Grateful as a tete-a-tete with his old neighbor in her more prosperous surroundings would have been, if only for the sake of later gossiping about it, he felt it would be inconsistent with his pride and his assumption of present business.More than that, he was uneasily conscious that in Mrs.Tucker's simple and unaffected manner there was a greater superiority than he had ever noticed during their previous acquaintance.He would have felt kinder to her had she shown any "airs and graces," which he could have commented upon and forgiven.He stammered some vague excuse of preoccupation, yet lingered in the hope of saying something which, if not aggressively unpleasant, might at least transfer to her indolent serenity some of his own irritation."I reckon," he said, as he moved hesitatingly towards the door, "that Spencer has made himself easy and secure in them business risks he's taking.That 'ere Alameda ditch affair they're talking so much about is a mighty big thing, rather TOO big if it ever got to falling back on him.
But I suppose he's accustomed to take risks?""Of course he is," said Mrs.Tucker gayly."He married ME."The visitor smiled feebly, but was not equal to the opportunity offered for gallant repudiation."But suppose you ain't accustomed to risks?""Why not? I married HIM," said Mrs.Tucker.
Mr.Calhoun Weaver was human, and succumbed to this last charming audacity.He broke into a noisy but genuine laugh, shook Mrs.
Tucker's hand with effusion, said, "Now that's regular Blue Grass and no mistake!" and retreated under cover of his hilarity.In the hall he made a rallying stand to repeat confidentially to the servant who had overheard them: "Blue Grass, all over, you bet your life," and, opening the door, was apparently swallowed up in the tempest.
Mrs.Tucker's smile kept her lips until she had returned to her room, and even then languidly shone in her eyes for some minutes after, as she gazed abstractedly from her window on the storm-tossed bay in the distance.Perhaps some girlish vision of the peaceful Blue Glass plain momentarily usurped the prospect; but it is to be doubted if there was much romance in that retrospect, or that it was more interesting to her than the positive and sharply cut outlines of the practical life she now held.Howbeit she soon forgot this fancy in lazily watching a boat that, in the teeth of the gale, was beating round Alcatraz Island.Although at times a mere blank speck on the gray waste of foam, a closer scrutiny showed it to be one of those lateen-rigged Italian fishing boats that so often flecked the distant bay.Lost in the sudden darkening of rain, or reappearing beneath the lifted curtain of the squall, she watched it weather the island, and then turn its laboring but persistent course towards the open channel.A rent in the Indian-inky sky, that showed the narrowing portals of the Golden Gate beyond, revealed, as unexpectedly, the destination of the little craft, a tall ship that hitherto lay hidden in the mist of the Saucelito shore.As the distance lessened between boat and ship, they were again lost in the downward swoop of another squall.
When it lifted, the ship was creeping under the headland towards the open sea, but the boat was gone.Mrs.Tucker in vain rubbed the pane with her handkerchief; it had vanished.Meanwhile the ship, as she neared the Gate, drew out from the protecting headland, stood outlined for a moment with spars and canvas hearsed in black against the lurid rent in the horizon, and then seemed to sink slowly into the heaving obscurity beyond.A sudden onset of rain against the windows obliterated the remaining prospect; the entrance of a servant completed the diversion.
"Captain Poindexter, ma'am!"
Mrs.Tucker lifted her pretty eyebrows interrogatively.Captain Poindexter was a legal friend of her husband, and had dined there frequently; nevertheless she asked: "Did you tell him Mr.Tucker was not at home?""Yes, 'm."
"Did he ask for ME?"
"Yes, 'm."
"Tell him I'll be down directly."
Mrs.Tucker's quiet face did not betray the fact that this second visitor was even less interesting than the first.In her heart she did not like Captain Poindexter.With a clever woman's instinct she had early detected the fact that he had a superior, stronger nature than her husband; as a loyal wife, she secretly resented the occasional unconscious exhibition of this fact on the part of his intimate friend in their familiar intercourse.Added to this slight jealousy, there was a certain moral antagonism between herself and the captain which none but themselves knew.They were both philosophers, but Mrs.Tucker's serene and languid optimism would not tolerate the compassionate and kind-hearted pessimisms of the lawyer."Knowing what Jack Poindexter does of human nature,"her husband had once said, "it's mighty fine in him to be so kind and forgiving.You ought to like him better, Belle." "And qualify myself to be forgiven," said the lady pertly."I don't see what you're driving at, Belle; I give it up," had responded the puzzled husband.Mrs.Tucker kissed his high but foolish forehead tenderly, and said: "I'm glad you don't, dear."Meanwhile her second visitor had, like the first, employed the interval in a critical survey of the glories of the new furniture, but with apparently more compassion than resentment in his manner.
Once only had his expression changed.Over the fireplace hung a large photograph of Mr.Spencer Tucker.It was retouched, refined, and idealized in the highest style of that polite and diplomatic art.As Captain Poindexter looked upon the fringed hazel eyes, the drooping raven moustache, the clustering ringlets, and the Byronic full throat and turned-down collar of his friend, a smile of exhausted humorous tolerance and affectionate impatience curved his lips."Well, you ARE a fool, aren't you?" he apostrophized it half-audibly.
