A Little Girl in Old San Francisco

"Neither," he said, drawing nearer. "We understand each other. When the time comes, a year hence or less, perhaps, I am going to ask you to accept the title to Wrexford Grange. It will suit me worlds better. I have outgrown the bread and butter period."

She was very little rouged, and a color flushed up in her face. She had cultivated the trick of this. She was versed in men's meanings and knew this was no idle compliment. But she was surprised.

"Yes, a year or so," in a slow charming manner with becoming hesitation.

"Meanwhile be good to the poor little thing."

"Since you plead for her. I confess I have been somewhat disappointed in her. Perhaps no child can be quite like your own. She wants to go back to America – shall I send her?"

She did not care for a daughter now. As Lady Wrexford she would rather have all the homage. The girl had been useful. There are people who can drop one easily when no longer needed. Laverne Westbury was too honest to be a comfortable companion. And then – what if Lord Wrexford should come to consider a younger wife preferable? Men did change in many of their views, she had learned by experience.

In a way she had loved David Westbury. He was fond of caresses, but she had never tired him of them. She was proud of his successes, yet she had a conviction that it was her money that had been the keynote of prosperity. He was one of the men who dropped an unsuccess very soon, and did not spend his energies fighting his way through. For the first weeks she had been crushed by the loss, and this she said to herself was because of her deep love for him. When she found that affairs were in a good shape, that she was a rich woman, to be consulted by the directors, that she still held many things in her hands, and that she would have still more prestige by being the mother-in-law of a lord, who had about sown all his wild oats, and found the crop unprofitable; Laverne was of use to her. And now with a better understanding the child had become something of a trial. She was no longer a half-blind worshipper.

"What friends has she there?" he asked after some consideration.

"Oh, I suppose the man who adopted her is somewhere – he was a lover of her own mother. And there was another family connected with the Savedras – why, there is the young man. I half suspected he was a rival about Christmas time. And I'm not sure now – "

"He was here at the Easter holidays. Well, that would be more appropriate. May and December, you know," with a vague smile.

"You have a long later summer and autumn before you reach December," and she raised her eyes with a look of appreciation, and that admiration which always touches a man's vanity. "I will not have you growing old too fast. And I think almost any young girl would fall in love with you, unless there was some prior claim. Perhaps there was."

"He returns home in July. Well, why not give him the opportunity?" smiling softly.

She looked undecided.

"At least give her a choice. I do admire her sincerely. Many girls would not have refused a title."

She knew that. And Laverne's refusal was going to bring her the best of good fortune. So she could afford to pardon her high conscientiousness.

"I will have a talk with her. If we cannot make her happy here, and I think she is not suited to this sort of life, it would be cruel to keep her."

The reluctance betokened some affection on Mrs. Westbury's part, he thought, though he could not divine the secret joy this new aspect had brought her. She was not desirous of sharing her right in him with anybody.

Laverne waited in a state of tremulous fear and expectation. Mrs. Westbury was quietly gracious at dinner. Afterward they retired to the library.

"Lord Wrexford came to me this afternoon when you had dismissed him," she began rather severely.

She did not mean to be too lenient with the girl.

"You have been most foolish and short-sighted," she said. "And knowing that it was your father's dearest wish, his plan for a splendid future. The money he put in Wrexford Grange was for you. He would not have risked his money merely for the young man."

"I – I couldn't have married him. Oh, you do not understand – "

"You are a little fool. I suppose that young Savedra stood in the way?"

Laverne was silent. She was glad she had her scarlet face turned away.

"You pride yourself on truthfulness and honor, yet you have been underhand and deceitful. You have carried on an intrigue with a lover while you assumed a sort of ultra conscientiousness toward Lord Wrexford – "

Laverne rose and came forward in the light. Now she was very pale, but her face wore a high, serene expression.

