They reached home sooner than might have been expected, but there were many fares below, and the hackman galloped down the hill as recklessly as if a slip would not have been the death of himself and his valiant beasts.
Isabel went directly to her room and persuaded Gwynne to go to his, arguing that some one of his mother's party would be sure to bring her home. As he was to take the 7:30 train he made no protest. Even were he still awake when Lady Victoria returned, the fog was rolling in; nor was he likely to be leaning from his window.
Isabel heard her come in two hours later, and it was another hour before she slept. She had determined to ask her wayward but still awesome relative to leave San Francisco before her son found her out or she had time more fully to disgrace him. But how to approach the most unapproachable woman she had ever known with so delicate a proposition was a question that made her toss about her ancestral bed and kept the blood in her brain. She recalled the slip of paper announcing a prize-fight, and wondered at her stupidity; for she had heard something of the resources of blasée women ere this.
Finally she fell asleep. She was awakened by a sharp earthquake—grim herald of the coming year! She was too well seasoned to have felt anything more than a passing annoyance, had she not heard Lady Victoria give a piercing scream and run from her room. Whereupon she rejoiced wickedly, flung a wrapper across her shoulders, and went into the hall. Gwynne was standing in his doorway, looking more asleep than awake, and intensely disapproving. Lady Victoria was leaning against the wall, her eyes wide with terror. Isabel took her firmly by the arm, marched her into her room, helped her into a dressing-gown, and, pushing her into a chair, took one opposite.
"How dreadful!" exclaimed Lady Victoria. "I had forgotten about earthquakes—"
"Earthquake!" said Isabel, contemptuously. "That was a mere vibration. We had sixty-two of those last winter. If you only stay long enough we will show you what California really can do. Every ten years or so we have a good hard shake—enough to bring the plaster down; and every half-century or so she gets up and turns over. I have made a specialty of earthquakes, and could tell you extraordinary tales of some of the great ones of the south—"
"Please do not. I prefer to forget. But don't leave me. Fancy Angélique sleeping through such a thing!"
"Doubtless she is not in the house. All the world was out last night."
"Was it?"
"I think this as good a time as any other to tell you, Cousin Victoria, that I saw you last night—just as the clocks were striking twelve."
"Did you?"
Her trained features did not betray her, but Isabel saw the figure under the loose gown grow rigid and brace itself against the back of the chair. And as Isabel stared at her, with the desperate courage born of the sudden plunge, it seemed to her that she felt a vibration from the nausea, the disgust, the hatred of life, the death-rattle of great passions dying hard. She wondered again, if, given the same conditions, she would have differed much from the woman she had brought to bay. Her early trials and provincial upbringing had developed her Puritan inheritance, but she had had flashing and startling glimpses of her depths now and again. For a moment she felt the waters of an immemorial ennui rise high in her own soul, then drop to the grinning skulls and sparkless ashes of old pleasures. She shuddered back, and raised her eyes once more to the haughty mask opposite.
"I think I understand," she said, gently. "But you must go. I kept him from seeing you to-night. But he would find out in time. As you know how he believes in you, you can imagine the consequences. I suppose you have not done anything so public before, or I should have heard of it. I vaguely recall that women can look on at prize-fights from private boxes. Last night, it isn't likely that any one noticed. Or if they did they would question the evidence of their senses in the morning, the best of them. So please go."
She paused. Lady Victoria stared at her without the slightest change of expression. Isabel continued imperturbably. "London is so vast—if you must have that sort of liberty, for heaven's sake go where it is most likely to be overlooked—and where libel laws are operative. For all its license, San Francisco is one of the most censorious and unrelenting societies in the world, and has more old-fashioned people than New York. If you become the talk of the town, and those awful weekly papers find you out, Elton will be a long while living it down. It will make ridiculous all his efforts at reform. Perhaps he would no longer care. I fancy it would affect him that way."
She rose, and Lady Victoria rose also and walked to the door. As she opened it she smiled grimly. "You have courage," she said. "I am more than ever convinced that you are the wife for Jack. I will go."
On the same afternoon Lady Victoria developed appendicitis and went to bed for two months. She was only in danger for a short time, but the doctor announced his intention of giving her a rest cure, and his patient, who was profoundly indifferent, made no protest. And if invalidism is a career, an illness is an adventure; moreover, no doubt, it was a relief to Victoria Gwynne to have her thinking done by some one else for a time. Isabel had thoughtfully rung up the handsomest doctor in San Francisco the moment the disease declared itself, and it was to be expected that he would find his patient interesting enough to spend an hour by her bedside daily. It was manifestly impossible to transfer a woman of Lady Victoria's heroic proportions down that rickety and almost perpendicular flight of steps to an ambulance, but the best of nurses were engaged, Anne Montgomery agreed to come every morning and attend to the housekeeping, Gwynne established a long-distance telephone beside the bed, and Mrs. Trennahan, whom Lady Victoria liked—she could not stand Mrs. Hofer—promised a daily visit; and an automobile trip to the south as soon as the doctor would permit.
It was nearly a week before Isabel, who had sat up with Gwynne during the first two nights, and been on the rush ever since, was able to return to her ranch. She had offered to remain in town altogether, but Lady Victoria replied with some show of irritation that if either she or her son sacrificed their time and interests on her account it would oppress her mind with a sense of guilt, and hinder her recovery. She would telephone to them at a certain hour every day, and if they came down once a week as usual she should enjoy seeing them, instead of being worried by a sense of obligation. In truth she was glad to be rid of them for more reasons than one.
It was late in the afternoon when Isabel arrived in Rosewater, and business detained her there for several hours. She dined with the Tom Coltons, and the conversation was a quaint mixture of babies, politics, servants, and the Hofer ball. Colton drove her home, and talked the steady monotonous stream with which he tricked the world into believing that his own ideas were still in the germ. Upon this occasion he might as well have betrayed his secrets or quoted the poets, for Isabel paid no attention whatever to his monologue. She was consumed with her desire to be alone once more. She was tired of the very sound of the human voice, and remembered with satisfaction the silence of her Chuma and the taciturnity of her men.
