Stevenson monument, while Papa talked to whoever came along. Tony, do you suppose it's gone— that little galleon? I hate to think of that."
Quent heard her words. 'There can't be anything but ruin left of Portsmouth Square. The fire ringed it in completely."
"No fire could hurt that galleon," Tony said confidently.
"Why not?" Quent asked. "You mean it's stuff that wouldn't burn?"
Tony laughed and shook his head. "Pm sure the ship wasn't there to burn. Don't you know the legend? They say at times when the night is clear and San Francisco sleeps, the Hispaniola soars away with its sails filled and all the seaways for its home. So why wouldn't it escape when the fire came too close and return when it was safe again?"
"I'd like to think that," Melora said quietly.
Tony handed Melora the book with a quick gesture. "It's for you. A souvenir of the fire."
She took the blackened volume in her hands gravely. 'Thank you very much. I'll treasure this."
Quent quickened his pace as if he'd grown suddenly impatient, and Cora murmured that she was tired.
They were all weary enough of such difficult walking by the time they reached Van Ness, and without ceremony Cora dropped down on a stretch of unbroken curb, sighing. Melora followed her example, and Quent found a place beside them. Only Tony stood up, looking along the street.
Van Ness, marking the western boundary of the fire line, was alive with activity. On most of its western edge the mansions still stood proudly. Along the east spread wreckage left by fire and dynamite, but men were clearing rubble away and here and there along the sidewalk shacks were springing up. These were not refugee camps, but individual business enterprises.
Beside one of them a young bootblack was working hard and gentlemen in oddly assorted attire were having their boots freed of dust. A mailman plodded along the west side of the street, distributing letters. Quent said he'd heard that the post office had been saved and desultory mail service had been resumed. Any sort of mail was being accepted, stamps or no.
Quent grimaced. "Sooner or later I suppose we'll have to get to work ourselves, Tony."
Tony was interested in the business activity of the street and a thoughtful look had come into his eyes.
"I'd like to try something more imaginative than a pick and shovel," he said. "This gives me an idea. Now if I can just locate Mr. Gower—"
But he would not tell them the details of his sudden notion, though Cora teased him, and since the afternoon was growing late, they went on toward home.
"HOW DO YOU KNOW?"
They reached home to find Quong Sam cooking supper on the laundry stove in the street. He had gained the help of neighbors to bring the stove out and had built a protecting lean-to around it of salvaged boards and corrugated iron. Sam, clearly, was in his element. He liked nothing better than to boss the family. These days no one suggested menus to him. Sam did as he pleased and so far he had managed to feed them. At the moment a huge wash boiler sat atop the laundry stove, steaming with a savory stew.
Cora sniffed hungrily. Nothing ever impaired her appetite. "What is it, Sam? And when do we eat?"
"Palace special," said Sam, stirring the mixture with a big wooden spoon. "Pletty soon eat."
Alec, who hovered nearby, with Smokey at his heels, explained. ''He put everything in it. Lima beans and canned soup and com and spaghetti. And that funny fish stuff of yours too, Melora."
"Oh, no!" Melora wailed. "Not my caviar!"
"You no likee, you no eatee," said Sam severely and no one offered further criticism.
They'd have been willing to sit on the curb or the steps with their assorted bowls of the "Palace" mixture. But Quong Sam was one who believed in doing things in proper fashion. When he was ready he shooed them inside to sit about the round table in the dining room. It was a dark room and it would have been nice to have a fire on the hearth, since the house was chilly and draughty from broken windows. But of course that wasn't allowed.
At least Sam's hot "caviar stew," as Melora named it, brought grateful warmth and nourishment. There was even bread again, as Mrs. Forrest and Mama, whose cough was better, had gone to stand in a bread line and had brought home two loaves.
