Mrs. MacGregor's plans with Elijah were shaping to a desired end, but,—there was an uncertain element which she could not resolve. There was no lack of keen, exact penetration in Elijah; but there was now a reticence about his personal feelings which she did not dare openly to break. Indirect openings which she gave, he passed by without notice. She was unable to decide whether his reticence was due to wounded pride, in that he had been betrayed into an exhibition of the inner chambers of his heart, or whether it was due to a growing resentment of her attack upon Helen Lonsdale. Another surmise and nearer the truth, had she known it, was that he had been brought face to face with his position as regarded his wife. If Mrs. MacGregor had been sure of Elijah's ultimate decision, her course of action might have been different. As it was, she was fairly confident that she knew every element in Elijah, and that she could predicate its logical end. She was certain that she knew Amy, and that sooner or later a separation would come, and that the sooner it came, the better it would be for her own personal designs.
Mrs. MacGregor soon reached another conclusion which she regarded as final. She had carefully studied Amy in every contact with Elijah. She saw in her every attitude before him, in her every word to him, an eager assurance of confidence and love which in reality was an evident doubt of it, or at least a fear for it. She was in effect, doing in her pitiful way, what she had always done, mirroring to her husband every phase of himself which he presented to her. It was inert, impersonal, and, in Elijah's present state of mind, not only passively, but actively exasperating to him. It wholly lacked the power to soothe, much less to inspire.
It was several days after Mrs. MacGregor had reached her conclusion that Amy was impossible, before she began an aggressive campaign against her.
Elijah had been called to Ysleta and had gone alone. Mrs. MacGregor had been invited to accompany him, but for personal reasons, had declined. Her ostensible reason was that he had kept her so busy that she had had no time in which to give herself up to the beauties of his place.
Poor innocent Amy! She and Mrs. MacGregor were seated on the verandah. Through the trembling leaves, the tempered sunlight filtered and waltzed to and fro, in dreamy, peaceful measures across the floor. The songs of many birds, the flutter of their wings, the rustle of leaves, these soothed and lulled the senses to a restful peace. There is nothing like it in the world; nowhere but in California, newly awakened. The rank growth of fruit and flower, a growth roused from its fiery sleep, now striving in a day to make up for ages of helpless bondage.
Mrs. MacGregor was sitting with her hands folded in her lap, but her thoughts were busy. At last she spoke.
"Are you happy in California?"
Amy looked up in unfeigned surprise.
"Why shouldn't I be?"
A trained diplomat could not have parried the thrust more deftly. Mrs. MacGregor looked fixedly but calmly at Amy. Was that answer accidental or designed?