Ancestors Part 35

"Very good game if it is played properly. I have a mind to teach you."

"Well, you will not!"

"I think I shall. It is either marry you or leave California."

"That is a threat unworthy of you."

"No threat at all. If you will not permit me to protect you in one way I must in another. I leave and throw everything over with great eclat. You have discarded me and I cannot stand the proximity."

"They might merely think that you were running away from me."

"I shall take good care they think what I choose. Women are more romantic and sentimental than malignant, the bulk. All they want is a starter."

"But you need not leave California. You can move to San Francisco."

"Now you are talking like a child. I shall return to England. As to my American career, my only chance lies here. I hate the rest of the country, and the best material is in California, anyhow. Yesterday I received a letter from my solicitor, enclosing one from Jimmy, who informed me that I was on every tongue, that the public curiosity was piqued, that the newspapers were demanding that I should return and accept my responsibilities, and that without doubt a place would be made for me in the new Liberal Cabinet. It is a propitious moment for return. If there is a time when a Liberal peer can make any running it is when his party is in power."

There was a pause for several moments. Gwynne filled and lit another pipe. Isabel stared at a ring she twisted about her finger, Mr. Clink at the geranium stump. The low dull roar in the forest tops was unceasing, but for other sound of life they might have swung off into s.p.a.ce.

Finally Isabel spoke. "I won't marry you," she said. "But all ends will be served if we announce an engagement. We can state that we think it best not to marry until your law studies are concluded. It can be postponed once or twice on other pretexts, then fall through. By that time gossip will be forgotten, people will have lost interest in us. In San Francisco they are not likely to hear of this at all, or if they do it will not matter, and if you fall in love with any of the _cotillon_ beauties I will release you in due form and give you my blessing."

"I have not the least intention of undertaking life with a _cotillon_ beauty. Your compromise will do for the present, but you will understand that my proposal is a bona fide one, should you arrive at a more rational frame of mind."

"I sha'n't fall a victim to any irrational state of mind. I won't marry.

Why, even people that like me too much interfere with my sense of liberty."

Gwynne laughed. "We had better be starting," he said.

x.x.xI

They parted at the foot of the mountain, and as Isabel approached her own house she saw Anabel Colton's trap tied to the garden gate. She set her teeth and slackened the pace of her horse, but Anabel and Miss Boutts had seen her, and leaned over the edge of the veranda, calling to her impatiently. She gave her horse a cut with the whip and rode rapidly to the stable. When she finally reached the veranda she greeted her friends courteously enough, and then, as she noted their expression of defiant loyalty, remarked, sweetly:

"Of course you have been expecting to hear that I am engaged to Mr.

Gwynne, but I only really made up my mind to-day."

"Isabel!" Both fell on her neck, Dolly with tears, and she responded with what enthusiasm was in her, and gently deposited them into two of the veranda chairs. With a very fair simulation of the engaged girl she answered their rapid fire of questions, and even informed Anabel that she would prefer silver to china when the day for presents arrived, and promised that she should come to the rehearsal of the ceremony, since, unfortunately, the young matron's own happy state debarred her from officiating at the altar. But she was averse from lying, even by implication, and was glad to see them go. After they had turned for the last time to blow her a kiss, she went within, slammed all the doors on the lower floor, stamped her feet, and hurled a book across the room.

Finally she swore. After that she felt better and sat down to read a letter from Mrs. Hofer that awaited her.

"... I can't do anything with your Lady Victoria" [the lively young matron ran on after a few preliminary enthusiasms]. "She went everywhere at first, but just sat round looking like a battered statue out of the Vatican with some concession in the way of clothes--not so much.

Literally she made no effort whatever, and, you know, _American men won't stand that_. Perhaps that's the reason she suddenly called off and refused to go anywhere. But what can she expect? American women may talk too much, but at any rate they are the sort American men know like a book, and our knights have no use for inanimate beauties a good many years younger than my Lady Victoria.

"Now she appears to do nothing but walk--stalk rather. She goes over these hills as if she had on seven-league boots. One would think she was possessed by the furies; or perhaps she is afraid of getting fat.

