PART III

1906

I

On the same afternoon Lady Victoria developed appendicitis and went to

bed for two months. She was only in danger for a short time, but the

doctor announced his intention of giving her a rest cure, and his

patient, who was profoundly indifferent, made no protest. And if

invalidism is a career, an illness is an adventure; moreover, no doubt,

it was a relief to Victoria Gwynne to have her thinking done by some one

else for a time. Isabel had thoughtfully rung up the handsomest doctor

in San Francisco the moment the disease declared itself, and it was to

be expected that he would find his patient interesting enough to spend

an hour by her bedside daily. It was manifestly impossible to transfer a

woman of Lady Victoria's heroic proportions down that rickety and almost

perpendicular flight of steps to an ambulance, but the best of nurses

were engaged, Anne Montgomery agreed to come every morning and attend to

the housekeeping, Gwynne established a long-distance telephone beside

the bed, and Mrs. Trennahan, whom Lady Victoria liked--she could not

stand Mrs. Hofer--promised a daily visit; and an automobile trip to the

south as soon as the doctor would permit.

It was nearly a week before Isabel, who had sat up with Gwynne during

the first two nights, and been on the rush ever since, was able to

return to her ranch. She had offered to remain in town altogether, but

Lady Victoria replied with some show of irritation that if either she or

her son sacrificed their time and interests on her account it would

oppress her mind with a sense of guilt, and hinder her recovery. She

would telephone to them at a certain hour every day, and if they came

down once a week as usual she should enjoy seeing them, instead of being

worried by a sense of obligation. In truth she was glad to be rid of

them for more reasons than one.

It was late in the afternoon when Isabel arrived in Rosewater, and

business detained her there for several hours. She dined with the Tom

Coltons, and the conversation was a quaint mixture of babies, politics,

servants, and the Hofer ball. Colton drove her home, and talked the

steady monotonous stream with which he tricked the world into believing

that his own ideas were still in the germ. Upon this occasion he might

as well have betrayed his secrets or quoted the poets, for Isabel paid

no attention whatever to his monologue. She was consumed with her desire

to be alone once more. She was tired of the very sound of the human

voice, and remembered with satisfaction the silence of her Chuma and the

taciturnity of her men.

When she finally reached her home she illuminated it from top to bottom

and wandered about in a passion of delight. Her sensation of gratitude

and novelty in her solitude and freedom could not have been keener if

she had been absent for six months. Although it was too cold to sit

out-of-doors, she walked up and down the piazza for an hour, watching

the crawling tide and the brown tumbled hills. The boat was late, and

every other light was out when it appeared, a mere string of magic

lanterns with a red globe suspended aloft. Isabel struck a match and

answered the captain's familiar greeting from his high perch in the

pilot-house; then went within, for the fog was rolling over Tamalpais,

dropping down the mountains in great sea waves. But even then she would

not go to bed, and lose her knowledge of recovered treasure. After a

time, however, she fell asleep in her chair before the fire. She awoke

suddenly, but drowsily surprised and disappointed not to find Gwynne in

the chair opposite. Then she became aware of the cause of her

interrupted slumbers. There was the sound of fire-arms and of barking

dogs on the hills sacred to the Leghorn. In three minutes she had her

skirts off, her high boots on, and was running, pistol in hand, to the

colony, announcing her coming by a preliminary discharge. Then for the

next hour she and her men fought one of those hordes of migratory rats

that suddenly steal upon chicken-ranches and leave ruin behind them.

Isabel had a genuine horror of rats. She would far rather have faced an

army of snakes; but with her rubber boots, the well-trained dogs, and

her accuracy of aim, she had nothing to fear. Those that were not

slaughtered were finally driven off, and Isabel, content even in this

phase of her strictly personal life, went to bed and slept the sleep of

youth and health and an easy conscience.

The next day began the torrential rains that lasted for three weeks,

almost without an hour's intermission; that wiped out the marsh, and

threatened floods for all the valleys of the north. The boats no longer

looked as if cutting their way through the lands, but adrift on a great

lake. Tamalpais and the mountains below it had disappeared, as if

hibernating, and the winds raged up and down the long valley, shaking

old houses like Isabel's to their foundations, and leaving not a leaf

on the trees. Nothing could be wilder or more desolate than the scene

from Isabel's piazza, where, encased in rubber, she took her exercise,

often battling every inch of one way against a driving wall of rain.

Rosewater, or any sort of house except her own, she did not see for days

at a time, nothing but that gray foaming muttering expanse of water, its

flood and fall no longer distinguishable. At first she was more than

content to be so isolated. Her practical life occupied little of her

time; only a daily, and always unexpected, dash up the slopes to see

that her men were not shirking their duties, and a weekly trip to

Rosewater with her produce: she used her own incubators in bad weather.

A visit to San Francisco she did not attempt, and she was quite sure

that the daily conversation over the telephone--when it had not blown

down--was as sufficing for Lady Victoria as for herself. She read and

studied and dreamed, became indifferent to what she chose to call her

failure as a society ornament, and planned a larger future; to be

realized when she had come to care less for dreams and more for

realities. No doubt that state of mind would develop before long, and

meanwhile she might as well enjoy herself according to her present mood.

Nothing could alter her belief that all unhappiness came from contacts,

and certainly she had proved her theories so far, and took a pagan joy

in mere living. She loved the wild battle of the elements, the waste

below her garden, with as keen a sensuousness as the spring and the

flowers, and often sat late in her red room by the fire to enjoy its

contrast with the desolation without.

But Gwynne was not a man to be dismissed from the thoughts of any one

that knew him as well as his cousin, He had taken his part in her life

as a matter of course, and of late they had been very intimate. During

the first days and nights of his mother's illness, they had talked, or

sat in companionable silence, by the hour. She had been assailed by

regrets more than once that she was to have no part in his life, that he

had already won some of his hardest battles with no help of hers, and

deliberately had matched their spirits and driven her off the field

where she had subtly sought to manage him. She liked him the better for

this, but while her vanity retired with philosophy, she regretted her

inability to help him. That she had it in her to assist and encourage

him in many ways, she needed to be told neither by himself nor his

mother, but she was unwilling to pay the price. That she felt his charm,

took an even deeper interest in him since he had announced his intention

to marry her, she did not pretend to deny, and sometimes caught herself

looking out upon a future in which he had as inevitable a part as if it

had been decreed from the beginning of time. She also dreamed of the

satisfaction and pleasure it would give her to make him really love her,

become quite mad about her. But again she was unwilling to pay the

price. She argued that this was merely due to the persistence of the

solitary ideal; and refused to face the cowardice that lurked in the

bottom of her soul. Heroic in every other development of her highly bred

character, she had all the secret fear and antagonism of her sex for the

other, a profound resentment of the male instinct for possession, and

the deeper terror that what Gwynne might find would eventually make her

wholly his. Life had given her a deep surface; the depths below it sent

up rare vibrations; and her mind was seldom unoccupied. She could add

layer upon layer of evasions and subtleties with no prospect of a rude

disturbance; and when the wind ceased for a time she tramped over the

hills. But she missed Gwynne increasingly, wondered that he did not

brave the elements and come out to her; finally felt herself shamefully

neglected, and would not answer his occasional telephone queries as to

her well-being.

II

Three days of floundering through the mud between Lumalitas and

Rosewater exhausted Gwynne's patience, and he engaged a furnished suite

of rooms on Main Street, moved in his law library, Imura Kisaburo

Hinomoto, and several easy-chairs, invested in a red wall-paper for his

sitting-room, and was immediately so comfortable, and so relieved to be

rid of his dripping sighing trees and flooded valley, that he was almost

happy. As he looked down from his window upon the slope of the street

crowded with muddy wagons and men in oil-skins and high rubber boots, he

recalled the ironical picture Isabel had drawn, that memorable night at

Capheaton, of his own future appearance; and as he could not ride out to

Old Inn in any other garb, an excess of vanity deterred him from going

at all. To be sure he could drive out in a closed surrey, but he would

have felt equally ridiculous, and Isabel, beyond doubt, would scorn him.

Better let her think him indifferent for a while; it might do her good.

He could save himself from discourtesy by telephoning occasionally, and,

for the matter of that, the less he thought of her at present the

better.

For the first time he came intimately in contact with the men of

Rosewater: "leading citizens" too busy to call upon him at Lumalitas, or

to sit down in their places of business for a chat during the day, and

too well trained to ask strangers home for dinner, were any hospitable

instincts left in them. But they soon discovered that his rooms were

very comfortable and inviting, his whiskey and tobacco "above par." The

homeless citizens of Rosewater, while their wives wrangled at bridge or

five-hundred, fell into the habit of "dropping in at Gwynne's," instead

of going to the Lodge or the dingy back room of some saloon or lawyer's

office. They were at liberty to take off their coats and put their feet

on the railing surrounding the large iron stove that sat well out into

the room. There were even spittoons for such as clung to the old

tradition; and in a short time the large newly built, almost luxurious

room took on somewhat of the character of that forum of an older time,

the corner grocery. Judge Leslie seldom honored these assemblies, as he

was tired at night and rejoiced in a comfortable home; nor did Tom

Colton, whose domestic virtues were pronounced; but Mr. Wheaton came,

and Mr. Haight, Mr. Boutts, and other solid business men old enough to

be Gwynne's father; and they were all deeply interested in Rosewater

first, State politics second, and national affairs once in four years;

or oftener if there was any pyrotechnical departure from routine.

