VI
The next morning, Isabel, after little sleep, rose early and went outfor a walk. She had sat up until eleven, listening to the puzzling jetsof conversation, or watching the Bridge-players, and when she hadfinally reached her room, tired and excited, Flora Thangue had come infor a last cigarette and half an hour of chat. Her first evening in thenew world had had its clouded moments, for it was impossible not to feelthe alien, and the kindness of English people, no matter how deep, iscasual in expression. But on the whole she had felt more girlishly happyand ebullient than since her sister had gone her own way and left aheavy burden for young shoulders behind her. In the freedom of a girl inEurope, no matter how prized, there is much of loneliness in idleness, aconstant attitude of defence, moments of bitter wonder and disgust, and,to the analytical mind, an encroaching dread of a more normal futurewith a chronic canker of discontent.
Isabel had by no means passed her European years in the procession thatwinds from the Tiber to the Seine, prostrating itself at each successivestation of architecture or canvas; nor even devoted the major portion ofher time to the investigation of the native, deeply as the varying typeshad interested her. Her intellectual ambition, as is often the case withthe American provincial girl, had been even stronger than her desire forliberty and pleasure, and she had spent several months with thearchaeological society of Rome, read deeply in Italian history and art,attended lectures at the Sorbonne, and spent nearly a year in Berlin,Dresden, Munich, and Vienna, studying that modern stronghold of dramaticliterature, the German Theatre.
It had been the living dream of long winter evenings, when she had notdared to join in the festivities of the other young folk lest her fathershould stray beyond her control; he would, when the demon was quiescent,sit at home if she read to him, and she had learned to read and dream atthe same time. It was only at the beginning of her third year ofliberty, when, in spite of shifting scenes, the entire absence of dailycares and of heavy responsibilities involving another had given herlonger hours for thought and introspection, that the poisonous doubt ofthe use of it all had begun to work in a mind that had lost something ofthe ardor of novelty. The eternal interrogations had obtruded themselvesin her unfortunate girlhood, and she had questioned the voicelessinfinite, but angrily, with youth's blind rebellion against theinjustice of life. The anger and rebellion had been comatose in theseyears of freedom, but the maturer brain was the more uneasy, at timesappalled. For what was she developing, perfecting herself? She had notalent, with its constant promises, its occasional triumphs, itsstimulating rivalries, to give zest to life; and there were times whenshe envied the student girls in Munich with their absurd "reform dress,"their cigarettes and beer in cheap restaurants and theatres, their morethan doubtful standards. Although she had her own private faith andnever hesitated to pray for anything she wanted, she was not of thosethat can make a career of religion; her mind and temperament were bothtoo complex, and she was unable to interest herself in creeds andtheologies--and congregations.
Now and again she had considered seriously the study of medicine,architecture, law, of perfecting herself for criticism of some sort, forshe had spoken with a measure of truth when she had assured Flora thatshe had no wish to marry. In her depths she was--had been--romantic andgiven to dreaming, but the manifold weaknesses of her father--who hadbeen one of the most brilliant and accomplished of men, a graduate ofHarvard, and the possessor of many books--and the selfish and tyrannousexactions which had tempered his enthusiasm for all things feminine, thecaustic tongue and overbearing masculinity of her uncle, who had been asweak in his way as her father, for he had lost the greater part of hispatrimony on the stock-market, and the charming inconsequence of herbrother-in-law, who loved his family extravagantly and treated them likepoor relations, had not prepared her to idealize the young men she hadmet in Rosewater and Europe. She had been sought and attracted more thanonce during her years of liberty, but her prejudices and the deep coldsurface of temperament peculiar to American girls of the best class,lent a fatal clarity of vision; and although she had studied men asdeeply as she dared, the result had but intensified the sombre threat ofthe future. It was quite true that she had half-consciously believedthat hope would live again and justify itself in Elton Gwynne, and thedisappointment, at the first glimpse of his portrait, was so crushingthat she had buried her sex under an avalanche of scorn.
