IV

Dr. Talbot had confided to Mrs. McLane that his wife was inclined to be

a bas bleu and he wanted her broken of an unfeminine love of books.

Mrs. McLane, who knew that a reputation for bookishness would be fatal

in a community that regarded "Lucile" as a great poem and read little

but the few novels that drifted their way (or the continued stories in

Godey's Lady's Book), promised him that Madeleine's intellectual

aspirations should be submerged in the social gaieties of the season.

She kept her word. Dinners, receptions, luncheons, theatre parties, in

honor of the bride, followed in rapid succession, and when all had

entertained her, the less personal invitations followed as rapidly. Her

popularity was not founded on novelty.

No girl in her first season had ever enjoyed herself more naively and

she brought to every entertainment eager sparkling eyes and dancing

feet that never tired. She became the "reigning toast." At parties she

was surrounded by a bevy of admirers or forced to divide her dances;

for it was soon patent there was no jealousy in Talbot's composition

and that he took an equally naive pride in his wife's success. When

alone with women she was quite as animated and interested, and,

moreover, invited them to copy her gowns. Some had been made in Paris,

others in New York. The local dressmakers felt the stirrings of

ambition, and the shops sent for a more varied assortment of fabrics.

Madeleine Talbot at this time was very happy, or, at least, too busy to

recall her earlier dreams of happiness. The whole-hearted devotion to

gaiety of this stranded little community, its elegance, despite its

limitations, its unbounded hospitality to all within its guarded

portals, its very absence of intellectual criticism, made the formal

life of her brief past appear dull and drab in the retrospect. The

spirit of Puritanism seemed to have lost heart in those trackless

wastes between the Atlantic and the Pacific and turned back. True, the

moral code was rigid (on the surface); but far from too much enjoyment

of life, of quaffing eagerly at the brimming cup, being sinful, they

would have held it to be a far greater sin not to have accepted all

that the genius of San Francisco so lavishly provided.

Wildness and recklessness were in the air, the night life of San

Francisco was probably the maddest in the world; nor did the gambling

houses close their doors by day, nor the women of Dupont Street cease

from leering through their shuttered windows; a city born in delirium

and nourished on crime, whose very atmosphere was electrified and whose

very foundations were restless, would take a quarter of a century at

least to manufacture a decent thick surface of conventionality, and its

self-conscious respectable wing could no more escape its spirit than

its fogs and winds. But evil excitement was tempered to irresponsible

gaiety, a constant whirl of innocent pleasures. When the spirit passed

the portals untempered, and drove women too highly-strung, too unhappy,

or too easily bored, to the divorce courts, to drink, or to reckless

adventure, they were summarily dropped. No woman, however guiltless,

could divorce her husband and remain a member of that vigilant court.

It was all or nothing. If a married woman were clever enough to take a

lover undetected and merely furnish interesting surmise, there was no

attempt to ferret out and punish her; for no society can exist without

gossip.

But none centered about Madeleine Talbot. Her little coquetries were

impartial and her devotion to her husband was patent to the most

infatuated eye. Life was made very pleasant for her. Howard, during

that first winter, accompanied her to all the dinners and parties, and

she gave several entertainments in her large suite at the Occidental

Hotel. Sally Ballinger was a lively companion for the mornings and was

as devoted a friend as youth could demand. Mrs. Abbott petted her, and

Mrs. Ballinger forgot that she had been born in Boston.

When it was discovered that she had a sweet lyric soprano, charmingly

cultivated, her popularity winged another flight; San Francisco from

its earliest days was musical, and she made a brilliant success as La

Belle Helene in the amateur light opera company organized by Mrs.

McLane. It was rarely that she spent an evening alone, and the cases of

books she had brought from Boston remained in the cellars of the Hotel.

V

Society went to the country to escape the screaming winds and dust

clouds of summer. A few had built country houses, the rest found

abundant amusement at the hotels of The Geysers, Warm Springs and

Congress Springs, taking the waters dutifully.

As the city was constantly swept by epidemics Dr. Talbot rarely left

his post for even a few days' shooting, and Madeleine remained with him

as a matter of course. Moreover, she hoped for occasional long evenings

with her husband and the opportunity to convince him that her

companionship was more satisfying than that of his friends at the Club.

She had not renounced the design of gradually converting him to her own

love of literature, and pictured delightful hours during which they

would discuss the world's masterpieces together.

