CHAPTER IX
Ethel Bruce-Drummond was better than her word. She did not wait for theChristmas holidays but went down to Florence early in December forHonor's first concert, and she wrote many pages to Stephen Lorimer.
Of course you know by this time that the concert was a success--you'll have had Honor's modest cable and the explosive and expensive one from the fat lark! They are sending you translations from the Italian papers, and clippings in English, and copies of some of the notes she's had from the more important musical people, and I really can't add anything to that side of it. You know, my dear Stephen, when it comes to music I'm confessedly ignorant,--not quite, perhaps, like that fabled countryman of mine who said he could not tell whether the band were playing "God Save the Weasel" or "Pop Goes the Queen," but bad enough in all truth. Therefore, I keep cannily out of all discussion of Honor's voice. I gather, however, that it has surprised every one, even the _Signorina_, and that there is no doubt at all about her making a genuine success if she wants to hew to the line. She has had, I hear, several rather unusual offers already. But of course she hasn't the faintest intention of doing anything in the world but the thing her heart is set upon. It's rather pathetic, really. There's something a little like Trilby about her; she does seem to be singing under enchantment. What she really is like, though, is a lantern-jawed young Botticelli Madonna. She's lost a goodish bit of flesh, I should say, and her color's not so high, and she might easily have walked out of one of the canvases in the Pitti or the Ufizzi, or the Belli Arti. Her hair is Botticelli hair, and that "reticence of the flesh" of which one of your American novelists speaks--Harrison, isn't it?--and that faint austerity.
She sang quantities of _arias_ and groups of songs of all nations, and at the end she did some American Indian things,--the native melodies themselves arranged in modern fashion. I expect you know them. The words are very simple and touching and the Italian translations are sufficiently funny. Well, the very last of all was something about a captive Indian maid, and a young chap here who clearly adores her and whom she hasn't even taken in upon her retina played a wailing, haunting accompaniment on the flute. As nearly as I can remember it went something like:
From the Land of the Sky Blue Water They brought a captive maid. Her eyes were deep as the--(I can't remember what, Stephen) But she was not afraid. I go to her tent in the evening And woo her with my flute, But she dreams of the Sky Blue Water, And the captive maid is mute.
My dear Stephen, I give you my word that I very nearly put my nose in the air and howled. She _is_ a captive maid--captive to her talent and the fat song-bird and her mother's ambition and yours, and her mother's determination not to let her marry her lad, and to that Carter chap, and the boy playing the flute--the whole network of you,--but she's dreaming of the Sky Blue Water, and dreaming is doing with that child. You'd best make up your minds to it, and settle some money on them and marry them off. My word, Stephen, is there so much of it lying about in the world that you can afford to be reckless with it? I arrived too late to see her before the concert, and I went behind--together with the bulk of the American and English colonies--directly it was over. She was tremendously glad to see me; I was a sort of link, you know. When I started in to tell her how splendidly she'd sung and how every one was rejoicing she said, "Yes,--thanks--isn't every one sweet? But did Stepper write you that Jimsy was 'Varsity Captain this year, and that they beat Berkeley twelve to five? And that Jimsy made _both_ touchdowns? Do you remember that game you saw with us--and how Jimsy ran down the field and shook hands with the boy who'd scored on us? And how that gave every one confidence again, and we won? We _always_ won!"--and standing there with her arms full of flowers and all sorts of really important people waiting to pat her on the head, she hummed that old battle song:
_You can't beat L. A. High!_ _You can't beat L. A. High!_
and her eyes filled up with tears and she gave me her jolly little grin and said, "Oh, Miss Bruce-Drummond, I can hardly wait to get back to real living again!"
Honor was honestly happy over her success. It was good to satisfy--andmore than satisfy--the kind _Signorina_ and all the genial andinterested people she had come to know there; to send her program andher clippings home to her mother; it was jolly to be asked out toluncheon and dinner and tea and to be made much of; it was best of allto have something tangible to give up for Jimsy. If she had failed,going back to him and settling quietly down with him would have seemedlike running to sanctuary; now--with definite promises and hard figuresoffered her--it was more than a gesture of renunciation. She couldunderstand adoring a life of that sort if she hadn't Jimsy; as it wasshe listened sedately to the _Signorina's_ happy burblings and said atintervals:
"But you know, _Signorina_ dear, that I'm going to give it up and bemarried next year?"
"You cannot give it up, my poor small one. It will not give you up. Ithas you, one may truly say, by the throat!"
