Mum--mar--married! gasped Condy, swallowing something in his throat.
Blix rose to her feet.
"Just been MARRIED!" she repeated, a little frightened.
"Why--why--why; how DELIGHTFUL!"
"Yes--yes," mumbled Condy. "How delightful. I congratulate you!"
"Come in--come back to the station," said the Captain jovially, "and
I'll introduce you to m' wife. We were married only last Sunday."
"Why, yes--yes, of course, we'd be delighted," vociferated the two
conspirators a little hysterically.
"She's a mighty fine little woman," declared the Captain, as he rolled
the door of the boat-house to its place and preceded them up the gravel
walk to the station.
"Of course she is," responded Blix. Behind Captain Jack's back she
fixed Condy with a wide-eyed look, and nudged him fiercely with an
elbow to recall him to himself; for Condy's wits were scattered like a
flock of terrified birds, and he was gazing blankly at the Captain's
coat collar with a vacant, maniacal smile.
"For Heaven's sake, Condy!" she had time to whisper before they arrived
in the hallway of the station.
But fortunately they were allowed a minute or so to recover themselves
and prepare for what was coming. Captain Jack ushered them into what
was either the parlor, office, or sitting-room of the station, and left
them with the words:
"Just make yourselves comfortable here, an' I'll go fetch the little
woman."
No sooner had he gone than the two turned to each other.
"Well!"
"WELL!"
"We're in for it now."
"But we must see it through, Condy; act just as natural as you can, and
we're all right."
"But supposing SHE recognizes us!"
"Supposing she does--what then. How ARE they to know that we wrote the
letters?"
"Sh, Blix, not so loud! They know by now that THEY didn't."
"But it seems that it hasn't made any difference to them; they are
married. And besides, they wouldn't speak about putting 'personals' in
the paper to us. They would never let anybody know that."
"Do you suppose they could possibly suspect?"
"I'm sure they couldn't."
"Here they come."
"Keep perfectly calm, and we're saved."
"Suppose it isn't K. D. B., after all?"
But it was, of course, and she recognized them in an instant. She and
the Captain--the latter all grins--came in from the direction of the
kitchen, K. D. B. wearing a neat blue calico gown and an apron that was
really a marvel of cleanliness and starch.
"Kitty!" exclaimed Captain Jack, seized again with an unexplainable
mirth, "here's some young folks come out to see the place an' I want
you to know 'em. Mr. Rivers, this is m' wife, Kitty, and--lessee,
miss, I don't rightly remember your name."
"Bessemer!" exclaimed Condy and Blix in a breath.
"Oh!" exclaimed K. D. B., "you were in the restaurant the night that
the Captain and I--I--that is--yes, I'm quite sure I've seen you
before." She turned from one to the other, beginning to blush furiously.
"Yes, yes, in Luna's restaurant, wasn't it?" said Condy desperately.
"It seems to me I do just barely remember."
"And wasn't the Captain there?" Blix ventured.
"I forgot my stick, I remember," continued Condy. "I came back for it;
and just as I was going out it seems to me I saw you two at a table
near the door."
He thought it best to allow their "matrimonial objects" to believe he
had not seen them before.
"Yes, yes, we were there," answered K. D. B. tactfully. "We dine there
almost every Monday night."
Blix guessed that K. D. B. would prefer to have the real facts of the
situation ignored, and determined she should have the chance to change
the conversation if she wished.
"What a delicious supper one has there!" she said.
"Can't say I like Mexican cooking myself," answered K. D. B.,
forgetting that they dined there every Monday night. "Plain United
States is good enough for me."
Suddenly Captain Jack turned abruptly to Condy, exclaiming: "Oh, you
was the chap that called the picture of that schooner a barkentine."
"Yes; WASN'T that a barkentine?" he answered innocently.
"Barkentine your EYE!" spluttered the Captain. "Why, that was a
schooner as plain as a pie plate."
But ten minutes later the ordeal was over, and Blix and Condy, once
more breathing easily, were on their walk again. The Captain and K. D.
B. had even accompanied them to the gate of the station, and had
strenuously urged them to "come in and see them again the next time
they were out that way."
"Married!" murmured Condy, putting both hands to his head. "We've done
it, we've done it now."
"Well, what of it?" declared Blix, a little defiantly. "I think it's
all right. You can see the Captain is in love with her, and she with
him. No, we've nothing to reproach ourselves with."
