The fire and the gold

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  Melora knew what her sister meant. She'd felt that too. The Cranby house and everything in it was completely alive and clear in her mind. She could walk through it in her thoughts just as she had done yesterday afternoon in reality. She could feel the banister beneath her hand, hear the creak of that top step, see her own room—just as Mama had redone it for last Christmas. She could count all the little belongings she had not bothered to take with her on her trip to Chicago. Everything was there. Nothing was changed.

  And yet it was. So dreadfully.

  "Let's go down," she repeated and she and Cora turned toward the stairs together.

  "I'm glad you're here, Melora," Cora said. "We've missed you."

  As they reached the second floor, Quong Sam came hurrying to find them.

  "Missy M'lory!" he cried. "You hully up flont door. Mista Kint here. Mista Kint in devil wagon."

  Melora saw the open sympathy in her sister's eyes and could hardly suppress her irritation. She would be happy to see Quent, of course, but not in the way Cora expected.

  BREATH OF ROSES

  The "devil wagon" Melora recognized at once as Mr. Will Seymour's Oldsmobile car. "Uncle Will" they all called him by way of courtesy, though of course Quent's father wasn't a real uncle. But now it was Quent, not Uncle Will, who sat behind the wheel of the car.

  He waved at the two girls as if he were on his way to a picnic. "We made it! And without another flat tire." He leaned over to speak to someone who was examining the spoked wheels on the far side of the i car. "Everything all right, you think?"

  There was a mumbled reply and Quent got out to see for himself.

  In the tonneau sat a plump lady, middle-aged, but strikingly handsome and rather foreign-looking. She was hatless and had ignored the stylish pompadour hairdress of the day to pull glossy black wings down from a center part ending in a coil on the back of her neck. Her lips were as red as though she might have touched them with pigment, and her dark eyes had a lively snap to them. When she spoke, greeting Melora with easy friendliness, she made quick, expressive gestures with hands that were small for her size.

  Heaped about her in the car were rolled-up cylinders of various lengths and on the leather seat beside her was a huge laundry basket filled to the brim and covered over with a flowered challis wrapper.

  "Good morning," Melora returned her greeting and came down the steps toward the car.

  "Madre mia, it is not a. good morning!" the lady in the tonneau said, her smile flashing in contrast to her lugubrious words. 'That I should live to see such a day as this! My poor feet! Had not the young Mr. Seymour come in this beautiful car, I must have sat down on the sidewalk to burn like everything else. For not a step more could I have taken. Not one step!"

  Beyond the car the studier of tires rose to his feet and smiled at the woman in the back seat—a smile which included Melora and her sister. The young man was the book clerk, Tony Ellis.

  "Now, now," he said to the protesting lady, "you know you'd always take one more step as long as it was necessary. This young lady is Miss Melora Cran-by, of whom I have told you." He looked at Melora, as if to point up the fact that he had talked about her. "Miss Cranby, my mother, Mrs. Ellis. This second young lady I don't know—" He paused inquiringly.

  Cora's dimples were in evidence as she regarded Tony and his mother with interest. Melora introduced her sister, while Quent Seymour unbent from examining a tire to glance at them.

  "So you already know Tony? From the bookstore, I suppose. He and I went to school together."

  This was an interesting fact, but Melora had other questions to ask. "Quent, what's happening now? The fire isn't up Nob Hill, is it?"

  'Things look pretty bad," Quent said, sounding as if he enjoyed the excitement. "I don't see how they'll stop it. All our servants skipped out yesterday. Father sent them off in the carriages in order to get the horses safely away. He just kept the buggy himself. And of course this car."

  "Where is your father?" Melora asked.

  "Right now he's working on the Mayor's Committee of Fifty. They started out with headquarters in the Hall of Justice on Portsmouth Square, but got burned out last night. They've been moving from one place to another ever since. Father told me to cut some of the best paintings in his collection from their frames and bring them outside the fire lines. So of course I thought of this place." He grinned. "Besides, I was longing to see you, Melora."

