Ancestors: A Novel

  XXXI

  They parted at the foot of the mountain, and as Isabel approached herown house she saw Anabel Colton's trap tied to the garden gate. She sether teeth and slackened the pace of her horse, but Anabel and MissBoutts had seen her, and leaned over the edge of the veranda, calling toher impatiently. She gave her horse a cut with the whip and rode rapidlyto the stable. When she finally reached the veranda she greeted herfriends courteously enough, and then, as she noted their expression ofdefiant loyalty, remarked, sweetly:

  "Of course you have been expecting to hear that I am engaged to Mr.Gwynne, but I only really made up my mind to-day."

  "Isabel!" Both fell on her neck, Dolly with tears, and she respondedwith what enthusiasm was in her, and gently deposited them into two ofthe veranda chairs. With a very fair simulation of the engaged girl sheanswered their rapid fire of questions, and even informed Anabel thatshe would prefer silver to china when the day for presents arrived, andpromised that she should come to the rehearsal of the ceremony, since,unfortunately, the young matron's own happy state debarred her fromofficiating at the altar. But she was averse from lying, even byimplication, and was glad to see them go. After they had turned for thelast time to blow her a kiss, she went within, slammed all the doors onthe lower floor, stamped her feet, and hurled a book across the room.Finally she swore. After that she felt better and sat down to read aletter from Mrs. Hofer that awaited her.

  * * * * *

  "... I can't do anything with your Lady Victoria" [the lively youngmatron ran on after a few preliminary enthusiasms]. "She went everywhereat first, but just sat round looking like a battered statue out of theVatican with some concession in the way of clothes--not so much.Literally she made no effort whatever, and, you know, _American menwon't stand that_. Perhaps that's the reason she suddenly called off andrefused to go anywhere. But what can she expect? American women may talktoo much, but at any rate they are the sort American men know like abook, and our knights have no use for inanimate beauties a good manyyears younger than my Lady Victoria.

  "Now she appears to do nothing but walk--stalk rather. She goes overthese hills as if she had on seven-league boots. One would think she waspossessed by the furies; or perhaps she is afraid of getting fat.

  "I am simply dying to see you again. If you don't mind--I like youbetter than any one I ever met. You combine everything, and although youmake me feel as fresh as paint and as Irish as Paddy Murphy's pig, stillyou always put me in a better humor with myself than ever. How do you doit? You suggest all sorts of things that I can't define at all. Comes ofliving alone and making a success of it, I suppose, getting ahead ofmere femininity and all the pettinesses of life. That's flying ratherhigh for me, so I'd better come down. Please _make_ Mr. Gwynne come tomy party. I intend that party to be the greatest thing ever given inCalifornia--since the old Monte Cristo Ralston days, anyhow: and haveall sorts of surprises that I won't tell even you. The ballroom is quitefinished and is a perfect success. It is _too_ fine to think that youwill make your formal debut in it. Everybody is coming. Mr. Gwynnesimply must. I know of about a dozen girls who would have given him the_cotillon_ if he had asked them, and even now, when they are allengaged, I know of at least two who would not hesitate to throw theirmen over. We all like him tremendously, the men as well as the women.Mr. Hofer and I--do you know, we have just a dark suspicion--where _is_Elton Gwynne, anyway? That would be too good to be true. He could ownthe town. We know an _individual_ when we see one, and wouldn't weappreciate the compliment! We'd like him all the better for havingaccepted him when he was plain John Gwynne, and we'd like ourselvesbetter still. You know how we make up our own minds out here. Look atthe famous actors and singers we've rejected, and the reputations we'vemade. Not like New York, that never expresses an opinion until a sort ofconsensus has sweated up to the surface. I hate New York. Can't you comedown and pay me a visit of a week? I should love it. Call me up on thetelephone."

  * * * * *

  Isabel pondered over this missive for a few moments and then rereadparts of a long letter she had received the day before from FloraThangue.

  * * * * *

  "... I almost wish Jack would return, although at first I approved ofhis going. His case seemed so desperate. But since the elections therehas been so much talk of him, so many prophecies as to what he will dowhen he returns--they believe him to be travelling in South America--somuch seems to be expected of him, especially now that the Liberals arein, and there is so much dissatisfaction with the Cabinet--I reallybelieve he would be the one to keep the party in power and that hisbecoming prime-minister would be a question of only a few years. Notsuch a bad outlook! But I don't care to say all this to Jack--or even toVicky. You are responsible for the present state of affairs, and I amsure you realize what a tremendous responsibility it is. Besides, youknow every side of the question over there as I do not. Think it over,dear Isabel.... Julia Kaye, I happen to know, has been trying to get hisaddress. So far, she has not landed another big fish, and no doubtthinks that Jack's disgust and enthusiasm have both worn themselves outby this time. Don't send him back, but bring him. Of course he hasfallen in love with you. Besides, you could accomplish any mortal thingyou put your will to. Do, please, think it all over. A few years' delay,and he might return and find it too late. The public memory is short.There are rivals. The one he had most to fear from has anUnder-secretaryship, and lets no one forget him. There will be deepresentment at too long an absence, especially if he should become anAmerican citizen meanwhile. They would never forgive that.

