The Avalanche by Gertrude Franklin Horn Atherton (a court of thorns and roses ebook free .TXT) 📕

The Weak. Far Better The Bend Sinister In His Own Class Than A Legitimate

Parent Of The Type Of 'Gene Bisbee Or D.V. Bimmer. Ruyler Was A "Good

Mixer" When Business Required That Particular Form Of Diplomacy, And The

Familiarities Of Jake Spaulding Left His Nerves Unscathed, But In Bone

And Brain Cells He Was Of The Intensely Respectable Aristocracy Of

Manhattan Island And He Never Forgot It. He Had Surrendered To A Girl Of

No Position Without A Struggle, And Made Her His Wife, But It Is Doubtful

If He Would Even Have Fallen In Love With Her If She Had Been Underbred

In Appearance Or Manner. He Had Never Regretted His Marriage For A

Moment, Not Even Since This Avalanche Of Mystery And Portending Scandal

Had Descended Upon Him; If Possible He Loved His Troubled Young Wife More

Than Ever--With A Sudden Instinct That Worse Was To Come He Vowed That

Nothing Should Ever Make Him Love Her Less.

When He Arrived At His House He Found Two Notes On The Hall Table

Addressed To Himself. The First Was From Helene And Read:

"Polly Telephoned That She Would Send Her Car For Me To Go Down To The

Fairmont And Dance. I Cannot Sleep So I Am Going. _She Cannot Sleep

Either_! Forgive Me If I Was Cross, But I Am Terribly Worried For Her.

Don't Wait Up For Me. Helene."

He Read This Note With A Frown But Without Surprise. It Was To Be

Expected That She Would Seek Excitement Until Her Present Fears Were

Allayed And Her Persecutors Silenced.

He Determined To Order Spaulding To Have Her Shadowed Constantly For At

Least A Fortnight And Note Made Of Every Person In Whose Company She

Appeared To Be At All Uneasy, Whether They Were Of Her Own Set Or Not. It

Would Also Be Worth While To Have Madame Delano's Rooms Watched, For It

Was Possible That She Would Summon Helene There To Meet Bisbee Or Others

Of His Ilk.

Then He Picked Up The Other Note. It Was From Spaulding, And As He Read

It All His Finespun Theories Vanished And Once More He Was Adrift On An

Uncharted Sea Without A Landmark In Sight.

"Dear Sir," Began The Detective, Who Was Always Formal On Paper. "I've

Just Got The Information Required From Holbrook Centre. We Didn't Half

Believe There Was Such A Place, If You Remember? Well There Is, And

According To The Parish Register Marie Jeanne Perrin Was Married To James

Delano On July 25th, 1891. She Was There, Visiting Some French

Relations--They Went Back Soon After--And He Had Left There When He Was

About Sixteen And Had Only Come Back That Once To See His Mother, Who Was

Dying. Nothing Seems To Have Been Known About Him In His Home Town Except

A Sort Of Rumor That He Was A Bad Lot And Lived Somewheres In California.

Can You Beat It? But Don't Think I'm Stumped. I'm Working On A New Line

And I'm Not Going To Say Another Word Until I've Got Somewheres.

"Yours Truly,

"J. Spaulding."

"Delano's Father Was A Forty-Niner, And Lived In California Till 1860,

When He Went Home To H. C. And Died Soon After. There Were Wild Stories

About Him, Too."

I

During The Next Few Days Ruyler Saw Little Of His Wife. He Was Obliged To

Take Two Business Trips Out Of Town And As He Could Not Return Until Ten

O'clock At Night He Advised Her To Have Company To Dinner And Take Her

Guests To The Play. But She Preferred To Dine With Polly Roberts And

Aileen Lawton, And She Spent Her Days For The Most Part At Burlingame,

Motoring Down With One Or More Of Her Friends, Or Sent For By Some

Enthusiastic Girl Admirer Already Established There For The Summer.

Ruyler Was Quite Willing To Forego Temporarily His Plan Of Personal

Guardianship, As The More She Roamed Abroad Unattended The Better Could

Spaulding Watch Her Associates. The Detective Had His Agents In Society,

As Well As In The Palace Hotel, And On The Third Day He Sent A Brief Note

To Ruyler Announcing That He Had "Lit On To Something" That Would Make

His Employer's "Hair Curl, But No More At Present From Yours Truly."

