"Well, I'm not much at description. You'll meet the kind I mean when you
get to San Francisco, if you don't before. The two Morehouses are the
right sort; and lots of others. John Falconer's one of the best. Have you
ever heard of him?"
"Yes," said Angela. "I remember his name. My--friends of mine have spoken
of him, though he was younger, and made his fame later."
"I should like you to come across him," said Nick, full of enthusiasm for
the man he admired, and devoid of small jealousy. "Falconer was one of the
grandest lawyers California ever had; and in a way he made himself, though
he came of the best blood we've got." (Nick would not have dreamed of
mentioning that his own blood was as good. He, like most men of the West,
thought more of his horses' pedigree than his own, and he would as readily
have boasted of his handsome looks as of his father's people--the people
who had disowned that father, and sent him to starve. But now he was
boasting of and for California. That was legitimate.) "Falconer's the
wisest and most far-seeing politician we have," he went on, "and deserves
his luck--the money's he's made and the name he's won. He's high up on one
of our biggest railroads, too, since he gave up law because he'd no time
to follow it; and he's not much over forty now. That's California, Mrs.
May. That's typical. Falconer's as different from a rough fellow like me,
as--as I hope I'm different from Sealman."
"You're a loyal friend," Angela said, admiring the fire in his eyes and
the glow on his face as she would have admired an impressionist sketch for
a portrait by Sargent. "Only this man ought to be a fresco," she told
herself as she followed out the picture-simile. "He's too big and spirited
and unconventional to be put into a frame."
"Oh, I'm not a personal friend of Falconer's," Nick hastened to explain.
"Wish I were! I've met him when he's been to the Gaylor ranch--the ranch I
want you to visit. But I expect he'd hardly remember me. And now you see
that I'm not typical, maybe you'll think there's no place for me on your
map. But I have my uses. I'm warranted sure and sound. And wouldn't I just
be ready to die tryin', if you'd let me, to give you the time of your life
in California?"
"I've always heard that Californian men are chivalrous and kind."
"Oh, kind! That's a funny word."
"And these plans you draw for me are--are the sort of thing to make a
woman feel glad there are men in the world willing to take so much
trouble----"
"They're the sort of thing to make a man glad there are women--or better
still, a woman--to work for," he amended, so good to look at in his
enthusiasm, that Angela's eyes would not be banished to the _suède_ bag or
to the flowers on the table--Nick's flowers.
"But," she went on, "but----"
"Don't say that word to-day," Nick begged. "Whatever you decide afterward,
let me take you up to Rubidoux and on to Redlands? Make up your mind about
the rest when you've seen Mr. Morehouse's letter."
"Very well," she said. "Just for to-day, the 'make-believe' shall come
true."
Nick turned away his face lest it should betray him.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "Well, then, I reckon it's time I went to
round up Billy. And we'll hit the breeze for Rubidoux and Redlands."
They saw the park and the millionaires' houses and the orange-packing,
passing on the way picturesque little towns, with Indian and Mexican
names, which charmed the eyes and ears of Angela. And always the air was
sweet with scent of orange-blossoms, roses, and alfalfa, the life of the
country. Once, at Redlands, Nick excused himself and jumped out of the car
at a shop. He was gone three or four minutes; but when he came back he
said nothing of any purchase.
It was only when he was bidding Mrs. May good night at her hotel door
that, with a schoolboy air, he pulled a small package out of his pocket.
"Talking of typical Californian things," he said, trying to seem careless,
"here's one. I thought, as it's only a little bouquet in a bottle--a few
flowers distilled--you might accept it. But if you want to give it back,
I'll take it like a lamb. It's--because you love California--I want you to
have it. Don't open the paper till you get indoors. And you'll send me
word whether you can go along farther in the country of make-believe?"
"Of course. I'll telephone."
"Early enough for us to start, if--if the answer's yes?"
"As soon as I wake up. Will that do?"
"That will do. And let it depend on your dreams. I'll trust my luck to
them. Because dreams are in the country of make-believe; sometimes they
are good--so good they make you want to go on and on. Besides, there'll be
the Morehouse letter. I bank on that. But more on the dreams."
The letter had come. Angela found it when she got back to her hotel, and
meant to read it at once, as a letter from so important a man deserved.
But Nick's package was in her hand, and she was tempted to untie the gold
string.
Inside was a fancy bottle of perfume, bound round with quantities of
narrow rose-coloured ribbon.
"Parfait d'Amour. Made of California Flowers," announced the blossomy
label. And Angela broke into laughter, repeating the name aloud, "Parfait
d'Amour!"
She had laughed very often that day.
"He knew I wouldn't give it back to him," she thought. "That would be
worse than keeping it and saying nothing."
She put the bottle down on her dressing-table, and took up the letter from
Mr. Morehouse the banker. It was a pleasant letter, extremely satisfactory
from Hilliard's point of view. It was evident that, in the two brothers
opinion, there was no reason why she should not accept the services of Mr.
