XXXII
Isabel called up Mrs. Hofer on the telephone, and after being switchedoff and on half a dozen times, and crossed wires and all the othermishaps peculiar to the California telephone service had reduced both toa state of furious indifference, Mrs. Hofer accepted Miss Otis'sinability to go down to San Francisco until the day of the party, andher promise to pay the visit during Christmas week, with equalphilosophy.
The party was to be on the night of the 24th, and Isabel did not seeGwynne again until the evening of the same day. Judge Leslie went toSanta Barbara to spend the holidays with his son, and his pupil toBurlingame and Menlo Park for a week. After the polo and various othersports at the former resort, with a set that bore an outline resemblanceto the leisure class of his own country, the gay life at the Club andthe multitude of pretty girls always flitting amid compact masses offlowers, he found the now unfashionable borough of Menlo Park somewhatdull; 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 greatmountains on either side, almost a sense of possession. For all thismagnificent and richly varied sweep of land, now cut up into a few largeestates and an infinite number of small ones, into towns, and villages,hamlets, and even cities, had once been the Rancho El Pilar, and theproperty of his Mexican ancestor, Don Jose Argueello. He knew that inthose old days it must have looked like a vast English park, and he feltsome resentment that his ancestors had not had the wit to hold fast toit until his time came to inherit.
Mrs. Trennahan's father, Don Roberto Yorba, had bought a square milefrom one of the Argueello heirs, and a few rich men of his time hadfollowed his example; and slept in their country-houses during sixmonths of the year while their women yawned the days away, derivingtheir principal solace in contemplation of their unchallengedexclusiveness. Stray members of those old families were left, and were,if anything, more exclusive than their parents, disdaining thelight-hearted people of Burlingame, unburdened with traditions.This was still the set that never even powdered, faithful to theancient code that it was not respectable, and who spent the greaterpart of the year in the country, finding their pleasures in theclimate--soporific--excellent old Chinese or Spanish cooks, and inreminiscences of the time when the fine estates had not been cut up intolittle suburban homesteads for heaven only knew whom.
Mrs. Trennahan had sold her father's place, and bought a superb estatein the foothills, where she entertained in the simple fashion of theEighties. Trennahan still took the haughty spirit of his chosen boroughwith all his old humor, but he liked no place so well, even inCalifornia. A New-Yorker is always a New-Yorker, however long he maylive in California, but he becomes more and more attached to theindependent life, the even climate, above all to the cooking; andTrennahan was no exception. He had found Magdalena the most comfortableof companions, she had presented him with two fine boys--who werepreparing for college, at present--and a lovely daughter; and he was, ina leisurely way, collecting earthquake data, for future publication, andamused himself with a seismograph; which worried Magdalena, who thoughtthe instrument much too intimate with earthquakes to be a safe piece ofhousehold furniture. Gwynne liked them both as well as any people he hadmet in California, and engaged the beautiful Inez--who would seem tohave embodied all her mother's old passionate longing for physicalloveliness--to dance several times with him at the great ball which wasto be the medium of her introduction to society.
"I am still old-fashioned," Mrs. Trennahan confided to Gwynne, with asigh. "I never have liked new people and I never shall; Mr. Trennahanhas not laughed it out of me. But what will you? They are seven-eighthsstrong in San Francisco, I have a daughter who naturally demands therights of her youth--so I make the best of a bad bargain. But Iprotest."
When Gwynne arrived at the house on Russian Hill late in the evening itoccurred to him to tap on Isabel's door and tell her that he had obeyedher orders, recalled all the traditions down in their common ancestor'sold domain, and "got the feel" of the place. He had never crossed thethreshold of this room although he had brushed his hair many times inthe spotless bower by the marsh, and he was surprised, after a moment'scolloquy through the panels, by an invitation to enter. He was stillmore surprised to find Isabel sitting before her dressing-table in fullregalia, although they were not to start for the party until eleveno'clock. She wore the white tulle gown with the dark-blue lilies inwhich she had created a sensation at Arcot, and looked more radiant thanhe 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 todress at once to see the whole effect."
She lifted and fingered rapturously a row of splendid pearls that lay onher neck.
"Did you ever see anything so beautiful? All my life I have wanted astring of pearls--real pearls that you read about, although I thoughtmyself fortunate to have that old string of Baha California pearls, andnever expected anything better. At first I wouldn't take them, butCousin Victoria said they were her mother's, a gift from _her_ fatherwhen she married, so that I ought to inherit them, anyhow; and might aswell have them while I was young. She vowed she should never wear themagain, as her skin was no longer white enough for pearls. I can'tbelieve it!"
Gwynne looked at her curiously. "I had no idea you cared for thosethings. I could have given you pearls. Your pose has always been toscorn the common weaknesses of your sex."