"But--but--but so sudden!" whispered Condy, all aghast. "That's what
makes me faint--the suddenness of it."
"It shows how much they are in love, how--how readily they--adapted
themselves to each other. No, it's all right."
"They seemed to like us--actually."
"Well, they had better--if they knew the truth. Without us they never
would have met."
"They both asked us to come out and see them again, did you notice
that? Let's do it, Blix," Condy suddenly exclaimed; "let's get to know
them!"
"Of course we must. Wouldn't it be fun to call on them--to get
regularly acquainted with them!"
"They might ask us to dinner some time."
"And think of the stories he could tell you!"
They enthused immediately upon this subject, both talking excitedly at
the same time, going over the details of the Captain's yarns, recalling
the incidents to each other.
"Fancy!" exclaimed Condy--"fancy Billy Isham in his pajamas, red and
white stripes, reading Shakespeare from that pulpit on board the ship,
and the other men guying him! Isn't that a SCENE for you? Can't you
just SEE it?
"I wonder if the Captain wasn't making all those things up as he went
along. He don't seem to have any sense of right and wrong at all. He
might have been lying, Condy."
"What difference would that make?"
And so they went along in that fine, clear, Western morning, on the
edge of the Continent, both of them young and strong and vigorous, the
Pacific under their eyes, the great clean Trades blowing in their
faces, the smell of the salt sea coming in long aromatic whiffs to
their nostrils. Young and strong and fresh, their imaginations
thronging with pictures of vigorous action and adventure, buccaneering,
filibustering, and all the swing, the leap, the rush and gallop, the
exuberant, strong life of the great, uncharted world of Romance.
And all unknowingly they were a Romance in themselves. Cynicism, old
age, and the weariness of all things done had no place in the world in
which they walked. They still had their illusions, all the keenness of
their sensations, all the vividness of their impressions. The simple
things of the world, the great, broad, primal emotions of the race
stirred in them. As they swung along, going toward the ocean, their
brains were almost as empty of thought or of reflection as those of two
fine, clean animals. They were all for the immediate sensation; they
did not think--they FELT. The intellect was dormant; they looked at
things, they heard things, they smelled the smell of the sea, and of
the seaweed, of the fat, rank growth of cresses in the salt marshes;
they turned their cheeks to the passing wind, and filled their mouths
and breasts with it. Their life was sweet to them; every hour was one
glad effervescence. The fact that the ocean was blue was a matter for
rejoicing. It was good to be alive on that royal morning. Just to be
young was an exhilaration; and everything was young with them--the day
was young, the country was young, and the civilization to which they
belonged, teeming there upon the green, Western fringe of the
continent, was young and heady and tumultuous with the boisterous, red
blood of a new race.
Condy even forgot, or rather disdained on such a morning as that, to
piece together and rearrange Captain Jack's yarns into story form. To
look at the sea and the green hills, to watch the pink on Blix's cheek
and her yellow hair blowing across her eyes and lips, was better than
thinking. Life was better than literature. To live was better than to
read; one live human being was better than ten thousand Shakespeares;
an act was better than a thought. Why, just to love Blix, to be with
her, to see the sweet, clean flush of her cheek, to know that she was
there at his side, and to have the touch of her elbow as they walked,
was better than the best story, the greatest novel he could ever hope
to write. Life was better than literature, and love was the best thing
in life. To love Blix and to be near her--what else was worth while?
Could he ever think of finding anything in life sweeter and finer than
this dear young girl of nineteen?
Suddenly Condy came to himself with an abrupt start. What was this he
was thinking--what was this he was telling himself? Love Blix! He loved
Blix! Why, of COURSE he loved her--loved her so, that with the thought
of it there came a great, sudden clutch at the heart and a strange
sense of tenderness, so vague and yet so great that it eluded speech
and all expression. Love her! Of course he loved her! He had, all
unknowing, loved her even before this wonderful morning: had loved her
that day at the lake, and that never-to-be-forgotten, delicious
afternoon in the Chinese restaurant; all those long, quiet evenings
spent in the window of the little dining-room, looking down upon the
darkening city, he had loved her. Why, all his days for the last few
months had been full of the love of her.
How else had he been so happy? how else did it come about that little
by little he was withdrawing from the society and influence of his
artificial world, as represented by such men as Sargeant? how else was
he slowly loosening the grip of the one evil and vicious habit that had
clutched him so long? how else was his ambition stirring? how else was
his hitherto aimless enthusiasm hardening to energy and determination?
