"I am afraid it is only a taper in a cup of oil. At all events it is not

a search-light, even to myself. I fancy people only seem complicated to

others when they do not wholly understand themselves."

"Do you understand yourself?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Are you perfectly satisfied that you never could love me?"

She reddened and her sensitive mouth moved, but she brought her teeth

together. "That has nothing to do with it."

"Everything!"

"Nothing!"

"Do you mean to tell me that you are literally contented with your life

as it is?--living out here alone with nothing to do but read and look

after those confounded chickens? You have the most romantic temperament

I have ever met, and the way you gratify it would make an elephant

laugh."

"I dream and think of the future."

"Future? You saw what that amounted to when you were in town--"

"I have shaken off the impression. It must have been that I had too much

at once--and the purely frivolous, which offended my puritanical

streak--"

"You don't like the Bohemian crowd any better."

"There are plenty of others. When I am ready I shall make the plunge and

forbid myself to shrink from realities--"

"And the only people that will interest you will be those deep in public

affairs. A woman to be a political power must be married. Otherwise she

becomes the worst sort of feminine intriguer."

"I am interested in the women that are interested in the improvement of

all things."

"And what is their ultimate aim, for heaven's sake? The franchise. Do

you mean to tell me that you intend to become a Club woman? I had sooner

you wrote a book."

"I have no intention of doing either--"

"In other words you are a plain dreamer, and a selfish one at that--"

"I try not to be selfish. I visit no ill-humor on any one--but you!--and

I do good where I can. I should be more selfish if I ran the risk of

making--some man unhappy in matrimony."

"Well, I'm sick of the subject. I came to say good-bye for a time. I'm

off to the south to-morrow, and then east on business. I don't know when

I shall be back--Oh, you can turn white--I can make you turn white!"

"What do you expect when you fire such a piece of news at me? What is

behind this?"

"I have told you enough."

"Don't you trust me?"

"Oh, you can keep a secret. I don't know that I want to tell you."

"Very well."

"Oh, well, it would be beastly ungrateful in me not to. I have had a

hint that, not having de-Americanized myself formally when I came of

age, I may still be an American citizen. Judge Leslie has advised me to

go to Washington and find out, and I am going. Are you really so

interested?"

"Oh yes," said Isabel, softly. "I am interested! I have been afraid you

might become discouraged and disgusted. Four more years would be a long

time. Are you glad?"

"I don't know whether I am or not. When it comes to taking the oath of

allegiance to the United States--if that is sprung on me in

Washington--I shall feel more like taking the next steamer for England

and making my oaths there. It is a little too sudden."

"All this hesitation and doubt are natural enough until you are settled

down, and become too accustomed to the country to think of anything

else--"

"I accept the balm. But I have less hesitation than you

imagine--whatever the doubt and disgust. And I really believe the secret

of my unrest is you! Good heavens! _Do_ I love you--_already_--that

would be the last straw!"

He was staring at her, and something in his face blinded her. She turned

cold from head to foot; but she moved her glance to the baskets on the

mantel-shelf, and replied, quietly:

"It will take some time for you to know whether you are in love again

or not. You have seen me too constantly--barring the last month. I have

become in many ways necessary to you. When you move to San Francisco, as

I am convinced you will, and have many other resources----propinquity

is all there is to ninth-tenths of what we call love----and then a

little more kills it! Even if I were under the same delusion as you are

I should not yield to it."

"I do love you," he said, as slowly and clearly as he was capable of

enunciating. But his voice was hoarse, and she was sensible, without

turning her head, that he was rigid. "It is different--quite different.

I am willing to wait, however. I understand your hesitation. When I

return--"

"Doubt of the reality of your--well--"

"Love," said Gwynne, grimly.

But Isabel could not bring herself to utter the word. "One way or the

other, it does not alter my determination not to marry."

"Let that rest for a while. What I want to know is, could you--do you

love me?"

"Oh, I don't know! I only know I don't want to. You have a tremendous

influence--you have made every one else seem commonplace and

uninteresting--I have resented very much your neglect this last month. I

am willing to tell you all this--also, that I have dreamed, imagined

myself in love with you. But I am convinced that if you let me alone I

shall get over it."

"I have no intention of letting you alone."

She moved backward suddenly, and he laughed. "I wouldn't touch you with

a forty-foot pole," he said, roughly, "unless you wanted me. That,

perhaps, shows how far gone I am. But precious little you know about

men. Or yourself. If I kissed you this minute you would succumb--"

He turned suddenly and was down the hall and had slammed the kitchen

door behind him before she realized that she was actually alone, that he

meant to leave the house. For a moment she clutched the edge of the

mantel-piece in a passion of relief and regret. Then her femininity was

swept aside by her hospitable instinct and vehement fear. She ran down

the hall and into the kitchen. But even his rain garments and boots were

gone. She opened the back door and peered out into the inky darkness. A

light was moving in the stable. The rain was falling in a flood and the

wind almost drove her backward. But she gathered up her gown and ran as

fast as she could make headway to the stable. He was alone, and

tightening his horse's saddle-girths by the light of a dark lantern. He

gave her a bare glance and went on with his work.

"You must not go!" She was forced to scream. "You shall not. Why, you

are mad. The marsh--such conventionality is ridiculous. I refuse to

recognize it."

He rose to his feet and led his horse outside. But before he could vault

to the saddle she caught his arm and dragged him backward. "You shall

not go! You shall not!" She could hardly hear the sound of her voice.

But she heard his, and there was nothing in either storm or darkness to

blunt the sense of touch. For a moment she felt as if the whole had

never been halved, as if they two were youth incarnate; and his arm was

like vibrating iron along her back. She thought he was going to kiss her

and dazedly moved her head towards him. But he cried into her ear

instead:

"I stay if you marry me to-morrow."

"No, no, no!" Her will sprang through her lips, and before it was beaten

down again she saw a spark of light engulfed in the dark, and stood

alone in the storm, wondering if the world had turned over.

VI

"_Monday Morning._

"This is merely to announce that I survived the marsh, and that

upon my return we will resume where we left off last night. E. G."

Isabel received this note early in the morning. That night she had

accepted an invitation of some weeks' standing, and was established in

the old Yorba mansion on Nob Hill. She anathematized her cowardice, but

solitude was beyond her endurance for the moment. She had made up her

mind that she would not think of Gwynne at all, much less give herself

opportunities to miss and desire him; and her will, reinforced by

conditions, was strong enough at times to persuade her that she hated

him.

And there was nothing in the Trennahan household to try her nerves,

everything to soothe them. Although the old buff walls and terrible

carpets of Mrs. Yorba's day had gone long since and the house had been

completely refurnished, it looked like a home, not a museum. Trennahan

had taken his family to Europe many times, and they had brought back

much that was rare and beautiful; but nothing stood out obtrusively, not

even a color. They entertained constantly in a quiet way, and if

Magdalena was far too Spanish to seek out the clever of all sets, and

Trennahan too indifferent, at least Isabel met daily such of the _haute

noblesse_ as were not completely fossilized, and many men that

interested her well enough. Moreover, as Mrs. Trennahan now had a

grown-up daughter, she was obliged to take her to the cotillons and

other routs given under the merciless supervision of the Leader. Isabel

accompanied her as a matter of course, and when she declined an

invitation her guest was at liberty to go with the ever faithful Mrs.

Hofer.

For three weeks Isabel did little thinking. She went to the ranch once a

week for the day only, spent an occasional hour with Lady Victoria. Even

then she was barely reminded of Gwynne. She was busy during every moment

while in the country, and her relative was no more communicative than of

yore. Only once did Victoria remark casually, that, by a sort of poetic

justice, Gwynne was detained in the south with a sprained ankle, and was

hurling maledictions at fate from the classic shades of Santa Barbara.

Isabel grudgingly admired the restraint with which he denied himself the

possible solace of correspondence with herself, and it crossed her mind

once or twice that the young man might have the understanding of women

that proceeded from instinct, if not from study. But she deliberately

dismissed him, and although his name was frequently mentioned in her

presence, she soon ceased to turn cold, and forced him to flit with a

hundred others across the surface of her mind.

For the first time in her life she flirted desperately, and with others

besides young Hofer. She was quite wickedly indifferent to consequences,

and was inspired to woo the fickle goddess of popularity. The peace and

charm and intellectual relief of the Trennahan home did much to modify

her shrinking from realities, and the effort to please, and the

abandonment to the purely frivolous instincts of youth, were the only

aides her beauty needed to achieve that popularity she had abstractly

desired the night Gwynne brought her the stars. She no longer desired it

at all, but she disguised this fact, and reaped the reward.

Moreover, although her analytical faculty slept in the darkest wing of

her brain, the mere fact that she was stormily loved and desired by a

man to whom she was powerfully attracted, that for a moment she had been

awake and eager in his embrace, had warmed her blood and given her an

insolent magnetism that she had never possessed before.