"You are just a dense man! I have all my sex's love of personaladornment, if you like to call that a weakness. Do you suppose I admiremyself in that riding-habit or those overalls? Don't I always dress forsupper even when alone? Have I not a lot of lovely gowns? Look at thisone! I am so glad I never wore it again until to-night. As for jewels, Iadore them, and when I am a millionaire I shall have little shovels fulllike those you see in jewellers' windows, just to handle; and the mostlovely combinations to wear. But I don't ruin my complexion pining forwhat I can't have--or have lost. Of course poor mamma had beautifuljewels, but they went the way of all things."
Gwynne looked at his watch. "I shall get a bite in town," he said. "Theshops will be open till midnight. Hofer will endorse a check for me; Ihave sold three farms in the past week and have a pot of money in thebank. There is something else I want you to wear to-night--"
"I won't take jewels from you--"
"You are not only my fiancee but my cousin--"
"Nonsense!"
"I shall be back in about two hours. Mind you are sitting just therewhen I arrive."
As he went swiftly out and closed the door, she shrugged her shoulders,and her eyes danced with anticipation. After all, she could return hispresent when the farce was over, and she was in a mood to have the worldpoured into her lap.
She dined alone with her Puritan and Spanish ancestors, and when thebrief meal was over, went up and exhibited herself to Lady Victoria, whowas in a state of silent fury at being the victim of a headache. Shecomplimented Isabel upon her appearance, however, and added:
"I hope this pretended engagement will end in reality. You are of ourblood. I recognize it more and more. I am thankful he escaped JuliaKaye. You are--could be--all I am afraid I compelled myself to believeshe was."
"Do you want him to go back to England?" asked Isabel. "I had a letterfrom Flora the other day, and she thinks it is my mission to restore himto his country."
"I don't care. What difference does it make? I want him to be happy, andhe can have a career anywhere. In your case beauty is not a curse, and Ishould be glad to see you concentrate your gifts where you can find andgive real happiness. Now, enjoy yourself like a girl to-night and don'tbother about Jack or any one else--certainly not about me," as Isabelstood looking down upon her with a puckered brow.
Lady Victoria, in a negligee of salmon pink under a red light, andreclining on her divan with a box of cigarettes beside her, and a Frenchnovel in her hand,
looked little less handsome than when she hadcaptivated Isabel's girlish fancy a year ago. It was only the utterweariness of the eyes, and a subtle hardening of the whole mask of thealways immobile face, that betrayed the sudden rupture with a longcomplacent youth. But she looked at Isabel's glorious youth without apang of envy in her cynical, if not yet philosophical, soul, and saidagain, with emphasis:
"Marry him. You can do it. Any woman can marry any man she wants. Thatis the reason we are never really happy. We never love men, as weimagine that we could love. We have fevers for them that last a fewweeks, and then we become maternal and endure them. We might love ademi-god, never man as we know him. Perhaps in some other world--whoknows?"
Isabel pricked up her ears. Was Lady Victoria meditating theconsolations of the Church--or of Flora's more modern substitute? What asolution! But she dared not ask. She was still a little afraid of hercomplicated relative. She begged her not to read too late, and went out,promising to conciliate the offended Mrs. Hofer.
As she walked down the hall she stooped absently and picked up a scrapof paper, hardly aware that she held it in her hand until she sat downonce more before her mirror. Then she glanced at it. To her surprise itwas an advertisement of a prize-fight, cut from a newspaper; and on themargin an illiterate hand had scrawled, "_Nine o'clock sharp._" Shewondered which of the servants was indulging in the distractions of thering. All except Lady Victoria's maid were Japs. Could the Frenchwomanhave found a lover who had introduced her to the forbidden pleasures ofthe town? Obviously it was not Gwynne's for the date was two days old,and he had been in Menlo Park at the time. But she had more interestingthings to ponder over. Being a good housekeeper, she folded the scrapand hid it under one of the little silver trays, intending to give it inthe morning to Lady Victoria, who was the temporary mistress of themansion. Then she fell to counting her pearls, wound them twice abouther throat, decided that she preferred the single long ellipse fallingamong the blue flowers on her bosom, marvelled, in an abandon offemininity, at the dazzling whiteness of her skin. She was beautiful, nodoubt of that; it might be as Lady Victoria and Flora Thangue asserted,that any future she chose was hers to command; and, as the latter hadintimated, to be an English peeress, with her husband at the head of thestate, was no mean destiny. To-night, her almost fanatical love ofCalifornia was dormant. She felt wholly personal. Whatever the future,she wanted to be the most admired girl at this party to-night, todominate its long-heralded splendors as a great soprano rises high andtriumphant above the orchestral thunders of a Wagner opera. Oldinstincts were stirring subtly. She had the rest of her life for greatideals. To-night she would be an old-time belle: as Concha Argueello hadbeen just a century ago, as Guadalupe Hathaway, Mrs. Hunt McLane, NinaRandolph, and "The Three Macs," had been in the city's youth; as HelenaBelmont had been but twenty years before. She recalled the oft-toldstory of the night of Mrs. Yorba's great ball, in the house next to theone which was to be the theatre of her own debut, when Magdalena Yorba,Tiny Montgomery, Ila Brannan, and the wonderful Helena had beenintroduced to San Francisco, and the most distracting belle the town hadever known had turned the heads of fifty men. It was far easier to be abelle in that simpler time than to-day, when the San Franciscan viedwith the New-Yorker in the magnificence of furnishing and attire, and amere million was no longer a fortune. And the city more than maintainedits old standard of beauty, for its population had nearly doubled; thehandsome girls of the upper class had learned the art of dress, and evenamong the shop-girls there was a surfeit of pretty faces and fine busts.As to the demi-monde it was the pick of America, for obvious reason.