But he merely hooted amiably and pinched her cheeks when she approached

the subject tentatively. He was infernally over-worked and unless he

had a few hours' relaxation at the Club he would be unfit for duty on

the morrow. She was his heart's delight, the prettiest wife in San

Francisco; he worked the better because she was always lovely at the

breakfast table and he could look forward to a brief dinner in her

always radiant company. Thank God, she never had the blues nor carried

a bottle of smelling salts about with her. And she hadn't a nerve in

her body! God! How he did hate women's nerves. No, she was a model wife

and he adored her unceasingly. But companionship? When she timidly

uttered the word, he first stared uncomprehendingly, then burst into

loud laughter.

"Men don't find companionship in women, my dear. If they pretend to

they're after something else. Take the word of an old stager for that.

Of course there is no such thing as companionship among women as men

understand the term, but you have Society, which is really all you

want. Yearnings are merely a symptom of those accursed nerves. For

God's sake forget them. Flirt all you choose--there are plenty of men

in town; have them in for dinner if you like--but if any of those young

bucks talks companionship to you put up your guard or come and tell me.

I'll settle his hash."

"I don't want the companionship of any other man, but I'd like yours."

"You don't know how lucky you are. You have all of me you could stand.

Three or four long evenings--well, we'd yawn in each other's faces and

go to bed. A bull but true enough."

"Then I think I'll have the books unpacked, not only those I brought,

but the new case papa sent to me. I have lost the resource of Society

for several months, and I do not care to have men here after you have

gone. That would mean gossip."

"You are above gossip and I prefer the men to the books. You'll ruin

your pretty eyes, and you had the makings of a fine bluestocking when I

rescued you. A successful woman--with her husband and with Society--has

only sparkling shallows in her pretty little head. Now, I must run. I

really shouldn't have come all the way up here for lunch."

Madeleine wandered aimlessly to the window and looked down at the

scurrying throngs on Montgomery Street. There were few women. The men

bent against the wind, clutching at their hats, or chasing them along

the uneven wooden sidewalks, tripping perhaps on a loose board. There

were tiny whirlwinds of dust in the unpaved streets. The bustling

little city that Madeleine had thought so picturesque in its novelty

suddenly lost its glamour. It looked as if parts of it had been flung

together in a night between solid blocks imported from the older

communities; so furious was the desire to achieve immediate wealth

there were only three or four buildings of architectural beauty in the

city. The shop windows on Montgomery Street were attractive with the

wares of Paris, but Madeleine coveted nothing in San Francisco.

She thought of Boston, New York, Washington, Europe, and for a moment

nostalgia overwhelmed her. If Howard would only take her home for a

visit! Alas! he was as little likely to do that as to give her the

companionship she craved.

But she had no intention of taking refuge in tears. Nor would she stay

at home and mope. Her friends were out of town. She made up her mind to

go for a walk, although she hardly knew where to go. Between mud and

dust and hills, walking was not popular in San Francisco. However,

there might be some excitement in exploring.

She looped her brown cloth skirt over her balmoral petticoat, tied a

veil round her small hat and set forth. Although the dust was flying

she dared not lower her veil until she reached the environs, knowing

that if she did she would be followed; or if recognized, accused of the

unpardonable sin. The heavy veil in the San Francisco of that day, save

when driving in aggressively respectable company, was almost an

interchangeable term for assignation. It was as inconvenient for the

virtuous as indiscreet for the carnal.

Madeleine reached the streets of straggling homes and those long

impersonal rows depressing in their middle-class respectability, and

lowered the veil over her smarting eyes. She also squared her shoulders

and strode along with an independent swing that must convince the most

investigating mind she was walking for exercise only.

Almost unconsciously she directed her steps toward the Cliff House Road

where she had driven occasionally behind the doctor's spanking team. It

was four o'clock when she entered it and the wind had fallen. The road

was thronged with buggies, tandems, hacks, phaetons, and four-in-hands.

Society might be out of town but the still gayer world was not.

Madeleine, skirting the edge of the road to avoid disaster stared

eagerly behind her veil. Here were the reckless and brilliant women of

the demi-monde of whom she had heard so much, but to whom she had

barely thrown a glance when driving with her husband. They were painted

and dyed and kohled and their plumage would have excited the envy of

birds in Paradise. San Francisco had lured these ladies "round the

Horn" since the early Fifties: a different breed from the camp

followers of the late Forties. Some had fallen from a high estate,

others had been the mistresses of rich men in the East, or belles in

the half world of New York or Paris. Never had they found life so free

or pickings so easy as in San Francisco.