Through Mr. Colton she received a formal request from Gwynne to dedicate

the Otis Building--named in honor of the creator of the family

fortunes--on the day the last of the foundation-stones was laid. In

company with half a hundred other young people in automobiles, she

astonished South of Market Street, one beautiful spring day--the spring

was making desperate assaults upon the lingering winter--and amidst much

mock solemnity and many cheers, deposited into the chiselled crypt of

one of the great concrete blocks upon which the building would rest, a

strong-box containing three of Concha Argueello's Baja California pearls,

several family daguerreotypes, and the original deed of sale which had

transferred the property from the city to the first James Otis. When the

ceremony was over the contractor shook hands with her approvingly.

"That's as good a place as any for a deed of sale in this here town," he

remarked. "For no shake will ever budge them concrete pillars. They're

down to bed-rock. And no fire'll ever crack them, neither. We'll begin

on the steel frame to-morrow, and you must come down occasionally and

cheer us up. It'll be worth it. The Otis's goin' to be the cock o' the

walk. Better make up your mind to have them terra-cotta facings."

"Oh, they would not raise the rents, and would hardly be appreciated by

their present neighbors," said Isabel, lightly. "I am going to send you

a bottle of champagne to-night, and you must drink to the health of The

Otis."

The man promised fervently that he would, and then after ordering beer

from a neighboring saloon for the workmen, Isabel and her party motored

out to the beach beyond the Cliff House, where a number of old

street-cars had been converted into bath-houses, and disported

themselves in the waves until it was time to rush home and make ready

for the Mardi Gras ball.

This yearly function was given in the Institute of Art on Nob Hill, the

wooden Gothic mansion with bow-windows, erected in the Eighties by a

railroad millionaire who had barely survived his nimble victorious

assault upon Fortune. His widow had presented his "monument" to Art, and

now its graceful flimsy walls housed much that was valuable in canvas

and marble, and more that was worthless. Once a year, on the eve of

Lent, Society gave a Mardi Gras ball, and such of the artists as were

known to the elect decorated the rooms, and contributed certain

surprises. This year, partly out of compliment to the Leader and Miss

Otis, partly because the old Spanish spirit had been roaming through its

ancient haunts of late, the interior of the mansion was hung with red

and yellow. Isabel, in full Spanish costume, led the grand march with

young Hofer, who was dressed as a toreador, and supported the jeers of

his friends in the gallery with what fortitude he could summon: he was

plump and pink and golden. The great room, surrounded with boxes draped

with the colors of Spain and filled with women splendidly dressed and

jewelled, was very gay and inspiring, and the masques flung confetti and

had a squib for everybody with a salient characteristic. When the march

finished, Isabel, who wore a half-mask of black satin, and her hair in

two long braids plaited with gold tinsel, danced a Spanish dance by

herself, alternating tambourine and castanets. She had practised it

during the past week with a professional, and she gave it with all the

graceful sexless abandon of those California girls, who, a hundred years

before that night, were dancing out at the Presidio and Mission. She was

the success of the evening as she had purposed to be, and went home with

two proposals to her credit, and as gratified a vanity as ever

titillated the nerves of an ambitious and heartless young flirt. It was

not the first time that Isabel had deliberately elected to play a role

and achieved so signal a triumph that she was beset with the doubt if

she had not but just discovered herself. As she fell asleep in the dawn

of Lent it was with the somewhat cynical reflection that perhaps she

could make quite as great a success of the role of the statesman's wife

were she to essay it.

The roads were still in too muddy and broken a condition for the

long-projected automobile trip, and the Trennahans had decided to hire a

special car and journey to Mexico, spending some time in Southern

California. They urged Isabel to go with them, but she was sure that she

had had all the respite she needed, nor would she neglect her chickens

any longer. In truth she said good-bye to the party, which included not

only Lady Victoria, but several other congenial spirits, with a

considerable equanimity. She was suddenly tired of them all and glad to

go back to her solitudes.

Although she did not return with that exuberance of joy, which, upon

former occasions had made her feel like a long-prisoned nymph restored

to her native woodland, still she was more than content to be at home

again, and sat on her veranda until darkness closed the long evening.

Every trace of the winter's madness had vanished. The marsh was high and

red above the fallen waters, the hills were green, the trees budding,

wild flowers were beginning to show their heads. The scene, until the

last ray of twilight had gone, leaving that dark formlessness of a

California night with its horrid suggestion, was almost as peaceful as

England.

For several days Isabel, from reaction after weeks of incessant gayety,

and the heaviness of early spring, was too languid to find even her

Leghorns interesting. She slept late, yawned through the day; and never

had her hammock--swung on the porch at the beginning of

spring--possessed so recurrent an attraction. At the same time she was

conscious, under the physical inertia which had brought her mind to a

standstill, that she avoided Rosewater lest she should be forced to talk

of Gwynne. He was still in Santa Barbara, and it was likely that he

would be persuaded to go with the Trennahans to Mexico. There was time

enough to seek his passport, and Isabel could well imagine that his

impatience was not uncontrollable. No doubt he understood by this time

that he could expect no change in her, if indeed he had not dismissed

the matter from his mind.

She was rudely shaken out of her apathy by a long telegram from him,

dated at El Paso:

"I have come this far with the Trennahans. Go on to Washington

to-day. Expect me any time now. But should I be detained will you

go over to the ranch occasionally? Use old power of attorney should

occasion arise. Glad you made the running you wanted at last.

Better order terra-cotta facings for The Otis. Am told that two

other buildings will go up shortly in neighborhood. Quite fit

again. E. G."

The delight and relief this telegram induced, the subtle sensation of

hope and flattery, not only routed torpidity, but lashed her into such a

state of fury that she ran up to her bedroom and indulged in an attack

of nerves. When it was over she faced the truth with the unshrinking

clarity of vision she could summon at will. But if she was not as

astonished as she thought she ought to be, she was no less angry, not

only with herself, but with life for playing her such a trick. Less than

ever did she want to marry, and cease to be wholly herself, to run the

risk of disillusionment and weariness, and that ultimate philosophy

which was no compensation for the atrophy and death of imagination. But

no less did she turn appalled from the thought of a future without

Gwynne. All her old vague plans were suddenly formless, and she felt

that if she even faced the prospect of regarding the shifting beauties

of the Rosewater marsh for the rest of her life, she would hate nature

as much as she now hated her treacherous self. And none could divine

better than she, that, present or dismissed, when a man has conquered a

woman's invisible and indefensible part she might as well give him the

rest. He is in control. She has lost her freedom for ever. So strong was

the feeling of mental possession that Isabel glanced uneasily about the

room, half-expecting to see the soul of Gwynne; wondering inconsequently

if it would descend to notice that her eyes were red. But she vowed

passionately that she would not marry him. If she had to be unhappy, far

better unhappy alone and free, with some of her illusions undispelled.

She had seen no married happiness that she envied, even where there was

a fine measure of love and philosophy. Even Anabel had come to her one

day in town, looking rather strained and worn, and, in the seclusion of

Isabel's bedroom, had confessed that the constant exactions of a

husband, three children, and migratory servants "got on her nerves," and

made her long for a change of any sort. "And there are so many little

odd jobs, in a house full of children," she had added, with a sigh. "And

they recur every day. You can no more get away from them than from your

three meals; I never really have a moment I can call my own. Of course I

am perfectly happy, but I do wish Tom were not in politics and would

take me to Europe for a few years."

And if Anabel was not happy--wholly happy--with her supreme capacity for

the domestic life, how could she hope to endure the yoke? She with her

impossible ideals and theories? Not that they were impossible; but to

anticipate, in this world, the plane upon which the more highly endowed

natures dared to hope they were to dwell in the next, absolute freedom

was necessary. Isabel's theory of life--for women of her make--had not

altered a whit, but the beckoning finger had lost its vigor. That left

her with no material out of which to model a future for this

plane--which, of course, was another triumph to the credit of the race.

She knew that Gwynne had conquered, that she had really loved him, as

soon as he had ceased to play upon her maternal instincts. She had

casually assumed at the time that her interest in him was decreasing,

but in this day of retrospect, she realized keenly that it had marked

the opening of a new chapter. This was, perhaps, the most signal of

Gwynne's victories, for the maternal tenderness for man means maternal

dominance, a cool sense of superiority. Isabel was so conscious of

Gwynne's mastery that she longed to kick him as she blushed to recall

she had done once before. She rubbed her arms instinctively, as if she

still felt the furious pressure of his fingers, and when the memory of

another sort of pressure abruptly presented itself she hurriedly bathed

her eyes and went out on her horse.

