V
As they rode slowly down the hill towards Main Street Gwynne examinedhis cousin from head to foot, but, he prided himself, out of the cornerof his eye. She wore a dust-colored habit with divided skirt, and a softfelt hat and gloves of the same shade. Her horse was a very lightchestnut, and he was obliged to confess that the effect was harmonious,although this Western style of riding by no means pleased his fastidioustaste.
Isabel shot him an amused glance. "You don't approve of women ridingastride," she said. "We invented it; although it is now the fashion inmany other parts of America. Necessity is the mother of most fashions.Wait till you see our mountain roads. They are a disgrace tocivilization--so broken and narrow that even in summer it is dangerousfor a woman to ride a side-saddle, and in winter impossible. I haveforgotten how, and that is the reason I never rode in England.... Hereis the centre of your existence for several years to come. Main Streetis to this section of the country what Wall Street is to the UnitedStates."
They had entered a street that turned abruptly in from the country ablock below them, and rose gently for several hundred yards, when itstraggled unevenly along a higher level, to melt into the olderresidence district and then out into the open country again. There wasnothing quite like this Main Street in California. At its southern endwas a long double hitching-rail--as old as the State--already flanked byseveral dusty wagons and big strong horses. The long unbroken block hadas many and as various stores as are generally spread over the entirearea of a town. Jammed against one another like cabins opening out of asteamer's gangway, and yet of no mean size, were banks and saloons;stores for chicken feed, groceries, fruit, candy, jewelry, clothing,hats, fancy goods, stationery; and five drug stores with tiled floors.Many of the windows made a brave display that would not have disgracedSan Francisco. The entire west pavement was roofed, making a promenadelike a ship's deck against rain or the severities of summer; and fromthis roof depended an extraordinary number of signs, often eccentric ofcolor and design. Above the buildings of the opposite side of the streetrose the spars of several fishing-boats; the creek finished atRosewater. Gwynne glanced about him with an interest that nothing elseCalifornian save the Mission and San Francisco had inspired. Here was abit of a civilization of a building era, that was almost old, everythingbeing relative. At all events it was old-fashioned. It was thoroughlycountrified and yet suggestive of the concentrated activities of a city.Isabel, after leaving the hotel had made a detour, giving him a briefglimpse of the town. On the higher streets--Rosewater lay on a clusterof gentle hills--between Main Street and the "residence" district, hehad noticed several modern buildings of brick or stone: offices,churches, school-houses, a solid little opera-house of colonial design,a fine City Hall, and one of those forlorn "Carnegie Libraries" in astate of arrested development for want of funds, but with an imposingfacade and the name of the "donor" conspicuously advertised. All thishad interested him little, although he had thought the town on itsslopes looked very pretty and quiet; but this----the word "pioneer"suddenly came to him, and he looked up and down with a keenness ofinterest that was almost like a reviving memory. This beyond questionwas a remnant of the old thing, and here, no doubt, thegreat-grandfather whose first name he had forgotten, had been a familiarsight; his fortune and enterprise had helped to lay the very foundationsof this landmark of a wild and stirring time.----Then they rode past asquare park high on a terrace, walled up with stone most modernly, thegreen shaded with pines and palms, acacia and oaks; and the dreampassed. At the same moment he became aware that his partner was talking.
"Rosewater is the financial and trading centre of an immense farmingdistrict. There are four banks, as solid as the best in the world. Threeare as old as American California. The farmers come in daily for feedand supplies, the chicken-ranchers with their produce for the SanFrancisco buyers, and eggs for the great hatcheries. Many, like myself,find the last less trouble and expense than bothering with incubators.Something like four thousand dollars change hands daily in Rosewater,and it has less than five thousand inhabitants."
Having parted with her information she relapsed into silence, and, thetown lying behind them, he transferred his attention to her. She lookedsevere, remote again, and he wondered if she would grow quite hard andbusiness-like in time. In the hotel office as he paid his bill he hadoverheard one man say to another that she was "as good as the best, andno man could get ahead of her." In this sexless get-up and with herfeatures set she looked hardly a woman. She certainly had capacities forgood-fellowship, and yesterday she had been almost tender. He had justdecided that he would as soon marry a portrait of George Washington,when, in response to a light call behind them, Isabel wheeled about withthe pink in her cheeks and eyes wide with pleasure. She galloped back toan approaching buggy, in which there was an extremely prettygolden-haired young woman, and as she and Isabel simultaneously alightedand flew into each other's arms, Gwynne also descended, prepared toraise his hat when his existence was recognized. For some moments thegirls talked a rapid duet, then Isabel turned suddenly and beckoned.