When she finally reached her home she illuminated it from top to bottom and wandered about in a passion of delight. Her sensation of gratitude and novelty in her solitude and freedom could not have been keener if she had been absent for six months. Although it was too cold to sit out-of-doors, she walked up and down the piazza for an hour, watching the crawling tide and the brown tumbled hills. The boat was late, and every other light was out when it appeared, a mere string of magic lanterns with a red globe suspended aloft. Isabel struck a match and answered the captain's familiar greeting from his high perch in the pilot-house; then went within, for the fog was rolling over Tamalpais, dropping down the mountains in great sea waves. But even then she would not go to bed, and lose her knowledge of recovered treasure. After a time, however, she fell asleep in her chair before the fire. She awoke suddenly, but drowsily surprised and disappointed not to find Gwynne in the chair opposite. Then she became aware of the cause of her interrupted slumbers. There was the sound of fire-arms and of barking dogs on the hills sacred to the Leghorn. In three minutes she had her skirts off, her high boots on, and was running, pistol in hand, to the colony, announcing her coming by a preliminary discharge. Then for the next hour she and her men fought one of those hordes of migratory rats that suddenly steal upon chicken-ranches and leave ruin behind them. Isabel had a genuine horror of rats. She would far rather have faced an army of snakes; but with her rubber boots, the well-trained dogs, and her accuracy of aim, she had nothing to fear. Those that were not slaughtered were finally driven off, and Isabel, content even in this phase of her strictly personal life, went to bed and slept the sleep of youth and health and an easy conscience.
The next day began the torrential rains that lasted for three weeks, almost without an hour's intermission; that wiped out the marsh, and threatened floods for all the valleys of the north. The boats no longer looked as if cutting their way through the lands, but adrift on a great lake. Tamalpais and the mountains below it had disappeared, as if hibernating, and the winds raged up and down the long valley, shaking old houses like Isabel's to their foundations, and leaving not a leaf on the trees. Nothing could be wilder or more desolate than the scene from Isabel's piazza, where, encased in rubber, she took her exercise, often battling every inch of one way against a driving wall of rain. Rosewater, or any sort of house except her own, she did not see for days at a time, nothing but that gray foaming muttering expanse of water, its flood and fall no longer distinguishable. At first she was more than content to be so isolated. Her practical life occupied little of her time; only a daily, and always unexpected, dash up the slopes to see that her men were not shirking their duties, and a weekly trip to Rosewater with her produce: she used her own incubators in bad weather. A visit to San Francisco she did not attempt, and she was quite sure that the daily conversation over the telephone—when it had not blown down—was as sufficing for Lady Victoria as for herself. She read and studied and dreamed, became indifferent to what she chose to call her failure as a society ornament, and planned a larger future; to be realized when she had come to care less for dreams and more for realities. No doubt that state of mind would develop before long, and meanwhile she might as well enjoy herself according to her present mood. Nothing could alter her belief that all unhappiness came from contacts, and certainly she had proved her theories so far, and took a pagan joy in mere living. She loved the wild battle of the elements, the waste below her garden, with as keen a sensuousness as the spring and the flowers, and often sat late in her red room by the fire to enjoy its contrast with the desolation without.
But Gwynne was not a man to be dismissed from the thoughts of any one that knew him as well as his cousin, He had taken his part in her life as a matter of course, and of late they had been very intimate. During the first days and nights of his mother's illness, they had talked, or sat in companionable silence, by the hour. She had been assailed by regrets more than once that she was to have no part in his life, that he had already won some of his hardest battles with no help of hers, and deliberately had matched their spirits and driven her off the field where she had subtly sought to manage him. She liked him the better for this, but while her vanity retired with philosophy, she regretted her inability to help him. That she had it in her to assist and encourage him in many ways, she needed to be told neither by himself nor his mother, but she was unwilling to pay the price. That she felt his charm, took an even deeper interest in him since he had announced his intention to marry her, she did not pretend to deny, and sometimes caught herself looking out upon a future in which he had as inevitable a part as if it had been decreed from the beginning of time. She also dreamed of the satisfaction and pleasure it would give her to make him really love her, become quite mad about her. But again she was unwilling to pay the price. She argued that this was merely due to the persistence of the solitary ideal; and refused to face the cowardice that lurked in the bottom of her soul. Heroic in every other development of her highly bred character, she had all the secret fear and antagonism of her sex for the other, a profound resentment of the male instinct for possession, and the deeper terror that what Gwynne might find would eventually make her wholly his. Life had given her a deep surface; the depths below it sent up rare vibrations; and her mind was seldom unoccupied. She could add layer upon layer of evasions and subtleties with no prospect of a rude disturbance; and when the wind ceased for a time she tramped over the hills. But she missed Gwynne increasingly, wondered that he did not brave the elements and come out to her; finally felt herself shamefully neglected, and would not answer his occasional telephone queries as to her well-being.
Three days of floundering through the mud between Lumalitas and Rosewater exhausted Gwynne's patience, and he engaged a furnished suite of rooms on Main Street, moved in his law library, Imura Kisaburo Hinomoto, and several easy-chairs, invested in a red wall-paper for his sitting-room, and was immediately so comfortable, and so relieved to be rid of his dripping sighing trees and flooded valley, that he was almost happy. As he looked down from his window upon the slope of the street crowded with muddy wagons and men in oil-skins and high rubber boots, he recalled the ironical picture Isabel had drawn, that memorable night at Capheaton, of his own future appearance; and as he could not ride out to Old Inn in any other garb, an excess of vanity deterred him from going at all. To be sure he could drive out in a closed surrey, but he would have felt equally ridiculous, and Isabel, beyond doubt, would scorn him. Better let her think him indifferent for a while; it might do her good. He could save himself from discourtesy by telephoning occasionally, and, for the matter of that, the less he thought of her at present the better.
For the first time he came intimately in contact with the men of Rosewater: "leading citizens" too busy to call upon him at Lumalitas, or to sit down in their places of business for a chat during the day, and too well trained to ask strangers home for dinner, were any hospitable instincts left in them. But they soon discovered that his rooms were very comfortable and inviting, his whiskey and tobacco "above par." The homeless citizens of Rosewater, while their wives wrangled at bridge or five-hundred, fell into the habit of "dropping in at Gwynne's," instead of going to the Lodge or the dingy back room of some saloon or lawyer's office. They were at liberty to take off their coats and put their feet on the railing surrounding the large iron stove that sat well out into the room. There were even spittoons for such as clung to the old tradition; and in a short time the large newly built, almost luxurious room took on somewhat of the character of that forum of an older time, the corner grocery. Judge Leslie seldom honored these assemblies, as he was tired at night and rejoiced in a comfortable home; nor did Tom Colton, whose domestic virtues were pronounced; but Mr. Wheaton came, and Mr. Haight, Mr. Boutts, and other solid business men old enough to be Gwynne's father; and they were all deeply interested in Rosewater first, State politics second, and national affairs once in four years; or oftener if there was any pyrotechnical departure from routine. European politics interested them not at all, and if they had any suspicion of Gwynne's real status, they were too accustomed to minding their own business to take any liberties with his reserve.
But they were fully alive to the importance of his addition to the community. He was a large landholder, selling many small farms to acceptable persons; he spent money freely, buying everything he needed for his household and farm in Rosewater, instead of sending to the city; he was studying law with a view to practising in their midst; and now that Judge Leslie—who proclaimed him a marvel—was threatening to retire, his keen and cautious fellow-citizens needed nothing more than a man of first-class legal ability to take care of their great and varied interests and defend them against the corporation bogie. They found themselves hinting that he should engage in politics as well, when his probationary years were over.
