squarely. “That part of it's easy enough. But why? and who's going to
pay for it?”
“I'm going to pay for it! What did you suppose?” exploded Blair. “It's
worth that and a lot more to me just now to keep her from getting away.
Oh, I'm in earnest all right. I mean it! Look here! Can't you see how
that woman can be a perfect gold mine to me? You know enough about my
work to understand that I'm really out here after Indians myself, and
she--well, I'll wager a cool thousand there isn't a spot on this whole
island that ever dreamed of seeing an Indian that she doesn't know all
about!”
The clerk nodded. “But--”
“But nothing!” Impatiently Blair brushed aside all objections. “Why, I
hadn't the remotest idea how I was going to get started. It's a rattling
piece of good luck, and we'll fix it up right now!”
“Yes, but--” Still the other man hesitated. “It sounds all right
enough,--from your end of it especially, but you'd better see her first.
She's a proud little piece,--doesn't like obligations of any kind,--and
a stranger,--a man--I'm sorry to discourage you, but I don't believe
she'll have a thing to do with it.”
In Blair's eyes impatience threatened to become something more emphatic.
“It's a business proposition pure and simple,” he argued. “She gives
me all the information she's been able to get together, and I pay her
expenses while she does it. That gives her a chance to finish her own
work, don't you see? A mighty good proposition for her, too, I should
say, and if she doesn't see it that way herself,--why,--well, she isn't
as intelligent as she looks, that's all!”
“Providing you can persuade her it is just business. I'd advise you to
talk with her first, just the same. And you'll have to be quick about
it, too. She's planning to wait in the village tonight for the morning
boat, and she'll be starting down about now.”
Outside was one of those radiant nights intended for dreams and the
makers of dreams. Over an ocean white with light long breakers rolled
crests gleaming with silver that fell in soft thunder on the beach. Miss
Hastings, hurrying along the board-walk to the village, glanced at them
and looked quickly away.
“Oh, I say!” came a voice out of the darkness behind her, “if you don't
mind, hold on there a minute, will you? Wait for me, please!” The voice
was that of a man, pleasant, but exceedingly determined. Without so much
as turning her head Miss Hastings quickened her steps.
But it was of no use. Whoever her pursuer might be, he was even then at
her side.
“I beg your pardon,” breathlessly he began again, “but I've been chasing
you all the way down from the hotel. I want you to come right back there
with me. I have a proposal to make to you.”
Even in the darkness he could see how the girl's eyes blazed.
“I never listen--” she began hotly, “to proposals from people I don't
know,” she had meant to add, but he gave her no time.
“It will mean the biggest chance for your pictures you've ever had,” he
broke in. “Now, listen!”
And, to her complete surprise, Miss Hastings suddenly found herself
doing that very thing.
“There are a lot of things I've got to find out right away,” continued
the astonishing stranger, “and the clerk up there tells me you're
painting a series of Indian portraits.”
The little art teacher gazed at him fascinated. What manner of man could
this be, she wondered.
“I don't see the connection--” Coldness struggled with curiosity in her
voice.
“Listen!” With uplifted, peremptory hand again he stopped her. Nor is it
safe to say that any book agent, watching the door slowly closing upon
him, ever talked faster, or more rigidly to the point, than did Blair
within the next few minutes.
“Perhaps you won't understand it all right off. I wouldn't expect that.
But it's this way. I'm representing Harper's, and Houghton and Mifflin,
and Dodd and Mead, and--several other firms” (to satisfy his conscience
Blair contended with himself that he might as well as not have been
their representative--a mere oversight on their part ought not to
be allowed to stand in his way), “and I'm out here to find the best
illustrator I can lay hands on to do the pictures for some Indian stuff
I'm getting into shape for one of 'em. I want to see your work. And,
if I like it, I'll pay you well. And anyway, I'll pay every bit of the
expense while you finish your series here if you'll tell me what you
know about Wildenai!”
But, at the name, the girl beside him had given a low cry of utter
amazement. She stopped short.
“Do you know it too, then?” she gasped. “How did you hear about it?”
“Oh, I've known it for years,” replied Blair carelessly. “Some of it
I've known all my life. But look here now. Is it a bargain?--about your
helping me, I mean?”
