Ancestors: A Novel

by Gertrude Franklin Horn Atherton

  XXIII

  It was nearly midnight. Isabel, her head still buzzing after akaleidoscopic day, which included much motoring and many words, felt noinclination for bed, moreover was not only curious to hear Gwynne'simpressions, but felt a pleasant sense of anticipation in talking theday over with him. He had telephoned that he was going down toBurlingame for dinner, but should manage to return to the house in theneighborhood of midnight. She wondered if he had met as many people andreceived as many bewildering impressions as she had done.

  If she had cherished a lingering delusion that aught remained of the oldproud reserved character of the society of her mother's time, it hadvanished before the chatter of her hostess and the experiences of theday. They had not lunched at The St. Francis, after all. As they reachedthe entrance Mrs. Hofer capriciously changed her mind, and decided tomake a dramatic descent with Isabel upon the house of a friend whom sheknew to be entertaining informally, and where she was always sure of awelcome. The house was out at The Mission, a generic term in these daysfor the valley under the shadow of Twin Peaks, so sparsely populated bythe _padres_. There were still a few large wooden houses, surrounded bygrounds, that looked like country seats in the midst of that wildernessof cheap and hideous streets; built perhaps thirty or forty yearsbefore, when "The Mission" was a suburb, and for old affection's sakestill inhabited in spite of a thousand drawbacks. Isabel approached thisplace in a fever of anticipation, for it was none other than the oldestate of Juan Moraga, and through a grille in its vanished adobe wallConcha Argueello had held tryst with her Russian lover, Rezanov.

  Into this sheltered valley the trade winds and the fog came so seldomthat, although it was a November day, the host had no hesitation inentertaining his guests on the lawn, with rugs under foot and a canopyto protect the complexions of the women. Here, Isabel found members ofnearly every set the city had ever possessed: Mrs. Trennahan, likeherself of the old Spanish stock, and her New York husband; AnneMontgomery and two or three others of the second regime; Catalina Shore,with her beautiful half Indian face and English husband; these few witha repose of manner that looked old-fashioned against the lightly poisedfigures and incessant chatter of the younger girls. And there was aneven greater variety of garb. Several were dressed for the season invelvet and furs: one wore an organdie blouse and hat; another hadhastily donned a checked travelling suit; there was no doubt that MissMontgomery had bought her simple brown frock already made, and perhapsat a sale; her neighbor wore a black lace dress with a fur boa. Themajority were excessively smart, whatever their vagaries, and Mrs.Hofer, most of all, in several shades of gray; not only becoming to herdark hair and bright color, but suggesting the natural plumage of abird; she was one of those women that look so well in whatever they wearthat it is difficult to imagine them in anything else. Isabel, perhaps,although the sharp eye of a woman would have detected the absence of thehand of a maid in her toilette, more nearly solved the problem of aspring day in mid-winter, with her frock of white serge and large blackhat covered with feathers.

  She sat between the "Reform Mayor," whose guest she was, and the"Militant Editor," neither in the highest spirits after their recent andunexpected defeat; and heard much of that intimate political talk forwhich she had longed, although her mind wandered occasionally to thatromantic past of caballero and dona not yet a century old, verydifficult to conjure in this swarming heterogeneous valley.

  After luncheon Mrs. Hofer had invited Miss Montgomery into theautomobile, and taken her and Isabel for a long ride, chattering ofeverything under the sun, but with breathing spells that enabled Isabelto exchange a few remarks with her old friend; and between remorse forher own neglect and pity for that desolated life, she was almosteffusive, and begged Miss Montgomery to visit her in the valley whereAnne's father too had owned a ranch in palmier days. She offered tofurnish a room immediately, and Miss Montgomery smilingly promised toobtain surcease from dinner-parties, where her portion was to enter bythe back door--in nine cases out of ten with the ancestral silver--andtake the rest she needed. She made a good living, she assured Isabel,but was educating a young relative for the navy, and lived in a flatthat was largely kitchen. All her fragile wild-rose beauty was gone longsince, but she still remembered how to put on her clothes, and herposition was unaffected in that devil-may-care city; she went intosociety when she chose.

  Mrs. Hofer, on their return from the environs, left them for a fewmoments in front of a house on Van Ness Avenue where a friend lay ill,and Isabel made an enthusiastic allusion to the gay out-door appearanceof the city. The broad avenue was crowded with men, women, and children,promenading in the sunshine. Every street-car was filled with people ontheir way to or from the Park, Presidio, or Cliff House. They had passedhundreds of automobiles and fine turnouts of every description, and outat the three great resorts thousands of pleasure-seekers.