When Gwynne shrugged his shoulders one night and remarked bluntly that he had no desire to work with either of the California machines, and would unquestionably come a howling cropper if he worked against either, Mr. Wheaton answered with the nimbleness of a mind already made up, that he could be sent to Sacramento on an independent ticket—manipulated by the honest men of Rosewater—to fight such of the frauds and tyrannies as the State was suffering acutely from at the moment. During reform spasms the machines were practically powerless, and with the brilliant abilities he would be able to display as soon as he entered public life, and backed by a powerful influence, he could win his way to higher things before the wave subsided. They wanted a senator in Washington who was for his State first and himself next, even more than they wanted a lawyer; and for that matter he could serve their anti-corporation interests better there than here. Meanwhile he would have many opportunities to speak and show the stuff that was in him, draw converts to himself with his fiery eloquence and hard practicality, inculcate the desire for better things, and the necessity for reducing the influence of the army of petty professional politicians to a minimum, make of himself so central and inspiriting a figure that when his time came the best element of both parties throughout the State would form an independent body under his leadership.
This was an alluring picture, but if Mr. Wheaton, who had had as little to do with politics as possible, was a bit of a dreamer, there was no question that his dreams were shared by more practical men at the present moment than for many years past; and that his theories were sound, however formidable the alert, resourceful, enormously capitalized army which stood between them and execution. His idol was Abraham Lincoln, and in consequence he "banked" on the good in human nature as a factor, which, in sudden recrudescences of indignant energy, accomplished revolutions of far greater moment than the overthrowing of political machines.
Mr. Wheaton had launched forth upon one particularly stormy night when he happened to be Gwynne's only guest. The host, not to be outdone, was sitting with his feet on the railing of the stove, but as far from the spittoon as possible. He had listened to the long monologue, which involved a sketch of Lincoln's varied career, with more attention than might have been inferred from his half-closed eyes, and his pipe had gone out. It was only recently that any of his neighbors, barring Judge Leslie and Tom Colton, who shared his secret, had definitely proposed a political career to him, in other words divined his abilities and ambitions. But Mr. Wheaton had once been young and adventurous himself, and much if not all of his success in life was due to his shrewd divination of human nature. No man could drive a harder bargain than "Wash" Wheaton (he was named for the father of his country), but he had never been wanting in a vein of humorous sympathy, nor in a fair capacity for friendship as well as enmity.
He raised his eyes from the coals and looked directly at Gwynne, who was relighting his pipe.
"I don't like Tom Colton," he said, abruptly. "And it's not so much because he is the son of that old skinflint, neither. He is a little too much the product of the times—a sort of polished up descendant of that hoodlum element that terrorized San Francisco in the Seventies. He started out as a mere or'nary politician, but the Democratic Boss took him up and his ambitions are growing. What with the money he has and will inherit, and the devilish gall of him, he can play a deep game, and his chances of winning look a little too fair to suit a good many of us. He's nothing better than an anarchist, and without the excuse of the common anarchist—who, at the worst—or his own best—risks his life. Tom Colton and men of his stamp wouldn't risk the skin of their little fingers. All they do is to build a red-hot fire under the political caldron, stir it up with a big stick until it doesn't know where it is at or what it is made of, and then float into power on the steam. This has been one of the rottenest States in the Union for a good many years, and no wonder such men as Tom think they can about do as they please; but a good many are getting pretty damned tired of it, and there's a sort of reform mutter going on here and there that will gather and swell if skilfully manipulated. We've been talking you over, and have concluded to back you up for all we are worth as soon as you are ready—that is to say we would but for one drawback—your friendship with Colton."
"If you choose to call it that. I have told him in as plain English as he will ever hear what I think of his politics, and that if I ever enter public life myself I shall devote my energies to running him and his like out of it. He is too good-natured and too sure of himself—and his State!—to mind. Moreover, he has four years the start of me. It is possible that I shall go to Sacramento with, and even speak for, him; but he understands perfectly that I am only after experience, will advocate nothing I disapprove of—he actually has certain reforms in his political basket, and whatever may be his intention to compromise when he reaches Sacramento, I, at least, can advocate them in all sincerity; and further open the eyes of all these people to what they ought to want and to have. All this is perfectly understood between us. I, and the honest public clamoring for its rights, do not weigh a feather in the scale, in his opinion, against the might of organization."
"Very good. I suspicioned something of the sort. He can't corrupt you, and you couldn't get a better insight into corruption than through him; so fire away. What's your program, anyhow?"
"It's too soon to make one—be sure that I am willing to return your confidence with my own"—as the sharp china-blue eyes opposite contracted; "but I can do little now except win the confidence of the farmers in this district and of men like yourself. But if a reform party does achieve power, if only for a term, the first thing for it to do is to overhaul the ballot system. Before we reformed ours we were as deep in the mire as yourselves. When the American voter is under the supervision of an honest judiciary, a general system of local reforms will follow as a matter of course."
Mr. Wheaton sighed. "You would have to begin with the judiciary. If you reformed them, and had any strength left, and then reformed the ballot in the manner of your own country, I guess you'd get about anything you wanted. But you'll need a tidal reform wave, I'm afraid. However, you never can tell what one year will bring forth in this country. On the other hand, the results of certain reforms, fought and died for, have done as much to make us pessimists as any of the immovable abuses. Take the question of Civil Service Reform, for instance. In the old days when you wanted to induce a man to give you the benefit of his abilities and influence during an election, you held out hopes of preferment, and he took your word if he knew your word was good, and worked with a decent sort of ambition—all things being relative. What happens now? Few find anything promising or attractive in the competitive examination. You ask a man—the professional politician he is now, sure enough—to help you get your candidate, or yourself, in, and what happens? The gentleman coolly demands, 'How much?' and holds out his hand. You fill it or he turns his back and walks off. There is just that much less of good left to appeal to in this particular brand of human nature. Ours is a much more complicated civilization than yours, Mr. Gwynne. You were dealing with Britishers only, in 1832. We are trying to digest the riffraff of the world, and can't do it, in spite of such incorrigible optimists as Judge Leslie. Immigrants in the first generation have just about as much feeling for the American flag as a chicken has for Rosewater. They look upon vote-selling as a legitimate way of improving their fortunes, and they are the easy prey of such agitators as Colton, because they had nothing in their own countries, and want the earth in this. Of course their children go to the public schools, and become Americans, but we always have the problem of fresh hordes to deal with. And new and old—it is easy to plant the weevil in their brains that the rich have corralled all the money, and the laborer—even in California, where he gets the highest wages paid on this earth—is a miserable victim, and entitled to all he doesn't make. They never remember that nearly every capitalist in the country has risen from their own ranks, and that their dreams are mainly occupied with doing the same. But you might as well talk to the trade-winds, especially with such men as Tom Colton stirring the caldron. 'Get rich quick; and selling votes is as good a starter as any.' There you have the moral sickness of the country in a nutshell. And few professions pay better than that of the politician. The pettiest division leader, who does the Boss's dirtiest work, and has fewer redeeming virtues than the midnight burglar, makes such a good thing out of it that the prettiest Salvation Army lass couldn't convince him of the error of his ways. And he enjoys himself. To hang around saloons, prize-fights, help out shyster lawyers with their tricks, and play the game hard during election times—that satisfies him until he sees a chance of stepping into a bigger pair of boots of the same make. But, thank God, there are more honest men out of politics than in. That is the trouble, but there they are, and it will be a part of your business to round them up. Well, I guess I've held forth long enough. I'll send you round a few volumes from my Lincoln library to-morrow. I always go to it when I lose my faith in human nature. Good-night."