  Melora threw him a quick look of reproval. This was no time for nonsense and she particularly did not like it with Tony looking on.

  "Well, bring them into the house, Quent," she said. "And you, Mrs. Ellis, won't you come in and rest? I think we'll be safe enough here for a while."

  Mrs. Ellis accepted with obvious relief, and Tony sprang around the car to open the door and assist his mother to the ground.

  "That would be fine," he said gratefully to Melora. "I'm afraid we can't ride any farther with Quent."

  "Come on, Cora-Melora," Quent directed, using the old nickname with which he had teased both girls when they were children. "Fall to work here and help get these canvases indoors. Father has threatened to have my head if I don't get this car promptly over to Franklin Hall on Fillmore Street. That's the latest retreat of the Citizens' Committee. All cars are being commandeered for official use."

  Quong Sam had informed the rest of the household of Quent's arrival and then returned to be of use himself. Gran and Mrs. Forrest came hurrying out, eager for news. While Tony helped his mother across the sidewalk, Sam and the two girls filled their arms with the art treasures Quent had managed to rescue from the Seymour mansion.

  Mrs. Ellis was too heavy for her own small feet and she tottered a little as Gran came down the steps and held out her hand in greeting. Gran remembered Tony from the bookstore and she welcomed his mother like an old friend.

  Mrs. Forrest turned at once to Quent. "What is the news, my boy? What's happening to the city now?"

  Quent rubbed the back of a hand across his face, leaving a streak of soot in its wake.

  "Fire's circling Nob Hill and eating its way up Russian Hill," he said. "We had to go clear around to get through. It's even licking the foot of Telegraph Hill."

  "Ah, my family!" Tony's mother cried, and her son consoled her quickly.

  "But the dynamiting?" Mrs. Forrest persisted. "Isn't that serving its purpose?"

  "Father doesn't think so. He thinks they're just blowing up a lot of places that might be saved. And the fire's skipping right through most of the time. It's even turning back in some places to catch the spots it missed yesterday."

  It was Cora who first thought of the practical, "Have you had anything to eat?" she asked, speaking to Quent, but with an eye for Tony.

  "Now there's a thoughtful girl!" Quent approved. "Why do I love your sister when she never thinks of such matters? To put it bluntly, I'm starved. And I'm sure Tony and Mrs. Ellis must be too."

  Ouong Sam heard the words and dumped his armload of paintings unceremoniously upon Melora so that he could find something for the guests to eat.

  Gran was talking to Mrs. Ellis. "Of course you're not going on to Golden Gate Park. We have all the room in the world and there's no reason why you and your son shouldn't stay here." She glanced at Quent. "That goes for you and your father too. K you can't get back up Nob Hill tonight, just you come right over here. We'll put you up. After all—" she threw Melora a quick look—"you're practically related to this family."

  Melora flushed and became preoccupied with carrying her load into the house. This whole thing had to be stopped, and soon. But she would have to talk to Quent alone first and get his co-operation. Otherwise goodness knew what crazy attitude he might take.

  When she came back outside, she sat on the rail of the balcony above the others and watched Sam bring beans and soup to Mrs. Ellis and the two boys.

  Mrs. Forrest continued to ply Quent with questions. "I presume the downtown biildings are burned to tha ground? The Mission Bells offices were in
the Call Building. My son edits the magazine, but where he is now, I don't know. Probably in Oakland."

  Quent swallowed a mouthful of beans before he replied, "From a distance the Call doesn't look damaged at all. I'm sure it's burned out inside, but it can probably be restored. If San Francisco had built of steel and concrete everywhere, it wouldn't be so bad off now."

  "People always said redwood was slow burning," Tony pointed out.

  Quent shook his head. "Not under heat like this. Redwood's burning like tinder now."

  "What about your father's business, Quent?" Mrs. Forrest went on.

  "It's the wrong business to be in," he said lightly. But I expect we'll muddle through. What worries Father most is the loss of all his records. He had to be I with the Mayor yesterday, so he sent me downtown to see if I could rescue anything. I couldn't get through ' the fire lines because his building was already burning. But I met one of the clerks from the office who had come through on an early ferry."

