The Higher Court Part 12

Isabel was overjoyed at his light reference to the visit to the old church.

"To dance will limber me, beyond doubt," she declared, with a wave of her hand. She watched him pa.s.s down the hall to the elevator; then she went back to her sitting-room.

At last she felt the glad sense of partners.h.i.+p. Ambition for the man she loved threatened to become more absorbing than all else in her life.

Suddenly her boy seemed to reproach her. On the table his lifelike portrait begged for notice. She caught up the silver frame.

"Darling little son!" she murmured, "mother will soon be at home--more than ever your playmate, your companion." She put the picture down and sat with her head resting between her hands. Her thoughts were now all with Reginald. What was he doing? Was he out in his pony cart? Was dainty baby Elizabeth along, giving the dolls an airing? Then, above all, did the boy miss his "mother dear"? She drew a crumpled half sheet of paper from an envelope. "Bless his dear little heart," she again murmured. Reginald's zigzag message, together with round spots wonderfully colored to represent kisses, drew her lips. She responded to a realistic fancy, smiling above her son's confident masterpiece. Then she re-read a letter from madame. All were moving along, and the child was happy.

Her old friend's idiomatic expression kept her smiling to the end, while she realized anew the good fortune which had brought the French woman to California. In future Reginald might have every chance with his French.

The mother decided to make luncheon, with the boy at table, a time set apart for French conversation. Philip, too, spoke the foreign tongue; and again Isabel planned for Reginald's liberal education. And she meant to study herself, by the side of a talented husband. How full life promised to become. But with every consistent hope her own ambition was subordinate to love. To love, to be loved by Philip, by Reginald, by friends, const.i.tuted the little world she longed to conquer. And to-night, she wished to s.h.i.+ne at the ball, not as a woman evoking admiration from the crowd, but as Philip's wife. If she might help to bring him fresh power she was satisfied. Nor did Isabel deny her own evident advantage. She was too familiar with standards of beauty not to be glad of a rich inheritance; yet in all her life she had never been vain. For to be vain is to be selfish, pinned upon a revolving, personal pivot. Isabel had always thought first of others. To-day her mind was full of schemes for Philip, for Reginald, and for old madame. If Philip agreed she wished to live permanently in California. She had already put her closed house in the West on the market. The city which had once been home no longer claimed her interest. And Philip must never go back to the scene of his past humiliation. She reached for a traveling portfolio and began to write to Reginald. Here and there she pasted bright pictures to ill.u.s.trate a little story which would be sure to delight her boy. When she had finished she dashed off a letter in French to madame; then, fearing that Philip might be late, she laid out his dinner clothes. She was not in need of companions.h.i.+p, and a couch close to the wide window facing the sea lured her. She would rest. Waves splashed a rhythm of contentment. Out beyond the breakers a buoy creaked in vain, for her nerves were as sound as her boy's. She did not mind the incessant grind. She was happy--satisfied.

CHAPTER XXIV

The Sat.u.r.day evening hop, which so often was a perfunctory recurrence, blossomed into an occasion, when a score of United States naval officers entered the hotel. The great fleet had not then made the gallant dash around the Horn; but for several years preceding this noted achievement stray battles.h.i.+ps had touched along the Western coast. The s.h.i.+p in question bound for Manila was now anch.o.r.ed over night outside the breakers of St. Barnabas. Corridors of the hotel palpitated when privileged men off the man-of-war burst upon the scene. In less than a minute maneuvers in the ballroom eclipsed those of the outlying battles.h.i.+p, as anxious mammas steered young daughters to open port.

Lines drew taut and merciless for all untouched by the accolade of station, while on every side sat groups of elderly onlookers.

Officers in immaculate evening dress, ready for change, eager to dance with pretty women, moved easily about, and soon surcharged conditions were overcome by general satisfaction.

By Isabel's side Gay Lewis shone with reflected prominence. Nor did the girl deny the evident truth when flocking ensigns marked her for second choice.