"You accuse me unjustly, Mrs. Westbury," she began with quiet dignity, that awed the older woman. "I have carried on no intrigue. No word of love has been uttered between us. He has not asked me anything that you and Lord Wrexford might not hear. He wrote me a letter of condolence – if you would like you can see it. It called for no answer. We had been friends since childhood. The home at Oaklands was like a second home to me. If Victor Savedra had been engaged to Amy Doncaster I should have felt just the same toward Lord Wrexford. Oh, I think he understands it better than you do."

"You needn't be so tragic about it. I am disappointed in you. I hoped to have a daughter who would love me tenderly, sincerely. If I had been opposed to the plan, your father would have left you there in that wild land among barbarians, who do not know what to do with their gold, when they have dug it out of the ground."

No, it was not for any real love for her, she had known that this long while. And now she understood that she and her stepmother were on lines that were too dissimilar for friendship even. She was an alien and a stranger, she would drift farther and farther away.

"You seem to have made up your mind that you cannot be happy here, that my regard is worth very little. Matters have changed with me somewhat. I shall not keep this house, I must get away from the remembrance that my dear husband has lain dead in it, after the awful tragedy. And if you have any choice – "

"Oh, I have, I have! Send me back home, that is all I ask. And – I do not want the money. My father's wish that you should have it all was right enough. You see, I never seemed like a real child to him. I do not think he cared much for my mother. Yes, let me go – "

The voice with its pathos did pierce Agnes Westbury's heart, but there were so many motives ranged on the other side, and she persuaded herself that the child really had been ungrateful and was incapable of any ardent or sustained feeling. It would be much better for them to part.

"I will consider," she said languidly. "Now go, I have a headache, and these scenes are too much for me in my weak and excited state. I have had so much sorrow to bear."

"Good-night," Laverne said. She did not offer the kiss that after it had failed to be tenderness, remained a perfunctory duty, but now had ceased to be even that.

"Good-night, to you. Mine will be wretched enough, they always are."

But after a few moments' thought, and when Laverne had dismissed the maid on the upper landing, she stepped briskly over to the desk, turned up the light, and wrote a letter to Victor Savedra.

Fate or Providence had played into her hands always. She would be very decorous and observe the strictest propriety, but she counted up the months that must elapse before she could be Lady Wrexford. She had her lover in her own hands.

CHAPTER XX

AN ENCHANTED JOURNEY

Was it a happy dream Laverne Savedra kept asking herself, out on the broad ocean with no land in sight and the great vault overhead, that by night filled up with myriads of stars, that by day was a great unknown country over which other ships went drifting to ports beyond mortal ken. It was a much longer journey then, but going round the world would not have been too long for all the confidences she and her husband never wearied of exchanging.

She felt a little confused that he should have appeared so suddenly, with such a brave air, and in the long talk told all his doubts and fears, the whisper he had heard that she was likely to marry Lord Wrexford, and that he found he had loved her since that first evening they had danced together. And when he heard that, he felt he had no right to keep a tryst with her in the twilight, but still he could not put her out of his thoughts. And to him Lord Wrexford seemed quite a middle-aged man, and he wondered if the Grange, said to be one of the fine old estates in that shire, had won her with perhaps the persuasion of her parents. Then her father's sudden and terrible death had deterred him from a wild dream of coming to press his claim, for he was not sure her regard was more than a childish preference. And he, too, had been brought up to respect parental authority. Then, there were so many regulations in English society that he feared to transgress, and he was desperately busy with examination papers, and now all that trouble was ended, and he should rejoice his father's heart by his degrees. But there never would be any place to him like his beloved California, so rich in treasures of the God-sent kind, if she could not boast great universities and picture galleries and libraries. They would all come in time.

Mrs. Westbury had insisted upon one condition. He was to destroy her letter and never make any mention of it. For Laverne, with her ultra delicate notions, might resent being offered to another lover. He was to come as any friend might and learn for himself.

She had thought of the difficulty of sending the child on such a long journey with only a maid. It was not merely crossing the ocean – for then there was no cable and even telegraph communications were apt to be interrupted. But if she could be really married and in a husband's care, the way would be clear.

