Chapter 11

Angela remembered Nick's eulogy of the man. He was about forty, as tall as Hilliard, though built more heavily. Nick was clean shaven, and Falconer wore a close-cut brown beard, which gave him somewhat the air of a naval officer, though his face was not so deeply tanned. His features were strong, and behind his clear eyes thoughts seemed to pass as clouds move under the surface of a deep lake. Such a man was born to be a leader. No one could look at him and not see that.

Mrs. Harland, his sister, who--as Nick was aware--kept house and entertained for Falconer, was as like him as a very feminine woman can be like an extremely masculine man; and, in fact, they were twins. Ralph Harland, an Englishman, who had owned a California ranch, was dead; and when his widow was not in Europe she stayed with her brother.

They all talked together for a few minutes, or Theo Dene talked and let the others speak occasionally. Then Nick said that he must take his car to the garage, but would come back for luncheon; and when he had flashed away, Miss Dene invited herself to Mrs. May's room. "Do let me go with you," she pleaded, with a girlish air which she liked to put on with married women younger than herself. She thought that amusing. It impressed upon them the fact that she was a girl--free, with life before her. And, indeed, "The Free Lance" was a nickname of hers, which she liked rather than disliked.

Of course, Angela said, "Do come." She had found out that she was tired of Miss Dene. Still, she was curious to hear what she would say.

Kate had already opened her mistress's luggage, and spread gold and crystal toilet things about. There were flowers, too, on the sitting-room tables and mantel, California poppies with flaming orange hearts. Nick had telegraphed for these; but Angela supposed that they had been ordered by the "management." This impression was unlikely to be contradicted, because Nick had wanted her to have the flowers, not to get the credit for giving them. But Theodora Dene, who was experienced and shrewd in matters of the heart, wondered about the poppies. She made no mention of them, however, to Angela.

"I wanted you to myself for a minute," she explained, "to tell you I won't forget you are Mrs. May--_toujours_ Mrs. May. And you needn't tell me--anything, unless you like."

"I have told you why I came to California," said Angela. "I came to see it."

"And I do think you're seeing it in the _nicest_ way!" Miss Dene commented, sweetly. "I came for something quite different. I don't one bit mind confessing."

"To write a book about California?"

"That was what I said to reporters. And that I was going to visit Mrs. Harland. She's quite a dear, and I made her ask me, last time she was in England, because that was the first time I met her brother. I really came over with the idea of marrying him. He's splendid, and has loads of money--which I badly need, for I've spent every penny I've made from my books, and I've only eight hundred a year of my own. That won't buy my frocks! I took the greatest fancy to him. But I see now it's no use. Rather a bore! One hates to fail--and I'm not used to failure. However, there's a great romance--which is one consolation. I'm thinking whether or not I shall use it for the book. I'd like to--only Mr. Falconer's so well known. Perhaps I shall pick up another plot. Anyhow, I'm recovering from the blow, and beginning to take notice--as they say of babies and widows. That brown man of yours is a dream of beauty. Do you mind if I smoke?"

"No. And he _isn't_ mine," said Angela, taking off her motor-veil in front of the mirror.

"Well, then, dear Princess, if he isn't yours, and you don't want him to play with, do hand him over to me. I won't grab him, if you want him yourself. You were too nice to me in Rome."

"You saw in Rome that I didn't play." Angela stabbed a hatpin viciously into her hat.

"There were cats there. Here there aren't--at least not any who know the mouse."

Angela daintily ceased to be a fellow-being, in a disconcerting way she had when she chose, and became a high personage. She did this without a word, without a gesture, without even lifting her eyebrows. There was merely a change of atmosphere. Miss Dene felt it, but she did not care here as she would have cared in Rome. There, the young Princess di Sereno could have made or marred her socially. In California she was on the same ground as Mrs. May. Besides, she knew a thing about Mrs. May which, for some reason or other, Mrs. May did not want other people to know. So Theo sat on a green sofa and smoked a cigarette, hoping that she looked like a snake charmer with the sinuous, serpentine smoke-loops weaving and writhing round her head.