"You are a dear!" she reiterated after each opportunity due to her friend. "I have not had a chaperone for a long time. Now I see my blunder." For Philip Barry's wife was the undoubted toast of the navy men.

In a day when dancing has degenerated into pathetic uncertainty the advent of willing ensigns might well be put down as something new and exhilarating. Isabel forgot her strenuous climb to the mission roof. She had not enjoyed a ball for full five years; and she was like a girl surrounded by a swarm of admirers. To-night the great publisher had no chance, with epaulets to right and left. But the afternoon at golf had been successful. Philip and his new friend stood together on the outskirts, each duly conscious of his own inadequate worth.

"It behooves us to tread modestly--we fellows who have adopted a sober career," the editor declared. "I never could learn. My mother kept me at dancing school until I had tramped the toes of every little girl in the cla.s.s, then one day she gave me up." He laughed drolly, while his eyes took in the swift, unconscious movement of Mrs. Barry and her partner, a tall young ensign.

"We are not in China, and fortunately I may speak to you of your wife,"

he went on. "As a comparatively new acquaintance, I beg to congratulate you. You are too fortunate in a world where many are not."

Barry stiffened. The other sensed misapprehension.

"I have never been married," he explained. "I am denied the pleasure of admiring my own wife. Those days at dancing school took away all possible hope. For years I could hardly shake hands with a girl of my own age; then you see I got wedded to single life--spent my days pa.s.sing upon loves of fict.i.tious heroes and heroines."

"Too bad," said Philip, deeply interested.

"Sometimes I think I should have made a much better judge of literature if I had only asked a woman to share my criticisms and bear my remorse when I turn down very readable things. You see a man who has not married can never be quite as sure as one who knows the taste of both good and evil. 'The woman which thou gavest me' may do a lot of mischief, but when the crash comes she generally compensates. For my part I doubt if Adam would have gone back into the garden with any interest whatever after Eve found 'pastures new' outside."

"And you believe that a married man is capable of better work than a single one?" Philip was growing curious.

"Undoubtedly," the editor answered. "I have in my mind a certain writer of note, one who but for persistent bachelorhood might have risen to highest rank in fiction. As it is, he has always fallen short of the real emotion. A certain cla.s.s reading his books fail to detect mere description in supposedly pa.s.sionate episodes, but to those of deeper consciousness and experience he has counterfeit feeling. This particular novelist works from matrimonial patterns--traces all that he draws. I am older than yourself, and you will pardon me for saying it, but your wife should help you to achieve almost anything."

Philip flushed. The pride of possession came over him afresh when Isabel whirled past, with a smile which he knew could never be untrue. Above her radiance, beauty, he felt her exquisite womanhood. To-night he believed that she would lead him to "pastures new--outside." Throughout the evening Philip stayed by the editor, gradually making his way into the man's confidence, while adhering to a first determination which withheld the fact of his own unprinted book. Then at midnight, Isabel, Miss Lewis, and three young officers captured the onlookers and forced them away to supper.

It was a gay little party. The round table at which all sat became an excuse for a full hour's enjoyment; and as Isabel had promised, she did her best to make the editor, who might possibly help Philip, her own friend also. The undertaking was not difficult. If dancing school trials had left an eternal scar on the bachelor's unclaimed heart to-night he showed no unwillingness to devote himself to Isabel. Philip was amused.

Then he remembered his wife's unfailing charm. He had never seen her unsympathetic or rude. When she really cared to please, she could not be soon forgotten by any one selected for her favor. And to-night, as usual, the elderly publisher and the young ensigns from the s.h.i.+p all went under to a woman's gracious way. Nor was Miss Lewis annoyed.

