It was happily clear at breakfast that Stephen Lorimer had more or less
made his peace--and Honor's peace--with his wife. Like his beloved Job,
whom he knew almost by heart, he had ordered his cause and filled his
mouth with arguments, and Mildred Lorimer had come to see something
rather splendidly romantic in her daughter's quest for her true love.
Stephen, who never appeared at breakfast, was down on time, heavy-eyed
and flushed, and Honor saw with a pang, in the stern morning light, that
he was middle-aged. Her gay young stepfather! His spirit had put a
period at nineteen, but his tired body was settling back into the slack
lines of the late fifties. Her mother had changed but little, thanks to
the unruffled serenity of her spirit and the skillful hands which cared
for her.
"Muzzie," Honor had said, meeting her alone in the morning, "you are a
marvel! Why, you haven't a single gray hair!"
"It's--well, I suppose it's because I have it taken care of," said Mrs.
Lorimer, flushing faintly. "It's not a dye. It's not in the least a
dye--it simply _keeps_ the original color in the hair, that's all. I
wouldn't think of using a dye. In the first place, they say it's really
dangerous,--it seeps into the brain and affects your mind, and in the
second place it gives your face a hard look, always,--and besides, I
don't approve of it. But this thing Madame uses for me is _perfectly_
harmless, Honor."
"It's perfectly charming, Muzzie," said her daughter, giving her a
hearty hug. It was a good world this morning. The breakfast table was
gay, and Kada beamed. Takasugi had made countless pop-overs--Honor's
favorites--and Kada was slipping in and out with heaping plates of them.
"Pop-all-overs" the littlest Lorimer called them, steaming,
golden-hearted. Honor had sung for them and the Old Guard the night
before and even the smallest of the boys was impressed and was treating
her this morning with an added deference which flowered in many passings
of the marmalade and much brotherly banter. The girl herself was
radiant. Nothing could be very wrong in a world like this. Suppose Jimsy
had slipped once--twice--half a dozen times, when she was far away
across the water? One swallow didn't make a spring and one slip (or
several) didn't make a "Wild King" out of Jimsy. She was going to find
him and talk it over and straighten it out and bring him back here where
he belonged, where they both belonged, where they would stay. His
expulsion from Stanford really simplified matters, when you came to
think of it; now there need be no tiresome talk of waiting until he
graduated from college. And she had not the faintest intention of going
back to Italy. Just as soon as Jimsy could find something to do (and her
good Stepper would see to that) they would be married and move into the
old King house, and _how_ she would love opening it up to the sun and
air and making it gay with new colors! All this in her quiet mind while
she breakfasted sturdily with her noisy tribe. Good to be with them
again, better still to be coming back to them, to stay with them, to
live beside them, always.
Her train went at ten and the boys would be in school and her mother had
an appointment with the lady whose ministrations kept her hair at its
natural tint and Honor would not hear of her breaking it, so it was her
stepfather only who took her to the station. She was rather glad of that
and it made her put an unconscious extra fervor, remorsefully, into her
farewells to the rest. Just as she was leaving her room there was a
thump on her door and a simultaneous opening of it. Ted, her eldest
Carmody brother, came in and closed the door behind him. He was a Senior
at L. A. High, a football star of the second magnitude and a personable
youth in all ways, and her heart warmed to him.
"Ted,--dear! I thought you'd gone to school!"
"I'm just going. Sis,--I"--he came close to her, his bonny young face
suddenly scarlet--"I just wanted to say--I know why you're going down
there, and--and I'm for you a million! He's all right, old Jimsy. Don't
you let anybody tell you he isn't. I--you're a sport to pike down there
all by yourself. _You're all right_, Sis! I'm strong for you!"
"Ted!" The distance between them melted; she felt the hug of his hard
young arms and there was a lump in her throat and tears in her eyes, but
she fought them back. He would be aghast at her if she cried. He
wouldn't be for her a million any longer. She must not break down though
she felt more like it than at any time since her arrival. She kept
silent and let him pat her clumsily and heavily till she could command
her voice. "I'm glad you want me to go, Teddy."