European politics interested them not at all, and if they had any

suspicion of Gwynne's real status, they were too accustomed to minding

their own business to take any liberties with his reserve.

But they were fully alive to the importance of his addition to the

community. He was a large landholder, selling many small farms to

acceptable persons; he spent money freely, buying everything he needed

for his household and farm in Rosewater, instead of sending to the city;

he was studying law with a view to practising in their midst; and now

that Judge Leslie--who proclaimed him a marvel--was threatening to

retire, his keen and cautious fellow-citizens needed nothing more than a

man of first-class legal ability to take care of their great and varied

interests and defend them against the corporation bogie. They found

themselves hinting that he should engage in politics as well, when his

probationary years were over.

When Gwynne shrugged his shoulders one night and remarked bluntly that

he had no desire to work with either of the California machines, and

would unquestionably come a howling cropper if he worked against either,

Mr. Wheaton answered with the nimbleness of a mind already made up, that

he could be sent to Sacramento on an independent ticket--manipulated by

the honest men of Rosewater--to fight such of the frauds and tyrannies

as the State was suffering acutely from at the moment. During reform

spasms the machines were practically powerless, and with the brilliant

abilities he would be able to display as soon as he entered public life,

and backed by a powerful influence, he could win his way to higher

things before the wave subsided. They wanted a senator in Washington who

was for his State first and himself next, even more than they wanted a

lawyer; and for that matter he could serve their anti-corporation

interests better there than here. Meanwhile he would have many

opportunities to speak and show the stuff that was in him, draw converts

to himself with his fiery eloquence and hard practicality, inculcate the

desire for better things, and the necessity for reducing the influence

of the army of petty professional politicians to a minimum, make of

himself so central and inspiriting a figure that when his time came the

best element of both parties throughout the State would form an

independent body under his leadership.

This was an alluring picture, but if Mr. Wheaton, who had had as little

to do with politics as possible, was a bit of a dreamer, there was no

question that his dreams were shared by more practical men at the

present moment than for many years past; and that his theories were

sound, however formidable the alert, resourceful, enormously capitalized

army which stood between them and execution. His idol was Abraham

Lincoln, and in consequence he "banked" on the good in human nature as a

factor, which, in sudden recrudescences of indignant energy,

accomplished revolutions of far greater moment than the overthrowing of

political machines.

Mr. Wheaton had launched forth upon one particularly stormy night when

he happened to be Gwynne's only guest. The host, not to be outdone, was

sitting with his feet on the railing of the stove, but as far from the

spittoon as possible. He had listened to the long monologue, which

involved a sketch of Lincoln's varied career, with more attention than

might have been inferred from his half-closed eyes, and his pipe had

gone out. It was only recently that any of his neighbors, barring Judge

Leslie and Tom Colton, who shared his secret, had definitely proposed a

political career to him, in other words divined his abilities and

ambitions. But Mr. Wheaton had once been young and adventurous himself,

and much if not all of his success in life was due to his shrewd

divination of human nature. No man could drive a harder bargain than

"Wash" Wheaton (he was named for the father of his country), but he had

never been wanting in a vein of humorous sympathy, nor in a fair

capacity for friendship as well as enmity.

He raised his eyes from the coals and looked directly at Gwynne, who was

relighting his pipe.

"I don't like Tom Colton," he said, abruptly. "And it's not so much

because he is the son of that old skinflint, neither. He is a little too

much the product of the times--a sort of polished up descendant of that

hoodlum element that terrorized San Francisco in the Seventies. He

started out as a mere or'nary politician, but the Democratic Boss took

him up and his ambitions are growing. What with the money he has and

will inherit, and the devilish gall of him, he can play a deep game, and

his chances of winning look a little too fair to suit a good many of us.

He's nothing better than an anarchist, and without the excuse of the

common anarchist--who, at the worst--or his own best--risks his life.

Tom Colton and men of his stamp wouldn't risk the skin of their little

fingers. All they do is to build a red-hot fire under the political

caldron, stir it up with a big stick until it doesn't know where it is

at or what it is made of, and then float into power on the steam. This

has been one of the rottenest States in the Union for a good many years,

and no wonder such men as Tom think they can about do as they please;

but a good many are getting pretty damned tired of it, and there's a

sort of reform mutter going on here and there that will gather and swell

if skilfully manipulated. We've been talking you over, and have

concluded to back you up for all we are worth as soon as you are

ready--that is to say we would but for one drawback--your friendship

with Colton."

"If you choose to call it that. I have told him in as plain English as

he will ever hear what I think of his politics, and that if I ever enter

public life myself I shall devote my energies to running him and his

like out of it. He is too good-natured and too sure of himself--and his

State!--to mind. Moreover, he has four years the start of me. It is

possible that I shall go to Sacramento with, and even speak for, him;

but he understands perfectly that I am only after experience, will

advocate nothing I disapprove of--he actually has certain reforms in his

political basket, and whatever may be his intention to compromise when

he reaches Sacramento, I, at least, can advocate them in all sincerity;

and further open the eyes of all these people to what they ought to want

and to have. All this is perfectly understood between us. I, and the

honest public clamoring for its rights, do not weigh a feather in the

scale, in his opinion, against the might of organization."

"Very good. I suspicioned something of the sort. He can't corrupt you,

and you couldn't get a better insight into corruption than through him;

so fire away. What's your program, anyhow?"

"It's too soon to make one--be sure that I am willing to return your

confidence with my own"--as the sharp china-blue eyes opposite

contracted; "but I can do little now except win the confidence of the

farmers in this district and of men like yourself. But if a reform party

does achieve power, if only for a term, the first thing for it to do is

to overhaul the ballot system. Before we reformed ours we were as deep

in the mire as yourselves. When the American voter is under the

supervision of an honest judiciary, a general system of local reforms

will follow as a matter of course."

Mr. Wheaton sighed. "You would have to begin with the judiciary. If you

reformed them, and had any strength left, and then reformed the ballot

in the manner of your own country, I guess you'd get about anything you

wanted. But you'll need a tidal reform wave, I'm afraid. However, you

never can tell what one year will bring forth in this country. On the

other hand, the results of certain reforms, fought and died for, have

done as much to make us pessimists as any of the immovable abuses. Take

the question of Civil Service Reform, for instance. In the old days when

you wanted to induce a man to give you the benefit of his abilities and

influence during an election, you held out hopes of preferment, and he

took your word if he knew your word was good, and worked with a decent

sort of ambition--all things being relative. What happens now? Few find

anything promising or attractive in the competitive examination. You ask

a man--the professional politician he is now, sure enough--to help you

get your candidate, or yourself, in, and what happens? The gentleman

coolly demands, 'How much?' and holds out his hand. You fill it or he

turns his back and walks off. There is just that much less of good left

to appeal to in this particular brand of human nature. Ours is a much

more complicated civilization than yours, Mr. Gwynne. You were dealing

with Britishers only, in 1832. We are trying to digest the riffraff of

the world, and can't do it, in spite of such incorrigible optimists as

Judge Leslie. Immigrants in the first generation have just about as much

feeling for the American flag as a chicken has for Rosewater. They look

upon vote-selling as a legitimate way of improving their fortunes, and

they are the easy prey of such agitators as Colton, because they had

nothing in their own countries, and want the earth in this. Of course

their children go to the public schools, and become Americans, but we

always have the problem of fresh hordes to deal with. And new and

old--it is easy to plant the weevil in their brains that the rich have

corralled all the money, and the laborer--even in California, where he

gets the highest wages paid on this earth--is a miserable victim, and

entitled to all he doesn't make. They never remember that nearly every

capitalist in the country has risen from their own ranks, and that their

dreams are mainly occupied with doing the same. But you might as well

talk to the trade-winds, especially with such men as Tom Colton stirring

the caldron. 'Get rich quick; and selling votes is as good a starter as

any.' There you have the moral sickness of the country in a nutshell.

And few professions pay better than that of the politician. The pettiest

division leader, who does the Boss's dirtiest work, and has fewer

redeeming virtues than the midnight burglar, makes such a good thing out

of it that the prettiest Salvation Army lass couldn't convince him of

the error of his ways. And he enjoys himself. To hang around saloons,

prize-fights, help out shyster lawyers with their tricks, and play the

game hard during election times--that satisfies him until he sees a

chance of stepping into a bigger pair of boots of the same make. But,

thank God, there are more honest men out of politics than in. That is

the trouble, but there they are, and it will be a part of your business

to round them up. Well, I guess I've held forth long enough. I'll send

you round a few volumes from my Lincoln library to-morrow. I always go

to it when I lose my faith in human nature. Good-night."

