The Higher Court Part 16

You shall have your husband back--well! He will put all behind him!

forget everything but his wife."

She did not answer. Dr. Judkin waited until her hands left her eyes.

Then she began to speak with fresh determination.

"Why can I not go too? on the same boat, just to be near him in case he needs me. I should not let him know that I was on board, not make even a sign,--unless--he missed me. Oh! let me go with him. It is not fair that another woman should have my place--my absolute right to be near him. He is my husband! I cannot bear it."

Tempered pa.s.sion could no longer conceal her feeling. She was blazing with jealous rebellion. For the time being the nurse who had given satisfaction was an enemy--a woman usurping the place of Philip's wife.

Yet the specialist knew that she would submit. She loved too perfectly to withstand reason. Suddenly he saw his way out of a tense situation.

"I had forgotten to tell you," he interrupted, "I am going to send my a.s.sistant, Dr. Ward. Our patient is so much better that it seems to be time for an absolute change, even in regard to his nurse. When Philip Barry returns he will be another man. Dr. Ward is the best of company, a splendid fellow, with rare common sense." He saw her tremble. "We will engage a special ship steward to a.s.sist, and everything shall be done for your husband's comfort."

Her face lifted like a smitten flower. The blaze in her eyes subsided.

She looked into the doctor's face as a conquered child. "I have been very weak--very unreasonable," she faltered. "Now I will do everything that you think best,--make you no more trouble." She tried to laugh. "I am going to be good,--good like Reg."

"Then we shall get out of the woods," he answered. "And mind--you are not to grow thin while Philip Barry grows fat in Tahiti. If you are really going to be good you must relax, put away anxiety. When Philip comes home he must see you in the height of bloom. I first want you to go to bed at least for a week. Then you may take to the saddle, cultivate friends, enjoy yourself as every one should in G.o.d's country--in springtime."

To-day Dr. Judkin seemed pleased with the world. His patient was more than promising, while Mrs. Barry appealed to him irresistibly. He put out his hand, doggedly determined to save her husband. "Keep a brave heart," he prescribed, "everything is now going our way."

But once outside he asked himself if courage such as Isabel's deserved the test of possible disappointment. What, after all, must be the outcome of Philip Barry's recovery? Would he realize fresh obligation to a woman's almost divine love? Would he be able to put out of his own life withering emotions of regret? Dr. Judkin had not known his patient before the total collapse of weeks back, and he could not consistently answer hard questions. To vouch for the man's future behavior was, after all, impossible; and yet, he had just promised Isabel to save him for years to come. The futility of finite judgment, the mistakes of theoretical practice, the guesswork involved in a case such as Barry's, tempered the specialist's confidence. He went flying on his way depressed. Then he remembered that Isabel seemed to be an absolute exception to many of the wives belonging to her apparently enviable station. She gave out for joy of giving. Love such as hers refused to be measured by modern standards or a husband's limitations.

CHAPTER x.x.xII

Isabel was parted from Philip. She had watched him sail from Port Los Angeles, then quickly entered a waiting touring car. Dr. Judkin's fears were groundless, as the homeward trip had proved to be pleasant, almost like a vent for the wife's tense feeling. It was clear that she had staked everything on her husband's ocean voyage. Despite a hard separation she was hopeful. She seemed determined to accept present conditions, meanwhile living for the fulfillment of happier months to come.

And with her usual force, she at once began to engage in active matters.

Dr. Judkin's injunction to rest was forgotten. She seemed to be suddenly strong. The doctor's rash promise intoxicated her; Philip, just gone, was dearer than ever. She said over and over that he would come back well, able to respond to fresh opportunities. He should find them waiting, and friends, too. It was yet early in the day. Isabel dressed carefully, ordered her carriage and went forth to pay visits. New acquaintances must see that she was not a crushed wife. She wanted to tell every one that her husband was getting better. The splendid pride of her young nature rose up for conquest. Pity was not for Isabel. And after a pleasant outing she returned to find the house, withal, more cheerful than for weeks back. Nurses had gone, and Reginald's unrestrained shouts echoed at will.