Before he left her, an hour or so later, every detail had been arranged.
Miss Hastings had meekly agreed to return to the hotel in the morning.
Blair would pay her expenses and something he called a retaining fee
besides. That would make an extra fifty dollars,--she smiled to herself
in the dark,--a new winter suit at least, and perhaps one or two
matinees if she managed! All this for the information she could give him
about the island and its history. The various points in their contract
spun dizzily in her dazed brain. No spot known to legend to which it was
possible to conduct him should remain unvisited. Four hours out of every
day were pledged without fail to his interests. The rest of the time she
might have for her own work. It had all come about so unexpectedly,
and was altogether so extraordinary that, after he had gone, his new
employee, stretched uncomfortably upon a narrow cot in the tent of a
fellow teacher, spent the remainder of the night in imaginary interviews
with Eastern publishers regarding impossible royalties. She was far too
excited to sleep.
And, for a week, the arrangement worked very well,--almost too well.
Every day brought with it some new adventure, and every adventure became
a pleasure.
Mounted at Blair's expense on more or less energetic ponies, for from
the first he had insisted that horses were a necessary part of their
business equipment, they cantered gaily along the shady canyon trails,
or over the sunlit slopes sheeted in pale lavender wherever the wild
lilacs were in bloom. Often, emerging from some thicket of dwarf
oak they caught glimpses of a sapphire sea held between red, twisted
branches of manzanita as in a frame. About them rang the music of the
meadow larks. Merry shouts of bathers floated up from the beaches far
below, mingled with the distant click of golf balls on the greens.
For the whole of a golden day they chartered a sailboat from one, Capt.
Warren, and rounding the yellow headlands under his lazy guidance, they
went to examine the Ning Po, the ancient Chinese barge stranded, no one
knew how many hundreds of years before, among the rocks off the isthmus.
“Fascinating old place,” observed Blair gazing, his eyes aglow with
interest, around the mediaeval cabin. “Don't doubt a dozen murders at
least were pulled off in this one room!”
“Oh yes, of course,” eagerly echoed his assistant. “It's absolutely
unique!”
Her gaze, as bright with interest as his own, rested upon Blair himself.
She was considering, absent-mindedly, how becoming white trousers can
be to most men, especially when they are reasonably dark themselves.
But,--her glance travelled upward,--how unusually dark he was, and his
hair,--yes, without question, the straightest and blackest she had ever
seen. Yet it seemed in some indefinable way to become him,--to belong,
as it were, to his type. Leaning her elbows meditatively upon the rusty
anchor, her chin in her hands, she silently appraised him. He really
was a handsome man, she decided, and clever, too, of the sort who does
things in the world! A dreamy light grew within her eyes.
It was only two or three evenings later when, on their way back from the
site of an historic Indian village on the other side of the island,
they walked their horses slowly around the Wishbone Loop, the ostensible
reason being that, as Blair had already discovered, it commanded the
widest view of the ocean at sunset.
He was the first to speak when they struck again into the main trail.
“I wished for something about a rose, a wild rose,--want to guess?” He
eyed her mischievously.
“Hush,--mustn't tell!” she laughed. “Your wish won't come true if you
tell.” Then, for no reason at all, she blushed.
Never, in truth, during her twenty-three years of working, and
scrimping, and going without, had life shown to the little art teacher
so fair and generous a side, seemed so extravagantly joyous an affair as
during that magic week. The spending of money, it was easy to see, meant
little or nothing to Blair. But that was the least of his attractions,
for, to the girl herself, mere wealth for its own sake had never
appealed. The charm lay rather in the genial broadness of his view
of things, the strength of reasoning behind the few opinions he put
forward, his reticence, and quiet modesty. In these dwelt the spell that
swept her into an almost delirious enjoyment of his society. For, all
unknown to herself, like many another woman in like condition, she had
needed a change of people. In the cramped life of a private school men
played but little part, and the men who were most worth while, almost no
part at all. Instinctively, in time, she had wearied of little girls
and their lessons. Sorely had she craved the stimulus which only the
companionship of congenial men can give. Of this fact, however, she had
been even less aware.
