by Bret Harte
CHAPER VI
The trade wind, that, blowing directly from the Golden Gate, seemed toconcentrate its full force upon the western slope of Russian Hill,might have dismayed any climber less hopeful and sanguine than that mostimaginative of newspaper reporters and most youthful of husbands, JohnMilton Harcourt. But for all that it was an honest wind, and its dry,practical energy and salt-pervading breath only seemed to sting him togreater and more enthusiastic exertions, until, quite at the summit ofthe hill and last of a straggling line of little cottages half submergedin drifting sand, he stood upon his own humble porch.
"I was thinking, coming up the hill, Loo," he said, bursting into thesitting-room, pantingly, "of writing something about the future of thehill! How it will look fifty years from now, all terraced with housesand gardens!--and right up here a kind of Acropolis, don't you know. Ihad quite a picture of it in my mind just now."
A plainly-dressed young woman with a pretty face, that, however, lookedas if it had been prematurely sapped of color and vitality, here laidaside some white sewing she had in her lap, and said:--
"But you did that once before, Milty, and you know the 'Herald' wouldn'ttake it because they said it was a free notice of Mr. Boorem's buildinglots, and he didn't advertise in the 'Herald.' I always told you thatyou ought to have seen Boorem first."
The young fellow blinked his eyes with a momentary arrest of thatbuoyant hopefulness which was their peculiar characteristic, butnevertheless replied with undaunted cheerfulness, "I forgot. Anyhow,it's all the same, for I worked it into that 'Sunday Walk.' And it'sjust as easy to write it the other way, you see,--looking back, DOWN THEHILL, you know. Something about the old Padres toiling through the sandjust before the Angelus; or as far back as Sir Francis Drake's time,and have a runaway boat's crew, coming ashore to look for gold that theMexicans had talked of. Lord! that's easy enough! I tell you what, Loo,it's worth living up here just for the inspiration." Even while boyishlyexhaling this enthusiasm he was also divesting himself of certainbundles whose contents seemed to imply that he had brought hisdinner with him,--the youthful Mrs. Harcourt setting the table in aperfunctory, listless way that contrasted oddly with her husband'scheerful energy.
"You haven't heard of any regular situation yet?" she askedabstractedly.
"No,--not exactly," he replied. "But [buoyantly] it's a great dealbetter for me not to take anything in a hurry and tie myself to anyparticular line. Now, I'm quite free."
"And I suppose you haven't seen that Mr. Fletcher again?" she continued.
"No. He only wanted to know something about me. That's the way with themall, Loo. Whenever I apply for work anywhere it's always: 'So you'reDan'l Harcourt's son, eh? Quarreled with the old man? Bad job; bettermake it up! You'll make more stickin' to him. He's worth millions!'Everybody seems to think everything of HIM, as if I had no individualitybeyond that, I've a good mind to change my name."
"And pray what would mine be then?"
There was so much irritation in her voice that he drew nearer her andgently put his arm around her waist. "Why, whatever mine was, darling,"he said with a tender smile. "You didn't fall in love with anyparticular name, did you, Loo?"
"No, but I married a particular one," she said quickly.
His eyelids quivered again, as if he was avoiding some unpleasantlystaring suggestion, and she stopped.
"You know what I mean, dear," she said, with a quick little laugh. "Justbecause your father's an old crosspatch, YOU haven't lost your rights tohis name and property. And those people who say you ought to make it upperhaps know what's for the best."
"But you remember what he said of you, Loo?" said the young man with aflashing eye. "Do you think I can ever forget that?"
"But you DO forget it, dear; you forget it when you go in town amongfresh faces and people; when you are looking for work. You forget itwhen you're at work writing your copy,--for I've seen you smile asyou wrote. You forget it climbing up the dreadful sand, for you werethinking just now of what happened years ago, or is to happen years tocome. And I want to forget it too, Milty. I don't want to sit here allday, thinking of it, with the wind driving the sand against the window,and nothing to look at but those white tombs in Lone Mountain Cemetery,and those white caps that might be gravestones too, and not a soul totalk to or even see pass by until I feel as if I were dead and buriedalso. If you were me--you--you--you--couldn't help crying too!"
Indeed he was very near it now. For as he caught her in his arms,suddenly seeing with a lover's sympathy and the poet's swifterimagination all that she had seen and even more, he was aghast at thevision conjured. In her delicate health and loneliness how dreadful musthave been these monotonous days, and this glittering, cruel sea! Whata selfish brute he was! Yet as he stood there holding her, silently andrhythmically marking his tenderness and remorseful feelings by rockingher from side to side like a languid metronome, she quietly disengagedher wet lashes from his shoulder and said in quite another tone:--
"So they were all at Tasajara last week?"