"I am simply dying to see you again. If you don't mind--I like you better than any one I ever met. You combine everything, and although you make me feel as fresh as paint and as Irish as Paddy Murphy's pig, still you always put me in a better humor with myself than ever. How do you do it? You suggest all sorts of things that I can't define at all. Comes of living alone and making a success of it, I suppose, getting ahead of mere femininity and all the pettinesses of life. That's flying rather high for me, so I'd better come down. Please _make_ Mr. Gwynne come to my party. I intend that party to be the greatest thing ever given in California--since the old Monte Cristo Ralston days, anyhow: and have all sorts of surprises that I won't tell even you. The ballroom is quite finished and is a perfect success. It is _too_ fine to think that you will make your formal debut in it. Everybody is coming. Mr. Gwynne simply must. I know of about a dozen girls who would have given him the _cotillon_ if he had asked them, and even now, when they are all engaged, I know of at least two who would not hesitate to throw their men over. We all like him tremendously, the men as well as the women.

Mr. Hofer and I--do you know, we have just a dark suspicion--where _is_ Elton Gwynne, anyway? That would be too good to be true. He could own the town. We know an _individual_ when we see one, and wouldn't we appreciate the compliment! We'd like him all the better for having accepted him when he was plain John Gwynne, and we'd like ourselves better still. You know how we make up our own minds out here. Look at the famous actors and singers we've rejected, and the reputations we've made. Not like New York, that never expresses an opinion until a sort of consensus has sweated up to the surface. I hate New York. Can't you come down and pay me a visit of a week? I should love it. Call me up on the telephone."

Isabel pondered over this missive for a few moments and then reread parts of a long letter she had received the day before from Flora Thangue.

"... I almost wish Jack would return, although at first I approved of his going. His case seemed so desperate. But since the elections there has been so much talk of him, so many prophecies as to what he will do when he returns--they believe him to be travelling in South America--so much seems to be expected of him, especially now that the Liberals are in, and there is so much dissatisfaction with the Cabinet--I really believe he would be the one to keep the party in power and that his becoming prime-minister would be a question of only a few years. Not such a bad outlook! But I don't care to say all this to Jack--or even to Vicky. You are responsible for the present state of affairs, and I am sure you realize what a tremendous responsibility it is. Besides, you know every side of the question over there as I do not. Think it over, dear Isabel.... Julia Kaye, I happen to know, has been trying to get his address. So far, she has not landed another big fish, and no doubt thinks that Jack's disgust and enthusiasm have both worn themselves out by this time. Don't send him back, but bring him. Of course he has fallen in love with you. Besides, you could accomplish any mortal thing you put your will to. Do, please, think it all over. A few years' delay, and he might return and find it too late. The public memory is short.

There are rivals. The one he had most to fear from has an Under-secretarys.h.i.+p, and lets no one forget him. There will be deep resentment at too long an absence, especially if he should become an American citizen meanwhile. They would never forgive that.

"... About Vicky. I wish I could have gone with her, but she did not feel that she could afford to take me, and Vicky's spasms of economy are not to be discouraged. But, thank heaven, she has you and Jack. Perhaps all she really needed was a change: she was always an individual, but she got to be distinctly peculiar after you left--nerves, I suppose: only instead of being merely irritable like other women she sealed herself up like a Mahatma preparing for astral flight. I only wish she was one. Women of her cla.s.s no longer take to religion, when the fires are dead, but they certainly need a subst.i.tute, and I should think theosophy would be as good as any. It is such a delightful mixture of vagueness and c.o.c.k-sureness, and even more picturesque than Romanism. It is time for me to follow the fas.h.i.+on and write a book, and I think I'll paint the mysterious delights of India as a late autumn resort. I am so sick of all these public mausoleums for youth! It would be a positive relief to think of all our erstwhile beauties stretched out in some frescoed cave with their ears and eyes and noses sealed up with wax, while their ever-youthful spirits sallied forth for new conquests on the astral plane. But Vicky never 'made up': one must say that much for her.

