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

Emerged Triumphant; And With The Unqualified Approval And Respect Of The

Substantial Citizens Of San Francisco.

It Was This Position He Had Won In A Community Where He Had Experienced

The Unique Sensation Of Being A Pioneer In At The Rebirth Of A Great

City, As Well As The Outdoor Sports That Kept Him Fit, That Had Endeared

California To Ruyler, And In Time Caused Him Whimsically To Visualize New

York As A Sternly Accusing Instead Of A Beckoning Finger. Long Before He

Found Time To Play Polo At Burlingame He Had Conceived A Deep Respect For

A Climate Where A Man Might Ride Horseback, Shoot, Drive A Racing Car, Or

Tramp, For At Least Eight Months Of The Year With No Menace Of Sudden

Downpour, And Hardly A Change In The Weight Of His Clothes.

To-Day The Rain Was Dashing Against His Windows And The Wind Howled About

The Exposed Angles Of His House With That Personal Fury Of Assault With

Which Storms Brewed Out In The Vast Wastes Of The Pacific Deride The

Enthusiastic Baptism Of A Too Confident Explorer. All He Could See Of The

Bay Was A Mad Race Of White Caps, And Dark Blurs Which Only Memory

Assured Him Were Rocky Storm-Beaten Islands; Mountain Tops, So Geological

Tradition Ran, Whose Roots Were In An Unquiet Valley Long Since Dropped

From Mortal Gaze.

The Waves Were Leaping High Against The Old Forts At The Entrance To The

Golden Gate, And Occasionally He Saw A Small Craft Drift Perilously Near

To The Rocks. But He Loved The Wild Weather Of San Francisco, For He Was

By Nature An Imaginative Man And He Liked To Think That He Would Have

Followed The Career Of Letters Had Not The Traditions Of The Great

Commercial House Of Ruyler And Sons, Forced Him To Carry On The Burden.

The Men Of His Family Had Never Been Idlers Since The Recrudescence Of

Ancestral Energy In The Person Of Morgan Ruyler I; It Was No Part Of

Their Profound Sense Of Aristocracy To Retire On Inherited Or Invested

Wealth; They Believed That Your Fine American Of The Old Stock Should Die

In Harness; And If The Harness Had Been Fashioned And Elaborated By

Ancestors Whose Portraits Hung In The Chamber Of Commerce, All The More

Reason To Keep It Spic And Up To Date Instead Of Letting It Lapse Into

Those Historic Vaults Where So Many Once Honored Names Lay Rotting. They

Were A Hard, Tight-Fisted Lot, The Ruylers, And Price In One Secluded But

Cherished Wing Of His Mind Was Unlike Them Only Because His Mother Was

The Daughter Of Masefield Price And Would Have Been An Artist Herself If

Her Scandalized Husband Would Have Consented. Morgan Ruyler Iv Had

Overlooked His Father-In-Law's Divagation From The Orthodox Standards Of

His Own Family Because He Had Been A Spectacular Financial Success;

Bringing Home Ropes Of Enormous Pearls From India In Addition To The

Fantastic Sums Paid Him By Enraptured Native Princes. But While Morgan

Ruyler Believed That Rich Men Should Work And Make Their Sons Work, If

Only Because An Idle Class Was Both Out Of Place In A Republic And

Conducive To Unrest In The Masses, It Was Quite Otherwise With Women.

They Were For Men To Shelter, And It Was Their Sole Duty To Be Useful In

The Home, And, Wherever Possible, Ornamental In Public. Nor Had He The

Least Faith In Female Talent.

Marian Ruyler Had Yielded The Point And Departed Hopefully For A Broader

Sphere When Her Second And Favorite Son Was Eight. Morgan Ruyler Married

Again As Soon As Convention Would Permit, This Time Carefully Selecting A

Wife Of The Soundest New York Predispositions And With A Personal

Admiration Of Queen Victoria; And He Had Watched Young Price Like An

Affectionate But Inexorable Parent Hawk Until The Young Man Followed His

Brother--A Quintessential Ruyler--Into The Now Historic Firm. However, He

Suffered Little From Anxiety. Price, Too, Was Conservative, Intensely

Proud Of The Family Traditions, An Almost Impassioned Worker, And

Unselfish As Men Go. Two Sons In Every Generation Must Enter The Firm. It

Was Not In The Ruyler Blood To Take Long Chances.

