The Gray Dawn

S >> Stewart Edward White >> The Gray Dawn

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"Is sort of funny," commented John McGlynn sympathetically. "But everything
goes out here."

Nan, aghast at the uncanny perspicacity of the man, choked silently. In her
world there had always been a sort of vague, unexpressed feeling that the
"lower classes" were dull.

They used the horse and buggy a great deal. It was delivered at the hotel
door every morning and taken from the same place every evening. Innumerable
errands downtown for things forgotten kept it busy. At night they returned
to the hotel pretty well tired out. It was a tremendous task, much as they
might be enjoying it.

"Seems to me the more we do the worse it gets," said Keith. "Let's dig some
sort of a hole and move in anyway."

"In a few days," agreed Nan, who as general-in-chief had a much clearer
idea of the actual state of affairs than the dusty private.

X

One morning the accumulated fatigue had its way, and they overslept
scandalously. It was after ten o'clock before they were ready to drive up
the street. As they turned the corner from Kearney Street they were saluted
by the ringing of numerous bells.

"Why, it's Sunday!" cried Keith, after a moment's calculation. In the
unexpectedness of this discovery he reined in the horse.

"It will never do to work to-day," she answered his unspoken thought. "I
suppose we ought to go to church."

But Keith turned the horse's head to the left.

"Church?" he returned with great decision. "We're going on a spree. This is
a day of rest, and we've earned it."

"Where?" asked Nan, a trifle shocked at his implication as to church.

"I haven't the remotest idea," said Keith.

They drove along a plank road leading out of town. It proved to be thronged
with people, all going in the same direction. The shuffle of their feet on
the planks and the murmur of their many voices were punctuated by the
_klop, klop_ of hoofs and occasional shouts of laughter. All races of the
earth seemed to be represented. It was like a Congress of the Nations at
some great exposition. French, Germans, Italians, Russians, Dutchmen,
British, were to be recognized and to be expected. But also were strange
peoples--Turks, Arabs, Negroes, Chinese, Kanakas, East Indians, the
gorgeous members of the Spanish races, and nondescript queer people to whom
neither Nan nor Keith could assign a native habitat. At every step one or
the other called delighted attention to some new exhibit. Most
extraordinary were, possibly, the men from the gold mines of the Sierras,
These were mostly young, but long haired, bearded, rough, wilder than any
mortal man need be. They walked with a wide swagger. Their clothes were
exaggeratedly coarse, but they ornamented themselves with bright silk
handkerchiefs; with feathers, flowers; with squirrel or buck-tails In their
hats; with long heavy chains of nuggets; with glittering and prominently
displayed pistols, revolvers, stilettos, knives, or dirks. Some had plaited
their beards in three tails; others had tied their long hair under their
chins. But even the most bizarre seemed to attract no attention. San
Francisco was accustomed to it.

Indeed, the few fashionable strollers were much more stared at. Most of the
well dressed were in some sort of vehicle. The Keiths saw many buggies like
their own. A few very smart, or rather very ornamental, double rigs dashed
by. In these sat generally good-looking but rather loud young women, who
stared straight ahead with an assumption of supreme indifference. Hacks or
omnibuses careered along. In these the company was generally merry but
mixed, though occasionally a good-looking couple had hired an ordinary
public conveyance. Horsemen and horsewomen were numerous. Some of these
were very dashing indeed, the women with long trailing skirts and high hats
from which floated veils; the men with skin-tight trousers strapped under
varnished boots, and long split-skirted coats. Others were simply plain a-
horseback. The native Californians with their heavy, silver-mounted
saddles, braided rawhide reins and bridles, their sombreros, their
picturesque costumes, and their magnificent fiery horses made a fine
appearance. Occasionally screaming, bouncing Chinese, hanging on with both
hands, would dash by at full speed, their horses quite uncontrolled, their
garments flying, ecstatically scared and happy, causing great confusion,
and pursued by curses.

"Evidently we're headed in the right direction," remarked Keith.

After a drive of two or three miles, never far from the bay they arrived
at what had evidently been a sleepy little village. The original low,
picturesque, red-tiled adobe buildings still clustered about the Mission.
But much had been added. The Keiths found themselves in an immense
confusion. Screaming signs cried everywhere for attention--advertising bear
pits, cock fights, theatrical attractions, side shows, and the like.
Innumerable hotels and restaurants, small, cheap, and tawdry, offered their
hospitality, the liquid part of which was already being widely accepted.
Men were striking pegs with hammers, throwing balls at negroes' heads
thrust through canvas, shooting at targets. A racecourse was surrounded.
Dust rose in choking clouds, and the sun beat down heavily.

