Ancestors: A Novel

by Gertrude Franklin Horn Atherton

  VII

  For a week she was so moody and irascible that Abraham twice gavewarning, Old Mac artfully took to his bed with rheumatism, and only theinexcitable Chuma was unconcerned. She rode her horse nearly to death,snubbed Anabel--whose children were down with the measles--over thetelephone, and even boxed the ears of a dilatory hen. At the end of theweek a sudden appreciation of her likeness to a cross old maidfrightened her, and time and the weather completed the cure. Herill-humor, which had scourged through every avenue of her being, tookitself off so completely that it seemed to announce it had had enough ofher and would return no more.

  And the spring came with a rush. The hills burst into buttercups, "blueeyes," yellow and purple lupins, the heavy pungent gold-red poppy. Theyoung green of weeping willows and pepper-trees looked indescribablydelicate against the hard blue sky. Rosewater was a great park, all herlittle squares and gardens, and long rambling streets, set thick withcamellias, roses, orange-trees heavy with fruit, immense acacia-treesloaded with fragrant yellow powdery blossoms. Main Street was cleanagain, and so were the farmers and their teams at the hitching-rails;the girls were beginning to wear white at church on Sunday, and to walkabout without their hats. The great valley was as green as the hills,save where the earth had been turned, and one or two almond orchardswere so pink they could be seen a mile away. It was spring in all itsglory, without a taint of summer's heat, or a lingering chill of winter.

  In Isabel's garden were many old Castilian rose bushes, that for fiftyyears had covered themselves pink with the uninterrupted lustiness ofyouth; and their penetrating, yet chaste and elusive fragrance, combinedwith the rich heavy perfume of the acacia-tree beside the house, wouldhave inspired a distiller and blender of scents. The birds sang as ifpossessed of a new message; and several of Isabel's prize roosters,tired of their old harems, flew over the wire-fences and strutted off insearch of adventure, proclaiming their route by loud and boastfulclamor. When they were captured by the unsympathetic Abe and restored totheir excited ladies, they flew at and smacked them soundly, then tossedback their red combs and crowed with all their might: a paean to the everconquering male.

  There were other flowers besides Castilian roses in Isabel's garden,haphazardly set out and cared for, but the more riotous and luxuriantfor that. And all around her, save on the Leghorns' hills, was the gaydelicate tapestry of the wild flowers. The marsh glittered like bronzein the sunlight. In the late afternoon it was as violet as the hills. Inthe evening afterglows it swam in as many colors as the Roman Campagna.At this hour the sky was often as pink as the almond orchards, meltingabove into a blue light but intense; while everything in its glow, thetall trees on the distant mountains, and the picturesque irregularitiesof the marsh-lands, seemed to lift up their heads and drink in thebeauty until Isabel expected to see them reel.

  And the pagan intoxication of spring took as complete a possession ofher. She sat under the long drooping yellow sprays of her acacia-tree,her lap full of the pink Castilian roses, and dreamed. No one could helpbeing in love in the spring, she concluded, given a concreteinspiration; and far be it from any creature so close to nature asherself to attempt to stem that insidious musical scented tide. It waspossible that Gwynne would not return, or returning, would flout her;she hardly cared. In fact so steeped was she in the pleasures of merelyloving, in a sweet if somewhat halcyon passion, that she had no wishthat the mood should be dispelled; and felt that she could ask nothingmore than to spend the rest of her mortal life with a beautifulmemory--like the aunt whose dust lay over the mountain in the conventyard. She knew that if Gwynne returned and demanded her, she should betempted to marry him--she never went so far as to promise either him orherself the rounded chapter; but one of the strongest instincts of hernature was to squeeze the passing moment dry, jealously drink every dropof its juice. She had no intention of tormenting herself withproblematical futures. Futures took care of themselves, anyhow.

  She was subconciously aware that she could conceive and portray a moreextreme phase of emotion than this present evolution, but shedeliberately avoided the phantasm. She was utterly, ideally, absurdlyhappy. Not for a moment did she desire the raw material, the concretesubstance, to which all dreams owe their being. The wild pagan gladnessof the wood-nymph, rejoicing in her freedom from the worries of commonmortals, and in the vision of an undefined but absolute happiness, wasenough for her. Sometimes, when walking in the early morning, far intothe hills, and away from human eyes, she let the light electric breezesintoxicate her, and danced as she walked, or sang; nor, indeed, was sheabove whistling. She often spent the evening hours on the marsh, thoselong twilights that are so like England's; remaining, sometimes, as lateinto the night as the tide would permit, enjoying the contrast of thelonely desolate menacing landscape with the utter beauty of the day. Sheavoided San Francisco and Rosewater, but the extraordinary effervescencewithin her demanded an outlet of a sort, and she was so radiant to hersmall staff that they looked upon her with awe. She had actually afortnight of bliss, and hoped that nothing might happen to disturb itfor ever and ever. But no one's world has ever yet stood still.

  One day Tom Colton's hoarse voice over the telephone begged her to "comeat once." She was on her horse in ten minutes, in Rosewater in half anhour. There were groups of people in the street near the youngerColtons' house, the front door was open, several members of the familywere passing in and out. As she entered the garden she saw one of themtie a knot of white ribbon to the bell knob.

  Her first impulse was to run. She felt that rather would she hear ofGwynne's death than face Anabel in her maternal agony. But she set herteeth and went on, far more frightened than sympathetic. The people thatoverflowed the hall and parlor were all crying, but nodded to her, andTom Colton, haggard and white, appeared at the head of the stair andbeckoned. He pointed to the door of his wife's bedroom, as she ascended,and she went forward hastily and entered without knocking. Anabel wasstanding on the threshold of the door that led into the nursery. Herface was white and wild, but she had not been crying.

