II
As Isabel stood in her little porch that brilliant September morning,she dismissed her occasional regret that she had not remained in Englandfor a London season. Not only had she put the time to better use on herranch, but no doubt her agent would have relet this house, and delayedthe fulfilment of one of those dreams upon which she unconsciously fedher soul. The shrieking trade-winds and the dense white fogs werehibernating somewhere out in the Pacific. All the city, in the greatirregular amphitheatre below, was sharply outlined in the yellow light;Isabel wondered if the sun renewed its stores from the golden veins tonorth and south. On the wide broken ledge just beneath her pinnacle wasthe concrete evidence of an architectural orgy to be seen nowhere elseon earth: wooden mansions with the pure outlines of the Renaissance; aGothic palace with bow-windows, also of wood; a big brown-stone house inthe style of New York; piles of shingles and stones; here and there atouch of Romanesque, later French, and Italian; the majority of thoseplutocratic and perishable masses, of no style in particular, unless itwere that of Mansard combined with the criminalities of him who inventedthe bow-window and the irrelevant tower. On the slopes were a few oldhouses in gardens, some with cottage roofs, others square, brown, dusty,melancholy. But the majority were of the "house in a row" type,radiating in all directions from the "boarding-house blocks" on thelower slopes. Then, down on the plain, came the big compact masses ofstone and concrete, brick and steel, devoted to business and housing ofthe itinerant. The lofty domes of the City Hall and a newspaperbuilding, a few church spires and the great white-stone hotel on a crestnot far from Isabel's, were the sole pretenders to architectural beautywithin her ken.
Far away she could make out the Mission Church, once called after St.Francis of Assisi, now named Dolores for the vanished lake. It was thelast reminder of the work of the Spanish fathers, and lookedindescribably ancient in the midst of that busy and densely populateddistrict. At night Isabel watched the lights of the electric carsflashing about that old monument of an almost forgotten conquest--likethe angry haunted eyes of the padres that had labored in the wildernessfor naught. But although this old church and the Presidio, which stillretained its quadrangle and a few of the original adobe houses, appealeddeeply to Isabel on account of the romance of Rezanov and ConchaArgueello that distinguished her family, her more personal sympathieswere with the streets just below her hill-top, packed as they were withmemories, tragic, humorous, gay, pathetic, of a people that had made thecity great.
Even the dilapidated houses, with their sixty steps or more topplingabove the cut that had widened and levelled the street, had been veryhospitable in their time, and Isabel knew that her mother andgrandmother had toiled up those perpendicular flights in satin slippersand ballooning skirts on many a rainy night. Mrs. Otis had told herlittle girls stories of all those old houses, fine and simple, moreparticularly of the fortunate mansions on Nob Hill's brief level. Isabellonged for the time when she should enter them and pick up the threadsdropped from her mother's nerveless fingers. The Belmont house wasclosed, the still restless Helena occupying a palace in Rome at themoment. The Polk house had been sold to the energetic son of one of theplodding old money-makers that had fought shy of stock gambling andrailroads. Nicolas Hofer belonged to the latest type the prolific cityhad bred: the son of a millionaire, but a keen man of business, whom thewildness of the city had never tempted, highly educated, honorable, andan ardent reformer.
Magdalena Yorba--Mrs. Trennahan--like most of her old neighbors, stilldwelt in the ancestral mansion, although she had given it a stuccofacade and shaved off the bow-windows. In each, Isabel was sure ofwelcome, and she longed particularly to wander through the old Polkhouse, where one of her Spanish great-aunts had reigned for a time. Likeall San Franciscans of family, she took more pride in her young-old citythan a Roman in his Rome. Its forty-two square miles had seen so manychanges, its story was so romantic and unique, that its age was not tobe measured by the standards of Time. Her grandfather had stood on thishill after his Sunday climb and looked over and down a ragged wildernessto the city bursting out of its shell--a wretched huddle of shacks andtents by the water's edge. The bay no doubt was crowded with ships fromevery corner of the world, many of them deserted, unmanned, forced tolie idle until the return of the hungry disappointed gold-seekers. Thatwas less than sixty years ago. In the first ten years of its rapidgrowth the city had burned seven times, millions blazing out in an hour.
