I
Price Ruyler knew that many secrets had been inhumed by the earthquake
and fire of San Francisco and wondered if his wife's had been one of
them. After all, she had been born in this city of odd and whispered
pasts, and there were moments when his silent mother-in-law suggested a
past of her own.
That there was a secret of some sort he had been progressively convinced
for quite six months. Moreover, he felt equally sure that this impalpable
gray cloud had not drifted even transiently between himself and his wife
during the first year and a half of their marriage. They had been
uncommonly happy; they were happy yet ... the difference lay not in the
quality of Hélène's devotion, enhanced always by an outspoken admiration
for himself and his achievements, but in subtle changes of temperament
and spirits.
She had been a gay and irresponsible young creature when he married her,
so much so that he had found it expedient to put her on an allowance and
ask her not to ran up staggering bills in the fashionable shops; which
she visited daily, as much for the pleasure of the informal encounter
with other lively and irresponsible young luminaries of San Francisco
society as for the excitement of buying what she did not want.
He had broached the subject with some trepidation, for they had never had
a quarrel; but she had shown no resentment whatever, merely an eager
desire to please him. She even went directly down to the Palace Hotel and
reproached her august parent for failing to warn her that a dollar was
not capable of infinite expansion.
But no wonder she had been extravagant, she told Ruyler plaintively. It
had been like a fairy tale, this sudden release from the rigid
economies of her girlhood, when she had rarely had a franc in her
pocket, and they had lived in a suite of the old family villa on one
of the hills of Rouen, Madame Delano paying her brother for their
lodging, and dressing herself and Hélène with the aid of a half
paralyzed seamstress with a fiery red nose. Ma foi! It was the
nightmare of her youth, that nose and that croaking voice. But the
woman had fingers, and a taste! And her mother could have concocted a
smart evening frock out of an old window curtain.
But the petted little daughter was never asked to go out and buy a spool
of thread, much less was she consulted in the household economies. All
she noticed was that her clothes were smarter than Cousin Marthe's, who
had a real dressmaker, and was subject to fits of jealous sulks. No
wonder that when money was poured into her lap out in this wonderful
California she had assumed that it was made only to spend.
But she would learn! She would learn! She would ask her mother that very
day to initiate her into the fascinating secrets of personal economies,
teach her how to portion out her quarterly allowance between her
wardrobe, club dues, charities, even her private automobile.
This last heroic suggestion was her own, and although her husband
protested he finally agreed; it was well she should learn just what it
cost to be a woman of fashion in San Francisco, and the allowance was
very generous. His old steward, Mannings, ran the household, although as
he went through the form of laying the bills before his little mistress
on the third of every month, she knew that the upkeep of the San
Francisco house and the Burlingame villa ran into a small fortune a year.
"It is not that I am threatened with financial disaster," Ruyler had said
to her. "But San Francisco has not recovered yet, and it is impossible to
say just when she will recover. I want to be absolutely sure of my
expenditures."
She had promised vehemently, and, as far as he knew, she had kept her
promise. He had received no more bills, and it was obvious that her
haughty chauffeur was paid on schedule time, until, seized with another
economical spasm, she sold her car and bought a small electric which she
could drive herself.
Ruyler, little as he liked his mother-in-law, was intensely grateful to
her for the dexterity with which she had adjusted Hélène's mind to the
new condition. She even taught her how to keep books in an elemental way
and balanced them herself on the first of every month. As Hélène Ruyler
had a mind as quick and supple as it was cultivated in _les graces_, she
soon ceased to feel the chafing of her new harness, although she did
squander the sum she had reserved for three months mere pocket money upon
a hat; which was sent to the house by her wily milliner on the first day
of the second quarter. She confessed this with tears, and her husband,
who thought her feminine passion for hats adorable, dried her tears and
took her to the opening night of a new play. But he did not furnish the
pathetic little gold mesh bag, and as he made her promise not to borrow,
she did not treat her friends to tea or ices at any of the fashionable
rendezvous for a month. Then her native French thrift came to her aid and
she sold a superfluous gold purse, a wedding present, to an envious
friend at a handsome bargain.
That was ancient history now. It was twenty months since Price had
received a bill, and secret inquiries during the past two had satisfied
him that his wife's name was written in the books of no shop in San
Francisco that she would condescend to visit. Therefore, this maddening
but intangible barrier had nothing to do with a change of habit that had
not caused an hour of tears and sulks. Hélène had a quick temper but a
gay and sweet disposition, normally high spirits, little apparent
selfishness, and a naïve adoration of masculine superiority and strength;
altogether, with her high bred beauty and her dignity in public, an
enchanting creature and an ideal wife for a busy man of inherited social
position and no small degree of pride.
