Chapter 1

“Master Visiting the Servants”

Monday, March 16, 1891

Ellen Elliott was broiling a thick, juicy porterhouse steak over a glowing coal fire on the kitchen range in her home in Ithaca. She turned the long-handled wire cage holding the fragrant, browning meat over and over.

Ellen had wavy blonde hair that fell to her shoulders. She was petite, a little over eighty pounds—a pretty young woman. But what she lacked in stature she made up in energy, determination, and honesty. Her father said she had the unfortunate habit of saying whatever was in her head, heedless to the opinions of those who could hear her. Sometimes that habit got her into trouble.

Leslie Elliott, her husband, walked in, using the back screen door. His given name was Orrin, but he preferred Leslie. He was breathless and had a mischievous grin on his face. He came up behind her, put his arms around her, and whispered in her ear, “How’d you like to head for California?”

Ellen Elliott thought it was part of their little joke. If he couldn’t find a job, in the area, teaching economics, they would move to California. She ignored him, turned out the steak on a hot platter, and continued tending to it—peppering, salting, and buttering.

Refusing to be ignored, Leslie pulled out a yellow telegram; he was carrying in his coat pocket, and put it in front of Ellen’s face, inches from her nose. “It’s from Dr. David Starr Jordan, president of Indiana University. He’s been named president of a university in California, founded and endowed by Leland Stanford. Dr. Jordan requires a secretary, and he’s asked me to come to Bloomington at once to take the post. In June, he wants me to accompany him to California. If it’s all right with you, I’m going to accept, and we’re going to California.”

Ellen dropped her basting spoon. She turned around and began hugging Leslie, kissing him full on the mouth, and for a few seconds they embraced.

She whispered in his ear, “How much will you be paid?”

Leslie whispered back, “He didn’t say, but I’ll send him a wire and find out. If it’s reasonable, I think we should go. It’s a real opportunity for me to teach economics.”

Ellen again whispered, “We’ll go even if it’s unreasonable, my darling Leslie.” Her tone indicated she had made up her mind, but as she said the words, a tingle of apprehension ran down her spine. Going to California was like going to another planet.

In April and May of 1891, Ellen and her son, Louis, stayed at her parents’ home in Burdett, in upper New York State, waiting to join Leslie. While there, hints about their potential new home in the far West were sent to her in Leslie’s letters from Bloomington, where he was working for Dr. David Starr Jordan.

Ellen read that in California rose vines grew to more than forty feet and reached the rooftops. Senator Stanford bred racehorses, some worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, housed in immaculately clean, whitewashed stables. Millionaires’ estates were near the University, and it was easy for Ellen to imagine gentle and gracious millionaire neighbors dropping by for tea and to get acquainted with the Elliott family.

Leslie wrote the University would be made up of a series of great quadrangles. One was already up and others would join it. Stone buildings, tile roofed, were surrounded by garden-like courts, and the entire campus would be beautifully landscaped with sloping, green lawns and curving roadways. Frederick Olmsted, creator of New York’s Central Park, had created the site plans. And what sounded particularly inviting to Ellen’s ears were that stone cottages, also tile roofed, were to be built for the faculty. And, of course, rents would be nominal.

All this news gladdened Ellen’s heart. She could not wait to rejoin Leslie in Indiana, travel to California, and begin their new life.

Finally in June, filled with great hope and anticipation, Ellen, with Louis, took leave of her parents. They climbed into her father’s gig, and his horse stepped off toward the nearby city of Watkins, where there was a railroad station, and their journey to the west would begin.

Before she left, Ellen’s mother, with tears in her eyes, told Ellen she thought she might never see her daughter and grandson again. After all, California was on the other side of the continent.

Traveling west with the Elliotts to California from Indianapolis in mid June 1891, were eight more travelers. Dr. David Starr Jordan, president of the University, and his wife Jessie brought two of their three children: Edith who was eleven years old and Knight, three years old. The third son, Harold, who was eight, remained with relatives in Indianapolis because of an illness. Dr. George M. Richardson, who would teach chemistry at the University, brought his wife, Emily, and his mother, Mrs. Richardson. Two young people, Charlotte Rankin and Albert Fletcher, joined the group. They were going to help with the chores and might become students at the new university.

Even though they traveled Pullman class with berth accommodations, the train ride was hot, long, and confining, and soon the two youngsters became agitated and bored. Louis was relatively good, but Knight Jordan was a scamp and started throwing temper tantrums. He hurled himself to the floor, screaming, “I want to go home. I don’t want to go to California.” Leslie felt sorry for Dr. Jordan when he tried to calm his son and ended up with flailing fists in his face. During one of these encounters, Dr. Jordan looked over at Leslie, and Leslie was sure he was going to ask him, as his secretary, for assistance. He must have thought better of it; the moment passed.