Madeleine knew that many of the eminent citizens she met in Society

kept their mistresses and flaunted them openly. It was, in fact, almost

a convention. She was not surprised to see several men who had taken

her in to dinner tooling these gorgeous cyprians and looking far

prouder than when they played host in the world of fashion. On one of

the gayest of the coaches she saw four of the young men who were among

the most devoted of her cavaliers at dances: Alexander Groome, Amos

Lawton, Ogden Bascom, and "Tom" Abbott, Jr. Groome was paying his

addresses to Maria Ballinger, "a fine figure of a girl" who had

inherited little of her mother's beauty but all of her virtue, and

Madeleine wondered if he would reform and settle down. Abbott was

engaged to Marguerite McLane and looked as if he were having his last

glad fling. Ogden Bascom had proposed to Guadalupe Hathaway every month

for five years. It was safe to say that he would toe the mark if he won

her. But he did not appear to be nursing a blighted heart at present.

Madeleine's depression left her. _That_, at least, Howard would never

do. She felt full of hope and buoyancy once more, not realizing that it

is easier to win back a lover than change the nature of man.

When Madeleine reached the Cliff House, that shabby innocent-looking

little building whose evil fame had run round the world, she stared at

it fascinated. Its restaurant overhung the sea. On this side the blinds

were down. It looked as if awaiting the undertaker. She pictured

Howard's horror when she told him of her close contact with vice, and

anticipated with a pleasurable thrill the scolding he would give her.

They had never quarrelled and it would be delightful to make up.

"Not Mrs. Talbot! No! Assuredly not!"

Involuntarily Madeleine raised her veil. She recognized the voice of

"Old" Ben Travers (he was only fifty but bald and yellow), the Union

Club gossip, and the one man in San Francisco she thoroughly disliked.

He stood with his hat in his hand, an expression of ludicrous

astonishment on his face.

"Yes, it is I," said Madeleine coolly. "And I am very much interested."

"Ah? Interested?" He glanced about. If this were an assignation either

the man was late or had lost courage. But he assumed an expression of

deep respect. "That I can well imagine, cloistered as you are. But, if

you will permit me to say so, it is hardly prudent. Surely you know

that this is a place of ill repute and that your motives, however

innocent, might easily be misconstrued."

"I am alone!" said Madeleine gaily, "and my veil is up! Not a man has

glanced at me, I look so tiresomely respectable in these stout walking

clothes. Even you, dear Mr. Travers, whom we accuse of being quite a

gossip, understand perfectly."

"Oh, yes, indeed. I do understand. And Mrs. Talbot is like Caesar's

wife, but nevertheless--there is a hack. It is waiting, but I think I

can bribe him to take us in. You really must not remain here another

moment--and you surely do not intend to walk back--six miles?"

"No, I'll be glad to drive--but if you will engage the hack--I

shouldn't think of bothering you further."

"I shall take you home," said Travers firmly. "Howard never would

forgive me if I did not--that is--that is--"

Madeleine laughed merrily. "If I intend to tell him! But of course I

shall tell him. Why not?"

"Well, yes, it would be best. I'll speak to the man."

The Jehu was reluctant, but a bill passed and he drove up to Madeleine.

"Guess I can do it," he said, "but I'll have to drive pretty fast."

Madeleine smiled at him and he touched his hat. She had employed him

more than once. "The faster the better, Thomas," she said. "I walked

out and am tired."

"I saw you come striding down the road, ma'am," he said deferentially,

"and I knew you got off your own beat by mistake. I think I'd have

screwed up my courage and said something if Mr. Travers hadn't happened

along."

Madeleine nodded carelessly and entered the hack, followed by Travers,

in spite of her protests.

"I too walked out here and intended to ask some one to give me a lift

home. I am the unfortunate possessor of a liver, my dear young lady,

and must walk six miles a day, although I loathe walking as I loathe

drinking weak whiskey and water."

Madeleine shrugged her shoulders and attempted to raise one of the

curtains. The interior was as dark as a cave. But Travers exclaimed in

alarm.

"No! No! Not until we get out of this. When we have reached the city,

but not here. In a hack on this road--"

"Oh, very well. Then entertain me, please, as I cannot look out. You

always have something interesting to tell."

"I am flattered to think you find me entertaining. I've sometimes

thought you didn't like me."

"Now you know that is nonsense. I always think myself fortunate if I

sit next you at dinner." Madeleine spoke in her gayest tones, but in

truth she dreaded what the man might make of this innocent escapade and

intended to make a friend of him if possible.

She was growing accustomed to the gloom and saw him smile fatuously.

"That sends me to the seventh heaven. How often since you came have I

wished that my dancing days were not over."

