The Sisters-In-Law | Page 6

understand," sobbed Mrs. Groome. "This is my city! The
city of my youth; the city my father helped to make the great and
wonderful city it is. Even your father--he may not have been a good
husband--Oh, no! Not he!--but he was a good citizen; he helped to drag
San Francisco out of the political mire more than once. And now it is
going! It has always been prophesied that San Francisco would burn to
the ground some time, and now the time has come. I feel it in my
bones."
This was the first reference other than perfunctory, that Alexina had
ever heard her mother make to her father, who had died when she was
ten. The girl realized abruptly that this elderly parent who, while
uniformly kind, had appeared to be far above the ordinary weaknesses
of her sex, had an inner life which bound her to the plane of mere
mortals. She had a sudden vision of an unhappy married life, silently
borne, a life of suppressions, bitter disappointments. Her chief
compensation had been the unwavering pride which had made the
world forget to pity her.
And it was the threatened destruction of her city that had beaten down

the defenses and given her youngest child a brief glimpse of that
haughty but shivering spirit.

VI
Alexina's mind, in spite of a great deal of worldly garnering with an
industrious and investigating scythe, was as immature as her years, for
she had felt little and lived not at all. But she had swift and deep
intuitions, and in spite of the natural volatility of youth, free of care,
she was fundamentally emotional and intense.
Swept from her poor little girlish moorings in the sophisticated sea of
the twentieth-century maiden, she had a sudden wild access of
conscience; she flung herself into her mother's arms and poured out the
tale of her nocturnal transgressions, her frequent excursions into the
forbidden realm of modern San Francisco, of her immense
acquaintance with people whose very names were unknown to Mrs.
Groome, born Ballinger.
Then she scrambled to her feet and stood twisting her hands together,
expecting a burst of wrath that would further reveal the pent-up fires in
this long-sealed volcano; for Alexina was inclined to the exaggerations
of her sex and years and would not have been surprised if her mother,
masterpiece of a lost art, had suddenly become as elementary as the
forces that had devastated San Francisco.
But there was only dismay in Mrs. Groome's eyes as she stared at her
repentant daughter. Her heart sank still lower. She had never been a
vain woman, but she had prided herself upon not feeling old. Suddenly,
she felt very old, and helpless.
"Well," she said in a moment. "Well--I suppose I have been wrong.
There are almost two generations between us. I haven't kept up. And
you are naturally a truthful child--I should have--"
"Oh, mother, you are not blaming yourself!" Alexina felt as if the earth
once more were dancing beneath her unsteady feet. "Don't say that!"

The sharpness of her tone dispelled the confusion in Mrs. Groome's
mind. She hastily buckled on her armor.
"Let us say no more about it. I fancy it will be a long time before there
are any more parties in San Francisco, but when there are--well, I shall
consult Maria. I want your youth to be happy--as happy as mine was. I
suppose you young people can only be happy in the new way, but I
wish conditions had not changed so lamentably in San
Francisco....Who is this?"
CHAPTER III

I
As Alexina followed her mother's eyes she flushed scarlet and turned
away her head. A young man was coming up the avenue. He was a very
gallant figure, moderately tall and very straight; he held his head high,
his features were strong in outline. But the noticeable thing about him
at this early hour of the morning and in the wake of a great disaster was
his consummate grooming.
"That--that--" stammered Alexina, "is Mr. Dwight. I met him last night
at the Hofers'."
The young man raised his hat and came forward quickly. "I hope you
will forgive me," he said with a charming deference, "but I couldn't
resist coming to see if you were all right. So many people are
frightened of fire--in their own houses."
"Mr. Dwight--my mother--"
He lifted his hat again. Mrs. Groome in her chastened mood regarded
him favorably, and for the moment without suspicion. At least he was a
gentleman; but who could he be?
"Dwight," she murmured. "I do not know the name. Were you born
here?"

"I was born in Utica, New York. My parents came here when I was
quite young. We--always lived rather quietly."
"But you go about now? To