"You bet I do. You stick, Sis! _And don't you let Carter spill the
beans!_"
"Why, Ted, he----"
"You keep an eye on that bird," said the boy, grimly. "You keep your
lamps lit!"
She repeated his words to her stepfather as they drove to the station.
"Why do you suppose he said that, Stepper?"
Stephen Lorimer shrugged. "I don't think he meant anything specific,
T. S., but you know the kids have never cared for Carter."
"I know; it's that he isn't their type. They haven't understood him."
"Or--it's that they have."
"Stepper! You, too?" Honor was driving and she did not turn her head to
look at him, but he knew the expression of her face from the tone of her
voice. "Do you mean that, seriously?"
"I think I do, T. S. Look here,--we might as well talk things over
straight from the shoulder this morning. Shall we?"
"Please do, Stepper." She turned into a quieter street and drove more
slowly, so that she was able to face him for an instant, her face
troubled.
"Want me to drive?"
"No,--I like the feel of the wheel again, after so long. You talk,
Stepper."
"Well, T. S., I've no tangible charge to make against Carter, save that
his influence has been consistently bad for Jimsy since the first day
he limped into our ken. Consistently and--_persistently_ bad, T. S. You
know--since we're not dealing in persiflage this morning--that Carter is
quite madly, crazily, desperately in love with you?"
"I--yes, I suppose that's what you'd call it, Stepper. He--rather lost
his head last summer,--the night before you sailed."
"But the night before we sailed," said her stepfather, drawing from his
neatly card-indexed memory, "it was with me that you held a little last
session."
"Yes,--but on my way upstairs. The lift had stopped, you know. I was
frightfully angry at him and said something cruel, but the next morning
he looked so white and wretched and wrote me such a pathetic letter,
asking me to forgive and forget and all that sort of thing, and I sent
him a wire to the steamer, saying I would."
"Ah! That was his telegram. We wondered."
"And he's been very nice since, in the few letters I've had from him."
"I daresay. But Ted's right, Top Step. In the parlance of the saints you
_do_ 'want to keep your lamps lit.' Carter, denied health and strength
and physical glory, has had everything else he's ever wanted except
you,--and he hasn't given you up yet."
Honor nodded, her face flushed, her eyes straight ahead.
"And now--more plain talk, T. S. This is a fine, sporting, rather
spectacular thing you're doing, going down to Mexico after Jimsy, and
I'm absolutely with you, but--if the worst should be true--if the boy
really has gone to pieces--you won't marry him?"
"No," said the girl steadily, after an instant's pause. "If Jimsy should
be--like his father--I wouldn't marry him, Stepper. There shouldn't
be--any _more_ 'Wild Kings.' But I'd never marry any one else, and--oh,
but it would be a long time to live, Stepper, dear!"
"I'm betting you'll find him in good shape,--and keep him so, Top Step.
At any rate, however it comes out, you'll always be glad you went."
"I know I will."
"Yes; you're that sort of woman, T. S.,--the 'whither thou goest' kind.
I believe women may roughly be divided into two classes; those who
passively let themselves be loved; those who actively love. The former
have the easier time of it, my dear." His tired eyes visioned his wife,
now closeted with Madame. He sighed once and then he smiled. "And they
get just as much in return, let me tell you,--more, I really believe.
But I want you to promise me one thing."
"What?"
"That you'll never give up your singing. Keep it always, T. S. There'll
be times when you need it--to run away to--to hide in."
She nodded, soberly.
His eyes began to kindle. "Every woman ought to have something! Men
have. It should be with women as with men--love a thing apart in their
lives, not their whole existence! Then they wouldn't agonize and wear on
each other so! I believe there's a chapter in that, for my book, Top
Step."
"I'm sure there is," said Honor, warmly. They had reached the station
now and a red cap came bounding for her bags. "And I won't even try to
thank you, Stepper, dear, for all----"
"Don't be a goose, T. S.,--look! There are your Mexicans!"