VII

For a week she was so moody and irascible that Abraham twice gave

warning, Old Mac artfully took to his bed with rheumatism, and only the

inexcitable Chuma was unconcerned. She rode her horse nearly to death,

snubbed Anabel--whose children were down with the measles--over the

telephone, and even boxed the ears of a dilatory hen. At the end of the

week a sudden appreciation of her likeness to a cross old maid

frightened her, and time and the weather completed the cure. Her

ill-humor, which had scourged through every avenue of her being, took

itself off so completely that it seemed to announce it had had enough of

her and would return no more.

And the spring came with a rush. The hills burst into buttercups, "blue

eyes," yellow and purple lupins, the heavy pungent gold-red poppy. The

young green of weeping willows and pepper-trees looked indescribably

delicate against the hard blue sky. Rosewater was a great park, all her

little squares and gardens, and long rambling streets, set thick with

camellias, roses, orange-trees heavy with fruit, immense acacia-trees

loaded with fragrant yellow powdery blossoms. Main Street was clean

again, and so were the farmers and their teams at the hitching-rails;

the girls were beginning to wear white at church on Sunday, and to walk

about without their hats. The great valley was as green as the hills,

save where the earth had been turned, and one or two almond orchards

were so pink they could be seen a mile away. It was spring in all its

glory, without a taint of summer's heat, or a lingering chill of winter.

In Isabel's garden were many old Castilian rose bushes, that for fifty

years had covered themselves pink with the uninterrupted lustiness of

youth; and their penetrating, yet chaste and elusive fragrance, combined

with the rich heavy perfume of the acacia-tree beside the house, would

have inspired a distiller and blender of scents. The birds sang as if

possessed of a new message; and several of Isabel's prize roosters,

tired of their old harems, flew over the wire-fences and strutted off in

search of adventure, proclaiming their route by loud and boastful

clamor. When they were captured by the unsympathetic Abe and restored to

their excited ladies, they flew at and smacked them soundly, then tossed

back their red combs and crowed with all their might: a paean to the ever

conquering male.

There were other flowers besides Castilian roses in Isabel's garden,

haphazardly set out and cared for, but the more riotous and luxuriant

for that. And all around her, save on the Leghorns' hills, was the gay

delicate tapestry of the wild flowers. The marsh glittered like bronze

in the sunlight. In the late afternoon it was as violet as the hills. In

the evening afterglows it swam in as many colors as the Roman Campagna.

At this hour the sky was often as pink as the almond orchards, melting

above into a blue light but intense; while everything in its glow, the

tall trees on the distant mountains, and the picturesque irregularities

of the marsh-lands, seemed to lift up their heads and drink in the

beauty until Isabel expected to see them reel.

And the pagan intoxication of spring took as complete a possession of

her. She sat under the long drooping yellow sprays of her acacia-tree,

her lap full of the pink Castilian roses, and dreamed. No one could help

being in love in the spring, she concluded, given a concrete

inspiration; and far be it from any creature so close to nature as

herself to attempt to stem that insidious musical scented tide. It was

possible that Gwynne would not return, or returning, would flout her;

she hardly cared. In fact so steeped was she in the pleasures of merely

loving, in a sweet if somewhat halcyon passion, that she had no wish

that the mood should be dispelled; and felt that she could ask nothing

more than to spend the rest of her mortal life with a beautiful

memory--like the aunt whose dust lay over the mountain in the convent

yard. She knew that if Gwynne returned and demanded her, she should be

tempted to marry him--she never went so far as to promise either him or

herself the rounded chapter; but one of the strongest instincts of her

nature was to squeeze the passing moment dry, jealously drink every drop

of its juice. She had no intention of tormenting herself with

problematical futures. Futures took care of themselves, anyhow.

She was subconciously aware that she could conceive and portray a more

extreme phase of emotion than this present evolution, but she

deliberately avoided the phantasm. She was utterly, ideally, absurdly

happy. Not for a moment did she desire the raw material, the concrete

substance, to which all dreams owe their being. The wild pagan gladness

of the wood-nymph, rejoicing in her freedom from the worries of common

mortals, and in the vision of an undefined but absolute happiness, was

enough for her. Sometimes, when walking in the early morning, far into

the hills, and away from human eyes, she let the light electric breezes

intoxicate her, and danced as she walked, or sang; nor, indeed, was she

above whistling. She often spent the evening hours on the marsh, those

long twilights that are so like England's; remaining, sometimes, as late

into the night as the tide would permit, enjoying the contrast of the

lonely desolate menacing landscape with the utter beauty of the day. She

avoided San Francisco and Rosewater, but the extraordinary effervescence

within her demanded an outlet of a sort, and she was so radiant to her

small staff that they looked upon her with awe. She had actually a

fortnight of bliss, and hoped that nothing might happen to disturb it

for ever and ever. But no one's world has ever yet stood still.

One day Tom Colton's hoarse voice over the telephone begged her to "come

at once." She was on her horse in ten minutes, in Rosewater in half an

hour. There were groups of people in the street near the younger

Coltons' house, the front door was open, several members of the family

were passing in and out. As she entered the garden she saw one of them

tie a knot of white ribbon to the bell knob.

Her first impulse was to run. She felt that rather would she hear of

Gwynne's death than face Anabel in her maternal agony. But she set her

teeth and went on, far more frightened than sympathetic. The people that

overflowed the hall and parlor were all crying, but nodded to her, and

Tom Colton, haggard and white, appeared at the head of the stair and

beckoned. He pointed to the door of his wife's bedroom, as she ascended,

and she went forward hastily and entered without knocking. Anabel was

standing on the threshold of the door that led into the nursery. Her

face was white and wild, but she had not been crying.

"Isabel!" she exclaimed, in loud astonished voice, "my baby is dead! My

baby is dead!"

Then Isabel, greatly to her own surprise, dropped into a chair and burst

into vehement tears. For the moment the child was hers, she suffered

pangs of maternal bereavement that seemed to tear her breast and twist

her heart. But there was a terrible silence in those two rooms, and in a

few moments it chilled and calmed her. She looked up to see Anabel

staring at her with blank expanded eyes.

"What are you crying for? You?" demanded the young mother. "I never saw

you cry before. And it's not your baby."

"I know it," said Isabel, humbly. "I suppose it is because I am so sorry

for you. I am--terribly."

"I never thought you had that much feeling," said Anabel, dully. "You

were always the strong one. Come and see my baby."

Isabel rose, trembling and unnerved, but no longer shrinking, and

followed Anabel into the nursery, where the child, looking like a little

wax-work, lay in its crib.

"She is dead!" said Anabel, in the same astonished indignant voice. "My

baby!" She caught Isabel's arm and shook it violently. "It isn't true,"

she commanded. "Say it is not. How can it be? She spoke and laughed only

two hours ago. The relapse was nothing. The doctor said so. That is not

my baby." And then her brain stopped for a moment, and Isabel carried

her into the other room.

She remained with her until after the funeral. Anabel, when she

recovered her senses, cried hopelessly for hours, but gradually

controlled herself and rose and went about her affairs with a stern

calm. It was her first trouble, but not for nothing had she been given a

square jaw and a sturdy little figure. She was filled with dumb protest,

and laid away her bright careless youth in the child's coffin, but she

accepted the inevitable.

Mr. and Mrs. Leslie were in the south when the baby died, but arrived

for the funeral. Until then Anabel clung to her friend, and so did young

Colton, who was far more demoralized than his wife. He did not brush his

hair, nor go to bed, but wandered about the house like a bewildered

spirit, occasionally smiting his hands together, or embracing the other

two children convulsively. He had no support to offer his wife, and

Isabel was glad to stay with the brave stricken little creature; but

when Mrs. Leslie arrived she felt herself superfluous and returned home.

She had had little time to think of Gwynne, but it had crossed her mind

that she would accept this heartrending episode, in which she had been

called upon to play an intimate part, as but another warning; one,

moreover, that would stand its ground did she attempt to force it aside.

But Gwynne entered and filled her dispossessed mind the moment she sat

down under her acacia-tree, which was perhaps an hour after her return

home. But this time her dreams did not flow upon a smooth golden scented

tide. She searched the accumulated newspapers for mention of him in the

despatches, wept stormily at his neglect, tormented herself with the

belief that Julia Kaye was in Washington; at all events that he had

discovered that his love for herself was but one more passing fancy,

born of propinquity.

She saw mention of him. Twice he had dined at the White House, and his

name was frequently in the list of guests at other dinners and

functions. He was not visiting at the British Embassy, and Isabel drew

her only comfort from the fact: he might be enjoying himself too much to

think of her, but his purpose was unaltered, or he certainly would be

the guest of a man whom she knew to be his friend: Gwynne was the last

man to embarrass anybody, and if the ambassador had enemies they would

find his connivance at the Americanization of a useful British peer

vastly to his own discredit.