Victor Savedra had hesitated a little. They would hardly fail to accord Laverne a warm welcome; but when his father had been so indulgent to him, to take such an important step without his knowledge! But there was no other course.

"I'll give you a generous trousseau, Laverne," she said, "but your father's property is so tied up in stocks and various things that I hardly know where to turn for money for myself."

"Oh, please do not think about the money. I am glad you are not displeased about – about – " and she colored deeply. "Indeed, I never thought of Mr. Savedra as a lover. We had been such friends – "

"To have you Lady Wrexford would have been very flattering to me, seeing that you were hardly in society. But your refusal was so decided, and I must say, he took it in a very gentlemanly manner. It might have cost me my friend, even, and I should hardly have known what to do. He has been most kind and useful."

"I do not think he really loved me," Laverne answered, with some spirit.

"The acquaintance had hardly been long enough for that. And a man at his time of life has lost the impetuosity of youth," the elder returned rather dryly.

Laverne had made one protest about the marriage. She wanted to see Uncle Jason first. In a way she belonged to him. If he were poor and unfortunate he would need her so much the more.

"But you see you could not search for him alone. We will both try to find him. And I think he is dearer than your father was. I always liked him so much. And his home shall be with us always."

"How good you are," Laverne murmured with deep feeling.

It was not merely crossing the ocean, that was done by even an unattended woman, it would be the remainder of the journey, and that would prove simply impossible. But Mrs. Westbury was determined to have some reflected distinction in her stepdaughter. This marriage had an aureole of romance about it. She could wash her hands of Laverne in a very satisfactory manner.

So it was a very pretty wedding in church, with the Doncaster girls for bridesmaids and a quiet reception to say farewell to friends as they were to sail on the morrow. Mrs. Westbury was modest in her white crêpe dress with the plainest of adornment. The bride was charming, the groom a proud and handsome young fellow. Lord Wrexford bestowed upon her a handsome necklace of pearls and gave her the best of wishes. Mrs. Westbury parted with some jewels she cared little about, but to enhance their value she said with well-assumed emotion:

"They may be dear to you, Laverne, as mementoes of your father. He was a good judge of such articles, and would have the best or none. And in times of prosperity he was most generous. Of course, he had not always been as successful as during these last few years."

The parting was very amicable, tender, indeed, with the hope that Laverne and her husband would find their way abroad again. It was hardly likely she would ever visit America.

They began their new life as lovers indeed, but the hopes of both were centred in the old place where they had first met. Dozens of fresh recollections came to light every day. His memory went back farther than hers, and now they said "Old San Francisco." He wondered how much it had changed in the four years, and she supposed Telegraph Hill had been cut down still more. Probably the old house was no more. Pelajo had been sent over to Oaklands – would he be alive? And had the squirrels all been driven to other wilds by the march of improvement?

A long, long journey it proved. All her life she was to be a great traveller, but she thought then these two journeys were enough to satisfy any one.

And at last the Golden Gate came in view. Oh, had it ever been so grand and imposing before! Here was the rocky frowning coast line with its few breaks. The sun was not shining, but the soft, low clouds floating in silvery gray, turning to mauve with here and there a high light just edging them, gave the gray brown rocks all manner of indescribable tints that blended with the gray green lapping waves. There was no stormy aspect about it, but a splendid, serene peace. Even the gulls seemed to float in the mysterious ether, the under side of their wings matching the prevailing tint. And nothing screamed, or cried, or disputed. Clusters were settled sleepily in the recesses of the rocks. And way up above they could see Mount Tamalpais with vales and woods and great sandheaps between, and here was Sausalito, Point Bonito, Point Lobos, as they entered in. They had reached the Promised Land. Laverne glanced up with eyes full of tears. The joy was too deep for words.

