The Higher Court Part 8

"Oh, we do. Of course not every one cares for a foothill ranch, but we are never lonely." She had a flowerlike face and her simple refinement was charming. "I hope you will like the horses," she went on. "Now that we have decided to let two of them go, the quicker the better." She laughed musically, then explained. "My husband has often refused to part with his famous four, since they won the chariot race, two years ago.

You have heard about New Year's Day in Pasadena? All strangers look forward to the flower parade, followed by genuine Roman chariot races.

And the running of thoroughbreds, four abreast, is fine!" Her blue eyes kindled.

"I should think your husband would try again," said Ned.

"Oh, he will, but with a different four. He does not wish to repeat his victory with the same horses, for last year there was trouble."

"Possibly he might part with the noted quartette? If two of them answered for the saddle--are not too wild," Mrs. Doan added.

"Oh, no," the young wife answered. "Hawley would never consider selling Delia or her running mate. We could not let those two go." She flushed with her ingenuous confidence. "Delia is named for me. A little romance in which she took leading part must always insure her pasture on our ranch."

"Come with us in the machine," said Mrs. Hartley. "Do be good enough to show us 'Delia,'" said Mrs. Doan. "We are now doubly interested in your husband's horses."

Isabel smiled in her rare way. The woman of the foothills had once been a school teacher and felt the irresistible charm of the beautiful stranger's manner. To peer at life below the mesa was an opportunity, and the rancher's young wife threw aside a fresh gingham ap.r.o.n and entered the car. She sat in the center, half turned in a revolving chair, where her eyes covertly caught the elegant but simple effect of Mrs. Doan's morning toilet. She had never seen any one so neatly put up against ravages of wind and dust. Isabel's earlier freshness remained; and the large purple hat securely veiled for touring seemed duly created to protect her golden hair. The older ladies were kind and the little woman of the foothills enjoyed the short spin through the avenue of peppers to paddocks beyond.

"You never lock your door?" Mrs. Hartley questioned.

"No, indeed. No one would think of stealing up here! Every one is honest where every one sleeps, eats, and lives out of doors."

"Of course," said Isabel. "How wonderful this upland country is; I envy you a home beneath the mountains. How close they are!" She swept the range in contemplative joy; then her eyes dropped to paddocks, outlined by whitewashed fences, but naturally adorned within with huge live oaks.

The spreading trees made shelter for all seasons. "Happy horses!" she exclaimed. "I am not surprised they won the chariot races."

The rancher's wife looked pleased. "My husband is very proud of his stock," she answered; "and here he is."

Cole met them, tall and sun browned.

Without further pleasantry the party plunged into business. The little woman who had brought the strangers thither realized an impending sacrifice. To part from any one of a noted "four" was hardly to be borne. Then she remembered that Hawley needed money; that lithe, slender "Delia" and her running mate were not to be sold. When a purchase price became definite she smiled, although she felt like crying. The trade a.s.sumed reality; and Ned Hartley, emerging from sulks, became interested. But his good nature did not last, for soon he understood that Isabel Doan was about to buy thoroughbred horses for the enjoyment of another man. The boy was mad with jealousy. He was sorry that he had urged the trip to the foothills. Then all at once he felt superior, very like a martyr, in view of all that he suffered and proposed to suffer for years to come. Meantime Cole put his horses through telling paces.

No points of the beautiful pair were overlooked. Mrs. Doan acknowledged her wish to close the bargain, but the rancher evinced no haste. Finally it was agreed that the span should go to town for a week. A friend of Cole's would take care of them, while Mrs. Doan might drive each day, with the privilege of returning them. In case the trade went through, a permanent coachman and a groom would be duly recommended. Isabel's appointments from her own stable had recently arrived and now she could hardly wait to try the thoroughbreds in different styles of vehicles.

"I shall accept your kind offer," she declared, smiling. "And you will remember the saddle horses? I wish for two beauties, as soon as possible." She was radiant, thinking first of Philip, of all that she was making ready for his new life--a life which must be perfect.

"Automobiles shall never make me give up the joy of owning horses!" she declared.

Ned Hartley bit his lip and turned away. Down in the valley he saw emerald growth flas.h.i.+ng in suns.h.i.+ne. Spreading acres of orange orchard, trees always dressed in green swept onward from cleansed mountains and reviving foothills, to a distant line of blue--the ocean. The landscape was glorious, but the boy felt bitter and would not regard it. He joined the rancher's wife with pretext of renewed interest in her favorite.

Mrs. Cole was feeding "Delia" sugar as Hartley approached. "We call her our baby," she explained. "I never dare meet her without offering sugar; I always carry a few lumps with me." To-day the high-spirited animal stood eating from the hand of her mistress, so gentle that Ned could hardly reconcile her present range with that of the track.

"Will she run in the chariot races the first of January?" he asked, not caring, yet wis.h.i.+ng to appear at ease.

Mrs. Cole shook her dark head. "I think not," she answered. "My husband hardly expects to drive this year. Next season, with two young horses trained for running with Delia and her mate, he will try again. Last New Year's there was a great deal of trouble about prize money, in spite of the evident dishonorable driving of a certain man who fouled my husband's chariot. Oh, but it was exciting!"

Ned begged for the story. The rancher's wife went on.

"Hawley had virtually won the race; had taken the pole from his opponent on the first dash, just beyond the judge's stand; he was holding his advantage without difficulty, when beyond the second turn his right wheel was deliberately knocked off. Of course the big race of the day was ruined. The management of the tournament has done everything to induce Hawley to run his four this season, but he has refused." Her cheeks flushed with the thought of her husband's humiliation.

"Will the man who fouled the chariot be permitted to drive again?"

