Part 17 (1/2)

The next day and the day after she went about the house as usual, thinking of others, trying not to brood. Reginald enjoyed his evening petting and in every way his mother seemed to be the same. Then gradually the late catastrophe became less fatal as time went by. For at last reliable news was beginning to come in from the ill-fated city, still burning, yet under absolute martial law. Thousands were now reported to be safe, though homeless, in the parks and upon higher, undamaged ground, beyond the region of flames. Relief trains had gone out on all the railroads; a few of them were now returning, packed with frightened, hungry refugees. And every one in the South seemed to be helping. The call for clothing for unfortunates had been answered generally. Isabel found strange comfort in sorting over her wardrobe, in giving useful parts of it away. Everything suitable for the dire occasion was gladly offered. Action restored her. In helping others she helped herself. Her generosity grew contagious throughout the household.

Madame and the maids brought half-worn garments to swell the size of her own complete pile. Even thrifty Wing became duly exercised over the sad condition of countrymen driven from San Francisco's Chinatown. He talked incessantly of the prevalent heathen version of the earthquake, which involved the rage of an ”old black cow” beneath the surface. One morning he rushed out of the kitchen in fresh excitement. A ”cousin” from the North had just arrived, transported South in a cattle car filled with other celestials. Wing's face reflected the situation as he burst forth with the story of his friend's lucky escape. Isabel sitting alone encouraged him to speak.

”My cousin velly sad, now he lose he business--he so poor. What you think? Plaps I take him lectic car--go that Venice--all same dleam.”

Wing referred to a seaside resort nearby.

Mrs. Barry nodded. ”You may have the day for your outing,” she told him kindly. ”One of the maids may take your place.”

Wing beamed. ”You velly good. I think I go--take my poor cousin--so he not be sad.”

”An excellent plan,” said Isabel.

He spread his hands with deprecating scorn for unwilling sacrifice. ”I not help my fliend when he have bad luck, I no good!” he exclaimed. ”Now my cousin begin all over--not one cent! He tell me all 'bout that earthquake, so terrible. He say, glound lock! lock! lock! all same ocean. Seventeen time! that old black cow kick up, under that gleat San Flancisco. That old cow never so mad udder time.”

Isabel appreciated the heathen myth, but her soul sank as she thought of Philip. Where was he? Had he felt the awful shock, been hurt or killed in a wrecked hotel?

Wing went on. ”Course I not b'leve 'bout that cow. Mission teacher say not so. I not know. I jus say mischief all done! Plaps old cow make trouble. n.o.body know. Any old thing! I say, old black cow jus as good.”

A philosopher's pucker played on his lips and his strong white teeth parted in a smile. ”My cousin horrible scare; cannot forget. He tell me,--all so happy, down that Chinatown fore that earthquake. He say people sit up late, go see flends; play domino; take little supper, len go bed. Everybody have heap fun. n.o.body have fear! Pretty soon everybody wake up--hear that noise! be clazy? Old Chinatown be all same jag!

Glound so dlunk, cannot keep still. Houses dlunk, too! plitty soon fall down. People no can stand up--no can see, all dark! Big noise come out sky; len fire make so blight. China loomans scleam! Little children cannot lun fast. Those priest up Jos House--no good. Everybody lun that bay. No use! Water mad too. Everything clazy! My poor cousin sick inside he heart; cannot forget.”

”By all means take him to Venice,” Isabel advised. And later she watched the pair go forth from the garden. Wing's vivid description of the catastrophe lived in her memory all day. But she tried to control herself; tried to believe that good news would soon come from Dr.

Judkin. Then in the afternoon a messenger boy brought a despatch. She tore open the envelope, hardly daring to look within. But she nerved herself and read, ”Your husband's ma.n.u.script accepted for magazine, also for book form.” Philip's friend--the editor--had signed the golden message.

CHAPTER x.x.xV

Isabel held the telegram to her lips. She seemed to be kissing Philip.

”Dear, dear husband, I knew, I knew,” she softly murmured. The rest of the day she wandered about the garden, almost in an ecstacy of expectation. Something seemed to tell her that Philip was safe, that she would hear from him. But evening shadows fell without a personal word from the North. She was obliged to content herself by reading the evening papers, which were beginning to contradict certain overwhelming statements of days back. The hotel that had totally collapsed was now known to have been poorly built and was not the St. Francis, as formerly stated. Iron frames of many buildings had withstood the earthquake to go down at last before dynamite. Still, the list of dead and wounded would be a long one. Nothing could be definitely settled until after flames had ceased to lick through deserted streets. Suffering was intense on every side. Children had first seen the world under its open sky. Women, without beds to lie upon, had given birth in the open. Yet it seemed to be a time when the best part of human nature revealed a n.o.ble side.

Already hope was beginning to stir in camps where ruined families clung lovingly together. Isabel's eyes grew moist as she read a thrilling story of heroism and courage.

Miss Lewis had gone back to the hotel, and when madame, complaining of a headache, kept her room, Isabel found herself alone. But one thought now absorbed her mind. Every moment she hoped for a telegram from Dr.

Judkin. Then suddenly Wing again stood before her. He had returned from his day's outing and his countenance shone elate. Evidently he had fulfilled a purpose and brought new strength to the fainting heart of his unfortunate friend. As in the morning, Isabel encouraged him to talk.

”I come tell you--clause you so solly,” he began. ”Plitty soon I sure you hear you husbland--all safe! People say not so many kill, after all.

Boss all light, I sure.”

He tried to render sympathy and his attempt was not repulsed. ”And you took your cousin to Venice?” Mrs. Barry kindly questioned.

Wing shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. He had lately cut off his cue, and now stood politely, with a gray ”Fedora” hat in one hand.

”Jus this way,” he explained. ”I decide--not take my cousin that Venice--all same dleam. Too much expense, I say. More better, not fool money, these hard time. I count up. Must spend two-dollar-half--go that seash.o.r.e. Too much, I say. My poor cousin have no good shoe, no decent cloe, jus old thing--all tear. I say we not go foolish place after all.

I tell my flend we stay Los Angeles--get cheap dinner, len go church. I say Plesbyterian Mission more better, not much expense. Too much sorrow, I say. No time go that Venice--all same dleam. Better hear 'bout heaven.”