Isabel enjoyed no further peace of mind. The flames of uncertainty

devoured her. The worst she could endure, but suspense spurred her

always ardent imagination to such appalling feats that she barely ate or

slept. But she was far too high-handed to suffer actively for long. She

buried her pride in one of her many crypts, summoned her feminine craft,

and wrote Gwynne a letter. It began in the brief and business-like

manner the iniquities of their builders demanded--they were on

strike--and her facile pen flowed on with various other items of

information, more or less unpleasant. Mr. Clink, the lessee of Mountain

House, had absconded with all the furniture, including the doors and

windows, and she hesitated to refurnish, not knowing if Gwynne would

return in time for the salmon-fishing. Nor had she been able to find

another tenant, although she had spent two days in the mountains. She

thought it might be a good place for a sanitarium, if he were inclined

to form a company. Some sulphur springs had recently bubbled out of the

ground near the house, which would add to the value of the property; but

she must confess that they ruined the place for her. She distrusted the

sudden advent of mineral waters; one never knew what was coming next.

Then, after more cheering, but equally practical information, she

rambled off into gossip, told the sad story of the Coltons' bereavement,

and asked him a few friendly questions about himself. Of course he had

not succeeded in getting his passport or he would be home--unless, to be

sure, the Britisher was too strong in him after all, and he would not

return. This alternative she contemplated with a lively regret, for she

had had no one to talk to since he left, and so much business sat

heavily on her shoulders. Then she announced herself his affectionate

cousin; and it was not until the letter was gone, and quite a day of

self-gratulation at her own adroitness, that it suddenly occurred to her

that Gwynne had made up his mind that the first letter should come from

her. For a few moments she was furious, then concluded that she did not

care; she wanted to hear from him on any terms. She counted the days,

intending finally to count the hours and minutes; but this agreeably

breathless task came to an abrupt end at the close of the sixth day.

Gwynne answered by telegraph. He thanked her for her interesting and

more than welcome letter. He was well, and bored, and hoping daily to

settle his affairs and start for home. In any case he should have

returned to California: he was surprised at her doubts. She was not to

bother further about his affairs out there. He had telegraphed to the

contractor that he could wait as long as the strikers. He added that he

longed for California.

Isabel wondered if he had not dared to trust himself in a letter,

finally concluded that this was the secret of the long telegram,

dismissed her apprehensions, and, with a soothed but by no means

tranquil imagination, yielded herself up again to dreams and the

spring.

VIII

It was close upon the middle of April when Gwynne left the train a mile

from Lumalitas, and, being unheralded, walked across the fields to his

house. He had intended to get off at Rosewater, hire the fastest horse

in town, and ride out to Old Inn; but he had been seized with doubt and

diffidence, and while he was still turning hot and cold the train moved

out of the station. It was now nearly ten weeks since he had seen

Isabel, and during that time he had received one letter from her. This

letter he had read and reread until its contents were meaningless; and

he was still in doubt as to what might lurk between the lines. He was

reasonably sure that he had forced her to write, but whether mere pique

and curiosity had been his aides, he was far from being able to

determine. She had been right in assuming that he dared not trust

himself to the tempting privacy of the letter. He had no idea how he

stood, and would not run the risk of making a fool of himself; not until

he was face to face with her could he pretend to decide upon any course

of action. But he had been tormented for ten weeks as he had never

expected to be tormented by any woman. Although he still assured himself

that he intended to marry her, the riot in his mind and blood bred

distrust of himself and evoked terrible images of Isabel at the altar

with another. He should hate to the day of his death the beautiful old

town of Santa Barbara, where he had been without any sort of refuge

from his thoughts; and in Washington, although he had managed to occupy

his mind and time profitably, there were still hours which he must spend

alone, and he had dreaded them.

And he was beset by other doubts than those of the mere lover. He was

conscious that in these weeks of absence and longing, he had idealized

Isabel, until the being he dwelt with in fancy was more goddess than

woman. He knew many sides of her, but much had eluded him, even after he

began to study her. That she was gifted in large measure with what the

Americans so aptly termed cussedness he had good reason to know; and

whether this very definite characteristic so far controlled her nature

as to hold her nobler qualities in durance----or were there nobler

qualities? She had brain and common-sense; both attributes had compelled

his respect long since. And she had character and pride--loyalty and

independence. He had had glimpses of what he would unhesitatingly have

accepted as heart and passion had he not known himself to be dazzled by

her beauty and wilful powers of fascination. That she was wholly

feminine, at least, he was convinced; she was too often absurdly so to

keep up, with any one that saw her constantly, the fiction of the

sexless philosopher. The very devil in her was of the unmistakable

feminine kidney. All this gave him hope, and he knew, that when caprice

permitted, she would be unrivalled as a companion. Intellectually, at

least, there was no thought of his she could not share and appreciate;

and her sense of humor and her feminine perversities would always

delight him. If only there were depths beneath. The longings of the

spirit are always formless, vaguely worded, a little shamefaced. Gwynne

hardly knew what was the great extreme he wanted in his wife, but he

knew that if he did not find it he should be miserable. He was by no

means the young man that had fallen blindly in love with Julia Kaye. He

had had little time for introspection, for intimate knowledge of

himself, in those days.

The spring was invented to remind men what mere mortals they are. Gwynne

would have felt restless and disinclined for law and politics this

morning had he never seen Isabel Otis. Every lark in the great valley

was singing madly. Blue birds, yellow birds, sat on the fences and

carolled at each other as if the world were always May. The very earth

seemed to have sprouted into color. He had never imagined wild flowers

by the billion, nor such a harmonious variety of color. The fields were

green, the cherries, black and red and white, glistening and luscious,

were ready for picking in his orchards. As he approached his house, he

saw that all the white oaks, bare in winter, were in leaf; large soft

young green leaves, that almost hid the pendent sad green moss. The air

was warm and light, the sky so blue it seemed to laugh with a promise of

eternal good things. The whole land breathed hope, and youth, and

allurement to every delight, of which she alone possessed the store. He

was soon to learn what a liar she was, but although it was many a long

day before he took note of any phase of nature again, save her weather,

he had an elusive presentiment that he should never cease to be grateful

for that moment of quick unreasoning exultation in his youth and

manhood, and in the mere joy of life.

He was not surprised, as he turned the corner of the veranda, to find

Imura Kisaburo Hinamoto sitting with his feet on the railing, a

cigarette in his mouth, and a volume, issued by the United States Coast

and Geodetic Survey, on his knee. But as the servant saw the master he

rose promptly to his feet, extinguished the cigarette with his fingers,

and stood in an attitude of extreme respect. He even smiled, but not

propitiatingly; it was almost patent that the return of his chance

superior was welcome.

Gwynne nodded. "Glad to see that you still improve your mind," he

observed. "Tell Carlos to hitch up and go for my luggage: I left it at

the station." He looked at his watch. It was half-past eleven. He

hesitated a moment, then decided to postpone his visit to Isabel again.

He did not feel in the mood to sit down and eat with her. "My horse at

two o'clock," he added. And the Jap disappeared.

Gwynne went into the kitchen, and Mariana, who was peeling onions for an

_olla podrida_, screamed and embraced him.

"No could help," she said, philosophically. "Very glad, senor, very

glad."

Gwynne was not in the humor to repulse anybody, and assured her that she

really made him feel that he had returned to his home. Several of her

tribe were in the kitchen and looked expectant. He informed them that he

had a box of New York sweets in his trunk, and retreated.

On the veranda he sat down facing his mountain, which like the rest of

the world was a mass of delicate color, where it was not merely green,

and seemed to move gently under the pink shimmering haze. Beyond was the

blue crouching mass of the old volcano. "The eternal hills" was a phrase

that never occurred to him when he watched these mountains, always

veiled under a colored and moving haze. They looked far more likely to

pull up their feet and walk off. But Gwynne, although the border

beneath his veranda was full of sweet scents, and the roses on the

pillars hung about him, and the air was a soft caressing tide, was no

longer concerned with nature. He was nervous and full of doubt, of

uneasy anticipation that he would not appear to advantage at three

o'clock that afternoon. He knew that if he were really panic-stricken

and attempted to carry it off in the masterful manner, she would laugh

in his face. If he could work himself up to the attitude, well and good.

At the same time he was vaguely conscious that this period of alternate

hope and fear, of cold fits and hot, would one day be sweet in the

retrospect, and regretted with some sadness; an episode in the lover's

progress gone beyond recall.

There was a sound of wheels on the county road, then on his own

property. He wondered at the unusual dispatch of his Carlos, but

realized in a moment that a buggy was approaching, not a wagon. Then

there was a light slouching step on the veranda, and he rose to greet

Tom Colton.

