Ancestors

"You are not only my fiancee but my cousin--"

"Nonsense!"

"I shall be back in about two hours. Mind you are sitting just there when I arrive."

As he went swiftly out and closed the door, she shrugged her shoulders, and her eyes danced with antic.i.p.ation. After all, she could return his present when the farce was over, and she was in a mood to have the world poured into her lap.

She dined alone with her Puritan and Spanish ancestors, and when the brief meal was over, went up and exhibited herself to Lady Victoria, who was in a state of silent fury at being the victim of a headache. She complimented Isabel upon her appearance, however, and added:

"I hope this pretended engagement will end in reality. You are of our blood. I recognize it more and more. I am thankful he escaped Julia Kaye. You are--could be--all I am afraid I compelled myself to believe she was."

"Do you want him to go back to England?" asked Isabel. "I had a letter from Flora the other day, and she thinks it is my mission to restore him to his country."

"I don"t care. What difference does it make? I want him to be happy, and he can have a career anywhere. In your case beauty is not a curse, and I should be glad to see you concentrate your gifts where you can find and give real happiness. Now, enjoy yourself like a girl to-night and don"t bother about Jack or any one else--certainly not about me," as Isabel stood looking down upon her with a puckered brow.

Lady Victoria, in a negligee of salmon pink under a red light, and reclining on her divan with a box of cigarettes beside her, and a French novel in her hand, looked little less handsome than when she had captivated Isabel"s girlish fancy a year ago. It was only the utter weariness of the eyes, and a subtle hardening of the whole mask of the always immobile face, that betrayed the sudden rupture with a long complacent youth. But she looked at Isabel"s glorious youth without a pang of envy in her cynical, if not yet philosophical, soul, and said again, with emphasis:

"Marry him. You can do it. Any woman can marry any man she wants. That is the reason we are never really happy. We never love men, as we imagine that we could love. We have fevers for them that last a few weeks, and then we become maternal and endure them. We might love a demi-G.o.d, never man as we know him. Perhaps in some other world--who knows?"

Isabel p.r.i.c.ked up her ears. Was Lady Victoria meditating the consolations of the Church--or of Flora"s more modern subst.i.tute? What a solution! But she dared not ask. She was still a little afraid of her complicated relative. She begged her not to read too late, and went out, promising to conciliate the offended Mrs. Hofer.

As she walked down the hall she stooped absently and picked up a sc.r.a.p of paper, hardly aware that she held it in her hand until she sat down once more before her mirror. Then she glanced at it. To her surprise it was an advertis.e.m.e.nt of a prize-fight, cut from a newspaper; and on the margin an illiterate hand had scrawled, "_Nine o"clock sharp._" She wondered which of the servants was indulging in the distractions of the ring. All except Lady Victoria"s maid were j.a.ps. Could the Frenchwoman have found a lover who had introduced her to the forbidden pleasures of the town? Obviously it was not Gwynne"s for the date was two days old, and he had been in Menlo Park at the time. But she had more interesting things to ponder over. Being a good housekeeper, she folded the sc.r.a.p and hid it under one of the little silver trays, intending to give it in the morning to Lady Victoria, who was the temporary mistress of the mansion. Then she fell to counting her pearls, wound them twice about her throat, decided that she preferred the single long ellipse falling among the blue flowers on her bosom, marvelled, in an abandon of femininity, at the dazzling whiteness of her skin. She was beautiful, no doubt of that; it might be as Lady Victoria and Flora Thangue a.s.serted, that any future she chose was hers to command; and, as the latter had intimated, to be an English peeress, with her husband at the head of the state, was no mean destiny. To-night, her almost fanatical love of California was dormant. She felt wholly personal. Whatever the future, she wanted to be the most admired girl at this party to-night, to dominate its long-heralded splendors as a great soprano rises high and triumphant above the orchestral thunders of a Wagner opera. Old instincts were stirring subtly. She had the rest of her life for great ideals. To-night she would be an old-time belle: as Concha Arguello had been just a century ago, as Guadalupe Hathaway, Mrs. Hunt McLane, Nina Randolph, and "The Three Macs," had been in the city"s youth; as Helena Belmont had been but twenty years before. She recalled the oft-told story of the night of Mrs. Yorba"s great ball, in the house next to the one which was to be the theatre of her own debut, when Magdalena Yorba, Tiny Montgomery, Ila Brannan, and the wonderful Helena had been introduced to San Francisco, and the most distracting belle the town had ever known had turned the heads of fifty men. It was far easier to be a belle in that simpler time than to-day, when the San Franciscan vied with the New-Yorker in the magnificence of furnishing and attire, and a mere million was no longer a fortune. And the city more than maintained its old standard of beauty, for its population had nearly doubled; the handsome girls of the upper cla.s.s had learned the art of dress, and even among the shop-girls there was a surfeit of pretty faces and fine busts.