"Mother darling! Mother darling!" the little fellow had cried. "How pretty your dress is! Have you been getting married this afternoon?

Please read me a story like you used to," he demanded.

"I will tell you one," Isabel said gently. Then she gathered her son in her arms. His head rested against her breast, as she began to tell him about far-away Tahiti. She colored a simple narrative until it glowed with personal interest. The boy listened happily. A little brown hand held her own fairer one, turning her jeweled rings, while she pictured "Father Philip's" boat, the island in the middle of the ocean, native boys and girls selling garlands, the possibility of whales, of flying fish, and everything else that naturally belonged to the story. With Philip as her hero, Isabel felt able to spin indefinite situations for sea or land. Spring twilight seemed to cast its spell over mother and son. The English nurse came twice before the tale of Tahiti was finished. Reginald, unmindful of a supper of bread and milk, paid no heed to an invitation; and for some new reason Isabel encouraged her boy to disregard hitherto accepted authority.

"When I have eated a lot and get all weddy for bed I'll come back," the little fellow at last promised. "I want some more 'lapping' and another story about the big whales. Then I'll say my French prayer." He hopped away on one leg. Isabel heard his voice piping triumph. "I'm coming back! I'm coming back! Goody! goody! She said I might." Then the door closed.

Isabel sat on, thinking of past silent weeks, asking herself if her boy had not been harshly treated. Dear little chap! he might now make noise.

Later the child kept his word, rushing down in night clothes for his good night "lapping," for one more story. After all, time was pa.s.sing.

And to-morrow Philip would be in San Francisco, then by noon of the next day he would sail for Tahiti. Isabel decided once more to keep her mind employed during her husband's absence. Madame pined to play cribbage, and evening was well spent before the two friends bade each other good night. The old French woman had won several rubbers and retired in high spirits, while the younger one went softly to her boy's bedside.

As usual, Reginald lay tucked in his white nest on an upper balcony. A half moon shut out by falling canvas shot beams across a screen of interlacing vines. The sleeping boy was bathed in radiance. His arms rested outside the covers and one little brown hand still held a toy locomotive. Isabel bent and touched her son's soft brow. His relaxed beauty thrilled her. As often before, the boy reminded her of Bellini's sleeping child--the one lying across the Madonna's lap--in the Academy at Venice. She had boldly rebelled that the wonderful picture was unstarred in the great master's collection of holy children. To-night her mother-heart still deplored an arbitrary test of art. She drew aside a curtain, gazing upward to the sky. A star too brilliant for the moon's effacement looked down, while seemingly no erring human judgment could check a heavenly tribute to her sleeping boy. She went from his side strangely happy. But she did not enter Philip's closed room.

Rather, she desired to shut out those weeks of torture and anxiety. She thought of Dr. Judkin's rash promise, of the time when her husband would come back well; of his book, which she had fortunately saved from the flames. And it was now time to hear definitely from the ma.n.u.script; almost four weeks since it had gone upon its journey eastward. The publisher had written at once, announcing his interest in Philip's work, yet of course the matter could not be decided too hastily. Isabel had waited patiently. Now that she was alone it seemed harder to endure a new kind of suspense. What if the ma.n.u.script came back? No! no! that must not happen, not again. She dared not dwell on a crushing possibility and went to bed, driving the thought from her. After all, she would accept Dr. Judkin's advice and take to the saddle. She would ride to-morrow--throughout the bright spring morning. Miss Lewis, who had fortunately returned to town, should use one of the horses. Then perhaps Gay could stop for a short visit--stay until after Philip's boat had sailed. She buried her face in the pillow.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

Miss Lewis was pleased to accept a welcome invitation. Next morning the two friends mounted early for a canter through the valley. Isabel rode her husband's horse, while Gay exulted over the restive temper of Mrs.

