The Valley of the Moon Jack London

furnishings to disorder it. The plaster, discolored by the steam

  of many wash-days, was crisscrossed with cracks from the big

  earthquake of the previous spring. The floor was ridged,

  wide-cracked, and uneven, and in front of the stove it was worn

  through and repaired with a five-gallon oil-can hammered flat and

  double. A sink, a dirty roller-towel, several chairs, and a

  wooden table completed the picture.

  An apple-core crunched under her foot as she drew a chair to the

  table. On the frayed oilcloth, a supper waited. She attempted the

  cold beans, thick with grease, but gave them up, and buttered a

  slice of bread.

  The rickety house shook to a heavy, prideless tread, and through

  the inner door came Sarah, middle-aged, lop-breasted,

  hair-tousled, her face lined with care and fat petulance.

  "Huh, it's you," she grunted a greeting. "I just couldn't keep

  things warm. Such a day! I near died of the heat. An' little

  Henry cut his lip awful. The doctor had to put four stitches in

  it."

  Sarah came over and stood mountainously by the table.

  "What's the matter with them beans?" she challenged.

  "Nothing, only . . ." Saxon caught her breath and avoided the

  threatened outburst. "Only I'm not hungry. It's been so hot all

  day. It was terrible in the laundry."

  Recklessly she took a mouthful of the cold tea that had been

  steeped so long that it was like acid in her mouth, and

  recklessly, under the eye of her sister-in-law, she swallowed it

  and the rest of the cupful. She wiped her mouth on her

  handkerchief and got up.

  "I guess I'll go to bed."

  "Wonder you ain't out to a dance," Sarah sniffed. "Funny, ain't

  it, you come home so dead tired every night, an' yet any night in

  the week you can get out an' dance unearthly hours."

  Saxon started to speak, suppressed herself with tightened lips,

  then lost control and blazed out. "Wasn't you ever young?"

  Without waiting for reply, she turned to her bedroom, which

  opened directly off the kitchen. It was a small room, eight by

  twelve, and the earthquake had left its marks upon the plaster. A

  bed and chair of cheap pine and a very ancient chest of drawers

  constituted the furniture. Saxon had known this chest of drawers

  all her life. The vision of it was woven into her earliest

  recollections. She knew it had crossed the plains with her people

  in a prairie schooner. It was of solid mahogany. One end was

  cracked and dented from the capsize of the wagon in Rock Canyon.

  A bullet-hole, plugged, in the face of the top drawer, told of

  the fight with the Indians at Little Meadow. Of these happenings

  her mother had told her; also had she told that the chest had

  come with the family originally from England in a day even

  earlier than the day on which George Washington was born.

  Above the chest of drawers, on the wall, hung a small

  looking-glass. Thrust under the molding were photographs of young

  men and women, and of picnic groups wherein the young men, with

  hats rakishly on the backs of their heads, encircled the girls

  with their arms. Farther along on the wall were a colored

  calendar and numerous colored advertisements and sketches torn

  out of magazines. Most of these sketches were of horses. From the

  gas-fixture hung a tangled bunch of well-scribbled dance

  programs.

  Saxon started to take off her hat, but suddenly sat down on the

  bed. She sobbed softly, with considered repression, but the

  weak-latched door swung noiselessly open, and she was startled by

  her sister-in-law's voice.

  "NOW what's the matter with you? If you didn't like them beans--"

  "No, no," Saxon explained hurriedly. "I'm just tired, that's all,

  and my feet hurt. I wasn't hungry, Sarah. I'm just beat out."

  "If you took care of this house," came the retort, "an' cooked

  an' baked, an' washed, an' put up with what I put up, you'd have

  something to be beat out about. You've got a snap, you have. But

  just wait." Sarah broke off to cackle gloatingly. "Just wait,

  that's all, an' you'll be fool enough to get married some day,

  like me, an' then you'll get yours--an' it'll be brats, an'

  brats, an' brats, an' no more dancin', an' silk stockin's, an'

  three pairs of shoes at one time. You've got a cinch-nobody to

  think of but your own precious self--an' a lot of young hoodlums

  makin' eyes at you an' tellin' you how beautiful your eyes are.

  Huh! Some fine day you'll tie up to one of 'em, an' then, mebbe,

  on occasion, you'll wear black eyes for a change."