"Pray don't joke in that way before any one else," said Angela. "It is rather horrid, don't you think? No doubt Mr. Hilliard will be delighted to have you 'play' with him, if you see enough of each other to make it worth while wasting your energy."

As she spoke, she wrestled with a violent desire to show Miss Dene that Nick was not to be detached from his present position of guide, philosopher, and friend.

"I don't do that sort of thing with 'energy.' I do it with magnetism," Theo drawled. Her cigarette was smoked out, and she got up. "Well, I must run down to Mrs. Harland, I suppose. We arrived only this morning, early, from Monterey, and to-morrow we're going on to Paso Robles. That's where Mr. Falconer's romance comes in. Did you ever hear of Paso Robles?"

"Yes," said Angela. "My father owned land there, with a warm sulphur lake. There's a legend about it, which he used to tell me. The place is sold now. But I'm going to see it--because of the legend. I had photographs of the old Mission--and of the lake, too."

"Well, perhaps you know, then, there's a big hotel at Paso Robles and a 'cure.' I never heard of it before--but apparently it's famous. If you stop there try and find out about a Mademoiselle Dobieski, and see her if you can."

"Who is she?" Angela asked. "The name sounds dimly familiar, as if she were an actress or a dancer, or somebody one has heard of."

"She _was_ a singer. She _is_ Mr. Falconer's romance. I'd give a good deal to see her."

"I suppose you will, if she's a friend of his, and you're going to Paso Robles in his private car."

"No. I won't be allowed. He's sending Mrs. Harland and me straight on to Del Monte, and then to San Francisco. He'll follow; and afterward he's going to take us to Shasta, and the McCloud River, where they say he has the most fascinating country house in the world. I shall probably have a relapse when I see it."

"I remember now," said Angela. "There was a Polish girl who sang in concerts, and then made her _début_ in opera in London. I never saw or heard her, but people used to say she was divine. Then she went back to Russia, three or four years ago, and seemed to vanish into space."

"She vanished into Siberia," replied Miss Dene. "Meanwhile, Mr. Falconer had had time to fall in love with her in London, just before she took her Russian engagement. It was his sister who told me this--perhaps to prove that there was no use my having Designs, with a capital D. He followed the girl to St. Petersburg; she disappeared. He put the matter into the hands of a detective--an American one, brought over on purpose--money no object. Then Mr. Falconer couldn't stay any longer himself, on account of important interests on this side--but I believe he flashed across once in a while, during the last four years, when he was supposed to be resting and seeing Europe with his sister. She was always in the secret. Well at last they wormed out the truth: that the Dobieski'd been arrested as a Nihilist, secretly, and, in spite of her popularity on the stage as a singer, sent to Siberia. With money, or influence, or both, she was rescued from some dreadful hole, and smuggled to England. But she'd had rheumatic fever, and her beauty was gone--she was a cripple. Still the extraordinary man was faithful--though he'd never even had a chance to try and make her like him. Did you ever hear of such a lover, out of a book?"

"No," said Angela, interested. But something within her whispered, "There might be another such lover."

"Specialists--Mr. Falconer and his sister had the best--said there was practically no hope that the girl would ever be herself again. Yet the man wouldn't give up. He thought there was no place in the world like Paso Robles for performing miracles. The doctors laughed--because it was natural he should believe in his own country. However, the Dobieski consented to come. Mrs. Harland brought her over. Now she's been here two months, and is actually almost cured. Do try to get a glimpse of her. I've an evil idea that my noble host is going to drop off at the Springs, after shedding us encumbrances, for the sole purpose of proposing. If I use this for my plot, I shall give myself the satisfaction of making the story end badly."

"I dare say you'll enjoy doing that," Angela remarked, in her gentlest voice.

"I really must go!" exclaimed Theo, and threw her cigarette end into Angela's golden poppies. But she did not tell when she went downstairs, as Angela was half afraid she would, that Mrs. May was the Princess di Sereno.