To-day San Francisco was replete not only with life but with wealth,talents, and every variety of enterprise; it was as full of fads andcults and artistic groups as London itself; it had sent forth authors,artists, mummers, singers--and millionaires by the score. Many of theart treasures of the world had been brought here and hidden from thevulgar in those awful impermanent "palatial mansions." Some of thefinest libraries of the world were here. It had its bibliomaniacs, itscollectors, its precieux. And yet what a lonely city it was, stranded onthe edge of the still half-vacant western section of the United States,with all the Pacific before it. Save for the rim of towns across thebay, which were little more than a part of itself, it watched the Orientalone, and was far too gay and careless, too self-absorbed and insolent,to keep its jaws on the alert. Tact it was much too high-handed tocultivate. It welcomed the hungry Oriental for so long as he was useful,and when he outstayed his welcome, incontinently kicked him out. SanFrancisco's intensity of independence as well as of civic pride was duein part no doubt to the isolation which compelled it to be self-centred,and to its unconscious dislike of the elder breeds beyond the RockyMountains; but largely to the old adventurous reckless gambling spiritand the habit of sleeping on its pistol. These first causes haddeveloped individuality to such proportions that the hair of aCalifornian bristled when he was alluded to as a "Westerner," or even asa mere American.
And with time the patriotism of the San Franciscan waxed rather thanwaned. It was no longer the fashion to take one's money to New York,merely because of the higher cost of living that made a millionaire"feel his oats," and of the allure of the older and more difficultsociety to his women. San Franciscans still fled from the winds and fogsof summer to their beloved Europe, and country-house life gained groundvery slowly, but deserters were few; and of late the rich men had showntheir faith not only by investing the greater part of their capital inthe city--until "improved real estate" was become a current phrase--butthe best of them, including Hofer and the mayor who had preceded thepresent figurehead and his omnivorous Boss, were engaged in a desperatebattle with the highly organized gang of political ruffians that ownedand pillaged and dishonored the city in a manner with which nothing inthe history of municipal corruption could compare save the old TweedRing of New York. For at least ten years previous to 1901, San Franciscohad enjoyed a period of not only decent but honorable government. Therewas no "graft" in high places, the city was out of debt, it held up itshead with the cleanest municipal governments in the land. But, as ever,the disinterested grew somnolent with content, and gave no heed to theburrowing of the hungry recuperated and wiser rats in that prolificunderworld whence never a high-minded citizen emerges. The few that sawand warned were disregarded; and circumstances, proper in themselves,swelled the ranks of the petty politicians with thousands of greedy andinsurgent laborers. San Francisco awoke one morning to find herself inthe drag-net of a machine to which old Boss Buckley and the illustriousTammany doffed their hats. But the majority still gave little heed, toocontent in their various blessings, and the gay light spirit theclimate gave them, to foresee the time when their pleasant city would beutterly debauched, and life among arrogant thieves, prostitutes, andsocialists have become as impracticable as it already was in Chinatownor on Barbary Coast.
A group of the more thoughtful and patriotic citizens, assisted by theone militant editor the city boasted, were doing all that was humanlypossible to prevent the re-election of the mayor, who had alreadyrepresented the worst element twice, and to break the power of the Boss.Isabel in her lonely ranch house
, when her chickens were asleep,followed the fight with a passionate interest, and was tempted to comeforth from her seclusion and meet at least the representative men of hercity. But she was not yet ready to take up her own share of the burden,and was far too modest to imagine that she could be useful until she hadbecome a person of importance in San Francisco. Nevertheless, as shelooked down to-day on the sharp outlines of the city under the hard bluesky, almost glittering in their golden bath, she was impatient to becomea part of its life, or at least to discuss its interests with some one.Rosewater, which of late years had become virtuous to excess, and almostblind and deaf with local pride, took no interest in San Franciscowhatever, except as a market for eggs. When driven to the wall itconfessed the superiority of the metropolis in the matter of shops andtheatres; but its politics it invariably dismissed with adjectives moreforcible than elegant.
It was at this point in Isabel's meditations that her eye happened torove along the plank walk to the rickety old flight of steps that ledfrom Taylor Street up Russian Hill. There was something vaguelyfamiliar about a tall, thin, well-groomed, but by no means graceful,figure rapidly ascending the steps. In a moment her mind lost itstensity of projection and she was almost flying down her own long stair.
Gwynne broke into a run as he saw her. She wondered if he intended tokiss her, but he merely shook her hand for a full minute.
"I never in my life was so glad to see anybody!" he exclaimed, with thejoyousness of a school-boy come home for his first holiday. "It was suchluck to hear that you were in San Francisco."
"But why didn't you telegraph? In a way I am disappointed--glad as I amto see you. I intended to meet you at Oakland and take you directly upto Lumalitas, where everything was to have been in gala array. And howdid you know I was in town?"
