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                       [Illustration: THE CALL]




                            The Inner Flame

                                A Novel

                                  by
                         Clara Louise Burnham

                            [Illustration]

                               NEW YORK
                           GROSSET & DUNLAP
                              PUBLISHERS




               COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY CLARA LOUISE BURNHAM

                          ALL RIGHTS RESERVED




                               Contents


       I. A NOVEMBER NIGHT                                             1

      II. SEVERED COMPANIONSHIP                                       25

     III. MRS. FABIAN'S VISIT                                         41

      IV. PHILIP SIDNEY                                               55

       V. ELIZA'S INVITATION                                          79

      VI. BROTHER AND SISTER                                          95

     VII. THE FLITTING                                               114

    VIII. AN INTERRUPTED TEA                                         131

      IX. HEIRLOOMS                                                  157

       X. THE ARRIVAL                                                176

      XI. MRS. FABIAN'S GIFTS                                        194

     XII. MRS. FABIAN'S DINNER LIST                                  209

    XIII. CHRISTMAS                                                  222

     XIV. SPRING                                                     242

      XV. JUNE                                                       258

     XVI. THE PEACEMAKER                                             276

    XVII. MRS. FABIAN'S SCHEME                                       296

   XVIII. CASCO BAY                                                  312

     XIX. FLASHES OF BLUE                                            328

      XX. ELIZA SURRENDERS                                           347

     XXI. THE SINGER                                                 366

    XXII. THE NEW STUDIO                                             383

   XXIII. PHILIP'S LETTER                                            400

    XXIV. PHILIP ENTERTAINS                                          405

     XXV. BY MOONLIGHT                                               429

    XXVI. TIDES                                                      450

   XXVII. THE SON                                                    466

  XXVIII. A TIDAL WAVE                                               480




The Inner Flame




The Inner Flame




CHAPTER I

A NOVEMBER NIGHT


Soft snowflakes whirled around the lonely mountain cabin under a
November sky. The wind that had rushed up the valley sighing and
groaning between the wooded walls, now roared its wild delight in the
freedom of the heights. The twilight was deepening fast. Two women were
alone in the cabin. The one who was at home stooped and put another log
on the blazing fire. The other could not have stooped, no matter how
willing her spirit, so straitly and fashionably was her ample figure
bound by artful bone and steel.

"Mercy, Mary!" she ejaculated, standing stock still in the middle of
the room, fixed there by a triumphant shriek of the rioting wind. "I
never had the least desire to go up in an aeroplane. Are you well
anchored here?"

"Like a lichen on a rock," returned Mary Sidney, smiling. "Take off
your hat, Isabel, and be comfy."

"Do you think we _must_ stay all night?" demurred the visitor. "You
know I love you, Mary, and if that wind would just let us hear
ourselves think, I wouldn't ask anything better than an evening's chat
with you alone."

"You wouldn't as it is," returned Mrs. Sidney soothingly, approaching
her cousin and unpinning the veil which Mrs. Fabian had not raised. The
visitor clung to her wraps with the feeling that an entire readiness to
flee back to the haunts of men would aid her to depart. Mary Sidney's
calm amused smile carried some reassurance. It flickered across her
face as the firelight flickered across the dark rafters above.

"I _told_ Henry I thought the sky looked threatening before we left
town," declared the guest while she submitted to the gentle touch, "but
nothing would do but that he should visit the mine this very afternoon.
Isn't this fearful, Mary?" as a renewed gust shook the firelit rafters
until they creaked heavily.

"Oh, no, this sounds a great deal worse than it is," was the response.

"You're comforting me, I know you are"; and Mrs. Fabian, denuded of her
correct hat, permitted herself to take the offered chair by the fire.
"I hope, though, that you have a kennel of St. Bernard dogs in the back
yard. I _should_ like to see Henry again, bad as he is!"

Mrs. Sidney took the other chair and rolled a blazing log to a better
position.

"You'll see the men coming along in a little while--when they grow
hungry," she returned placidly.

"And how in the world do you get servants up here?" demanded the other.

"We don't. We could get a Chinaman, but if we had him we'd have to
amuse him, there's no one else for him to talk to, so we go without."

"Horrors!" ejaculated Mrs. Fabian with solemn repugnance. "And you live
here alone!"

The hostess laughed at her tone. "Not enough of the year to dislike it.
One learns a lot of things in these hills--bidding farewell to time,
for instance. You see a man with a gun tramping through the valley and
you rush to the door, and cry out, 'Hey, there, you with the gun, what
day is this?' and the man turns and shouts back, 'You can't prove it by
me!'"

Mrs. Sidney laughed again and her cousin shuddered.

"Thank God for civilization!" ejaculated the latter devoutly; then,
as the window-glass sucked in and out with a cracking sound, "Give
me my hat, Mary," she said, sitting up. "If we're going down the
mountain-side, let's go decently and in order."

"For shame, you Maine woman!" was the laughing rejoinder. "Your
sea-captains would call this 'a breeze o' wind!' That's all. That's
another thing one becomes acquainted with up here: the wind. I didn't
know anything about it when I came. You should be here some nights if
you call this a storm! I used to set my dish-pans out at the door;
but when a few had whirled down the mountain-side into the valley,
I learned caution. One can't go around the corner here and buy a
dish-pan."

"Mary," Mrs. Fabian eyed her with bewildered admiration, "you're
wonderful! You didn't used to be wonderful," she added in an
argumentative tone. "Once you'd have made just as much fuss about this
as I would. You remember--if you try, you'll remember perfectly--that
I warned you, more than twenty-five years ago, not to marry a mining
engineer. I told you then it was just as bad as marrying an army
officer. There would be no repose about it, and no comfort. You see
I was right. Here we are, to all intents and purposes, in a shrieking
balloon, and you call it home!" The speaker kept a watchful eye on the
rattling casement and drew herself up with renewed tension at each wind
blast, but nevertheless she talked on.

"With it all you haven't as many lines in your face as I have, and your
hair is as brown as ever. Mine would be white if I lived here instead
of in New York. And the calmness of your eyes, and your smile! Tell me,
Mary, tell me now honestly,--I shall sympathize with you,--_is_ it the
calmness of despair?"

Mary Sidney did not smile. She looked into the depths of the fire and
her guest wondered what memories were unfolding themselves to her rapt
vision.

"No," she answered simply at last, "such calmness as I possess is not
of despair, but of--faith." The speaker paused before the utterance of
the last word as if hesitating for the one which should best express
her meaning.

"Do you mean something religious?" asked Mrs. Fabian stiffly.

The stiffness was not disapproval. It was owing to the divided
attention she was bestowing upon the storm, lest if she took her mind
off the wind it might seize the advantage and hurl the cabin from its
moorings.

"I should think a person would _have_ to be religious here," she went
on. "You must be reduced--simply _reduced_ to trusting in Providence!"

Mary Sidney smiled at the fire. "I didn't have a trusting disposition.
I didn't have even a happy disposition, as you evidently remember."

"Well," returned Isabel, "it wasn't a bad one: I didn't imply anything
like that; but you were one of the spoiled-beauty sort of girls, not a
bit cut out for hardship," the speaker looked judicially at the once
familiar face, softened from its old brilliancy. "What an advantage it
is to have beautiful eyes!" she added bluntly. "They don't desert you
when other things go;--not that it matters a bit what sort of eyes a
woman has, living the life you have."

"Oh, Allan thinks it does," returned Mary in her restful manner.

"Does he appreciate you?" Mrs. Fabian asked the question almost angrily.

Mrs. Sidney smiled. "We don't talk much about that, but we're better
companions, happier, dearer, than we were twenty-five years ago."

Her cousin gazed curiously. "Then it did turn out all right. You've
written so little to your friends. How could your relatives tell?"

"You see, now, why," returned the other. "There's not much
letter-material here, and even when we're living in town, all our
friends and our pursuits are so foreign to the people at home. Little
by little one gets out of the way of writing."

"Don't you ever long for Fifth Avenue?" asked Mrs. Fabian suddenly, her
cousin's exile impressing her more and more as utter forlornity.

"Oh, no, not for many years."

"You never could have kept your figure there as you have here,"
admitted the other in a spirit of justice. "I must say that," and the
speaker composed her own rigid armor into a less uncomfortable position.

"Do your own housework, Isabel," advised the hostess with a smile.

"Heavens! it is too late to talk to me about that. I've enough to do
without housework, I should hope. You've no idea how much worse things
have grown in twenty-five years, Mary. A woman has so much on her mind
now that nothing but regular massage from the crown of her head to her
heels will offset it. The modistes and milliners are in a conspiracy
to change styles so often that it takes active thought to keep abreast
of them. Then you no sooner settle down really to learn Bridge, for
instance, and feel that you can hold your own, than everybody begins
playing Auction! And to know what people are talking about at luncheons
you must see plays, and skim through books, reading at least enough so
you can express an opinion; not that anybody listens. They all talk at
once, their one and only object seems to be to get their own ideas out
of their systems. I was glad to send Kathleen off to school. It does
seem as if the girls had to go to college to escape as great a rush
as we grownups live in. Then when they come back, having had another
environment for four years, they adjust themselves to their own homes
with such a sense of superiority that it makes you _tired_; that's what
it does, Mary, _tired_. I've had a taste of it this summer. Kathleen
has another year to go, but already she is perfectly changed. She cares
no more for my advice, I assure you, than if I had just come down
from Mars and had no judgment as to the things of this world. She's
well-bred, of course,--I hope no daughter of mine could be less than
well-bred,--but when I give her directions, or try to guide her in any
way, there's a twinkle in her eye that I resent, Mary, I resent it
distinctly. So there you are!" Mrs. Fabian gestured with a perfectly
kept hand whereon a blazing gem flashed in the firelight. "There we
are between Scylla and Charybdis. We either have to send our girls to
college and let the little upstarts think they've outgrown us, or else
have them rushed to death at home, keep them up on tonics, and let them
sleep till noon!"

With this dismal peroration Mrs. Fabian sat as far back in her chair as
disciplined adipose would permit, and shuddered again at the wind.

"Is a son an easier proposition then, in that madding crowd of yours?"

"A boy does seem to have his life more plainly mapped out than a girl.
Edgar is in his father's office." The speaker sighed unconsciously.
"What is your boy like, Mary?"

Mrs. Sidney kept silence for a thoughtful moment before answering.

"He is like Pegasus harnessed to a coal-wagon," she said at last
slowly.

"How very extraordinary. What do you mean?"

Instead of replying, Mrs. Sidney went to a table in the far corner of
the cabin and brought therefrom a portfolio which she opened on the
chair beside her guest.

A mass of sketches was disclosed,--charcoal, water-color, oil. Mrs.
Sidney lifted one, and held it before the other's eyes.

Mrs. Fabian raised her lorgnette.

"Why, it's you, Mary; and it's capital!" she ejaculated.

Another and another sheet was offered for her inspection.

"Why, they're all of you. The artist must be in love with you."

Mary Sidney gave her a slight smile. "I hope so, a little, but it was
Hobson's choice when it came to models. Phil seldom could get any one
beside me. Here's one of his father. He had to do it slyly behind a
newspaper, for Allan is rather impatient of Phil's tendency."

"So that is what your boy is at! It's real talent, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," returned the mother with quiet conviction.

"And where is he studying?"

"He has never studied anything but mining engineering. He is working
with his father here."

The unconscious sadness of the speaker's tone impressed her listener.

"He does landscapes, too," went on the mother, lifting one after
another of the sketches of mountain, valley, and streamlet, "a little
of everything, you see." Mrs. Sidney regarded the work wistfully.

"Why, they're lovely," declared Mrs. Fabian. "Why don't you pin them up
on the walls?"

"Because it rather annoys Phil's father, to see them, and it only
tantalizes the boy."

"So Mr. Sidney isn't willing he should study?"

"I don't think he would thwart us if he saw any hope in it, but one
can't enter on the life of an art-student without any capital. Allan
knows there is a living for Phil in the work of a mining engineer, so
he has discouraged the boy's talent."

"It is a great responsibility to thwart a child's bent," declared Mrs.
Fabian impressively.

"I have always felt so. I used to be very restless and anxious about
it. My husband seemed to feel that because Phil was a strapping boy,
a natural athlete, that painting was a womanish profession for him.
He had the ability to help him into mining engineering lines, and he
always pooh-poohed the idea of Phil's attempting to be an artist." Mrs.
Sidney gave a little shrug. "We didn't have the money anyway, so Allan
naturally has had his way."

"One can't blame him," returned Mrs. Fabian, who had relaxed as the
wind ceased to shake the cabin. "Painting is even more precarious than
acting; yet what a talent the boy has!"

She held before her a bold sketch in charcoal of the mountain-side in
the winter--few in strokes, but striking in its breadth and power.

"He has had an offer from a newspaper in Denver to take the position of
cartoonist. His ability for caricature is good. See these of Allan."

Mrs. Fabian laughed as she examined the small sheets. "I haven't seen
your husband for ten years, Mary, but these recall his clean-cut face
better than a photograph would, I believe. Phil rather gets back at his
father in these, doesn't he?"

"Oh, Allan laughed at them too. He's secretly proud of Phil's
cleverness, even while he discourages it. He tells him it is all right
for an accomplishment, but a forlorn hope for a living."

"And right he is," responded Mrs. Fabian, laying down the sketches.
"Look at Aunt Mary's experience. There she has lived alone all these
years and given her life to the attempt to make a name in the artistic
world. I go sometimes to see her, of course, for there she is right
in town, but her pictures"--Mrs. Fabian lifted her eyes to the
rafters--"they're daubs!"

"I know," returned Mary Sidney, looking back into the fire. "She sent
me one on my last birthday. She never forgets her name-child."

Mrs. Fabian laughed. "I fancy you wished she would, for that time."

"No," returned the hostess, slowly, "I think Aunt Mary sees more than
she has the technique to express. She gets an effect."

Mrs. Fabian raised her eyebrows. "She certainly does. She makes me want
to run a mile."

"The gift led to our having a little correspondence. I sent her a
couple of Phil's sketches and she was delighted with them."

"She might well be," was the answer. There was a brief silence, then
the visitor continued: "So Phil is something of a bone of contention
between you and his father?"

"It is our only difference. Yet it can scarcely even be called that,
because it is a fact that we haven't the money to give him the start he
should have."

Mrs. Fabian looked at her cousin curiously.

"So this new calmness of yours--this repose. It is resignation, at
least, if not despair."

Mary Sidney smiled at the fire. "No," she returned, "I told you. It is
faith."

"Religion?"

"Yes, religion. Not the sort of ideas we were brought up in, Isabel.
Something quite different."

"What is it, then? Where did you find it?"

"It found me."

"How mysterious! Is that wind coming up again, Mary?"

"How it blew that night!" said Mary Sidney thoughtfully, still looking
into the fire. "It was just before Thanksgiving, I remember, five
years ago. Allan and I had come up to the mine, Phil had gone back to
college, and one night a belated traveller, overtaken by the storm
which came up as suddenly as this, stopped at the door and asked if he
could stay all night with us. He was one of these vital men, full of
energy, who seem to exhale good cheer. Allan thoroughly enjoyed a talk
with him that evening, and when we went to bed I remember his sighing
and remarking that a man must be either a fool or a philosopher who
could keep such an optimistic outlook on life as this Mr. Tremaine.
I returned that perhaps our guest had struck a gold-mine here in the
mountains, and I remember how Allan grumbled--'Either that, or the pot
of gold at the end of the rainbow.'

"Allan came in here once, where we had left the guest to sleep on the
couch, to see if he wanted anything; and he found him reading in front
of the embers. When he came back he remarked: 'That fellow has a smile
that doesn't usually last beyond the tenth year.' The next morning
dawned bright and our guest was in haste to depart. He tried in the
nicest way to pay us for taking in a stranger, and we quite honestly
told him that if any money were to pass it should go from us to him
for cheering our exile. He took from his pocket a small black book and
held it out to me. 'Then,' he said, 'may I leave with you a little
book which has broken up the clouds of life for me, and let the light
stream through? You have time up here to read,--and to think?' He made
the addition with that smile which had roused Allan's curiosity, shook
hands with us both, thanked us again, mounted his horse and rode away.
We never saw him afterward. I often wish I knew where he was, that I
might thank him."

"What was the book?" asked Mrs. Fabian, impressed by the fervor of the
other's tone.

"A--a commentary on the Bible. A new light on the meaning of the Bible."

"How queer! I'm sure I thought our family knew as much about the Bible
as the average of decent people."

Mrs. Fabian's tone was slightly resentful.

"We did," returned Mary Sidney.

"So that's what you meant a few minutes ago by the calm of faith."

Mrs. Sidney nodded. "I know now what that sentence means: 'Cast your
burden on the Lord.' Phil is the most precious thing on earth to me.
The years seem to be slipping by without showing us a possible path
to what we wish. 'Wait patiently on the Lord' doesn't mean inaction
either. I've learned that. I know that at the right time--the right
moment--circumstances will arise to show us if Phil is to--"

A sudden blast of wind brought a start and a muffled exclamation from
the guest, and at the same instant a stamping sounded outside. The
lamp-flames rose wildly, and smoked in the instant of opening the door
wide enough to admit the lithe form of a man whose shoulders and soft
felt hat glistened with snow. He quickly closed the door and stamped
again, taking off the hat from his short damp locks and shaking it
vigorously.

"Phil, this is my cousin, Mrs. Fabian," said Mrs. Sidney. "You used to
call her Aunt Isabel when you were a little chap and we went to visit
her once. Do you remember?"

"When a cousin is once removed she becomes an aunt," declared Mrs.
Fabian, looking the young man over with approval.

"My hand is too wet to shake," he said, meeting her interested gaze,
his own luminous in the firelight.

"Lucky boy! You have your mother's eyes!" she exclaimed.

"Oh, no," said Mary Sidney; "Phil's are blue."

"Dark with terror, then!" exclaimed Mrs. Fabian, again anxious. "Isn't
the storm frightful?"

Phil's amused glance sought his mother's.

"It's sort of spitting outside," he returned, unbuttoning his corduroy
coat.

"You're making fun of a tenderfoot," said Mrs. Fabian, watching his
keen face admiringly. "Don't pretend. What have you done with my poor
innocent husband?"

"He'll be up here in a few minutes with my poor innocent father who has
been showing him why he'll never be a millionaire out of that mine."

"What do I care if he isn't, so long as he isn't lost in this storm!"

"I came on ahead because the mail had just been brought in." As he
spoke, the young man brought a small bunch of letters and papers from
an inner pocket.

"A great excitement, Isabel," said the hostess. "Only twice a week, you
know."

"There's another letter from the Denver paper," went on Phil, looking
at his mother steadily.

"You'll forgive us if we open everything, won't you, Isabel?" asked
Mrs. Sidney.

"Indeed, yes. Don't mind me." Mrs. Fabian returned to her chair by the
fire and regarded the pair who seated themselves by the table.

Phil had slipped off the damp coat, and his arm in its striped linen
sleeve was thrown around his mother's shoulders.

The visitor's eyes filled with something like envy. Kathleen and Edgar
were her step-children, the boy had been five years of age when she
began to be, to use her own declaration, the best stepmother in the
world. Edgar would never think of reading his letters with her in this
frankly affectionate attitude. Must one live on a mountain-top, she
wondered, to win the sort of look she had seen in this son's eyes?

"I've been showing your Aunt Isabel your sketches, Phil," said Mrs.
Sidney, holding open a letter they had just read. "I told her about the
Denver paper. This is another offer from them, Isabel, an increased
offer."

"I'm sure that's very flattering," returned Mrs. Fabian.

Phil did not speak. His straight brows were knit in perplexity, and his
lips were set in the look of longing that his mother knew.

"I don't know this writing from New York," said Mrs. Sidney, opening
the next letter.

Glancing over it she gave a startled exclamation.

"Whew!" breathed the boy, reading over her shoulder. "Poor Aunt Mary!"

"Isabel, Aunt Mary has gone!" exclaimed Mrs. Sidney.

"What! I didn't know she was ill. She wasn't ill. Who is there to
attend to things? Who wrote you?"

"Eliza Brewster. This is from her. It was very sudden. She had been
at work at her easel an hour before. How sad it seems! How lonely! I
wish we had both been there, Isabel. There is the letter." Phil took it
across to Mrs. Fabian. "You see. She was buried day before yesterday.
Oh, I'm glad we had that little interchange in the summer. Eliza loves
her, but, after all, she is not her own."

Phil mechanically opened another letter. His thoughts were with that
unknown relative with cravings like to his, working through the
gathering years toward a goal which had ever retreated before her.
He unfolded a business letter. It enclosed a small sealed envelope
addressed to himself in another handwriting.

"Aunt Mary's!" said his mother. The son's arm was again around her as
with heads close together they perused the following:--

 MY DEAR GRAND-NEPHEW, PHILIP SIDNEY:--

 When you open this letter, I shall have gone to a world where surely I
 shall be permitted to come nearer to the source of beauty.

 My family all consider me a failure. I know it. They have laughed at
 my poor efforts. I know it; but since your mother wrote to me a month
 ago, sending me your sketches and telling me your longings, I have
 felt that out in the free Western country, there lives one with my
 blood in his veins, who will understand the thirst that has led me on,
 and nerved me to untiring effort--that has made it my only hope of
 happiness to live as I have lived, and work as I have worked. He will
 also understand, perhaps, that few as my rewards have been, I have
 occasionally felt that some beauty has crept through my brain and been
 fixed to the canvas, and that such moments have given me the highest
 bliss this world could bestow.

 For a month, then, I have taken comfort in my artist-boy, no matter if
 you are known to others as an engineer. I have kept on my easel the
 photograph your mother sent me, and every day while I work, I look
 from time to time into your eyes, your mother's lovely eyes. I rejoice
 in your thick hair, and your splendid chin and firm, full-curved
 mouth. It isn't often that a head wanders from the Louvre and becomes
 set on a pair of modern shoulders. I, the old woman, peering through
 her spectacles, and painting with a hand that is often far from
 steady, have found a joy in studying the harmony of your promise. You
 have my blood in your veins, but you will succeed where I have failed.
 A happy failure, Philip. Don't feel sad for me. I've had moments of
 joy that no one knew. No one took the trouble to know; but nobody is
 to blame. Lives are very full in these rushing days.

 I believe in you, and I long for you to get started toward that
 land where you fain would be. Your mother says that the door hasn't
 opened yet. Looking into your young eyes, a great thought came to
 me. Supposing I, the ineffectual, could set that door ajar! With
 the thought came the first great regret for my poverty. Never mind,
 thought I stoutly; if I can set that door a wee bit open, his young
 strength can do the rest!

 I have had warnings that soon the great door will be opened for me;
 the door that ushers in to the heart's desire. Mine has been for Truth
 and Beauty, O God, Thou knowest!

 So I am making my will--such a poor little short will; but all for
 you, my kindred spirit, my knight who will deliver from failure, my
 Philip Sidney.

 The faithful maid Eliza will take care of my effects for you. You will
 find some useful things among the paraphernalia here. I look at my old
 easel and wonder if it will ever be promoted to hold a canvas of yours.

 This letter will be enclosed to you in one from my lawyer, telling
 you the business side of my wishes. The heart side no one can tell. I
 swell with longing for your success, and happiness; and so good-bye.

 The mother who never had a son, gains one in you. The painter who
 never was an artist, becomes one in you!

 And so, dear, I am your happy

      AUNT MARY.

Mary Sidney and her boy exchanged a look. With unsteady hands Phil
straightened the legal letter, and they read it together. Then they
rose from the table with one accord.

Mrs. Fabian, wrapped in thought, looked up at the sudden movement.

Phil's concentrated gaze went past her to the fire, and he stood
motionless, one hand leaning on the table, the other arm around his
mother. Mary Sidney clasped the rustling paper to her breast. All the
self-forgetfulness of mother-love shone in her wet eyes as she met Mrs.
Fabian's questioning look.

"Isabel, I told you it would come," she said. "I told you we should
know. The light is here. Phil is going to New York."




CHAPTER II

SEVERED COMPANIONSHIP


Eliza Brewster could count on the fingers of one hand the number of
times that tears had escaped her pale eyes. She had always felt for
those who wept easily, the same leniency without comprehension that she
entertained for women who fainted.

Trials had come and gone in her life; but never, since the day when she
discovered some boys maltreating her cat, had she shed such tears as
flowed now in her sorrow. The cat's abbreviated tail bore witness still
to that day's conflict, but both his wound and hers had healed.

When would this new wound cease to ache and palpitate! Each day there
in the lonely flat, Eliza Brewster renewed war with the memories to
which she had no mind to succumb. The gentleness of her mistress,
her innocent, ever-springing hope, her constant disappointments, the
solitariness of her narrow life, the neglect of her relatives--all
these things recurred to the faithful handmaiden with the terrific
appeal which contracts the newly bereft heart, causing it to bleed
afresh. Mary Ballard, in spite of her twenty years' greater age, had
been child as well as mistress to the faithful woman, who cared for
the quiet, shy dreamer of dreams through the twenty-five years of the
latter's widowhood.

Now Eliza's occupation was gone. All her rather hard philosophy, all
her habitual self-possession, was swamped in a world where she could
no longer call her dear one from the easel to her meals; and where
the rooms of the little apartment grew spacious and echoed from sheer
emptiness.

Mrs. Ballard had bequeathed her maid all her clothing, and all her
personal possessions, save one old-fashioned diamond brooch, which was
to be sent to her namesake, Mary Sidney. Some weeks before her death,
she told Eliza of the disposition of her effects. In referring to the
small gift of money which was to be hers, she said:--

"I wish it were more, Eliza, but," looking wistfully into the eyes of
her companion, "I have a great mission for my little capital as I have
told you. If only the amount were as great as the object!"

"Nonsense, talking about wills," rejoined Eliza brusquely, a new
delicacy in the loved face making her tone sharp, "more likely I'll be
leaving something to you; though I don't know what it would be, unless
'twas the cat."

Mrs. Ballard smiled. "Not a bad legacy," she replied. "Pluto is very
sympathetic. He likes to watch me paint. He has really concluded to
endure the smell of oil and turpentine just to keep me company."

At the moment the night-black cat was lifting green eyes of approval
to his own portrait which stood near, and Mrs. Ballard buried a
veined hand in his glossy fur. A few weeks later that hand was still.
Oh, the dear garments with the outline of the wearer still warm in
their curves! Who has not known the tender, overpowering anguish of
their touch? Every day Eliza tried to systematize and pack her new
belongings, and every day she postponed the ordeal until to-morrow.

Mrs. Ballard's watch alone stood on the table at the head of her bed,
hanging in the little satin slipper just as it had ticked beside her
mistress's sleeping form so many years. The watch seemed as alive as
Pluto, and almost as much of a companion. It spoke eloquently of the
gentle being who had always been unconscious of its warnings.

On the mantelpiece in the living-room, which had been studio as well,
was Philip Sidney's photograph and his two sketches, one of his mother,
and one of a storm-beaten tree. They were the two that Mary Sidney
had sent in response to her aunt's gift in the summer-time. All three
pictures were turned now to the wall. Mrs. Sidney was a relative. That
stamped her for Eliza. The sketches had been either the vainglorious
gift of a fond mamma, or else prompted by hope of the very result they
had gained. As for the photograph of the artist, Eliza could not deny
that it had marvellously cheered and companioned the last months of her
dear one's life.

Indeed, in those days, recent yet already seeming so long past,
Eliza, out in her kitchen, had often laughed grimly to herself at the
infatuation for the picture shown by her mistress.

"If she was sixteen she couldn't be more head over heels in love," she
would soliloquize. "I s'pose an artist has got to be just so stirred
up by good looks, whether it's a landscape or a human; but I know I
wouldn't trust a handsome man around the corner with a dog's dinner."

In pursuance of these reflections, when her mistress had gone, Phil's
picture went with the sketches, his face to the wall.

Eliza's attitude toward the whole world was defiance on the subject of
her mistress's lifework. Of course, Mrs. Ballard was an artist; a great
artist. Eliza knew it must be so, there were so many of her pictures
that she could not understand.

A canvas which was a blur to her contained so much which the painter
would explain while Eliza stood devotedly by, dutifully assenting to
the unravelling of the snarl of form and color.

"You don't care for it, do you, Eliza?" the artist would say sometimes,
wistfully.

"Indeed, I do, Mrs. Ballard," would come the response, and never words
rang more prompt and true. "I'm just one o' those folks so practical,
I can't see an inch before my nose and I've never had advantages. I
haven't got any insight, as you call it, beyond a dishpan; but when you
explain it so clear, that's when I begin to see."

This latter was a loyal lie; as a rule, Eliza never did see; but she
applauded just the same with vague murmurs of wonder and admiration.

It hurt the faithful soul even now to recall how, when the sketches
came from the West, her mistress had eagerly examined them, and bitten
her lip, her eyes glistening. "There's the true touch, Eliza," she had
said quietly. "This boy has a spark of the divine fire."