But scorn is far more volcanic than glacial and a poor barrier betweensex and judgment. It needed more than that, and more than disillusionsof the second class, no matter how inordinate, to give a girl the coolreality of poise that had stimulated the curiosity of Miss Thangue; andthis Isabel had encountered, during the most critical period of herinner life, in the beautiful city by the Isar. The experience had beenso brief and tremendous, the incidents so crowding and tense, the climaxso hideous, that she had been stunned for a time, then emerged into herpresent state of tranquil and not unpleasant philosophy--when thepresent moment, if it contained distraction, was something to begrateful for; otherwise, to be borne with until the sure compensationarrived. The future had neither terror for her nor any surpassingconcern, although all her old impersonal interest in life had revived,and she was still too young not to be very much like other girls whencircumstances were propitious. And at last she had conceived--orevolved--a definite purpose.
This morning she was living as eagerly as ever during her first deepmonths in Europe. The excitement of the evening still possessed her; shehad held her own, received homage, lived a little chapter in an Englishnovel; above all, she was young, she was free, she was no longerunhappy; and she loved the early morning and swift walking.
It was Sunday; the shooting would not begin until the morrow; everybodyexcept herself, apparently, still slept; the breakfast-hour washalf-past nine. She walked down a long lane behind the lawns and enteredthe first of the coverts. There was a drowsy whir of wings--once--thatwas all. There was a glint of dancing water in the heavier shades, arosy light beyond the farthest of the trees in the little wood where thedelicate pendent leaves hung asleep in the sweet peace. There was not anexpiring echo of her own wild forests here; nor any likeness to thesplendid royal preserves of Germany and Austria, with their ancienttrees, their miles of garnished floor, the sudden glimpse of chamois orstag standing on a rocky ledge against the sky as if drilled for hispart. These woods had a quality all their own: of Nature in her lastlittle strongholds, but smiling, serenely triumphant, of tempered heatwithout chill, above all, of perfect peace.
Nothing in England had impressed Isabel like this atmosphere of peacethat broods over its fields and lanes, its woods and fells, in theevening and early morning hours; the atmosphere that makes it seem to beset to the tune of Wordsworth's verses, and to keep it everlastinglyold-fashioned and out of all relation to its towns. As she left the woodshe saw a big hay-stack, as firm and shapely of outline as a house, nota loose wisp anywhere. A girl, bareheaded, was driving a cow across afield. A narrow river moved as slowly as if the world had neverawakened. The road turned to her right and led to an old stone villagewith a winding broken street and several oak-trees, a pump, and a longgreen bench. It might have been the Deserted Village, for the Englishrise far later than the Southern races that have fallen so far behindthem in importance and wealth. Beyond the village, on a rise of ground,was the church, its square gray tower crumbling down upon its ancientgraves. In the distance were farms, coverts, another village, a grayspire against the blossoming red of the sky; and over all--peace--peace.Had anything ever really disturbed it? Would there ever be any change?England had been devastated to the roots, would be again, no doubt, butunless it became one vast London, it would brood on into eternity withthe slight defiant smile of a beautiful woman in an enchanted sleep.
"Are you, too, an early bird?"
Isabel flew out of her reverie. Lady Victoria was approaching from aforking road. She wore a short skirt, leggings, and heavy boots; and shewas bright, fresh, almost rosy from swift walking. "I have gone five
miles already," she said, smiling. "But I believe you were sauntering."
"Only just now--to absorb it all. I, too, can do my five miles an hour,although Californians are the laziest people in the world aboutwalking."
"Then if you are up to a sharp trot we'll go to that farthest village.My land steward has been telling me a painful tale about one of my youngwomen, and I intend to ask her some embarrassing questions while she isstill too stupid with sleep to lie."
"Your young women? Is all this your estate?"
"It belongs to Strathland, but I have lived here since I married, andnow the place is virtually Jack's. These people have been my particularcharge for thirty years and will continue to be until my son marries.There are only about a hundred families on the estate altogether, butthey keep one busy."