  "Then some of the office force actually reached the building?" Gran asked.

  "That's right. They didn't have much time though. This fellow told me they got a big roll-top desk of Father's out of the ground floor office and carted it to a nearby vacant lot where some excavation had been going on. They buried it in a pit and left it there, but it's probably nothing but char. Right now Father's more worried about San Francisco than about business, anyway."

  Melora hadn't considered the nature of Uncle Will's business until this moment. To be in insurance at a time like this was certainly not enviable. Everyone would be expecting payment. But Quent in his usual irresponsible way seemed to be taking it pretty lightly.

  He bolted the last of his food and stood up. 'Thanks for your hospitality," he told Gran. "I'll be getting along now so this car can be put to use. They're still getting the injured out of sections that haven't burned. But we'll probably be back tonight, Father and I, if you'll have us. A good thing Mother and Gwen are in New York. As for me—I wouldn't miss this for anything!"

  He waved jauntily, but at the curb he turned back and ran up the steps to where Melora perched on the balcony rail. There was nothing she could do but endure the resounding kiss he planted on her cheek. He was overdoing the performance, but he paid no attention to her annoyance as he ran down the steps and went to crank the car.

  When he'd chugged off toward Fillmore Street, Melora became aware of the attention of the others. Tony was watching her curiously. Cora was smiling. Even Gran seemed to be observing her attentively.

  "How nice to know that Quent is all right," Cora said.

  Melora nodded in agreement. Of course it was nice. Quent was an old friend. But everyone—including Quent—didn't need to make so much of it. Disturbed at what had happened, Melora jumped down from the rail and went inside.

  All day the fire raged on. The refugees in the Bonner house roamed restlessly in and out from sidewalk to attic. Only Carlotta Ellis remained rocking in a wicker chair Sam brought out to the porch. She sat there, well wrapped in her own shawls, taking the liveliest interest in the refugee throngs which continued to pour along Washington toward the unburned part of town.

  Once Melora sat down on the steps to listen to a conversation Mrs. Ellis was having with an old man who pushed along the street a cart heaped high with his possessions. Both cart and owner smelled strongly of fish and Melora suspected they had had a close association with them in the recent past. The old man spoke Italian volubly and was apparently giving Mama Ellis all the latest news.

  When he took up the cart again and pushed it on, Mrs. Ellis explained ruefully to Melora that her brother, Vito Lombardi, who had a fishing boat, and her own Papa, Antonio Lombardi, whose fine restaurant on Telegraph Hill was famous in San Francisco, were not fleeing from the fire at all. They were boasting that they would fight it with casks of wine, if necessary. They would not retreat until the fire touched them with its own flaming fingers. Mama Ellis put her plump hands before her face and shuddered over such foolishness. It was fated, she said, that all the Lombardis should be wiped out in this fire. All except herself and her son. And perhaps her son too would be devoured by the flames. For had he not gone wandering back into the danger zone like a man demented?

  Melora assured her that Tony wasn't in the least demented. In fact, she envied him the freedom of a man who could go about at will, without hampering skirts and hampering conventions. He at least might be of some use somewhere, she thought. Even Quent, who so seldom lifted a finger to do anything useful, was working now. While all the women could do was moon about this house and wait for news.

  Alec had made a fuss when Gran wouldn't let him go off with Tony to fight the fire, and Mama had come downstairs to object because Gran was apparently taking in refugees right and left. Melora was concerned lest Mrs. Ellis hear the controversy. Fortunately Grandmother was her old, strong self again. Even though her voice sometimes quavered into a high note as she tired, she remained calm.

  "I would like to remind you, Addy," she said, "that you were, after all, born in Virginia City, not in San Francisco. And there wasn't the slightest hint of a silver spoon in your mouth. What's more, I am not your only parent. So you needn't go dredging up old plantations and southern blood. If s nice to have them in the background, but when you get down to brass tacks, San Francisco cares only about what a man is as he stands in his boots today. Your father Henry Bonner hadn't a penny to his name when I met him, but he stood very well in his boots as a man. And I was working in a boarding house. If necessary, I can work in one again. This is no time to go swishing around in pearls and superiority, daughter."