"Pooh! I don't think so at all," Eliza had returned stoutly and
contemptuously. "Of course, that drawin' of his mother is pleasant
enough, but you haven't seen her in years. You don't know how good the
likeness is; and as for that landscape, that rough twisted tree most
blown off its feet and clouds racin' above those rocks, nobody'd ever
think they was anything except just what they are, a tree and rocks and
clouds; awful pokerish, I call it, not a bit pretty." Eliza's long nose
lifted in scorn.

Mrs. Ballard smiled and bowed her head over the wind-blown tree.

"My flesh and blood, still," she murmured.

Now, in the dreary days, Eliza moved about aimlessly, forgetting to
eat, and roused only by Pluto's indignant _meows_, to remember that,
though he might mourn, still he felt that he owed it to himself to keep
his coat glossy by milk baths, taken internally.

Never had he known such long luxurious naps in the lap of his mistress
as now. Wrapped in thought she sat for hours without moving; the
irrepressible tears welling up from her heart and creeping, one by one,
down her thin cheeks.

She had made no friends in the cheap apartment building where they
lived. It was a changing population, which ebbed and flowed at the
mercy of its own financial tide.

"There ain't a lady in this house except you," Eliza had been wont to
say to her mistress.

"I don't believe we know that," Mrs. Ballard had rejoined; "but we're
too busy for neighboring, aren't we, Eliza?"

Whenever there had been any leisure, Mrs. Ballard had taken her
handmaiden to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Not for worlds would Eliza mar the joy with which her mistress bestowed
upon her this treat. So she climbed endless stairs, and plodded weary
miles with fortitude, having ready a response to every worshipful
utterance with which Mrs. Ballard pointed out this and that marvel.

"Wonderful, ain't it!" Eliza would respond with the regularity of
clockwork.

"How I love to get you out of that kitchen, Eliza, up into this
atmosphere of genius!" her mistress would say, in a burst of affection
for the strong mainspring of her household.

"Wonderful, ain't it!" returned the beneficiary, stepping on the other
foot in the effort to rest one leg.

The sight of the very exterior of the great repository of art-treasures
caused Eliza's bones to ache, if she caught sight of the imposing pile
from a car window.

One day, however, all this was changed. The Metropolitan Museum of Art
rose in Eliza's estimation to the level of her own kitchen where a
chromo depicting kittens in various attitudes of abandon hung over the
table.

Mistress and maid were doing the well-worn circuit. The faithful echo
had repeated "Wonderful, ain't it!" for the twentieth time. The ardor
in Mrs. Ballard's eyes was lending wings to her slender body, but Eliza
had lagged, spurred on, and rested the other leg, until, to paraphrase
a bit from Mr. Lowell--

    "On which leg she felt the worse,
    She couldn't 'a' told you, 'nother,"--

when suddenly an inspiration of deliverance seized her. The fact that
it had not seized her months before was simply another proof of
devotion to the sun of her existence. Each time she entered the massive
gates to her place of torture, she left such mentality as she possessed
behind her. As well might a fish be expected to navigate in the free
air of heaven as Eliza in these marble halls. This was her mistress's
element. Let her guide. But one memorable day the two were standing
before a marine.

"Oh, Eliza, that's new!" exclaimed Mrs. Ballard; and from the vigor of
her tone, her handmaid feared the worst. She had believed they were
nearly ready to depart. Now her companion seemed inspired for another
two hours.

"Might it not have been painted from your island," continued Mrs.
Ballard. "What adorable work!"

"Wonderful, ain't it!" came Eliza's wooden accents.

"What feeling!" murmured her rapt companion.

"I only hope 'tain't sciatica," thought Eliza, wiggling her hip. Her
casually roving eye caught sight of one vacancy on the bench in the
middle of the room.

"Don't you want to sit down a spell and look at it, Mrs. Ballard?" she
asked. "There's a place."

"No," was the slow, absent reply. "I seem to prefer to stand in its
presence--a royal presence, Eliza."

Miss Brewster waited no longer. With incontinent haste she limped,
as in seven-league boots, toward the desired haven. She saw that a
portly gentleman was heading for the same spot. She sprinted. She beat
him by a toe's length, and nearly received him on her maiden lap. He
recovered himself and glared at her. She maintained an unconscious air,
her gaze fixed on the sky of the marine painting. It was all she could
see; there were so many standing in front of her, welcoming this new
treasure to the home of beauty.

Presently Mrs. Ballard, missing her shadow, looked about and at last
descried Eliza. She approached, her small, veined hands clasped on her
breast for joy.

"It seems as if it must have been done from the island!" she exclaimed.
"How can you sit down, Eliza! I should think it would take you straight
to your old home!"

Miss Brewster did not say that she thought there was more likelihood of
her again seeing her native place if she did sit down; but for once
her clockwork did not act. It seemed as if the succumbing of her legs
had impeded the other mechanism.

"I just felt as if I had to, Mrs. Ballard," she answered numbly.

"You dear!" exclaimed her mistress impulsively, speaking low. "I might
have known it. You felt overcome. I don't wonder. It took me back to
the island, too, in a flash! I dare say you often conceal homesickness
from me, Eliza. We must try to go there next summer! I did use to think
that perhaps Mrs. Fabian--but, no matter; we can go on our own account,
Eliza, and we will, too."

"It would be lots better for you than staying here in summer, that's
sure."

Mrs. Ballard sighed, "Yes, if only the rent didn't keep on, and keep
on."

Eliza knew the arguments. She did not pursue the subject now. She rose,
keeping firm pressure, however, against the bench.

"Take this place, Mrs. Ballard, and rest a minute."

"Oh, I'm not a bit tired. I thought we'd take one or two more rooms.
The light is wonderful to-day."

Up to the present moment Eliza in this temple of genius had, as has
been said, galvanized her energies and followed where her mistress led,
at any cost, as unquestioningly as the needle follows the magnet; but
this was the moment of her emancipation. Mrs. Ballard herself gave her
the cue, for she added with consideration for an unwonted sentiment:--

"Unless you'd rather stay and look at that reminder of home a while
longer, Eliza? I'll come back for you."

"Oh, would you, just as soon, Mrs. Ballard?"

The eagerness of the tone touched her mistress.

"Why, of course, my dear, do so; but I'd get up if I were you." Eliza
had sunk back upon the bench with the certainty and impact of a
pile-driver. "There is such a crowd you can't see anything from here
but the sky."

"I feel as if I could look at that sky for a week," responded Eliza
with a sincerity which admitted of no doubt.

"It is wonderful, isn't it?" returned her mistress, unconscious of
plagiarism. She patted Eliza's shoulder. "I'll be back soon," she
assured her, and moved away.

"The good creature!" she thought. "How selfish I have been to her!
I ought occasionally to let her go home; but I know she'd never go
without me. She wouldn't believe that I'd eat three meals a day, no
matter how faithfully I promised." And Mrs. Ballard laughed a little
before becoming engrossed in an old favorite.

She was gone so long that Eliza cogitated with newly acquired ingenuity.

"It's a good thing," she reflected, "that the fool-catcher ain't
artistic. He'd 'a' caught me here lots o' times. Supposin' I was with
that dear crazy critter all this time, hoppin' along in misery, or
standin' in front o' some paintin' like a stork." Eliza's light eyes
twinkled. "Why shouldn't I set up a taste in pictures, too? Just watch
me from this on."

After this day Mrs. Ballard did observe with joy a transformation in
her handmaid's attitude. When they visited the galleries Eliza would
move along with her usual calm until suddenly some picture would
particularly hold her attention.

"Is that a very fine paintin'?" she would ask of her cicerone.

"Which one, Eliza? Oh, yes, I see. Certainly, or it wouldn't be here;
but in that next room are those I thought we should make a study of
to-day."

Eliza's light eyes swept the unbroken polished surface of the floor
of the adjoining room. "I know I haven't got very far along in
understandin' these things," she said modestly, "but to my eyes there
is a certain somethin' there,"--she paused and let her transfixed gaze
toward the chosen picture say the rest.

Mrs. Ballard held her lip between her teeth reflectively as she looked
at it too. On that first occasion it was a summer landscape painted at
sunset.

"We've passed it many times," she thought, "but it's evident that Eliza
is waking up!"

The reflection was exultant. Far be it from Mrs. Ballard to interrupt
the birth throes of her companion's artistic consciousness.

"Then stay right here, Eliza, as long as you wish," she replied
sympathetically. "I shall be near by."

She hurried away in her light-footed fashion, and Eliza continued to
stand before her cynosure long enough to disarm possible suspicion, and
then backed thoughtfully away until she reached a bench upon which she
sank, still with eyes upon the picture.

Mrs. Ballard from the next room observed her trance.

"She is waking up. Her eyes are opening, bless her heart," she thought.
"Constant dropping does wear the stone."

Eliza would have paraphrased the proverb and declared that constant
dropping saves the life.

From this day on she professed, and triumphantly acted upon, an
appreciation for certain pictures; and Mrs. Ballard marvelled with
pride at the catholicity of her taste; for such serpentine wisdom
did Eliza display in passing, unseeing, many an inviting bench, that
never, to their last pilgrimage to Mrs. Ballard's mecca, did the latter
suspect the source of her companion's modest enthusiasm.

"Poor thing," thought Eliza during these periods of rest; "it's a sin
and a shame that she hasn't got anybody worthy to come with her. If
those relatives of hers were, any of 'em, fit to live, one of 'em would
bring her here sometimes. The poor dear, as long as she hasn't a soul
but an ignorant country body like me to sympathize with her, I've got
to do my best; and really if I set a spell once in a while, I'll have
more sprawl and can seem to enjoy it more. It's awful hard when you
can't think of anything but your joints! I'm younger'n she is, and I'm
ashamed o' gettin' so tuckered; but she's got some kind o' wings that
seem to lift her along."

Mrs. Ballard, from the next room, caught Eliza's eye, smiled, and
nodded, well pleased. So the era of peace ensued; and when Miss
Brewster caught sight from a street car of the Metropolitan Museum of
Art, she was able to regard it without a frown.




CHAPTER III

MRS. FABIAN'S VISIT


Eliza was not obliged to give up the apartment until the end of the
month. Hence her drifting from day to day, and Pluto's naps in the lap
of luxury.

All her energy and systematic habits were in a state of suspension. Her
clocks ran down. The watch in the tiny satin slipper beside her bed
alone ticked the minutes away, and when Eliza wound it her eyes were
too wet to see the time. Night fell and she went to bed. Morning dawned
and she arose. She drank tea, but it was too much trouble to eat.

One day the bell rang. At first she determined not to answer it. Then
second thought came to her. What was she waiting here for except to
answer the bell? Was her next duty not to introduce the usurper into
his kingdom--to give into his desecrating hands those objects,--easel,
palette, brushes, paints,--hallowed by her dear one's use? At the sound
of a knock she hastened to fling open the door. Mrs. Fabian, elegantly
gowned and furred, stood before her.

Eliza gazed at this apparition dumb.

"Why, Eliza Brewster," exclaimed the visitor with concern, "I scarcely
knew you." After the mutual gaze of astonishment the caller moved in
with her air of stately assurance, and Eliza followed her perforce into
the living-room. Here Mrs. Fabian swiftly examined the possibilities of
the scanty chairs, then seated herself in the largest.

"You have been ill, too, Eliza? You look like a ghost!"

The gaunt woman in the alpaca dress, so filled with resentment that she
begrudged her own tears because they informed this "relative" of her
grief, stood in silence with a beating heart.

"Sit down, you poor creature," went on Mrs. Fabian, unsuspecting hidden
fires.

They burned higher at the tone of patronage, but Eliza, weakened from
mourning and lack of food, felt her knees trembling and sank into the
nearest chair.

Mrs. Fabian, genuinely touched by the ravages she saw, broke the
silence that followed.

"I was greatly surprised and shocked to hear of Aunt Mary's sudden
going."

She began to feel uncomfortable under the set gaze of Eliza's swollen
eyes.

"I suppose you sent to my house at once, and found that Mr. Fabian and
I were in the far West."

"No, I didn't think of sending," returned Eliza.

"You should have done so. Surely there was no one nearer to Aunt Mary
than I."

"It was in the paper," said Eliza dully.

"Had I been here I should, of course, have taken charge of the funeral."

The pale eyes emitted a curious light.

"No, you wouldn't, Mrs. Fabian," was the quiet reply.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because the time for you to have done something for Mrs. Ballard was
while she was alive."

Eliza was too spent physically to speak other than softly, but her
words brought the amazed color to her visitor's face.

"You are presuming," Mrs. Fabian said, after a moment. "What do you
know about it? I suppose Aunt Mary did not think it worth while to
tell you all the things I did for her."

"No," agreed Eliza, "she never said a word about the times you came
with your automobile to take her riding; nor the picture exhibitions
you took her to see, or the way you had her to dinner Thanksgivin' time
and other times, or how you had her to spend part o' the summer with
you at the island, or--"

"Eliza Brewster, what does this mean!" Mrs. Fabian's eyes were dilated.
"Aunt Mary was not related to my husband or to his children. I never
expected him to marry my family."

Miss Brewster's gaze was fixed upon the speaker with pale scorn, but
the latter continued with what she endeavored to make a dignified
defence. "I always sent Aunt Mary a present at Christmas."

"Yes," interrupted Eliza. "Last season 'twas a paper-cutter. You gave
her cuts enough without that."

"And I called upon her at intervals," continued the visitor in a
heightened tone to drown the small voice.

"Intervals of a year," said Eliza.

Mrs. Fabian started to rise, but bethought herself, and sank back.

"You are impertinent," she said coldly. "A person in your position
cannot understand the duties of one in mine. There can be no discussion
between you and me." The speaker stirred in her chair and collected
herself. "I--and every one of Aunt Mary's relatives--appreciate your
faithful service to her, and thank you for it."

"Don't you dare!" ejaculated Eliza, with such sudden belligerency that
Mrs. Fabian started.

"You're almost crazed with fatigue and grief, poor creature," she said
at last. "I can see that you are scarcely responsible for what you say
to-day. You must take a long rest. Shall you go home to the island or
take another place in town? I can find you one."

Mrs. Fabian felt the superiority of her own self-control as she made
this kind offer; besides, in these troublous days with servants,
steady, reliable Eliza, with a sure touch in cookery, was not to be
despised. The visitor accompanied her offer with a soothing attempt at
a smile.

Eliza had relapsed into dullness. "I won't trouble you," she said.

"It would not be any trouble," was the magnanimous reply. "Just let me
know any time when you would like a reference, Eliza. It will give me
pleasure to reward your faithfulness."

Mrs. Fabian loved approval quite as much as she did admiration.
She would feel much more comfortable to win that of even this
uncompromising, cranky individual, so lined with the signs of
suffering. As Eliza Brewster was a native of the island where Mrs.
Fabian had resorted from the days of her girlhood, she had a very
slight but old acquaintance with this woman. As she glanced at the
thin hair, now fast turning grey, the sunken eyes and cheeks, and the
bony, roughened hands, she shuddered beneath her ermine-lined sables,
to remember that she and Eliza Brewster were about the same age. She
passed a white-gloved hand over the firm contour of her smooth cheek as
if to make sure of its firmness. "I believe it was I who recommended
you to Aunt Mary in the first place, long ago," she added.

"That's one o' your mistakes," said Eliza drily.

"On the contrary," returned Mrs. Fabian graciously. She was determined
to warm this forlorn specimen of New England frigidity into something
humanly companionable, else how was she going to attain the object of
her visit? She went on with such flattery of manner as she might have
employed toward a desirable débutante. "It has proved quite the best
thing that I ever did for Aunt Mary; securing her comfort and thereby
the peace of mind of all who belonged to her. Don't call it a mistake,
Eliza."

"However that may be," returned the other immovably, "'t wa'n't you
that did it. 'Twas your Cousin Mary."

"Oh--was it? Oh, indeed?" responded Mrs. Fabian, slipping back her furs
still further. Eliza Brewster's disagreeable manner was making her
nervous. "Yes, I believe Mrs. Sidney was with us on her wedding-trip
just at that time. Mr. Fabian and I have just returned from visiting
Mrs. Sidney out in her wild mountain home."

Eliza's eyes roved involuntarily to two blank sheets of board standing
on the mantelpiece; but she was silent.

"Do you know the contents of Aunt Mary's will, Eliza?" asked Mrs.
Fabian, after waiting vainly for an inquiry as to her cousin's
well-being.

"I do."

"What do you think of it?"

"That don't matter, does it?"

A streak of light illumined Mrs. Fabian's annoyance. Ah, that was
what was the matter with Eliza. After twenty-five years of faithful
service, she had expected to inherit her mistress's few hundreds. Full
explanation, this, of the present sullenness. The disappointment must,
indeed, have been bitter.

Mrs. Fabian felt an impulse of genuine sympathy. She knew the singular
loneliness of Eliza's situation; knew that she had no near kin, and the
transplanting from the island home had been complete. What an outlook
now, was Eliza Brewster's!

"Perhaps the will was as much of a surprise to you as it was to the
rest of us," Mrs. Fabian went on. "The Sidneys were amazed. They didn't
tell me just how much Aunt Mary left young Mr. Sidney. Do you know?"

"Yes," replied Eliza promptly.

And again Mrs. Fabian looked at her interrogatively. As well question
the Sphinx. She comprehended the stony closing of the thin lips. There
might be a combination which would make them open, but she did not
have it. She shrugged her fine-cloth shoulders. "Oh, well, it doesn't
matter. It must have been very little, anyway."

She sighed. She must get at her business, though she dreaded absurdly
to introduce it. "Well, Eliza, if you will take me to Aunt Mary's room,
I will go through her belongings. It is always the most painful duty
connected with a death, but it cannot be escaped."

Eliza stared at her, speechless.

"Aunt Mary had a few very nice things," went on Mrs. Fabian. She tried
to smile as at a loving memory. "The regulation treasures of a dear old
lady,--her diamond ring, a diamond brooch, and a camel's hair shawl--My
heavens!" cried the visitor, interrupting herself suddenly with a
shriek of terror. "Take it away! Take it away!"

She clung to the back of her chair; for Pluto, silent as a shadow, had
sprung upon the ends of her pelerine as they lay in her lap and was
daintily nosing the fur, while perilously grasping its richness, his
eyes glowing with excitement. Eliza rose, and sweeping him into one arm
resumed her seat.

"Oh, how that frightened me!" Mrs. Fabian panted and looked angrily at
the animal with the jetty coat and abbreviated tail, whose eyes, live
emeralds, expanded and contracted as they glowed still upon the coveted
fur.

If she expected an apology, none came. Eliza's pale face showed no
emotion. Endurance was written in every line.

"To be interrupted at such a critical moment!" Mrs. Fabian felt it was
unbearable.

"Let me see"--she began again with a little laugh. "Your pet knocked
everything out of my head, Eliza. Oh, yes, I was saying that I will
look over Aunt Mary's things now."

She rose as she spoke. Eliza kept her seat.

"You can't do that, Mrs. Fabian."

"I certainly shall, Eliza Brewster. What do you mean?"

"I mean that they're mine. She left 'em all to me."

The speaker struggled to control the trembling of her lips.

The visitor looked the limp black alpaca figure over, haughtily.

"Aunt Mary left you her diamond ring, her diamond brooch, and her
camel's hair shawl?" she asked sceptically.

"She left her diamond brooch to her namesake, Mrs. Sidney. I sent it to
her a week ago."

"Then, since you know Aunt Mary's wishes, what did she leave me? The
ring?"

"No, ma'am!"

"The shawl?"

"No, ma'am."

Mrs. Fabian's nostrils dilated.

"My aunt's poor trifles are nothing to me, of course, except for
sentiment's sake," she said haughtily.

Eliza bowed her bitter face over Pluto's fur.

"I am quite sure, however, that she did not pass away without some
mention of me,--her sister's child."

"She did, though, Mrs. Fabian. If it's a keepsake you want," added
Eliza drily, "you may have the paper-cutter. It's never been out o' the
box."

The visitor, still standing, eyed the other with compressed lips before
she spoke:--

"I have told you that I don't consider you responsible to-day. You are
half-crazed, and I'm sorry for you. Answer me this, however, and mind,
I shall verify your words by a visit to Mrs. Ballard's lawyer. Did my
aunt leave you, legally, all her personal possessions?"

"She did."

Mrs. Fabian maintained another space of silence, gazing at the seated
figure, whose gown looked rusty behind the polished lynx-black pressed
against it. There was no mistaking the truth in the pale, wretched eyes.

"Disappointed about the money, though, and taking out her ill temper on
me," thought the visitor.

To Eliza's increased heaviness of heart, the lady resumed her seat.

"Aunt Mary's death was sudden and unexpected and that explains her
not speaking of me," she said; "but I know it would please her that I
should use something that she had owned. I remember that shawl as being
a very good one. It came to her from some of her husband's people. I'll
buy that of you, Eliza."

"Will you?" returned the other, and Pluto emitted an indignant yowl and
tried to leap from the tightening hold.

"Don't you let him go, Eliza!" cried Mrs. Fabian in a panic. "He's
crazy about my fur. They always are.--Yes, the shawl is of no use to
you and the money will be. It is so fine, it would be wicked to cut it
into a wrap. I shall spread it on my grand piano."

Silence, while Eliza struggled still to control the trembling lips,
and Pluto twisted to escape her imprisoning arm.

"I'm willing to give you twenty-five dollars for that shawl."

Mrs. Fabian waited, and presently Eliza spoke:--

"It ain't enough," she said, against her impeding breath.

"Fifty, then. We all feel grateful to you."

"Mrs. Fabian," Eliza sat up in her chair as if galvanized and looked
her visitor in the eyes, while she spoke with unsteady solemnity, "the
price o' that shawl is one million dollars."

The visitor stared at the shabby figure with the grey, unkempt locks,
then shrugged her shoulders with a smile. "You'll come to your senses,
Eliza," she said. "Some day that fifty dollars will look very good to
you. I'll hold the offer open--"

"Likewise," added Eliza, breaking in upon her words with heightened
voice, but the same deliberation, "that is the price of each
handkerchief she left me, and each one of her little, wornout slippers,
and her--"

She could get no further. She choked. Mrs. Fabian rose; Pluto, with
another cry and a supreme writhe, tore himself from his iron prison.

The visitor shuddered, and looked at him fearfully, as his eager eyes
seemed to threaten her. She hastened precipitately toward the door.

Eliza, putting the utmost constraint upon herself, rose and ushered her
out.

Mrs. Fabian uttered a brief good-bye. Eliza was beyond speech.

While the visitor entered her waiting car, and sank with relief among
its cushions, the mourner stood, her back against the closed door, and
her eyes closed.

Restrained drops ran down her cheeks in well-worn ruts, and
occasionally a spasmodic sob shook the slight form.

Pluto came to her feet, his short tail stiffly outstretched and his
half-closed eyes lifted to the sightless face. In the long silence he
rubbed himself against her feet in token of forgiveness.




CHAPTER IV

PHILIP SIDNEY


The Fabians had given Philip Sidney a pressing invitation to spend
his first week in New York with them. When he arrived, however, and
announced himself at the house, through some misunderstanding there was
no one there to receive him save the servants.

A comely maid apologized for the absence of her mistress, saying that
Mr. Sidney had not been expected until the following day; and showing
him to his room she left him to his own devices.

Emerging from his bath and toilet, he found Mrs. Fabian not yet
returned. It was but four o'clock, and he decided to go to the Ballard
apartment and attend to his errand there.

Eliza had been doing some sweeping, the need for it goading her New
England conscience to action. Her brown calico dress was pinned up
over her petticoat, and her stern, lined face looked out from a
sweeping-cap.

There sounded suddenly a vigorous knock on her door.

She scowled. "Some fresh agent, I s'pose," she thought. "Too sly to
speak up the tube."

Broom in hand, she strode to the door and pulled it open with swift
indignation.

"Why didn't you ring?" she exclaimed fiercely. "We don't want--"

She paused, her mouth open, and stared at the young man who pulled off
a soft felt hat, and looked reassuring and breezy as he smiled.

"I did ring, but it was the wrong apartment. There was no card
downstairs, so I started up the trail. Is this Mrs. Ballard's?"

The frank face, which she instantly recognized, and the clear voice
that had a non-citified deliberation, accused Eliza of lack of
hospitality; and she suddenly grew intensely conscious of her cap and
petticoat.

"Come in," she said. "I was doin' some sweepin'. The first--" she
paused abruptly and led the way down the corridor to the shabby
living-room.

Phil's long steps followed her while his eyes shone with appreciation
of the drum-major effect of the cap and broom, and the memory of his
fierce greeting.

"I don't wonder Aunt Mary died," he thought. "I would too."

Meanwhile Eliza's heart was thumping. This interview was the climax
of all she had dreaded. The usurper had an even more manly and
attractive exterior than she had expected, but well she knew the brutal
indifference of youth; the selfishness that takes all things for
granted, and that secretly despises the treasures of the old.

The haste with which she set the broom in the corner, unpinned her
dress, and pulled off her cap, was tribute to the virile masculinity
of the visitor; but the stony expression of her face was defence
from the blows which she felt he would deliver with the same airy
unconsciousness that showed in the swing of his walk.

"You're Eliza Brewster, I'm sure," he said. "My mother knew you when
she was a girl."

The hasty removal of Eliza's cap had caused a weird flying-out of her
locks. The direct gaze bent upon her twinkled.

"I wonder if she'd let me paint her as Medusa," he was thinking; while
her unspoken comment was: "And she never saw his teeth! It's just as
well."

"Yes, that's who I am," she said. "Sit down, Mr. Sidney. I've been
expectin' you."

"You didn't behave that way," he replied good-naturedly, obeying. "I
thought at first I was going downstairs quicker than I came up, and I'd
taken them three at a time."

His manner was disarming and Eliza smoothed her flying locks.

"The agents try to sneak around the rules o' the house," she said
briefly.

"So this is where Aunt Mary lived." He looked about the room with
interest. "We people in God's country hear about these flats where you
don't dare keep a dog for fear it'll wag its tail and knock something
over."

The troublesome lump in Eliza's throat had to be swallowed, so the
visitor's keen glance swept about the bare place in silence.

"I see she didn't go in much for jim-cracks," he added presently.

Eliza's lump was swallowed. "Mrs. Ballard didn't care for common
things," she said coldly. "She was an artist."

Phil comprehended vaguely that rebuke was implied, and he met the hard
gaze as he hastened to reply:--

"Yes, yes, I understand." An increase of the pathos he had always
discerned since learning about his great-aunt, swept over him now, face
to face with the meagreness of her surroundings. "Did Aunt Mary work in
this room? I see an easel over there."

"Yes, she worked here." The reply came in an expressionless voice.

"Poor Aunt Mary!" thought the visitor. "No companion but this image!"

Eliza exerted heroic self-control as she continued: "I've got the
things packed up for you--the paints, and brushes, and palette. The
easel's yours, too. Do you want to take 'em to-day?"

"Would it be a convenience to you if I did? Are you going to give up
the flat immediately?"

"In a week."

"Then I'll leave them a few days if you don't mind while I'm looking
for a room. I haven't an idea where to go. I'm more lost here than I
ever was in the woods; but the Fabians will advise me, perhaps. Mrs.
Fabian has been here to see you, I suppose."

Eliza's thin lips parted in a monosyllable of assent.

"What a wooden Indian!" thought Phil. Nevertheless, being a genial soul
and having heard Miss Brewster's faithfulness extolled, he talked on:
"We hear about New York streets being canyons. They are that, and the
sky-line is amazing; but the noise,--great heavens, what a racket! and
I can't seem to get a breath."

The young fellow rose restlessly, throwing back his shoulders, and
paced the little room, filling it with his mountain stride.

Eliza Brewster watched him. She thought of her mistress, and the pride
and joy it would have been to her to receive this six feet of manhood
under her roof.

"She wouldn't 'a' kept her sentimental dreams long," reflected Eliza
bitterly. "He'd 'a' hurt her, he'd 'a' stepped on her feelin's and
never known it. He walks as if he had spurs on his boots." She steeled
herself against considering him through Mrs. Ballard's eyes. "He's
better-lookin' than the picture," she thought, "and I wouldn't trust a
handsome man as far as I could see him. They haven't any business with
beauty and it always upsets 'em one way or another--yes, every time."

Her eyes wandered to the mantelpiece whose bareness was relieved only
by three varying sized pieces of blank paper. She felt the slightest
quiver of remorse as she looked. She seemed to see her mistress's
gentle glance filled with rebuke.

She stirred in her chair, folded her arms, and cleared her throat.

"You can leave the things here till I go, if you want to," she said.

Phil paused in his promenade and regarded her. Her manner was so
unmistakably inimical that for the first time he wondered.

Perhaps, after all, she was not just a machine. And the same thought
which had been entertained by Mrs. Fabian occurred to him.

"Twenty-five years of faithful service," he reflected. "I wonder if she
expected the money? She's sore at me. That's a cinch."

Phil's artist nature grasped her standpoint in a flash. The granite
face, with its signs of suffering, the loneliness, the poverty, all
appealed to him to excuse her disappointment.

His eyes swept about the bare walls.

"Where are Aunt Mary's pictures?" he asked. "Was she too modest to hang
them?"

"There were some up there," replied Eliza. "I took 'em down."

The visitor's quick eyes noted the white boards on the mantelpiece.
With an unexpected movement, he strode across to it, and turned them
around.

