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 assured him that he was now properly dressed for the way of the world, and at last his "priest's garb" was forgotten. His worshipful 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 passionate 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, passing regret. "If I had stayed away?" she repeated.
"I should have left the priesthood," he told her simply. "I had found out—knew certainly that I could not go on, even before I saw you. Your coming to me when my mother went but gave me hope, brought rescue. Before God I am now honest!"
She threw her arms about his neck. All that she had withheld was waiting. Love blazed in her starry eyes, on her wonderful lips. Every doubt had gone with Philip's last words. Everything seemed clear—straightened out. Hours sped as moments. There was so much to talk about, so much to explain away. Each one went back to the beginning and to a time forbidden even in memory to an honorable wife, to a priest. Intermediate existence was soon wiped out. Then Isabel thought of her boy, now Philip's boy as well. They would bring the child up jointly. She was glad, very glad. "And you will love him always?" she implored. "He has not forgotten you; kisses your picture every day. You shall help me with his education. I am so anxious not to make mistakes. You know Reggie's warm, live temperament? You will advise me?"
"I was not wise about my own career, but I will do my best for the boy," Philip humbly promised.
Isabel saw for the first time how much he had suffered. He looked older, haggard, despite his happiness. But his face had assumed grave sweetness. The old assurance of a once popular priest was gone. Dependence upon love would give him courage to begin over. The fullness of Isabel's rich nature swept outward to his need. "We shall be happy, I feel it, I feel it!" she whispered joyously.
Isabel awoke, fully conscious of the day just dawning. From her bed in the half-open sleeping porch she peered into a roseate east. With her whole heart she went out to meet the sun, slowly lifting from a rampart of dark mountains. This was Isabel's wedding day. At high noon she was to be married to Philip Barry. She rested on her elbow, waiting for the transcendent moment. She was a "sun worshiper" for the time, and not a cloud subdued the oncoming spectacle. As Isabel watched, the sable range took on softest blue, while snow-crowned peaks rose dazzling in the distance. Over the world the sun poured light. And this was her wedding day. It was still too early for a bath, too soon to begin her simple bridal toilet, and she fell back on the pillow. The white broadcloth gown and coat with feather-trimmed hat were ready, and the night before Philip had brought a bouquet of dewy-eyed forget-me-nots. She had chosen the flowers in preference to all others. There was very little to do, no more than for an afternoon call. She smiled over enjoined simplicity, glad that neither bridesmaids nor guests should claim thoughts which might all belong to Philip. During the past two months in which she had spent a part of each day with her lover, she had grown confident; they were both happy. Isabel no longer feared for the man beginning his fresh career. For his book—at last finished—had been sent to an Eastern publisher. Philip had not heard definitely, but there was reason to believe that the house in question would be glad to bring out a finely illustrated work on cathedrals which might readily appeal to a cultured class of readers. Already Isabel felt elated over her lover's beginning. The field of letters seemed more choice, more set apart, since Philip had decided to compete for honors. In imagination she saw her future husband's prolific volumes. How proudly she would dust the dark green row marked "Barry." She remembered that the name was preëmpted by a master Scotch novelist, and decided that "Philip Barry" should appear in full on the backs of the new author's uniform edition. She had read only parts of her lover's work, but it had been exciting to handle a real manuscript, one which must go forth to win! Philip alone understood the uncertain odds against disappointment. In a fight for fresh life he felt no desire for anything but honest work. The book had started upon a journey East a month before, and now each day Isabel watched her lover's face for news of its unqualified acceptance. The collection of exquisite cathedral views—actual paintings—done in Paris and submitted by a noted artist, would doubtless enhance the value of the work, yet it was, after all, Philip's part which timed the woman's heart to feverish interest. And to-day was her wedding day. From now on the book and its author were both hers. She stirred lightly in bed, again looking through the open flaps of her canvas room. A wonderful world was at last awake. Every bird evoked gladness, and Isabel too was glad. Then suddenly the boy slipped from his cot to snuggle within her arms. Enchantment of sleep lurked around his dewy eyes, and night had brushed his rounded cheeks with cool, fresh bloom. He kissed his mother again and again. "You've got most a bushel!" he cried. "Now I is going to love you." He was speaking more plainly each day, gradually ceasing to be a baby. "I like to stay with mother dear—in this nice bed," he said, contentedly. His arms held tighter. The mother's heart felt chill; she seemed to be turning the boy away. The child's words hurt her as she had never dreamed they could. She began to speak of a pony about to arrive, which she had purposely withheld against a trying time to come. "To-day is the day for the pony!" she announced bravely. "Mother's boy is to go out in his new cart with madame, is to drive like a man all afternoon."
