VI
"_Monday Morning._
"This is merely to announce that I survived the marsh, and that upon my return we will resume where we left off last night. E. G."
Isabel received this note early in the morning. That night she hadaccepted an invitation of some weeks' standing, and was established inthe old Yorba mansion on Nob Hill. She anathematized her cowardice, butsolitude was beyond her endurance for the moment. She had made up hermind that she would not think of Gwynne at all, much less give herselfopportunities to miss and desire him; and her will, reinforced byconditions, was strong enough at times to persuade her that she hatedhim.
And there was nothing in the Trennahan household to try her nerves,everything to soothe them. Although the old buff walls and terriblecarpets of Mrs. Yorba's day had gone long since and the house had beencompletely refurnished, it looked like a home, not a museum. Trennahanhad taken his family to Europe many times, and they had brought backmuch that was rare and beautiful; but nothing stood out obtrusively, noteven a color. They entertained constantly in a quiet way, and ifMagdalena was far too Spanish to seek out the clever of all sets, andTrennahan too indifferent, at least Isabel met daily such of the _hautenoblesse_ as were not completely fossilized, and many men thatinterested her well enough. Moreover, as Mrs. Trennahan now had agrown-up daughter, she was obliged to take her to the cotillons andother routs given under the merciless supervision of the Leader. Isabelaccompanied her as a matter of course, and when she declined aninvitation her guest was at liberty to go with the ever faithful Mrs.Hofer.
For three weeks Isabel did little thinking. She went to the ranch once aweek for the day only, spent an occasional hour with Lady Victoria. Eventhen she was barely reminded of Gwynne. She was busy during every momentwhile in the country, and her relative was no more communicative than ofyore. Only once did Victoria remark casually, that, by a sort of poeticjustice, Gwynne was detained in the south with a sprained ankle, and washurling maledictions at fate from the classic shades of Santa Barbara.Isabel grudgingly admired the restraint with which he denied himself thepossible solace of correspondence with herself, and it crossed her mindonce or twice that the young man might have the understanding of womenthat proceeded from instinct, if not from study. But she deliberatelydismissed him, and although his name was frequently mentioned in herpresence, she soon ceased to turn cold, and forced him to flit with ahundred others across the surface of her mind.
For the first time in her life she flirted desperately, and with othersbesides young Hofer. She was quite wickedly indifferent to consequences,and was inspired to woo the fickle goddess of popularity. The peace andcharm and intellectual relief of the Trennahan home did much to modifyher shrinking from realities, and the effort to please, and theabandonment to the purely frivolous instincts of youth, were the onlyaides her beauty needed to achieve that popularity she had abstractlydesired the night Gwynne brought her the stars. She no longer desired itat all, but she disguised this fact, and reaped the reward.
Moreover, although her analytical faculty slept in the darkest wing ofher brain, the mere fact that she was stormily loved and desired by aman to whom she was powerfully attracted, that for a moment she had beenawake and eager in his embrace, had warmed her blood and given her aninsolent magnetism that she had never possessed before.
Through Mr. Colton she received a formal request from Gwynne to dedicatethe Otis Building--named in honor of the creator of the familyfortunes--on the day the last of the foundation-stones was laid. Incompany with half a hundred other young people in automobiles, sheastonished South of Market Street, one beautiful spring day--the springwas making desperate assaults upon the lingering winter--and amidst muchmock solemnity and many cheers, deposited into the chiselled crypt ofone of the great concrete blocks upon which the building would rest, astrong-box containing three of Concha Argueello's Baja California pearls,several family daguerreotypes, and the original deed of sale which hadtransferred the property from the city to the first James Otis. When theceremony was over the contractor shook hands with her approvingly.
"That's as good a place as any for a deed of sale in this here town," heremarked. "For no shake will ever budge them concrete pillars. They'redown to bed-rock. And no fire'll ever crack them, neither. We'll beginon the steel frame to-morrow, and you must come down occasionally andcheer us up. It'll be worth it. The Otis's goin' to be the cock o' thewalk. Better make up your mind to have them terra-cotta facings."