"Who, dear?"
"Your father and sisters."
"Yes," said John Milton, hesitatingly.
"And they've taken back your sister after her divorce?"
The staring obtrusiveness of this fact apparently made her husband'sbright sympathetic eye blink as before.
"And if you were to divorce me, YOU would be taken back too," sheadded quickly, suddenly withdrawing herself with a pettish movement andwalking to the window.
But he followed. "Don't talk in that way, Loo! Don't look in that way,dear!" he said, taking her hand gently, yet not without a sense of someinconsistency in her conduct that jarred upon his own simple directness."You know that nothing can part us now. I was wrong to let my littlegirl worry herself all alone here, but I--I--thought it was all so--sobright and free out on this hill,--looking far away beyond the GoldenGate,--as far as Cathay, you know, and such a change from those dismalflats of Tasajara and that awful stretch of tules. But it's all rightnow. And now that I know how you feel, we'll go elsewhere."
She did not reply. Perhaps she found it difficult to keep up her injuredattitude in the face of her husband's gentleness. Perhaps her attentionhad been attracted by the unusual spectacle of a stranger, who had justmounted the hill and was now slowly passing along the line ofcottages with a hesitating air of inquiry. "He may be looking for thishouse,--for you," she said in an entirely new tone of interest. "Run outand see. It may be some one who wants"--
"An article," said Milton cheerfully. "By Jove! he IS coming here."
The stranger was indeed approaching the little cottage, and withapparently some confidence. He was a well-dressed, well-made man, whoseage looked uncertain from the contrast between his heavy brown moustacheand his hair, that, curling under the brim of his hat, was almost whitein color. The young man started, and said, hurriedly: "I really believeit is Fletcher,--they say his hair turned white from the Panama fever."
It was indeed Mr. Fletcher who entered and introduced himself,--a gentlereserved man, with something of that colorlessness of premature agein his speech which was observable in his hair. He had heard of Mr.Harcourt from a friend who had recommended him highly. As Mr. Harcourthad probably been told, he, the speaker, was about to embark somecapital in a first-class newspaper in San Francisco, and should selectthe staff himself. He wanted to secure only first-rate talent,--butabove all, youthfulness, directness, and originality. The "Clarion," forthat was to be its name, was to have nothing "old fogy" about it. No. Itwas distinctly to be the organ of Young California! This and much morefrom the grave lips of the elderly young man, whose speech seemed to bedivided between the pretty, but equally faded, young wife, and the onepersonification of invincible youth present,--her husband.
"But I fear I have interrupted your household duties," he saidpleasantly. "You were preparing dinner. Pray go on. And let me helpyou,--I'm not a bad cook,--and you can give me my reward by letting meshare it with you, for the climb up here has sharpened my a
ppetite. Wecan talk as we go on."
It was in vain to protest; there was something paternal as well aspractical in the camaraderie of this actual capitalist and possibleMaecenas and patron as he quietly hung up his hat and overcoat, andhelped to set the table with a practiced hand. Nor, as he suggested, didthe conversation falter, and before they had taken their seats at thefrugal board he had already engaged John Milton Harcourt as assistanteditor of the "Clarion" at a salary that seemed princely to this sonof a millionaire! The young wife meantime had taken active part in thediscussion; whether it was vaguely understood that the possession ofpoetical and imaginative faculties precluded any capacity for business,or whether it was owing to the apparent superior maturity of Mrs.Harcourt and the stranger, it was certain that THEY arranged thepractical details of the engagement, and that the youthful husband satsilent, merely offering his always hopeful and sanguine consent.
"You'll take a house nearer to town, I suppose?" continued Mr. Fletcherto the lady, "though you've a charming view here. I suppose it was quitea change from Tasajara and your father-in-law's house? I daresay he hadas fine a place there--on his own homestead--as he has here?"
Young Harcourt dropped his sensitive eyelids again. It seemed hard thathe could never get away from these allusions to his father! Perhaps itwas only to that relationship that he was indebted for his visitor'skindness. In his simple honesty he could not bear the thought of sucha misapprehension. "Perhaps, Mr. Fletcher, you do not know," he said,"that my father is not on terms with me, and that we neither expectanything nor could we ever take anything from him. Could we, Loo?" Headded the useless question partly because he saw that his wife's facebetrayed little sympathy with him, and partly that Fletcher was lookingat her curiously, as if for confirmation. But this was another of JohnMilton's trials as an imaginative reporter; nobody ever seemed to carefor his practical opinions or facts!