  "Don't say that, Sarah," Saxon protested. "My brother never laid

  hands on you. You know that."

  "No more he didn't. He never had the gumption. Just the same,

  he's better stock than that tough crowd you run with, if he can't

  make a livin' an' keep his wife in three pairs of shoes. Just the

  same he's oodles better'n your bunch of hoodlums that no decent

  woman'd wipe her one pair of shoes on. How you've missed trouble

  this long is beyond me. Mebbe the younger generation is wiser in

  such thins--I don't know. But I do know that a young woman that

  has three pairs of shoes ain't thinkin' of anything but her own

  enjoyment, an' she's goin' to get hers, I can tell her that much.

  When I was a girl there wasn't such doin's. My mother'd taken the

  hide off me if I done the things you do. An' she was right, just

  as everything in the world is wrong now. Look at your brother,

  a-runnin' around to socialist meetin's, an' chewin' hot air, an'

  diggin' up extra strike dues to the union that means so much

  bread out of the mouths of his children, instead of makin' good

  with his bosses. Why, the dues he pays would keep me in seventeen

  pairs of shoes if I was nannygoat enough to want 'em. Some day,

  mark my words, he'll get his time, an' then what'll we do?

  What'll I do, with five mouths to feed an' nothin' comin' in?"

  She stopped, out of breath but seething with the tirade yet to

  come.

  "Oh, Sarah, please won't you shut the door?" Saxon pleaded.

  The door slammed violently, and Saxon, ere she fell to crying

  again, could hear her sister-in-law lumbering about the kitchen

  and talking loudly to herself.

  CHAPTER II

  Each bought her own ticket at the entrance to Weasel Park. And

  each, as she laid her half-dollar down, was distinctly aware of

  how many pieces of fancy starch were represented by the coin. It

  was too early for the crowd, but bricklayers and their families,

  laden with huge lunch-baskets and armfuls of babies, were already

  going in--a healthy, husky race of workmen, well-paid and

  robustly fed. And with them, here and there, undisguised by their

  decent American clothing, smaller in bulk and stature, weazened

  not alone by age but by the pinch of lean years and early

  hardship, were grandfathers and mothers who had patently first

  seen the light of day on old Irish soil. Their faces showed

  content and pride as they limped along with this lusty progeny of

  theirs that had fed on better food. br />
  Not with these did Mary and Saxon belong. They knew them not, had

  no acquaintances among them. It did not matter whether the

  festival were Irish, German, or Slavonian; whether the picnic was

  the Bricklayers', the Brewers', or the Butchers'. They, the

  girls, were of the dancing crowd that swelled by a certain

  constant percentage the gate receipts of all the picnics.

  They strolled about among the booths where peanuts were grinding

  and popcorn was roasting in preparation for the day, and went on

  and inspected the dance floor of the pavilion. Saxon, clinging to

  an imaginary partner, essayed a few steps of the dip-waltz. Mary

  clapped her hands.

  "My!" she cried. "You're just swell! An' them stockin's is

  peaches."

  Saxon smiled with appreciation, pointed out her foot,

  velvet-slippered with high Cuban heels, and slightly lifted the

  tight black skirt, exposing a trim ankle and delicate swell of

  calf, the white flesh gleaming through the thinnest and flimsiest

  of fifty-cent black silk stockings. She was slender, not tall,

  yet the due round lines of womanhood were hers. On her white

  shirtwaist was a pleated jabot of cheap lace, caught with a large

  novelty pin of imitation coral. Over the shirtwaist was a natty

  jacket, elbow-sleeved, and to the elbows she wore gloves of

  imitation suede. The one essentially natural touch about her

  appearance was the few curls, strangers to curling-irons, that

  escaped from under the little naughty hat of black velvet pulled

  low over the eyes.

  Mary's dark eyes flashed with joy at the sight, and with a swift

  little run she caught the other girl in her arms and kissed her

  in a breast-crushing embrace. She released her, blushing at her

  own extravagance.

  "You look good to me," she cried, in extenuation. "If I was a man

  I couldn't keep my hands off you. I'd eat you, I sure would."