Honor followed his eyes. "Aren't they _delicious_?" They hurried toward
them. "The girl's adorable!"
"They all are." Stephen Lorimer performed the introductions with proper
grace and seriousness and they all stood about in strained silence until
the Señora was nervously sure they ought to be getting on board. "Might
as well, T. S.," her stepfather said. She was looking rather white, he
thought, and they might as well have the parting over. Honor was very
steady about it. "Good-by, Stepper. I'll write you at once, and you'll
keep us posted about Mr. King?" She stood on the observation platform,
waving to him, gallantly smiling, and he managed his own whimsical grin
until her train curved out of sight. One in a thousand, his Top Step.
How she had added to the livableness of life for him since the day she
had gravely informed her mother that she believed she liked him better
than her own father, that busy gentleman who had stayed so largely Down
Town at The Office! Stephen Lorimer was too intensely and healthily
interested in the world he was living in to indulge in pallid curiosity
about the one beyond, but now his mind entertained a brief wonder ...
did he know, that long dead father of Honor Carmody, about this glorious
girl of his? Did he see her now, setting forth on this quest; this
pilgrimage to her True Love, as frankly and freely as she would have
gone to nurse him in sickness? He grinned and gave himself a shake as he
went back to the machine,--he had lost too much sleep lately. He would
turn in for a nap before luncheon; Mildred would not be out of her
Madame's deft hands until noon.
The family of Menéndez y García beamed upon Honor with shy cordiality.
Señor Menéndez was a dapper little gentleman, got up with exquisite care
from the perfect flower on his lapel to his small cloth-topped patent
leather shoes, but his wife was older and larger and had a tiny, stern
mustache which made her seem the more male and dominant figure of the
two. Mariquita, the girl, was all father, and she had been a year in a
Los Angeles convent. The mother wore rich but dowdy black and an
impossible headgear, a rather hawklike affair which appeared to have
alighted by mistake on the piles of dusky hair where it was shakily
balancing itself, but Mariquita's narrow blue serge was entirely modish,
and her tan pumps, and sheer amber silk hose, and her impudent hat. The
Señor spent a large portion of his time in the smoker and the Señora
bent over a worn prayer book or murmured under her breath as her fingers
slipped over the beads in her lap, but the girl chattered unceasingly.
Her English was fluent but she had kept an intriguing accent.
"Ees he not beautiful, Mees Carmody, my Pápa?" She pushed the accent
forward to the first syllable. "And my poor _Madrecita_ of a homely to
chill the blood? _But_ a saint, my mawther. Me, I am not so good. Also
_gracias a Dios_, I am not so----" she leaned forward to regard herself
in the narrow strip of mirror between the windows and--a wary eye on the
Señora--applied a lip stick to her ripe little mouth. She wanted at once
to know about Honor's sweethearts. "_A fe mia_--in all your life but one
_novio_? Me, I have now seex. So many have I since I am twelve years I
can no longer count for you!" She shrugged her perilously plump little
shoulders. "One! Jus' like I mus' have a new hat, I mus' have a new
_novio_!"
They were all a little formal with her until after they had left El Paso
and crossed the Mexican border at Juarez, when their manner became at
once easy, hospitable, proprietary. They pointed out the features of the
landscape and the stations where they paused, they plied her unceasingly
with the things they purchased every time the train hesitated long
enough for _vendadors_ to hold up their wares at the windows,--_fresas_
(the famous strawberries in little leaf baskets), _higos_ (fat figs),
_helado_ (a thin and over-sweet ice cream), and the delectable _Cajeta
de Celaya_, the candy made of milk and fruit paste and magic. They were
behind time and the train seemed to loiter in serenest unconcern. Señor
Menéndez came back from the smoker with a graver face every day. The
men who came on board from the various towns brought tales of unrest and
feverish excitement, of violence, even, in some localities.
If his friends could not be sure of meeting Honor at Córdoba and driving
her to the Kings' _hacienda_ the Señor himself would escort her, after
seeing his wife and daughter home. Honor assured him that she was not
afraid, that she would be quite safe, and she was thoroughly convinced
of it herself; nothing would be allowed to happen to her on her way to
Jimsy.
