Ancestors: A Novel

by Gertrude Franklin Horn Atherton

  III

  "Do you run this thing yourself?" asked Gwynne, as they boarded thelaunch, which was at anchor by the end of the sea wall at the foot ofRussian Hill.

  "Rather. How do you expect me to make a fortune in this paradise of thelabor-union if I don't do things myself? I have a hard time beingeconomical, and I suspect that where I save once I spend twice, but Itry not to think about it. Theories make life so palatable! This oldlaunch belonged to Uncle Hiram. I had it repaired, and take my eggs tothe hatcheries and my produce to Rosewater three times a week. There Ideal direct with the San Francisco buyers--and in this launch; it servesme very well as an office. Then I come down in it every week. Therailroad is exorbitant, and the boats are too slow. It may be thatgasolene and repairs cost more than a railroad fare once a week, but Ihave abstained from making a comparison. The trip is so delightful!"

  The launch was about twenty feet long with a small cabin and a freshcoat of brown paint. It shot lightly over the smooth water, and Gwynnesat on top of the cabin above Isabel swinging his long legs, and lookedwith some envy at the hundreds of yachts that skimmed the bay. Theyappeared and vanished about the corners of the Islands and promontorieslike birds swooping after prey. The Islands and all the mainland hadlost their greens long since, but the burnt grasses shone in the sunlike hammered gold; were tan and brown and fawn on the shadowed easternslopes. The chain of mountains beyond the towns across the bay andfacing San Francisco glittered like bronze, but the lofty volcanic peakof Monte Diablo, farther still, was a pale and misty blue. North of theGolden Gate and high above the mountains of Marin County, MountTamalpais was so intense and hard a blue, and was cut against thefleckless sky with so sharp an outline, that it produced in Gwynne avague sense of unreality and uneasiness. The Marconi poles on the summitlooked like the masts of a mammoth ship, and every window of The Tavern,close by them, shone like a plate of brass.

  They steered for the southern point of Angel Island, and Gwynne lookedabout him with much interest. The mainland of the great northern coveand the eastern side of the Islands were thick with trees: oaks,buckeye, willows, madrono. And almost as thickly set, although sometimeshalf hidden, were the villas: light and airy of architecture, gaylypainted, with broad verandas and overhanging vines. At the foot ofBelvedere and the little town of Tiburon were house-boats, in whichpeople lived for eight months of the year.

  And everywhere, people, people, people. They swarmed in the yachts, onthe house-boats, on the driveways, the verandas. Gwynne twisted aboutand looked at San Francisco. The palaces were on the heights and in theWestern Addition--out towards the Presidio and the Golden Gate; buthundreds of tiny dwellings clung to the precipitous sides of TelegraphHill and Russian Hill as if their foundations were talons. And each hadits bit of garden, or its balcony full of flowers. Telegraph Hill, thegreat bluff where the city turned almost at a right angle from north tosouth, was given over largely to Mexicans and Italians, and wasuncommonly vivid. And the streets were full of people. The city hadturned itself inside out. Everywhere were bright gowns and parasols,whizzing cars packed to the rails.

  And the wealthy class by no means monopolized the bay with their yachtsand luxurious launches. There were fishing-smacks filled with wholefamilies of Italians and Chinese; in fact every tongue floated over thewater in the course of a brilliant Sunday afternoon. And at the docksthere were steamers, sailing vessels, from all the ports of the world, aforest of spars and funnels; odd little Italian craft and even a Chinesejunk. A man-of-war was coming down from Mare Island. Gwynne had seen abig Australian liner flying the Union Jack enter the Golden Gate as thelaunch rounded Angel Island. It made him homesick, and he was not sorryto lose sight of it.

  They passed steamboats crowded with holiday seekers coming home from aday's outing in Sausalito, San Rafael, Mill Valley, sporting parks; themajority noisy and vulgar, but a mass of color. It was a scene ofsurpassing variety, life, gayety, prosperity, importance. Gwynne, as thelight electrical breeze began to prick his veins, experienced asensation of pride in the country where his lines were cast, in thoseancestors of his that had memorably helped to develop its vastresources: a tremendous concession, for he had barely acknowledged theseancestors before. A slight meed of resignation descended upon him. Hesmiled down upon Isabel, who was frowning at the sun and sighing forher forgotten veil; she had a tender regard for her complexion. Gwynnethought her very pretty in her smart crash suit and sailor hat, notnearly so severe and fateful in appearance as when she had adjustedherself to the formalities of Capheaton; although he remembered that hehad heard much discussion of her beauty and had not been unappreciativehimself. But he liked her far better here in California. Her eyes weremore alert, her voice was less monotonous; and those little black moleslooked particularly fascinating on the ivory white of her skin, fairlyluminous in the sunlight. He fancied they would drift into matrimony;and that she appeared to be as indifferent and passionless as she washandsome and clever but the better suited his present mood. His love forMrs. Kaye had died a sudden and violent death, but it had left himcallous, somewhat contemptuous of the charms of woman. He doubted if hisheart would ever beat high in his breast again, but in the course ofevents he should need a partner, and Isabel seemed to him fashioned tobe the helpmate of a busy and ambitious statesman.