"But I want mother dear to come too," the child insisted.
"Mother dear will come another day; to-day she is obliged to go to church, and then——" her voice failed. She had given her boy no idea of the change actually at hand, had weakly depended on accident and his love for Philip. How now could she make the little fellow understand? She began again. "To-day mother must go to church, and——"
"Will Philip dear go too?" the boy asked eagerly.
"Yes," said Isabel, glad of an opening wedge.
"And will the little bell ring?"
Isabel despaired. Would Reginald never forget? The Catholic services which he had once witnessed were yet vivid, and despite effort to dissociate Barry with a priest's part, the child was not well pleased with the conventional garb of his adored friend. Recently he had innocently inquired for the "bu-ti-ful hat" formerly worn before the altar. The boy's regret was so genuine that Philip felt his pale cheeks deepen. The mother had tactfully explained that "Father Barry" of old no longer preached in a church, and that now "Philip dear" had come to stay. The little boy, without understanding, adopted the change, and "Philip dear" had soon become both his playfellow and his teacher.
This morning Isabel tried in vain to pass over the hard part of a day that after all could not be happy until she had settled an important matter.
"Sweetheart," she implored, then flushed. "Precious boy, listen. Don't ask any more questions and mother will tell you all about the pony." Reginald placed his small hand over his mouth.
"I'm doing to keep stiller," he promised.
"Very well," said Isabel, pressing him to her heart. "The pony is sure to come right after luncheon. Mother may be away, but madame and Carolyn will both be here. Reggie must be very good and drive like a man all afternoon in his cart. Perhaps when madame has gone for a ride Carolyn will take her place and stop for little Elizabeth. Would not that be fine?"
"Great!" said Reginald; then added, "I suppose she'll have to bring every one of her dolls."
"Why not?"
"Oh, well, don't you see, so many dolls would take so much room? Then Elizabeth says I've got to be her husband."
"Why not?" said his mother, laughing.
"Because—because I just want to be your husband." He cuddled closer. Isabel wept miserably in his curls.
"Don't, oh, don't!" she pleaded. She smothered the boy with kisses until he cried out for release. Then she sat up in bed with the child in her arms. "Reginald, darling, you must listen. Mother is going to be married to Philip dear, to-day, at the church." She hurried on before the astonished boy could speak. "After mother is married to Philip dear, Reggie will have a kind father to love him, to take care of him always."
"Will he be 'Father Barry' again?" the boy inquired eagerly.
"No, no," she hastened to explain, "just father—Reggie's dear father."
"I think it will be nice," the boy acknowledged. He was still for a long time, with his cheek against his mother's. Isabel had not intended taking the child to church, but suddenly she changed her mind.
"Would Reggie like to come? Like to see mother married to Philip dear?" The questions fell gently, but the boy sprang up, shouting.
"May I?" he cried, with true desire to remember his manners. "Oh, may I? May I? Mother darling—goody! goody! goody!"
"I think you may," she answered.
He kept repeating, "Goody! goody!" Then all at once he grew sober. Something still troubled him. "Will Philip dear be your father, too?" he demanded.
"No darling, not my father, only my husband."
He waited a moment, evidently sifting the whole matter. His full baby lips trembled. "Will Philip dear be your husband all the time?" he asked. His mother nodded. "Then I suppose Elizabeth will make me be her husband." He heaved a little sigh which was masculine resignation personified. "Well, I don't care!" he exclaimed valiantly, "for you see, mother dear, I'm going to have a father and a pony, too. Goody! goody! goody!"