It took eighteen hours for their train to cross Kansas. For half days at a time and sometimes overnight, their steam locomotive stopped for no apparent reason. Was it another train coming? Was it mechanical failure? Did they need another locomotive? They were never told the reasons for the delays. When questioned, the conductors merely shook their heads and muttered, “We’ll soon be underway,” and scurried down the aisles, quickly out of sight.

At Pueblo, Colorado, the party disembarked for six hours. Dr. Jordan arranged for a large bus-like wagon to transport them to an outlying area where the ground plan of a city-to-be had been laid out with little white stakes indicating streets, parks, lampposts, and buildings. Ellen wondered what people would want to live on the gray stark plain. She could not imagine herself being one of them.

At another stop, Dr. David Starr Jordan enthusiastically embarked upon a botanical lecture—picking up small flowers with his thumb and forefinger, holding them up for all to see, and telling the group their Latin names, how many petals each had, and how they reproduced.

Ellen looked around and saw prairie dogs sitting on their haunches, staring at the intruders. Giant cacti, eighteen to twenty feet high, appearing like unworldly figures with arms held high, surrounded the travelers. Dr. Jordan told the group their Latin names, too.

They spent a night in a mining camp, Leadville. Dr. Jordan told them ten million dollars’ worth of silver was mined there each year, but Ellen was more in awe of the snowcapped mountains rimming the area and the crystal blue sky above, which became an umbrella of stars after a stunning sunset.

Traveling through the Rockies, Dr. Jordan showed them the exact spot where a drop of water split—half flowing toward the Pacific, and half toward the Atlantic.

The Royal Gorge impressed Dr. Jordan, but not Ellen. She found it lonesome, wild, barren, and tremendously useless. She could not help expressing her thoughts for others to hear, and several of her fellow travelers nodded their heads in agreement.

But compared with the Great American Desert, they were about to approach and enter; the Royal Gorge was an oasis. The desert was the worst. Gazing at its vast nothingness, Ellen made the comment, “I don’t believe there is a more desolate spot on earth.”

Dr. Jordan, who was within earshot, agreed with her. “There isn’t,” he said.

During the night, as they traveled across the desert, Ellen couldn’t sleep. She lifted her berth’s window shade and looked out upon a rapidly passing, pale gray desert. It stretched before her and disappeared into nothingness. For the first time, she felt pangs of remorse about leaving Ithaca’s green hills. “What have we gotten ourselves into?” she said aloud. Then she looked around, wondering if Dr. Jordan had heard that remark, too.

After a ten-day trip across the country, they approached the San Francisco Bay. When they arrived at Benicia, a ferry carried their train in sections across miles of salt flats. “The salt of the Pacific,” Dr. Jordan told the group. At Oakland, another ferry took them across the bay, but this time their train section sat on the upper deck, forward, allowing the passengers a grand panoramic view of the shimmering bay.

Ellen looked and cried out in joy, “I don’t believe there is more beautiful body of water on earth!”

Again, Dr. Jordan heard her remark “There isn’t,” he said.

Ellen was beginning to wonder if he purposely stayed close to her to hear what she said. Perhaps some of her more disparaging remarks had gotten back to him. It no longer mattered. They were almost there.

She saw lovely blue water twisting around the harbor’s capes and islands. Everywhere there were ships coming and going. At the wharves were steamships or the older two- and four-mast schooners. Other ferryboats, with Mill Valley or Alviso painted on their sides, churned the waters beside them. Ellen thought the scene brimmed with beauty and bustle.

On Friday, June 26, Mr. Herbert Nash, Senator Stanford’s secretary, met them at the Third and Townsend Streets’ Station. Leslie told Ellen that Mr. Nash had been Leland Stanford Junior’s tutor. He was the young son who had died prematurely, a few years before in Europe. The Stanfords had created their university in his memory.

Nash had already met Dr. David Starr Jordan, so they quickly recognized one another. Even without that advantage, it was easy to pick out the ragtag group of men and women, dressed in heavy, hot Eastern clothes, dragging two youngsters along with them.

With great consideration, Mr. Nash quickly transferred them and their baggage to a local train that made its way south to the Menlo station. There was no station for the Palo Alto Farm—the general name given to Senator Stanford’s home, stock farm, vineyards, orchards, and hay fields that were the site of the newly constructed University.

