Book: A Ward of the Golden Gate

B >> Bret Harte >> A Ward of the Golden Gate




"When Mr. Hammersley was mayor," continued Hathaway.

"Had an official position--private secretary--afore he was twenty,"
explained Shear, in perfectly audible confidence.

"Since then the city has made great strides, leaping full-grown,
sir, in a single night," said Captain Stidger, hastily ascending
the rostrum again with a mixed metaphor, to the apparent concern of
a party of handsomely dressed young ladies who had recently entered
the parlor. "Stretching from South Park to Black Point, and
running back to the Mission Dolores and the Presidio, we are
building up a metropolis, sir, worthy to be placed beside the
Golden Gate that opens to the broad Pacific and the shores of far
Cathay! When the Pacific Railroad is built we shall be the natural
terminus of the Pathway of Nations!"

Mr. Hathaway's face betrayed no consciousness that he had heard
something like this eight years before, and that much of it had
come true, as he again sympathetically responded. Neither was his
attention attracted by a singular similarity which the attitude of
the group of ladies on the other side of the parlor bore to that of
his own party. They were clustered around one of their own number--
a striking-looking girl--who was apparently receiving their
mingled flatteries and caresses with a youthful yet critical
sympathy, which, singularly enough, was not unlike his own. It was
evident also that an odd sort of rivalry seemed to spring up
between the two parties, and that, in proportion as Hathaway's
admirers became more marked and ostentatious in their attentions,
the supporters of the young girl were equally effusive and
enthusiastic in their devotion. As usual in such cases, the real
contest was between the partisans themselves; each successive
demonstration on either side was provocative or retaliatory, and
when they were apparently rendering homage to their idols they were
really distracted by and listening to each other. At last,
Hathaway's party being reinforced by fresh visitors, a tall
brunette of the opposition remarked in a professedly confidential
but perfectly audible tone:--

"Well, my dear, as I don't suppose you want to take part in a
political caucus, perhaps we'd better return to the Ladies'
Boudoir, unless there's a committee sitting there too."

"I know how valuable your time must be, as you are all business
men," said Hathaway, turning to his party, in an equally audible
tone; "but before you go, gentlemen, you must let me offer you a
little refreshment in a private room," and he moved naturally
towards the door. The rival fair, who had already risen at their
commander's suggestion, here paused awkwardly over an embarrassing
victory. Should they go or stay? The object of their devotion,
however, turned curiously towards Hathaway. For an instant their
eyes met. The young girl turned carelessly to her companions and
said, "No; stay here--it's the public parlor;" and her followers,
evidently accustomed to her authority, sat down again.

"A galaxy of young ladies from the Convent of Santa Clara, Mr.
Hathaway," explained Captain Stidger, naively oblivious of any
discourtesy on their part, as he followed Hathaway's glance and
took his arm as they moved away. "Not the least of our treasures,
sir. Most of them daughters of pioneers--and all Californian bred
and educated. Connoisseurs have awarded them the palm, and declare
that for Grace, Intelligence, and Woman's Highest Charms the East
cannot furnish their equal!" Having delivered this Parthian
compliment in an oratorical passage through the doorway, the
captain descended, outside, into familiar speech. "But I suppose
you will find that out for yourself if you stay here long. San
Francisco might furnish a fitting bride to California's youngest
senator."

"I am afraid that my stay here must be brief, and limited to
business," said Hathaway, who had merely noticed that the principal
girl was handsome and original-looking. "In fact, I am here partly
to see an old acquaintance--Colonel Pendleton."

The three men looked at each other curiously. "Oh! Harry
Pendleton," said Mr. Hoskins, incredulously "You don't know HIM?"

"An old pioneer--of course," interposed Shear, explanatorily and
apologetically. "Why, in Paul's time the colonel was a big man
here."

"I understand the colonel has been unfortunate," said Hathaway,
gravely; "but in MY time he was President of the El Dorado Bank."

"And the bank hasn't got through its settlement yet," said Hoskins
"I hope YOU ain't expecting to get anything out of it?"

"No," said Hathaway, smiling; "I was a boy at that time, and lived
up to my salary. I know nothing of his bank difficulties, but it
always struck me that Colonel Pendleton was himself an honorable
man."

