The fire and the gold

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  What use was there in saying, "Maybe I do care —maybe I'm afraid of caring too much"? Cora would not understand a caring in which there were questions and doubts. She was like Mama in that.

  She whispered "Good night" to her sister and went out of the room as softly as she had entered it. Cindy, the rag doll, sat against a pillow waiting for her, and Melora put her up on the shelf beside Kwan . Yin. Neither was any help to her at the moment. I

  You did and you didn't, she thought. You loved and you doubted. You went toward and you drew I away. You were in rapture over a kiss and uncertain a moment later. So how could you possibly give someone else an indication of your own true feelings?

  Her left hand had a light sensation about it and j she rubbed the third finger, momentarily surprised at the absence of the ring she had worn for the last few months. What would Quent do with it now? Who would be the girl he'd give it to some day? A girl who'd have "mystery and allure," he'd said that time on the ferry. Remembering the remark he'd made about Kwan Yin, she thought whimsically that it would be the girl with blue hair whom he'd always wanted to meet. But it was Tony, not Quent, who troubled her now. More than an hour went by before she fell asleep.

  The next day there was "commotion" aplenty. Right at the breakfast table she made her announcement in a firm, brave tone. She and Quent were not engaged, never had been, really. Now the joke was over and the ring had been returned. No, she wasn't "throwing Quent over," and he wasn't "jilting" her. This was simply the dissolving of a very bad joke. She was sorry, but that's the way it was.

  Mama turned pale and began to cry, and Cora had to run for her smelling salts. Uncle Will looked sorry. It was a good thing Papa jumped in and helped her out, for Quent lifted not a finger to come to her assistance and share the blame. In the end, however, it was Quong Sam who surprised her most.

  He'd been serving breakfast while this was going on. When the meal was over and Papa had taken her mother upstairs for a talk, he pattered after Melora, his pigtail swinging.

  "You no gotchee blains," he said. "You velly stupid ge'l." He waited for no response, but went off toward the kitchen, leaving her staring after him.

  Gran and Cora had added nothing, either by way of protest or defense. Cora would hardly eat and she flushed miserably when Tony tried to tease her in his usual way. After breakfast she hid in her room and would see no one but Gran. Melora had an unsatisfactory talk with Mama and knew it was the first of many.

  Late in the afternoon she found Gran sitting on the back porch steps shelling a pan of peas with Cora. They had been talking quietly and Cora looked up at her sister with the flicker of a smile. Never in her life had Cora been able to stay mad at anyone, though that didn't mean her hurt had lessened. Now she was ready to be friends again.

  Down in the garden Alec and Matt, who often came over to play, were building a doghouse for Smokey and carrying on a loud-pitched argument on a subject commonly debated all over town. Melora listened in amusement.

  "Market Street's done for," Matt announced authoritatively. "It's dead and buried. My Pa says. Fillmore'll be the big street, you'll see."

  "That's not true," Alec cried with equal vigor, waving his hammer and chanting a popular jingle.

  Market Street was Market Street

  When Fillmore was a pup; Market will be Market

  When Fillmore's swallowed up!

  Melora applauded, laughing, and her brother grinned at her.

  "Sit down here," Gran said to Melora, tapping a step with her foot. "We're talking about love."

  Melora went to sit on the steps below her.

  "I was just saying," Gran went on, "that most folks make love a whole lot more complicated than it really is. There're only two ways about it, when you get right down to brass tacks. You either fall in love with a person for what he really is, or else you fall in love with your own notion of what he is. Those two things can be poles apart, but the trouble is they feel exactly the same in the beginning. It's just the endings that are so different."

  Cora tilted her chin rebelliously. "I suppose you're thinking about Tony. I suppose you mean that I like Tony for things I only think he is."

  "I didn't say a word about Tony," Gran said airily and popped a fat pod so that green pellets clattered into the pan in her lap. "I was just talking about love in general."