Everything was at last arranged, and Carolyn dressed the boy for his mother's wedding. The little fellow looked proud and sober in his best white suit, with a tiny bunch of Isabel's forget-me-nots for a bridal favor. He sat very still and grown up all the way to the church, built after an English model and picturesquely hidden among green hills. The beautiful chapel made a complete surprise when the carriage stopped on the country road. Madame took Reginald's tiny gloved hand and led him forward, while Isabel moved slowly after them. As all three entered the church, bells began to sound, and a man came quickly forward to say that an Episcopal clergyman and Philip Barry were both waiting at the foot of the chancel. Madame guided her charge to a stall used by choir boys now absent. Here the old French woman and the boy stood, expectant. Isabel came on alone, vaguely conscious of her way; then suddenly she felt protected—loved, for Philip had reached her side. The clergyman entered the chancel. The man and woman to be joined in wedlock heard him begin the service. His words fell distinctly, and soon Isabel and Philip listened to the solemn charge administered before marriage. "That if either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it," rang over their heads, into their souls, with momentary, questioning force. But the pause enjoined by the Church ended, and no voice had accused the apostate priest. The clergyman went on. Glad that the stern proviso was passed, Isabel faintly smiled, then glanced at Philip. He was pale. Undaunted, she put her hand in his and followed his deep responses with a clear voice. It seemed natural that he should remember the bar to their earlier happiness. Isabel moved slowly to the altar. By the side of the man she trusted she felt no fear. The sunlight of human love, the influence of home, a chance for intellectual freedom,—all these should make Philip forget a miserable, restless year. And at last the two were kneeling. Prayers and the benediction had made them one. The first test was over. Soon they were signing the parish register and could now leave the sacristy. The boy and madame were waiting. Again the bells sounded. Philip led the way to the carriage, and a moment later all were driving off together. Along the wayside early poppies lifted golden chalices to nuptial health, while a meadow lark extolled the day. All about, buzzing insects piped joy. Isabel was glad that she had selected the tiny country chapel for her marriage.
And the drive home was a pleasant one. Restraint lifted as the boy prattled and madame overflowed in French. Isabel and Philip gave out to each other without fear or confusion. Then came the gay arrival, with servants waiting, and the boy's pony and cart in readiness for a time postponed. But the mother no longer dreaded temporary parting, for now she was sure of her little son's will power. Since the confidence of early morning her heart had felt free. Throughout luncheon she planned for the boy's amusement during a month set apart for the honeymoon. There was much to be said about letters and surprises which were to arrive each day. Then when "mother dear" came back Reginald must drive her out into the country. Later the advent of kites would afford opportunity for an indulgent new father. The child was altogether satisfied. Isabel found no difficulty in slipping above for a change she had almost feared to make. When she came down dressed for traveling her son was so happy with his pony and cart that the equipage marking a bride's departure seemed to be purely incidental to the main interest of the afternoon.
With quick embraces, a farewell hand wave, Isabel and Philip were gone. The old slipper, flung by madame, hit the carriage and fell to the ground.
"At last!" said Philip; and his wife responded with a happy smile. The afternoon trip to St. Barnabas had begun. The two were sitting in the Pullman, at liberty to forget everything in the world but their wedding journey. As yet it was too soon to regard the future; the present was all satisfying. Isabel began to speak of their marriage ceremony, as most brides are apt to do. "How simple and easy it all was," she declared. "I shall always love that darling chapel among the hills. Did you feel the spring coming through the open windows? And did you hear the meadow lark on our way back? Oh, I loved it all."
Her husband smiled at her natural joy. Then peering into Philip's face Isabel saw again that his cheeks were thin. If anything he was more distinguished looking, yet already she feared for his health. He had been working too hard, and the next month must do wonders for the man she loved. "At St. Barnabas we shall live out of doors every moment of the day," she declared. "I can hardly wait to show you that wonderful country. It will be perfect to go about in the saddle; how glad I am that we sent the horses on ahead and in full time."
"You are a fairy wife instead of a fairy godmother," said Philip.
"Nonsense," she answered. "I am absolutely selfish. I love the saddle far better than my dinner, and my only fear is that I may tire you out."
"No danger; I'm going to astonish you. Besides, you have given me the easiest horse."
She denied the charge. "One is as fine a mount as the other. I shall never cease to be thankful to our friend Cole. And isn't it nice that he is to take care of the horses during our stay at the hotel?"
"Pretty nice for him," said Philip.
"And for us, too," she persisted. "I really did not wish to leave madame and Reginald without a coachman. Of course I could have let Tom come, but he is altogether too fond of a good time. Parker threatens to find another groom every week. Besides," she hesitated, then laughed, "besides, I wanted Cole and his little wife to have a treat. They will both enjoy getting away from the foothills."
"I called you a good fairy, now I am sure of it," said her husband. She smiled.
"Of what use is an income if we may not enjoy it?"
"Absolutely good for nothing," he answered.
"And it's almost selfishness to do little favors that in reality cost only the thought. Some day we must do something big—found an art institute, perhaps on this very coast." She was thinking of his lost cathedral. "Then I should love to help talented young girls with no way of reaching 'head waters.'" He looked at her proudly. "There are so many things needed—so many appeals to choose from, that we will surely find the right place for a little money." Philip remembered the check which she had sent him over a year ago.
