# The Rose Dawn/Chapter 4
### CHAPTER IV
#### I

THE dry season stretched on beyond its wont. People began anxiously to speculate about the rain, calling upon old precedents, old signs, and portents to support their views or hopes. The brown hills turned pale silver as the grasses bleached. In the cañons lay a tangle of dead old stalks and vines. Where had been a lush thicket of ferns now the earth lay naked and baked, displaying unexpected simplicities of contour that had before been mysteriously veiled. So hard and trodden looked this earth that it seemed incredible that any green thing had ever, or could ever again, pierce its steel-like shell. The land was stripped bare. In the trees the wind rustled dryly. In the sky the sun shone glaringly. The morning fogs were no more. No smallest wisp of mist relieved the steel blue of the heavens. Animals and birds drowsed through the days, seeming to stir abroad only at night. Even the buzzards sat on the cross arms of the telegraph poles with their wings held half out from their bodies, as though panting. Along the roads, for many yards on either side, the earth and trees were powdered white with dust; and in the roadways lay a thick white carpet that rose to smother you at a touch. The land was as if in suspended animation, waiting, It was athirst.
All the old timers watched these things with interest, hope, or dismay, according to their temperaments. The Boyds had not been in California long enough to think of rain in terms of inches. Kenneth, if he gave it a thought, merely delighted in the unbroken sunshine; or noticed that at sunset the coloured veils over the ramparts of the Sur had deepened in tint and tenderness.
The completion of the house aroused in him a belated inter​est. They moved in about the first of December. Everything smelled new. It was an imposing house, two-storied, square like a box, but with its plainness relieved by a cupola. One mounted a tiny porch with pillars and passed into a narrow central hall in which arose the stairs and from which opened four doors on each side and one at the end. The two doors on the right led into the library and the dining room. The two doors on the left into the parlour and a smaller affair known as the "den"; the one at the end gave access to the kitchen by way of the pantry. All the woodwork shone with varnish. The walls were kalsomined and decorated with stencilled or "hand painted" designs. The furniture of the parlour was the last degree of spindle legged and brocaded discomfort; that of the dining room carved and massive; but the library and den, with their fireplaces and their leather upholstered chairs and sofas were, even when new, cosy and inviting. Boyd had expended considerable ingenuity on the den. It had a cellarette with spaces for all shaped bottles and glasses; a humidor like a cabinet; a card table with devices for bestowing ashes, chips, or drinks. Altogether the house was a very creditable setting for a gentleman of wealth and leisure of the early 'eighties; a woman might criticize it as too distinctly a man's house, of expensive solid comfort, but more like a furniture exhibit than an example of considered taste.
The grounds, too, were well advanced in the first stages. That is to say, they were all planted, but not yet grown. The modern practise of wealthy gentlemen of moving full grown trees at fabulous cost and great risk was then unknown. You planted things out of earthenware pots, or at most wooden tubs. An Easterner would have seen little in Boyd's new garden save a pattern and a lot of plants, all apparently alike. Not so a Californian. The latter has developed the seeing eye. Those fifty growths or so he does not see as they are, all the same size. Some to him stand as trees, some as shrubs, some as creepers or flowering plants. He sees that garden as it will be, not as it is; and so he is prepared for interested and intelligent discussion. Thus Mrs. Stanley and Boyd had an almost acrimonious argument as to whether a certain tree should be removed, the ground ​of argument being whether it did or did not shut off the view of the mountains. The tree was six inches tall.
Having acquired a staff, consisting of two indoor Chinamen, one garden Chinaman, and a Spanish stable boy, Boyd suggested to his son that it would be a good idea to give a party by way of house warming.
"We've been treated pretty well by all these people," said he, "and the old winter crowd is beginning to come back. Let's give a real blowout."
The plans, as they talked them over, took shape in the direction of real engraved invitations, an orchestra rather than the usual piano-mandolin-guitar combination, a caterer from San Francisco——
"Hold on!" cried Boyd, looking in dismay at the list of those to be invited, "we're getting swamped! This house will never hold that gang! The doors are too narrow for one thing. Where are you going to put the orchestra?"
But Dora Stanley had an idea. The Stanleys, as next door neighbours had been taken into full consultation; and had responded with enthusiasm, down to the Chinamen. Chinese love parties. Even Martin so far forsook his customary brotherly attitude of cynicism to admit it was a good idea.
"Have the dance in the barn!" she cried. "There's plenty of space in the carriage room. You can put sofas and things in the stalls for them to sit out. You can put refreshments in the harness room. And that leaves the house entirely free for clothes, and card tables, and supper and all the rest."
