On the way up the aisle someone called to Cora and came toward them through a line of seats. It was a boy her sister had gone to school with—Harry Norman. They had not seen him since before the fire, and he had changed so much that she was surprised. He was taller and heavier, but more than that he had taken on a look of maturity.
Cora dimpled and summoned her gayest smile as she went ahead up the aisle with Harry.
"Well?" Quent said. "How do you feel now?"
"Feel?" said Melora. "How should I feel?" He saw too much; saw things she didn't want him to read —her continued confusion and uncertainty and doubt.
"One of these days," he went on as they stepped into the lobby, "you'll have to tell me what that last act was all about."
Melora did not answer and when Cora had told Harry goodby they went into the cool evening and around toward the stage door. The doorman let them through, waving them toward dim corridors and cubbyholes backstage. A smell of recently cut wood and fresh paint hung over the rebuilt theater.
Tony, seated before a mirror in a tiny dressing room, was removing his make-up. He wore a dark red robe, with a towel flung about his shoulders. When he saw them in the glass he jumped up to invite them in. He gave each girl a quick kiss on the cheek and held out a hand to Quent.
"How did you like it?" he asked confidently, as if only one answer were possible.
Cora didn't fail him. "You were wonderful, Tony," she said loyally.
He turned to the others questioningly, particularly to Melora.
Quent said, "Sorry, old fellow, but this isn't my type of show. I only came because I was bullied into it. I like dancing girls and more jokes."
Quent was clowning again, but Tony didn't care what Quent thought. He was still waiting for Melora's answer. She couldn't lie, however much he might want her praise.
"I—I'm afraid I didn't care too much for the play," she faltered. "But the company is very good. And you were good too, Tony. Though I couldn't agree with your portrayal of the part."
He looked both hurt and reproachful and she wished guiltily that she could have given him the unqualified praise he so plainly wanted. But before she could say more there was a "May I come in?" from the doorway and Mae Wentworth swept prettily into the room, still in costume. Her arms were full of yellow roses and she ran directly to Tony and kissed him.
"Thank you for the flowers!" she cried. "They're lovely. Tony, your performance was fine tonight. I was so proud of you."
She seemed to note the others in the room for the first time. She still wore her stage make-up and at close hand it was too bright.
"I know," she prattled on, "—you're the friends Tony has told me about. The ones he stayed with during the fire. How nice that you could be here tonight. Wasn't he splendid?"
It was fortunate that Cora filled in with generous agreement what might have been an uncomfortable gap. Mae swept gayly out of the room, leaving a trail of perfume that dimmed the scent of roses.
"Quite a girl," Tony said. "And she's taught me a great deal about acting. She'll go places, that one."
"I've no doubt," said Quent dryly. He'd taken Cora by the arm and was moving her firmly toward the door. "We'll wait on the sidewalk outside, Melora. I need some fresh air. See you later, Tony."
Cora made no objection to being pulled away, though Melora almost regretted seeing them go. Nothing had turned out as she had expected tonight, and she could only feel self-conscious over being left alone with Tony. He seemed uncomfortable too and she realized that he was no more anxious to be alone with her than she was with him.
"You—you've changed, Melora," he said doubtfully.
Was that because she could no longer flutter in admiration of him? she wondered. Was it because, for the first time, she had openly criticized him? But one didn't change as suddenly as that, or for so small a reason. This was something that had been taking place in both of them during these months apart. Perhaps it was even something that had been deep in them all the time, hidden by surface emotions.
"Perhaps we've both changed," she told him.
"Perhaps we don't know each other very well after all."
He did not contradict that. From the make-up shelf before the mirror he picked up an eyebrow pencil and tossed it in his hand. He seemed to have nothing more to say, almost to be waiting for her to go.
It was possible, she thought a little sadly, that he could be quite ruthless if he chose. All the thoughtful little things he had done for her—that rose in the garden, his quick gift of the charred Treasure Island —had these been to please his own notion of himself in the role of a sensitive lover, as much as they had been to please her?