"Oh, they would not raise the rents, and would hardly be appreciated bytheir present neighbors," said Isabel, lightly. "I am going to send youa bottle of champagne to-night, and you must drink to the health of TheOtis."
The man promised fervently that he would, and then after ordering beerfrom a neighboring saloon for the workmen, Isabel and her party motoredout to the beach beyond the Cliff House, where a number of oldstreet-cars had been converted into bath-houses, and disportedthemselves in the waves until it was time to rush home and make readyfor the Mardi Gras ball.
This yearly function was given in the Institute of Art on Nob Hill, thewooden Gothic mansion with bow-windows, erected in the Eighties by arailroad millionaire who had barely survived his nimble victoriousassault upon Fortune. His widow had presented his "monument" to Art, andnow its graceful flimsy walls housed much that was valuable in canvasand marble, and more that was worthless. Once a year, on the eve ofLent, Society gave a Mardi Gras ball, and such of the artists as wereknown to the elect decorated the rooms, and contributed certainsurprises. This year, partly out of compliment to the Leader and MissOtis, partly because the old Spanish spirit had been roaming through itsancient haunts of late, the interior of the mansion was hung with redand yellow. Isabel, in full Spanish costume, led the grand march withyoung Hofer, who was dressed as a toreador, and supported the jeers ofhis friends in the gallery with what fortitude he could summon: he wasplump and pink and golden. The great room, surrounded with boxes drapedwith the colors of Spain and filled with women splendidly dressed andjewelled, was very gay and inspiring, and the masques flung confetti andhad a squib for everybody with a salient characteristic. When the marchfinished, Isabel, who wore a half-mask of black satin, and her hair intwo long braids plaited with gold tinsel, danced a Spanish dance byherself, alternating tambourine and castanets. She had practised itduring the past week with a professional, and she gave it with all thegraceful sexless abandon of those California girls, who, a hundred yearsbefore that night, were dancing out at the Presidio and Mission. She wasthe success of the evening as she had purposed to be, and went home withtwo proposals to her credit, and as gratified a vanity as evertitillated the nerves of an ambitious and heartless young flirt. It wasnot the first time that Isabel had deliberately elected to play a roleand achieved so signal a triumph that she was beset with the doubt ifshe had not but just discovered herself. As she fell asleep in the dawnof Lent it was with the somewhat cynical reflection that perhaps shecould make quite as great a success of the role of the statesman's wifewere she to essay it.
The roads were still in too muddy and broken a condition for thelong-projected automobile trip, and the Trennahans had decided to hire aspecial car and journey to Mexico, spending some time in SouthernCalifornia. They urged Isabel to go with them, but she was sure that shehad had all the respite she needed, nor would she neglect her chickensany longer. In truth she said good-bye to the party, which included notonly Lady Victoria, but several other congenial spirits, with aconsiderable equanimity. She was suddenly tired of them all and glad togo back to her solitudes.
Although she did not return with that exuberance of joy, which, uponformer occasions had made her feel like a long-prisoned nymph restoredto her native woodland, still she was more than content to be at homeagain, and sat on her veranda until darkness closed the long evening.Every trace of the winter's madness had vanished. The marsh was high andred above the fallen waters, the hills were green, the trees budding,wild flowers were beginning to show their heads. The scene, u
ntil thelast ray of twilight had gone, leaving that dark formlessness of aCalifornia night with its horrid suggestion, was almost as peaceful asEngland.