"It ain't that," said Captain Stidger energetically, "but the
trouble with Harry Pendleton is that he hasn't grown with the
State, and never adjusted himself to it. And he won't. He thinks
the Millennium was between the fall of '49 and the spring of '50,
and after that everything dropped. He belongs to the old days,
when a man's simple WORD was good for any amount if you knew him;
and they say that the old bank hadn't a scrap of paper for half
that was owing to it. That was all very well, sir, in '49 and '50,
and--Luck; but it won't do for '59 and '60, and--Business! And the
old man can't see it."

"But he is ready to fight for it now, as in the old time," said Mr.
Slate, "and that's another trouble with his chronology. He's done
more to keep up dueling than any other man in the State, and don't
know the whole spirit of progress and civilization is against it."

It was impossible to tell from Paul Hathaway's face whether his
sympathy with Colonel Pendleton's foibles or his assent to the
criticisms of his visitors was the truer. Both were no doubt
equally sincere. But the party was presently engaged in the
absorption of refreshment, which, being of a purely, spirituous and
exhilarating quality, tended to increase their good humor with the
host till they parted. Even then a gratuitous advertisement of his
virtues and their own intentions in calling upon him was
oratorically voiced from available platforms and landings, in the
halls and stairways, until it was pretty well known throughout the
Golden Gate Hotel that the Hon. Mr. Paul Hathaway had arrived from
Sacramento and had received a "spontaneous ovation."

Meantime the object of it had dropped into an easy-chair by the
window of his room, and was endeavoring to recall a less profitable
memory. The process of human forgetfulness is not a difficult one
between the ages of eighteen and twenty-six, and Paul Hathaway had
not only fulfilled the Mayor's request by forgetting the
particulars of a certain transfer that he had witnessed in the
Mayor's office, but in the year succeeding that request, being
about to try his fortunes in the mountains, he had formally
constituted Colonel Pendleton to act as his proxy in the
administration of Mrs. Howard's singular Trust, in which, however,
he had never participated except yearly to sign his name. He was,
consequently, somewhat astonished to have received a letter a few
days before from Colonel Pendleton, asking him to call and see him
regarding it.

He vaguely remembered that it was eight years ago, and eight years
had worked considerable change in the original trustees, greatest
of all in his superior officer, the Mayor, who had died the year
following, leaving his trusteeship to his successor in office, whom
Paul Hathaway had never seen. The Bank of El Dorado, despite Mrs.
Howard's sanguine belief, had long been in bankruptcy, and,
although Colonel Pendleton still survived it, it was certain that
no other president would succeed to his office as trustee, and that
the function would lapse with him. Paul himself, a soldier of
fortune, although habitually lucky, had only lately succeeded to a
profession--if his political functions could be so described. Even
with his luck, energy, and ambition, while everything was possible,
nothing was secure. It seemed, therefore, as if the soulless
official must eventually assume the duties of the two sympathizing
friends who had originated them, and had stood in loco parentis to
the constructive orphan. The mother, Mrs. Howard, had disappeared
a year after the Trust had been made--it was charitably presumed in
order to prevent any complications that might arise from her
presence in the country. With these facts before him, Paul
Hathaway was more concerned in wondering what Pendleton could want
with him than, I fear, any direct sympathy with the situation. On
the contrary, it appeared to him more favorable for keeping the
secret of Mrs. Howard's relationship, which would now die with
Colonel Pendleton and himself; and there was no danger of any
emotional betrayal of it in the cold official administration of a
man who had received the Trust through the formal hands of
successive predecessors. He had forgotten the time limited for the
guardianship, but the girl must soon be of age and off their hands.
If there had ever been any romantic or chivalrous impression left
upon his memory by the scene in the mayor's office, I fear he had
put it away with various other foolish illusions of his youth, to
which he now believed he was superior.

Nevertheless, he would see the colonel, and at once, and settle the
question. He looked at the address, "St. Charles Hotel." He
remembered an old hostelry of that name, near the Plaza. Could it
be possible that it had survived the alterations and improvements
of the city? It was an easy walk through remembered streets, yet
with changed shops and houses and faces. When he reached the
Plaza, scarce recognizable in its later frontages of brick and
stone, he found the old wooden building still intact, with its
villa-like galleries and verandas incongruously and ostentatiously
overlooked by two new and aspiring erections on either side. For
an instant he tried to recall the glamour of old days. He
remembered when his boyish eyes regarded it as the crowning work of
opulence and distinction; he remembered a ball given there on some
public occasion, which was to him the acme of social brilliancy and
display. How tawdry and trivial it looked beside those later and
more solid structures! How inconsistent were those long latticed
verandas and balconies, pathetic record of that first illusion of
the pioneers that their climate was a tropical one! A restaurant
and billiard-saloon had aggrandized all of the lower story; but
there was still the fanlight, over which the remembered title of
"St. Charles," in gilded letters, was now reinforced by the too
demonstrative legend, "Apartments and Board, by the Day or Week."
Was it possible that this narrow, creaking staircase had once
seemed to him the broad steps of Fame and Fortune? On the first
landing, a preoccupied Irish servant-girl, with a mop, directed him
to a door at the end of the passage, at which he knocked. The door
was opened by a grizzled negro servant, who was still holding a
piece of oily chamois-leather in his hand; and the contents of a
dueling-case, scattered upon a table in the centre of the room,
showed what had been his occupation. Admitting Hathaway with great
courtesy, he said:--