Iii

Life Out Here In California Had Been Too Hurried For More Than Fleeting

Moments Of Self-Study, But On This Idle Sunday Morning Price Ruyler's

Perturbed Mind Wandered To That Inner Self Of His To Which He Once Had

Longed To Give A Freer Expression. It Was Odd That The Conservative

Training, The Rigid Traditions Of His Family, Conventional,

Old-Fashioned, Puritanical, As Became The Best Stock Of New York, A Stock

That In The Ruyler Family Had Seemed To Carry Its Own Antidote For The

Poisons Ever Seeking Entrance To The Spiritual Conduits Of The Rich, Had

Left Any Place For That Sentimental Romantic Tide In His Nature Which Had

Swept Him Into Marriage With A Girl Outside Of His Own Class; A Girl Of

Whose Family He Had Known Practically Nothing Until His Outraged Father

Had Cabled To A Correspondent In Paris To Make Investigation Of The

Perrin Family Of Rouen, To Which The Girl's Mother Claimed To Belong.

The Inquiries Were Satisfactory; They Were Quite Respectable,

Bourgeois, Silk Merchants In A Small Way--Although At Least Two Strata

Below That Haute Bourgeoisie Which Now Regarded Itself As The Real

Upper Class Of The Republique Francaise. A True Ruyler, However, Would

Have Fled At The First Danger Signal, Never Have Reached The Point

Where Inquiries Were In Order.

California Was Replete With Charming, Beautiful, And Superlatively

Healthy Girls; The Climate Produced Them As It Did Its Superabundance Of

Fruit, Flowers, And Vegetables. But They Had Left Price Ruyler

Untroubled. He Had Been Far More Interested Watching San Francisco Rise

From Its Ruins, Transformed Almost Overnight From A Picturesque But

Ramshackle City, A Patchwork Of Different Eras, Into A Staid Metropolis

Of Concrete And Steel, Defiant Alike Of Earthquake And Fire. He Had Liked

The New Experience Of Being A Pioneer, Which So Subtly Expanded His

Starved Ego That He Had, By Unconscious Degrees, Made Up His Mind To

Remain Out Here As The Permanent Head Of The San Francisco House; And In

Time, No Doubt, Marry One Of These Fine, Hardy, Frank, Out-Of-Door,

Wholly Unsubtle California Girls. Moreover, He Had Found In San Francisco

Several New Yorkers As Well As Englishmen Of His Own Class--Notably John

Gwynne, Who Had Thrown Over One Of The Greatest Of English Peerages To

Follow His Personal Tastes In A Legislative Career--All Of Whom Had

Settled Down Into That Free And Independent Life From Motives Not

Dissimilar From His Own.

But He Had Ceased To Be An Untroubled Spirit From The Moment He Met

Helene Delano. He Had Gone Down To Monterey For Polo, And He Had

Forgotten The Dinner To Which He Had Brought A Keen Appetite, And Stared

At Her As She Entered The Immense Dining Room With Her Mother.

It Was Not Her Beauty, Although That Was Considerable, That Had Summarily

Transposed His Gallant If Cool Admiration For All Charming Well Bred

Women Into A Submerging Recognition Of Woman In Particular; It Was Her

Unlikeness To Any Of The Girls He Had Been Riding, Dancing, Playing Golf

And Tennis With During The Past Year And A Half (For Two Years After His

Arrival He Had Seen Nothing Of Society Whatever). Later That Evening He

Defined This Dissimilarity From The American Girl As The Result Not Only

Of Her French Blood But Of Her European Training, Her Quiet Secluded

Girlhood In A Provincial Town Of Great Beauty, Where She Had Received A

Leisurely Education Rare In The United States, Seen Or Read Little Of The

Great World (She Had Visited Paris Only Twice And Briefly), Her Mind

Charmingly Developed By Conscientious Tutors. But At The Moment He

Thought That The Compelling Power Lay In Some Deep Subtlety Of Eye, Her

Little Air Of Lofty Aloofness, Her Classic Small Features In A Small

Face, And The Top-Heavy Masses Of Blue Black Hair Which She Carried With

A Certain Naive Pride As If It Were Her Only Vanity; In Her General

Unlikeness To The Gray-Eyed Fair-Haired American--A Type To Which Himself

Belonged. Her Only Point In Common With This Fashionable Set Patronizing

Del Monte For The Hour, Was The Ineffable Style With Which She Wore Her

Perfect Little White Frock; An American Inheritance, He Assumed After He

Knew Her; For, As He Recalled Provincial French Women, Style Was Not

Their Strong Point.

