The Gray Dawn

S >> Stewart Edward White >> The Gray Dawn

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It was a point of professional pride with a lawyer to get his client free.
Indeed, to fail would be equivalent to losing a very easy game. The whole
battery of technical delays, demurrers, etc., was at his command; a much
larger battery than even the absurd criminal courts of our present day can
muster. Delays to allow the dispersal of witnesses were easily arranged
for, as were changes of venue to courts either prejudiced in favour of the
strict interpretation of "law" or frankly venal. Of shadier expedients,
such as packing juries, there seemed no end.

Your honourable, high-minded lawyers--which meant the well-dressed and
prosperous--had nothing to do with such dirty work; that is, directly.
There were plenty of lawyers not so honourable and high minded called in as
"counsel." These little lawyers, shoulder strikers, bribe givers and
takers, were held in good-humoured contempt by the legal stars--who
employed them! Actual dishonesty was diluted through a number of men.
Packing a jury was a fine art. Initially was needed connivance at the
sheriff's office. Hence lawyers, as a class, were in politics. Neither the
stellar lawyer nor the sheriff knew any of the details of the transaction.
A sum of money went to the former's "counsel" as expenses, and emerged,
considerably diminished, in the sheriff's office as "perquisites." It had
gone from the counsel to somebody like Mex Ryan, from him to various plug-
uglies, ward heelers, shoulder strikers, from them to one or another of the
professional jurymen, and then on the upward curve through the sheriff's
underlings who made out the jury lists to Webb himself. The thing was done.

In this tortuous way many influences were needed. The most honest lawyer's
limit as to the queer things he would do depended on his individual
conscience. It is extraordinary what long training and the moral support of
a whole profession will do toward educating a conscience. Do not despise
unduly the lawyers of that day. We have all of us good friends in the legal
profession who will defend in court a criminal they know to be guilty as
charged. They will urge that no man should go undefended; and will argue
themselves into a belief that in such a case "defence" means not merely
fair play, but a desperate effort to get him off anyhow--trained
conscience. If such sophistries are sincerely believed by honest men
nowadays, it cannot be wondered at that queerer sophistries passed current
in a community not five years old. It was difficult to draw the line
between the men who mistakenly believed themselves honest and those who
knew themselves dishonest.

But once in politics there could be no end. In this field the law rubbed
shoulders with big contracts, big operations. A city was being built, in a
few years, out of nothing, by a busy, careless, and shifting population.
The opportunities for making money on public works--either honestly or by
jobbery--were almost unlimited. The mood of the times was extravagant. From
the still unexhausted placers poured a flood of gold, hard money, tangible
wealth; and a large percentage of it paused in San Francisco, changed hands
before continuing its journey. Immigrants brought with them a lesser but
still significant sum. Money was easy. People could and would pay high
taxes without a thought, for they would rather pay well to be let alone
than bother with public affairs. The city treasury should have been full to
bursting. In addition, the municipality was rich in its real estate. The
value of all land had gone up immensely; any time more cash was needed it
could quickly be raised by the sale of public lots. The supply seemed
inexhaustible.

Like hyenas to a kill the public contractors gathered. Immense public works
were undertaken at enormous prices. Paving, sewers, grading, filling,
lighting, wharves, buildings Were all voted; and the work completed in the
quickest, flimsiest, most slipshod fashion; and at terrible prices. The
Graham House, a pretentious frail structure that had failed as a hotel
because a swamp lay between it and the city, was bought at a huge price to
serve as city hall. It was a veritable white elephant, and even the busy
populace spared time to grumble at the flagrant steal. Nobody knew what it
would cost to make the thing habitable even. Soon, to every one's relief,
it burned down. The property was then swindled over to Peter Smith. The
Jenny Lind Theatre, an impossible, ramshackle structure, was purchased over
the vigorous protest of every decent citizen, for the enormous sum of
$300,000. Another $100,000 was alleged to have been spent in remodelling
and furnishing it. Then it was solemnly declared "unsuited to the purpose."
It also burned down in one of the numerous fires. But the money was safe!

