The Avalanche - Gertrude Franklin Horn Atherton (free ebook reader for ipad .TXT) 📗
- Author: Gertrude Franklin Horn Atherton
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I
Price Ruyler Knew That Many Secrets Had Been Inhumed By The Earthquake
And Fire Of San Francisco And Wondered If His Wife's Had Been One Of
Them. After All, She Had Been Born In This City Of Odd And Whispered
Pasts, And There Were Moments When His Silent Mother-In-Law Suggested A
Past Of Her Own.
That There Was A Secret Of Some Sort He Had Been Progressively Convinced
For Quite Six Months. Moreover, He Felt Equally Sure That This Impalpable
Gray Cloud Had Not Drifted Even Transiently Between Himself And His Wife
During The First Year And A Half Of Their Marriage. They Had Been
Uncommonly Happy; They Were Happy Yet ... The Difference Lay Not In The
Quality Of Helene's Devotion, Enhanced Always By An Outspoken Admiration
For Himself And His Achievements, But In Subtle Changes Of Temperament
And Spirits.
She Had Been A Gay And Irresponsible Young Creature When He Married Her,
So Much So That He Had Found It Expedient To Put Her On An Allowance And
Ask Her Not To Ran Up Staggering Bills In The Fashionable Shops; Which
She Visited Daily, As Much For The Pleasure Of The Informal Encounter
With Other Lively And Irresponsible Young Luminaries Of San Francisco
Society As For The Excitement Of Buying What She Did Not Want.
He Had Broached The Subject With Some Trepidation, For They Had Never Had
A Quarrel; But She Had Shown No Resentment Whatever, Merely An Eager
Desire To Please Him. She Even Went Directly Down To The Palace Hotel And
Reproached Her August Parent For Failing To Warn Her That A Dollar Was
Not Capable Of Infinite Expansion.
But No Wonder She Had Been Extravagant, She Told Ruyler Plaintively. It
Had Been Like A Fairy Tale, This Sudden Release From The Rigid
Economies Of Her Girlhood, When She Had Rarely Had A Franc In Her
Pocket, And They Had Lived In A Suite Of The Old Family Villa On One
Of The Hills Of Rouen, Madame Delano Paying Her Brother For Their
Lodging, And Dressing Herself And Helene With The Aid Of A Half
Paralyzed Seamstress With A Fiery Red Nose. Ma Foi! It Was The
Nightmare Of Her Youth, That Nose And That Croaking Voice. But The
Woman Had Fingers, And A Taste! And Her Mother Could Have Concocted A
Smart Evening Frock Out Of An Old Window Curtain.
But The Petted Little Daughter Was Never Asked To Go Out And Buy A Spool
Of Thread, Much Less Was She Consulted In The Household Economies. All
She Noticed Was That Her Clothes Were Smarter Than Cousin Marthe's, Who
Had A Real Dressmaker, And Was Subject To Fits Of Jealous Sulks. No
Wonder That When Money Was Poured Into Her Lap Out In This Wonderful
California She Had Assumed That It Was Made Only To Spend.
But She Would Learn! She Would Learn! She Would Ask Her Mother That Very
Day To Initiate Her Into The Fascinating Secrets Of Personal Economies,
Teach Her How To Portion Out Her Quarterly Allowance Between Her
Wardrobe, Club Dues, Charities, Even Her Private Automobile.
This Last Heroic Suggestion Was Her Own, And Although Her Husband
Protested He Finally Agreed; It Was Well She Should Learn Just What It
Cost To Be A Woman Of Fashion In San Francisco, And The Allowance Was
Very Generous. His Old Steward, Mannings, Ran The Household, Although As
He Went Through The Form Of Laying The Bills Before His Little Mistress
On The Third Of Every Month, She Knew That The Upkeep Of The San
Francisco House And The Burlingame Villa Ran Into A Small Fortune A Year.
"It Is Not That I Am Threatened With Financial Disaster," Ruyler Had Said
To Her. "But San Francisco Has Not Recovered Yet, And It Is Impossible To
Say Just When She Will Recover. I Want To Be Absolutely Sure Of My
Expenditures."
She Had Promised Vehemently, And, As Far As He Knew, She Had Kept Her
Promise. He Had Received No More Bills, And It Was Obvious That Her
Haughty Chauffeur Was Paid On Schedule Time, Until, Seized With Another
Economical Spasm, She Sold Her Car And Bought A Small Electric Which She
Could Drive Herself.
