quietly.
“A prayer,--and borne to heaven on the wings of ashes!” He seemed
amused. “But what hast thou to pray for, oh fair princess?”
Her cheeks glowing with quick color, she replied: “It were not fitting
that any maiden tell for what she prays!”
The words were spoken with such gravity that the young man flushed under
the rebuke.
When she left him at the doorway of the cavern that evening she said as
she made a gay little gesture of farewell: “Today the land, but tomorrow
we shall find still more beautiful things that lie hidden under the deep
waters. You shall see!”
And once again with dawn she came. This time it was the splash of a
paddle that brought him to the opening in the rock.
“Aloho-ate, lazy one!” she called gaily from below. “Make haste! The
world is always loveliest while it lies waiting for the sun!”
That day, perhaps, from among them all, lived longest within the memory
of young Harold,--the porpoises playing fearlessly around her canoe
as the princess, with graceful, effortless strokes, paddled around one
after another of the pointed tongues of rock; the flying fish, skimming
the surface of the ocean until, by virtue of their speed alone, they
rose like gleaming bows of silver from the foam. Intent to show him all
her treasures, Wildenai guided him to a quiet stretch of water lying
close to shore within the shadow of tall cliffs which rose at that point
with precipitous abruptness from the sea itself.
“Here are my gardens that grow under the water,” she explained, as they
glided above the spot. “Look well at them. They are most beautiful.”
And gazing down at her command through the clear green into the luminous
depths below, he caught glimpses of these gardens of the sea where
goldfish darted like tropical birds among the branches of tall tree-like
stalks of swaying seaweed, and strange shapes of jade and blue floated
in the shadows.
“Is it not wonderful?” she asked.
“It is indeed, my Wildenai,” he answered earnestly. “Never in all my
travels, methinks, have I seen aught before like this your island here!
It seems to me indeed a charmed land, a kind of magic isle!”
One day it rained, the last belated rain of winter. But even the storm
brought pleasures of its own, for, seated on the pile of skins beside
him, the little gray fox curled contentedly at her feet, Wildenai worked
at her loom. Within its dull-colored warp a blanket, woven in a strange
design of mingled red, and black, and white, grew slowly beneath her
busy fingers.
For hours the maiden drew the short woolen threads in and out while the
young man, stretched lazily upon the ground, told her many a tale of the
England he had left. Then, quite without warning, she ceased her work
and sat pensively watching through the opening in the rocks the long
gray swell of the sea.
“And what is it now, my princess?” laughed young Harold. “The pattern is
not yet finished, nor is the rain abated.”
“Ah, senor Harold lord,” wistfully replied the girl, “I was but wishing
I had been born one of those same fair English maids with the eyes of
blue and golden hair you tell about. Then would you love me even as
you do them!” she added artlessly, and leaned her chin upon her hand,
considering. A secret trembled on her lips.
“And how if I were Spanish born?” she questioned, and lifted hesitating,
frightened eyes to his, “dark to look at, that I know well, but even so,
the white man's kind of princess, who also has a throne?”
And all unwitting Lord Harold answered scornfully, “Spanish! Say no
such word to me! The English hate the Spanish!” Fiercely he caught up a
pebble and sent it whirling out across the water. “Even now their robber
king plans his huge armada to take our queen and rule our land, but
that, by the holy virgin herself, shall never be! Sooner will every drop
of blood in bonny England be spilt. Never could I make thee understand
how much I hope to be at home before he comes! Spanish indeed! Nay,
never let me hear the hateful word again!”
Then, noting her puzzled, downcast face, with the impulsive
changeableness which had so endeared him to her, he caught one little
brown hand and raised it to his lips.
“But I do love thee even as thou art, my Wildenai,” he told her with the
careless assurance of one much older speaking to a child. “Is not a wild
rose sweet as any garden bloom? Nay, methinks 'tis often sweeter!”
Again he laughed and the little princess laughed with him now, for
into her heart at his words had come a happiness so unlooked for and so
wildly sweet as wholly to bewilder her. Quickly she rose, struck by a
sudden thought, and running to the farthermost corner of the cavern she
brushed aside a pile of leaves and lifted some stones, disclosing at
length a box fashioned from the choicest cedar. Out of it, while the
Englishman watched with wondering eyes, she drew a garment made of
creamy doeskin, deeply fringed and trimmed besides with strings of
wampum, the polished fragments of abalone shells and many-colored beads.