"While I was taking my lonely breakfast this morning--I arrived lateyesterday afternoon--and glancing over one of your newspapers, my eyecaught your name. I learned that 'the charming and beautiful youngmistress of the old Belmont House on Russian Hill, who had excited somuch interest of late, had come down as usual for Sunday."
"No?" Isabel flushed for the first time within Gwynne's knowledge ofher. "That is the very only time I have been the subject of a newspaperparagraph--outside of Rosewater, which doesn't count--and I am asdelighted--as I have no doubt you were the first time you saw your namein print!" she added, defiantly.
There was nothing cynical in Gwynne's smile. "I understand," he said;and then, as he ceased to smile, the light died out of his face, andIsabel noticed that it was older and thinner. It had lost more than alittle of its aloof serenity, and his crest was visibly lowered. But onthe whole he was improved, for he had cut his hair, his lilting lockshaving been too conspicuous a feature in the cartoons of _Punch_ and_Vanity Fair_. But there was something subtly forlorn about him, andIsabel's maternal promptings, once too active, but long moribund,suddenly awakened.
They mounted the steep flight of steps to the house slowly, exchangingejaculatory remarks. When they reached the porch she motioned to a longwicker chair.
"It is only ten," she said. "Luncheon will not be ready until one, andmy California hospitality demands that your entertainment shall begin atonce. Make yourself comfortable while I brew you a cup of Spanishchocolate. I have actually one of the molinillos of our ancestors."
When she returned with the frothy and fragrant beverage he was standingwith his hands in his pockets staring down at the city. He turnedswiftly at the sound of her step on the wood, but something was rushingto the back of his eyes, and once more Isabel had the singularimpression of hearing his spirit cry: "Oh God! Oh God!" But his lipswere hard pressed and his eyes became suddenly contemptuous, thensmiling.
"This is jolly of you," he said. "I have a weakness forchocolate--cultivated during the winter I was in Munich with my tutor. Inever cared for beer--don't like anything bitter. Do you remember theCafe Luitpoldt, and all those little tables in the garden of theResidenz--"
He paused and narrowed his eyes. Isabel had turned white. "I must hearthat story," he said, quietly. "You are my only friend out here. In away you have altered the whole course of my life. I shall always have asense of relationship with you quite different from anything I have everknown. So there must be perfect confidence and openness between us. Itold you frankly the unpleasant finish of my episode with Mrs. Kaye. Ihate mystery. I saw you go white once before, when I tried to make youtalk about Munich; and the romantic Flora was full of surmises.Confession is good for the soul, anyhow. I want the atmospherecleared--not out of curiosity--I don't care tuppence about otherpeople's affairs--but I don't know you! I must know you! I am alwaysconscious of a wall about you--and in this damned God-forsaken country Imust have one friend!" he burst out.
Isabel had quite recovered herself. "I will tell you everything, but notnow. We must be in the mood. This moment I am interested in nothing butyourself. Sit down. What has happened to you in all these months?Something not altogether pleasant. Have you had any adventures? Have youbeen recognized?"
He had finished his chocolate, and he clasped his hands behind his headand leaned back in his chair, giving the railing a slight kick.
"No," he said, grimly, "I have not been recognized. At first I avoidedall the big hotels, lest I might be; then growing more secure, anddisliking the inferior ones, I became quite reckless. The second time Ivisited New York I went to the Waldorf-Astoria, and the third time tothe St. Regis. In the smoking-rooms of all the hotels and trains Italked with any one whom I found disposed to conversation. Not that Iwas; but I was perambulating the country for an object and determined toaccomplish it. As you had told me to improve my manners I did my best,and have reason to believe that, if not effusive, I am almost cynicallyapproachable. In New York I was at times repelled with a haughty stareor a negative frigidity which no duke I know could compass. But inBoston they were more friendly, and farther West so expansive that I wasfrequently invited to houses before I had presented my modest card. Veryoften I had long talks with newspaper men, and made no attempt toconceal the fact that I was a Britisher. Once or twice that fact wascommented on, but taken as a matter of course. There are a good manyBritishers in the United States. My identity was never suspected. Inever saw a newspaper paragraph about myself."
He laughed, but looked at her between lids so narrowed that she couldnot see the expression of his eyes. She nodded, smiling; and she couldmake her smile very sweet and encouraging.
"The time came when I felt like a shipwrecked mariner. Stranded!Abandoned! Forgotten! Finally--take all the circumstances intoconsideration and make due allowance--I felt that I would riskeverything to see my name in print once more. I arrived in Chicago lateone night. There had been a break-down that doubled the time of thebeastly trip. I went to its first hotel and registered myself as EltonGwynne. The night clerk, with the haughty indifference of the stageduke, or the New-Yorker who fancies himself, called a bell-boy andturned his back on me. I remained in Chicago three days. Not a reportersent up his card. Not a line appeared in a newspaper. It was the mostchastening experience of my life. No doubt it did me good. My ego hasactually felt lighter." He smiled. But he added in a moment: "It left ascar, nevertheless."
