When the hall was lighted up and the young men began to throng in, the scene was brilliant and the moneychangers brought out their best charms and sweetest smiles. Mrs. Westbury had been in during the afternoon and had gone to a "high tea" at old Lady Carcroft's. So in the early evening she came again.
Fred Doncaster, who had elected the Church for a profession, since there was a very excellent living in the other branch of the family, and he being a second son, brought in his friend Victor Savedra.
"He is a Spaniard," explained Amy Doncaster to a group of girls. "And isn't he handsome! Fred brought him over once, they are great chums, and he has the most charming manners. Oh, Miss Westbury, he lives—well—it isn't far from that wonderful San Francisco where you came from, and they must be very rich, Fred thinks, though he never boasts of it, but it must be something like a big English estate. Oh, they are coming over here."
They made their way through, and Victor's face lighted with intense satisfaction. Laverne flushed "celestial rosy red." He reached over and took her hand, exclaiming, "What a pleasure! I am so glad to see you here."
"Hillo!" and Fred gazed from one to the other.
"We have been friends from childhood—isn't it?" smiling out of his delight. "And Miss Doncaster—I came almost purposely to buy some of your wares," glancing at that lady.
"Oh, thank you," she returned gayly.
The rest of the introductions were given and the party fell into a social chat. Mrs. Westbury entered the hall at that juncture with Mrs. Doncaster. A spasm of something like anger shot over her. Yes, she was quite sure that must be Victor Savedra. Was Laverne making secret engagements with him?
"Oh," Mrs. Doncaster began, "there is Fred's friend, a young Spaniard, who has been over here for his education. We were all charmed with him when Fred brought him to dinner one night, and wished we had made his acquaintance earlier, since he leaves us in the summer. The Spaniards, I believe, were some of the old settlers on the western coast. I don't quite understand all the distinctions of American people."
Mrs. Westbury recalled the fact that she had met the elder Mr. Savedra, who had come to say farewell to Laverne and to assure her that they would do their best to make Miss Holmes happy. Then she was formally introduced to the young man, who had a notably distinctive charm, partly due no doubt to his foreign air.
Fred certainly was in high spirits, and helped the girls in their sales, even if he did call them shopkeepers. Then he insisted that Miss Westbury should accompany him around to "spy out the nakedness of the land," he said, which in this case meant an accession of funds for the Hospital. "My brother would study surgery," he said, with a half protest. "Minturn is a born philanthropist, so between us both we shall care for bodies and souls. I'd worlds rather have my profession."
Amy and Savedra were talking just in front of them, now and then pausing at a booth, where the girl proudly introduced her companion. Some stalls were already sold out; indeed, every one seemed jubilant over the success. In a little rather private corner groups were having some refreshments, and at one they found Miss Doncaster and an admirer, who made room for them, and they had a merry time. Victor sat on one side of Laverne, and they exchanged bits of talk mostly satisfactory to each.
Savedra had accepted an invitation from the Doncasters. It was true Londoners were rushing out to country homes, or to holiday house parties, but there were hosts of them left.
"I had no idea the Doncasters knew you," Victor said. "I am glad we have a mutual friend. I shall spend all the holidays in town, and we must see a good deal of each other to make up for the lost time."
Her eyes drooped and a delicious flush overspread her face. How shy and sweet she was! He would not think of the time when he must go away and leave her behind.
Mrs. Doncaster accepted a seat in Mrs. Westbury's brougham. The young people would walk home, as the doctor headed the party. The girls had planned to have a little dance the night after Christmas, just an informal, suddenly arranged matter, and Laverne must be sure to come. They were to go to a Christmas dinner, but there was no engagement for Friday evening.
After they had set their companion down at her own door, Mrs. Westbury still commented on the success of the Bazaar and the prettiness of the girls.
"And I thought that young Savedra quite épris with Miss Amy, didn't you? He was devoted to her."
"They all like him very much." She was so happy there was no room in her heart for jealousy. Indeed, gladness forbade the thought of possessorship.
"And English girls don't mind marrying and going to the ends of the earth. That Miss Morven went to Canada to marry her betrothed, who was in some government position, and couldn't leave. And Lady Estee's daughter went out to India. Of course, Laverne, you will not give a second thought to Fred Doncaster. It will be two years before he can be ordained. And there's such a family, six children!"
"Oh, no," returned Laverne cheerfully.
She had it in her mind to say: "Your father has other views for you," but caution intervened. Still, when she glanced her over in the light of her room as she was saying good-night, she thought how really pretty the girl looked to-night, her soft eyes shining, her mouth settled in the curves of a half smile that would tempt any lover to kiss, the clear, beautiful complexion, the long bronze lashes that seemed to play with the dainty color on her cheek, as the sun over dimpling waters. Yes, she wanted the excitement of pleasure.
Laverne went to the dance with great gladness of heart and a strange freedom. Victor danced with the Doncaster girls first, they were the hostesses. Then it came Laverne's turn, and they had a delightful time between the figures.
"Oh, do you remember how frightened you were that night at Uncle Personette's? I really made you dance, didn't I? I wonder that you were not vexed. Was I worse than importunate?" laughing.
"Oh, I thought you were so good, so delightful, to take the trouble. And I was such a child. There were so many big girls. How could I have been vexed? That would have been ungrateful."
"We have always been such friends. And now I shall venture to call on you. I had a fancy that Mrs. Westbury didn't quite like—well, of course, you were not in society. Customs are different."
"You are going back so soon." She said it with a most adorable little sigh.
"There will be the Easter vacation, and we must make the best of this. When I am away I shall think of you half the time. Let us see. Can't we make a plan—just at twilight, let us say. No matter where we are we will send a thought to each other. There's a queer new belief, magnetism or some such thing, that you can send an influence to your friends across any space, that if you sit still a few moments and think of them they will respond."
"Oh, that is a most felicitous thought!" Could she make Uncle Jason or any one think of her in that manner?
"Let us promise—just at twilight."
Some one took her in the next figure. What a slim, graceful girl she was. How like a bird she skimmed along when she ran races with Elena! And how they had scrambled over rocks and sat on the summits overlooking the ocean! There were no such fascinating memories with any other human being. There was no one quite like her.
And they did have a merry, delightful time. A week of going somewhere every day, of chances to slip in bits of charming confidences, of strolls in the old Museum and other famous places, and then it came to an end.
Fred and Savedra, friends as they were, dropped in to say good-by. Mrs. Westbury was present. He went over and took her hand—what magnificent rubies those were!
"I want to thank you for a great deal of courtesy," he said, "and much pleasure. And now we must both return to our old pastures and dig away at the dry roots and forget about everything but the exams."
He shook hands quietly with both ladies.
Agnes Westbury watched her stepdaughter closely when the two young men were gone. She did not droop. She was happy and serene, compliant with whatever was proposed. She made some visits to the hospital with Miss Doncaster; that was safe enough. Charity had not come to be a fad then, though there were many earnest workers.
Mr. Westbury and Lord Wrexford took a run over to Paris. After that he was a frequent visitor. Mrs. Westbury had a curious charm for him. She was so intelligent that he sometimes forgot it was like talking to a man.
"You American women know about your husband's business and never seem to think it a bore," he said one evening. "Ours do take an interest in politics when their husbands are up. And you have the art of making attractive homes. Now, the average person would have a certain stiffness about this place——" The belongings were of the regulation sort, and individual taste was hardly comprehended.
She had added some easy chairs, an odd and pretty table, with a series of shelves to hold books of engravings, and portraits of celebrated authors and artists, several fine vases disposed around, and these articles announced with an air "we belong to the present mistress," the furniture belongs to the house.
"I like to take some comfort and not be continually fretted with surroundings. As we are living in furnished houses mostly, I can't suit myself. I don't pretend to. I just have a little and dream of what will be when we are permanently settled."
"I wonder if that will be here—in London?" tentatively.
"I think I shall not go back to America, 'the States,' as you call it," smiling a little. "I shall have Laverne to keep me company if Mr. Westbury has to take a business journey. I confess to a fondness for the older civilization. Our land is still in an undeniably crude state. But so were you a few centuries back."
This woman had a curious charm in her frankness, that was never rude even in its most truthful moments. There was something about her that he could not define, and that kept him studying and full of interest, watching the next turn. If it was art, it was the most judiciously managed. If it was due to temperament, then, indeed, she had a many-sided nature. She kept young, but it was not the shy simplicity of her daughter, she seemed to have a wide range of knowledge, but she was not pedantic, not obtrusive. There were dainty concessions that flattered a man, little embellishments that seemed an understanding of a man's mood, too delicate for him to pick to pieces, if he could. Then there was a mysterious charm about her attire, a French adaptiveness of style, of something made different from most women, with a touch of color, a bow or a flower. She was a pleasant study.
Now and then she delicately drew Laverne into the talk. She asked her to bring over the portfolio of Albert Dürer's engravings they had bought only a few days before, and draw up the small buhl stand. Then they discussed them and Holland; she had been reading up a volume of travels that very morning, and was as fresh as if she had just come from there. Laverne was appealed to for this or that. She was not kept in the background, but she seemed always flying there with adorable shyness.
Afterward in his own room, smoking his pipe, he thought the matter over, as he often did. He had been rescued from an esclandre, his father had been buried as became one of the old line of Wrexfords. He could go back to the Grange with a certain prestige. He might be asked to stand for Chediston. There would be no more straits and pinches of poverty, and he had suffered a good many during the last three years. All this smooth sailing was conditioned on his marrying Laverne Westbury. She was a nice enough young girl, but he had had a surfeit of young girls. It would be hard to bridge over the seventeen years between them, very hard for her.
If it was the mother instead! Not being her own daughter she was hardly likely to resemble her more as time went on. He had a vague feeling that the child was something less than money-making in her father's life. All this matter was largely in her mother's hands, and if the threads were not wisely pulled, Wrexford Grange would be in her hands, too. Yes, if she were single.
For the present he was out of society proper. He went to his club, he called on a few old friends, and he was taking a rather curious interest in one of the new companies. He really might be a rich man again.
So passed away a month or two. Mrs. Westbury had meant to push Laverne into society, perhaps have her "presented" at some Court drawing room in the season. But as Lady Wrexford it would have a much greater effect. There could be a marriage four or five months after the old lord's death.
Was Laverne ignorant of the trend of all this? She was thinking that at Easter she should see Victor again, and that would be another bit of the old life to sustain her exile. So she listened with only half attention to hints and suggestions. She knew her father had invested a good deal of money in Wrexford Grange, and that her mother liked Lord Wrexford, that as they were not very gay he enjoyed dropping in, that he was their attendant on various occasions of the soberer sort.
David Westbury said to his wife: "You had better state the case to her. She has some of that New England obtuseness. Well, she is very young. We have grown much wiser in the world's ways since that early period of our lives. It is the gain of experience," with a short, brusque laugh.
Then he kissed her. She always exacted that, and it was generally freely given.
"I may not be back until late to-night," he said.
It was a miserable day, with a blinding fog that had better have been a rain. Laverne practiced two hours instead of one, then she read aloud in a novel of the day. There was luncheon; some dawdling and scolding about the weather.
Once Mrs. Westbury put her arms about Laverne and looked into her eyes with an intense expression.
"I wonder how much you love me?" in a caressing, pleading tone. "I'm trying to do all the nice things I can for you; what would you do for me?"
"Why—there is nothing I could do," with a delicate emphasis. Surely she could not spend all her life with Mrs. Westbury—making that mental reservation.
"You could do something that would repay, that would give your father and myself the greatest happiness."
She was not destined to hear it just then. Some styles had been sent from the dressmaker's, would Mrs. Westbury look them over and choose which suited her?
She was having a lavender satin made, and here were also patterns of lace for the trimming. So they discussed them. Then the postman, a few invitations to answer. It was so dark the house was lighted up. Laverne went to the piano again and tried to catch some of the elusive things she had learned from Isola Savedra. She could see the lovely, half-tropical home, hear the sweet voices, smell the fragrances of a hundred blooms. Ah, how lovely it must be on that Pacific slope. She could have cried with rapture and pain.
Dinner, then a long evening. No one came in. Laverne read, hardly taking in an impression.
"Put up the book, Laverne." The voice was persuasive, but it struck a chord of fear in the girl's soul. "Your father wished me to lay a subject before you that is very near his heart, that would really crown his endeavors for wealth and standing. And it is my desire as well. I think I have always studied your welfare from the time I snatched you out of that crude, half-barbarous life. And a third person's happiness is at stake."
Laverne shivered. A sudden light broke in upon her. She had half fancied that she had been used as a sort of blind that her mother might enjoy Lord Westbury's society, but if it should be——
"What an odd girl you are, not a bit curious? So I must put my story in plain terms."
It was embellished. In business statements Mrs. Westbury could come to the point quickly, but she did somehow dread this a little, for she began to mistrust the girl she had fancied would be easily convinced. She went briefly over the commercial side, and suggested this had been done because Lord Wrexford had taken a great fancy to her the first evening he had met her at the Thorleys. For her sake and for her advantage her father had rescued Wrexford Grange. Any girl would be proud of such an opportunity. Lord Wrexford was getting impatient, and desired to make his proposal, though the marriage would not be hurried unduly.
"I saw you were not dreaming of such a thing, and your father thought I had better prepare you a little. Think, Laverne, a simple American girl becoming Lady Wrexford!"
Laverne threw herself at Mrs. Westbury's feet, and buried her face on the elder's lap, shuddering in every limb.
"Oh, I cannot! I cannot!" she cried passionately. "No, do not ask me. I cannot love him, he does not love me. Why, it is like being sold——"
"Hush, you silly girl. There is no being sold about it. He has asked for your hand honorably. It is a chance out of a thousand. Any girl would jump at it. Your father put his money in the Grange for you, and you will be a most ungrateful daughter not to accede to his wishes. When you have made up your mind you will find Lord Wrexford most agreeable. It can be a late spring marriage, and you really will be the envy of many a high-born girl when you step among them. You can be presented at the last drawing room, Lady Wrexford! Why, you would be worse than an idiot to refuse it."
Laverne rose. "No, I cannot—I cannot," shuddering.
"Your father will have his say to-morrow. There, no words. You can go to your room, and resolve that you will pay due respect to your father. You are under age."
She was glad to go. Oh, yes, she had been blind. For the last month Lord Wrexford had really been their devoted admirer. Most of his conversation had been addressed to Mrs. Westbury. Yet he had watched her closely, she recalled that now. He had shown a delicate solicitude in many things. Oh, could it be possible that he really cared for her! That would make it so much harder. And how could she meet her father, how defy him! Yes, she was really afraid of him. Oh, if he would only be angry and send her back to California!
She opened the window as if she could look across to the old home. The fog was absolute blackness, chilling, penetrating every nerve. She shut it down again, but the breath of it seemed to strangle her. She did not cry, her terror and dread were too deep for tears.
She would hear him come home presently, his full, strong voice, and they would talk it over. So she listened and listened. The clocks inside struck midnight, then the small hours. Would she never get to sleep!
Somewhere toward dawn there was a sharp clang of the bell, and strange voices. Then hurried steps up and down, Mrs. Westbury giving a shriek, crying out confusedly, calling the maid, going downstairs, then a carriage driving away, and the servants still talking. She opened her door.
"Oh, what is it, what is it?" she asked.
"We were not to disturb you, Miss Laverne."
"But I was awake. I heard—has Mrs. Westbury gone away? Oh, did something happen to father?"
"Yes, Miss. He was hurt, knocked down somehow, and taken to the hospital. But I guess it will all be right. It's natural he would want Mrs. Westbury."
Laverne threw herself down on the bed, shocked. One would never think of associating death with that active, robust physique. Oh, no, it would not be that, only some hurt. And if he should be ill and ask this great sacrifice of her!
There was no word the next morning. The butler had even forgotten to inquire what was the name of the hospital. Laverne did not want any breakfast, she wandered from room to room, she sat down at the piano and played a few melancholy tunes. How hard the uncertainty was! Her very fingers grew nerveless.
At noon Lord Wrexford came. He was so gentle and sympathetic that her heart almost went out to him. He told the story with a tender gravity. Whether in the dense fog Mr. Westbury had missed his carriage or slipped and fallen no one knew. An oncoming horse had stepped on him, and the injury was severe. There had been an operation——
"But he will not die! He cannot die! He is so strong—Oh, surely, surely——" and her voice broke.
"My dear child, we must wait and see. I am going back. Mrs. Westbury will stay——"
He had not the courage to say that a few hours would end it all. The young, grief-stricken face touched his heart. Yes, he would make her a good, kind husband. If he were free to choose he would not select her from all the women he knew, but now the marriage would be imperative, and he would do his best.
That evening he brought Mrs. Westbury home. She would not see Laverne, but went at once to her room. He told the child the story as far as any one could learn the particulars. A horse's hoof had injured the skull, crushed it in so that there was only a very faint hope from the first, but he worded it delicately, and stayed in the library all day, receiving the body when it came, seeing various people, and having one interview with Mrs. Westbury. After that she sent for Laverne, and they wept together in each other's arms. Laverne thought she must have loved him, she was so shocked by his fate.
It was a distressing occurrence to all his friends, and he had won many. Beside there was the great question of what the two companies were to do without the working head. Lord Wrexford proved himself invaluable through these troublous days.
A sad Easter it was. The Doncasters and others brought their warmest sympathy. Victor Savedra came, and the pale girl in her deep mourning went at once to the heart that had thought of her daily and kept tryst. Ah, how should she tell him that since that fatal night she had not! For now she began to understand the great reason why she could never come to care for Lord Wrexford. He had not asked her to marry him, but somehow he had taken a lover's authority.
Mrs. Westbury had many subjects to revolve in her mind, and was alarmed at first lest matters might go wrong. So she accepted and acted upon the fact that Lord Wrexford should be her son-in-law. She would not give up the chance of this connection with nobility. Besides Lord Wrexford was necessary.
Affairs were found in excellent order, and Mr. Westbury gained in the esteem of the directors. But now the company must assume the responsibility.
The new method of separating ore had been patented in both countries, and was invaluable. Lord Wrexford, it was assumed, had been a kind of confidential secretary and his knowledge must be devoted to the company. Mrs. Westbury had large interests, he was made her agent at once.
Now, it was found that he had willed everything to his wife, who was to make such settlements on his daughter as she considered best. And she held the right to Wrexford Grange.
She demanded the utmost affection and sympathy from Laverne.
"Of course, you cannot understand all that he was to me. Marriage interprets one to the other. And you have only known him such a brief while. Then, I think these placid natures cannot love and suffer like the more intense ones. The shock has nearly killed me. Oh, do comfort me! You are all I have left."
Laverne tried earnestly. But she noted that she quickly overcame a paroxysm of grief when Lord Wrexford or the lawyer came, and could spend hours over the business.
"Of course," she said, a few weeks afterward, "the marriage must be put off a while, but it is more necessary than ever. Your father felt you were too young to be made independent. The Grange was to be your dowry on your wedding day—to you and your children. The marriage can be rather a quiet one, and in six months, under the circumstances, you can lay your mourning aside. Meanwhile we may be considering the trousseau. We can go to Paris——"
Laverne threw herself at her stepmother's feet, and clasped her hands in entreaty. "Oh, do not, do not compel me," she cried, in anguish. "I do not care for the Grange nor the money. If you will only send me back to America——"
"I shall not send you back. I am your natural, lawful guardian now. I shall do what I consider best for you, and in the years to come you will thank me for it. There, we will have no discussion."
What should she do? A dozen plans came and went through her brain. She remembered how Carmen Estenega had run away from a hateful marriage. But she had an ardent lover. This would be such a long journey, and she would have no friends on the way. Should she appeal to Victor? Oh, no, she could not. Yet she had a consciousness that he would respond at once.
She was coming to have a strange fear of Mrs. Westbury, as if she might dominate all her life. Surely she would if this marriage should take place. Oh, it could not. She would not consent even at the last moment. No one was forced to marry. Ah, would not Carmen have been forced?
Lord Wrexford came and went. There were visits from lawyers and directors, and calls of condolence. A certain kind of peace, but it seemed like an armed truce. And Laverne realized more thoroughly every day that there had never been any true and tender love for her in Mrs. Westbury's heart. She was older now, and could see more clearly, had more discrimination, yet she did wonder why her father's wife had been so exigent. She could not understand the vanity, the selfish desire for the admiration of this young soul. And she also saw that Mrs. Westbury sought her own advantage in this marriage. To be allied to the higher orders, to be the mother-in-law to Lord Wrexford, to have the entrée into the charmed circles. How had she grown so wise!
She thought of her father with infinite pity, that he should have been wrenched out of the life he enjoyed so much. She felt that he had never truly loved her, and that she had not succeeded in loving him. Always her heart was turning back to Uncle Jason. Yes, that was the sweet, tender, and true life, finer and nobler than this striving and subterfuge, this greediness for wealth and high places.
Lord Wrexford came one afternoon, quite a custom with him now. Mrs. Westbury had been sent for to some important meeting. He walked in with the easy familiarity that characterized him, and passed a few pleasant conventionalities. How many times she had thought if she could see him alone, and now that the opportunity had come she trembled with a certain kind of fear and shame. What could she say to a man who had not yet asked her to marry him?
He began to perceive that she was unduly excited. The color wavering over her face and the quivering lips touched him. He was not a heartless man, and every day he was feeling this was more of a dilemma for him.
"My child," he began, rather blunderingly, realizing all the years between them, and then he saw that her eyes were overflowing.
"Lord Wrexford," she tried to steady her voice, but it trembled noticeably, "I believe I have been offered to you as—as—an equivalent——"
"No, don't put it that way," he interrupted quickly. "Your father was very honorable."
"I do not know much about marriage, but it seems as if——"
"As if youth and love should go hand in hand? Middle age and money may make a dicker. But if there were love, or if the title won you in any degree," and he knew there were some who would have been won even by poverty and a title with the background of the Grange.
"I do not love you," she said simply. "It seems ungrateful when you have been both kind and patient. Indeed, I have been trying——" There was such a wistful cadence to her tremulous voice that it touched him, man of the world as he was. The slow tears dropped from her lashes, but she could not raise her eyes, though there was entreaty in every line of her slight figure, even in the limp hands that hung by her side.
"And a love that is forced is no love at all. But you must realize the sacrifice you will make, and consider. It will be more than giving up a title. Everything is in your mother's hands——"
"Oh, I have told her that I do not care for the money. I remembered so little of papa that he seemed an utter stranger to me, and—some one had loved and adopted me before. She knows I wish to go back home——"
Her voice faltered and broke.
"You are a brave little girl," he exclaimed admiringly. "An honest and true one, and you deserve to be happy, to love some one who has love and youth to give in return." Did she know such a one? "I think you are not taking root here."
"You know mamma is not any real relation," she began as if in apology. "She has been very kind and indulgent to me. I would like to please her. But, oh, I would so much rather have been left in San Francisco. My dear uncle would not have gone away. We should have been poor, for he had just lost everything in a dreadful fire, but I wouldn't have minded——"
"My dear child, you shall not be sacrificed." He wanted to take the drooping figure in his arms, and kiss away the tears that rolled silently over the softly rounded cheeks. She looked so fragile in her black frock. If she could be his little sister! But he had nothing to dower her with, he would even lose the Grange himself. But he said, "Do not give yourself any further uneasiness, I will see Mrs. Westbury."
"Oh, thank you a thousand times!" She did not know how adorably her face lighted up. Yes, if she had loved him it might have done. And if the race of Wrexford died out with him what matter?
Laverne felt so much more friendly toward him that she could not help showing it. Mrs. Westbury hailed this with delight.
"Have you asked, and has she accepted?" she inquired one afternoon when they were alone.
It was a warm day, and she defied custom sufficiently to lay aside heavy crapes indoors. Her gown was of some thin black stuff, trailing and cloud-like. Her arms, that were well shaped, showed through in their whiteness, and she often used them in a caressing sort of manner. Her throat had the delicate prettiness of art, and she looked really younger in this half simplicity. The fragrance and quiet of the room seemed to be a perfect setting for her, and it made her suggestive, attractive to the verge of fascination.
"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.
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?
Mr. Dawson had died, and his wife had retired to a handsome private dwelling, and kept her carriage. The Folsom House was much grander, and Dick, a "young blood," whom girls were striving in vain to captivate. Mrs. Folsom wanted to hear about her father's death, and if her stepmother had lived up to her promises.
"I do suppose your father died a rich man. Or, did it all take wings and vanish?"
Laverne answered that the business had not been settled, and that Mrs. Westbury had proved very kind to her.
"I never could quite make up my mind about her. Queer, wasn't it, that she should take such a fancy to you and insist upon having you, for second wives' fancies don't often run that way. I had an idea she would marry you to some lord, with all the money, they expected to have. And here you've married that Mr. Savedra and come back. Does any one hear what has become of that old uncle of yours?"
"Oh yes, he keeps in touch with Victor's father."
"It was too bad he should have lost all by that dreadful fire. Fires have been the bane of the town, but we do not have as many now. Oh, didn't the place look queer when we first came. There were rows of tents still, and such shanties, and now great four-story bricks and stone, and banks and business places. One would hardly believe it if he had not seen it."
Mr. Personette was in a large real estate business, and even yet was hardly reconciled that Howard had not gone into the law. But he was very well satisfied with what he called "real business."
Mrs. Personette was stout and rosy, and had been made a grandmother twice. Miss Gaines had taken a husband, though she still kept up a very stylish establishment. Sometimes the three old friends met and talked over their adventures.
Laverne was very happy and added a great charm to the household. Elena would have had her talk continually about her life abroad.
"Why do you not make Victor describe some of the places where he has been? Every summer he took a journey away," she said, rather amused.
"He talks about places. You always put in the people, and they are more interesting."
Jason Chadsey was startled by this message. His little girl really here—but, after all, another's. At first it gave him a sharp pang. Yes, he must fly to her. So he picked up his nuggets again. Norcross Gulch was about deserted. Better mining had been found up on a little stream emptying into the Sacramento. Cabins had mostly been carried off, shacks had fallen down. Certainly, nothing could look more dreary than a deserted mining region. But in a month or two another horde would doubtless invade it.
He came in town and "spruced up," in his old Maine vernacular, was trimmed as to beard and hair, and purchased a suit of new clothes. His little girl! He ought to take some great treasure to her. What if she were changed; but no, they would love each other to the very end of life. He had sent her away in that desperate time, but no, he could not have kept her.
Ah, what a meeting it was! A pretty girl with the air of a princess, he thought, sweeter than some of the princesses he had seen, coming back to his arms with all the old love, nay, more than the old love. For now she realized what his affection had been, and how he had soothed her mother in those last sad days. And she confessed to him much that she had not even told Victor; how, by degrees, she had learned the hollowness of the lavish professions that had put on the semblance of love as the present whim had swayed Mrs. Westbury, and, at the last, she had been really relieved to dismiss her, because she could not bend her to her desires. For even Laverne had not suspected her of aiming at the title for herself.
"And she takes everything!" he said indignantly. "He was concerned with a company that will make some tremendous fortunes in quicksilver—an English company. And it is said that he managed by underhand ways to get possession of the tract while he was here. They have just sent out a new agent, and that you, his only child, should have no part nor lot in this!"
"Oh, don't mind," she cried, "I would rather belong to you in poverty than to live with them in luxury. It was dreadful to have him die that way; he was so fond of life, and business, and plans. It makes me feel quite free not to be under any obligation to them. And I do not care about the money. I would a hundred times rather have stayed with you and helped you, and comforted you, if I could have been any comfort."
They would fain have kept Jason Chadsey for a longer stay, but he was a little restless and would go back. He had not secured all the Golden Fleece, he declared, and he must live up to his name. But he would see them often now. To himself he said, he must get used to sharing his little girl's heart with another, and, since it must be, he would rather have it Victor than a stranger.
They were all very happy at the Savedras. The house was large, and they gave them room and the heartiest of welcomes. And there was room in the rapidly growing town, and need for young men of culture and integrity and all the earnest purposes of life that mould men into fine citizens. For there was much work to do in this glorious land, even if nature had dealt bountifully by it.
And then came the terrific struggle that swept through the country, with its four years of hopes and fears, sacrifices and sorrows, and the loss of human lives. California took her share bravely. Gold mines missed the rapid influx, the city had to call a halt in improvements. But a great interest in agriculture was awakened, and now they understood that this might be the most bountiful garden spot of the world.
Through this time of anguish to many, Laverne Savedra felt that she had been singled out for good fortune and some of the choicest blessings of life. Her little son was born, and to none did it give greater joy than to Jason Chadsey. He kept at his lode with varying fortunes, and at length struck his aim in a splendid nugget that for a while was the town's marvel. Now the place swarmed again, and he was offered a fabulous price for his claim. He listened at length to his earnest advisers, and retired from the field. For, though he was not an old man, he had borne much of the heat and burden of life, and won a resting time.
And, after years of trading about and buying a boat of his own, Captain Hudson sailed in to San Francisco one fine day with his wife and three babies, bright rosy children, and she with content written in every line of her face. He had a cargo of valuables consigned to several San Francisco firms, and they were overjoyed to meet old friends. When her first baby was born, Carmen had written a long, tender letter to her mother, and was glad to have a reply, even if it did upbraid her dreadful disobedience. After that matters softened. The old Papa Estenega died, and, though there were still some distant cousins, he left the estate to those who had cared for him in his last days. Juana had married well, and Anesta had a nice lover. She was to go to Monterey to see them all as soon as Captain Hudson could be spared.
And then, the last spike in the line that united California with the East, was driven by Leland Stanford in May, 1869. Railroads were being built elsewhere, but this was the dream and desire of the Old San Francisco that had almost passed away.
But nothing could take away the beautiful Bay and the Golden Gate, the entrance to the golden land that had been the dream of centuries.
Afterward they did go round the world. Some of the old ports had changed greatly. Some just as Jason Chadsey had seen them thirty or more years agone. And there was wonderful Japan, which was some day to startle the world with its marvellous capacities. Strange India, with its old gods and old beliefs; Arabia, the Holy Land, with its many vicissitudes; great, barbarous Russia, Germany, the conqueror, and the beautiful Eugénie a sorrowful widow.
In Europe, Isola Savedra joined them, and did make a name as a remarkable improvisatrice. She did not court publicity, but the higher circles of music were really enchanted with her marvellous gift, and invitations came from crowned heads to play at palaces.
Lady Wrexford had achieved most of her ambitions, and was a social success. If she could only have kept off old age!
They came back well content. And, lo! again San Francisco had changed, stretched out up and down, with the hill-encircled bay on one side and the ocean-fretted rocks on the other. Is this old Market Street, and this Montgomery, with its splendid buildings? Whole blocks taken up by spacious hotels. California Street, with its palaces; Kearny Street, with its glittering stores and throngs of handsome shoppers or promenaders—everywhere a marvellous city.
But the old "Forty-niners" are gone, the Mexican in his serape and sombrero, the picturesque Californian on horseback, and nearly all the wandering Indians. Tents and shacks and two-roomed adobe houses have disappeared before the march of improvement.
The Savedras are prosperous and happy, and have a lovely home out of the turmoil and confusion, where beautiful nature reigns supreme. And an old, white-haired man, rather bent in the shoulders, tells a group of pretty, joyous children about the Old San Francisco of half a century before, and the long search of Jason after the Golden Fleece and the little girl that he loved so well. They go up Telegraph Hill and say, "Was it here she and Pablo made the little lake for Balder, was it here she climbed up the crooked paths and tamed birds and squirrels, and here that Bruno killed the cruel fox?" It is more wonderful than any fairy story to them.