"Of course," she said afterward, "no one ever attempts to eclipse Isabel; for don't you see she would not care in the least, and that being the case, no other woman would be foolish enough to try--and then fail." And Gay was at her best during supper. Philip had never liked her as well as when the party broke up. There was, after all, something fine and straightforward about the girl, who appeared to drift with the tide of hotel pastimes. Philip told himself that as a priest he had been narrow in many of his judgments. The evening had stimulated his respect for the world. His emotional nature went out again to things he had once given up. Isabel's beauty held him in pa.s.sionate bonds; and he felt incentive for new work. His book, which came next to his wife--for no one writes seriously without the sense of humanized accomplishment--suddenly went up in his own estimation. The evening with a real publisher had stiffened his confidence; and for the first time since his marriage he merged love for Isabel with the success of "The Spirit of the Cathedral." But his personal undercurrent pa.s.sed unnoticed. To his wife he seemed detached from all but the present. As she drew him away from the s.h.i.+ning ballroom she exulted to herself.

Unusual and lighter opportunity seemed to be what her husband most needed.

The battles.h.i.+p hauled anchor at dawn. The men had already started for the tug and a trip across the breakers. The hotel was despoiled of glory. Corridors were soon dim and lonely. To Isabel the night had proved her husband's ease with a life comparatively new and untried. She felt young, contented, ready for all which might come. Not a fear for Philip crossed her mind as she went to her rooms. She had been exhilarated throughout the evening; but now she was glad to rest. Philip unfastened her gown, halting to kiss her bare shoulders, to tell her about their friend, the magazine editor. As she slipped out of her ball finery she was like a girl after a first night of conquest. Later he listened to her gentle, regular breathing as he lay by her side. It seemed yet a dream that she was really his wife. Events of the past began to fill his mind. Then reaction, which so often came with excess of feeling, kept him awake for hours. But at last he dropped away, only to rouse up at intervals. The outgoing tide seemed to carry him to the anch.o.r.ed s.h.i.+p, gleaming beyond. The incessant, yet broken pa.s.sion of the sea forbade sleep. With every tardy lap of waves he grew more restless; and dawn broke. All at once, a desire to witness the departure of the man-of-war drew him from bed. Isabel slumbered as a child, and Philip went softly to the window and looked out. The sea rose and fell an arctic green. There was no mist, and he could see the great s.h.i.+p clearly. A streamer of black smoke floated across the morning sky; already there were signs of departure. Philip dressed quickly and quietly. It occurred to him that Isabel might be shocked to awaken and find him gone. He smiled as he slipped into the sitting-room to indite a line "To the Sleeping Beauty." But his wife did not stir when he pinned the note to his own empty pillow. He went back to the adjoining apartment for his field gla.s.ses; then out of the door through quiet halls, to a side entrance below, where he found an open way.

CHAPTER XXV

Philip watched the maneuvers of the battles.h.i.+p from the sh.o.r.e, at the foot of the hotel. His gla.s.ses were strong, and he could make out regular disciplined movements of men on board. What a life, he thought.

To be always waiting for war, ready for action in any part of the world, regardless of human personal ties. The monster breasting waves seemed as horrible as it was majestic. The man who was once a priest had never wished to be a soldier. This morning he sensed the command to draw anchor, felt the significance of carnage for the sea, saw the s.h.i.+p move.

Against a skyline, clear with oncoming day, it took unchallenged sway.

The man followed with his gla.s.ses. He stood fascinated by almost imperceptible motion. Against morning sky a black streamer rested, then gradually trailed to invisible distance, as broadside perspective dropped away. The man-of-war was gone. But Philip still stood on the sh.o.r.e. Early day had taken possession of his will. He seemed rooted to the wet sand beneath his feet. Was Isabel awake? Had she yet missed him?

He looked back at the hotel, rising above lawn and palm trees. He could see no signs of life, and it occurred to him that a brisk walk might atone for his restless night. The fresh air stimulated him as he went forward. Without thought of destination he left the ocean for the esplanade, the esplanade for the long business street of the town. As he went on he began to see people and to realize for the first time that it was Sunday. Many were going to early Ma.s.s, and he was not among them.