As to the demi-monde it was the pick of America, for obvious reason.

But Isabel was an ardent dreamer, and as she sat in her silent old home, high above the city"s unresting life, she imagined herself into a blissful picture where she should realize to the full all the desires dear to the heart of a girl. It was true that she had created a _furore_ that night at Arcot, but her triumph had been extinguished by fright and the tragedies that came in its train. And no triumph abroad ever quite equals the conquest of your own territory. Isabel concluded that if it were a matter of a single season, she would rather reign in San Francisco than in London--but her dreams were cut short by Gwynne"s rapid step on the plank walk, and a moment later he was tapping on her door.

She looked up at him with undisguised expectancy.

"I am going to enjoy it," she said. "I shall accept it. I don"t care!"

"I should hope so, after all the trouble I have had." He sat down in a low chair beside the dressing-table and facing her. "Hofer had been turned out of the house and had taken refuge at the Mission. I took an automobile and rushed out there, only to find that he and his friends had concluded to come in and dine at one of the restaurants. Definite, but I know their tastes pretty well, and finally tracked them down. By that time I was starved, but when the dinner was over Hofer went with me himself to the jeweller"s--"

"What is it?" asked Isabel, impatiently, her eyes on a long box Gwynne had taken from his pocket.

But Gwynne seldom had an opportunity to tease her. He drew his finger along the heavy coil of hair that rose from the very nape of her neck and pushed forward a soft little ma.s.s on to the brow. "I have always wanted to see something here," he said. "I remember once seeing a lovely print of the Empress Elizabeth of Austria, who wore her hair somewhat as you do--"

"Not a bit of it. Her hair was generally half-way down her back--"

"Well the effect was the same--and in this print she had a row of daisies or stars; I never could remember which--"

"You haven"t brought me daisies?" said Isabel, in disgust.

Gwynne pressed the little gilt n.o.b, and as the lid flew up Isabel cried out, with delight.

"You shouldn"t! But I don"t care! I said I wouldn"t. I never expected anything so gorgeous, though--"

She caught the box from his hand and fastened the diamond stars in the line he had indicated. There were five, graduated in size, and they gave her beauty its final touch of poetry and light. Isabel gazed at her dazzling reflection with parted lips and dancing eyes, then turned impulsively, flung her arms about Gwynne"s neck, and kissed him. He pushed her away roughly.

"Don"t do that again!" he said. "I am not your brother, nor one of your girl friends. Can I look about? I have always had a curiosity to see this room. I had an idea that it was different from the one at the ranch."

"You can look at what you like," said Isabel, indifferently. "I shall look at my stars. _Madre de Dios!_ as our Spanish ancestors would have said. _Ay yi! Valgame Dios! Dios de mi alma! Dios de mi vida!_ I never was so happy in my life."

Gwynne walked about the large old-fashioned room with its bow-window, and alcove for the bed. He had half expected that the room he had so often pa.s.sed with reluctant steps would be furnished in blue or pink, but it was as red as that of the traditional queen. Isabel had brought up all the old crimson damask curtains that had been fashionable in her grandmother"s time, and covered the windows and walls of her bedroom, even the head of the mahogany four-poster in which her mother and herself had been born. The carpet was new, but a dull crimson, like the faded hangings, and the dressing-table with its quant.i.ty of chased silver--one of the few inheritances she had managed to retain--was the only spot of light in the rather sombre room: it was all white muslin and bright crimson silk. There was an old-fashioned settle against the wall and three stiff chairs. Gwynne liked the room, and had a vague feeling that he knew Isabel a little better. Certainly it expressed a side of her of which he had caught but an occasional glimpse.

He pulled the curtains apart and shading his eyes from the light of the room looked down towards the city. It had vanished under a sea of white fog that broke against the ledge of n.o.b Hill. A cable-car might have been a comet flashing along the edge of a void.