"I can't imagine you in the working role of the Lady Bountiful. Lastnight, at least, if I had written to my friend, Anabel Colton, I shouldhave devoted pages to your more famous attributes, but I should neverhave thought of this."
"Indeed? If one could languish through life in the shell of a merebeauty that life would be a good deal simpler proposition than it is.Unfortunately there are complications, and, agreeable or not, oneaccepts them as one does enemies, husbands, stupid servants, and allother mortal thorns. But I am not uninterested in my people here, not byany means, and they bore me less than going to court and visiting myfather-in-law. I watch them from birth, see that they are properlyclothed and fed, that they go to school as soon as they are old enough,later that they find a situation here or elsewhere--those that have nowork to do at home. My son gives the young men and women a completewardrobe when they start out to win their way in life, and the detailsfall on me. It means correspondence, mothers' meetings, and all thatsort of thing. Even during the London season I come down once a month.Of course it is a bore, but on the whole tradition is rather kind thanotherwise in making life more or less of a routine."
"Wouldn't you miss it if your son married?" Isabel wondered if thiswoman had really given her the impression of tragic secrets, unlimitedcapacities for both license and arrogance. In this early morningfreshness there was hardly a suggestion of the woman of the world,barely of the great lady; and in the rich tones of her voice there was agenuine note of interest in her poor.
"Oh, I should always keep an eye on them; young wives have so manydistractions. If I had to give them up--yes, of course it would mean avacancy in my collection of habits; one side of me clings strongly totraditions and duty. The other--well, I'd like to be a free-lance in theworld for a while--although," she added, with a sharp intonation, "Idon't suppose I should stay away from Jack very long. It is a greatrelief to have a vital interest in life outside one's self. You, ofcourse, are not old enough to have discovered that; and, indeed, I amnot always so sure that it is possible."
Isabel did not ask her if she would not be jealous of the wife who must,if he loved her, take the greater part of all that her "Jack" had togive; she divined in this many-sided woman a quality in her attitudetowards her son with which ordinary maternal affection had little incommon. Her fine eyes flashed with pride at the mention of his name, andit was more than evident that he was her deep and abiding interest; butthis keen and curious young student of life had never seen any one lessmaternal. Lady Victoria's attitude, indeed, might as reasonably be thatof a proud sister or wife. When he was beside her she looked almostcommonplace in her content. The moment he passed out of her sight somephase of individuality promptly lit its torch. Last night Isabel hadseen her stand for half an hour as motionless as some ivory femaleColossus, only her eyes burning down with slow voluptuous fire upon anadoring little Frenchman. She had looked like a Messalina petrified withthe complications and commonness of the modern world; possibly with theburden of years, Isabel had added, in girlish intolerance of the wilesof which youth is independent. She had been far from falling under herspell, although not wholly repelled by the glimpse of this worst side ofa woman far too complex to be judged off-hand. This morning she likedher suddenly and warmly, and, with the lightning of instinct, divinedwhy she worshipped her son and still was willing to have him marry andswing aside into an orbit of his own. All she needed was a certainamount of his society, opportunities to work for him, the assurance ofhis success and happiness. He was a refuge from herself; in hisimperious demands her memory slept, her depths were stagnant. But Isabelwas still too young, in spite of her own experience, more than dimly toapprehend the older woman's attitude, and the innumerable and variousacts and sufferings, disenchantments and contacts that had led up to it.Victoria seemed to her the most rounded mortal she had met, and yet withan insistent terror in the depths of her riven and courageous soul, theterror of the complete, the final disillusion. Between that moment andher too exhaustive knowledge of life stood the magnetic figure of herson, safeguarding, almost hypnotizing her. She was as incapable ofjealousy as of aching vanity in the fact of a son whom the world wasnever permitted to forget. She had done with little things, and Isabel,with young curiosity, wondered in what convulsion the last of them hadgone down.