  Miss Montgomery set her well-cut mouth in a pale line. "I get somewhatweary of all this pagan delight in mere externals," she remarked. "It isall so superficial and deceptive, although sincere enough in itsebullitions. I can tell you, my dear idealist--you have not changed aparticle, by the way--that there is another side you have never seen. Idoubt if you ever would see it, even if you came to live in the town."The automobile stood on a corner. Miss Montgomery indicated the rise andfall of the hill-side, east and west of the avenue. "Look at all thoseshabby-genteel rows of houses, each exactly like the next, each with itsawful bow window, and all needing a new coat of paint. So are the livesinside. And there are miles of them. There are just four sorts of peoplein this town--ignoring its underworld--that get any real enjoyment outof life: those that are wealthy enough to command constant variety; thecareless clever Bohemians with their wits always on the alert and plentyof congenial work; the club women; the laboring class, that get thehighest wages on earth and are as happy as beasts of the field on abright warm winter's day like this. But oh, the thousands and thousandsof mere mortals that are mired in their ruts and no longer even plan toclimb out! There is no more chance for those people--who are in somelittle business, or are clerks, or small professional men, or fractionsin the great corporations--to mention but a few examples--no more chancefor them than in any of the older cities; for San Francisco has gone atsuch a pace that she has as many ruts as if centuries had plowed her,and those in the ruts might as well be on Lone Mountain. They--the womenparticularly--have the tedium vitae in an acuter form than you have seenanywhere in Europe, for over there the centuries have mellowed andenriched life; there is something besides this eternal climate which cannever take the place of art. Of course there was a day when every manhad an equal chance, but that day has passed long since. And then inEurope," she went on, the minor note in her voice becoming moreplaintive, although she was too well bred to whine, "you are always nearsome other place. You can save your money for a few months and command achange of scene. Here you have to travel three thousand miles to find achange of accent. I often have the delusion that California is on Mars.And the climate! Day after day, when I walk down that shabby hill withmenus revolving in my head, or take the boat across that sparklingbay--I have customers all about--I long for the extremes of seasons theyhave in the East--fogs and four months of intermittent rain are only anirritant to one's natural love of variety. I long for the excitement ofwading through snow drifts. I wish we would have a war. I should loveto hear the shells hissing overhead, to see great buildings collapse,people rushing about in a mad state of excitement--anything,anything, to relieve the monotony of this isolated bit ofsemi-civilization--where, I can tell you, more women meditate suicidefrom pure ennui than in any city on earth!"

  Isabel was appalled by this outburst. The brilliant day seemed faded,the bright faces were grinning masks. Then she experienced a powerfulrush of loyalty towards this stranded member of her own class, andbefore she realized what she was saying, she had offered to send her toEurope to finish the musical education begun in her promising youth.

  "Don't be angry," she stammered, knowing t
he intense pride of theimpoverished American. "Why not? We are really related. I am quitealone. My little fortune has almost doubled. I make much more than I canspend. It would be quite shocking if I did not do something for someone--there is Paula of course, but it is against my principle to do toomuch for any woman with a husband. Do--please--"

  Miss Montgomery, who had flushed deeply and averted her head, turnedsuddenly with a smile and a light in her eyes that, with the color inher cheeks, made her look young for a moment.

  "That was just like you!" she exclaimed. "I remember in Rosewater, whenyou were a little thing, you used to give away the clothes on your back,and your toys never lasted a week; although you beat the children andpulled them about by the hair when they didn't play to suit you. I sawyou on the street just after your return from Europe--you looked as ifyou had wrapped yourself up in the pride of your nature--had found aplane apart from common mortals. For that reason I did not remind you ofmy existence. But I should have remembered that you had had trouble andcare enough to freeze any woman of your inheritances into a sort ofanimated Revolutionary statue. But you are just the same old Isabel. Itmakes me feel young again."

  "And you will go?" asked Isabel, eagerly.

  Miss Montgomery shook her head. "No," she said, sadly. "It is too late.I am thirty-five. If you have made no place for yourself by that time inAmerica you belong by a sort of divine decree to the treadmill. And thelimberness has gone out of my fingers as out of my mind. Sometimes Ideluge my pillow; but I will confess to you that down deep there is aconsciousness of bluntness, and it makes me inconsistently satisfied tobe here in this land of climate and plenty, instead of in Boston or NewYork, where both climatic and social conditions are so terribly sternfor the poor. After all, the word 'struggle' is a mere euphemism outhere, and I am still asked to nearly all of the big parties; not one ofthe older set has dropped me, and I could go out constantly if I chose.But I have neither the energy nor the money. I could have presents ofball gowns, but of course I won't accept them." She laid her hand onIsabel's. "Don't imagine that I do not appreciate your generosity. Ishall never forget it--nor the dear childish awkward spontaneity of itsexpression. But here I stay and rot."