"Goodness, what a place!" cried Nan in dismay.

Had they known it, there were many quiet, attractive, outlying resorts
catering to and frequented by the fashionables, for "the Mission" was at
that time in its heyday as a Sunday amusement for all classes. As it was,
Keith drove on through the village, and so out to a winding country road.

"This is heavenly," said Nan, and laid aside her veil.

The road wound and meandered through the low hills of the peninsula. The
sun beat down on them in a flood, only its heat, no longer oppressive, had
become grateful.

"Doesn't it feel good on your back!" exclaimed Nan, recognizing this
quality. "One seems to soak it in--just the way a thirsty plant soaks
water."

The rounded hills were turning a ripe soft brown. Across their crests the
sky looked very blue. High in the heavens some buzzards were sailing.
Innumerable quail called. On tree tops perched yellow-breasted meadow larks
with golden voices. In the bottom of the narrow valley where the road wound
were green willow trees and a little trickle of water. From the ground came
upward waves of heat and a pungent clean odour of some weed. Nan was
excited and keenly receptive to impressions.

"It's a hot day!" she cried, "and the road is dusty. By rights it ought to
be disagreeable. But it isn't! Why is that?"

The little valley widened into a pocket. Back from the road stood a low
white much house. Its veranda was smothered in the gorgeousness of
bougainvillaea. A grave, elderly, bearded Spaniard, on horseback, passed
them at a smooth shuffling little trot, and gave them a sonorous _buenas
dias_, The road mounted rapidly. Once when Keith had reined in to breathe
the horse, they heard the droning crescendo hum of a new swarm of bees
passing overhead.

"Isn't this nice!" cried Nan, snuggling against Keith's arm.

Suddenly, over the crest and down the other side, they came on sand hills.
The horse plodded along at a walk. Nan hung far out watching, fascinated,
the smooth, clean sand dividing before the wheels and flowing back over the
rim, and so over a little rise, and the sea was before them.

"Oh, the Pacific!" exclaimed she, sitting up very straight.

The horse broke into a trot along the smooth hard shore. The wind was
coming in from the wide spaces. A taste of salt was in the air. Foam
wreaths advanced and receded with the edge of the wash, or occasionally
blew in a mass across the flat, until gradually they scattered and
dissipated. The horse pricked up his ears, breathed deep of the fresh cool
air, expanded his nostrils snorting softly, pretended to shy at the foam
wreaths. The wash advanced and drew back with a soft hissing sound; the
wind blew flat and low, so that even on the wet parts a fine, white, dried
mist of sand was always scurrying and hurrying along close to the ground.
Outside the surges reared and fell with a crash.

After the tepid or heated atmosphere of the hills the air was unexpectedly
cool and vital. A flock of sickle-billed curlews stood motionless until
they were within fifty yards; then rose and flew just inside the line of
the breakers, uttering indescribably weird and lonely cries. A long file of
pelicans, their wings outspread, sailed close to the surface of the ocean,
undulating over the waves and into the hollows exactly paralleling, at a
height of only a few feet, the restless contour of the sea. Occasionally
they would all flop their wings two or three times in unison.

"I believe it's a sort of game--they're having fun!" stated Nan with
conviction.

Everything seemed to be having fun. Close to the wash were forty or fifty
tiny white sanderlings in a compact band. When the wash receded they
followed it with an incredibly rapid twinkling of little legs; and when
again the wave rushed, shoreward, _scuttle, scuttle, scuttle_ went they,
keeping always just at the edge of the water. Never were they forced to
wing; yet never did they permit the distance to widen between themselves
and the inrushing or outrushing wave. There were also sundry ducks. These
swam just inside the breakers, and were carried backward and forward by the
surges. Always they faced seaward. At the very last instant, as a great
curler bent over them, they dipped their heads and dived. If the wave did
not break, however, they rode over its top. Their accuracy of eye was
uncanny. Time after time they gauged the wave so closely that they just
flipped over the crest as it crashed with a roar beneath them. A tenth of a
second later would have destroyed them. Keith reined up the horse to watch
them and the sanderlings.

"It _is_ a game," he agreed after a while, "just like the pelicans. It
isn't considered sporting for sanderlings to get more than three inches
away from the edge of the wash; or for a duck to dive unless he actually
has to. It must be a game; for they certainly aren't catching anything."