Silently she brought it to him and when he touched it admiringly, for
the dress was beautiful. “It is my marriage robe,” she told him gravely.
That night, while the rain tapped softly at her tepee, the princess
dreamed of a wondrous land beyond the sea where proudly she walked by
her white chief's side and fair women with braided, golden hair spoke
kind words of welcome, smiling at her out of sweet blue eyes.
Then, without warning, came the end of all her dreams. Hurrying along
the beach at sunset only a few days later, Wildenai caught the first
glimpse of the returning vessel as it stole around a distant point. For
the space of a second her heart stood still, then throbbed wildly, but
whether with joy or pain she could not herself have told. One question
only demanded all her thought. Should she let Lord Harold know? Perhaps
the great white captain would not remember their bay. Perhaps,--her
breath came fast,--perhaps the ship, unseen by anyone, would pass and
Lord Harold remain behind content. With hands tight-clenched she watched
the distant sail, fear growing in her eyes. Yet she knew that she would
tell him. Nothing else was honorable. This, surely, he must decide for
himself.
But tidings of such moment outran even her swift feet. She found him
buckling on his swordbelt, in his eyes the glad light of some trapped
bird which sees the door of its cage suddenly open.
“The ship--” she began with sinking heart.
“Yes, yes, I know! I saw it!” he answered, a fever of impatience in his
voice. “'Tis Drake. I knew he dared not leave me! 'Twill soon be too
close in. Needs not he risk his safety. I must go before he gains the
shore.”
The princess hesitated. What meant that strange heaviness at her heart?
Was he not still her brave, true warrior,--her great white chief? Had
he not told her that he loved her? Crossing to where he stood she bowed
herself before him until her silver fillet touched his feet.
“I, too!” she whispered, “I shall go to England with thee!”
And at her words, within the little cavern there came a silence to be
felt. In undisguised dismay the Englishman gazed at her where she knelt.
Then:
“By the holyrood!” he muttered aghast, “She must have thought,--God only
knows what she must have thought!”
He glanced hurriedly toward the doorway and back again, ashamed. Then
even such impatience as was his gave way, for the moment at least, to
something more chivalric. He stooped and patted awkwardly the smooth
black head.
“Come, Wildenai, little wild rose, look up and speak to me. I must be
going!”
But still the maid lay prostrate, clasping close his rough buskins in
her little brown hands. Never in all his life had Lord Harold been so
sorely uncomfortable. How was it possible she had ever imagined that
he could take her with him,--that he had meant so much? Resentment grew
within him at the thought, yet strangely mingled always with something
far more tender. Hastily he considered, his heart torn between the
desire not to wound her and dread of what he knew she wanted. To be sure
the maid was beautiful, with the softened beauty of a moonlit night in
summer, her eyes beneath her dusky hair like stars between the branches
of dark trees, her voice that of the forest stream when it sings itself
to sleep. Yet past all doubt he knew that not one among the gorgeous
throng that crowded about Elizabeth would ever see that beauty, no
English ear take heed to hear the music of her voice. Nay, he could
even, as he thought of it, picture the amazement of the great queen,
could hear her scornful laughter, should he present, to help adorn her
court, a savage Indian girl! No, a thousand times no! Such disgrace
he could not suffer. Nor was the maid herself, so he defended himself,
fitted for such a life. Soon would she be as unhappy in England as he
would be to have her there. Besides, she was but a child. Else had she
never so far forgot all womanly dignity as to force herself upon him,
and being but a child she would soon forget. Gently he made to raise her
to her feet.
“Wildenai, little wild rose,” he began again, “what thou hast asked of
me thou dost well know thyself is an unheard of thing. Much as I owe to
thee, and well know I that 'tis so much I never can repay it; still for
thine own sweet sake 'tis not in this way thy reward must come. The long
journey and the strange new life would kill thee, Wildenai.” Having once
begun he stumbled on, but half aware of how each word he uttered hurt
her, eager only to have done with the whole sorry scene. “Thou art but
a little wild flower. Thou couldst not live away from this, thy sunny
island. Can'st thou not understand, my Wildenai?”
