第 10 页

“Certainly; two of them,” she replied assuredly.

“That’s all right. So long as there are two, it’s nothing serious. Safety in numbers, remember.”

After dinner they motored out to the field where the exhibition was to be given. A coatless, tanned, weather-beaten crowd had already gathered.

Pen stood apart from the spectators, watching Larry whirl, turn turtle, and perform all the aviation agonies so fascinating to the untutored. When he shut off the engine and swung down, skimming the ground for a way and stopping gently, she was in waiting nearby.

“I loathe this kind of exhibition work!” he declared. “It’s silly stuff, but it’s what the public wants. Sure you don’t want to try a little straight flight?” he tempted.

“N—o, Larry. Vice versa for mine, as the Irishman said.”

“All right. Here, Meder!” he said to the mechanic, who had come up. “Take care of the flier. I’ll see you later at the hotel.”

“It was wonderful, Larry,” said Pen as they were motoring to town. “I seem to see you from such a new angle now. I have always thought of you as a lovable, happy-go-lucky boy, but when I saw you take the air, I knew you had come to be something far different. You have the hawk-sense of balance, the sixth sense—the sense woman was supposed to have a monopoly of till the day of aeroplanes arrived. You had nerve to go up there and yet you were not nervous.”

“A fellow has to be without nerve and yet nervy,” explained Larry. “If he loses his sense of equilibrium up there, it’s all off; yet he has to be always ready to take a chance and to find one.”

“And, Larry—when you fly to the colors—”

“To the tricolors,” he interrupted.

“It will bring out the biggest and bravest and best there is in you, Larry. I am so glad! Don’t go out of my life again. Let me hear from you when you get over.”

“I was sore, Pen, when you handed me such a lecture, though it was coming to me all right. But it stuck, and the time came when I was grateful. When I found I could make good, I couldn’t find you. I wrote every one of the crowd or went to see them, but you had mysteriously disappeared. Hebby said you must have been run in.”

“Was; but luck was with me again. I will give you an address that will always reach me.”

“I shall never go up, Pen, without thinking of you and to-day. But you have told me very little of yourself. Are you still—”

“The thief? Not at present. I am enjoying an interlude; but there are times when virtue palls, but I mean to keep out of Hebler’s clutches. Larry, I believe I will let you out here—on the edge of the town—the main street. I have a long ride before me. It’s lonesome to say good-bye.”

“I expect to be in two or three days yet—waiting for some mail.”

“I wish I might see you again, Larry, but I don’t know how I can manage it. If anyone knew I were in town to-day, it might lead to—developments. Send me your address at the port you are to sail from, and I’ll have things there for you.”

“Good-bye, Pen. You’re the best little scout I ever knew.”

He kissed her and got out of the car. There were tears in her eyes as she motored on up through the hills land. The air grew cold and brisk; she felt the sense of silence and strength. She recalled her first ride up these hills in the early morning, and that turned her thoughts to Kurt. She wondered if he were of the stuff that bird men are made of. How much more sphinx-like he was, and how different from the keen, alert, business-like flier Larry had shown himself to be! They were types as remote as the eagle and the lark. Larry, of course, was the lark. She had a feeling of loneliness in her knowledge of his going so far away. He knew more about her than any one else. She never had to play a part with him.

Soon, all too soon, she found herself at the ranch. Dinner was over and the children had gone upstairs with Mrs. Merlin.

Kurt returned a few moments later and came into the library where she sat alone by the open fire, pensive and distrait, still thinking of Larry and of his going into service.

He looked at her oddly. This was not the pert, saucy, little girl he had taken from Bender, nor the little playmate of the children, nor yet the quiet, domestic woman who had served him that night in the kitchen.

There was an indefinable charm about her that defied definition or analysis—a rapt, exquisite look that lifted her up—up to his primitive ideal.

“Pen!”

He started toward her, seemed to remember, hesitated and then asked lamely:

“What have you been doing all day?”

Her former little air of raillery crept back momentarily at his change of tone.

“A narrow escape,” she thought, as she said aloud, reckless of consequences: “I motored into town by myself; bought some new clothes; had dinner with an old friend; saw an aeroplane go up and—”

He smiled in a bored way and asked her some irrelevant question.

“The easiest way to deceive, as Hebby always said, is to tell the truth,” she thought.

“Pen!” He spoke with a return of his first manner. “I—”

“I am very tired,” she quickly interrupted, “I think I will say good-night, now.”

“Don’t go yet,” he urged, “I—”

“I want to be alone,” she replied wearily.

“There is something I want to say to you. Jo Gary comes to-morrow!”

“Yes,” she answered indifferently. “Mr. Westcott found another manager, did he?”

“You knew Jo was at Westcott’s?” he gasped.

“Certainly. I’ve seen Jo a number of times.”

“When, where?” he demanded in displeased tone.