"This Time," He Added, "I'm On The Right Track And Know It. No More Fancy

Theories. But I Won't Say A Word Till I Can Deliver The Goods. Give Your

Wife All The Rope You Can."

Price And Helene Met Briefly And Amiably And She Did Not Again Broach The

Subject Of The Loan For Her Friend, Nor Did She Ask For Her Jewels. It

Was Apparent That She Was Proudly Determined To Conceal Whatever Terrors

Or Even Worries That Might Haunt Her, But The Effort Deprived Her Of All

Her Native Vivacity; She Was Almost Formal In Manner And Her White Face

Grew More Like A Classic Mask Daily.

On The Evening Before The Thornton Fete, However, Price Was Able To Dine

At Home. They Met At Table And He Saw At Once That She Either Had

Recovered Her Spirits Or Was Making A Deliberate Attempt To Create The

Impression Of A Carefree Young Woman Happy In A Tete-A-Tete Dinner With A

Busy Husband.

Her Talk For The Most Part Was Of The Great Entertainment At San Mateo.

The Weather Promised To Be Simply Magnificent. Wasn't That Exactly Like

Flora Thornton's Luck? The Immense Grounds Were Simply Swarming With

Workmen; Wagon-Loads Of All Sorts Of Things Went Through The Gates After

Every Train--Simply One Procession After Another; But No One Else Could

So Much As Get Her Nose Through Those Gates.

Helene, With All Her Old Childish Glee, Related How She And Aileen, Polly

(Who Apparently Had Forgotten Her Impending Doom), And Two Or Three Other

Girls, Had Called Up Mrs. Thornton On The Telephone Every Ten Minutes For

An Hour--Pretending It Was Long Distance To Make Sure Of A Personal

Response--And Begged To Be Allowed To Go Over And See The Preparations,

Until Finally, In A Towering Rage, Her Ladyship Had Replied That If They

Called Her Again She Would Withdraw Her Invitations.

"How We Did Long For An Airship. It Would Have Been Such Fun, For She

Does So Disapprove Of All Of Us; Thinks Us A Little Flock Of Silly Geese.

Well, We Are, I Guess, But Wasn't She One Herself Once? She Has A Pretty

Hard Time Even Now Making Life Interesting For Herself--Out Here, Anyhow.

"Yesterday We Motored Down To Menlo And Dropped In At The Maynards. There

Were A Lot Of The Props Of San Francisco Society, All As Rich As Croesus,

Sitting On The Veranda Crocheting Socks Or Sacks For A Crop Of New Babies

That Are Due. One Or Two Were Hemstitching Lawn, Or Embroidering A

Monogram, Or Something Else Equally Useless Or Virtuous. They Were

Talking Mild Gossip, And Didn't Even Have Powder On. It Was Ghastly--"

"Helene," Said Ruyler Abruptly, "What Do You Think Is The Secret Of

Happiness--I Mean, Of Course, The Enduring Sort--Perhaps Content Would Be

The Better Word. Happiness Is Too Dependent Upon Love, And Love Was Never

Meant For Daily Food. You Are Not By Nature Frivolous, And You Are

Capable Of Thought. Have You Ever Given Any To The Secret Of Content?"

"Yes, Work," She Answered Promptly. "Everybody Should Have His Daily Job,

Prescribed Either By The State Or By Necessity; But Something He Must Do

If Both He And Society Would Continue To Exist."

Ruyler Elevated His Eyebrows And Looked At Her Curiously. "Socialism. I

Didn't Know You Had Ever Heard Of It."

"Aileen And I Are Not Such Fools As We Look--As You Were Good Enough To

Intimate Just Now. We Went To A Series Of Lectures Early Last Winter Over

At The University, On Socialism--A Lot Of Us Formed A Class, But All

Except Aileen And I Dropped Out.

"We Continued To Read For A Time After The Lectures Were Over, But Of

Course That Didn't Last. One Drops Everything For Want Of Stimulus, And

When One Begins To Flutter Again One Is Lost.

