The trade wind,that,blowing directly from the Golden Gate,seemed to concentrate its full force upon the western slope of Russian Hill,might have dismayed any climber less hopeful and sanguine than that most imaginative of newspaper reporters and most youthful of husbands,John Milton Harcourt.But for all that it was an honest wind,and its dry,practical energy and salt-pervading breath only seemed to sting him to greater and more enthusiastic exertions,until,quite at the summit of the hill and last of a straggling line of little cottages half submerged in drifting sand,he stood upon his own humble porch.
"I was thinking,coming up the hill,Loo,"he said,bursting into the sitting-room,pantingly,"of writing something about the future of the hill!How it will look fifty years from now,all terraced with houses and gardens!--and right up here a kind of Acropolis,don't you know.I had quite a picture of it in my mind just now."A plainly-dressed young woman with a pretty face,that,however,looked as if it had been prematurely sapped of color and vitality,here laid aside some white sewing she had in her lap,and said:--"But you did that once before,Milty,and you know the "Herald"wouldn't take it because they said it was a free notice of Mr.
Boorem's building lots,and he didn't advertise in the "Herald."Ialways told you that you ought to have seen Boorem first."The young fellow blinked his eyes with a momentary arrest of that buoyant hopefulness which was their peculiar characteristic,but nevertheless replied with undaunted cheerfulness,"I forgot.
Anyhow,it's all the same,for I worked it into that 'Sunday Walk.'
And it's just as easy to write it the other way,you see,--looking back,DOWN THE HILL,you know.Something about the old Padres toiling through the sand just before the Angelus;or as far back as Sir Francis Drake's time,and have a runaway boat's crew,coming ashore to look for gold that the Mexicans had talked of.Lord!
that's easy enough!I tell you what,Loo,it's worth living up here just for the inspiration."Even while boyishly exhaling this enthusiasm he was also divesting himself of certain bundles whose contents seemed to imply that he had brought his dinner with him,--the youthful Mrs.Harcourt setting the table in a perfunctory,listless way that contrasted oddly with her husband's cheerful energy.
"You haven't heard of any regular situation yet?"she asked abstractedly.
"No,--not exactly,"he replied."But [buoyantly]it's a great deal better for me not to take anything in a hurry and tie myself to any particular line.Now,I'm quite free.""And I suppose you haven't seen that Mr.Fletcher again?"she continued.
"No.He only wanted to know something about me.That's the way with them all,Loo.Whenever I apply for work anywhere it's always:'So you're Dan'l Harcourt's son,eh?Quarreled with the old man?Bad job;better make it up!You'll make more stickin'to him.He's worth millions!'Everybody seems to think everything of HIM,as if I had no individuality beyond that,I've a good mind to change my name.""And pray what would mine be then?"
There was so much irritation in her voice that he drew nearer her and gently put his arm around her waist."Why,whatever mine was,darling,"he said with a tender smile."You didn't fall in love with any particular name,did you,Loo?""No,but I married a particular one,"she said quickly.
His eyelids quivered again,as if he was avoiding some unpleasantly staring suggestion,and she stopped.
"You know what I mean,dear,"she said,with a quick little laugh.
"Just because your father's an old crosspatch,YOU haven't lost your rights to his name and property.And those people who say you ought to make it up perhaps know what's for the best.""But you remember what he said of you,Loo?"said the young man with a flashing eye."Do you think I can ever forget that?""But you DO forget it,dear;you forget it when you go in town among fresh faces and people;when you are looking for work.You forget it when you're at work writing your copy,--for I've seen you smile as you wrote.You forget it climbing up the dreadful sand,for you were thinking just now of what happened years ago,or is to happen years to come.And I want to forget it too,Milty.I don't want to sit here all day,thinking of it,with the wind driving the sand against the window,and nothing to look at but those white tombs in Lone Mountain Cemetery,and those white caps that might be gravestones too,and not a soul to talk to or even see pass by until I feel as if I were dead and buried also.If you were me--you--you--you--couldn't help crying too!"Indeed he was very near it now.For as he caught her in his arms,suddenly seeing with a lover's sympathy and the poet's swifter imagination all that she had seen and even more,he was aghast at the vision conjured.In her delicate health and loneliness how dreadful must have been these monotonous days,and this glittering,cruel sea!What a selfish brute he was!Yet as he stood there holding her,silently and rhythmically marking his tenderness and remorseful feelings by rocking her from side to side like a languid metronome,she quietly disengaged her wet lashes from his shoulder and said in quite another tone:--"So they were all at Tasajara last week?""Who,dear?"
"Your father and sisters."
"Yes,"said John Milton,hesitatingly.
"And they've taken back your sister after her divorce?"The staring obtrusiveness of this fact apparently made her husband's bright sympathetic eye blink as before.
"And if you were to divorce me,YOU would be taken back too,"she added quickly,suddenly withdrawing herself with a pettish movement and walking to the window.
