CHAPTER I
HIS SPLENDID DAUGHTER
“Hast thou found me, O mine enemy?”
—KINGS.
Four months after the death of Dan Moreau his adopted daughter, Mariposa, sat at the piano, in a small cottage on Pine Street, in San Francisco, singing. Her performance was less melodious than remarkable, for she was engaged in “trying her voice.” This was Mariposa’s greatest claim to distinction, and, she hoped, to fortune. With it she dreamed of conquering fame and bringing riches to her mother and herself.
She was so far from either of these goals that she permitted herself to speculate on them as one does on impossible glories. The merits of her voice were as unknown in San Francisco as she was. Its cultivation had been a short and exciting episode, relinquished for lack of means. Now it was not only given up, but Mariposa was teaching piano herself, and was feverishly exalted when, the week before, her three pupils had been augmented by a fourth. Four pupils, at fifty cents a lesson, brought in four dollars a week—sixteen a month.
“If I make sixteen dollars a week after four months’ work,” Mariposa had said to her mother, on the acquisition of this fourth pupil, “then in one year I ought to make thirty-two dollars a month. Don’t you think that’s a reasonable way of reckoning?”
From which it will be seen that Mariposa was not only young in years, but a novice at the work of wage-earning.
She was in reality twenty-five years of age, but passed as, and believed herself to be, twenty-four. She had developed into one of those lordly women, stately of carriage, wide of shoulder and deep of breast, that California grows so triumphantly. She had her mother’s thick, red-brown hair, with its flat loose ripple and the dog’s brown eyes to match, a skin as white as a blanched almond with a slight powdering of freckles over her nose, and lips that were freshly red and delicately defined against the warm pallor surrounding them. She was, in fact, a beautified likeness of the Lucy that Moreau saw come gropingly back to youth and desirableness in the cabin on the flank of the Sierra. Only happiness and refinement and a youth passed in an atmosphere of love, had given her all that richness of girlhood, that effervescent confidence and joy of youth that poor Lucy had never known.
Despite her air of a young princess, her proudly-held head, her almost Spanish dignity, where only her brown eyes looked full of alertness and laughter, she was in character and knowledge of life foolishly young—in reality, a little girl masquerading in the guise of a triumphantly maturing womanhood. Her life had been one of quietude and seclusion. Her parents had been agreed in their desire for this; the father in the fear of a reëncounter with some phantom from the past. Lucy’s ostensible reason was her own delicate health; but her dread was that Shackleton might see his child and claim her. It seemed impossible to the adoring mother that any father could see this splendid daughter and not rise up and call her his before all men.
The afternoon was cold and Mariposa wore a jacket as she sang. The cottage in Pine Street was all that a cottage ought not to be,—on the wrong side of the street, “too far out,” cold, badly built, and with only one window to catch the western sun. It had one advantage which went a long way with the widow and her daughter—the rent was twenty dollars a month. Mariposa had paid ten dollars of this with her earnings, and kept the other six for pocket-money. But the happy day was dawning, so she thought, when she could pay the whole twenty. She cogitated on this and the affluence it would indicate, as her real father might have cogitated when he and the inner ring of his associates began to realize that the Reydel Monte was not a pocket, but a solid mound of mineral.
On this gray afternoon the cold little parlor, with its bulge of bay window looking out on the dreariness of the street, seemed impregnated with an air of dejection. In common with many poor dwellings in that city of extravagant reverses, it was full of the costly relics of better days. San Francisco has more of such parlors than any city in the country. The pieces of buhl and marquetry hiding their shame in twenty-dollar cottages and eighteen-dollar flats furnish pathetic commentary on many a story of fallen fortunes. The furniture looks abashed and humbled. Sometimes its rich designs have found a grateful seclusion under the dust of a quarter century, which finally will be removed by the restoring processes of the second-hand dealer, who will eventually become its owner.
There was a beautiful marquetry sideboard in the gray front parlor and a fine scarlet lacquer Chinese cabinet facing it. Moreau had had the tall, gilt-framed mirror and console brought round The Horn from New York when he had been in the flush of good times in Sacramento. The piano Mariposa was playing dated from a second period of prosperity, and had cost what would have now kept them for a year. It had been considered cheap at the time, and had been bought when the little Mariposa began to show musical tastes. She had played her first “pieces” on it, and in that halcyon period when she had had the singing lessons, had heard the big voice in her chest slowly shaking itself loose to the accompaniment of its encouraging notes.
Now she was singing in single tones, from note to note, higher and higher, then lower and lower. Her voice was a mezzo, with a “break” in the middle, below which it had a haunting, bell-like depth. As it went down it gained a peculiar emotional quality which seemed to thrill with passion and tears. As it began to ascend it was noticeable that her upper tones, though full, were harsh. There was astounding volume in them. It was evidently a big voice, a thing of noble promise, but now crude and unmanageable.
