CHAPTER XII
IT IS later by twenty years. All things have changed. Arguello is famed throughout the world. It has de luxe trains running to it; and two huge hotels; and a sublimated boarding house where by dint of waitresses in fancy costume, decorations of orange-yellow and black, and a haughty manner they can charge you three prices; and its former sagebrush heights are crowned with the humble cottages of the sniffy rich, and the gardens, and garages, and servants' quarters thereunto appertaining. You would never know Main Street, with its paving and its fancy concrete street lights, and its glittering exclusive shops ready equally to awe you or flatter you as long as they get to your pocketbook. Motors flash by on their way to country places that would have been prohibitively remote in the old days.
And certain things have gone. You will rarely now see an old-fashioned Mexican saddle; nor, indeed, many saddle horses. Yes, some people ride, to be sure. You will see them very correctly turned out, rising to the trot on the beach or along one of the back roads, generally with a groom pounding along behind. They are taking horse exercise. They know nothing about the old trails that lead, or used to lead, up into the fastnesses of the Sur; nor the trickle of water nor the smell of bay and the pearl blue deeps where the buzzards swing. Those things are too far away, they take too much time; nobody sees you and your clothes and your flat-country horse rig. Such an expedition takes an afternoon. There are too many things to do; too many people to see. Everybody entertains everybody else at the aforementioned humble cottages or at the Country Club; and afterward there must be bridge. Life has folded its wings. It struts about and preens; but it knows no more the wide spaces. Not one in a hundred of these people who now call themselves Arguellans have ever been to the ridge of the Sur and looked abroad; nor have they ever even heard that this experience, so near at hand that one can reach and touch it in a day, is one of those great rarities capable of lifting the soul. All the things nowhere else available, but here in this smiling land offered abundantly, they know nothing of; but bring with them the mode of existence they learned elsewhere, and have not the imagination to transcend. And the age-old ramparts of the Sur look down curiously; and their gods wonder whether this strange new people running after little stupid pleasures, building about them their smothery accustomed environment in apparent fear of touching the new, feeding, gambling, posing, dressing, performing not one useful function in then: idleness, and looking up from their absorption only in self-gratulation, whether these also are of a provisional race that must in its turn give way.
For answer in the year of 1910, of which we are speaking, you would have to go below the surface appearance. To the winter visitor, to the shopkeepers along Main Street, and indeed to rumour in the world outside, these fashionable, pleasant, comfortable, unimaginative futile people meant modern Arguello. They and their activites filled the eye; and as they were thoroughly satisfied with themselves, and thoroughly oblivious to all but themselves, that was natural. But to the life of the nation the significant Arguellans were those who dwelt in the neat little flower-covered bungalows scattered through what was apparently one endless orchard. Miles and miles it stretched, without distinguishable boundaries. Hardsurfaced roads traversed it, on which were to be seen small busy motor cars, or convoys of a hundred Orientals on bicycles shifting their field of work. For this immense orchard, belonging to the many inhabitants of the bungalows, was nevertheless handled as a unit, as far as such things as pruning, irrigation, cultivation and picking were concerned. In the slack seasons the employees worked at the borders of the roadways, so that in time they were edged with gardens; and the inhabitants of the "cottages" on the hills and the rubber-neck tourists loved to drive there. Down where the railroad tracks left town was a new packing house. That, too, was run on a coöperative basis: and the product was marketed through an Association. It was all very simple. Each owner of a bungalow did as much or as little work as he pleased. He was credited with what he did and was charged with what he got; and his fruit was sold for what it was worth. And let us hasten to disclaim the idea that this system was in any way unique to Arguello: it is the usual thing in the fruit belts of California.