Only this terrible fetish of youth! Heavens! the tragedies my sympathetic soul has endeavored to see as tragedies only. Not that growing old seems to be the worst of it. The underlying tragedy is that they can't care enough, and this they take to be the real end of youth, and patter up and down the old worn-out track of device, trying to fool themselves as well as others. But Vicky, as I said, is an individual: a touch or two more and she might have been a genius. She is like the ma.s.s of women in many things, heaven knows, but her divergences are the more startling; and the point of divergence lies down in the roots of her pride. She suddenly felt the complete loss, the final departure of youth, and she accepted it like a fallen G.o.ddess, and refused even the sudden and startling renewal of Sir Cadge Vanneck's devotions. She had nothing left to give him, and although her pride may have urged her to show the world that she still could capture a man like that, I think he really bored her to death, and she was satisfied to parade him for a time and then publicly throw him over. And she once loved him, I am certain of it. That is tragedy, if you like. I fancy she has desperate moments, but she will pull through in her own way. Don't delude yourself with the notion that she is sitting down in sackcloth and ashes with her past! Those women don't repent, for they never admit that the laws of common mortals apply to them. What is their royal pleasure to do they do, and when it is over a square inch of their memory might have gone with it. To mull themselves, commit some flagrant error that lands them in the divorce court, or high and dry in the outskirts--that is another matter. They repent then, _sans doute_; and get no mercy. We overlook everything at this apex of civilization but stupidity. We respect the high-handed but not the light-headed. That is one reason those long-winded novels of sin and repentance--generally over one slip and when the man has wearied--leave us cold. We know too much. It seems such a lot of fuss about so little. If some of these good, painstaking, and--let us whisper it--bourgeoise novelists had seen one-tenth of the pagan disregard for all they cherish most highly, that I have seen, and if they could only be made to comprehend--which they never could--how absolutely admirable these same women are in many other respects--such capacity for deep undying friends.h.i.+p, such uncalculating loyalty, such racial possibilities of heroism--well, they would do a good deal harder thinking than they have had to do yet, if they attempted to readjust their traditions to the actual facts of life. But the old traditions get back at our women all the same, although they don't suspect it. They pay the penalty in that late--sometimes not so late--intolerable maddening ennui. Heavens! how many women I have heard wish they were dead. Thank G.o.d I am a virgin!

"Of course, dear Isabel, I would not write like this about Vicky to any one on earth but yourself. But she is on your hands, so to speak, and I feel you should have some sort of comprehension of her. To understand her fully is impossible. She is unhappy, that is the main thing--what with all I have intimated, and the great change in her fortunes--I can hardly imagine Vicky without Capheaton and the reflected glory of 'Elton Gwynne'; and, no doubt, she finds California an exile and has realized by this time that she can be of little use to Jack. Better make a fortune for her in your wonderful American way and bring them both home."

x.x.xII

Isabel called up Mrs. Hofer on the telephone, and after being switched off and on half a dozen times, and crossed wires and all the other mishaps peculiar to the California telephone service had reduced both to a state of furious indifference, Mrs. Hofer accepted Miss Otis's inability to go down to San Francisco until the day of the party, and her promise to pay the visit during Christmas week, with equal philosophy.

The party was to be on the night of the 24th, and Isabel did not see Gwynne again until the evening of the same day. Judge Leslie went to Santa Barbara to spend the holidays with his son, and his pupil to Burlingame and Menlo Park for a week. After the polo and various other sports at the former resort, with a set that bore an outline resemblance to the leisure cla.s.s of his own country, the gay life at the Club and the mult.i.tude of pretty girls always flitting amid compact ma.s.ses of flowers, he found the now unfas.h.i.+onable borough of Menlo Park somewhat dull; although he had good snipe-shooting on the marsh with his host, Mr. Trennahan. The whole valley, however, had a peculiar charm for him; when riding alone past the fields of ancient oaks with the great mountains on either side, almost a sense of possession. For all this magnificent and richly varied sweep of land, now cut up into a few large estates and an infinite number of small ones, into towns, and villages, hamlets, and even cities, had once been the Rancho El Pilar, and the property of his Mexican ancestor, Don Jose Arguello. He knew that in those old days it must have looked like a vast English park, and he felt some resentment that his ancestors had not had the wit to hold fast to it until his time came to inherit.