There he was, standing on the Menlo station platform, waiting to greet them: Senator Leland Stanford—senator of the sovereign state of California, former governor of that state, part owner and founder of the Central Pacific Railroads, co-founder with his wife Jane of the University, a viable candidate for the Presidency of the United States in ’92, and considered by many to be the most popular man in America.

Ellen thought he looked like the many pictures and illustrations she had seen: a portly man of average height, with long arms and short legs, a prominent nose, full beard; but it was his dark piercing eyes, taking in all that was going on around him, that Ellen found to be his most prominent feature. When he first saw the new arrivals, his eyes swept from side to side and up and down each individual. It reminded Ellen of her father’s perusal of horses he was considering buying. She looked over at a nearby opulent carriage, with bright red wheels, driven by a Negro in full livery. Peering out the isinglass window was another elderly gentleman, who appeared to be doing the same kind of sizing up. “Must be his friend,” she almost said aloud. She brought the back of her hand instantly to her lips. She must watch what she said; otherwise she might embarrass her quiet, unassuming husband.

Dr. Jordan introduced Senator Stanford to everyone. The senator acknowledged each by shaking hands with the gentlemen and tipping his top hat to the ladies. The travelers could tell he fully appreciated the difficult journey they had made. When he saw the two little boys scampering about, he said, “So this is Knight and Louis.” He touched them lightly on the tops of their heads. Both were too preoccupied to look up.

Dr. Jordan leaned over so they could hear him and insisted, “Knight, Louis, say hello to Senator Stanford.”

The boys continued playing.

The senator smiled wanly and said, “Boys will be boys. A long trip is hard on the children.” Even that slight smile was enough for some to recognize his heart was still broken.

Senator Stanford looked back at Dr. Jordan. “The cottage has been prepared for you. Ah Sam is the best cook in the valley, better than ours. I hope you and Mrs. Jordan and your guests find the arrangements to your liking.”

Dr. Jordan drew close to the man now ruling his destiny. “I’m sure we will. And we all appreciate your coming here to greet us.”

“After all your trials, it was the very least I could do. I hope you don’t mind, but Mrs. Stanford and I will be coming by early this evening to say hello.”

As a group, the response was, “No, no, no, it’d be a pleasure to see you both.” Leslie Elliott said the words, but in his heart didn’t mean them. Why tonight, he thought, give us some time to recuperate from the journey. He looked over at his wife, wondering what she might say, but she had a welcoming smile on her face like all the others. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Senator Stanford waved his broad hand, encompassing them all. “Then I bid you good-bye and will see you later.”

The senator returned to his carriage. Inside, the other elderly man was already talking while the senator settled into his seat. As the carriage departed down Menlo’s dusty dirt roads, Senator Stanford earnestly began to converse with the man. As Ellen watched them drive away, she guessed he was asking his friend what he thought of the new arrivals.

The group now dwindled to nine. Dr. Richardson and his wife and mother left for Cedro Cottage, another of Stanford’s cottages, located about a mile and a half south.

Mr. Nash loaded the remaining travelers into a carryall with two long, lengthwise seats. He sat up front with another of Stanford’s Negro drivers. He looked back at the assembly of men, women, and children now seated across from one another, and said, “I know you all want to get to your destination, but first we must pick up the mail for the University.”

Leslie did not expect the detour. He had worked diligently, right up to the time he left Bloomington, to make certain all the mail for the University had been answered.

Nash saw from the looks on his charges’ faces that they were not happy about the stopover. “The post office is only a few doors down,” he shouted at them over the creaking of the harnesses and the sounds of horses’ hooves.

Ellen Elliott had to contain a groan. Leslie returned her look of dismay with his own, which meant in any language, “Don’t say a word.”

The carryall maneuvered up narrow dirt roads, and since it was hot outside and noontime, past empty boardwalks and empty verandas of indiscreet hotels. Their destination was a small, one-story, white-framed building with a hand-painted, lopsided hung sign: “Menlo Post Office.”

The four men—Mr. Nash, Dr. Jordan, Leslie, and young Mr. Fletcher—went in and out of the post office countless times with their arms loaded with mail. They attempted at first to stack it in tidy piles on the floor of the carryall. After the forth trip, tidiness was forgotten. The ladies, young girl, and children found their shoes disappearing under the accumulation of correspondence. It came almost up to their knees. Knight and Louis, having the time of their lives, literally swam in it. The ladies were close to hysterics.

Through it all, Leslie’s face became grimmer and grimmer. Obviously, most of the mail had not been forwarded to Bloomington. From the look of it, some of it dated all the way back to the past year and had been addressed directly to the senator. Leslie asked himself why no one had bothered to go the post office and pick it up. Then he realized that in the senator’s eyes it was their job to do—his and Dr. Jordan’s—and no one else’s. That was why they had been hired.