And he gathered up his long legs and went out.
In his many talks with his friends in San Francisco, Gwynne had received practically the same suggestions. The lawyer who advised this group in its necessarily intermittent campaign against the San Francisco politicians was one of the ablest in the United States. He had offered Gwynne a place in his office, a 'courtesy partnership,' when he was ready to move to the city. But Gwynne deliberately remained undecided for the present, although half inclined to practise in the country for some years. If he could not have the inestimable education of the old days, when lawyers jogged about the country with the circuit judges for months at a time, he could at least get into close contact with the plain people in a manner that in a city would be practically impossible. Until the rains began, and after his definite understanding with Colton, he had, during his hours of exercise, formed the habit of "dropping in" upon the small farmers of his political district, under pretence of asking their advice; gauging and sowing. Upon the men that had bought land of him he was able to bestow many small favors, and his old experience with the tenantry of Capheaton gave him an instinctive knowledge of their wants that added to the sum of his popularity. To his inferiors he had never shown the arrogance of his nature, and he welcomed these small toilers as a substitute for his old tenants; for he had missed the poor that kept the sympathies quick—and, perhaps, gave richer shadows to life.
His long lank American figure and slight resemblance to Hiram Otis, who had been an institution if not a favorite, his readiness to stand drinks to his farmer acquaintances, and others, whom he happened to meet in Main Street, the approachableness he had cultivated with some effort, combined with the subtle suggestion that he would not permit a liberty; a characteristic that every true man respects; his reputation for being "dead straight," and his insistence upon receiving his just dues—"all that was coming to him"—in spite of the easy terms he made with several to whom he sold land; all this, in addition to the dignity of being the largest rancher in the county, and a law partner of Judge Leslie, had quickly made him a marked as well as a popular figure. Even his accent was unnoted in that State of many accents.
He had thought out for himself all that Mr. Wheaton had suggested, and if he still had his moments of depression and disgust, and even of revolt, much of his old confidence was returning; although he sometimes reflected, with a sort of whimsical bitterness, upon the difficulty of sustaining an impression of innate greatness unaided by an occasional demonstration. But he had, at least, learned to see people merely as human beings without taking their shells into account; and he also realized that in those storms of spirit, which, at the time, he had deprecated as ebullitions from a too mercurial nature, he had developed more rapidly and precisely than many a man does by the exterior catastrophe. And impersonally his admiration for the land of one set of forefathers grew, although personally he remained cold. But he cultivated all sorts and conditions of men, and hopefully trained himself for the enthusiastic moment.
There were even times when, surrounded by his Rosewater friends, with their lapses into quaint American speech and their intense localism, the old Otis blood stirred in him very strongly; he caught himself using phrases and figures that no doubt were an inheritance with his brain cells. When the walls and furnishings of his room were obscured by smoke, and there were half a dozen pairs of boots against his stove, it was not difficult to fancy himself back in the old corner grocery on a winter's night: his companions drinking apple cider, instead of rye whiskey, and the orator of the moment sitting, by preference, on a barrel, and munching crackers.
In San Francisco, which he visited twice a week on his return from Berkeley, when alone in the long sloping streets swept with the wind-driven rain, when the gutters roared and the houses looked as deserted as their huddled beaten gardens, stories Isabel had told him of the days of the Argonauts rose like ghosts in his brain, and he would suddenly experience an overwhelming sensation of being at home. His mother promptly dispelled these visions.
On the whole his time was too fully occupied to leave him more than stray moments for the subtler mood; but as day after day, finally week after week passed, with no prospect of fair weather, the monotony and confinement affected his nerves, he tired of the unrelieved companionship of men, and wished that Isabel would move in to Rosewater for the winter months. He rang her up, when this brilliant idea occurred to him, but was informed by Chuma that she was not in the house. On the following day he telephoned again, and learned that she slept, on the third that she was engaged in the delicate operation of extracting some deleterious substance from the crop of a valuable hen. Whereupon he swore vigorously, and vowed that he would forget her until the skies cleared. But "the skies they were ashen and sober," and he caught himself dreaming over his "Torts," or during one of Mr. Boutts's ecstatic visions of Rosewater with a great hotel in the style of the old Missions, and an electric railway. (Mr. Boutts, by-the-way, never elevated his feet to the railing of the stove, but always sat on the edge of his chair, a hand on either knee.) He took the train impulsively to San Francisco, one afternoon, and talked of reinforced concrete with his contractor, and San Francisco politics with Hofer. He even called upon several young ladies, who interested him less than ever, and returned to Rosewater at the end of four days with a sense of duties neglected and a slip in his self-mastery. This put him in such a bad humor that he directed his Asiatic to refuse him to the members of his informal Club, and wished he were back in San Francisco doing the town with Stone.
He was glowering into the open door of the stove and wondering why on earth he had not remained in town over Sunday at least, when he became aware that his noiseless Jap was standing at his elbow.
"What is it?" he demanded, testily. "I wish you would get a pair of creaky boots."
"A gentleman," replied the impervious Oriental.
"I told you I would not see anybody."
"But he has a card." It was not often that the cool even tones of Imura Kisabura Hinomoto fluctuated, but Gwynne detected a faint accent of respect. Somewhat surprised himself, he glanced at the card. It bore the name of one of the judges of one of the benches provided for by the constitutions of both nation and State. He had a summer home on the mountain opposite and relatives in Rosewater, so there was nothing remarkable in his being in the little town on a rainy winter Sunday. Nevertheless, Gwynne's instinct of caution, more active than usual during the past year, stirred sharply.
"Show him in," he said. "And bring the whiskey—both Rye and Scotch."