"You'll be with us on New Year's Eve, won't you?" she asked. That invitation had been made. It still lay between them.
He dropped the eyebrow pencil among the litter and turned back to her. "About that, Melora—I hope you'll let me off. Something terribly important has come up. Miss Wentworth has managed to get me an invitation to a pretty exclusive party given by the people who are going to make those nickelodeon pictures I told you about. This is an opportunity for me to meet them informally and—well, it's just too bad it had to fall on New Year's Eve."
Melora was silent for just a moment. "Of course you must do anything that will help you in your work. It's quite all right, Tony. We'll be glad to see you whenever you're free. Well—I'd better not keep the others waiting " She moved toward the door.
He made no effort to stop her. "Thanks for understanding. And of course I'll see you—soon. I— I'm so glad you could come tonight. Good night, Melora"
"Good night," she said and went out the door.
Out front the theater had emptied and stage hands were pulling up the curtain on empty seats. It was as if she had somehow stepped into a new dimension where none of the old rules held. It was a dimension to which she did not belong. She had the feeling that she would not see Tony again except as strangers meeting.
She walked quickly to the stage door and down the steps that led to the street.
Quent and Cora were waiting for her on the sidewalk and she tried to smile at them, but in spite of herself her hps quivered.
Quent said, "We'll take a hack home tonight and travel in style."
All the way home he kept up a running stream of nonsense that reduced Cora to giggles. Melora sat in the dimness of the cab and said nothing. She was grateful to Quent. How had she ever thought of him as clumsy and insensitive? He was clumsy only when he chose to put on that old manner of his—something he adopted less and less these days. He kept Cora from asking any questions until they were home and ready to go upstairs to their rooms. Then Cora would not be stopped.
"What happened at the theater?" she asked Melora. "Tony seemed so odd. What did he say? Is he going to be able to get away in time on New Year's Eve?"
Melora answered only the final question. "I'm afraid Tony has to do something else New Year's Eve."
Quent stemmed any further outburst from Cora by flinging his hat in the air. "Hooray! Then you'll be my girl on New Year's Eve and nobody else's! Now you hush, Cora, and leave your sister alone."
Cora asked no more questions for the moment. The three tiptoed upstairs and separated to their rooms.
Melora was slow about undressing because she kept getting lost in long, puzzling thoughts. She sat with a stocking in her hand, trying to understand how she felt, trying to understand what had happened tonight.
Cora tapped on the door, and tapped again before Melora roused herself to a reluctant "Come in."
"Heavens, aren't you ready for bed yet?" her sister asked. "You'll catch your death sitting there mooning." She came in and threw back the bed covers. "Hurry into your nightie and I'll tuck you in the way you used to do me sometimes. Melora, has something gone wrong between you and Tony? Are you sad tonight, Mellie darling?"
Melora shook her head, though her denial wasn't quite true. She did feel wistful and a little sad over the loss of something that had promis
ed to be lasting and lovely. Yet at the same time there was a sense of relief too because she would no longer be torn two ways.
"Some day, years ahead," she mused as she got into her nightgown, "you and I will sit in a theater watching the famous matinee idol, Tony Ellis. And we'll remember that once upon a time during the days after the fire we were both a little silly over him."
"I was certainly silly over him," Cora agreed. "But when that Mae Wentworth came in the dressing room tonight—well!" She turned off the light and her tone changed, brightened. "Mellie, do you think it would be all right if I asked Harry Norman to come to our party on New Year's Eve? Of course it's terribly late for an invitation and I suppose he'll already have an engagement, but—"
"I saw how he looked at you," Melora said. "I think he'll come if you ask him."
Something had happened for Cora too tonight. How strange a thing was this matter of "love." How easily you could be mistaken and how dreadful if you acted too quickly so that you discovered the truth when it was too late.
Cora tucked the covers up around her and dropped a quick kiss on her cheek. "Don't be sad, Mellie dear."
