The Cricket Part 41

"Who is he, Isabelle?" they demanded.

"He is a great artist whose name is sacred to me."

"Do you know him?"

"Intimately."

"And does he care for you?"

"I cannot betray his confidence"--n.o.bly.

"Is he handsome?"

"He is wonderful."

"Not so handsome as Sh.e.l.ley Hull, or Jack Barrymore," they protested.

"Oh, heaps handsomer!"

"Do have him come here. Couldn't we ask Miss Vantine to get him to lecture on art?"

"He hasn't time. He goes from function to function. Many women love him, he's a great social favourite," boasted Isabelle.

This distinction set her apart as never before. She went among them as one baptized with greatness. When in the course of their daily walks with a teacher, they encountered a personable young man, Isabelle's eyes would never swerve in his direction. When there were midnight spreads, Isabelle did not care for food, or she had her letter to write.

"Isabelle, will you marry him as soon as you graduate from here?" Margie inquired.

"Oh, no. I expect to spend years at work in the arts before I am worthy of him."

"What arts?"

"It is not decided. I may paint, or sing, or act."

"But you haven't any talent for painting or singing."

"You never can tell, Margie. I've had no chance ta show what I can do.

Besides, I _can_ act."

"I think you're too plain to go on the stage, myself," was the withering reply, but it did not wither Isabelle.

"Beauty, my dear, is nothing; Art is everything," was her una.s.sailable reply.

So upon the wings of romance Isabelle floated through the spring term.

She was to spend the summer at an inn in the mountains, as The Beeches was not to be opened. Her parents and teachers, encouraged by three months of good behaviour, believed that a permanent change of heart had taken place in the girl. On the day of her departure, Miss Vantine congratulated her upon her improvement, and alluded to the coming year as the crown of her achievements. Isabelle smiled politely, for she had thoroughly decided in her own mind that this was her farewell to school.

CHAPTER TWENTY

If Max and Wally had ever shown one grain of intelligence in regard to Isabelle they never would have taken her to this big, fas.h.i.+onable mountain inn where her field of adventure was so greatly enlarged. But they never had shown any discrimination in regard to her, so nothing could be expected of them at this stage.

Isabelle was a marked figure wherever she went now. She had forcibly taken over the matter of her own wardrobe in the spring of this year.

Max had never made a success of it because she never gave any study to the girl's points; she dismissed her as plain, and bought her things with indifference.

Now Isabelle had a flair for the odd, and she understood her own limitations and her own style. She was small, and slim as a reed, without being bony. She had what she called "hair-coloured" hair, and an odd face--wide between the eyes, but a perfect oval in shape. Her eyes were her only beauty.

Fluffy, young-girl clothes merely accentuated her lack of youthful prettiness. With unerring instinct as a child, she had chosen her riding clothes to show off in. Now these same clothes formed the basis of her system. By day she was always in tailored frocks of the strictest simplicity. They were linen, or silk, or wool, made after the same model. Slim, tight skirt; slim, fitted coat; sailor hat, and strange boots, which she had made to order after her own design. They were like short riding boots, pulled on and crumpled over the instep like a glove.

She was striking, _chic_, a personality.

"By Jove! Isabelle gets herself up smartly, Max," commented Wally, soon after their arrival at the inn. Their daughter walked toward them, with every eye on the long piazza following in her wake.

"It is too _outree_, but it is effective. She knows everybody looks at her, she intends they shall, but look how the monkey carries it off,"

laughed Max, struck into a sort of admiration.

"What's doing with you to-day, my n.o.ble parents?"

"Oh, I don't know. What are _you_ doing?" Wally answered.

"I'm going to ride. I can't stand this clack-clatter," she said, indicating the groups on the veranda. "Dull lot, don't you think?"

"Have you met any one yet?" inquired her mother.

"Don't have to. I know what they are by just looking at them."

"L'enfant prodige!" jeered Max.

A tall, very fine-looking man in riding togs pa.s.sed them, with a swift look at Isabelle.

"That's Cartel, isn't it?" Wally asked.

"The actor man?" said Max, looking after him.

"Actor-manager he calls himself now. Good-looking brute, isn't he?"

answered Wally, idly.

Isabelle seemed oblivious to the whole incident but privately she marked Sidney Cartel as her own. She went off, shortly, to change.

"Why don't you ride with her, Wally? She oughtn't to go off around these mountains alone."

"Too hot. She can take care of herself."

"Which way did Mr. Cartel go?" Isabelle inquired of the stable groom who mounted her.

"Sunrise Trail, Miss," he answered.

Isabelle started off for Sunrise Trail, with the directness of purpose which marked all her actions. It was some time before she caught sight of him, and to her annoyance she saw he was with a party of friends.

Whenever the trail permitted he rode beside a certain woman--leaning toward her with marked devotion. Isabelle brought up the rear of the procession. The others became aware of her, evidently commented on her.