This was the most perfect specimen of the bluff, hearty, breezy, almost ingenuous Westerner that Gwynne had encountered. The judge, who had been relieved of his hat and overcoat by the admirable Imura, advanced with both hands outstretched, and Gwynne could do no less than surrender his, although he had never fancied any one less. The judge was a big man with a round jolly face, set with a sensual mouth, a pendulous nose, and merry twinkling eyes. Although possibly no more than fifty-five years of age, the baldness of his head had amplified the common noble domelike American brow: behind which Gwynne had so often groped and found nothing. This man was indubitably clever, and to a less educated eye than Gwynne's his face would appeal and fascinate. His magnetism was superlative.
"My dear Mr. Gwynne!" he exclaimed. "Believe me when I say that this is one of the most satisfactory moments of my life. I was forced to come to this God-forsaken hole last night, and had it not been for you I should have taken the morning train back to the city. But when I heard that you were in town—you were pointed out to me as we both left the train—I knew that my opportunity had come. And—my dear young gentleman—I throw away no opportunities; I throw away no opportunities."
By this time Gwynne had steered him into the largest of the chairs, and offered him his choice of the whiskies. The judge, after an instant's hesitation, accepted the Scotch; and Gwynne felt that he had a tactful and dangerous man to deal with.
"Excellent!" exclaimed the judge, and he smacked his lips. He inhaled the aroma of the cigar voluptuously. "But my dear old friend, Judge Leslie, whom I ran in to see for a few moments this morning, told me—with his customary humor—that you were as remarkable for the superior quality of your whiskey and tobacco as for the many personal qualities that have so rapidly endeared you to the citizens of Rosewater."
"Thanks," said Gwynne.
The judge changed his tactics instantly. "I cannot beat about in the dark and merely turn myself loose in pleasant generalities, Mr. Gwynne," he said, gravely. "I am going to tell you at once that I am positive you are Elton Gwynne. Judge Leslie would give me no satisfaction this morning, but I needed none. I happened to be employed in old Colton's bank in my younger days—as secretary—and although that was a long time ago—a long time ago!—it came back to me, when I began to hear so much about our new rancher, that his full name was John Elton Cecil Gwynne, and that he was the only son of his mother. Or—if impressions are confused after so long an interval—I may have gathered the last fact from James Otis, whom I knew very well. He and Hi, indeed, I may honestly say, were among my few intimate friends, despite some disparity in years. So, I have a double interest and, I modestly hope, claim upon you. The former at least has been accentuated since yesterday, when your likeness to Hi struck me very painfully. You are a vast improvement, I grant, for Hi was as ugly as mud and as cross as two sticks, but the resemblance is acute, odd as it may appear. Those things are very subtle, very subtle."
Gwynne had heard the keys of his secret weakness tinkle for a full bar, but while it improved his humor it did not cloud his judgment, and he applied himself to finding out the purpose of the man's visit.
"I regret very much that I have come too late to know any of my male relatives," he said, affably. "Hiram Otis, from all I hear, was an able man, if somewhat soured, and his unfortunate brother one of the most brilliant lawyers of his day. Terrible thing, this reckless drinking in San Francisco. I was told yesterday that when—a few years ago—an editor was sent out from New York to assume charge of one of your most flourishing dailies, he made the entire staff go down to Los Gatos and take the Keeley cure. Then, for a time, he hadrelaysof sober men, at least, but until then he had felt himself a lonely Philistine—besides taking a hand in every department of the 'shop,' even setting type at times. But it's a fascinating old town, all the same. Too fascinating, I fear." And he managed to fetch a remorseful sigh.
The judge, who had laughed heartily at the anecdote, dismissed his twinkle for a moment, and looked at the young man with concern.
"For God's sake," he said, softly, "don't tell me that you have inherited that microbe."
"Oh no, indeed!" said Gwynne, cheerfully. "I never could take to drink now—a man's character is pretty well formed at thirty-two, I fancy, and I scarcely ever touch spirits when alone—prefer the lighter wines. Only, as San Francisco is so convivial, one naturally imbibes a good deal, especially with friends addicted to the 'cocktail route'—and I am afraid I shall have to give up the city for the present and stick to work."
"The judge tells me that your legal powers are really amazing—that you have accumulated more law in four months—"
"Tut! Tut!" cried Gwynne, springing to his feet and reaching the table in a stride. "Have some more whiskey, judge. And don't flatter me any more. I am afraid that vanity is my besetting weakness—"
"Thank God it is not the other!" said the older man, fervently. "And vanity keeps the heart younger than anything I know of. Lose the power of being tickled by a compliment and inflated by success, and you lose the salt of life. But I am delighted that you have taken to the law. I know your English career like a book, and although I do not pretend even to guess at the motives which induced you to fling aside not only the most promising career in England, but one of the noblest of her titles, I may say, sir—and I may speak for my fellow-citizens, the whole million of them—I am deeply flattered, and gratified, that, whatever your motive, which could only be an honorable one, you have chosen this fair State as the theatre of your future triumphs. I hope I shall see you beside me on the bench—unless, to be sure, you have higher ambitions than the mere practice of law."
"The first men in the country have been lawyers," said Gwynne, politely. "Why aspire higher?"
"Why, indeed? But I think you will. The law frequently leads either to one of the benches or into the more active field of politics. And you—with your enormous energies—you will never be content with the law, pure and simple, no matter how brilliant a reputation you might achieve."
"But honest lawyers are so rare!" exclaimed Gwynne, boyishly. "I do believe I should be an honest one. That, at least, is the intention I have set beside my ambition. I am ambitious, judge, as no doubt you have divined, and the prospect of being shelved among the lords sickened me. I wanted to make a career for myself, so cut the whole business and came here where my American properties were. Besides, as it happened, I inherited practically nothing with which to keep up my English estates. There! You have my reasons, judge, and you are welcome to them. Titles without money are mere embarrassments. Still, I really should have left, had it been otherwise—I am certain I should. I never could stand the inaction of the Upper House. Nor do I care for those compensatory honors that my position and family influence might have secured for me. And now I feel more the American every day. I have even grown keen on making money—which I rather disdained at home; for the matter of that, thought little about it. You may not know that I am—in partnership, as it were, with my mother and cousin—putting up a large Class A building in San Francisco?"
He inferred that there was little about him the judge did not know, but accepted the interested "Ah!" and rhapsodized over his new interests. The Judge listened with a benignant smile and a twinkling eye, every once in a while giving the tip of his long fleshy nose an abrupt shove, as if it impeded his breathing.
"Just so!" he exclaimed. "Just so! It is the Otis blood. No better pioneer blood in the State. Jim was the wild one. The others were as steady as rocks. Their father and grandfather—your ancestors, sir—helped to make this great State what it is. Their names will always be honored in the annals of California. Terrible pity Jim and Hi got away with so much. If they'd hung on as your mother and her mother did, Miss Isabel would be one of the heiresses. But she seems able to take care of herself, and with that face and form, I guess she can redeem her fortunes any way she chooses. I hear that young Harry Hofer can't talk of anything else."