To get such deals as these through "legally" it was of course necessary
that officials, councilmen, engineers, etc., should be sympathetic.
Naturally the big operators, as well as the big lawyers, had to go into
politics. Elections came soon to be so many farces. In some wards no decent
citizen dared show his face. "Shoulder strikers" were openly hired for
purposes of intimidation. Bribery was scarcely concealed. And if things
looked doubtful, there were always the election inspectors and judges in
reserve who could be relied upon to make things come out right in the final
count. The proper men were always returned as elected. If violence or fraud
were alleged, lawyers always got the accused off in a strictly legal
manner.

In these matters, it must be repeated, no opprobrium ever rested on either
the big lawyers or the big operators. "Expenses" went to the underlings,
and after some mysterious subterranean manipulation, of which the big
fellows remained blandly unconscious, results came back.

In the world of public works Keith rapidly made himself a position. He was
leading counsel for Dick Blatchford and one or two others. His job was to
know all the rules of the game so well that there were no comebacks; to set
the machinery in motion by which the contracts were procured; and to
straighten out any irregularities that might arise afterward. His position
was almost academic. The matters he fought and decided were so detached
from actuality, as far as he was concerned, that they might have been
hypothetical cases. When Dick wanted anything specific, Keith instructed
Patsy Corrigan to see that the proper officials awarded the contract. If
the matter ever came to the courts, Keith furnished the brains and Patsy
somehow "saw" the sheriff and whoever was necessary from the mysterious
underworld. Everybody was doing the same thing. In the minds of men profits
of any sort were legitimate provided they were "legal," but especially
against so vague an entity as a community. Civic consciousness had not been
born in them, for the simple reason that the city was constituted perfectly
to suit them. Only when men are dissatisfied with their government do they
seek to become responsible for it. There was no active public opinion
against them. Men were too busy to bother with such things. Occasionally a
fairly vigorous protest against some peculiarly outrageous steal made
itself heard, but the men who made it were either cranks or it was
suspected they had been pinched in some way. They merely represented the
opposition any active man expects.

And every last one of these merry, jovial pirates was inordinately proud of
the ship he was helping to scuttle! That one fact, attentively considered,
explains much.

The city was growing, it was taking on a permanent character. In spite of
waste, shoddy work, and frequent fires, its vitality was triumphant. The
sand hills had all been graded flat, and the material from them had filled
in the water lots of the bay; miles of fireproof brick structures had been
built on four or five streets; there were now a half score of long wharves
instead of one; omnibuses ran everywhere; fine steamers plied to
fashionable watering places about the bay; the planks in the streets were
being replaced by cobblestones; telegraph service had been inaugurated to
San Jose and Sacramento; several new theatres had been built; gas lamps
were being placed about the streets; huge wooden palaces with much
scrollwork ornamentation were being built on Stockton Street and the Rincon
Hill. All these things, as well as the climate, the mines, the agricultural
resources, the commerce, the scenery, were fully appreciated and
enthusiastically made the most of by every mother's son. Any man among them
was ready at a moment's notice to wax enthusiastic about the resources and
the future of the place. They were "boosters" in the modern acceptation of
the term.

XXIX

In this eager, fast-living, nervous, high-strung man's world Keith took to
himself a prominent part. He was so fully-occupied in other directions that
his practice did not lead him into criminal law, so he missed an influence
that must have either ended by blunting or repelling him. He corresponded
to what nowadays would be called a corporation lawyer. His clients were
few, but wealthy, powerful, and remunerative; his cases were subtle and
hard fought, He enjoyed the intricate game for its own sake, and he enjoyed
his success in it. In the inevitable give and take of a complicated world
he knew, of course, of shady doings beneath; but he was not personally
involved; he accepted them as part of the make-up of society, human nature,
the medium--of work.

But Nan was necessarily left more and more to her own devices. And,
further, she was left alone without even the preoccupation furnished her
domestic side by such an affair as that with Mrs. Morrell. She knew that
Keith was wholly absorbed in his business. She was loyal to his unexpressed
idea that in these propitious beginnings he must devote all his energies to
his career. She was loyal to his preoccupation. It was the only way in
which she could help. And yet, without being given cause for grievance, she
was temporarily thrust outside his life, put in cold storage, as it were,
until she should be wanted. He bolted immediately after breakfast; often he
did not come home to lunch; was quite likely to go out again in the
evening.