Lady Victoria, unconscious of the analytical mind groping to conclusionsbeside her, was revolving the midnight comments of Flora Thangue, andher own impressions of this American relative whose sudden advent, takenin connection with her eighteenth century beauty and undecipherablequality, wrought the impression of a symbolic figure swimming out ofspace. Lady Victoria was far too indifferent to analyze the problems ofany woman's soul, but she was keenly alive to the vital suggestion ofpower in the girl, and of the strong will and intellect, the commandover every faculty, evidenced in the strong line of the jaw, the sternnoble profile, the calm searching gaze so difficult to sustain. Noneknew better than Victoria the value and rarity of a free and courageoussoul. Such a woman must, when more fully developed, throw the wholeweight of her character into the scales balancing for the few whom sherecognized as equals and accepted as friends. If she had had "somesmashing love affair," as the more romantic Flora suggested, so muchthe better.
She said, with a perfectly simulated impulsiveness:
"Of course you understand that I meant what I said last evening. And notmerely a week; you must pay us a long visit, if it won't bore you. Butthe house will rarely be empty now that the shooting has begun, andthere is always something going on in the neighborhood. Later comes thehunting, and I am sure you ride."
"Oh yes, I ride! I have spent about half my life on a horse. I want tostay more than I can tell you, but before long I must go home. The samesafe old bank that has charge of your ranches looks after my smallaffairs, and I have a man on the farm that has been in the family forforty years; otherwise I should never have dared to leave my preciouschickens; but Mr. Colton writes me that Mac is failing, and before therainy season commences I must look into things myself."
"Chickens?" said Lady Victoria, much amused. "Do you raise chickens?"
"Rather; and not in the back yard, neither. I have about a thousand ofthe most beautiful snow-white Leghorns with blood-red combs you eversaw; and I have incubators, runs, colony-houses, and all the rest of it.They are raised on the strictest scientific principles and yield me thegreater part of my income. That is the reason I feel obliged toreturn--if Mac is no longer able--or willing--to get up at night. Onemust not neglect the chicks--the little ones. I doubt if real babies aremore trouble. I don't mind telling you that I have resolved to make afortune out of chickens, if only that I may be able to live as I shouldin San Francisco. But I must go back and do the greater part of the workmyself."
"Make a fortune--out of chickens! How odd that sounds! Not in the leastromantic, but rather the more interesting for that. But why don't youlet your ranch for dairy and grazing purposes, as we do? They bring usin a very good income--have done, so far."
"There are about nineteen thousand acres in Lumalitas, and some fortythousand in the southern ranch. I possess exactly three hundred andthirty-two, forty-five of which are marsh. You have now nearly the wholeof the original gra
nts, for as my father and uncle sold or mortgagedportions--and could not pay--your agents bought in. You may remember."
"There is seldom any correspondence. Mr. Colton has always had a freehand--yes--I do recall--vaguely. So I am profiting at your expense. I amafraid that must seem unjust to you."
"Not in the least. I did not choose my paternal relatives, but I longsince accepted them with philosophy. I am thankful to have anything. Whydon't you go to California and look at your property?--live on it for afew years? You could make far more out of it if you ran it yourself. Thelease of Lumalitas must expire very soon. I do wish you would come andpay me a visit, and--Mr.--what on earth am I to call him?"
"Jack, of course," said Lady Victoria, warmly, although she would havebeen swift to resent the liberty had the new relative been soindiscreet.
"I never could manage Jack--never! I can't feel, see him, as Jack. Ithink Cousin Elton will do."
"Quite so. I shouldn't wonder at all if we went. Jack is rather keen onAmerican politics, knows his Bryce--I suppose it is in the blood. Heeven takes in an American Review. I have always rather wanted to visitCalifornia, and started for it once upon a time--on my wedding journey.But we were entertained so delightfully in New York and Washington thatbefore we realized what an American summer meant it was too hot to crossthe continent, and we accepted an invitation to the Adirondacks,intending to return to England in the course of a month. But Arthurbroke his leg, and by the time he was well again it was not safe for meto travel. So we rented a place in Virginia, where there was good sport,and there Jack was born. Here we are. Rest under that tree while Iinterview the erring maiden."
Ancestors: A Novel Page 6