And he gathered up his long legs and went out.

* * * * *

In his many talks with his friends in San Francisco, Gwynne had received

practically the same suggestions. The lawyer who advised this group in

its necessarily intermittent campaign against the San Francisco

politicians was one of the ablest in the United States. He had offered

Gwynne a place in his office, a 'courtesy partnership,' when he was

ready to move to the city. But Gwynne deliberately remained undecided

for the present, although half inclined to practise in the country for

some years. If he could not have the inestimable education of the old

days, when lawyers jogged about the country with the circuit judges for

months at a time, he could at least get into close contact with the

plain people in a manner that in a city would be practically impossible.

Until the rains began, and after his definite understanding with Colton,

he had, during his hours of exercise, formed the habit of "dropping in"

upon the small farmers of his political district, under pretence of

asking their advice; gauging and sowing. Upon the men that had bought

land of him he was able to bestow many small favors, and his old

experience with the tenantry of Capheaton gave him an instinctive

knowledge of their wants that added to the sum of his popularity. To his

inferiors he had never shown the arrogance of his nature, and he

welcomed these small toilers as a substitute for his old tenants; for he

had missed the poor that kept the sympathies quick--and, perhaps, gave

richer shadows to life.

His long lank American figure and slight resemblance to Hiram Otis, who

had been an institution if not a favorite, his readiness to stand drinks

to his farmer acquaintances, and others, whom he happened to meet in

Main Street, the approachableness he had cultivated with some effort,

combined with the subtle suggestion that he would not permit a liberty;

a characteristic that every true man respects; his reputation for being

"dead straight," and his insistence upon receiving his just dues--"all

that was coming to him"--in spite of the easy terms he made with several

to whom he sold land; all this, in addition to the dignity of being the

largest rancher in the county, and a law partner of Judge Leslie, had

quickly made him a marked as well as a popular figure. Even his accent

was unnoted in that State of many accents.

He had thought out for himself all that Mr. Wheaton had suggested, and

if he still had his moments of depression and disgust, and even of

revolt, much of his old confidence was returning; although he sometimes

reflected, with a sort of whimsical bitterness, upon the difficulty of

sustaining an impression of innate greatness unaided by an occasional

demonstration. But he had, at least, learned to see people merely as

human beings without taking their shells into account; and he also

realized that in those storms of spirit, which, at the time, he had

deprecated as ebullitions from a too mercurial nature, he had developed

more rapidly and precisely than many a man does by the exterior

catastrophe. And impersonally his admiration for the land of one set of

forefathers grew, although personally he remained cold. But he

cultivated all sorts and conditions of men, and hopefully trained

himself for the enthusiastic moment.

There were even times when, surrounded by his Rosewater friends, with

their lapses into quaint American speech and their intense localism, the

old Otis blood stirred in him very strongly; he caught himself using

phrases and figures that no doubt were an inheritance with his brain

cells. When the walls and furnishings of his room were obscured by

smoke, and there were half a dozen pairs of boots against his stove, it

was not difficult to fancy himself back in the old corner grocery on a

winter's night: his companions drinking apple cider, instead of rye

whiskey, and the orator of the moment sitting, by preference, on a

barrel, and munching crackers.

In San Francisco, which he visited twice a week on his return from

Berkeley, when alone in the long sloping streets swept with the

wind-driven rain, when the gutters roared and the houses looked as

deserted as their huddled beaten gardens, stories Isabel had told him of

the days of the Argonauts rose like ghosts in his brain, and he would

suddenly experience an overwhelming sensation of being at home. His

mother promptly dispelled these visions.

On the whole his time was too fully occupied to leave him more than

stray moments for the subtler mood; but as day after day, finally week

after week passed, with no prospect of fair weather, the monotony and

confinement affected his nerves, he tired of the unrelieved

companionship of men, and wished that Isabel would move in to Rosewater

for the winter months. He rang her up, when this brilliant idea occurred

to him, but was informed by Chuma that she was not in the house. On the

following day he telephoned again, and learned that she slept, on the

third that she was engaged in the delicate operation of extracting some

deleterious substance from the crop of a valuable hen. Whereupon he

swore vigorously, and vowed that he would forget her until the skies

cleared. But "the skies they were ashen and sober," and he caught

himself dreaming over his "Torts," or during one of Mr. Boutts's

ecstatic visions of Rosewater with a great hotel in the style of the old

Missions, and an electric railway. (Mr. Boutts, by-the-way, never

elevated his feet to the railing of the stove, but always sat on the

edge of his chair, a hand on either knee.) He took the train impulsively

to San Francisco, one afternoon, and talked of reinforced concrete with

his contractor, and San Francisco politics with Hofer. He even called

upon several young ladies, who interested him less than ever, and

returned to Rosewater at the end of four days with a sense of duties

neglected and a slip in his self-mastery. This put him in such a bad

humor that he directed his Asiatic to refuse him to the members of his

informal Club, and wished he were back in San Francisco doing the town

with Stone.

III

He was glowering into the open door of the stove and wondering why on

earth he had not remained in town over Sunday at least, when he became

aware that his noiseless Jap was standing at his elbow.

"What is it?" he demanded, testily. "I wish you would get a pair of

creaky boots."

"A gentleman," replied the impervious Oriental.

"I told you I would not see anybody."

"But he has a card." It was not often that the cool even tones of Imura

Kisabura Hinomoto fluctuated, but Gwynne detected a faint accent of

respect. Somewhat surprised himself, he glanced at the card. It bore the

name of one of the judges of one of the benches provided for by the

constitutions of both nation and State. He had a summer home on the

mountain opposite and relatives in Rosewater, so there was nothing

remarkable in his being in the little town on a rainy winter Sunday.

Nevertheless, Gwynne's instinct of caution, more active than usual

during the past year, stirred sharply.

"Show him in," he said. "And bring the whiskey--both Rye and Scotch."

This was the most perfect specimen of the bluff, hearty, breezy, almost

ingenuous Westerner that Gwynne had encountered. The judge, who had been

relieved of his hat and overcoat by the admirable Imura, advanced with

both hands outstretched, and Gwynne could do no less than surrender

his, although he had never fancied any one less. The judge was a big man

with a round jolly face, set with a sensual mouth, a pendulous nose, and

merry twinkling eyes. Although possibly no more than fifty-five years of

age, the baldness of his head had amplified the common noble domelike

American brow: behind which Gwynne had so often groped and found

nothing. This man was indubitably clever, and to a less educated eye

than Gwynne's his face would appeal and fascinate. His magnetism was

superlative.

"My dear Mr. Gwynne!" he exclaimed. "Believe me when I say that this is

one of the most satisfactory moments of my life. I was forced to come to

this God-forsaken hole last night, and had it not been for you I should

have taken the morning train back to the city. But when I heard that you

were in town--you were pointed out to me as we both left the train--I

knew that my opportunity had come. And--my dear young gentleman--I throw

away no opportunities; I throw away no opportunities."

By this time Gwynne had steered him into the largest of the chairs, and

offered him his choice of the whiskies. The judge, after an instant's

hesitation, accepted the Scotch; and Gwynne felt that he had a tactful

and dangerous man to deal with.

"Excellent!" exclaimed the judge, and he smacked his lips. He inhaled

the aroma of the cigar voluptuously. "But my dear old friend, Judge

Leslie, whom I ran in to see for a few moments this morning, told

me--with his customary humor--that you were as remarkable for the

superior quality of your whiskey and tobacco as for the many personal

qualities that have so rapidly endeared you to the citizens of

Rosewater."

"Thanks," said Gwynne.

The judge changed his tactics instantly. "I cannot beat about in the

dark and merely turn myself loose in pleasant generalities, Mr. Gwynne,"

he said, gravely. "I am going to tell you at once that I am positive you

are Elton Gwynne. Judge Leslie would give me no satisfaction this

morning, but I needed none. I happened to be employed in old Colton's

bank in my younger days--as secretary--and although that was a long time

ago--a long time ago!--it came back to me, when I began to hear so much

about our new rancher, that his full name was John Elton Cecil Gwynne,

and that he was the only son of his mother. Or--if impressions are

confused after so long an interval--I may have gathered the last fact

from James Otis, whom I knew very well. He and Hi, indeed, I may

honestly say, were among my few intimate friends, despite some disparity

in years. So, I have a double interest and, I modestly hope, claim upon

you. The former at least has been accentuated since yesterday, when your

likeness to Hi struck me very painfully. You are a vast improvement, I

grant, for Hi was as ugly as mud and as cross as two sticks, but the

resemblance is acute, odd as it may appear. Those things are very

subtle, very subtle."

