tamea that he was called
away, but that he would telegraph her every day while he was traveling.
Telegraphing was so much easier than writing under a handicap. Surely
Tamea would understand that he could not afford to call her endearing
names by wire. She must realize that men of his class did not do that
sort of thing.
He was gone two weeks. Graves met him at the ferry depot upon his
return.
“I’m glad you’ve returned, sir,” Graves announced. “The fur has been
flying since you left. Mrs. Pippy gave Julia the air the minute you and
Miss Larrieau were out of the house, so Julia beat it down to the
convent and reported to Miss Larrieau. Up comes Miss Larrieau from the
convent and tells Mrs. Pippy where to head in, and there’s a grand row.
Mrs. Pippy calls on Sooey Wan to give Julia the bum’s rush out of the
house and Sooey Wan tells her to go to Halifax or some other seaport.
Then Mrs. Pippy cries and Julia cries and Sooey Wan cusses like a pirate
and Miss Larrieau takes charge of the house and she and Sooey Wan are
running it.”
Dan gasped. “But where is Mrs. Pippy?”
“She must have got frightened and left, or else Miss Larrieau fired her.
Anyhow, she’s gone.”
“Has Miss Larrieau returned to school?”
“No, sir. I think she’s waiting until you get back.”
Dan sighed in lieu of the words he could not muster. Here indeed, in the
expressive terminology of Graves, was “hell to pay and no pitch hot.”
He dropped in at the office for a few minutes to look through his
accumulated mail. In it he found a formal resignation from Mrs. Pippy,
who regretted that the lack of his moral support at a time when her
position had grown untenable rendered her resignation imperative. She
informed him of the address to which he might mail her check.
“I suppose I shall never have another Mrs. Pippy,” Dan sighed, and
added, “and I hope I never shall.”
The moment he entered his home Tamea leaped out at him suddenly from
behind the portières where she had been hiding. “_Chéri!_” she cried and
favored him with a bone-cracking hug. “My adored one,” she added, and
delivered a barrage of osculation that left Dan quite breathless. When
he could speak he said:
“Graves has told me of the battle which took place here during my
absence. Tamea, I am not pleased with your high-handed procedure.”
“_P-f-f._ Dear one, that Pippy was offensive. I disliked that old woman
the first time she looked at me—like this,” and Tamea wrinkled her
adorable nose. “There was nothing else to do. She had defied me by
dismissing Julia, and this was mutiny, since Julia was mine and you had
given her to me. If the king fails to protect those who come under the
king’s protection, the people murmur and there is discontent and perhaps
revolt, is there not? My place was here to protect my servant and I came
and protected her. I have done well and you must not reprove me, dear
one. If you do I shall be very unhappy.”
“Oh, it’s all right, it’s all right,” Dan protested. “It’s just that I
hate a beastly row. You did not secure permission from the Mother
Superior to come here?”
“I?” the amazed girl demanded. “I—Tamea, plead for permission? You do
not know me, I think, dear one. Julia came in the car with Graves and I
left at once. At the gate the nun on watch desired to stop me. She even
laid hands upon me, but I thrust her aside. _Tiens_, I was angry!”
“I judged as much from a letter which the Mother Superior wrote me.
Tamea, you may not return to that convent. They cannot control you and
they do not desire that you remain there longer. My dear, can you not
realize that this is very, very embarrassing to me?”
“It is very delightful to me, darling Dan. I did not wish to remain
there. They opened your letters to me and before I could seal my letters
to you they were read. So I did not send them, but kept them all for
you. Tonight, after dinner, you shall read them, one by one. Yes, at
that convent there was much between us of what you call in this country
rough house.”
Sooey Wan came in from the kitchen, grunted a greeting to his employer,
picked up Dan’s bags and disappeared upstairs with them. Returning, he
paused for a moment at the foot of the stairs and said:
“Missa Dan, you fire Julia, Sooey Wan ketchum boat, go back China pretty
quick.”
His impudence enraged Dan. “You may start now, Sooey Wan,” he told the
Celestial. “I’ll keep Julia, but you’re fired.”
Sooey Wan looked at Tamea, who smiled and nodded to him. In effect she
said to him: “Don’t pay any attention to him, Sooey Wan. I am in command
here.”
Sooey Wan had evidently planned for this moment. His shrill, unmirthful
cachinnation rang through the house. “Boss,” he piped, “you klazy, allee
same Missie Pip. You fire me? Pooh-pooh! No can do. Sooey Wan belong
your papa, papa give me to you, how can do? You fire me, who ketchum
dinner, eh? You klazy.”
Again Dan sighed. It appeared that Sooey Wan’s first introduction to the
Pritchard household had been due to a tong war in Chinatown. Sooey Wan,
young, bold, aggressive, had been marked for slaughter in a tong feud,
and the high-binder whose duty it had been, for a consideration, to waft
him into the spirit world, had dropped Sooey Wan with his first shot.