He paused, waiting for a reply; but the maiden answered nothing. Silent
she lay as though in very truth she were a wild flower tossed to earth
and trampled upon by some uncaring foot.
At last the man could bear it no longer. Forcibly he loosed her hands
and stepped back. For a moment longer he lingered, looking down upon
her in mingled impatience and regret; then, turning abruptly, he passed
hastily out of the cavern and down the trail to the beach.
Still the girl lay motionless. It was as if every sense were stunned,
all power of thought suspended except to grasp the one fact that made
her whole world empty,--he was gone! As in a dream she heard the grating
of the pebbles when he pushed his boat into the water, heard the clank
of the oars as they dropped into the oar-locks. Even yet she did not
move. Then, after many minutes, she crept to the opening and searched
the sea with eyes almost, too dim with tears to find that for which she
sought. But yes, there it was,--a black speck against the golden sunset.
She watched until she had seen the distant vessel put about, making for
the open sea. Ah, now she knew that he was safe aboard,--no need had
they to come farther into shore. Yet still she waited, straining her
eyes to see the ship sink slowly beneath the horizon. One last glint of
sunlight against a white sail, and it was gone.
Then at once she rose, and moving quietly about the little cavern,
she put all in perfect order with touch as tender as that of a mother
preparing for its last sleep some little child. Here was the basket
he had helped to weave, here the mat on which he had lain. Her fingers
lingered caressingly on each thing that he had touched. There in the
corner still stood the olla in which she had brought him water. How
amused he had been that she could carry it on her head all the way up
the hill from the spring without so much as spilling one drop! But that
was all past now.
When at last everything was finished she gave the little rock-walled
room one long, lingering look, the look of one who would carry in his
heart the image of what he beholds all the rest of his life. Then she,
too, made her way through the doorway into the deepening dusk.
On the beach below, squatted within the opened flap of his tepee,
Torquam, mighty chief of the Mariposa, smoked his evening pipe. A
wonderful pipe it was, long and delicately fashioned, inlaid with
iridescent fragments of shell. Yet instantly he laid it aside as the
slender form of his daughter darkened the doorway.
“Ah, Wildenai, little wild rose, welcome art thou as sunshine after
rain!” His eyes lighted with the tenderness never seen there by any
other than this motherless girl. He stretched his hand to her and the
princess came silently and knelt before him.
“My father,” she said firmly, though in so low a tone that Torquam bent
to hear. “Oh, father, thou art always wise! Thou only knowest best.
I come to thee to tell that I will wed Cabrillo. I will wed with him
whenever thou dost choose!”
Taking her face between his hands, Torquam gazed long and searchingly
into the sorrowful eyes of his daughter.
“And thou art wise to do so, my beloved one,” he said at last. “He will
make to thee a good husband.” In his voice was the keen understanding
of a father. “He will be kind to thee and heal thy wounded heart, my
daughter. Don Cabrillo is a good man,” he repeated solemnly.
Part II. Miss Hastings Brings It to an End
Centuries passed, and again, with the same sweet suddenness as in the
days gone by, spring came to Catalina. Guests of the St. Catherine,
lounging on its wide verandahs, gazed across a sunlit sea to where
the faint cloud that was San Jacinto hovered, the merest ghost of a
mountain, above the misty mainland. Along the broad board-walk leading
down to Avalon benches, shaded by brightstriped awnings, flaunted an
invitation to every passing tourist. Strings of Japanese lanterns bobbed
merrily above the narrow village streets. Everywhere were laughter
and movement and color from the bathing beaches, dotted with gay
umbrellas--even to the last yacht anchored round the point.
To the man making slow progress down the crowded wharf from the
afternoon boat this holiday world into which he thus suddenly stepped,
presented an appearance so different from that he had pictured as almost
to bewilder him. At sight of the jaunty little motorbus waiting to haul
him up the winding grade to the hotel, he actually hesitated. Yet seldom
before, to his knowledge, had he found it difficult to adapt himself to
an unexpected situation.
“Hotel St. Catherine! Bus to the hotel, sir?”