"Mr. Fletcher is not interested in our little family differences,Milty," she said, looking at Mr. Fletcher, however, instead of him."You're Daniel Harcourt's SON whatever happens."
The cloud that had passed over the young man's face and eyes did not,however, escape Mr. Fletcher's attention, for he smiled, and addedgayly, "And I hope my valued lieutenant in any case." Nevertheless JohnMilton was quite ready to avail himself of an inspiration to fetch somecigars for his guest from the bar of the Sea-View House on the slope ofthe hill beyond, and thereby avoid a fateful subject. Once in the freshair again he promptly recovered his boyish spirits. The light flyingscud had already effaced the first rising stars; the lower creepingsea-fog had already blotted out the western shore and sea; but below himto the east the glittering lights of the city seemed to start up with anew, mysterious, and dazzling brilliancy. It was the valley of diamondsthat Sindbad saw lying almost at his feet! Perhaps somewhere there thelight of his own fame and fortune was already beginning to twinkle!
He returned to his humble roof joyous and inspired. As he entered thehall he heard his wife's voice and his own name mentioned, followedby that awkward, meaningless silence on his entrance which so plainlyindicated either that he had been the subject of conversation or that itwas not for his ears. It was a dismal reminder of his boyhood at Sidonand Tasajara. But he was too full of hope and ambition to heed itto-night, and later, when Mr. Fletcher had taken his departure, hispent-up enthusiasm burst out before his youthful partner. Had sherealized that their struggles were over now, that their future wassecure? They need no longer fear ever being forced to take bounty fromthe family; they were independent of them all! He would make a name forhimself that should be distinct from his father's as he should make afortune that would be theirs alone. The young wife smiled. "But allthat need not prevent you, dear, from claiming your RIGHTS when the timecomes."
"But if I scorn to make the claim or take a penny of his, Loo?"
"You say you scorn to take the money you think your father got by a meretrick,--at the best,--and didn't earn. And now you will be able to showyou can live without it, and earn your own fortune. Well, dear, for thatvery reason why should you let your father and others enjoy and wastewhat is fairly your share? For it is YOUR share whether it came to yourfather fairly or not; and if not, it is still your duty, believing asyou do, to claim it from him, that at least YOU may do with it what youchoose. You might want to restore it--to--to--somebody."
The young man laughed. "But, my dear Loo! suppose that I were weakenough to claim it, do you think my father would give it up? He has theright, and no law could force him to yield to me more than he chooses."
"Not the law, but YOU could."
"I don't understand you," he said quickly.
"You could force him by simply telling him what you once told me."
John Milton drew back, and his hand dropped loosely from his wife's.The color left his fresh young face; the light quivered for a momentand then became fixed and set in his eyes. For that moment he looked tenyears her senior. "I was wrong ever to tell even you that, Loo," he saidin a low voice. "You are wrong to ever remind me of it. Forget itfrom this moment, as you value our love and want it to live and beremembered. And forget, Loo, as I do,--and ever shall,--that you eversuggested to me to use my secret in the way you did just now."
But here Mrs. Harcourt burst into tears, more touched by the alterationin her husband's manner, I fear, than by any contrition for wrongdoing.Of course if he wished to withdraw his confidences from her, just as hehad almost confessed he wished to withdraw his NAME, she couldn't helpit, but it was hard that when she sat there all day long trying to thinkwhat was best for them, she should be blamed! At which the quiet andforgiving John Milton smiled remorsefully and tried to comfort her.Nevertheless an occasional odd, indefinable chill seemed to creepacross the feverish enthusiasm with which he was celebrating this day offortune. And yet he neither knew nor suspected until long after that hisfoolish wife had that night half betrayed his secret to the stranger!
The next day he presented a note of introduction from Mr. Fletcher tothe business manager of the "Clarion," and the following morning wasduly installed in office. He did not see his benefactor again; thatsingle visit was left in the mystery and isolation of an angelicepisode. It later appeared that other and larger interests in the SanJose valley claimed his patron's residence and attendance; only thecapital and general purpose of the paper--to develop into a partyorgan in the interest of his possible senatorial aspirations in dueseason--was furnished by him. Grateful as John Milton felt towards him,he was relieved; it seemed probable that Mr. Fletcher HAD selected himon his individual merits, and not as the son of a millionaire.