He stood in the same position for a space.

"Great guns, but she hates me!" he thought, while Eliza, startled, felt
the shamed color stream up to her temples.

"What would Mrs. Ballard say!" was her guilty reflection.

Pluto here relieved the situation by making a majestic entrance.
His jewel eyes fixed on the stranger for a moment with blinking
indifference, then he proceeded, with measured tread, toward the haven
of his mistress's lap.

"Hello, Katze," said Phil, stooping his scarlet face. He seized the
creature by the nape of its neck and instantly the amazed cat was swung
up to his broad shoulder, where it sat, claws digging into his coat and
eyes glowering into his own.

"Say, charcoal would make a white mark on you, pussy," he went on,
smoothing the creature in a manner which evidently found favor, for
Pluto did not offer to stir.

"When I'm not doing her as Medusa," he reflected, "I'll paint her as a
witch with this familiar. She'll only have to look at the artist to get
the right expression."

"A distinguished visitor from the island of Manx, I suspect," he said
aloud.

"No," returned Eliza, still fearfully embarrassed. "Pluto was born
right here in New York."

The ever-ready stars in the visitor's eyes twinkled again into the
green fire opposite them.

"It was his tail I was noticing. Manx cats are like that."

"Oh, that was boys. If I could 'a' caught 'em I'd 'a' liked to cut off
their arms."

"I'll bet on that," thought Phil, "and their legs too."

Eliza cleared her throat. She seemed still to see the gentle eyes of
her lost one rebuking her. With utter disregard of a future state she
was preparing a lie.

"About those sketches," she said presently, and such was her
hoarseness that she was obliged to clear her throat again, "you see, I
was--sweepin', and I turned 'em to the wall."

"Oh, yes," said Phil, and continued to smooth Pluto who purred lustily.
"A pretty good one for New England," he thought; and carelessly turning
the third card about, he came face to face with his own photograph.

With one glance of disgust he tore the picture in two and threw it down.

Eliza started. "What did you do that for?" she demanded sharply.

Phil made a motion of impatience.

"Oh, it's so darned pretty!" he explained. "I thought all those
pictures were in the fire."

"Mrs. Ballard set great store by that," said Eliza coldly, "and by the
sketches, too," she added.

She was sitting up stiffly in her chair, now, and her gaze fixed on
Phil, as, her cat on his shoulder singing loud praise of his fondling
hand, he came and stood before her.

"I wish you'd let me see some of Aunt Mary's pictures," he said.

The dead woman's letter was against his heart. He felt that they were
standing together, opposed to the hard, grudging face confronting him.

But this was Eliza's crucial moment. In spite of herself she feared in
the depths of her heart that that which Mrs. Ballard had said was true;
that this restless, careless boy had an artistic ability which her dear
one had never attained. She shrank with actual nausea from his comments
on her mistress's work. He might not say anything unkind, but she
should see the lines of his mouth, the quiver of an eyelash.

She felt unable to rise.

"She left 'em all to me," she said mechanically, pale eyes meeting dark
ones.

Phil brushed Pluto's ears and the cat sang through the indignity.

"Talk about the bark on a tree!" he thought. "I believe I'll paint her
as a miser, after all! She'd be a wonder, with Pluto standing guard,
green eyes peering out of the shadow."

He smiled down at Eliza, the curves of his lips stretching over the
teeth she had admired.

"All right," he said. "I'm not going to take them away from you."

Eliza forced herself to her feet, and without another word slowly left
the room.

Phil met the cat's blinking eyes where the pupils were dilating and
contracting. "Katze, this place gives me the horrors!" he confided.

More than once on the train he had read over his aunt's letter, and
each time her words smote an answering chord in his heart and set it to
aching.

The present visit accentuated the perception of what her life had
been. For a moment his eyes glistened wet against the cat's indolent
contentment.

"I wish she hadn't saved any money, the poor little thing," he
muttered. "No friends, no sympathy--nothing but that avaricious piece
of humanity, calculating every day, probably, on how soon she would
get it all. I'll paint her as a harpy. That's what I'll do. Talons of
steel! That's all she needs." He heard a sound and dashed a hand across
his eyes.

Eliza, heavy of heart, stony of face, entered, a number of pictures
bound together, in her hands. The visitor darted forward to relieve
her, and Pluto drove claws into his suddenly unsteady resting-place.

Eliza yielded up her treasures like victims, and stood motionless while
Phil received them. Never had she looked so gaunt and grey and old; but
the visitor did not give her a glance. Aunt Mary's letter was beating
against his heart. Here was the work her longing hands had wrought,
here the thwarting of her hopes.

His fingers were not quite steady as he untied the strings, and moving
the easel into a good light placed a canvas upon it.

Eliza did not wish to look at him, but she could not help it. Her pale
gaze fixed on his face in a torture of expectation, as he backed away
from the easel, his eyes on the picture.

Pluto rubbed against his ear as a hint that caressing be renewed.

He stood in silence, and Eliza could detect nothing like a smile on his
face.

Presently he removed the canvas, and took up another. It was the
portrait of Pluto.

"Hello, Katze. Got your picture took, did you? Aunt Mary saw your green
shadows all right."

He set the canvas aside, and took up another. Eliza's muscles ached
with tension. Her bony hands clasped as she recognized the picture. To
the kittens over the table in the kitchen she had once confided that
this landscape, which the artist had called "Autumn," looked to her
eyes like nothing on earth but a prairie fire! It had been a terrible
moment of heresy. She was punished for it now.

Phil backed away from the canvas, and elbow in his hand, rested his
finger on his lips for what seemed to Eliza an age. Her heart thumped,
but she could not remove her gaze from him.

Pluto, finding squirming and rubbing of no avail, leaped to the floor
and blinked reflectively at his mistress. A flagpole would have offered
equal facilities for cuddling.

He therefore made deliberate selection of the least unsatisfactory
chair, and with noiseless grace took possession.

Phil nodded. "Yes, sir," he murmured; "yes, sir."

Eliza's teeth bit tighter on her suffering under lip. What did "Yes,
sir" mean? At least he was not smiling.

He went on, slightly nodding, and thinking aloud; "Aunt Mary was ahead
of her time. She knew what she was after."

Eliza tried to speak, and couldn't. Something clicked in her throat.

Phil went on regarding the autumnal tangle, and with a superhuman
effort Eliza commanded her tongue.

"What was that you said, Mr. Sidney?"

Phil, again becoming conscious of the stony presence, smiled a little.

"Aunt Mary would have found sympathizers in Munich," he said.

"That's Germany, ain't it?" said Eliza, words and breath interlocking.

"Yes. Most of Uncle Sam's relatives want to see plainer what's doing;
at least those who are able to buy pictures."

"Ahead of her time!" gasped Eliza, her blood racing through her veins.
"Ought to 'a' been in Germany!"

And then the most amazing occurrence of Philip Sidney's life took
place. There was a rush toward him, and suddenly his Medusa, his witch,
his miser, his harpy was on her knees on the floor beside him, covering
his hand with tears and kisses, and pouring out a torrent of words.

"I've nearly died with dread of you, Mr. Sidney. Oh, why isn't she here
to hear you say those words of her pictures! Nobody was ever kind to
her. Her relations paid no more attention to her, or her work, than if
she'd been a--a--I don't know what. She was poor, and too modest, and
the best and sweetest creature on earth; and when your sketches came
she admired 'em so that I began to hate you then. Yes, Mr. Sidney, you
was a relative, and goin' to be a success, and the look in her eyes
when she saw your work killed me. It killed me!"

"Do, do get up," said Philip, trying to raise her. "Don't weep so,
Eliza. I understand."

But the torrent could not yet be stemmed.

"I've looked forward to your comin' like to an operation. I've thought
you might laugh at her pictures, 'cause young folks are so cruel, and
they don't know! Let me cry, Mr. Sidney. Don't mind! You've given me
the first happy moment I've known since she left me. I was the only
one she had, even to go to picture galleries with her, and my bones
ached 'cause I was a stupid thing, and she had wings just like a little
spirit o' light."

Philip's lashes were moist again.

"I wish I had been here to go with her," he said.

Eliza lifted her streaming eyes. "Would you 'a' gone?" she asked, and
allowed Phil to raise her gently to her feet.

"Indeed, I would," he answered gravely, "and we should have lived
together, and worked together."

"Oh, why couldn't it 'a' been! Why couldn't it 'a' been! What it
would 'a' meant to her to have heard what you said just now about her
pictures!"

Phil's hands were holding Eliza's thin shoulders, and her famished eyes
were drinking in the comfort of him.

"I have an idea that we ought not to believe that we could make her
happier than she is," he said, with the same gravity.

"I know," faltered Eliza, surprised; "of course that's the way I
ought to feel; but there wasn't ever anything she cared much about
except paintin'. She"--Eliza swallowed the tremulous sob that was the
aftermath of the storm--"she loved music, but she wasn't a performer."

Phil smiled into the appealing face.

"Then she's painting, for all we know," he said. "Do you believe music
is all that goes on there?"

"It's all that's mentioned," said Eliza apologetically.

"I have an idea that dying doesn't change us any," said the young man.
"Why should it?"

"It didn't need to change her," agreed the other, her voice breaking.

"I believe that in the end we get what we want."

"That's comfortin'."

"Not so you'd notice it," returned Phil with conviction. "It makes the
chills run down my spine occasionally when I stop to realize it."

"What do you mean?"

"Only that we had better examine what we're wanting; and choose
something that won't go back on us. Aunt Mary did; and I believe she
had a strong faith."

"We never talked religion," said Eliza.

"Just lived it. That's better."

"I didn't," returned Eliza, a spark of the old belligerency flashing in
her faded eyes. "I can't think of one single enemy that I love!"

"You were everything to Aunt Mary. Do you suppose I shall ever forget
that?"

"I sat down in front o' those pictures in the Metropolitan Museum,"
said Eliza, her lips trembling again. "It's awful big, and I got so
tuckered, the pictures sort o' ran together till I didn't know a
landscape from a portrait. Then I used to take on over somethin' that
had a seat in front of it, and she'd leave me sittin' there starin'.
Oh, Mr. Sidney, I can't think o' one other mean thing I ever did to
her,"--remorseful grief shook the speaker's voice,--"but I'd ought to
'a' stood up to the end. It would 'a' showed more interest!"

Phil squeezed the spare shoulders as they heaved. He laughed a little.

"Now, Eliza, whatever way you managed it, I know you made her happy."

"Yes," groaned the repentant one, "she said my artistic soul was wakin'
up. Do you s'pose where she is now she knows it was black deceit?"

"She knows nothing black where she is,"--Phil's voice rang with
decision; "but she does know more than ever about love and sacrifice
such as you have shown her. Beside," in a lighter tone, "how about your
artistic soul? See how far above everybody else you understood her
pictures."

Eliza's hungry gaze became suddenly inscrutable. "Mr. Sidney," she
began, after a pause, "I loved every stroke her dear hand made,
but"--again pain crept into the breaking voice--"you said yourself
America wasn't worthy of her, and I'm only what you might call the scum
of America when it comes to _insight_ and--and _expression_ and--and
_atmosphere_. Usually I had sense enough to wait till she told me what
a thing was before I talked about it; but one day, I can't ever forget
it, I praised a flock o' sheep at the back of a field she was doin' and
she said they was--was cows!"

Sobs rent the speaker and she covered her eyes.

"I told her--'twas my glasses," she went on when she could speak.
"I--told her they--hadn't been right for--a long time. She laughed--and
tried to make a joke of it, but--"

Eliza's voice was drowned in the flood.

Phil patted her shoulders and smiled across the bowed head at the
forlorn mantelpiece, where the sketches, unconscious of forgiveness,
still turned faces toward the wall.

"You've grown awfully morbid, alone here," he said, giving her a little
shake. "You should be only thankful, as I am, that Aunt Mary had you
and that you were here to take care of her to the end. Come and sit
down. She wrote me a wonderful letter. I have it in my pocket and I'll
show it to you."

Eliza obediently yielded herself to be guided to a chair. Pluto had
selected the best with unerring instinct; and suddenly into his feline
dreams an earthquake intruded as Phil tossed him lightly to the floor.

Drawing his chair close to Eliza, who had wilted back against the faded
cretonne roses, the young man drew from his pocket an envelope and took
out of it a letter, and a small card photograph.

"Mother gave me this old picture of Aunt Mary--"

Eliza pulled herself up and took it eagerly. "I must get my glasses,"
she said. "I've cried myself nearly blind."

Phil's big hand pushed her back.

"I'll get them," he returned. "Where are they?"

"There, on the end o' the mantelpiece. I had 'em, readin' an
advertisement."

She leaned back again and watched him as he crossed the room; watched
him with wonder. In years she had not so given her confidence to a
human being.

She put on the spectacles and wistfully regarded the picture of a
pretty woman whose heavy braids, wound around her head, caught the
light. Her plain dress was white and she wore black velvet bands on her
wrists.

"Aunt Mary was considered different by her friends, mother says. In a
time of frills she liked plain things."

"I guess she _was_ different," agreed Eliza devoutly. "Would you think
a man who married her would like whiskey better?"

Phil shook his head. "Sorry," he said, laconically.

"One good thing, he drank himself to death quick and left her free."

Phil held out the letter.

"Read it to me, please, Mr. Sidney."

"Can't do it," returned the young man with cheerful frankness. "It
makes my nose tingle every time."

So Eliza read the letter in silence. It took her some minutes and when
she had finished, her lip caught between her teeth, she took off her
glasses and wiped them while she regarded Phil.

"And you've got to live up to that," she said.

"I'm going to try," he answered simply.

Eliza gazed at him, her hands in her lap. She felt old beside his
youth, weak beside his strength, ignorant beside that knowledge which
had stirred her mistress to exaltation. Nevertheless, the humble love,
and desire to help him that swelled her heart was a new desire to live,
a consecration.

Presently he took his leave, promising to return in a few days for his
belongings.

After the door had closed behind him, she looked down at the cat, who
had awakened from another nap at the stir of the departure.

He rubbed against her brown calico skirt as she lighted the gas; then
she moved thoughtfully to the mantelpiece and turned the sketches about.

"Mary Sidney," she mused, looking at the graceful head of Phil's
mother, "you've had your heartache, and your sacrifices. You've been
most pulled in two, between longin' to stay with your husband and
follow your son--you told me somethin' of it in your note thankin' for
the brooch. Nobody escapes, Mary Sidney. I guess I haven't done you
justice, seein' you've raised a boy like that."

Turning to the sketch of the storm-beaten tree, she clasped her hands
before it. "Dear one," she mused tenderly, "you loved him. You was
great. You died not knowin' how great you were; and you won't care if I
do understand this kind better, 'cause all America's too ignorant for
you, and I'm one o' the worst."

Her eyes dwelt lingeringly on the sketch. She fancied she could hear
the wind whistling through the writhing branches. "It looks like my
life," she thought, "risin' out o' the mist and the cloud."

She gazed at it in silence, then turned to the destroyed photograph.
She seized the pieces quickly and turned them face up. The rent had
missed the chin and cut across the collar. She regarded the face
wistfully. The cat stretched his forepaws up her skirt until he was of
a preternatural length. It was supper-time.

"I wonder, Pluto," she said slowly, "if I couldn't fit that into a
minicher frame. Some of 'em come real reasonable."




CHAPTER V

ELIZA'S INVITATION


For the first time since she had been left alone, Eliza drank her tea
that night without tears; and no lump in her throat prevented her
swallowing the egg she had boiled.

She held Mrs. Ballard's watch in her hand a minute before getting into
bed; and looked long at its gold face, and listened to its loud and
busy ticking.

"Forgive me, Mrs. Ballard," she thought; and association added, "as we
forgive our debtors!"

"No, I can't!" she muttered fiercely. "I can't! What's the use o'
pretendin'!"

Muffling the watch in its slipper, she turned out the gas and got into
bed. Composing herself to sleep more peacefully than she had been
able to do for many a night, her last thought was of Mrs. Ballard's
heir; and a sense of comfort stole over her in the very fact of his
existence. Again she seemed to feel the sympathetic pressure of his
kind hand.

"He thinks she may be paintin' still," she reflected. "She's got colors
to work with that's most blindin', they're so gorgeous, if we can judge
anything by the sunsets at the island. Why not think so! It's just as
reasonable as playin' harps, for all I can see."

Ever since her dear one's passing, Eliza had felt too crushed and too
wicked to pray; and being unable to say the whole of her Lord's Prayer,
her New England conscience would not allow her to say any of it; but
to-night a sense of hope and gratitude lightened the darkness, and a
new gentleness crept over her countenance as it relaxed its lines in
slumber.

She wakened next morning without the load of despair on her heart; and
slowly realized what had changed her outlook. She even smiled at the
cat, who had leaped up on the foot of her bed. He understood that he
might come no nearer.

"Every single mornin', Pluto, I've been dreadin' that the day had come
I'd got to show her pictures to him. Well, that's over."

"Meow!" remarked Pluto, commenting on the selfishness of beings who
overslept.

"Yes, I know what you want." Eliza turned her head wearily on the
pillow. "'Weak as a cat'! I don't think much o' that expression. I
notice you're strong enough to get everything you want. Oh, dear, I
wonder if I'll ever feel like myself again!"

The cat jumped to the floor, and coming to the head of the bed sat down
and regarded the haggard face reproachfully.

"You're just as handsome as a picture, Pluto," mused Eliza aloud. "I
don't know as it's ever made you any worse 'n common cats."

This optimistic change of heart lightened the atmosphere of the
cheerless kitchen that morning; and Eliza drew up the shade, which let
the sun slant in past a neighboring roof for a short half-hour.

A beam struck the kittens frisking above the kitchen table, and they
seemed to spring from the shadowy gloom of their corner, flinging their
little paws about with the infantine glee which had first captivated
their owner.

"Oh, yes, you can dance, still," she murmured, addressing them
reproachfully; but she left the shade up.

It was nearly noon when her doorbell rang again. Eliza hastened to the
glass. She had on her black alpaca to-day. Sweeping-cap and apron
were remanded to their corner, and she made certain that her hair was
smooth, then went to the speaking-tube.

"Yes?" she said, and listened for the possible voice of yesterday; but
a woman's tones put the question:--

"Is this Mrs. Ballard's apartment?"

"Yes," replied Eliza briefly.

"Is this Eliza Brewster?" again asked the sweet voice.

"It is," came the non-committal admission.

"May I come up, Eliza? It's Mrs. Wright."

"Mrs. who?"

"Mrs. Wright. Don't you remember my spending the day with Mrs. Ballard
last spring, just before I went to Brewster's Island?"

"Oh, Mrs. Wright!" exclaimed Eliza in a different tone. "Excuse me for
keepin' you waitin'. Come right up."

Well Eliza recalled the enjoyment of her dear one in that visit of an
old friend, rarely seen. Mrs. Ballard's social pleasures were so few,
this day gleamed as a bright spot in memory; and, not content with
opening wide the door, Eliza went out to the head of the stairs to
receive the mounting figure.

"_She_ stood here the last time," she said brokenly, as the visitor
reached her and held out both hands to receive Eliza's.

The newcomer's silver-white hair made an aureole about the face that
looked with kindly eyes into the other's dim ones.

"I was just thinking of that as I saw you waiting," she said. "It was a
shock to me to learn that Mrs. Ballard had left us. Was it very sudden,
Eliza?"

The latter could not trust herself to speak. She nodded and ushered
Mrs. Wright into the living-room, where they both sat down, the
visitor's heart touched by the mourner's altered countenance, and the
evident struggle she was making not to give way. Her compassion showed
in her gentle face and Eliza made a brave effort to smile.

"I know I'm a sight, Mrs. Wright," she faltered. "I've never been any
hand to cry, but I've nearly washed the eyes out o' my head the past
week. I don't expect anybody to know what I've lost." Her lips twitched
and she bit them hard.

"I can very well imagine," returned the other, "for Mrs. Ballard spoke
so warmly of you to me, and told me how many years your fortunes had
been cast together. She said you were the mainspring of the house."

"Thank you, Mrs. Wright," said Eliza humbly. "Yes, I saw that she ate
and slept right. Her interests were where I couldn't follow 'cause I
didn't know enough; but she was the mainspring o' my life. It's broken,
broken. I haven't got the energy to lift a finger, nor a thing to live
for. Honestly, Mrs. Wright," added Eliza in a burst of despair, "if 't
wa'n't for the commonness of a Brewster bein' found so disrespectable
as dead in a New York flat, and strange folks layin' their hands on me,
I wouldn't 'a' lived through some o' the nights I've had since she went
away. I'd lay there and try to think o' one single person it'd make any
difference to, and there ain't one."

"My dear," returned Mrs. Wright, regarding the haggard face, "how about
your relatives on the island?"

Eliza shook her head. "The only folks o' mine that are left are
'-in-laws,' or else cousins I've scarcely heard from for twenty-five
years. They haven't troubled themselves about me, and if I'd 'a' walked
out that way, they'd only 'a' said I'd ought to be ashamed o' myself."

"And so you ought," said Mrs. Wright with her gentle smile.

"Well, I didn't anyway," said Eliza wearily. "Did you stay at the
island all summer?"

"Yes, and I'm still there. May I take off my coat, Eliza?"

The hostess started up with sudden recollection.

"I hope you'll excuse me, Mrs. Wright; if I ever had any manners
they're gone."

Slipping off the coat, and relinquishing it into Eliza's hands, the
visitor went on talking. "My husband gave up business a couple of years
ago. Perhaps Mrs. Ballard has told you that he was never a successful
business man." Mrs. Wright stifled a sigh under a bright smile. "Nobody
can be well and idle long, you know, so the next thing he began to be
ailing, the dear man, and he thought the sea would do him good; and, my
dear Eliza, it has done him so much good that we have become islanders."

"You don't mean you're going to stay there?"

The visitor nodded the silvery aureole of her hair.

"That is what I mean. Mr. Wright went fishing all summer and he thinks
he has found his niche in life. He has not been so well and happy in
years."

"You'll stay all winter?" asked Eliza incredulously.

"Yes," the visitor smiled again, "and all the winters, so far as I
know. Mr. Wright is perfectly content."

"How about you?" asked Eliza briefly. She had gone back to her chair
and frowned unconsciously into the peaceful face regarding her.

"Oh!" Mrs. Wright raised her eyebrows and gave her head a slight shake.
"'In my father's house are many mansions!' I like to feel that it is
all His house, even now, and that wherever I may live He is there, so
why should I be lonely?"

Listening to these words, it seemed to Eliza as if some lamp, kept
burning on the altar of this woman's soul, sent its steady light into
the peaceful eyes regarding her.

"It's a good thing you can get comfort that way," she responded, rather
awkwardly. "I know it must 'a' been a struggle to consent to it--any
one used to a big city like Boston. What does your niece say to it?"

"Violet was with me a while. I am visiting her here now."

"She teaches, don't she?--the languages, or something?" inquired Eliza
vaguely.

"No, gymnastic dancing and other branches of physical culture. She
works hard, and no place ever rested her like the island, she thought.
Do you remember Jane Foster?"

The corners of Eliza's mouth drew down in a smiling grimace of
recollection.

"Do I remember Jennie Foster!" she said. "We grew up together."

"Well, she keeps a boarding-house in Portland now in winters and comes
to the old home, summers. We boarded with her, and now, instead of
closing up the place, she has rented it to me."

Eliza shook her head. "Pretty high up," she commented. "Some o' those
February gales will pretty near shave you off the hill."

"A good many husky generations have been brought up and gone forth into
the world out of that house," said Mrs. Wright cheerfully. "There are
some trees, you know. Do you remember the apple orchard?"

"Huh!" commented Eliza. "I know how the scrawny little things look when
they're bare! A lot o' shelter they'll be."

Mrs. Wright dropped her head a little to one side and her kind grey
eyes rested on Eliza's grief-scarred face. "I'm glad I came to see
you," she said irrelevantly.

"I'm a kind of a Job's comforter, I'm afraid. When I've thought of
anything the past fortnight I've thought about Brewster's Island,--a
sort of a counter-irritant, I guess."

"No, no, we can't have that. You mustn't call the Blessed Isle by such
a name."

"Perhaps it won't be such a Blessed Isle after you've spent a winter
there," remarked Eliza drily.

Mrs. Wright smiled. "I know it was your native place, and I hoped you
might have pleasant associations with it."

Eliza sighed wearily. "Yes, if I could be twelve years old again, and
go coastin' and skatin', and when it was dark tumble into bed under
the eaves with a hot bag o' sand to keep the sheets from freezin' me,
I should like it, I s'pose. I used to; but nobody on that snow-covered
hill cares whether I'm alive or dead, and that cruel black ocean that
swallowed up my father one night, and killed my mother, _that_ roarin'
around the island in the freezin' gale is the only thing I can see and
hear when I think of the winter."

"Then you have been thinking of going back to the island?"

"Well, it's either that or goin' into somebody's kitchen,
here." Eliza's mouth twitched grimly. "Mrs. Fabian offered me a
recommendation."

"Oh, yes. The Fabians were very kind to Violet this summer."

"You don't say so! I'm glad they can be kind to somebody."

The bitterness of Eliza's tone impressed her visitor. "Mrs. Ballard was
Mrs. Fabian's aunt, I believe," she ventured.

"I believe so, too," said Eliza, "but nothing she ever did proved it."

Mrs. Wright veered away from dangerous ground. "I have been thinking of
you a great deal since I learned of Mrs. Ballard's going, and I wanted
at least to see you before I went back." There was a little pause,
then she added: "It occurred to me that you might be going home to the
island--"

"I haven't any home there," interrupted Eliza stoically.

"--and I was going to ask you, in that case, if you wouldn't eat your
Thanksgiving dinner with me."

Eliza looked at her visitor, startled.

"Think of me," she said slowly, "eatin' a Thanksgivin'
dinner--anywhere."

Mrs. Wright felt a pang at her heart under the desolation of the voice.
It seemed the voice of the forlorn room in which they sat. She rose
to hide the look in her eyes, and moving to the mantel took up the
sketches that stood there.

"Are these interesting things Mrs. Ballard's work?" she asked.

Eliza was clutching the meagre arms of her chair until her knuckles
whitened. How fate was softening toward her! The thought that this
friend of her lost one would have her own hearth on the dreaded island
warmed the winter prospect. A link with Mrs. Ballard. A friend with
whom she might talk of her. The rift made yesterday in her submerging
clouds widened.

"Mrs. Wright," she said, unheeding the visitor's question, "you're
religious, I know, 'cause you quoted the Bible, and 'cause you take
cheerfully bein' buried in a snowdrift on Brewster's Island instead
of havin' the things you're accustomed to. So I want you to know
before you invite me to have Thanksgivin' dinner with you that I'm
the wickedest woman in New York. I haven't said a prayer since Mrs.
Ballard died. I hate Mrs. Fabian for her neglect of her, and I did hate
the young man Mrs. Ballard left her little bit o' money to."

Mrs. Wright, holding the sketch of Mary Sidney, turned and looked at
the speaker.

"Hated him 'cause he was an artist, and I didn't believe he'd
appreciate her work, but just spend her savings careless. That's
his mother you've got in your hand, and that's him, layin' on the
mantelpiece torn across the middle."

Eliza's aspect as she talked was wild. Mrs. Wright picked up the torn
pieces and fitted them together. In fancy she saw Eliza rending the
card. She felt that she understood all; the heart-break, the starvation
fare of tea, tears, and misery, and the blank future.

"His name's Philip Sidney, and his mother was Mrs. Ballard's niece and
namesake. Yesterday he came. He was altogether different from what I
expected. He took a load off o' my mind and heart. I don't begrudge him
anything."

"You're sorry, then, that you tore this handsome picture."

"Oh, I didn't--'cause Mrs. Ballard set such store by it. I only
turned it to the wall. 'Twas he tore it. He said it was too pretty
or something. He does look different. The picture's kind o' dreamin'
lookin' and he's so awake he--well, he sparkles."

Mrs. Wright smiled at the haggard speaker.

"I'm so glad you like him. Has he come to New York to study?"

"Yes; he had to be a mining engineer when he wanted to paint. So now
he's goin' to study with Mrs. Ballard's money."

"Why--I remember," said Mrs. Wright, thoughtfully regarding the
sketches. "Mrs. Ballard told me about him in the spring." She looked up
again at her hostess. "You've been through a great deal, Eliza," she
said, "and you've tried to go alone."

"I had to go alone," returned Eliza fiercely; "but I can be honest if I
am lonely and I won't sit down at your table without your knowin' that
I'm a sinner. Don't talk religion to me either," she added, "'cause I
ain't the kind it would do any good to."

Mrs. Wright came back to her chair and her eyes were thoughtful.

"I have a better idea still," she said. "For how long have you this
apartment?"

"One week more."

"Oh, only a week. Then, supposing you come and live with me this
winter."

Eliza leaned back in her chair, speechless. The grey wall of the
future slowly dissolved. The possibility of friendship--of a home--was
actually unnerving in its contrast to all she had steeled herself to
endure.

"Come and help me, Eliza," went on the gentle voice. "Show me how to
meet an island winter. I believe between us we can make a cosy sort of
season of it."