It followed that Nan had to make her own life out of the materials at hand.
This was at first difficult, for all the materials were novel to her.
Gradually, however, she fitted herself into the social transformation that
was taking place.

Heretofore, society had not existed. Now, vaguely, it was beginning to take
coherence and form. A transition period was on. The "nobs" were evolving
from chaos. People of the fast Morrell type were losing their influence and
ascendency, were being pushed aside to the fringes by the more "solid"
elements. Wealth and arrogant dignity were coming into their innings.
Formal functions, often on an elaborate scale, were taking the place of the
harum-scarum informal parties. There came up some questions of social
leadership. In short, social life was developing into the usual game.
Lacking other interests, Nan found it amused her to play at it, to contend
with the leaders, to form alliances, to declare war, to assume by right and
talent her place among the best.

This pleased Keith. Social standing helped him in business; and he enjoyed
the sight of his beautiful young wife queening it serenely over the city's
best. He was always eager to advance money for new gowns or expensive
parties. At first he went out with her, but soon found that three o'clock
in the morning meant a next day's brain dulled of its keenest edge. But he
would not hear of her staying at home on his account.

"I'm tired, and I'm going to bed right away," he told her. "You go and
uphold the splendour of the family. Get Ben to take you."

Ben Sansome was to Keith a tremendous convenience. He was the only idle man
in town, always on tap, ready to stay out any and every night until the
cocks crowed. Why shouldn't he? He had nothing to do all next day, except,
perhaps, to decide which stick he should carry! With a busy man's good-
humoured contempt for the mere idler, Keith looked upon Sansome as a
harmless household-pet sort of person; good natured, accommodating,
pleasant to talk to, good looking, foppish in dress, but beneath any
serious human being's notice. Sansome was on easy terms of intimacy with
the Keiths. It was mighty good of him to look out for Nan. If he did not,
Keith would have to.

In this formative period Ben Sansome was, however, a very important figure
in the woman's world. Social construction was a ticklish matter. There were
so many things to be decided; small items of etiquette, the "proper thing"
--procedure, decorations, good form, larger matters as to whether so-and-so
should be received, and if so, how extensively. Ben Sansome was past master
of such things. He was the only man in town who knew--or cared--how to
"draw lines." He became truly a modern _arbiter elegantiarum_. For San
Francisco had begun in real earnest to "draw lines."

They were rather strange lines at times. Of course such people as the
Brannans, Montgomerys, Terrys, Bushs, Bakers, Caldwells, and other "old
families" (three or four years old), went without saying. Also were
included the greater merchants and their feminine representatives, such as
Palmer, Cook, Adams, Wilkins, and the like. Also there seemed to be a solid
foundation of those respectable and powerful with plenty of wealth--"but
hopeless, my dear, absolutely hopeless!" groaned some of the livelier
members.

Lightning struck capriciously at those on whom this new society might
frown, on those who as lately as last year had ridden the crest of the
wave. For example, it spared Sally Warner, with her spotted veils drawn
close around her face, her red belts, and her red tufts on her small
toques, but it blasted the Morrells. Mrs. Morrell clung tenaciously to the
outskirts, but she knew only too well that she did not "belong." In her
heart she ascribed this fact to Mrs. Keith. This was unjust, but it added
to her bitterness against her neighbours.

Perhaps her suspicions were not unnatural, for Nan won easily in this game.
She was undoubtedly the social leader. It seemed eminently fitting that,
lacking her husband, she should go out much with Ben Sansome. Most women
thought her lucky to have acquired so valuable a social acquisition. Some
people, like fat, coarse, sensible Mrs. Dick Blatchford, were a little
doubtful.

"Shucks!" snorted Sally Warner, slapping her little riding boot dashingly
with her latest novelty, an English hunting crop, "Nan Keith impresses me
as one who knows her way about. And, anyway, as long as Mr. Keith is
satisfied, I'm sure we should be!"