  "Isabel!" she exclaimed, in loud astonished voice, "my baby is dead! Mybaby is dead!"

  Then Isabel, greatly to her own surprise, dropped into a chair and burstinto vehement tears. For the moment the child was hers, she sufferedpangs of maternal bereavement that seemed to tear her breast and twisther heart. But there was a terrible silence in those two rooms, and in afew moments it chilled and calmed her. She looked up to see Anabelstaring at her with blank expanded eyes.

  "What are you crying for? You?" demanded the young mother. "I never sawyou cry before. And it's not your baby."

  "I know it," said Isabel, humbly. "I suppose it is because I am so sorryfor you. I am--terribly."

  "I never thought you had that much feeling," said Anabel, dully. "Youwere always the strong one. Come and see my baby."

  Isabel rose, trembling and unnerved, but no longer shrinking, andfollowed Anabel into the nursery, where the child, looking like a littlewax-work, lay in its crib.

  "She is dead!" said Anabel, in the same astonished indignant voice. "Mybaby!" She caught Isabel's arm and shook it violently. "It isn't true,"she commanded. "Say it is not. How can it be? She spoke and laughed onlytwo hours ago. The relapse was nothing. The doctor said so. That is notmy baby." And then her brain stopped for a moment, and Isabel carriedher into the other room.

  She remained with her until after the funeral. Anabel, when sherecovered her senses, cried hopelessly for hours, but graduallycontrolled herself and rose and went about her affairs with a sterncalm. It was her first trouble, but not for nothing had she been given asquare jaw and a sturdy little figure. She was filled with dumb protest,and laid away her bright careless youth in the child's coffin, but sheaccepted the inevitable.

  Mr. and Mrs. Leslie were in the south when the baby died, but arrivedfor the funeral. Until then Anabel clung to her friend, and so did youngColton, who was far more demoralized than his wife. He did not brush hishair, nor go to bed, but wandered about
the house like a bewilderedspirit, occasionally smiting his hands together, or embracing the othertwo children convulsively. He had no support to offer his wife, andIsabel was glad to stay with the brave stricken little creature; butwhen Mrs. Leslie arrived she felt herself superfluous and returned home.

  She had had little time to think of Gwynne, but it had crossed her mindthat she would accept this heartrending episode, in which she had beencalled upon to play an intimate part, as but another warning; one,moreover, that would stand its ground did she attempt to force it aside.But Gwynne entered and filled her dispossessed mind the moment she satdown under her acacia-tree, which was perhaps an hour after her returnhome. But this time her dreams did not flow upon a smooth golden scentedtide. She searched the accumulated newspapers for mention of him in thedespatches, wept stormily at his neglect, tormented herself with thebelief that Julia Kaye was in Washington; at all events that he haddiscovered that his love for herself was but one more passing fancy,born of propinquity.

  She saw mention of him. Twice he had dined at the White House, and hisname was frequently in the list of guests at other dinners andfunctions. He was not visiting at the British Embassy, and Isabel drewher only comfort from the fact: he might be enjoying himself too much tothink of her, but his purpose was unaltered, or he certainly would bethe guest of a man whom she knew to be his friend: Gwynne was the lastman to embarrass anybody, and if the ambassador had enemies they wouldfind his connivance at the Americanization of a useful British peervastly to his own discredit.

  Isabel enjoyed no further peace of mind. The flames of uncertaintydevoured her. The worst she could endure, but suspense spurred heralways ardent imagination to such appalling feats that she barely ate orslept. But she was far too high-handed to suffer actively for long. Sheburied her pride in one of her many crypts, summoned her feminine craft,and wrote Gwynne a letter. It began in the brief and business-likemanner the iniquities of their builders demanded--they were onstrike--and her facile pen flowed on with various other items ofinformation, more or less unpleasant. Mr. Clink, the lessee of MountainHouse, had absconded with all the furniture, including the doors andwindows, and she hesitated to refurnish, not knowing if Gwynne wouldreturn in time for the salmon-fishing. Nor had she been able to findanother tenant, although she had spent two days in the mountains. Shethought it might be a good place for a sanitarium, if he were inclinedto form a company. Some sulphur springs had recently bubbled out of theground near the house, which would add to the value of the property; butshe must confess that they ruined the place for her. She distrusted thesudden advent of mineral waters; one never knew what was coming next.Then, after more cheering, but equally practical information, sherambled off into gossip, told the sad story of the Coltons' bereavement,and asked him a few friendly questions about himself. Of course he hadnot succeeded in getting his passport or he would be home--unless, to besure, the Britisher was too strong in him after all, and he would notreturn. This alternative she contemplated with a lively regret, for shehad had no one to talk to since he left, and so much business satheavily on her shoulders. Then she announced herself his affectionatecousin; and it was not until the letter was gone, and quite a day ofself-gratulation at her own adroitness, that it suddenly occurred to herthat Gwynne had made up his mind that the first letter should come fromher. For a few moments she was furious, then concluded that she did notcare; she wanted to hear from him on any terms. She counted the days,intending finally to count the hours and minutes; but this agreeablybreathless task came to an abrupt end at the close of the sixth day.Gwynne answered by telegraph. He thanked her for her interesting andmore than welcome letter. He was well, and bored, and hoping daily tosettle his affairs and start for home. In any case he should havereturned to California: he was surprised at her doubts. She was not tobother further about his affairs out there. He had telegraphed to thecontractor that he could wait as long as the strikers. He added that helonged for California.

  Isabel wondered if he had not dared to trust himself in a letter,finally concluded that this was the secret of the long telegram,dismissed her apprehensions, and, with a soothed but by no meanstranquil imagination, yielded herself up again to dreams and thespring.