She emitted a loud vibrant note that rolled restlessly between the four walls, as if in an effort to find more space wherein to expand, and her hands fell upon the keys. In the room opening off the parlor there was an uncertain play of light from an unseen fire, and a muffled shape lying on the sofa. To this she now addressed a query in a voice in which dejection was veiled by uneasy inquiry:
“Well, does it seem to improve? Or is it still like a cow when she’s lost her calf?”
“It’s wonderfully improved,” came the answer from the room beyond; “I don’t think any one sings like you. Anyway, no one has such a powerful voice.”
“No one howls so, you mean! Oh, mother, do you suppose I ever shall be able to take any more lessons?”
“Oh, yes, of course. We are in a large city now. Even if you don’t make enough money yourself, there are often people who become interested in fine voices and educate them. Perhaps you’ll meet one of them some day. And anyway—” with cheerfulness caught on the upward breath of a sigh—“you’ll make money enough soon yourself.”
Mariposa’s head bent over the keys. When she came to view it this way, her sixteen dollars a month did not seem so big with promise as it did when ten dollars for rent was all it had to yield up.
“I’ve heard about those rich people who are looking for prima donnas to develop, but I don’t know where to find them, and I don’t see how they’re to find me. The only way I can ever attract their notice is to sing on the street corner with a guitar, like Rachel. And then I’d have to have a license, and I’ve got no money for that.”
She rose, and swept with the gait of a queen into the next room. Her mother was lying on a sofa drawn closely to a tiny grate, in which a handful of fire flickered.
Lucy was still a pretty woman, with a thin, faded delicacy of aspect. Her skin was singularly white, especially on her hands, which were waxen. Though love and happiness had given her back her youth, her health had never recovered her child’s rude birth in the desert and the subsequent journey across the Sierra. She had twined round and clung to the man whom she had called her husband, and with his loss she was slowly sinking out of the world his presence had made sweet for her. Her daughter—next in adoration to the hero who had succored her in her hour of extremity—had no power to hold her. Lucy was slowly fading out of life. The girl had no knowledge of this. Her mother had been a semi-invalid for several years, and her own youth was so rich in its superb vigor, that she did not notice the elder woman’s gradual decline of vitality. But the mother knew, and her nights were wakeful and agonized with the thought of her child, left alone, poor and unfriended.
Mariposa sat down on the end of the sofa at the invalid’s feet and took one of her hands. She had loved both parents deeply, but the fragile mother, so simple and unworldly, so dependent on affection for her being, was the object of her special devotion. They were silent, the girl with an abstracted glance fixed on the fire, meditating on the future of her voice; the mother regarding her with pensive admiration.
As they sat thus, a footfall on the steps outside broke upon their thoughts. The cottage was so built that one of its conveniences was, that one could always hear the caller or the man with the bill mounting the steps before he rang. The former were rarer than the latter, and Mariposa, in whose eventless life a visit from any one was a thing of value, pricked up her ears expectantly.
The bell pealed stridently and the servant could be heard rattling pans in the kitchen, evidently preparatory to emerging. Presently she came creaking down the hall, the door opened and a female voice was heard asking for the ladies. It was a visitor. Mariposa was glad she had stayed in that afternoon, and with her hand still clasping her mother’s, craned her neck toward the door.
The visitor was a tall, thin woman of forty years, her cheaply fashionable dress telling of many a wrestle between love of personal adornment and a lean purse. She was one of those slightly known and unquestioningly accepted people that women, in the friendless and unknown condition of the Moreaus, constantly meet in the free and easy social life of western cities.
She was a Mrs. Willers, long divorced from a worthless husband, and supporting, with a desperate and gallant courage, herself and her child, who was one of Mariposa’s piano pupils. Her appearance gave no clue to the real force and indomitable bravery of the woman, who, against blows and rebuffs, had fought her way with a smile on her lips. Her appearance and manner, especially in this, her society pose, were against her. The former was flashy and over-dressed, the latter loud-voiced and effusive. A large hat, flaunting with funeral plumes, was set jauntily on one side of her head, and a spotted veil was drawn over a complexion that was carelessly made up. Her corsets were so long and so tight that she could hardly bend, and when she did they emitted protesting creaks. No one would have thought from her flamboyantly stylish get-up that she was a reporter and “special” writer on Jake Shackleton’s newly-acquired paper, The Morning Trumpet! But in reality she was an energetic and able journalist. It was only when adorned with her best clothes and her “society” manners that she affected a sort of gushing silliness.
