The Sisters-In-Law | Page 6

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 all these parties?"
"Oh, yes. I like to dance after the day's work. But I am not what you would call a society man. I haven't the time."
Mrs. Groome was not usually blunt, but she suddenly scented danger and she had not fully recovered her poise.
"You are in business?" She disliked business intensely. All gentlemen of her day had followed one of the professions.
"I am in a wholesale commission house. But I hope to be in business for myself one day."
"Ah."
Still, all young men in this terrible twentieth century could not be lawyers. Mrs. Groome knew enough of the march of time to be aware of the increasing difficulties in gaining a bare livelihood. Tom Abbott was a lawyer,