“Let me think. Why, he came back from Westcott’s the day after my arrival. Their manager postponed departure. So Jo was here for the dance, and on field day—and—I think he went back to Westcott’s the day you came back. Wasn’t it all right to see him?” she asked guilelessly. “Mrs. Kingdon didn’t object.”

“What other times did you see him?”

“I heard him whistle one night, and I slid down the big tree near my window. Then he came one morning to bring me flowers. I am glad he is coming for keeps. He livens things up, Jo does.”

“Why did neither you nor he speak of your having met?”

“I begged him not to, because I felt that you wouldn’t approve.”

An intense silence followed.

“Do you think,” he asked bitterly, “that you are fair to Jo—”

“To Jo?” she asked in surprise. “I don’t understand.”

“You do understand. Jo told me what he asked you in Chicago and how you left him—to reform—to be worthy of his love.”

“I haven’t deceived Jo,” she replied slowly. “I told him where you found me and why. He doesn’t care. He understands. Jo loves—”

The pause that followed was so prolonged that she stole another side-glance. She had a sudden, swift insight into the power and vigor of the man—the inner man.

“That the girl he loves,” she continued softly, “is a thief, makes no difference to Jo.”

“Remember, Jo is only a boy—younger than you in all but years.”

“Only a boy, it is true, but with the faith and love of a man.”

He started from his chair and came up close to her.

“Answer me,” he said, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Do you love Jo Gary?”

A sort of paralysis seemed to grip her, and she felt helpless to move her eyes from his. Her lips were slightly parted and he could feel the pull of her nerves. For a moment she looked like a startled deer, quivering at the approach of man, with no place to run.

Then she recovered.

“Ask Jo,” she said defiantly, and sped from the room.

“Jo didn’t tell me how much he had confided in Kurt,” she thought. “What a wee world it is! I can’t see how, with all the shuffling billions of people, the same two, once parted, should ever meet. I believe I was wrong about Kurt. For a moment I was almost afraid of him.”

Kurt gazed into the fire, his gray eyes alert and a soft smile on his lips. He had not been misled. He had clearly read an answer in the young eyes looking into his own.

“She doesn’t love Jo,” he thought, and the knowledge was quickly darkened by the remembrance of what it would mean to the boy-lover.

* * *

* * *

CHAPTER X

“Jo!” called Pen, running down the road as she spied him driving away in a lightweight mountain wagon.

Quickly he reined in the pair of prancing horses.

“What ’tis, Miss Penny Ante? Isn’t it great that I am back to stay?”

“Indeed it is. Where are you going and may I go, too?”

“Over to Westcott’s, and I’d love to have you go with me.”

“I’ll have to get a furlough and a hat. Just wait a moment.”

She found Kurt and asked his permission with all the pretty pleading of a child in her voice. Her face was singularly young; her eyes like a mirror.

“I’ve never ridden in a wagon,” she said breathlessly, seeing that his expression wasn’t as forbidding as usual. “And I’ll come back. Can’t you see I want to come back?”

Something sweet dawned in his eyes.

“Yes;” he said, a note of exultation sounding in his voice with the knowledge that his last stand of resistance to long-held theories was giving away before some new force, powerful and overwhelming. “You may go. I wish I were driving instead of Jo, but—”

He stood watching her as she sped back to where Jo was waiting, and his gaze still followed as the horses tore over the road to Westcott’s. There was a far-away look in his eye and a faint smile about the curves of his mouth. Subconsciously, as though he were the one beside her, he followed in fancy after the wagon was lost to sight around the hills. He could see the point where the road would disappear into a plain, covered with soft grass over which the sleek horses would bound. He knew Jo’s irresistible bubbling gaiety, and the sparkle she would add to it. He wondered why he had never thought to take her for a drive. There had been no chance to talk to her in their rides. She always put spurs to her horse when he tried to talk to her.

All sense of time left him. The symphony of the hill winds from the south was in his ears; the beauty of the day in all his being. Vividly he recalled their ride in the early dawn and the brief moment she had lain unconscious in his arms. Ever since that moment he had barricaded himself against her appeal and charm. He felt himself yielding and knew that the yielding was bringing him happiness.

“I am in a Fool’s Paradise,” he thought, “but still a Paradise. She doesn’t care for me any more than she cares for Jo. I wonder does he know it, or is she deceiving him? I fear so, for he seems absurdly happy.”

He was still lost in the dreams of the lotus-eater when he heard something that resembled the rattling of his own noisy car. Looking down the hill road from town, he saw a vehicle approaching which he recognized as the “town taxi.” It turned into the ranch grounds and he quickly went to the front of the house, supposing that Kingdon or his wife must have returned.