She hurried to the door and slipped out. When she'd gone, Melora lay against her pillow. A stream of moonlight came through one window, touching the figure of Kwan Yin almost as the stage spotlight had touched Tony and Mae. The blue coils of hair showed darkly, their color barely visible. The gold face gleamed like a smaller moon.
Blue hair, Melora thought drowsily. Quent liked blue hair. Quent was trying to help her. She was fonder of him that she'd thought....
Suddenly she knew exactly what she would do as the final touch for her New Year's Eve costume.
A LADY WITH BLUE HAIR
It was a good thing that Gran was knitting sweaters for the men of the household these days and there were those hanks of yam in her work basket. She granted cheerful permission for use of the royal blue. Early New Year's Eve, so they'd have plenty of time, Melora went to work, with Cora's help, coiling and pinning and coiling again. When the task was finished Cora stood back to look her over.
"You don't exactly resemble Kwan Yin," she said. "But I must say blue hair becomes you. And with the blue color picked up again in the embroidery on your yellow gown—well, I think you're stunning."
Melora looked at herself doubtfully in the glass. Would Quent think so? In her wish to please him there was none of the anxiety she had always felt with Tony. There was simply the knowledge that she liked Quent very much and that she hoped he liked her.
When the two semi-Chinese maidens went downstairs together later, their descent was entirely as dramatic as any entrance Mae Wentworth had ever made on a stage. Harry had been happy to come, and he stood beside Quent near the big fireplace in the entry hall, his eyes popping with admiration. He looked very handsome as a Mexican caballero, with short jacket and tight trousers. But Melora liked Quent's outfit best. There was no doubt about what he represented. In those loggers' boots, red flannel shirt and battered top hat dusted with ashes, he looked like more than one refugee from the days of the fire.
He leaned against the mantel, watching both girls with that look that was so hard to read. Melora began to feel a little uncertain as she reached the bottom step and he still said nothing, made no move to come toward her. She put up her fingers to see if the blue wig was slipping, but all seemed to be well.
Now everyone came in from the parlor to see. Even Quong Sam opened the dining room door to have a look for himself.
"But you ought to have a gold face!" Alec told Melora, and they laughed.
"I'm sure you'll both catch cold in those robes," Mama said worriedly, but Cora assured her that they were wearing sweaters underneath, and Quent said they'd do so much walking there'd be no chance to get cold.
Sam scuttled to open the door for them and just as Melora passed him he whispered so no one else could hear: "You got mo' betta blains now. Missy M'lory."
Melora had to laugh a little as she went down the steps with Quent, though she wouldn't tell him what Sam had said. He still made no comment about her appearance, and she could only think that he had forgotten the remark he had once made about wanting to know a lady with blue hair.
It was nearly eleven by the time they reached Van Ness and the hohday crowd streamed along in full force. The wide street was gay with lights. Waving flags hung above the new redwood shops with their freshly painted fronts. There was the gayety of renaissance in the air.
Up and down the street went the celebrants in costumes of every description. Fillmore, Quent said, was crowded too, and Golden Gate Avenue was used as a connecting link between the two streets. There were wigs and false noses and pasted-on whiskers wherever you looked. A bedlam of fish horns and whistles and cowbells served notice of New Year's Eve. Quite a few police were out, but though the crowd's excitement was intense, it was good-natured.
A clown with red circles painted on his cheeks sprinkled Melora's blue hair with confetti and danced away laughing. Bags of bright confetti were sold at stands and Quent bought a supply so they could pelt when they were pelted.
A sprightly oldster in the dress of a '49 miner stopped them as they went by. "You young folks know what happened today?" he demanded. "Ferry clock started up of its own accord—that's what. It's an omen, sure enough. This is gonna be the best dang city in the whole U.S.A.!"
A court jester tickled Cora's neck with his feather duster and tried to coax her to run away with him, but nobody minded. It was all in good fun.