At this moment the sanderlings as though at a signal sprang into the air,
wheeled back and forth with instantaneous precision, and departed. The
ducks, too, dove, and came up only outside the surf.

"Good little sportsmen," laughed Keith; "they play the game for its own
sake. They don't like an audience."

After a few miles they came to a cliff reaching down to the beach and
completely barring the way. Off shore were rocky islets covered with seals
and sea lions. A lone blue heron stood atop a sand dune, absolutely
motionless.

"I don't know where we are, or how we get out," said Keith, "but I'm going
to take that chap there as a sign post," and he turned his horse directly
toward the heron.

Sure enough, a track led them through the sand, and by a zigzag route to
the top of the knoll that had barred their way along the shore. They came
to an edge. Before them lay an arm of the sea, sweeping and eddying with a
strong incoming tide. Over the way stood a great mountain, like a sentinel.
Far to their right the arm widened. There was a glimpse of sparkling blue,
and of the pearl of far-off hills, and the haze of a distant dim peak.

"It's the Golden Gate!" cried Keith in sudden enlightenment.

He told her that the mountain over the way must be Tamalpais; that the
pearl-gray, far-off hills must be Contra Costa; that the distant dim peak
was undoubtedly Mount Diabolo. She repeated the syllables after him softly,
charmed by their music.

Simultaneously they discovered that they were hungry. The wind whipped in
from the sea. An outpost tent or so marked the distant invisible city over
the hills. Keith turned his horse's head toward them. They drove back
across what are now the Presidio hills.

But in a hollow they came upon another ranch house, like the first--low,
white, red roofed, covered with vines. Keith insisted on driving to it. A
number of saddled horses dozed before the door, a half-dozen dogs sprawled
in the dust, fowls picked their way between the horses' legs or over the
dogs' recumbent forms. At the sound of wheels several people came from the
shadow of the porch into the open. They proved to be Spanish Californians
dressed in the flat sombreros, the short velvet jackets, the slashed
trousers, and soft leather _zapatos_. The men, handsome, lithe, indolent,
pressed around the wheels of the buggy, showing their white teeth in
pleasant smiles.

"Can we get anything to eat here?" asked Keith.

They all smiled again most amiably. The elder swept off his hat with a free
gesture.

"_A piedes ouestros, senora_," he said, "_pero no hablo Ingles. Habla usted
Espanol?_"

Keith understood the last three words.

"No," he shook his head violently, "no _Espanol_. Hungry." He pointed to
Nan, then to himself: "She, me, hungry."

This noble effort brought no results, except that the Californians looked
more politely distressed and solicitous than ever.

"They don't understand us," murmured Nan; "don't you think we'd better
drive on?"

But Keith, who had now descended from the buggy, resorted to sign language.
He rubbed his stomach pathetically and pointed down his open mouth; as an
afterthought he rubbed the horse's belly; then, with apparent intention, he
advanced toward Nan. A furious red inundated her face and neck, and she
held her little parasol threateningly between them. Everybody burst into
laughter.

"_Si! si! si!_" they cried.

Several started to unharness the horse. Others held out their hands. After
a moment's hesitation Nan accepted their aid and descended. Keith's
performance was evidently considered a great joke.

On the low veranda were two women, one most enormously fat, the other young
and lithe. They were dressed almost exactly alike, their blue--black hair
parted smoothly over their foreheads but built up to a high structure
behind, filmy _rebosas_ over high combs, and skirts with many flowered
flounces. They both had soft, gentle eyes, and they were both so heavily
powdered that their complexions were almost blue. All the men explained to
them at once. The younger answered gayly; the older listened with entire
placidity. But when the account was finished, she reached out to pat Nan's
hand, and to smile reassuringly.

Various foods and a flask of red wine were brought. There was no
constraint, for Keith threw himself with delighted abandon into experiments
with sign language.

"_Esta simpatica_," the Californians told each other over and again.

Their manners were elaborate, dignified, deliberate, and beautiful. Keith,
ordinarily rather direct and brusque, to Nan's great amusement became
exactly like them. They outvied each other. The women touched smilingly the
stuff of Nan's gown, and directly admired her various feminine trappings.
She, thus encouraged, begged permission to examine more closely the lace of
the _rebosas_ or the beautiful embroidery on the shawls. A little feeling
of intimacy drew them all together, although they understood no word of
each other's language.