Now knee-deep in mail, the group made their way back onto the county road leading to their future home, which had already been named Escondite, or Hideaway Cottage, by Dr. Jordan. About a mile to the south, Leslie could see the bare outline of the university he would help administer.

As they got closer, Dr. Jordan proudly asked for the carryall to stop so he could point out his university to the newcomers.

It was far from the splendid sight Ellen Elliott expected. Across a dry, trampled hay field, she saw the bleak outline of bare, single-story buildings with a chimney, being constructed, looming behind them. In the background were rolling hills, yellowed and burnt out. There were no green lawns or gardens—none of the grandeur about which her husband had written. Of course, she thought, we are seeing the buildings from the outside; the courts and gardens must be inside. But the first impression remained in her mind, particularly with the domineering chimney. It was the site of a factory, and a bleak one at that.

As if sensing his wife’s feelings, Leslie looked at the same dismal scene and mouthed the words, “I didn’t know.” Silently, Leslie made a vow to himself. From then on, he would be chary of Dr. David Starr Jordan’s inclination to be overly rapturous in his descriptions and overly optimistic in his anticipations. Leslie would be the opposite.

After another half mile, they neared a village that Dr. Jordan told them was called Mayfield. From what they could see, it was a collection of dusty, weathered, wooden, single-story buildings. No one was disappointed when they turned right at its outskirts and headed south—back into open fields. Another half mile, and they saw the first signs of cooling shade: oak, pepper, and pine trees. In the midst of these pleasant surroundings was their destination, Escondite Cottage.

Dr. Jordan called it a cottage, but Ellen considered the long, low, white-painted house to be more like a chalet or a single-story villa. An ancient oak tree, growing from neatly graveled surroundings, shaded its front veranda. A dovecote stood secluded in the foliage, and beyond was a substantial brick building that had to be the library Dr. Jordan had mentioned. It was here that Leslie was to establish the first administrative office.

Wearily, the travelers jumped down from the bus and began the unloading process, including all the mail, which had to be taken to the brick building.

With barely enough time to wash the dust off their faces, the new arrivals were ill prepared for Senator and Mrs. Stanford’s promised visit. But at exactly four o’clock they arrived and sat on the veranda with the families, gently conversing about the unseemly hot weather, and the horses the senator had been training and racing. Much of the time was taken with silently watching the two young boys constantly prancing around them. Senator Stanford appeared to enjoy watching their behavior more than joining the conversation. Even while talking to an adult, his eyes followed the children’s antics.

After the Stanfords had left, in the privacy of their bed, Ellen told her husband she thought the Stanfords were kindhearted and unpretentious.

As he turned over on his side, Leslie wondered if Ellen was being totally honest. Sometimes she said untruths strictly for his benefit. He could not fault her. He had not mentioned his real feelings and concerns.

Even after three months’ employment, he was not sure what Dr. Jordan really thought of him. Dr. Jordan had hired him solely on the recommendation of Dr. Andrew White, the president of Cornell. Dr. Jordan, in his capacity as one of Cornell’s trustees, had briefly seen Leslie hard at work in the Cornell administrative office, but never met him. And, apparently, Leslie was always seated.

Leslie remembered when Dr. Jordan opened the door of his residence and saw him standing there, for the first time—all five foot, two inches—disappointment like a cloud swept across his face. Leslie felt he wanted to deny entrance to the little person standing before him, even shut the door in his face. Dr. Jordan, standing six foot, two inches in his stocking feet, towered over the diminutive Leslie. And worse, Leslie, although in his early thirties, with his fine features, short dark hair, and only the beginnings of a mustache, appeared five to ten years younger.

Instantly the cloud had disappeared, replaced by a wide smile of welcome. Leslie assumed reality had set in: the little man was there and was said to be a hard worker, scrupulous with details. In a deep, melodious voice, Dr. Jordan had looked down at the man before him and said, “Welcome aboard, Dr. Elliott. Come in. Come in. We’ve lots of work to do.”

Leslie was also not sure when he was promoted from secretary to registrar. In Bloomington, Leslie had performed all sorts of duties: secretarial and stenographic, reading and answering letters from schools and applicants across the nation, sweeping out the temporary office Dr. Jordan had created in one of the outbuildings on his property, and making certain plenty of cut newspaper was on the hook in a nearby privy.