Barry's more spirited animal.

"You darling!" she cried, when finally she controlled the pretty creature, too keen for a race. Afterward, the thoroughbreds from the foothills went side by side. Miss Lewis was in high spirits. Love of action seemed to be expressed in every line of her trim little figure.

Isabel felt the charm of her friend's free grace, and dashed forward with unchecked speed. A long avenue lined with palms, towering eucalyptus trees, and draping peppers reached for miles across the valley dressed for April's carnival. The air was intoxicating. Millions of flowers--roses, climbing, climbing, seemed to blaze a sacrifice to spring. Isabel's heart lightened with the glory of the day. For the time being she forgot that to-morrow was the seventeenth. That Philip was about to enter the Golden Gate, about to spend a few last hours in San Francis...o...b..fore sailing on his long voyage, fortunately escaped her mind. Quick to understand, Miss Lewis led the way. She dashed onward for an hour, then nearer mountains appeared to turn for a fresh landscape.

All at once remote, giant, snowclad peaks became the center of the horizon, lifting from acres of dark-green orange groves, flecked with golden fruit and snowy blossoms. Gay dropped from the saddle, while her horse began to graze by the roadside. Mrs. Barry kept her mount with loosened bridle. They had gone a long distance into the valley. The spell of spring was upon them both.

"It is all too lovely for earth!" cried Gay.

"Too lovely for sorrow and disappointment," Isabel answered. A shadow pa.s.sed over her face. She was at last thinking of Philip.

Miss Lewis impulsively drew in her horse, springing to her seat like a boy. "Come on," she begged, "I have something else to show you." She stripped off her glove, holding up her hand. "Is it not a beauty?" A black opal surrounded with canary diamonds flashed in sunlight. "I chose the ring myself," she confessed. "I have always been wild over black opals, have always intended to have one when I settled down for life."

She laughed and dashed onward.

"Tell me all about him," Isabel called out. "I am so glad that you are happy. I cannot wait,--do tell me."

The horses were now walking side by side. Miss Lewis leaned, shaking, over the pommel of her saddle. "Who said there was a man in the story?"

she demanded. "How quickly you arrive at conclusions. Did I not say that I chose the ring myself? But I will tell you." She turned lightly to her friend. "My engagement is another case of 'Marjory Daw.' There isn't any suitor, only a ranch of six hundred acres on which I intend to live the greater part of the year. I am crazy about it! The papers are being prepared and as soon as I have full possession I shall build a bungalow, a barn, and a garage. My black opal simply means that I am engaged to my new estate; that I am going to be the happiest bachelor girl in Southern California." She laughed gaily, starting her horse on a run. "Come on!

Come on!" she called.

They dashed miles across the country before they turned for home. Isabel had no opportunity for pensive thoughts. The sun had touched the zenith when the thoroughbreds stood in their stalls. Luncheon waited for two hungry women.

Suddenly a long-distance call summoned Isabel to the telephone. She left the table vaguely conscious of fresh trouble. The receiver trembled in her hand, she could hardly control herself. But soon she was listening in rapture. From far-away San Francisco a familiar voice vibrated over the wire--her husband spoke to her! "Catch the owl--to-night--join me to-morrow--at the dock," he implored. She heard him distinctly, attempted to answer, when the connection broke. Again and again the operator tried to restore the line. Communication with Philip was hopelessly lost. The disappointment seemed more than Isabel could endure, and she buried her face and wept. The voice of the man she loved still rang out in her imagination. She heard him commanding, begging her to come. "I will! I will!" she answered. She seemed almost to be repeating their marriage service. "Dear, dear husband, I am coming. No power on earth shall keep me from you." She laughed softly as she again caught the receiver.

"Give me one, six, double three!" she entreated. She hardly breathed while she waited. A woman's voice said, "Dr. Judkin's office," and Isabel announced herself. "The doctor is occupied with a patient--he cannot be interrupted. Will you please give me your message?" the attendant answered.

