Part 37 (2/2)

Her heart championed Banks' fight for him. She turned her dark eyes from him to Daniels.

”It's too bad you tried to tell Hollis Tisdale's story for him,” she said.

”Even if the magazine had got it all straight, it wouldn't have been the same as getting it first hand. It's like listening to one of those fine singers in a phonograph; you can get the tune and some of the words, and maybe the voice pretty fair, but you miss the man.”

With this she rose. ”We are ready to go out to the Orchards, Mr. Bailey.

Mr. Banks and I are going to change places with the bride and groom.” Then from her silk bag, she brought forth a bunch of keys which she gave to Geraldine. ”Nukui is going to stay to clear away,” she explained, ”and bring our car home. And when you have finished making your plans, and want to go down to see the newspaper office, he will show you a nice short cut through the park.”

So again the mayor's chocolate six-pa.s.senger car threaded the park and emerged this time on a straight, broad thoroughfare through Hesperides Vale. ”This,” said Bailey, turning from the town, ”is the Alameda. They motor from Wenatchee and beyond to try it. It's a pretty good road, but in a year or two, when these shade trees come into full leaf, it will be something to show.”

There were tufts on most of them now and on the young fruit trees that ran in geometrical designs on either side, covering the levels that last year had been overgrown with sage. As these infant orchards dropped behind and the Wenatchee range loomed near, Cerberus detached from the other peaks; but it was no longer a tawny monster on guard; its contour was broken by many terraces, luxuriant with alfalfa and planted with trees.

”Why,” exclaimed Mrs. Weatherbee, ”there is the gap. Then, this must be the mountain--it reminded me once of a terrible, crouching, wild beast-- but it has changed.”

”Yes, ma'am,” responded Banks, ”she's looking tamer now. The peaches have taken right hold, and those fillers of strawberries are hurrying on the green. But you give 'em three years or maybe four, and take 'em in blossom time,--my, you won't know this old mountain then.”

A drive, cross-cutting the bold front, led to the level beneath the summit, where rose the white walls and green gables of Annabel's home, but they rounded the mountain into the smaller vale. ”This,” said the mayor, with culminating pride, ”is Weatherbee Orchards. It shows what money, in the right hands, can do.”

A soft breeze came down over the ridge as they ascended; the flume, that followed the contour of the roadway, gurgled pleasantly. Everywhere along the spillways alfalfa spread thriftily, or strawberry plants sent out new tendrils. All growing things were more advanced in that walled pocket than in the outer vale; the arid gulf had become a vast greenhouse. Cerberus no longer menaced. Even the habitation of the goat-woman, that had been the central distraction of the melancholy picture, was obliterated. In all that charming landscape there was no discordant note to break the harmony.

The car doubled the curve at the top of the bench and ran smoothly between breadths of green lawn, bordered by nodding narcissus, towards the house, which was long and low, with a tiled roof and cream-colored walls that enclosed a patio. A silence fell over the company. As they alighted, every one waited, looking expectantly at Beatriz Weatherbee. The music of a fountain fluted from the court, and she went forward, listening. Her face was no longer inscrutable; it shone with a kind of inner illumination. But when she saw the slender column of spray and the sparkling basin, with a few semi-tropical plants grouped on the curb, a cactus, a feathery palm in a quaint stone pot, she turned, and her eyes sought Elizabeth's. ”It is all like the old hacienda where grandfather was born, and mother, and”-- her voice broke--”Only that had adobe walls,” she finished. ”It is like-- coming home.”

”It is simply marvelous,” replied Elizabeth, and she added abruptly, looking at the prospector: ”Mr. Banks, you are a problem beyond me.”

”It looks all right, doesn't it?” the little man beamed. ”Likely it would about suit Dave. And I was able to stand the investment. My, yes, now your brother has bought out the Annabel, what I spent wouldn't cut any figure.

But,” and his glance moved to the woman who had profited by the venture, ”I'll likely get my money back.”

Afterwards, when the party had inspected the reservoirs and upper flumes, Beatriz found herself returning to the bench with Lucky Banks. It was almost sunset, and the far Chelan peaks were touched with Alpine fire; below them an amethyst mist filtered over the transformed vale. They had been discussing the architecture of the building.

”I had often gone over the map of the project with David,” she said, ”but he must have drawn the plans of the house later, in Alaska. It was a complete surprise. I wonder he remembered the old hacienda so accurately; he was there only once--when we were on our wedding journey.”

”There were a few measurements that had to be looked up,” admitted Banks; ”but I took a little run around into lower California last winter, on my way home from Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C.”

”You were there? You troubled to go all the way to the old rancheria for details?”

”Yes, ma'am. It was a mighty good grazing country down there, but the people who bought the place were making their money out of one of those fine hotels; it was put up alongside a bunch of hot springs. n.o.body but a couple of Mexicans was living in the old house. It was in bad shape.”

”I know. I know. If I had been a man, it would have been different. I should have restored it; I should have worked, fought to buy back every acre. But you saw old Jacinta and Carlos? It was recorded in the t.i.tle they should be allowed to stay there and have the use of the old home garden as long as they lived. My mother insisted on that.”

They had reached the level and walked on by the house towards the solitary pine tree on the rim of the bench. After a moment he said: ”Now Dave's project is running in good shape, there isn't much left for me to do, my, no, except see the statue set up in the park.”

”I wanted to ask you about that, Mr. Banks; we pa.s.sed the place on the way to the bungalow. It was beautiful. I presume you have selected a woman's figure--a lovely Ceres or Aphrodite?”

”No, ma'am,” responded Banks a little sharply. ”It's a full-sized man.

Full-sized and some over, what the sculptor who made it calls heroic; and it's a good likeness of Dave Weatherbee.”

They had reached the pine tree, and she put out her hand to steady herself on the bole. ”I understand,” she said slowly. ”It was a beautiful-- tribute.”

”It looks pretty nice,” corroborated the prospector. ”There was a mighty good photograph of Dave a young fellow on a Yukon steamer gave me once, to go by. He was standing on a low bluff, with his head up, looking off like a young elk, when the boat pulled out, and the camera man snapped him. It was the day we quit the partner lay, and I was going down-stream, and he was starting for the headwaters of the Susitna. Tisdale told me about a man who had done first-cla.s.s work in New York, and I sent that picture with a check for a starter on my order. I wrote him the price wasn't cutting any figure with me; what I wanted was the best he could do and to have it delivered by the fifteenth of March. And he did; he had it done on time; and he said it was his best work. It's waiting down in Weatherbee now. Hollis thought likely I better leave it to you whether to have the burying with the statue down in the park, or up here, somewhere, on Dave's own ground.”

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