"Marse Harry bin havin' his ole trubble, sah, and bin engaged just
dis momen' on his toylet; ef yo'll accommodate yo'self on de sofa,
I inform him yo' is heah."

As the negro passed into the next room, Paul cast a hasty glance
around the apartment. The furniture, originally rich and elegant,
was now worn threadbare and lustreless. A book-case, containing,
among other volumes, a few law books--there being a vague
tradition, as Paul remembered, that Colonel Pendleton had once been
connected with the law--a few French chairs of tarnished gilt, a
rifle in the corner, a presentation sword in a mahogany case, a few
classical prints on the walls, and one or two iron deed-boxes
marked "El Dorado Bank," were the principal objects. A mild flavor
of dry decay and methylated spirits pervaded the apartment. Yet it
was scrupulously clean and well kept, and a few clothes neatly
brushed and folded on a chair bore witness to the servant's care.
As Paul, however, glanced behind the sofa, he was concerned to see
a coat, which had evidently been thrust hurriedly in a corner, with
the sleeve lining inside out, and a needle and thread still
sticking in the seam. It struck him instantly that this had been
the negro's occupation, and that the pistol-cleaning was a polite
fiction.

"Yo' 'll have to skuse Marse Harry seein' yo in bed, but his laig's
pow'ful bad to-day, and he can't stand," said the servant
reentering the room. "Skuse me, sah," he added in a dignified
confidential whisper, half closing the door with his hand, "but if
yo' wouldn't mind avoidin' 'xcitin' or controversical topics in yo'
conversation, it would be de better fo' him."

Paul smilingly assented, and the black retainer, with even more
than the usual solemn ceremonious exaggeration of his race, ushered
him into the bedroom. It was furnished in the same faded glory as
the sitting-room, with the exception of a low, iron camp-bedstead,
in which the tall, soldierly figure of Colonel Pendleton, clad in
threadbare silk dressing-gown, was stretched. He had changed in
eight years: his hair had become gray, and was thinned over the
sunken temples, but his iron-gray moustache was still particularly
long and well pointed. His face bore marks of illness and care;
there were deep lines down the angle of the nostril that spoke of
alternate savage outbreak and repression, and gave his smile a
sardonic rigidity. His dark eyes, that shone with the exaltation
of fever, fixed Paul's on entering, and with the tyranny of an
invalid never left them.

"Well, Hathaway?"

With the sound of that voice Paul felt the years slip away, and he
was again a boy, looking up admiringly to the strong man, who now
lay helpless before him. He had entered the room with a faint
sense of sympathizing superiority and a consciousness of having had
experience in controlling men. But all this fled before Colonel
Pendleton's authoritative voice; even its broken tones carried the
old dominant spirit of the man, and Paul found himself admiring a
quality in his old acquaintance that he missed in his newer
friends.

"I haven't seen you for eight years, Hathaway. Come here and let
me look at you."

Paul approached the bedside with boyish obedience. Pendleton took
his hand and gazed at him critically.

"I should have recognized you, sir, for all your moustache and your
inches. The last time I saw you was in Jack Hammersley's office.
Well, Jack's dead, and here I am, little better, I reckon. You
remember Hammersley's house?"

"Yes," said Paul, albeit wondering at the question.

"Something like this, Swiss villa style. I remember when Jack put
it up. Well, the last time I was out, I passed there. And what do
you think they've done to it?"

Paul could not imagine.

"Well, sir," said the colonel gravely, "they've changed it into a
church missionary shop and young men's Christian reading-room! But
that's 'progress' and 'improvement'!" He paused, and, slowly
withdrawing his hand from Paul's, added with grim apology, "You're
young, and belong to the new school, perhaps. Well, sir, I've read
your speech; I don't belong to your party--mine died ten years ago--
but I congratulate you. George! Confound it where's that boy
gone?"