Hartley asked, with interest in foothill scandal.

Mrs. Cole looked proudly away to the sun-browned man approaching.

"Please do not speak of last year's race," she pleaded. "I dare not let Hawley know how I distrust the neighbor who fouled his chariot. But of course nothing was proved. It was but the word of one man against another, for the trouble took place too far from the judges' stand to be exactly defined. With some it pa.s.sed as an accident. Then you know it was all so quick--the thundering by of the chariots--the cras.h.!.+" She clasped her hands as Cole came nearer, then smiled at Mrs. Doan, who seemed a vision of happiness.

Terms had been agreed upon and the horses were to be taken to town at once. But Mrs. Hartley had grown impatient. Not wis.h.i.+ng to make the lady late for luncheon, Isabel brought her own affair to an abrupt close. "I am sure to keep them! I love the beautiful creatures already," she declared, as the machine shot away.

The little woman of the foothills did not return in the car.

"If the horses must go I am glad that she is to own them!" she cried, when her husband named the price. "Do you suppose she will marry the young man?"

Cole shook his head doubtfully. "Can't say for sure; but if sulks are any indication, should say the boy was down on his luck. I think there must be another one; and by George! he ought to be president, or at least a senator, to splice with such a woman."

"I'm not a bit jealous," his wife answered. "I think just as you do. I think she's the most gracious being I ever met."

"She's a prize package, all right," Cole said. "And she has a mind of her own. The way she settled on the horses in less than twenty minutes shows that she's used to money. Most women would have taken three weeks to decide, coming back to haggle at least a dozen times." He cast his arm around his wife's trim waist, urging her gently down the road. "I'm as hungry as a wolf," he confessed. "Let's get something to eat; then we'll drive the span to Pasadena and price pianos. We'll have a corker!

One that plays itself."

She cried out joyously. After all, she might have something, too, like the favored woman who could look, then choose at will. Isabel spinning away from the foothills was still happy with thoughts of the morning's transaction. Very soon her stable would be ready for use. The span, saddle horses, a pony for Reginald were all in her mind. And she must have a touring car and an electric runabout besides. The house was already equipped with servants, including a first-cla.s.s celestial cook, who achieved culinary mysteries with smiles and good nature. Madame had arrived to stay, and when the English nurse displaced Maggie life might move along with the spirit of Arcady. Then he would come! Philip, her once forbidden lover.

CHAPTER XVII

Weeks later washouts on the desert demoralized all overland trains, and Isabel waited impatiently for the belated "Limited." Then at seven in the evening she heard Philip Barry's voice over the telephone. In an hour he promised to be with her. During the morning she had wandered about the garden, trying in vain to picture the meeting with the man whom she had not seen for nearly a year. By afternoon she was in a fever of suspense. Throughout the house she had arranged flowers, with her own hands had cut great bunches of roses for the living-room. A few candles were already lighted, while blazing logs made home-like cheer. Isabel stood before the fire, waiting. She could not sit on a chair, with the clock in the hall ticking away loud seconds. To-night she wore soft white, with pearls. Her lover would be pleased to see her out of black.

She wished his first moment to be full of joy.

"Ma belle angele!" madame cried again and again. French ecstacy continued until Isabel begged for no more compliments. She kissed the old brown cheeks, then with sudden impulse fled above to her sleeping boy. Reaction had come at the end of a long, long day. The felicitous moment she had fancied was suddenly uncertain. Something she dared not define frightened her. All at once Reginald's soft breathing seemed reproachful.

"Dear little son," she whispered, "mother loves you none the less, and he--will love you, too." She put her bare arm about the boy's warm body and kissed his cheek. Tears came into her eyes. She hardly knew whether she felt glad or sad. "Good night, little son; Father Barry is coming--'Father Barry,' who loves us both." Something told her to hope; and the clock in the hall was striking eight. All that had happened--all which was yet to happen--seemed like a dream. She had waited so anxiously, heard so often through the long day far-away trains whistling through the valley. To-night she scarce believed her summons when it came. But the maid had opened the outside door, and Isabel heard it shut. A man's voice spoke her name; Philip Barry was below. At the landing of the staircase she reached weakly for a card, dropped it, then went slowly down.

Philip waiting in the bright, rich room saw her coming. He stood unconscious of his lately changed appearance, his evening clothes. A London tailor had a.s.sured him that he was now properly dressed for the way of the world, and at last his "priest's garb" was forgotten. His wors.h.i.+pful face, slightly thin, expressed only joy as he ran forward.

But something was wrong with Isabel. Something seemed to be lost from the lover imploring at her side; and she shrank, holding him aloof for judgment.

"What is it?" he cried. "Am I not welcome?" He scanned her face with pa.s.sionate longing. "Do you regret--regret letting me come?"

"No, no," she faltered. "Only wait! wait until I get used to you."

He took her at her word and moved away. Hunger tried his soul. But he made a braver lover than he had been a priest.

"What did you expect?" he asked at last.

"Father Barry!" She was crying.

He gathered her close.

"Be patient," she begged. "The train was so late--so long, long coming--and--and you see I must get used to your vest not being fastened in the back."

He smiled pitifully. "Will you ever forget? Ever be able to go beyond those mistaken years? Can you not go back to the time when we first knew each other?"

"Yes, we will both go back. I will forget! I promise you. But tell me--"

she was dazzling in her excitement--"tell me if you are sure! Have you never been sorry for what I made you do? You might have gone on, might have overcome things which seemed beyond your power. It was because I came that night in the midst of your trouble, when you were not strong enough to drive me from you. If I had stayed away?" She put the situation plainly, waiting for his answer as a soul on trial. She was jealous now, even of a possible, pa.s.sing regret. "If I had stayed away?"