But Isabel was an ardent dreamer, and as she sat in her silent old home,high above the city's unresting life, she imagined herself into ablissful picture where she should realize to the full all the desiresdear to the heart of a girl. It was true that she had created a _furore_that night at Arcot, but her triumph had been extinguished by fright andthe tragedies that came in its train. And no triumph abroad ever quiteequals the conquest of your own territory. Isabel concluded that if itwere a matter of a single season, she would rather reign in SanFrancisco than in London--but her dreams were cut short by Gwynne'srapid step on the plank walk, and a moment later he was tapping on herdoor.
She looked up at him with undisguised expectancy.
"I am going to enjoy it," she said. "I shall accept it. I don't care!"
"I should hope so, after all the trouble I have had." He sat down in alow chair beside the dressing-table and facing her. "Hofer had beenturned out of the house and had taken refuge at the Mission. I took anautomobile and rushed out there, only to find that he and his friendshad concluded to come in and dine at one of the restaurants. Definite,but I know their tastes pretty well, and finally tracked them down. Bythat time I was starved, but when the dinner was over Hofer went with mehimself to the jeweller's--"
"What is it?" asked Isabel, impatiently, her eyes on a long box Gwynnehad taken from his pocket.
But Gwynne seldom had an opportunity to tease her. He drew his fingeralong the heavy coil of hair that rose from the very nape of her neckand pushed forward a soft little mass on to the brow. "I have alwayswanted to see something here," he said. "I remember once seeing a lovelyprint of the Empress Elizabeth of Austria, who wore her hair somewhat asyou do--"
"Not a bit of it. Her hair was generally half-way down her back--"
"Well the effect was the same--and in this print she had a row ofdaisies or stars; I never could remember which--"
"You haven't brought me daisies?" said Isabel, in disgust.
Gwynne pressed the little gilt nob, and as the lid flew up Isabel criedout, with delight.
"You shouldn't! But I don't care! I said I wouldn't. I never expectedanything so gorgeous, though--"
She caught the box from his hand and fastened the diamond stars in theline he had indicated. There were five, graduated in size, and they gaveher beauty its final touch of poetry and light. Isabel gazed at herdazzling reflection with parted lips and dancing eyes, then turnedimpulsively, flung her arms about Gwynne's neck, and kissed him. Hepushed her away roughly.
"Don't do that again!" he said. "I am not your brother, nor one of yourgirl friends. Can I look about? I have always had a curiosity to seethis room. I had an idea that it was different from the one at theranch."
"You can look at what you like," said Isabel, indifferently. "I shalllook at my stars. _Madre de Dios!_ as our Spanish ancestors would havesaid. _Ay yi! Valgame Dios! Dios de mi alma! Dios de mi vida!_ I neverwas so happy in my life."
Gwynne walked about the large old-fashioned room with its bow-window,and alcove for the bed. He had half expected that the room he had sooften passed with reluctant steps would be furnished in blue or pink,but it was as red as that of the traditional queen. Isabel had broughtup all the old crimson damask curtains that had been fashionable in hergrandmother's time, and covered the windows and walls of her bedroom,even the head of the mahogany four-poster in which her mother andherself had been born. The carpet was new, but a dull crimson, like thefaded hangings, and the dressing-table with its quantity of chasedsilver--one of the few inheritances she had managed to retain--was theonly spot of light in the rather sombre room: it was all white muslinand bright crimson silk. There was an old-fashioned settle against thewall and three stiff chairs. Gwynne liked the room, and had a vaguefeeling that he knew Isabel a little better. Certainly it expressed aside of her of which he had caught but an occasional glimpse.
He pulled the curtains apart and shading his eyes from the light of theroom looked down towards the city. It had vanished under a sea of whitefog that broke against the ledge of Nob Hill. A cable-car might havebeen a comet flashing along the edge of a void.