What a tableful they were, Melora thought, looking about as the others chattered and exchanged experiences of the day. Those she knew best seemed most like strangers. If anyone had told her when she left Chicago—how long ago that seemed!—that she'd shortly be eating such a meal and listening to her mother talk about standing in a bread line, she'd have found the suggestion too fantastic for belief.
Mrs. Ellis seemed so plainly foreign, yet she was fitting herself comfortably into their midst. And just across the table, with Cora hanging on his every word, was Tony.
Quent, placed at Melora's side by Sam, wasn't saying much, just eating heartily. But she knew him well enough so that she could sense his amusement over Cora's remarks on the subject of "beautiful" ruins. And she did not miss the sardonic look he gave her sister when she fluttered long lashes at Tony.
Apparently Tony's interest worried Mama, for she drew Melora aside right after supper. In the tower section adjoining the parlor and overlooking the bay, was a "cozy comer" which had been lavishly furnished by the Hoopers in the recently popular Moorish manner.
Mama sank onto the soft pillows on the window seat and drew Melora down beside her. "Everything has been so confused since you got back, dear. There's been no time for a visit. Later I must hear all about Chicago and how the wedding went. And we must discuss the future too—your marriage to Quent. When I think of all that lovely material I'd bought for your new clothes going up in flames—!"
Melora started to speak, but her mother went on.
"Right now I want to talk about your sister. I'd never have dreamed that your grandmother would simply open the house to strangers without even consulting me. And now this—this unusual young man is making eyes at Cora. You can see the child is impressed. He's the type to flirt with every pretty girl who comes along, but she's too young to understand that No one that much older has ever treated her like this before, so of course it's going right to her head."
"I think you're worrying about nothing. Mama," Melora said a little stiffly. "Cora can be a bit of a flirt too. You know how Gran says she's a throwback to the old-fashioned southern belle. Besides, as you say, she's much too young for Tony."
"She won't believe that herself," Mrs. Cranby said. "I just don't like this—this leveling of classes. It can bring nothing but trouble and unhappiness."
Melora played with a fuzzy ball on the dark red drapery fringe. "Tony is really very nice when you get to know him."
Mama shook her head in distaste. "I have no desire to know him. Why, his mother was on the stage. She was an opera singer—Lotta Lombardi. She told me so herself. What surprises me, Melora, is that you should be in league against me like this."
Melora gave the fringe a quick flick. "No one's against you. Mama. In a few days Tony and his mother will probably move away, so you're worrying unnecessarily."
"With your grandmother's plans, I don't know. Anyway, dear, do try to keep an eye on your sister. If you see her alone with that young man, go and join them."
Her mother reached out to pat her arm in a soothing gesture.
"The one bright spot in all this, as far as I am concerned, is that you and Quent have settled things between you. Even when I was sure the house was coming down around my ears, I thought thankfully of that. I knew you'd be taken care of no matter what happened. You've made a wise choice, my dear."
Melora squirmed and longed to blurt out the truth.
"Have you ever thought," she asked limply, "that Quent is rather lazy, that he lacks ambition and that he always clowns instead of taking things seriously?"
There was shock in her mother's eyes. "Melora! What a dreadful way to speak of one you love. Never in all my life would I have spoken so of your father."
Her indignation was so great, her lack of
understanding so complete, that Melora smiled helplessly.
"I'll try to keep an eye on Cora, but I still don't think you need to worry," she assured her mother as she rose from the cushioned seat.
Too disturbed to stay with her mother longer, Melora went out the front door. Gran was seated in a chair beside Mrs. Ellis. These two who were so different could chat with each other in absorbed interest. Gran certainly had no such notions as Mama did about "classes."
When her grandmother saw Melora she excused herself to Tony's mother and left her chair.
"Come for a walk with me, Granddaughter. I've not been away from the house all day."
"You're doing too much," Melora said. "You'll wear out your strength."
Her grandmother smiled. "Maybe I'm tired, but I haven't felt so much alive in years."