"Cosy!" echoed Eliza's dry lips.

"Yes. There by the gnarled little apple trees, handicapped by winter
winds, and the forlorn little chicken-house that stands near the
orchard. Do you remember that?"

"Yes," answered Eliza mechanically. "'T wa'n't always a chicken-house.
Polly Ann Foster built it 'cause she quarrelled with her son and
wouldn't live with him. I was a little girl and we were all scared of
her. When she died they began using it for the hens."

"Well, it's empty and forlorn now. Miss Foster can't keep chickens and
go back to Portland every fall. That's our only near neighbor, you
remember."

"I remember. Why should you be such an angel to me?" burst forth Eliza.

"Is that being an angel? Why, I'm so glad. You know I might be a little
bit lonely at the island. Mr. Wright is pretty sleepy in the evening
and the house rambles. We'll shut up part of it, Eliza, won't we?"

"Oh, Mrs. Wright!" exclaimed the lonely woman, every trace of her
fierceness gone. "What a godsend you're givin' me."

"Then it's settled; and Violet will be so glad. She isn't quite pleased
with our plan for the winter."




CHAPTER VI

BROTHER AND SISTER


Kathleen Fabian sat at her desk, deeply engrossed in the theme she was
writing, when her brother's name was brought to her.

The expression of her face as she took the card did not indicate that
the surprise was wholly joyous. She frowned and bit her lip, and an
anxious look grew in her eyes as she went out into the hall to meet the
visitor, who advanced with bounds, and grasped her in one arm, giving
her cheek a brotherly peck.

"What has happened, Edgar?" she asked as he led her back into her room.

"I've come to see you, that's all," was the rejoinder.

Edgar Fabian was an airy youth, carefully arrayed in the height of
fashion. His fair hair was brushed until it reflected the light, and
his jaunty assurance was wont to carry all before it.

"Is anything wrong at home?" insisted his sister.

"Certainly not."

They were now inside the room and the young man closed the door.

"Well, I haven't any money," said Kathleen bluntly,--"at least, not for
you!"

Edgar was but little taller than she, and, as she looked at him now,
her serious slender face opposed to his boyish one, her peculiar slow
speech, in which her teeth scarcely closed, sounding lazy beside his
crispness, she seemed the elder of the two.

"This leaping at conclusions is too feminine a weakness for you to
indulge in, Kath," was the rejoinder as the visitor slid out of a
silk-lined overcoat; but he rested his gaze upon his sister's dark hair
rather than the eyes beneath. "I like your hospitality," he added. "I
hope it isn't presumption for me to remove my coat. Try to control your
joy when your brother comes up from New York to see you."

"Of course I should always be glad to see you if--if you'd let me," was
the reply.

"What's to prevent?" inquired the visitor cheerfully.

"My diary," was the laconic response.

"Oh, you make me tired," said Edgar, taking out a cigarette-case. "May
I?"

"No," returned Kathleen, speaking with her characteristic deliberation.

"You may have one, too"; he offered his case, still standing, since she
did not sit. He smiled as he said it; the evenness of his teeth and the
glee of his smile had melted much ice before now.

"No, thanks," she answered coldly.

He gave an exclamation.

"Oh, your grave and reverend senior airs won't go down with me, you
know." He sniffed suspiciously. "Some one has been having a whiff here
this morning."

"It wasn't I."

"Well, it was somebody; and some one more critical than I is liable to
drop in here and notice it. Just to save you trouble, I'll light up.
Better take one. It's your golden opportunity."

Again he offered the case, and now Kathleen took a cigarette
mechanically. She still questioned her brother's debonair countenance.

"Well," he said impatiently, after a moment of silence, "are we going
to stand here until dinner-time like two tenpins?"

"Are you going to stay until dinner-time?"

"Why," with another effort at gayety, "if you go on like this and
positively won't take no for an answer, perhaps I shall be obliged to.
Say, Kath, what's the matter with you? You used to be a good fellow.
College has ruined you. I didn't treat you like this when you came to
see me."

"Forgive me, Edgar," Kathleen's drawl became very nearly an
exclamation. "I was thinking so hard."

She dropped into a chair and he lighted his cigarette, and bending
forward allowed her to draw the flame into her own.

"Now, this is something like it," remarked the young man, sinking
upon a leather-covered divan. He picked up a guitar that lay at its
head, and strummed lightly upon it. "Think of your giving house-room
to anything so light-minded as a guitar!" he added, his disapproving
eyes roving about the entire apartment. "This room looks more like a
hermit's cell every time I come."

"No," rejoined Kathleen, with her soft laziness of speech, and blowing
a ring of smoke upon the air, "it is only that you have time to forget
between your visits."

Edgar removed his cigarette and began to murmur "The Owl and the Pussy
Cat," in a tenor voice calculated to pour oil on troubled waters,
while he struck the accompanying chords with a sure touch.

    "They took some honey, and plenty of money,
    Wrapped up in a five-pound note!"

he sang. "Think of it!" he groaned, pausing to save the life of his
cigarette; "plenty of money! Who wouldn't be an owl or a pussy-cat!"

Kathleen's eyes narrowed.

"You speak of the rarity of my visits," he went on. "I suppose you
think it is nothing to take a few hours out of a business day to run up
here."

Kathleen smiled. "On the contrary, I think it so much of a thing that
it always startles me to get your card on a week day, and you seem to
have other uses for your Sundays."

"Very well," returned her brother, strumming the guitar with conscious
rectitude; "know then that the Administration sent me up here to-day on
business."

"With me?"

"No" (singing)--

      'Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I will pledge--'"

"Edgar!" protested the girl lazily, "it's too early in the day for
that."

"Hello, grave and reverend senior," he retorted. "I didn't know you
were so much of a connoisseur."

The girl's reply had a sad note.

"I wish you would do something with that voice," she said.

The singer smiled. He was now smoking again, and strumming the melody
of the song. Perhaps he was thinking that he had done a good deal with
his voice.

"I don't know that it has been altogether wasted," he replied.

"Carrying off the honors as the singing-girl in a college play isn't
what I mean."

"Oh, I'm sure it isn't," scoffed the possessor of the voice. "I'd take
long odds that what you mean involves something that would come under
the head of work spelled with a capital W--"

"Think of a _man butterfly_!" ejaculated Kathleen, removing her
cigarette and her drawl for an unwonted verbal explosion. "Edgar, _I_
should have been the man, and you the girl in our family."

"I should object," he rejoined calmly, all his attention apparently
concentrated on the compassing of some intricate fingering of the
guitar strings.

"Think of your rooms at college and this!" went on Kathleen.

"I'd like mighty well to have a squint at the loved and lost to take
the taste of this out of my mouth," returned the visitor imperturbably.

"How is father?" asked Kathleen, relapsing into her usual manner.

"Smaht," rejoined Edgar.

At the reminder of Brewster's Island, Kathleen's eyes smiled, then grew
grave. "I can't bear to have you call father the Administration," she
said.

"Why not?--you didn't want me to call him Governor."

"It sounds so--so disrespectful."

"Not to me. I think it suggests salaams."

"No, Edgar--slams; but I don't want to joke."

"I'm sure of it," interpolated the guitar-playing one.

"Stop that noise a minute, please."

He obeyed.

"I wish you wouldn't speak of father so coldly."

"Then it'll be likely to be hotly, and at that you'd make a fuss,"
returned the youth doggedly.

"He is a good father," declared the girl, the lingering words coming
devoutly.

"Yes," retorted Edgar drily. "Perhaps, if your little day-dream could
come true and you be the son, you wouldn't think so."

"I believe it is father's fault largely," said Kathleen. "He began by
spoiling you."

"Then, if I'm spoiled, what's the use of kicking?--and if he's done it
he must pay for it; but that's just what he won't do--pay for it."

The speaker stubbed the light out of his cigarette and tossed it on the
table. He rose and walked the floor.

"He has put you in his office," said Kathleen. "He will give you every
chance to rise."

"Yes, and meanwhile pays me a salary smaller than the allowance he gave
me at college."

"Because," said the girl, "he found that you couldn't even keep within
that. He knew you must wake up."

"What occasion?" demanded Edgar, standing still to gesture. "I'm the
only son. Look at the money he has."

"And has worked for; _worked_ for, Edgar. Can't you understand?
Supposing you had worked like that, and had a son who dipped into the
bag with both hands and threw your money away."

"I don't want to throw it away. I get one hundred cents' worth of fun
out of every dollar I spend. What more does he want? I didn't ask to be
born, did I? I didn't ask to have expensive tastes. Why should I have
to ride in a taxicab?"

"You don't. There are the street cars."

Edgar's blond face turned upon her angrily. "When do you suppose I want
a machine? When I'm doddering around with a cane?"

"Earn it, then."

"Yes, I can on a petty few hundreds a year!"

"You drive down with father every morning, don't you?"

"No, I don't. I have to get there before he does."

Kathleen laughed. "What an outrage!"

"I take the car first and then it goes back for him," said Edgar
sulkily.

"Oh, the cruelty of some parents!" drawled Kathleen, knocking the ash
from her cigarette. "The idea of Peter going back for father. He should
stand in Wall Street awaiting your orders."

"No, he shouldn't, but I should have a motor of my own. The Ad. is more
old-fashioned than any of the other fathers in our set." The speaker
paused and gestured defensively. "You'll get off all that ancient stuff
about the new generation wanting to begin where the old left off. Of
course we do. Why not? I hope my son will begin where I leave off."

Kathleen gave her one-sided smile--her Mona Lisa smile her admirers
called it:--

"Where you leave off is not liable to be a bed of roses if you keep on
as you've begun." She looked up at her brother gravely as she tapped
the end of her cigarette and dropped it in the ash receiver. "Why don't
you use your brains?" she asked. "Can't you see that the more father
notices that you have no ambition, the tighter he will draw the rein?"

"I have plenty of ambition."

"For work?"

"Oh, you make me tired!"

The young man resumed his impatient walk.

The sister leaned back in her chair, her dark eyes following him,
without the hint of a smile.

"I'd like to see you tired," she said seriously.

He turned on her. "Ever see me after a polo game?"

"But life isn't a game, Edgar."

He opened his eyes at her and grimaced scornfully.

"The grave and reverend senior again; nearly ready to graduate, and
inform the world that

    'Life is real, life is earnest,
    And the grave is not its goal!'

Might as well be in the grave at once as dig and grind the days away.
Heaven help us when you get home! I suppose you must go through the
fine-spun theory stage like the usual attack of measles."

"Measles are catching," remarked Kathleen quietly.

"Exactly! but I'm mighty glad I'm immune from the know-it-all disease."

"That would mean that you'd had it, Edgar, and you never did have it;
not even a rash. Open the window, please. We're a little blue in here."

Edgar threw open the unoffending window with a force that threatened
the mechanism.

"No doubt," he said, "you'd like to have me live, like that cowboy, in
a stable, and get my own meals."

"A garage would suit you better, I suppose," returned Kathleen. "What
are you talking about?"

"Hasn't mother written you of the genius who has come out of the wild
and woolly to get his Pegasus curried in New York?"

"Has mother taken up a genius?--Mother, of all people!"

"Why, she's had him at the house, and insists on my being civil to him;
but I haven't seen him yet. I get enough of him right at the breakfast
and dinner table without hunting up the stable. His ambition is at the
bottom of my coffee cup, and his genius for hard work is served as an
entrée every night."

"Oh,"--Kathleen's face gained a ray of interest,--"you mean that cousin
of ours."

"He's no cousin," retorted Edgar. "He's one of mother's fifty-seven
varieties, a sort of step-neighbor-in-law of ours. When father and
mother were out at the mine they met him. I think it was up to him to
stay out there and make that mine pay. I think if he'd shown a little
genius for hard work right there, it would have been more to the point."

"Yes, mother wrote me." Kathleen's tone was tinged with the interest in
her eyes. "What is his name, now?"

"Sidney," responded Edgar with open disgust. "Oh, I'm authority on
his name all right,--Philip Sidney; I've had it dinged into my ears
faithfully."

"A name to live up to," remarked the girl. "It was interesting, Aunt
Mary leaving him her money."

"It would have been more interesting if she'd had anything to leave."

Edgar had thrown himself back on the divan and was watching curtains
and smoke draw out the window.

"Do you remember," continued his sister, "what nice cookies Aunt Mary
used to give us when we were little? Mother felt sorry not to be here
when she died."

"Oh, mother's ripping," declared Edgar, his cheerfulness
restored by some inspiriting memory. "She's had a hand-to-hand,
knock-down-and-drag-out with the old gargoyle that holds the fort over
there at Aunt Mary's."

"What do you mean?" drawled Kathleen with faint disgust.

"Mother gave a graphic account of the fray at dinner one night. I
wasn't giving the story my whole attention, but I gathered that she
and the doughty Eliza each got hold of one end of Aunt Mary's camel's
hair shawl and had a tug of war; and Eliza's cat won the day for her by
jumping on mother and nearly clawing her furs off."

"Edgar," protested Kathleen, "your bump of respect is an intaglio!"

"Well, I think I've got it about right. There were diamonds mixed up in
it too. I believe Eliza wears a diamond tiara at her work so as to keep
it away from mother; while the parent of the worshipful Philip came in
for a diamond necklace, and mother was left nothing but cold neglect."

"Absurd!" breathed Kathleen. "Aunt Mary was poor as a church mouse."

"Well, whatever happened, the fur was rising on the back of mother's
neck, and I didn't know but there would be a silver lining to the cloud
and she'd cut Philip Sidney; but," with a heavy sigh, "no such luck.
The cowboy still gallops his Pegasus over my prostrate body every meal."

"What do you mean by a stable?" asked Kathleen.

"Why, Pegasus has to have one, I suppose."

"Is that all? Are you only being witty?"

"Not a bit of it. You know the literal truth is all I'm ever up to.
The genius has a room over a stable, and an oil stove!"

"Why a stable?"

"Convenient for Pegasus, I suppose," responded Edgar carelessly.
"Beside, doubtless he would feel out of place in any abode more
civilized."

"Edgar Fabian, that's nonsense. I remember his mother, when she came
East years ago, don't you?"

"They're as poor as Job's turkey," said Edgar with a careless shrug.
"That's why he jumped at Aunt Mary's pittance like a trout at a fly."

"Oh, Edgar, what an object-lesson for you!" Kathleen clasped her hands.

"Oh, of course!" ejaculated Edgar, his even teeth very much clenched.

"You ought to go to see him!"

"So I've heard," with intense sarcasm. "Mother has bored the life out
of me."

"It isn't civil not to," said Kathleen, relapsing into languor. "He's a
sort of a relative."

"Yes. The sort to keep away from. If I went up there, it would be to
take his mahl-stick and smash his face."

"Nice, hospitable plan," remarked Kathleen. "Possibly he wouldn't
permit it."

"Oh, I've no doubt he'd think it was real mean and pick up a fan and
slap me on the wrist. Oh, forget him! Say, Kath," as if with sudden
remembrance, "do you know I came off without my purse to-day?"

The girl's eyes gained a curious expression. She was silent a moment,
hands clasped around her knee. Under her gaze her brother picked up the
guitar again and his nervous fingers swept the strings.

"I thought you said this was a business trip."

"It is. Go down and ask them at the bank if I didn't put a bee in their
bonnet this morning."

"Then the house pays your expenses. Your purse didn't have to suffer."

"Oh, well, if you want the literal truth, I'm flat broke."

"You always are flat broke at this time in the month. Why shouldn't _I_
be?--as a matter of fact, I am."

Edgar frowned. "What have you been buying?"

"A new microscope. I've saved for it, Edgar."

The girl cast a warm glance across the room to where, on a table, stood
a tall slender object covered with a cloth.

"Saved for it!" was the disgusted response. "Shameful idea when the Ad.
could just as well buy you an observatory."

"I don't believe father is nearly as rich as you think he is," said the
girl defensively.

"He's the prize tight-wad. That's what he is. Look at our summers!
Isn't it enough that instead of Newport the Fabians rusticate on
Brewster's Island?"

"He met mother there. He loves it."

"Well, I can tell you, mother would exchange a whole lot of sentiment
for one good whirl at Newport or some other place where there are live
ones! Say, Kath, be a good fellow. You can spare a dime or so. Ten
dollars would be better than nothing. I'll give it back the first of
the month, honor bright. Think of my having to depend on taxis! It
would make angels weep."

The sister continued to regard him and he reddened under the pensive
gaze, and twanged the guitar.

"You never have paid me back the first of the month and I wish you
wouldn't promise," she said at last; "but I'll tell you what I'll
do. I'm coming home to spend Sunday and I will give you the ten
dollars--it's all I have just now--if you will take me to see that
cousin of ours."

"What cousin?" asked Edgar.

"Aunt Mary's heir. The artist."

"Why are you determined to stuff him down my throat? He is absolutely
no kin to us and has no demand on us. I decline."

"Then I shall go with mother," declared Kathleen, in her laziest drawl.
"I'm sure she will take me. I am interested in his determination. I
want to see--his oil stove. I want to pat Pegasus."

"Go, then, and much good may it do you!" Edgar put down the guitar and
started up. "Where's the ten, Kath? Awful sorry to bother you."

The girl did not rise. She shook her head.

"You haven't earned it. I've decided you must work for this one, before
it follows its predecessors to that bourne from which no bank-note
returneth."

There was an unusual sparkle in the eyes that met the blue ones.

"You said you could go with mother," protested Edgar.

"I can if I have to, but I prefer to hunt up stables with a man."

"Oh, confound it! you always get your own way. Fork over, then. I'll go
with you; but it just means fastening him right on us. We'll be cousins
then for sure."

Kathleen went to her closet and reappeared with the ten dollar bill.
With a gesture of farewell she touched her finger to her lips and
bestowed the kiss on the bank-note.

Her brother looked at his watch.

"Great Scott! I've got to hike for that train," he said; and wriggling
into his overcoat he kissed his sister's cheek, and hurried away.




CHAPTER VII

THE FLITTING


It was Eliza's last day in the apartment. Out of respect to probable
scruples on the part of her future hostess as to travelling on Sunday,
she had planned to sit idle this Sabbath day, although everything was
packed and she was ready to start.

By Mrs. Wright's advice she had sold nearly all the shabby furnishings
of the apartment. She had eaten a picnic luncheon in the forlorn
kitchen, from whence even the gambolling kittens had fled to the bottom
of Eliza's trunk, and now sat on a camp-chair in the middle of the
empty parlor, as solitary as Alexander Selkirk on his island, monarch
of all she surveyed, which was a pair of green eyes glowering at her
from behind the wire network in the side of a wicker basket, which
reposed on the only other chair in the room.

Stern and inexorable looked Eliza sitting in state on the camp-chair,
and furious glared the jewel eyes back at her.

"You've got to get used to it, Pluto," she said. "Do you suppose I like
it any better than you do? I don't know as you're so bad off either. I
think I'd like to be put in a bag and carried to Brewster's Island with
no care of cars or boats or anything else. You always do get the best
of it."

Eliza looked very haggard. It had been a wrenching week, packing her
dear one's belongings, and selling into careless, grudging hands the
old furniture with its tender associations.

Philip had been too busy to come to her aid. They had exchanged notes.
She had addressed him at the Fabians', and he had replied that he had
taken a room, and asked that his belongings be stacked up somewhere. He
promised that he would come for them early Sunday afternoon.

So now she was waiting, her capable hands folded in her black alpaca
lap, and her face expressing endurance.

"I'm countin' the hours, Pluto," she declared. "This place is misery
to me now. I feel just as much in a strange garret as you do in that
basket. I just wish Mr. Sidney'd come and take his things and then
there won't be much more daylight to look around here in. And I hope
you won't act like all possessed when we start for the train nor when
we get on it."

"Meow!" cried Pluto, exasperated.

"There now!" exclaimed Eliza, in trepidation--"you do that just once
when the train's standin' still, and where'll we be! I've always
thought you had a little more intelligence than the law allows; and if
you go to actin' like an alley cat you'll disappoint me dreadfully!"

Eliza rose anxiously and threw herself on her knees beside the basket
and opened it. Pluto sprang out, and she caught him and pressed her
thin cheek against his fur in a rare caress. Her eyes stung in her
effort to repress tears.

"Oh, law! I'm sick o' myself," she muttered. "Cryin'! cryin'! gracious,
what a fool! I'd ought to sold you to somebody, I suppose,"--she clung
tighter to the handsome creature and buried her eyes in his glossy
coat,--"or given you away, more likely. Who'd want to pay anything for
a cat that don't know how bothersome it's goin' to be to get the right
train, and hasn't the decency to keep his mouth shut, and--Oh!" as a
knock sounded on the door. "There he is now."

The glow of Eliza's one interview with Mrs. Ballard's heir had faded
long ago. The sordid and wounding events of the week had eclipsed
whatever cheer he had brought her, and it was only as one of the events
of her flitting that she looked forward to his advent this afternoon,
and the departure of the last and most intimate of her dear one's
possessions.

The knock on the door preceded its immediate opening.

"May I come in?"

The long step took the little hall in three strides.

The sight that met the newcomer's eyes was the bare room, with Eliza
kneeling in front of an open basket, clasping Pluto to her breast. The
woman's face and posture were dramatic.

"Deserted!" was the word that rose to Phil's lips, but he repressed it.
He would not twit on facts; but his all-observing eyes shone.

"I'm always wanting to paint you, Eliza," he said. "Sometime I will,
too."

"Me!" returned Eliza drearily. "You'll be hard up when you take me."

"So far as that goes, I'm hard up now. That's chronic," responded Phil
cheerfully. "What are you doing--not taking leave of that king among
cats? If you're leaving him behind, I speak for him."

"H'm!" exclaimed Eliza, loosening her clasp of her pet and rising.
"You'd made a bad bargain if you took Pluto." She removed the basket
from its chair. "Sit down, Mr. Sidney," she said wearily, resuming her
own seat. "It's too forlorn for you to stay, but maybe you'd like to
ketch your breath before you take the things."

Philip picked up the basket and looked curiously at its wire window.

"Yes," continued Eliza. "I'm taking Pluto, so I had to have that. It
was an extravagance, and he ain't worth it. I despise to see folks
cartin' cats and dogs around. I didn't think I'd ever come to it; but
somehow I'm--used to that selfish critter, and he's--he's all the folks
I've got. It never once came to me that you'd take him."

"Indeed I would," replied Phil; "and wait till you see the place I have
for him. Rats and mice while you wait, I suppose, though I haven't seen
any yet."

"Oh, well," returned Eliza hastily, her eyes following Pluto as he
rubbed himself against Phil's leg. "I've got the basket now. I guess
I'll have to use it."

"It's a shame I haven't been here to help you," said Phil. "You've had
a hard week, I know, but I've had a busy one."

"You've got a room, you say," said Eliza listlessly. "Rats and mice.
That don't sound very good."

Phil smiled. "I don't know,--as I say, I haven't seen them yet; but
Pluto would be a fine guard to keep them off my blankets. I don't
believe, though, there's been any grain in there for a good while."

"Grain!" repeated Eliza.

Phil laughed. "I'll tell you about it later; but first, may I have the
things? I have an expressman down at the door. I rode over here with
him in state. Good thing I didn't meet Mrs. Fabian."

Eliza's thin lip curled as she rose. She led Philip to a room, in the
middle of which was gathered a heterogeneous collection of articles.
"In this box is the paintin' things," she said, touching a wooden case.
"In this barrel is some dishes. I couldn't get anything for 'em anyway,
and you wrote you was going to get your own breakfasts."

"Capital," put in Phil; "and here's a bedstead."

"Yes, and the spring and mattress," returned Eliza. "It's Mrs.
Ballard's bed. I couldn't sell it."

Philip regarded the disconnected pieces dubiously--"I guess I'd have to
be amputated at the knees to use that."

"Well,"--Eliza shook her head quickly. "Take it anyway, and do what
you've a mind to with it, only don't tell me. The beddin''s in the
barrel with the dishes--you said you'd be glad of a chair, so here's
one, and the two in the parlor are for you. You can take 'em right
along. I haven't got very long to wait anyway. I calc'late to go to the
station early."

Phil touched her shoulder with his hand.

"I'll see that you get to the station early enough."

"You mustn't think o' me," said Eliza, as Phil picked up some of the
furniture and started for the stairs.

When he returned for the next load he brought the expressman with him.
Together they took the last of the articles down the stairway.

Eliza stood at the top and watched the final descent.

"Good-bye Mr. Sidney," she said.

He smiled brightly up at her across a couple of chairs, and the easel.

"Good-bye for five minutes."

"No, no," said Eliza; "don't you come back." She winked violently
toward the receding cap of the expressman. "You'd better ride right
over with the things just the way you came."

"All right," responded Phil laughing. "_Bon voyage!_"

"Hey?" asked Eliza.

"Have a good trip. My respects to Pluto."

She went back into the apartment and closed the door. It seemed
emptier, stiller than ever after the little flurry of moving.

"It was clever of him," she thought gratefully, "not to let the other
man handle the easel."

Now, indeed, desolation settled upon Eliza Brewster. Pluto's short tail
stiffened in the majestic disapproval with which he walked about the
room in search of an oasis of comfort.

Eliza heard his protesting meows. She stood still at the window looking
out on the grey November sky. "I haven't got a chair to sit down on,
Pluto," she said. "It's got past cryin'!"

She took out the gold-faced watch that was ticking against her thin
bosom. Two hours yet before there would be any reason in going to the
station. Suddenly it occurred to her that she had placed flannel in
the bottom of the cat's travelling-basket. This would be the golden
opportunity to endear the spot to his forlorn feline heart.

She tucked the watch back in its hiding-place. "Here, kitty, kitty,
kitty!" she cried.

No response. The receding meows had ceased. She looked perplexed; then
an illuminating thought occurred to her. Tables there were none, but
the square top of the kitchen range remained. On this she had spread
clean papers and upon them had laid her coat and hat, and the shabby
boa and muff of black astrachan which had belonged to her dear one.

She hastened down the hall. Her intuition had not failed. Upon this
bed, his glossy coat revealing the rustiness of the garments, lay Pluto
curled up, regardless of vicissitudes.

Eliza had scarcely swept him off his bed when the outer door of the
apartment opened again, and closed.

"There," called a cheerful voice; "that's finished. Business before
pleasure."

Eliza hastened out into the hall. "You, Mr. Sidney?" she exclaimed in
surprise. "Why, you haven't had time to get over there. Is your room
so near?"

"Oh, no. We've been making the wagon artistically safe, so as not to
smash any of Aunt Mary's valuables." The speaker, strong and breezy,
smiled reassuringly into Eliza's anxious face.

"You'd ought to gone with him," she said. "Do you suppose the folks'll
let him in all right."

"There aren't any folks but English sparrows," returned Phil. "I don't
think they'll object."

"What are you sayin'?" demanded Eliza. "If there's a house in this
city where there ain't any folks, I didn't know it. It's queer, ain't
it, Mr. Sidney, that it's folks make loneliness. Now, this buildin''s
running over with _folks_, but there ain't an apartment where I could
go in and say good-bye. They're always movin' in and movin' out like
ants, and it makes it worse than if there was nobody. It was clever of
you to come back, but don't you stay, 'cause there ain't any place to
sit but the floor, and I'm going in just a few minutes to leave the key
where I promised the agent I would, and then on to the station."

"When does your train go?" asked Phil.

"I ain't just certain," replied Eliza evasively. "I'll get there in
good season."

"I'm sure you will." Phil's eyes looked very kind. "How did you happen
to take a night train?"

"Well, I didn't know as Mrs. Wright would want me to travel on Sunday."

"Isn't it Sunday in the afternoon?"

"Not after six o'clock," replied Eliza hastily. "We could play dominoes
after six o'clock when I was a youngster."

"Aha," said Phil. "Then that train doesn't go till after six. It isn't
yet three."

"Now, Mr. Sidney,"--Eliza was frowning at her own blunder,--"I wish
you wouldn't trouble yourself. The station's nice and warm. I expect
Pluto'll act like all possessed, but I didn't calc'late to have any
comfort with him. I'd been practisin' with him in the basket before you
came to-day."

Eliza's careworn brow went to her visitor's heart.

"Where are you to leave the key? I'll take it for you."

"Oh, you needn't. It's the janitor, right here in the buildin'."

"Then it's all clear sailing," said Phil. "Get on your things, Eliza."

"It's a little early," she demurred. "If it wasn't for Pluto I wouldn't
care; but you go along, Mr. Sidney, and don't think anything more about
us. You ought to go and see that those goods get in all right."

"We'll be there to meet them. Do you suppose I would let you leave New
York without seeing where I'm going to live? And do you suppose I'd let
you out of my sight anyway till I put you on the train?"

"Dear me!" returned Eliza, fluttered, but feeling as if the sun had
suddenly peeped through the November clouds. "I never thought--" she
stopped undecidedly.

"Well, I did," said Phil heartily. "It's a shame that I haven't helped
you any this hard week. Where's Pluto?"

"He may be back on the stove again," returned Eliza. "I don't dare take
my eyes off him." She moved quickly toward the kitchen, and there on
her habiliments lay the cat; but at sight of her he leaped guiltily to
the floor.