  But all he said was: "You have a little freckle on your nose. I saw itcome."

  Isabel shrugged her shoulders and sniffed. He lost interest in her forthe moment, for he distrusted a woman without vanity. He knew girls toolittle to suspect that the most business-like were often smitten with adesire to pose; and were as likely to forget the pose of to-day in thenaturalness of to-morrow. Secretly, Isabel was grievously afflicted atthe thought of the freckle, and did not speak for some time, recallingthe antidotes of her early girlhood, when she and Anabel Leslieexperimented in secret with various beauty recipes cut from thenewspapers. She smiled as she recalled that Anabel, who had prettygolden hair, had washed it with lye to acquire a reddish tinge, and beenforced to retire for a month; and a semi-tragic experience of herown--smothered from crown to toe in a blanket taking a hot-air bath forthe benefit of her complexion, the spirit lamp, in a wash-basin underthe chair, exploded, and there was one interminable moment of panic, andseveral days of discomfort. She quite forgot her companion in theselighter reminiscences of a period that seemed far more than ten yearsagone.

  Gwynne had discovered at Capheaton that one of his cousin's charms washer absence of effort in conversation and a corresponding indifferenceto effort in others. They did not exchange a syllable as they sped upthe wider expanse of the bay east of the Islands, and he watched thehills and mountains close on his left, with their bright little townsand sombre depths of forest. Many of the rounded cones of the foothillswere bare, and so was the rocky crest of Tamalpais, but the old redwoodsstill held triumphant possession of several of the slopes and all of thecanyons. Here and there factories and warehouses marred the almostprimeval beauty of the scene, but to-day at least there was no smoke tocobweb the radiant sky. Even the Chinese shrimp-pickers were lounging onthe beach before their little shack village.

  They passed the last of the towns. Towers and sharp roofs rose above themass of cultivated trees in some private park; the trees a motleycollection of pines and palms, eucalyptus and oak, madrono, laurel,locust, and acacia. The gardens were full of children and birds. On theroads horses in old-fashioned buggies danced at automobiles whizzing by.In the yachts even the men had laid aside their keen anxious look--aspeculiar to the young San Franciscan of business as to the New-Yorker orWesterner--and were bent upon absolute relaxation for the day. Onemillionaire was alone in his big luxurious launch, a broad grin on hishomely ingenuous countenance, and even his mouth open to inhale theclean and sparkling air. His hands were clasped on his curves.

  "He inherited," said Isabel, in reply to Gwynne's comment that he didnot look as if he ever expended his energies in the piling of dollars."And he doesn't want any more. But they all look well enough. It i
s notonly the climate but the cooking."

  They left San Francisco Bay and Isabel steered more carefully: thechannel in the Bay of San Pablo is narrow and the current treacherous.When they reached the drawbridge they were not only alone on the widesilvery expanse of water, but there was scarcely a country-house tobreak the wild loneliness of mountain and canyon. After they enteredRosewater Creek the mountains with their broken and multiplying ridgeswere more imposing still, and before long another range began to tapernorthward on the opposite shore. They were in the great tidal marsh now,green, where all the rest of the world was burnt and dry. At times thecreek was as wide as an ordinary river, at others so contracted that onecould gather grass on either side. Isabel told Gwynne to "watch out forother boats," for the creek wound and twisted and doubled like a mammothbrown snake into an infinite perspective, broken here and there bysailing boats that had the effect of skimming the land. It was a scenereminiscent of Holland, but far more beautiful, with the wild primevalcharacter of the landscape and the grandeur of the mountains.

  Isabel indicated an island well out in the marsh. It was crowned with awhite house shaded by many trees. Men in duck trousers, and coatless,were lounging in the shade.

  "That is a country club," she said. "Tom Colton will put you up. But ifyou are still disinclined to sociabilities you can shoot all the ducksyou want on my place."

  "Shoot what?"

  "Best duck-shooting in the world is out here--canvas-back, teal, Englishwidgeon--fancy your not knowing that. It begins on the fifteenth ofOctober. I have not rented my marsh-lands this year, and intend to shootducks for the market. You can help me and we'll go halves."

  Gwynne's eyes were sparkling. He had expected to kill his bear and deer,but any variety of sport new or old gave him joy. Isabel pointed to manylittle shanties on the edge of the marsh.

  "The more enthusiastic sit in those and wait for the tide to come back.I avoid being left high and dry, for if the ducks go elsewhere it israther a bore."