Melora expected her to turn toward the park, perhaps climb to a high place where she could view the ruined part of the city. But Gran walked resolutely west toward the section the fire had not reached. By late afternoon fog had rolled in from the bay and now hung low overhead, touching the hilltops, but not yet engulfing the streets. Fog horns coughed hoarsely out on the water and the clean touch of dampness on the wind was refreshing.
As they walked along past street kitchens, greeting strangers with the easy friendliness disaster had bred, Melora began to speak of what she had seen that day.
"It's only a ghost city now, Gran. There's nothing left but a shell. Our house is just steps and emptiness. When I remember—"
"Don't look back except to remember the good things," Gran said. "Let's have no truck with unhappy ghosts."
"Mama is trying to make now be exactly like the past," Melora pointed out. "And I don't think you can do that either."
"Of course you can't. But a lot of people aren't going to accept the change all this will bring. At least not right away. Melora, this will be harder for your mother than for the rest of us. She hasn't our advantage."
"What do you mean—advantage?"
"Why," said Gran, "having hard things happen to us young. Plenty happened to me and my family when the Yankees burned down our home. And when my first husband was killed in battle."
Melora covered her grandmother's hand where it lay upon her arm. Mostly she forgot about that very young husband whom Gran had been married to less than a year. When a husband was mentioned, it was always the children's grandfather, Henry Bonner, and Melora knew how much Gran had loved him. Now, for the first time, she had a glimpse of an old pain, and of a growing, a maturing that must have resulted from it.
They paused at a side street looking out toward the bay where fog already hid the opposite shore. When Gran spoke again it was in the same calm voice.
"Like me, you've lost everything while you are still young. Though not as much as I lost. Because you are young you are resilient. And because of what has happened you will be stronger all your life when you have to face trouble. Your mother thought leaving the Bonner place was hard, but she doesn't know what real hardship is. So all this is going to be harder for her than for the rest of us. We'll have to give her time. She needs your father just now."
Melora nodded silently. They all needed him.
It was growing chilly and Melora shivered, but Gran stood where she was, looking off toward the water. For one so small and slight, there was weight to her when she chose to stand her ground.
"What about this marriage to Quent?" Gran asked abruptly.
"What do you mean?" Melora was startled by the sudden question.
"Sometimes," Gran said, "I wonder if you're really serious about Quent."
Always Gran saw through make-believe, Melora thought. Others might be fooled, but never Gran.
"What if I'm not serious?" Melora asked.
Gran's gaze seemed to look past any guard her granddaughter might have worn. "Your mother is exceedingly pleased about it. You know that, I think?"
"Of course she's pleased! She thinks it will be fine for me to live in a mansion on Nob Hill where I'll be waited on by butlers and have fifty ball gowns."
"Might have been at that," said Gran. "But she's maybe overlooking one little fact. The old Nob Hill is gone. And so in all probability is the Seymour fortune. Have you considered Will Seymour's business?"
"Insurance, you mean?" Melora recalled Quent's comments earlier.
"Exactly. I'll be surprised if this doesn't wipe out every penny Will has, or that Quent will inherit."
"But Uncle Will doesn't seem worried. He's been working on the Mayor's Committee as if he hadn't anything else to do."
"Naturally," said Gran. "We all do what's necessary first. So must you, Melora."
"I don't understand—" Melora began.
"If you weren't sure about Quent, you shouldn't have tampered with so serious a matter. It's unlike you. But since you have this is no time to upset your mother and throw Quent over when the Seymours are suffering such a loss. I hope you will think about that. Well, let's be getting home before Sam locks us out for the night."
She turned to start back and Melora fell into step beside her.
"But Gran—" she protested, and then broke off because there seemed to be nothing she could say. Her grandmother's words had opened up a dismaying possibility she had not glimpsed until this moment. It had never occurred to her that anyone would think the engagement was being broken because the Seymour fortune might be gone. Even Mama, who so wanted luxury for her daughter, would expect her to stand on certain principles.