She had not always so influenced him. In the days when they had just
known each other, and met each other in the weekly course of their
formal life, it had not been so, even though they pretended a certain
amount of affection. He remembered the evening when Blix had brought
those days to an abrupt end, and how at the moment he had told himself
that after all he had never known the real Blix. Since then, in the
charming, unconventional life they had led, everything had been
changed. He had come to know her for what she was, to know her genuine
goodness, her sincerity, her contempt of affectations, her comradeship,
her calm, fine strength and unbroken good nature; and day by day, here
a little and there a little, his love for her had grown so quietly, so
evenly, that he had never known it, until now, behold! it was suddenly
come to flower, full and strong--a flower whose fragrance had suddenly
filled all his life and all his world with its sweetness.
Half an hour after leaving the lifeboat station, Condy and Blix reached
the old, red-brick fort, deserted, abandoned, and rime-incrusted, at
the entrance of the Golden Gate. They turned its angle, and there
rolled the Pacific, a blue floor of shifting water, stretching out
there forever and forever over the curve of the earth, over the
shoulder of the world, with never a sail in view and never a break from
horizon to horizon.
They followed down the shore, sometimes upon the old and broken flume
that runs along the seaward face of the hills that rise from the beach,
or sometimes upon the beach itself, stepping from bowlder to bowlder,
or holding along at the edge of the water upon reaches of white, hard
sand.
The beach was solitary; not a soul was in sight. Close at hand, to
landward, great hills, bare and green, shut off the sky; and here and
there the land came tumbling down into the sea in great, jagged, craggy
rocks, knee-deep in swirling foam, and all black with wet. The air was
full of the prolonged thunder of the surf, and at intervals sea-birds
passed overhead with an occasional piping cry. Wreckage was tumbled
about here and there; and innumerable cocoanut shards, huge, brown cups
of fuzzy bark, lay underfoot and in the crevices of the rocks. They
found a jellyfish--a pulpy translucent mass; and once even caught a
sight of a seal in the hollow of a breaker, with sleek and shining
head, his barbels bristling, and heard his hoarse croaking bark as he
hunted the off-shore fish.
Blix refused to allow Condy to help her in the least. She was quite as
active and strong as he, and clambered from rock to rock and over the
shattered scantling of the flume with the vigor and agility of a young
boy. She muddied her shoes to the very tops scratched her hands, tore
her skirt, and even twisted her ankle; but her little eyes were never
so bright, nor was the pink flush of her cheeks ever more adorable.
And she was never done talking--a veritable chatterbox. She saw
everything and talked about everything she saw, quite indifferent as to
whether or no Condy listened. Now it was a queer bit of seaweed, now
it was a group of gulls clamoring over a dead fish, now a purple
starfish, now a breaker of unusual size. Her splendid vitality carried
her away. She was excited, alive to her very finger-tips, vibrant to
the least sensation, quivering to the least impression.
"Let's get up here and sit down somewhere," said Condy, at length.
They left the beach and climbed up the slope of the hills, near a point
where a long arm of land thrust out into the sea and shut off the wind;
a path was there, and they followed it for a few yards, till they had
come to a little amphitheatre surrounded with blackberry bushes.
Here they sat down, Blix settling herself on an old log with a little
sigh of contentment, Condy stretching himself out, a new-lighted pipe
in his teeth, his head resting on the little handbag he had
persistently carried ever since morning. Then Blix fell suddenly
silent, and for a long time the two sat there without speaking,
absorbed in the enjoyment of looking at the enormous green hills
rolling down to the sea, the breakers thundering at the beach, the
gashed pinnacles of rock, the vast reach of the Pacific, and the
distant prospect of the old fort at the entrance of the Golden Gate.
"We might be a thousand miles away from the city, for all the looks of
it, mightn't we, Condy?" said Blix, after a while. "And I'm that
HUNGRY! It must be nearly noon."
For answer, Condy sat up with profound gravity, and with a great air of
nonchalance opened the handbag, and, instead of shoes took out, first,
a pint bottle of claret, then "devilish" ham sandwiches in oiled paper,
a bottle of stuffed olives, a great bag of salted almonds, two little
tumblers, a paper-covered novel, and a mouth organ.