"Your father is so good," she said gratefully to Mariquita.
"Yes," she smiled. "My Pápa ees of a deeferent good; he ees glad-good,
an' my _Madrecita_ ees sad-good. Me--I am _bad_-good! You know, I mus'
go to church wiz my mawther, but my Pápa, he weel not go. He nevair say
'No' to my mawther; he ees _too_ kind. Jus' always on the church day he
is seek. _So_ seek ees my poor Pápa on the church day!" She flung back
her head and laughed and showed her short little white teeth.
But Señor Menéndez had an answer to his telegram on the morning of the
day on which they were to part; his friend, the eminent _Profesor_,
Hidalgo Morales, accompanied by his daughter, Señorita Refugio, would
without fail be waiting for Miss Carmody when her train reached Córdoba
and would see her safely into the hands of her friends. Honor said
good-by reluctantly to the family of Menéndez y García; the beautiful
little father kissed her hand and the grave mother gave her a blessing
and Mariquita embraced her passionately and kissed her on both cheeks
and produced several entirely genuine tears. She saw them greeted by a
flock of relatives and friends on the platform but they waved devotedly
to her as long as she could see them. Then she had a quiet and solitary
day and in the silence the old anxieties thrust out their heads again,
but she drove them sturdily back, forcing herself to pay attention to
the picture slipping by the car window,--the lovely languid _tierra
caliente_ which was coming to meet her. The old _Profesor_ and his
daughter were waiting for her; shy, kindly, earnest, less traveled than
the Menéndez', with a covered carriage which looked as if it might be a
relic of the days of Maximilian. Conversation drowsed on the long drive
to the Kings' coffee plantation; the Señorita spoke no English and
Honor's High School Spanish got itself annoyingly mixed with Italian,
and the old gentleman, after minute inquiries as to her journey and the
state of health of his cherished friend, Señor Felipe Hilario Menéndez
y García, sank into placid thought. It was a ridiculous day for winter,
even to a Southern Californian, and the tiny villages through which they
passed looked like gay and shabby stage settings.
The _Profesor_ roused at last. "We arrive, Señorita," he announced, with
a wave of his hand. They turned in at a tall gateway of lacy ironwork
and Honor's heart leaped--"_El Pozo_." Richard King.
"The name is given because of the old well," the Mexican explained. "It
is very ancient, very deep--without bottom, the _peóns_ believe." They
drew up before a charming house of creamy pink plaster and red tiles,
rioted over by flowering vines. "I wait but to make sure that Señor or
Señora King is at home." A soft-eyed Mexican woman came to the door and
smiled at them, and there was a rapid exchange of liquid sentence. "They
are both at home, Señorita. We bid you farewell."
The servant, wide-eyed and curious, had come at his command to take
Honor's bags.
"Oh--but--surely you'll wait? Won't you come in and rest? It was such a
long, warm drive, and you must be tired."
He bowed, hat in hand, shaking his handsome silver head. "We leave you
to the embraces of your friends, Señorita. One day we will do ourselves
the honor to call upon you, and Señor and Señora King, whom it is our
privilege to know very slightly. For the present, we are content to have
served you."
"Oh," said Honor in her hearty and honest voice, holding out a frank
hand, "this is the _kindest_ country! _Every one_ has been so good to
me! I wish I could thank you enough!"
The old gentleman stood very straight and a dark color surged up in his
swarthy face. "Then, dear young lady, you will perhaps have the
graciousness to say a pleasant word for us in that country of yours
which does not love us too well! You will perhaps say we are not all
barbarians." He gave an order to his coachman and the quaint old
carriage turned slowly and precisely and started on its long return
trip, the _Profesor_, still bareheaded, bowing, his daughter beaming and
kissing her hand. Honor held herself rigidly to the task of seeing them
off. Then--_Jimsy!_ Where was he? She had had a childish feeling that he
would be instantly visible when she got there; she had come from Italy
to Mexico,--from Florence to a coffee plantation beyond Córdoba in the
_tierra caliente_ to find him,--and journeys ended in lovers' meeting,
every wise man's son--and daughter--knew. The nods and becks and
wreathed smiles of the serving woman brought her back to earth.