"He must come--at once! I cannot wait!" Isabel begged. "Tell him that Mrs. Barry wishes to speak with him; he will understand. I cannot lose a moment. I am going North to join my husband." Her words rang with decision. She no longer trembled and her tears had been dashed away. Her cheeks burned. In the little closet where she tarried an electric bulb blazed no brighter than her eyes. Why did the doctor not come? Why, after all, had she asked for him? Was she not going to Philip at once?

There was indeed no time to lose if she packed for a voyage and caught the evening train in Los Angeles for San Francisco. Her heart thumped like a trip-hammer as she sat clutching the receiver, now fairly glued to her ear. And at last she recognized the voice of Dr. Judkin and repeated her previous statement.

"I'm going North to-night--on the Owl--to Philip. He wants me. He has just telephoned a long-distance message. I am to join him to-morrow--at the dock." Her voice fairly danced. "Why do you not answer?" she implored. "You surely understand?"

"My poor, poor child," she heard at last. "Would you ruin all that we have done? You must not go. Emphatically, you must not sail with your husband." The receiver dropped. Her head went forward against her arms crossed on the table. But she could not weep. The luxury of tears was beyond her strength to shed them. When she lifted her head she was in the dark; the electric bulb had burned out. And next day, at the same hour, in the same spot, she first heard of the earthquake, of the total destruction of San Francisco.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV

Time dragged for Isabel. Like every one else with friends in the North, she tried in vain to hear directly from San Francisco. Communication had been completely cut off for the ill-fated city; wrecked, now burning above the useless bay. Isabel sat for hours listening and waiting. Still no word from Philip. The sound of his far-away voice, his last request, asking her to come to him, echoed in her brain. She felt that she might lose her reason. All the fine courage of weeks back was gone. Dr.

Judkin, Miss Lewis, and old madame, each tried in turn to allay her fear. She could not hope. The only person whose sympathy seemed to be of value was Cole's, for the man from the foothills offered to go North and hunt for Philip. "I'll get into the city some way," he promised. "If Mr.

Barry's on land I'll find him." Isabel would have accepted the warm-hearted offer but for Dr. Judkin. "Ten chances to one your husband was on shipboard before the earthquake took place," he stoutly maintained. "I know that Dr. Ward had at first intended spending the night at the St. Francis; then he changed his plan, deciding to get his patient settled as soon as possible in the steamer's cabin. He feared the excitement of the hotel and felt sure that the Tahiti boat would be lying at anchor." Isabel did not reply and he went on. "Suspense is hard to endure, but I rely on you to wait a few days longer, when we are then sure to hear something. While flames are raging in the streets, with dynamite blowing up blocks of buildings, we cannot hope for reliable information. But one thing is certain--Dr. Ward is going to take care of Philip Barry. If the two men are not out at sea they are simply unable to let us know of their safety on account of both martial law and prevailing conditions."

"I should have gone to him when he called me!" Isabel answered. "Then I would have been there--when it happened. Oh, why did you keep me from going?" For the first time Dr. Judkin felt unable to control his patient's wife. She was like another woman refusing to accept either advice or sympathy. Even the boy was now forgotten. But remembering the long previous strain to which she had been subjected, he forgave her. He realized the strength of her love, while he considered every available means for reaching the burning city at once. Finally he could no longer resist Isabel's mute pleading. Outside of professional obligation he seemed to see that she had suffered enough.

"I will go myself--find out where he is," he offered, impulsively. He stood looking down at Philip Barry's wife. "A special train for newspaper men leaves for the North to-night. I can go as a surgeon. I'll try my best to make you happy--as I promised to do," he humbly added.

There was a lump in his throat and he went out. Isabel, stunned with grat.i.tude, could not speak, could not thank him. But her face shone with the old courage of weeks back, lived through for Philip's sake.