She smiled so graciously,and,as she fully believed,maternally,that he looked at her the second time.To his first hurried impression of her as an elegant and delicately nurtured woman--one of the class of distinguished tourists that fashion was beginning to send thither--he had now to add that she had a quantity of fine silken-spun light hair gathered in a heavy braid beneath her gray hat;that her mouth was very delicately lipped and beautifully sensitive;that her soft skin,although just then touched with excitement,was a pale faded velvet,and seemed to be worn with ennui rather than experience;that her eyes were hidden behind a strip of gray veil whence only a faint glow was discernible.To this must still be added a poetic fancy all his own that,as she sat there,with the skirt of her gray habit falling from her long bodiced waist over the mustang's fawn-colored flanks,and with her slim gauntleted hands lightly swaying the reins,she looked like Queen Guinevere in the forest.Not that he particularly fancied Queen Guinevere,or that he at all imagined himself Launcelot,but it was quite in keeping with the suggestion-haunted brain of John Milton Harcourt,whom the astute reader has of course long since recognized.
Preceding her through the soft carpeted vault with a woodman's instinct,--for there was apparently no trail to be seen,--the soft inner twilight began to give way to the outer stronger day,and presently she was startled to see the clear blue of the sky before her on apparently the same level as the brown pine-tessellated floor she was treading.Not only did this show her that she was crossing a ridge of the upland,but a few moments later she had passed beyond the woods to a golden hillside that sloped towards a leafy,sheltered,and exquisitely-proportioned valley.A tiny but picturesque tower,and a few straggling roofs and gables,the flashing of a crystal stream through the leaves,and a narrow white ribbon of road winding behind it indicated the hostelry they were seeking.So peaceful and unfrequented it looked,nestling between the hills,that it seemed as if they had discovered it.
With his hand at times upon the bridle,at others merely caressing her mustang's neck,he led the way;there were a few breathless places where the crown of his straw hat appeared between her horse's reins,and again when she seemed almost slipping over on his shoulder,but they were passed with such frank fearlessness and invincible youthful confidence on the part of her escort that she felt no timidity.There were moments when a bit of the charmed landscape unfolding before them overpowered them both,and they halted to gaze,--sometimes without a word,or only a significant gesture of sympathy and attention.At one of those artistic manifestations Mrs.Ashwood laid her slim gloved fingers lightly but unwittingly on John Milton's arm,and withdrew them,however,with a quick girlish apology and a foolish color which annoyed her more than the appearance of familiarity.But they were now getting well down into the valley;the court of the little hotel was already opening before them;their unconventional relations in the idyllic world above had changed;the new one required some delicacy of handling,and she had an idea that even the simplicity of the young stranger might be confusing.
"I must ask you to continue to act as my escort,"she said,laughingly."I am Mrs.Ashwood of Philadelphia,visiting San Francisco with my sister and brother,who are,I am afraid,even now hopelessly waiting luncheon for me at San Mateo.But as there seems to be no prospect of my joining them in time,I hope you will be able to give me the pleasure of your company,with whatever they may give us here in the way of refreshment.""I shall be very happy,"returned John Milton with unmistakable candor;"but perhaps some of your friends will be arriving in quest of you,if they are not already here.""Then they will join us or wait,"said Mrs.Ashwood incisively,with her first exhibition of the imperiousness of a rich and pretty woman.Perhaps she was a little annoyed that her elaborate introduction of herself had produced no reciprocal disclosure by her companion."Will you please send the landlord to me?"she added.
John Milton disappeared in the hotel as she cantered to the porch.
In another moment she was giving the landlord her orders with the easy confidence of one who knew herself only as an always welcome and highly privileged guest,which was not without its effect.
"And,"she added carelessly,"when everything is ready you will please tell--Mr."--"Harcourt,"suggested the landlord promptly.
Mrs.Ashwood's perfectly trained face gave not the slightest sign of the surprise that had overtaken her."Of course,--Mr.Harcourt.""You know he's the son of the millionaire,"continued the landlord,not at all unwilling to display the importance of the habitues of Crystal Spring,"though they've quarreled and don't get on together.""I know,"said the lady languidly,"and,if any one comes here for ME,ask them to wait in the parlor until I come."Then,submitting herself and her dusty habit to the awkward ministration of the Irish chambermaid,she was quite thrilled with a delightful curiosity.She vaguely remembered that she had heard something of the Harcourt family discord,--but that was the divorced daughter surely!And this young man was Harcourt's son,and they had quarreled!A quarrel with a frank,open,ingenuous fellow like that--a mere boy--could only be the father's fault.
Luckily she had never mentioned the name of Harcourt!She would not now;he need not know that it was his father who had originated the party;why should she make him uncomfortable for the few moments they were together?