If the ghost of old Colonel Peyton should return and seek for the Corona del Monte of former days, he would be somewhat puzzled until in his wanderings down what he would never recognize as the Camino Real he came to the entrance of the Avenue of Palms. Then he would find himself at home. Nothing thenceforth he would find changed—unless he chose to turn right or left through the screen of shrubbery; in which case he would discover that here, too, the grazing had given way to trees and cultivation. But straight the old avenue led to the knoll and the Cathedral Oaks, and the little, homey, vine-covered, board-and-batten ranch house. And down the slope he would glimpse the whitewash of the great stables, the gleam of the duck waters inside the wire fence; he would even find the earthen olla full of cool water hanging under a tree. Should he ring the bell—if ghosts can ring bells—he would find it answered by Sing Toy, now old and wrinkled, but as white and starched as ever, a refreshment to the eye. Certain little things he might miss, like the feather duster that used to hang by the door; and certain new things he might not recognize, such as a tennis court down near Dolman's House, and indeed, a brand new wing to the ranch house itself! But Corona del Monte it still was.
This and the packing house were about the only things that induced a pause when the modern Arguellans drove, or more rarely rode, on this side of town. … The ranch was so quaint and old-fashioned, my dear, you ought to have come here as I did in the Old Times before Colonel Peyton died; he was the most picturesque old creature! He used to ride in the flower shows—pity they don't have them any more—on a magnificent horse and the most wonderful silver mounted saddle. Of course everybody knows the Boyds; they're quite nice, but peculiar They don't play bridge nor dance, so of course they rarely go out. Their children are away at school somewhere. Now I ask you—with all their money—it's millions, my dear—can you imagine living in a shack like that! And think what they could build on that lovely knoll! Of course they would not exactly be in the desirable neighbourhood. But still—— Let's go in and get her to give us a cup of tea. You'll see what I mean. …
So they would go in and have their cup of tea, and go away disordered in mind. They could recognize reality as opposed to their as yet undeveloped sense of values, but were not yet far enough along in social evolution to analyze it. You cannot very well patronize the possessor of so much wealth: and yet normally any one outside the round of feeds, and cards and dances is a fit subject for patronage. It was very disturbing. The conventional mind resents anything queer that it cannot eject; and unlike the oyster cannot render it valuable.
"Oh, you see we are farmers, like our neighbours," Daphne would explain with a smile. "We might enjoy going out; but you know yourself that if you start, you soon have to go all the time. And we haven't the time."
In spite of a firm refusal to enter wholly into the new social life, the old ranch saw much social activity. The Boyds were not recluse. They attended many of the larger parties where they could refresh acquaintance en bloc, or small dinners where they could meet distinguished visitors. Truth to tell, the latter seemed always to find their way to Corona del Monte. They found this type of modern farming interesting; they discovered in Kenneth a keen intellect with a broad grasp of this especial subject; they confessed in Daphne an individual charm that the fashion of the day had hardened over in most of their hostesses; they were intrigued by the flavour of old days. In addition the spare rooms were often occupied by old friends. Over the mountains the cattle business—modified by barbed wire and barley and alfalfa fields—still flourished; and from over the mountains often whizzed the members of the Sociedad. All but Herbert Corbell. He never whizzed; but continued as of old to drive satiny spirited horses caparisoned in russet harness and attached to strange vehicles. The "cottage" people thought it quaint. These men always stopped at Corona del Monte. They were in middle age now, of course, but they had lost very little of the high spirits of their youth. Perhaps they were a trifle more inclined to reminisce than to inaugurate anything new, but the reminiscence was lively enough. Corona del Monte was sure of a high old time when the Sociedad came aboard.
They went out in society, every one of them, and freebooted it terrifyingly. It was easier to consider them quaint than to try to account for them: so quaint they were. That solved everything. They were in some mysterious way not only acceptable, but even much sought for, and yet they never quite belonged. And they in their turn came back to the ranch and gave imitations or made characterizations that sent Daphne into shrieks of laughter. Which of course was not right after you have accepted hospitality. No one could understand how they, with their education, their wealth, and what should have been their tastes could bear to live 'way over the mountains year in and year out!