Now her desire to make the whole world glad was part of her new happiness. But soon they talked of other matters, or else looked out through the wide window at charming, changing landscape. All afternoon the train climbed the rugged coast range, often boring its way through a tunneled mountain. At five o'clock they had tea on a small table, when a wonderful sunset touched every hill and spur of their upland road. Evening came all too soon. Stars began to peep, and suddenly domestic lights twinkled across a populous valley. Then, near by, the great Pacific beat eternal measure on silver sands. It was eight o'clock when the train stopped in St. Barnabas, at the rear of a noted caravansary flaming electrical welcome. Philip had already engaged rooms. Resigning his checks and suit cases to a waiting porter, he led Isabel down the footpath through a garden of palms and flowers. The way seemed fairyland, while on either hand the breath of blossoms filled the night.
"My wife—my precious wife," he said softly. At their feet stretches of shasta daisies lay as snow. Isabel pressed her husband's arm.
"Could any place be more perfect for our honeymoon?" she asked.
Lapping of waves reached the garden. The newly wed pair did not hasten, yet all too soon the flower-bordered path ended beneath lighted arches. The two went slowly forward, while just how to pass unconcernedly from the clerk's desk to the elevator, made them really seem like "bride and groom." For the first time each secretly acknowledged happy, bewildered self-consciousness. The blazing corridor filled with beautifully gowned women and men in evening dress, groups of older people back from an early dinner, strains of music calling late diners to waiting tables, gave instant local color to both time and place. Philip scrawling personal decoration on the hotel daybook grew careful and wrote the new appendage to his name with telltale neatness. However, it was soon over. Neither looking to right nor left the couple bolted past groups of curious women, were all but safe in the protecting elevator, when a familiar voice spoke Isabel's name. Gay Lewis, alert for sensation, faced the grating of the rising lift. "Delighted to see you!" she called after them. And Philip Barry's wife answered with the smile prescribed under all conditions for a bride.
As they rose above, Philip looked questioningly at Isabel. "An old school friend of mine," she told him. He made a wry face.
"Have you many more of them about the hotel?" She laughed softly.
"I cannot say. One never knows whom one may meet in California."
They were leaving the elevator, following a boy with keys to their rooms. "I hope we shall not be surprised on every side," the man persisted. Isabel caught his hand.
"Never mind," she whispered, "I'll take care of you. But you must be nice to Gay Lewis. We are simply destined to meet the world over, and Gay has a way of saying things." The bell boy was beyond hearing distance. "Not that she has anything to say about us of slightest interest to strangers," she hastened to add. Philip saw the flush on her cheeks. Was she already beginning to dread unavoidable notoriety? The thought sobered him. Now he understood. But Isabel should not suffer, if being polite to every one in Christendom could help matters.
"I shall bend to 'the higher criticism,' do my best to impress Miss Lewis," he declared with assumed gayety.
Then Isabel exclaimed as the door to their spacious sitting-room flew open. The place was a bower of roses. "Did you tell them to do it?" she asked.
Philip forgot a passing shadow and smiled an affirmative answer.
"It is lovely! the loveliest room I was ever in," she declared. "How dear of you." Philip stopped by the window, enjoying his wife's girlish joy. She sank her face into every separate bunch of flowers. "Oh, these dear, dear pink ones!" she cried.
American Beauties nodded above her head, and she stood on a footstool to inhale their fragrance. On a round table covered with a white cloth was a huge bowl of "bride roses," fitting emblem for the day. Philip's surprise had been perfect. The delicate forethought which had ordered her bower, which stipulated for the little dinner to be served in the sitting-room, away from curious eyes, touched her beyond words. Her husband was indeed a lover! She ran to him with outstretched arms. As never before she knew the depth of a long-denied moment. And later, when she laid aside her coat and hat, to sit at the first little dinner alone,—but for the deferential waiter coming in and going out,—she kept thinking of all that they had in store, of their happiness to come.
Philip was never as gay, never so like the boy of years back—the boy who had loved the girl. Both were beginning over again and time between had taught them the price of joy.
"On this night we toast each other," said Philip, lifting his glass. "There is just 'one cold bottle' for our 'little hot bird'! I drink to my wife!"
His eyes glowed. Isabel touched his glass with her own. "To the dearest husband in the whole big world!" she responded, then kissed him. He held her away from him, feasting on her beauty. But she begged for freedom, and took her place at the opposite side of the table. "We must behave," she cautioned. "He's coming! I hear him down the hall."
"I will be circumspect," Philip promised. "But I'm losing my appetite. I don't feel glad of salad and the rest. Let's fire him before the coffee; I want to sip mine with my wife on my knee."