"I wonder," he said, "I wonder--should San Francisco disappear--beburned by that fire you are always expecting--or if the bay shouldshoal, or the Golden Gate rush together, so that she would have noreason for existence, and gradually be devoured by time--I suppose thefog and the winds would still be
faithful. I can imagine the fogsrolling in and embracing her, and the winds raging about every forgottencorner, centuries after there was anybody left to curse either."
"Was it Mrs. Kaye or Lady Cecilia Spence that said you just missed beinga poet? I hope some slumbering ancestor is not struggling forresurrection out here. I much prefer that you should be a statesman."
"I intend to be, nor have I any desire to turn poet. I have seen toomany in London. But this city, ugly as it is, appeals in its own way tothe imagination--more, for some unknown reason, than the most poetic Iever saw in the old worlds. There is something almost uncanny about it.While it is raw, and crude, and practically in its infancy, it at thesame time suggests an unthinkable antiquity. Perhaps--who knows?--it hada civilization contemporary with the Montezumas--or with Atlantis; andit is the ghosts of old unrecorded peoples that linger and give one afairly haunted feeling when one climbs these hills alone at night."
"Much better you keep your hand on your pistol and your eye out forfoot-pads--and one dreamer in the family is enough. I hope I have notinfected you."
She forsook her glowing image and looked at him inquisitively. Hewandered about the room again and paused to look at a row ofdaguerreotypes on a shelf, dead and forgotten Belmonts.
"You do dream a good deal," he said. "Judging by your varying styles ofbeauty as well as other things, you must be possessed by a dozendifferent sorts of old Johnnies trying to mutter something up out of thedark."
"I'm going to be nothing but a dreamer for a whole week."
"If that means that you will forget chickens, and dress yourselfdecently, I shall do what I can to heighten the illusion. Should youlike me to make love to you?" he asked, turning to her with a quickeninginterest.
"That might wake me up," said Isabel, politely. "This week is crowdedwith parties and things. I am to visit Mrs. Hofer and go to all of them.You won't see much of me until New Year's eve, when I come home and wedine at a Bohemian restaurant with Lyster and Paula, and watch thestreet crowds after. But I do not look so far ahead. If I am a successto-night I am going to make believe that I am an old-time belle likeHelena Belmont, or my poor little mother, for that matter. And I shallfeel just like her when I start, for Angelique will pin up my skirtsunder a long cloak, and pull carriage boots over my slippers so thatnothing will be spoiled going down those steps. I suppose I can't hopeto be quite such a belle as if I had lived in those less-sophisticateddays, but who knows? And I can forget Rosewater--and Bohemia; I sha'n'teven think of the Stones until New Year's eve; I sent them theirChristmas presents this morning, on purpose. I am going to be frivolous,coquette, and imagine myself a girl of the old Southern Set, when therewere no new people. And I'm going to make them _think_ I am a greatbeauty, whether I am or not. I remember mamma used to say to me:'Cultivate the beauty air. That often is more effective than beautyitself. Tiny Montgomery was a beauty according to every known standard,but she had no dash, and was never looked at when Helena Belmont was inthe room.' So to-night, you'll see me sail into that ballroom as if Ialready had the town at my feet. By-the-way--the last time I began tofeel like a real girl again was that night at Arcot--and I did feeleighteen--triumphant--happy--until I got back and saw Lord Zeal in thelibrary. I have never forgotten his face."
"Nor have I," said Gwynne, dryly; but he turned pale. "I suppose youhaven't had the least suspicion what he came to tell me that night?"
"I thought to say good-bye without letting you know--it isn't possiblethat he told you he intended to kill himself?"
"He told me a good deal more. He had shot Brathland. Murdered him, inplain English. You may fancy the night I had with him."
Isabel stared up at him, the radiance gone from her face.
"And you have been carrying that about in addition to everything else?"
"It was brutal to tell you this to-night! I can't imagine why I did,particularly as I have never told even my mother--who, like everybodyelse not necessarily in the secret, thinks that Zeal killed himself indespair over his failing health. But--yes, I remember that dress now--Irarely notice the details of women's clothes--but I remember admiringthose blue lilies on that airy white stuff--I suppose you suddenlybrought the whole thing back as vividly as if we were at Capheatoninstead of out here on the edge of creation. You must forgive me andforget it."
"Yes I will! I'll forget everything for a week." She wheeled about andrubbed her cheeks. Gwynne stooped suddenly and kissed the little blackmole on her shoulder.
"This is all I ask in return for the baubles," he murmured; and then ashe met a blazing eye: "Could I do less than restore your lovely color?But I must fly and get into my togs."
Ancestors: A Novel Page 51