Ancestors: A Novel

  IV

  There were two miles between Rosewater and Old Inn, but although Isabelrode briskly and was sensible as ever of the keen buoyant quality of themorning air that so often filled her with a pagan indifference to thehuman side of life, her thoughts were with the pleasant evening by herfireside, the supper in the low raftered room which once had been theoffice of the hotel--a supper of fried chicken, transparent asparagus,and soda biscuit, which Gwynne had disposed of with a school-boy'senthusiasm--the hundred and one impersonal topics they had discussed ina cloud of smoke before the logs, until Abe, the second hired man--whowas to drive Gwynne in to Rosewater--had opened the kitchen door threetimes and coughed. Not since Isabel's return to California had she satat a fireside and talked to anybody; nor, indeed, with the exception ofher father in his lucid intervals, and her uncle in his rare moments ofexpansion, had she ever talked with any one that covered the large rangeof her own interests. Gwynne had snapped the lock on his unquiet spirit,but in that comfortable domestic environment, half lying in aneasy-chair, with his gaze travelling indolently between the fire and theanimated face of his cousin, he had talked of her favorite books andtold her much of lands she had never visited. He had transferred himselfto the buggy with a grumble of disgust, and begged her to come for himearly in the morning. He refused to pay his first visit to his ranchwithout her; and she had promised that Abe should go early for hissaddle-horse and meet her at the hotel.

  Pleasurable as the evening had been, Isabel was not in a sentimentalframe of mind; she was stirred at the prospect of a companion, andwondered that she had been content in her solitude so long. Solitude andcomplete liberty might be indispensable elements in her ideal of mortalexistence, but desultory companionship might be as necessary tointensify them.

  It was nearly a year since her return, and outside of the bank parlorand Judge Leslie's office, she had held naught but business conversewith any man. Nor with any woman. Although Rosewater society offered hernothing and she was glad to live out of town, still she liked her oldschool friends and had expected them to call on her. But weeks hadpassed and not one of them had paid her the mere civilities. She metthem sometimes on Saturday afternoons, when all the world of Rosewatershopped on Main Street, and they invariably greeted her with effusion,and assured her they were "going out soon." Finally, busy and absorbedas she was, she fell a prey to curiosity. She knew that the young menhad always rather feared her, as she had a forbidding reputation in theway of "bookishness"; and as most of them had either left Rosewater ormarried, in the four years of her absence, she had expected nothing fromthem. But the girls? The young married women, who had been her comradesat the High School? Did they resent her three years abroad and the senseof superiority implied? It was patent from their manner that theyresented nothing. Did they disapprove of her becoming so energetic abusiness woman? It was true that the girls of California's countrytowns, except when forced by poverty to work, were the laziest mortalson earth. But nothing could exceed their good-nature and entireindifference. Isabel might have started a race-track or opened alivery-stable and they would have vaguely admired, and been thankfulthat themselves were as God made them. Her friend Anabel Colton was inthe south with an ailing child, and Mrs. Leslie was with her, or theproblem would have been quickly solved.

  One morning she met the beauty of Rosewater on Main Street, Miss DollyBoutts, a girl who had been half grown when she left, but one of her ownrapturous admirers. Main Street was crowded, but Miss Boutts rushed upand kissed her, protesting that she had been trying for two months toget out to see her. Isabel guided her firmly to an ice-cream table inthe candy store, and while Miss Boutts, who was a superb specimen ofanimal beauty with a corresponding appetite, disposed of two saucers ofthe delectable and a plate of cakes, Isabel dived to the heart of themystery.

  She began by dilating upon her pleasure in being home again, and thencongratulated her handsome friend, with a touch of sarcasm, upon theoverwhelming gayeties of Rosewater.

  Miss Boutts stared. "Gayeties?" said she.

  "What else? I never knew people so absorbed, although I fail to see whyI should be wholly excluded. Or have the fashions changed, and was Iexpected to call first--"

  Miss Boutts, who was not particularly quick of apprehension, here threwback her head and gave a musical laugh, which was out of tune with herdrawling nasal voice and abundant slang.

