Part 30 (1/2)
”And you will go?” asked Isabel, eagerly.
Miss Montgomery shook her head. ”No,” she said, sadly. ”It is too late.
I am thirty-five. If you have made no place for yourself by that time in America you belong by a sort of divine decree to the treadmill. And the limberness has gone out of my fingers as out of my mind. Sometimes I deluge my pillow; but I will confess to you that down deep there is a consciousness of bluntness, and it makes me inconsistently satisfied to be here in this land of climate and plenty, instead of in Boston or New York, where both climatic and social conditions are so terribly stern for the poor. After all, the word 'struggle' is a mere euphemism out here, and I am still asked to nearly all of the big parties; not one of the older set has dropped me, and I could go out constantly if I chose.
But I have neither the energy nor the money. I could have presents of ball gowns, but of course I won't accept them.” She laid her hand on Isabel's. ”Don't imagine that I do not appreciate your generosity. I shall never forget it--nor the dear childish awkward spontaneity of its expression. But here I stay and rot.”
”I heard this same lament from Lyster the other night; only he was more cheerful about it--possibly because he has other surcease--”
”Don't waste any sympathy on us,” said Miss Montgomery, contemptuously.
”There never was such a sieve as California--San Francisco--for separating the wheat from the chaff--for determining the survival of the fittest. If I had been worth my salt I should have conquered every obstacle, overcome the family will, when I was young and full of hope and vigor. So would Lyster Stone. San Francisco is stronger than we are.
That is the truth in a nutsh.e.l.l. Those that are stronger than she have gone. The rest don't matter. And as so many of those that are really gifted enjoy themselves with only an occasional spasm of self-disgust, they are not greatly to be pitied. By and by they will outgrow even that, and congratulate themselves that they were not of those that fled from the good things of life.”
Mrs. Hofer ran down the steps and into her automobile. ”I simply--couldn't--get--away,” she cried between the agonized thumpings of the engine. ”But perhaps you were glad to be rid of me a bit. Please don't say so, though. It would make me simply miserable.”
As the car glided off, she sat on the edge of the seat facing her guests, lightly, and with the same backward sweep of her body as when walking. She always seemed to be fairly bursting with youthful energy, and no bird could rival her buoyancy. She immediately a.s.sumed the burden of the conversation.
”Dear Miss Otis! I have been meaning all day to ask you about Lady Victoria Gwynne, but so many things have put it out of my head. What do you think of her? I am simply mad to know. I never met any one who interested me half so much; I couldn't make her out the least little bit. The only time when she seemed quite alive was when she spoke of her Jack. In the famous Elton she didn't seem to take any interest at all. I fancy they've fallen out, for whenever his name was mentioned--and Mr. Hofer admires him immensely--she always became as mute as a mummy. It put me out a bit. I'm not used to that sort of treatment. When I want to talk about a subject, I am in the habit of doing so. Lady Victoria is not a bit simple like so many English great ladies. Perhaps it's the Spanish blood, or perhaps it's because she's so _blasee_. They _do_ tell stories! I never heard any received woman accused of having had quite so many--well, at least in this town, when a woman is openly larky she soon finds herself on the north side of the fence. There was my Lady Victoria hobn.o.bbing with all the royalties at Homburg. But what interested me most was her att.i.tude to Sir Cadge Vanneck--”
”What?” Isabel sat erect. ”Has Sir Cadge Vanneck returned from Africa? I thought something besides ill health was detaining her. Do you think they will marry? I don't know whether Mr. Gwynne would like it or not.
He looks forward to her arrival--”
”I can see Lady Victoria on a California ranch! She would yawn her head off. London is 'the world' in quotation marks. She couldn't, that seasoned lady, stay out of it six months. But about Sir Cadge--that was the final mystery. It actually kept me awake one night. You know the story, how devoted he was for about two years, and then how he ran away when her husband was killed, for fear he would have to marry her. n.o.body knew exactly how she felt about it, for one thing must be said for the people of those effete old civilizations: their breeding carries them through any crisis without the turn of a hair. But the report was that she showed an inner convulsion in subtle outer vibrations, or people imagined she did, probably because she'd got to that age where she couldn't have many illusions left. Then, suddenly, this summer, he returns, and follows her to Homburg. He is all devotion. She is an iceberg. And she's gone off dreadfully. I saw her seven years ago at Covent Garden, and she was the handsomest thing I ever looked at. She's handsome yet, but her muscles are getting that loose look and her eyes are bottomless pits of ennui. Save me from being a fas.h.i.+onable demimondaine. Better go to the deuce and die in a garret. Something honest in that, anyhow--and more picturesque. There may be something behind, that we don't know anything about, but in my opinion she is not the happiest of women; and with such a handsome and agreeable man as Sir Cadge Vanneck at her feet, she is just an ingrate. We are not here, already? I wish I were not invited this evening, I'd simply _make_ you come home to dinner. And it seems so rude to leave you at the foot of this bluff; but there is just one thing the automobile can't do--”
Isabel, her head spinning with many words, had been glad to express her pleasure in the day's entertainment and run up the steps to her refuge on the heights. She had found that Mr. Stone was still in bed and likely to remain there, and a haughty note from Paula announcing that she had returned to her children and should remain where she was wanted.