Then a cane had descended upon his wrist, causing him to drop his
pistol. The peacemaker, Dan’s father, had thereupon possessed himself of
it, handed the would-be assassin over to the police and forgotten the
incident. Sooey Wan eventually recovered from his wound and at once
sought out Pritchard senior, to whom he explained that by reason of an
ancient Chinese custom he who saved a human life was forever after
responsible for that life. Therefore, it behooved Dan’s father to place
Sooey Wan on his payroll instanter, which, being done, the latter became
one of the assets of the Pritchard estate. Inasmuch as Dan had been the
sole heir to that estate, naturally, to Sooey Wan’s way of thinking, he
had inherited his father’s responsibility for Sooey Wan’s life while the
latter continued to live. _Ergo_, Sooey Wan could not be dismissed!
Decidedly, reprisals were not in order. There was naught to do save
accept the situation gratefully, cast about for another school for Tamea
and try, try again. Dan recalled that there was a very excellent convent
in Sacramento. He would call upon the Mother Superior there, explain
Tamea at length and seek to have the censorship law repealed in so far
as she was concerned. He would offer to pay double the customary rate in
return for special treatment and forbearance in Tamea’s case. And he
would tell that infernal Julia what he thought about her—no, he would
not. If he did she would weep and when Julia wept her pathetic lack of
beauty was extraordinarily depressing.
“Well, I’m awfully happy to see you again, sweetheart,” he said, and
favored Tamea with one hearty kiss in return for the dozens she had
showered upon him. “Any news from Maisie or her aunt?”
“Divil a wor’rd, sor,” said Julia, coming downstairs at that moment. “I
called her up, makin’ bould enough to ax her to reason wit’ Mrs. Pippy,
sor, but she would not. Says she to me, says she: ‘Julia, there’s no
reasonin’ wit’ anybody in that household, so I’ll not be botherin’ me
poor head about them. When Misther Pritchard wants me he’ll sind for
me’.”
“Quite so, Julia, quite so. She is absolutely right.”
He went upstairs, bathed and changed his clothes. He intended returning
to the office, but Tamea pleaded with him to spend the remainder of the
day amusing her. So he took her to a vaudeville show, and Tamea held his
hand and, between acts, whispered to him little messages of love. Once,
when the house was dark, she leaned over and kissed him very tenderly on
the ear. Then, remembering that he held a grudge against Sooey Wan, whom
he knew would prepare a special dinner to celebrate his return, Dan
decided to take Tamea out to dinner and, deliberately, to fail to
telephone Sooey Wan. He knew that would infuriate the old Chinaman and
indicate to him that he had been reproved.
They went to an Italian restaurant, the Fiore d’Italia, up in the Latin
quarter. It was a restaurant which was patronized nightly by the same
guests; indeed, Dan, who had a weakness for some of the toothsome
specialties of the house, had been a guest there about three times a
month for years, and Mark Mellenger had been, with the exception of
Thursday nights when he dined at Dan’s house, a nightly habitué of the
Fiore d’Italia for fifteen years. Dan had a desire to bask for an hour
in the light of Mellenger’s delightful but infrequent smile and had
chosen to take Tamea to the Fiore d’Italia in the hope of seeing him
there.
Mellenger was just rising from his table as they entered. He greeted
them both cordially, but to Dan’s pressing invitation to sit and talk
awhile he replied that he was much too busy at the office and hurried
away. Scarcely had he gone when Grandpère, an ancient waiter who looked
for his evening tip from Mark Mellenger as regularly as evening
descended upon San Francisco, came in with an order of striped bass _à
la_ Mellenger. Dan and Tamea had seated themselves at the table vacated
by Mellenger, and Grandpère stood a moment, blinking at the vacant
chair. Then he glanced toward the peg upon which Mellenger’s wide soft
hat always hung and, finding it gone, sighed and returned to the kitchen
with the order.
“Why, Mel left without eating!” Dan exclaimed.
“Yes, he saw us first, dear one. He desired to spare himself the
embarrassment of having to speak too much with me,” Tamea explained. “At
Del Monte I told Mellengair some things he did not like.”
“Oh, Tamea, how could you? He is my dearest friend.”
She shrugged. “He told me things I did not like. We are even now. I
think I should tell you that he will not come to your house again for
dinner while I am there.”
Again Dan sighed. Things were closing in around him. He had lost an
excellent housekeeper, his maid and his cook were in open revolt, his
best man friend avoided him and his best woman friend had quarreled with
him—and all over Tamea. The amazing part of it all was that he simply
could not quarrel with Tamea. He could only adore her and strive to
believe that it wasn’t adoration. Tamea, watching him narrowly, saw that
he had surrendered to the situation and, as was his custom, he would
forbear seeking the details of a situation repugnant to him. So she
dipped a small radish in salt and handed it to him with the air of
royalty conferring the accolade.