"Never mind," said Isabel, consolingly. "All that will read delightfullyin your biography. What on this difficult globe is not difficult, first,last, and always? The only thing for you to do is to snap your fingersat everything, as we do out here, and see nothing in the future butsuccess. How do you like the land of your birth?"
"I hate it!" he said intensely. "Washington is a crude unwieldy village.New York is like one of those nightmares a certain class of writersproject and label 'Earth in the Year 2000.' Chicago is the entrails ofthe universe. The small interior towns and villages of the EasternStates are open mausoleums for people so old and so dried up that theirend will be not death but desiccation. There is nothing picturesque inthose old towns, for they were dead before they were civilized. Some ofthe cities and villages of the South are certainly a
ttractive to look atand have a background of a sort, but they are as lifeless as theirnegroes. The cities of the West are hives, and when you have seen oneyou have seen all. Its smaller communities are horrors, pure and simple.Much of the country is magnificent. The Adirondacks, the Hudson River,Yellowstone, those great prairies and deserts, atone for a good deal.The last three weeks I have spent in southern California. It seemed tome--below Santa Barbara, at least--little more than a reclaimeddesert--and with nothing of the wonderful atmospheric effects of thegreat interior deserts; nothing but dirt and a hideous low shrub cakedwith prehistoric dust. Precious little of it reclaimed at that. I amglad that ranch is in good hands. I never want to see the place again.That eternally grinning sky! That dead atmosphere! It blunted my nervesfor the time, but the reaction is all the worse. However--" He stood upand leaned over the railing. "I did not expect the earthly paradise. Iam not going to treat you to a continued diatribe--"
"But you must like California--love it!" cried Isabel, in alarm. "Ofcourse you have hated everything--natural enough--but not California! Itis your State, your home, your future. You must begin by liking it, atleast."
"Very well, mentor, I shall do my best. One might certainly indulge inan illusion or two up here. I thought as I walked--climbed--through thecity, guided a part of the way by a messenger-boy, who ejaculated atintervals, 'Say, mister!' and described Nob Hill as the 'millionairebunch,' that I had seldom seen so many ugly buildings together; but fromthis perch of yours it looks quite beautiful. Still I long for thecountry. Can we go to the ranch this afternoon?"
"Why not?" Isabel stifled a sigh. She had intended to ride all round thecity on the electric cars; but she felt as if she had an adoptedhomesick child on her hands, and he was a responsibility that she haddeliberately assumed. Moreover, she felt deeply sorry for him.
"You can express all your luggage but a portmanteau, and we will go inmy launch. It is down on the bay side of the Hill. We must start at fourto catch the tide. You have no idea how cosey and pretty yourranch-house looks, and I have sent out my uncle's law--andfarm--library. I have arranged everything with Judge Leslie, and youenter his office at once. He is the first lawyer of northernCalifornia. I wrote you that it would be impossible to conceal the truthfrom him, as his firm has done all the legal business of the estate forthe last thirty years, and he knows your mother has only one son. But heis the more interested. No one else knows but Mr. Colton and his sonTom--your Rosewater bankers and agents. Your secret is safe with them.Gwynne is not an uncommon name in California, although some of itsletters have been dropped. Lumalitas has been leased for so many yearsthat your name has ceased to be associated with it in the public mind,and the deeds are so deeply buried in the archives of St. Peter--thecounty-seat--that the most curious would hardly attempt to unearth them.Of course most townspeople all through the State take in a San Franciscopaper, and your name has doubtless appeared now and again in thetelegrams. But they are not the sort that take the least interest in thecareer of a young Englishman--those that do, at all events, are few andfar between. Judge Leslie is deeply interested; so is Tom Colton, theonly son of the bank, so to speak. He is a Democrat, by-the-way--but Idon't suppose you have made up your mind--"
"I have quite made up my mind. In practice one party seems about as badas the other, but at least the Democratic ideals more nearly correspondwith my own. Besides, the Democratic party is the under dog, and thatalways appeals to me, to say nothing of the fact that it is weak instrong men, that all its salient leaders are what you so elegantly term'blatherskites.' If I go in for American politics, I must fight so hardthat I cannot help becoming absorbed body and soul; with only thepresent and the future--no past. Let us take a walk over these hills."