There was no use in arguing with her. The interim had to be filled untilsummer and home. She would do, docilely, whatever the _Signorina_wished.
Jimsy was happy and congratulatory about her concert but he took it nomore seriously than Honor herself. His letters were full, in those days,of the unrest at Stanford. Certain professors had taken a determinedstand against drinking; there was much agitation and bitterness on bothsides. Jimsy was all for freedom; he resented dictation; he could hoehis own row and so could other fellows; the faculty had no right totreat them like a kindergarten. Honor answered calmly and soothingly;she managed to convey without actually setting it down on the page thatJimsy King of all people in the world should take care not to allyhimself with the "wets," and he wrote back that he was keeping out ofthe whole mess.
It came, therefore, as a fearful shock, the letters and newspapers'account of the expelling of James King of Los Angeles, 'Varsity Captainand prominent in college theatricals, from Stanford University formarching in a parade of protest against the curtailing of drinking! Shewas alone in her room when she opened her mail and she sat very stillfor minutes with her eyes shut, her fingers gripping the tiny claspedhands on her ring. At last, "_I'll never stop believing in you_," shesaid, almost aloud.
Then she read Jimsy's own version of it. She always kept his letter forthe last, childishly, on the nursery theorem of "First the worst, secondthe same, last the best of all the game."
"Skipper dearest," he wrote, in a hasty and stumbling scrawl, "I'm so mad I can hardly see to write. I'd have killed that prof if it hadn't been for Carter. This is how it happened. I'd been keeping out of the whole mess as I told you I would. That night I was digging out something at the Library and on my way back to the House I saw a gang of fellows in a sort of parade, and some one at the end caught hold of me and dragged me in. I asked him what the big idea was and he said he didn't know, and I was sleepy and when we came to the House I dropped out and went in. I wasn't in it ten minutes and I didn't even know what it was about. But when they called for every one who was in the parade next day I had to show up, of course. Well, they asked me about it and I told them just how it happened, and they said all right, then, I could go. I was surprised and thankful, I can tell you, because they'd been chopping off heads right and left, some of the best men in college. Well, just as I was going out through the door the old prof called me back and said he had one more thing to ask me. Did I consider that his committee was absolutely right and justified in everything they'd done? Well, Skipper, what could I say? I said just what you'd have said and what you'd have wanted me to say--that I did think they had been too severe and in some cases unjust and they canned me for it."
"Top Step," her stepfather wrote, "I'm sick with rage and indignation. Your mother is taking it very hard--as is most every one else. 'Expelled' is not a pretty word. I'm doing my level best to put the truth before the public, to show that your boy is really something of a hero in this matter, in that he might be snugly safe at this moment if he had been willing to tell a politic lie. You'll be unhappy over this, T. S., that's inevitable, but--I give you my word--you need not hang your head. Jimsy played the game."
Carter, who had written seldom since the happening of the summer inspite of her kind and casual replies to his letters, sent her now sixreassuring pages. She was not to worry. Jimsy was really doing verywell, as far as the drinking went, and he--Carter--would not let him doanything foolish or desperate in his indignation. Three times herepeated that she must not be anxious. A dozen times in the letter heshowed her where she might well be anxious. The word beat itself in uponher brain until she could endure it no longer, and she went out throughthe pretty streets of Florence to the cable office and sent StephenLorimer one of her brief and urgent messages, "_Anxious_." Two dayslater she had his answer and it was as short as her own had been,"_Come_."
There was a stormy scene with the _Signorina_. The waves of her furyrolled up and up and broke, crashing, over Honor's rocklike calm. Atlast, breathless, her fat face mottled with temper, "Go, then," said thesinger, and went out of the room with heavy speed and slammed the doorresoundingly. But she went with Honor to her steamer at Naples andembraced her forgivingly. "Go with God," she wept. "Live a little; it isbest, perhaps. Then, my good small one, come back to me."
Like all simple and direct persons Honor found relief in action. Thepacking of her trunks and bags, the securing of tickets, cabling, hadall given her a sense of comfort. They were tangible evidences of herprogress toward Jimsy. The ocean trip was difficult; there was nothingto _do_. Nevertheless the sea's large calm communicated itself to her;for the greater portion of the voyage she was at peace. The situationwith Jimsy must have been grave for her stepfather to think it necessaryto send for her, but nothing could be so bad that she could not right itwhen she was actually with Jimsy. She would never leave him again, shetold herself.
Feyther an' mither may a' gey mad, But whistle an' I'll come to ye, my lad!