So the horses continued to board at the Fremont stables, while the barn was decorated. They used hundreds of yards of bunting and dozens of American flags until no sliver of the carriage room remained visible, and the place resembled a crazy-coloured marquee. They stretched canvas on the floor, and then laid other canvas over that in order to keep it clean. They placed locomotive lanterns for lights. They installed cartloads of furniture around the walls and in the stalls and haymow. They arranged scores of palms and other plants in tubs around the tête-à-tête corners. As an afterthought they constructed a covered way between the stable and the house. Boyd would never ​have thought of that, but Dora pointed out to him emphatically the perishable nature of chignons and chiffons when exposed to night breezes.
The invitations went out to every family of social pretension in the county. It was understood that a cotillion was to be danced—they called it a "German." Most people knew in a general way how you did it, but nobody was quite certain as to the details. To conduct such a thing successfully, without confusion, took knowledge and practise. Possibly Kenneth Boyd was going to "lead"; he came from New York. Then someone learned that Ben Sansome was coming down especially, from San Francisco. Ben Sansome had led San Francisco society and its dances since the pioneer days. That was all he ever did: that was his specialty. His approval made a débutante, nobody knew just why, and as a consequence he was made much of. His journeying to Arguello especially for the Boyd housewarming was quite wonderful. Boyd's stock went even higher. There was a great overhauling of feminine wardrobes. Even the men, concealing their interest under indifferent exteriors, secretly wondered whether they ought to have silk hats, and if so whether the old ones would do.

#### II

This party created considerable disturbance at Corona del Monte. Of course Colonel and Mrs. Peyton were going; it would not have been a typical party without them. But the Colonel had set his heart on taking Daphne with them; and, after a little hesitation, Allie backed him up. The proposal met with its opposition from Brainerd himself. The idea that Daphne was old enough for such an affair took him completely by surprise.
"She's nothing but a baby; look at her!" he objected.
"I'm looking at her," rejoined Allie, stoutly, "and all I see is that you don't know enough to dress her suitably for her age. She is sixteen next month, and you rig her out like a child. I was married at sixteen."
"But she is young," persisted Brainerd. "What does she know of dancing and ballroom conversation?"
​"She's a very good dancer," stated Mrs. Peyton, flatly, "and as for ballroom conversation, I don't know that it is any different from any other conversation, and I certainly would not call Daffy tongue-tied."
"Where has she ever learned to dance?" demanded Brainerd.
"At dancing school, where I myself have been taking her every Thursday afternoon," stated Allie.
Brainerd flushed.
"Why did I know nothing of that?"
"I told Daffy to keep it secret—as a surprise."
"You mean you were afraid I'd put a stop to it."
Allie only smiled at this.
"My dress suit is riddled with moths," grumbled Brainerd, "and heaven knows to what hours we'd be out."
"Now we're getting down to the real reasons," said Mrs. Peyton, briskly. "Let me relieve your mind. I'm not asking you to go. We shall take charge of Daffy; and she'll sleep at the ranch. Perhaps she is a little young; but you must take your chances as they come. It is not every day that such a grand ball is given in a new house."
"Fine! fine!" cried the Colonel, when he heard of the capitulation. "She shall be the belle of the ball! And, Allie, I want you to get her the very grandest ball gown you can buy."
But Allie had accurately gauged Brainerd's complaisance.
"No," she vetoed. "He would not allow that. Believe me Richard, I know."
"But as a present from me—for her coming out!" pleaded the Colonel.
"No. He has made the big concession: and will be obstinate as a mule on everything else."
"She would be a beauty in a proper dress—a beauty. I know; I am a judge. But you must see that she is fitted out, someway!" cried the Colonel, much disappointed.
The situation was saved by Doña Cazadero. That amiable lady, with Pilar, came in on the discussion.
"But we have estacks and estacks of clothes, so pretty. Laid away for many years in our great chests," she drawled. "But of course among so many the niña will find that which will esuit ​her! Pilar will wear one of them, and I will wear one. They are not in the present estyle, no; but the present estyle is very ugly, no? And these are of the Spanish estyle, which is always good. Yes?"
Next day Mrs. Peyton and Daphne drove over to Las Flores behind the little ponies and spent the afternoon trying on the rich old dresses unpacked from bestudded Spanish chests. They were beautiful, and they became Daphne's piquant style. With her hair gathered hastily and held by a huge comb, with her cheeks aglow with excitement, with her slim lithe figure in the old time long corsage and flounces, Daphne was a picture. She was much pleased and a little astonished at what the mirror showed her. She even put on the silk stockings and buskins with crossed straps, and secretly rubbed her legs together to feel the silk creak. She had a keen sense of the beautiful, but was still too much of a child to have acquired an equally keen sense of the fashionable.
"It is certainly very fetching: she is really beautiful in it," commented Mrs. Peyton doubtfully, to Doña Cazadero, "but——"
"But it is not estyle. True. But always has the niña been esso different from all the rest. Why do you want to make her like now?" said Doña Cazadero, with unexpected insight.