  Melora picked up an empty pod and sniffed its moist green scent. "Maybe it's not really as clear-cut as all that, Gran. I mean no one we love is going to be absolutely perfect, any more than we ourselves are. For instance, there are a lot of things I could admire about Tony. But I could never admire the way he feels superior toward his grandfather and his Uncle Vito."

  "Maybe not, but you could understand it, and forgive it," Cora said. "He told me about the way the kids in school used to tease him and call him names. Maybe we'd feel the same way in his shoes."

  Gran nodded. "Probably would. I can remember a pile of things I felt tragic about when I was young. I had a feeling I'd been singled out especially by a cruel destiny. That was before I found out that most everybody else thinks he's been singled out too. When I caught onto the fact that I was in such good company, I stopped feeling sorry for myself."

  "Anyway, it doesn't make me like Tony any the less," Cora retorted stanchly.

  "You'll recover," said Gran. "That's the one sure thing about a broken heart, in case that's what you're harboring. And don't dream over those peas or Sam is going to come out and fire the three of us."

  Melora laughed and the moment of seriousness passed.

  That week was a busy one, for Papa's ship was sailing on Saturday and there were endless things to do and say.

  Melora was grateful for the talk he managed with her about her writing.

  They were sitting in her room.

  "It's a common experience for young people to feel an urge to escape from the familiar aspects of their lives," he said. "But, Melora, escape may sometimes be right there in your own heart and mind, and not depend at all on a mere change of scenery, or new companions. This writing talent may be the answer for you."

  Of course if she meant to buckle down and take it seriously, he pointed out, it would mean hard work and a lot to learn. Hours of just writing every day, probably.

  "You can put some of it into letters to me," he said, smiling. "Not only writing about things that happen, but about how you feel and think. I expect Howard Forrest will tell you that's the most important, and perhaps the hardest part."

  There was a little silence and she plunged then into the subject she knew she must discuss with him before he went away. The fact that Tony had suggested marriage at some time in the future.

  He listened gravely and when she was through he asked a single question. "Are you sure this is what you want, Melora?"

  She couldn't give him a clear-cut answer. 'That's the trouble—one minute I'm ready to say 'yes,' and the next minute I don't seem to be sure."

  He looked relieved. "Don't worry about it then, my dear. But don't do anything till you are sure. Sooner or later you will be, you know."

  There had been times when she had felt that her father was not exactly enthusiastic about Tony. She had half expected protest from him.

  "You mean you wouldn't oppose my marrying Tony?" she asked directly.

  His smile was rueful. "I'm almost inclined to think the Chinese way is the best—when someone who is old and wise weighs all the aspects and brings together two young people so eminently suited to each other that they are sure to fall in love after they are married."

  Melora must have looked shocked, for her father laughed.

  "I know—this is America. I wish it were possible for a parent to go right on saving his children from hurt just as he did when they were little. But you're old enough now to take the responsibility for your own actions. Of course your mother may not feel that way."

  Melora was quite sure of that. Mama had gone right on wailing over the "broken engagement" as it was. She would probably collaps
e completely if she were asked to accept Tony in Quent's place.

  "Could we just not tell her for a little while?" Melora asked.

  "It may not be necessary to tell her at all," Papa said thoughtfully.

  So it was left at that. Though he had argued neither for nor against, Melora knew that her father hoped she would not marry Tony. And this made a deep impression.

  After Papa's ship sailed, the house settled to routine again, and the summer days ran along pleasantly, busy and full, with Melora spending a couple of hours every morning alone in her room writing. Mostly it was just a sort of talking to herself in her diary. She wrote in it copiously every day now. These were the times she looked forward to more than anything else in her day. The diary writing gave her practice and it was an idea storehouse besides.