"I'd far rather hear you talk. Tell me some news."

"News? News? San Francisco is as flat at present as spilled champagne.

Let me see? Ah! Did you ever hear of Langdon Masters?"

"No. Who is he?"

"He is Virginian like myself--a distant cousin. He fought through the

war, badly wounded twice, came home to find little left of the old

estate--practically nothing for him. He tried to start a newspaper in

Richmond but couldn't raise the capital. He went to New York and wrote

for the newspapers there; also writes a good deal for the more

intellectual magazines. Thought perhaps you had come across something

of his. There is just a whisper, you know, that you were rather a bas

bleu before you came to us."

"Because I was born and educated in Boston? Poor Boston! I do recall

reading something of Mr. Masters' in the _Atlantic_--I suppose it

was--but I have forgotten what. Here, I have grown too frivolous--and

happy--to care to read at all. But what have you to tell me

particularly about Mr. Masters?"

"I had a letter from him this morning asking me if there was an opening

here. He resents the antagonism in the North that he meets at every

turn, although they are glad enough of his exceptionally brilliant

work. But he knows that San Francisco is the last stronghold of the

South, and also that our people are generous and enterprising. I shall

write him that I can see no opening for another paper at present, but

will let him know if there happens to be one on an editorial staff.

That is a long journey to take on an uncertainty."

"I should think so. Heavens, how this carriage does bounce. The horses

must be galloping."

"Probably." He lifted a corner of the curtain. "We shall reach the city

soon at this rate. Ah!"

Madeleine, in spite of the bouncing vehicle, had managed heretofore to

prop herself firmly in her corner, but a violent lurch suddenly threw

her against Travers. He caught her firmly in one of his lean wiry arms.

At the moment she thought nothing of it, although she disliked the

contact, but when she endeavored to disengage herself, he merely jerked

her more closely to his side and she felt his hot breath upon her

cheek. It was the fevered breath of a man who drinks much and late and

almost nauseated her.

"Come come," whispered Travers. "I know you didn't go out there to meet

any one; it was just a natural impulse for a little adventure, wasn't

it? And I deserve my reward for getting you home safely. Give me a

kiss."

Madeleine wrenched herself free, but he laughed and caught her again,

this time in both arms. "Oh, you can't get away, and I'm going to have

that kiss. Yes, a dozen, by Jove. You're the prettiest thing in San

Francisco, and I'll get ahead of the other men there."

His yellow distorted face--he looked like a satyr--was almost on hers.

She freed herself once more with a dexterous twisting motion of her

supple body, leaped to the front of the carriage and pounded on the

window behind the driver.

"For God's sake! You fool! What are you doing? Do you want a scandal?"

The carriage stopped its erratic course so abruptly that he was thrown

to the floor. Madeleine already had the door open. She had all the

strength of youth and perfect health, and he was worn out and shaken.

He was scrambling to his feet. She put her arms under his shoulders and

threw him out into the road.

"Go on!" she called to the driver. And as he whipped up the horses

again, his Homeric laughter mingling with the curses of the man in the

ditch, she sank back trembling and gasping. It was her first experience

of the vileness of man, for the men of her day respected the women of

their own class unless met half way, or, violently enamoured, given

full opportunity to express their emotions.

Moreover she had made a venomous enemy.

What would Howard say? What would he do to the wretch? Horsewhip him?

Would he stop to think of scandal? The road had been deserted. She knew

that Travers would keep his humiliation to himself and the incidents

that led up to it; but if she told her husband and he lost his head the

story would come out and soon cease to bear any semblance to the truth.

She wished she had some one to advise her. What _did_ insulted women do?

But she could not think in this horrible carriage. It would be at least

an hour before she saw Howard. She would bathe her face in cold water

and try to think.

The hack stopped again and the coachman left the box.

"It's only a few blocks now, ma'am," he said, as he opened the door. "I

haven't much time--"

Madeleine almost sprang out. She opened her purse. He accepted the

large bill with a grin on his good-natured face.

"That's all right, Mrs. Talbot. I wouldn't have spoke of it nohow. The

Doctor and me's old friends. But I'm just glad old Ben got what he

deserved. The impudence of him! You--well!--Good day, ma'am."

He paused as he was climbing back to the box.

"If you don't mind my giving ye a bit of advice, Mrs. Talbot--I've seen

a good bit of the world, I have--this is a hot city, all right--I just

wouldn't say anything to the doctor. Trouble makes trouble. Better let

it stop right here."

"Thanks, Thomas. Good-by."

And Madeleine strode down the street as if the furies pursued her.