Here were streets running out to the newly begun sea wall. Here were new piers, the Old Fisherman's Pier made over. Why, Telegraph Hill had stepped from its lofty estate, though there were still some terraces left, some houses perched up high with winding paths. Streets straightened down to Market Street, which seemed to cut the city diagonally in two. The old islands, the opposite shores, the towns that had sprung up. How strange and yet how familiar. But now going and returning was such an ordinary occurrence that there were no great crowds to welcome travellers. And every one seemed so intent upon business that it almost confused Laverne.

There were three who came to greet them. Mr. Savedra, Miss Holmes, and Elena, a tall girl now, with flashing black eyes, a saucy scarlet mouth, and brilliant complexion. And Miss Holmes was no longer young, to Laverne's surprise, who had always held her in mind as she had appeared on that first voyage, and who had never noted any change in her when she saw her day by day.

Victor had apprised his father of his marriage and Laverne found herself tenderly welcomed, as a foretaste of what was awaiting her on the opposite side of the bay. So a little of the luggage was collected, to follow them the next day, and they left the fine, new mail ship for the ferry boat. The same old diversity of people that looked strange now to the young girl. And the whirl, the bustle, the confusion of tongues, the jostling of rough and refined, how queer it seemed.

"You have hardly changed," Miss Holmes said when she had studied her for some time.

"Haven't I?" with the old girlish smile. "Sometimes I feel as if I had lived a hundred years in these two. Oh, I shall have so much to tell you."

And yet she had an oddly pretty air and self-possession of wifehood gained in these months when the world of travel had held only each other, when every day had brought new revelations.

The remainder of the family were out on the porch with open arms and kisses that it was worth crossing the ocean to win. For it was early spring again, with everything a vision of beauty, though they had left midwinter behind somewhere. Oh, the fragrance in the air, had she ever breathed anything so delicious since she said good-by to the old place!

They were very glad to have her, if the marriage had been out of the usual order. Isola had a mind to be quite jealous of Victor, and that amused him greatly. She had improved a great deal under Miss Holmes' sensible care and training, and had an exalted, spiritual kind of grace and expression. Laverne felt as if she had gone into a new world, and the atmosphere was enchanting.

There was so much to say that midnight came before they had half said it. And it was not until the next day she had the courage to inquire if anything had been heard of Uncle Jason.

Miss Holmes smiled. "Mr. Savedra has a story for you," she answered. "I will not spoil it."

He was walking up and down the path with Victor when she ran out to him, eager-eyed and breathless.

"If you have missed one fortune, you seem in a fair way for another," he began smilingly. "I have been telling Victor." He put his arm about her and drew her close. "Jason Chadsey's love for you is one of the rare affections seldom met with. You know we were all surprised to learn that you were no kin to him. But your mother did wisely when she bequeathed you to him."

"Oh, you have heard, you know – " she interrupted vehemently. "He is living. I – we," coloring, "must go and find him. He was more than a father to me. Oh, tell me," and he felt her pulse tremble.

"You need not go. He will be only too glad to come to you. Two months ago I was surprised when he entered my office. At first I could not place him. But his voice and his eyes recalled him. He had gone through a variety of adventures. He admitted that he had been eager to get away from the town and forget his losses, though friends would have been ready enough to help him in business again. He wandered up to British Columbia, and all the land between he thinks marvellous in its capabilities. It is like a romance to hear him talk. Then he came down again, sometimes trying the wilds and forests, and at last returning to an old resolve that had taken possession of him before he saw you – to go to the gold fields. And thither he found his way about six months ago. At first he was not much prepossessed. It seemed as if everything worth while had been claimed. Then he fell in with a poor young man dying with consumption, whose claim had been very promising in the beginning, but some way had failed, but he had not lost faith in it from certain scientific indications. They worked together for a while. This Jarvis, it seems, had been at the School of Mines in New York. But at the last he went very rapidly, and bequeathed his claim to your uncle. A week after he had buried the poor fellow he unearthed the secret again, and it was just as he was about to give it up. He made no comment, but worked steadily, burying his gold every night instead of taking it to his cabin, and adroitly hiding the real lode. His companions laughed and jeered, one after another left the gulch. Then, as I said, he came down to me with two or three small bags of gold nuggets hidden about his person. Upon assaying, they turned out first-class. So he left them in my possession and went back again, delighted that he was at last on the sure track of your fortune. He had the utmost confidence that you would return to him when you were of age – "