"I believe you are right! But I am afraid Mr. Brainerd will never consent——"
"I know," said Doña Cazadero. She was astonishing for so apparently idle a lady. "I will myself make the call on Meester Brainerd. Daffy, you will essay nothing of the dress. But you will essay to señor, your father, that Doña Vincente Cazadero will call on heem to-morrow."
At three the following afternoon the Cazadero state coach bumped its way over the half-made road to the bungalow. Brainerd—impressed, somewhat puzzled, and a trifle suspicious over this unusual honour—helped the lady up the steps and into an armchair, where she unfolded a fan and looked about her.
"You have here the nice ranchita," she stated, "I have never been here."
​Brainerd murmured an appropriate response. Small talk ensued. Then after suitable interval Doña Cazadero raised her voice.
"Juan!" she called.
The Cazadero footman entered bearing packages which, at a sign, he laid on the floor and began to unwrap. Brainerd watched the leisurely performance with a curiosity that changed to bewilderment as he saw what the packages contained.
"They are very pretty," observed Doña Cazadero calmly.
"They seem so," replied Brainerd, "but what——"
"Daphne she go to this ball of Señor Boyd? No? Eet is her first ball: no? Well, this gown is the present of the Cazadero for that fiesta."
Brainerd stiffened.
"It is a very kind thought, Doña Cazadero, but I cannot permit——"
"Permit: what is that word?" Doña Cazadero interrupted. "But you do not understand. We are rancheros both; no? We are neighbours; no? It is the custom of the Espanish peoples to make the gift at thees first fiesta of a young girl. Always we do that. For that we keep many thing." She laughed, shaking her plump form all over. "You have no idea the many thing: in boxes, chests. It is bad luck to buy the gift. It must be of the family possession. Now theese dress," she prattled on, "eet is very old. In old time there ees a ship come in, name of The Pilgrim, and she bring very nice things—diamonds, dresses, combs, mantillas, all the thing Espanish people want. And the Espanish people send down the eskin of cow—very many—and they mak' the trade. There was no—what—you—call—wharf. You go through the wave in a boat. I remember my mother tell me how the young Yankee sailor man squeeze her little bit when he carry her through the wave to the boat!" She laughed in a jolly fashion. "So we get all the thing: and we put these away in the chest and the box."
"But this must be very valuable: priceless!" protested Brainerd.
"Oh, yes, very valuable," agreed Doña Cazadero, calmly. "You can not buy heem. They do not mak' heem now. That," ​she explained triumphantly, "ees why he mak' the good gift for the fiesta!"
She arose and offered her hand in farewell.
"But I cannot accept——" repeated Brainerd feebly.
"To riffuse the gift of the Espanish people for the first fiesta of the young girl, Señor Brainerd," stated the Señora courteously, but with a totally unexpected edge to her voice, "is the same thing as one who says 'I am not your frien'.' It is the custom of old time; and we are people of the old time."
"It is kind of you; most kind," said Brainerd, after a slight pause. "Daphne will be delighted. I will see that she expresses her deep appreciation."
The equipage rolled and bumped its way down the hill. It did not return at once to Las Flores, but stopped for a call at La Corona del Monte.
"Did he accept?" asked Mrs. Peyton, eagerly.
"Oh, he tak' heem," smiled Dona Cazadero, indolently. Then after a pause—"All men the same—like childs."
Daphne spent a good deal of her time now at the Peyton's. There were important, mysterious things to be done to the gown. Somewhat to his own surprise Brainerd drove over a number of times and disposed his long tweed-clad figure in an easy chair where he could watch his daughter, flushed with a repressed excitement, moving to and fro. He was looking on her with new eyes as he would look on a new specimen. Evidently he found her good, for the eyes glowed softly: evidently the thought that she had grown up disturbed him, for the weary lines of his face deepened and saddened.
"I did not know before that I was old," he told Allie. "I have been grubbing away up there with always the hope of to-morrow to console me for the shortcomings of to-day. And now I see the to-morrows are few."
"Old! Nonsense, man!" chided Mrs. Peyton briskly. "You might be the Colonel's son. And he's not old yet."
"Nor ever will be, bless him," returned Brainerd with unwonted feeling.
It was agreed that Daphne was to dine and dress at the Peytons' before the ball and spend with them what remained of the ​night afterward. Dinner was the least important: and was hurried over at a scandalously early hour. Then Daphne retired with Mrs. Peyton and Rosita, Manuelo's daughter. The Colonel dressed himself in his old "clawhammer" with the long tails, that somehow on him gave the impression of brass buttons, though brass buttons there were none; and tried in vain to read or smoke. He was as excited as Daphne herself, and kept jumping up to see if Manuelo understood about the team, and if they had got out the thick lap robes, and if they had remembered to put on the side curtains. The time was very long. The women, indeed, were having trouble. The difficulty was not with the gown, which fitted to a marvel, but with Daphne's hair. It simply would not lie down and be tame as the Spanish style demanded. Finally Allie abandoned the Spanish style entirely.