  "I heard this same lament from Lyster the other night; only he was morecheerful about it--possibly because he has other surcease--"

  "Don't waste any sympathy on us," said Miss Montgomery, contemptuously."There never was such a sieve as California--San Francisco--forseparating the wheat from the chaff--for determining the survival of thefittest. If I had been worth my salt I should have conquered everyobstacle, overcome the family will, when I was young and full of hopeand vigor. So would Lyster Stone. San Francisco is stronger than we are.That is the truth in a nutshell. Those that are stronger than she havegone. The rest don't matter. And as so many of those that are reallygifted enjoy themselves with only an occasional spasm of self-disgust,they are not greatly to be pitied. By and by they will outgrow eventhat, and congratulate themselves that they were not of those that fledfrom the good things of life."

  Mrs. Hofer ran down the steps and into her automobile. "Isimply--couldn't--get--away," she cried between the agonized thumpingsof the engine. "But perhaps you were glad to be rid of me a bit. Pleasedon't say so, though. It would make me simply miserable."

  As the car glided off, she sat on the edge of the seat facing herguests, lightly, and with the same backward sweep of her body as whenwalking. She always seemed to be fairly bursting with youthful energy,and no bird could rival her buoyancy. She immediately assumed the burdenof the conversation.

  "Dear Miss Otis! I have been meaning all day to ask you about LadyVictoria Gwynne, but so many things have put it out of my head. What doyou think of her? I am simply mad to know. I never met any one whointerested me half so much; I couldn't make her out the least littlebit. The only time when she seemed quite alive was when she spoke ofher Jack. In the famous Elton she didn't seem to take any interest atall. I fancy they've fallen out, for whenever his name wasmentioned--and Mr. Hofer admires him immensely--she always became asmute as a mummy. It put me out a bit. I'm not used to that sort oftreatment. When I want to talk about a subject, I am in the habit ofdoing so. Lady Victoria is not a bit simple like so many English greatladies. Perhaps it's the Spanish blood, or perhaps it's because she's so_blasee_. They _do_ tell stories! I never heard any received womanaccused of having had quite so many--well, at least in this town, when awoman is openly larky she soon finds herself on the north side of thefence. There was my Lady Victoria hobnobbing with all the royalties atHomburg. But what interested me most was her attitude to Sir CadgeVanneck--"

  "What?" Isabel sat erect. "Has Sir Cadge Vanneck returned from Africa? Ithought something besides ill health was detaining her. Do you thinkthey will marry? I don't know whether Mr. Gwynne would like it or not.He looks forward to her arrival--"

  "I can see Lady Victoria on a California ranch! She would yawn her headoff. London is 'the world' in quotation marks. She couldn't, thatseasoned lady, stay out of it six months. But about Sir Cadge--that wasthe final mystery. It actually kept me awake one night. You know thestory, how devoted he was for about two years, and then how he ran awaywhen her husband was killed, for fear he would have to marry her. Nobodyknew exactly how she felt about it, for one thing must be said for thepeople of those effete old civilizations: their breeding carries themthrough any crisis without the turn of a hair. But the report was thatshe showed an inner convulsion in subtle outer vibrations, or peopleimagined she did, probably because she'd got to that age where shecouldn't have many illusions left. Then, suddenly, this summer, hereturns, and follows her to Homburg. He is all devotion. She is aniceberg. And she's gone off dreadfully. I saw her seven years ago atCovent Garden, and she was the handsomest thing I ever looked at. She'shandsome yet, but her muscles are getting that loose look and her eyesare bottomless pits of ennui. Save me from being a fashionabledemimondaine. Better go to the deuce and die in a garret. Somethinghonest in that, anyhow--and more picturesque. There may be somethingbehind, that we don't know anything about, but in my opinion she is notthe happiest of women; and with such a handsome and agreeable man as SirCadge Vanneck at her feet, she is just an ingrate. We are not here,already? I wish I were not invited this evening, I'd simply _make_ youcome home to dinner. And it seems so rude to leave you at the foot ofthis bluff; but there is just one thing the automobile can't do--"

  Isabel, her head spinning with many words, had been glad to express herpleasure in the day's entertainment and run up the steps to her refugeon the heights. She had found that Mr. Stone was still in bed and likelyto remain there, and a haughty note from Paula announcing that she hadreturned to her children and should remain where she was wanted.

  She was vaguely planning to "do something" for Anne Montgomery, andcongratulating herself that she could fly at will from people thattalked too much, when she heard Gwynne's long stride on the plank walk,and called gayly to him out of the darkness "to stand and deliver."

  "I hope you carry a pistol," she added, anxiously, as he ran up thesteps. "I scarcely ever pick up a newspaper without reading of ahold-up, and there were four on this hill last week. We change, outhere, but we don't seem to improve much."