Gwynne wondered if this were what the judge had come for, but exonerated him, concluding that he was merely rambling on in the hope of an opening.
"No doubt!" he said, heartily. "Miss Otis could marry any one she pleased. One of the best titles in England was hers for the asking, by-the-way. But like myself she is too good an American—shall I say Californian?—to live anywhere but here. She is immensely successful with her chickens, and we shall all make money on this new deal—I am certain of that."
"No doubt, no doubt. Things are booming in San Francisco. You'll get a huge rent from a building of that size—in time. Pity it has to be divided among three of you. And there will be a big mortgage to pay off first, I suppose; and it is in a very precarious district, a very precarious district." And once more the twinkle retired and he gazed dreamily at the fire.
"Oh, even golden apples have to ripen. And I have taken every precaution against fires. Have some more whiskey, Judge."
"Don't care if I do." Gwynne knew that the Scotch scalded a throat caressed these many years with the oily rye, and put as little seltzer in it as he dared. But the judge sipped it heroically. Suddenly the twinkle danced back to his eye as he turned it upon Gwynne.
"You can't delude me!" he cried. "You can't, sir. I know you intend to go in for politics. Nothing else would ever satisfy your genius. Own up, now."
"Well," said Gwynne, modestly. "I have thought of it. After my five years are up, of course—makes one feel rather like a convict. Meanwhile I can make some headway with the law: or, shall I say, build up a reputation that may be useful to me when I am able to run for office."
"Ah! Just so! Great pity you were ever discharged from your American indigenate. Then one year in California would settle the matter. Which of our parties makes the strongest appeal to you?"
Gwynne's eyes had contracted and he was staring at the stove. But his abstraction was too brief to be noticed, and he answered in a confidential tone, "Well, Judge, to tell you the truth—" And then he stopped and laughed.
"I see. You think one is about as bad as the other."
"Well, I am afraid that is it."
"Oh, my boy, they're not nearly as bad as they are made out to be—our American politics. Judge Leslie is dotty on that subject, and so are a good many of the other old fossils of Rosewater. I don't say but that San Francisco would be the better for a good spring cleaning, but the State's not nearly so bad as it's painted, not nearly so bad as it's painted."
He delivered his repeated phrases with an unctuous indulgent roll that made Gwynne long to grind his teeth. But the prospective American merely raised an interrogative eyebrow. "I don't hear much good in any direction," he murmured.
"Of course, I can understand that you have seen through Tom Colton, and that he has appalled you as much as the fossils. He's in a hurry, and if he isn't mighty careful the machine will throw him down. For all his affected simplicity he's too fond of the limelight: loves to see his name in print; and when he makes a donation to a charity or an improvement scheme he uses up all the fireworks in the State."
"I was under the impression that he was in high favor with the district Boss—"
"The district Boss is getting old, and Tom, one way or another, has acquired a great influence over him; but I happen to know that he doesn't stand any too well with the State Democratic Boss."
"If Tom were really earnest in his reforms, really had the interest of the common people at heart—although I never saw common people so well off in my life—but the point is that if Tom were really sincere he might form an independent party."
"Well, he can. It won't do him any good. It wouldn't do even you any good to work up a reform party, and your abilities are to his as a thousand to one. In fact a man like yourself would have far less chance. They would let Tom amuse himself, but they would find you really dangerous, and the upshot would be that the two parties would unite and crush you. Crush you flat. You might be a George Washington, Alexander Hamilton, and Abraham Lincoln rolled into one, and you would emerge from the swift and simultaneous impact of those two cast-iron walls flatter than the sole of your boot. Even if you made a good running on a reform wave, so much the worse. Reform waves merely serve the purpose of making some poor devil conspicuous and recklessly optimistic, then subside and leave him high and dry—at the mercy of the ever-recuperating machine. It's enough to make a man wish he'd never been born. I've seen it more than once. There's only one of two results. They are either so disgusted with politics that they stay out of them for the rest of their lives, or they pick themselves up and make a bolt for the machine they think most likely to give them a career. Look at some of our most illustrious incumbents. Great bluff on the outside—which the machine don't mind one little bit—and the best sort of a party man inside; walking a chalked line with no rebellious wings on his feet. Wings don't grow on clay. But they are right, Mr. Gwynne, and not because they are wrong, either. In this great country organization is absolutely essential, and in all vast complicated organizations some chicanery will creep in. But take them all in all, American politics are not half as bad as they are painted, not half as bad as they are painted."
"Well, that is a relief. You certainly should know. But what of the great corporations that rule this State—as well as the country? The State Democratic or Republican Boss is president or treasurer of one of them, is he not? I haven't taken the trouble to be very specific as yet. My time is so far off. Of course I do not need to be told that organizations, trusts, or whatever you like to call them, are inevitable—because they are in the line of progress; and unabused, they would be as much to the advancement of the individual as of the country. But they have been abused, from all I can make out—quite shockingly. I am taking the course on 'The Law of Corporations' at the University, partly because I want to understand so vital a question as thoroughly as possible—and partly—well—at least, I fancied I should—for a time—for what money there might be in it—But really!"
"Oh, I don't say that some trusts are not reprehensible, and the sooner they are exposed the better. But they are sensational cases. The majority of the great complex aggregations of capital are monuments to American genius and progress; I am sure that if you waste any time on the yellow press you know how to discount it. Some of even the best of the trusts may have swollen to a size that renders them practically unmanageable, as well as injudiciously provocative of much jealousy and unrest. But the principle is sound, as you have admitted, and the great law of adjustment will correct all that is undesirable, and in a very few years. Meanwhile, get rich yourself, Mr. Gwynne. I'm delighted to learn that corporation law has appealed to you so strongly, for the money is there. I'm glad I came. I'd like to do one of your blood a good turn, to say nothing of yourself. Perfect yourself in corporation law and Leslie says you accumulate more rapidly than any hundred ordinarily well-equipped men one might name—and I can put you in the way of clearing a hundred thousand a year."
"Couldyou?"
"Yes, sir. What the great corporations want, and want badly, even with all the good legal talent they've got, is an attorney of extraordinary abilities, and this you have. I understand that the legal luminary of that reform set in San Francisco has offered to take you into his office. That's about as great a compliment as even you could have, but there's nothing in it. They're playing a losing game. They ought to win, but they won't. The San Francisco Boss may be what we elegantly term a shyster lawyer, but there never was as clever a one; and there's no trick he doesn't know. He'll beat them at every turn. You'd only make one more of that estimable Don Quixote band. Don't waste your youth. Study corporation law with all your might and main, andI'llplace you where you'll make a big income from the start—and it'll grow bigger every year. Then when your turn comes to vote and run for office—why, the whole field will be open to you to pick and choose from. Corporations are not ungrateful, and with a mighty one behind you, I guess you wouldn't whistle for anything, long."
