Part 46 (1/2)

”Love,” said Gwynne, grimly.

But Isabel could not bring herself to utter the word. ”One way or the other, it does not alter my determination not to marry.”

”Let that rest for a while. What I want to know is, could you--do you love me?”

”Oh, I don't know! I only know I don't want to. You have a tremendous influence--you have made every one else seem commonplace and uninteresting--I have resented very much your neglect this last month. I am willing to tell you all this--also, that I have dreamed, imagined myself in love with you. But I am convinced that if you let me alone I shall get over it.”

”I have no intention of letting you alone.”

She moved backward suddenly, and he laughed. ”I wouldn't touch you with a forty-foot pole,” he said, roughly, ”unless you wanted me. That, perhaps, shows how far gone I am. But precious little you know about men. Or yourself. If I kissed you this minute you would succ.u.mb--”

He turned suddenly and was down the hall and had slammed the kitchen door behind him before she realized that she was actually alone, that he meant to leave the house. For a moment she clutched the edge of the mantel-piece in a pa.s.sion of relief and regret. Then her femininity was swept aside by her hospitable instinct and vehement fear. She ran down the hall and into the kitchen. But even his rain garments and boots were gone. She opened the back door and peered out into the inky darkness. A light was moving in the stable. The rain was falling in a flood and the wind almost drove her backward. But she gathered up her gown and ran as fast as she could make headway to the stable. He was alone, and tightening his horse's saddle-girths by the light of a dark lantern. He gave her a bare glance and went on with his work.

”You must not go!” She was forced to scream. ”You shall not. Why, you are mad. The marsh--such conventionality is ridiculous. I refuse to recognize it.”

He rose to his feet and led his horse outside. But before he could vault to the saddle she caught his arm and dragged him backward. ”You shall not go! You shall not!” She could hardly hear the sound of her voice.

But she heard his, and there was nothing in either storm or darkness to blunt the sense of touch. For a moment she felt as if the whole had never been halved, as if they two were youth incarnate; and his arm was like vibrating iron along her back. She thought he was going to kiss her and dazedly moved her head towards him. But he cried into her ear instead:

”I stay if you marry me to-morrow.”

”No, no, no!” Her will sprang through her lips, and before it was beaten down again she saw a spark of light engulfed in the dark, and stood alone in the storm, wondering if the world had turned over.

VI

”_Monday Morning._

”This is merely to announce that I survived the marsh, and that upon my return we will resume where we left off last night. E. G.”

Isabel received this note early in the morning. That night she had accepted an invitation of some weeks' standing, and was established in the old Yorba mansion on n.o.b Hill. She anathematized her cowardice, but solitude was beyond her endurance for the moment. She had made up her mind that she would not think of Gwynne at all, much less give herself opportunities to miss and desire him; and her will, reinforced by conditions, was strong enough at times to persuade her that she hated him.

And there was nothing in the Trennahan household to try her nerves, everything to soothe them. Although the old buff walls and terrible carpets of Mrs. Yorba's day had gone long since and the house had been completely refurnished, it looked like a home, not a museum. Trennahan had taken his family to Europe many times, and they had brought back much that was rare and beautiful; but nothing stood out obtrusively, not even a color. They entertained constantly in a quiet way, and if Magdalena was far too Spanish to seek out the clever of all sets, and Trennahan too indifferent, at least Isabel met daily such of the _haute n.o.blesse_ as were not completely fossilized, and many men that interested her well enough. Moreover, as Mrs. Trennahan now had a grown-up daughter, she was obliged to take her to the cotillons and other routs given under the merciless supervision of the Leader. Isabel accompanied her as a matter of course, and when she declined an invitation her guest was at liberty to go with the ever faithful Mrs.

Hofer.

For three weeks Isabel did little thinking. She went to the ranch once a week for the day only, spent an occasional hour with Lady Victoria. Even then she was barely reminded of Gwynne. She was busy during every moment while in the country, and her relative was no more communicative than of yore. Only once did Victoria remark casually, that, by a sort of poetic justice, Gwynne was detained in the south with a sprained ankle, and was hurling maledictions at fate from the cla.s.sic shades of Santa Barbara.

Isabel grudgingly admired the restraint with which he denied himself the possible solace of correspondence with herself, and it crossed her mind once or twice that the young man might have the understanding of women that proceeded from instinct, if not from study. But she deliberately dismissed him, and although his name was frequently mentioned in her presence, she soon ceased to turn cold, and forced him to flit with a hundred others across the surface of her mind.

For the first time in her life she flirted desperately, and with others besides young Hofer. She was quite wickedly indifferent to consequences, and was inspired to woo the fickle G.o.ddess of popularity. The peace and charm and intellectual relief of the Trennahan home did much to modify her shrinking from realities, and the effort to please, and the abandonment to the purely frivolous instincts of youth, were the only aides her beauty needed to achieve that popularity she had abstractly desired the night Gwynne brought her the stars. She no longer desired it at all, but she disguised this fact, and reaped the reward.

Moreover, although her a.n.a.lytical faculty slept in the darkest wing of her brain, the mere fact that she was stormily loved and desired by a man to whom she was powerfully attracted, that for a moment she had been awake and eager in his embrace, had warmed her blood and given her an insolent magnetism that she had never possessed before.

Through Mr. Colton she received a formal request from Gwynne to dedicate the Otis Building--named in honor of the creator of the family fortunes--on the day the last of the foundation-stones was laid. In company with half a hundred other young people in automobiles, she astonished South of Market Street, one beautiful spring day--the spring was making desperate a.s.saults upon the lingering winter--and amidst much mock solemnity and many cheers, deposited into the chiselled crypt of one of the great concrete blocks upon which the building would rest, a strong-box containing three of Concha Arguello's Baja California pearls, several family daguerreotypes, and the original deed of sale which had transferred the property from the city to the first James Otis. When the ceremony was over the contractor shook hands with her approvingly.

”That's as good a place as any for a deed of sale in this here town,” he remarked. ”For no shake will ever budge them concrete pillars. They're down to bed-rock. And no fire'll ever crack them, neither. We'll begin on the steel frame to-morrow, and you must come down occasionally and cheer us up. It'll be worth it. The Otis's goin' to be the c.o.c.k o' the walk. Better make up your mind to have them terra-cotta facings.”

”Oh, they would not raise the rents, and would hardly be appreciated by their present neighbors,” said Isabel, lightly. ”I am going to send you a bottle of champagne to-night, and you must drink to the health of The Otis.”