Sally Dows Page 19

  THE CONSPIRACY OF MRS. BUNKER.

  PART I.

  On the northerly shore of San Francisco Bay a line of bluffs terminatesin a promontory, at whose base, formed by the crumbling debris of thecliff above, there is a narrow stretch of beach, salt meadow, and scruboak. The abrupt wall of rock behind it seems to isolate it as completelyfrom the mainland as the sea before it separates it from the oppositeshore. In spite of its contiguity to San Francisco,--opposite also, buthidden by the sharp re-entering curve of coast,--the locality was wild,uncultivated, and unfrequented. A solitary fisherman's cabin half hiddenin the rocks was the only trace of habitation. White drifts of sea-gullsand pelican across the face of the cliff, gray clouds of sandpipersrising from the beach, the dripping flight of ducks over the saltmeadows, and the occasional splash of a seal from the rocks, were theonly signs of life that could be seen from the decks of passing ships.And yet the fisherman's cabin was occupied by Zephas Bunker andhis young wife, and he had succeeded in wresting from the hard soilpasturage for a cow and goats, while his lateen-sailed fishing-boatoccasionally rode quietly in the sheltered cove below.

  Three years ago Zephas Bunker, an ex-whaler, had found himself strandedon a San Francisco wharf and had "hired out" to a small Petaluma farmer.At the end of a year he had acquired little taste for the farmer'sbusiness, but considerable for the farmer's youthful daughter, who,equally weary of small agriculture, had consented to elope with himin order to escape it. They were married at Oakland; he put his scantearnings into a fishing-boat, discovered the site for his cabin, andbrought his bride thither. The novelty of the change pleased her,although perhaps it was but little advance on her previous humbleposition. Yet she preferred her present freedom to the bare restrictedhome life of her past; the perpetual presence of the restless sea was arelief to the old monotony of the wheat field and its isolated drudgery.For Mary's youthful fancy, thinly sustained in childhood by the lightestliterary food, had neither been stimulated nor disillusioned by hermarriage. That practical experience which is usually the end of girlishromance had left her still a child in sentiment. The long absencesof her husband in his fishing-boat kept her from wearying of or evenknowing his older and unequal companionship; it gave her a freedom hergirlhood had never known, yet added a protection that suited her stillchildish dependency, while it tickled her pride with its equality. Whennot engaged in her easy household duties in her three-roomed cottage, orthe care of her rocky garden patch, she found time enough to indulge herfancy over the mysterious haze that wrapped the invisible city so nearand yet unknown to her; in the sails that slipped in and out of theGolden Gate, but of whose destination she knew nothing; and in the longsmoke trail of the mail steamer which had yet brought her no message.Like all dwellers by the sea, her face and her thoughts were morefrequently turned towards it; and as with them, it also seemed to herthat whatever change was coming into her life would come across thatvast unknown expanse. But it was here that Mrs. Bunker was mistaken.

  It had been a sparkling summer morning. The waves were running beforethe dry northwest trade winds with crystalline but colorless brilliancy.Sheltered by the high, northerly bluff, the house and its garden wereexposed to the untempered heat of the cloudless sun refracted from therocky wall behind it. Some tarpaulin and ropes lying among the rockswere sticky and odorous; the scrub oaks and manzanita bushes gave outthe aroma of baking wood; occasionally a faint pot-pourri fragrance fromthe hot wild roses and beach grass was blown along the shore; even thelingering odors of Bunker's vocation, and of Mrs. Bunker's cooking, wereidealized and refined by the saline breath of the sea at the doors andwindows. Mrs. Bunker, in the dazzling sun, bending over her peasand lettuces with a small hoe, felt the comfort of her brown hollandsunbonnet. Secure in her isolation, she unbuttoned the neck of her gownfor air, and did not put up the strand of black hair that had escapedover her shoulder. It was very hot in the lee of the bluff, and veryquiet in that still air. So quiet that she heard two distinct reports,following each other quickly, but very faint and far. She glancedmechanically towards the sea. Two merchant-men in midstream were shakingout their wings for a long flight, a pilot boat and coasting schoonerwere rounding the point, but there was no smoke from their decks. Shebent over her work again, and in another moment had forgotten it. Butthe heat, with the dazzling reflection from the cliff, forced her tosuspend her gardening, and stroll along the beach to the extreme limitof her domain. Here she looked after the cow that had also strayedaway through the tangled bush for coolness. The goats, impervious totemperature, were basking in inaccessible fastnesses on the cliffitself that made her eyes ache to climb. Over an hour passed, she wasreturning, and had neared her house, when she was suddenly startled tosee the figure of a man between her and the cliff. He was engaged inbrushing his dusty clothes with a handkerchief, and although he saw hercoming, and even moved slowly towards her, continued his occupationwith a half-impatient, half-abstracted air. Her feminine perception wasstruck with the circumstance that he was in deep black, with scarcely agleam of white showing even at his throat, and that he wore a tall blackhat. Without knowing anything of social customs, it seemed to her thathis dress was inconsistent with his appearance there.

