The Valley of the Moon Jack London

by Jack London

were to go before a justice of the peace and be married. Bert and

  Mary were to be the witnesses, and after that the four were to go

  to a private room in Barnum's Restaurant for the wedding supper.

  That over, Bert and Mary would proceed to a dance at Myrtle Hall,

  while Billy and Saxon would take the Eighth Street car to Seventh

  and Pine. Honeymoons are infrequent in the working class. The

  next morning Billy must be at the stable at his regular hour to

  drive his team out.

  All the women in the fancy starch room knew it was Saxon's last

  day. Many exulted for her, and not a few were envious of her, in

  that she had won a husband and to freedom from the suffocating

  slavery of the ironing board. Much of bantering she endured; such

  was the fate of every girl who married out of the fancy starch

  room. But Saxon was too happy to be hurt by the teasing, a great

  deal of which was gross, but all of which was good-natured.

  In the steam that arose from under her iron, and on the surfaces

  of the dainty lawns and muslins that flew under her hands, she

  kept visioning herself in the Pine Street cottage; and steadily

  she hummed under her breath her paraphrase of the latest popular

  song:

  "And when I work, and when I work,

  I'll always work for Billy."

  By three in the afternoon the strain of the piece-workers in the

  humid, heated room grew tense. Elderly women gasped and sighed;

  the color went out of the cheeks of the young women, their faces

  became drawn and dark circles formed under their eyes; but all

  held on with weary, unabated speed. The tireless, vigilant

  forewoman kept a sharp lookout for incipient hysteria, and once

  led a narrow-chested, stoop-shouldered young thing out of the

  place in time to prevent a collapse.

  Saxon was startled by the wildest scream of terror she had ever

  heard. The tense thread of human resolution snapped; wills and

  nerves broke down, and a hundred women suspended their irons or

  dropped them. It was Mary who had screamed so terribly, and Saxon

  saw a strange black animal flapping great claw-like wings and

  nestling on Mary's shoulder. With the scream, Mary crouched down,

  and the strange creature, darting into the air, fluttered full

  into the startled face of a woman at the next board. This woman

  promptly screamed and fainted. Into the air again, the flying

  thing darted hither and thither, while the shrieking, shrinking

  women threw up their arms, tried to run away along the aisles, or

  cowered under their ironing boards.

  "It's only a bat!" the forewoman shouted. She was furious. "Ain't

  you ever seen a bat? It won't eat you!"

  But they were ghetto people, and were not to be quieted. Some

  woman who could not see the cause of the uproar, out of her

  overwrought apprehension raised the cry of fire and precipitated

  the panic rush for the doors. All of them were screaming the

  stupid, soul-sickening high note of terror, drowning the

  forewoman's voice. Saxon had been merely startled at first, but

  the screaming panic broke her grip on herself and swept her away.

  Though she did not scream, she fled with the rest. When this

  horde of crazed women debouched on the next department, those who

  worked there joined in the stampede to escape from they knew not

  what danger. In ten minutes the laundry was deserted, save for a

  few men wandering about with hand grenades in futile search for

  the cause of the disturbance.

  The forewoman was stout, but indomitable. Swept along half the

  length of an aisle by the terror-stricken women, she had broken

  her way back through the rout and quickly caught the

  light-blinded visitant in a clothes basket.

  "Maybe I don't know what God looks like, but take it from me I've

  seen a tintype of the devil," Mary gurgled, emotionally

  fluttering back and forth between laughter and tears.

  But Saxon was angry with herself, for she had been as frightened

  as the rest in that wild flight for out-of-doors.

  "We're a lot of fools," she said. "It was only a bat. I've heard

  about them. They live in the country. They wouldn't hurt a fly.

  They can't see in the daytime. That was what was the matter with

  this one. It was only a bat."

  "Huh, you can't string me," Mary replied. "It was the devil." She

  sobbed a moment, and then laughed hysterically again. "Did you

  see Mrs. Bergstrom faint? And it only touched her in the face.

  Why, it was on my shoulder and touching my bare neck like the

  hand of a corpse. And I didn't faint." She laughed again. "I

  guess, maybe, I was too scared to faint."