Phil, following, laughed. "Well, things have come to a pretty pass
when you have to hang your coat up on the stove." He looked about
the spotless place. "I wonder if this apartment will ever be so clean
again."

"Oh, I'm clean," admitted Eliza. "Mr. Sidney,"--she paused again, her
coat in her hand, and faced him,--"you don't want to go traipsing
through the streets o' New York with an old woman and a cat!"

"That's where you're wrong," returned Phil. "You're the only girl I
have in town. It's highly proper that we should go walking of a Sunday
afternoon. You get on your things, and I'll wrestle with Pluto."

The cat, suspecting that whatever plan was afoot was not entirely
according to his taste, led Phil a short chase; but all the havens
which usually harbored his periods of rebellion having disappeared,
he was soon captured, and when Eliza, hatted and coated, entered the
living-room, Phil had laid the cat on the flannel in the bottom of the
basket, and was keeping him there by reassuring caresses.

"Ain't he just as kind as he can be!" thought Eliza.

"Ready?" asked Phil, and closed the basket. He met Pluto's gaze through
the window.

"It's all right, old chap," he laughed.

He was not unmindful of the advantage of this diversion of Eliza's
mind, in leaving the apartment forever. He had a green memory of her
stormy emotion. He tried to take the key from her now as they stepped
outside.

"No," she said briefly, "I'll close this chapter myself," and she
locked the door.

Philip balanced the basket ostentatiously. "Believe me," said he,
"Pluto is some cat! How did you expect to get on with him alone?"

"I calc'lated to get a boy," replied Eliza in an unsteady voice.
Memories were crowding her.

"Well, you have one," returned Phil, leading the way downstairs.

"But I'm strong, too. You've heard about the woman that carried the
calf uphill every day till it was a cow? I've had Pluto ever since his
eyes was open."

"Well, you'd need some hill-climbing with him to fit you for taking the
elevated."

"Yes, I did some dread those steps. It's certainly clever of you, Mr.
Sidney. They say the lame and the lazy are always provided for."

Thus Eliza Brewster left her home of years. She gave the key to the
janitor and went out into the dull, damp November afternoon with her
strong escort, whose good cheer again impressed her consciousness as a
wonderful thing to have any relation to her own life.

"You've learned your way around real quick," said Eliza as they plunged
into the nearest subway station.

"This is all bluff, Eliza, and you're the most trustful woman in the
world. I want to go somewhere near Gramercy Park; but if we come out at
Harlem I shall try to look as if I lived there."

"Gramercy Park!" exclaimed Eliza; and she thought--"Well, at that rate,
Mrs. Ballard's money won't last long."

"I didn't know," she said aloud, "as you'd feel like gettin' a room in
a real fashionable neighborhood."

"I'll bet," she thought acutely, "that's Mrs. Fabian's doin's."

The subway train came crashing in, and Pluto crouched in his basket.

Eliza's suspicions and anxieties increased as, after leaving the
subway, their journey continued; and when they finally came into a
region of old and aristocratic dwellings, her eyes were round and she
could no longer keep silent. It was an outrage, an imposition, to have
influenced the young art-student to commit himself to a home in these
surroundings.

"I'd 'a' been a whole lot better person to 'a' helped you find a
place than Mrs. Fabian," she said, more and more impressed with the
incongruity of the situation. To be sure, Phil looked like a prince and
fit for any environment; but not while trudging along with a shabby,
grey-haired woman, and carrying a cat-basket.

"I know, I know, Eliza," he returned, with gay recognition of her
perturbation and disapproval. "I'm sorry sometimes that elegance and
luxury are necessary to me. It's the penalty of blue blood. Mrs. Fabian
had nothing to do with this; but I had to find my level, Eliza. Blood
will tell."

"You said rats and mice," she returned mechanically. "Are you sure
you've got the right street?"

"Sure as a homing pigeon;--by the way, I might keep pigeons! I never
thought of it."

"For the rats?" inquired Eliza with some asperity.

She had always heard that geniuses were erratic. Also that without
exception they were ignorant of the value of money. Poor Mrs. Ballard!
What a small space of time it would take for her little capital to be
licked up as by a fierce heat.

"This way," cried her escort, and swung Pluto's basket triumphantly as
he turned abruptly into an alley.

Eliza caught her breath in the midst of her resentment. "You do go in
the back way, then."

"Not a bit of it!" retorted Phil. "My proud spirit couldn't brook
anything like that." He caught Eliza's arm and hurried her pace. "We go
in the front way, please take notice!"




CHAPTER VIII

AN INTERRUPTED TEA


More bewildered every moment, Eliza hurried along, obediently, and in a
minute more found herself in a paved yard on which faced a stable built
of stone similar to the fine house backing upon it.

Phil threw open a side door and disclosed the round, good-natured face
of a man, leaning back in a ragged Morris chair, his feet on a deal
table.

"Hello, Pat. I've brought my best girl to show her my room."

The Irishman sprang to his feet, and grinned politely.

"They have old girls in New York," remarked Eliza drily.

"Whativer age ye are, mum," said Pat gallantly, "ye don't look it."

They passed him and ascended a narrow stair. "This is cement, Mr.
Sidney," said Eliza, "and probably no mice."

"That settles it, Pluto," remarked Phil. "You for the island."

He ushered his companion into a room, empty but for a deal table and
chair, an oil stove with a saucepan on it, and a couple of piles of
Indian blankets, two of which were spread on the floor in place of
rugs. One end of the table was piled with sketches.

"Well!" exclaimed Eliza. "Why did you--"

"Because," interrupted Phil laconically, and pointed to a double window
facing north.

"Take off your things, Eliza," he added joyously, beginning to unbutton
her coat.

"There were no horses that I saw," said the bewildered visitor.

"Family in Europe," returned Phil.

"But it's warm and comfortable."

"Have to keep fires on account of the plumbing. The coachman was a
family man before master and mistress departed, and they kept house in
two rooms up here. I have succeeded to Mrs. Maloney's kitchen. Behold
the running water. The other room is used for storage. Being single,
Pat got the job of caretaker and sleeps downstairs. Can you suggest an
improvement?"

If Eliza had thought Phil handsome before, she stared now at the
illumination of his triumphant face as his eyes questioned her.

She smiled, and there was a protesting scramble in the basket.

"Come out, Katze, of course," said the host, and, stooping, released
the prisoner.

Pluto leaped forth and made a tour of the room, smelling daintily of
the blankets.

"Of course, when I get Aunt Mary's things, you know," continued Phil.

"I wish they'd come," said Eliza, dazed and smiling. "I'd like to see
how they're goin' to look."

"They'll be here before you leave. Now, take the Turkish armchair, Miss
Brewster, and loll back while I talk to you; and pretty soon we'll have
some tea."

As he spoke the host doubled a striped blanket over the kitchen chair
and deposited Eliza. She felt dumb in the change from dismal loneliness
to this atmosphere charged with vitality.

Phil threw himself on the blanket at her feet, and leaning on one elbow
looked up into the eyes which wandered about the plastered room.

"Made to order, Eliza, made to order," he assured her. "No one but Mrs.
Fabian knows where I am, and she's not likely to interrupt me."

"Stables ain't just in her line," said Eliza. "I was afraid, comin' up
the street, that she had led you into extravagance."

"Oh, she is very kind," laughed Phil. "She was appalled when I told her
what I had found, and seemed to think my oil stove the most pathetic
thing in the world."

"Yes," remarked Eliza. "Her son Edgar'd find some trouble livin' this
way."

"I haven't met him yet."

"Nor Miss Kathleen?"

"No, she's at school, you know. Mrs. Fabian has been very good to me.
No one could be kinder, and I'm afraid I've been a rather absent-minded
guest, but getting started has been so glorious. Eliza, I'm the most
fortunate fellow in the world. Just think! Even no paper on these
walls!"

Eliza looked with disfavor at the rough greyish plaster.

"'Twould be more cheerful with some real pretty pattern," she said.

Phil laughed and caught Pluto by the back of the neck as he was
passing, and lifted him over into the hollow of his arm.

"I like it this way," he explained.

Eliza looked down at him admiringly. "I wish Mrs. Ballard could see
you now," she said.

"I wish she knew what she has done for me. It seems as if this is the
first time since my childhood that I have known peace."

At the word there came a sound of voices from below.

"The expressman!" exclaimed Phil, and springing to his feet opened the
door.

"Sure; go right up," they heard in Pat's rich brogue.

"I'd better help him," said Phil, and went to the head of the stair.

What met his astonished gaze was a large black velvet hat ascending.
It was willowy with drooping feathers, and in the dimness of the
narrow stair it eclipsed the motive power which was lifting it. In his
amazement Philip stepped back and presently met a slender face whose
dark eyes were lifted to his.

"We're taking you by storm, Mr. Sidney," said a low, slow voice. "I
hope it's not inconvenient."

Edgar followed close behind. "I tried to send your man up ahead," he
said stridently, "but he seemed to think this sort of thing was all
right."

Philip stood back a pace further in actual bewilderment, and Kathleen
Fabian extended her delicately gloved hand.

"We're the Fabians," she said, examining her host with quick
appraisement, and her smile was alluring.

"Oh!" exclaimed Phil, recovering himself and taking the hand. "Very
kind of you, I'm sure."

"If you think you're easy to find," said Edgar as they greeted, "you're
much mistaken. Mother got it all wrong, as usual."

Philip took in at a glance the dapper form of his visitor. He had not
been insensible of Edgar's neglect of him in the young man's own home;
and had decided that Eastern and Western ideas of hospitality must
differ with more than the width of a continent.

"Very good of you, I'm sure, to stick to it," he returned composedly.
"Come into my suite and overlook its shortcomings if you can."

Eliza had risen, startled.

"I suppose you both know Eliza Brewster," continued Phil. "She made
life comfortable for Aunt Mary so many years."

Edgar Fabian jerked his blond head in Eliza's direction. "How do," he
said; but the host's tone and manner constrained Kathleen to approach
the grey-haired woman, and again hold out the delicate hand.

"Was it you who made those good cookies Aunt Mary used to give us?" she
asked slowly, looking curiously at Phil's guest.

Eliza allowed the white glove to take her bony fingers a moment, then
she stepped behind the solitary chair and set it forward for the
visitor.

The girl would have accepted it, but Phil interposed.

"Sit down, Eliza," he said good-humoredly. "Miss Fabian can get chairs
at home. I am going to treat her with truly Oriental magnificence. Try
this, Miss Fabian." The host indicated a pile of Indian blankets, and
Kathleen sank upon them.

Then Phil turned to Edgar, who reached to the host's ear as he stood in
high-chested superiority looking about the apartment with disfavor.

"The choice of soft spots is small," said Phil, "but help yourself.
There's room beside your sister here."

Edgar moved to the pile of blankets and sat down; while Phil dropped,
Turkish fashion, at Eliza's feet and faced them.

"What a splendid cat!" said Kathleen.

"Yes," agreed Phil. "Come here, Katze, and see the lady." He seized
Pluto and handed him over to Kathleen."

"Oh, get out," said Edgar. "I hate cats."

His sister moved Pluto over to her other side where he drove his claws
into the blanket with satisfaction while she caressed him.

"He'll soil your glove," said Eliza; "his hair comes out some." She
resented the Fabian touch on her pet, and Edgar's remark had sent color
to her sallow cheeks.

"I'd like a muff made of him," drawled Kathleen.

"Too late," said Phil. "He's going to Maine to-night with Eliza."

"He isn't your cat, then?" said the girl, and brushed her glove.

"No, Eliza refuses to give him to me."

"There's that oil stove," remarked Edgar. "I don't know what there is
so particularly virtuous about an oil stove; but mother throws yours at
me every time we have an argument."

Philip regarded the speaker speculatively. Edgar's voice had an
arrogant quality, which gave no idea of its beauty when he broke into
song. "I'd give you a glimpse of its virtues if the expressman would
come," replied the host. He smiled up at Eliza while Kathleen watched
him. "Did you put in cups enough for all of us?"

"Six cups and saucers," returned Eliza, "and six plates, and six knives
and forks, and six spoons. I gave you the plated ones 'cause then you
wouldn't care if they were stolen."

"But I should care," returned Phil gravely. "I shall search every
departing guest."

"Indian blankets," said Edgar. "They suggest the pipe of peace. Let's
make it a cigarette." He took out his case.

"Only one room here," remarked Phil. "Perhaps the ladies object."

Edgar grinned at his sister. "Do you object to a cigarette, Kath?" he
asked, offering her the open case.

"Perhaps Mr. Sidney is not a smoker," she said, "and it would be
unsociable."

The same curiosity which had grown in Phil's eyes as he regarded young
Fabian, now stole into them as they met Kathleen's.

"I'm almost sure Eliza doesn't indulge," said the host, "and perhaps
she doesn't like it."

"Don't think of me, Mr. Philip," exclaimed Eliza hastily. "This is your
house."

"My stable, you mean." He smiled. "No, it's yours this afternoon,
Eliza. You're to give orders."

"Then you may smoke to your hearts' content," she responded promptly;
and she sent an inimical look toward the graceful girl in the drooping
hat. Let her smoke! Eliza hoped she would, and let Philip Sidney see
what the Fabians were.

"Remove my sister's scruples, won't you, Sidney?" said Edgar, offering
his case.

Phil took a cigarette, and Edgar passed them back to Kathleen.

"No, thanks," she replied. She had seen the cool curiosity in the
host's eyes as they rested upon her a moment ago.

"Oh, go ahead," urged Edgar.

"I don't like your cigarettes," she returned shortly, annoyed by his
persistence. A deep color grew in her cheeks.

"Wait till you know Kath better," said Edgar with a wink toward Philip.
"You'll welcome any little human touches about her. She's at the most
painful stage of her college career where she knows everything; and
she's one of these high-brows; saves money--good money--and buys
microscopes with it!" The utter scorn of the speaker's tone, as he
offered Phil a light, caused the latter to smile.

"What are you doing with a microscope, Miss Fabian?" he asked.

"Hunting for an honest man," she returned in her lingering speech.

"Stung!" remarked her brother. "Say, I don't see any symptoms of
painting up here," he added, looking around.

"No; you'll have to come down to the academy to see the works of art
I'm throwing off," said Phil. "I've been there two days."

Now there was another stir belowstairs and this time it really was the
expressman; and Philip's effects began to come upstairs.

"I'm afraid we're dreadfully in the way," said Kathleen; while Edgar
held his cigarette between two fingers and moved about, watching the
invasion of barrels, boxes, and bedstead, uncertain whether to lend a
hand. "Aunt Mary's old duds, as I'm alive!" he thought, seeing Eliza's
anxious supervision of each piece as Phil came carrying it in.

"A great way to entertain you, Miss Fabian," said the host brightly.

"What can I do?" inquired Edgar perfunctorily, continuing to get in
Phil's way with the assiduity of a second Marcelline.

"If you won't mind being put on the shelf for a minute," said Phil,
tired of avoiding him, "I'm going to tote in one more and then we're
done." And picking up the astonished Edgar he set him on a barrel
which had been placed in a corner, and so succeeded in bringing in the
heaviest of the boxes undisturbed.

Edgar, very red in the face, swung his patent leather feet for a minute
and then jumped down. "We must be going, Kath," he said stiffly.

"Not till you've found the mahl-stick," she drawled, with stars in her
eyes. "My brother is so curious about your painting implements, Mr.
Sidney."

"They're in these boxes," responded Phil. "The very ones that dear
little Aunt Mary used."

He had paid the expressman and was pulling down his cuffs. His guests
were both standing.

"Personally," he continued, "I think the contents of the barrel more
interesting just now. You mustn't go without a cup of tea. One moment
and I'll make a raid on Pat for a hammer."

Phil left the room and Edgar still stood, quite flushed under his
sister's smile.

"Do you want any tea?" he asked severely.

"I think I do," replied Kathleen.

"I'll send the car back for you, then."

"Not at all," she answered; and when the girl's voice took this tone
and her eyes narrowed, her brother usually paid attention. After all,
Kathleen was a useful court of last appeal. It was unwise to offend her.

"What's the matter? Eliza can chaperone you," he protested.

Simultaneously with Phil's disappearance Eliza had moved to the window
and looked out on the advancing twilight. She heard the words, and her
thin lips tightened.

"That's the very cat that assaulted and battered mother," went on
Edgar, and although he lowered his voice Eliza heard the words and
smiled grimly at a neighboring stable.

Kathleen frowned and motioned with her head toward the black alpaca
back.

Edgar shrugged his immaculate shoulders.

"Well, tell me when you have had enough of it," he said, and threw
himself back on the pile of blankets.

Kathleen was just planning some civil overture to Eliza when the host
reappeared, a hatchet in his hand.

"That bold son of Erin dares to imply that I borrowed his hammer
yesterday," he announced. "If I did, it is in Mrs. Maloney's closet;
and if there it is as a needle in a haystack; for that closet, Miss
Fabian, is responsible for the air of chaste elegance you observe in
this apartment. If you'll all stand aside, not to be bombarded when I
open the door, I will give one glimpse within."

Phil opened the closet door cautiously, and deftly caught a mandolin as
it bounded forth.

"Sole relic of glee-club days," he remarked. "I don't know why I
brought it, for I couldn't play 'Yankee Doodle' on it now."

He delved further into the closet, and Edgar, picking up the mandolin
as one friend in a strange land, removed it from its case with slow and
condescending touch.

"Here's the hammer on the sink," said Eliza suddenly.

"Saved!" exclaimed Phil, pushing back billowing folds of grey. "I was
just about losing in a combat with a bath-wrapper. Now, with these
chairs and the hammer, what is to prevent our salon from being the most
delightful success?"

"Nothing!" exclaimed Kathleen, standing at the end of the table. "I
have found some sketches, Mr. Sidney. May I look at them?"

"Certainly." The artist took the hammer and began an attack on the
barrel which caused Edgar to raise his eyebrows in annoyance. He was
testing the strings of the mandolin.

"Shall I light the stove?" asked Eliza.

"No, you're the guest of honor. Sit down, Eliza, and watch us. Mr.
Fabian will light the stove."

"Heaven forbid," exclaimed Edgar devoutly, "that I should touch the
enemy of my peace!"

Kathleen, her lip caught between her teeth as she turned the sketches
with concentrated interest, sent an ironical glance toward her brother,
strumming the mandolin on the blanket couch.

"Yes, you're elected, Fabian," said Phil, deftly removing the
barrel-hoop. "You have the matches. You see the peace and calm on my
brow? That is because I am serene in the knowledge of a lemon and a bag
of sugar outside on the window ledge."

Reluctantly Edgar laid down the mandolin and approached the stove.

"What do you do?" he asked superciliously. "Turn on something at the
bottom, and light it at the top?"

"Edgar," warned his sister, "it isn't gas."

"Marrow-bones, Fabian, get down on them," said Phil good-humoredly; and
disgustedly Edgar knelt to his _bête noir_.

Eliza's fingers itched to help him. She obeyed Phil's warning gestures
to keep her seat until the match was finally applied to the wicks.
Then, seeing that they were turned too high, she pounced down on the
floor beside the young man, and pushing his immaculate arm away she
lowered the wicks.

Edgar stared at the familiarity. "Excuse me," she said shortly.

"Must have a finger in the pie, eh?" remarked Phil.

"Do you know how long it'd take to get this room so full o' soot we
couldn't stay in it?" asked Eliza. "I wonder what sort of a mess you're
goin' to live in here, Mr. Sidney, if you don't know that?"

"It's a smokeless one," protested Phil meekly.

"The cat's foot!" quoth Eliza scornfully. "Don't tell me! There's no
such thing." She partly filled the kettle and placed it on the stove,
watching the wicks with a jealous eye.

Edgar removed himself from danger and looked with exasperation at
Kathleen, who with eyes aglow was turning the sketches.

"If I ever worked as hard for tea as this I'll be hung!" he thought,
and returned to the mandolin as the one congenial object in a forlorn
abode.

Even its long silent strings spoke plaintively against the vulgar
banging which was removing the barrel-head.

"There!" exclaimed Phil presently. "I rather fancy the way I did that.
I can use that barrel again."

"Yes," assented Edgar as he strummed, "for kindlings for the oil-stove."

Phil drew the barrel nearer the table.

"Now for the plums in the pudding," he said, and began to draw forth
some papered cups from the excelsior.

Kathleen dropped the sketches and unwrapped the packages. She had stood
three cups and saucers on the table before Eliza turned from her labors
about the stove.

"What delightful old things!" exclaimed the girl.

"Now, aren't you glad you stayed?" asked Phil, bringing forth a silver
cream pitcher of long ago.

Eliza caught sight of the table, and suddenly threw up both hands with
an exclamation.

"Mr. Sidney!" she cried. "I've given you the wrong barrel!"

"What? What's happened?" inquired Phil, halted by her tragic tone.

"All Mrs. Ballard's best things are in that barrel; the old china that
was her mother's, and the solid silver, and everything; and I've gone
and sent yours with the substantial crockery and the beddin' to the
island!"

Edgar Fabian regarded Eliza as inimically as his stepmother might have
done. So this old servant had been carrying off the heirlooms and been
discovered.

He sat up very straight on his blanket couch.

"I'll speak to my mother," he said. "She can come over to-morrow and
get them, and buy the right sort of thing for a bachelor"--he threw a
glance around the plastered room--"apartment!"

Phil, not realizing the sensitiveness of the subject, laughed.

"Good work, Eliza! We'll have one aristocratic tea in the Sidney
studio, before we fall to stone china and mugs."

"The others ain't stone china and mugs," cried Eliza. She was trembling
from head to foot, as frightened and enraged by Edgar's suggestion
as if her own life had been at stake. "They're all good, comfortable
things. If it was safe I'd leave all these for you, Mr. Philip, just as
liefs to as not, for she loved you; but you are gone all day; they'd be
stole--just as Mr. Fabian says."

Edgar blinked, then his face grew scarlet as the servant's implication
grew upon him.

"What do you mean--you--!"

He leaped to his feet and faced Eliza, who glared back at him. "These
things should belong to my mother," he said, "and it's a good thing you
didn't succeed in getting away with them. She may set some value on the
old stuff. I don't know."

"Edgar!" exclaimed Kathleen, as scarlet as he, while the duel had all
happened so suddenly that the host stared, dazed.

He had just lifted another silver piece from the barrel and taken it
from its flannel bag.

"They do not belong to your mother," returned Eliza angrily. "They
belong to me, to have and to hold, or to give away as I see fit."

Edgar shrugged. "Oh, in that case--" he returned. He didn't like
Eliza's eyes.

"In that case," said Phil to him gravely, "I think you'll feel better
to apologize to the woman who has put Aunt Mary's relatives under
lifelong obligation for her devoted care."

Edgar tossed his head with a scornful grimace.

"Yes, I understand perfectly," went on Phil, coloring; "Aunt Mary was
no kin to you, and I understand that she was a person held in little
consideration by your family." The host's attitude was tense now, and
his look compelling. "Nevertheless, Eliza Brewster happens to be my
honored guest to-day, and I'm sure you will be glad to express your
regret for your choice of words."

"Edgar, you didn't understand," said Kathleen. "Say so. Why, of course,
you're glad to say so."

"No, I didn't understand," remarked Edgar with a languid air, strumming
the mandolin, "and now that I do, I don't know that it is very
interesting."

Phil saw Kathleen's acute distress.

"Very sorry, I'm sure," continued the young man, nodding toward Eliza.
"You can run away with your barrel and welcome. The Fabians will
still have cups and saucers. I think," returning Phil's grave gaze
contemptuously, "if your honored guest should apologize for her attack
on my mother, it would be quite as much to the point. You heard her
say that mother would come over and steal her trash, didn't you? Come,
Kathleen." The speaker dropped the mandolin, squared his shoulders, and
started for the door.

"No; oh, no!" exclaimed Phil, all his hearty Western hospitality in
arms at the sight of his girl guest's expression.

Edgar turned on him again. "I fancied that my mother had been rather
civil to you since your arrival. I'll tell her how you guard her
dignity."

Edgar was fairly swelling with emotion, one fourth of which was
indignant defence of his mother, and three fourths joy at a clear case
against the poverty-stricken artist who had dared set his own sacred
person on a barrel and make him light an oil-stove.

Kathleen's scarlet face and lambent eyes spoke her distress. Phil,
faced with condoning the slur on his kind hostess, was bewildered and
uncertain.

Eliza saw it all and was the most disturbed of the four.

"Oh, Mr. Fabian, it's all my fault!" she exclaimed, looking appealingly
at Edgar. "Please stay for tea."

"Really, you know," said Phil, "this is all a tempest in a tea-pot." He
held up Aunt Mary's graceful old-colonial silver. "This one would be
too big to hold it."

"Come, Kath," said Edgar, ignoring them. "Will you come with me or
shall I wait for you in the car?"

Kathleen gave him an imploring look, but he was already moving to the
door.

Phil took an impulsive step toward her. "Perhaps you will stay," he
said, in supreme discomfort. She gave him a little smile. "No, I
mustn't," she answered gently. "I'm sorry I hadn't finished looking at
the sketches."

"May I bring them over to you?"

She shook her head. "I go back to school in the morning. Good-bye, I
wish you all success."

Eliza stood with tight-clasped hands. It had been her fault that the
bud of an acquaintance which might have been serviceable to her young
friend had been blighted. They would tell Mrs. Fabian. She might visit
her anger upon him. Eliza had never expected to feel gratitude toward
one of the name, but her surprise was mingled with that sentiment when
Kathleen now approached her, laying her smooth gloved hand on the rough
clasped ones to say good-bye.

"You are going to Brewster's Island?" she asked. "It is a strange time
of year."

"'Twas my home once," replied Eliza, tragedy of past and present so
evident in her haggard face that a touch of pity stirred the girl's
heart.

"I heard," said Kathleen, "that Mrs. Wright is staying there. How can
she in the desolate winter?"

"I guess angels can live anywhere," responded Eliza. Her disturbed eyes
met Kathleen's. "Miss Fabian," and her hard hand grasped the gloved
one, "I don't care how cold the winter's goin' to be if only you'll
promise me that I haven't done any harm to this boy here by my foolish
talk. He ain't to blame if I seemed to--to speak about your mother.
Don't, don't let her blame him for it. If I thought she would--if I
thought I'd cut him off from friends--some day when I get to thinkin'
about it up there on that hill I feel as if I should jump into the
water and done with it."

"I'll explain," said Kathleen gently. "I hope you'll have a good
winter. I'm glad you will have Mrs. Wright."

When the girl turned back, Edgar had gone; and the veil of
perfunctoriness had fled from her host's eyes. He was looking at her as
friend at friend.

He escorted her downstairs, and out through the alley to the waiting
limousine within which, with elevated feet, Edgar was already solacing
himself with a cigarette. At sight of the approaching pair, he leaped
from the car, and received his sister with hauteur.

"Good-bye," said Phil composedly, when they were inside; "very good of
you to come."

He closed the door, the machine started, and he returned to the stable,
where Pat received him with a grin, still standing where he had risen
when Kathleen passed through a minute ago. "I say, me bye," he said
huskily, jerking his thumb in the direction of the stairway, "the auld
one above there--she's yer second best girl, I'm thinkin'. That one,"
pointing to the street, "she do be a princess all roight. She turned
them lamps on me when she first come in and asked for you, and I felt
chape 'cause the stairs wasn't marble; but look out, me son, I know
that breed. She'll make ye toe the mark."

Phil smiled. "To be honest with you, Pat, I have just one best girl,"
he said emphatically.

Pat looked up at him with admiration.

"Is she in New York, thin?"

"Sometimes I think I shall get a glimpse of her here."

"Sure if she knows where ye are ye will, thin!" said Pat devoutly. "How
does she dress so I'll know her? I'll be on the watch."

"Just now in scarlet and gold," said Phil, lifting his head and gazing
beyond the stable wall.

"Faith, she knows a thing or two," nodded Pat. "'Tis an old dodge, 'Red
and Yeller, ketch a feller.'"

"In winter she goes all in white," said Phil, "soft, pure, spotless."

"Moighty wasteful fer the city!" said Pat seriously. "'Twill be hard
on yer pocket, me bye."

"In spring she's in golden-green among the browns, but in summer, full,
glorious green, Pat. Oh, she's a wonderful girl, a goddess!"

"Sure she is if she knows that green's the best of all the game,"
exclaimed the Irishman. "Whin'll she be comin'?"

"Ah, I have to go to her, Pat."

"'Tis better so," agreed the other.

"I've thought she might meet me sometime out in the park."

"She can, sir." Pat gave Phil's shoulder a sounding slap.

"But I notice the park gate is kept locked."

"It is," agreed Pat, with shining face, "and 'tis meself has a key.
'Twill be yours for the askin' any day in the week."

"Great!" responded Phil. "I'll remember that."

"And sure I'll be lookin'," thought Pat, watching the artist take the
stairway in bounds. "The women'll mob that bye afore he gets through.
Sure I'd like to see the gurl brings that look to his eyes."