Her friends had not left the veranda. Mrs. Harland was talking to some people she knew, Falconer walking up and down looking at the ships that were still trying their speed, in sight of the hotel.

"I do wonder _if the darling Angela knows about the Prince_?" Theo asked herself; and then joined Falconer in his walk, not mentioning Mrs. May.

"So you've met that handsome big boy before?" she began.

"Hilliard?" said Falconer. "Oh, yes, I've met him at Mrs. Gaylor's."

"Who's Mrs. Gaylor?" Theo had the curiosity to ask.

Falconer told her, and described Mrs. Gaylor as being a beautiful as well as immensely rich young woman.

"It must be over a year since her husband died," he added. "'Old Grizzly Gaylor' he was called; a brute, I'm afraid. His taking off must have been a relief to her. She's left with a splendid property. I've heard it said there may be a match between her and Hilliard. He used to be foreman of her husband's ranch; but now he's a landowner on his own account; struck oil, and made a pile of money selling a gusher--the biggest and longest-lived we've had yet."

"Are they engaged?" inquired Theo.

"I don't know. It isn't announced, anyhow. But it wouldn't be a bad match, even for a rich woman. Hilliard's a fine fellow, all the finer because he's a self-made man. By the way, the Gaylor place is one of the show ranches of California. I think we ought to take you to see it."

"Do!" cried Miss Dene. "I could write about it, couldn't I? I'd like to see Mrs. Gaylor. Another California type for my book!"

And again she asked herself, "I wonder if _dear_ Angela knows about the Prince?"

XIII

FOR THE SAKE OF DRAMATIC EFFECT

Somehow, Miss Dene got herself invited to spend the afternoon in seeing with Mrs. May and Hilliard all the things which Falconer and his sister had spent the whole morning in showing her. Exactly how she did this she herself might have told--with her occasional startling frankness--if she had chosen. But Mrs. May could not. Perhaps Angela had invited her, or said something which could be snapped up as an invitation; for Nick would hardly have suggested a second guest unless his first guest expressly wished for one. In any case, the fact remained that Theo Dene was going in the yellow car for a spin round Santa Barbara, to the Country Club, the Hope Ranch, and above all, to the Mission.

She stood talking on the veranda to Falconer and Mrs. Harland, as she waited for Angela to come down, and for Hilliard to bring round the car. Her host and hostess were laughing at her change of plans, for she had announced, early in the day, that she meant to "lie down all the afternoon and rest her features."

"Who is the beautiful Mrs. May?" asked Falconer.

Theo did not like this way of putting the question, because, quite sincerely, she herself admired no woman who was not of her own type. She was tempted to take advantage of Angela's desire not to be known, and say: "Oh, she's one of a thousand other pretty travelling women with intermittent husbands." This would have been epigrammatic, and at the same time it might have quenched dawning interest in the stranger. Neither the brother nor sister was of the sort who favoured flitting ladies with vague male belongings kept in the background. But suddenly a brilliant idea occurred to Miss Dene, who loved dramatic effects.

"Mrs. May chooses to be an ordinary tourist," Theo said, with just the right air of mystery, "but if she liked, she could travel as a personage. She has her own reasons for coming to America, just as I have mine, though hers are different. Don't you think she ought to see Shasta, and the McCloud River, if her impressions are to be complete?"

"Would she care to go?" said Mrs. Harland. "John and I would be delighted to take her, and put her up for a week-end--wouldn't we, John?"

"Of course," said Falconer. "From what I saw of her, she'd be a charming guest. But poor Hilliard----"

"Oh, do ask him, too, and give me a chance to flirt with him, please. I've had such poor success with you, I'm feeling crushed. Do you think Mrs. Gaylor too formidable for me?"

"If I were a betting man, I'd bet on you," Falconer laughed. "But I don't know how far matters have gone between Mrs. Gaylor and Hilliard. It may be gossip; all the world loves a lover, you know; and it's human nature to weave a romance around two interesting figures placed toward each other as these are."

