The Avalanche | Page 2

economical spasm, she sold her car and bought a small electric which
she could drive herself.
Ruyler, little as he liked his mother-in-law, was intensely grateful to
her for the dexterity with which she had adjusted Hélène's mind to the
new condition. She even taught her how to keep books in an elemental
way and balanced them herself on the first of every month. As Hélène
Ruyler had a mind as quick and supple as it was cultivated in les graces,
she soon ceased to feel the chafing of her new harness, although she did
squander the sum she had reserved for three months mere pocket
money upon a hat; which was sent to the house by her wily milliner on
the first day of the second quarter. She confessed this with tears, and
her husband, who thought her feminine passion for hats adorable, dried
her tears and took her to the opening night of a new play. But he did
not furnish the pathetic little gold mesh bag, and as he made her
promise not to borrow, she did not treat her friends to tea or ices at any
of the fashionable rendezvous for a month. Then her native French
thrift came to her aid and she sold a superfluous gold purse, a wedding
present, to an envious friend at a handsome bargain.
That was ancient history now. It was twenty months since Price had
received a bill, and secret inquiries during the past two had satisfied
him that his wife's name was written in the books of no shop in San
Francisco that she would condescend to visit. Therefore, this
maddening but intangible barrier had nothing to do with a change of
habit that had not caused an hour of tears and sulks. Hélène had a quick
temper but a gay and sweet disposition, normally high spirits, little
apparent selfishness, and a naïve adoration of masculine superiority and
strength; altogether, with her high bred beauty and her dignity in public,

an enchanting creature and an ideal wife for a busy man of inherited
social position and no small degree of pride.
But all this lovely equipment was blurred, almost obscured at times, by
the shadow that he was beginning to liken to the San Francisco fogs
that drifted through the Golden Gate and settled down into the deep
hollows of the Marin hills; moving gently but restlessly even there, like
ghostly floating tides. He could see them from his library window,
where he often finished his afternoon's work with his secretaries.
But the fog drifted back to the Pacific, and the shadow that
encompassed his wife did not, or rarely. It chilled their ardors, even
their serene domesticity. She was often as gay and impulsive as ever,
but with abrupt reserves, an implication not only of a new maturity of
spirit, but of watchfulness, even fear. She had once gone so far as to
give voice passionately to the dogma that no two mortals had the right
to be as happy as they were; then laughed apologetically and "guessed"
that the old Puritan spirit of her father's people was coming to life in
her Gallic little soul; then, with another change of mood, added
defiantly that it was time America were rid of its baneful inheritance,
and that she would be happy to-day if the skies fell to-morrow. She had
flung herself into her husband's arms, and even while he embraced her
the eyes of his spirit searched for the girl wife who had fled and left this
more subtly fascinating but incomprehensible creature in her place.
II
The morning was Sunday and he sat in the large window of his library
that overlooked the Bay of San Francisco. The house, which stood on
one of the highest hills, he had bought and remodeled for his bride. The
books that lined these walls had belonged to his Ruyler grandfather,
bought in a day when business men had time to read and it was the
fashion for a gentleman to cultivate the intellectual tracts of his brain.
The portraits that hung above, against the dark paneling, were the work
of his mother's father, one of the celebrated portrait painters of his time,
and were replicas of the eminent and mighty he had painted. Maharajas,
kings, emperors, famous diplomats, men of letters, artists of his own
small class, statesmen and several of the famous beauties of their brief

day; these had been the favorite grandson's inheritance from Masewell
Price, and they made an impressive frieze, unique in the splendid
homes of the city of Ruyler's adoption.
He had brought them from New York when he had decided to live in
California, and hung them in his bachelor quarters. He had soon made
up his mind that he must remain in San Francisco