But all this lovely equipment was blurred, almost obscured at times, by
the shadow that he was beginning to liken to the San Francisco fogs that
drifted through the Golden Gate and settled down into the deep hollows of
the Marin hills; moving gently but restlessly even there, like ghostly
floating tides. He could see them from his library window, where he often
finished his afternoon's work with his secretaries.
But the fog drifted back to the Pacific, and the shadow that encompassed
his wife did not, or rarely. It chilled their ardors, even their serene
domesticity. She was often as gay and impulsive as ever, but with abrupt
reserves, an implication not only of a new maturity of spirit, but of
watchfulness, even fear. She had once gone so far as to give voice
passionately to the dogma that no two mortals had the right to be as
happy as they were; then laughed apologetically and "guessed" that the
old Puritan spirit of her father's people was coming to life in her
Gallic little soul; then, with another change of mood, added defiantly
that it was time America were rid of its baneful inheritance, and that
she would be happy to-day if the skies fell to-morrow. She had flung
herself into her husband's arms, and even while he embraced her the eyes
of his spirit searched for the girl wife who had fled and left this more
subtly fascinating but incomprehensible creature in her place.
II
The morning was Sunday and he sat in the large window of his library that
overlooked the Bay of San Francisco. The house, which stood on one of the
highest hills, he had bought and remodeled for his bride. The books that
lined these walls had belonged to his Ruyler grandfather, bought in a day
when business men had time to read and it was the fashion for a gentleman
to cultivate the intellectual tracts of his brain. The portraits that
hung above, against the dark paneling, were the work of his mother's
father, one of the celebrated portrait painters of his time, and were
replicas of the eminent and mighty he had painted. Maharajas, kings,
emperors, famous diplomats, men of letters, artists of his own small
class, statesmen and several of the famous beauties of their brief day;
these had been the favorite grandson's inheritance from Masewell Price,
and they made an impressive frieze, unique in the splendid homes of the
city of Ruyler's adoption.
He had brought them from New York when he had decided to live in
California, and hung them in his bachelor quarters. He had soon made up
his mind that he must remain in San Francisco for at least ten years if
he would maintain the business he had rescued from the disaster of 1906
at the level where he had, by the severest application of his life,
placed it by the end of 1908. Meanwhile he had grown to like San
Francisco better than he would have believed possible when he arrived in
the wrecked city, still smoking, and haunted with the subtle odors of
fires that had consumed more than products of the vegetable kingdom.
The vast ruin with its tottering arches and broken columns, its lonely
walls looking as if bitten by prehistoric monsters that must haunt this
ancient coast, the soft pastel colors the great fire had given as sole
compensation for all it had taken, the grotesque twisted masses of steel
and the aged gray hills that had looked down on so many fires, had
appealed powerfully to his imagination, and made him feel, when wandering
alone at night, as if his brain cells were haunted by old memories of
Antioch when Nature had annihilated in an instant what man had lavished
upon her for centuries. Nowhere, not even in what was left of ancient
Rome, had he ever received such an impression of the age of the world and
of the nothingness of man as among the ruins of this ridiculously modern
city of San Francisco. It fascinated him, but he told himself then that
he should leave it without a pang. He was a New Yorker of the seventh
generation of his house, and the rest of the United States of America was
merely incidental.
The business, a branch of the great New York firm founded in 1840 by an
ancestor grown weary of watching the broad acres of Ruyler Manor
automatically transmute themselves into the yearly rent-roll, and
reverting to the energy and merchant instincts of his Dutch ancestors,
had been conducted skillfully for the thirty years preceding the
disaster by Price's uncle, Dryden Ruyler. But the earthquake and fire in
which so many uninsured millions had vanished, had also wrecked men past
the rebounding age, and Dryden Ruyler was one of them. He might have
borne the destruction of the old business building down on Front Street,
or even the temporary stagnation of trade, but when the Pacific Union
Club disappeared in the raging furnace, and, like many of his old
cronies who had no home either in the country or out in the Western
Addition, he was driven over to Oakland for lodgings, this ghastly
climax of horrors--he escaped in a milk wagon after sleeping for two
nights without shelter on the bare hills behind San Francisco, while the
fire roared its defiance to the futile detonations of dynamite, and his
sciatica was as fiery as the atmosphere--had broken the old man's
spirit, and he had announced his determination to return to
Ruyler-on-Hudson and die as a gentleman should.