CHAPTER IX

HEIRLOOMS


As the Fabian car started toward home, Edgar hoped his sister would
rally him on his failure to chastise the puny artist from the West.
Anything was better than one of Kathleen's "stills," as he called his
sister's periods of scornful silence. He was Kathleen's elder, he was
her brother. By every law of propriety she should be guided by him and
lean upon his opinions; but as he now reflected she was "more apt to
jump on them."

At present her sombre eyes looked straight ahead under the picture hat,
and her countenance expressed only composure of mind and body. He had
thrown away his cigarette, and he began to hum the favorite aria from
"Madam Butterfly." Kathleen, if she spoke at all, would probably try to
persuade him to say nothing to their mother of the scene just passed.
He would offer her an opening for speech. Perhaps she was anxious in
spite of her acted composure.

"I heard 'Butterfly' last week," he said. "Farrar can have me."

Silence.

"Well," he looked around at the slender dark face with the eyes full
of slumberous fire. "Well, why don't you get off one of those juices
of yours about the fair Geraldine probably not being aware of her good
luck, et cetera?"

The chauffeur was playing with the speed limit. They would soon be at
home. Kathleen realized that this would be the only opportunity to
speak with her brother alone.

She slowly turned her head and met his quickly averted gaze. "You are
not usually so chivalrous toward mother," she said. "Why did you think
it worth while to make such a fuss?"

"Twitting on facts is bad taste," declared Edgar with his usual air of
insouciance. If his sister would only talk, all would be well.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Why, Aunt Mary's faithful retainer showed the poorest possible taste.
She said if mother knew that those antiques were left unprotected by
anything but the oil-stove, she would prance over to that stable and
nab them."

Kathleen stared at him. "Do you mean that she would?"

"Like a shot," responded Edgar cheerfully. "Wasn't I bound to resent
it?"

Kathleen kept silence a space. Since she had been at home this time,
her mother had told her with some excitement of Eliza's presumption in
retaining articles of no value to a servant.

"And whether I was warranted or not," went on Edgar, elated by her
muteness, "'there comes an opportunity in the lives of men' which
seldom knocks on a man's door the second time. I flatter myself I was
quick enough to shut the box between that wild and woolly Westerner and
us, so that he won't expect anything more of _me_, in any event."

"I should think not," returned Kathleen slowly. "The childish way you
took your playthings and went home was ridiculous."

Edgar's face flamed. "Don't be nasty, Kathleen, just because you know
how," he said, dropping his careless tone. "No doubt you thought it was
very funny to see me lifted about like a doll, and on my knees lighting
a stove. I went there to please you, but I can tell you a very little
of alleys and stables will do for me. When I go slumming it'll be where
the poor know their place and know mine."

"Oh, Edgar," said Kathleen hopelessly. "Well, is it your intention to
tell mother what happened?"

"I'm going to keep that up my sleeve. It may come in handy sometime."

"It would hurt her feelings, and do no good," said the girl.

"Do no good? What! Not if it kept her from inviting the cowboy early
and often to the house? Oh, yes, I've no doubt he's got you all right.
He's a looker, and girls are all alike."

Kathleen did not condescend to notice this thrust. Her eyes turned back
to gaze upon the road as it flew beneath their car. "Don't lie awake
planning to avoid Mr. Sidney," she said quietly. "He will probably
always see you first; but from the moment you tell mother about this
petty little scene we've just passed through, you need never come to me
for assistance in any line. I shall not give it to you."

Stealing a side glance at his sister's face, Edgar Fabian knew that she
meant what she said.

"Supposing," she went on presently, "that you had smoothed over an
awkward moment, and that we had had tea in Aunt Mary's egg-shell cups,
and had let that brave fellow think he was giving us pleasure, and that
you had sung something to his mandolin in your charming voice;--think
of the difference in situation to us all. Instead of four hurt people,
scattering, and feeling awkward and ashamed, we should have given the
stranger in a strange land a little housewarming to begin life with
here."

"Not four hurt people, if you please," retorted Edgar with bravado; but
he was surprised, and somewhat affected by his sister's picture. His
charming voice would doubtless have increased the host's respect for
him.

"I expect sometime, of course," he went on with a superior air, "to be
a patron of the arts to a certain extent. If the cowboy makes good, and
learns to keep his hands off his betters, I may do something for him
yet."

Kathleen's risibles were not easily stirred; but now she laughed low,
and so heartily that Edgar's inflation over her compliment to his voice
became as a pricked balloon. She even wiped away a tear as she ceased.

"Philip Sidney is going to interest the patrons of art," she said at
last.

"What makes you so sure?" asked Edgar with a sneer. "His physique?"

"His sketches, his superiority to his circumstances, and his behavior
to Eliza," returned Kathleen composedly.

"Great Scott!" exclaimed her brother. "I'd like to see myself saddled
with that gargoyle and a wild-cat, in an unfurnished stable on a dismal
afternoon."

"Yes, you've shown your sympathy and assistance in a manly and powerful
manner," said Kathleen, as the car stopped before the brown-stone front
of their home.

"Sarcasm, Miss Fabian," returned her brother, as he assisted her to
alight, "is the cheapest and meanest of weapons. Each one to his taste.
That state of things suited him. It wouldn't suit me. That's all. It
takes all sorts of people to make the world."

Mrs. Fabian was in the drawing-room, and as her children entered she
looked up expectantly, then her face fell.

"I told you to bring Phil back with you to tea."

"I forgot it, mother, really," said Kathleen. She sat down and began
taking off her gloves. "But he couldn't have come."

"No," added Edgar. "He had a guest; your friend Eliza Brewster was
there with her cat."

"Eliza!" echoed Mrs. Fabian, sitting up. "Is she going to cook for
Philip?"

"No," said Kathleen. "She is going to Brewster's Island to-night."

"I tried," added Edgar, "to get her to send you the cat as a souvenir,
but she refused."

"I'm glad she is leaving town," said Mrs. Fabian. "She is a very
ungrateful person and I detest ingratitude. Moreover, a person who is
in an anomalous position is always annoying, and Aunt Mary made Eliza
so much a member of her family that the woman doesn't know her place.
What was she doing over at Phil's?"

"Overseeing the moving in of Aunt Mary's dunnage," replied Edgar.

"Why! Has he more than one room?" asked Mrs. Fabian with interest.

"No, mother," said Kathleen, in a tone designed to offset Edgar's
sprightly scorn. "He has just one, and nothing in it but piles of
Indian blankets and a table and chair."

"The chair for Eliza, mind you," put in Edgar, "while Kathleen and I
were stowed on the floor."

A spark glowed in the girl's eyes as she regarded her brother. "He let
you sit on a barrel, I remember," she said.

"Oh, yes," returned Edgar; "and speaking of barrels," he went on, a
belligerent spark glowing in his eyes, "a ripping thing happened. All
this old stuff came over while we were there, and among them a barrel
of dishes. Well, Sidney opened it and began taking out the things, but
instead of the coarse stuff Eliza had meant to give him, there were
gold-banded china, and colonial silver tea-things--"

Mrs. Fabian's backbone suddenly seemed of steel. "Aunt Mary had a few
fine old things," she interrupted.

"Well, there they were. She'd given Sidney the wrong barrel. You should
have seen her face. She was ready to faint."

"You say she leaves to-night?" Mrs. Fabian's eyes were looking far
away through the wall of her house toward Gramercy Park. "Philip won't
want the care of those delicate old things," she added. "I'll get some
proper ones for him in the morning."

Edgar laughed gleefully, none the less that Kathleen's lips were grave.

"If I were you, mother," said the girl, "I would let them work it out.
Eliza seems to have taken the helm over there."

"Of course she has," agreed Mrs. Fabian sharply. "Taking is Eliza's
forte. That china and silver belonged to my grandmother. If Aunt Mary
didn't have enough thoughtfulness to leave it to me in writing, is that
any reason it should not be mine?"

"Aunt Mary knew," said Kathleen, "that you had everything you wanted."

"Everything I needed, perhaps," retorted Mrs. Fabian, with excitement,
"but I certainly want my own grandmother's things; and Providence has
thrown them into my hands. I shall explain everything to Philip and he
will be glad to have me take them. Isn't he all that I said he was,
Kathleen?"

"He is very interesting," returned Kathleen quietly.

Then she rose and went to the door. Edgar followed her uneasily to the
foot of the stairs.

"I'm not going to peach, Kath, don't worry," he said. "I'll keep the
compact. I just wanted to prove to you that I knew the _mater_."

His sister turned on him. "I told you that you should have been the
girl and I the man," she said; and he winced under the contempt of her
look. "If mother gets those things to-morrow, the result for you will
be just what I promised. I shall never be at your call again."

"You said--" began Edgar, perturbed.

But Kathleen ran swiftly upstairs. Her brother returned to the
drawing-room.

"What's the matter with Kathleen?" inquired Mrs. Fabian. "She behaved
so strangely."

"Oh," returned Edgar, shaking his head as if exasperated beyond
patience, "Kath's a stiff. She can't see a joke if she runs into it.
Now, I think that barrel business was funny, don't you?"

"It's something more than funny," returned Mrs. Fabian impressively.
"It's Providence, as I said."

"Well, now, I'll wager," declared her son argumentatively, "that if you
take the law into your own hands and bring that old truck over here,
Kathleen will cut us both."

"What in the world is the reason? Was she so impressed with
Philip? I think he's irresistible myself, but Kathleen is so
unimpressionable--and beside, he won't disapprove."

"I'm not so sure. He treats Eliza as if she was the one best bet. I
don't pretend to know all Kath thinks. She's a high-brow and a crank.
Do you suppose she'd look at a man unless he was a college professor? I
guess not."

"Don't speak of your sister so, Edgar. You have reason to be grateful
that she is not an ordinary silly flirt."

"Flirt!" ejaculated Edgar, with rolling eyes. "Do you suppose she'd sit
on the stairs with anything but a Latin book, or flirt with anything
but a microscope?"

"Well, then, you don't have to worry about her?"

"Don't I!" retorted Edgar laconically.

"I must say," pursued Mrs. Fabian virtuously, "it is too much for
Kathleen always to expect me to hold her judgment superior to mine. I
shall do in this matter what I see fit."

"Then it's all up with me," observed Edgar.

"What do you mean?"

"She'll visit it on me. She always does." Edgar was beginning to wish
that he had not played with fire. "Beside, in this case, Eliza says
that old stuff belongs to her; is hers to do as she pleases with."

"Yes," returned Mrs. Fabian, with righteous indignation. "Possession is
nine tenths of the law; and if I get that possession we'll see what the
law can do for her!"

"Oh," protested Edgar petulantly, "why do you want to bother with it?"

His mother's eyes were glistening. In fancy she saw the convenient
barrel in which was compactly stowed Aunt Mary's little store of
heirlooms.

"Because," she answered with dignity, "genuine old things like that are
not to be despised. They would be just the thing at the island."

"That's what Eliza thought," said Edgar drily.

"The idea," exclaimed Mrs. Fabian, "of her using such things in the
sort of home she'll have!"

"Perhaps she'll console Mrs. Wright with them," said Edgar. "You were
pitying her last night for her winter exile."

"If she did, Mrs. Wright would give them back to me at once," declared
Mrs. Fabian; "but never mind, there will be no need now. Providence has
thrown them right into my hands. Occasionally you can see justice work
out in this world."

Edgar looked toward the portières. Kathleen might return. There was no
sign of any one approaching, however.

"Well, I'm in wrong with Kath for having spoken of it, then," he said.
"Let me have twenty, will you, mother? You can afford to on the
strength of the heirlooms."

"I can't, Edgar."

"Ten, then; you owe me that much, I'm sure."

Mrs. Fabian's lips took a tight line.

"You know, Edgar," she said impressively, "your father has forbidden me
to give you money. He says you must learn the worth of it."

The youth shrugged his shoulders impatiently, and throwing himself into
an easy-chair, stretched his legs toward the blazing logs and stared at
the fire with the gloom of one who feels that he has killed the goose
that laid the golden eggs. He had not, however, told of Eliza's insult
and his own wrathful departure from the stable. He could defend himself
to Kathleen so far, when next they met, and it might possibly soften
her heart.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Philip Sidney bounded up the stable stairs, he came in upon
Eliza, who was standing as he had left her, and with such a woe-begone
expression that, meeting her tragical gaze, he burst into a peal of
laughter.

"Oh, Mr. Philip, Mr. Philip!" she mourned. "I've spoiled everything."

"What! Let the kettle boil over?"

"No, no; you'll make light of it for my sake; but I've turned the
Fabians against you! That pert little bantam will go home and tell his
mother everything, and it'll make a lot o' difference. They might have
been lots o' use to you."

"Don't borrow trouble, Eliza. I'm not going to have our last visit
spoiled. I don't make use of my friends anyway; and beside, I'm going
to be too busy to have any. Come, now, make the tea. I want to see you
drink so much that you 'swell wisibly before my wery eyes.' Shall we
use this fine old silver jug?"

"Mr. Sidney." Eliza wrung her hands. "You're awful smart and strong;
can we get this barrel headed up again and off to the depot to-night?"

"Why," Phil hesitated, "I suppose so, but wouldn't you rather have
your tea in comfort now, before we go out to dinner, and let me do the
barrel to-morrow and send it off?"

"There wouldn't be any barrel," returned Eliza darkly. "Not unless you
packed and sent it before you went to your school."

"Why not?"

"You heard me tell 'em right to their face," said Eliza.

"Oh, surely," protested Phil, "you don't think Mrs. Fabian would do
anything highhanded?"

"Wouldn't she, though?" returned Eliza. "She hasn't got over it yet
that Mrs. Ballard sent your mother a diamond pin and didn't leave her
anything."

Phil looked puzzled. "Why didn't Aunt Mary remember Aunt Isabel?" he
asked.

"To tell the truth, I don't think Mrs. Ballard meant to slight her. She
just didn't think anything about it. She knew Mrs. Fabian was rich, and
didn't suppose she'd care for any of her little things. Your mother
always acted human toward her, and was her namesake, and 'twas natural
she should send her something."

"Well, well; have a cup of tea anyway." Eliza's pallor went to her
host's heart. He went to the window and brought in the lemon and sugar.

Eliza followed him with her eyes.

"Do you think you can, Mr. Sidney?" she asked, her hands interlocked.

"Can what?"

"Do the barrel. I'll never forget it of you," she said fervently.

"I can't believe there's any necessity for such haste. Pat's a good
watch-dog so far as thieves are concerned."

"You don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Sidney. Trust me, it's
my only chance to save the dishes; and I tell you she might have the
whole kit and boodle of 'em and welcome, if she'd been kind, or even
decent to that little angel. 'T ain't the silver and things I want.
It's to keep 'em away from her."

Phil could see that Eliza was trembling in her intensity. She had
shaken her head until she had again loosened the grey locks about her
gaunt face.

"I don't care anything about anything to eat, Mr. Sidney," she went on.
"I can head up the barrel myself in some kind of a way, but it's got to
go to the depot or else I don't, and my berth's all paid for."

"How did you ever happen to be born in New England?" returned Phil
meditatively, noting her clenched hands. "You and Bernhardt would have
been rivals. Settle down comfortably now. Make the tea and I'll head up
the barrel after you have used one of these cups. If necessary, we'll
ride on the wagon."

"Oh, Mr. Sidney, _can_ we ride on the wagon?" exclaimed Eliza in a
frenzy of gratitude.

Phil laughed. "Anyway, the barrel shall leave here to-night. I'll take
one of my brushes and do such high-art addressing that it will follow
you meekly to the island. Don't you worry another moment. I guarantee
it."

"Then it'll have to leave here before we do," persisted Eliza.

"It shall leave here before we do. Now, are you satisfied?"

Eliza heaved a deep sigh of relief and proceeded to make the tea.

Phil was inclined to be impatient with her fears; but the next day,
when he returned from the Academy, Pat met him with a grin.

"Sure ye're the divil of a bye," he said with an expansive gesture.
"I'll have to put on a biled shirt every day to resave yer company. 'T
was no less than the Queen o' Sheby came to see ye this mornin' an' you
not gone tin minutes."

"A lady--the one who was here yesterday?"

"Sure 't was no slip of a girl in a big hat to-day, 'T was a queen, I'm
tellin' ye. She rolled up in her motor car an' come here an' knocked
on me door, an' me without a collar on. She was dressed in furs an'
looked like she owned the earth.

"'I wish to see Mr. Sidney,' says she.

"'Thin ye'll have to go farther, mum,' says I. 'Ye'll find him at the
paintin' school,' says I.

"She didn't need any paint herself, I'm tellin' ye. She got rid in the
face while she was talkin'.

"'I'm his aunt,' says she, haughty-like, 'an' as long as I'm here I'll
see his room,' says she; an' wid that she wint up them stairs like they
belonged to her. I heerd her movin' around, an' I hurried to button
me collar an' slick up. Presently I dropped the comb, for I heerd her
comin' back. Before she'd got away downstairs, 'What have ye done wid
the barrel?' says she. 'What bar'l?' says I. 'The wan Mr. Sidney had
here last night,' says she. Thin I remembered there was wan. 'It moved
out,' says I, 'wid his company,' says I. 'What company?' says she, and
her eyes snapped the way I expected to hear her say, 'Off with his
head!'

"'A lady,' says I, 'wid a cat in a basket. 'T was a reg'lar movin','
says I.

"She bit her lip, and muttered: 'Just like her!' I heerd her plain,
though she wasn't lookin' at me no more. Take an auld man's advice, me
bye. Kape away from the Queen o' Sheby for a while; an' if ye don't
tell me what was in that bar'l rollin' up an' down stairs like a
restless soul, I'll be havin' the nightmare, sure."

Phil laughed, and shook his head. "The ways of women, Pat," he said,
"are so far beyond me that I can't even guess."

"Can't guess what was in the bar'l? Tell me, now, or ye'll not git the
key to the park nor meet yer sweetheart."

"There were dishes and silver in that barrel, Pat. Each of the women
thinks she owns them."

"I'd bet on the Queen o' Sheby," said Pat.

"You'd lose, then," returned Phil, running upstairs.




CHAPTER X

THE ARRIVAL


Eliza Brewster reached Portland in time for breakfast; and the hours
she must spend before the one afternoon boat started for the island
were embarrassing ones on account of Pluto. She had a cup of coffee and
an egg in the station, and then lifted her heavy basket on the car and
rode across the city to the wharf.

Setting the cat at liberty she followed him about, and held him on her
lap, alternately, until passengers were allowed to board the steamer.
The captain and purser were new to her. She glanced about the cabin as
she sat, her arms clasped about the basket, out of whose window Pluto's
eyes were again glowering. Eliza dreaded recognizing some one she
knew; but no recognition occurred, and she had ample time in the two
hours' ride to meditate on past and future. Many years had fled since
she last saw Casco Bay. She and Mrs. Ballard had spent a couple of
weeks at Brewster's Island one summer, but it had been their farewell
to outings further from home than Coney Island. She had not enjoyed
the experience because of wrathful resentment at the neglect of Mrs.
Fabian, then a bride; but Mrs. Ballard had revelled in the natural
beauty which feasted her soul. Eliza evoked the memory now and smiled
grimly with satisfaction at the consideration that the precious barrel
was safely starting on its journey after her.

She met her cat's green gaze through his wire window. "If I set more
value on my life than I do, Pluto," she muttered, "I'd risk it on Mrs.
Fabian visitin' a certain stable this mornin'. Then Mr. Philip'll know,
and he'll forgive me."

Her heart warmed as she thought of the jolly kindness of her late host;
of his assiduity and care for her comfort; of the milk he had fed to
Pluto, and the hot beefsteak to herself.

"That supper last night cost him a lot o' money. I know it did!" she
thought remorsefully, "but," with a revulsion of affectionate concern,
"I hope he'll eat good and not slight himself when he's alone. There's
such a lot of him to nourish."

It was the sort of dismal weather which inspired the description, "No
sun, no moon, no stars, November!" and Eliza dreaded the return to
her old changed home. Her heart beat a little faster as the steamer
ploughed along, each minute bringing her nearer to that especial hill
rising from the waters of Casco Bay where she first opened her eyes to
life. Memories of those dead and gone assailed her until her eyes stung.

"I'd like to know," she thought sternly, "if there's as ungrateful a
critter in the universe. S'posin' I was goin' to the island to nobody?
S'posin' I'd been seen off in New York by nobody? That's what I'd
expected to happen two weeks ago."

Eliza gazed rebukingly at the steam radiator in the middle of the cabin
until her tears ceased.

She had not slept much in her unaccustomed bed on the sleeping-car,
impeded by the heavy basket and her own hand-bag, and the fear of how
Pluto might behave at the stops; so the boat ride seemed long, and it
was with relief that she at last heard the summons:--

"Brewster's Island. Land from the lower deck."

"Praise be!" she thought. "I haven't got to lug my things upstairs."

There were but few passengers to get off at this island, and but few
persons standing in the raw air on the wharf.

There was a lump in Eliza's throat as she carried her burdens up
the gangplank, but through the mist in her eyes she saw a face she
recognized. It was lean, and smooth-shaven, and had scarcely grown more
lined in twenty years. The man met her gaze with alert scrutiny and
then looked beyond her for some one. The gangplank was drawn in.

"James," said Eliza, when she had swallowed.

The alert, searching eyes returned to her, and looked, at first,
without recognition.

"Don't tell me you don't know me, James," added the traveller, trying
to laugh.

"Why, Eliza Brewster, I was runnin' over ye," said the captain in hasty
amazement. "You--you've grown some spare, Eliza. Just at first I didn't
see who't wuz." The kindly speaker endeavored to conceal his dismay.
"Amazin' how a little flesh off or on'll change a body," he added.
"Here, let me take your bundles. Carriage right up here waitin' for us.
Mrs. Wright sent me down to meet ye. Kinder homely day, ain't it?"

"That's a cat, James," said Eliza as he seized the basket. "You see,
I'm a real old maid, travellin' with a cat."

"Well, it's all right, I s'pose," returned the captain gallantly, as
they walked up the wharf toward the waiting carry-all; "but 't would
'a' been more to the point if ye'd brought somethin' that was kind of
a rarity on the island. We could 'a' supplied ye with a cat fer every
day in the week, black, white, malty, whatever ye wanted. Well! how ye
been, Eliza?"

"I guess you can see," returned Eliza laconically.

"Well, well," said Cap'n James. He helped her into the carriage and
followed. "Git ap, Tom. Mrs. Wright'll fat ye up in no time. She says
you're goin' to stay with her."

"Yes, for a while I am." Eliza's eyes were travelling over the familiar
rolling landscape. "How does she make out here?"

"Don't seem to complain none. Mr. Wright has settled down like a round
peg in a round hole. Brewster's Island's good enough for him."

"My, my! How it's changed!" murmured Eliza as one unexpected roof after
another rose into view.

"I s'pose that's so," agreed Captain James. "You can't stay away even
from one o' these islands a dozen years or so without seein' the foot
o' man encroachin'. It's good fer trade, Eliza, good fer trade. Lots
o' the roofs ye see cover empty cottages now, but come summer time the
place swarms all right. The Fabians got enough room to swing a cat in.
Nobody can come very near them; but the rest o' the island's pretty
well dotted here and there."

"It don't look like the place I was brought up," said Eliza.

They had reached the height of the road now, and her wistful eyes fell
on a cove which pierced the island's side. Its softly rising banks were
studded with evergreen trees, standing black above the black water. A
threatening sky hung sullenly over all.

"'Tain't the place you was brought up," returned Captain James
cheerfully. "It's a darned sight more prosperous place. While the
summer folks are restin' up, we're makin' hay and cuttin' ice, as ye
might say; and come fall we get shet of 'em and go back to a quiet
life. No one can't say this ain't a quiet life, can they, Eliza?"

Captain James reined in the horse before taking the Foster Hill, and
compassion showed in his kindly eyes as he turned and watched the grey
face of his passenger.

"Eliza Brewster used to be a pretty girl," was his pitiful thought.

She kept silence, her pale eyes resting on the dark waters of the cove,
austerely quiet in the windless twilight.

"Feels like snow," said Captain James. "S'pose you could snowball now,
Eliza? I know when we were youngsters you could hold yer own with any
boy on the island."

"That's my one talent, James," responded Eliza drily. "I can hold my
own yet."

The captain smiled with relief at this sign that some of the old spirit
lingered behind that haggard face.

"By cracky," he said, "I'll bring up a bob-sled after the first snow,
and we'll toboggan downhill again, Eliza. Never say die. Git ap, Tom."

The carriage started up toward a long low white house on the summit of
the ridge. Four bare Balm of Gilead trees stood sentinel before it in a
waste of withered grass. Beyond rose the gnarled boughs of a struggling
apple orchard, beside which a tiny house with blank uncurtained windows
stood beneath the forlorn guard of two more gaunt bare trees standing
ready for the conflict with winter winds, and bearing the scars of
many a battle past. Back of the little building was a shallow field
inclining downward to the open ocean which held the island now in its
black, mighty embrace, creeping with a subdued roar upon the cold rocky
sands.

"Say, Eliza," said Captain James, as the tiny deserted cottage came
into view, "was we afraid o' Granny Foster, was we? Say!"

The speaker turned and interrogated his passenger with a twinkle.

A wan smile rewarded him.

"Afterward Jenny used it for chickens, Mrs. Wright says," she returned.

"Yes; but there never was an old hen there that come up to Granny
Foster, you bet."

"How long ago does that seem to you, James?" asked Eliza, after a pause.

"As if 'twas yesterday," he responded valiantly.

His memory was picturing the little girl in plaid gingham and sunbonnet
who could outrun any boy on the island. That sunbonnet was never in
place, but always hung down Eliza's back, the strings tied at her
throat. Captain James remembered to have thought there was something
very pleasing about that throat.

"It seems a hundred years ago to me," said Eliza quietly.

"Whew! You must 'a' lived fast in New York," returned Captain James.
"That's an awful record."

"Do you suppose I'll ever get used to the stillness again, James? I
believe if a pin was to drop in this grass you could hear it."

"Guess Nature'll make rumpus enough for ye before long," returned the
captain. "You've never tried it up on this hill, Eliza. I guess when
the pebbles and rocks begin draggin' around below there at high tide,
you won't miss the elevated trains none."

The horse was climbing slowly and patiently as they talked, and a woman
within the old farmhouse was watching the ascent from a window. Now the
watcher disappeared, and presently the house door opened and a figure
came out on the stone step.

"There's Mrs. Wright now. Git ap, Tom."

A gleam came into Eliza's pale eyes. It was an attractive figure that
stood there in dark blue gown and white apron. The silver aureole of
hair framed a smiling face. Eliza grasped the handles of Pluto's basket.

"To think that after all the years I should have a homecoming on this
island!" was her grateful thought.

"Here we are," called Captain James cheerfully as they approached;
"little box, big box, bandbox, and bundle, and the cat."

Mrs. Wright approached as the carry-all stopped.

"Did you really bring a cat, Eliza?" she asked, laughing.

"Why,--why," stammered Eliza, "it never once came to me till this
minute that perhaps you don't like cats!"

"I like everything alive," was the response; and the speaker looked it,
as she received the cat-basket, and Eliza stepped out on the grass.

"But does Mr. Wright?" inquired Eliza in perturbation. Was it Pluto's
destiny to become a wild-cat after travelling by land and sea!

That gentleman now appeared, stout and with tousled hair, which
suggested that he had just risen from slumber.

"This is Eliza Brewster, Morris, and she has brought us a pet," said
Mrs. Wright pleasantly.

The host shook hands with the newcomer with sufficient grace and eyed
the basket curiously. Captain James looked benignly on the group.

"Eliza and me have been lookin' backward as we came along," he said.
"We used to race and tear around this hill--she says 'twas a hundred
years ago, but don't you believe it. I'm goin' to bring a bob-sled,
first snow, and sail her down the hill and make her think 'twa'n't
more'n yesterday that we did it last."

The smile on Eliza's haggard face but made her fatigue more evident.

"Where's the trunk, Cap'n James?" asked Mrs. Wright.

"I'm goin' to fetch it right up. Git ap, Tom."

"Hurry in, Mrs. Wright," said Eliza, her care-taking instinct asserting
itself. "You'll take cold."

"Not a bit of it," was the reply as the hostess led the way in; "I
never take anything that doesn't belong to me."

There was a cheerful fire blazing in the living-room and Eliza was
at once seated before it and made to feel for a second time like an
honored guest.

"I'll let Pluto out, first thing, if you don't mind," she said, and
unfastened the basket.

Mr. Wright, his eyes indolently curious under the rumpled grey hair,
watched the proceeding.

"A Manx cat," he remarked as the prisoner leaped out. Pluto's green
eyes blazed in the moment that he stood and looked about him.

"Here, poor thing," said Eliza, "your troubles are over. There's a fire
such as you've never seen in all your days."

But the outraged cat scorned the fire, scorned even Eliza's caressing
hand. Leaping from her touch he descried the lounge; and thanking the
gods of his Egyptian ancestors that at last he had reached a place
where furniture accorded hiding-places, he dashed into the darkest
corner its valance concealed.

"He's kind o' put out by all he's been through," said Eliza
apologetically.

Mr. Wright went to the couch and stooping lifted the valance.

"Shall I get him for you?" he asked.