Blix fairly crowed with delight, clasping her hands upon her knees, and
rocking to and fro where she sat upon the log.
"Oh, Condy, and you thought of a LUNCH--you said it was shoes--and you
remembered I loved stuffed olives, too; and a book to read. What is
it--'The Seven Seas.' No, I never WAS so happy. But the mouth
organ--what's that for?"
"To play on. What did you think--think it was a can-opener?"
Blix choked with merriment over his foolery, and Condy added proudly:
"Look there! I made those sandwiches!"
They looked as though he had--great, fat chunks of bread, the crust
still on; the "devilish" ham in thick strata between; and, positively,
he had BUTTERED the bread. But it was all one with them; they ate as
though at a banquet, and Blix even took off her hat and hung it upon
one of the nearby bushes. Of course Condy had forgotten a corkscrew.
He tried to dig out the cork of the claret bottle with his knife, until
he had broken both blades and was about to give up in despair, when
Blix, at the end of her patience, took the bottle from him and pushed
in the cork with her finger.
"Wine, music, literature, and feasting," observed Condy. "We're
getting regularly luxurious, just like Sardine-apalus."
But Condy himself had suddenly entered into an atmosphere of happiness,
the like of which he had never known or dreamed of before. He loved
Blix--he had just discovered it. He loved her because she was so
genuine, so radiantly fresh and strong; loved her because she liked the
things that he liked, because they two looked at the world from
precisely the same point of view, hating shams and affectations, happy
in the things that were simple and honest and natural. He loved her
because she liked his books, appreciating the things therein that he
appreciated, liking what he liked, disapproving of what he condemned.
He loved her because she was nineteen, and because she was so young and
unspoiled and was happy just because the ocean was blue and the morning
fine. He loved her because she was so pretty, because of the softness
of her yellow hair, because of her round, white forehead and pink
cheeks, because of her little, dark-brown eyes, with that look in them
as if she were just done smiling or just about to smile, one could not
say which; loved her because of her good, firm mouth and chin, because
of her full neck and its high, tight bands of white satin. And he
loved her because her arms were strong and round, and because she wore
the great dog-collar around her trim, firm-corseted waist, and because
there emanated from her with every movement a barely perceptible,
delicious, feminine odor, that was in part perfume, but mostly a
subtle, vague aroma, charming beyond words, that came from her mouth,
her hair, her neck, her arms, her whole sweet personality. And he
loved her because she was herself, because she was Blix, because of
that strange, sweet influence that was disengaged from her in those
quiet moments when she seemed so close to him, when some unnamed,
mysterious sixth sense in him stirred and woke and told him of her
goodness, of her clean purity and womanliness; and that certain, vague
tenderness in him went out toward her, a tenderness not for her only,
but for all the good things of the world; and he felt his nobler side
rousing up and the awakening of the desire to be his better self.
Covertly he looked at her, as she sat near him, her yellow hair rolling
and blowing back from her forehead, her hands clasped over her knee,
looking out over the ocean, thoughtful, her eyes wide.
She had told him she did not love him. Condy remembered that perfectly
well. She was sincere in the matter; she did not love him. That
subject had been once and for all banished from their intercourse. And
it was because of that very reason that their companionship of the last
three or four months had been so charming. She looked upon him merely
as a chum. She had not changed in the least from that time until now,
whereas he--why, all his world was new for him that morning! Why, he
loved her so, she had become so dear to him, that the very thought of
her made his heart swell and leap.
But he must keep all this to himself. If he spoke to her, told her of
how he loved her, it would spoil and end their companionship upon the
instant. They had both agreed upon that; they had tried the other, and
it had worked out. As lovers they had wearied of each other; as chums
they had been perfectly congenial, thoroughly and completely happy.
Condy set his teeth. It was a hard situation. He must choose between
bringing an end to this charming comradeship of theirs, or else fight
back all show of love for her, keep it down and under hand, and that at
a time when every nerve of him quivered like a smitten harp-string. It
was not in him or in his temperament to love her calmly, quietly, or at
a distance; he wanted the touch of her hand, the touch of her cool,
smooth cheek, the delicious aroma of her breath in his nostrils her
lips against his, her hair and all its fragrance in his face.
"Condy, what's the matter?" Blix was looking at him with an expression
of no little concern. "What are you frowning so about, and clinching
your fists? And you're pale, too. What's gone wrong?"
He shot a glance at her, and bestirred himself sharply.