Ruyler, Little As He Liked His Mother-In-Law, Was Intensely Grateful To
Her For The Dexterity With Which She Had Adjusted Helene's Mind To The
New Condition. She Even Taught Her How To Keep Books In An Elemental Way
And Balanced Them Herself On The First Of Every Month. As Helene Ruyler
Had A Mind As Quick And Supple As It Was Cultivated In _Les Graces_, She
Soon Ceased To Feel The Chafing Of Her New Harness, Although She Did
Squander The Sum She Had Reserved For Three Months Mere Pocket Money Upon
A Hat; Which Was Sent To The House By Her Wily Milliner On The First Day
Of The Second Quarter. She Confessed This With Tears, And Her Husband,
Who Thought Her Feminine Passion For Hats Adorable, Dried Her Tears And
Took Her To The Opening Night Of A New Play. But He Did Not Furnish The
Pathetic Little Gold Mesh Bag, And As He Made Her Promise Not To Borrow,
She Did Not Treat Her Friends To Tea Or Ices At Any Of The Fashionable
Rendezvous For A Month. Then Her Native French Thrift Came To Her Aid And
She Sold A Superfluous Gold Purse, A Wedding Present, To An Envious
Friend At A Handsome Bargain.
That Was Ancient History Now. It Was Twenty Months Since Price Had
Received A Bill, And Secret Inquiries During The Past Two Had Satisfied
Him That His Wife's Name Was Written In The Books Of No Shop In San
Francisco That She Would Condescend To Visit. Therefore, This Maddening
But Intangible Barrier Had Nothing To Do With A Change Of Habit That Had
Not Caused An Hour Of Tears And Sulks. Helene Had A Quick Temper But A
Gay And Sweet Disposition, Normally High Spirits, Little Apparent
Selfishness, And A Naive Adoration Of Masculine Superiority And Strength;
Altogether, With Her High Bred Beauty And Her Dignity In Public, An
Enchanting Creature And An Ideal Wife For A Busy Man Of Inherited Social
Position And No Small Degree Of Pride.
But All This Lovely Equipment Was Blurred, Almost Obscured At Times, By
The Shadow That He Was Beginning To Liken To The San Francisco Fogs That
Drifted Through The Golden Gate And Settled Down Into The Deep Hollows Of
The Marin Hills; Moving Gently But Restlessly Even There, Like Ghostly
Floating Tides. He Could See Them From His Library Window, Where He Often
Finished His Afternoon's Work With His Secretaries.
But The Fog Drifted Back To The Pacific, And The Shadow That Encompassed
His Wife Did Not, Or Rarely. It Chilled Their Ardors, Even Their Serene
Domesticity. She Was Often As Gay And Impulsive As Ever, But With Abrupt
Reserves, An Implication Not Only Of A New Maturity Of Spirit, But Of
Watchfulness, Even Fear. She Had Once Gone So Far As To Give Voice
Passionately To The Dogma That No Two Mortals Had The Right To Be As
Happy As They Were; Then Laughed Apologetically And "Guessed" That The
Old Puritan Spirit Of Her Father's People Was Coming To Life In Her
Gallic Little Soul; Then, With Another Change Of Mood, Added Defiantly
That It Was Time America Were Rid Of Its Baneful Inheritance, And That
She Would Be Happy To-Day If The Skies Fell To-Morrow. She Had Flung
Herself Into Her Husband's Arms, And Even While He Embraced Her The Eyes
Of His Spirit Searched For The Girl Wife Who Had Fled And Left This More
Subtly Fascinating But Incomprehensible Creature In Her Place.
Ii
The Morning Was Sunday And He Sat In The Large Window Of His Library That
Overlooked The Bay Of San Francisco. The House, Which Stood On One Of The
Highest Hills, He Had Bought And Remodeled For His Bride. The Books That
Lined These Walls Had Belonged To His Ruyler Grandfather, Bought In A Day
When Business Men Had Time To Read And It Was The Fashion For A Gentleman
To Cultivate The Intellectual Tracts Of His Brain. The Portraits That
Hung Above, Against The Dark Paneling, Were The Work Of His Mother's
Father, One Of The Celebrated Portrait Painters Of His Time, And Were
Replicas Of The Eminent And Mighty He Had Painted. Maharajas, Kings,
Emperors, Famous Diplomats, Men Of Letters, Artists Of His Own Small
Class, Statesmen And Several Of The Famous Beauties Of Their Brief Day;
These Had Been The Favorite Grandson's Inheritance From Masewell Price,
And They Made An Impressive Frieze, Unique In The Splendid Homes Of The
City Of Ruyler's Adoption.
