THE RETURN
In the fall of 1898 a man of middle years walked slowly down the stairs
which plunged a traveler from the new Ferry building's upper floor into
the maelstrom of Market street's beginning. Cable cars were whirling on
turn-tables, newsboys shouted afternoon editions; hack drivers, flower
vendors, train announcers added their babel of strident-toned outcries
to the clanging of gongs, the clatter of wheels and hoofs upon
cobblestone streets. Ferry sirens screamed; an engine of the Belt Line
Railroad chugged fiercely as it pulled a train of freight cars toward
the southern docks.
The stranger paused, apparently bewildered by this turmoil.
He was a stalwart, rather handsome man, bearded and bronzed as if
through long exposure. And in his walk there was a suggestion of that
rolling gait which smacks of maritime pursuits. He proceeded aimlessly
up Market street, gazing round him, still with that odd, half-doubting
and half-troubled manner. In front of the Palace Hotel he paused, seemed
about to enter, but went on. He halted once again at Third street,
surveying a tall brick building with a clock tower.
"What place is that?" he queried of a bystander.
"That? Why, the Chronicle building."
The stranger was silent for a moment. Then he said, in a curious,
detached tone, "I thought it was at Bush and Kearney."
"Oh, not for eight years," said the other. "Did you live here,
formerly?"
"I? No." He spoke evasively and hurried on. "I wonder what made me say
that?" he mumbled to himself.
Down Kearney street he walked. Now and then his eyes lit as if with some
half-formed memory and he made queer, futile gestures with his hands.
Before a stairway leading to an upper floor, he stopped, and, with the
dreamy, passive air of a somnambulist, ascended, entering through
swinging doors a large, pleasant room, tapestried, ornamented with
paintings and statuary. Half a dozen men lounging in large leathern
chairs glanced up and away with polite unrecognition. The stranger was
made aware of a boy in a much-buttoned uniform holding a silver tray.
"Who do you wish to see, sir?"
"Oh--ah--" spoke the stranger, "this is the Bohemian Club, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir. Shall I call the house manager, sir?"
At the other's nod he vanished to return with a spectacled man who
looked inquiring.
"I beg your pardon--for intruding," said the bearded man slowly. "But--I
couldn't help it.... I was once a member here."
"Indeed?" said the spectacled man, tentatively cordial, still inquiring.
"And you're name--"
From the bearded lips there came a gutteral sound--as if speech had
failed him. He gazed at the spectacled personage helplessly. "I--don't
know." Sudden weakness seemed to seize him. Still with the helpless
expression in his eyes, he retreated, found a chair and sank into it. He
passed a hand feverishly before his eyes.
The spectacled man acted promptly.
"Garrison, you're one of the ancients round this club," he addressed a
smiling, gray-haired man of plump and jovial mien. "Come and talk to the
Mysterious Stranger.... Says he was a member ten or fifteen years
ago.... Can't recollect who he is."
"What do you wish me to do?" asked Garrison.
"Pretend to recognize him. Talk to him about the Eighties.... Get him
oriented. It's plainly a case of amnesia."
He watched Garrison approach the bearded man with outstretched hand; saw
the other take it, half reluctantly. The two retired to an alcove, had a
drink and soon were deep in conversation. The stranger seemed to unfold
at this touch of friendliness. They heard him laugh. Another drink was
ordered. After half an hour Garrison returned. He seemed excited. "Hold
him there till I return," he urged. "I'm going to a newspaper office to
look at some files."
Fifteen minutes later he was back. "Come," he said, "I've got a cab ...
want you to meet a friend of mine." He took the still-dazed stranger's
arm. They went out, entered a carriage and were driven off. As they
passed the City Hall the stranger said, as though astonished. "Why--it's
finished, isn't it?"
"Yes, at last," Garrison smiled. "Even Buckley couldn't hold it back
forever."
"Buckley ... he's the one who promised me a job, Is Pond the Mayor now?"
"No," returned the other. "Phelan." As he spoke the carriage stopped
before a rather ornate dwelling, somewhat out of place amid surrounding
offices and shops. The stranger started violently as they approached it.
Again the gutteral sound came from his lips.
The door opened and a woman appeared; a woman tall, sad-faced and
eager-eyed. Beside her was a lad as tall as she. They stared at the
bearded stranger, the boy wide-eyed and curious; the woman with a
piercing, concentrated hope that fears defeat.
The man took a stumbling step forward. "Jeanne!" He halted half abashed.
But the woman sobbing, ran to him and put her arms about his neck. For
an instant he stood, stiffly awkward, his face very red. Then something
snapped the shackles of his prisoned memory. A cry burst from him,
inarticulately joyous. His arms went round her.
* * * * *
It required weeks for Stanley to recover all his memories. It was a new
world; Jeanne the one connecting link between the present and that still
half-shadowy past from which he had been cast by some unceremonial jest
of Fate into a strange existence. From the witless, nameless unit of a
whaler's crew he had at last arisen to a fresh identity. Frank Starbird,
they christened him, he knew not why. And when they found that he had
clerical attainments, the captain, who was really a decent fellow, had
befriended him; found him a berth in a store at Sitka.... Since then he
had roamed up and down the world, mostly as purser of ships, forever
haunted by the memory of some previous identity he could not fathom. He
had been to Russia, India, Europe's seaports, landing finally at
Baltimore. Thence some mastering impulse took him Westward. And here he
was again, Francisco Stanley.
It was difficult to realize that fifteen years had flown. Jeanne seemed
so little older. But the tall young son was startling evidence of Time's
passage. Stanley used to sit gazing at him silently during those first
few days, as though trying to drink in the stupendous fact of his
existence. Old friends called to hear his adventures; he was given a
dinner at the club where he learned, with some surprise, that he was not
unfamous as an author. Jeanne had finished his book and found a
publisher. Between the advertisement of his mysterious disappearance and
its real merits, the volume had a vogue.
Robert had married Maizie after her mother's death. They lived in the
Windham house in Old South Park, for Benito and Alice had never returned
from the East. Po Lun and Hang Far had gone to China.
Slowly life resumed its formed status for Francisco.