Two green eyes blazed at him from the darkness and a vigorous spitting
warned him away.

"Please just let him sulk a little while," said Eliza hastily.
Supposing Pluto should inaugurate their visit by scratching the host!
Awful thought! "He's a real good cat in his way," she added.

"Well, I'm certainly not invited under the lounge," said Mr. Wright,
straightening up.

"I didn't know anybody to give him to," went on Eliza, still
apologetic. "Mr. Sidney said he would have taken him if he'd known."

"Mr. Sidney. That's Mrs. Ballard's young artist, isn't it?" asked Mrs.
Wright, who was boiling a kettle over an alcohol lamp at a tea-table in
the corner of the room.

"Yes--we spent our last day with him in his stable."

"His what, Eliza?"

"His stable. He's found one for a studio in a real stylish place up in
Gramercy Park where the folks have gone to Europe. He's as tickled as
if he owned the whole big house."

"I'm glad he's found a place to suit him. You like him very much, don't
you, Eliza?"

"He couldn't be any better," said Eliza simply. "We'd 'a' had a real
nice visit only the Fabian children came in, Edgar and Kathleen."

"Oh, how are they?" asked Mrs. Wright with interest.

"They seemed to be all right. I hadn't seen 'em for years."

Mrs. Wright remembered Eliza's criticism of Mrs. Fabian on the occasion
of the call she made upon her in New York.

"Just turn your head," she said, "and you can see right from where you
are sitting the fine cottage Mr. Fabian built here five years ago in
place of the old one his wife owned."

Eliza turned and looked out the window. Far across the field and an
intervening wall she could see a house built of boulders, low and
broad, and obtained glimpses of its wide verandas.

"It's a charming place," went on Mrs. Wright, "and they have a
delightful small yacht. We became acquainted with them during the last
fortnight of Violet's stay in the summer and she had a few fine sails
with them."

Here the hostess rose and brought Eliza a cup of fragrant tea.

The guest started. "The idea of your waitin' on me, Mrs. Wright," she
said humbly.

"Oh, making tea is fun, Eliza; and I want you to drink that before I
take you to your room. This isn't any steam-heated apartment, as you
remember."

As she spoke, Mrs. Wright took a cup of tea to her husband, who was
sitting on the couch, occasionally lifting the valance and peering
beneath, apparently vastly entertained by the feline explosions with
which Pluto, his sharp teeth bared, spat at the intrusion.

"You won't put your hand under, will you, Mr. Wright?" asked Eliza
anxiously. "Pluto's so quick you'd think 'twas lightnin' struck you.
I'm ashamed of him with this good fire; but he had an awful time with
boys once and that's where his tail went, and I don't feel to blame him
so much as if he hadn't ever suffered any. He's scarcely seen any men
except Mr. Sidney. He was clever to him always, but I don't know as
Pluto'll forgive him now for shuttin' him up in the basket. Oh!" Eliza
heaved a sigh of relief, "I'm so glad we've got here."

"I've put an oil-stove in your room, Eliza," said Mrs. Wright, as all
three sat sipping their tea.

"That's real nice," returned Eliza. "Mr. Sidney's got an oil-stove. I
do hope he won't smoke up everything. I tried to scare him,--told him
he'd ruin his pictures."

"We shall watch to see him make the success Mrs. Ballard expected,"
said Mrs. Wright kindly, seeing that Eliza's heart was much with her
dear one's heir.

"He couldn't make anything but a success," responded Eliza.

Presently her trunk arrived and was carried into the bedroom which
Mrs. Wright had arranged for her. It was on the ground floor. All the
second story of the house was to be left unused in the cold weather.

In the evening Captain James came back a third time to play checkers
with Mr. Wright. It seemed to be a daily custom; but soon after the
supper dishes were washed, Mrs. Wright insisted on her tired guest
getting into bed for a long night's rest.

Pluto had leaped to the shed and thence out into the black darkness of
the cloud-laden night.

Eliza went to the door to call him, but her most ingratiating
invitations were ignored.

"Oh, go to bed, Eliza," said Captain James, who had just opened the
checker-board. "What ye 'fraid of? 'Fraid he'll jump off the bank? He
ain't fond enough o' the water, I'll bet. Go to bed and don't worry.
Haven't ye ever heard the song, 'The cat came back, he couldn't stay
away'?"

"You know, James," said Eliza, ashamed of her anxiety, but nevertheless
too much affected by it to seek her pillow while her pet was homeless,
"you know it's places, not people, with a cat, selfish critters."

"Well," responded the captain, "he can't get back to New York 'cause
the walkin' 's so poor." As he spoke, a dark shadow passed into the
light that streamed from the window.

With the quickest movement of her life, Eliza jumped off the doorstep
and pounced upon it. It was Pluto, and she held him under her arm with
a vice-like grip as she reëntered the house.

"Good-night, all," she said, rather shamefaced.

"Good-night, Eliza," said Mrs. Wright, who had taken up a book. "Your
lamp is lighted."

When Eliza had reached her room, she closed the door and dropped the
cat, who leaped toward it, and finding exit hopeless, looked up at her,
night-fires gleaming in his eyes.

"See here, Pluto," said Eliza severely, "will you stop actin' so crazy?
I tell you we're home; _home_. If ever two folks ought to be filled to
the brim with gratitude it's you and me. I'll give you a chance to look
around here in daylight and get your bearin's, and then, if you don't
behave as if you had some sense, I'll put you in the chicken-house and
you shall live there. Do you hear that?"

She stooped to smooth the jetty fur to offset in a measure her
severity; but Pluto glided from beneath her hand and took refuge
beneath the bed.

"Well, of all the fools!" she soliloquized. Nevertheless she knew what
the temperature of the room would be by the small hours, and, taking an
old knitted grey shawl from her trunk, she threw it under the bed.




CHAPTER XI

MRS. FABIAN'S GIFTS


Mrs. Fabian had taken her daughter to the train before she appeared
to Pat's amazed eyes at the stable door. Her chagrin at discovering
the removal of the barrel did not prevent her recognition of the
discomforts of Phil's north-lighted chamber. Her nostrils dilated as
she looked about her at the rumpled pile of blankets where the artist
had evidently slept; the unlighted stove, and the open windows through
which came an eager and a nipping air.

"Poor boy! Poor boy!" she said to herself repeatedly.

She had had an unpleasant fifteen minutes with Kathleen in the motor,
for the girl had asked her directly if she intended to kidnap the
missent barrel, and she had replied in an emphatic affirmative.

"Would you rather have those old dishes than Mr. Sidney's respect?"
Kathleen asked her.

Mrs. Fabian looked her surprise. "It sounds very absurd to hear you
call Phil 'Mr. Sidney,'" she said, fencing. "Don't you remember your
Aunt Mary Sidney?"

"Indeed, I do."

Mrs. Fabian's mind was of the sort which associates social status
indissolubly with money. She had always felt that in winning a
millionaire for a husband, she had married above her; and, shaking
off her own humble family connection wherever possible, had tried to
be as nearly all Fabian as circumstances permitted. Her step-children
had therefore never been expected or requested to adopt her relatives
as their own. She now referred to the one memorable visit of Phil's
beautiful mother to their island home, for Kathleen's persistent
formality in referring to the artist brought a flush to her cheeks.

If Kathleen, the proud, the reserved, the self-contained, were to
pronounce upon the young man unfavorably, she should have nothing to
say to the contrary, though she would continue to be kind to Mary's
child in private.

"I was only thinking," she continued, "that if you still remember his
mother in your thoughts as your Aunt Mary, it seems rather formal to
tack a Mr. upon Philip. You know, Kathleen," Mrs. Fabian's flush
deepened, "I did not ask you to go to see him. I wanted Edgar to go,
for the looks of the thing, since Phil is an entire stranger, and when
I found he never would go by himself, I was thankful that you took him.
You have been so--so grouchy ever since, that I'm sorry you went; but I
don't see why you should blame me for it. It was your own proposition."

"I know, mother," returned the girl; "and if you will promise not to
go over there and take the tea-set I'll not be grouchy." The dark eyes
lifted wistfully to Mrs. Fabian's astonished countenance.

"What do you mean by my forfeiting Phil's respect?" she asked. "Do you
mean that he wants them so much? Why, they'll be smashed or stolen in
that rough place. They'll be nothing but a nuisance to him."

"They belong to Eliza," pleaded Kathleen.

"They belong to me!" retorted Mrs. Fabian explosively. "Philip will see
that at once."

Kathleen's lips closed. They had arrived at the station, and she said
no more; but she departed with one consoling thought. Mrs. Fabian had
misdirected herself and Edgar the day before. Perhaps she could not
find the place to-day; but that lady, as soon as the car door was
closed on her child, spoke through the tube to the chauffeur.

"Drive," she said, "to the same place in Gramercy Park where you took
Miss Kathleen yesterday."

Soon she was face to face with Pat, and presently standing in Phil's
forlorn apartment. The pieces of Mrs. Ballard's bedstead were still
leaning against the wall.

She pictured Kathleen the fastidious, the dainty, perching on that
pile of blankets; but if the girl had despised the poverty-stricken
art-student, why was she so strenuous and persistent as to retaining
his respect? Why had she left for the studio in the best of spirits,
and returned distrait, behaving in an absent-minded manner ever since.

"Kathleen is a great deal more tenderhearted than she appears. I
believe she pitied Phil so much it made her blue, and she couldn't bear
to have me take away the only pretty things he had. Well, it seems I'm
not going to!"

Mrs. Fabian even opened the closet door. A few suits of clothes
hung within, but the rest was chaos; and in that chaos no welcome
curves of a barrel were to be found. Her alert eyes made a hasty but
comprehensive search of the room.

"The boy drank his coffee out of that mug!" she decided. "He is not in
a mountain camp and he shall not live as if he were. He shall see that
he is not dependent on Eliza Brewster for the decencies of life!"

Then followed her descent upon Pat, her catechism, and her magnificent
departure.

Scarcely had Phil received the Irishman's account of the visit and gone
up to his room that afternoon, when he heard a knocking on the stable
door; and when Pat had opened it, a violent expletive from somebody.

Phil stood still to listen. Surely he could not be connected with the
present invasion, whatever it might be. His circle of acquaintance in
Gotham had come, done its best and its worst, and departed for all time.

"Misther Sidney, sor," yelled Pat from the foot of the stairs. "'T is
the barr'l come back. Sure, and is it worth while totin' it up, whin it
can't be at rest!"

"It isn't for me," called Phil, coming out in his little hallway. "I
refuse to live in such a whirl of excitement."

"It is fer you, else all the money spint on me eddication is gone fer
nothin'--and faith there's more to follow," added Pat, in a tone of
such sudden surprise that Phil ran downstairs faster than he had gone
up. A couch was approaching the stable door. This was followed by
several large packages, upon one of which was tied a letter, and at
last a Morris chair entered upon the scene.

"Ye're the very soul of extravagance," said Pat severely, when the
delivery man had departed. "If ye're a poor art-shtudent, say so; but
if ye're a prince in disguise, out with it!"

"This is a surprise party if I ever had one," declared Phil slowly,
staring around at the objects.

"Poor art-shtudents don't buy iligant couches with box springs long
enough fer the lord mayor!" said Pat, unconvinced. "What brings ye to a
stable whin ye've the Queen o' Sheby fer an aunt?"

At the word a light illumined the situation.

"For a fact, Pat! You did tell me my aunt was here!" And in a flash
Phil's mind reverted to Kathleen with a sensation of gratitude. In
some way she had prevented the disagreeable details of yesterday from
angering her mother.

"Give me a hand up, Pat," he said. "I'll guarantee this barrel will
stay where it's put."

When they had all the articles upstairs, Phil found himself possessed
of a springy bed with ample clothing for the night, and ample couch
cushions for day; well-selected dishes, alcohol lamp and copper kettle,
and a table on which to stand them, a reading-lamp, and the easy-chair.

"What do you think of it?" he said, looking about half-dazed.

"I think ye're in the wrong box, bein' in a stable," answered Pat,
scratching his head in perplexity.

"No, no," Phil laughed; "a box stall for me. Wait till you see me
scattering paint around here."

"Faith, I have me doubts o' you," said Pat.

His Irish dislike of voicing the unpleasant withheld him from
expressing his thought; but as he regarded Phil now, standing coatless,
and with tossed hair, looking about his transformed apartment, he
decided that he was viewing the black sheep of a wealthy family, the
masculine members of which had left him to his own poverty-stricken
devices, while his softer-hearted female relatives were surreptitiously
ameliorating his hard lot. It was difficult to see Phil in the rôle of
black sheep, but Pat was sophisticated and knew that appearances were
deceitful.

"Pat," said the perplexing tenant suddenly, "I begin to believe I was
born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I'm the happiest fellow in the
world."

"Sure a man doesn't say that till his wedding-day," objected Pat.

Phil smiled confidently. "I told you I had the girl; and she's the
faithfullest of the faithful."

"You bet she is," returned the Irishman devoutly. "Whativer you've
done, the gurr'l gets her hands on you once'll niver let go."

"Whatever I've done? What do you think I've done?" laughed Phil.
"Here's my mother. Want to see her?" And he sorted several leaves from
the pile of sketches and laid them out on the new table.

"It's swate she is!" said the Irishman, gazing with interest; and,
perceiving the expression in the artist's eyes as he looked upon the
pictures, he spoke suspiciously: "She ain't the gurr'l ye're talkin'
of?"

"No, no," returned Phil, "but she entirely approves of the match."

"That helps, ye know," said Pat benevolently. "'Tis well to get airly
settled in life, thin if"--he made a lenient gesture--"if ye've played
too many cards or made any other mistakes, ye soon lave thim behind ye
and there's little time wasted."

That evening Phil called up the Fabian house, and, finding that Mrs.
Fabian was to be at home, soon presented himself in that lady's boudoir.

Mrs. Fabian, in a becoming négligée, sat before an open fire; a soft
lamp at her elbow, and a French novel in her hand.

"You know the naughty things in a French story are so stimulating,
Phil," she explained, when he commented on her book. "You wouldn't
think of reading the same things in English; but you get so curious to
know what it's all about, that you work, and study, and I find it very
helpful. Excuse my not rising to greet you. I've had an exhausting day;
so as Edgar wasn't coming home, and Mr. Fabian had to attend a banquet,
I had my dinner brought to me here."

"I'm sure it is I who have exhausted you," said Phil, drawing his
chair close to the luxurious downy nest which was embracing her plump
person. "I don't know what to say to you, Aunt Isabel," he added
gratefully, regarding her as she half-reclined, a living example of
what can be accomplished by beauty-doctor and accomplished maid.

She placed her white hand, with its perfect rosy tips, for an instant
on his, then she patted the folds of her violet gown.

"Now, don't say a word, my dear," she returned, complacency lighting
her countenance. Her husband had little time for compliments, Edgar was
uniformly ungrateful, and Phil was very handsome. She remembered how
charming had seemed to her the relation between him and his mother; and
she felt a longing to evoke something like that affection for herself.

"But, indeed, I shall say a great deal," he declared. "You've turned
my camp over there into the lap of luxury. I go on accepting things,
everybody seems in a conspiracy to prevent my having any hardships, so
I suspect I'm going to catch them at the school."

"Aren't the teachers agreeable?"

"Well, I've been there only a few days, but I see already that doctors
disagree there as they do elsewhere. One comes and tells you you're
all right, and the next declares you're all wrong; but I'm after the
fundamental training I've never had, and I'm going to get it if I make
their lives a burden to them."

"I don't pretend to know anything about art, Phil," said the hostess
complacently, "and I'm not going to add that I know what I like,
either, so you needn't smile at the fire; but from those sketches of
yours that I saw out at the mine I could see that you were bound to
accomplish something if you had free rein. Kathleen was delighted with
them."

"I was much pleased to meet Miss Fabian," said Phil.

"Dear me, why should you children be so formal!" exclaimed his hostess.
"'Miss Fabian'! 'Mr. Sidney'! It's ridiculous when you consider your
mother and me--more like sisters than cousins as we are."

Philip bit his lip. The description struck him as diverting,
considering the lapse of years during which his mother had heard
nothing from this cousin.

"I shall be very glad if Miss Fabian will let me know her better," he
said.

"It's a very, very strange thing, Phil," went on Mrs. Fabian, shaking
her waved head and gazing at the fire, "to be a step-mother. I should
have always said that environment was more powerful than heredity; but
I've had those children almost from babyhood,"--the speaker challenged
Phil with impressive eyes,--"and yet I look at them, yes, I assure you,
I look at them as a hen might look at the ducks she had hatched."

Phil saw that he was intended to respond, so he changed his position
and made a soft, inarticulate exclamation.

"Those children," declared Mrs. Fabian, "would probably both claim that
they understood me from _a_ to _z_; but I am frank enough to state that
I understand neither of them. Now, I'm going to tell you, Phil, that I
am hanging great hopes upon your influence over Edgar."

"My dear Aunt Isabel!" ejaculated the visitor. Phil's gratitude to this
relative did not blind him to her characteristics, or as to how her
idle and fashionable life had reflected in the bringing-up or coming-up
of her son.

"Now, don't say no, Phil," she went on. "I don't expect that you found
any kindred spirit in Edgar, but I'm going to be frank, his father
is so out of patience with him that he is severe, and I am hoping
that the sight of your economy will show Edgar that something beside
extravagance can bring happiness; and the sight of your industry will
rebuke his idle tastes."

"I can't conceive of myself as an example to the young," laughed Phil
uncomfortably. "I half suspected yesterday that you had been holding
me up before Edgar. There aren't any comparisons to be made between a
gilded youth and a painter, and I assure you it is no lofty principle
that makes me care little where I live and eat. It is only a desire to
do a certain thing, so intense that it dwarfs every other need."

"He has overpowering desires, too," said Mrs. Fabian bitterly; "but
it is to go yachting and play polo and drink champagne." She sighed.
"I suppose I haven't known how to be a good mother," she added with
dejection, "but there,"--her voice grew suddenly argumentative,--"look
at Kathleen! I've brought them up alike, but she is the other extreme.
She has no taste for pleasure. She's a natural student and bookworm;
and what I am to do with her when she graduates, Heaven only knows. I
shall insist upon her coming out," added Mrs. Fabian virtuously. "She
must go through the same form as the other girls in her set, and it may
be that a reaction will set in and she will find a normal satisfaction
in it. It will break my heart if she drops out and becomes one of
these poky oddities. Well,"--another sigh,--"I mustn't borrow trouble.
Were you surprised at my early morning call at your room, Phil? I hoped
I should be early enough to catch you."

"I was surprised; but it was a lucky visit for me, even though I was
not there."

"I'm glad you're pleased with those little comforts; but I shall be
frank,--it was to try to get my grandmother's silver that I went. If
you had known you were working against me, Phil, you wouldn't have
helped that crazy Eliza to carry the things away."

"They belong to her, she tells me," said Phil simply. "Aunt Mary seemed
to think you were living in an embarrassment of riches anyway."

"Then you should have shipped them to your mother. It's quite indecent
that a servant should have them. It reflects upon your mother and me.
Can't you see that, Phil?"

He stirred his broad shoulders uncomfortably.

"I'm glad you aren't going to blame me for it anyway," he returned,
looking at his hostess with a frank smile. "After all they're only
_things_, you know. The important part is how Aunt Mary felt about
them, isn't it? You know probably what sort of thoughts she had about
you in her last days."

Mrs. Fabian looked at him with quick suspicion as he rose to go. Was he
rebuking her in spite of his smile?

"Some people marry into a family," she said after the pause. "Some
marry out of one. I did both. I married a man with children, and a big
establishment. I simply married out of my family. I didn't have time to
attend to both, and any right-minded person can see where my duty lay!"

The virtuousness in the speaker's face and voice were so enveloping
that they created an atmosphere in which Phil was able to make his
adieux without further embarrassment.




CHAPTER XII

MRS. FABIAN'S DINNER LIST


For the next two months, Phil, to his entire satisfaction, had
practically no social life. One or two of his fellow students found
their way to the stable studio, envying him loudly when they viewed it,
but for the most part he succeeded in keeping his castle to himself.
Aunt Mary's easel found a good situation beneath the north light, and
the evenings were spent in reading works calculated to help him on his
way.

Occasionally the satisfactoriness of his lamp or his easy-chair would
cause him to start in a panic and begin to figure how long a time had
elapsed since he had called on his benefactress; usually discovering
that it was high time to go again.

Frequently he declined invitations from Mrs. Fabian to dine, giving
the excuse of incessant occupation. Once in a while, on the occasion
of these duty calls, he saw Edgar, and the latter prided himself on
the subtle implication of injury which he infused into the perfunctory
courtesy of a host.

Phil saw it, and, while he was amused, he gave Edgar some credit for
not having carried out the threat to tell his mother how Phil had
guarded her dignity with Eliza.

"So there are some things too petty for him, after all," thought
Phil carelessly; but he suspected and was grateful for Kathleen's
intervention.

When Edgar was not in evidence, Phil rather enjoyed an evening with his
aunt. It gave him an opportunity to talk about his mother, and Mrs.
Fabian could tell him events of their girlhood. She soon found that no
occurrence in which Mary Sidney had figured was too trifling to bring
the light of close attention into the young fellow's eyes.

"Dear me," she said one night when they were alone together, and she
had been entertaining him with reminiscence, "I wonder how your mother
made you love her so."

There was a sincere wistfulness in her tone that touched Phil.
He laughed with some embarrassment, throwing a glance around the
too-gorgeous room.

"I don't believe she went for to do it," he said. "I contracted the
habit early."

"But Edgar was only five years old when I married his father," said
Mrs. Fabian plaintively.

"We didn't have any money," said Phil. "Perhaps that helped. Mother and
I were pals, you see; had to be. She could afford only one maid."

"It's true I was very, very busy," admitted Mrs. Fabian thoughtfully,
with the return of her ever-ready tone of virtue. "I had the best
nurses and governesses. They couldn't speak a word of English,--and I
didn't neglect the children. I made it a point to hear them say their
prayers every night that I wasn't going out."

Phil's clasped finger tips were pressed to his lips and he did not
reply to this. He admired Mrs. Fabian's exquisite costumes, and now he
dropped his twinkling eyes to the hem of her gossamer gown.

"How often do you write to your mother?" pursued Mrs. Fabian.

"I'd be ashamed to tell you," he answered.

She sighed. "It's beautiful," she declared; again wistful. "I suppose
she has told you about our dear old dull island."

"Brewster's Island? I don't remember her talking of it; but Eliza has
spoken of my mother having been there."

At the mention of her humble enemy Mrs. Fabian's nostrils dilated.
"Eliza!" she repeated indignantly. "Every time I think of the impudence
of that woman--" she paused, at a loss for words.

"I suppose the island was named for Eliza's family," hazarded Phil.

"I suppose so. You may call nearly every islander 'Brewster,' and
seldom go wrong." Mrs. Fabian continued: "Edgar made a joke of the
barrel affair, but Kathleen put on tragedy airs at the idea of my
trying to get my own. Kathleen knows so much more than her mother, you
understand. She knows so much more about everything than she will ten
years from now. It's rather painful. Well, of course you didn't realize
what you were doing in helping Eliza spirit the things away. I'm glad
the creature has gone, for your sake. She would have been a dreadful
bore to you as a part of Aunt Mary's legacy."

"I feel very kindly toward Eliza," said Phil. Aunt Mary's letter was
against his heart where it always lay. "She did too much for Aunt Mary
for me ever to forget it."

"But you didn't know Aunt Mary."

"Not until she had gone. Then she revealed herself to me in a letter. I
seem to have seen her at her patient work."

"Yes, and Eliza has probably told you that I neglected her." Mrs.
Fabian  and looked at Phil defensively.

"Yes," he answered simply.

"It's a wonder she didn't make you hate me. I know what a virago the
creature can be."

"I like," said Phil,--"I like that saying, 'Yesterday is as dead as
Egypt.' I like to feel that the only enemy a man can have is himself."

"I'm glad you don't hate me, Phil," returned Mrs. Fabian, again
plaintive. "I have enough troubles. 'Qui s'excuse, s'accuse,' and I
shall not try to explain to you why I saw so little of Aunt Mary; but
it is beyond belief that a common creature like Eliza should dare to
sit in judgment on a person in my position."

"Eliza is not a common creature," said Phil quietly.

"I see. Her devotion is all you think of. We won't talk of her,
then.--What are you going to do in the summer, Phil?"

"Work!" he answered, smiling.

"Not under that stable roof. I won't permit it."

"Then I'll take the road. There's nothing I know better than how to be
a tramp."

At this juncture Mr. Fabian came in from his library. He was a
smooth-shaven man, comfortably stout; and the stern lines on his
forehead and about his mouth softened at sight of Phil, who rose to
greet him.

"What of the mine?" asked the newcomer, seating himself.

"Oh, father's digging away," returned Phil. "He probably tells you more
than he does me."

Mr. Fabian drew his brows together.

"Not sick of the picture business yet?" he asked, regarding the young
man curiously.

Phil shook his head and laughed. He knew Mr. Fabian's disapproval of
his chosen profession.

"I was just about telling Phil," said Mrs. Fabian, "that he must visit
us at the island next summer."

Mr. Fabian nodded cordially. "Care for sailing?" he asked.

"I never had a chance to know. Horses and tramping and camping have
given me all my outings so far."

"Then you must come. We'll have a cruise. I've only a small yacht, for
I prefer to run it myself with a few friends."

"That sounds attractive, but I shan't indulge, I think."

"Why, what sort of a painter is it who doesn't do marines?" asked Mrs.
Fabian.

"Yes, I know," returned Phil, smiling. "I'll do them at Coney Island."

When he had taken his departure Mrs. Fabian turned to her husband.

"Isn't it a shame," she said, "for a boy like that not to have any
money?"

"No," responded her husband. "It's in his favor. The shame is that a
fine husky chap like that should give himself over to paint-pots. I'd
make a position for him in the office if he'd come. I wish I had a son
like that."

When her husband made this sort of reference, Mrs. Fabian was glad that
she was not Edgar's own mother; yet since she had known Phil she had
never entirely escaped a consciousness that Mary Sidney would have bent
the twig in Edgar's childhood in a manner to have produced a different
inclination in the tree.

As Christmas approached, Mrs. Fabian detained her son one evening as he
was about to leave the house.

"Edgar, you are always in such a hurry," she complained. "I never can
catch you for a word except at table when the servants are about. Sit
down for five minutes."

The youth paused reluctantly. "I must keep my engagements," he said,
shrugging his shoulders, "and since the Administration has shut down on
my using the car at night, I have to live by my wits; in other words,
sponge on other people's motors as much as possible."

"You know, dear," said Mrs. Fabian, "your father didn't do that until
we found, evening after evening, that we could never have the car
ourselves. Somehow or other, Edgar, you manage very badly. You always
rub your father the wrong way."

Edgar's chest in his dress shirt rose very high. "I'm not the cringing,
begging sort," he returned. "Unless a thing is offered me freely I
don't care for it."

In the last month he had affected a short, pointed mustache, and this
he now twisted with a haughty air.

Mrs. Fabian's sense of humor was latent, but she smiled now. "Sit
down a minute, dear," she said. "It won't detain you, for you may use
the car to-night. Your father has just 'phoned that he is obliged
to attend a sudden meeting of directors, so I have to give up the
opera--unless you will go with me?"

Edgar regarded his mother's charming toilet appraisingly. "I don't
mind," he said graciously, "if you will ask Mrs. Larrabee. I was going
there to call to-night."

Mrs. Fabian's brow clouded. "She is so conspicuous," she said
persuasively; "I wish you didn't go there, Edgar. Why are all the men
daft about her when there are so many sweet young girls so much better
worth their attention?"

"Shall I see if she is disengaged?" asked Edgar alertly. "If she cares
to go I can come back and talk with you."

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Fabian sighed resignedly; and Edgar disappeared,
presently returning, a self-satisfied smile curving the little mustache.

"She was gracious, evidently," remarked Mrs. Fabian.

"Says she was saving this evening for me anyway, and will be
delighted," said Edgar, seating himself. "She says she is glad it is a
Caruso night, for she can prove to me that I ought to be on his side of
the footlights."

"That's the way she does it, is it?" returned Mrs. Fabian.

"Oh, she means it," declared Edgar quickly. "She's the most sincere
creature alive. Everybody knows that."

"Where is Mr. Larrabee? I've never seen him yet. Does anybody see him?"

"His clerks, I fancy," returned Edgar, with his careless, gleeful smile.

"It's really a pity the woman's so well connected," said Mrs. Fabian.
"She is insolently daring. Did you tell her you were taking me?"

"I told her you were asking her to be so good as to accept an impromptu
invitation; that you had but just found that you could go, yourself."

Mrs. Fabian sighed again. "Well, Edgar, then I have earned a few
minutes of your time. I'm going to give a dinner for you and Kathleen
while she is at home for the holidays. I thought of Christmas night,
with a little informal dance afterward; and I want you to help me
decide on the list."

"Mrs. Larrabee?" suggested Edgar, twisting his mustache complacently.

"Certainly not," returned his mother, with energy. "This is to be
just for your and Kathleen's young friends--a simple Christmas
merry-making."

