“Haven’t I read novels? Haven’t I read Thackeray and Dickens and Scott and ‘Jane Eyre’ and ‘Wuthering Heights’ and Shakespeare and Plutarch’s Lives, and the life of Napoleon and Macaulay’s ‘History of England’ and Essays—those all ain’t novels, but they write about men, real men, too. I’ve made my ideal out of a lot of them put together, and I’ll never marry till I find him.”
“Well, I’d like to know where you’ll find him in Monterey,” said the practical Rosita. “Miss Galpin says you’re too romantic, and that it’s a pity, because you’re the brightest girl in the school.”
“Did Miss Galpin say that?” Patience took a brass pin out of her frock and extracted a splinter from her thumb with a fine air of indifference; but the pink flooded her cheek. “She’s always reading Howells and James, and says they’d keep anybody from being romantic. But that’s about all I’ve got, so I think I’ll hold on to it.”
The sun dropped below the horizon as they jolted out of the woods and down the steep road toward Carmel Valley. They reached a ledge, and Patience, forgetful of hungry men and an irascible parent, called: “Whoa!” to which Billy responded with an alacrity reserved for such occasions only.
“I never get tired of this,” she said. “Do you?”
“It’s pretty,” said Rosita, indifferently. “Why are you so fond of scenery—nature, as Miss Galpin calls it—I wonder?”
“I don’t know,” said Patience, and at that age she did not. She was responsive but dumb. She gazed down and out and upward with a pleasure that never grew old. A great bleak mountain loomed on the other side of the valley. It was as steep as if the ocean had gnawed it flat, but only the peaceful valley lay under; out in the ocean it tapered to an immense irregular mass of rock over which the breakers leapt and fought. Carmel River sparkled peacefully beneath its moving willows. The blue bay murmured to the white sands with the peace of evening. Close to the little beach the old Mission hung its dilapidated head. Through its yawning arches dark objects flitted; mould was on the yellow walls; from yawning crevice the rank grass grew. Only the tower still defied elements and vandals, although the wind whistled through its gaping windows and the silver bells were no more. The huts about the church had collapsed like old muscles, but in their ruin still whispered the story of the past.
“Isn’t it splendid to think that we have a ruin!” exclaimed Patience.
“It’s a ruin sure enough; but there’s uncle Jim. He must think we’re dead.”
A prolonged “Halloa!” came from the valley, and Patience, with a sigh, bade Billy “Git up,” which he did in the course of a moment.