  "Good-morning," he said, lifting his hat with a preoccupied air. "Do youlive here?"

  "Yes," she said wonderingly.

  "Anybody else?"

  "My husband."

  "I mean any other people? Are there any other houses?" he said with aslight impatience.

  "No."

  He looked at her and then towards the sea. "I expect some friends whoare coming for me in a boat. I suppose they can land easily here?"

  "Didn't you yourself land here just now?" she said quickly.

  He half hesitated, and then, as if scorning an equivocation, made ahasty gesture over her shoulder and said bluntly, "No, I came over thecliff."

  "Down the cliff?" she repeated incredulously.

  "Yes," he said, glancing at his clothes; "it was a rough scramble, butthe goats showed me the way."

  "And you were up on the bluff all the time?" she went on curiously.

  "Yes. You see--I"--he stopped suddenly at what seemed to be thebeginning of a prearranged and plausible explanation, as if impatient ofits weakness or hypocrisy, and said briefly, "Yes, I was there."

  Like most women, more observant of his face and figure, she did not missthis lack of explanation. He was a very good-looking man of middle age,with a thin, proud, high-bred face, which in a country of bearded menhad the further distinction of being smoothly shaven. She had never seenany one like him before. She thought he looked like an illustration ofsome novel she had read, but also somewhat melancholy, worn, and tired.

  "Won't you come in and rest yourself?" she said, motioning to the cabin.

  "Thank you," he said, still half absently. "Perhaps I'd better. It maybe some time yet before they come."

  She led the way to the cabin, entered the living room--a plainlyfurnished little apartment between the bedroom and the kitchen--pointedto a large bamboo armchair, and placed a bottle of whiskey and somewater on the table before him. He thanked her again very gently, pouredout some spirits in his glass, and mixed it with water. But when sheglanced towards him again he had apparently risen without tasting it,and going to the door was standing there with his hand in the breastof his buttoned frock coat, gazing silently towards the sea. There wassomething vaguely historical in his attitude--or what she thought mightbe historical--as of somebody of great importance who had halted on theeve of some great event at the door of her humble cabin.

  His apparent unconsciousness of her and of his surroundings, hispreoccupation with something far beyond her ken, far from piquing her,only excited her interest the more. And then there was such an oddsadness in his eyes.

  "Are you anxious for your folks' coming?" she said at last, followinghis outlook.

  "I--oh no!" he returned, quickly recalling himself, "they'll be sure tocome--sooner or later. No fear of that," he added, half smili
ngly, halfwearily.

  Mrs. Bunker passed into the kitchen, where, while apparently attendingto her household duties, she could still observe her singular guest.Left alone, he seated himself mechanically in the chair, and gazedfixedly at the fireplace. He remained a long time so quiet and unmoved,in spite of the marked ostentatious clatter Mrs. Bunker found itnecessary to make with her dishes, that an odd fancy that he wasscarcely a human visitant began to take possession of her. Yet she wasnot frightened. She remembered distinctly afterwards that, far fromhaving any concern for herself, she was only moved by a strange andvague admiration of him.

  But her prolonged scrutiny was not without effect. Suddenly he raisedhis dark eyes, and she felt them pierce the obscurity of her kitchenwith a quick, suspicious, impatient penetration, which as