A Daughter of the Vine.

by Gertrude Franklin Horn Atherton.

BOOK I

I

Two horses were laboriously pulling a carriage through the dense thickets and over the sandhills which in the early Sixties still made an ugly breach between San Francisco and its Presidio. The difficulties of the course were not abridged by the temper of the night, which was torn with wind and m.u.f.fled in black. During the rare moments when the flying clouds above opened raggedly to discharge a shaft of silver a broad and dreary expanse leapt into form. Hills of sand, bare and shifting, huge boulders, tangles of scrub oak and chaparral, were the distorted features of the landscape between the high far-away peaks of the city and the military posts on the water's edge. On the other side of the bay cliffs and mountains jutted, a mere suggestion of outline. The ocean beyond the Golden Gate roared over the bar. The wind whistled and shrilled through the rigging of the craft on the bay; occasionally it lifted a loose drift and whirled it about the carriage, creating a little cyclone with two angry eyes, and wrenching loud curses from the man on the box.

"It's an unusually bad night, Thorpe, really," said one of the two occupants of the carriage. "Of course the winters here are more or less stormy, but we have many fine days, I a.s.sure you; and they're better than the summer with its fogs and trade winds--I am speaking of San Francisco," he added hastily, with newly acquired Californian pride. "Of course it is usually fine in the country at any time. I believe there are sixteen different climates in California."

"As any one of them might be better than England's, it is not for me to complain," said the other, good-naturedly. "But I feel sorry for the horses and the man. I don't think we should have missed much if we had cut this ball."

"Oh, I wouldn't miss it for the world. Life would be suicidal in this G.o.d-forsaken country if it were not for the hospitality of the San Franciscans. Some months ago two officers whose names I won't mention met in a lonely spot on the coast near Benicia Fort, on the other side of the bay, with the deliberate intention of shooting one another to death. They were discovered in time, and have since been transferred East. It is better for us on account of San Francisco--Whew! how this confounded thing does jolt!--and the Randolph parties are always the gayest of the season. Mr. Randolph is an Englishman with the uncalculating hospitality of the Californian. He has made a pot of money and entertains lavishly. Every pretty girl in San Francisco is a belle, but Nina Randolph is the belle _par excellence_."

"Is she a great beauty?" asked Thorpe, indifferently. He was wondering if the driver had lost his way. The wheels were zigzagging through drifts so deep that the sand shot against the panes.

"No, I don't know that she is beautiful at all. Miss Hathaway is that, and Mrs. McLane, and two of the 'three Macs'. But she has it all her own way. It's charm, I suppose, and then--well, she's an only child and will come in for a fortune--a right big one if this place grows as people predict. She's a deuced lucky girl, is Miss Nina Randolph, and it will be a deuced lucky fellow that gets her. Only no one does. She's twenty-three and heart-whole."

"Are you in love with her?"

"I'm in love with her and Guadalupe Hathaway and the 'three Macs' and Mrs. McLane. I never met so many attractive women in one place."

"Would it be Mrs. Hunt McLane--a Creole? I met her once in Paris--got to know her very well."

"You don't say. She'll make things hum for you. There's something else I wanted to say. I thought I'd wait and see if you discovered it yourself, but I believe I won't. It's this: there's something queer about the Randolphs in spite of the fact that they're more to the front than any people in San Francisco. I never leave that house that I don't carry away a vague impression that there's something behind the scenes I don't know anything about. I've never spoken of it to anyone else; it would be rather disloyal, after all the kindness they've shown me; but I'm too curious to know how they will impress you. I've only been here six months, and only know what everybody else knows about them--"

"Do you know, Hastings," said the Englishman abruptly, "I think something is wrong outside. I don't believe anyone is guiding those horses."

Hastings lowered the window beside him and thrust out his head.

"Hi, there, Tim!" he shouted. "What are you about?"

There was no reply.

"h.e.l.lo!" he cried, thinking the wind might have miscarried his voice.

Again there was no reply; but the horses, gratefully construing the final syllable to their own needs, came to a full stop.

Hastings opened the door and sprang on to the hub of the wheel, expostulating angrily. He returned in a moment to his companion.

"Here's the devil to pay," he cried. "Tim's down against the dashboard as drunk as a lord. There's nothing to do but put him inside and drive, myself. I'd chuck him into a drift if I were not under certain obligations of a similar sort. Will you come outside with me, or stay in with him?"

"Why not go back to the Presidio?"

"We are about half-way between, and may as well go on."

"I'll go outside, by all means."

He stepped out. The two men dragged the coachman off the box and huddled him inside.

"We're off the road," said Hastings, "but I think I can find my way.

I'll cut across to the Mission road, and then we'll be on level ground, at least."

They mounted the box. Hastings gathered the reins and Thorpe lit a cigar. The horses, well ordered brutes of the livery stable, did their weary best to respond to the peremptory order to speed.

"We'll be two hours late," the young officer grumbled, as they floundered out of the sandhills and entered the Mission Valley.

"d.a.m.n the idiot. Why couldn't he have waited till we got there?"

They were now somewhat sheltered from the wind, and as the road was level, although rutty, made fair progress.

"I didn't mean to treat you to a nasty adventure the very night of your arrival," continued Hastings apologetically.

"Oh, one rather looks for adventures in California. If I hadn't so much sand in my eyes I'd be rather entertained than otherwise. I only hope our faces are not dirty."

"They probably are. Still, if we are not held up, I suppose we can afford to overlook the minor ills."

"Held up?"

"Stopped by road-agents, garroters, highway robbers--whatever you like to call 'em. I've never been held up myself; as a rule I go in the ambulance at night, but it's no uncommon experience. I've got a revolver in my overcoat pocket--on this side. Reach over and get it, and keep it c.o.c.ked. I _couldn't_ throw up my hands. I'd feel as if the whole United States army were disgraced."

Thorpe abstracted the pistol, but although the long lonely road was favourable to crime, no road-agents appeared, and Hastings drove into the outskirts of the town with audibly expressed relief.

"We're not far now," he added. "South Park is the place we're bound for; and, by the way, Mr. Randolph projected and owns most of it."

A quarter of an hour later he drove into an oval enclosure trimmed with tall dark houses, so sombre in appearance that to the old Californian they must now, in their desertion and decay, seem to have been grimly prescient of their destiny.

As the carriage drew up before a brilliantly lighted house the door opened, and a man-servant ran down the steps.

"Keep quiet," whispered Hastings.

The man opened the door of the carriage, waited a moment, then put his head inside. He drew it back with a violent oath.

"It's a d.a.m.ned insult!" he cried furiously.

"Why, Cochrane!" exclaimed Hastings, "what on earth is the matter with you?"

"Captain Hastings!" stammered the man. "Oh I--I--beg pardon. I thought--Oh, of course, I see. Tim had taken a drop too much. A most deplorable habit. Can I help you down, sir?"

"No, thanks."

He sprang lightly to the sidewalk, followed with less agility by the Englishman, who still held the c.o.c.ked pistol.