He Had Brought Them From New York When He Had Decided To Live In
California, And Hung Them In His Bachelor Quarters. He Had Soon Made Up
His Mind That He Must Remain In San Francisco For At Least Ten Years If
He Would Maintain The Business He Had Rescued From The Disaster Of 1906
At The Level Where He Had, By The Severest Application Of His Life,
Placed It By The End Of 1908. Meanwhile He Had Grown To Like San
Francisco Better Than He Would Have Believed Possible When He Arrived In
The Wrecked City, Still Smoking, And Haunted With The Subtle Odors Of
Fires That Had Consumed More Than Products Of The Vegetable Kingdom.
The Vast Ruin With Its Tottering Arches And Broken Columns, Its Lonely
Walls Looking As If Bitten By Prehistoric Monsters That Must Haunt This
Ancient Coast, The Soft Pastel Colors The Great Fire Had Given As Sole
Compensation For All It Had Taken, The Grotesque Twisted Masses Of Steel
And The Aged Gray Hills That Had Looked Down On So Many Fires, Had
Appealed Powerfully To His Imagination, And Made Him Feel, When Wandering
Alone At Night, As If His Brain Cells Were Haunted By Old Memories Of
Antioch When Nature Had Annihilated In An Instant What Man Had Lavished
Upon Her For Centuries. Nowhere, Not Even In What Was Left Of Ancient
Rome, Had He Ever Received Such An Impression Of The Age Of The World And
Of The Nothingness Of Man As Among The Ruins Of This Ridiculously Modern
City Of San Francisco. It Fascinated Him, But He Told Himself Then That
He Should Leave It Without A Pang. He Was A New Yorker Of The Seventh
Generation Of His House, And The Rest Of The United States Of America Was
Merely Incidental.
The Business, A Branch Of The Great New York Firm Founded In 1840 By An
Ancestor Grown Weary Of Watching The Broad Acres Of Ruyler Manor
Automatically Transmute Themselves Into The Yearly Rent-Roll, And
Reverting To The Energy And Merchant Instincts Of His Dutch Ancestors,
Had Been Conducted Skillfully For The Thirty Years Preceding The
Disaster By Price's Uncle, Dryden Ruyler. But The Earthquake And Fire In
Which So Many Uninsured Millions Had Vanished, Had Also Wrecked Men Past
The Rebounding Age, And Dryden Ruyler Was One Of Them. He Might Have
Borne The Destruction Of The Old Business Building Down On Front Street,
Or Even The Temporary Stagnation Of Trade, But When The Pacific Union
Club Disappeared In The Raging Furnace, And, Like Many Of His Old
Cronies Who Had No Home Either In The Country Or Out In The Western
Addition, He Was Driven Over To Oakland For Lodgings, This Ghastly
Climax Of Horrors--He Escaped In A Milk Wagon After Sleeping For Two
Nights Without Shelter On The Bare Hills Behind San Francisco, While The
Fire Roared Its Defiance To The Futile Detonations Of Dynamite, And His
Sciatica Was As Fiery As The Atmosphere--Had Broken The Old Man's
Spirit, And He Had Announced His Determination To Return To
Ruyler-On-Hudson And Die As A Gentleman Should.
There Was No Question Of Price's Father, Morgan Ruyler, Leaving New
York, Even If He Had Contemplated The Sacrifice For A Moment; That His
Second Son And General Manager Of The Several Branches Of The Great
Business Of Ruyler And Sons--As Integral A Part Of The Ancient History
Of San Francisco As Of The Comparatively Modern History Of New
York--Should Go, Was So Much A Matter Of Course That Price Had Taken The
First Overland Train That Left New York After The Receipt Of His Uncle's
Despairing Telegram.
In Spite Of The Fortune Behind Him And His Own Expert Training, The
Struggle To Rebuild The Old Business To Its Former Standard Had Been
Unintermittent. The Terrific Shock To The City's Energies Was Followed
By A General Depression, And The Insane Spending Of A Certain Class Of
San Franciscans When Their Insurance Money Was Paid, Was Like A Brief
Last Crackling In A Cold Stove, And, Moreover, Was Of No Help To The
Wholesale Houses.
But Price Ruyler, Like So Many Of His New Associates In Like Case,
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