There was no question of Price's father, Morgan Ruyler, leaving New
York, even if he had contemplated the sacrifice for a moment; that his
second son and general manager of the several branches of the great
business of Ruyler and Sons--as integral a part of the ancient history
of San Francisco as of the comparatively modern history of New
York--should go, was so much a matter of course that Price had taken the
first Overland train that left New York after the receipt of his uncle's
despairing telegram.
In spite of the fortune behind him and his own expert training, the
struggle to rebuild the old business to its former standard had been
unintermittent. The terrific shock to the city's energies was followed
by a general depression, and the insane spending of a certain class of
San Franciscans when their insurance money was paid, was like a brief
last crackling in a cold stove, and, moreover, was of no help to the
wholesale houses.
But Price Ruyler, like so many of his new associates in like case, had
emerged triumphant; and with the unqualified approval and respect of the
substantial citizens of San Francisco.
It was this position he had won in a community where he had experienced
the unique sensation of being a pioneer in at the rebirth of a great
city, as well as the outdoor sports that kept him fit, that had endeared
California to Ruyler, and in time caused him whimsically to visualize New
York as a sternly accusing instead of a beckoning finger. Long before he
found time to play polo at Burlingame he had conceived a deep respect for
a climate where a man might ride horseback, shoot, drive a racing car, or
tramp, for at least eight months of the year with no menace of sudden
downpour, and hardly a change in the weight of his clothes.
To-day the rain was dashing against his windows and the wind howled about
the exposed angles of his house with that personal fury of assault with
which storms brewed out in the vast wastes of the Pacific deride the
enthusiastic baptism of a too confident explorer. All he could see of the
bay was a mad race of white caps, and dark blurs which only memory
assured him were rocky storm-beaten islands; mountain tops, so geological
tradition ran, whose roots were in an unquiet valley long since dropped
from mortal gaze.
The waves were leaping high against the old forts at the entrance to the
Golden Gate, and occasionally he saw a small craft drift perilously near
to the rocks. But he loved the wild weather of San Francisco, for he was
by nature an imaginative man and he liked to think that he would have
followed the career of letters had not the traditions of the great
commercial house of Ruyler and Sons, forced him to carry on the burden.
The men of his family had never been idlers since the recrudescence of
ancestral energy in the person of Morgan Ruyler I; it was no part of
their profound sense of aristocracy to retire on inherited or invested
wealth; they believed that your fine American of the old stock should die
in harness; and if the harness had been fashioned and elaborated by
ancestors whose portraits hung in the Chamber of Commerce, all the more
reason to keep it spic and up to date instead of letting it lapse into
those historic vaults where so many once honored names lay rotting. They
were a hard, tight-fisted lot, the Ruylers, and Price in one secluded but
cherished wing of his mind was unlike them only because his mother was
the daughter of Masefield Price and would have been an artist herself if
her scandalized husband would have consented. Morgan Ruyler IV had
overlooked his father-in-law's divagation from the orthodox standards of
his own family because he had been a spectacular financial success;
bringing home ropes of enormous pearls from India in addition to the
fantastic sums paid him by enraptured native princes. But while Morgan
Ruyler believed that rich men should work and make their sons work, if
only because an idle class was both out of place in a republic and
conducive to unrest in the masses, it was quite otherwise with women.
They were for men to shelter, and it was their sole duty to be useful in
the home, and, wherever possible, ornamental in public. Nor had he the
least faith in female talent.
Marian Ruyler had yielded the point and departed hopefully for a broader
sphere when her second and favorite son was eight. Morgan Ruyler married
again as soon as convention would permit, this time carefully selecting a
wife of the soundest New York predispositions and with a personal
admiration of Queen Victoria; and he had watched young Price like an
affectionate but inexorable parent hawk until the young man followed his
brother--a quintessential Ruyler--into the now historic firm. However, he
suffered little from anxiety. Price, too, was conservative, intensely
proud of the family traditions, an almost impassioned worker, and
unselfish as men go. Two sons in every generation must enter the firm. It
was not in the Ruyler blood to take long chances.
III
Life out here in California had been too hurried for more than fleeting
moments of self-study, but on this idle Sunday morning Price Ruyler's
perturbed mind wandered to that inner self of his to which he once had
longed to give a freer expression. It was odd that the conservative
training, the rigid traditions of his family, conventional,
old-fashioned, Puritanical, as became the best stock of New York, a stock
that in the Ruyler family had seemed to carry its own antidote for the
poisons ever seeking entrance to the spiritual conduits of the rich, had
left any place for that sentimental romantic tide in his nature which had
swept him into marriage with a girl outside of his own class; a girl of
whose family he had known practically nothing until his outraged father
had cabled to a correspondent in Paris to make investigation of the
Perrin family of Rouen, to which the girl's mother claimed to belong.