On the way out west, out of the blue, Dr. Jordan had started referring to registrar duties Leslie would perform. He would have responsibility for all admissions, only seeking Dr. Jordan’s advice in exceptional cases, and responsibility for all communications with other colleges and preparatory schools. And, gloriously, he would teach several economics classes, his special love. Dr. Jordan had mentioned there might be miscellaneous additional duties for him to perform on Dr. Jordan’s behalf. Leslie could foresee those duties would include anything Dr. Jordan did not like or want to do. From that second on, Leslie was the registrar. Ellen had been pleased, but noted that no increase in salary was mentioned.

And, lastly he had not told Ellen that as far as he was concerned, the Stanfords’ visit reminded him of a master and mistress visiting the hired help.

Chapter 2

Sunstroke in Mayfield

Saturday, June 27, 1891

The next day after their arrival at Escondite Cottage, in spite of the more than five hundred letters they had picked up the previous day, Leslie decided he should go back into Menlo and pick up any additional incoming mail arriving that day. Dr. Jordan had taken the day off and was using the provided gig and horse for a trip alone, over rough mountain roads, to Santa Cruz. Leslie understood the way was daunting and dangerous—perfect for Dr. Jordan’s taste.

In spite of the hot weather, Leslie would have to hike the two miles to Menlo and back. There was no other way. Ellen wanted him to wait until Monday when a gig would be available, but Leslie insisted it must be done that day. Ellen didn’t argue with him. She had learned Leslie had an unswerving allegiance to any task he began. His work and his responsibilities dominated all other considerations, even his own welfare, and at times his family’s.

The unseemly hot spell continued. It was 95 degrees in the shaded cottage, and outside the thermometer read 105 degrees and upwards. Without a second thought, Leslie in his heavy Eastern gear calmly began walking to Menlo. Two miles and an hour later, when he got to the post office, he was red faced, and every bit of clothing he wore was wet through with perspiration.

Mr. Jeffers, the postmaster, was surprised when Leslie walked in. “What are you doing back here? You were here yesterday.”

Finally in some shade, Leslie also wondered why he was there, foolishly doing this chore. Between breaths, he said, “I thought some more mail might come in.”

“Well, you were right.” Mr. Jeffers went into the back room and returned with a leather pouch filled with letters.

Leslie immediately slung it over his shoulder. His body noticeably buckled under its weight. He said good-bye and started back out the door.

As Leslie turned around to leave, Mr. Jeffers said, “Why don’t you sit down and have a drink of water or something? You going right back out into that heat isn’t a good idea. You should see yourself. Red face. Looks like you’re about to keel right over.”

Leslie hesitated, and answered, “No, thanks. The sooner I leave, the sooner I’ll be home. Thanks for your concern, but I want to get back and start working.” Outside, he retraced his tracks, only thinking about the welcoming shade at the cottage.

Halfway there, he could feel the heft of the pouch starting to dig into his shoulder’s flesh. He paused and shifted the satchel from one side to the other. As he was changing its position, the pouch’s weight pulled him off balance, and he had a hard time keeping himself from pitching forward. With great effort, he regained his footing and continued on, but he noticed his stride growing shorter and shorter, slower and slower.

So slow, in fact, a black and white dog caught up with him and sniffed his dusty pants as if he thought it were a tree trunk. He kicked the dog off, shouting, “Shoo.” The dog yelped and ran off.

Thus far, the dog had been the only living creature Leslie had encountered on the county road. Apparently, he thought, only a dumb dog or me would venture out. The song “Mad Dogs and Englishmen” came into his mind. He started to hum and sing it to get his mind off his predicament.

When Leslie’s eyesight started to blur, he was no longer able to deny the seriousness of his weakened condition. Objects around him were fuzzy, and he could no longer identify where he was or where he should turn onto the road leading to the cottage. He must have walked straight past the turn off. For the first time, apprehension ran through his body.

Storefronts and hitching posts loomed ahead, and he knew he was in the middle of Mayfield, the desolate little village next to the University. He needed to ask for directions, but there was not a soul to be seen. The first sign of a human presence was the sound of laughter coming from a building to his left, on the corner. With some effort, he stepped up to the wooden planked sidewalk and heard men laughing, their voices coming from behind swinging doors. It was a saloon. Leslie hesitated, but not for long. He needed help. Again he almost lost his footing, so he forced himself to go through the doors and stumbled into a cool, semi-darkened room. The smell of stale cigar smoke and cheap whiskey was in the air, but it was preferable to the scorching heat.

Seated at a bar running the length of the room, he could make out three scraggly cowboys. They were dusty and dirty—like everything else, Leslie imagined, in Mayfield. They looked around at Leslie as if he were the Grim Reaper about to claim their souls. The looks on their faces tempted Leslie to turn on his heels and go back out into the furnace-like heat. As he hesitated, a stout, bald-headed fellow with a wooden leg came from behind the bar and approached him. His face, unlike those of his companions, showed at least some compassion at Leslie’s plight. He immediately took Leslie’s elbow to help him stand erect.