"For shame!" she chided, as the waiter tapped the door, with a loaded tray. "Do seem to be hungry. If we send things back untouched we shall be the talk of the hotel kitchen." Laughter was a natural part of the little dinner. "It is just like playing party," she declared, when the man again disappeared.
"Please pass the sugar," Philip begged. "Won't you kiss me again?"
"Not now," she refused. "We must remember that Reginald is learning table manners; if we act too badly through our honeymoon, he may notice shortcomings when we get home. Besides, he's coming—the waiter's coming. Be dignified."
"Will coffee ever begin?" Philip complained.
"Very soon." They both laughed.
"Which shall I use, a fork or a spoon for my frozen pudding?"
"Your fork—by all means; now please talk sensibly; he's just outside."
Philip thought of the king who dined without servants, and wished that he too had built a table for the occasion, one with a dummy lift in its center, to bring up food and to carry away the dishes.
Isabel watched with playful eyes until the last of his pudding was gone. Then she dismissed the waiter. Black coffee and a first cigar for the benedict state were both enjoyed without interruption. The evening lengthened. Philip saw his wife flit about the rooms with joyous air of proprietorship. Reginald's picture stood on the table beside the "bride roses."
Something told him to go below on a natural pretext, for their trunks were late. When he went out Isabel did not stir. Everything was so wonderful, so much more wonderful than she had fancied. But at last she began to move about, smiling. She hung her traveling coat in the closet and brushed her hat. Her suit case was unlocked and unstrapped, and she drew forth things which were needed. She loosened her hair, plaiting it as usual. Two golden braids hung down her back. Then she slipped into a soft robe of silk and lace, and stood by the window facing the sea, waiting for her husband.
Philip and Isabel spent much time in the saddle. Heavy rains of the season had suspended, leaving the country fresh and fragrant. Heather-toned effects on mountains round about, the sky so azure that the depths of blue seemed immeasurable, drew the newly wedded pair each morning. They always found Cole waiting with their horses. It soon grew to be an event for less favored guests of the hotel to watch the couple mount, then gallop off. Isabel had no suspicion of the incessant comment created by her slightest public movement. With Philip it was different. But for his wife's complete satisfaction he would have chosen a retreat on the foothills above the sea. He knew of such a place, and longed to leave the crowded hotel, where all were talking behind his back, whispering of his abolished priesthood, impugning his motives, testing his action by opposing scales of ignorant enthusiasm and bitter prejudice. For he constantly heard unguarded remarks, felt the prick of gossip as he passed from one place to another. Isabel was all unconscious of her husband's sensitive state. For Philip had kept his word, treating Gay Lewis, and in fact every one whom he met, with due consideration. Miss Lewis hung on his slightest word, while at the same time she established Isabel with an elect coterie of young wives whose husbands played tennis or polo at the hotel country club. Afternoons were often passed in watching sports in the open. Sometimes Philip and Isabel cantered into the club grounds in time for a simple luncheon; frequently they joined new acquaintances at table. Then again they sat apart by themselves, relaxing after a long ride through the valley or on the wonderful mountain road as yet undesecrated by automobiles. For at St. Barnabas the ubiquitous motor car is somewhat restrained. The famous mountain drive is still a tradition and sacred to the family carriage and "happy tots" on ponies. Philip and Isabel never grew tired of walking their horses around curves, which made the winding way a panorama of sky, mountains, valley, and sea. "There is nothing more lovely in the world!" Isabel would exclaim each time they left the upland for the return sweep past beautiful villas and gardens. Then came a gallop by the ocean. But on other days they took a different direction, going past "The Mission," riding, as it were, beyond the pale of sacred history into territory where heretics alone might disregard the murmured prayers of monks. It was strange how the work of the old fathers dominated the landscape. At points the mission held the skyline, and on every side its twin towers proclaimed the beauty of simple strength. To the man cast out from Catholic favor there was inanimate reproach in every elemental line of the early church. Against the blue a perspective of pure Spanish architecture fascinated him. His thoughts went out—against his will—to the cathedral he had longed to perpetuate. Romish emotion, fostered at birth, imbibed with his pious mother's milk, rose unbidden;—a challenge to his love for Isabel. His wife always seemed to conquer, and he stifled the dread that threatened as he turned his back on the mission. Then suddenly it loomed once more. Again he felt its compelling powers, its binding simplicity. Meanwhile, no suspicion of Philip's struggle entered Isabel's mind, for her own keen delight in the church was serene. The mission to her was an esthetic opportunity, a relic that a comparatively new world ought to be proud of. She was a purist in art, and after a second visit to St. Barnabas she loved every line of the historic mission. Yet she had not asked her husband to go inside of a now forbidden place. She longed to enjoy once more the marvelous view from the twin towers, but as doing so would involve Philip, she had given up the idea. Their honeymoon was already perfect. Each day she felt happier, more certain that she had been wise to marry Philip. Once she marveled at a young priest's power; now the man—her husband—held her with the same irresistible fascination. For Philip was a wonderful lover, both implied and manifest. And besides, after a fortnight's trial, Isabel pronounced him the most charming comrade. Also, there were moments when the two felt willing for a silent interval, when neither one spoke or demanded attention. It was at such times only that Philip unconsciously brooded over the ecclesiastical tragedy of his life.