The inquiries were satisfactory; they were quite respectable,
bourgeois, silk merchants in a small way--although at least two strata
below that haute bourgeoisie which now regarded itself as the real
upper class of the République Française. A true Ruyler, however, would
have fled at the first danger signal, never have reached the point
where inquiries were in order.
California was replete with charming, beautiful, and superlatively
healthy girls; the climate produced them as it did its superabundance of
fruit, flowers, and vegetables. But they had left Price Ruyler
untroubled. He had been far more interested watching San Francisco rise
from its ruins, transformed almost overnight from a picturesque but
ramshackle city, a patchwork of different eras, into a staid metropolis
of concrete and steel, defiant alike of earthquake and fire. He had liked
the new experience of being a pioneer, which so subtly expanded his
starved ego that he had, by unconscious degrees, made up his mind to
remain out here as the permanent head of the San Francisco House; and in
time, no doubt, marry one of these fine, hardy, frank, out-of-door,
wholly unsubtle California girls. Moreover, he had found in San Francisco
several New Yorkers as well as Englishmen of his own class--notably John
Gwynne, who had thrown over one of the greatest of English peerages to
follow his personal tastes in a legislative career--all of whom had
settled down into that free and independent life from motives not
dissimilar from his own.
But he had ceased to be an untroubled spirit from the moment he met
Hélène Delano. He had gone down to Monterey for polo, and he had
forgotten the dinner to which he had brought a keen appetite, and stared
at her as she entered the immense dining room with her mother.
It was not her beauty, although that was considerable, that had summarily
transposed his gallant if cool admiration for all charming well bred
women into a submerging recognition of woman in particular; it was her
unlikeness to any of the girls he had been riding, dancing, playing golf
and tennis with during the past year and a half (for two years after his
arrival he had seen nothing of society whatever). Later that evening he
defined this dissimilarity from the American girl as the result not only
of her French blood but of her European training, her quiet secluded
girlhood in a provincial town of great beauty, where she had received a
leisurely education rare in the United States, seen or read little of the
great world (she had visited Paris only twice and briefly), her mind
charmingly developed by conscientious tutors. But at the moment he
thought that the compelling power lay in some deep subtlety of eye, her
little air of lofty aloofness, her classic small features in a small
face, and the top-heavy masses of blue black hair which she carried with
a certain naïve pride as if it were her only vanity; in her general
unlikeness to the gray-eyed fair-haired American--a type to which himself
belonged. Her only point in common with this fashionable set patronizing
Del Monte for the hour, was the ineffable style with which she wore her
perfect little white frock; an American inheritance, he assumed after he
knew her; for, as he recalled provincial French women, style was not
their strong point.
When he met her eyes some twenty minutes later, he dismissed the
impression of subtlety, for their black depths were quick with an eager
wonder and curiosity. Later they grew wistful, and he guessed that she
knew none of these smart folk, down, like himself, for the tournament;
people who were chattering from table to table like a large family. That
some of his girl acquaintances were interested in the young stranger he
inferred from speculative and appraising eyes that were turned upon her
from time to time.
Price, with some irony, wondered at their curiosity. The San Francisco
girl, he had discovered, possessed an extra sense all her own. There was
no lofty indifference about her. She had the worth-while stranger
detected and tabulated and his or her social destiny settled before the
Eastern train had disgorged its contents at the Oakland mole. And even
the immense florid mother of this lovely girl, with her own masses of
snow white hair dressed in a manner becoming her age, and a severe gown
of black Chantilly net, relieved by the merest trifle of jet, looked the
reverse of the nondescript tourist. The girl wore white embroidered silk
muslin and a thin gold chain with a small ruby pendant. She was rather
above the average height, although not as tall as her mother, and if she
were as thin as fashion commanded, her bones were so small that her neck
and arms looked almost plump. Her expressive eyes were as black as her
hair, and her only large feature. Her skin was of a quite remarkably pink
whiteness, although there was a pink color in her lips and cheeks. The
older men stared at her more persistently than the younger ones, who
liked their own sort and not girls who looked as if they might be "booky"
and "spring things on a fellow."