  "You innocent!" she cried. "Where have you been? I suppose you have beenimagining us at dances and dinners and teas and things. Why, we haveonly danced twice in two whole years. It's cards, my dear. We are cardmad, the whole bunch of us, old and young, women and girls. Mrs. Leslieand Anabel Colton are about the only exceptions, at least in our set.But I fancy the whole town has got it. We play morning, noon, andnight--literally. Those who have no servants--and that question getsworse instead of better--don't make their beds for days, and theirhusbands get dinner at any old hour. Those who have a servant or twobelong to six clubs at least. I belong to every one of them, and twomeet in the morning."

  It had been Isabel's turn to stare. The older people had always playedbezique or whist, but rather somnolently of an evening. She wondered ifthe old gambling spirit had broken out again, and asked if they wereplaying poker or monte. Miss Boutts looked at her with positive scorn.

  "You girls that go to Europe and stay there too long get fearfullybehind things. Poker! Monte! We play bridge and five hundred." Then hergenuine affection for Isabel overcame her contempt. "We have spokenoften of asking you to join the clubs," she added, sweetly. "But thereisn't a vacancy at present."

  "I couldn't think of it. Chickens and cards don't rhyme. What do youplay for--money?"

  "No!" The scorn returned to her voice. "We are still too provincial forthat. San Francisco is ahead of us there. We don't even have real bigprizes--just a dinky little spoon sitting up on the mantel-piece toexcite us as if it was a tiara. I've won a whole bunch of them. They'rebetter than nothing and mean a lot of fun. I'm as proud as punch ofthem."

  "And the men?" asked Isabel. Did they play, too? Miss Boutts repliedthat they were too busy in the daytime, but were asked once a week to a"bang-up" affair. Their other evenings they spent at the lodges--"or anyold place," added Miss Boutts, who had no brothers, and a very busyfather. When Isabel asked her if she had not the natural yearning of herage and sex for beaux, she shrugged her shoulders and replied:

  "Rather. But where are you going to find them here? Pa won't live in thecity, and all the young men run away. Once in a while I visit in SanFrancisco, and we go down to all the new plays, so I suppose I'll meetmy fate in time. Meanwhile, as there's nothing doing in that line here,cards are a mighty fine substitute for beaux, and no mistake."

  Isabel had been glad to be rid of her, and of her other old friends, whodid call in due course. Anabel had not returned and was the worst ofcorrespondents. So it had fallen out that she had held no real conversewith youth until Gwynne's advent, and she accepted it with delight, andshook her head with young triumph in being able to interest him--or injoy of the sparkling air; she hardly knew which.

  * * * * *

  As Gwynne left his room the Japanese "chambermaid," who had been aboutto knock, informed him that Miss Otis awaited him below. He randown-stairs and found her still on her horse. Abe held another horse bythe bridle.

  "It is nine o'clock--" began Isabel, but Gwynne interrupted her, rarelyapologetic.

  "I hardly slept. There was such an infernal racket. A theatricaltroupe--"

  "There generally is. How do you like your horse?"

  Gwynne examined the horse, and was good enough to remark that it was acredit to California. Then he added: "It did not occur to me lastnight--my luggage is expressed to the ranch and I haven't myriding-togs--" Then he reddened at Isabel's gay laugh and Abe'ssuppressed smile.

  "Oh, well," said Isabel, as she sprang from her horse. "The bloods willbe too busy to notice as we ride down Main Street, and after that itwon't matter."

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bsp; She went with him into the dining-room of the hotel, a room scrupulouslyclean, but with no attempt at decoration beyond the variousadvertisements of beer on the white walls. There was a long table downthe middle of the room and a great many small ones. Most of the latterwere empty, although two beside the door were covered with steaks andeggs and coffee and rolls. One man, who had evidently finished, hadswung his chair about, tipped it against the wall, and was addressing apolitical monologue to his toothpick.

  Gwynne led Isabel to a table in a corner by a window, and indicated thecompany occupying more than half of the long table.