"By Jove, old chap, I'm glad to see you," he began, and thankful that he

had written his condolences; but he paused abruptly. Colton ignored the

outstretched hand.

"So you've got your passport?" he said. And his ingenuous blue eyes were

full of a hard antagonism.

"Yes," said Gwynne. "I should have told you in a day or two. How did you

find out?" he added, curiously. "I took my oath before the passport

clerk in the innermost recess of the State Department."

"There's not much I don't find out. Only, I got wind of this a little

too late. So did some others, or you might have hung round Washington

for the next four years. Do you call it square not to have told me of

this before you left?"

"I saw no obligation to take you into my confidence. In the first place

the result of my pilgrimage was very doubtful, and in the second you

would have done all you could to balk me. When have I given you reason

to write me down an ass?"

"You are too damned clever," muttered Colton. "Too clever by half. Much

better for you if you had stayed where you were. You had no enemies when

you left, but now, let me tell you, you've got a bunch that it will take

more than your cleverness to handle."

"They can do their worst. I thought that all I needed was hard work, but

I fancy that what I missed most was the stimulus of enemies."

"Well, you've got it all right."

Somewhat to the host's surprise he suddenly seated himself and tipped

back his chair. Gwynne remained standing, leaning against a pillar, his

hands in his pockets. Colton surveyed him frankly. His eyes were still

hard and he was very angry, but he saw no reason why he should be

uncomfortable, and although he could disguise his feelings when he

chose, he knew that here it was safe to allow himself the luxury of

frankness. He was the more annoyed, as what friendship he was capable of

he had given to Gwynne. That would not have stayed hand or foot a

moment, were his path in the least obstructed, but he regretted that

they had come to an issue so early in the game. Indeed, he had hoped to

manipulate Gwynne's destinies so subtly that they would be politically

bound for life, with himself always a length ahead. It was true that

once or twice he had felt a misgiving that the Englishman, with all his

aristocratic disdain for devious ways, might match him and win, but the

shock of this early outwitting had been none the less severe.

"Did you have a hard time getting it?" he demanded.

"Rather. Never heard so much palaver in my life."

"Well, I wish there had been more. I think I have at least the right to

ask what you intend to do next."

"Return to Judge Leslie's office to-morrow--for the matter of that, I

have read a good deal since I left. In September I shall have been a

year in the State, and of course I can vote. I am not so sure that I

shall."

"Yes! That is all, I suppose?"

"For the present. You are too good a politician to fancy that American

citizenship has invested me with a halo. Except to a hundred odd

farmers, Rosewater, a small group in San Francisco, and a party boss or

two, I am unknown. No doubt I shall be several years achieving

sufficient prominence either to run for office, or to accomplish

anything whatever--outside of Rosewater. So far as I can see, this

immediate citizenship has effected two results only: I am now in a

position to take advantage of any political change that may develop,

instead of sowing for another to reap--and--"

He hesitated, and Colton shot him a keen glance. "It has made a change

in you, I guess. I noticed that the minute I laid eyes on you. If

anything was needed to make me madder, it was that."

"Yes--I am changed. That is to say, I am poised. In spite of the

determination to absorb Americanism with every pore, there was always

the lurking doubt that it wouldn't do; that some day I should make a

bolt for England. Now the matter is settled forever. I not only am an

American but always have been. The highest legal opinion in the country

was called in, and that was what finally decided the question. I

accepted it as literally as the others did, and in so doing I relegated

my English life to the episodical backwaters: among my adventures in

India and Africa. I fancy that if England came to a death struggle in my

time, and every man counted, I should fight for her. I certainly never

should fight against her. But it is a profound relief to me that I am

not throwing her over, that we have no legitimate right to each other. I

fancy that that, too, demoralized me a bit."

"How did you feel when you took that oath?" asked Colton, more and more

curious, almost forgetting his grievance. "It's a kind of solemn oath.

I've had a sort of chill when I've heard it taken once or twice."

"There could hardly be a more solemn oath. I don't know that it gave me

a chill, but I certainly read it over several times before I took it.

And I took it without any reservations."

"Did you feel an American the moment you took it?"

"Yes--I did. That is to say I felt a certain buoyancy. The die was cast.

There could be no more hesitation and doubt. My new life had actually

begun."

"It's begun, all right. Jiminy, but you'll have a tough time. They're

onto you now. You haven't the ghost of a chance to make a move they

won't see before your hand is off the board."

Gwynne replied with even more than his usual fluency.

"Yes," replied Colton, with a sigh. "I guess that's where we'll all

bring up. But meanwhile? Are you going to throw me over?"

"It will depend upon yourself. I have no objection to confide to you

such plans as I have been able to formulate. Judge Leslie advised me to

play about in society, in Washington, but I was in no humor for anything

of the sort. I had uncommon opportunities to study men and conditions,

and I took full advantage of them. I doubt if I shall vote until the

next Presidential election. Then, if an independent party of consequence

has not been formed, and I see no prospect of working up one in this

State, I shall vote the Democratic ticket. As things stand at present,

it is the less of two evils, and would at least accomplish a reduction

of the tariff, and something towards a redistribution of wealth. I

haven't the least doubt that the Democrats, if they get in--unless they

have a really good man up their sleeve--will abuse their power quite as

much as the Republicans have done; but that will take some time; and

meanwhile a new party is sure to grow up, for the best men in the

country are thoroughly roused. There's no doubt on that point--and it is

a point you would do well to remember. There have been chapters before

in the world's history when right has paid."

"For a while," said Colton, dubiously. "The point is now that you are

likely to join the Democrats."

"To vote with them. Theirs are the soundest principles. I stick to that

point."

"I don't question it. I only wish elections weren't two years off; I'd

like to get to work." He took a bag of peanuts from his pocket and began

to munch thoughtfully. "But you are turning me off. What do you mean

exactly?"

"I shall have nothing to do with the machine. I shall speak and make

propaganda, that is all. My object is not so much to get the Democrats

in as the Republicans out. I shall do nothing to split the Democratic

party--and play a losing game--unless a really great movement should

rise, gather strength, and sweep the country. It is on the cards that

there will be such a movement, and I throw myself into it the moment I

am persuaded the split will not work to the advantage of the

Republicans."

"How much enthusiasm have you pumped up?"

"Enthusiasm!" Gwynne's eyes roved over his "fair domain." Isabel, at

least, was not far from its borders! "I cannot say that I am at

boiling-point, but I don't fancy that matters much. I have my work cut

out and I shall do it. Perhaps I shall work more disinterestedly without

enthusiasm. Certainly I shall be more clear-sighted. If ever there was a

time in the history of a country to sink individual ambition, it is

now."

"Gwynne!" said Colton, abruptly. "What in thunder does it all amount to,

anyhow? What difference does it make--will it make a thousand years

hence--that you and I are sitting here on the very edge of creation,

solemnly discussing the rottenest subject of our little time--American

politics? What's the use of the socialists frothing, and nations trying

to overturn one another? I had rather die on the spot than that the

United States should be conquered for five minutes by Japan or any other

Asiatic power, although I could endure the victory of a people that I

recognized as our equals. Why are instincts planted so strongly? There

may be a reason for a few years; but that's just it, a few mean little

years and it is all over. What difference does anything really make, so

long as we are comfortable? Everything else, every other instinct, is

artificial. My wife is a religious little body and believes in reward

and punishment hereafter, that we must spend at least a certain part of

our time in this life preparing for the next. I'd like to believe the

same, not only to please her, but because I could look forward to

meeting my child again; but, somehow, I can't. The present has always

been about as much as I could tackle. And I fancy that when I'm through

with it, I won't want any more. But although the present whirls so fast

that I don't have time for the sort of thinking intellectual people like

you and Isabel do, still it does sometimes dash across my mind--that

question: 'What is it all for? And why do we sweat through life for what

amounts to exactly nothing in the end?'"

"You cannot be sure it amounts to nothing. Sometimes I have the fancy

that the entire round globe has just one inhabitant, of which we merely

appear to be individual manifestations: that we are, in fact, a part of

the earth herself, and she absorbs and casts us forth again, as she

rushes along to her own destiny as sentient as ourselves. All the

planets are alive in the same way, and they are all racing to see which

will make the greatest showing on what we call down here the Judgment

Day--that is to say, which shall have produced the most balanced and

perfected being; which shall have whirled away the most original sin and

sifted out a man, great and good without self-righteousness--to my mind

the worst of mortal failings because its correlative, injustice, is the

source of most of the unhappiness. That will be the millennium, and

having no windmills and evils left to fight, we minute visibilities will

welcome deindividualization. Then, no doubt, there will be a grand final

battle between the great body of good thus formed, and the evil cast

out, but roaming space and joining forces. If we do our best here we

shall win, and be happy ever after. There is no question, that if you

follow your higher instincts you are happier in the long run than if you

fall a slave to your base and mean; and that, to my mind, is the proof

that the highest instincts are meant to be followed to some greater

end."