  "... About Vicky. I wish I could have gone with her, but she did notfeel that she could afford to take me, and Vicky's spasms of economy arenot to be discouraged. But, thank heaven, she has you and Jack. Perhapsall she really needed was a change: she was always an individual, butshe got to be distinctly peculiar after you left--nerves, I suppose:only instead of being merely irritable like other women she sealedherself up like a Mahatma preparing for astral flight. I only wish shewas one. Women of her class no longer take to religion, when the firesare dead, but they certainly need a substitute, and I should thinktheosophy would be as good as any. It is such a delightful mixture ofvagueness and cock-sureness, and even more picturesque than Romanism. Itis time for me to follow the fashion and write a book, and I think I'llpaint the mysterious delights of India as a late autumn resort. I am sosick of all these public mausoleums for youth! It would be a positiverelief to think of all our erstwhile beauties stretched out in somefrescoed cave with their ears and eyes and noses sealed up with wax,while their ever-youthful spirits sallied forth for new conquests on theastral plane. But Vicky never 'made up': one must say that much for her.Only this terrible fetish of youth! Heavens! the tragedies mysympathetic soul has endeavored to see as tragedies only. Not thatgrowing old seems to be the worst of it. The underlying tragedy is thatthey can't care enough, and this they take to be the real end of youth,and patter up and down the old worn-out track of device, trying to foolthemselves as well as others. But Vicky, as I said, is an individual: atouch or two more and she might have been a genius. She is like the massof women in many things, heaven knows, but her divergences are the morestartling; and the point of divergence lies down in the roots of herpride. She suddenly felt the complete loss, the final departure ofyouth, and she accepted it like a fallen goddess, and refused even thesudden and startling renewal of Sir Cadge Vanneck's devotions. She hadnothing left to give him, and although her pride may have urged her toshow the world that she still could capture a man like that, I think hereally bored her to death, and she was satisfied to parade him for atime and then publicly throw him over. And she once loved him, I amcertain of it. That is tragedy, if you like. I fancy she has desperatemoments, but she will pull through in her own way. Don't delude yourselfwith the notion that she is sitting down in sackcloth and ashes with herpast! Those women don't repent, for they never admit that the laws ofcommon mortals app
ly to them. What is their royal pleasure to do theydo, and when it is over a square inch of their memory might have gonewith it. To mull themselves, commit some flagrant error that lands themin the divorce court, or high and dry in the outskirts--that is anothermatter. They repent then, _sans doute_; and get no mercy. We overlookeverything at this apex of civilization but stupidity. We respect thehigh-handed but not the light-headed. That is one reason thoselong-winded novels of sin and repentance--generally over one slip andwhen the man has wearied--leave us cold. We know too much. It seems sucha lot of fuss about so little. If some of these good, painstaking,and--let us whisper it--bourgeoise novelists had seen one-tenth of thepagan disregard for all they cherish most highly, that I have seen, andif they could only be made to comprehend--which they never could--howabsolutely admirable these same women are in many other respects--suchcapacity for deep undying friendship, such uncalculating loyalty, suchracial possibilities of heroism--well, they would do a good deal harderthinking than they have had to do yet, if they attempted to readjusttheir traditions to the actual facts of life. But the old traditions getback at our women all the same, although they don't suspect it. They paythe penalty in that late--sometimes not so late--intolerable maddeningennui. Heavens! how many women I have heard wish they were dead. ThankGod I am a virgin!

  "Of course, dear Isabel, I would not write like this about Vicky to anyone on earth but yourself. But she is on your hands, so to speak, and Ifeel you should have some sort of comprehension of her. To understandher fully is impossible. She is unhappy, that is the main thing--whatwith all I have intimated, and the great change in her fortunes--I canhardly imagine Vicky without Capheaton and the reflected glory of'Elton Gwynne'; and, no doubt, she finds California an exile and hasrealized by this time that she can be of little use to Jack. Better makea fortune for her in your wonderful American way and bring them bothhome."