At a corner he saw a modern Catholic church. The old mission now had its rival in the new brick building. Several maids from the hotel got off a car to hurry onward. A woman in front went faster as she neared the church, but turned half round and looked at Philip. He felt her insinuating survey as he strode rapidly away; then he recognized Reginald Doan's former nurse. It was undoubtedly Maggie; and she knew him for all that he had once been. He could not be mistaken. That Maggie had deceived Isabel and followed Mrs. Grace to St. Barnabas was plain.

With that lady's departure for the East, the girl must have ceased to be her maid. Maggie's surprise seemed evident; and at best the encounter was disagreeable. Philip hurried on with the sense of being watched. He walked past gardens, not seeing flowers freshened by night's cool touch and morning's breath. Suddenly he was cast down, depressed by something impalpable.

But he went on and on in absent-minded mood, taking no note of locality, not realizing his distance from the closely settled town. He followed the track of a car line, dimly conscious of the way, until, without warning--the mission faced him. He might have known! Still he had the habit of losing himself when Isabel was not his leader; and they seldom went out except on their horses. Miserable, angry, he stood afar, irresistibly called by sounding bells.

He saw men and women go up the wide worn steps to early Ma.s.s; then like an outcast he turned away to board a car returning to the hotel. Isabel would be waiting, wondering what had become of him. And he would not tell her, would never let her know of his childish trip. The mission had become an obsession. He saw it in his dreams and heard about it on all sides. Every artist painted it; and carriage drivers on the streets urged him to take a seat for the inevitable trip. Children showed him their post cards adorned with a picture of the historic church or else some scene taken in the cloister garden. The mission was getting onto his nerves. He was almost beginning to hate it. He would never see it again; and with the thought, he looked back at the graceful stretch of the low, sun-kissed monastery, following on like a little brother to the close protection of the "old fathers'" abler work. It was so beautiful, so simple, that he could not deny. His knowledge of architecture, his sense of fitness, kept his thoughts with the unselfish monks of the past. He could not forget when from boyhood he had been trained in church history. He had always been best in his cla.s.s. And how his dear mother would have loved the old church. At last the car was moving; at last he might get away.

His back was to the mission and the run to town would not take long.

After all he might not be very late. And as he had hoped, he found the hotel still quiet. Only a few early risers were down for breakfast when he went to the dining-room to order Isabel's tray sent up to her room.

Then he took the elevator. He entered by the same door through which he had departed, walking softly to his wife's bedside. She seemed not to have stirred during his absence; but the note was gone from the pillow.

He leaned down and kissed her, and at the same instant half bare arms tightened around his neck. Then she laughed.

"'Sleeping Beauties' never wake up unless they are kissed," she told him. He doubled his charm as she raised on her elbow.

"Did you think I was never coming back?" he asked. "I took a long walk, after the s.h.i.+p got away, went farther than I intended."

"I thought so," she said. "Men never remember the return trip. But I have hardly missed you. I read my love letter, then went right to sleep.

I did not wake until I heard the telephone. Of course I answered it, and whom do you suppose was speaking?"

"Doubtless one of your numerous admirers," her husband gallantly answered.

"No. This time it was your admirer. But I came in for honorable mention.

I am so flattered, almost glad that you were not here to respond to our friend the editor."

Now she was wide awake. The soft disarrangement of night still hung about her hair. Her eyes sparkled as the morning. She sat up, leaning forward.

"He has invited us to go out with him this afternoon in his touring car. I said we would come. You are willing?"

"Of course," Philip answered, smiling at her eagerness.

"Mr. and Mrs. Tilton-Jones and Gay Lewis are asked; we are to start about three."

Philip puckered his brow. "Why the Tilton-Joneses--I wonder?" Isabel saw that he did not care for the couple.