One of the dogs now approached and gravely laid its nose on Nan's knee,
gazing up at her with searching soft eyes. The older woman cried out
scandalized, but Nan shook her head, and patted the beast's nose.

"You like?" asked the woman.

"Why, you do talk English!" cried Nan.

But either these two words were all the woman had, or she was unwilling to
adventure further.

"You like?" she repeated again, after a moment, and then, observing Nan's
interest, she uttered a command to one of the numerous ragged small boys
standing about. The urchin darted away, to return after a moment with a
basket, which he emptied on the ground. Four fuzzy puppies rolled out.

"Oh, the darlings!" cried Nan.

The little animals proceeded at once to roll one another over, growling
fiercely, charging uncertainly about, gazing indeterminately through their
blue infantile eyes. The mother left her position at Nan's knee to hover
over them; turning them over with her nose, licking them, skipping nimbly
sidewise when they charged down upon her with an idea of nourishment.

Nan was enchanted. She left the bench to stoop to their level, tumbling
them over on their backs; playfully boxing their ears, working them up to a
wild state of yapping enthusiasm.

"The little darlings!" she cried; "just see their fat little tummies! And
their teeth are just like needles. No, no, you mustn't! You'll tear my
flounces! Look, Milton, see this little rascal pull at my handkerchief!"

Her cheeks were flushed, and as she looked up laughing from beneath her
hat, she made a very charming picture.

"You like," stated the Californian woman with conviction.

After a while it became time to go. Vaqueros brought out the horse and
harnessed it to the buggy. Keith made a movement to offer payment, but
correctly interpreted the situation and refrained. They mounted the
vehicle.

"_Muchas gracias!_" Nan enunciated slowly.

This effort was received with an admiring acclaim that flushed Nan with an
inordinate pride. She had picked up the phrase from hearing it used at
table. The fat woman came forward, one of the puppies tucked under her arm.
In spite of her apparently unwieldy size she moved gracefully and lightly.

"You like?" she inquired, holding the squirming puppy at arm's length.

"_Si, si, muchas gracias!_" cried Nan eagerly, and employing at once all
her Spanish vocabulary. She deposited the puppy in her lap and reached out
to shake hands. Keith flicked the horse with his whip. He, too, had
recollected a word of Spanish, and he used it now.

"_Adios!_" he shouted.

But their hosts had a better phrase.

"_Vaya Con Dios!_" they cried in chorus.

Nan was in raptures over the whole episode, but especially over the puppy.
The latter, with the instantaneous adaptability of extreme youth, had
snuggled down into a compact ball, and was blinking one hazy dark blue eye
upward at his new mistress.

"Weren't they nice people," cried Nan, "and wasn't it an adventure? And
isn't he just the dearest, cutest little thing? You're not a little Spanish
dog any more, you know. You're a--what is it they call us?--oh, yes! You're
a gringo now. Why, that's a fine idea! Your name is Gringo!"

And Gringo he became henceforth.

"What kind of a dog is he?" she asked.

Keith grinned sardonically.

"Of course I do not know his honoured father," said he, "so I cannot offer
an opinion as to that half of him. But on his mother's side he is
bloodhound, bulldog, collie, setter, pointer, St. Bernard, and Old English
sheepdog."

"Which?"' asked Nan puzzled.

"All," asserted Keith.

Now suddenly the sun was blotted out. They looked back: a white bank of fog
was rolling in from the sea. It flowed over the hills like a flood,
reaching long wisps down into the hollows, setting inertly in the flats and
valleys, the upper part rolling on and over in a cascade. Beneath its
shadow the warmth and brightness of the world had died.

"It strikes me we're going to be cold," remarked Keith, urging forward the
horse.

The roadbed became more solid, and they trotted along freely. The horse,
also, was anxious to get home. Signs of habitations thickened. The wide
waste hills of the ranchos had been left behind. Here and there were
outlying dwellings, or road houses, the objectives of pleasure excursions
of various sorts and degrees of respectability from the city. From one of
the latter came a hail.

"Oh, Keith! I say, Keith!"

From a group of people preparing to enter a number of vehicles two men came
running. Ben Sansome and Morrell, somewhat out of breath, came alongside.
They were a little flushed and elevated, but very cordial, and full of
reproaches that Keith had so entirely dropped out of sight during the past
week.

"I tell you, you must come over to our house for supper," said Morrell
finally. "Everybody comes."