One crisp morning, seated in a diminutive wicker cart behind a
discontented pony, they searched out Chicken John's cabin on the mesa
behind the golf links.
“Not that it has anything to do with Indians,” she apologized, “only
I want you to see him. He's such a character, so nice and untidy and
queer!”
As a result of this expedition they brought away with them what old John
designated a “plump little fry” to be served at the cosy table for two
in the sunniest window of the dining room, a luxury which Blair had
likewise confiscated in the interests of business.
And so for seven glorious days they tramped the fragrant hills, or
sailed a sea as softly blue as though fallen fresh that morning from
the cloudless heaven above. In the warmth and glow of his friendship
the starved heart of the little art teacher opened like some hot-house
flower carried suddenly into the wide outdoors. And when at last
the week drew to an end, their work, both his and hers, was still
unfinished, so that there was nothing else to do but to live on through
another fully as wonderful.
Blair himself took things much more for granted, and even when their
talk strayed farthest afield it was plain to the girl that his mind
never fully lost sight of the purpose for which he had come. His work
stood always first, while,--she blushed to own it even to herself,--she
had sometimes entirely forgotten her own.
At the end of the third week they had seen almost everything he
considered essential and at times she sensed in his manner, even when he
was least aware of it, a kind of repressed impatience. She knew what it
meant and shivered. Presently he would leave her, and life would become
again the same dull round of work. Only one spot of real importance
remained unvisited,--the cavern bower above the Bay of Moons. Of this
he had spoken frequently, and well she knew he held it the climax of his
search.
But for reasons best known to herself Miss Hastings put off from day to
day this final expedition until Blair began to chaff at the delay.
“That's really the one place I came to see!” he told her more than once.
“After I've been there I think I can go.”
“But we've planned Middle Ranch for today,” she would answer evasively,
or, “This is the best time to see Orazaba; it's so clear this morning.
That's the mountain, you know, where the Indians carved out their ollas.
Some of them are still there, only half cut away. It would be too bad
for you to miss that.”
At length, however, there came a day when excuses would do no longer.
“We've waited long enough,” he declared that morning over their coffee,
“Besides, I may have to go now in a few days.”
And although at his words the sunshine of her new world faded suddenly
away, yet the little teacher kept a brave front. She even laughed
carelessly.
“Men are so impatient,” she teased, “But we'll go today.”
Nevertheless, it was not until the rose of sunset rested among the hills
that at last they found themselves on the crest of the tall cliff which
commanded so wide a stretch of the ocean and the shimmering valleys
below.
“It reminds one of the Bay of Naples,” observed Blair, pausing to
scan the rocky coastline against which, far beneath them, the foaming
breakers threw themselves. He shaded his eyes with his hand and looked
far out to sea. “What a wonderful place for a watch tower it would have
made!”
“It had one once,” softly replied the girl, “Wildenai's watch tower!”
Blair turned, their eyes met, and he smiled.
“It's been splendid to have you with me all these days,” he said, “I've
been wanting to tell you. You've been more of a help than you'll ever
know.” And then, after a pause, “It's because you care so much about the
story yourself, I suppose, that you've been such an inspiration to me.”
Something in the girl's heart seemed suddenly to snap.
“It's because I care more about your work, and--and you. You are so
wonderful!” she broke forth impulsively, and stood before him crimson
with confusion. For a second, which seemed to her an age, there was
silence. Then he spoke and, in her bitter humiliation, his voice sounded
strained and cold.
“Shall we go in?” he asked.
Silently he parted the tangle of manzanita that for centuries had veiled
the secrets of the princess, and stood aside for her to enter. Wildly
the little art teacher glanced about her. This moment to which she had
so looked forward, and yet had dreaded as much because it meant the
end,--this moment which might, nevertheless, have meant much to them
both even though it were the end, she herself had spoiled! All its
delicate beauty changed to a sordid suspicion, it lay in ruins now
because of her thoughtless words. She dared not guess at what he must be
thinking! For a desperate second she considered flight. Then proudly
she raised her head. One more thing, at least, about her now he should
learn!
“Did you know--?” she began, then broke off irresolute.