Gwynne had heard the keys of his secret weakness tinkle for a full bar,

but while it improved his humor it did not cloud his judgment, and he

applied himself to finding out the purpose of the man's visit.

"I regret very much that I have come too late to know any of my male

relatives," he said, affably. "Hiram Otis, from all I hear, was an able

man, if somewhat soured, and his unfortunate brother one of the most

brilliant lawyers of his day. Terrible thing, this reckless drinking in

San Francisco. I was told yesterday that when--a few years ago--an

editor was sent out from New York to assume charge of one of your most

flourishing dailies, he made the entire staff go down to Los Gatos and

take the Keeley cure. Then, for a time, he had _relays_ of sober men, at

least, but until then he had felt himself a lonely Philistine--besides

taking a hand in every department of the 'shop,' even setting type at

times. But it's a fascinating old town, all the same. Too fascinating, I

fear." And he managed to fetch a remorseful sigh.

The judge, who had laughed heartily at the anecdote, dismissed his

twinkle for a moment, and looked at the young man with concern.

"For God's sake," he said, softly, "don't tell me that you have

inherited that microbe."

"Oh no, indeed!" said Gwynne, cheerfully. "I never could take to drink

now--a man's character is pretty well formed at thirty-two, I fancy, and

I scarcely ever touch spirits when alone--prefer the lighter wines.

Only, as San Francisco is so convivial, one naturally imbibes a good

deal, especially with friends addicted to the 'cocktail route'--and I am

afraid I shall have to give up the city for the present and stick to

work."

"The judge tells me that your legal powers are really amazing--that you

have accumulated more law in four months--"

"Tut! Tut!" cried Gwynne, springing to his feet and reaching the table

in a stride. "Have some more whiskey, judge. And don't flatter me any

more. I am afraid that vanity is my besetting weakness--"

"Thank God it is not the other!" said the older man, fervently. "And

vanity keeps the heart younger than anything I know of. Lose the power

of being tickled by a compliment and inflated by success, and you lose

the salt of life. But I am delighted that you have taken to the law. I

know your English career like a book, and although I do not pretend even

to guess at the motives which induced you to fling aside not only the

most promising career in England, but one of the noblest of her titles,

I may say, sir--and I may speak for my fellow-citizens, the whole

million of them--I am deeply flattered, and gratified, that, whatever

your motive, which could only be an honorable one, you have chosen this

fair State as the theatre of your future triumphs. I hope I shall see

you beside me on the bench--unless, to be sure, you have higher

ambitions than the mere practice of law."

"The first men in the country have been lawyers," said Gwynne, politely.

"Why aspire higher?"

"Why, indeed? But I think you will. The law frequently leads either to

one of the benches or into the more active field of politics. And

you--with your enormous energies--you will never be content with the

law, pure and simple, no matter how brilliant a reputation you might

achieve."

"But honest lawyers are so rare!" exclaimed Gwynne, boyishly. "I do

believe I should be an honest one. That, at least, is the intention I

have set beside my ambition. I am ambitious, judge, as no doubt you have

divined, and the prospect of being shelved among the lords sickened me.

I wanted to make a career for myself, so cut the whole business and came

here where my American properties were. Besides, as it happened, I

inherited practically nothing with which to keep up my English estates.

There! You have my reasons, judge, and you are welcome to them. Titles

without money are mere embarrassments. Still, I really should have left,

had it been otherwise--I am certain I should. I never could stand the

inaction of the Upper House. Nor do I care for those compensatory honors

that my position and family influence might have secured for me. And now

I feel more the American every day. I have even grown keen on making

money--which I rather disdained at home; for the matter of that, thought

little about it. You may not know that I am--in partnership, as it were,

with my mother and cousin--putting up a large Class A building in San

Francisco?"

He inferred that there was little about him the judge did not know, but

accepted the interested "Ah!" and rhapsodized over his new interests.

The Judge listened with a benignant smile and a twinkling eye, every

once in a while giving the tip of his long fleshy nose an abrupt shove,

as if it impeded his breathing.

"Just so!" he exclaimed. "Just so! It is the Otis blood. No better

pioneer blood in the State. Jim was the wild one. The others were as

steady as rocks. Their father and grandfather--your ancestors,

sir--helped to make this great State what it is. Their names will always

be honored in the annals of California. Terrible pity Jim and Hi got

away with so much. If they'd hung on as your mother and her mother did,

Miss Isabel would be one of the heiresses. But she seems able to take

care of herself, and with that face and form, I guess she can redeem her

fortunes any way she chooses. I hear that young Harry Hofer can't talk

of anything else."

Gwynne wondered if this were what the judge had come for, but

exonerated him, concluding that he was merely rambling on in the hope of

an opening.

"No doubt!" he said, heartily. "Miss Otis could marry any one she

pleased. One of the best titles in England was hers for the asking,

by-the-way. But like myself she is too good an American--shall I say

Californian?--to live anywhere but here. She is immensely successful

with her chickens, and we shall all make money on this new deal--I am

certain of that."

"No doubt, no doubt. Things are booming in San Francisco. You'll get a

huge rent from a building of that size--in time. Pity it has to be

divided among three of you. And there will be a big mortgage to pay off

first, I suppose; and it is in a very precarious district, a very

precarious district." And once more the twinkle retired and he gazed

dreamily at the fire.

"Oh, even golden apples have to ripen. And I have taken every precaution

against fires. Have some more whiskey, Judge."

"Don't care if I do." Gwynne knew that the Scotch scalded a throat

caressed these many years with the oily rye, and put as little seltzer

in it as he dared. But the judge sipped it heroically. Suddenly the

twinkle danced back to his eye as he turned it upon Gwynne.

"You can't delude me!" he cried. "You can't, sir. I know you intend to

go in for politics. Nothing else would ever satisfy your genius. Own up,

now."

"Well," said Gwynne, modestly. "I have thought of it. After my five

years are up, of course--makes one feel rather like a convict. Meanwhile

I can make some headway with the law: or, shall I say, build up a

reputation that may be useful to me when I am able to run for office."

"Ah! Just so! Great pity you were ever discharged from your American

indigenate. Then one year in California would settle the matter. Which

of our parties makes the strongest appeal to you?"

Gwynne's eyes had contracted and he was staring at the stove. But his

abstraction was too brief to be noticed, and he answered in a

confidential tone, "Well, Judge, to tell you the truth--" And then he

stopped and laughed.

"I see. You think one is about as bad as the other."

"Well, I am afraid that is it."

"Oh, my boy, they're not nearly as bad as they are made out to be--our

American politics. Judge Leslie is dotty on that subject, and so are a

good many of the other old fossils of Rosewater. I don't say but that

San Francisco would be the better for a good spring cleaning, but the

State's not nearly so bad as it's painted, not nearly so bad as it's

painted."

He delivered his repeated phrases with an unctuous indulgent roll that

made Gwynne long to grind his teeth. But the prospective American merely

raised an interrogative eyebrow. "I don't hear much good in any

direction," he murmured.

"Of course, I can understand that you have seen through Tom Colton, and

that he has appalled you as much as the fossils. He's in a hurry, and if

he isn't mighty careful the machine will throw him down. For all his

affected simplicity he's too fond of the limelight: loves to see his

name in print; and when he makes a donation to a charity or an

improvement scheme he uses up all the fireworks in the State."

"I was under the impression that he was in high favor with the district

Boss--"

"The district Boss is getting old, and Tom, one way or another, has

acquired a great influence over him; but I happen to know that he

doesn't stand any too well with the State Democratic Boss."

"If Tom were really earnest in his reforms, really had the interest of

the common people at heart--although I never saw common people so well

off in my life--but the point is that if Tom were really sincere he

might form an independent party."

"Well, he can. It won't do him any good. It wouldn't do even you any

good to work up a reform party, and your abilities are to his as a

thousand to one. In fact a man like yourself would have far less chance.

They would let Tom amuse himself, but they would find you really

dangerous, and the upshot would be that the two parties would unite and

crush you. Crush you flat. You might be a George Washington, Alexander

Hamilton, and Abraham Lincoln rolled into one, and you would emerge from

the swift and simultaneous impact of those two cast-iron walls flatter

than the sole of your boot. Even if you made a good running on a reform

wave, so much the worse. Reform waves merely serve the purpose of making

some poor devil conspicuous and recklessly optimistic, then subside and

leave him high and dry--at the mercy of the ever-recuperating machine.

It's enough to make a man wish he'd never been born. I've seen it more

than once. There's only one of two results. They are either so disgusted

with politics that they stay out of them for the rest of their lives, or

they pick themselves up and make a bolt for the machine they think most

likely to give them a career. Look at some of our most illustrious

incumbents. Great bluff on the outside--which the machine don't mind

one little bit--and the best sort of a party man inside; walking a

chalked line with no rebellious wings on his feet. Wings don't grow on

clay. But they are right, Mr. Gwynne, and not because they are wrong,

either. In this great country organization is absolutely essential, and

in all vast complicated organizations some chicanery will creep in. But

take them all in all, American politics are not half as bad as they are

painted, not half as bad as they are painted."