"This is my oldest friend, Anabel--Mrs. Tom Colton," she said,apologetically. "She only returned last night--just caught sight of us,and followed."
Gwynne's disapproval vanished as he shook hands with the blooming youngmatron and met her bright laughing eyes. She was a small imposingcreature and received him in quite the grand manner. Her accent ofAmerica was as slight as Isabel's, and she used no slang. There wasabout her something of the primness that characterizes American women inthe smaller towns, but her simple linen frock had been cut by a master,and she looked so warm, so womanly, so hospitable as she welcomed Gwynneto Rosewater, that he liked her more spontaneously than he had likedanybody since he crossed the Atlantic, and was almost enthusiastic as herode on with Isabel.
"Anabel is a perfect dear," said his companion, whose eyes and cheekswere still glowing, and who looked like a mere girl. "I am much fonderof her than I am of Paula, although we haven't a thing in common. Shewas domestic and wild about children before she was done with dolls. Ofcourse she married at once. When we were at the High School together sheregarded my ambition to be first as a standing joke, and has never readanything heavier than a classic novel in her life. Why I am so fond ofher I can't say, unless it is that she is absolutely genuine, and thatcounts more in the long-run than anything else. Besides, she was myfirst friend when I came here as a little girl. Her mother--Mrs.Leslie--belongs to one of the old San Francisco families, and had alwaysknown my mother. I love her as much as ever, but I am bound to confessthat I have missed her little. I suppose complete happiness comes whenyou miss nobody."
They rode on in silence, for the heat was increasing and the dust laythick on the road and swirled about their heads. There had been no rainsince March, and the sea that sent its daily fogs and breezes to coolSan Francisco and the towns about the bay was forty miles fromRosewater.
"Never mind," said Isabel, as Gwynne mopped his brow for the third timeand ostentatiously rubbed his face. "The nights are cool and the hotweather will soon moderate down into the mellowness of October. When therains come--well it is a toss up, which is worse--the dust or the mud."
"Heavens knows what we have swallowed," muttered Gwynne, who had servedon sanitary boards and heard much talk of germs. But Isabel only laughedand told him to go to Anabel, who had a nostrum for every ill. A momentlater the road led up a hill-side, and at the summit she caught hisbridle and reined in.
"I brought you this roundabout way on purpose," she said. "Is it notwhat the poet would call a fair domain?"
Below them was a vast flat expanse bounded opposite by a mountain chain,that rose abruptly from the level, breaking into much irregularity ofsurface above, but all its hollows blurred with woods. Beyond a diprose, far in the distance, a huge crouching formidable mass--St. Helena,named after a Russian princess, the wife of the last of the Russiangovernors of northern California. On the plain were golden fields,orchards, compact masses of the eucalyptus-tre
e planted as shelters forthe cattle in time of storm or unbearable heat. Many cattle were roamingabout; on the grazing land in the far distance towards the town of St.Peter--a mere white cluster in the north at the base of the range--werethe horses. Over the mountains lay a shimmering haze, blue or pink; itwas difficult to define whether the colors flowed through each other orsubtly united.
"It is all yours," added Isabel, emerging from the role of the merecicerone. "Are you not proud of it?"
Gwynne did in truth dilate, but hastily assured himself that it was atthe beauty of his estate, not at its paltry nineteen thousand acres. Hadhe not shot over many an estate as large? Had not his grandfather comeinto four times that number? True, most of them had not been entailed,and this at least was his, his own. He quite realized it for the firsttime; even as a source of income he had barely given it a thought; evenafter Isabel's descriptions he had never exerted himself to picture it.As a resource in his crisis it was all very well, but not worth whileshaping into concrete form until he could avoid it no longer.
But now, as he gazed down and over the great beautiful expanse--for eventhe mountain-side and much beyond was his--he felt a sudden passionategratitude to that Otis whose first name he had forgotten, pride fairlyinvaded his chest; then, as he realized that it was visibly swellingunder Isabel's intent gaze, he blushed, laughed confusedly, turned awayhis head. But his annoyance was routed by a speechless amazement, forIsabel suddenly flung both arms round his neck and gave him a heartykiss.