"Hm. I have heard a good many theories, first and last, and that sounds

as plausible as any."

"All this is very casually related to American politics, except that we

had better clean up when the opportunity is vouchsafed us; for nothing

degrades human nature nor retards civilization so much as politics gone

altogether wrong. As far as you are concerned, although it was

understood that the compact was to end with my citizenship, I have no

thought of ending it unless the conditions I hope for shall crystallize

meanwhile. If it seems best to keep the Democratic party unsplit I shall

do your canvassing and speaking, for it will make me known, and give me

the opportunity to inculcate the principles I purpose to advocate. If

you ignore them when you are in office, so much the worse for you, and

better for me; for, as I have told you more than once, the moment I am

in power I shall devote my energies to pulling you and your like down

and out. But I should advise you to join the third party if it arises."

"No doubt I might, if it were strong enough," said Colton, frankly. "I

don't propose to play any losing game, and if the Democratic party goes

by the board, T. R. Colton doesn't follow. And if a third party came in

to stay it would have to have a boss--"

"Not your sort."

"Oh, well, time enough." Colton's ill-humor was now somnolent under some

two pounds of peanuts. He rose and shook hands with Gwynne. "Glad to see

you looking so well--you're some heavier than when you came to

California, by-the-way, and it suits you first rate. Be sure you call on

my wife the first time you come to town."

He declined Gwynne's invitation to dinner, and drove off, looking

slothful and amiable once more. But what went on behind that mask,

within that long ill-built cranium, Gwynne had never pretended to guess.

Nor, to-day, did he care.

* * * * *

At three o'clock he gave his horse to Abe, was told that the lady of the

manor was out walking, and went into the house. He had a fancy to meet

her again in the room that harbored the sweetest of his California

memories. It was dark and cool. Only one window, looking upon the

garden, was open. Beside it was a comfortable chair which he took

possession of and looked out into the wild old garden so different from

the excessively cultivated plots of Rosewater and his own meagre strips.

There was no veranda on this side of the house, and the great

acacia-tree, with its weight of fragrant gold, was but a few feet from

the window. The entire garden was enclosed by a hedge of the Castilian

roses of which he had heard so much, rare as they now were in

California. The dull green leaves and tight little buds could hardly be

seen for the mass of wide fluted roses of a deep old-fashioned pink. And

there were large irregular borders covered with the luxuriant green and

the blue stars of the periwinkle, beds of marguerites and violets,

bushes of lilac and honeysuckles, roses and jasmine. The blended

perfumes were overpowering, however delicious; Gwynne had sat up half

the night before talking to his mother after a long hot journey; he fell

asleep.

Perhaps it was his late conversation, perhaps something more subtle, but

he felt himself transported to a void. In a moment he realized that the

void was not space as he knew it, but rigid invisible substance. He

slipped along through rocky strata, hearing strange echoes and inhaling

the disagreeable odors of healing waters. Suddenly he found himself in a

vast hollowed space, empty but for many pillars. His vision grew keener.

In the very centre of the hall he saw two pillars of a colossal size,

and standing between them a being almost as large. This unthinkable

giant had an arm about each pillar and strained as Samson had strained

at the pillars of the temple. Then a new and powerful force drew him

upward once more, and he awoke.

He turned his head towards the dim interior of the room and for a dazed

moment thought that he beheld Spring herself. She wore white and had

dropped a mass of wild flowers at her feet; she looked as if rising out

of them. Her hat was covered with poppies and wild azalea, and she had a

sheaf of buttercups and "blue eyes" in her belt.

"I haven't changed my ideas one bit," she said, with a shrug, as Gwynne

rose and came towards her. "But I can't help it!"

IX

Isabel rose as usual at five, but, instead of dressing at once, stood at

her window idly and looked out over the marsh. Thirteen hours before she

had made a decision on the instant, or so it seemed to her, and in that

instant changed her life so completely that she was still a little

dizzy, and the future as yet had taken on no coherent form. She had even

told Gwynne she was positive she could _stand_ him for ever, and this,

with her varied if incomplete knowledge of his sex, she took to be even

more significant and hopeful than the uncompromising sense of loving

him. No doubt there would be many interesting battles before two such

developed personalities became more or less one, but at least he had

none of the petty and selfish and altogether detestable qualities of her

father, her uncle, and Lyster Stone; and he was entirely human. And he

was young and she was young. It all seemed very wonderful; wonderful to

be so happy, and yet to feel that she had relinquished nothing, or at

least not the tenth of what she would have lost if she had married

Prestage--or any other man. If she had not met Gwynne she knew that she

never should have married at all, and, not having had the best within

her ken, been happy enough.

And yet she was a little sad, and it was by no means the gentle

melancholy of reaction. She had reason, and felt a disposition to box

her own ears. She knew that Gwynne, triumphant and happy as he was, had

ridden away vaguely dissatisfied. He had turned and given her a keen

questioning glance as he mounted, and had not turned again. She had

laughed, and waved her hand, and felt a new desire to tantalize him.

She had abandoned herself to sheer happiness the day before, to the mere

pagan delight in an ardent lover come in her own ardent youth, to the

sense of an unbroken circle of companionship, and to so wild a triumph

in having brought Gwynne to her feet, made him quite mad about her, that

she had fairly danced about the room, and tormented him as far as she

dared.

This was Wednesday. They were to be married on Saturday, that Lady

Victoria, who was leaving for England in the evening, might nod them a

blessing. Then, no doubt, Gwynne would have his way in most things, and

she already felt the stirrings of mere female ductility. But meanwhile

she should exercise and enjoy her own power to the full. And she had

good reason to believe that no woman had ever been more charming,

distracting, provocative. If Gwynne had been in love when he came, he

had kissed her very feet when he left, and had been as bewitched as

anyone so clear-brained could be. Moreover, she had promised him

everything he wished, agreed without demur to the hasty marriage, and

even, when he asked her whether she would prefer to live in her house or

his, had sweetly left it to him to decide. They were to spend the

honeymoon in the house on Russian Hill. She was incapable of looking

beyond that. There had been at least twenty bewildering hints that when

his time came one rein, at least, should be his--in all matters of great

moment, two--and although no doubt she would break away very often,

what more delightful than to recapture and subdue? What more could a man

want than the most fascinating woman in the world, whom only his own

passion could shock from mere existence into the fulness of life? But

Gwynne, in the depths of his swimming brain, had wanted something more,

and Isabel knew that if he had slept as ill as herself, the doubt had

more than once assailed him if she were anything more than a charming

beautiful and clever creature, save perverse and egotistical; who would

keep him distractedly in love with her, but leave the best part of him

unsatisfied.

Her perversity had gone with him, and during a more or less wakeful

night she had repented, and even wept at the thought that something

might occur to exterminate him before ten o'clock on the following

morning--when they were to meet again--and he would depart unconsoled by

the knowledge that it was the greater needs in his own nature that had

called to hers. At least she hoped this was so, and, in an excess of

humility, wondered if she really had enough to give--the power to insure

their complete happiness. She had lived in a sort of fool's paradise,

and no doubt imagined herself a far more rounded being than she was.

Well, she could grow, and finally she had curled down into her pillow

and fallen asleep.

This morning she was rather tired, and although still repentant,

suspicious that when he returned her femininity would fly up with her

spirits, and she would be more than content to fascinate and bewilder

him. Like all women in love and fumbling blindly through the outer

mysteries, she was eagerly psychological, discovering once for all her

sex and herself.

Her eyes had been fixed dreamily upon Tamalpais, but suddenly they were

drawn irresistibly upward by the pricking consciousness of something

strange. It was a moment before she realized that she had never seen a

sky just like that before. Her back was to the east, and although the

sun was rising it was still low; at this stage of the dawn the sky was

generally gray. This morning it was a ghastly electric blue. And then,

while her eyes were still staring, and something in her brain moving

towards expression, she heard a noise that sounded like the roar of

artillery charging across the world. She fancied it rushing through the

Golden Gate and up the bays and marsh, before it hurled itself with a

vicious and personal violence against the wall beneath her window. She

braced herself against the sash as the house shook in the strongest

earthquake she had ever felt. It appeared to be brief, however, and she

was turning away to dress herself, when it commenced again with a fury

and violence of which she had never dreamed the modern earth to be

capable. She threw herself on her knees the better to grip the

window-ledge, but her only sensations were surprise and an intense

expectation. Electric flames, as blue and ghastly as the reeling sky,

were playing all over the marsh, she saw the long bare line of Tamalpais

charge down and up like a colossal seesaw; and in that terrific plunging

and dancing, that abrupt leaping from one point of the compass to the

opposite, or towards all at once, that hysterical shaking and struggling

as if two planets had rushed from their orbits and were fighting for

life in midspace, Isabel expected the entire globe to stand on end, and

was convinced that the finish of California, at least, had come. She had

read of earthquakes that lasted for hours, and even days, and no doubt

this one was merely getting up steam, for it increased in violence and

momentum every second. The house rattled like a big dice-box. She

expected it to leap down the slope into the shivering marsh. Pieces of

rock fell down the face of the cliff opposite, but so great was the roar

of the earthquake, so close the sound of creaking and straining timbers,

of falling chimneys, and china, and even plaster, that she could not

hear the impact as they struck the ground and bounded high in air.

