Sleeping Fires: A Novel | Page 2

to one Madeleine Chilton of Boston.
Many high hopes had centered in Dr. Talbot. He was only forty,
good-looking, with exuberant spirits, and well on the road to fortune.
He had been surrounded in San Francisco by beautiful and vivacious
girls, but had always proclaimed himself a man's man, avowed he had
seen too much of babies and "blues," and should die an old bachelor.
Besides he loved them all; when he did not damn them roundly, which
he sometimes did to their secret delight.
And now he not only had affronted them by marrying some one he
probably never had seen before, but he had taken a Northern wife; he
had not even had the grace to go to his native South, if he must marry
an outsider; he had gone to Boston--of all places!
San Francisco Society in the Sixties was composed almost entirely of
Southerners. Even before the war it had been difficult for a Northerner
to obtain entrance to that sacrosanct circle; the exceptions were due to
sheer personality. Southerners were aristocrats. The North was plebeian.
That was final. Since the war, Victorious North continued to admit
defeat in California. The South had its last stronghold in San Francisco,
and held it, haughty, unconquered, inflexible.
That Dr. Talbot, who was on a family footing in every home in San
Francisco, should have placed his friends in such a delicate position (to
say nothing of shattered hopes) was voted an outrage, and at Mrs.

McLane's on that former Sunday afternoon, there had been no pretence
at indifference. The subject was thoroughly discussed. It was possible
that the creature might not even be a lady. Had any one ever heard of a
Boston family named Chilton? No one had. They knew nothing of
Boston and cared less. But the best would be bad enough.
It was more likely however that the doctor had married some obscure
person with nothing in her favor but youth, or a widow of practiced
wiles, or--horrid thought--a divorcee.
He had always been absurdly liberal in spite of his blue Southern blood;
and a man's man wandering alone at the age of forty was almost
foredoomed to disaster. No doubt the poor man had been homesick and
lonesome.
Should they receive her or should they not? If not, would they lose their
doctor. He would never speak to one of them again if they insulted his
wife. But a Bostonian, a possible nobody! And homely, of course.
Angular. Who had ever heard of a pretty woman raised on beans,
codfish, and pie for breakfast?
Finally Mrs. McLane had announced that she should not make up her
mind until the couple arrived and she sat in judgment upon the woman
personally. She would call the day after they docked in San Francisco.
If, by any chance, the woman were presentable, dressed herself with
some regard to the fashion (which was more than Mrs. Abbott and
Guadalupe Hathaway did), and had sufficient tact to avoid the subject
of the war, she would stand sponsor and invite her to the first reception
in the house on Rincon Hill.
"But if not," she said grimly--"well, not even for Howard Talbot's sake
will I receive a woman who is not a lady, or who has been divorced. In
this wild city we are a class apart, above. No loose fish enters our quiet
bay. Only by the most rigid code and watchfulness have we formed and
preserved a society similar to that we were accustomed to in the old
South. If we lowered our barriers we should be submerged. If Howard
Talbot has married a woman we do not find ourselves able to associate
with in this intimate little society out here on the edge of the world, he

will have to go."

II
Mrs. McLane had called on Mrs. Talbot. That was known to all San
Francisco, for her carriage had stood in front of the Occidental Hotel
for an hour. Kind friends had called to offer their services in setting the
new house in order, but were dismissed at the door with the brief
announcement that Mrs. McLane was having the blues. No one wasted
time on a second effort to gossip with their leader; it was known that
just so often Mrs. McLane drew down the blinds, informed her
household that she was not to be disturbed, disposed herself on the sofa
with her back to the room and indulged in the luxury of blues for three
days. She took no nourishment but milk and broth and spoke to no one.
Today this would be a rest cure and was equally beneficial. When the
attack was over Mrs. McLane would arise with a clear complexion,
serene nerves, and renewed strength for social duties. Her friends knew
that