XXX

To his surprise Ben Sansome found himself warming to what he considered a
real passion. At least it was as real a passion as he was capable of
feeling. Sansome had always been spoiled. Accustomed as he was to easy
conquests, especially of late among the faster San Francisco women of the
early days, Nan Keith's very aloofness attracted him. She dwelt in a serene
atmosphere of unsuspicion, going about freely with him, taking their right
relations for granted, and not thinking about them. Contemplating this,
Sansome was clever enough to see that, a false move at the wrong time would
do for him. Therefore, he occupied himself at first merely in making
himself useful. He accepted Keith's role for him, becoming the friend of
the family, dropping in often and informally, happening on the spot at just
the right time to relieve Keith of the necessity of escorting Nan to this
or that tea or ball. So well did he play his part that at last there came a
time when Keith said:

"I'm dead tired to-night, Nan. Seems as if I couldn't stand chatter. Can't
you send a note around to Ben and see if he can't get you there and back?"

This came to be a regular thing. If Sansome did not happen to be there, he
was sent for. And his engagements were never such that he failed to accept.

He and Keith called each other by their given names; but even after a close
intimacy had been established, he never addressed Nan by hers.

"You sound very formal," she hinted to him at last.

"To me the privilege of calling you by your 'little name' is so great an
evidence of friendship, that it actually seems like flaunting that
friendship to call you so before others" he replied.

Always after that he called her "Nan" when they were alone together, but
"Mrs. Keith" when a third, even Keith himself, was present. In that way
their tete-a-tetes were marked off a little. When alone with her he
maintained the pose of one struggling manfully against tremendous
temptations held back only by her sweet influence. But he never overdid it.
As they came to know each other better, he talked ever the more freely of
men's mysterious temptations. Nan could not define to herself exactly what
they might be.

"Yesterday I couldn't see you," he told her. "I struggled with myself all
day. Good God, what does a woman like you know of a man's weaknesses and
temptations--But I conquered."

Nan was uneasy. She did not know quite what it was all about, but her
instincts warned her.

"I am glad," she replied; and went on hastily, "but you must tell me what
you think about having the tea served in the arbour on the seventh, I've
been dying to ask you."

With an obvious effort to be cheerful about this fresh subject, he wrenched
himself into a new mood. They consulted on the party for the seventh. He
broke off abruptly to say: "Do you know you're an extraordinary person--but
you are!" he overrode her protests. "Don't I know the ordinary kind? Women
have a deep strength of their own that men cannot understand."

He stayed only a few minutes after that. On parting he for the first time
permitted himself a lingering gaze into her eyes as he reluctantly
relinquished her hand. She turned away, distinctly uneasy. Yet so skilfully
had he woven, his illusion of dependence on her that she shook it off with
a tender and maternal smile.

"Poor boy," she murmured. "He is so unhappy and alone!"

Sansome was an accomplished equestrian. Finding that Nan knew nothing
whatever about riding, he procured her a gentle horse, and took the
greatest trouble and pleasure in teaching her. She proved apt, for she had
good natural control of her body. After the first uncertainty and the first
stiffness had worn off, she delighted in long rides toward different parts
of the peninsula. Gringo, now a full-grown dog inclining toward the
shepherd more than anything else, delighted in them, too. He ranged far and
wide in front of the horses, exploring every ditch and thicket, wallowing
happily in every mudhole, returning occasionally to roll his comical eyes
at them as though to say, "Aren't we having a good time?" for Gringo was a
dog with a sense of humour. On these excursions she renewed acquaintance
with the sand dunes, and the little canons with birds, and the broad beach
at low tide on which it was glorious to gallop. Once or twice they even
stopped at the little rancho where the Keiths had lunched. There Nan,
through Sansome, who talked Spanish, was able to communicate with her
kindly hosts; and Gringo met his honoured but rather snappy mother. The
mother disowned him utterly. As the days grew shorter they often rode on
the Presidio hills, watching the sun set beyond the Golden Gate.

One such evening they had reined up their horses atop one of the hills next
the Gate. The sun had set somewhere beyond the headlands. Tamalpais was
deep pink with the glow; the water in the Gate was pale lilac; the sky
close to the horizon burned orange, but above turned to a pale green that
made with its lucent colour alone infinite depths and spaces. Below, the
darker waters twisted and turned with the tide. The western headlands were
black silhouettes.

"Oh, but it is beautiful!" she said at last.

"Yes, it is beautiful," he agreed somberly; "but when one is lonely,
somehow it hurts."

There ensued a short, tense silence, broken only by the soft rolling of the
bit wheels in the horses' mouths.