"But I Heard And Read And Thought Enough To Deduce That The Only Vital

Interest In Life After One's Secret Happiness--Which One Would Not Dare

Spread Out Too Thin If One Could In This American Life--Is Necessary Work

Well Done. And That Is Quite Different From Those Fussy Interests And

Fads We Create Or Take Up For The Sake Of Thinking We Are Busy And

Interested.

"Polly's Mother Once Told Me She Never Was So Happy In Her Life As During

Those Weeks After The Earthquake And Fire When All The Servants Had Run

Away And She Had To Cook For The Family Out In The Street On A Stove They

Bought Down In A Little Shop In Polk Street And Set Up And Surrounded On

Three Sides By 'Inside Blinds.' She Happened To Have A Talent For

Cooking, And Without Her The Family Would Have Starved. Polly Tied A

Towel Round Her Head And Did The Housework, Or Stood In A Line And Got

The Daily Rations From The Government. She Never Thought Once Of--"

"Of What?"

"Oh, Of Doing Anything Rather Than Expire Of Boredom. She And Rex Had

Been Married A Year And Were Living At Home. Rex And Mr. Carter Helped

Excavate Down In The Business District, As The Working Class Wouldn't

Lift A Finger As Long As The Government Was Feeding Them."

"There You Are! Their Ideal Is Complete Leisure, And That Of Our Delicate

Products Of The Highest Civilization--Compulsory Jobs! What Does Progress

Mean But The Leisure To Enjoy The Arts And All The Finer Fruits Of

Progress? What Else Do We Men Really Work For?"

"Progress Has Gone Too Far And Defeated Its Own Ends. Every Healthy Human

Being Should Be Forced To Work Six Hours A Day.

"That Would Leave Eight For Sleep And Ten For Enjoyment Of The Arts And

Luxuries. Then We Really Should Enjoy Them, And If We Couldn't Have Them

Unless We Did Our Six Hours' Stint, Ennui And The Dissipations That It

Breeds Would Be Unknown.

"I Can Tell You It Is Demoralizing, Disintegrating, To Wake Up Morning

After Morning--About Ten O'clock!--And Know That You Have Nothing Worth

While To Do For Another Day--For All The Days!--That You Have No Place In

The World Except As An Ornament! Women Of Limited Incomes And A Family Of

Growing Children Have Enough, To Do, Of Course--Too Much--They Never Can

Feel Superfluous And Demoralized--Except By Envy--But As For Us! Why, I

Can Tell You, It Is A Marvel We Don't All Go Straight To The Devil."

They Were Alone With The Coffee, And She Was Pounding The Table With Her

Little Fist. Her Cheeks Were Deeply Flushed And Her Black Somber Eyes

Were Opening And Closing Rapidly, As If Alternately Magnetized By Some

Ugly Vision And Sweeping It Aside.

Price Watched Her With Deep Interest And Deeper Anxiety. "A Good Many

Women Go To The Devil," He Said. "But You Are Not That Sort."

"Oh, I Don't Know. I Never Could Get Up Enough Interest In Another Man To

Solve The Problem In The Usual Way--But There Are Other

Resources--I--Well--"

"What?" Price Sat Up Very Straight.

"Oh, Dance Ourselves Into Tuberculosis," She Said Lightly, And Dropping

Her Eyelashes. "And Tuberculosis Of The Mind, Certainly. On The Whole, I

Think I Prefer Physical To Spiritual Death....

"However--I Found Out One Thing To-Day. The Dancing Is To Be Out Of

Doors. There Will Be An Immense Arbor Or Something Of The Sort Erected

On The Lawn Above The Sunken Garden. My Gown Is A Dream And I Shall Wear

The Ruby."

"Yes," He Said Smiling. "You Shall Wear The Ruby. But You Must Expect Me

To Keep Very Close To You--"

"The Closer The Better." She Smiled Charmingly. "Have You Tried On

Your Costume?"

"I Haven't Even Looked At It. Who Am I?"

"Caesar Borgia. You Are Not Much Like Him Yourself, Darling, But I

Thought He Was Not So Very Unlike Modern American Business, As A Whole."

Ruyler Laughed. "Why Not Machiavelli? But As No Doubt It Is Black Velvet,

Much Puffed And Slashed, I May Hope It Will Be Becoming To My