CHAPTER XC
THE MEASURE OF REDEMPTION
Frank journeyed East with a party of "Exposition Boosters" after the memorable meeting in the Merchants' Exchange. The import of that afternoon's work had been flashed around the world. It swung the tide of public sentiment from New Orleans toward the Western Coast. Congress heard the clink of Power in those millions. President Taft discerned a spirit of efficiency that would guarantee success. He did not desire another Jamestown fiasco. He had an open admiration for the city which in four years could rebuild itself from ashes, suffer staunchly through disrupting ordeals of political upheaval and unite its forces in a mighty plan to entertain the World.
Frank went to the White House for an interview. He clasped the large, firm hand which had guided so many troubled ships of state for the Roosevelt regime, looked into the twinkling eyes that hid so keen a force behind their kindness. Stanley soon discovered that in this big, bluff President his city had a friend.
"What shall I say to the people at home for you, Mr. President? Will you give me a message?"
The Chief Executive was thoughtful for an instant. Then he said, "Go back, my boy, and tell them this from me, 'SAN FRANCISCO KNOWS HOW!'"
Frank left the White House, eager and enthusiastic; sought a telegraph office. On the following day Market street blazed with the slogan.
In New York, where he went from Washington, Frank heard echoes of that speech. San Francisco's cause gained new and sudden favor. Frank found the Eastern press, which hitherto had favored New Orleans, was veering almost imperceptibly toward the Golden Gate.
He met many San Franciscans in New York. John O'Hara Cosgrave was editing Everybody's Magazine, "Bob" Davis was at the head of the Munsey publications, Edwin Markham wrote world-poetry on Staten Island, "in a big house filled with books and mosquitoes," as a friend described it. "Bill" and Wallace Irwin were there, the former "batching" in a flat on Washington Square. All of them were glad to talk of San Francisco.
Charley Aiken, editor of Sunset Magazine, was with the boosters. Stanley met him in New York. He had a plan for buying the publication from its railroad sponsors; making it an independent organ of the literary West. Things were looking up for San Francisco.
* * * * *
Frank was glad to get back. He had enjoyed his visit to the East. But it was mighty good to ride up Market street again. It looked quite as it did before the fire. One would have found it difficult to believe that this new city with its towering, handsome architecture, had lain, a few years back, the shambles of the greatest conflagration history has known.
On Christmas eve Frank and Aleta went down town to hear Tetrazzini sing in the streets. The famous prima donna faced an audience which numbered upward of a hundred thousand. They thronged--a joyous celebrant, dark mass--on Market, Geary, Third and Kearny streets. Every window was ablaze, alive with silhouetted figures. Frank, who had engaged a window in the Monadnock Block, could not get near the entrance. So he and Aleta stood in the street.
"It's nicer," she whispered happily, "to be here among the people.... I feel closer to them. As if I could sense the big Pulse of Life that makes us all brothers and sisters."
Frank looked down at her understandingly, but did not speak. Tetrazzini had begun her song. Its first notes floated faintly through the vast and unwalled auditorium. Then her voice grew clearer, surer.
Never had those bustling, noisy streets known such a stillness as prevailed this night. The pure soprano which had thrilled a world of high-priced audiences rang out in a wondrous clarion harmony. It moved many people to tears. The response was overwhelming. Something in that vast human pack went out to the singer like a tidal wave. Not the deafening fusilade of hand-clapping nor the shouted "Bravos!" It was something deeper, subtler. Tetrazzini stepped forward. Tears streamed from her eyes. She blew impulsive kisses to the crowd.
* * * * *
The pageant of the months went on. A coal merchant by the name of Rolph had displaced P.H. McCarthy as Mayor of San Francisco. He had installed what was termed "a business administration." San Francisco seemed pleased with the result. Power of government had returned to the "North of Market Street."
San Francisco had been selected by Congress as the site of the exposition. It was scheduled for 1915 and the Panama Canal approached completion.
Frank was living with his father at the Press Club. His mother was dead. He had given up newspaper work, except for an occasional editorial. Through his father's influence he had found publication for a novel. He was something of a public man now, despite his comparative youth.
Occasionally he saw his Uncle Robert. Two of his cousins had married. The third, an engineer, had gone to Colorado. Robert Windham and his wife were planning a year of travel.
Sometimes Windham and his nephew talked of Bertha. It was a calmer, more dispassionate talk as time went on, for years blunt every pain. One day the former said, with tentative defiance, "I suppose you'll think there's something wrong about me, boy.... But I loved her mother deeply. Honestly--if one can call it that. If I'd had a certain kind of--well, immoral--courage, I'd have married her.... Just think how different all our lives would have been. But I hadn't the heart to hurt Maizie; to break with her ... nor the courage to give up my position in life. So we parted. I didn't know then--"
"That you had a daughter?" questioned Frank. His uncle nodded. "Perhaps it would have made a difference ... perhaps not."
* * * * *
Aleta had a week's vacation. They were playing a comedy in which she had no part. So she had gone to Carmel to visit her friend Norah France.
Frank decided to look in on them. He had been oddly shaken by the talk with his uncle. What tragedies men hid beneath the smooth exteriors of successful careers? He had always thought his uncle's home a happy one. Doubtless it was--happy enough. Love perhaps was not essential to successful unions. Frank wondered why he had not asked Aleta Boice to be his wife. They were good comrades, had congenial tastes. They would both be better off; less lonely. A sudden, long-forgotten feeling stirred within his heart. He had missed Aleta in the past few days. Why not go to her now; lay the question before her? Perhaps love might come to them both.
##