There was a ball in the evening and once more mother and daughter sat
apart, while the flower of San Francisco--an inclusive term for the
select circles of Menlo Park, Atherton, Burlingame, San Mateo, far San
Rafael and Belvedere--romped as one great family. Newport, Ruyler
reflected for the twentieth time, did it no better. To the stranger
peering through the magic bars they were now as insensible as befitted
their code. These two people knew nobody and that was the end of it.
IV
But Price noted that now the girl's eyes were merely wistful, and once or
twice he saw them fill with tears. As three of the dowagers merely
sniffed when he sought possible information, he finally had recourse to
the manager of the hotel, D.V. Bimmer. They were a Madame and
Mademoiselle Delano from Rouen, and had been at the hotel for a
fortnight, not seeming to mind its comparative emptiness, but enjoying
the sea bathing and the drives. The girl rode, and went out every morning
with a groom.
"But didn't they bring any letters?" asked Ruyler. "They are ladies and
one letter would have done the business. That poor girl is having the
deuce of a time."
"D.V.," who knew "everybody" in California, and all their secrets, shook
his head. "'Fraid not. The French maid told the floor valet that although
the father was American--from New England somewheres--and the girl born
in California, accidentally as it were, she had lived in France all her
life--she's just eighteen--never crossed the ocean before. Can you beat
it? Until last month, and then they came from Hong Kong--taking a trip
round the world in good old style. The madame, who scarcely opens her
month, did condescend to tell me that she had admired California very
much when she was here before, and intended to travel all over the state.
Perhaps I met her in that far off long ago, for I was managing a hotel in
San Francisco about that time, and her face haunts me somehow--although
when features get all swallowed up by fat like that you can't locate
them. The girl, too, reminds me of some one, but of course she was in
arms when she left and as I ain't much on cathedrals I never went to
Rouen. Of course it's the old trick, bringing a pretty girl to a
fashionable watering place to marry her off, but these folks are not
poor. Not what we'd call rich, perhaps, but good and solid. I don't fall
for the old lady; she's a cool proposition or I miss my guess, but the
girl's all right. I've seen too many girls in this Mecca for adventurous
females and never made a mistake yet. I wish some of our grand dames
would extend the glad hand. But I'm afraid they won't. Terrible
exclusive, this bunch."
Ruyler scowled and walked back to the ballroom. The exclusiveness of this
young society on the wrong side of the continent sometimes made him
homesick and sometimes made him sick. He saw little chance for this poor
girl to enjoy the rights of her radiant youth if her mother had not taken
the precaution to bring letters. France was full of Californians. Many
lived there. Surely she must have met some one she could have made use
of. It was tragic to watch a pathetic young thing staring at two or three
hundred young men and maidens disporting themselves with the natural
hilarity of youth, and but few of them too ill-natured to welcome a young
and lovely stranger if properly introduced.
He experienced a desperate impulse to go up to the mother and offer
her the hospitality of the evening, ask her to regard him as her host.
But Madame Delano had a frozen eye, and no doubt orthodox French ideas
on the subject of young girls. A moment later his eye fell on Mrs.
Ford Thornton.
"Fordy" was many times a millionaire, and his handsome intelligent wife
lived the life of her class. But she was far less conservative than any
woman Price had met in San Francisco. Although she was no longer young he
had more than once detected symptoms of a wild and insurgent spirit, and
an impatient contempt for the routine she was compelled to follow or go
into retirement. She was always leaving abruptly for Europe, and every
once in a while she did something quite uncanonical; enjoying wickedly
the consternation she caused among the serenely regulated, and betraying
to the keen eyes of the New Yorker an ironic appreciation of the immense
wealth which enabled her to do as she chose, answerable to no one. Her
husband was uxorious and she had no children. She had seemed to Price
more restless than usual of late and showing unmistakable signs of abrupt
departure. (He was sure she dusted the soles of her boots as she locked
the door of drawing-room A.) Perhaps to-night she might be in a
schismatic mood.
She was standing apart, a tall, dark, almost fiercely haughty woman, but
dressed with a certain arrogant simplicity, without jewels, her hair in a
careless knot at the base of her head. There were times when she was
impeccably groomed, others when she looked as if an infuriated maid had
left her helpless. She was, as Ruyler well knew, a kind and generous
woman (in certain of her moods), with whom the dastardly cradle fates had
experimented, hoping for high drama when the whip of life snapped once
too often. Perhaps she had found her revenge as well as her consolation
in cheating them.
It was evident to Price that she had been snubbing somebody, for a group
of matrons, flushed and drawn apart, were whispering resentfully. Price
Ruyler stood in no awe of her. He could match her arrogance, and he liked
and admired her more than any of his new friends. They quarreled
furiously but she had never snubbed him.
