Part 36 (1/2)

Elizabeth paused with a straight look from under her heavy brows and while she hesitated there was a knock at the door. She threw it open and a porter brought in one of those showy j.a.panese shrubs in an ornate jardiniere, such as Frederic Morganstein so often used as an expression of his regard. His card hung by a ribbon from a branch, like a present on a Christmas tree, and when the boy had gone, she untied it and carried it to Mrs. Weatherbee. ”I wish you could marry Frederic and settle it all,” she said. ”j.a.pan is lovely in the spring.”

Beatriz, who had taken the card indifferently, allowed it to drop without reading it. Her glance rested again on the s.h.i.+ning dome.

”I told him I would ask you to see him a few moments to-night,” Elizabeth resumed. ”He is feeling miserably. He says he was ill when we made the ascent that day and never should have left the hotel; his high temperature and the alt.i.tude affected his head. He believes he must have said things that offended or frightened you--things he wasn't responsible for.” She paused, then, for a woman who had been so schooled to hold herself in hand as Elizabeth Morganstein, went on uncertainly: ”He is just a plain business man, used to going straight to a point, but not many men care so much for a woman as he does for you. You could mold him like wax. He says all he wants now--if he did make a mistake--is a chance to wipe it out; start with a clean slate.”

Mrs. Weatherbee rose from the couch. She stood a moment meeting Elizabeth's earnest look. The shadow of a smile touched her mouth, but well-springs of affection brimmed her eyes. ”We cannot wipe out our mistakes, dear,” she said. ”They are indelible. We have to accept them, study them, use them as a rule from which to work out the problems of our lives. There is no going back, no starting over, if we have missed an easier way. Elizabeth, in one hour on that mountain I saw more of the true Frederic Morganstein than in all the years I had known him before. In the great moments of life, I should have no influence with him. Even for your sake, dear, I could not marry him. I do not want to see him any more.”

There was a silence, then Elizabeth said: ”In that case, I am going to ease things for you. I am going to buy that desert land. Now, don't say a word. I am going to pay you Lucky Banks' price, and, of course, for the improvements whatever is right.”

”But it is not on the market,” replied Beatriz. ”I told you I had decided to live there. I hoped--you would like to go with me. For awhile, at least, you might find it interesting.”

Elizabeth tried to dissuade her. It was ridiculous. It was monstrous. She was not strong enough. It would be throwing her life away, as surely as to transplant a tender orchid to that burning sage-brush country. But in the end she said: ”Well, Bee, then I'll go with you.”

CHAPTER XXIX

BACK TO HESPERIDES VALE

The Mayor of Weatherbee stopped his new, six-pa.s.senger car at the curb in front of the completed brick block; not at the corner which was occupied by the Merchants' National Bank, but at the adjoining entrance, above which shone the neat gilt sign: ”Madame Lucile's.” He stood for a moment surveying the window display, which was exceedingly up-to-date, showing the prevailing color scheme of green or cerise in the millinery, softened by a background of mauve and taupe in the arrangement of the gowns. A card, placed un.o.btrusively in the corner of the plate gla.s.s, announced that Madame Lucile, formerly with Sedgewick-Wilson of Seattle, was prepared to give personal attention to all orders.

Bailey himself that day was equipped in a well-made suit from the tailoring establishment on the opposite side of the building. Though he had not yet gathered that avoirdupois which is a.s.sociated with the dignity of office, there was in his square young frame an undeniable promise.

Already he carried himself with the deliberation of a man whose future is a.s.sured, and his mouth took those upward curves of one who is humorously satisfied with himself and his world.

There were no customers when he entered, and since it was the hour when her a.s.sistant was out at lunch, Madame, attired in a gown of dark blue velvet, her black hair arranged with elaborate care, was alone in the shop. And Bailey's glance, having traveled the length of the soft green carpet to the farthest mirror, returned in final approval to her. ”This certainly is swell,” he said, ”It's like a sample right out of Chicago.

But I knew you could do it, the minute Mrs. Banks mentioned you. Why, the first time I saw you--it was on the street the day I struck Wenatchee--I told myself: 'This town can't be very wild and woolly if it can turn out anything as cla.s.sy as that.'”

Madame laughed. ”I must have looked like a moving fas.h.i.+on plate to attract attention that way. I feel a little over-dressed now, after wearing the uniform in Sedgewick-Wilson's so long; but Mrs. Banks said I ought to wear nice clothes to advertise the store.”

Bailey tipped back his head at that, laughing softly. ”I guess your silent partner is going to be the power behind the throne, all right.”

Madame nodded, with the humor still lingering in her brown eyes. ”But it was good advice. I sold a gown like this to my first customer this morning. And she had only come in to see millinery; she hadn't meant to look at gowns. But she liked this one the moment she saw it.”

”Is that so? Well, I don't wonder. It certainly looks great--on you.”

Madame flushed and turned her face to look off through the plate gla.s.s door. ”Why,” she exclaimed, ”you didn't tell me your new automobile had come.” She moved a few steps, sweeping the car with admiring eyes. ”Isn't it luxurious though, and smart? But you deserve it; you deserve everything that's coming to you now, staying here, sticking it out as you have in the heat and sand. I often thought of it summer days while I was over on the Sound.”

”You did?” questioned Bailey in pleased surprise. ”Well, I am glad to know that. I wonder whether you ever thought over the time we tramped the railroad ties up to Leavenworth to that little dance?”

”Often,” she responded quickly. ”And how we came back in the Oleson wagon, riding behind with our heels hanging over, and the dust settling like powder on our party clothes. But I had the loveliest time. It was the starriest night, with moonlight coming home, and I danced every number.”

”Seven times with me,” returned the mayor.

”I wanted to learn the two-step,” she explained hastily.

”And I wanted to teach you,” he laughed. ”But say, how would you like to take a little spin up the Leavenworth road this evening, in the new car?”

”Oh, that would be delightful.” Madame Lucile glowed. ”With a party?” she asked.

”Well, I thought of asking Daniels and his wife to go with us. I am on the way to the station now, to meet them. And Mrs. Weatherbee and Miss Morganstein are due on the same train. I promised Mr. Banks I would take them out to the Orchards in the machine; but we are to motor around to the new bungalow first, to leave the bride and Jimmie and have luncheon.”

”I know. Mrs. Banks is going to have the table in that wide veranda looking down the river. I would like to be there when they find out that dear little bungalow is their wedding present. It was perfectly lovely of Mrs. Banks to think of it; and of you to give them that beautiful lot on the point. You can see Hesperides Vale for miles and miles to the lower gap.”