  "'Busted,' was the word they used, and I cannot think of a better one todescribe them. I talked with the men in the bar, and later wandered intothe parlor where the women were, some tearful, others indignant. Onehad an infant, and there were several small children running about,although it was midnight. The soubrette was chewing gum andanathematizing Rosewater as the 'jayest town on the slope,' and otherswere calling for the blood of the manager, who had absconded with thereceipts of an unprofitable week. They interested me, as all your weirdspecimens do, and I found them a surprisingly decent lot, consideringthat it is the cheapest sort of a vaudeville troupe. That poor littlewoman with the red eyes and the parti-colored hair is the mother of theinfant. I saw one of the children carrying it about the hall as I leftmy room. She wears spangled tights--she told me with a lively regret atthe prospect of pawning them--and shoots balls from the head of thatyoung man that looks like a parson. And the soubrette--all my ideals areshattered! Look at her."

  The soubrette had a lank young body neatly attired in a store suit andshirt-waist. Her face was sallow and her black hair as lank as her body,but her eyes were keen and bright, and she was indisputably respectable.She was drinking her coffee with both elbows on the table and listeningwith a sort of indifferent sympathy to an elderly untidy woman who wassniffling.

  "Drop it," she shot out, finally. "'Tain't worth it. The landlord'sgiven us a free breakfast, anyhow, and it's more'n most of 'em does.We'll get back to 'Frisco somehow, and will run into Jake first thing.I'll give him a slice of my mind right in the thickest of theTenderloin. You just shut up and be thankful you ain't got no kids."

  "She is positively discouraging," said Gwynne, as he attacked hisexcellent breakfast. "I thought that the frozen surface of the Americanwoman thawed on the stratum soubrette."

  "The class is not always remarkable for its asceticism," said Isabel,dryly. "I often lunch here, and see many varieties. The leading lady isgenerally a large voluptuous person with a head like a hay-stack seenthrough the wrong end of an opera-glass, and some of the soubrettes areall hats and eyes and wriggling grace. The men are what we call 'tough,'which is not exactly what you mean by 'toff.' Occasionally, however,there are the most respectable family parties, including the childrenwhom they won't be parted from. We have three places of amusement,including quite a fine opera-house, so they do very well, as a rule. Wasit your sympathy that kept you awake?"

  "I am not an ass. But they were in and out of one another's rooms allnight, and of course the baby cried. Then my room was over thebar--well, what will you? Such is life. I am sorry you cannot eatanother breakfast. This seems to be the land of good cooking. If I didnot scorn to be unoriginal I should dilate upon the pie and doughnuts Ihad for breakfast on the other side of your continent."

  He seemed still light of heart at the sudden end to his wanderings andisolation, and they forgot the troupe and chatted about his ranch. Hehad much to ask and his sponsor more to tell.

  The theatrical party appeared to finish their breakfast simultaneously.Three, including the soubrette, reached under the table, dislodged themorsel of gum they had mechanically attached to the under side of theboard, closed on it with a snap, and filed out. Most of them lookedquite cheerful. Several bowed to Gwynne. The soubrette gave him ahaughty suspicious nod.

  "She looked at me like that last night," said Gwynne, complainingly."What designs does she attribute to me? I never treated any one withmore respect."

  "They are all like that when they are respectable. Their fierceAmericanism resents any hint of patronage. Later on they invite it. Youwill find these waitresses--the class, as a rule, is thoroughlydecent--much the same in manner."

  Two girls, white clad, their extended arms loaded with dishes, werestalking about the room, anaemic, disdainful. A portly woman, whom Isabelknew to be the mother of a brood, was far more anxious to please. Shecame up to the table in the corner and asked Gwynne affably if hiscoffee was "all right" and if he was a stranger in "these parts." He wasunder Isabel's amused eye, but he acquitted himself with credit; andwhen he rose from the table she thanked him indifferently for his tip,but her eyes glowed softly. It was rarely thought worth while to tip amere waitress.