She was vaguely planning to ”do something” for Anne Montgomery, and congratulating herself that she could fly at will from people that talked too much, when she heard Gwynne's long stride on the plank walk, and called gayly to him out of the darkness ”to stand and deliver.”
”I hope you carry a pistol,” she added, anxiously, as he ran up the steps. ”I scarcely ever pick up a newspaper without reading of a hold-up, and there were four on this hill last week. We change, out here, but we don't seem to improve much.”
XXIV
”I have had what is called a full day,” said Gwynne, as he sank into a chair beside Isabel. ”Lunch with half a dozen of the cleverest and most strenuous men I ever met--and not at Hofer's house, by the way, but out at the Cliff House, up in a tower, where we had a superb view of the ocean and Golden Gate; then motored about the city for three hours, then down to Burlingame for dinner, then back to supper at one of the restaurants. After over a year of social suspension I hardly knew how to behave, especially to all the pretty women I met at the Club House at Burlingame,--who seemed to expect me to pay them compliments and flirt desperately. I feel worn out, and on the verge of sighing for my lonely ranch.”
”But you have enjoyed yourself,” said Isabel, smiling. ”It has done you a lot of good. You must grow straight downward to your roots. Then, when you shoot up again you will be a real American.”
Gwynne made a wry face. ”Not yet. Mrs. Hofer's father, Mr. Toole (who is now retired and spends most of his time in about the most luxurious library I ever saw--we alighted in it for a few moments before swooping down to Burlingame) quoted Byron to me and is well up in English politics. There were several London newspapers and reviews on the table.
Moreover, at the luncheon, Elton Gwynne was actually discussed for a few moments. All of which gave me pangs of homesickness. But although they are all sufficiently versed in British politics, their interest is very casual. Even national matters don't concern them particularly. What absorbs them is the redemption of San Francisco; and after my experiences last night I can't say I am surprised. The sort of munic.i.p.al government that permits and battens upon an unlimited variety of open vice must devour the entire city in time. Mr. Toole informed me, in the holy calm of his library, that reform is impossible; and certainly the professional grafters seem to be one of the few productions of this State whose energy is not demoralized by the climate. But that must make the fight more interesting. And hardly a degree less menacing is this gigantic octapus of labor unionism--of inexcusable socialism. Well, we shall see! It makes one tingle.”
”And do you never, in your inmost, contemplate returning to England?”
asked Isabel, curiously.
Gwynne swung about and planted his elbows on the railing, clasping his hands about his head. For some moments he seemed absorbed in the ma.s.s of lights at the foot of the black hill-side. ”I don't know,” he said, finally. ”It is possible that only my will keeps me from thinking about it. It may be that, having made up my mind before leaving England, I accomplished a final wrench and adjustment. I abstain from too much self-a.n.a.lysis; but it is certain that down deep I often feel a tug at familiar strings. I don't pretend to know myself, for after all what is each one of us but the composite of the race, always at war with a spark of individuality. Some fine morning I may wake up, order my trunk to be packed, and take the first train out of California.”
”Oh, might you?”
”Well, of course, I should stop and say good-bye to you. That is if I did not fall into a panic at the thought of a final encounter with that terrible will of yours.” He turned and met a pair of eyes that were s.h.i.+ning like a cat's in the dark. ”You know that you have been manipulating the strings of my destiny!” he said, abruptly, and surprised at himself. ”I grew fearful of self-a.n.a.lysis and buried myself in the law--jolly good antidote--but I am always conscious of a subtle pressure on my will--was. I have thrown it off. It was either that or leave.”