I
There was no Burlingame in the Sixties, the Western Addition was a
desert of sand dunes and the goats gambolled through the rocky gulches
of Nob Hill. But San Francisco had its Rincon Hill and South Park,
Howard and Fulsom and Harrison Streets, coldly aloof from the
tumultuous hot heart of the City north of Market Street.
In this residence section the sidewalks were also wooden and uneven and
the streets muddy in winter and dusty in summer, but the houses, some
of which had "come round the Horn," were large, simple, and stately.
Those on the three long streets had deep gardens before them, with
willow trees and oaks above the flower beds, quaint ugly statues, and
fountains that were sometimes dry. The narrower houses of South Park
crowded one another about the oval enclosure and their common garden
was the smaller oval of green and roses.
On Rincon Hill the architecture was more varied and the houses that
covered all sides of the hill were surrounded by high-walled gardens
whose heavy bushes of Castilian roses were the only reminder in this
already modern San Francisco of the Spain that had made California a
land of romance for nearly a century; the last resting place on this
planet of the Spirit of Arcadia ere she vanished into space before the
gold-seekers.
On far-flung heights beyond the business section crowded between Market
and Clay Streets were isolated mansions, built by prescient men whose
belief in the rapid growth of the city to the north and west was
justified in due course, but which sheltered at present amiable and
sociable ladies who lamented their separation by vast spaces from that
aristocratic quarter of the south.
But they had their carriages, and on a certain Sunday afternoon several
of these arks drawn by stout horses might have been seen crawling
fearfully down the steep hills or floundering through the sand until
they reached Market Street; when the coachmen cracked their whips, the
horses trotted briskly, and shortly after began to ascend Rincon Hill.
Mrs. Hunt McLane, the social dictator of her little world, had recently
moved from South Park into a large house on Rincon Hill that had been
built by an eminent citizen who had lost his fortune as abruptly as he
had made it; and this was her housewarming. It was safe to say that her
rooms would be crowded, and not merely because her Sunday receptions
were the most important minor functions in San Francisco: it was
possible that Dr. Talbot and his bride would be there. And if he were
not it might be long before curiosity would be gratified by even a
glance at the stranger; the doctor detested the theatre and had engaged
a suite at the Occidental Hotel with a private dining-room.
Several weeks before a solemn conclave had been held at Mrs. McLane's
house in South Park. Mrs. Abbott was there and Mrs. Ballinger, both
second only to Mrs. McLane in social leadership; Mrs. Montgomery, Mrs.
Brannan, and other women whose power was rooted in the Fifties; Maria
and Sally Ballinger, Marguerite McLane, and Guadalupe Hathaway, whose
blue large talking Spanish eyes had made her the belle of many seasons:
all met to discuss the disquieting news of the marriage in Boston of
the most popular and fashionable doctor in San Francisco, Howard
Talbot. He had gone East for a vacation, and soon after had sent them a
bald announcement of his marriage to one Madeleine Chilton of Boston.
Many high hopes had centered in Dr. Talbot. He was only forty,
good-looking, with exuberant spirits, and well on the road to fortune.
He had been surrounded in San Francisco by beautiful and vivacious
girls, but had always proclaimed himself a man's man, avowed he had
seen too much of babies and "blues," and should die an old bachelor.
Besides he loved them all; when he did not damn them roundly, which he
sometimes did to their secret delight.
And now he not only had affronted them by marrying some one he probably
never had seen before, but he had taken a Northern wife; he had not
even had the grace to go to his native South, if he must marry an
outsider; he had gone to Boston--of all places!
San Francisco Society in the Sixties was composed almost entirely of
Southerners. Even before the war it had been difficult for a Northerner
to obtain entrance to that sacrosanct circle; the exceptions were due
to sheer personality. Southerners were aristocrats. The North was
plebeian. That was final. Since the war, Victorious North continued to
admit defeat in California. The South had its last stronghold in San
Francisco, and held it, haughty, unconquered, inflexible.
That Dr. Talbot, who was on a family footing in every home in San
Francisco, should have placed his friends in such a delicate position
(to say nothing of shattered hopes) was voted an outrage, and at Mrs.
McLane's on that former Sunday afternoon, there had been no pretence at
indifference. The subject was thoroughly discussed. It was possible
that the creature might not even be a lady. Had any one ever heard of a
Boston family named Chilton? No one had. They knew nothing of Boston
and cared less. But the best would be bad enough.
It was more likely however that the doctor had married some obscure
person with nothing in her favor but youth, or a widow of practiced
wiles, or--horrid thought--a divorcee.
He had always been absurdly liberal in spite of his blue Southern
blood; and a man's man wandering alone at the age of forty was almost
foredoomed to disaster. No doubt the poor man had been homesick and
lonesome.
Should they receive her or should they not? If not, would they lose
their doctor. He would never speak to one of them again if they
insulted his wife. But a Bostonian, a possible nobody! And homely, of
course. Angular. Who had ever heard of a pretty woman raised on beans,
codfish, and pie for breakfast?
Finally Mrs. McLane had announced that she should not make up her mind
until the couple arrived and she sat in judgment upon the woman
personally. She would call the day after they docked in San Francisco.
If, by any chance, the woman were presentable, dressed herself with
some regard to the fashion (which was more than Mrs. Abbott and
Guadalupe Hathaway did), and had sufficient tact to avoid the subject
of the war, she would stand sponsor and invite her to the first
reception in the house on Rincon Hill.
"But if not," she said grimly--"well, not even for Howard Talbot's sake
will I receive a woman who is not a lady, or who has been divorced. In
this wild city we are a class apart, above. No loose fish enters our
quiet bay. Only by the most rigid code and watchfulness have we formed
and preserved a society similar to that we were accustomed to in the
old South. If we lowered our barriers we should be submerged. If Howard
Talbot has married a woman we do not find ourselves able to associate
with in this intimate little society out here on the edge of the world,
he will have to go."