by Frank Norris
And Captain Jack would wag his head and murmur:
“Extraordinary! extraordinary!”
Blix and Condy soon noted that upon the occasion of each one of their visits, K. D. B. found means to entertain them at great length with long discussions upon certain subjects of curiously diversified character. Upon their first visit she elected to talk upon the Alps mountains. The Sunday following it was bacteriology; on the next Wednesday it was crystals; while for two hours during their next visit to the station, Condy and Blix were obliged to listen to K. D. B.’s interminable discourse on the origin, history, and development of the kingdom of Denmark. Condy was dumfounded.
“I never met such a person, man or woman, in all my life. Talk about education! Why, I think she knows everything!”
“In Defiance of Authority” soon began to make good progress, but Condy, once launched upon technical navigation, must have Captain Jack at his elbow continually, to keep him from foundering. In some sea novel he remembered to have come across the expression “garboard streak,” and from the context guessed it was to be applied to a detail of a vessel’s construction. In an unguarded moment he had written that his schooner’s name “was painted in showy gilt letters upon her garboard streak.”
“What’s the garboard streak, Condy?” Blix had asked, when he had read the chapter to her.
“That’s where they paint her name,” he declared promptly. “I don’t know exactly, but I like the sound of it.”
But the next day, when he was reading this same chapter to Captain Jack, the latter suddenly interrupted with an exclamation as of acute physical anguish.
“What’s that? Read that last over again,” he demanded.
“‘When they had come within a few boat’s lengths,’” read Condy, “‘they were able to read the schooner’s name, painted in showy gilt letters upon her garboard streak.’”
“My God!” gasped the Captain, clasping his head. Then, with a shout: “Garboard streak! garboard streak? Don’t you know that the garboard streak is the last plank next the keel? You mean counter, not garboard streak. That regularly graveled me, that did!”
They stayed to dinner with the couple that afternoon, and for half an hour afterward K. D. B. told them of the wonders of the caves of Elephantis. One would have believed that she had actually been at the place. But when she changed the subject to the science of fortification, Blix could no longer restrain herself.
“But it is really wonderful that you should know all these things! Where did you find time to study so much?”
“One must have an education,” returned K. D. B. primly.
But Condy had caught sight of a half-filled book-shelf against the opposite wall, and had been suddenly smitten with an inspiration. On a leaf of his notebook he wrote: “Try her on the G’s and H’s,” and found means to show it furtively to Blix. But Blix was puzzled, and at the earliest opportunity Condy himself said to the retired costume reader:
“Speaking of fortifications, Mrs. Hoskins, Gibraltar now — that’s a wonderful rock, isn’t it?”
“Rock!” she queried. “I thought it was an island.”
“Oh, no; it’s a fortress. They have a castle there — a castle, something like — well, like the old Schloss at Heidelberg. Did you ever hear about or read about Heidelberg University?”
But K. D. B. was all abroad now. Gibraltar and Heidelberg were unknown subjects to her, as were also inoculation, Japan, and Kosciusko. Above the G’s she was sound; below that point her ignorance was benighted.
“But what is it, Condy?” demanded Blix, as soon as they were alone.
“I’ve the idea,” he answered, chuckling. “Wait till after Sunday to see if I’m right; then I’ll tell you. It’s a dollar to a paper dime, K. D. B. will have something for us by Sunday, beginning with an I.”
And she had. It was Internal Revenue.
“Right! right!” Condy shouted gleefully, as he and Blix were on their way home. “I knew it. She’s done with Ash — Bol, Bol — Car, and all those, and has worked through Cod — Dem, and Dem — Eve. She’s down to Hor — Kin now, and she’ll go through the whole lot before she’s done — Kin — Mag, Mag — Mot, Mot — Pal, and all the rest.”
“The Encyclopaedia?”
“Don’t you see it? No wonder she didn’t know beans about Gibraltar! She hadn’t come to the G’s by then.”
“She’s reading the Encyclopaedia.”
“And she gets the volumes on the installment plan, don’t you see? Reads the leading articles, and then springs ’em on us. To know things and talk about em, that’s her idea of being cultured. ‘One must have an education.’ Do you remember her saying that ‘Oh, our matrimonial objects are panning out beyond all expectation!”
What a delicious, never-to-be-forgotten month it was for those two! There in the midst of life they were as much alone as upon a tropic island. Blix had deliberately freed herself from a world that had grown distasteful to her; Condy little by little had dropped away from his place among the men and the women of his acquaintance, and the two came and went together, living in a little world of their own creation, happy in each other’s society, living only in the present, and asking nothing better than to be left alone and to their own devices.