For several days Isabel, from reaction after weeks of incessant gayety,and the heaviness of early spring, was too languid to find even herLeghorns interesting. She slept late, yawned through the day; and neverhad her hammock--swung on the porch at the beginning ofspring--possessed so recurrent an attraction. At the same time she wasconscious, under the physical inertia which had brought her mind to astandstill, that she avoided Rosewater lest she should be forced to talkof Gwynne. He was still in Santa Barbara, and it was likely that hewould be persuaded to go with the Trennahans to Mexico. There was timeenough to seek his passport, and Isabel could well imagine that hisimpatience was not uncontrollable. No doubt he understood by this timethat he could expect no change in her, if indeed he had not dismissedthe matter from his mind.
She was rudely shaken out of her apathy by a long telegram from him,dated at El Paso:
"I have come this far with the Trennahans. Go on to Washington to-day. Expect me any time now. But should I be detained will you go over to the ranch occasionally? Use old power of attorney should occasion arise. Glad you made the running you wanted at last. Better order terra-cotta facings for The Otis. Am told that two other buildings will go up shortly in neighborhood. Quite fit again. E. G."
The delight and relief this telegram induced, the subtle sensation ofhope and flattery, not only routed torpidity, but lashed her into such astate of fury that she ran up to her bedroom and indulged in an attackof nerves. When it was over she faced the truth with the unshrinkingclarity of vision she could summon at will. But if she was not asastonished as she thought she ought to be, she was no less angry, notonly with herself, but with life for playing her such a trick. Less thanever did she want to marry, and cease to be wholly herself, to run therisk of disillusionment and weariness, and that ultimate philosophywhich was no compensation for the atrophy and death of imagination. Butno less did she turn appalled from the thought of a future withoutGwynne. All her old vague plans were suddenly formless, and she feltthat if she even faced the prospect of regarding the shifting beautiesof the Rosewater marsh for the rest of her life, she would hate natureas much as she now hated her treacherous self. And none could divinebetter than she, that, present or dismissed, when a man has conquered awoman's invisible and indefensible part she might as well give him therest. He is in control. She has lost her freedom for ever. So strong wasthe feeling of mental possession that Isabel glanced uneasily about theroom, half-expecting to see the soul of Gwynne; wondering inconsequentlyif it would descend to notice that her eyes were red. But she vowedpassionately that she would not marry him. If she had to be unhappy, farbetter unhappy alone and free, with some of her illusions undispelled.She had seen no married happiness that she envied, even where there wasa fine measure of love and philosophy. Even Anabel had come to her oneday in town, looking rather strained and worn, and, in the seclusion ofIsabel's bedroom, had confessed that the constant exactions of ahusband, three children, and migratory servants "got on her nerves," andmade her long for a change of any sort. "And there are so many littleodd jobs, in a house full of children," she had added, with a sigh. "Andthey recur every day. You can no more get away from them than from yourthree meals; I never really have a moment I can call my own. Of course Iam perfectly happy, but I do wish Tom were not in politics and wouldtake me to Europe for a few years."
And if Anabel was not happy--wholly happy--with her supreme capacity forthe domestic life, how could she hope to endure the yoke? She with herimpossible ideals and theories? Not that they were impossible; but toanticipate, in this world, the plane upon which the more highly endowednatures dared to hope they were to dwell in the next, absolute freedomwas necessary. Isabel's theory of life--for women of her make--had notaltered a whit, but the beckoning finger had lost its vigor. That lefther with no material out of which to model a future for thisplane--which, of course, was another triumph to the credit of the race.
She knew that Gwynne had conquered, that she had really loved him, assoon as he had ceased to play upon her maternal instincts. She hadcasually assumed at the time that her interest in him was decreasing,but in this day of retrospect, she realized keenly that it had markedthe opening of a new chapter. This was, perhaps, the most signal ofGwynne's victories, for the maternal tenderness for man means maternaldominance, a cool sense of superiority. Isabel was so conscious ofGwynne's mastery that she longed to kick him as she blushed to recallshe had done once before. She rubbed her arms instinctively, as if shestill felt the furious pressure of his fingers, and when the memory ofanother sort of pressure abruptly presented itself she hurriedly bathedher eyes and went out on her horse.
Ancestors: A Novel Page 64