“Young man, are you all right? I’d say you should sit down with that heavy pouch and all. My name’s Fred Behn and I’m the proprietor of this saloon.”

Suddenly the world around Leslie began to spin and swirl, and he had to grasp Mr. Behn’s arm to keep from falling. He barely said, “My name’s Leslie Elliott and I’d shake your hand, but I’d fall if I didn’t hold on to your arm.”

“Here, give me that pouch.” Fred Behn could see from the reaction on Leslie’s face he was reluctant to part with it. “It’s all right I won’t steal it. Here, here…” He took the heavy mail pouch off Leslie’s shoulder and pulled a chair out. “Sit down, Mr. Elliott, and take it easy for a while. Let me get you a drink of water—or beer, if you prefer.”

“Water is fine, thank you.” Mr. Behn was gone for a second and returned with water in a tin cup, and Leslie eagerly drank its contents in one long swig. He had never in his life tasted such cool elixir. Afterwards, he sat for a moment, decided he should be on his way, and started to get up.

Mr. Behn gently held him back and put his hand on Leslie’s forehead. “Whoa there, Mr. Elliott, I think you’d better think twice before you go anywhere. I’m sure you’ve got a high fever. We call it sunstroke ‘round here, pretty common for this time of year.” Mr. Behn put his index finger to his head, as if in deep thought, and said, “For some reason, I think you’re part of that eastern crowd moved into Peter Coutt’s place yesterday. Am I right?”

The cowboys at the bar guffawed in unison at Mr. Behn’s pretended ignorance.

Leslie had never heard of this Peter Coutt person. He answered, “I’m staying with Dr. Jordan at Escondite Cottage.”

“That’s it. I heard this Dr. Jordan was renaming everything around here with foreign names. So how about me getting my rig out and taking you over to that ‘Iscontight’ place. I can have you home in fifteen minutes, whereas you might take lots longer walking, and I’m not so sure you’d make it.”

Leslie felt better, but he knew Mr. Behn was right. He was in no condition to walk anywhere. Even getting back up on his feet had made him dizzy.

Ellen was sitting with Louis on the front veranda when a strange man pulled up in his rig with Leslie at his side. The man was holding the reins in one hand and with the other supporting Leslie. Startled, Ellen jumped to her feet. Something was wrong with her husband. His face was red, his eyes glassy.

The stranger called out to her, “Mam, this here gentlemen is not feeling well, and I’m going to need some help getting him out of the rig. I’m afraid if I let him go, he’ll topple right over. Nothing serious, he’s got sunstroke. Give him some water and put him to bed for a while and he’ll be as good as new.”

Without saying a word, Ellen rushed into the house and got Mr. Fletcher, and between the two of them they were able to lower Leslie to the ground and support him so he could get to the veranda.

The stranger, in spite of his wooden leg, jumped down from his rig, holding a leather pouch. “I’m sure he’ll want this.” And he put it carefully on the veranda.

Because of her wifely concerns, Ellen had forgotten about the stranger. She called out to him, “Forgive my bad manners, sir. He’s my husband. Thank you for getting him home. My name’s Ellen Elliott. What’s your name so we can thank you properly, later?”

“Fred Behn, I’m the proprietor of a saloon in Mayfield. You and your husband drop by and see me sometime. In spite of everything you hear, we Mayfield people aren’t such a bad lot.”

As she and Mr. Fletcher were struggling to get Leslie inside the doorway, she said, “I’m sure you’re not, and I can assure you we will be seeing you.”

The last thing Ellen saw of Mr. Behn was his waving good-bye to her, as if she were an old friend.

That night at about ten o’clock Dr. Jordan returned from his journey across the Santa Cruz Mountains. He was elated and immediately regaled his wife, Jessie, and Ellen with descriptions of the beautiful redwood trees he had passed through and Monterey Bay’s gorgeous pounding surf. Ellen could tell he considered his feat almost on a par with his ascent of the Matterhorn, which he regularly recalled to them. He did not ask about Leslie, and Ellen did not volunteer that Leslie also had an adventure.

            That night and on Sunday, Leslie recovered between cool sheets in a darkened bedroom.

By Wednesday July first, Leslie had recovered enough to begin his duties as registrar at the new university. In the morning, three candidates arrived at the cottage and took their entrance examinations on Escondite’s veranda. Two passed, one failed.