They saw each other every day. In the morning from nine till twelve, and in the afternoon until three, Condy worked away upon his novel, but not an evening passed that did not see him and Blix in the dining-room of the little flat. Thursdays and Sunday afternoons they visited the life-boat station, and at other times prowled about the unfrequented corners of the city, now passing an afternoon along the water front, watching the departure of a China steamer or the loading of the great, steel wheat ships; now climbing the ladder-like streets of Telegraph Hill, or revisiting the Plaza, Chinatown, and the restaurant; or taking long walks in the Presidio Reservation, watching cavalry and artillery drills; or sitting for hours on the rocks by the seashore, watching the ceaseless roll and plunge of the surf, the wheeling sea-birds, and the sleek-headed seals hunting the offshore fish, happy for a half-hour when they surprised one with his prey in his teeth.
One day, some three weeks before the end of the year, toward two in the afternoon, Condy sat in his usual corner of the club, behind the screen, writing rapidly. His coat was off and the stump of a cigar was between his teeth. At his elbow was the rectangular block of his manuscript. During the last week the story had run from him with a facility that had surprised and delighted him; words came to him without effort, ranging themselves into line with the promptitude of well-drilled soldiery; sentences and paragraphs marched down the clean-swept spaces of his paper, like companies and platoons defiling upon review; his chapters were brigades that he marshaled at will, falling them in one behind the other, each preceded by its chapter-head, like an officer in the space between two divisions. In the guise of a commander-in-chief sitting his horse upon an eminence that overlooked the field of operations, Condy at last took in the entire situation at a glance, and, with the force and precision of a machine, marched his forces straight to the goal he had set for himself so long a time before.
Then at length he took a fresh penful of ink, squared his elbows, drew closer to the desk, and with a single swift spurt of the pen wrote the last line of his novel, dropping the pen upon the instant and pressing the blotter over the words as though setting a seal of approval upon the completed task.
“There!” he muttered, between his teeth; “I’ve done for YOU!”
That same afternoon he read the last chapter to Blix, and she helped him to prepare the manuscript for expressage. She insisted that it should go off that very day, and herself wrote the directions upon the outside wrapper. Then the two went down together to the Wells Fargo office, and “In Defiance of Authority” was sent on its journey across the continent.
“Now,” she said, as they came out of the express office and stood for a moment upon the steps, “now there’s nothing to do but wait for the Centennial Company. I d
o so hope we’ll get their answer before I go away. They OUGHT to take it. It’s just what they asked for. Don’t you think they’ll take it, Condy?”
“Oh, bother that!” answered Condy. “I don’t care whether they take it or not. How long now is it before you go, Blix?”
Chapter XIII
A week passed; then another. The year was coming to a close. In ten days Blix would be gone. Letters had been received from Aunt Kihm, and also an exquisite black leather traveling-case, a present to her niece, full of cut-glass bottles, ebony-backed brushes, and shell combs. Blix was to leave on the second day of January. In the meanwhile she had been reading far into her first-year text-books, underscoring and annotating, studying for hours upon such subjects as she did not understand, so that she might get hold of her work the readier when it came to class-room routine and lectures. Hers was a temperament admirably suited to the study she had chosen — self-reliant, cool, and robust.
But it was not easy for her to go. Never before had Blix been away from her home; never for longer than a week had she been separated from her father, nor from Howard and Snooky. That huge city upon the Atlantic seaboard, with its vast, fierce life, where beat the heart of the nation, and where beyond Aunt Kihm she knew no friend, filled Blix with a vague sense of terror and of oppression. She was going out into a new life, a life of work and of study, a harsher life than she had yet known. Her father, her friends, her home — all these were to be left behind. It was not surprising that Blix should be daunted at the prospect of so great a change in her life, now so close at hand. But if the tears did start at times, no one ever saw them fall, and with a courage that was all her own Blix watched the last days of the year trooping past and the approach of the New Year that was to begin the new life.
But Condy was thoroughly unhappy. Those wonderful three months were at an end. Blix was going. In less than a week now she would be gone. He would see the last of her. Then what? He pictured himself — when he had said good-by to her and the train had lessened to a smoky blur in the distance — facing about, facing the life that must then begin for him, returning to the city alone, picking up the routine again. There would be nothing to look forward to then; he would not see Blix in the afternoon; would not sit with her in the evening in the little dining-room of the flat overlooking the city and the bay; would not wake in the morning with the consciousness that before the sun would set he would see her again, be with her, and hear the sound of her voice. The months that were to follow would be one long ache, one long, harsh, colorless grind without her. How was he to get through that first evening that he must pass alone? And she did not care for him. Condy at last knew this to be so. Even the poor solace of knowing that she, too, was unhappy was denied him. She had never loved him, and never would. He was a chum to her, nothing more. Condy was too clear-headed to deceive himself upon this point. The time was come for her to go away, and she had given him no sign, no cue.
The last days passed; Blix’s trunk was packed, her half section engaged, her ticket bought. They said good-by to the old places they had come to know so well — Chinatown, the Golden Balcony, the water-front, the lake of San Andreas, Telegraph Hill, and Luna’s — and had bade farewell to Riccardo and to old Richardson. They had left K. D. B. and Captain Jack until the last day. Blix was to go on the second of January. On New Year’s Day she and Condy were to take their last walk, were to go out to the lifeboat station, and then on around the shore to the little amphitheatre of blackberry bushes — where they had promised always to write one another on the anniversary of their first visit — and then for the last time climb the hill, and go across the breezy downs to the city.