  Her meetings with Tony were a mixed blessing. He affected her in a way that was often disturbing. There were moments when, if he had said, "Let's not wait—let's run off and get married now," she would have gone with him. She was happiest, however, when he asked nothing, but did thoughtful little things which revealed an understanding no one else had ever shown her. These were the times when she was most convinced of their affection for each other. Though she sometimes wondered if he were not playing the role of the perfect suitor without recognizing it himself.

  As for Quent—he was working so hard in his father's business, often late into the evenings, that she saw him mainly at meals. He never teased as he used to do; he just kept out of her way. She couldn't help feeling a little hurt. They'd been friends for a long time and there seemed no reason for this new attitude.

  There was excitement on the day Mission Bells appeared with Melora's piece, illustrated with several photographs of the fire. It seemed to read so much better in print. Everyone in the house had a turn at the copy, and the neighborhood was scoured for others. At Mama's insistence a copy was kept on the parlor table, so it would be there for any visitor who came in to see. But Melora had begun to have the feeling that its publication didn't mean much unless she could repeat the success.

  In September Alec went reluctantly back to school and one more phase of everyday existence was reinstated.

  Then one night something happened. Tony came home with news that was plainly elating to him. He said nothing at dinner, though Melora was aware of his inner excitement. Afterwards they sat on the low wall in the garden and he made his announcement dramatically.

  "I've got it, Melora—a place in a theatrical stock company! I've tried out and they're taking me. I'm on the stage!"

  She hadn't realized that he was doing anything so definite about an acting job.

  "Tell me about it," she said.

  'Well, for a starter, it's much better than being in one play. A play could be a failure and I'd be stranded wherever it opened. But this way I'll be working every week for months—in fact, as long as they like me, or as long as I want to stay."

  "Then—you'll be leaving San Francisco?"

  He looked at her contritely. "It has to be that way. But I'll be back before long. There are theaters opening again m this town and they tell me they'll probably book us into a stock theater some time this winter. Not too many companies will be playing San Francisco just now, so we should be welcome. But we're going to play a city or two in southern California first."

  "What sort of parts will you have?"

  "What they call the juvenile lead," he said. "That means I'll be the young fellow who always falls for the pretty girl who is the ingenue. Nothing very weighty most of the time. But I'll be getting experience. It's the first step, Melora. Will you miss me?"

  Of course she would miss him, she admitted, already sensing the empty place his going would leave in her life. Where Tony was, there was always interest and excitement. Uncertainty too, perhaps, but never monotony.

  There would be only a few months of this, he assured her comfortingly. Just enough time so he could be sure of himself and save up a little money. Then they could be married. He was going to hate this time away from her, but it couldn't be helped—it meant his future—their future. Of course when they were married she would come with him. He would be so proud to show her off as his wife.

  She could feel a prickle of excitement as he pictured the adventurous life of an actor. Always new towns to visit, new parts of the country to see. And the adulation and admiration that was an actor's due when he was popular. Of course Tony Ellis was going to be popular. He would see to that. She had always wanted to escape, hadn't she? Well, this was the way.

  His letters were hurried, but enthusiastic. They breathed his delight in the life of the theater. They spoke of her too and how much she meant to him. But even as she read his words the doubts came again. He wrote as he talked—dramatically, as if he could never stop imagining himself in a leading role. What if the time should come when he chose to play some other part?

  He sent her one of his stage photographs, signed to her with love in a bold flourish. His smile flashed in the picture as it did in life and she longed with all her heart to be with him again.

  Once he wrote that she might be able to get a place as a player of bit parts with his company. Such as the maid who dusted furniture in the first scene and gave the audience the lowdown on the family by talking things over with the butler. She might even use the name "Melora Bonner," and let it be known that she was the granddaughter of San Francisco's Henry Bonner. Of course it would be better for his own relationship with his audiences if they thought him unmarried. He had been advised of that by the girl who played the ingenue lead in his company. Mae Wentworth was not only a clever little actress, but she knew her way around theatrically speaking and had been of great help to him.