  "Come on back," Saxon urged. "We've lost half an hour."

  "Not me. I'm goin' home after that, if they fire me. I couldn't

  iron for sour apples now, I'm that shaky."

  One woman had broken a leg, another an arm, and a number nursed

  milder bruises and bruises. No bullying nor entreating of the

  forewoman could persuade the women to return to work. They were

  too upset and nervous, and only here and there could one be found

  brave enough to re-enter the building for the hats and lunch

  baskets of the others. Saxon was one of the handful that returned

  and worked till six o'clock.

  CHAPTER XV

  "Why, Bert!--you're squiffed!" Mary cried reproachfully.

  The four were at the table in the private room at Barnum's. The

  wedding supper, simple enough, but seemingly too expensive to

  Saxon, had been eaten. Bert, in his hand a glass of California

  red wine, which the management supplied for fifty cents a bottle,

  was on his feet endeavoring a speech. His face was flushed; his

  black eyes were feverishly bright.

  "You've ben drinkin' before you met me," Mary continued. "I can

  see it stickin' out all over you."

  "Consult an oculist, my dear," he replied. "Bertram is himself

  to-night. An' he is here, arisin' to his feet to give the glad

  hand to his old pal. Bill, old man, here's to you. It's how-de-do

  an' good-bye, I guess. You're a married man now, Bill, an' you

  got to keep regular hours. No more runnin' around with the boys.

  You gotta take care of yourself, an' get your life insured, an'

  take out an accident policy, an' join a buildin' an' loan

  society, an' a buryin' association--"

  "Now you shut up, Bert," Mary broke in. "You don't talk about

  buryin's at weddings. You oughta be ashamed of yourself."

  "Whoa, Mary! Back up! I said what I said because I meant it. I

  ain't thinkin' what Mary thinks. What I was thinkin'. . . . Let me

  tell you what I was thinkin'. I said buryin' association, didn't

  I? Well, it was not with the idea of castin' gloom over this

  merry gatherin'. Far be it. . . ."

  He was so evidently seeking a way out of his predicament, that

  Mary tossed her head triumphantly. This acted as a spur to his

  reeling wits.

  "Let me tell you why," he went on. "Because, Bill, you got such

  an all-fired pretty wife, that's why. All the fellows is crazy

  over her, an' when they get to runnin' after her, what'll you be

  doi
n'? You'll be gettin' busy. And then won't you need a buryin'

  association to bury 'em? I just guess yes. That was the

  compliment to your good taste in skirts I was tryin' to come

  across with when Mary butted in."

  His glittering eyes rested for a moment in bantering triumph on

  Mary.

  "Who says I'm squiffed? Me? Not on your life. I'm seein' all

  things in a clear white light. An' I see Bill there, my old

  friend Bill. An' I don't see two Bills. I see only one. Bill was

  never two-faced in his life. Bill, old man, when I look at you

  there in the married harness, I'm sorry--" He ceased abruptly and

  turned on Mary. "Now don't go up in the air, old girl. I'm onto

  my job. My grandfather was a state senator, and he could spiel

  graceful an' pleasin' till the cows come home. So can I.--Bill,

  when I look at you, I'm sorry. I repeat, I'm sorry." He glared

  challengingly at Mary. "For myself when I look at you an' know

  all the happiness you got a hammerlock on. Take it from me,

  you're a wise guy, bless the women. You've started well. Keep it

  up. Marry 'em all, bless 'em. Bill, here's to you. You're a

  Mohegan with a scalplock. An' you got a squaw that is some squaw,

  take it from me. Minnehaha, here's to you--to the two of you--an'

  to the papooses, too, gosh-dang them!"

  He drained the glass suddenly and collapsed in his chair,

  blinking his eyes across at the wedded couple while tears

  trickled unheeded down his cheeks. Mary's hand went out

  soothingly to his, completing his break-down.

  "By God, I got a right to cry," he sobbed. "I'm losin' my best

  friend, ain't I? It'll never be the same again never. When I

  think of the fun, an' scrapes, an' good times Bill an' me has had

  together, I could darn near hate you, Saxon, sittin' there with

  your hand in his."