But Isabel blindly rejoiced in her husband's balance, while each gay canter past the mission brought fresh assurance of his good sense. Then suddenly one morning he asked her to dismount for an interior view of the old church. She did not hesitate. It seemed manly, natural, that he should be strong enough to put aside personal feeling, should be able to enjoy an esthetic opportunity at hand. And she shrewdly divined that he was tired of denying his interest in the supreme tourist sight of the locality. By going through the mission his noticeable attitude might be changed. She had no appreciation of his risk from the Catholic standpoint. As she walked forward by his side she felt neither embarrassment nor fear. After all, they were both strangers, coming with thousands of others who looked, departed, and left an offering of money. The gold of heretics had really restored the mission. The man once a priest led his wife beneath an historic arch of the long gallery. Here the two stopped. Three brown-cloaked monks sat on a bench enjoying the sun.
"We should like to go through the mission," said Philip.
The oldest "brother" of the trio arose. "You are welcome," he answered pleasantly.
The two younger monks got up quickly, passed before the visitors, crossed a whitewashed anteroom, unlocked a solid door, then sprung it back in the face of oncoming Isabel. But despite the haste of a fleeing order she had caught a glimpse of the sacred garden beyond, and it did not occur to her disqualified judgment to regard herself as a natural temptation for carnal thoughts. She simply smiled at the rude opportunity enjoined by holiness. As she followed the "brother" in charge of the regulation tour for strangers, she kept wondering about the tall, handsome monk who had used a pass key on the spring lock of the oaken door.
He was a splendid specimen of manhood, and Isabel could still see his fine head, his modeled jaw and chin, the strong mouth; above all, the swinging freedom of his limbs underneath his rough brown habit. She regretted the unattractive personality of the attending brother, yet at the same time she tried—as she always tried—to repay a debt with simple gratitude. It was soon plain that the austere monk regarded her with favor.
As they went from one small whitewashed room to another, pausing to examine some rude relic of early mission days, Isabel led in the conversation. "It is all very interesting," she declared. "And the church has been so consistently restored," she went on. "I do not wonder that you are proud of the only mission in California which has not been treated to some shocking innovation. Even the dear old church at San Gabriel has taken on a modern redwood ceiling utterly devoid of art's religion."
The brother's thin lips drew apart in a quizzical smile. "You must become a Catholic and help us to preserve the crumbling architecture of the good fathers," he suggested.
"I should love to help the work along," she answered. They had finished with the small, chilly, almost antiseptically treated rooms, open to strangers, and were now standing at the foot of the old stairway leading above to the towers. On account of previous experience Isabel regarded the high stone steps with trepidation. The brother, not intending to mount, bade them take their time, then meet him again outside in the sunshine. Philip offered to help his wife with an initial lift, but she refused assistance, declaring that to be game when mounting historic steps was the only way. "I may not be able to move to-morrow, but to-day I shall not think of future punishment," she gayly jested. Philip went behind to guard her as she took the penitential climb. And at last both were resting in the ancient belfry, close to the old bells from Spain. Below the sacred garden lay plain to their view. Philip pictured the first sinful man peering into forbidden Eden. Then he remembered that Adam still had Eve.
Philip stood looking down, with his hand lightly resting on Isabel's shoulder. Beyond the fountain, before the timeworn cloister, sat an aged brother surrounded by monks. It was plain that the old brother was ill, perhaps nearing the end of a chosen life on earth, for he was speaking to the young monks, who seemed to hang on every word, hovering around his chair with awkward, masculine devotion. In all probability these same vigorous men would carry the old brother on his bier to the little cemetery, where he might displace the whitened bones of some monk long dead and forgotten.
As Philip gazed down on the scene below, translating as well he might the end of justified means to Catholic grace, his eyes filled with tears. For some unaccountable reason the dying monk suggested his mother. The reproach which she had never given him in life now seemed to ascend from the old garden—from the invalid brother leaning back on pillows. Philip turned away, and Isabel saw that he was hurt. Instantly her hand held his. "Let us go," she implored. But he smiled back refusal.