Then, there was a bulge of the earth upward, a twist that seemed to

wrench the house from its foundations, and the earthquake ceased as

suddenly as it had come. Isabel waited a few moments for it to return,

incredulous that the mighty forces beneath could compose themselves so

abruptly; then rose and began to dress herself.

Human blades of a fine temper meet a sudden and terrific onslaught of

Nature in one of two spirits: utter cowardice, or an attitude of

impersonal curiosity. It is not a matter of heroism but of nerves. The

bravest may become abject, if their will has been weakened by some drain

on the nervous system; others, that would run from a mouse or prove

unequal to the long-heralded danger, rise, in the intense concentrated

excitement and surprise of the moment, to a state of absolute and even

cynical indifference. One of the unwritten laws that has descended from

father to son in California is that an earthquake, no matter how severe,

is a mere joke, and should incite prompt and facetious comment. Isabel

being both heroic and hardy, paid the California tradition the tribute

of a smile and a shrug, and regretted that she had not been in San

Francisco; she "liked being in the midst of things." Sentiment,

psychology, egoism, had literally been bounced out of her. She knew that

Gwynne might easily have been killed, but although she intended to find

out in the least possible time, to feel merely human in the face of such

a stupendous exhibition of what nature could do when she chose, was a

descent of which she, at least, felt herself incapable.

She hurried on her riding-clothes, dropped her braid under her jacket,

and ran down the stairs. Chuma, trim and spotless, was sweeping the

hall, white with fallen plaster. He gave her his usual good-morning grin

and went on with his work. She paused and regarded him curiously.

"What do you think of our earthquakes?" she demanded.

"Oh, very big shake," he said, cheerfully. "Very big shake."

Vaguely nettled she took her hat from the rack and went out by the back

way. Mac had knocked on her door immediately after the earthquake, and

was now with Abe in the colony on the hills. He came running down when

he saw her, and it was patent that his rheumatism, for once, was

forgotten. His old red face with its prominent bones set in thick sandy

gray hair was more animated than Isabel had ever seen it.

"Glory be!" he exclaimed, as he reached her. "That was about the worst!

I was just tellin' Abe that I felt the great earthquake of '68 in this

very house, in that very room, by gum, although I was up and dressed,

for it was eight o'clock, and I'd gone back for my pipe. So, I know what

I'm talkin' about, Miss Isabel, when I say that this was about four

times as bad--"

"Please saddle my horse."

"Yes, marm. Wisht I could have got out of bed. I'd like to have seen if

the earth rose and fell in a long wave like the shake of '68. Land's

sakes, but those chickens did squawk." And although he saddled Kaiser

rapidly, he never paused in his reminiscence of the last Northern

California earthquake to pass into history. "But this one! By Jiminy!

Well, I guess we take the cake in everything out here, earthquakes

included."

Isabel patted the still shaking horse. "Get the launch ready," she said,

as she mounted; and Mac nodded. It was characteristic that neither

thought of the danger of sudden shoals, of the always possible tidal

wave, or of some new and diabolical trick of nature. The nerves were

still keyed too high for anything so shabby as prudence.

Kaiser, no doubt glad to put himself into motion, bounded forward as his

mistress lifted the bridle, and although Isabel did give an occasional

glance ahead, to make sure the earth was not yawning, she never drew

rein, and the horse galloped with all his might towards Rosewater. As

the marsh narrowed she saw that the town was still there, and that there

were no fires. As she approached the great iron bridge that connected

Rosewater with the continuation of the county road, a horseman entered

at its other end and galloped across, regardless of the law or a graver

danger still. The next moment Isabel and Gwynne had shaken hands

casually, and were riding towards Old Inn.

His eyes were shining and almost black. "I saw the mountains rock!" he

exclaimed. "Rock? Dance. Then I thought they would plunge down into the

earth and disappear. And St. Peter is flat. All the business district,

including the four hotels, are down, and everybody in them buried in the

ruins. A man dashed up as I was mounting, and I told all the men on the

place to go to the rescue. The news came just in time to prevent the

murder of Imura by Carlos, for not admitting that we had had the

greatest earthquake in the history of the world. It was the first

symptom of patriotic fire I ever saw in Imura, but he stoutly maintained

that in the matter of earthquakes Japan could do as well as California."

"That is all very well, but I have read a lot about Japanese

earthquakes, and never of such an _extraordinary_ one as this. Has

anything terrible happened in Rosewater?"

"I saw a few chimneys down, but no buildings except the old brick

school-house. Mrs. Haight was sitting on the curb-stone in her

night-gown, wailing like a banshee, but although all the rest of the

town appeared to be in the streets, and similarly attired, they were

quiet enough. As I passed the cemetery I gave it a hasty side glance,

half-afraid of what I might see. All the monuments are down and pointing

in every direction. What gyrations! Do you suppose they've had it in San

Francisco?"

"Do I suppose--much you know about our earthquakes! San Francisco always

gets the worst of it, or seems to, there is so much more to shake. Your

mother is probably in hysterics, although up on the hills one is safe

enough. It is the sandy valley and the made ground down by the

ferries--up to Montgomery Street, in fact--that get the worst of it. I

have ordered the launch."

"Good. I wish my mother had gone east from El Paso, as she had half a

mind to do. But she wanted to see her doctor again. I am afraid she

won't look at this as we do. I never was so interested in my life. Was

sure we were going to smash, but that it was worth while in anything so

stupendous. I suppose it is too early to telephone."

Isabel pointed to the wires. They were sagging, and two of the telegraph

poles were down. "Doubtless the tracks are twisted, too. We are

fortunate to have the launch."

X

Mac, so swollen with the prideful experience which enabled him to

compare two great earthquakes, and his accumulations of practical data

bearing thereon, appeared ten years younger, and, as Gwynne and Isabel

rode up, was lording it over his fellow-hirelings. He had forbidden

Chuma to make a fire in the kitchen stove until the chimney, what was

left of it, had been repaired, directed him to bring down-stairs the

oil-stove Isabel had bought for the old rheumatic's comfort, and cook

breakfast upon it. As even the stovepipe in the out-building, used for

preparing the elaborate repasts of the Leghorn, was twisted, Abe had

been ordered to drag the great stove into the open, build a screen about

it, and "do the best he could, and be thankful he was alive." Poor Abe,

who had not been extant in 1868, and had even missed the considerable

earthquakes of the Nineties, was in a somewhat demoralized state, and

wondering audibly what people supposed he cared about chickens, anyhow.

Isabel and Gwynne sat down in the dining-room and ate their

breakfast--on fragments--calmly and methodically, talking constantly of

the earthquake, it is true, but instinct with that curious casuistry

that a certain safety lay in following the ordinary routine of life;

perhaps--who knows?--so great is the egoism of the human spirit--that

the unswerving march of man in his groove might restore the balance of

nature.

After breakfast Isabel went up to her room and dressed hastily and

mechanically in a short walking-suit, as mechanically expecting the same

earthquake to return to the spot associated with it. Gwynne wore his

khaki riding-clothes, but it was doubtful if any one would be critical

in San Francisco that morning. Nothing, as it happened, could have

suited his purpose better, and it was long before he took them off.

When the launch was under way Isabel told Gwynne of the blue flames that

had danced over the marsh during the convulsion. "If electricity is not

a cause of earthquakes, it certainly is let loose by them," she added.

"I expected every moment that we would blow up and fly off into space."

"I saw something of the same sort on the hills, and expected to see St.

Helena spout flames."

In a few moments they were sensible that the constant artificial

vibration of the boat was the most grateful sensation they had ever

known, and of the wish that they could leave it only for a train, to be

transferred at the end of a long journey to another train, and still

another. But these sentiments were not exchanged, and their conversation

was purely extrinsic. Here and there along the shore an old shanty lay

on its side, or had tumbled forward to its knees; but for the most part

dilapidated chimneys and fallen poles were the only visible symbols of

the tumult beneath the smiling beautiful earth. Never had Earth looked

so green, so velvety, its flowers so gay and voluptuous. Even the sky,

now its normal deep blue, had this same velvety quality, the very

atmosphere seemed to breathe the same rich satisfaction. But no birds

were singing, and there was nothing normal in the groups of people,

gathered wherever there were habitations: they wore bath-robes,

blankets, overcoats, anything, apparently, they had found at hand, and

had not re-entered their treacherous habitations. No trains were

running, but the drawbridge that separated the marsh from San Pablo Bay

opened as usual.