In the afternoon, Leslie accompanied Dr. Jordan, who was driving his rig, and Dr. Richardson back to Menlo station to pick up late-arriving luggage, and of course more mail. On the way there, they fortuitously bumped into Frank Batchelder, the newly hired stenographer, also from Cornell, who was hiking south on the county road, headed toward the cottage. Hot and tired, Frank was more than willing to let them take his heavy valise, while he continued on to Escondite Cottage.

After leaving Frank and continuing on to Menlo, Dr. Jordan remarked, “We can temporarily put the young man up with Mr. Fletcher, but there’s no room at the table for him. He’ll have to find a place for board now, and a place to room later.”

Leslie knew Frank and he did not consider him to be a robust young man. Others in the office at Cornell called him a mother’s boy. Living and eating in Mayfield would not be to his liking. Leslie said, “That will not please him, I’m sure.”

Dr. Jordan took his eyes off the road ahead and regarded Leslie. “Sorry, Leslie, but I can see that all of us will be facing pioneering times.”

Leslie let the remark pass without comment.

Next day, Frank helped Leslie in the cottage’s library and they held the second day of student entrance examinations. Six young people were tested. Only two passed. Leslie could only think California high schools were not doing a good job of preparing their student for college.

As soon as space was ready in the Quad, Leslie and Frank moved the administration into a classroom located in the Quad’s southeast corner. They occupied Room #30, destined to be a large romantic languages classroom. Dr. Jordan, Leslie, and Frank shared the space at first. Several others—Mr. Woodruff, the librarian; Miss Stillings, another stenographer; and a part-time fellow, Bert Hoover, who had been recommended by a senior member of the faculty, Dr. Swain, later joined them. Bert’s real name was Herbert, but he preferred the shorter version. Some space was provided for a desk for Irene Butler, so she might persuade parents to send their daughters to a nearby preparatory school for girls she and a friend were establishing.

The room would be crowded, but it was anticipated that within two months they would move to their permanent quarters at the entrance to the University. There, the president and registrar would have private offices.

Chapter 3

“I No Do Beds.”

Thursday, July 9, 1891

Ellen knew from the start it would not work out having two families live under the same roof at the cottage. She tried to get along with Miss Jessie—the domestic name Dr. Jordan called his wife, but it still did not work out.

Ellen could understand why Dr. Jordan idolized his wife. Miss Jessie had replaced his first wife, Susan, who died four years earlier. Even with spectacles, Miss Jessie was a striking woman, with dark eyes, olive skin, and straight black hair done in a pompadour. She appeared to have Spanish ancestry, but she was Middle Western through and through. Quick and capable by nature, she liked to be in charge. This was fine with her adoring husband, who was happy to leave domestic—and, for that matter, parenting—decisions to his wife. University decisions were enough for him.

But Miss Jessie’s treatment of Edith, Dr. Jordan’s older daughter from his first marriage, was particularly galling for both Ellen and Leslie. It soon became apparent Miss Jessie considered Edith to be both a domestic servant and a nanny for Knight, the youngster. Ellen wondered when Edith had any time for herself. Leslie, in the confines of their bedchamber, expressed his opinion that Harold, who was Edith’s brother and Dr. Jordan’s eldest son from his first marriage, was not present because Miss Jessie did not want to bother parenting a child who was not her own. The story about Harold being ill was a sham. Leslie had noticed that whenever Dr. Jordan spoke of Harold, something that did not happen often, he acted as if he were remiss as a parent—which, in Leslie’s mind, he was.

Ellen felt her presence threatened Jessie in some way. At night under the covers, Leslie whispered that when Ellen and Dr. Jordan were joking about something or other, Jessie watch intently with a cold look in her eyes. All of this, of course, created tension. There were never words between the two of them, but Ellen never felt at ease in the same room with her.

Matters came to a head when Jessie asked Ah Sam, the cook, to leave. Both Leslie and Ellen were more than pleased with the bill of fare he presented at each meal and agreed with Senator Stanford he was the best cook in the area. But Jessie wanted Ah Sam to be more than a cook. There were beds to be made, sweeping and mopping to be done. Ah Sam would have none of it, and eventually Jessie told him to do what she wanted or leave.

Leslie happened to see Ah Sam as he was walking out the door for the last time, and his parting words were loud, clear, and spoken to anyone within hearing distance. “I no do beds,” he said, and he was out the door, never to return. With him went any thought of good food, well prepared.

Domestic life at Escondite went steadily downhill after that. The ladies attempted to cook in the small kitchen without success. All they accomplished was to get in each other’s way. The men and children sat waiting for meals that never came on time and were tasteless and cold when they did.