  "Cheer up, Bert," she laughed gently. "Look at whose hand you are

  holding."

  "Aw, it's only one of his cryin' jags," Mary said, with a

  harshness that her free hand belied as it caressed his hair with

  soothing strokes. "Buck up, Bert. Everything's all right. And now

  it's up to Bill to say something after your dandy spiel."

  Bert recovered himself quickly with another glass of wine.

  "Kick in, Bill," he cried. "It's your turn now."

  "I'm no hotair artist," Billy grumbled. "What'll I say, Saxon?

  They ain't no use tellin' 'em how happy we are. They know that."

  "Tell them we're always going to be happy," she said. "And thank

  them for all their good wishes, and we both wish them the same.

  And we're always going to be together, like old times, the four

  of us. And tell them they're invited down to 507 Pine Street next

  Sunday for Sunday dinner.--And, Mary, if you want to come

  Saturday night you can sleep in the spare bedroom."

  "You've told'm yourself, better'n I could." Billy clapped his

  hands. "You did yourself proud, an' I guess they ain't much to

  add to it, but just the same I'm goin' to pass them a hot one."

  He stood up, his hand on his glass. His clear blue eyes under the

  dark brows and framed by the dark lashes, seemed a deeper blue,

  and accentuated the blondness of hair and skin. The smooth cheeks

  were rosy--not with wine, for it was only his second glass--but

  with health and joy. Saxon, looking up at him, thrilled with

  pride in him, he was so well-dressed, so strong, so handsome, so

  clean-looking--her man-boy. And she was aware of pride in

  herself, in her woman's desirableness that had won for her so

  wonderful a lover.

  "Well, Bert an' Mary, here you are at Saxon's and my wedding

  supper. We're just goin' to take all your good wishes to heart,

  we wish you the same back, and when we say it we mean more than

  you think we mean. Saxon an' I believe in tit for tat. So we're

  wishin' for the day when the table is turned clear around an'

  we're sittin' as guests at your weddin' supper. And then, when

  you come to Sunday dinner, you can both stop Saturday night in

  the spare bedroom. I guess I was wised up when I furnished it,

  eh?"

  "I never thought it of you, Billy!" Mary exclaimed. "You're every

  hit as raw as Bert. But just the same . . ."

  There was a rush of moisture to her eyes. Her voice faltered and

  broke. She smiled through her tears at them, then turned to look

  at Bert, who put his arm around her and gathered her on to his

  knees.

  When they left the restaurant, the four walked to Eighth and

  Broadway, where they stopped beside the electric car. Bert and

  Billy were awkward and silent, oppressed by a strange aloofness.

  But Mary embraced Saxon with fond anxiousness.

  "It's all right, dear," Mary whispered. "Don't be scared. It's

  all right. Think of all the other women in the world."

  The conductor clanged the gong, and the two couples separated in

  a sudden hubbub of farewell.

  "Oh, you Mohegan!" Bert called after, as the car got under way.

  "Oh, you Minnehaha!"

  "Remember what I said," was Mary's parting to Saxon.

  The car stopped at Seventh and Pine, the terminus of the line. It

  was only a little over two blocks to the cottage. On the front

  steps Billy took the key from his pocket.

  "Funny, isn't it?" he said, as the key turned in the lock. "You

  an' me. Just you an' me."

  While he lighted the lamp in the parlor, Saxon was taking off her

  hat. He went into the bedroom and lighted the lamp there, then

  turned back and stood in the doorway. Saxon, still unaccountably

  fumbling with her hatpins, stole a glance at him. He held out his

  arms.

  "Now," he said.

  She came to him, and in his arms he could feel her trembling.

  BOOK II

  CHAPTER I

  The first evening after the marriage night Saxon met Billy at the

  door as he came up the front steps. After their embrace, and as

  they crossed the parlor hand in hand toward the kitchen, he

  filled his lungs through his nostrils with audible satisfaction.

  "My, but this house smells good, Saxon! It ain't the coffee--I

  can smell that, too. It's the whole house. It smells . . . well, it

  just smells good to me, that's all."

