Part 8 (1/2)
”And you really think there's the makings of a good woman in me?”
”Yes; I think so,” he answered earnestly, ”and if there's but a spark of goodness in you, she will find it and fan it to a glow.”
She made a wry little grimace which fortunately he did not see.
”This goodness is nauseating me,” she thought. ”I shall beat it back about to-morrow.”
”Look!” he cried, as the road made a sharp curve. ”There it is!”
”You can lift your eyes to the hills! What a love of a place--way up on tiptoes. I'll be the little fish out of water up there!”
Top Hill Tavern was on a small plateau at the summit of one of the hills.
The ranch-house, long, low and fanciful in design, connected by a covered portico with the kitchen, dairies and buildings, was misleading in name, for a succession of higher hills was in sight. A vined pergola, flower gardens, swings, tennis courts and croquet grounds gave the place a most unranch-like appearance.
As they rode up to the entrance porch, a woman came out of the house, and instantly the big, appraising eyes of the little newcomer felt that here was a type unknown to her. She was slender, not very tall, but with a poise and dignity of manner that compelled attention. Her eyes were gray; her lashes, brows and hair quite dark. There was a serenity and repose of manner about her--the Madonna expression of gentleness--but with an added force.
”We looked for you last night, Kurt,” she said in a voice, low and winning.
”Ran out of gasoline and had to spend the night on the road,” he explained. ”Mrs. Kingdon, this is a little girl--”
She didn't give him the opportunity to finish.
”Come in out of the sun,” she urged.
Pen stepped from the car. There was no consciousness in the beautiful eyes of the ”best woman in the world” that she was aware of the shabby, tan shoes, the cheap, faded and worn skirt, or the man's sweater and cap.
Pen's eyes had grown dark and thoughtful.
”Before I go in,” she said turning to Kurt, ”you must tell her who I am.
Not what you said you were going to tell her, but where you found me and from what you saved me.”
His face flushed.
”My dear little girl,” said the woman quickly, ”I don't care to know--yet.
It is enough that Kurt brought you.”
”Mrs. Kingdon,” said Kurt awkwardly but earnestly, ”she is a poor girl who needs a friend.”
”We all need a friend some time or other. Come in with me.”
She led her up the steps. On the top one, the girl halted.
”He found me,” she told Mrs. Kingdon, ”in the custody of--Bender, for stealing, and he took me away to save me from jail, to bring me up here to the 'best woman in the world,' he said, and I made light of what he had done all the way up the trail. And he was so kind to me--me, a pickpocket.
I think I should go back--to Bender.”
She spoke with the impetuosity of a child, and turned to go down the steps.
Kurt looked on helplessly, perplexed by this last mood of his prismatic young prisoner.
Mrs. Kingdon took the girl's arm again.