"Well, that is a relief. You certainly should know. But what of the

great corporations that rule this State--as well as the country? The

State Democratic or Republican Boss is president or treasurer of one of

them, is he not? I haven't taken the trouble to be very specific as yet.

My time is so far off. Of course I do not need to be told that

organizations, trusts, or whatever you like to call them, are

inevitable--because they are in the line of progress; and unabused, they

would be as much to the advancement of the individual as of the country.

But they have been abused, from all I can make out--quite shockingly. I

am taking the course on 'The Law of Corporations' at the University,

partly because I want to understand so vital a question as thoroughly as

possible--and partly--well--at least, I fancied I should--for a

time--for what money there might be in it--But really!"

"Oh, I don't say that some trusts are not reprehensible, and the sooner

they are exposed the better. But they are sensational cases. The

majority of the great complex aggregations of capital are monuments to

American genius and progress; I am sure that if you waste any time on

the yellow press you know how to discount it. Some of even the best of

the trusts may have swollen to a size that renders them practically

unmanageable, as well as injudiciously provocative of much jealousy and

unrest. But the principle is sound, as you have admitted, and the great

law of adjustment will correct all that is undesirable, and in a very

few years. Meanwhile, get rich yourself, Mr. Gwynne. I'm delighted to

learn that corporation law has appealed to you so strongly, for the

money is there. I'm glad I came. I'd like to do one of your blood a good

turn, to say nothing of yourself. Perfect yourself in corporation law

and Leslie says you accumulate more rapidly than any hundred ordinarily

well-equipped men one might name--and I can put you in the way of

clearing a hundred thousand a year."

"_Could_ you?"

"Yes, sir. What the great corporations want, and want badly, even with

all the good legal talent they've got, is an attorney of extraordinary

abilities, and this you have. I understand that the legal luminary of

that reform set in San Francisco has offered to take you into his

office. That's about as great a compliment as even you could have, but

there's nothing in it. They're playing a losing game. They ought to win,

but they won't. The San Francisco Boss may be what we elegantly term a

shyster lawyer, but there never was as clever a one; and there's no

trick he doesn't know. He'll beat them at every turn. You'd only make

one more of that estimable Don Quixote band. Don't waste your youth.

Study corporation law with all your might and main, and _I'll_ place you

where you'll make a big income from the start--and it'll grow bigger

every year. Then when your turn comes to vote and run for office--why,

the whole field will be open to you to pick and choose from.

Corporations are not ungrateful, and with a mighty one behind you, I

guess you wouldn't whistle for anything, long."

Gwynne regarded the thin sole of his house shoe with so rueful a

countenance that the judge laughed outright. "Have you really had

thoughts of working up a reform party?" he cried, the dancing imps in

his eyes almost escaping.

"Well, I may have dreamed a bit that way. You see, I come of a family of

reformers." And he gave the judge a rapid sketch of the part his English

forefathers had played in the great reform acts of their country. The

judge nodded sympathetically.

"Just so. I understand your point of view perfectly. Perfectly. But

those great movements in England are matched here by spasms only. This

country is too big and too heterogeneous. Don't set yourself between two

cast-iron walls, Mr. Gwynne, because when they do get a concerted move

on, they fly like hell. Join either of the parties, and you will find

not only that it is not half as bad as it is painted, but that it

accomplishes far more good than harm, many real reforms, that are

systematically ignored by the press."

"I thought you said that reforms were impossible in this country."

"Oh, bless my soul, no. That would mean that we were going straight to

the dogs. Reforms are going on every minute. The country is more

tolerable and civilized every decade. What I mean is that no reform can

be accomplished until the time is ripe for it. That is the reason why

our spasms amount to nothing. They are always premature. But if you

really want to do this country a service throw in your lot with the

regulars. You would always be an influence for good, and when you saw

the first opening for the correction of some crying abuse, you would

have powerful machinery at hand to work with. What you want to do, Mr.

Gwynne, is to become a powerful factor in the machine, not waste your

time on windmills."

"Which machine?" asked Gwynne, ingenuously. "I don't fancy I could ever

make up my mind. They seem precisely alike to me."

"Well," said the judge, slowly, although he brushed the tip of his nose

aside with more violence than usual. "I don't like advising,

particularly a young man of your distinguished abilities and

achievements. But I really think I am better able to advise you than

Leslie, and certainly every man of us should feel a sense of

responsibility to the old Otis--and Adams!--blood. I will say frankly

that in your place I should join the party that owns this State--and

shows no signs of letting go; in other words, the Republican. I can well

understand, that having been a Liberal--and to the extent of renouncing

your titles!--the Democratic would appeal to you. But don't waste your

time, Mr. Gwynne. You are thirty-two. You don't want to throw away the

next ten years on a losing game, and then, tired out, arrive nowhere.

You would fight so hard that all your energies would be second-rate by

that time. You want to begin right now and swim with the tide. Nurse

your great energies for the exactions of the victorious career. You'll

need them. And need them fresh."

"That sounds like good advice, but the whole political game appals me

when I consider that it will be six years before I can even run for the

House of Representatives--"

"True! True! Pity your parents didn't lose you. But everything turns

out for the best. Meanwhile, you can make name and fortune as a

corporation lawyer. And you can't have too much money in this world,

sir. You can't have too much money in this world."

It was on the tip of Gwynne's tongue to ask him bluntly what corporation

he had in mind, but not only did his already boiling humor recoil from

the indignity of a deliberately worded bribe, but he doubted if it would

be proffered so early in the game. He had a very clever man to deal

with; it was not likely he would make the mistake of a direct approach.

Gwynne flattered himself that he looked as ingenuous as Tom Colton, but

as he had seen through the complacent judge, it was possible that the

judge might entertain suspicions of a man with his reputation. He was

glad he had not spoken when his visitor rose abruptly to his feet.

"Bless my soul!" he exclaimed. "I shall miss my train if I don't hurry.

And heaven forbid that I spend another night in this mud-hole. My

address is on my card--when do you come down again?"

"There is a lecture at Berkeley on Wednesday--"

"Good! Now, you will dine with me next Wednesday night--and I hope on

many other nights. We must have several long talks--and all about your

future, young man. I am too old to talk about my own, but I remember

what I was at your age. Tactful, hey? But no," dropping his voice

gravely. "I want to help you. And I can. Whatever branch of the law you

specialize upon, you must leave Rosewater and come to San Francisco. I

can place you in an office--even should you decide upon general

practice--that will carry you swifter and further than our reform friend

can, because he is playing a losing game--a losing game, sir. But we'll

talk of all that later. I must hasten."

Gwynne escorted him to the head of the staircase, where he resisted an

impulse to kick him down, then, after a hasty glance into the

dictionary, encased himself in rubber and went up the hill to the home

of Judge Leslie. He was to dine there, and it was but a quarter-past

four, but what he had to say and ask would not keep for an hour and

three-quarters.

IV

On his way to the house he decided that he could not confide even to

Judge Leslie that he had been singled out as likely spoil by the

"grafters." No doubt that in a way it was a compliment to his abilities,

this early-conceived determination to whisk him out of the reform field

and engross his abilities, killing two birds with one stone. Probably he

would be approached in a similar manner very often, until he became a

definite quantity, and in time would grow accustomed to it; and callous.

But at present he was hot and sickened, the more so as he felt that he

had received a new impulse to believe in himself. These vast

corporations--the railroad, street railways, lighting, and telephone

companies, were the ones that dictated to San Francisco, and were

supposed to have debauched the Board of Supervisors, all of them small

laborers, elevated by the Boss to serve his ends--counted their capital

by the millions; in one case, at least, by the hundred million. They had

already bought much of the best talent in the country, and they wasted

no time on the second-rate. Gwynne could easily guess in whose teeming

and orderly brain the scheme to seduce and attach himself had been

shaped, and, with the American contempt for the perspicacity of any

foreigner, had selected this judge, with his breezy direct tactful

manner, as certain to edge the newcomer into the fold. To Gwynne the

only saving grace in the whole interview was that he had not been

tempted. Had he been he should have felt utterly demoralized, disposed

to take himself at the valuation of the business-like unsentimental

brains in power.

He found his judge awakening from a nap before his library fire and

dusting the crumbs from his beard.

"This is an unexpected pleasure," the old gentleman began, then stopped

short. "What is the matter?" he asked, anxiously. "Sit down."

"What does indigenate mean?"

"Why--a purely technical term for citizenship."

"A friend of yours called upon me to-day, on the strength of having

known the Otises, and remarked that it was a pity I was ever discharged

from my American indigenate."

"That you renounced American citizenship upon coming of age. It is a

pity."