"This is not a masquerade: we don't have to be consistent," she mumbled through the hairpins in her mouth. "There," she pronounced, after a few moments. "You'll do. Now run down and keep the Colonel company while I slip on my dress."
"Oh, Aunt Allie!" cried Daphne, with compunction. "You've spent all the time on me! I'm so selfish!" and she would have flown at the little woman for a hug and a kiss. But Mrs. Peyton checked her.
"Hold on!" she cried sharply. "Don't you dare muss yourself, after all my pains! I have plenty of time to dress. I've done it before a thousand times or so, and I don't have to experiment. Run along!"
Daphne crept along the dim hall to the study, trying hard to avoid the numerous cracking boards. The Colonel was seated under the lamp with a book. He looked up at the bright young vision framed in the doorway.
"God bless my soul!" he exclaimed, and arose. "My dear," he said gravely, after a pause of inspection, "you will be the belle of the ball. You are exquisite." He stepped forward and raised her hand to his lips. Her colour heightened, her eyes bright, she dropped him a curtsey.
"I am glad you like it, godpapa. If you are pleased, I am very happy."
"Frightened, puss?" asked the old man.
​"Not frightened, exactly: but very excited. Oh, godpapa, do you suppose I will get any dances?"
"Well, if you don't," stated the Colonel stoutly, "I'm going to have the eyesight of the young men of this town examined. Where are you going? Your aunt isn't ready yet."
"I just thought I'd go see Sing Toy," she said shyly. Why she wanted to see Sing Toy she did not exactly know. It was no mere desire to show off her grandeur before another. But Sing Toy was one of the family.
The Chinaman sat under the lamp in the middle of a spotless kitchen that looked as though it must just have been finished and furnished by a very careful person who had not yet used it. Not the smallest item was out of place. Sing Toy was in a straight backed chair. He wore loose garments of silk brocade, dark blue on the outside, with others showing edges of lilac and pink underneath. His socks were snowy white, his thick-soled shoes were stiff with embroidery. His long queque, which in daily work was coiled neatly around his head, now hung ceremonially down his back. He sat bolt upright, his hands tucked in his voluminous sleeves, staring straight ahead of him as though expecting distinguished company. This was his frequent habit, though most evenings he was with the gardeners in their quarters. Thus he sat rigid and silent the whole evening through as though receiving visitors, engaged in mysterious thoughts of his own. Perhaps he did receive visitors—who knows?
As the door opened and Daphne slipped in to the well-lighted kitchen Sing Toy turned his head and looked at her for some time without expression.
"I go to party, Sing Toy," said Daphne. "I think perhaps you like look at my new dress. Very fine silk."
"I think mebbeso you come," stated Sing Toy. "He China silk. Velly fine. Old silk. You young lady now: no litty girl. You no come want ginga snaps any more," he added, and a faint smile appeared in the depth of his eyes.
"Oh, Sing Toy! I'll put on short dresses to-morrow, if I'm to have no more of your good gingersnaps!"
Sing Toy arose and waddled deliberately to a cupboard drawer whence he produced a long shallow box of the soft yet stiff ​crêpe-like paper peculiar to the Chinese. It was edged with red and ornamented with the decorative Chinese words.
"Litty plesent," said Sing Toy, handing it to her.
She raised the cover and the crêpe-tissue paper beneath it to discover a silk scarf. It was a wonderful specimen of Chinese handicraft, stiff with exquisite embroidery.
"Oh, Sing Toy," she breathed, "it's wonderful."
"Yes, he velly fine," said Sing Toy, complacently, "you wear nun on head."
She threw the scarf over her hair.
"It's just the thing!" she cried. "Oh, thank you so much! It's a wonderful present.
"All light. You go. I velly busy," said Sing Toy.
"Give me the box to put it in. What does this writing say?"
"Good-luck-long-life-'n-happiness," replied Sing Toy, as though it were one word. "Now you go!"
Daphne did not return to the Colonel. She slipped on the voluminous "carriage boots," threw her wrap about her shoulders and stepped out into the night. The air was very still and warm and quiet. Hardly an insect chirped. She turned down the dim tree aisles, and shortly found herself under the spreading branches of that great oak she called Dolman's House.
"Oh, Dolman," she breathed. "I'm so excited! To-night I am spreading my wings! Just like the little birds in your branches! Don't let me fall, Dolman. Make me happy!"