When He Met Her Eyes Some Twenty Minutes Later, He Dismissed The

Impression Of Subtlety, For Their Black Depths Were Quick With An Eager

Wonder And Curiosity. Later They Grew Wistful, And He Guessed That She

Knew None Of These Smart Folk, Down, Like Himself, For The Tournament;

People Who Were Chattering From Table To Table Like A Large Family. That

Some Of His Girl Acquaintances Were Interested In The Young Stranger He

Inferred From Speculative And Appraising Eyes That Were Turned Upon Her

From Time To Time.

Price, With Some Irony, Wondered At Their Curiosity. The San Francisco

Girl, He Had Discovered, Possessed An Extra Sense All Her Own. There Was

No Lofty Indifference About Her. She Had The Worth-While Stranger

Detected And Tabulated And His Or Her Social Destiny Settled Before The

Eastern Train Had Disgorged Its Contents At The Oakland Mole. And Even

The Immense Florid Mother Of This Lovely Girl, With Her Own Masses Of

Snow White Hair Dressed In A Manner Becoming Her Age, And A Severe Gown

Of Black Chantilly Net, Relieved By The Merest Trifle Of Jet, Looked The

Reverse Of The Nondescript Tourist. The Girl Wore White Embroidered Silk

Muslin And A Thin Gold Chain With A Small Ruby Pendant. She Was Rather

Above The Average Height, Although Not As Tall As Her Mother, And If She

Were As Thin As Fashion Commanded, Her Bones Were So Small That Her Neck

And Arms Looked Almost Plump. Her Expressive Eyes Were As Black As Her

Hair, And Her Only Large Feature. Her Skin Was Of A Quite Remarkably Pink

Whiteness, Although There Was A Pink Color In Her Lips And Cheeks. The

Older Men Stared At Her More Persistently Than The Younger Ones, Who

Liked Their Own Sort And Not Girls Who Looked As If They Might Be "Booky"

And "Spring Things On A Fellow."

There Was A Ball In The Evening And Once More Mother And Daughter Sat

Apart, While The Flower Of San Francisco--An Inclusive Term For The

Select Circles Of Menlo Park, Atherton, Burlingame, San Mateo, Far San

Rafael And Belvedere--Romped As One Great Family. Newport, Ruyler

Reflected For The Twentieth Time, Did It No Better. To The Stranger

Peering Through The Magic Bars They Were Now As Insensible As Befitted

Their Code. These Two People Knew Nobody And That Was The End Of It.

Iv

But Price Noted That Now The Girl's Eyes Were Merely Wistful, And Once Or

Twice He Saw Them Fill With Tears. As Three Of The Dowagers Merely

Sniffed When He Sought Possible Information, He Finally Had Recourse To

The Manager Of The Hotel, D.V. Bimmer. They Were A Madame And

Mademoiselle Delano From Rouen, And Had Been At The Hotel For A

Fortnight, Not Seeming To Mind Its Comparative Emptiness, But Enjoying

The Sea Bathing And The Drives. The Girl Rode, And Went Out Every Morning

With A Groom.

"But Didn't They Bring Any Letters?" Asked Ruyler. "They Are Ladies And

One Letter Would Have Done The Business. That Poor Girl Is Having The

Deuce Of A Time."

"D.V.," Who Knew "Everybody" In California, And All Their Secrets, Shook

His Head. "'Fraid Not. The French Maid Told The Floor Valet That Although

The Father Was American--From New England Somewheres--And The Girl Born

In California, Accidentally As It Were, She Had Lived In France All Her

Life--She's Just Eighteen--Never Crossed The Ocean Before. Can You Beat

It? Until Last Month, And Then They Came From Hong Kong--Taking A Trip

Round The World In Good Old Style. The Madame, Who Scarcely Opens Her

Month, Did Condescend To Tell Me That She Had Admired California Very

Much When She Was Here Before, And Intended To Travel All Over The State.

Perhaps I Met Her In That Far Off Long Ago, For I Was Managing A Hotel In

San Francisco About That Time, And Her Face Haunts Me Somehow--Although

When Features Get All Swallowed Up By Fat Like That You Can't Locate

Them. The Girl, Too, Reminds Me Of Some One, But Of Course She Was In

Arms When She Left And As I Ain't Much On Cathedrals I Never Went To

Rouen. Of Course It's The Old Trick, Bringing A Pretty Girl To A

Fashionable Watering Place To Marry Her Off, But These Folks Are Not

Poor. Not What We'd Call Rich, Perhaps, But Good And Solid. I Don't Fall

For The Old Lady; She's A Cool Proposition Or I Miss My Guess, But The

Girl's All Right. I've Seen Too Many Girls In This Mecca For Adventurous

Females And Never Made A Mistake Yet. I Wish Some Of Our