Whispering at night, Ellen and Leslie discussed the dilemma in which they found themselves. It was obvious they could no longer stay at the cottage. Leslie’s career depended upon a good relationship with Dr. Jordan. If there was any falling out between the two ladies, it might have long-lasting repercussions. Before such a catastrophe happened, the Elliotts must leave. They had no idea where they would go, but they had no alternative. After all, in a few months they would move into the permanent accommodations they had been promised—cottages to be built south of Encina Hall, the men’s dormitory.

Next day after a cold, tasteless breakfast, as they walked over to the Quad, Leslie said to Dr. Jordan, “Ellen and I talked it over last night, and we think our staying at the cottage is a burden. Jessie and you have done everything possible to make us comfortable, but it’s time we moved on.”

Leslie was not surprised that Dr. Jordan made no effort to change his mind and said, “Well, for the next week, I’ll be traveling and lecturing in Southern California. That should give you plenty of time to find other accommodations.”

Neither Dr. Jordan nor Leslie made any further comments about the matter. As simple as that, Leslie thought, we would have to find new accommodations within the week.

Of course, it was Ellen who had to begin looking for new arrangements for room and board. Leslie was reluctant to ask for any time off when there were so many things to do at the Quad. Ellen had learned from experience that taking time off from work, except for holidays or vacations, was something Leslie never did.

During the next week, Ellen found herself, along with Louis, being driven about Mayfield by young Albert Fletcher, who could use Dr. Jordan’s rig while he was in San Diego.

From a distance, she had seen Mayfield and knew it was not the flowery village she had envisioned from her husband’s letters. If anything, it was worse up close. She saw unkempt one-story houses—shanties or shotgun houses were the terms used to describe them in the East; a few shops for fruit and household items; a couple of hotels next to the county roads; but mostly saloons. She counted fourteen of them.

In their travels, they went past P. F. Behn’s Saloon, and Ellen thought about stopping by and seeing the peg-legged fellow who had gallantly rescued her husband. She thought better of it and decided to wait until Leslie was with her.

Ellen, with Louis in her arms, accompanied by Albert, went into one of the hotels. Only men were in the lobby. They glanced at the threesome with obvious interest—the petite blonde lady with young child and the accompanying young buck. In Ellen’s eyes, something about their looks suggested leers. Could they be thinking of them as a threesome? She tugged at Albert’s sleeve, and they turned around and walked out.

They continued to drive along dirt roads, stopping at the homes that were the least disreputable looking. Quickly they found out it was unheard of to take in boarders. The usual response was, “Why should we take in boarders?” Doors were shut slowly and eyes peered at them through dirty windows as they got back into their rig. Albert decided it might be better if they explained that they came from the East to start up Leland Stanford Junior University. When they tried this approach at the next house, an old lady asked, “Oh, do you think Senator Stanford is really going to start his college?”

Ellen, somewhat surprised at the reaction, answered, “Yes, of course we do.”

Albert was curious and asked, “Why not?”

The old lady laughed and looked at them with pity, as if they had escaped from some asylum. “Them workmen been a-buildin’ over there for more years than they ought. Seems they build it up and the Stanford lady tells ‘em tear it down. Build it. Tear it down.” She smiled slyly, showing wide gaps between her few dark teeth. “That’s fine with us. Lots of our men folk workin’ over there.” And she shut the door.

So that was what the residents thought about their university, Ellen thought, a pipe dream.

Finally, a man at a half-empty shop said he could accommodate the family. He would make an eight-by-ten room for them in the back.

Ellen was desperate. She told the man she’d have to consult with her husband and let him know.

Outside, Albert told her he thought the man’s proposal was impossible. “You can’t live all summer in an eight-by-ten room,” he said. “What would you eat? Saw dust and shavings?”

Albert was right. They would be sharing accommodations with a carpenter’s shop. Ellen decided to give up the idea.

That night in the privacy of their bedchamber, when Leslie heard about the old lady’s comments, he whispered, “No wonder the workers treat us as if we were foolish to think this university will ever open its doors. Up to now it’s been a plaything to keep Mrs. Stanford occupied. Something must have happened to give Senator Stanford a sense of urgency. I wonder what it was?”

Ellen had already fallen asleep, so there was no answer to his question. Soon he joined her.

Luckily for the Elliotts, when Dr. Richardson heard of their plight, he agreed to rent out his mother’s bedroom at Cedro Cottage, the temporary dwelling he and his family occupied. The only problem was that the Elliotts would have to take their daily meals at the Oak Grove Villa Hotel, a little more than a mile’s distance from Cedro. Also, Dr. Richardson’s mother, who had temporarily returned to Massachusetts, was due back in a few weeks, so it would be a short-term arrangement.