Blair glanced at her and again their eyes met. This time he did not
smile.
“Know what?” he asked.
She laughed with embarrassment.
“It really isn't of any interest to you, but--” and again she paused.
“Suppose you let me be the judge of that,” he suggested stiffly. “You're
making me horribly curious, you know. You can't very well drop the
subject now.” He was evidently making an effort at pleasantry.
She flushed brightly.
“Of course it couldn't be of the slightest importance to anyone except
myself,” she explained. Then, as if doubting her courage to continue
long, she hurried on, “but one reason I take such an interest in--your
work is because I'm a direct descendant of Lord Harold myself. He became
the Duke of Norfolk afterward, you know, but Hastings was always the
family name.” She flashed him a haughty glance, a pride that changed to
wide-eyed surprise as she noted his amazement.
“Not really?” He had turned abruptly and in his eyes there was a
curious expression, almost of alarm. “How extraordinary,--how perfectly
extraordinary!”
“Why extraordinary?” That her cup of humiliation might brim to the full,
resentment was added to confusion. “You consider me unworthy, then, of
having had nobility among my ancestry? But, just the same, there
was nothing strange about it. The colonies were chiefly English,
you remember!” He smiled at her sarcasm. “The duke married one of
Elizabeth's ladies-in-waiting after he went home and there was a younger
son, and he had a younger son, and after a long time one of them came
over to Virginia just like anybody else. They have always been good,
loyal, highly respected American citizens,” she told him fiercely, “and
I'm proud of them! Besides--” with reckless emphasis, “I've always felt
so sorry for Wildenai.”
But at this point, quite incomprehensibly, Blair broke into peals of
laughter.
“And by and by, after a long, long time, one of these good, loyal,
American citizens that we're both so proud of had a hot-tempered, most
disloyal little daughter who intends to show her employer his proper
place before she dismisses him! But why are you sorry for Wildenai?”
With mischievous eyes he searched her face.
She flushed, then, looking squarely at him, “Because she was impulsive
like me, and just for that reason Lord Harold ran away and left her,”
she said. “He's the only one of them I never had any use for.”
Blair wandered the length of the cavern and back before he replied.
“You think him a coward, I suppose.” He still looked as though he wanted
to laugh, yet something in his tone seared her outraged pride. He might
as well have touched an iron to quivering flesh. “You ought to remember,
however,--I mean every woman ought to remember,--that when a girl lets a
man know that she cares for him she generally forfeits, then and there,
whatever interest she may have had for him. Wildenai risked too much.
Of course, in her case there was some excuse. She was only an untrained
barbarian. But, under ordinary circumstances, I tell you there's nothing
a man despises so much!”
What was done or said after that Miss Hastings never could have told.
She was possessed of but one desire,--to get away, to go back to the
hotel,--home, anywhere beyond the reach of his voice and his eyes. For
the moment she hated him, and although Blair, conscience smitten at
he knew not what, waited in the lobby a full hour before going in to
dinner, she did not come down.
Up in her room, mechanically brushing her hair for the night, Miss
Hastings stormily addressed the girl in the glass who stared so
scornfully back at her.
“I tell you I don't care a thing about it! He probably thought he was
justified in every word he said. He's probably smiling this very minute
because he thinks he managed it so well! But he's a coward just the
same, and I despise him,--I do despise him!” Her eyes brimming with
tears, she fiercely repeated the word. “Well, he'll soon find out how
much I really meant!”
Over and over she re-lived the short scene,--all of its humiliation, all
of its hurt, seeking at every turn solace for her woman's pride.
“Naturally I wanted to help him all I could, to appear, at least, to be
interested, especially when he was paying so much for it! It was only
a business arrangement anyway,” she continued bitterly, “nothing but
business from start to finish, and if he doesn't know that yet, he'll
find it out the very first thing tomorrow morning!”
And having tumbled into bed she lay staring into the dark, planning
the details of a campaign warranted either to cure or kill the enemy.
Outside, a mocking bird, perched provokingly near her window, kept the
night ringing with music. Resolutely she closed her ears to his song.
But presently, through the faint fragrance of oleanders, other sounds
began to penetrate,--the strains of the waltz to which they had danced
only the night before. The little art teacher turned wearily over and
cried herself to sleep.