"Señora King?" She asked, dutifully, for her hostess--her unconscious
hostess--first.
"_Si Señorita! Pronto!_" The servant beckoned her into a dim, cool
_sala_ and disappeared. "Well, I know what that means," Honor told
herself. "'Right away.' Oh, I _hope_ it's right away!"
But it was not. The Kings, like all sensible people, were at their
_siesta_; twenty racking moments went by before they came in. Richard
King was older than Jimsy's father but he had the same look of race and
pride, and his wife was a plain, rather tired-looking Englishwoman with
very white teeth and broodingly tender blue eyes which belied the
briskness of her manner.
"I am Honor Carmody."
"You are----" Mrs. King came forward, frowning a little.
"I--I am engaged to your nephew--to Jimsy King. I think you must have
heard of me."
"My dear, of course we have! How very nice to see you! But--how--and
where did you----"
The girl interrupted breathlessly. "Oh, please,--I'll tell you
everything, in a minute. But I must know about him! I came from Italy
because--because of his trouble at college. Is he--is he----" she kept
telling herself that she was Honor Carmody, the tomboy-girl who never
cried or made scenes--Jimsy's Skipper--her dear Stepper's Top Step; she
was not a silly creature in a novel; she would not scream and beg them
to tell her--_tell her_--even if they stood there staring at her for
hours longer. And then she heard Richard King saying in a voice very
like his brother's, a little like Jimsy's:
"Why, the boy's all right! Ab-so-lutely all right! Isn't he, Madeline?
Steady as a clock. That college nonsense----"
And then Honor found herself leaning back in a marvelously comfortable
chair by an open window and Mr. King was fanning her slowly and strongly
and Mrs. King was making her drink something cool and pungent, and
telling her it was the long, hot drive out from Córdoba in the heat of
the day and that she mustn't try to talk for a little while. Honor
obeyed them docilely for what she was sure was half an hour and which
was in fact five minutes and then she sat up straight and decisively.
"I'm _perfectly_ all right now, thank you. Will you tell me where I can
find Jimsy?"
"I expect he's taking his nap down at the old well. I'll send for him.
You must be quiet, my dear."
She got to her feet and let them see how steady she was. "_Please_ let
me go to him!"
"But Josita will fetch him in less time, my dear, and we'll have Carter
called, too, and----" Mrs. King stopped abruptly at the look in the
girl's eyes. "Josita will show you the way," she said in quite another
tone. "You must carry my sunshade and not walk too quickly."
Honor tried not to walk too quickly but she kept catching up with the
Mexican serving woman and passing her on the path, and falling back
again with a smile of apology, and the woman smiled in return, showing
white, even teeth. It was not as long a walk as it seemed, but their
pace made it consume ten interminable minutes. At length the twisting
walk twisted once more and gave on a cleared space, meltingly green,
breathlessly still, an ancient stone well in its center.
Josita gestured with a brown hand. "_Alla esta Señorito Don Diego!
Adios, Señorita!_"
"_Gracias!_" Honor managed.
"_Te nada!_" She smiled and turned back along the way they had come. "It
is nothing!" she had said. Nothing to have brought her on the last stage
of her long quest! Jimsy was asleep in the deep grass in the shade. She
went nearer to him, stepping softly, hardly breathing. He was stretched
at ease, his sleeves rolled high on his tanned arms, his tanned throat
bare, his crisp hair rolling back from his brow in the old stubborn
wave, his thick lashes on his cheek. His skin was as clean and clear as
a little boy's; he looked a little boy, sleeping there. She leaned over
him and he stirred and sighed happily, as if dimly aware of her
nearness. She tried to speak to him, to say--"Jimsy!" but she found she
could not manage it, even in a whisper. So she sat down beside him and
gathered him into her arms.