Then came the last day of the old year, the last day but one that they would be together. They spent it in a long ramble along the water-front, following the line of the shipping even as far as Meiggs’s Wharf. They had come back to the flat for supper, and afterward, as soon as the family had left them alone, had settled themselves in the bay window to watch the New Year in.
The little dining-room was dark, but for the indistinct blur of light that came in through the window — a light that was a mingling of the afterglow, the new-risen moon, and the faint haze that the city threw off into the sky from its street lamps and electrics. From where they sat they could look down, almost as from a tower, into the city’s streets. Here a corner came into view; further on a great puff of green foliage — palms and pines side by side — overlooked a wall. Here a street was visible for almost its entire length, like a stream of asphalt flowing down the pitch of the hill, dammed on either side by rows upon rows of houses; while further on the vague confusion of roofs and facades opened out around a patch of green lawn, the garden of some larger residence.
As they looked and watched, the afterglow caught window after window, till all that quarter of the city seemed to stare up at them from a thousand ruddy eyes. The windows seemed infinite in number, the streets endless in their complications: yet everything was deserted. At this hour the streets were empty, and would remain so until daylight. Not a soul was stirring; no face looked from any of those myriads of glowing windows; no footfall disturbed the silence of those asphalt streets. There, almost within call behind those windows, shut off from those empty streets, a thousand human lives were teeming, each the centre of its own circle of thoughts and words and actions; and yet the solitude was profound, the desolation complete, the stillness unbroken by a single echo.
The night — the last night of the old year — was fine; the white, clear light from a moon they could not see grew wide and clear over the city, as the last gleam of the sunset faded. It was just warm enough for the window to be open, and for nearly three hours Condy and Blix sat looking down upon the city in these last moments of the passing year, feeling upon their faces an occasional touch of the breeze, that carried with it the smell of trees and flowers from the gardens below them, and the faint fine taint of the ocean from far out beyond the Heads. But the scene was not in reality silent. At times when they listened intently, especially when they closed their eyes, there came to them a subdued, steady bourdon, profound, unceasing, a vast, numb murmur, like no other sound in all the gamut of nature — the sound of a city at night, the hum of a great, conglomerate life, wrought out there from moment to moment under the stars and under the moon, while the last hours of the old year dropped quietly away.
A star fell.
Sitting in the window, the two noticed it at once, and Condy stirred for the first time in fifteen minutes.
“That was a very long one,” he said, in a low voice. “Blix, you must write to me — we must write each other often.”
“Oh, yes,” she answered. “We must not forget each other; we have had too good a time for that.”
“Four years is a long time,” he went on. “Lots can happen in four years. Wonder what I’ll be doing at the end of four years? We’ve had a pleasant time while it lasted, Blix.”
“Haven’t we?” she said, her chin on her hand, the moonlight shining in her little, dark-brown eyes.
Well, he was going to lose her. He had found out that he loved her only in time to feel the wrench of parting from her all the more keenly. What was he to do with himself after she was gone? What could he turn to in order to fill up the great emptiness that her going would leave in his daily life? And was she never to know how dear she was to him? Why not speak to her, why not tell her that he loved her? But Condy knew that Blix did not love him, and the knowledge of that must keep him silent; he must hug his secret to him, like the Spartan boy with his stolen fox, no matter how grievously it hurt him to do so. He and Blix had lived through two months of rarest, most untroubled happiness, with hardly more self-consciousness than two young and healthy boys. To bring that troublous, disquieting element of love between them — unrequited love, of all things — would be a folly. She would tell him — must in all honesty tell him that she did not love him, and all their delicious camaraderie would end in a “scene.” Condy, above everything, w
ished to look back on those two months, after she had gone, without being able to remember therein one single note that jarred. If the memory of her was all that he was to have, he resolved that at least that memory should be perfect.
And the love of her had made a man of him — he could not forget that; had given to him just the strength that made it possible for him to keep that resolute, grim silence now. In those two months he had grown five years; he was more masculine, more virile. The very set of his mouth was different; between the eye-brows the cleft had deepened; his voice itself vibrated to a heavier note. No, no; so long as he should live, he, man grown as he was, could never forget this girl of nineteen who had come into his life so quietly, so unexpectedly, who had influenced it so irresistibly and so unmistakably for its betterment, and who had passed out of it with the passing of the year.
For a few moments Condy had been absent-mindedly snapping the lid of his cigarette case, while he thought; now he selected a cigarette, returned the case to his pocket, and fumbled for a match. But the little gun-metal case he carried was empty. Blix rose and groped for a moment upon the mantel-shelf, then returned and handed him a match, and stood over him while he scraped it under the arm of the chair wherein he sat. Even when his cigarette was lighted she still stood there, looking at him, the fingers of her hands clasped in front of her, her hair, one side of her cheek, her chin, and sweet, round neck outlined by the faint blur of light that came from the open window. Then quietly she said:
