The Avalanche

I

Ruyler had half promised to go to a dinner that night at the house of John Gwynne, whose wife would chaperon his wife afterward to the last of the Assembly dances.

Gwynne was his English friend who had abandoned the ancient title inherited untimely when he was making a reputation in the House of Commons, and become an American citizen in California, where he had a large ranch originally the property of an American grandmother.  His migration had been justified in his own eyes by his ready adaptation to the land of his choice and to the opportunities offered in the rebuilding of San Francisco after the earthquake and fire, as well as in the renovation of its politics.  He had made his ranch profitable, read law as a stepping-stone to the political career, and had just been elected to Congress.  Ruyler was one of his few intimate friends and had promised to go to this farewell dinner if possible.  A place would be kept vacant for him until the last minute.

Gwynne had married Isabel Otis[A], a Californian of distinguished beauty and abilities, whose roots were deep in San Francisco, although she had “run a ranch” in Sonoma County.  The Gwynnes and the Thorntons until Ruyler met Hélène had been the friends whose society he had sought most in his rare hours of leisure, and he had spent many summer week-ends at their country homes.  He had hoped that the intimacy would deepen after his marriage, but Hélène during the past year had gone almost exclusively with the younger set, the “dancing squad”; natural enough considering her age, but Ruyler would have expected a girl of so much intelligence, to say nothing of her severe education, to have tired long since of that artificial wing of society devoted solely to froth, and gravitated naturally toward the best the city afforded.  But she had appeared to like the older women better at first than later, although she accepted their invitations to large dinners and dances.

[Footnote A:  See “Ancestors.”]

Ruyler made up his mind to attend this dinner at Gwynne’s, and telephoned his acceptance before he left Long’s.  Business or no business, he should be his wife’s bodyguard hereafter.  There were blackmailers in society as out of it, and it was possible that his ubiquity would frighten them off.  Whether to demand his wife’s confidence or not he was undecided.  Better let events determine.

II

When he arrived at home he went directly to Hélène’s room, but paused with his hand on the knob of the door.  He heard his mother-in-law’s voice and she was the last person he wished to meet until he was in a position to tell her to leave the country.  He was turning away impatiently when Madame Delano lifted her hard incisive tones.

“And you promised me!” she exclaimed passionately.  “I trusted you, I never believed—­”

Price retreated hurriedly to his own room, and it was not until he had taken a cold shower and was half dressed that he permitted himself to think.

That wretch had known, then!  It was she who had been blackmailing her daughter.  And the poor child had been afraid to confide in him, to ask him for money.  No wonder her eyes had flashed at the prospect of a fortune of her own….

An even less welcome ray illuminated his mind at this point.  His wife was not unversed in the arts of dissimulation herself.  True, she was French and took naturally to diplomatic wiles; true, also, the instinct of self-preservation in even younger members of a sex that man in his centuries of power had made, superficially, the weaker, was rarely inert.

What woman would wish her husband to know disgraceful ancestral secrets which were no fault of hers?  A much older woman would not be above entombing them, if the fates were kind.  But it saddened him to think that his wife should be rushed to maturity along the devious way.  Poor child, he must win her confidence as quickly as his limping wits would permit and shift her burden to his own shoulders.

Having learned through the medium of the house telephone that his mother-in-law had departed, he knocked at his wife’s door.  She opened it at once and there was no mark of agitation on her little oval face under its proudly carried crown of heavy braids.  She was looking very lovely in a severe black velvet gown whose texture and depth cunningly matched her eyes and threw into a relief as artful the white purity of her skin and the delicate pink of lip and cheek.

She smiled at him brilliantly.  “It can’t be true that you are going with me?”

“I’ve reformed.  I shall go with you everywhere from this time forth.  But I thought I heard your mother’s voice when I came in—­”

“She often comes in about dressing time to see me in a new frock.  How heavenly that you will always go with me.”  Her voice shook a little and she leaned over to smooth a possible wrinkle in her girdle.

“Will you come down to the library?  We are rather early.”

He went directly to the safe and took out the ruby and clasped the chain about her neck.  The chain was long and the great jewel took a deeper and more mysterious color from the somber background of her bodice.

Hélène gasped.  “Am I to wear it to-night?  That would be too wonderful.  This is the last great night in town.”

“Why not?  I shall be there to mount guard.  You shall always wear it when I am able to go out with you.”

She lifted her radiant face, although it remained subtly immobile with a new and almost formal self-possession.  “I am even more delighted than I was yesterday, for at the fête there will be so much novelty to distract attention.  You always think of the nicest possible things.”

When they were in the taxi he put his arm about her.

“I wonder,” he began gropingly, “if you would mind not going out when I cannot go with you?  I’ll go as often as I can manage.  There are reasons—­”

He felt her light body grow rigid.  “Reasons?  You told me only yesterday—­”

“I know.  But I have been thinking it over.  That is rather a fast lot you run with.  I know, of course, they are F.F.C.’s, and all the rest of it, but if I ever drove up to the Club House in Burlingame in the morning and saw you sitting on the veranda smoking and drinking gin fizzes—­”

“You never will!  I could not swallow a gin fizz, or any nasty mixed drink.  And although I have had my cigarette after meals ever since I was fifteen, I never smoke in public.”

“I confess I cannot see you in the picture that rose for some perverse reason in my mind; but—­well, you really are too young to go about so much without your husband—­”

“I am always chaperoned to the large affairs.  Mrs. Gwynne takes me to the Fairmont to-night.”

“I know.  But scandal is bred in the marrow of San Francisco.  Its social history is founded upon it, and it is almost a matter of principle to replace decaying props.  Do you mind so much not going about unless I can be with you?”

“No, of course not.”  Her voice was sweet and submissive, but her body did not relax.  She added graciously:  “After all, there are so many luncheons, and we often dance in the afternoon.”

He had not thought of that!  What avail to guard her merely in the evening?  It was not her life that was in danger….

And he seemed as immeasurably far from obtaining her confidence as before.  He had always understood that the ways of matrimonial diplomacy were strewn with pitfalls and wished that some one had opened a school for married men before his time.

He made another clumsy attempt.  The cab was swift and had almost covered the long distance between the Western Addition and Russian Hill.  “Other things have worried me.  You are so generous.  Society here as elsewhere has its parasites, its dead beats, trying to limp along by borrowing, gambling, ‘amusing,’ doing dirty work of various sorts.  It has worried me lest one or more of these creatures may have tried to impose on you with hard luck tales—­borrow—­”

She laughed hysterically.  “Price, you are too funny!  I do lend occasionally—­to the girls, when their allowance runs out before the first of the month; but I don’t know any dead beats.”

He plunged desperately.  “Your mother’s voice sounded rather agitated for her.  Of course I did not stop to listen, but it occurred to me that she may have been gambling in stocks, or have got into some bad land deal.  She is so confoundedly close-mouthed—­if she wants money send her to me.”

Hélène sat very straight.  Her little aquiline profile against the passing street lights was as aloof as imperial features on an ancient coin.

“Really, Price, I don’t think you can be as busy as you pretend if you have time to indulge in such flights of imagination.  Maman has never tried to borrow a penny of me, and she is the last person on earth to gamble in stocks or any thing else.  Or to buy land except on expert advice.  I think she has given up that idea, anyhow.  She said this evening she thought it was time for her to visit our people in Rouen.”

“Oh, she did!  Hélène, I must tell you frankly that I heard her reproach you for having broken a promise, and she spoke with deep feeling.”

It was possible that the Roman profile turned white, but in the dusk of the car he could not be sure.  His wife, however, merely shrugged her shoulders and replied calmly: 

“My dear Price, if that has worried you, why didn’t you say so at once?  I am rather ashamed to tell you, all the same.  Maman has been at me lately to persuade you to let her have the ruby for a week.  She is dreadfully superstitious, poor maman, and is convinced it would bring her some tremendous good fortune—­”

“I have never met a woman who, I could swear, was freer from superstition—­”

Price closed his lips angrily.  Of what use to tax her feminine defenses further?  He had known her long enough to be sure she would rather tell the truth than lie.  It was evident that she had no intention of lowering her barriers, and he must play the game from the other end:  get the proof he needed and engineer his mother-in-law out of the United States.

Some time, however, he would have it out with his wife.  Being a business man and always alert to outwit the other man, he wanted neither intrigue nor mystery in his home, but a serene happiness founded upon perfect confidence.  He found it impossible to remain appalled or angry at his wife’s readiness of resource in guarding a family secret that must have shocked the youth in her almost out of existence.

He patted her hand, and felt its chill within the glove.

“It was like you never to have mentioned it,” he murmured.  “For, of course, it is quite impossible.”

“That is what I told her decidedly to-night, and I do not think she will ask again.  It hurts me to refuse dear maman anything.  Her devotion to me has been wonderful—­but wonderful,” she added on a defiant note.

“A mother’s devotion, particularly to a girl of your sort, does not make any call upon my exclamation points.  But here we are.”

* * * * *

The car rolled up the graded driveway Gwynne had built for the old San Francisco house that before his day had been approached by an almost perpendicular flight of wooden steps.  They were late and the company had assembled:  the Thorntons, Trennahans, and eight or ten young people, all of whom would be chaperoned by the married women to the dance at the Fairmont.

Russian Hill had escaped the fire, but Nob Hill had been burnt down to its bones, and the Thorntons and Trennahans had not rebuilt, preferring, like many others, to live the year round in their country homes and use the hotels in winter.

The moment Hélène entered the drawing-room it was evident that the ruby was to make as great a sensation as the soul of woman could desire.  Even the older people flocked about her and the girls were frank and shrill in their astonishment and rapture.

“Hélène!  Darling!  The duckiest thing—­I never saw anything so perfectly dandy and wonderful!  I’d go simply mad!  Do, just let me touch it!  I could eat it!”

Mrs. Thornton, who at any time scorned to conceal envy, or pretend indifference, looked at the great burning stone with a sigh and turned to her husband.

“Why didn’t you manage to get it for me?” she demanded.  “It would be far more suitable—­a magnificent stone like that!—­on me than on that baby.”

“My darling,” murmured Ford anxiously, “I never laid eyes on the thing before, or on one like it.  I’ll find out where Ruyler got it, and try—­”

“Do you suppose I’d come out with a duplicate?  You should have thought of it years ago.  You always promised to take me to India.”

“It should be on you!” He gazed at her adoringly.  Her hair was dressed in a high and stately fashion to-night.  She wore a gown of gold brocade and a necklace and little tiara of emeralds and diamonds; she was looking very handsome and very regal.  Thornton was a thin, dark, nervous wisp of a man, who had borne his share of the burdens laid upon his city in the cataclysm of 1906, but if his wife had demanded an enormous historic ruby he would have done his best to gratify her.  But how the deuce could a man—­

Mrs. Gwynne was holding the stone in her hand and smiling into its flaming depths without envy.  She was one of those women of dazzling white skin, black hair and blue eyes, who, when wise, never wear any jewels but pearls.  She wore the Gwynne pearls to-night and a shimmering white gown.

Ruyler glanced round the fine old room with the warm feeling of satisfaction he always experienced at a San Francisco function, where the women were almost as invariably pretty as they were gay and friendly.  He did not like the younger men he met on these occasions as well as he did many of the older ones; the serious ones would not waste their time on society, and there were too many of the sort who were asked everywhere because they had made a cult of fashion, whether they could afford it or not.  A few were the sons of wealthy parents, and were more dissipated than those obliged to “hold down” a job that provided them with money enough above their bare living expenses to make them useful and presentable.

Ruyler looked upon both sorts as cumberers of the earth, and only tolerated them in his own house when his wife gave a party and dancing men must be had at any price.

There was one man here to-night for whom he had always held particular detestation.  His name was Nicolas Doremus.  He was a broker in a small way, but Ruyler guessed that he made the best part of his income at bridge, possibly poker.  He lived with two other men in a handsome apartment in one of the new buildings that were changing the old skyline of San Francisco.  His dancing teas and suppers were admirably appointed and the most exclusive people went to them.

Ruyler knew his history in a general way.  His father had made a fortune in “Con.  Virginia” in the Seventies, and his mother for a few years had been the social equal of the women who now patronized her son.  But unfortunately the gambling microbe settled down in Harry Doremus’ veins, and shortly after his son was born he engaged his favorite room at the Cliff House and blew out his brains.  His wife was left with a large house, which as a last act of grace he had forborne to mortgage and made over to her by deed.  She immediately advertised for boarders, and as her cooking was excellent and she had the wit to drop out of society and give her undivided attention to business, she prospered exceedingly.

She concentrated her ambitions upon her only child; sent him to a private school patronized by the sons of the wealthy, and herself taught him every ingratiating social art.  She wanted him to go to college, but by this time “Nick” was nineteen and as highly developed a snob as her maternal heart had planned.  Knowing that he must support himself eventually, he was determined to begin his business career at once, and believed, with some truth, that there was a prejudice in this broad field against college men.  He entered the brokerage firm of a bachelor who had occupied Mrs. Doremus’ best suite for fifteen years, and made a satisfactory clerk, the while he cultivated his mother’s old friends.

When Mrs. Doremus died he sold the house and good will for a considerable sum, and, combining it with her respectable savings, formed a partnership with two other young fellows, whose fathers were rich, but old-fashioned enough to insist that their sons should work.  Nick did most of the work.  His partners, during the rainy season, sat with their feet on the radiator and read the popular magazines, and in fine weather upheld the outdoor traditions of the state.

The firm had a slender patronage, as Ruyler happened to know, but Doremus was a member of the Pacific Union Club, and although he dined out every night, he must have spent six or seven thousand a year.  It was amiably assumed that his social services,—­he played and sang and often entertained exacting groups throughout an entire evening—­his fetching and carrying for one rich old lady, accounted for his ability to keep out of debt and pay for his many extravagances; but Ruyler knew that he was principally esteemed at the small green table, and he vaguely recalled as he looked over his head to-night that he had heard disconnected murmurs of less honorable sources of revenue.

As Ruyler turned away with a frown he met Gwynne’s eyes traveling from the same direction.  “I didn’t ask him,” he said apologetically.  “Hate men too well dressed.  Looks as if he posed for tailors’ ads in the weeklies.  Never could stand the social parasite anyhow, but Aileen Lawton asked Isabel to let her bring him, as they are going to open the ball to-night with some new kind of turkey trot.

“Glad I’m off for Washington.  California’s the greatest place on earth in the dry season, but I’d have passed few winters here if it hadn’t been for the work we all had to do, and even then it would have been heavy going without my wife’s companionship.”

Ruyler sighed.  Should he ever enjoy his wife’s companionship?  And into what sort of woman would she develop if forced along crooked ways by ugly secrets, blackmail, perpetual lying and deceit?  He longed impatiently for the decisive interview with Spaulding on the morrow.  Then, at least he could prepare for action, and, after all, even of more importance now than winning his wife’s confidence and saving her from mental anguish, was the averting of a scandal that would echo across the continent straight into the ears of his half-reconciled father.

IV

It was about halfway through dinner that the primitive man in him routed every variety of apprehension that had tormented him since two o’clock that afternoon.

Trennahan, another distinguished New Yorker, who had made his home in California for many years, had taken in Mrs. Gwynne, and his Spanish California wife sat at the foot of the table with the host.  Ford had been given a lively girl, Aileen Lawton, to dissipate the financial anxieties of the day, and, to Ruyler’s satisfaction, Mrs. Thornton had fallen to his lot and he sat on the left of Isabel.  In this little group at the head of the table, his chosen intimates, who were more interested in the affairs of the world than in Consummate California, Ruyler had forgotten his wife for a time and had not noticed with whom she had gone in to dinner.

But during an interval when Mrs. Thornton’s attention had been captured by the man on her right, and the others drawn into a discussion over the merits of the new mayor, Price became aware that Doremus sat beside his wife halfway down the table on the opposite side, and that they were talking, if not arguing, in a low tone, oblivious for the moment of the company.

The deferential bend was absent from the neck of the adroit social explorer, his head was alertly poised above the lovely young matron whose beauty, wealth, and foreign personality, to say nothing of the importance of her husband, gave her something of the standing of royalty in the aristocratic little republic of San Francisco Society.  There was a vague threat in that poise, as if at any moment venom might dart down and strike that drooping head with its crown of blue-black braids.  Suddenly Hélène lifted her eyes, full of appeal, to the round pale blue orbs that at this moment openly expressed a cold and ruthless mind.

Ruyler endeavored to piece together those disconnected whispers—­letters discovered or stolen—­blackmail—­but such whispers were too often the whiffs from energetic but empty minds, always floating about and never seeming to bring any culprit to book.

Had this man got hold of his wife’s secret?

But this merely sequacious thought was promptly routed.  The young man, who was undeniably good looking and was rumored to possess a certain cold charm for women—­although, to be sure, the wary San Francisco heiress had so far been impervious to it—­was now leaning over Mrs. Price Ruyler with a coaxing possessive air, and the appeal left Hélène’s eyes as she smiled coquettishly and began to talk with her usual animation; but still in a tone that was little more than a murmur.

She moved her shoulder closer to the man she evidently was bent upon fascinating, and her long eyelashes swept up and down while her black eyes flashed and her pink color deepened.

There was a faint amusement mixed with Doremus’ habitual air of amiable deference, and somewhat more of assurance, but he was as absorbed as Hélène and had no eyes for Janet Maynard, on his left, whose fortune ran into millions.

For a moment Ruyler, who had kept his nerve through several years of racking strain which, even an American is seldom called upon to survive, wondered if he were losing his mind.  To business and all its fluctuations and even abnormalities, he had been bred; there was probably no condition possible in the world of finance and commerce which could shatter his self-possession, cloud his mental processes.  But his personal life had been singularly free of storms.  Even his emotional upheaval, when he had fallen completely in love for the first time, had lacked that torment of uncertainty which might have played a certain havoc, for a time, with those quick unalterable decisions of the business hour; and even his engagement had only lasted a month.

It was true that during the past six months he had worried off and on about the shadow that had fallen upon his wife’s spirits and affected his own, but, when he had had time to think of it, before yesterday morning, he had assumed it was due to some phase of feminine psychology which he had never mastered.  That she could be interested in another man never had crossed his mind, in spite of his passing flare of jealousy.  She was still passionately in love with, him, for all her vagaries—­or so he had thought—­

Ruyler was conscious of a riotous confusion of mind that really made him apprehensive.  Had he witnessed that scene on the dummy—­this afternoon?—­it seemed a long while ago—­had he heard those portentous words of his mother-in-law to his wife?—­had they meant that she had warned her daughter against the bad blood in her veins, extracted a promise—­broken!—­to walk in the narrow way of the dutiful wife—­mercifully spared by a fortunate marriage the terrible temptations of the older woman’s youth?  Had Hélène confessed ... in desperate need of help, advice? ...  Doremus was just the bounder to compromise a woman and then blackmail her….  Good God!  What was it?

For all his mental turmoil he realized that here alone was the only possible menace to his life’s happiness.  His mother-in-law’s past was a bitter pill for a proud man to swallow, and there was even the possibility of his wife’s illegitimacy, but, after all, those were matters belonging to the past, and the past quickly receded to limbo these days.

Even an open scandal, if some one of the offal sheets of San Francisco got hold of the story and published it, would be forgotten in time.  But this—­if his wife had fallen in love with another man—­and women had no discrimination where love was concerned—­(if a decent chap got a lovely girl it was mainly by luck; the rotters got just as good)—­then indeed he was in the midst of disaster without end.  The present was chaos and the future a blank.  He’d enlist in the first war and get himself shot….