“Well,” she said, rustling in, “here’s the lady! How’s everybody? Just as cozy and cute as a doll’s house.”
She pressed Mrs. Moreau’s hand and then sent an eagle glance—the glance of the reporter that is trained to take in every salient object in one sweep—about the room. She could have written a good description of it from that moment’s survey.
“Better? Of course you’re better,” she interrupted Lucy, who had been speaking of improved health. “Don’t San Francisco cure everybody? And daughter there?” her bright tired eye rested on Mariposa for one inspecting moment. “She looks nice enough to eat.”
“Mariposa’s always well,” said Lucy, pressing the hand she still held. “She was always a prize child ever since she was a baby.”
Mrs. Willers leaned back and folded her white-gloved hands over her creaking waist.
“You know she’s the handsomest thing I’ve seen in a coon’s age,” she said, nodding her head at Mariposa. “There ain’t a girl in society that compares to her.”
Lucy smiled indulgently at her daughter. Mariposa, though embarrassed, was not displeased by these sledge-hammer compliments. They were a novelty to her, and she regarded Mrs. Willers—despite a few peculiarities of style—as a woman of vast knowledge and experience in that wonderful world of gaiety and fashion, of which she herself knew so little.
“I go to most of the big balls here,” continued the visitor. “It’s always the same thing on The Trumpet—‘Send up Mrs. Willers to the Cotillion Club to-night; we don’t want any other reporter but her. If you send up any of those other jay women we’ll turn ’em down.’ So up I have to hop. The other night at the Lorley’s big blow-out, when Genevieve Lorley had her début, it was the same old war-cry—‘We want Mrs. Willers to-night to do the Society, and don’t try and work off any incompetents on us. Send her up early so’s Mrs. Lorley can give her the dresses herself.’ So up I went, and was in the dressing-room for an hour and saw ’em all, black and white and brown, heiresses and beggars, and not one of ’em, Mrs. Moreau, to touch daughter here—not one.”
“But there are so many beautiful girls in San Francisco. Mariposa has seen them on the cars and down town. She often tells me of them.”
“Beauties—yes, lots of ’em; dead loads of ’em. But there’s a lot that get their beauty out of boxes and bottles. There’s a lot—I don’t say who, I’m not one to mention names—but there’s a lot that when they go to bed the beauty all comes off and lies in layers on the floor. Not that I blame them—make yourself as good-looking as you can, that’s my motto. It’s every woman’s duty. But you don’t want to begin so young. I rouge myself,” said Mrs. Willers, with the careless truthfulness of one whose reputation is beyond attack, “but I don’t like it in a young girl.”
“Who was the prettiest girl at the ball?” said Mariposa, deeply interested. She had the curiosity of seventeen on such subjects—subjects of which her girlhood had been unusually barren.
“My dear, I’ll tell you all that later—talk for an hour if you can stand it. But that’s not what I came to say to-day. It’s business to-day—real business, and I don’t know but what all your future hangs on it.”
She gave a triumphant look at the startled mother and daughter. With the introduction of serious matter her worn face took on a certain sharp intelligence and her language grew more masculine and less slovenly.
“It’s this,” she said, leaning forward impressively: “I’m not sure that I haven’t found Mariposa’s backer.”
“Backer,” said Lucy, faintly, finding the word objectionable. “What’s that?”
“The person who’s to hear her sing and offer to educate the finest voice he’s likely to hear in the next ten years.”
Mariposa gave a suppressed exclamation and looked at her mother. Lucy had paled. She was trembling at what she felt she was to hear.
“It’s Jake Shackleton,” said Mrs. Willers, proudly launching her bombshell.
“Jake Shackleton,” breathed Mariposa, to whom the name meant only vaguely fabulous wealth. “The Bonanza Man?”
Lucy was sitting up, deadly pale, but she said nothing.
“The Bonanza Man,” said Mrs. Willers. “My chief.”
“But what does he know of me?” said Mariposa. “He’s never even heard of me.”
“That’s where you’re off, my dear. Jake Shackleton’s heard of everybody. He has every one ticketed and put away in some little cell in his brain. He never forgets a face. Some people say that’s one of the secrets of his success; that, and the way he knows the man or woman who’s going to get on and the one who’s going to fall out of the procession and quit at the first obstacle. He’s got no use for those people. Get up and hustle, or get out—that’s his motto.”
“But about me?” Mariposa entreated. “Go on.”
“Well, it’s a queer story, anyhow. The other morning I was sent for to the sanctum. There was a little talk about work and then he says to me, ‘Didn’t you tell me your daughter was taking piano lessons, Mrs. Willers?’ Never forgets a word you say. I told him yes; and he says: ‘Isn’t her teacher that Miss Moreau, whose father died a few months ago in Santa Barbara?’ I told him yes again, and then he wheels round on the swivel chair, looks at me so, from under his eyebrows, and says: ‘I knew her father once; a fine man!’”