"There!" she exclaimed. "I never really liked you before, though I neverdenied you were interesting enough. Men are nothing but overgrown boys,only some are nice and some are not. You are. I'll really adopt you now,instead of merely doing my bounden duty. Now look at those mountains inthe south."
More disturbed than he would have believed possible at the young warmthand magnetism of her embrace--although it was disconcertingly evidentthat she would have kissed a small boy in precisely the same manner--hecomposed his features to indifference and followed the motion of herwhip.
In the dim perspective of the south she indicated Tamalpais and MonteDiablo opposite, vague dim blue masses behind San Francisco. "MonteDiablo and St. Helena are both old volcanoes," she continued. "I neversay dead volcanoes after the history and performances of Vesuvius andPelee. I wish one of our volcanoes would liven up. We might have fewerearthquakes--although, to be sure, ours are supposed to be caused byfaulting--in so far as they know anything about it."
"Do you think of nothing but earthquakes out here? You have made atleast three casual allusions since we met twenty-four hours ago, and insouthern California they are a part of every tradition."
"If you had been brought up on earthquakes they would never be far fromyour own mind. There is a theory that the reason for Californians takingeverything as it comes with a happy-go-lucky philosophy, lies in theelectrical air and the eight months of sunshine; but I believe it is dueeven more to the earthquakes. If we can stand those we can standanything. It is in tune with the old gambling spirit that still colorsthe country; no doubt has kept it alive. We never know what is going tohappen next, and we don't care. _Vive la bagatelle._ We have more to bethankful for than the rest of the world, anyhow. Well, let us go down tothe house."
The house with its out-buildings stood below them on a high knoll, threesides surrounded by a grove of white oaks, the other open to themountains, although the front veranda was shaded by several spreadingtrees, far apart. The large soft leaves and the pendent moss of the oakswere gray with dust, but the shade was cool and delicious. Down in thevalley an old comrade here and there helped to tell the story of thetime when all these miles of valley and mountain were unbroken forest,known only to the red man. And that was not a century ago.
The house was frankly ugly, like all the farm-houses of its era,although vastly to be preferred to the "artistic" structures succeedingthem. As the couple gave up their horses to a stately Jap, who had beenengaged by Isabel as butler, chambermaid, valet, and footman, andentered the large living-room, Gwynne generously gave voice to hisapproval. There were books to the ceiling, easy-chairs, the photographsof friends that had decorated his rooms in London and Capheaton. Hiseyes contracted as he saw a pile of London newspapers on the table, andhe turned away hastily and remarked that he was glad the fittings werered, as it would be more companionable in winter; the rest of the yearhe should live out-of-doors. The veranda, which surrounded the house,was quite wide enough to live on, and below it was a border of gardenfull of old-fashioned flowers. The bedrooms, gayly furbished with chintzand matting, were up-stairs.
"I didn't think it worth while to furnish a dining-room," said Isabel asthey returned to the lower floor. "It has always been the custom to eatat the end of the living-room--when they didn't eat in the kitchen. Andwhat more dreary than to take your meals in a big country dining-room byyourself! All the rooms here are large."
She took him into the kitchen and introduced him to his cook, a stoutMexican woman, who received him with excessive dignity, and wore nothingbut a single calico garment open to the chest. Then they mounted theirhorses again and Isabel escorted him down to the great hay-barns, thedairy, and cattle-sheds, introducing him to his hired men, who lookedhim over frankly, but, somewhat to his surprise, addressed him as "sir."He commented upon the unexpected deference as they rode back to thehouse.
"Oh, these country folk are naturally polite," said Isabel, dryly. "Theyare not yet entirely corrupted by the yellow press, although independentenough, as you will discover. Tact will manage any one. I have beenmanaging people all my life, and have prepared this force to like you.Now I must be off. I am to lunch with Anabel."
"You are not going to leave me!" cried Gwynne, in dismay.
"The tragic moment must come sooner or later," she said, gayly. "And youhave forgotten your mail. It is somewhere under all those newspapers.I'll ride out in a day or two and see how you are getting on."
She gave him a cavalier little nod, touched her horse with the whip, anda moment later was lost in a cloud of dust. Gwynne, angry anddisappointed, looked after her a moment, then shrugged his shoulders andwent in to his mail.
Ancestors: A Novel Page 24