  He washed and dried himself at the sink, while she heated the

  frying pan on the front hole of the stove with the lid off. As he

  wiped his hands he watched her keenly, and cried out with

  approbation as she dropped the steak in the fryin pan.

  "Where'd you learn to cook steak on a dry, hot pan? It's the only

  way, but darn few women seem to know about it."

  As she took the cover off a second frying pan and stirred the

  savory contents with a kitchen knife, he came behind her, passed

  his arms under her arm-pits with down-drooping hands upon her

  breasts, and bent his head over her shoulder till cheek touched

  cheek.

  "Um-um-um-m-m! Fried potatoes with onions like mother used to

  make. Me for them. Don't they smell good, though! Um-um-m-m-m!"

  The pressure of his hands relaxed, and his cheek slid caressingly

  past hers as he started to release her. Then his hands cl
osed

  down again. She felt his lips on her hair and heard his

  advertised inhalation of delight.

  "Um-um-m-m-m! Don't you smell good--yourself, though! I never

  understood what they meant when they said a girl was sweet. I

  know, now. And you're the sweetest I ever knew."

  His joy was boundless. When he returned from combing his hair in

  the bedroom and sat down at the small table opposite her, he

  paused with knife and fork in hand.

  "Say, bein' married is a whole lot more than it's cracked up to

  be by most married folks. Honest to God, Saxon, we can show 'em a

  few. We can give 'em cards and spades an' little casino an' win

  out on big casino and the aces. I've got but one kick comin'."

  The instant apprehension in her eyes provoked a chuckle from him.

  "An' that is that we didn't get married quick enough. Just think.

  I've lost a whole week of this."

  Her eyes shone with gratitude and happiness, and in her heart she

  solemnly pledged herself that never in all their married life

  would it be otherwise.

  Supper finished, she cleared the table and began washing the

  dishes at the sink. When he evinced the intention of wiping them,

  she caught him by the lapels of the coat and backed him into a

  chair.

  "You'll sit right there, if you know what's good for you. Now be

  good and mind what I say. Also, you will smoke a cigarette.--No;

  you're not going to watch me. There's the morning paper beside

  you. And if you don't hurry to read it, I'll be through these

  dishes before you've started."

  As he smoked and read, she continually glanced across at him from

  her work. One thing more, she thought--slippers; and then the

  picture of comfort and content would be complete.

  Several minutes later Billy put the paper aside with a sigh.

  "It's no use," he complained. "I can't read."

  "What's the matter?" she teased. "Eyes weak?"

  "Nope. They're sore, and there's only one thing to do 'em any

  good, an' that's lookin' at you."

  "All right, then, baby Billy; I'll be through in a jiffy."

  When she had washed the dish towel and scalded out the sink, she

  took off her kitchen apron, came to him, and kissed first one eye

  and then the other.

  "How are they now. Cured?"

  "They feel some better already."

  She repeated the treatment.

  "And now?"

  "Still better."

  "And now?"

  "Almost well."

  After he had adjudged them well, he ouched and informed her that

  there was still some hurt in the right eye.

  In the course of treating it, she cried out as in pain. Billy was

  all alarm.

  "What is it? What hurt you?"

  "My eyes. They're hurting like sixty."

  And Billy became physician for a while and she the patient. When

  the cure was accomplished, she led him into the parlor, where, by

  the open window, they succeeded in occupying the same Morris

  chair. It was the most expensive comfort in the house. It had

  cost seven dollars and a half, and, though it was grander than

  anything she had dreamed of possessing, the extravagance of it

  had worried her in a half-guilty way all day.

  The salt chill of the air that is the blessing of all the bay

  cities after the sun goes down crept in about them. They heard

  the switch engines puffing in the railroad yards, and the

  rumbling thunder of the Seventh Street local slowing down in its

  run from the Mole to stop at West Oakland station. From the

  street came the noise of children playing in the summer night,

  and from the steps of the house next door the low voices of

  gossiping housewives.

  "Can you beat it?" Billy murmured. "When I think of that

  six-dollar furnished room of mine, it makes me sick to think what

  I was missin' all the time. But there's one satisfaction. If I'd