Philip watched the maneuvers of the battleship from the shore, at the
foot of the hotel. His glasses were strong, and he could make out
regular disciplined movements of men on board. What a life, he thought.
To be always waiting for war, ready for action in any part of the world,
regardless of human personal ties. The monster breasting waves seemed as
horrible as it was majestic. The man who was once a priest had never
wished to be a soldier. This morning he sensed the command to draw
anchor, felt the significance of carnage for the sea, saw the ship move.
Against a skyline, clear with oncoming day, it took unchallenged sway.
The man followed with his glasses. He stood fascinated by almost
imperceptible motion. Against morning sky a black streamer rested, then
gradually trailed to invisible distance, as broadside perspective
dropped away. The man-of-war was gone. But Philip still stood on the
shore. Early day had taken possession of his will. He seemed rooted to
the wet sand beneath his feet. Was Isabel awake? Had she yet missed him?
He looked back at the hotel, rising above lawn and palm trees. He could
see no signs of life, and it occurred to him that a brisk walk might
atone for his restless night. The fresh air stimulated him as he went
forward. Without thought of destination he left the ocean for the
esplanade, the esplanade for the long business street of the town. As
he went on he began to see people and to realize for the first time that
it was Sunday. Many were going to early Mass, and he was not among them.
At a corner he saw a modern Catholic church. The old mission now had its
rival in the new brick building. Several maids from the hotel got off a
car to hurry onward. A woman in front went faster as she neared the
church, but turned half round and looked at Philip. He felt her
insinuating survey as he strode rapidly away; then he recognized
Reginald Doan's former nurse. It was undoubtedly Maggie; and she knew
him for all that he had once been. He could not be mistaken. That Maggie
had deceived Isabel and followed Mrs. Grace to St. Barnabas was plain.
With that lady's departure for the East, the girl must have ceased to be
her maid. Maggie's surprise seemed evident; and at best the encounter
was disagreeable. Philip hurried on with the sense of being watched. He
walked past gardens, not seeing flowers freshened by night's cool touch
and morning's breath. Suddenly he was cast down, depressed by something
impalpable.
But he went on and on in absent-minded mood, taking no note of locality,
not realizing his distance from the closely settled town. He followed
the track of a car line, dimly conscious of the way, until, without
warning--the mission faced him. He might have known! Still he had the
habit of losing himself when Isabel was not his leader; and they seldom
went out except on their horses. Miserable, angry, he stood afar,
irresistibly called by sounding bells.
He saw men and women go up the wide worn steps to early Mass; then like
an outcast he turned away to board a car returning to the hotel. Isabel
would be waiting, wondering what had become of him. And he would not
tell her, would never let her know of his childish trip. The mission had
become an obsession. He saw it in his dreams and heard about it on all
sides. Every artist painted it; and carriage drivers on the streets
urged him to take a seat for the inevitable trip. Children showed him
their post cards adorned with a picture of the historic church or else
some scene taken in the cloister garden. The mission was getting onto
his nerves. He was almost beginning to hate it. He would never see it
again; and with the thought, he looked back at the graceful stretch of
the low, sun-kissed monastery, following on like a little brother to the
close protection of the "old fathers'" abler work. It was so beautiful,
so simple, that he could not deny. His knowledge of architecture, his
sense of fitness, kept his thoughts with the unselfish monks of the
past. He could not forget when from boyhood he had been trained in
church history. He had always been best in his class. And how his dear
mother would have loved the old church. At last the car was moving; at
last he might get away.
His back was to the mission and the run to town would not take long.
After all he might not be very late. And as he had hoped, he found the
hotel still quiet. Only a few early risers were down for breakfast when
he went to the dining-room to order Isabel's tray sent up to her room.
Then he took the elevator. He entered by the same door through which he
had departed, walking softly to his wife's bedside. She seemed not to
have stirred during his absence; but the note was gone from the pillow.
He leaned down and kissed her, and at the same instant half bare arms
tightened around his neck. Then she laughed.
"'Sleeping Beauties' never wake up unless they are kissed," she told
him. He doubled his charm as she raised on her elbow.
"Did you think I was never coming back?" he asked. "I took a long walk,
after the ship got away, went farther than I intended."
"I thought so," she said. "Men never remember the return trip. But I
have hardly missed you. I read my love letter, then went right to sleep.
I did not wake until I heard the telephone. Of course I answered it, and
whom do you suppose was speaking?"
"Doubtless one of your numerous admirers," her husband gallantly
answered.
"No. This time it was your admirer. But I came in for honorable mention.
I am so flattered, almost glad that you were not here to respond to our
friend the editor."
Now she was wide awake. The soft disarrangement of night still hung
about her hair. Her eyes sparkled as the morning. She sat up, leaning
forward.
"He has invited us to go out with him this afternoon in his touring
car. I said we would come. You are willing?"
"Of course," Philip answered, smiling at her eagerness.
"Mr. and Mrs. Tilton-Jones and Gay Lewis are asked; we are to start
about three."
Philip puckered his brow. "Why the Tilton-Joneses--I wonder?" Isabel saw
that he did not care for the couple.
"They are relatives of our host," she explained. "One cannot turn down
cousins in California, or for that matter, acquaintances. You must be
nice to them, for last night both expressed the wish to know you." She
was anxious for her husband's popularity with strangers. That he should
hold his new place without criticism was always in her mind.
Isabel knew the world, and when she married an apostate priest she had
considered its way, all outside of love. She had even prepared herself
for first, almost inevitable rebuff. Time would show where she and
Philip both stood. A desirable few, who obstinately disapproved, should
not annoy her; and at last they too might forget. To her surprise she
had felt no condemnation. A mere marriage notice passed from paper to
paper, with miraculous decency. Isabel read no highly colored version of
either her own beauty or of Philip's sensational conduct. If anything
unpleasant appeared she did not see it. This morning as she sat up in
bed, enjoying the breakfast which her husband had thoughtfully ordered,
she was more than thankful, more than happy.