Part 12 (2/2)

The battles.h.i.+p hauled anchor at dawn. The men had already started for the tug and a trip across the breakers. The hotel was despoiled of glory. Corridors were soon dim and lonely. To Isabel the night had proved her husband's ease with a life comparatively new and untried. She felt young, contented, ready for all which might come. Not a fear for Philip crossed her mind as she went to her rooms. She had been exhilarated throughout the evening; but now she was glad to rest. Philip unfastened her gown, halting to kiss her bare shoulders, to tell her about their friend, the magazine editor. As she slipped out of her ball finery she was like a girl after a first night of conquest. Later he listened to her gentle, regular breathing as he lay by her side. It seemed yet a dream that she was really his wife. Events of the past began to fill his mind. Then reaction, which so often came with excess of feeling, kept him awake for hours. But at last he dropped away, only to rouse up at intervals. The outgoing tide seemed to carry him to the anch.o.r.ed s.h.i.+p, gleaming beyond. The incessant, yet broken pa.s.sion of the sea forbade sleep. With every tardy lap of waves he grew more restless; and dawn broke. All at once, a desire to witness the departure of the man-of-war drew him from bed. Isabel slumbered as a child, and Philip went softly to the window and looked out. The sea rose and fell an arctic green. There was no mist, and he could see the great s.h.i.+p clearly. A streamer of black smoke floated across the morning sky; already there were signs of departure. Philip dressed quickly and quietly. It occurred to him that Isabel might be shocked to awaken and find him gone. He smiled as he slipped into the sitting-room to indite a line ”To the Sleeping Beauty.” But his wife did not stir when he pinned the note to his own empty pillow. He went back to the adjoining apartment for his field gla.s.ses; then out of the door through quiet halls, to a side entrance below, where he found an open way.

CHAPTER XXV

Philip watched the maneuvers of the battles.h.i.+p from the sh.o.r.e, at the foot of the hotel. His gla.s.ses 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 s.h.i.+p move.

Against a skyline, clear with oncoming day, it took unchallenged sway.

The man followed with his gla.s.ses. 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 sh.o.r.e. 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 Ma.s.s, 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 Ma.s.s; 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 cla.s.s. 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 s.h.i.+p 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.

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