She looked up through the branches interlaced against the night sky; and the stars twinkled at her. As she looked they alternately grew larger and smaller. Then slowly from either side a gray mist seemed to close in. The stars grew dim, were blotted out, the twisted limbs of Dolman's House disappeared. Only the gray mist filled her eyes. And then, as slowly as it had closed in, it appeared to draw aside again. Daphne seemed to herself to be galloping up the beach, and the wind was in her hair, and the surf thundered, and the beach birds' cries were scattered before her like leaves. Close behind her she heard a horse's hoofbeats against the hard sand. They were coming nearer——
A voice called her name. There was an instant's rushing of ​things as though coming into focus. Daphne was under the oaks; but so real had been the flash of her vision that almost she could taste the salt on her lips. The Colonel was calling her.
"Coming!" she cried. Then, as she turned away: "What did you mean, Dolman? Is happiness only in my old pursuits?"
But Dolman gave no further sign.

#### III

Balls started early in those days. Soon after eight o'clock the first of the guests began to arrive. Arguello possessed two "glass hacks," and these were so much in demand that their owners had arranged their would-be patrons in a schedule. The first lot was instructed to be ready at eight sharp. They knew if they were not on time they would lose their chance, for the glass hack could not wait: it had its other customers to call for. All the guests went first to the house, where they deposited their wraps, and then down the covered way to the stables where they greeted their hosts and Mrs. Stanley. That competent and uncompromising lady had again donned her war harness and was assisting; all thought of boundary fences and such things forgotten. Ben Sansome, too, was in line, a jovial, plump, bald elderly gentleman, suggesting a pug dog rather than a leader of society, dressed with the most exquisite correctness, and properly though condescendingly genial. The place seemed alive with silent, unobtrusive, deft, dress-suited strangers gliding about on various errands—the caterer's men from San Francisco. One of them stood behind a small table at the door and handed to each gentleman as he entered a folded dance card from which depended a tiny pencil on a silken string. The outside of these carried an embossed monogram, which indicated that they were no mere bought-from-stock commonplaces, together with the date. The inside contained dances up to fifteen, each numbered and named, with a blank line on which to write in names. There were the Grand March, and waltzes, polkas, schottisches, lancers, and a Virginia Reel entitled the supper dance. After supper was to come the "German." Were it not for a supplementary set of dances played between each of the regular numbers ​and called "extras," one's fate would thus have been cut and dried for the entire evening. Already youths were darting here and there inscribing names on their cards and those of their partners-to-be. The more enterprising were not in such hurry. They had days since bespoken certain dances: it only remained to stroll around and see that the fair ones had properly entered them. As each girl with any claims to popularity appeared in the doorway she was the centre of a rush from all directions.
Sooner or later the couples strolled down to look over the favours spread out on a big table at the end of the room. These were satisfactorily expensive and striking. There were also various mysterious "properties" that had to do with figures in the German.
Only Ben Sansome knew what they were for—Ben and two of the younger men whom he picked to assist him, and with whom he had rehearsed solemnly the more complicated figures. The older people were finding places in the chairs set along the walls. The youngsters wandered into and out of the nooks and corners, spying the lay of the land, admiring the arrangements and the decorations. Behind some tubbed palms in one corner the orchestra was tuning; adding to the suspended thrill of anticipation. Then a ball was "opened" formally; and until it was opened there was no music, and no one shook a foot.
The entrance of the Peytons and Daphne Brainerd was honoured by an instant's total silence, followed by a low buzz. The Colonel was impressive at any time, with his erect, lean figure, his shaven, aristocratic hawk face, and his mop of silver hair. But as he appeared in the doorway to-night his old-fashioned charm was only a foil to the equally old-fashioned charm of the girl on his arm. Mrs. Peyton, with a true eye for effect, had managed to drop a step back on excuse of greeting a friend, leaving the old man and the girl to go in alone. Doña Cazadero had been right: the Spanish gown was not in the mode but was always in style. And Daphne's irregular features, dusky rich colour, and mass of unruly hair added just the captivating touch of incongruity.
Heads were together all over the room. The little receiving line broke its routine of greetings. And Ben Sansome, who ​had been standing at the end, turned and approached the group of which Boyd was the centre. They saw him bend a little stiffly from the hips acknowledging the introduction, and reach his pudgy hand for the dance card that dangled from Daphne's wrist. She passed it to him instantly, blank as it had come from the engraver's. Ben Sansome smiled at it, and looked up to meet direct, grave eyes.
"I should have said you were like that," he murmured. "It shows in all you wear so exquisitely; the look of your eyes upon all these others."
Daphne did not at all understand the speech; but she was no fool, so she smiled enigmatically. She had never been to a formal ball before, and so did not know that young ladies were accustomed to scribble random initials opposite all vacant dances in order to avoid the appearance of unpopularity. Later, of course, those initials could be erased as partners proposed themselves.