"But I remember doing no such thing. I did no such thing. I certainly

should remember it."

"You mean that you made no formal act of renunciation of your American

birthright, obtained no certificate of British nationality?"

"I did nothing of the sort. It is possible that my father did it for

me--"

"Your father could do nothing." Judge Leslie was staring at him.

Suddenly he laughed. "You _are_ British! I am almost inclined to believe

you hopeless. How did I get the impression that you had formally

expatriated yourself? From Isabel, who, no doubt, woman-like, jumped at

the conclusion--having known you when you were more British still. And

you never brought up the subject--"

"Don't regard me as wholly an idiot. I read the Constitution of the

United States half a dozen times while making up my mind to come here,

and it is not likely that Article XIV.--'All persons born in the United

States, etc., are citizens of the United States, etc.'--escaped me. I

consulted my solicitor, and he read me from some chapter on

Expatriation, as plainly as may be, that the forfeiture of native

citizenship was accomplished not only by a formal act of renunciation,

but followed a long severance with the relations of the government under

which the person was born, or--acceptance of service under a foreign

government. Considering that I had left the United States when I was

five weeks old, and had fought and bled for Great Britain, besides

serving in her Parliament--where, of course I took my oath of

allegiance--and that I had been an Englishman to every possible intent

and purpose, even wearing my titles for some weeks, it seemed to me--and

to my solicitor--that I would have rather a hard time obtaining an

American passport."

The judge nodded. "Quite right. All the same, I can't understand why

your father did not bring the question up when you attained your

majority, or why you, an ardent Britisher, did not think of it

yourself."

"You would understand if you lived among us for a few years. In the

first place my being born in the United States was such a mere incident

that it was rarely mentioned, and then in the most casual manner. I

don't suppose my mother ever volunteered a piece of information in her

life, and my father rarely gave a thought to any matter but sport. My

grandfather probably disliked the idea--he detested America--at all

events he never alluded to the subject, and was far too British to dream

that the child of British parents could be other than British were he

born in heaven itself. I don't think the matter had entered my mind for

ten years, when the subject came up the first night of Isabel's visit to

Capheaton--and I stupefied every one by announcing that I had been born

in America; but otherwise it made no impression upon them. It is quite

possible that had there been any prospect of my becoming the heir, when

I reached my majority, some member of the family would have recalled the

fact of my birthplace; but Zeal was well then, his wife was bearing

children rapidly, there was every reason to suppose she would have half

a dozen boys. Do you mean to say that I have never been an Englishman?"

"Oh, you are all right as far as the British law goes. And you were a

good and bona fide British subject for thirty years. Don't feel any

discouragement on that score."

"Then am I an American citizen? Is there to be no long period of waiting

and of comparative inaction?"

"I am not so sure. There is no provision of the Constitution so open to

various construction. And none has been so variously construed. I could

cite a hundred instances--that is, I could read them to you to-morrow.

But I recall two, and they are fair samples. One child, born in the

United States, of French parents, returned to France, and after serving

his term in the French army wished to become an American citizen, and

obtained his passport without difficulty. A full-grown American citizen

went to Mexico and fought for Maximilian, and lost not only his own

citizenship, but that of his children, who had been born in the United

States. There you are, and there you are again, as dear old Dickens

would say. But I must think a minute." He transferred his gaze to the

coals, and was silent for a few moments.

"There is a pretty strong case on both sides," he resumed, in a musing

tone. "You left this country when an infant, you practically forgot it,

you entered the service of Great Britain heart and soul, and achieved

high distinction. You inherited a title and wore it as a matter of

course. For thirty years you never set foot on American soil, nor at any

time demanded the protection of the United States, as you might easily

have done in your foreign wanderings. There is hardly a doubt that if

England had gone to war with us at any time during the last ten years

and needed your services you would have given them. However, that

contingency did not arise, so let it pass. But with an unsympathetic

State Department and an active enemy or two, all the other points cited

would make up as clear a case of voluntary expatriation as any on

record. But there is a pretty good balance on the other side. You _were_

born in the United States, you _did not_ renounce at any time your

allegiance, you have the blood of two Presidents in your veins,

and--here is the important point: you have been one of the heaviest

tax-payers in California for thirty-two years. Now, as I have intimated,

these expatriation cases have all been decided on their individual

merits. I should advise you to go at once to Washington, and enlist the

influence of the British Ambassador to get you personal and private

interviews with the powers that be. Then plead your own case. One of two

things will happen. Either there will be much hemming and hawing, and

much virtuous and judicial weighing of your peculiar case, article by

article, or the President himself will decide one way or another

off-hand--he being what he is. For that reason I think it would be well

to approach him by degrees, let him digest it a bit. He may be delighted

that you have thrown over your titles and your brilliant and promising

career to become an American citizen, invite you to take the oath of

allegiance forthwith, and order the State Department to issue a

passport. On the other hand he may fly off at a tangent and be

righteously indignant that a man with the blood of the Otises and

Adamses in him, who had the good-fortune to be born on American soil,

hesitated a moment after reaching man's estate--more particularly that

he never gave the matter a thought. Nothing could be more problematical.

I wouldn't bet a twenty-dollar gold piece either way. But, I repeat, you

must go yourself. Otherwise the affair would hang on interminably.

Moreover, you must tell no one the object of your journey. Tom Colton

would pull every wire within his reach, and he is no mean rival, to

postpone your admission to citizenship, and so, I fancy, would others."

He shot a keen glance at Gwynne. "I think I know who your visitor was,

to-day, and what he came to Rosewater for. That speech of yours, and its

effect on the crowd, never escaped the attention of the party bosses,

and of course you are a marked man in this small community--to say

nothing of your intimacy with the reform set in town. The judge, who

started somewhere in this neighborhood as a poor boy, rose from various

minor situations to be the secretary of Colton's bank, saved his dimes

and studied law. So far so good; the average self-made American. The law

leads a good many of us into politics and it wasn't long leading him. He

was an invaluable party man, with that bluff honest exterior, that

superabundant magnetism, and that twinkling eye. The world always

associates a fine upright nature with a twinkling eye. I have one myself

and I believe that is the main reason why I have always been afraid to

do wrong. Well, our friend got the bench when he wanted it, and he has

been a mighty good friend to the corporation that put him there. And it

has done well by him. He owns a fine house in San Francisco, entertains,

goes into the best society, has visited Europe several times, and,

although he is now rising sixty, continues to fool all but a few. He

might climb higher and become a United States Senator, but the

corporation finds him too useful here. He rather resents that, but they

make the sacrifice worth his while. I can well conceive they have

spotted you, and you may be sure there is little about you they don't

know. Of course they have made up their minds you are erratic, and have

not the least doubt that they can manipulate that loose screw. They have

bought thousands, these ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ----

---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- (it was not often the judge swore, but

when he did he took some time). Grafters, that are debauching the

country and will soon make it impossible for an honest man to live; and

although they will no doubt have the grace to approach you with less

brutal directness than commonly, I knew that was what they were after

the moment that old rascal began to talk to me this morning. He never

fooled me. Well, we'll fool him. You go to Washington and get your

passport, and if you can't hasten matters don't let an outsider know

what you are after. Plunge into society and let them think you need a

change from California. Of course you will give your real name. Cat's

out, anyhow. Perhaps they will think you are on your way home to

England. Flirt with the girls and be a frivolous young blood. The judge

asked you to dinner, I suppose? I thought so. You would meet more than

the judge; if not the first time, then the second and third. Write him a

note, telling him you are obliged to go south to take a look at your

mother's ranch. Then obey a sudden impulse and go East by the southern

route. In Washington be seen as much with your ambassador as possible. I

don't think these rascals will suspect, for they take for granted that

you were duly 'discharged from your American indigenate'--I can hear

him! If they did there would be the devil to pay, but I don't think they

will. However, don't waste any time."

Gwynne was staring at the fire, his inner being chaos, but he replied in

a moment that he would start for Washington on the following day.

V

There had been no stormier night during the winter. Isabel's old house

creaked and rattled and groaned like a ship in a whole gale, and the

wind sent great waves of rain along the veranda. A northern window had

been blown in and hastily patched. Although but nine o'clock the sky was

as black as midnight. For several days there had been merely a quiet

steady fall, but during the afternoon the northern rain belt had sent

down another great storm and it had been rising ever since.

Isabel, unable to go out, had washed her hair, and was still sitting on

the hearth-rug, drying it, when she heard a shout outside, then the slam

of a door at the back of the house, and voices in the kitchen. She was

too warm and comfortable to be interested. If it were a tramp he was

welcome to the shelter of the house; if a burglar there were two men to

dispose of him, and her jewels were in a safe-deposit box in San

Francisco. She loved a storm and had given herself up to one of those

moods of pure delight in the present moment, although she had been in

anything but a good-humor of late, and solitude had palled. But a raging

storm, the sense of the absolute dominance of nature and the littleness

of man, always exalted her. She knew that the old house was secure on

its foundations, and, but that she loved comfort and warmth, she would

have liked to be out on the marsh in a boat; tense with the

difficulties of keeping the channel and avoiding the shoals and

mud-banks obliterated by the risen waters. It amused her to imagine

herself out there, while dwelling pleasurably, in a doubled

consciousness, upon the warm red tints of her room. Her dreams were

barely disturbed by the unknown interloper, but they were shattered a

moment later by Gwynne's voice and rapid step in the hall.