The negro indicated by this youthful title, although he must have
been ten years older than his master, after a hurried shuffling in
the sitting-room eventually appeared at the door.

"George, champagne and materials for cocktails for the gentleman.
The BEST, you understand. No new-fangled notions from that new
barkeeper."

Paul, who thought he observed a troubled blinking in George's
eyelid, and referred it to a fear of possible excitement for his
patient, here begged his host not to trouble himself--that he
seldom took anything in the morning.

"Possibly not, sir; possibly not," returned the colonel, hastily.
"I know the new ideas are prohibitive, and some other blank thing,
but you're safe here from your constituents, and by gad, sir, I
shan't force you to take it! It's MY custom, Hathaway--an old one--
played out, perhaps, like all the others, but a custom
nevertheless, and I'm only surprised that George, who knows it,
should have forgotten it."

"Fack is, Marse Harry," said George, with feverish apology, "it bin
gone 'scaped my mind dis mo'nin' in de prerogation ob business, but
I'm goin' now, shuah!" and he disappeared.

"A good boy, sir, but beginning to be contaminated. Brought him
here from Nashville over ten years ago. Eight years ago they
proved to him that he was no longer a slave, and made him d--d
unhappy until I promised him it should make no difference to him
and he could stay. I had to send for his wife and child--of
course, a dead loss of eighteen hundred dollars when they set foot
in the State--but I'm blanked if he isn't just as miserable with
them here, for he has to take two hours in the morning and three in
the afternoon every day to be with 'em. I tried to get him to take
his family to the mines and make his fortune, like those fellows
they call bankers and operators and stockbrokers nowadays; or to go
to Oregon where they'll make him some kind of a mayor or sheriff--
but he won't. He collects my rents on some little property I have
left, and pays my bills, sir, and, if this blank civilization would
only leave him alone, he'd be a good enough boy."

Paul couldn't help thinking that the rents George collected were
somewhat inconsistent with those he was evidently mending when he
arrived, but at that moment the jingle of glasses was heard in the
sitting-room, and the old negro reappeared at the door. Drawing
himself up with ceremonious courtesy, he addressed Paul. "Wo'd yo'
mind, sah, taking a glance at de wine for yo' choice?" Paul rose,
and followed him into the sitting-room, when George carefully
closed the door. To his surprise Hathaway beheld a tray with two
glasses of whiskey and bitters, but no wine. "Skuse me, sah," said
the old man with dignified apology, "but de Kernel won't have any
but de best champagne for hono'ble gemmen like yo'self, and I'se
despaired to say it can't be got in de house or de subburbs. De
best champagne dat we gives visitors is de Widder Glencoe. Wo'd
yo' mind, sah, for de sake o' not 'xcitin' de Kernel wid triflin'
culinary matter, to say dat yo' don' take but de one brand?"

"Certainly," said Paul, smiling. "I really don't care for anything
so early;" then, returning to the bedroom, he said carelessly,
"You'll excuse me taking the liberty, colonel, of sending away the
champagne and contenting myself with whiskey. Even the best brand--
the Widow Cliquot"--with a glance at the gratified George--"I find
rather trying so early in the morning."

"As you please, Hathaway," said the colonel, somewhat stiffly. "I
dare say there's a new fashion in drinks now, and a gentleman's
stomach is a thing of the past. Then, I suppose, we can spare the
boy, as this is his time for going home. Put that tin box with the
Trust papers on the bed, George, and Mr. Hathaway will excuse your
waiting." As the old servant made an exaggerated obeisance to
each, Paul remarked, as the door closed upon him, "George certainly
keeps his style, colonel, in the face of the progress you deplore."

"He was always a 'dandy nigger,'" returned Pendleton, his face
slightly relaxing as he glanced after his grizzled henchman, "but
his exaggeration of courtesy is a blank sight more natural and
manly than the exaggeration of discourtesy which your superior
civilized 'helps' think is self-respect. The excuse of servitude
of any kind is its spontaneity and affection. When you know a man
hates you and serves you from interest, you know he's a cur and
you're a tyrant. It's your blank progress that's made menial
service degrading by teaching men to avoid it. Why, sir, when I
first arrived here, Jack Hammersley and myself took turns as cook
to the party. I didn't consider myself any the worse master for
it. But enough of this." He paused, and, raising himself on his
elbow, gazed for some seconds half cautiously, half doubtfully,
upon his companion. "I've got something to tell you, Hathaway," he
said, slowly. "You've had an easy time with this Trust; your share
of the work hasn't worried you, kept you awake nights, or
interfered with your career. I understand perfectly," he
continued, in reply to Hathaway's deprecating gesture. "I accepted
to act as your proxy, and I HAVE. I'm not complaining. But it is
time that you should know what I've done, and what you may still
have to do. Here is the record. On the day after that interview
in the Mayor's office, the El Dorado Bank, of which I was, and
still am, president, received seventy-five thousand dollars in
trust from Mrs. Howard. Two years afterwards, on that same day,
the bank had, by lucky speculations, increased that sum to the
credit of the trust one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, or
double the original capital. In the following year the bank
suspended payment."