“Oh, how odd,” breathed Mariposa, quivering with interest. “I never heard father speak of him.”
“It was a long time ago. He knew your father up in the mines some time in the fifties, and he said he admired him considerably. Then he went on and asked me a lot of questions about you, your circumstances, where you lived and if you were as good-looking as your father. He said he’d heard you were an accomplished young lady. Then I saw my cue and I said, as carelessly as you please, that Miss Moreau had a fine voice and plenty of musical ability, but unfortunately was not able to cultivate either, because her means were small, and it was a great pity some one with money didn’t help her. I says—just as casual as could be—it’s a great shame to see a voice like that lying idle for want of tuition.”
“What did he say then?” said Mariposa.
“Well, that’s the point I’m working up to. He thought a while, asked a few more questions, and then said: ‘I’d like to meet the young lady and hear her sing. It goes against me to have Dan Moreau’s daughter lack for anything. Her father’d have left a fortune if he hadn’t been a man that thought of every one else before himself.’”
“That was father exactly. He must have known him well. Mother, isn’t it odd he never spoke of him? What did you say then?”
“I? Why, of course, I saw my opening and jumped in. I said, ‘Well, I guess I can arrange for you to meet Miss Moreau at my rooms. I see her twice a week when she comes to give Edna her piano lesson. I’ll ask her when she can come, and let you know and then she’ll sing for you.’ He was pleased, he was real pleased, and said he’d come whenever I said. And now, young woman,” laying a large white-gloved hand on Mariposa’s knee, “that ought to be the beginning of a career for you!”
“Good gracious!” said Mariposa, whose cheeks were crimson, “I never heard anything so exciting in my life, and we were just talking about it. I’ll probably sing like a dog baying the moon.”
“Don’t you talk that way. You’ll sing your best. And he’s not a man that you wouldn’t like Mariposa to meet”—turning to the pale and silent Lucy. “Whatever other faults he’s had he’s always been a straight man with women. There’s never been that sort of scandal about Jake Shackleton. There’s a story you’ve probably heard, that he was originally a Mormon. I don’t believe much in that myself. He had, anyway, only one wife when he entered California, and she’s been his wife ever since, and she ain’t the kind to have stood any nonsense of the Mormon sort.”
Lucy gave a sudden gasping breath and sat up. The light of the gray afternoon was dying outside, and by the glow of the fire her unusual pallor was not noticeable.
“It was very good of you,” she said. “Mariposa will be glad to go.”
“And you’ll come, too?” said Mrs. Willers. “He asked about you.”
“Did he say he’d ever known me?” said Lucy, quietly.
“No—not exactly that. No, I don’t believe he said that. But he was interested in you as the wife of the man he’d known so long ago.”
“Of course it would be only in that way,” murmured Lucy, sinking back. “No, I can’t come. It wouldn’t be possible. I’m not well enough.”
“Oh, mother, do. You know you go out on the cars sometimes, and the Sutter Street line is only two blocks from here. I know you’d enjoy it when you got there.”
“No, dearest. No, Mrs. Willers. Don’t, please, urge me. I am not able to meet new people. No— Oh, please don’t talk any more about my going.”
Something of pain and protest in her voice made them desist. She was silent again, while Mariposa and Mrs. Willers arranged the details of the party. This was to be small and choice. Only one other person, a man referred to as Essex, was to come. At the name of Essex, Mrs. Willers shot a side look of inspection at Mariposa, who did what was expected of her in displaying a fine blush.
It was decided that Mrs. Willers’ hospitality should take the form of wine and cake. There was a consultation about other and lesser viands, and finally an animated discussion as to the proper garb in which Mariposa should present herself to the first truly distinguished person she had ever met. During the conversation over these varied questions Lucy lay back among her cushions, sunk in the same pale silence.
Darkness had fallen when the guest, having threshed out the subject to the last grain, took herself off. Mariposa looked from the opened doorway into a black street, dotted with the yellow blurs of lighted lamps. The air was cold with that penetrating, marrow-searching coldness of a foggy evening in San Francisco. As the night swallowed Mrs. Willers, Mariposa shut the door and came rushing back.
“Mother!” she cried, before she got into her room, “isn’t that the most thrilling thing? Oh, did you ever know of anything so unexpected and wonderful and exciting. Do you think he’ll like my voice? Do you think he really could be interested in me because he knew father? And he can’t have known him so very well, or father would have said more of him. Did you ever hear father speak about him?”
The mother gave no answer, and the girl bent over her. Lucy, motionless and white, was lying among her cushions, unconscious.