She had intended to greet him with a cool hauteur after his neglect of

nearly a month, but she could not rise in time; and, enveloped in a mass

of hair, spread over a yard of the floor, it was impossible to be

dignified. So she resolved to be charming.

"I had to come in the back way like a tramp and leave my oil-skins in

the kitchen," he announced, abruptly, as he entered. "Don't get up. I

have always wanted to see your hair down. So did Jimmy, I remember. Did

he?"

"Certainly not. Neither would you if you had not chosen such an

extraordinary time to call. I am delighted to see you once more after

all these years, but--what on earth possessed you?" His eyes were

glittering, although he had dropped his lids, and he did not sit down,

but moved restlessly about the room.

"Your mother is much better," said Isabel, tentatively.

"Oh yes, and she is looking forward to her motor trip, and telephoned

this morning that her room was a mass of flowers. I fancy she is a bit

touched by so much kindness, for she has not been half decent to any one

but the Trennahans."

"Does she say anything about returning to England? She had it in

mind--just after the earthquake."

"She has made one or two casual allusions to her return, but she never

plans far ahead--does what takes her fancy at the moment. But this life

will never suit her. I imagine she will go before long. London is in her

blood. Now that she can live properly--will have all she can, or ought

to want, when the building is paying, there is no object in her

remaining here."

"How goes the building?"

"How can anything go in this infernal weather? The old shanties are

down, and the contractor had a sort of tent erected and has done some

work on the foundations. I should have come directly to California if I

had had any idea of the money to be made by selling off my superfluous

land and putting up that building. It might be finished, by this time.

Why didn't you tell me?"

"I am only remodelling my own brain on business lines by slow degrees,

and no echo of this building fever reached me in Europe. You will

remember that I did write, while you were wandering about America, that

Mr. Colton suggested it for both of us. If I did not dwell on the

subject it was because I had a feminine horror of the mortgage--and no

idea that you were so keen on making money."

"I am thinking principally of my mother. When a woman has always had the

world I doubt if she can live long out of it. San Francisco is all very

well for the young and adventurous, and for those with a strong sense of

the picturesque, but I can imagine that to a woman of her age and

experience----Do you know--" he burst out. "I don't know where I am.

What an extraordinary thing heredity is! I doubt if most people,

although they would call that a platitude, realize that heredity is

anything more than a telling word. There are times when I am sitting at

my stove, surrounded by all those typical American men, who seldom

mention a subject but politics and farming--for I tabu chickens--or the

intensely local interests, more or less affected by politics,--there are

times when I actually feel the nameless ambitious young fellow--not born

in a log-cabin, perhaps, but next door to it--and endowed with that keen

compact pioneer determination to stride straight to my goal, whether it

is the White House or--well--the Presidency of a Trust Company. I

forget--good God!--_Are_ those years behind me in England? I have caught

myself wishing that I had kept a scrap-book like other idiots. It

escapes my memory altogether at times, that I have but to take a steamer

out of New York to reach the top of civilization again in less than a

week."

"Perhaps it suggests itself when you remember that with the income you

can command before long, life in England will be more worth while."

"That was as nasty a one as you ever gave me! No one knows better than

yourself what brought me to America, and that those conditions cannot be

altered by money. Could I not have had Julia Kaye's fortune? You need

not be nasty again! You forget that not only was I in love with her--or

thought I was--but could have given her the equivalent. She would be the

last to claim that she was to pay too high a price, even with me thrown

in. If you don't beg my pardon I'll leave the house."

"I beg your pardon," said Isabel, hastily. She was thrilled with

curiosity; she had never seen him so nearly excited, with the exception

of one memorable and painful moment. She fancied that she could see one

of the barriers between them sway.

"It may be that this sudden prospect of wealth, or rather of a goodish

income that would enable me to keep up a decent establishment in town,

and a bit of a place somewhere in the hunting country, has upset my

equilibrium, but it occurred to me this morning as I was splashing

through the mud--I had to go out to the ranch--in fact it came over me

with such a rush that I felt like Don Quixote, and every landmark looked

like a windmill--what is England to-day but the very apex of

civilization? The Mecca, the reward, of every man and woman with the

breeding and the intelligence to appreciate it? The best of everything

goes there, you have but to turn round to help yourself to an infinite

variety--to be found piecemeal everywhere else on earth. And the very

best is mine, by inheritance and personal effort. Why in thunder am I

out here on this ragged edge of civilization struggling with almost

primitive conditions?--elemental badness, sure enough! What is my

object? Merely to bring about a set of conditions that exists in England

to-day. I have them there. Why am I wading into filth up to my knees,

for the sake of an alien race, when they are mine already?"

"But you had too full a measure. That was the reason you emptied the cup

and turned your back. You wanted hard work--to use your gifts."

"What does it all amount to? Suppose I insidiously work up a reform

movement in this State, and am shot into Congress over the head of the

machine? Suppose my gifts are as extraordinary as I have been led to

suppose--ordinarily a man feels damned commonplace--and by force of

those gifts I hold my own against the formidable organizations I shall

encounter there at every turn? Suppose this reform spirit in the United

States grows and strengthens, and I come along in time to benefit by it,

and am landed in Washington--even in the White House? What of it? I had

a thousand times rather be prime-minister in England--in other words the

real head of eleven million square miles of the earth's surface,

dictator to a good part of the world, for that matter. Your public men

are servants--or ought to be, according to your Constitution. In England

we render service by courtesy, and rule the roost. In this country every

man in public life is not only at the mercy of his constituents, but in

daily terror of having his head cut off by the man above him. Even the

President has to be a politician above all things."

"You used to talk in England--as if you were not wholly swayed by

personal ambition."

"It is not so difficult over there to conceive high and mighty

ideals--fool yourself, if you like. But I'll be hanged if I can see

myself baring my breast for poisoned arrows, with a seraphic smile on my

lips, over here! It is all so crude! I want to be a main instrument in

reform as much as ever--Oh yes! But I am not sure that one motive is

not to make the life and the game more tolerable. And the everlasting

machine! There won't be a day, inside or out of it, that I won't run up

against every damnable meanness that human nature is capable of. I must

handle these men, placate them--or get out. History has not yet failed

to repeat itself. If I succeed, in favoring conditions, in forming a new

party, I may end as a boss myself! Exalted ideal! Inspiring thought!

Better go home and live like a gentleman. I could have some sort of a

career, and I have seen enough in this country to drive me towards the

conclusion that there are worse things in life than curbing one's

youthful ambitions a bit."

He was still striding up and down the room, his expressive hands as

restless as his feet. The color was in his face and his eyes were

blazing. There was a curious magnetism about him that Isabel had never

been sensible of before, although she had heard much of it in England.

It was as if his spirit were fully awake; at other times he appeared to

live with his cool critical brain only, while his inner self, with its

intense slow passions, slept. She wisely made no comment, and after

shoving the books violently about the table he went on:

"You may argue that if public men were elected directly by the people

and the President held office for one term of ten or fifteen years only,

that a long stride would be made towards the millennium. But it is

doubtful if even then, forty or fifty different tribes--for that is what

your State and territory lines effect--could be managed without

machinery, and machinery develops the lowest attributes in human nature.

I saw enough of that in the few rotten boroughs we have left in England,

but my imagination never worked towards the full and original

development in this country. We have other faults; the serenest optimist

would never deny them; but, faults or no faults, we crown civilization

to-day. The richest man in America has not the least idea what it means

to live like a gentleman in our sense. And there is no flaw in my

appreciation of your country. In many respects it is the most

marvellous the world has known--but--I sometimes wonder if the pioneer

blood in my veins is red enough to stand it. No matter what the most

successful reformers accomplish, there will be no high civilization here

in our time--no background. Unconsciously, or otherwise, I shall always

have the goal of England in my mind--and if that is the case, why am I

here? Isn't civilization the highest that man is capable of

accomplishing, the best that Earth has to offer any of us? What sense is

there in going back to the beginnings and plodding or fighting towards a

goal you were born to? It's more than once I've felt like Don Quixote.

The whole infernal country is a windmill--and a large percentage of its

inhabitants are windbags."

"Of course you have a streak of Don Quixote in you. All men of genius

have, I suppose. You felt that you had a mission--to pack a great deal

into a convenient phrase. You could do nothing in England but sit down

and sup with the elect. You would have choked very quickly. And if you

went back you would not stay. You would not only be bored, but you know

now how badly this country needs one disinterested man of genius."