Gwynne regarded the thin sole of his house shoe with so rueful a countenance that the judge laughed outright. "Have you really had thoughts of working up a reform party?" he cried, the dancing imps in his eyes almost escaping.
"Well, I may have dreamed a bit that way. You see, I come of a family of reformers." And he gave the judge a rapid sketch of the part his English forefathers had played in the great reform acts of their country. The judge nodded sympathetically.
"Just so. I understand your point of view perfectly. Perfectly. But those great movements in England are matched here by spasms only. This country is too big and too heterogeneous. Don't set yourself between two cast-iron walls, Mr. Gwynne, because when they do get a concerted move on, they fly like hell. Join either of the parties, and you will find not only that it is not half as bad as it is painted, but that it accomplishes far more good than harm, many real reforms, that are systematically ignored by the press."
"I thought you said that reforms were impossible in this country."
"Oh, bless my soul, no. That would mean that we were going straight to the dogs. Reforms are going on every minute. The country is more tolerable and civilized every decade. What I mean is that no reform can be accomplished until the time is ripe for it. That is the reason why our spasms amount to nothing. They are always premature. But if you really want to do this country a service throw in your lot with the regulars. You would always be an influence for good, and when you saw the first opening for the correction of some crying abuse, you would have powerful machinery at hand to work with. What you want to do, Mr. Gwynne, is to become a powerful factor in the machine, not waste your time on windmills."
"Which machine?" asked Gwynne, ingenuously. "I don't fancy I could ever make up my mind. They seem precisely alike to me."
"Well," said the judge, slowly, although he brushed the tip of his nose aside with more violence than usual. "I don't like advising, particularly a young man of your distinguished abilities and achievements. But I really think I am better able to advise you than Leslie, and certainly every man of us should feel a sense of responsibility to the old Otis—and Adams!—blood. I will say frankly that in your place I should join the party that owns this State—and shows no signs of letting go; in other words, the Republican. I can well understand, that having been a Liberal—and to the extent of renouncing your titles!—the Democratic would appeal to you. But don't waste your time, Mr. Gwynne. You are thirty-two. You don't want to throw away the next ten years on a losing game, and then, tired out, arrive nowhere. You would fight so hard that all your energies would be second-rate by that time. You want to begin right now and swim with the tide. Nurse your great energies for the exactions of the victorious career. You'll need them. And need them fresh."
"That sounds like good advice, but the whole political game appals me when I consider that it will be six years before I can even run for the House of Representatives—"
"True! True! Pity your parents didn't lose you. But everything turns out for the best. Meanwhile, you can make name and fortune as a corporation lawyer. And you can't have too much money in this world, sir. You can't have too much money in this world."
It was on the tip of Gwynne's tongue to ask him bluntly what corporation he had in mind, but not only did his already boiling humor recoil from the indignity of a deliberately worded bribe, but he doubted if it would be proffered so early in the game. He had a very clever man to deal with; it was not likely he would make the mistake of a direct approach. Gwynne flattered himself that he looked as ingenuous as Tom Colton, but as he had seen through the complacent judge, it was possible that the judge might entertain suspicions of a man with his reputation. He was glad he had not spoken when his visitor rose abruptly to his feet.
"Bless my soul!" he exclaimed. "I shall miss my train if I don't hurry. And heaven forbid that I spend another night in this mud-hole. My address is on my card—when do you come down again?"
"There is a lecture at Berkeley on Wednesday—"
"Good! Now, you will dine with me next Wednesday night—and I hope on many other nights. We must have several long talks—and all about your future, young man. I am too old to talk about my own, but I remember what I was at your age. Tactful, hey? But no," dropping his voice gravely. "I want to help you. And I can. Whatever branch of the law you specialize upon, you must leave Rosewater and come to San Francisco. I can place you in an office—even should you decide upon general practice—that will carry you swifter and further than our reform friend can, because he is playing a losing game—a losing game, sir. But we'll talk of all that later. I must hasten."
Gwynne escorted him to the head of the staircase, where he resisted an impulse to kick him down, then, after a hasty glance into the dictionary, encased himself in rubber and went up the hill to the home of Judge Leslie. He was to dine there, and it was but a quarter-past four, but what he had to say and ask would not keep for an hour and three-quarters.
On his way to the house he decided that he could not confide even to Judge Leslie that he had been singled out as likely spoil by the "grafters." No doubt that in a way it was a compliment to his abilities, this early-conceived determination to whisk him out of the reform field and engross his abilities, killing two birds with one stone. Probably he would be approached in a similar manner very often, until he became a definite quantity, and in time would grow accustomed to it; and callous. But at present he was hot and sickened, the more so as he felt that he had received a new impulse to believe in himself. These vast corporations—the railroad, street railways, lighting, and telephone companies, were the ones that dictated to San Francisco, and were supposed to have debauched the Board of Supervisors, all of them small laborers, elevated by the Boss to serve his ends—counted their capital by the millions; in one case, at least, by the hundred million. They had already bought much of the best talent in the country, and they wasted no time on the second-rate. Gwynne could easily guess in whose teeming and orderly brain the scheme to seduce and attach himself had been shaped, and, with the American contempt for the perspicacity of any foreigner, had selected this judge, with his breezy direct tactful manner, as certain to edge the newcomer into the fold. To Gwynne the only saving grace in the whole interview was that he had not been tempted. Had he been he should have felt utterly demoralized, disposed to take himself at the valuation of the business-like unsentimental brains in power.
He found his judge awakening from a nap before his library fire and dusting the crumbs from his beard.
"This is an unexpected pleasure," the old gentleman began, then stopped short. "What is the matter?" he asked, anxiously. "Sit down."
"What does indigenate mean?"
"Why—a purely technical term for citizenship."
"A friend of yours called upon me to-day, on the strength of having known the Otises, and remarked that it was a pity I was ever discharged from my American indigenate."
"That you renounced American citizenship upon coming of age. It is a pity."
"But I remember doing no such thing. I did no such thing. I certainly should remember it."
"You mean that you made no formal act of renunciation of your American birthright, obtained no certificate of British nationality?"
"I did nothing of the sort. It is possible that my father did it for me—"
"Your father could do nothing." Judge Leslie was staring at him. Suddenly he laughed. "YouareBritish! I am almost inclined to believe you hopeless. How did I get the impression that you had formally expatriated yourself? From Isabel, who, no doubt, woman-like, jumped at the conclusion—having known you when you were more British still. And you never brought up the subject—"
"Don't regard me as wholly an idiot. I read the Constitution of the United States half a dozen times while making up my mind to come here, and it is not likely that Article XIV.—'All persons born in the United States, etc., are citizens of the United States, etc.'—escaped me. I consulted my solicitor, and he read me from some chapter on Expatriation, as plainly as may be, that the forfeiture of native citizenship was accomplished not only by a formal act of renunciation, but followed a long severance with the relations of the government under which the person was born, or—acceptance of service under a foreign government. Considering that I had left the United States when I was five weeks old, and had fought and bled for Great Britain, besides serving in her Parliament—where, of course I took my oath of allegiance—and that I had been an Englishman to every possible intent and purpose, even wearing my titles for some weeks, it seemed to me—and to my solicitor—that I would have rather a hard time obtaining an American passport."