Nickson Hilliard, in seeing California. The banker, who alone knew (and
would not tell) that Mrs. May was the Princess di Sereno, said "Hilliard,
who was to be introduced to you in New York if my brother had not been
ill, is a man your father would have approved. You are not travelling
alone, I understand, but have your servant. You can trust Hilliard as a
kind of glorified guide, which he wishes to be, I understand, partly out
of friendship for my brother (who hoped to show you about), partly because
he--in common with all of us Californians--is proud of our State, and
likes nothing better than bringing its beauty spots to the notice of
sympathetic strangers. That, I am sure, the daughter of my old friend
Merriam must be; and I am looking forward to her arrival in San Francisco,
which place I am too busy to leave at present. I hope our meeting may be
soon; and wish I were a married man, that I might have the pleasure of
entertaining 'Mrs. May' in my house."
When Angela had read the letter twice she let it fall, and again took up
the bottle of perfume. Untying the bow of pink ribbon, she pulled out the
heart-shaped glass stopper, and breathed the fragrance of "Parfait
d'Amour, made from California flowers."
The name might be laughable, but the fragrance was exquisite as the sweet
air among the orange groves.
Angela sighed, without knowing that she sighed, as she put the bottle down
and pushed it away.
She did not even look at it again until she was ready to switch off the
electric light, and try to sleep, after Kate had finished her
ministrations. Then, once more, Mrs. May sniffed daintily at the "Parfait
d'Amour," as a bird hovers near a tempting crumb thrown by a hand it
fears. She wondered what flowers made up this sweetness, so different from
any perfume she had known.
"It's California," she said to herself. "Essence of California."
Long after she had gone to bed, Angela lay awake, not restless, but
vaguely excited, as she listened to a mouse in the hinterland of the wall,
and thought her own thoughts, that floated from subject to subject. But
always she could smell the perfume which--or she imagined it--filled the
room with its sweetness. It was a pity that the scent had been given such
a silly name!
"If the people of this country can be unconventional when they like, why
shouldn't _I_ be unconventional, if I like?" she asked of the darkness.
"It's so gay and amusing to make believe, and so--beautiful." It occurred
to her that she had just begun to live. Now a door had opened before her
eyes, and she saw a new world that was big and glorious, ready to give her
a welcome.
"There's something in being a married woman, and going about as I choose,"
she thought, "even if it is only in the country of make-believe. Why
shouldn't I do what he asks me to do? I'm only Mrs. May, whom nobody
knows! And it would be _fun_. I haven't had any fun since I was a little,
little girl."
* * * * *
Perhaps Nick had been right to trust his luck to her dreams; or perhaps it
was the influence of the letter. In any case, at eight o'clock next
morning, Angela, with her hair hanging over her shoulders, and dreams
still in her eyes, was ringing up Mr. Hilliard by telephone at the
Alexandria Hotel.
"It's only to say that you may take me--and Kate--and the cat--and some
luggage--to Santa Barbara this morning. That is, if you still want to? Oh,
thanks! You're _very_ kind. It's settled _only_ about to-day, you know!
Yes. Ten o'clock will suit me."
She hummed a dance-tune while Kate dressed her. And the room was still
sweet with the fragrance of that strange perfume, "Parfait d'Amour made
from California flowers."
She sat beside Nick in the yellow car, Kate (and black Timmy in a basket)
behind with the sharp-nosed youth whom Hilliard called his "assistant."
There was also luggage--enough to last for a few days, the rest had been
sent on by train to San Francisco.
Nick enjoyed hearing Angela exclaim, "This is like Algeciras!" "That's
like the Italian Riviera!" as the car ran on. It seemed wonderful that she
should have seen all the most beautiful places in Europe, that she should
hold their pictures in her mind now, comparing them with these new ones,
yet that her heart should be in the New World--_his_ world.
Near Santa Barbara the mountains came crowding down to the sea, as at
Mentone; and on the horizon floated islands, mysterious as the mirage of
Corsica seen from the Italian shore at sunrise. Over there, Nick told her,
was a grotto, painted in many lovely colours; and boats dived into it on
the crest of a wave. He had not heard of the Blue Grotto at Capri, but she
described it; and so they went on, each with something to tell that the
other did not know.
Two new battleships were trying their speed in the channel between Santa
Barbara and the islands, and as the car turned into the park of the hotel
the rivals raced into sight. Angela's eyes were dazzled with the brilliant
sunshine, the blue of the sea, and the flaming colour of the geranium
borders that burned like running fire the length of the mile-long drive.
The veranda was crowded with people, but thinking only of the great ships
in the bay she was conscious of seeing no one until a voice exclaimed,
"Why, Princess, what a surprise to meet you here!"
It was a voice she knew, and if she could have stepped back into the car,
pulled her motor-veil over her eyes, and asked Nick Hilliard to drive
away, she would have been glad. But one does not do these things. One
faces emergencies, and makes the best of them. Angela had been foolish,
she told herself, not to think of running across somebody she knew. If she
wished to hide herself, she must be more prudent; but for this time it was
too late. There was Theodora Dene, of all people, waiting to meet her at
the top of the steps!