"The Morrells' Sunday night suppers are an institution," supplemented
Sansome.

"I wish I could persuade you," urged Morrell. "I wonder where Mimi is. I
know Mrs. Morrell ought to call, and all that sort of thing, but this is
not a conventional place. We live next door, y'know. Do be delightful and
neighbourly, and come!"

Nan hesitated; but the lure of the well-dressed company, so thoroughly at
ease with one another, was irresistible in the reaction. She accepted.

XI

The Keiths arrived to find the Morrells' informal party in full blast. The
front parlour was filled with a number of people making a great noise. Out
of the confusion Mrs. Morrell arose and came to them, as they stood where
the China-man had abandoned them.

"Mimi" Morrell was a tall woman, not fat, but amply built, with a full bust
and hips. Her hair was of the peculiar metallic golden blond that might or
might not have been natural; her skin smooth and white, but coarse in
grain, would look better at night than by daylight. Her handsome, regular
features were rather hard and set in their expression when in absolute
repose, but absolute repose was rare to them. In action they softened to a
very considerable feminine allurement. She moved with decision, and
possibly her general attitude smacked the least bit of running things. She
gave the impression of keeping an eye open for everything going on about
her. To Nan she seemed tremendous, overwhelming, and a little magnificent.

Immediately, without introductions, the whole party moved through the
double doors into the dining-room. There they took their places at a table
set out lavishly with food and drink in great quantity. Mrs. Morrell
explained in her high level voice that servants and service were always
dispensed with at her Sunday nights. She rather carelessly indicated a seat
to Mrs. Keith, and remarked to Keith that he was to sit next herself.
Otherwise the party distributed itself. Ben Sansome promptly annexed the
chair next to Nan, and started in to make himself agreeable.

A complete freemasonry obtained among all the party. There was a great deal
of shouting back and forth, from one end of the table to the other. Each
seemed to have a nickname. One young man was known exclusively as "Popsy,"
another answered as "Zou-zou," a third was called "Billy Goat"; a very
vivid, flashing young woman was "Teeny," and so on. They conversed, or
rather shouted, to a great extent by means of catch words or phrases,
alluding evidently to events the purport of which the Keiths could by no
possibility guess. There were a great many private jokes, the points of
which were obvious to only one or two. Every once in a while some one would
say "Number Seven!" and everybody would go off into convulsions of
laughter. The vivid young woman called Teeny suddenly shrieked, "How about
Friday, the twenty-third?" at Popsy, to Popsy's obvious consternation and
confusion. Immediately every one turned on either Popsy or Teeny, demanding
the true inwardness of the remark. Popsy defended himself, rather pink and
embarrassed. The young woman, a devilish knowing glint in her eyes, her red
underlip caught between her teeth, refused to answer.

Keith warmed to this free and easy atmosphere. He was friendly and
sympathetic with the lively crowd. But in vain he tried for a point of
contact. All this badinage depended on a previous knowledge and intimacy,
and that, of course, he lacked. Mrs. Morrell, sitting beside him very
straight and commanding, delivered her general remarks in a high, clear
voice, turning her attention impartially now to one part of the noisy
table, now to another.

Suddenly she abandoned the company to its own devices, and leaning her left
elbow on the table, she turned squarely to Keith, enveloping him with a
magnetic all-for-you look.

"Do you know," she said abruptly, "something tells me you are musical."

"Why, I am, a little," admitted Keith, surprised. "But how could you tell?"

"La, now, I was sure you had a voice the first time I heard you speak. I
adore music, and I can always tell."

"Do you sing, too?" asked Keith.

"I? No, unfortunately. I have no more voice than a crow. I strum a bit, but
even that has been a good deal neglected lately. There's no temptation to
keep up one's music here. I don't know a single soul in all this city who
cares a snap of their finger for it."

"We'll have to have some music together," suggested Keith.

"I'd adore it. Isn't it lucky we're neighbours? I've been so interested"--
she said it as though she had almost intended to say "amused"--"in watching
you this past week. You are the most domestic man I know. I never saw a man
work so singlemindedly at his house and home. Domesticity is a rare outworn
virtue here, I assure you. It is really quite touching to see a man so
devoted these days."

She said these things idly, a little disjointedly, looking at him steadily
all the while. Her manner was detached, and yet somehow it impelled him
strongly to protest that he was really not a bit domestic.

"Have you met any of the people of the place?" she shifted suddenly,

"Well--I really haven't had much chance yet--a few of the men."

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