"I was just thinking of my mother," he confessed. "You must not forget that she was a Catholic, consistent and happy to the end of her days. I could not help associating her in my mind with the good brother below us. I have been told that an old monk has never been known to pass away with regret; only the young ones, sometimes, feel restless in the cloister."
He had not spoken in this manner before. Isabel covertly scanned his countenance. His cheeks held a slight hollow, almost imperceptible, except when his face was turned in a certain way. Standing with his back to the light, in the arch of the belfry, his eyes seemed too bright for normal condition. Isabel remembered the strain of his past year.
"Let us not climb above onto the roof," she pleaded. Still he would not forego the broader view, and helped her to cross from one tower to the other. As they halted, spellbound, to breathe mountain air, to drink salt breeze, Isabel again looked at her husband. He was smiling in sensuous pleasure. It came to her joyously that time alone could heal his wounded spirit. It seemed manly that he should be able to delight in his present environment without prejudice; that he should face phases of Catholic power without pain. It were preposterous to try to wipe out the realm of Romish influence; for to do that meant to give up "old world" cathedrals and universal art, inspired by popes and cardinals. Yes, Philip was wise to tread his new way freely as a free man.
But when they had descended from the tower Isabel stood undecided. "Are you sure that you wish to enter the church?" she asked.
Her husband hesitated, with eyes on the stone floor. The flashing recollection of an awful interdict held him; then he looked up. "I am no longer a Catholic," he acknowledged coldly. "I have the right to see the interior of the mission church, like any other American citizen. Come, let us hasten."
Isabel followed, dimly conscious of his defiant mood. The brother, waiting without, led them across ancient flagstones to timeworn steps of generous dimension. In fancy Philip saw flocking dark-faced Indians of early days mounting to service. The work of the unselfish fathers accused him even before he entered the fine old edifice; but he went on, with intent to stifle all but esthetic feeling. He felt relieved when his wife assumed a questioning attitude that was cordially appreciated by the brother in charge.
Here in the old church, by the side of a brown-habited monk, Isabel shone as usual. It became clear to Philip that his wife and not himself attracted their guide. He walked on, listening to the brother's story of early mission life and art, with no outward sign of inculcated knowledge. At every curtained confessional, before Spanish pictures of saints, at every sacred shrine, he told himself defiantly that he played no dishonorable part. The curious temper of the observer condoned his bold action. He was "a stranger within the gates." He went forward to the foot of the chancel as a man in a dream. That less than two years back he might have penetrated with full right beyond to the flower-dressed altar brought him a momentary pang, but he stifled it and looked at Isabel. Did she know—understand? Her serene face expressed no undercurrent of emotion. The reserve force of splendid womanhood had walled in her husband's past with natural, incidental, impersonal interest for everything at hand. Then, as they stood on listening to the brother's fervent account of work done by early mission Indians, notes from the organ broke the strain; while presently a baritone voice of wonderful quality floated below from the choir loft. Isabel turned in surprise. Even at the far end of the church she saw clearly the two young monks who had gone through the heavy door to the secret garden. The tall, lithe-limbed monk was the singer; his cloister brother accompanied him on the organ.
"How beautiful!" she exclaimed, sitting down by Philip, in a convenient pew. "They are practicing—for service?" she asked.
The brother in charge nodded. He seemed disappointed that his own rhetorical opportunity should be eclipsed by the mere song of a youngster. But the charming heretic no longer listened to a story of dark, slow-moving converts. Her eyes had ceased to rest on fantastic colored designs carved by early Indians and now transferred to the new wooden ceiling of the old church. The voice in the choir loft held her; and with a woman's will she chose to end the brother's attentions. Besides, Philip seemed worn with sacred tradition.
"We have enjoyed everything very much!" she said with enthusiasm. "If we may come another day for a glimpse of the old cemetery, we should now prefer to listen to the music." She smiled, one hand extended. As the brother hesitated she drew a goldpiece from her glove. When Philip too responded with natural impulse, the brown monk moved away. He turned once to look back, then went on. They caught the gleam in his eyes. After all, they had paid in full, were not intruders in the mission always open to a curious public.
Philip and Isabel were in full time for luncheon. The wife noticed that her husband ate his toast and squab with appetite. His cheeks were flushed from the canter back to the hotel, while during the half hour at table he appeared both happy and talkative.
"Shall you mind if I go off this afternoon for golf?" he asked, as they went from the dining-room.