He walked over to her, his cool gray eyes lit with the pleasure in seeing
her that she had learned to expect. "Good evening, oh, Queen of the
Pacific," he said lightly. "You are looking quite wonderful as usual. Are
you standing alone almost in the middle of the room to emphasize
the--difference?"
"I am in no mood for compliments, satiric or otherwise." She looked him
over with cool penetration. "I may not massage or have my old cuticle
ripped off. If I choose to look my age you must admit that it gives me
one more claim to originality."
"You should have let the world know long since just how original you are,
instead of settling down into the leadership of San Francisco society--"
He enjoyed provoking her. Her dark narrow eyes opened and flashed as they
must have done in their unchastened youth. "Don't dare call me the leader
of this--this!"
"Granted. But the fact remains that your word alone is law. Therefore I
am about to ask you to forget that I am a bungling diplomat and do a kind
act. For once you would be able to be both kind and original."
"I did not know you went in for charities. I am sick of shelling out."
"My only part in charities is shelling out."
"Well, come to the point. What do you want?"
"I want you to go over to that lady--Madame Delano, her name is--sitting
beside that beautiful girl, and introduce yourself and then me. They are
strangers and I'd like to give them a good time."
"How disinterested of you!" She looked the isolated couple over. "The
girl is all right, but I don't like the mother. She is well dressed--oh,
correct from tip to toe--but not quite the lady."
Ruyler's cool insolent gaze swept the dado of amiable overfed ladies who
fanned themselves against the wall.
"None of that! You know that I do not tolerate the New York attitude.
At least we know who ours are; they came into their own respectably,
and with no uncertain touch. Of course it is stupid of them to get fat.
Naturally it makes them look _bourgeoise_. But this is a lazy climate.
As to that woman: there is something about her I do not like. She is
aggressively not massaged, not made up. Only a woman of assured
position can afford to be mid-Victorian. It is now quite the smart
thing to make up."
"No doubt her position is assured in her own provincial town. It will be
easy enough to drop her if she doesn't go down. You can't deny that the
girl is all right--and a sweet pathetic figure."
"If the girl marries one of our boys--and no doubt that is what she was
brought here for--we shall not be able to get rid of the mother. We've
tried that and failed."
At that moment Ruyler's eyes met those of the girl. They flashed an
irresistible appeal. He drew a short breath. How different she looked!
She radiated a subtle promise of perfect companionship. Price Ruyler did
what all men will do until the end of time. He made up his mind that he
had found his woman and without vocal assistance.
Mrs. Thornton, who had been watching the unusual mobility of his face,
met his eyes with a satirical smile in her own, her thin red curling lips
drawn almost straight for a moment. She had played with the fancy, before
anger banished it, that if she had been twenty years younger.... Men had
fallen madly in love with her in her own day.... She detected the
symptoms in this man at once. Her savage will compelled her to accept
accumulating years without a concession. But she had forgotten nothing.
Ruyler may have read her thoughts.
"You know," he said, with an attempt at lightness, although the coast
wind tan, which was his only claim to coloring, had paled a little, "that
girl reminds me so much of you that I have made up my mind to marry her.
I don't care who she is. If you don't help me to meet her conventionally
I'll manage somehow, but I should hate to practice any subterfuges on the
woman I intend to make my wife."
For a moment he had the sensation of being pinned to the wall by that
narrow concentrated gaze. Then Mrs. Thornton swung on her heel. "I'll do
it," she said.
She walked across the room with the supple grace her slender figure had
never lost and sat down beside the older woman. In a moment the
astonished dowagers who had "suffered from her fiendish temper all
evening," saw her talking with spontaneous graciousness to both the
strangers. Madame Delano was at first more distant and reserved than Mrs.
Thornton had ever been, manifestly betraying all the suspicion and
unsocial instincts of her class; but she thawed, and the two women
chatted, while once more the girl's eyes wandered to the dancers.
When Mrs. Thornton had tormented Ruyler for quite fifteen minutes she
beckoned to him imperiously. A moment later he was whirling the girl down
the ball room and thrilling at her contact.
V
The wooing had been as headlong as his falling in love. Hélène Delano had
a deep sweet voice, which completed the conquest during the hour they
spent in the grounds under the shelter of a great palm, until hunted down
by a horrified parent.
Hélène talked frankly of her life. Her mother had been visiting relatives
in a small New England town--Holbrook Centre, she believed it was called,
but hard American names did not cling to her memory--she loved the soft
Latin and Indian names in California--and there she had met and married
her father, James Delano. They were on their way to Japan when business
detained him in San Francisco much longer than he had expected and she
was born. She believed that he had owned a ranch that he wanted to sell.