"Oh, poor, dear Uncle Jason! His life has been devoted to me! But he must not take all this toil and trouble. I do not care for the fortune. Oh, you must believe that if I had not been compelled to go, I should never have left him in adversity. It almost broke my heart," and she paused in tears.

"My dear child, no one could blame you. There was no other course then. I understand how he felt about it."

"And now I must go to him at once – " raising her lovely eyes, full of entreaty.

"My child, it will be better to send for him. It is a rough journey, and a miner's cabin will not afford much accommodation for a lady," he returned, with gentle firmness.

"But, I cannot wait. Why, I could fly to him," and she looked in her beautiful eagerness as if she might.

"And Victor promised – " glancing at him.

"We can send a messenger at once, to-day, and a man can travel more rapidly, put up with hardships. Neither can we lose you, when we have hardly seen you. Think how patiently he is waiting, almost two years more, he believes."

Laverne did yield to persuasion at length. For that matter not half the experiences had been told over. They were all so glad to have her that she felt it would be ungracious not to be joyous and happy. Elena wanted to hear about London. Yes, she had seen the Queen and some of the princesses, but she had not been presented.

"She would have been, as Lady Wrexford," said Victor laughingly. "And you can't think all that a title counts for there. I wonder she wasn't tempted. For I had not asked her then."

"But I had promised Uncle Jason."

Isola's music was a greater delight than ever. She had improved very much under her careful training, though her soul's desire was still improvising.

"Oh, how you would be admired in London," Laverne cried enthusiastically. "Such a gift is really wonderful. Why some one ought to write it down."

"Professor Gerhart has tried some things. But you see I never play them twice quite alike, and that bothers. I want to turn this way and that," smiling, yet flushing a little.

"Yes," Victor added, "you could make fame and fortune abroad."

"But she could not play in public," said the mother.

Then they must take new views of the town.

"There is no more Old San Francisco," Victor declared. "One would hardly credit the changes if he were told."

There were streets now running out to Islais Creek, where the marsh was being filled up. And the queer little corner, where the streets ran a block or two in every direction by Channel Creek, still held some adobe houses. Some day the Southern Pacific Railroad would run along here and build its immense freight houses and stations. Market Street was creeping along. Sandhills had been toppled over into depressions. Great buildings had been reared. Kearny Street was running up over Telegraph Hill. The lower end was given over to handsome stores, that displayed goods which could stand comparison with any other city.

Telegraph Hill was to be lowered, even after this revolution, that had left the topmost crest fifty or sixty feet above sea level. It had a rather curious aspect now. Some of the quaint old houses had been lowered, and smart new ones formed a striking contrast. A few scrubby oaks, firmly rooted, had defied removal, it would seem, and were left in sandy backyards. The beautiful pine was gone, the old house had not been worth any trouble, and so had shared destruction.

"I can't make it seem real," Laverne said piteously, with tears in her eyes. "There is no more Old San Francisco."

There was no more little girl either.

But farther down the aspect was more natural. Here was the new Presbyterian Church, where she had seen the old one burn down. And here was Saint Mary's, with its fine spire still unfinished. The Mission on Vallejo Street, and St. Patrick's in Happy Valley, and the fine school of Mission de Dolores, they had all improved, though she found some familiar features.

And the little nucleus of China Town had spread out. While the old Californian and the Spaniard relinquished the distinguishing features of the attire, the Chinaman in his blue shirt, full trousers, white stockings, and pointed toes set way above the soles, and the black pigtail wound about his head, looked just as she had seen them in her childhood, and they had not grown appreciably older, or had they always been old?