Ancestors: A Novel

  VII

  Isabel sat on the bench under an ancient oak for half an hour or more,but took no note of the time. In rural America one always seems to hearthe whir of distant machinery and responds to its tensity in the depthsof some nerve centre; but in England's open the tendency is to dreamaway the hours, the nerves as blunt as in the tropics; unless, indeed,one happens to be so astir within that one rebels in responding, andconceives of ultimate hatred for this incompassionate arrogant peace ofEngland.

  Isabel had been roused from her mood of unreasoning content by hercontact with the older woman, but for a few moments her thoughts wavedto and fro in that large tranquillity like pendent moss in a gentlebreeze. There was a stir of life in the little village; a window wasthrown open; a man came out to the pump and filled a bucket with water;a child cried for its breakfast; the birds were singing in the trees.But they barely rippled the calm. Isabel's eyes dwelt absently upon awhite line along a distant hill-top, made, no doubt, by Caesar's troops;for she had heard that the mosaic floors of Roman houses had beendiscovered under one of the fields in the neighborhood. Thisinformation, imparted by Lord Hexam's cousin, Mrs. Throfton, a ladyinterested in neither Bridge nor gossip, had not excited her as it mighthave done before her archaeological experience at headquarters, but shewas glad to recall it now, for that white road, sharply insistent in thesurrounding green, was one of the perceptible vincula of history.

  It was all old--old--old; an illimitable backward vista. And she was asnew, as out of tune with it as the motorcar flashing like a lost anddistracted comet along that hill-top in a cloud of historied dust: shewith her problems, her egoisms, the fateful independence of the moderngirl. In a fashion she was one of the chosen of earth, but she doubtedif the women who had toiled in these villages, or in centuries past hadlived their lives in the mansions of their indubious lords, had not hadgreater compensations than she. Unbroken monotony and a saving sense ofthe inevitable must in time create for the soul something of theillimitable horizon of the vast level spaces of the earth.

  And she? At twenty-five she had lost her old habit of staring withveiled eyes into some sweet ambiguous future, her girlish intensity ofemotion. But her theories, in general, were sound, and she had ticketedeven her minor experiences. She knew that character was the mostsignificant of all individual forces, and that if developed in strictadjustment to the highest demands of society, dragging strength out ofthe powers of the universe, were it not inborn, the book of one'sobjective future at least need never be closed prematurely by thoseinexorable social forces, which, whatever the weak spots on the surfaceof life, invariably place a man in the end according to his deserts. Shehad seen her father, with all his advantages of birth and talents, andearly importance in the community, gradually shunned, shelved, dismissedfrom the daily life of steadier if less gifted men, almost unknown tothe young generation. He had clung to certain strict notions of honorthrough it all, however, and at his death the county had experienced aspasm of remorse and attended his funeral; the sermon had been eloquentwith masterly omissions, and even the newspaper that had vilified him inhis days of political influence came out with an obituary, which, whenincluded in some future county history, would give to posterity quite asgood an impression of him as he deserved.

  And James Otis had had his virtues. One of his claims to redemptionsurvived in his daughter. He had reared her in the strict principles andprecepts of his New England ancestors, many of which are generally moreuseful in the life of a man. This early instillation, taken inconnection with himself as a commanding illustration in subcontraries,had given Isabel a directness of vision invaluable to a girl in no hasteto place her life in stronger hands. Whatever her dissatisfactions anddisillusions, her road lay along the upper reaches; the second rate, thefailures from birth, the criminal classes, far below. Her start in lifewas indefectible, and she knew that did the necessity arise to-morrowshe could support herself and ask no quarter.

  Perhaps, she mused, she would be happier in the necessity, for theproblem of roof and bread is an abiding substitute for the problem ofwhat to do with one's life. But she had never known an anxious momentregarding the bare necessities, and although there was somethingpleasantly stimulating in the prospect of making a fortune and beingable to live as she wished in the city of her birth--the only object forwhich she retained any passion in her affections--she smiled somewhatcynically at the modest outlook.

  Environments like the present were uplifting, almost deindividualizing,and there had been a time when she had known seconds in the face ofnature's surprises that were distinct spiritual experiences. Shebelieved they would return when she was in her own land once more, andEurope a book of fading memories. Her love of beauty at least was askeen as ever, and now that Europe was off her mind, leaving the propersense of surfeit behind it, no doubt she would have a sense of actuallybeginning life when the time came to take an active part in it, and sheassumed a position of some importance in her own community. She was fartoo sensible for ingratitude, and fully appreciated the gifts that lifehad so liberally dealt her. And she fully believed in work as theuniversal panacea. The mere thought of a busy future brought a glow toher heart. She rose with a smile as Lady Victoria emerged from thecottage at the upper end of the village.

  Lady Victoria was not smiling. Her brows were drawn, and she lookedangry and contemptuous.

  "The little idiot!" she exclaimed, as they started briskly for home."This is the first failure I have had in ten years. That is one of myboasts. And I took particular pains with that girl. Now Jack will havethe agreeable task of coercing the man into marrying her, for it appearsthat his ardor has cooled."

  Her brow cleared in a few moments, but she seemed to have had enough ofconversation, and it was evident that words for words' sake, or as aflimsy chain between signposts of genuine interest, had no place in hersocial rubric. Isabel, who was equally indifferent, strode along besideher without so much as a comment, and so confirmed the good impressionshe had made on her mettlesome relative. As they approached the house,Lady Victoria turned to her with a smile that brought sweetness to hereyes rather than any one of her more dazzling qualities.

  "I am generally in my boudoir at five," she said. "Come in thisafternoon for a chat before tea, if you have nothing better to do. Nowrun and get ready for breakfast."