The Avalanche, Gertrude Franklin Horn Atherton [best chinese ebook reader TXT] 📗

Chapter 1

 

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,