Other guests, more certain of their intentions, pushed impatiently
against him, and presently he found himself, wedged well toward the
middle of the long seat, chugging comfortably up the hill. Still
half-daunted, he gazed about him. It was all of it charming to be sure,
fascinating even; yet, could this festive summering place be the Avalon
of his dreams? Was this the quaint village of Spanish times, reaching
back still further through dimly remembered Indian lore to a world
lost now except to legend? Yet it was for the sake of a mere legend, a
fanciful tale handed down in his family through many a generation, that
he had made the long journey from New York to California, nor--and here
he set his lips with dogged determination, did he intend to return until
he had found that for which he searched.
It was now something over two years since Harrison Blair, then fresh
from Yale, had astonished both those who wished him well and those
who, for various envious reasons, did not, with the wholly unreasonable
success of his first book. For, to those who did not understand, his
sudden fame had seemed all the more surprising in that it rested upon
nothing more substantial than a slender volume of Indian verse. So
unusual, however, had been his treatment of this well-worn subject as to
call forth more than a little comment from even the most conservative of
critics. The Brush and Pen had hastened to confer upon him an honorary
membership. Cadmon, magic weaver of Indian music, had written a warm
letter of appreciation. And, most precious tribute of all, the Atlantic
Monthly had become interested in his career.
To be sure, it was nothing more than might have been expected of a man
whose undergraduate work in English had aroused the reluctant wonder of
more than one instructor. Nevertheless, the fact that he pulled stroke
on the 'varsity crew had somewhat blinded other contemporaries to his
more scholarly attainments. Nor had anyone thought it probable, because
of his father's wealth, that Blair, in any event, would feel called upon
to do much more than make a frolic of life. No one, indeed, had
been more taken aback than had his father to find him, a year after
graduation, drudging over the assistant editor's desk of a struggling
magazine the payroll of which, to put it mildly, offered no financial
inducements.
“It's good practice for me, though,--quickest way to learn,” was all he
vouchsafed when the older man remonstrated.
Yet, had that same father, shrewd capitalist that he was, but taken the
trouble to reason back from premises evident enough, he might have been
the first to realize that this tall son of his, with the keen gray eyes
and a face the strength of which was but increased by the high cheek
bones and squarely molded chin, was scarcely the type of man to sit idly
by enjoying the fruits of another's labor.
And now, after two years more of grinding apprenticeship, he had in mind
something much bigger than the slender volume of verse,--an adventure
into authorship more suited to his metal,--a story for which an intense
personal sympathy would furnish fitting atmosphere, with the final spur
to his ambition a letter from the Atlantic even at the moment stowed
safely away in his pocket.
Some two hours later, after an unexpectedly excellent dinner in the
luxurious dining room, he sauntered over to the hotel desk. There was
no more than the faintest probability that a clerk of the St. Catherine
would be able to tell him how to reach a secret cavern bower above the
Bay of Moons; still, he had to enter an opening wedge somewhere. The one
man on duty was for the moment occupied with another guest, and Blair,
lighting his after-dinner cigar, prepared with leisurely patience to
await his turn.
The guest happened to be a young woman, rather pretty, he casually
decided, although her greatest claim to beauty lay more, perhaps, in the
swift changes in expression of which her face was capable, than in any
actual regularity of line. For lack of anything better to do, Blair
watched idly her encounter with the clerk. There appeared to be some
kind of misunderstanding.
“Awfully sorry it's happened that way, Miss Hastings,” the man behind
the desk was saying. He lifted with genuine reluctance the key she had
just laid down. “We'd be mighty sorry to interfere with your work, but
those small rooms always do go first. You know that yourself.”
“I hadn't heard about it, though. I didn't know they were all gone.” Her
voice quivered with disappointment.
Blair, whose vocation taught him a certain technical sympathy, shot
a swift glance at her. She couldn't be more than twenty-two or
thereabouts, he decided less casually, and went on to observe her still
further. She wore a shabby, broad-brimmed hat much faded as if from
constant exposure to the sun, but the shadows in the coil of hair
beneath were warmly golden.
“Couldn't you find a room down in the village somewhere,--at Mrs.
Merrill's perhaps?” suggested the clerk.
“But Mrs. Merrill isn't here this spring.” In spite of its quiver the
voice was very sweet.
“No,” she started to turn away, “I'll have to put it off again, I
suppose. I've looked everywhere.”
She took a step or two, hesitated, then returned to the desk.