"I will put myself down for the Grand March, if I may," continued Ben Sansome. That wily and experienced warrior had not yet chosen his partners, for he did not know the society of Arguello—and no intention of contenting himself with anything second rate. He well knew that any girl present would "bolt" any engagement she might have to give him any dance he requested. It must be repeated that no one could quite have told why this was so. Ben Sansome was and had always been an idler. He had wasted every talent and opportunity he might have possessed. He looked like an obese pug dog. He drank too steadily; and, though he never disgraced himself in public, he got beastly drunk among men at the clubs. His conversation was hardly enlivening. He sold champagne for a living, inferior champagne which people bought because they were afraid he would be offended if they did not serve it when he dined with them: he always examined the labels! Other men looked upon him with good-natured contempt. Yet there is no doubt that he ruled San Francisco society. During the season three big balls were given in the name of charity, or what not. Ben Sansome attended to all the details of these balls, and of course made out the list of those who were to be ​invited. If you did not appear at these balls, you had no social standing. The chances of a débutante had been seriously damaged, if not destroyed, because she received no invitation to either the Charity, the Midwinter, or the Easter. Of course it was always a "mistake," an "omission," but the damage was never repaired. It was not an edifying spectacle; the social life of a great city in the hands of an old roué like Ben Sansome; but so it was. There is a fearful lot of drudgery, and arranging, and running of errands, and organization to a social season; and in those days of vigorous life Ben Sansome was actually the only "gentleman" of leisure. He did all the work; and he took all the reward of power. It is only fair to state that he was a very amiable gentleman, and kindly, when his little ambitions were not interfered with, and thoroughly well mannered and harmless with decent women.
But to his statement Daphne shook her head.
"Thank you, Mr. Sansome," she replied. "But I open the ball with Colonel Peyton."
This refusal was in itself enough to damn: but Ben Sansome had a very accurate eye for the advertising quality of the unusual. Once when returning from abroad he had during the whole voyage avoided a certain flashy, vulgar and boresome woman. In New York Harbour, however, it was raining, and this woman donned a scarlet rain coat. When the ship docked Sansome was leaning against the rail close to her side, engaging her in lively conversation. He knew the advertising value of that red raincoat. So to-night: there were a half dozen beautiful young girls in every way worthy of his favour, whose family and social standing he knew all about, any one of whom would have given her best ring to be selected by him; nevertheless he picked one of whom he knew nothing, not even the name; because, again, of her advertising value.
"Then you will help me lead the German," he breathed in answer.
"I am afraid you will find me a very ignorant assistant: I have never danced a German," replied Daphne.
"You will have no trouble. I will teach you," suggested Sansome, warming to the idea of annexing this vivid, striking creature ​to help localize his important presence. "You and I will have a dance or so together and I will have a chance to explain to you all about it. It's very simple."
"I shall be very glad," replied Daphne. She was much disappointed in the looks of the celebrated beau; but she was human and feminine and she lived on the Pacific Coast, so she was flattered.
But Kenneth, who had been hovering impatiently in the background, here broke in. Recognition had come to him in a great wave after a moment's puzzle. And with it had come a rush of other emotions, the principal one of which was a relief of spirit. Subconsciously his pride of the young man had nursed a sort of grievance over his having permitted himself to be fooled by a child. This was no child, but a young woman, glorious in her dark, glowing beauty and serene in her self-possession. That magic day on the beach was rehabilitated. He cursed his luck that had permitted him so nearly to fill out his programme; and he blessed it that his duties as host had not allowed him to crowd it full even unto the twelfth extra. Of course he was to lead the Grand March with Dora Stanley, as next door neighbour and best friend, and had engaged the cotillion with Myra.
"May I see your programme next?" he broke in, almost snatching the card from Ben Sansome's hand. "How many may I have?"
She looked at him a deliberate moment, seeming to rebuke his breathless haste; but it was the old beau who answered the question.
"My boy," he wheezed with a fat chuckle, "never ask a woman how many you may have: take what you want and marshal your forces to meet her objections."
"I believe you are right, Mr. Sansome," said Kenneth, flashing one of his charming smiles. "But if I took all I wanted, I would of course take them all," he bowed slightly toward Daphne, who returned his smile. "Since I cannot do that, I will take all I dare."
He glanced rapidly over his own programme and made sundry notes.
​"The third and the seventh—and supper," he announced. As a matter of fact he had the supper dance already engaged, but his active brain had assured him of escape. He bowed again, and gave way to others who were already gathering around.
Daphne's card was soon filled. Everybody in Arguello knew her as a child. There was an alluring piquancy in this sudden emergence as a woman. By the time she and the Peytons had escaped from the swirling group near the receiving station and made their way toward the chairs along the wall, her card was full and the success of her evening assured.