Her mother, her poor, lovely mother, to whom she had been always such adisappointment, would be mad enough in all conscience, but Stepper wouldstand by. And nothing--no thing, no person, mattered beside Jimsy.Friends of her mother met her steamer in New York and put her on hertrain, and friends of Stephen Lorimer met her in Chicago and drove anddined her and saw her off on the Santa Fe. She began to have at once awarm sense of the West and home. The California poppies on the china inthe dining-car made her happy out of all proportion. When they picked upthe desert she relaxed and settled back in her seat with a sigh and asmile. The blessed brown, the delicious dryness! The little jig-sawhills standing pertly up against the sky; the tiny, low-growing desertflowers; the Indian villages in the distance, the track workers' campsclose by with Mexican women and babies waving in the doorways; even alean gray coyote, loping homeward, looking back over his shoulder at thetrain, helped to make up the sum of her joy. _The West!_ How had sheendured being away from it so long?--From its breadth and bigness, itssweep and space and freedom? She would never go away again. She andJimsy would live here always, a part of it, belonging.
She stopped worrying. She was home, and Jimsy was waiting for her, andeverything would come right.
At San Bernardino her mother and stepfather and her brothers came onboard, surprising her. She had had a definite picture of them at theSanta Fe station in Los Angeles and their sudden appearance almostbewildered her. Her mother was a trifle tearful and reproachful but shewas radiantly beautiful in her winter plumage. Stephen's handclasp wassolid and comforting. Her little brothers had grown out of all belief,and her big brothers were heroic size, and they were all a little shywith her after the excitement of the first greetings. She wondered whyJimsy had not come out with them but at once she told herself that itwas better so; it would have been hard for them to have their first hourtogether under so many eyes,--her mother's especially. Jimsy would bewaiting at the station. But he was not. There were three or four of hergirl friends with their arms full of flowers and one or two older boyswho had finished college and were in business. They made much of her andshe greeted them warmly for all the cold fear which had laid hold of herheart.
Then came the drive home, the surprising number of new businessbuildings, the amazing growth of the city toward Seventh Street, thelamentable intrusion of apartment houses and utilitarian edifices onbeautiful old Figueroa. Honor looked and listened and commentedintelligently, but--_where was Jimsy?_
The old house looked mellow and beautiful; the Japanese garden was asymphony of green plush sod and brilliant color--the Bougainvillaeaalmost smothering the little summerhouse and a mocking-bird who must bea grandson of the one of her betrothal night was singing his giddy heartout. Kada was waiting in the doorway, bowing stiffly, sucking in hisbreath, beaming; the cook just behind him, following him in sound andgesture, and the Japanese gardener, hat in hand, stood at the foot ofthe steps as she passed to say, "How-do? Veree glod! Veree glod! Tha'snize you coming home! Veree glod!"
Honor shook hands with them all. Then she turned to look at herstepfather and he followed her into his study.
"And we've got three new dogs, Honor, and two cats, and----" thesmallest Lorimer besieged her at the door but she did not turn. She wasvery white now and trembling.
"Stepper, where is Jimsy?"
"Top Step, I--it's like Evangeline, rather, isn't it? He went straightthrough from the north without even stopping over here. He's gone toMexico, to his uncle's ranch. And Carter got a leave of absence and wentwith him. I--you want the truth, don't you, Top Step?"
"Yes," said Honor.
"I'm afraid Jimsy rather ran amuck, in the bitterness of it all. Hisfather took it very hard, in spite of my explanations to him, and wrotethe boy a harsh letter; that started things, I fancy. That's when Icabled you. Carter telephoned his mother from the station here as theywent through--they were on that special from San Francisco to MexicoCity--and she told your mother that Jimsy was pretty well shot to piecesand that Carter didn't dare leave him alone."
"Didn't he write me?"
"He may have, of course, T. S., but there's nothing here for you. Mrs.Van Meter told Carter that I had cabled for you, so Jimsy knows."
"Yes." She stood still, her hat and cloak on, deliberating. "Do thetrains go to Mexico every day, Stepper?"
"Why, yes, I believe they do, but you needn't wait to write, T. S. Youcan telegraph, and let----"
"I didn't mean about writing," said Honor, quietly. "I meant aboutgoing. Will you see if I can leave to-day, Stepper? Then I won't unpackat all, you see, and that will save time."
"Top Step, I know what this means to you, but--your mother.... Do youthink you'd better?"
"I am going to Mexico," said Honor. "I am going to Jimsy."
"I'll find out about trains and reservations," said her stepfather.
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