Yet while they pressed their way through the throngs, Melora was very much aware of Quent, moving rather soberly at her side. He tossed handfuls of confetti and smiled at pretty girls, but he seemed to be preoccupied with his own thoughts and merely going through the motions. When a group of merrymakers, clanging bells and tooting whistles, separated the two couples, Melora and Quent were pushed into an empty side street.
Quent called back to Cora and Harry, "You go ahead. We'll see you later."
Then they stood aside from the noisy crowd, catching their breath for a few moments.
"Why the blue hair?" Quent asked.
Melora smiled. "Don't you remember what you said one time about a lady with blue hair?"
"So it is on purpose? I remembered, but I didn't expect you to. I thought it might be just an imitation of your friend Kwan Yin. I want to talk to you, Melora. I didn't know if there would be a chance tonight, but this looks like an opportunity."
"But—what about Cora and—"
"They'll just think we couldn't catch up with them. We'll see them later at home. Talking to you is more important."
She walked along with him into the emptiness of the east. Ruins were coming down in this section, and near Van Ness new buildings had gone up. But there were still empty stretches on every hand where once city houses had stood.
A hackney cab jolted past on its way to a more populated section and Quent hailed it on impulse.
"I've an idea!" he said to Melora. "In you go!" and she climbed into the seat. "Nob Hill," he told the driver. The man shrugged, apparently thinking that you could expect almost anything from a fare on New Year's Eve.
"You goin' to the Fairmont, maybe?" he asked jovially. "They ain't quite open for business yet, y'know."
"Not the Fairmont," Quent told him. "I'll let you know where to stop."
"What are you up to?" Melora asked, feeling more and more curious.
But he would not tell her. "You'll see," he said and laughed at her bafflement.
The hack carried them slowly to the heights, zigzagging along the streets to rest the horse.
"You can stop here," Quent directed when they were near the top. "Here's pay for the trip up. We'll be back in a little while for you to take us down and there'll be a tip for you if you'll wait."
The cabby agreed to wait, and Quent helped Melora down. He was looking less sober now, and his fingers were gentle about her own.
"Come along then, my lady with blue hair," he said.
"This is a crazy notion, but I've always wanted to come back here. And perhaps New Year's Eve is exactly the right time for a view."
She remembered the Quent who had seated himself lazily on a wall on Telegraph Hill. That Quent had sometimes been a fake. Now he was no longer pretending anything.
She recognized the neighborhood. This was not far from the place where Alec had been hurt. They turned a comer, climbing, and suddenly she glimpsed what he had brought her to see. Shadowy white there on the hillside stood the marble columns of a doorway. A doorway to the past, Tony had said. But Quent had said it was a doorway to the future.
He went up the shallow steps ahead of her and turned to hold out his hand. "Come up here, Melora. I can't think of a better place to watch 1906 go out and the future come in."
In the starlight the mixture of the old and the new spread out below them. There were black patches of nothingness, it was true, but there were many more lights as well. A glow touched the sky from the direction where the New Year's crowd thronged Fillmore and Van Ness.
"We're doing it!" Quent said and there was an exultation in his voice. "We're doing what everyone said could never be done."
Melora felt tears bum her eyes, but they were tears of pride, tinged with only a wistful sadness for all that was lost and gone and would never come again. Wheat was to come would be new and different and changed.
Quent searched her face in the dim light. "Do you think you could tell me about you and Tony Ellis?"
She blinked the moisture away. "There's nothing to tell. He's going in a different direction from mine, that's all."
"It's not all," said Quent, his voice a little hard as he spoke of Tony. "It's not all if you care a great deal because your roads are separating."
She looked off toward the glow and clamor of Van Ness and Fillmore. Was Tony somewhere in that crowd? And if he was, did she want to be with him? She knew the answer truthfully.
"I don't think it matters," she said. "Except—" she had to be honest about this if she could—"except with a little part of me that will always remember him."
The fire and the gold Page 18