“You're positive there isn't a single one of the small rooms left?” she
pleaded. “I wouldn't care how far back it was,--anything would do. You
can't think how I hate to give up. I had so hoped to finish it this
time!”
The man shook his head.
“No, we're absolutely full just now. Later on there might be
something,--after the season is over.”
“But that will be after school begins,” answered the girl bitterly. “I
can't work at all then!” and catching up a bag fully as shabby as the
hat, she hurried away.
“Who is she?” asked Blair abruptly, overlooking for the moment his
original purpose in seeking the man.
“School-teacher from Pasadena,” replied the clerk briefly. “Teaches art
in some private school over there, I believe.” He eyed Blair amusedly.
“Think you've met her before somewhere?”
Blair allowed his annoyance to show. “No, never laid eyes on her
till just now. But I couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for her,” he
persisted. “She seemed so sort of cut up. What's the trouble?”
“I'm sorry for her myself,” declared the man on the other side as he
hung the returned key on its board. “This is the third time that poor
little woman's had to leave before she could finish what she came for on
account of the expense. But what can we do?” He shrugged his shoulders.
“The St. Catherine isn't exactly a Y. W. C. A.”
“What is it she's trying to do?”
Amusement deepened in the man's eyes.
“She's supposed to be painting Indians.”
“Indians!” To the amazement of the other man Blair suddenly leaned
forward, his eyes agleam with interest.
“But I didn't know there were any around here.”
“There aren't.”
“Then how--?”
“Makes 'em up out of her head, I guess. I never heard that she had even
a model.”
“But--but what I want to know is why she comes here at all?” The
situation seemed to Blair to offer possibilities, yet he was thoroughly
puzzled. “I met a fellow on the train who does that sort of thing, but
he always goes to the desert to paint,--at least he said he did.”
“Yes, they do mostly. Probably he meant Taos,--whole nest of artists at
Taos.”
“Well, but why in thunder then--?”
The clerk smiled skeptically.
“Why, you see, it's something like this. Miss Hastings' bent on being
an illustrator, pays better than teaching, I suppose, or--well, at any
rate, that's what she's aiming for,--and she has an idea that if she can
only get a series of pictures,--several of them on the same subject, you
understand,--accepted by one of those Eastern magazines, she can soon
work in with some big publisher and get an order. She told us all about
it one night last winter when she was over.”
“But in heaven's name, why Indians?” persisted Blair.
“Because she thinks she's found some good material here. She told me
about that, too. Seems there's an old legend connected with Catalina,
about an Indian princess and a cavern. The princess died of a broken
heart or something of the sort, I believe she said. I never heard the
particulars myself. Nobody else, either, seems to know anything about
it. But Miss Hastings says there's quite a story, and she's got it all
down pat from A to Z. She's using it for her series.”
A porter brought up some newcomers and Blair stepped aside. But the
moment his man was at leisure again he cornered him at once. An idea had
come to him, an idea almost dazzling in its possibilities.
“You say she hasn't finished her series yet?”
“Beg pardon? Oh, the teacher?” The man shook his head. “Evidently not
from what she said just now. She never stays long enough really to put
it over. Every few months she bobs up over a week-end, but that doesn't
give her time even to visit some of the places she's after. She never
seems to get much more than started before she has to go home again.”
For a moment Blair smoked in silence. Then:
“Look here,” he cut in abruptly, “You split my suite and give her one of
my rooms.”
The man's eyebrows rose in surprise.
“Her? What do you mean?”
Blair made an impatient gesture.
“Why, this Miss--the teacher, you know. Didn't you just say you hadn't
any room for her? Well, I've got three, you know.”
“Yes, but that's altogether a different proposition. You made your
reservation weeks ago.”
“But you could still give her one of them, couldn't you?”
Clerks in large hotels listen with patience to a vast number of
strange proposals, but at this from Blair, the man opposite eyed him in
unflattering amazement.
“But you said, when you wired, you wanted the extra room to work in,” he
objected, “and you'll remember, Mr. Blair, that you were pretty emphatic
about it, too, at the time. We went to all kinds of trouble to fix that
up for you.”
“I can get along all right without it, though,” coolly observed his
changeable guest, “and I'd rather she'd have it. It's possible to split
suites here, isn't it?” he persisted. “They do at most hotels.”