  Cora ran for Mama's smelling salts, but after that there were no more objections to Mrs. Ellis sitting out there on the balcony chatting with the refugees.

  That evening all the men came home. Uncle Will and Quent, with the Oldsmobile still chugging away, despite a breakdown or two and some tire changes.

  Cars had their good points, said Uncle Will, springing up the steps as lightly as though he hadn't been working desperately from dawn to dusk. Of course they would never replace the horse, but nothing else could get you around so tirelessly at fifteen or twenty miles an hour. Unfortunately there weren't enough in the city for the great need,

  Melora had always been fond of Uncle Will. In fact, one of the things she most regretted about her pretend engagement to his son was the fact that Mr. Seymour had been so genuinely delighted. She had, he'd told her, always been his favorite girl, and nothing could make him happier than to have her become his son's wife.

  Uncle Will brought real news of what was going on in the city. He told them what was happening as they all sat around the circular dining table eating an early supper while Quong Sam carried things in from the street kitchen.

  Uncle Will said there would soon be relief trains bringing in food enough for everyone. Bread cards were being issued and there'd be no famine. There was water too, though not for bathing. In spite of the fact that San Francisco was cut off from the rest of the country as far as telephone and telegraph went, word of her need had gone out and the Red Cross was already at work.

  The Ferry Building had not burned and throngs were still pouring out of the city by that gateway. The Southern Pacific Railroad had been furnishing free meals and free transportation for all those who wanted to leave the disaster area.

  Governor Pardee had proclaimed a bank holiday through Saturday, but he'd probably extend it after that to give the banks a chance to get their records in order and prepare to meet the demand for money. For the moment money wasn't much good anyway because there was so little left to buy. The important matters at hand were to halt the fire, minister to the sick and injured and take care of the thousands of refugees. No, he said in answer to a question from Mrs. Forrest, he didn't believe all the wild reports about looting and the shooting of looters. There had been some incidents, of course, but on the whole San Francisco was behaving better than anyone might have expected. There was still no telling, of
course, how many were dead in the earthquake and fire, but as far as could be judged the disaster might have been a great deal worse when it came to loss of life.

  Tony told dramatically of how he had stood at Geary and Larkin that morning, with the fire burning two blocks away on Leavenworth. There was no doubt at all, he said, that the Cranby house, far over into the fire area, was gone.

  After supper Melora stole outside to sit on the back steps alone. She wanted to escape the earthquake and fire talk for a little while. Here on the steps with the dusky garden sloping downhill below her, she could glimpse the bay and see the lights of boats on the water—bright sequins scattered across the dark satin shimmer. To be sure, only a reddish glow marked the sunset. The heavy smoke clouds, reflecting fire, brightened the sky unnaturally. Dynamite shocks still went on, though Uncle Will had said the dynamite gave out from time to time and more had to be brought in.

  She knew she had only to turn her head to see the great expanse of flaming sky, with nearby houses on Gough Street standing up in black silhouette. But she did not want to look. She wanted to find a moment of peace where there was something left of the world besides fire and disaster.

  She rose and went down into the garden. The color of the grass was no longer visible, but she knew it wore the soft green of April Across the back of the house a heliotrope vine grew lush and heavy with dark blossoms. And somewhere there was a scent that was not of smoke and cinders, not the hot breath of fire.

  She searched it out in a far comer of the garden and knelt on the grass before a flower bed. Roses. Bright red roses, glowing in the dusk, breathing a gentle defiance of the harsh smell on the wind. Heedless of thorns, she bent toward them. She did not hear the footfalls on the grass until they were close and a voice spoke to her in the dim garden.

  "I'd forgotten how roses smell," Tony said quietly.

  He bent beside her and fragrance was all around them.

  "They'll only wither here under the rain of cinders," Tony said. "Shall we cut them and carry them into the house? We need them there."