Her grandmother spoke more gently. "Youth is a time for doing foolish things. We all have our turn at it. But just you hang onto Quent, even if he hasn't a fortune behind him. I think he'll do all right one of these days when he grows up."
"Gran, it isn't that!" Melora wailed, feeling a frantic need to escape from what seemed to be a closing trap. "The whole thing was a joke. Quent planned it himself. To get everyone to stop match-making. He's always full of pranks. He'll never grow up. Not that it isn't my fault too."
She was aware of the long look her grandmother gave her, but now they were nearly home.
They found Quong Sam padding about in his slippers, locking things up for the night. The earthquake rule was still to bed at sundown, up with the daylight. He grumbled under his breath as they came in and they tiptoed up the stairs together, subdued by the silence of the house.
"He looks ready to scold," Gran whispered, "We'd better be good and go right to bed."
Melora kissed her grandmother's cheek and went to her own floor. It was pitch dark and she had to feel her way along the paneled wall of the upper balcony. To her surprise, she found her door open. As she stepped in a voice spoke to her from the window seat. She saw the outline of her sister's head against the dim light.
"I've been waiting for you," Cora whispered. "Please—could we talk a little?"
"Of course," Melora said. There was something rapt and dreamy about Cora's tone that warned her. She sat on the window seat, waiting.
"When you're terribly happy you can endure almost anything, can't you, Mellie?" Cora began.
Mellie. The old name out of their childhood, when "Melora" had been too hard for a baby sister to say.
"What do you mean?" Melora asked.
"Well, like you and Quent, for instance. I mean since everything's decided and you've got each other and you're sure—the city can come down in ruins and you can lose everything, yet still it doesn't matter. You're happy. You've still got the important thing."
"I don't know that it's quite like that," Melora said.
Cora went on. "Mellie, what do you think of Tony Eliis?"
So Mama had been right. It would be necessary to move carefully now, say the right thing.
"He seems nice enough." Melora tried to speak casually. "But don't forget that there's always an appeal about someone who is different from the people we're accustomed to. They're sure to seem—well, more exciting." That was true. She had recognized it herself.
"He is different and exciting,
isn't he? Not like any boy I've ever known. He does such surprising things. Little thoughtful things that make you feel you're— sort of special."
Melora sat very still. She knew her cheeks were warm and was glad Cora could not see them in the dark.
"Oh, boys usually like me and I've had crushes before," Cora went on in a rush. "But this is different. Mellie, how does it feel to be truly in love? How do you know?"
Melora choked back the sharp "How should I know?" that rose to her lips. "I don't think that's anything you can put into words," she faltered.
"But you and Quent ... I mean you knew him all those years. You played together as children and fought like anything. So what made you change? How did you feel inside that made you know you'd begun to love him?"
"I don't know that I do know. I don't know how anybody can ever be sure."
She heard Cora's gasp of dismay. "Oh, no, Melora! I don't believe that. You loved him enough to tell him you'd marry him. And you couldn't have changed your mind since then. That's not like you. Why, Mama would—"
Melora cut in. "Don't you say a word to Mama. This is something for Quent and me to settle first I'm just saying this to let you know that—that feelings aren't always to be trusted. Anyone can get giddy at times and fall in love with love. For goodness' sakes, Cora, don't go fancying yourself in love with Tony Ellis. You don't know him at all. He's too old for you."
"He's not as much older as Papa is older than Mama. But don't get so excited about it. I thought I ' could talk to you, but I see it was a mistake. You sound just like Mama. And I can guess how she'd fed about this. Don't you go running to her either!"
Melora could sense the pride and hurt that choked her sister's voice as Cora started for the door.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm not so unfeeling as you think, I just don't want to see you get hurt. I don't believe Tony Ellis means anything by his little gallantries. He just wants us to like him. We mustn't let it go to our heads."
"We?" said Cora, pausing with her hand on the doorknob.
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