"Well, I should like to try my hand, if his isn't pre-engaged," said Miss Dene; "and if it is, he won't be wasted on me, for I can always use him up in a book. What fun to have Mrs. Gaylor at the same time! We should soon see if they were engaged if we brought them together, shouldn't we? If not, I'd be free to get in as much deadly work as possible."

"Is Mrs. May's husband living?" asked Falconer, with a twinkle of mischief in his usually grave eyes.

"I think I mustn't tell even you anything about her private affairs," Miss Dene answered virtuously. "But I've reason to know that, for _this_ race, anyhow, she's out of the running. As Mrs. May was telling you at luncheon, Mr. Hilliard is showing her a few things because the mutual friend who was to have done it, couldn't. He can't show her Shasta and McCloud, though, as you can; for a mere motor's no attraction compared to a private car. I'm sure she's never been in one as gorgeous as the kind in America--yours in particular."

"Well, we must give her the chance to try it," said Falconer.

"And you _will_ think of inviting Mrs. Gaylor at the same time?" Theo turned her eyes from her host to his sister, beseechingly.

"I don't know Mrs. Gaylor well," Mrs. Harland demurred. "But if John wants you to see her ranch, and takes us there, I don't mind asking her to Rushing River Camp for a day or two. It's not very likely that she'd refuse"--the lady smiled--"as I'm afraid that socially she's more or less neglected, in spite of her beauty."

"Or because of it," said Falconer. "And here comes Mrs. May."

A moment later the car came too, and Angela realized that already she had reached the stage when she would miss taking her place beside Hilliard. She sat behind with Miss Dene, and Billy the "assistant" climbed into the seat next the chauffeur's.

Theo availed herself of the opportunity to tell what she had heard about Nick and Mrs. Gaylor, with embroideries of her own.

The air was balm of a thousand flowers, but for Angela it was no longer "Parfait d'Amour." The two battleships had long ago finished their speed trial; and trails of floating kelp lay like golden sea-serpents asleep under the blue ripple of the sea. Everything was very beautiful. But it was not yesterday!

In the town with the Mission still distant, she began to feel the "foreignness" of Santa Barbara. The streets had Spanish names, and the trees seemed musical, as she had thought that trees seemed in the South of Europe; as if they had heard and seen all the happiness of history, and had set them to music with their branches. Pretty girls rode bareheaded, with sunburned men in sombreros, just outside the straggling town, between hedges of roses that made boundaries for bungalows.

The beauty of the world sang a song in Angela's ears, with the rushing breeze the motor made; the wind in the trees, the flashing lights and shadows on the mountains. Clear-cut, lovely peaks sprang toward a sky that was like fire opal with turquoise glowing blue behind it. Still, this was not yesterday! The song of the world's beauty did not seem meant personally for her, as it had then.

Piles of grain in the fields were like plumed, golden helmets, laid down in rows to await the heads of resting warriors. The California oaks, different from all other oaks, were classic in shape as Greek temples sacred to forest deities, standing against a background of indigo sea. But Miss Dene would talk.

Theodora, in her books, made a speciality of describing the emotional souls of women, her favourite female thermometers being usually at freezing or boiling point--never temperate. Descriptions of scenery she "couldn't do," and what she called "landscape gazing" bored her. She was more interested in people, and big towns, than in wide spaces where Nature tried to lecture her. But because Angela admired the country she admired it, too, more audibly than Angela.

They saved the Mission for the last. Nick had set his heart on showing it to Mrs. May at sunset. As for Theo, though she said so much, he knew by instinct that it was not she who cared for the beauty of the magnolia hedges, the hay-gilded meadows, and the dark oaks that blotted the gold. He felt that he ought to admire Miss Dene, for she was handsome, and put herself out to be kind to him; but he wished the girl away, and was glad that to-morrow she would be travelling with her own friends. When she looked at him with her greenish eyes, she had the air of judging his points, as if he were a portrait she thought of adding to her collection, and of wishing him to look at her. Nick was not to be fascinated in this way.