Hélène had a charming light coquetry, wholly French, and she exercised it indiscriminately, much to the delight of the old beaux, for she loved to please, to be admired; she had an innocent desire that all men should think her quite beautiful and irresistible.  Even her husband had never seen her in an unbecoming déshabillé; she coquetted with him shamelessly, whenever she was not too gloriously serious and intent only upon making him happy.  Until lately—­

This was by no means her ordinary form.

He had come upon too many couples in remote corners of conservatories, had been a not unaccomplished principal in his own day … there was, beyond question, some deep understanding between her and this man.

Suddenly Ruyler’s gaze burned through to his wife’s consciousness.  She moved her eyes to his, flushed to her hair, then for a moment looked almost gray.  But she recovered herself immediately and further showed her remarkable powers of self-possession by turning back to her partner and talking to him with animation instead of plunging into conversation with the man on her right.

At the same moment Ruyler became subtly aware that Mrs. Thornton was looking at his wife and Doremus, and as his eyes focused he saw her long, thin, mobile mouth curl and her eyes fill with open disdain.  The mist in his brain fled as abruptly as an inland fog out in the bay before one of the sudden winds of the Pacific.  In any case, his mind hardly could have remained in a state of confusion for long; but that his young wife was being openly contemned by the cleverest as well as the most powerful woman in San Francisco was enough to restore his equilibrium in a flash.  Whatever his wife’s indiscretions, it was his business to protect her until such time as he had proof of more than indiscretion.  And in this instance he should be his own detective.

He turned to Mrs. Thornton.

“Going on to the Fairmont?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, I have a new gown—­have you admired it?  Arrived from Paris last night—­and I am chaperoning two of these girls.  You are not, of course?”

“I did intend to, but it’s no go.  Still, I may drop in late and take my wife home—­”

“Let me take her home.”  Was his imagination morbid, or was there something both peremptory and eager in Mrs. Thornton’s tones?  “I’m stopping at the Fairmont, of course, but Fordy and I often take a drive after a hot night and a heavy supper.”

“If you would take her home in case I miss it.  I must go to the office—­”

“I’d like to.  That’s settled.”  This time her tones were warm and friendly.  Ruyler knew that Mrs. Thornton did not like his wife, but her friendliness toward him, since her return from Europe three or four months ago, had increased, if anything.  His mind was now working with its accustomed keen clarity.  He recalled that there had been no surprise mixed with the contempt in her regard of his wife and Doremus….  He also recalled that several times of late when he had met her at the Fairmont—­where he often lunched with a group of men—­she had regarded him with a curious considering glance, which he suddenly vocalized as:  “How long?”

This affair had been going on for some time, then.  Either it was common talk, or some circumstance had enlightened Mrs. Thornton alone.

He glanced around the table.  No one appeared to be taking the slightest notice of one of many flirtations.  At least, whatever his wife’s infatuation, he could avert gossip.  Mrs. Thornton might be a tigress, but she was not a cat.

“When do you go down to Burlingame?” she asked.

“Not for two or three weeks yet.  I don’t fancy merely sleeping in the country.  But by that time things will ease up a bit and I can get down every day in time to have a game of golf before dinner.”

“Shall Mrs. Ruyler migrate with the rest?”

“Hardly.”

“It will be dull for her in town.  No reflections on your charming society, but of course she does not get much of it, and she will miss her young friends.  After all, she is a child and needs playmates.”

Ruyler darted at her a sharp look, but she was smiling amiably.  Doremus and the men he lived with, in town had a bungalow at Burlingame and they bought their commutation tickets at precisely the fashionable moment.  “She will stay in town,” he said shortly.  “She needs a rest, and San Francisco is the healthiest spot on earth.”

“But trying to the nerves when what we inaccurately call the trade winds begin.  Why not let her stay with me?  Of course she would be lonely in her own house, and is too young to stay there alone anyhow, but I’d like to put her up, and you certainly could run down week-ends—­possibly oftener.  American men are always obsessed with the idea that they are twice as busy as they really are.”

“You are too good.  I’ll put it up to Hélène.  Of course it is for her to decide.  I’d like it mighty well.”  But grateful as he was, his uneasiness deepened at her evident desire to place her forces at his disposal.