Gwynne steered the launch, and his conversation and Isabel's drifted to

speculations as to what had happened in the city.

"Thank heaven I had the foundations of that old house replaced," she

said, "or I am afraid your mother would have shot right down to the

Hofers' doorstep. I am fairly at ease about The Otis, for in spite of

the old drifting sand-lots that district is built on, its foundations go

down to bed-rock, and thanks to the strikers there is nothing to fall

off the steel frame. But I am rather worried about the islands. San

Francisco Bay is supposed to have been a valley some two hundred years

ago, and if it dropped once it might again. Those islands are only

hilltops."

The islands, however, looked as serene as the rest of nature, although

most of the chimneys were fallen or twisted, and there were the same

groups of people in the open, awaiting another throe. These, however,

had had time to recover their balance and clothe themselves. The launch,

which had a new engine, had been driven at top speed, and it was not yet

seven o'clock, barely the beginning of day to these luxurious people,

but a day that would doubtless be remembered as the longest of their

lives. On the military islands, routine, apparently, had received no

dislocation, and on the steep romantic slopes of Belvedere the villas

might have sunken their talons to the very vitals of the rock. The most

precariously perched had paid no toll but the chimney.

As the launch bounded past the long eastern side of Angel Island, Gwynne

contracted his eyelids. "Have you noticed that black cloud over the

city?" he asked. "At first it did not strike me particularly--but--it

looks as if there might be a big fire."

Isabel, who faced him, turned her head. "There are always fires in San

Francisco after an earthquake," she said, indifferently. "And about

seven a day at any time. There are none on the hills, so your mother is

not having a second fright. Poor thing! I am afraid she is terribly

upset. I wish she had gone."

She sat about, to observe the city more critically. Already its sky-line

was changed, for every chimney, smokestack, and steeple, commonly

visible, was shattered or down. The smoke cloud, which looked like a

great ostrich plume bent at the tip, was as stationary as the hills, and

had a confident permanent air that they would lack for some time. And

fixed as it was it seemed to grow larger.

"Steer to the east of Alcatraz," said Isabel, suddenly; "and towards

Yerba Buena. I should like to see where the fires are."

When the launch was well off the point of Telegraph Hill, they saw

several large fires on the western side of East Street, the wide roadway

that divided the city from the water-front and Ferry Building. Far down,

in the South of Market Street district there appeared to be other large

fires.

"Warehouses, probably," said Isabel. "What a sight!" She indicated the

collapsed sheds about the moles, and the twisted and toppling

appearance of the tower on the Ferry Building, which stood on the edge

of the made ground. It was an immense structure of great weight, and

only an uncommon honesty--and vigilance--in building had saved it from

destruction. Had the piles been hollow, or too short to reach bed-rock,

it would either have sunken or tumbled.

And then they noticed that the bay was silent and deserted. It was a

moment before they realized that of the several lines of ferry-boats

none appeared to be running. "That means that the tracks are out of

working order," said Isabel, grimly. "We may have had the best of it,

bad as it was. Ah!" One of the Oakland ferry-boats pushed out of its San

Francisco mole. It was black with people. Isabel stared with wonder. "It

looks as if people were running away from the city. Or perhaps a good

many that live across the bay came over on the same mission as

ourselves, and have been turned back. That would mean that all East

Street was on fire and they could not get into the city. Well, let us

hurry. Even although the fires are so far off they may terrify your

mother. I remember she told me once in England that she had never seen a

fire. I have a queer sensation in my knees."

Gwynne laughed. "I should think you might be used to fires by this time.

And you have a celebrated fire department. I fancy you are just feeling

the reaction."

"I was not a bit frightened during the earthquake!" said

Isabel, indignantly. "But there is nothing _phenomenal_ in fire to brace

one up--and those had a sinister determined look--and that boat-load of

people! I only hope your mother has not run away--under the impression

that San Francisco alone was shaken. We wouldn't find her for a week."

"My mother's nerves are not what they were, but I am positive she will

not run. She is certain to wait for us at the house."

A few moments later they ran the launch up to the landing at the foot of

Russian Hill. There were a few tumbled shanties on the slope, but none

of the well-built houses had been dislodged, and the great buildings on

this water-front were in good condition. Mr. Clatt was not visible, but

left his cottage at Isabel's call, and gave them something more than his

usual surly greeting.

"Glad to see you are all right," he said. "Been expectin' you. Jest

stepped in to git my pipe."

"Much damage done?" asked Gwynne.

"Considerable, but I guess the shake'll take a back seat. City's on

fire."

"There are always fires after earthquakes," said Isabel, angrily.

"City's on fire. Thirty broke out s'multaneous. Water main's bust. Chief

of Fire Department killed in his bed, or as good as killed. There's

plenty left to fight the fire but nothin' to fight it with. Guess the

old town'll go up in smoke this time."

"My knees feel rather weak, too," said Gwynne. He turned to the

wharfinger, who was pulling leisurely at his pipe. "We--my mother and

Miss Otis, at least, may need this launch to leave the city with," he

said. "Can I rely on you? You shall have a hundred dollars if you let no

one steal it; and if the fire should reach this side, you are welcome to

a refuge on my ranch."

"I'll see daylight through any one that looks at it," said Mr. Clatt.

"This ain't no time to stand on ceremony. The army's called out already

to help the police keep order--the lootin' was disgraceful for about an

hour. Every rat tumbled out of his hole, and of course they went for the

saloons. I'm well enough known along here to be let alone when I show my

teeth. Your house is all right, miss."

This side of the hill was almost deserted; nearly every one seemed to be

watching the fires from the crest; but occasionally Gwynne and Isabel

passed a solitary person clinging to his possessions, or a small group;

and invariably were greeted with the same remark: "City's on fire. Water

mains were broken by the earthquake."

As they passed through the crowd on the hill-top, they received similar

information, although many added confidently that "something would be

done. The wind was sure to change to the west."

And so far, at least, the picture from the heights was by no means

appalling. There were a number of fires in the south, and a wall of

flame and smoke along the water-front near the Ferry Building. Had the

earthquake spared the mains they would merely have been spectacular.

Gwynne and Isabel, as they made the slight descent to the Belmont House,

saw two of their Japs sitting on the roof throwing down the bricks of

the fallen chimneys. Then they turned the corner and found Lady

Victoria, an opera-cloak thrown over her night-clothes, pacing up and

down the veranda.

"Oh, my God!" she exclaimed. "I did not dare to wonder if you were dead

or alive. Why did we ever come to this God-forsaken country?" She did

not offer to embrace them, but her eyes were brilliant, and there was a

color in her cheeks. And no one had ever heard her talk so fast. "Was

it as dreadful with you? Did you get out of the house? I was awake when

I heard that awful roar. Somehow, I knew what it meant, and before the

earthquake was well begun I was out here. I never ran so fast in my

life, although I was flung against the walls. And I almost wished I had

stayed in the house. Such a sight! That awful reeling city! Just imagine

thousands of buildings plunging, and leaping, and dancing, and toppling.

Towers bowing to you so solemnly that I almost disgraced myself and had

hysterics. And steeples pitching off, or huddling down like corpses. And

that awful loud deep steady roar and crash of a thousand walls and

chimneys falling. And the dust that seemed to swallow the city. For a

moment I thought it had gone, and expected the hills to follow. Then it

rose and everybody on earth seemed to be in those streets--and in white.

They looked like Isabel's Leghorns. Such pigmies from up here. Pigmies!

That is what we all are. And Angelique, the wretch, has run away."

"Well, she cannot go far, as all the railroads but one seem to be

injured," said Gwynne, soothingly. "Better go in and dress and we'll

walk down and take a look at things. That will divert your mind."

But it was not until Isabel had assured her that the worst force of an

earth movement in California spent itself in the first great shock, and

offered to help her dress, that Victoria could be persuaded to enter the

house. Gwynne fetched Isabel's field-glass and studied the scene below,

picking out the more disastrous work of the earthquake. All the new

solid buildings, and most of the old, appeared to be unharmed, and the

residence district, built of wood on stone foundations, for the most

part, was much as usual, save for its altered sky-line: every chimney

and skylight had disappeared. But tall slender factory chimneys had

broken raggedly in half, and the great tower of the City Hall, standing

high against the blue sky and advancing smoke, seemed to shriek like a

man whose flesh had been torn off with hot pincers until only the shamed

skeleton was left. Nothing but the steel cage that had supported the

bricks remained: eloquent of the millions that a dishonest city

government and its confederates had stolen.