  They went out of the pavilion hand in hand, and on through the

  sunshine they strolled, swinging hands gaily, reacting

  exuberantly from the week of deadening toil. They hung over the

  railing of the bear-pit, shivering at the huge and lonely

  denizen, and passed quickly on to ten minutes of laughter at the

  monkey cage. Crossing the grounds, they looked down into the

  little race track on the bed of a natural amphitheater where the

  early afternoon games were to take place. After that they

  explored the woods, threaded by countless paths, ever opening out

  in new surprises of green-painted rustic tables and benches in

  leafy nooks, many of which were already pre-empted by family

  parties. On a grassy slope, tree-surrounded, they spread a

  newspaper and sat down on the short grass already tawny-dry under

  the California sun. Half were they minded to do this because of

  the grateful indolence after six days of insistent motion, half

  in conservation for the hours of dancing to come.

  "Bert Wanhope'll be sure to come," Mary chattered. "An' he said

  he was going to bring Billy Roberts--'Big Bill,' all the fellows

  call him. He's just a big boy, but he's awfully tough. He's a

  prizefighter, an' all the girls run after him. I'm afraid of him.

  He ain't quick in talkin'. He's more like that big bear we saw.

  Brr-rf! Brr-rf!--bite your head off, just like that. He ain't

  really a prize-fighter. He's a teamster--belongs to the union.

  Drives for Coberly and Morrison. But sometimes he fights in the

  clubs. Most of the fellows are scared of him. He's got a bad

  temper, an' he'd just as soon hit a fellow as eat, just like

  that. You won't like him, but he's a swell dancer. He's heavy,

  you know, an' he just slides and glides around. You wanta have a

  dance with'm anyway. He's a good spender, too. Never pinches. But

  my!--he's got one temper."

  The talk wandered on, a monologue on Mary's part, that centered

  always on Bert Wanhope.

  "You and he are pretty thick," Saxon ventured.

  "I'd marry'm to-morrow," Mary flashed out impulsively. Then her

  face went bleakly forlorn, hard almost in its helpless pathos.

  "Only, he never asks me. He's . . ." Her pause was broken by sudden

  passion. "You watch out for him, Saxon, if he ever comes foolin'

  around you. He's no good. Just the same, I'd marry him to-morrow.

  He'll never get me any other way." Her mouth opened, but instead

  of speaking she drew a long sigh. "It's a funny world, ain't it?"

  she added. "More like a scream. And all the stars are worlds,

  too. I wonder where God hides. Bert Wanhope says there ain't no

  God. But he's just terrible. He says the most terrible things. I

  believe in God. Don't you? What do you think about God, Saxon?"

  Saxon shrugged her shoulders and laughed.

  "But if we do wrong we get ours, don't we?" Mary persisted.

  "That's what they all say, except Bert. He says he don't care

  what he does, he'll never get his, because when he dies he's

  dead, an' when he's dead he'd like to see any one put anything

  across on him that'd wake him up. Ain't he terrible, though? But

  it's all so funny. Sometimes I get scared when I think God's

  keepin' an eye on me all the time. Do you think he knows what I'm

  sayin' now? What do you think he looks like, anyway?"

  "I don't know," Saxon answered. "He's just a funny proposition."

  "Oh!" the other gasped.

  "He IS, just the same, from what all people say of him," Saxon

  went on stoutly. "My brother thinks he looks like Abraham

  Lincoln. Sarah thinks he has whiskers."

  "An' I never think of him with his hair parted," Mary confessed,

  daring the thought and shivering with apprehension. "He just

  couldn't have his hair parted. THAT'D be funny."

  "You know that little, wrinkly Mexican that sells wire puzzles?"

  Saxon queried. "Well, God somehow always reminds me of him."

  Mary laughed outright.

  "Now that IS funny. I never thought of him like that How do you

  make it out?"

  "Well, just like the little Mexican, he seems to spend his time

  peddling puzzles. He passes a puzzle out to everybody, and they

  spend all their lives tryin' to work it out They all get stuck. I

  can't work mine out. I don't know where to start. And look at the

  puzzle he passed Sarah. And she's part of Tom's puzzle, and she

  only makes his worse. And they all, an' everybody I know--you,

  too--are part of my puzzle."