All balls of those days were opened by what was known as a Grand March, a pretty and stately ceremony wherein the dancers paced in column two by two. The column turned and twisted and tied itself into knots and convolutions and extracted itself therefrom: the couples divided into other columns of single file which drew apart and performed even more complicated figures, and drew together again in such mysterious and miraculous fashion that each man found himself again with his partner after apparently hopeless separation. It took some leading, the Grand March. No hopeless amateur need apply. Ben Sansome opened all balls in San Francisco as a matter of understood social right, but here waived that privilege in favour of the son of the house. And the son of the house did it very well, without hesitation or blunder. Dan Mitchell stood by the door surveying it with approving, professional eye. Dan was dressed in his baggy blue serge suit, and he had a quid of tobacco stowed away in his cheek—which was why he stood by the door. Already he had sampled Boyd's champagne, an especial concession to his necessity of getting back to the office before the Trumpet was put to bed.
"I'd like to see the German," he confided to Jim Paige. "But she certainly is an eight-gauge, double-barrelled party."
He watched lazily for a few minutes more, then faded away. At the Trumpet office he called in his assistant.
"Cort," he ordered, "that party of Boyd's is the real thing. She's making history. Send up Miss Mullins to get all the women's dresses and decorations, and then bring the notes to ​me. I'll write this story. And hold me three columns. Delay going to press."
"I held a column," said the assistant doubtfully, "and there's just come in a peach of a Chinatown murder."
"Kill it," said the editor decisively, "and do as I tell you." He spat at a sawdust box; then, the champagne circulating comfortably, he vouchsafed a little of his reason. "This man Boyd has evidently come to stay. That party, Cort, means two things. He's rich—why he must have brought the wine in tank cars; and he's full of energy. Man like that is always doing something. And bye and bye he's going to want publicity. You mark my words, Cort. And what he wants he pays for."
The assistant hopped down from his desk.
"You got a long head, chief, I'll say that for you," he conceded.
The party was swinging on its way. The violins crooned, the rhythm beat in hot pulses, the hypnotic swing of the dancers was like a music made visible. Cheeks were flushed, eyes sparkling or dreamy. It was as though in the flag-draped, flower-hung enclosure, with its reflected lights, a new world had been created out of music and dancing, wherein people dwelt as in another element with new thoughts, new emotions informing their souls. A magic was about them that fused their diversities, lifted their fatigues.
After the Grand March Colonel Peyton abandoned the dancing floor, where his tall form and his old-fashioned courtly carriage had made a brave display, and took refuge with a number of other old-timers at the card table. Thence, however, he appeared occasionally to address a gallant word to Allie, or to beam out on the shifting dancers.
"She is a great success," stated Mrs. Peyton, decidedly. "She is dancing every dance, and the men are fighting for the extras. We can be proud of her."
"She moves divinely," replied the Colonel. "I wish I were twenty years younger!" he sighed.
"You're quite enough of a fool about women as it is," rejoined Allie.
Daphne caught sight of them together and waved her hand. ​Her dusky cheeks were flushed richly, and her eyes seemed to glow with a deep, inner fire. The first dance with Kenneth had gone. Their steps fitted, and they swung in perfect harmony with the violins. Not a dozen words were exchanged between them, yet their spirits had been in the momentary close harmony of the rhythm, and they had separated with a vague feeling of having gained in intimacy. This feeling neither experienced to the same degree with any other of their partners. Yet it was merely a question of rhythm, of catching just exactly the throb and swing of the violins.
It had a practical application, however, as the fifth extra began. Daphne, alone for a instant, saw approaching her across, the crowded floor a be-spectacled, gawky youth she had suffered from at dancing school. At the same instant she caught Kenneth's eye. On the impulse, before she thought, she sent him a signal of distress. Instantly he responded, leaving abruptly the girl with whom he was talking, and making his way with eel-like dexterity through the crowded dancers.
"Come, come quick!" she breathed to him, clutching his arm.
Together they stepped behind the screen of palms and out through the barn door into the garden.
"You've saved my life!" laughed Daphne, breathless. "I don't know what I should have done if you hadn't rescued me. It's that dreadful Mitchell boy, bearing down on me like a goggle-eyed Fate. I didn't dare stay another second because I remember vaguely his saying something about some extra. And he's so persistent. Do you suppose he saw us?"
"He might have," said Kenneth, shrewdly. "I think we'd better move a little."
"Didn't you have this dance engaged?"
Kenneth hesitated.
"Yes, I did," he stated boldly, "and I don't care. It was a duty thing."
"Oh!" she cried, struck with compunction, "and you're the host!" She chuckled wickedly. "I ought to make you go back. But I don't care either. We are highly immoral."
They looked back toward the stable. It seemed to be bursting with light that leaked out of various cracks and crannies, ​and poured out past the palms through the wide-opened door. A figure silhouetted itself, an unmistakable gangling figure, and peered short-sightedly into the darkness.
"The Mitchell boy!" breathed Daphne. "Come!" She picked up her voluminous skirts and flew lightly down one of the new-made paths. Only at the porch on the other side of the house did she pause. "This is dreadful!" she cried. "You don't suppose he will find us here? He is very persistent."