On the morning which followed she rose very early, however, much too
early to breakfast with Blair at the little table in the sunny corner.
Instead, she ordered some coffee and toast at Jim's Waffle Shop in
the village and was hard at work sketching on the wharf before eight
o'clock. She had suddenly remembered a promise to sketch Capt. Warren's
dog holding the gaff, a feat of which both Pal and his master were
justifiably proud. Indeed, so long had the arrangement been made and so
entirely had it been neglected, that no one was more surprised than the
Captain himself at her unexpected appearance.
“But Pal and me ought to be at the Tuna Club in fifteen minutes, to take
a party o' members out fishin',” he demurred. “You can't paint Pal in no
quarter of an hour!”
“I'm sorry to have had to put it off so long,” replied Miss Hastings
crisply, “but I'm planning to go home in a few days now,--this afternoon
probably. It's the only chance I shall have.” And she prepared to make
good the belated promise with such determination that, after a wistful
glance or two across the slapping white caps, the old skipper meekly
succumbed.
It was here Blair found her an hour or so later. Unceremoniously he
placed himself in front of her, his hands in his pockets, and gave vent
to a low whistle.
“Well, of all the--!”
“Oh, is it you, Mr. Blair?” she inquired in cool, sweet tones. “I
thought most probably you'd gone! Didn't you say yesterday you intended
to as soon as you'd seen the cavern?” Then, after a pause during which
Blair said nothing, “I've been getting dreadfully behind with my own
work, so I thought, if you didn't mind, I'd try to catch up a little
this morning.”
“Certainly not. Take all the time you want! We've about finished anyway,
I guess.” His coolness matched her own.
Another silence during which she painted furiously.
“I'm making a sketch of Pal holding the gaff,” she ventured at length
when the strain had become too uncomfortable.
“So I see.”
This second tentative effort at conversation having flickered and gone
out she bent again to her work, while Blair remained, looking down at
her, in his eyes mingled amusement and resentment. What had he done, he
wondered, to account for such a change? Or, perhaps, it was something he
had not done. He tried again.
“Aren't we going for our ride this morning? It's a glorious day, and I
have the refusal of the two best horses.”
“No, I think not,--not this morning, thank you,” she answered. In her
voice was the same crisp sweetness. “I haven't time!”
With a shrug of pure bewilderment he backed away, then lingered a moment
longer to watch the sketch take shape beneath her hurrying brush. That
was the particular moment Miss Hastings chose for the final reckless
stab.
“You're standing in my light,” she said. “If you'd just as soon, please
do go away, Mr. Blair. It makes me nervous to have people looking over
my shoulder when I'm trying to paint.”
This was just a trifle more than Blair at the moment was prepared to
stand. His eyes grew dark.
“Certainly,” he replied icily. “So sorry to have bothered you at all.
I only came down to tell you that I've decided to leave today. There's
nothing more to keep me now, I think, and I'm rather anxious to get
home. You'll find your check at the desk.” And he sauntered away.
She did not go back to the hotel for luncheon. She had finished her
sketch, yet, somehow, when the time came, she discovered that it would
be quite impossible to enter the dining room. She found it equally
impossible to take the afternoon boat herself. Instead, having clambered
half way up the steep slope to the cavern, she watched from behind
a flaming riot of wild nasturtians while, preceded by a hotel porter
bearing bags and suit-cases, Blair boarded the Avalon for Los Angeles.
He was going away, then, without even a word of farewell.
The heart of the little art teacher turned cold within her, so cold that
she sank numbly into the red and gold tangle; nor did she look up again
until the steamer, dipping below the horizon, had left only a trail of
smoke to show where it disappeared. She had not believed that he would
do quite that!
When evening came she went stoically in to dinner. There was no reason
any longer for staying away. Sternly she kept her eyes from the vacant
place opposite. Yet somehow she could not persuade herself that he was
really gone. More than once she caught herself watching the door, half
expecting to see him stroll in with apologies for tardiness and take his
empty chair. When again the orchestra drifted suddenly into the waltz to
which they had danced, she rose abruptly and left the room.