He died on the voyage across the Pacific and her mother had returned to
live among her own people in Rouen--very plain bourgeois, but of a
respectability, Oh, là! là!
"But it was a tiresome life for a young girl with American blood in her,
monsieur." Her mother's income from her husband's estate was not large,
but they lived in a wing of the old house and were very comfortable. From
her window there was a lovely view of the Seine winding off to Paris.
"Oh, monsieur, how I used to long to go to Paris! America was too far. I
never even dreamed of it. But Paris! And only two little glimpses of
it--the last when we spent a fortnight there before sailing, to get me
some nice frocks...."
She had studied hard--but hard! She knew four languages, she told Ruyler
proudly. "I had no _dot_ then, you see. It was possible I might have to
teach one day. A governess in England, Oh, là! là!"
But six months ago a good old uncle had died and left them some money.
She would have a little _dot_ now, and they could travel. Maman said she
would not have a large enough _dot_ to make a fine marriage in France,
but that the English and American men were more romantic. They went first
to the Orient, as there were many Englishmen of good family to be met
there. "But maman is difficult to please," she added with her enchanting
artlessness, "as difficult as I myself, monsieur. I wish to fall in love
like the American girls. Maman says it is not necessary, but I am half
American, so, why not? There was an English gentleman with a nice title
in Hong Kong and maman was quite pleased with him until she discovered
that he gambled or did something equally horrid and she bought our
tickets for San Francisco right away."
Yes, she was enjoying her travels, but she was a little lonesome; in
Rouen at least she had her cousins. For the first time in her life she
was talking to a young man alone; even on the steamer she was not
permitted to speak to any of the nice young men who looked as if they
would like her if only maman would relent.
"In our ugly old rooms in Rouen maman cherished me like some rare little
flower in an old earthen pot," she added quaintly. "Now the pot has
tinsel and tissue paper round it, but until to-night I have felt as if I
might just as well be an old cabbage."
But it had been heaven to dance with a young man who was not a cousin;
and to sit out alone with him in the moonlight, Oh, _grace à Dieu_!
Traveling she had read modern novels for the first time. There were many
in the ship's library, oh, but dozens! and she knew now how American and
English girls enjoyed life. Her mother had been ill nearly all the way
over. She had given her word not to speak to any one, but maman had been
ignorant of the library replete with the novelists of the day, and
although she was not untruthful, _enfin_, she saw no reason to ask her
too anxious parent for another prohibition and condemn herself to yawn
at the sea.
Ruyler proposed at the end of a week. She was the only really innocent,
unspoiled, unselfconscious girl he had ever met, almost as old-fashioned
as his great grandmother must have been. Not that he set forth her
virtues to bolster his determination to marry a girl of no family even in
her own country; he was madly in love, and life without her was
unthinkable; but he tabulated the thousand points to her credit for the
benefit of his outraged father.
He did not pretend to like Madame Delano. She was a hard, calculating,
sordid old bourgeoisie, but when he refused the little _dot_ she would
have settled upon Hélène, he knew that he had won her friendship and that
she would give him no trouble. She was not a mother-in-law to be ashamed
of, for her manners were coldly correct, her education in youth had
evidently been adequate, and in her obese way she was imposing. She gave
him to understand that she had no more desire to live with her son-in-law
than he with her, and established herself in a small suite in the Palace
Hotel. After a "lifetime" in a provincial town, economizing mercilessly,
she felt, she remarked in one of her rare expansive moments, that she had
earned the right to look on at life in a great hotel.
The rainy season she spent in Southern California, moving from one large
hotel crowded with Eastern visitors to another. This uncommon
self-indulgence and her devotion to Hélène were the only weak spots
Ruyler was able to discover in that cast-iron character. She seldom
attended the brilliant entertainments of her daughter and refused the
endowed car offered by her son-in-law. Hélène married to the best _parti_
in San Francisco and quite happy, she seemed content to settle down into
the role of the onlooker at the kaleidoscope of life. She spent eight
hours of the day and evening seated in an arm chair in the court of the
Palace Hotel, and for air rode out to the end of the California Street
car line, always on the front seat of the dummy. She was dubbed a "quaint
old party" by her new acquaintances and left to her own devices. If she
didn't want them they could jolly well do without her.
VI
Hélène's social success was immediate and permanent. Californians rarely
do things by halves. Society was no exception. She had "walked off" with
the most desirable man in town, but they were good gamblers. When they
lost they paid. She had married into "their set." They had accepted her.