"Yes," she agreed softly, after a moment, "I feel that, too. Yet sometimes
I wonder if one doesn't see and feel more keenly when one is not too
happy--" She hesitated.

"Yes, yes! Go on!" he urged in a low voice. His tone, his attitude,
suddenly seemed to envelop her with understanding. He appeared to offer her
aid, chivalrous aid, although no word was spoken. She had not quite meant
it that way; in fact, her thought was to offer _him_ sympathy. But somehow
it was grateful. It would do no harm to enjoy it, secretly, for a moment.
His unexpressed sympathy--for what she would have been unable to say--was
attractive to her isolation.

Often on returning from these rides she asked him in for a cup of tea.
Occasionally, when she was overheated, or damp from the fog, she would
excuse herself and slip into a soft negligee. With lamp and fire lit they
made a very cozy tete-a-tete. He smoked contemplatively; she stitched at
the inevitable embroidery of the period. Occasionally they talked
animatedly; quite as frequently they sat in sociable silence. Gringo slept
by the fire dreaming of rabbits and things, his hind legs twitching as he
triumphantly ran them down. One evening she caught sight of a rip in the
sewing of his tobacco pouch. In spite of his protests, she insisted on
sewing it up for him. She was conscious of his eyes on her while she plied
the needle, and felt somehow very feminine and sure of her power.

"There!" she cried, when she had finished. "You certainly do need somebody
to take care of you!"

He took it without spoken thanks, and put it slowly away in his pocket--as
though, he would have kissed it. A pregnant silence followed, he sitting
staring at her, she jabbing the needle idly into the arm of her chair.
Suddenly, as though taking a tremendous resolution, he spoke:

"Nan, I am going to ask you a question. You must not be offended. Do you
really love your husband?" At her hasty movement he hurried on: "I imagine
I feel something unsatisfied about you--besides, lots of women don't."

As he probably expected, her indignation was thoroughly aroused. He took
his castigation and dismissal meekly, and found some interest in the
ensuing negotiations toward reconciliation. No one knew better than he how
to sue for forgiveness. But he was quite satisfied to have implanted the
idea, for Ben Sansome was content with slow coral-insect progress. A busy
man, engaged in men's occupations, would never have had the patience for
this leisurely establishment of atmosphere and influence; his impatience or
passion would have betrayed him to an early outbreak. But with Sansome it
was the practice of a fine art. He knew just how far to go. No one could
more skilfully ingratiate himself in small ways. He always knew what gown
she should wear or had worn, and always commented appreciatively on what
she had on. Keith merely knew vaguely whether she looked well or ill.
Sansome noticed and praised little things--her well-shod feet, the red
lights in her hair, an unusual flower in her belt. He knew every hat she
owned, and he had his well-marked preferences. He never made direct love,
nor attempted to touch her. She felt the growing attraction, enjoyed it,
but did not analyze it. She merely considered Ben Sansome as "nice," as
needing guidance, as romantic----

Occasionally, after seeing more than usual of him, some feeling of reaction
or some faint stirring of conscience would impel her--perhaps to convince
herself of the harmlessness of it all--to make an especial effort to draw
her husband out of his preoccupation into more human relations. She dressed
with great care, earlier than usual; she gathered flowers for the vases,
she fussed about lighting lamps, placing ash trays and chairs, generally
arranging the setting for his welcome home. The preparations kindled her
own enthusiasm. She became herself quite worked up in anticipation. When
she heard his step, she ran to meet him in the hall. Keith happened to be
tired to the point of exhaustion.

"Good heavens!" was his comment; "are we having company to-night? Why all
the clothes and illumination?"

His relaxed, dispirited manner of removing and hanging up his coat reacted
upon her instantly. Her high spirits sank to the depths. They ate their
meal in almost complete silence. Nan could not help visualizing Sansome's
appreciation of such an occasion.

XXXI

The new coherence in society began to manifest itself in one important way:
public gambling declined. In the "old days" it was said that everybody but
clergymen frequented the big gambling halls. They were a sort of club. But
now the most influential citizens began to stay away. Probably they gambled
as much as ever, but they took such pleasures in private. Two or three only
of the larger places remained in business. Save for them, open gambling was
confined to the low dives near the water front. There was no definite
movement against the practice. It merely fell off gradually.

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