He threw himself into his work with his old hopeful enthusiasm,and perhaps an originality of method that was part of his singularindependence. Without the student's training or restraint,--for his twoyears' schooling at Tasajara during his parents' prosperity came toolate to act as a discipline,--he was unfettered by any rules, and guidedonly by an unerring instinctive taste that became near being genius.He was a brilliant and original, if not always a profound and accurate,reporter. By degrees he became an accustomed interest to the readersof the "Clarion;" then an influence. Actors themselves in many a fiercedrama, living lives of devotion, emotion, and picturesque incident, theyhad satisfied themselves with only the briefest and most practical dailyrecord of their adventure, and even at first were dazed and startledto find that many of them had been heroes and some poets. The stealthyboyish reader of romantic chronicle at Sidon had learned by heart thechivalrous story of the emigration. The second column of the "Clarion"became famous even while the figure of its youthful writer, unknown andunrecognized, was still nightly climbing the sands of Russian Hill, andeven looking down as before on the lights of the growing city, without athought that he had added to that glittering constellation.
Cheerful and contented with the exercise of work, he would have beenhappy but for the gradual haunting of another dread which presentlybegan to drag him at earlier hours up the steep path to his little home;to halt him before the do
or with the quickened breath of an anxiety hewould scarcely confess to himself, and sometimes hold him aimlessly awhole day beneath his roof. For the pretty but delicate Mrs. Harcourt,like others of her class, had added a weak and ineffective maternityto their other conjugal trials, and one early dawn a baby was born thatlingered with them scarcely longer than the morning mist and exhaledwith the rising sun. The young wife regained her strength slowly,--soslowly that the youthful husband brought his work at times to the houseto keep her company. And a singular change had come over her. She nolonger talked of the past, nor of his family. As if the little lifethat had passed with that morning mist had represented some ascendingexpiatory sacrifice, it seemed to have brought them into closercommunion.
Yet her weak condition made him conceal another trouble that had comeupon him. It was in the third month of his employment on the "Clarion"that one afternoon, while correcting some proofs on his chief's desk, hecame upon the following editorial paragraph:--
"The played-out cant of 'pioneer genius' and 'pioneer discovery' appearsto have reached its climax in the attempt of some of our contemporariesto apply it to Dan Harcourt's new Tasajara Job before the legislature.It is perfectly well known in Harcourt's own district that, far frombeing a pioneer and settler HIMSELF he simply succeeded after afashion to the genuine work of one Elijah Curtis, an actual pioneerand discoverer, years before, while Harcourt, we believe, was keeping afrontier doggery in Sidon, and dispensing 'tanglefoot' and salt junkto the hayfooted Pike Countians of his precinct. This would make him asmuch of the 'pioneer discoverer' as the rattlesnake who first takes upboard and lodgings and then possession in a prairie dog's burrow. And ifthe traveler's tale is true that the rattlesnake sometimes makes a mealof his landlord, the story told at Sidon may be equally credible thatthe original pioneer mysteriously disappeared about the time that DanHarcourt came into the property. From which it would seem that Harcourtis not in a position for his friends to invite very deep scrutiny intohis 'pioneer' achievements."
Stupefaction, a vague terror, and rising anger, rapidly succeeded eachother in the young man's mind as he stood mechanically holding thepaper in his hand. It was the writing of his chief editor, whose easybrutality he had sometimes even boyishly admired. Without stopping toconsider their relative positions he sought him indignantly and laid theproof before him. The editor laughed. "But what's that to YOU? YOU'REnot on terms with the old man."
"But he is my father!" said John Milton hotly.
"Look here," said the editor good-naturedly, "I'd like to obligeyou, but it isn't BUSINESS, you know,--and this IS, youunderstand,--PROPRIETOR'S BUSINESS too! Of course I see it might standin the way of your making up to the old man afterwards and coming in fora million. Well! you can tell him it's ME. Say I WOULD put it in. SayI'm nasty--and I AM!"
"Then it must go in?" said John Milton with a white face.
"You bet."
"Then I must go out!" And writing out his resignation, he laid it beforehis chief and left.
But he could not bear to tell this to his wife when he climbed the hillthat night, and he invented some excuse for bringing his work home. Theinvalid never noticed any change in his usual buoyancy, and indeed Ifear, when he was fairly installed with his writing materials at thefoot of her bed, he had quite forgotten the episode. He was recalled toit by a faint sigh.
"What is it, dear?" he said looking up.