  The mountains on the left diminished in height, turned off abruptly tothe northwest, following the coast line. Those on the right took form inthe pink mist that enveloped them, for the sun had set. All the lowersky was pink, melting imperceptibly into the still pale blue of day. Farto the north other mountains seemed suddenly to heave from the level,villages appeared, with great stretches of farming land between. Thenthe glow faded into the gray of twilight and the vast landscape took ona sudden aspect of desolation; as of a country stranded, forgotten,with a heap of stones here and there to mark some ancient civilization.

  "There is Rosewater--over there where the lights are coming out; andhere we are," said Isabel.

  Gwynne turned with a start and found that Isabel had run her launch upto a little pier. Behind it was a cluster of low hills set with narrowfields and tiny white houses. In the foreground was a large house of twostories and no architecture whatever, although the roof was mercifullyflat. It was painted white and surrounded by a broad veranda. The gardenwas full of bare rosebushes and blooming chrysanthemums, but save fortwo mournful eucalypti and a naked acacia, there was not a tree insight. Just behind were many out-buildings, stark and white.

  "Is this where you live?" asked Gwynne, wonderingly. He had vaguelypictured her in a romantic setting, a bit of California epitomized.

  "It was like Uncle Hiram to sell off the prettiest parts, but I don'tbother about anything I can't help, and I have a lovely view opposite.Where is that boy?" She raised her voice and called, "Chuma! Chuma!" andin a moment a Japanese boy came running down to the pier.

  "The two men spend Sunday in Rosewater, but I have trained my Jap to doa little of everything," said Isabel, as they walked up to the house."He is one of the willing sort; most are not. Chuma is my cook andbutler and chambermaid--"

  "Do you mean that you live here without any other woman?"

  "Why not? No girl would stay in this lonely place. I should have to sendher in to Rosewater every night and get a second girl to keep hercompany. Mac--who was with Uncle Hiram before I was born--sleeps in thehouse. It was a hotel forty years ago, by-the-way, and is still known asOld Inn. That was in the days of picturesque ruffianism, and there areterrible stories about the house, but no ghosts."

  It had been decided that Gwynne should dine with Isabel and spend thenight at the hotel in Rosewater. Isabel had telephoned to her patientJap, and there was a log fire in the "parlor"--now transformed into acomfortable living-room. Gwynne looked about him with considerablecuriosity while Isabel was up-stairs dressing. The walls were "ceiled"with redwood and hung with the photographs she had accumulated in hertravels, a motley collection of many climes, from the snows of the Alpsto the patios of Seville; all, she had informed him, with a personalassociation: "she was no photograph fiend." Several artist's sketchesarrested her guest's attention and he wondered what her life in Parishad been. He fancied that her three years abroad were full of curiouschapters, most of them untold; but although she mystified him he couldnot associate her with license of any sort. There was even a hint ofausterity about her, as if she drew strength from her Puritanforefathers.

  It was patent, however, that she felt herself entitled to physicalcomforts after the labors of her day. There were half a dozeneasy-chairs and a big divan covered with cushions. The carpet andcushions were red, but although the room was delightfully comfortableand homelike it might have been a bachelor's, so entirely were lackingall the little devices of femininity. The only ornaments in the roomwere an odd assortment of Tyrolese pipes and Indian baskets. On a shelfabove the divan, however, were many books, and Gwynne ran his eye overthem. They included masterpieces of the modern Russian, German, French,and Italian schools; only three or four volumes of English criticism. Aset of shelves opposite was filled with the standard English andAmerican histories, essays, and novels, many of them old and bound incalf. The upper shelf was devoted entirely to the Russian novelists, andthe bindings were new.

  When Isabel came down, looking very pretty in a blue evening frock,simple enough to make her guest feel at ease in his travelling-clothes,but carefully selected with an eye to effect, she sent him up to herroom to make his own simple toilet.

  "I suppose I should furnish a spare room," she remarked. "But if I did Ishould have Paula--my adopted sister--and her family here whenever theyhappened to want to come, which would be always when I didn't want them.But you won't mind."

  Gwynne made a wry face as he sat down before the dressing-table that hemight reflect his visage while he brushed his hair. Nevertheless, hecast about a curious and apologetic eye, in the belief that a woman'sbedroom must reveal some secret of her personality. This bedroom was sosimple and girlish that it gave him a vague sense of pleasure. Thewindows and dressing-table were covered with white muslin, and there wasa canopy of the same above the little brass bedstead. The flounces wereso full and fluffy that he held his knees back nervously lest he shoulddisturb a puff. There was no other furniture in the room but tworocking-chairs, and the only color was in the blue Japanese rugsscattered over the white matting, and in two immense bows above thedressing-table and bed. He decided, as he ran down the stairs to thewarm room below, that she understood both taste and comfort, and lookedforward to his own lonely ranch-house with more equanimity than when hehad paid the bill.