There was dancing to the music of an accordion played by an Italian. He
was a genial man, with smiles for all the dancers, and very generous
with his encores. Old patrons nodded to one another across the tables,
there was much pleasant conversation and some noisy eating, for the
Fiore d’Italia was a restaurant dedicated to food rather than the
niceties of eating, and was patronized by democratic folk who held good
food to be superior to table manners. The camaraderie of the place
appealed to Tamea at once, and when presently the accordion player,
between dances, commenced to play very softly “O Sole Mio,” and an
Italian waiter who had almost attained grand opera paused with a stack
of soiled dishes on his arm and sang it, Tamea was transported with
delight.
“We will dance, no?” she pleaded brightly.
Dan would have preferred the bastinado, but—they danced. All eyes were
on Tamea. Who was she? Where did she come from? That was Pritchard with
her, was it not? Who was Pritchard? Zounds, that girl was a corker! How
she could dance and how she loved it! A regular Bohemian, eh?
“You play very well, Monsieur,” Tamea complimented the musician as the
dance ceased. “Please, I would play your accordion. It is so much finer
than my own.”
Before Dan could protest the Italian had handed her his instrument,
Tamea had seated herself and commenced to play “Blue Danube Waves.” Dan
stood, beseeching her with his eyes to cease making a spectacle of
herself and return to the table, but the spirit of carnival had entered
into Tamea and she would not be denied. She knew what Dan wanted her to
do but she would not do it.
“Every one dance,” she commanded. “And I will play that this tired
musician may dance also. It is not fair that he should play always.”
There was a hearty round of applause and the dancers came out on the
floor.
“Tamea, dear, you’re making a spectacle of yourself,” Dan pleaded.
“If you would do the same, dear one,” she replied lightly, “you would be
such a happy boy.”
She was beating time with her foot; and when the dance was ended she
played a ballad of Riva and sang it. The Fiore d’Italia was in an uproar
of appreciation, athrill at a new sensation, as the girl handed the
accordion back to its owner, thanked him and joined Dan at their table.
Immediately all who knew Dan personally or who could rely on the
democracy and camaraderie of the place to excuse their action, came over
to be introduced to Tamea and felicitate her on her playing and singing.
Marinetti, the proprietor, was delighted, and in defiance of the
Eighteenth Amendment presented Tamea with a quart of California
champagne, which Grandpère fell upon and carried away to be frappéd.
The girl’s face glowed with a happiness that was touching. “Here is
life, dear one,” she cried. “Why should I stifle in a convent when there
is joy and singing and dancing in your world? We will come here very
frequently, no?. . . Oh, but yes! You would not deny your Tamea the
pleasure of this beautiful place? Would you, darling Dan Pritchard? Say
no—very loud—like that—_No_.”
“No,” he growled.
His reward was a loving twig at his nose while those around him laughed
at his embarrassment. What a dull fellow he was to be so evidently
appreciated by such a glorious creature, they thought. Some youths among
the diners even wondered if it might not be possible to relieve him of
the source of his embarrassment!
It was eleven o’clock when they left the Fiore d’Italia, and Tamea had
sung, danced and played her way into the hearts of the patrons to such
an extent that Dan felt he could never bear to patronize that restaurant
again. Thus he retired with the added conviction that in addition to
robbing him of his friends Tamea had now robbed him of his favorite
restaurant. Like all bachelors he was a creature of habit and resented
the slightest interference with those habits.
The following morning he journeyed to Sacramento to arrange for Tamea’s
entrance into the convent there. To his huge disgust small-pox had
developed in the school and the convent was under quarantine. So he
returned to San Francisco and, feeling a trifle depressed at the manner
in which fate was pursuing him, he telephoned to Maisie.
With characteristic feminine ease Maisie elected to forget that she had
been fifty per cent responsible for their disagreement at Del Monte. She
had thought the matter over, tearfully but at great length, and had come
to the conclusion that even if she was not a martyr she could not afford
to let Dan Pritchard think so. After a silence of about two weeks Dan
had a habit of ringing up and burying the hatchet, and Maisie hadn’t the
slightest doubt but that this was his mission now. She resolved to be
dignified and enjoy his suit for reëstablishment of the _entente
cordiale_.
“Hello, Dan’l,” she answered, and her clear, cool voice sounded like
music in Dan’s ears. “Are you in trouble?”
“I’m up to my eyebrows in it, Maisie!”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Dan! But then it’s no more than I expected. I thought
you’d send for me when you needed me.”
“I do not need you!” he replied furiously, and hung up.