For they also had wealth. Some of it was from the cattle business, but most of it was from Corona del Monte. When the time for arrangement came, they tried to make Kenneth see that a return of the amounts they had advanced, with interest, was all they should have. But Kenneth insisted that they—and Sing Toy's contributors—should have shares with them proportionate to what they had put in. So in the long run they were all paid back many times over.
Thus it may be surmised that Sing Toy was very well off, and was in reality under no necessity of remaining in the kitchen. But he was "an old-fashioned Chinaman," so there he was.
There remains only to account for a rather bulky figure sitting smoking under one of the big trees across the lawn.
The reconciliation between Patrick Boyd and his son waited long. Boyd felt that his honour had been engaged with his Eastern associates and that his own son had made it impossible for him to fulfill his pledged engagement. That thought struck deeper than any loss of potential gains, or even that his son had cut in under him. This fidelity to what he considered his business honour was one of the strongest of Boyd's traits; and would probably go far to redeem many other qualities. He was hurt and sore and angry: and the natural combativeness of his nature made him a little vindictive. Nevertheless he grieved much, in his still and secretive fashion. At length two incidents brought about the change.
The first of these was a visit of inspection by William Bates.
In spite of the failure to acquire the Peyton property, the development of the water had gone forward. Boyd had announced briefly to his associates that he had failed to acquire Corona del Monte, and had let it go at that. He in his turn had received no comment, but Bates had called him East, and had gone over with him in detail the projected scheme.
"Go ahead," he decided at last, "and buy in that next piece of property, Las Flores."
"Too far out," said Boyd.
"Too far now," corrected Bates. "By the time we're ready there will be better roads and faster transportation."
Boyd asked him what he meant by the latter, but he was not quite sure: perhaps a trolley line from their power; he had seen a horseless carriage a man named King was playing with in Detroit
He laughed with Boyd at his mentioning the latter; but he stuck to his main point, and Las Flores was bought in cheap from the bank. And concrete roads and the automobile in the long run justified his imaginative instinct.
But that was in the future. At the time of his visit the system was but just finished. He looked it all over without comment. Their way led them past the beginnings of new farms on Corona del Monte. Bates suddenly cackled.
"Pretty shrewd boy, that of yours," he observed. "Put one over on you, didn't he! Oh, I know all about it. Did you think I was greenhorn enough not to have found out all about that transaction? At first I thought you were double-crossing me. He certainly caught you napping! He's got to have our water; but on the other hand we've got to sell it to him—he's our first and obvious market. Also he's our biggest ad. If his farms fail we'll never sell an acre of Las Flores. And he knows it; the sly rascal!"
This expert opinion as to the ethics of business rascality greatly heartened Boyd. To be sure as respects this transaction he cut a sorry figure in the eyes of the financier: but that was better than being considered to have gone back on his business word. And, after all, it took his own son to catch him!
Then one day Brainerd driving down Main Street saw him on the sidewalk and drove up alongside. This was sufficiently unusual, as the men had never more than nodded stiffly.
"Hullo, grandpa," cried Brainerd, jovially. "How's it feel?"
Boyd looked his inquiry.
"Came off last night. Everything flourishing. And it's a boy, too."
Boyd repressed a pang. He had not known. And to him it was significant of the community's attitude that nobody had hinted to him that this important event was to occur.
The reconciliation followed, and grew at equal pace with the grandson. At first matters were a trifle awkward; but Kenneth Second arranged all that. Patrick Boyd became as doting a grandfather as Brainerd; and as much about the place. All was well.
Once or twice he attempted to utter a veiled, mild joke as to how skillfully Kenneth had managed things, but with an implication that he entertained no resentment: and he was met with so bewildering an outburst that he never reopened the subject. But to the end of his days he was to retain deep in his heart the idea that his son had overreached him very cleverly; and to cherish a mingled feeling of hurt and admiration at the feat.
THE END
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS
GARDEN CITY, N. Y.