  "Mebbe the puzzles is all right," Mary considered. "But God don't

  look like that yellow little Greaser. THAT I won't fall for. God

  don't look like anybody. Don't you remember on the wall at the

  Salvation Army it says 'God is a spirit'?"

  "That's another one of his puzzles, I guess, because nobody knows

  what a spirit looks like."

  "That's right, too." Mary shuddered with reminiscent fear.

  "Whenever I try to think of God as a spirit, I can see Hen Miller

  all wrapped up in a sheet an' runnin' us girls. We didn't know,

  an' it scared the life out of us. Little Maggie Murphy fainted

  dead away, and Beatrice Peralta fell an' scratched her face

  horrible. When I think of
a spirit all I can see is a white sheet

  runnin' in the dark. Just the same, God don't look like a

  Mexican, an' he don't wear his hair parted."

  A strain of music from the dancing pavilion brought both girls

  scrambling to their feet.

  "We can get a couple of dances in before we eat," Mary proposed.

  "An' then it'll be afternoon an' all the fellows 'll be here.

  Most of them are pinchers--that's why they don't come early, so

  as to get out of taking the girls to dinner. But Bert's free with

  his money, an' so is Billy. If we can beat the other girls to it,

  they'll take us to the restaurant. Come on, hurry, Saxon."

  There were few couples on the floor when they arrived at the

  pavilion, and the two girls essayed the first waltz together.

  "There's Bert now," Saxon whispered, as they came around the

  second time.

  "Don't take any notice of them," Mary whispered back. "We'll just

  keep on goin'. They needn't think we're chasin' after them."

  But Saxon noted the heightened color in the other's cheek, and

  felt her quicker breathing.

  "Did you see that other one?" Mary asked, as she backed Saxon in

  a long slide across the far end of the pavilion. "That was Billy

  Roberts. Bert said he'd come. He'll take you to dinner, and

  Bert'll take me. It's goin' to be a swell day, you'll see. My! I

  only wish the music'll hold out till we can get back to the other

  end."

  Down the floor they danced, on man-trapping and dinner-getting

  intent, two fresh young things that undeniably danced well and

  that were delightfully surprised when the music stranded them

  perilously near to their desire.

  Bert and Mary addressed each other by their given names, but to

  Saxon Bert was "Mr. Wanhope," though he called her by her first

  name. The only introduction was of Saxon and Billy Roberts. Mary

  carried it off with a flurry of nervous carelessness.

  "Mr. Robert--Miss Brown. She's my best friend. Her first name's

  Saxon. Ain't it a scream of a name?"

  "Sounds good to me," Billy retorted, hat off and hand extended.

  "Pleased to meet you, Miss Brown."

  As their hands clasped and she felt the teamster callouses on his

  palm, her quick eyes saw a score of things. About all that he saw

  was her eyes, and then it was with a vague impression that they

  were blue. Not till later in the day did he realize that they

  were gray. She, on the contrary, saw his eyes as they really

  were--deep blue, wide, and handsome in a sullen-boyish way. She

  saw that they were straight-looking, and she liked them, as she

  had liked the glimpse she had caught of his hand, and as she

  liked the contact of his hand itself. Then, too, but not sharply,

  she had perceived the short, square-set nose, the rosiness of

  cheek, and the firm, short upper lip, ere delight centered her

  flash of gaze on the well-modeled, large clean mouth where red

  lips smiled clear of the white, enviable teeth. A BOY, A GREAT

  BIG MAN-BOY, was her thought; and, as they smiled at each other

  and their hands slipped apart, she was startled by a glimpse of

  his hair--short and crisp and sandy, hinting almost of palest

  gold save that it was too flaxen to hint of gold at all.

  So blond was he that she was reminded of stage-types she had

  seen, such as Ole Olson and Yon Yonson; but there resemblance

  ceased. It was a matter of color only, for the eyes were

  dark-lashed and -browed, and were cloudy with temperament rather

  than staring a child-gaze of wonder, and the suit of smooth brown

  cloth had been made by a tailor. Saxon appraised the suit on the

  instant, and her secret judgment was NOT A CENT LESS THAN FIFTY

  DOLLARS. Further, he had none of the awkwardness of the

  Scandinavian immigrant. On the contrary, he was one of those rare

  individuals that radiate muscular grace through the ungraceful

  man-garments of civilization. Every movement was supple, slow,