"Isn't this a jolly little corner?" he said. "Blix, how long is it
before you go?"
"Six weeks from to-morrow."
"And you're going to be gone four years--four years! Maybe you never
will come back. Can't tell what will happen in four years. Where's
the blooming mouth-organ?"
But the mouth-organ was full of crumbs. Condy could not play on it.
To all his efforts it responded only by gasps, mournfulest
death-rattles, and lamentable wails. Condy hurled it into the sea.
"Well, where's the blooming book, then?" he demanded. "You're sitting
on it, Blix. Here, read something in it. Open it anywhere."
"No; you read to me."
"I will not. Haven't I done enough? Didn't I buy the book and get the
lunch, and make the sandwiches, and pay the car-fare? I think this
expedition will cost me pretty near three dollars before we're through
with the day. No; the least you can do is to read to me. Here, we'll
match for it."
Condy drew a dime from his pocket, and Blix a quarter from her purse.
"You're matching me," she said.
Condy tossed the coin and lost, and Blix said, as he picked up the book:
"For a man that has such unvarying bad luck as you, gambling is just
simple madness. You and I have never played a game of poker yet that
I've not won every cent of money you had."
"Yes; and what are you doing with it all?"
"Spending it," she returned loftily; "gloves and veils and lace
pins--all kinds of things."
But Condy knew the way she spoke that this was not true.
For the next hour or so he read to her from "The Seven Seas," while the
afternoon passed, the wind stirring the chaparral and blackberry bushes
in the hollows of the huge, bare hills, the surf rolling and grumbling
on the beach below, the sea-birds wheeling overhead. Blix listened
intently, but Condy could not have told of what he was reading. Living
was better than reading, life was better than literature, and his
new-found love for her was poetry enough for him. He read so that he
might not talk to her or look at her, for it seemed to him at times as
though some second self in him would speak and betray him in spite of
his best efforts. Never before in all his life had he been so happy;
never before had he been so troubled. He began to jumble the lines and
words as he read, over-running periods, even turning two pages at once.
"What a splendid line!" Blix exclaimed.
"What line--what--what are you talking about? Blix, let's always
remember to-day. Let's make a promise, no matter what happens or where
we are, let's always write to each other on the anniversary of to-day.
What do you say?"
"Yes; I'll promise--and you--"
"I'll promise faithfully. Oh, I'll never forget to-day nor--yes, yes,
I'll promise--why, to-day--Blix--where's that damn book gone?"
"Condy!"
"Well, I can't find the book. You're sitting on it again. Confound
the book, anyway! Let's walk some more."
"We've a long ways to go if we're to get home in time for supper.
Let's go to Luna's for supper."
"I never saw such a girl as you to think of ways for spending money.
What kind of a purse-proud plutocrat do you think I am? I've only
seventy-five cents left. How much have you got?"
Blix had fifty-five cents in her purse, and they had a grave council
over their finances. They had just enough for car-fare and two
"suppers Mexican," with ten cents left over.
"That's for Richard's tip," said Blix.
"That's for my CIGAR," he retorted.
"You made ME give him fifty cents. You said it was the least I could
offer him--noblesse oblige."
"Well, then, I COULDN'T offer him a dime, don't you see? I'll tell him
we are broke this time."
They started home, not as they had come, but climbing the hill and
going across a breezy open down, radiant with blue iris, wild
heliotrope, yellow poppies, and even a violet here and there. A little
further on they gained one of the roads of the Reservation, red earth
smooth as a billiard table; and just at an angle where the road made a
sharp elbow and trended cityward, they paused for a moment and looked
down and back at the superb view of the ocean, the vast half-moon of
land, and the rolling hills in the foreground tumbling down toward the
beach and all spangled with wild flowers.
Some fifteen minutes later they reached the golf-links.
"We can go across the links," said Condy, "and strike any number of car
lines on the other side."
They left the road and struck across the links, Condy smoking his
new-lighted pipe. But as they came around the edge of a long line of
eucalyptus trees near the teeing ground, a warning voice suddenly
called out:
"Fore!"
Condy and Blix looked up sharply, and there in a group not twenty feet
away, in tweeds and "knickers," in smart, short golfing skirts and
plaid cloaks, they saw young Sargeant and his sister, two other girls
whom they knew as members of the fashionable "set," and Jack Carter in
the act of swinging his driving iron.