The judge nodded. "Quite right. All the same, I can't understand why your father did not bring the question up when you attained your majority, or why you, an ardent Britisher, did not think of it yourself."
"You would understand if you lived among us for a few years. In the first place my being born in the United States was such a mere incident that it was rarely mentioned, and then in the most casual manner. I don't suppose my mother ever volunteered a piece of information in her life, and my father rarely gave a thought to any matter but sport. My grandfather probably disliked the idea—he detested America—at all events he never alluded to the subject, and was far too British to dream that the child of British parents could be other than British were he born in heaven itself. I don't think the matter had entered my mind for ten years, when the subject came up the first night of Isabel's visit to Capheaton—and I stupefied every one by announcing that I had been born in America; but otherwise it made no impression upon them. It is quite possible that had there been any prospect of my becoming the heir, when I reached my majority, some member of the family would have recalled the fact of my birthplace; but Zeal was well then, his wife was bearing children rapidly, there was every reason to suppose she would have half a dozen boys. Do you mean to say that I have never been an Englishman?"
"Oh, you are all right as far as the British law goes. And you were a good and bona fide British subject for thirty years. Don't feel any discouragement on that score."
"Then am I an American citizen? Is there to be no long period of waiting and of comparative inaction?"
"I am not so sure. There is no provision of the Constitution so open to various construction. And none has been so variously construed. I could cite a hundred instances—that is, I could read them to you to-morrow. But I recall two, and they are fair samples. One child, born in the United States, of French parents, returned to France, and after serving his term in the French army wished to become an American citizen, and obtained his passport without difficulty. A full-grown American citizen went to Mexico and fought for Maximilian, and lost not only his own citizenship, but that of his children, who had been born in the United States. There you are, and there you are again, as dear old Dickens would say. But I must think a minute." He transferred his gaze to the coals, and was silent for a few moments.
"There is a pretty strong case on both sides," he resumed, in a musing tone. "You left this country when an infant, you practically forgot it, you entered the service of Great Britain heart and soul, and achieved high distinction. You inherited a title and wore it as a matter of course. For thirty years you never set foot on American soil, nor at any time demanded the protection of the United States, as you might easily have done in your foreign wanderings. There is hardly a doubt that if England had gone to war with us at any time during the last ten years and needed your services you would have given them. However, that contingency did not arise, so let it pass. But with an unsympathetic State Department and an active enemy or two, all the other points cited would make up as clear a case of voluntary expatriation as any on record. But there is a pretty good balance on the other side. Youwereborn in the United States, youdid notrenounce at any time your allegiance, you have the blood of two Presidents in your veins, and—here is the important point: you have been one of the heaviest tax-payers in California for thirty-two years. Now, as I have intimated, these expatriation cases have all been decided on their individual merits. I should advise you to go at once to Washington, and enlist the influence of the British Ambassador to get you personal and private interviews with the powers that be. Then plead your own case. One of two things will happen. Either there will be much hemming and hawing, and much virtuous and judicial weighing of your peculiar case, article by article, or the President himself will decide one way or another off-hand—he being what he is. For that reason I think it would be well to approach him by degrees, let him digest it a bit. He may be delighted that you have thrown over your titles and your brilliant and promising career to become an American citizen, invite you to take the oath of allegiance forthwith, and order the State Department to issue a passport. On the other hand he may fly off at a tangent and be righteously indignant that a man with the blood of the Otises and Adamses in him, who had the good-fortune to be born on American soil, hesitated a moment after reaching man's estate—more particularly that he never gave the matter a thought. Nothing could be more problematical. I wouldn't bet a twenty-dollar gold piece either way. But, I repeat, you must go yourself. Otherwise the affair would hang on interminably. Moreover, you must tell no one the object of your journey. Tom Colton would pull every wire within his reach, and he is no mean rival, to postpone your admission to citizenship, and so, I fancy, would others."
He shot a keen glance at Gwynne. "I think I know who your visitor was, to-day, and what he came to Rosewater for. That speech of yours, and its effect on the crowd, never escaped the attention of the party bosses, and of course you are a marked man in this small community—to say nothing of your intimacy with the reform set in town. The judge, who started somewhere in this neighborhood as a poor boy, rose from various minor situations to be the secretary of Colton's bank, saved his dimes and studied law. So far so good; the average self-made American. The law leads a good many of us into politics and it wasn't long leading him. He was an invaluable party man, with that bluff honest exterior, that superabundant magnetism, and that twinkling eye. The world always associates a fine upright nature with a twinkling eye. I have one myself and I believe that is the main reason why I have always been afraid to do wrong. Well, our friend got the bench when he wanted it, and he has been a mighty good friend to the corporation that put him there. And it has done well by him. He owns a fine house in San Francisco, entertains, goes into the best society, has visited Europe several times, and, although he is now rising sixty, continues to fool all but a few. He might climb higher and become a United States Senator, but the corporation finds him too useful here. He rather resents that, but they make the sacrifice worth his while. I can well conceive they have spotted you, and you may be sure there is little about you they don't know. Of course they have made up their minds you are erratic, and have not the least doubt that they can manipulate that loose screw. They have bought thousands, these —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— (it was not often the judge swore, but when he did he took some time). Grafters, that are debauching the country and will soon make it impossible for an honest man to live; and although they will no doubt have the grace to approach you with less brutal directness than commonly, I knew that was what they were after the moment that old rascal began to talk to me this morning. He never fooled me. Well, we'll fool him. You go to Washington and get your passport, and if you can't hasten matters don't let an outsider know what you are after. Plunge into society and let them think you need a change from California. Of course you will give your real name. Cat's out, anyhow. Perhaps they will think you are on your way home to England. Flirt with the girls and be a frivolous young blood. The judge asked you to dinner, I suppose? I thought so. You would meet more than the judge; if not the first time, then the second and third. Write him a note, telling him you are obliged to go south to take a look at your mother's ranch. Then obey a sudden impulse and go East by the southern route. In Washington be seen as much with your ambassador as possible. I don't think these rascals will suspect, for they take for granted that you were duly 'discharged from your American indigenate'—I can hear him! If they did there would be the devil to pay, but I don't think they will. However, don't waste any time."
Gwynne was staring at the fire, his inner being chaos, but he replied in a moment that he would start for Washington on the following day.