Isabel's face expressed satisfaction. Her husband had hardly left her side since their arrival. She believed in casual separation. She knew instinctively that Philip must feel renewed interest in his own sex, to be quite the man he had been before his trouble of months back.
"Go, by all means," she encouraged, as they went from the elevator to their rooms. "Golf must be your game; it will do you a world of good to follow the links."
"And you won't miss me?"
"Not a bit," she answered. "Besides, I want to expect you back. I wish to feel the pang of parting, so that I may know how very, very lonely I used to be." She spoke lightly, but he knew that in reality she did not jest. "And the man—your opponent in golf?" she asked.
Philip stooped and kissed her. "How do you know that I am not going to tread the turf with a fair lady?" he teased.
"I should be awfully jealous," she confessed. He knew that she spoke the truth. It came over him at the time that men were few who might claim such love as Isabel's. In her starry eyes he read salvation, felt the depth of her womanly will. Inadequate power to repay his debt made him humble. He kissed her again, holding her close with adoring tenderness. Then he told her that he was about to play golf with the great publisher whom he had recently met. The triumph on her lips amused him.
"Build no air-castles!" he begged. But she freed herself from his arms and danced like a child.
"What a chance!" she cried. "You must make him your friend. I saw last evening that he was immensely interested in you, and now he may ask you to write for his magazine." Isabel's estimate of her husband's genius, of his ability to rush into print in one of the foremost monthly publications in the country, was fresh proof of her blind passion.
"Don't think such foolish things, dear little girl," Philip commanded. "The road to solicited manuscripts is a long way off—as yet. I shall have to get my stuff back many, many times before I can count on an indulgent editor." He spoke humbly, yet withal the eternal spark of hope had kindled for his literary career.
"Shall you tell him of your book—about 'The Spirit of the Cathedral'?"
Philip shook his head. "That might frighten him. He would think that I had an ax to grind."
"But you have sent your manuscript to another publishing house," she persisted.
"That is true," he assented, "but until I hear definitely, I do not care to talk of my forthcoming book. Besides, the man is here for rest and change. If I am able to make him my friend he may possibly tell me things. Above all, I must not bore him with my own uncertain achievements." He laughed, tugging at his golf shoe. "But you shall try your art on the man this evening; I have promised to present him."
"I will do my best," Isabel answered. "And by reason of the dance to-night the bride may wear white satin. She is irresistible in la robe empire."
Philip faced her. "I see all my manuscripts accepted at once," he said jestingly.
"Of course. Now run along; do not keep our great man waiting. I shall rest for an hour, then write to madame and Reginald."
"And you are really able for a ball, after the high steps of the mission tower?"
It was the first time that he had spoken of their morning's experience. 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 pass down the hall to the elevator; then she went back to her sitting-room.
At last she felt the glad sense of partnership. 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, constituted the little world she longed to conquer. And to-night, she wished to shine 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 illustrate 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 companionship, 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.
The Saturday 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 battleships had touched along the Western coast. The ship in question bound for Manila was now anchored 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 battleship, 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 class, 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 passing upon loves of fictitious 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 class reading his books fail to detect mere description in supposedly passionate 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 ship 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 passionate 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 passed unnoticed. To his wife he seemed detached from all but the present. As she drew him away from the shining ballroom she exulted to herself. Unusual and lighter opportunity seemed to be what her husband most needed.
The battleship 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 anchored ship, gleaming beyond. The incessant, yet broken passion 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 ship 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 glasses; then out of the door through quiet halls, to a side entrance below, where he found an open way.
Philip watched the maneuvers of the battleship from the shore, at the foot of the hotel. His glasses 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 ship move. Against a skyline, clear with oncoming day, it took unchallenged sway. The man followed with his glasses. 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 shore. 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 Mass, 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 Mass; 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 class. 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 ship 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.
"They are relatives of our host," she explained. "One cannot turn down cousins in California, or for that matter, acquaintances. You must be nice to them, for last night both expressed the wish to know you." She was anxious for her husband's popularity with strangers. That he should hold his new place without criticism was always in her mind.
Isabel knew the world, and when she married an apostate priest she had considered its way, all outside of love. She had even prepared herself for first, almost inevitable rebuff. Time would show where she and Philip both stood. A desirable few, who obstinately disapproved, should not annoy her; and at last they too might forget. To her surprise she had felt no condemnation. A mere marriage notice passed from paper to paper, with miraculous decency. Isabel read no highly colored version of either her own beauty or of Philip's sensational conduct. If anything unpleasant appeared she did not see it. This morning as she sat up in bed, enjoying the breakfast which her husband had thoughtfully ordered, she was more than thankful, more than happy.