"I am not disinterested. I never felt more selfish in my life."

"You have an immense capacity for disinterested statesmanship. Of course

all motives, especially with the highly gifted, are complex. You have

said yourself they would be fanatics otherwise. And you are far more

American than you know, although you have just confessed that you do

know it well enough at times. All your American ancestors may be living

again in you. It was your own instinct, no influence of mine, that sent

you out here, filled with mixed but high ambitions. No full-blooded

Englishman would ever do what you have done. Insanity and inebriety skip

a generation. Why not Americanism? Heaven knows there is nothing

American about your mother. And when the political cleanup comes, as it

is bound to--"

"Oh, I am sick of this everlasting optimism: 'Everything is bound to

come out all right,' 'God's own country,' and all the rest of it. I can

understand it well enough out here, though. It is a wonder to me that

any Californian has energy enough to care. Life is easy at the worst.

The scoundrels batten unnoticed--although they are sending up the price

of everything; and the most ungrateful and rapacious labor class on

earth never get their deserts. The labor class hasn't a leg to stand on,

so far as bare justice goes. Pity they can't have a taste of Eastern

factories and wages and climate for a while. If it were not for its bay

and the tremendous significance of its position opposite the Orient,

California would be what it ought to be, the pleasure gardens of the

world. No politics, no labor-unions, merely a succession of estates, big

and little, where a man could live a happy animal existence for

one-third of the year, after working the other two-thirds--that is a

sane division. But if I stay here I work. And for what ultimate object?

England, as sure as fate."

"You cannot possibly tell how you will feel twenty years hence--"

"Twenty years! That is a fair estimate, no doubt! I believe that the

real secret of discontent has been the prospect of this cursed period of

inaction. Nice substitute--coruscating as a blooming barrister; and it's

mighty difficult to travel along for four years without showing your

hand. It requires a tact that I may or may not have. If I have it, there

may be other depths of hideous guile, as yet undiscovered. I have had

glimpses of them already. All these farmers that I am nursing? What if

my beneficent virus works too quickly--before I can represent them? Some

other fellow reaps the benefit; and when my turn comes, likely as not

there will be a reaction. I've to keep and increase my hold on these men

of every nationality under the sun, as well as upon the seasoned old

Americans, lest they should break away from me. Nice job I've cut out."

He hesitated a moment, but added: "Beastly idea to subject all to the

same law. It should be ten years for immigrants, and one for the

man-of-the-world anxious to take the oath of allegiance--not that I am

frantic to take it."

"I never knew any one so keen for obstacles; and now that you have found

more than you bargained for--"

"It's not the obstacles that daunt me. If I were only sure of

accomplishing any result worth while, if I had the materials to work

on--if I were sure I cared! The American is an unhatched Englishman, but

he won't be hatched out in my time----I even long for the close compact

drama of English life. Everything is spread over such a vast loose

surface here. These four years through which I may--must stumble along

with my hands tied, are a fair example. And it seems to me that I never

go to bed without seeing a face on the dark trying to enunciate: 'What

for?' 'Why?'"

He sat down suddenly on a chair in front of her and took his head in his

hands. "Do you ever ask yourself those questions?" he demanded,

abruptly.

Isabel nodded. He noted absently that she looked like an elf with her

face half-hidden by her hair, and that he could see but one little black

mole, but a narrow ring of blue about the dilated pupils of her eyes,

the tiny dimple at the corner of her mouth. She wore a loose blue

wrapper, and the wood fire leaped in high flames behind her. The storm

was terrific. He suddenly realized that this was the only homelike room

he knew outside of England. He felt as if nothing would ever give him

peace again, but he was suddenly and overwhelmingly glad to be

there--and comfortably alone with Isabel on this raging night. He stared

at her until his own pupils dilated, but she replied more tranquilly

than she felt.

"_Cui bono_ is the motto on Earth's coat of arms. The only thing that

saves us is that we don't see it all the time. There are long intervals

in which we eat and sleep and dance and love and play at politics and

enjoy the storm--and our best companions."

"We certainly are not here to spend our lives preparing for another

world. Otherwise there would be no sense in the complexities of

civilizations. A man could do that much in a cave. It is merely the

diabolism of instinct that prompts the young to believe that the race is

all. Certainly love is not the only source of happiness. I have been

ecstatically happy when writing--thinking, in the fever of composition

that I was dashing out the finest thing in literature. I have been happy

under fire, or excited enough to think so. And I have felt enough

exultation with exaltation to make happiness when I have been on a

platform and carried a hostile crowd off its head and to my feet. If two

people were indescribably mated--I don't know--"

"Why not deliberately accept the doctrine that there is a purpose, even

if you are not permitted to read the riddle of life--"

"All very well, but what have politics to do with it? You may answer

that a man should lay up all the credits he can, and that he can

possibly get more by cleaning out the political trough than in any other

way. If those are my lines I suppose I shall work along them, but my

higher faculties whisper that to live this life on the intellectual

plane, fighting for your country when necessary, is the rational

existence for those that have the luck to be born to the good things of

the old civilizations. Here they don't know any better, or if they do

they can't help themselves. If that plane isn't meant to live on, why is

it there? Has a man the right deliberately to step off the high plane

upon which a long succession of circumstances have planted him--pull up

his roots and plant them in a virgin soil?"

"Perhaps it is his duty to go where he is most needed--where his riper

instincts and experience--"

"Your arguments are always good, otherwise I should not be here arguing

with you. What do you really think of love?"

She jumped with the suddeness of the attack, and then drew backward a

little, for he was leaning towards her and she felt his masculine

magnetism as she had never done before. It pulled and repelled her,

fascinated and filled her with resentment. And she was fully alive to

the romantic conditions, the wild night, the isolation, the vibrating

atmosphere. But she replied, soberly:

"I don't think about it. I buried all that--"

"Chuck it on the dust-heap! It served its purpose: women should have

some such experience in their first youth as men have others. You are

the better for it, because you worked off on the poor devil all the

morbid and ultra-romantic tendencies that were spoiling your life. But

let it go at that. It was no more love than my first Byronic madness for

one of my mother's friends when I was sixteen--"

"You were thirty when you were in love with Mrs. Kaye. And she was not

even your second--nor your tenth, no doubt."

"Quite right. I do not understand and shall waste no time on the effort.

All men run pretty much the same gamut. That attack was the most

commonplace sort of passion, no madness in it, no idealization, no sense

of mating--"

"And how, may I ask, do you expect to know when you really do fall in

love--"

"I'll know, all right. I wish you would put up your hair. You look

uncanny, not like a woman at all. You have too many sides. I like you

when you are human and normal."

"If you think my hair in its proper place will accomplish that

result--my hair-pins are up-stairs on my dressing-table--"

He disappeared instantly. When he returned she was standing and coiling

her hair about her head. Her sleeves were loose and the attitude bared

her arms. As Gwynne handed her the pins, one by one, he stared,

fascinated; but when she had finished and shaken down her sleeves,

returning his stare with two polar stars, he turned his back suddenly

and resumed his tramp of the room.

"I have changed my mind," he said, abruptly. "I had intended to marry

you on any terms, merely because you suited my critical taste. But I

believe that if I married you in that way I should beat you or kill

you--or you would kill me. You are capable of anything. Love would

square matters with us--nothing else."

"Then is the engagement broken?" asked Isabel, placidly. She did not sit

down, but stood with a foot on the fender.

He relieved his feelings by kicking a stool across the room, then came

and stood in front of her.

"Could you love me?" he demanded.

"I am not the village prophet."

"Have you made up your mind you will not marry me?"

"Oh yes--that."

"Because you couldn't love me, or because you are determined not to

marry?"

"I won't feel and suffer and have my life torn to tatters when I can

keep it whole! I had rather marry you without love, if I believed myself

indispensable to your success in life."

"Much you know about it. I won't have you on any such terms."

"You are in no imminent danger. Heavens, what a wind! You must stay here

to-night. If the spare room is too cold you can sleep on this divan."

"If that is a polite hint, I am ready to take it. I have been here long

enough."

"Oh, but I mean it. I will not hear of you riding back in this pitch

darkness. You would be more likely to go into the marsh than not. You

can return to Rosewater so late to-morrow that Sister Ann will infer you

have made a morning call."

"I shall return to-night. It was as dark when I came, and I am not

altogether a fool. Neither is my horse."

"But you are not so familiar with the road," murmured Isabel,

irrepressibly.

"That is the one decent thing you have said to me to-night. It is these

sudden lapses into the wholly feminine that save me from despair. What a

night for romance, and you and I sparring like two prize-fighters! That

is as far as we have ever got. If you would ever let me know

you--sometimes I have an odd fancy that I can see a lamp burning in your

breast, and that if ever I got at it, and searched all the nooks and

crannies of your strange nature by its light, I should love you as

profoundly as it is possible for a man to love a woman."