"I wonder," he said, "I wonder--should San Francisco disappear--be burned by that fire you are always expecting--or if the bay should shoal, or the Golden Gate rush together, so that she would have no reason for existence, and gradually be devoured by time--I suppose the fog and the winds would still be faithful. I can imagine the fogs rolling in and embracing her, and the winds raging about every forgotten corner, centuries after there was anybody left to curse either."

"Was it Mrs. Kaye or Lady Cecilia Spence that said you just missed being a poet? I hope some slumbering ancestor is not struggling for resurrection out here. I much prefer that you should be a statesman."

"I intend to be, nor have I any desire to turn poet. I have seen too many in London. But this city, ugly as it is, appeals in its own way to the imagination--more, for some unknown reason, than the most poetic I ever saw in the old worlds. There is something almost uncanny about it.

While it is raw, and crude, and practically in its infancy, it at the same time suggests an unthinkable antiquity. Perhaps--who knows?--it had a civilization contemporary with the Montezumas--or with Atlantis; and it is the ghosts of old unrecorded peoples that linger and give one a fairly haunted feeling when one climbs these hills alone at night."

"Much better you keep your hand on your pistol and your eye out for foot-pads--and one dreamer in the family is enough. I hope I have not infected you."

She forsook her glowing image and looked at him inquisitively. He wandered about the room again and paused to look at a row of daguerreotypes on a shelf, dead and forgotten Belmonts.

"You do dream a good deal," he said. "Judging by your varying styles of beauty as well as other things, you must be possessed by a dozen different sorts of old Johnnies trying to mutter something up out of the dark."

"I"m going to be nothing but a dreamer for a whole week."

"If that means that you will forget chickens, and dress yourself decently, I shall do what I can to heighten the illusion. Should you like me to make love to you?" he asked, turning to her with a quickening interest.

"That might wake me up," said Isabel, politely. "This week is crowded with parties and things. I am to visit Mrs. Hofer and go to all of them.

You won"t see much of me until New Year"s eve, when I come home and we dine at a Bohemian restaurant with Lyster and Paula, and watch the street crowds after. But I do not look so far ahead. If I am a success to-night I am going to make believe that I am an old-time belle like Helena Belmont, or my poor little mother, for that matter. And I shall feel just like her when I start, for Angelique will pin up my skirts under a long cloak, and pull carriage boots over my slippers so that nothing will be spoiled going down those steps. I suppose I can"t hope to be quite such a belle as if I had lived in those less-sophisticated days, but who knows? And I can forget Rosewater--and Bohemia; I sha"n"t even think of the Stones until New Year"s eve; I sent them their Christmas presents this morning, on purpose. I am going to be frivolous, coquette, and imagine myself a girl of the old Southern Set, when there were no new people. And I"m going to make them _think_ I am a great beauty, whether I am or not. I remember mamma used to say to me: "Cultivate the beauty air. That often is more effective than beauty itself. Tiny Montgomery was a beauty according to every known standard, but she had no dash, and was never looked at when Helena Belmont was in the room." So to-night, you"ll see me sail into that ballroom as if I already had the town at my feet. By-the-way--the last time I began to feel like a real girl again was that night at Arcot--and I did feel eighteen--triumphant--happy--until I got back and saw Lord Zeal in the library. I have never forgotten his face."

"Nor have I," said Gwynne, dryly; but he turned pale. "I suppose you haven"t had the least suspicion what he came to tell me that night?"

"I thought to say good-bye without letting you know--it isn"t possible that he told you he intended to kill himself?"

"He told me a good deal more. He had shot Brathland. Murdered him, in plain English. You may fancy the night I had with him."

Isabel stared up at him, the radiance gone from her face.

"And you have been carrying that about in addition to everything else?"

"It was brutal to tell you this to-night! I can"t imagine why I did, particularly as I have never told even my mother--who, like everybody else not necessarily in the secret, thinks that Zeal killed himself in despair over his failing health. But--yes, I remember that dress now--I rarely notice the details of women"s clothes--but I remember admiring those blue lilies on that airy white stuff--I suppose you suddenly brought the whole thing back as vividly as if we were at Capheaton instead of out here on the edge of creation. You must forgive me and forget it."

"Yes I will! I"ll forget everything for a week." She wheeled about and rubbed her cheeks. Gwynne stooped suddenly and kissed the little black mole on her shoulder.

"This is all I ask in return for the baubles," he murmured; and then as he met a blazing eye: "Could I do less than restore your lovely color?

But I must fly and get into my togs."

x.x.xIII