"I like to see you writing, Milty. You always look so happy."
"Always so happy, dear?"
"Yes. You are happy, are you not?"
"Always." He got up and kissed her. Nevertheless, when he sat down tohis work again, his face was turned a little more to the window.
Another serious incident--to be also kept from the invalid--shortlyfollowed. The article in the "Clarion" had borne its fruit. The thirdday after his resignation a rival paper sharply retorted. "The cowardlyinsinuations against the record of a justly honored capitalist," saidthe "Pioneer," "although quite in keeping with the brazen 'Clarion,'might attract the attentions of the slandered party, if it were notknown to his friends as well as himself that it may be traced almostdirectly to a cast-off member of his own family, who, it seems, isreduced to haunting the back doors of certain blatant journals todispose of his cheap wares. The slanderer is secure from public exposurein the superior decency of his relations, who refrain from airing theirfamily linen upon editorial lines."
This was the journal to which John Milton had hopefully turned for work.When he read it there seemed but one thing for him to do--and he didit. Gentle and optimistic as was his nature, he had been brought up ina community where sincere directness of personal offense was followed byequally sincere directness of personal redress, and--he challenged theeditor. The bearer of his cartel was one Jack Hamlin, I grieve to say agambler by profession, but between whom and John Milton had sprung up anodd friendship of which the best that can be said is that it was to eachequally and unselfishly unprofitable. The challenge was accepted, thepreliminaries arranged. "I suppose," said Jack carelessly, "as the oldman ought to do something for your wife in case of accident, you've madesome sort of a will?"
"I've thought of that," said John Milton, dubiously, "but I'm afraidit's no use. You see"--he hesitated--"I'm not of age."
"May I ask how old you are, sonny?" said Jack with great gravity.
"I'm almost twenty," said John Milton, coloring.
"It isn't exactly vingt-et-un, but I'd stand on it; if I were you Iwouldn't draw to such a hand," said Jack, coolly.
The young husband had arranged to be absent from his home that night,and early morning found him, with Jack, grave, but courageous, in alittle hollow behind the Mission Hills. To them presently approached hisantagonist, jauntily accompanied by Colonel Starbottle, his second. Theyhalted, but after the formal salutation were instantly joined by JackHamlin. For a few moments John Milton remained awkwardly alone--pendinga conversation which even at that supreme moment he felt as beinglike the general attitude of his friends towards him, in its completeignoring of himself. The next moment the three men stepped towards him."We have come, sir," said Colonel Starbottle in his precisest speech buthis jauntiest manner, "to offer you a full and ample apology--a personalapology--which only supplements that full public apology that myprincipal, sir, this gentleman," indicating the editor of the "Pioneer,""has this morning made in the columns of his paper, as you willobserve," producing a newspaper. "We have, sir," continued thecolonel loftily, "only within the last twelve hours become aware ofthe--er--REAL circumstances of the case. We would regret that the affairhad gone so far already, if it had not given us, sir, the opportunityof testifying to your gallantry. We do so gladly; and if--er--er--a FEWYEARS LATER, Mr. Harcourt, you should ever need--a friend in any matterof this kind, I am, sir, at your service." John Milton gazed halfinquiringly, half uneasily at Jack.
"It's all right, Milt," he said sotto voce. "Shake hands all round andlet's go to breakfast. And I rather think that editor wants to employyou HIMSELF."
It was true, for when that night he climbed eagerly the steep homewardhill he carried with him the written offer of an engagement on the"Pioneer." As he entered the door his wife's nurse and companion met himwith a serious face. There had been a strange and unexpected change inthe patient's condition, and the doctor had already been there twice.As he put aside his coat and hat and entered her room, it seemed tohim that he had forever put aside all else of essay and ambition beyondthose four walls. And with the thought a great peace came upon him. Itseemed good to him to live for her alone.
It was not for long. As each monotonous day brought the morning mist andevening fog regularly to the little hilltop where his whole being wasnow centred, she seemed to grow daily weaker, and the little circle ofher life narrowed day by day. One morning when the usual mist appearedto have been withheld and the sun had risen with a strange and cruelbrightness; when the waves danced and sparkled on the bay below andlight glanced from dazzling sails, and even the white tombs on LoneMount
ain glittered keenly; when cheery voices hailing each other on thehillside came to him clearly but without sense or meaning; when earth,sky, and sea seemed quivering with life and motion,--he opened the doorof that one little house on which the only shadow seemed to have fallen,and went forth again into the world alone.