CHAPTER II.


In an instant the whole situation and his relations to it flashed
upon Paul with a terrible, but almost grotesque, completeness.
Here he was, at the outset of his career, responsible for the
wasted fortune of the daughter of a social outcast, and saddled
with her support! He now knew why Colonel Pendleton had wished to
see him; for one shameful moment he believed he also knew why he
had been content to take his proxy! The questionable character of
the whole transaction, his own carelessness, which sprang from that
very confidence and trust that Pendleton had lately extolled--what
WOULD, what COULD not be made of it! He already heard himself
abused by his opponents--perhaps, more terrible still, faintly
excused by his friends. All this was visible in his pale face and
flashing eyes as he turned them on the helpless invalid.

Colonel Pendleton received his look with the same critical, half-
curious scrutiny that had accompanied his speech. At last his face
changed slightly, a faint look of disappointment crossed his eyes,
and a sardonic smile deepened the lines of his mouth.

"There, sir," he said hurriedly, as if dismissing an unpleasant
revelation; "don't alarm yourself! Take a drink of that whiskey.
You look pale. Well; turn your eyes on those walls. You don't see
any of that money laid out here--do you? Look at me. I don't look
like a man enriched with other people's money--do I? Well, let
that content you. Every dollar of that Trust fund, Hathaway, with
all the interests and profits that have accrued to it, is SAFE!
Every cent of it is locked up in government bonds with Rothschild's
agent. There are the receipts, dated a week before the bank
suspended. But enough of THAT--THAT isn't what I asked you to come
and see me for."

The blood had rushed back to Paul's cheeks uncomfortably. He saw
now, as impulsively as he had previously suspected his co-trustee,
that the man had probably ruined himself to save the Trust. He
stammered that he had not questioned the management of the fund nor
asked to withdraw his proxy.

"No matter, sir," said the colonel, impatiently; "you had the
right, and I suppose," he added with half-concealed scorn, "it was
your duty. But let that pass. The money is safe enough; but, Mr.
Hathaway,--and this is the point I want to discuss with you,--it
begins to look as if the SECRET was safe no longer!" He had raised
himself with some pain and difficulty to draw nearer to Paul, and
had again fixed his eyes eagerly upon him. But Paul's responsive
glance was so vague that he added quickly, "You understand, sir; I
believe that there are hounds--I say hounds!--who would be able to
blurt out at any moment that that girl at Santa Clara is Kate
Howard's daughter."

At any other moment Paul might have questioned the gravity of any
such contingency, but the terrible earnestness of the speaker, his
dominant tone, and a certain respect which had lately sprung up in
his breast for him, checked him, and he only asked with as much
concern as he could master for the moment:--

"What makes you think so?"

"That's what I want to tell you, Hathaway, and how I, and I alone,
am responsible for it. When the bank was in difficulty and I made
up my mind to guard the Trust with my own personal and private
capital, I knew that there might be some comment on my action. It
was a delicate matter to show any preference or exclusion at such a
moment, and I took two or three of my brother directors whom I
thought I could trust into my confidence. I told them the whole
story, and how the Trust was sacred. I made a mistake, sir,"
continued Pendleton sardonically, "a grave mistake. I did not take
into account that even in three years civilization and religion had
gained ground here. There was a hound there--a blank Judas in the
Trust. Well; he didn't see it. I think he talked Scripture and
morality. He said something about the wages of sin being infamous,
and only worthy of confiscation. He talked about the sins of the
father being visited upon the children, and justly. I stopped him.
Well! Do you know what's the matter with my ankle? Look!" He
stopped and, with some difficulty and invincible gravity, throwing
aside his dressing-gown, turned down his stocking, and exposed to
Paul's gaze the healed cicatrix of an old bullet-wound. "Troubled
me damnably near a year. Where I hit HIM--hasn't troubled him at
all since!

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.