"But Geraldine, our vessel richly laden
Has at last come in
Nor ever will put out to sea again.
Happy as those moments were,
Forget the past, so fraught with bitterness to me."
The desert now a hundred miles behind
Was fading like a crescent sea beach
In the setting sun.
Slowly like a giant serpent
The Sunset Limited climbed the great Sierras
And started down the western slope at dawn.
The valley of the Sacramento
Never bloomed so beautiful before.
The blue Pacific through the haze
Was like a canvas sea.
Peace permeated all the earth.
The sun at last was resting on the ocean's rim.
The turquoise waters turned to liquid gold.
"Life, O my beloved, is like eternal seas—
Emerald in the morning, changing into opal,
Amethyst and pearl, but ruby red at last.
Behold the Golden Gate!
The seas beyond are all like that!"
Morning in the Sacramento!
Petals, dew and fragrance—indescribable!
Plumage, song and sunshine,
And over all a California sky!
"O Alfred, could it only be like this forever!
Back yonder in New York,
The world is built of brick and mortar,
And men forget the handiwork of God.
How can a poet hope to win a name
Where men are mad for gold?"
"A name! Why Geraldine! I had forgot
To tell the story of my fame.
The ecstacy of these three days
Had blotted all earthly fortune from my memory.
I am Ralph Nixon, author of the Topaz Mystery."
"Ralph Nixon! You! Then who am I?"
A heavy tide of blood swept over
All the tracery of the bitter past,
And in a moment more
She lay unconscious on a bed of thorny cactus.
The City Argentina blew a long loud blast
And anchored in the bay.
The woman opened wondering eyes
And looked at Milner.
"Why do you call me Geraldine?
My Christian name's Amnemon.
We never met before.
I am Major Erskine's wife.
We live in Pasadena.
I do not know your name or face,
Nor how I came to be with you.
I never saw this place before,
But those are California hills
And yonder is the great Pacific.
The mystery of who you are,
And where I am, I can not solve.
I only know I wish to see my home and child;
Little Alfred never has been left alone,
And may be calling for his mother now.
You seem to be a gentleman.
Please show me to the nearest train
That goes to Pasadena."
Half in fright and half in rage
Milner looked at Geraldine and tried to speak.
The mountains reeled and pitched into the sea.
A clevage in the brain! But whose?
This was insanity, but whether his
Or hers he was unable to decide.
The memory of the Cornell days came back—
The cliffs above the lake, the emerald farms,
The gorges and the waterfalls,
And finally the wild, weird light
That played in iridescent eyes
That last day on the hills—
The story of the tainted blood and what it meant
For future generations.
Milner saw an eagle soaring high above the park
And then he heard a scream
As though a ball had pierced its heart.
The bird careened and dropped a hundred feet,
Then spreading broad its wings again,
Shot upward to the heights.
The train for Pasadena speeded onward
Toward its destination.
A poet sat within his room
That opened on the Golden Gate
And as the sun dropped into the wave,
He wrote a Requiem to Hope,
That filled the earth with fame.