More happy days followed; for Santa Paloma, after the Fourth of July,
felt only friendliness for the new owner of the Hall, and Mrs.
Burgoyne's informal teas on the river bank began to prove a powerful
attraction, even rivaling the club in feminine favor. Sometimes the
hostess enlisted all their sympathies for a newly arrived Old Paloma
baby, and they tore lengths of flannel, and busily stitched at tiny
garments, under the shade of the willow and pepper trees. Sometimes she
had in her care one or more older babies whose busy mother was taking a
day's rest, or whose father was perhaps ill, needing all the wife's
care. Always there was something to read and discuss; an editorial in
some eastern magazine that made them all indignant or enthusiastic, or
a short story worth reading aloud. And almost always the children were
within call, digging great holes in the pebbly shallows of the river,
only to fill them up again, toiling over bridges and dams, climbing out
to the perilous length of the branches that hung above the water.
Little Mary Scott, released from the fear of an "op'ration," and facing
all unconsciously a far longer journey than the dreaded one to a San
Francisco hospital, had her own cushioned chair near the bank, where
she could hear and see, and laugh at everything that went on, and revel
in consolation and bandages when the inevitable accidents made them
necessary. Mary had no cares now, no responsibility more serious than
to be sure her feet didn't get cold, and to tell Mrs. Burgoyne the
minute her head ached; there was to be nothing but rest and comfort and
laughter for her in life now. "I don't know why we should pity her,"
little Mrs. Brown said thoughtfully, one day, as they watched her with
the other children; "we can't ever hope to feel that any of our
children are as safe as she is."
Mrs. Burgoyne's method of entertaining the children was simple. She
always made them work as hard as possible. One day they begged her to
let them build a "truly dam" that would really stop the Lobos in its
placid course. She consulted gravely with George Carew: should they
attempt it? George, after serious consideration, thought they should.
As a result, twenty children panted and toiled through a warm Saturday
afternoon, George and the Adams boys shouting directions as they
handled planks and stones; everybody wet, happy, and excited. Not the
least glorious moment was when the dam was broken at five o'clock, just
before refreshments were served.
"We'll do that better next Saturday," said George. But a week later
they wanted to clean the barn and organize a club. Mrs. Burgoyne was
sure they couldn't. All that space, she said, and those bins, and the
little rooms, and all? Very well, then, they could try. Later they
longed for a picnic supper in the woods, with an open fire, and
potatoes, and singing. Their hostess was dubious: entreated them to
consider the WORK involved, dragging stones for the fire, and carrying
potatoes and bacon and jam and all the rest of it 'way up there'. This
was at two o'clock, and at six she was formally asked to come up and
inspect the cleared camping ground, and the fireplace with its
broilers, and the mammoth stack of fuel prepared.
"I knew you'd do it!" said the lady delightedly. "Now we'll really have
a fine supper!" And a memorable supper they had, and Indian stories,
and singing, and they went home well after dusk, to end the day
perfectly.
"They like this sort of thing much better than white dresses, and a
professional entertainer, and dancing, and too much ice-cream," said
Mrs. Burgoyne to Mrs. Adams.
"Of course they do," said Mrs. Adams, who had her own reasons for
turning rather red and speaking somewhat faintly. "And it's much less
work, and much less expense," she added.
"Now it is, when they can be out-of-doors," said Mrs. Burgoyne; "but in
winter they do make awful work indoors. However, there is tramping for
dry weather, and I mean to have a stove set up in the old billiard-room
down-stairs and turn them all loose in there when it's wet.
Theatricals, and pasting things, and singing, and now and then
candy-making, is all fun. And one knows that they're safe, and piling
up happy memories of their home."
"You make a sort of profession of motherhood," said Mrs. White dryly.
"It IS my profession," said the hostess, with her happy laugh.
But her happiness had a sudden check in mid-August; Sidney found
herself no more immune from heartache than any other woman, no more
philosophical over a hurt. It was, she told herself, only a trifle,
after all. She was absurd to let it cloud the bright day for her and
keep her restless and wakeful at night. It was nothing. Only--
Only it was the first time that Barry had failed her. He was gone. Gone
without a word of explanation to anyone, leaving his work at the Mail
unfinished, leaving even Billy, his usual confidant, quite in the dark.
Sidney had noticed for days a certain moodiness and unresponsiveness
about him; had tried rather timidly to win him from it; had got up
uneasily half a dozen times in the night just past to look across the
garden to his house, and wonder why Barry's light burned on and on.
She had meant to send for him in the morning, but Billy, artlessly
appearing when the waffles came on at breakfast, remarked that Dad was
gone to San Francisco.
"To the city, Billy?" Sidney asked. "Didn't he say why?"
"He didn't even say goodbye," Billy replied cheerfully. "He just left a
note for Hayashi. It said he didn't know how long he would be gone."
Sidney tried with small success to deceive herself into thinking that
it was the mere mysteriousness of this that cut her. She presently went
down to see Mrs. Carew, and was fretted because that lady would for
some time discuss nothing but the successful treatment of insects on
the rose-bushes.
"Barry seems to have disappeared," said Sidney finally, in a casual
tone.
Mrs. Carew straightened up, forgot hellebore and tobacco juice for the
moment.
"Did I tell you what Silva told me?" she asked.
"Silva?" echoed Sidney, at a loss.
"The milkman. He told me that when he came up at five o'clock this
morning, Barry came out of the gate, and that he looked AWFULLY. He
said he was pale, and that his eyes looked badly, and that he hardly
seemed to know what he was doing. And oh, my dear, I'm afraid that he's
drinking again! I'm sure of it. It's two years now since he has done
this. I think it's too bad. But you know he used to go down to town
every little while for a regular TIME with those newspaper men. He
doesn't like Santa Paloma, you know. He gets very bored here. He'll be
back in a day or two, thoroughly ashamed of himself."
Sidney did not answer, because she could not. Resentment and loyalty,
shame and heartache, kept her lips dumb. She walked to and fro in the
garden, alone in the sweet early darkness, for an hour. Then she went
indoors, and tried to amuse herself at the piano. Suddenly her face
twisted, she laid her arm along the rack, and her face on her arm; but
it was only for a moment; then she straightened up resolutely, piled
the music, closed the piano, and went upstairs.
"But perhaps I'm not old enough yet for an olive garden," she told the
stars from her window an hour later.