Part 10 (2/2)
”It is lovely! the loveliest room I was ever in,” she declared. ”How dear of you.” Philip stopped by the window, enjoying his wife's girlish joy. She sank her face into every separate bunch of flowers. ”Oh, these dear, dear pink ones!” she cried.
American Beauties nodded above her head, and she stood on a footstool to inhale their fragrance. On a round table covered with a white cloth was a huge bowl of ”bride roses,” fitting emblem for the day. Philip's surprise had been perfect. The delicate forethought which had ordered her bower, which stipulated for the little dinner to be served in the sitting-room, away from curious eyes, touched her beyond words. Her husband was indeed a lover! She ran to him with outstretched arms. As never before she knew the depth of a long-denied moment. And later, when she laid aside her coat and hat, to sit at the first little dinner alone,--but for the deferential waiter coming in and going out,--she kept thinking of all that they had in store, of their happiness to come.
Philip was never as gay, never so like the boy of years back--the boy who had loved the girl. Both were beginning over again and time between had taught them the price of joy.
”On this night we toast each other,” said Philip, lifting his gla.s.s.
”There is just 'one cold bottle' for our 'little hot bird'! I drink to my wife!”
His eyes glowed. Isabel touched his gla.s.s with her own. ”To the dearest husband in the whole big world!” she responded, then kissed him. He held her away from him, feasting on her beauty. But she begged for freedom, and took her place at the opposite side of the table. ”We must behave,”
she cautioned. ”He's coming! I hear him down the hall.”
”I will be circ.u.mspect,” Philip promised. ”But I'm losing my appet.i.te. I don't feel glad of salad and the rest. Let's fire him before the coffee; I want to sip mine with my wife on my knee.”
”For shame!” she chided, as the waiter tapped the door, with a loaded tray. ”Do seem to be hungry. If we send things back untouched we shall be the talk of the hotel kitchen.” Laughter was a natural part of the little dinner. ”It is just like playing party,” she declared, when the man again disappeared.
”Please pa.s.s the sugar,” Philip begged. ”Won't you kiss me again?”
”Not now,” she refused. ”We must remember that Reginald is learning table manners; if we act too badly through our honeymoon, he may notice shortcomings when we get home. Besides, he's coming--the waiter's coming. Be dignified.”
”Will coffee ever begin?” Philip complained.
”Very soon.” They both laughed.
”Which shall I use, a fork or a spoon for my frozen pudding?”
”Your fork--by all means; now please talk sensibly; he's just outside.”
Philip thought of the king who dined without servants, and wished that he too had built a table for the occasion, one with a dummy lift in its center, to bring up food and to carry away the dishes.
Isabel watched with playful eyes until the last of his pudding was gone.
Then she dismissed the waiter. Black coffee and a first cigar for the benedict state were both enjoyed without interruption. The evening lengthened. Philip saw his wife flit about the rooms with joyous air of proprietors.h.i.+p. Reginald's picture stood on the table beside the ”bride roses.”
Something told him to go below on a natural pretext, for their trunks were late. When he went out Isabel did not stir. Everything was so wonderful, so much more wonderful than she had fancied. But at last she began to move about, smiling. She hung her traveling coat in the closet and brushed her hat. Her suit case was unlocked and unstrapped, and she drew forth things which were needed. She loosened her hair, plaiting it as usual. Two golden braids hung down her back. Then she slipped into a soft robe of silk and lace, and stood by the window facing the sea, waiting for her husband.
CHAPTER XXI
Philip and Isabel spent much time in the saddle. Heavy rains of the season had suspended, leaving the country fresh and fragrant.
Heather-toned effects on mountains round about, the sky so azure that the depths of blue seemed immeasurable, drew the newly wedded pair each morning. They always found Cole waiting with their horses. It soon grew to be an event for less favored guests of the hotel to watch the couple mount, then gallop off. Isabel had no suspicion of the incessant comment created by her slightest public movement. With Philip it was different.
But for his wife's complete satisfaction he would have chosen a retreat on the foothills above the sea. He knew of such a place, and longed to leave the crowded hotel, where all were talking behind his back, whispering of his abolished priesthood, impugning his motives, testing his action by opposing scales of ignorant enthusiasm and bitter prejudice. For he constantly heard unguarded remarks, felt the p.r.i.c.k of gossip as he pa.s.sed from one place to another. Isabel was all unconscious of her husband's sensitive state. For Philip had kept his word, treating Gay Lewis, and in fact every one whom he met, with due consideration. Miss Lewis hung on his slightest word, while at the same time she established Isabel with an elect coterie of young wives whose husbands played tennis or polo at the hotel country club. Afternoons were often pa.s.sed in watching sports in the open. Sometimes Philip and Isabel cantered into the club grounds in time for a simple luncheon; frequently they joined new acquaintances at table. Then again they sat apart by themselves, relaxing after a long ride through the valley or on the wonderful mountain road as yet undesecrated by automobiles. For at St. Barnabas the ubiquitous motor car is somewhat restrained. The famous mountain drive is still a tradition and sacred to the family carriage and ”happy tots” on ponies. Philip and Isabel never grew tired of walking their horses around curves, which made the winding way a panorama of sky, mountains, valley, and sea. ”There is nothing more lovely in the world!” Isabel would exclaim each time they left the upland for the return sweep past beautiful villas and gardens. Then came a gallop by the ocean. But on other days they took a different direction, going past ”The Mission,” riding, as it were, beyond the pale of sacred history into territory where heretics alone might disregard the murmured prayers of monks. It was strange how the work of the old fathers dominated the landscape. At points the mission held the skyline, and on every side its twin towers proclaimed the beauty of simple strength. To the man cast out from Catholic favor there was inanimate reproach in every elemental line of the early church. Against the blue a perspective of pure Spanish architecture fascinated him. His thoughts went out--against his will--to the cathedral he had longed to perpetuate. Romish emotion, fostered at birth, imbibed with his pious mother's milk, rose unbidden;--a challenge to his love for Isabel. His wife always seemed to conquer, and he stifled the dread that threatened as he turned his back on the mission. Then suddenly it loomed once more.
Again he felt its compelling powers, its binding simplicity. Meanwhile, no suspicion of Philip's struggle entered Isabel's mind, for her own keen delight in the church was serene. The mission to her was an esthetic opportunity, a relic that a comparatively new world ought to be proud of. She was a purist in art, and after a second visit to St.
Barnabas she loved every line of the historic mission. Yet she had not asked her husband to go inside of a now forbidden place. She longed to enjoy once more the marvelous view from the twin towers, but as doing so would involve Philip, she had given up the idea. Their honeymoon was already perfect. Each day she felt happier, more certain that she had been wise to marry Philip. Once she marveled at a young priest's power; now the man--her husband--held her with the same irresistible fascination. For Philip was a wonderful lover, both implied and manifest. And besides, after a fortnight's trial, Isabel p.r.o.nounced him the most charming comrade. Also, there were moments when the two felt willing for a silent interval, when neither one spoke or demanded attention. It was at such times only that Philip unconsciously brooded over the ecclesiastical tragedy of his life.
<script>