"Oh, bother!" Angela had just time to whisper, before she found herself
shaking hands with a tall, red-haired, hatless girl in a white dress. Theo
Dene never wore a hat unless it were absolutely necessary, for her hair
was her great attraction. It was splendid in the sun, as she came out of
the shade to stand in the blaze of light, shaking Angela's hand and
sending a long-lashed glance to Nick. She never looked at a woman if there
were a man worth looking at within eye-shot. But she had no hypocrisy
about this. She did not pretend to be a friend of women, though she was
nice to them if they did not interfere with her and there was nothing
better to do. She was twenty-eight, and confessed to twenty-four. She
danced as well as a professional, sang French songs in what she called a
"twilight voice," dressed better than most married women, did daring
things, and had written two books which shocked Puritans. Some of her own
experiences had been worked into her novels, which made them read
realistically; and clergymen in England and America had preached against
them; so, of course, they were a great success and sold enormously. Miss
Dene herself was also a great success. She went where she liked, alone if
she liked, and during a visit to Rome she had lured desirable men from
ladies who were engaged in flirting with them. Angela, who was not
flirting with any one, had been amused by the strange girl, but now she
would have preferred a chance encounter with almost anybody else.
"Please call me Mrs. May," she whispered, as they shook hands. "I don't
want to be known by the other name."
The tall young woman in white took in the situation, or a view of it, and
the long green eyes (which she loved and copied for her heroines) smiled
in a way that fascinated some people and displeased others. Angela thought
that, with the strong sunlight bringing out the value of red hair, black
brows, white skin, and white frock, she was like a striking poster,
sketched in a few daring lines, with splashes of unshaded colour dashed in
between.
"How do you do, Mrs. May?" the girl amended her greeting. "I thought I
must be dreaming you."
"I'm not sure that I'm not dreaming myself," said Angela.
"I hope you haven't come here for your health?"
"I wanted to see California."
Miss Dene laughed. "That doesn't sound exciting. But perhaps it is." She
glanced again at Hilliard, to whom a porter had come for directions about
luggage. Nick was telling him that only Mrs. May's and the maid's luggage
was to go in. He intended to stop at another hotel.
"Oh, _do_ ask _That_ to lunch with you, and invite me and my friends to
your table," the girl suggested, in a stage whisper. "I never saw anything
so beautiful. I must know him. I've been seeking a hero for my new book
which I'm going to write about California, and I feel he's the one. Pity
the sorrows of the poor author! If you don't," and she laughed to take
away the sting, "I'll tell every one who you are. The reporters will get
you--as they have me. But I liked it, and you wouldn't."
Angela wondered why she had ever admired red-haired women; and as for
long, narrow green eyes, she now thought them hideous. She was sure, in
spite of the laugh, that Miss Dene was capable of keeping her word.
"I intended to ask him to lunch with me in any case," she said calmly; and
this was true. But it was to have been a repetition of yesterday; quiet
and peaceful, and idyllic. "He is a Mr. Hilliard who has--been detailed by
a friend of my father's to show me some places he knows. That's his car.
If you and your friends would care to join us, I should be delighted of
course." Then she turned away, moving back a step or two nearer the edge
of the veranda, and thus closer to Nick.
"I hope you mean to have lunch with me here, Mr. Hilliard?" she said.
He looked up, his eyes asking if she really wanted him, or if politeness
dictated the invitation. Hers gave no cue, so he did the simplest and most
direct thing, which was to him the most natural thing.
"I should like to, very much," he said. "But you've found friends. I
could come back afterward, and take you around Santa Barbara, unless----"
"One of the friends was glad when she heard you being invited," Theo Dene
broke in. "And the other friends are so new, Mrs. May hasn't met them yet.
You shall be introduced all together in a bunch."
Of course, at that Nick came up the steps and joined Angela. He had a
curious feeling as if he ought to be defending her from something; and at
the same time a sensation of relief when he heard her once again called
"Mrs. May." "Princess" was only a sort of pet name, no doubt. That was
what he had hoped when the word caught his startled attention. He would
not like to have her turn into a real princess. An angel she was for him,
and might be, without seeming hopelessly remote somehow; but the pedestal
of a princess was cold as a block of marble.
The poster-simile did not occur to Nick; but he thought that the
red-haired girl with the self-conscious eyes, standing beside Mrs. May,
was like a coloured lithograph in a magazine, compared with a delicate
painting in a picture gallery, such as he loved to go and see in San
Francisco. Miss Dene's peculiar attraction, strong for many men, left him
cold, although he might have felt it if he had never seen Angela.
"I'm travelling with Mrs. Harland, and her brother, Mr. Falconer, in his
private car," Theo explained. She turned to them. "Mrs. May won't mind my
claiming her as a friend I hope. She was immensely nice to me in Rome. And
we've met in London, too. I don't know why I was surprised to see her.
Every one comes to this country. And Mr. Hilliard, perhaps, you both
know?"
"We have met," said John Falconer, whom Nick had praised yesterday as the
"typical" man of California. He put out his hand, and Nick took it,
pleased and somewhat surprised by the recognition. For he was in his own
eyes an insignificant person compared to John Falconer, who had done
things worth doing in the world.
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?"