A strange young girl was alighting. As he went wonderingly to meet her, he saw that she was city-bred. She seemed to be dazed by the illimitable spaces and was blinking from the sunshine. His observant eye noted the smart suitcase and the wardrobe trunk the man was depositing on the porch. There was city shrewdness in having had the amount of the fare fixed before leaving town.

She was a little slip of a girl with a small-featured face and a certain pale prettiness. There was an appealing tinge of melancholy in her eyes notwithstanding they were eager and alert. Her dress was plain, but natty and citified.

“Is this Top Hill—where Mrs. Kingdon lives?” she asked in a low, softly-pitched voice.

“Yes;” he replied, “but Mrs. Kingdon is away—”

“I know—but she wrote me to come here; that she would be home very soon.”

“I am glad to hear that. Come in,” he urged hospitably, as he picked up her suitcase. “The housekeeper will make you comfortable.”

She hesitated.

“Is Miss Lamont in?”

“Miss Lamont—Miss Pen Lamont?” he asked in surprise. “She is a friend of yours?”

“Yes,” she replied composedly.

“She has gone for a drive, but she will be back soon.”

She followed him within and stood gazing at the pleasant interior,—books, pictures, piano and fireplace, while he went to summon the housekeeper.

“Mrs. Merlin, this is a friend of Mrs. Kingdon’s,” he said on his return. “Will you show her to one of the guest rooms?”

“Oh!” exclaimed the girl in expostulary tone, “I am not a guest. My name is—Bobbie Burr. Mrs. Kingdon hired me to do plain sewing for the children and to care for the linen.”

There was no trace of a seamstress in the plain but elegant garb and appointments of the young girl, and Mrs. Merlin was at a loss as to the proper establishment of the newcomer.

“Maybe,” she said to Kurt hesitatingly, “the room the last nursery governess had—”

“Any room will do,” said the girl hurriedly, as she followed Mrs. Merlin.

Kurt went down the road which Jo and Pen had taken. He felt the need of a pipe and solitude to help him figure out this puzzling problem, and soon he was sending a jet of smoke up to the branches of the tree which he had selected for a resting place.

Who was this girl whose belongings betokened money, and yet who said she had come to do plain sewing? Enlightenment came with the recollection that she had been sent by Mrs. Kingdon and was doubtless one of her protégées. The name she had given sounded demimondish, and she was a friend of Pen’s! The thought made him wince. She had seemed to him some way isolated from her kind, with naught in common with them save her profession. To find he was mistaken brought him an unpleasant shock.

A sound of wheels around the curve; the clatter of hoofs. In a moment they came into his vision—the prancing team, the merry driver and—the thief. Delicate as a drop of dew, as lovely as a forest blossom, her voice, bird-like and rippling, wafted to him from the clear aromatic air, she inverted again all his theories and resolutions.

He walked toward them, his hand raised.

Jo reined in.

“Will you get out and walk up to the house with me?” Kurt asked her, the question given in the form and tone of command.

“A friend of yours is at the house,” he said abruptly, when Jo had driven on and was outside of hearing.

“A friend of mine!” she repeated, losing a little of the wild rose tint in her fear that Hebler might have arrived.

“So she says. Mrs. Kingdon sent her here to sew for the children.”

“How you relieve me! I was fearing it might be a man.”

“Her name,” he said, “is Bobbie Burr.”

“What!” Her voice had a startled note. “Bobbie Burr! Oh, yes; I remember her.”

“Is she a particular friend of yours?”

“I am more attracted by her than by any girl I ever knew. Let’s sit down in the shade of one of the few-and-far-between trees you have up here. You were interested in my welfare when you took me from Bender, but you will be doubly interested in Bobbie when you hear her story. She is a convert far more worthy of your efforts and those of Mrs. Kingdon than I have proved to be.

“She is the type you thought I was before you snatched me from the burning—I mean from Bender. Let me see if I can quote you correctly: ‘One of the many young city girls who go wrong because they have no chance; bred in slums, ill-treated, ill-fed.’ Poor Bobbie had no chance until—you’ll be skeptical when I tell you how she first received her moral uplift—she had some nice clothes. Stealing was her only vice! At that, she only took enough to meet her needs; but one day she found some money; quite a lot, it seemed to her. Down in her little fluttering fancy she had always had longings for a white dress—a nice white dress. She had the inherent instinct for judging rightly ‘what she should wear.’ So, for the first time in her life she was able to be correctly and elegantly clad. The white dress she bought was simple, one of the plain but effective and expensive kind. With the wearing of this new gown there naturally came the feminine desire to be seen and admired. She didn’t know where to go. She had never been a frequenter of dance halls. She knew, of course, there were few open sesames for her. She went to one where no questions are asked before admittance. Things didn’t look good to her at this Hurricane Hall, and she thought her doll was filled with sawdust until the inevitable man appeared and changed her angle of vision. He was that most unusual apparition, a nice, honest man. He saw her; she saw him; after that there were no others visible in their little world.