She was one of them. No secret order is more loyal to its initiates.
During that first year and a half of ideal happiness Ruyler, in what
leisure he could command, found Hélène's rapidly expanding mind as
companionable as he had hoped; and the girlish dignity she never lost,
for all her naiveté and vivacity, gratified his pride and compelled, upon
their second brief visit to New York, even the unqualified approval of
his family.
She had inherited all the subtle adaptability of her father's race,
nothing of the cold and rigid narrowness of her mother's class. Price had
feared that her lively mind might reveal disconcerting shallows, but
these little voids were but the divine hiatuses of youth. He sometimes
wondered just how strong her character was. There were times when she
showed a pronounced inclination for the line of least resistance ... but
her youth ... her too sheltered bringing up ... those drab cramped
years ... no wonder....
He was glad on the whole that his was the part to mold. Nevertheless, he
had his inconsistencies. Unlike many men of strong will and driving
purpose he liked strength of character and pronounced individuality in
women; and he, too, had had fleeting visions of what life might have been
had Flora Thornton entered life twenty years later. He had been quite
sincere in telling her that the young stranger reminded him of the most
powerful personality he had met in California, and he believed that
within a reasonable time Hélène would be as variously cultivated, as
widely, if less erratically developed. But was there any such insurgent
force in her depths? It was not within the possibilities that at any time
in her life Flora Thornton had been pliable.
A man had little time to study his wife in California these days. Or at
any time? He sometimes wondered. Certainly happy marriages were rare and
divorces many. Fine weather nearly all the year round played the deuce
with domesticity, and his business could not be neglected for the long
vacation abroad to which they both had looked forward so ardently.
Sometimes, even before this vague gray mist had risen between them, he
had had moments of wondering whether he knew his wife at all. How could a
man know a woman who did not yet know herself? He sighed and wished he
had more time to explore the uncharted seas of a woman's soul.
But the cause of the change in her was something far less picturesque,
something concrete and sinister. He felt sure of that....
VII
Unless--but that was ridiculous! Impossible!
He sprang to his feet, incredulous, disgusted at the mere thought.
But why not? She was very young, and older and wiser women were afflicted
with inconsistencies, little tenacious desires and vanities never quite
to be grasped by the elemental male.
He went over to a bookcase containing heavy works of reference and
pressed his index finger into the molding. It swung outward, revealing
the door of a safe. He manipulated the combination, took from a drawer of
the interior a box, opened it and stared at a magnificent Burmah ruby. It
was or had been a royal jewel, presented to Masewell Price by one of the
great princes of India whose portrait he had painted. The pearls had all
been captured long since by Price's sisters and by Morgan V. for his
wife; but this ruby his mother had given him as she lay dying. She had
bidden him leave it in his father's safe until he was out of college, and
then keep it as closely in his personal possession as possible. It would
be turned over to him with the rest of his private fortune.
"Never let any woman wear it," she had whispered. "It brings luck to men
but not to women. Nothing could have affected my luck one way or the
other--I was born to have nothing I wanted, but you, dear little boy.
Keep it for your luck and in a safe place, but near you."
He had looked back upon this scene as he grew older as the mere
expression of a whim of dissolution, but it had made so deep an
impression upon him at the time that insensibly the words sank into his
plastic mind creating a superstition that refused to yield to reason. The
ruby was Hélène's birthstone and she was passionately fond of it. She had
begged and coaxed to wear this jewel, and upon one occasion had stamped
her little foot and sulked throughout the evening. He had given her a
ruby bar, had the clasp of her pearl necklace set with rabies, and last
Christmas had presented her with a small but fine "pigeon blood"
encircled with diamonds. These had enraptured her for the moment, but she
had always circled back to the historic stone, over which her indulgent
husband was so unaccountably obstinate.
Until lately. He recalled that for several months she had not mentioned
it. Could she have been indulging in a prolonged attack of interior
sulks, which affected her spirits, dimmed her radiant personality? He
abominated the idea but admitted the possibility. She would not be the
first person to be the victim of a secret but furious passion for jewels.
He recalled a novel of Hichens; not the matter but the central idea.
Authors of other races had used the same motive. Well, if his wife had an
abnormal streak in her the sooner he found out the truth the better.
He closed the door of the safe, swung the bookcase into place, slipped
the ruby with its curious gold chain that looked massive but hardly
weighed an ounce, into his pocket, rang for a servant and told him to ask
Mrs. Ruyler to come down to the library as soon as she was dressed.