  Melora dropped the letter to pose before her mirror with an imaginary feather duster in her hand, improvising gossipy remarks to a wardrobe closet. Melora Bonner, the onstage chambermaid! Then she caught Kwan Yin's smile and Cindy's faded look of wide-eyed surprise, and flung herself laughing on her bed.

  "You're right," she told the two. "The last thing in the world I could ever do is sashay around a stage speaking silly lines to a butler." Write the plays, maybe, but not act in them. And as for borrowing prestige with her grandfather's name—no! It was her own name she wanted to give meaning to, but not over the footlights.

  She tried to explain all this in her next letter to Tony, but by the time he answered he was off on another tack and didn't even mention the matter. She felt both exasperated and absurdly relieved.

  The October rains were upon them now and sometimes it drizzled for days on end. Everyone else's spirits had a tendency to droop a little, but not Melora's. She had become deeply absorbed in a more ambitious piece of writing than she had dared to try before. This was something she might even show to Mr. Forrest.

  MOMENTUM

  It had begun as something in her diary—a little piece about Quong Sam and his nephew Eddie. But this time it wasn't just so many inanimate words on paper, as some of her efforts had been. This was alive and exciting. There was a pulse beat to it. She polished it up as best she could and sent it off to Howard Forrest.

  Back it came, but with a letter of praise and encouragement. She was right—she had something here. But he'd like to see her enlarge it into an article that would cover more than the story of one Chinese servant in her own family. Let this be a piece about the experiences of other such families in San Francisco as well.

  "Go to work and dig out more material," he wrote. "And send it back as soon as possible."

  The letter came in the morning mail and knowing that it was her manuscript being returned, she had taken it to her room to open in unhappy privacy. But now she couldn't wait to share the news. Of course she would go to work on it—this very day, if she could.

  She ran downstairs with the letter in her hand. Quent happened to come out of the drawing-room-office at that moment, and she waved the letter at him triumphantly.

  "I've done it again! Or at least almost. Quent, look at this!"


  For once he didn't bite her head off. He read the letter through gravely and gave it back to her. "How are you going to start? Getting your material, I mean?"

  "I don't know. Oh, for the library! It breaks my heart when I think of all those books burning up. I thought I might talk to Sam a bit and try to—"

  "Good idea. But I've got another suggestion for now. Come along with me on an errand I'm doing for Father. An old lady who has insurance with us is an invalid and I'm going out to talk to her. She's had Chinese servants all her life, and she'd probably love telling you stories about them. Hurry and get ready and we'll take a cable car. It's not far."

  They had to run for the cable car, since you could never tell exactly where one would stop. Quent swung her up to an outside seat and she clung to the metal pole.

  Down the steep hill they went, with Melora laughing as she slid on the slippery seat and was pushed back by Quent.

  "Out for the curve!" shouted the conductor, meaning "look out," and with a great crashing and rattling and clanging of bells, they were off. They had the front of the car to themselves and Quent began to chant in Melora's ear. She joined in the words they'd both learned when Gelett Burgess had written The Ballad of the Hyde Street Grip a few years ago.

  Oh, the lights are in the Mission, and the ships are on the Bay,

  And Tamalpais is looming from the Gate, across the way;

  The Presidio trees are waving, and the hills are growing brown,

  And the driving fog is harried from the ocean to the town!

  How the pulleys slap and rattle! How the cables hum and skip!

  Oh, they sing a gallant chorus to the Hyde Street Grip!

  They hopped off at their stop, still laughing, and Melora realized that it had been a long time since she'd laughed with Quent. She had missed the relationship she used to take for granted.

  The elderly lady they were to visit received them kindly in her wheelchair. Quent finished his part of the business he had to transact and then Melora told her hostess about her own problem. She could hardly have found anyone more willing to tell stories about San Francisco's Chinese and her pencil was busy jotting down notes. When they left she had the names of other families from whom she could gather stories.