Mrs. Trennahan's father, Don Roberto Yorba, had bought a square mile from one of the Arguello heirs, and a few rich men of his time had followed his example; and slept in their country-houses during six months of the year while their women yawned the days away, deriving their princ.i.p.al solace in contemplation of their unchallenged exclusiveness. Stray members of those old families were left, and were, if anything, more exclusive than their parents, disdaining the light-hearted people of Burlingame, unburdened with traditions.

This was still the set that never even powdered, faithful to the ancient code that it was not respectable, and who spent the greater part of the year in the country, finding their pleasures in the climate--soporific--excellent old Chinese or Spanish cooks, and in reminiscences of the time when the fine estates had not been cut up into little suburban homesteads for heaven only knew whom.

Mrs. Trennahan had sold her father's place, and bought a superb estate in the foothills, where she entertained in the simple fas.h.i.+on of the Eighties. Trennahan still took the haughty spirit of his chosen borough with all his old humor, but he liked no place so well, even in California. A New-Yorker is always a New-Yorker, however long he may live in California, but he becomes more and more attached to the independent life, the even climate, above all to the cooking; and Trennahan was no exception. He had found Magdalena the most comfortable of companions, she had presented him with two fine boys--who were preparing for college, at present--and a lovely daughter; and he was, in a leisurely way, collecting earthquake data, for future publication, and amused himself with a seismograph; which worried Magdalena, who thought the instrument much too intimate with earthquakes to be a safe piece of household furniture. Gwynne liked them both as well as any people he had met in California, and engaged the beautiful Inez--who would seem to have embodied all her mother's old pa.s.sionate longing for physical loveliness--to dance several times with him at the great ball which was to be the medium of her introduction to society.

"I am still old-fas.h.i.+oned," Mrs. Trennahan confided to Gwynne, with a sigh. "I never have liked new people and I never shall; Mr. Trennahan has not laughed it out of me. But what will you? They are seven-eighths strong in San Francisco, I have a daughter who naturally demands the rights of her youth--so I make the best of a bad bargain. But I protest."

When Gwynne arrived at the house on Russian Hill late in the evening it occurred to him to tap on Isabel's door and tell her that he had obeyed her orders, recalled all the traditions down in their common ancestor's old domain, and "got the feel" of the place. He had never crossed the threshold of this room although he had brushed his hair many times in the spotless bower by the marsh, and he was surprised, after a moment's colloquy through the panels, by an invitation to enter. He was still more surprised to find Isabel sitting before her dressing-table in full regalia, although they were not to start for the party until eleven o'clock. She wore the white tulle gown with the dark-blue lilies in which she had created a sensation at Arcot, and looked more radiant than he had ever seen her. Her eyes were like stars, her cheeks were pink; her red lips were parted, the upper trembling with excitement.

"Come! Look!" she cried. "See what your mother has given me. I had to dress at once to see the whole effect."

She lifted and fingered rapturously a row of splendid pearls that lay on her neck.

"Did you ever see anything so beautiful? All my life I have wanted a string of pearls--real pearls that you read about, although I thought myself fortunate to have that old string of Baha California pearls, and never expected anything better. At first I wouldn't take them, but Cousin Victoria said they were her mother's, a gift from _her_ father when she married, so that I ought to inherit them, anyhow; and might as well have them while I was young. She vowed she should never wear them again, as her skin was no longer white enough for pearls. I can't believe it!"

Gwynne looked at her curiously. "I had no idea you cared for those things. I could have given you pearls. Your pose has always been to scorn the common weaknesses of your s.e.x."

"You are just a dense man! I have all my s.e.x's love of personal adornment, if you like to call that a weakness. Do you suppose I admire myself in that riding-habit or those overalls? Don't I always dress for supper even when alone? Have I not a lot of lovely gowns? Look at this one! I am so glad I never wore it again until to-night. As for jewels, I adore them, and when I am a millionaire I shall have little shovels full like those you see in jewellers' windows, just to handle; and the most lovely combinations to wear. But I don't ruin my complexion pining for what I can't have--or have lost. Of course poor mamma had beautiful jewels, but they went the way of all things."

Gwynne looked at his watch. "I shall get a bite in town," he said. "The shops will be open till midnight. Hofer will endorse a check for me; I have sold three farms in the past week and have a pot of money in the bank. There is something else I want you to wear to-night--"

"I won't take jewels from you--"