"I think we are safe here," Kenneth reassured her.
It was as though they had entered another existence. The high-keyed, throbbing, emotional, swinging world of the rhythmical violins and the low brooding lights and the warm palpitant air had given way to a peace of calm. The stars in contrast seemed more than usually far away and aloof: a leisurely night breeze, with all the time in the world to get nowhere, wandered here and there, rustling leaves idly, or raising petals. There was no sound, save the music that seemed now almost as distant as the stars.
"I do love the night!" she cried.
They stood side by side for some time, and something slow and calming seemed to come like a mist over their spirits. They talked very little. Kenneth noted the fact with a fleeting wonder that this silence caused no discomfort to his social nerve. He could say nothing and still be comfortable! Indeed, he enjoyed it. The same thing had happened that day on the beach——
"The air is so sweet and warm to-night," she said. "One lies in it as in the warm sea. I went swimming once at night, in midsummer. It was like lying suspended in stars. And when I moved the water flashed—phosphorescence, you know."
"I'd like to do that," said Kenneth.
They stood again for a time without speaking. It was almost as though they were awaiting something that would come out of the calm night, something that interested and held them in a suspense of expectation. Daphne was the first to arouse herself.
"Did you notice whether they have begun another dance?" she enquired.
Thus admitted, the music again became audible to them. But ​they had not the least idea whether this was the "extra" just, finishing, or another number under way. Panic-stricken they scurried back.
The night wore away. At midnight a slight lassitude overcame the dancers, but supper revived them; and the German was undertaken with zest. Ben Sansome here came into his own. This was the one thing he did superlatively well. Even Patrick Boyd acknowledged that there was something to the little fat pug-dog of a man after all, for Boyd knew executive ability when he saw it. Sansome not only taught and conducted many complicated figures, but he repressed too great exuberance and he kept order. Withal he did it with tact, so that nobody was offended. The card players came in to watch. The stray couples emerged from the cosy corners. Even the caterer's men—those who were not busy about some duties—gathered in the background; for a cotillion was not always to be seen. It was an overwhelming success.
The deep bell on the clock tower downtown had struck the half-hour after two before the German came to a triumphant conclusion. The last strains found Daphne and Kenneth together near the door. By tacit consent they stepped around the palms for a breath of air.
The brightness of the stars overhead had mysteriously dimmed. They shone wearily as though from an immense remoteness and as though invisible influences were passing between the earth and them. Elsewhere than overhead they were veiled. A slow, sweet steady air breathed from the east. The night was still, full of portent. Not a sound broke the dead, waiting silence: no cricket nor insect shrilled, no bird called, scarcely a leaf rustled in spite of the steady air from the east.
A drop of water splashed against Daphne's upturned face: another marked the brick at her feet. As though in immediate response to a signal a frog began loudly to chirp. For nine months now he had lain in patient silence, wearing down the slow time while his enemies, the dry months, passed; standing faithful sentry to announce the return of the wet months, his friends.
With an excitement that Kenneth would understand only after he had become a true Californian, Daphne ran into the ball​room. She was carried out of herself, so that she had lost all timidity or shyness before a crowd. Into the centre of the room she sped, holding up her arms for silence, a vivid, arresting figure in her old-fashioned Spanish dress. The music broke off; the dancers stopped in position, turning their heads toward her; the buzz of conversation among the onlookers died.
"It's raining! It's raining!" she cried.
They stood and sat there like so many carved images, and the silence that had been in the night outside entered the room. And as the rhythm-waves of the dance ebbed and dropped below consciousness, distinctly could be heard on the roof above a gentle, hesitant patter, as though a guest still doubtful of welcome had arrived. While they listened, it seemed to gain confidence. The pattering increased until the jolly spirit of the dance seemed to have been transferred from the silenced floor to the roof. It caught its breath for an instant, then suddenly became a deep roar. The heavens had opened in a flood; and beneath the organ tones of the storm could be heard the silvery drip of water from the eaves.
The women looked a little dismayed and abstracted as they cast over rapidly in their minds what protecting garments they had brought with them. The men were plainly delighted, and went about slapping each other on the back. On an inspiration the orchestra struck up some lively music and the leader called a Virginia reel.
A grand rush for partners took place. Everybody took part. Colonel Peyton led forth his plump little wife, in spite of her laughing protests. He was quite the feature of the dance for he combined a beautiful old-fashioned courtesy with the most delightful and killing monkey-shines as he moved through the figures. As though by common consent this dance closed the party. The guests embarked laughing. Boyd's few umbrellas were in constant use escorting people to their carriages. The women and girls tucked their skirts up around their waists, leaving their petticoats exposed. The lights shone gleaming on wet things. Raindrops flashed like jewels. And on the roofs and in the water courses sounded the steadily increasing roar of the torrential rain.