Along the Cliff Drive they went to the Hope Ranch, and Angela tried to think of the brave old days of the "Roaring Forties," of barbecues, and wedding feasts for Spanish brides--days when the business of life was to love, and laugh, and dance, and spend the money yielded by thousands of rolling acres. According to the stories, all women had been beautiful, all men brave, and ready to fight for the ladies they loved; and though the world had changed since then, faster here than elsewhere, it seemed to her that at heart the men of America had kept to old traditions more closely than men in older countries. Then she smiled at herself for this impression; for, after all, what did she know of American men?

When they turned at last, coming back toward the Mission, to which, somehow, all the rest had been leading up, the setting sun was beating the dusk into sparks of fire.

At first glimpse, alighting before the steps of the restored Mission church, Angela compared it unfavourably in her mind with the lovely shabbiness of San Gabriel. She had a feeling that Santa Barbara the pleasure-place lived on Santa Barbara the Mission, with its history and romance. But she had only to go inside to beg pardon of the church for her first impression. It was easy to remember that there had never been the same stress of poverty here as among the missionary Fathers of San Gabriel, in the City of Angela. Yet in this place, too, there was the same pathetic effect which had brought tears to Angela's eyes in the dim little church at San Gabriel; an effect that once felt and understood, gives the old Spanish Missions their great, undying charm. At Santa Barbara--sweet name, ringing like the silver bells of the Franciscan Fathers--as at San Gabriel, there had been the same striving to copy the noble designs and proportions of the Spanish cathedrals, visioned in spirit by the homesick monks, who knew well they would never see them with bodily eyes again. With simple materials and unskilled Indian workers, these exiled men had striven to reproduce in the far, lonely West the architecture of the East, loved and lost by them forever. The very simplicity of the church made its beauty.

The scar of Santa Barbara Mission had been patched up, while at San Gabriel the bandages were vines and flowers; but the sunset light lent to the cloisters all the stateliness and glory of some old monastery in Southern Spain; the octagonal fountain on the bare terrace dripped silver; and an embroidery of lichen had gilded the rose-coloured tiles of the sloping roof with all shades and tints of gold. The sun, bidding good-bye to the day, gave back for an hour the splendour of the past.

The three went up into the bell tower and looked down; upon the old garden of the monks, then away to the sheltering hills, with the far-off rampart of mountains. It was beautiful there, and the bells in their open, window-like arches, had the kindly beauty of age and experience. Angela tapped them with pink finger-nails, and brought out a faint, musical whisper, which seemed to breathe some secret, if only she could understand. But she could not! She felt dull and unhappy, she could not tell why. Certainly it could not be for such a stupid, dog-in-the-manger reason as because Nick Hilliard was supposed to be engaged to his "boss's widow"--a most suitable arrangement. Perhaps it was the dreamy sadness of this; place which had taken hold of her. If there were a secret in the musical whisper of the bells, it was a secret of the past; and it was time to come which was clouded for Angela. There seemed to be nothing definite in it for her to touch. Her bodily eyes looked out over the bay of Santa Barbara, grape-purple with the wine of sunset; but her spirit saw only the uncharted sea of the future, across which strange sunrises glimmered, and winds cried like harps, or voices called to her in prophecies she could not hear. Happiness which she had never known seemed to live beyond that sea in an island palace; but the key of the palace lay fathoms deep, fallen among rocks under deep water. When Angela had been on her way to California, she had said to herself: "I shall be happy there living alone in some place which I shall find, because I shall be at peace, and disagreeable things can never come to me." But now, suddenly, she felt that more than peace was needed. She wanted to be happy with a happiness far removed from peace.

"I think I'll go to the North to live," she decided. "In all this sunshine and colour, one needs love--or else one's out of the picture."

At a little distance Miss Dene was telling Nick Hilliard that she was glad she had met him, because he was just what she wanted for her book about California.

"I'm going to see your ranch," she said, "and Mrs. Gaylor's ranch. I've heard about it--and her. She's very handsome, isn't she?"

"Yes," said Nick.

"And a great friend of yours--your best friend?"

"A great friend," he echoed, wishing that Angela, holding herself remote, would let him draw her into the conversation.