"Couldn't you let me off?" asked Edgar, with his most blasé,
man-of-the-world air.

"Don't be absurd, Edgar Fabian. Have you no interest in helping to make
your sister's holidays pleasant?"

"My dear mother," protested the young man, "in order to make Kath's
holidays pleasant, all you need to do is to give her a pair of blue
spectacles for a Christmas gift, and invite a few Columbia professors
to engage her in light conversation. If I should send her roses,
she would only analyze them and reel off the learned names of their
innards."

"Very well; I am giving you an opportunity to suggest some names if you
care to. Of course I shall ask Philip Sidney."

Edgar shrugged again. "Do you suppose he has any evening clothes?"

"And Kathleen suggested Violet Manning," went on Mrs. Fabian. "Do you
remember Mrs. Wright's niece? Her life must be a dull one.

"So it is to be a dinner party of derelicts," said Edgar; "a charity
affair."

"Kathleen is always thoughtful," said Mrs. Fabian reproachfully. "As
it is to be on Christmas Day I don't know that trying to give pleasure
to some people who don't have much usually would be so far out of the
way. I'm not sure about Miss Manning myself. Kathleen has suggested
once or twice that, as we saw quite a little of her at the island, it
might be well to show her some courtesy here; but, as I say, I'm not
quite sure. What I am sure of is that I will not allow you to speak of
Philip Sidney slightingly in my presence."

Edgar looked up in some surprise.

"A derelict, indeed," she went on. "I wish I might ever hope to see
you bring the look into your father's eyes that they hold when he sees
Phil."

"You choose a fine way to make me like him!" answered the youth; but
beneath his carelessness was a twinge which proved that the words went
home. "I remember Miss Manning now. She sailed with us a few times."

"Yes, and she lives here with some girl students in a bachelor-maid
way, and teaches--"

"I remember the whole thing!" interrupted Edgar. "She dances."

"What! The stage?" asked Mrs. Fabian.

"No; some sort of school business; more on the gymnastic order. Of
course, I remember her. She did a jig once on the boat."

"Oh, I don't think we'd better ask her," exclaimed Mrs. Fabian hastily.

"Yes, put her down," said Edgar. "If we're going into the charity
business, I greatly prefer worthy girls who can jig; and for the rest,
you and Kath fix it up. Christmas is a sort of a lost night anyway. I
don't mind."

And with this gracious cooperation Mrs. Fabian was fain to be content.
Although she felt somewhat dubious about sending an invitation to
Violet Manning, she concluded from the vivacity in Edgar's countenance,
as memory awakened, that the purchase of his interest was worth the
risk.

Mrs. Fabian did not care for sailing, and she had but a vague memory
of an inoffensive girl who arrived at the island as Mrs. Wright's
niece. She hoped Miss Manning's propensity for jigging would not be the
cause of any shock to the carefully nurtured buds who were Kathleen's
friends.




CHAPTER XIII

CHRISTMAS


It was shortly after this that a miniature riot broke out in the tiny
apartment where Violet Manning and her two friends made a home; and it
was on the subject of Christmas, too.

The year before, Violet had spent the holidays with Mrs. Wright in
Boston; but this year the loving letter which she now held in her hand
invited her cordially not to come to the island.

"I want to see my little girl," wrote Mrs. Wright, "but I would rather
risk the sort of days you will spend among the many pupils who are sure
to ask you than to let you take the expensive journey to the island, so
bleak and cold as it is, and with nothing to repay you at this end but
a hug from Aunt Amy."

Violet read this aloud, and her two friends listened attentively.

"I told you," said Roxana, the teacher and the eldest, "that Mrs.
Wright wouldn't let you come. I shall stay here with you." She spoke
firmly. Her face had the lines of one who always spoke firmly.

"Then I shall stay, too", said Regina, the art-student.

"Then you'll make me miserable, girls!" ejaculated Violet
energetically, folding her letter back in its envelope. She was sitting
on the table, a favorite perch not to be despised in that box of a room
where she often said one must either be under the table or on it. She
swung both her slippered feet and her blonde head. "Roxy--Rex--" she
added beseechingly, "do you want to ruin my holidays?"

"Rex can go, it's very foolish for her to talk about staying, when she
can go sleighing in the country and study the shadows on the snow,"
said Roxana.

"What's the use of being a bachelor girl if you can't have any
independence?" inquired Violet, her blue eyes, and full, pretty lips
looking stormy.

"The baby bachelor can't have everything she wants," said Roxana.
"You're the baby bachelor. Rex may do approximately as she pleases,
but I am the only one entirely independent. Rex still waves her hair.
I stopped a year ago; just forgot it. That was the rubicon. Have you
heard of the old  mammy who deplored the failure of her dear but
mature miss to marry? She said to her consolingly: 'Never mine, honey,
I'se known some old maids who settled down right happy and contented
when they stopped strugglin'.' I knew when I forgot to wave my hair
that I'd stopped 'strugglin'." Roxana rocked gently. It was the only
safe way to rock in that apartment. "So when that time comes, Violet,
you will see that you have earned independence."

"Oh, Rox, don't be so unkind," pleaded Violet. "I've had ever so many
invitations for Christmas dinner from parents. I knew my small admirers
slapped them into it, so I refused; but I give you my word that if you
will go ahead with your Christmas plans, I will write to one of the
most ardent, and Cinderella's coach will be nothing compared to the
limousine that will be sent for me Christmas morning, and nothing will
be lacking but the prince to make the story complete. If you don't
promise, I'll sulk all the holidays, and I won't stay with you either.
I'll go skating in the park."

Roxana smiled meditatively.

"Prince!" repeated Regina ecstatically. "That reminds me of mine
again."

"Oh, help!" exclaimed Violet. "I've reminded her of Mr.
What's-his-name. Rex, if you'll promise to go ahead with your holiday
doings, I'll let you tell us again how He came into the class-room
first, and how He chose the best light, and how His sketches were
always stunning, and how hard it was for you not to sketch Him instead
of the model, and I'll let you show me the head you did of Him on the
sly, and you shall tell us again how you plotted for an introduction
and how you didn't get it, and--"

"Oh, hush up," said Regina good-naturedly. "How about that Mr. Fabian
you met at the island? How about the careless elegance of his manners?
How about that wonderful, heartrending, angelic voice in which he sang
on moonlight sails?"

"Dear me!" said Violet, swinging her feet and smiling with mischievous
eyes, "what a wonderful memory you have! I had forgotten all about him."

"It shows what a superior being he considers himself that he has
allowed you to," retorted Regina, with curling lip; "after the way he
behaved at the island--"

"I never said he behaved," interrupted Violet mildly.

"Well, he kept on asking you to go, every time they sailed, and gave
you every reason to think he was friendly."

"That's summer friendship," returned Violet, but her cheeks took a
deeper rose. The shoe pinched.

"Well, it's settled," said Roxana. "Rex proceeds to the farm and
studies snow shadows. I stay here, and sleep as late as I wish in the
morning. Now, be calm, Violet. It isn't as if I had a home to go to.
It wouldn't be all holiday to visit, and be on my best behavior, and
not be sure which fork to use nor how large tips I ought to give the
servants, nor--"

"Nonsense!" interrupted Violet. "It will do you all the good in the
world to sit down in the lap of luxury for a while; to live in large
rooms, and drive in large motors, and eat large dinners, and lounge on
large divans, and sleep in large beds; and you're going, Rex, you're
going."

There was something like tears in the stormy blue eyes, and Regina
heard with relief the postman's whistle.

"Go down and see if we have anything, will you, Violet? I'm fixed so
comfortably, and it's nothing to hop off the table."

Violet obeyed, and the other bachelors saw her press a very small
handkerchief to her eyes as she went.

"You'd better go, Rox," said Regina in a low tone. "I know just how she
feels."

"If it weren't for Christmas day I would; but I am sure Violet won't
accept a pupil's hospitality for more than an hour, just so she can
tell us she went; and the baby shan't spend Christmas eve and Christmas
night alone. Even if she won't speak to me, I shall stay. It's the
lesser of two evils. Honestly, I would enjoy a lazy time at home here
with no papers to correct. The trouble is to get her to believe it."

Here Violet returned; her face and bearing so laden with dignity that
Roxana coughed lest she laugh. The baby bachelor handed a postcard to
Regina, then took a very straight-backed chair. To sit on either of her
customary thrones, the table or the floor, would be too much concession
to her mutinous companions. She opened the letter in her hand, and
as she read, a curious change altered her countenance. The wintry
stiffness of her expression began to thaw. A springtime warmth appeared
in her eyes, and, spreading to her lips, relaxed their corners. At last
she looked up. The sparkle of summer seas shone in her glance.

"You can go, girls," she said; "it is all right. Mrs. Fabian has asked
me to dinner on Christmas, with a dance afterward and to spend the
night. Now, then!" She challenged Roxana triumphantly.

"How about Christmas eve?" inquired the latter inflexibly.

"You tiresome old dear, the Settlement has a tree and I'll attend it,
and spend the night with one of my class who is interested there."

"Then I'll go," agreed Roxana mildly. "Fled is the rosy dream of
sleeping till noon and watching you skate in the afternoons; and I will
ask Mrs. McCabe across the hall to keep an eye on you."

The invitation came as a welcome event to Philip Sidney as well. Aunt
Isabel had been uniformly kind and motherly to him. The thought of a
solitary Christmas, or one spent in a glittering restaurant, made him
wince even with all the allurements of his easel and his books; so at
last Mrs. Fabian received a grateful reply to a dinner invitation.

The roses that came with his card on Christmas morning pleased her
also, more than her extravagant gifts. While Phil was dressing he
thought again of Kathleen. He had never seen her since the Sunday
afternoon visit. He felt he could put up with Edgar's airs and graces
through a dinner for the sake of seeing Kathleen again.

"I wonder if she'll smoke a cigarette to-night," he thought, while he
adjusted the dress tie he had bought for the occasion: adjusted it very
carefully, for the tie was a unique possession. If he made a botch
of it he could not go to the dinner. The girl never came to his mind
except when her mother spoke of her; but now that he was to be her
guest he recalled agreeably how womanly and sweet had been her manner
to Eliza on that autumn day before the stable had turned into a studio.

It was Kathleen who suggested sending the car for Violet. It was not
the traditional Christmas of dry sparkling snow under a radiant moon,
but a day of slush and clouds, and Kathleen was not of those owners of
motors who believe that every one else has one, too. Her acquaintance
with Violet was slight, but she knew she was a teacher and a very young
one. She fancied that dollars were precious with her as yet.

So Violet rolled up to the brown-stone house on Christmas evening in
state, arrayed in her best and full of anticipation. Mrs. Wright's
gift to her had been a small gold pendant holding a turquoise matrix,
and this she wore on a slender chain around her throat, where it shone
between the deep blue of her eyes and the pale blue of her gown.

Kathleen's greeting to her had a ring of friendliness through its
gentle formality. Violet's involuntary thought was that she might have
been less formal, for, although there was nothing chilling in her
manner, it seemed to suggest the difference between the bachelor maid
doing light housekeeping in a hemmed-in apartment and the heiress of
this stately mansion.

Mrs. Fabian was kindly patronizing, and held Violet at her side that
she might meet the other dinner guests.

Edgar Fabian was one of the last to enter the drawing-room. Violet
noted that he was not alone, but although his companion dwarfed him she
saw no one but the well-set-up, exquisite youth with the shining hair
who had been the companion of her moonlight sails. Her heart quickened
and her color deepened.

"I'm behaving exactly like Rex," she thought impatiently. Really there
had been no reason why Edgar Fabian should take pains to find her in
the city or show her any courtesy, after the return from the island,
but in her heart of hearts she had expected he would; and it showed no
proper pride in this same heart to give an undignified bound at the
present juncture. What was the idiotic thing bounding for anyway?

This query she put to it as Edgar approached his mother; and now Violet
saw that his companion was a tall man whose evening clothes could not
lessen the breadth of his shoulders, and whose poetic face was lighted
with alert, observant eyes.

Mrs. Fabian greeted the stranger warmly, and presented him to Violet as
her nephew, Mr. Sidney; while Edgar's cool eyes swept the girl's face
for a brief moment without recognition.

"You remember Miss Manning, Edgar," said his mother; and then the
sudden gleeful smile relieved the youth's face of its superciliousness.

"What a difference feathers make to the bird, Miss Manning!" he
ejaculated. "Upon my word, I think I must have believed you always wore
a jolly little red sweater and hat. Weren't those corking sails we
had? Awfully glad to see you again." And he bore Phil off to meet his
friends.

"I think, Miss Manning," said Mrs. Fabian impressively, "that in
meeting my nephew you have seen a future celebrity. He is wonderfully
talented."

"How pleasant," murmured Violet, the idiot heart having given one
record-breaking bound and then retired into its usual self-effacement.

"Yes, he is a painter. Only a student as yet, of course. I think he has
the sort of originality that longs to spread its wings and fly; but he
holds himself down to foundation work in the most level-headed way."

Violet's eyes followed the easy movements of the athletic figure.

"Studying art, did you say?"

"Yes."

"I didn't quite get his name?"

"Sidney. Philip Sidney."

Stars began to twinkle in Violet's eyes at her sudden enlightenment.
What would Rex say?

Kathleen Fabian's observing eyes found time to follow Phil, too. He
wore his dress clothes more like one accustomed to inhabit palaces than
stables. She saw girlish eyes brighten as Edgar personally conducted
the Westerner about the room. When she planned to sit next him at
dinner, it had been with a thought of protection; as Edgar had been
lavish of prophecies of the probable _gaucherie_ of the cowboy. She
also had believed it quite likely that the mining engineer did not
possess a dress suit; and Edgar had drawn cheerful pictures of the way
his arms and legs would probably protrude from any which he might rent;
but it was quite evident now that Phil had a good tailor and had not
spent all his evenings in a mountain cabin.

Kathleen had suggested to her brother that he be seated beside Violet
Manning, as there would be no other man present whom she had ever seen,
but Edgar vetoed that plan.

"Let the two derelicts go in together," he had said. "I never did see
any sense in this business of social philanthropy. Let the lonely
people take care of each other. They will if you only have the
cleverness to bring them together. Then you're spared all the boredom
yourself, and kill two birds with one stone."

"My dear," his mother had said, "Miss Manning is an orphan, alone in
the city, and you were quite friendly with her at the island--"

"Yes, but I don't want to talk about the island all the evening. There
are some widows I would consider; but when it comes to orphans--orphan
teachers--count me out."

He smiled the gleeful smile, and Kathleen sighed, and allotted him to
the maiden of his choice; one who knew and hated the enthralling Mrs.
Larrabee, and who, he averred, had enough "pep" not to bore him.

Violet had somehow expected to be placed with Edgar at dinner, and
argue with herself as she would, the surprise of finding herself with
a stranger instead gave her the sensation of a slight; but she was
cheery and natural, and her escort, a youth with long lashes and a
sallow complexion, found the sea-blue eyes intelligent and sympathetic
repositories for his mournful rhapsodies upon Kathleen Fabian's charms.

She was sitting across the table from them beside Philip Sidney.
Aqua-marines glistened water-blue about her bare throat, and filmy
lace clung to her satin shoulders. Her simple coiffure was in contrast
to the puffs and curls that danced airily on the other girlish heads.
Kathleen's was straight hair, but fine, thick, and lustrous. The
simplicity of her aspect gave one to know that with her "the colors
seen by candlelight" would look the same by day.

"It isn't every one who understands Miss Fabian," the long lashes
announced to Violet, with the implication that he was in the inner
circle. "She's what I call a subtle girl--a mysterious girl. Those
jewels suit her. That liquid, elusive play of light, as the moonlight
sparkles on the water, is like her moods, gentle, and--and remote. I
often think Miss Fabian lives in a world of her own. One can't always
be sure that she hears what one is saying."

"I know her very little," returned Violet, "but she does seem a very
thoughtful girl."

"Who is that chap with her?--the big fellow?"

"That is her cousin, Mr. Sidney."

"Her cousin? I never saw him before."

"I fancy he's not a New Yorker," said Violet. "He is here studying art."

"H'm," ejaculated Long-Lashes. "He doesn't look the part. He doesn't
wear artistic hair."

"No," agreed Violet. "There is no studied disorder in his appearance.
Miss Fabian seems to hear everything _he_ says," she added demurely;
"and why, if he is her cousin, does she call him Mr. Sidney?"

Long-Lashes, who had looked cheered at the information of relationship,
gloomed again.

"I'm sure I have it right," went on Violet. "Mrs. Fabian told me he was
her nephew."

"Oh," returned her companion, "but Mrs. Fabian is Kathleen's
step-mother." He looked across at the pair anxiously. "She has adopted
him, though, that's evident. Her wits haven't gone wool-gathering since
we sat down."

When the young people returned to the drawing-room they found a
charming transformation had taken place. The spacious floor was bare,
garlands of evergreen, holly, and mistletoe were wreathed in all
possible positions, and a majestic Christmas tree sparkling with the
tiny electric bulbs of these sophisticated days stood in a recess. Its
boughs were gay with favors for a german.

An orchestra, concealed behind palms in the hall, played a Christmas
carol as the couples entered.

"There are Christmas fairies even in Gotham," said Phil to Kathleen.
"Ah," he thought, "poverty may be no disgrace, but what a convenience
is money!" "Before we go any further," he added aloud, "I want to thank
you, Miss Fabian, for the honor you paid the stranger in a strange land
by allowing me to take you out to dinner. I want you to know that I
appreciate it in a gathering of your own friends."

Kathleen's calm eyes met his. She was glad he could not know that she
had expected to champion his crude appearance in a gathering where
clothes went far to make the man.

"I never thought of doing anything else," she returned; then added,
smiling, "You know I owed you hospitality."

"Brave girl," returned Phil, "to dare to refer to that ill-starred day.
I should never have had the courage."

"Do you ever hear from Eliza?" asked Kathleen.

"I received one letter after her arrival. It was mostly about her cat,
Pluto. She said he acted like an imp of darkness."

"Why wouldn't he--saddled with that name?" returned Kathleen.

Phil watched the aqua-marines sparkle and dissolve on the whiteness of
her neck.

"Your mother did to my stable what the brownies have done here while we
were dining. Did she tell you?"

"She told me she bought you a few things."

"That is a modest way to put it. Will you come to tea with her some
day this week and see for yourself?"

"I shall be glad to. I've not been able to remember you as being very
comfortable."

The carol ceased. The odor of evergreen was fresh as the forest itself.
The orchestra began a waltz.

"I wonder if he can dance," thought Kathleen, in her ignorance of the
West. The evening clothes were promising but she had her doubts of
Terpsichore west of the Rockies. She little knew that in dress clothes
or sweater the cowboy leads the world in dancing.

The music was irresistible and in a moment she was floating away in the
waltz.

"Dear me!" she thought with a mixture of consternation and
satisfaction. "I've taken the best of everything!"

Edgar cast a glance after them. "A duck to the water," he thought.
A touch of nature makes the whole world kin; and when Phil arrived
to-night, that unique dress tie of his had suffered damage from his
overcoat. Edgar with lofty hospitality had supplied the lack. It had
given him a foretaste of self-satisfaction as patron of the arts, and
he now felt quite benevolently glad to find that Phil was not going
to entangle Kathleen's feet, as he sailed off with his own partner,
humming the waltz in her appreciative ear.

Long-Lashes danced as he talked, with poetic meditation. Violet had no
objection to him, but she was conscious of Edgar's every movement. If
he did not ask her for the next dance she would not give him any, even
if she had to sprain her ankle.

However, the catastrophe was averted, because he did ask her for the
second, and, joy of joys, she could not give it to him; for as she
and Long-Lashes crept near Kathleen and Phil during the waltz, Phil,
prompted by his partner, raised his eyebrows in a request.

"The next, Miss Manning?"

She nodded assent; and so it was that Edgar took the third; and as soon
as he joined her asked her opinion of Phil's dancing.

"Of course you're authority," he added tactfully, as they started.

"Oh, I quite forgot shop while I was with him," said Violet coolly;
"beside, I don't teach ballroom dancing."

Edgar suspected that he had, in his own language, put his foot in it;
so he used his universal panacea and sang the waltz in his partner's
ear.

"Pretty, isn't it? Say, you can dance, Miss Manning, if you don't know
how to teach it. Watch me favor you in the german."

"Mr. Sidney is a perfect dancer," she said.

"He looks it. I'm mighty glad he doesn't fall all over himself. He's a
trifle too big to make that safe; and being a wild Westerner I didn't
know just what he would do. Do you ever do a jig nowadays?"

"Occasionally--in the way of business."

"Say," exclaimed Edgar with enthusiasm, as he led her safely among the
thickening couples, "would you do one to-night if I clear the floor?"

"Certainly not," returned Violet, laughing.

"But you did at the island."

"I only jig on a vessel's deck," said the girl.

"And I have to wait till next summer?"

"Poor, poor fellow!" Violet's eyes looked up into his pathetically.
He had forgotten what very nice eyes they were, and what jolly little
stars danced in their depths.

"I'd like to clog, and I believe I'd be a good one. Do you teach it?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll enter the class!" declared Edgar with enthusiasm.

"You're just a tiny bit over-age," said Violet. "Fifteen's the limit."

"Then I'll come to your home, that's what I'll do. I'll take private
lessons."

"Impossible. There's no place to clog there except on the table."

"But that's what I should prefer to any other place."

"I'll teach you next summer," said Violet, "and take my pay in song."

"That's proverbially cheap," said Edgar.

"Yes, '_a_ song,' perhaps," returned Violet, "but I shall exact dozens."

Edgar tossed his head with the gleeful smile.

"It's a bargain," he declared.




CHAPTER XIV

SPRING


Spring came all too soon for Philip after his gloriously solitary and
absorbed winter.

One Saturday morning, even from his sunless north window, it proclaimed
itself and would not be denied. The tint of the sky, the scanty
glimpses of waving green, and the jubilant song of birds in the park,
all spoke of the annual miracle.

"Just the day for a sketch," thought Phil, and buttoning his collar, he
went to the head of the stairs and called Pat.

"Here," responded the Irishman, "and sure I wish it was there, thin."

"Where's that?"

"Annywhere in the country-side where I couldn't see a pavement the day."

"Just what I was thinking, Pat. I'm going to borrow the key to the park
again. I wonder if you'd go over to Streeter's on Fourth Avenue for me.
You remember the place you bought the framed Madonna for your sister.
I'd like you to get a package of materials they were to have sent me
yesterday. I don't want to miss a minute of this weather for a sketch,
and I can be making my coffee while you're gone."

"Sure I will. I've got to go that way for a pair o' boots annyway."

"If I get a good sketch," called Phil after him, "you may look at it
for nothing."

Pat was privately not at all sure that it would be worth looking at,
even if the artist thought it good. He had seen a number of Phil's
efforts which looked like nothing to him, and the artist's explanation
that they were merely impressions did not bring them within Pat's
comprehension as being worth the paper they spoiled. Nevertheless his
devotion to the artist was steadfast and he hastened on his errand.

Phil ate his breakfast, and primed two canvases for the Monday pose.
Then his Streeter package having arrived, he hurriedly transferred a
few pieces of charcoal and some pans of water-color to his sketch-box,
and was off down the stable steps into the mellow light of spring, the
park key in his hand.

"What a morning!" he thought, as he passed through the gate and
snapped the lock after him. At different times when he had visited
this enclosure with his scratch-pad, he had made mental notes of
advantageous points for sketching, and he now moved straight to a
chosen spot.

The gravel path winding between the patches of fresh spring green
crunched under his feet and reminded him of the tar and pebble roof he
had put on a barn in Montana. How different this life! How glorious! If
only his mother could sit beside him while he sketched this morning.

The day was joyous as his spirit, and the park was soon alive with
children and their capped and aproned nurses, truly distinguished in
their right of eminent domain, while outside the hedges and railings
sauntered those with no proprietary rights in Gramercy Park. A child
often peeped through the fence at coveted dandelions, like a little
peri at the gates of paradise.

Phil worked away, paying no attention to the more inquisitive
youngsters who dared from a well-bred distance to stretch and strain
for a look at what was being done in art.

He was hastily washing in a soft rose grey that was eventually to take
the form of several charming old brick houses. They had dormer windows
above and fascinating iron grilled balconies with long drawing-room
windows and great masses of spring flowers growing in front of the
basements.

Philip was working with an intensity of interest and absorption, and
suddenly he threw a quantity of color and water from his brush with a
quick backward motion which sent a flood over one of the youngsters who
had ventured quite near. A shout of glee went up from the others of the
group and he turned quickly to see what had happened, just as a girl,
not capped or aproned, seized the little color-target, and wiped the
moisture from the boy's face with her handkerchief.

"You, Miss Manning!" cried the artist, "and I can't spare time to rise
and fall on my knees in apology."

"Ernest is the one who should apologize," said Violet, laughing, "but
you know an artist out of doors is common property."

"Of course," returned Phil, washing away industriously. "Come here,
little chap. I'm sorry I doused you. Come and see what I'm doing--no,
not the rest of you. I can't have a heavy weight on my sword arm."

Upon this, Ernest, who had been scarlet under his companions'
amusement, gave them a glance of superiority and moved to Phil's side.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing to the object in the sketch which had
been the cause of the present smooches on his blouse.

"What?" asked Phil encouragingly.

"That big tall thing that looks kind of rough, like a rock or
something."

"Why, that's the Metropolitan Tower. See it there over those roofs?"
Phil directed the boy's gaze with his brush-handle.

"Doesn't look much like it, does it?"

"Oh, you wait and see."

"Are those going to be trees there?"

"Yes; and those spots are going to be filled with red and pink and
yellow and white. You know what a tulip is? Those are the tulip beds."

Ernest leaned comfortably against the green park bench. "What are you
going to make the picture for?"

"Enough questions," said Violet brightly. She was standing away a
little, but mounting guard over her small charge and taking notes of
the sketch for the benefit of Rex. Now she stepped forward and took the
child's hand with intent to lead him away; but Phil looked smiling at
the boy, and said:--

"I'm going to try to paint this picture so that when any one studies it
he will get its message and feel as I do to-day."

The child looked back into the man's eyes, and discerned a fellow child.

"Is it your birthday?" he asked gravely.

Phil laughed softly. "I shouldn't wonder," he answered. "What made you
think so?"

"You look happy--and you said--" the boy didn't finish, and Phil nodded.

"Did you ever see a chrysalis, Ernest? Well, I think I've been
expanding all winter. I feel sort of wingy this morning. This is a good
sort of day for a chrysalis to burst, don't you think so? Perhaps this
_is_ my birthday and you guessed it before I did."

"Come, Ernest, we must go," said Violet, smiling. "We're a load on the
butterfly's wings."

"Do you live here in the park, Miss Manning?"

"No. I spent last night with a friend here, and one of the maids fell
ill, so Ernest and I thought we could walk about a bit and smell the
lilacs."

"I don't want to go away," said Ernest. "I like to see him paint."

"Just move some of that paraphernalia from the end of the bench and sit
down, can't you, Miss Manning?" suggested Phil. "I piled it there in
self-defence, but it's for show. Keep away from my arm, old man, and
you may watch me all you like."

"Come here, Ernest, you can see just as well," and Violet, seating
herself, drew the child against her knee.

The scent of moist lilacs was in the air.

"There's a robin," cried Ernest--"oh, two! Look."

"Quiet, don't frighten them," said Violet, as the bright-eyed birds ran
beneath the bushes.

"Put them in, won't you, Mr.----" began the child eagerly.

"That is Mr. Sidney, Ernest," said Violet. "It is time you were
introduced and this is Ernest Tremaine, Mr. Sidney."

"I'll make you a sketch of the robin in a minute."

One of the birds ran toward the seated group, and stood a moment, proud
and high-chested, his sleek head gleaming in the sun. Phil laughed to
himself as his busy hand worked.

"What are you laughing at?" asked the little boy.

"Cock robin. He reminded me of somebody I know. Don't you think he
looks very pleased with his red vest and his smooth feathers?"

"Yes," replied the child. "Perhaps it's his birthday, too." He laughed,
delighted that his big friend was amused.

"Perhaps; and see there! He has found a birthday present."

The robin had suddenly pounced upon a worm and was digging it from its
earthy stronghold.

Violet had to put her hand over the child's mouth to still his mirth.
The bird was sitting on his tail, claws dug in the ground as he leaned
back, dragging at his prey.

"How good of the robins to stray away from Central Park, and bring
spring to all these little places," said Violet. "I heard one last
night. Perhaps this is the very fellow. Their notes always make me
think of links in a chain, link after link, alike, yet so fresh.
Wouldn't it be great, Ernest, if this pair are hunting for a place to
build here, and would take a tree that you could see from your windows,
and you could watch them with an opera-glass?"

"Do you think they will?" The child looked up into the golden-green of
tender new leaves through which the mellow light was sifting.

"We must ask them to hurry up," said Violet, "before the foliage grows
heavy and makes it hard to watch them."

"What news from the island, Miss Manning?" asked Phil.

"Oh, spring is peeping in on them, too, once in a while. Aunt Amy says
their hill will soon be white with strawberry blossoms, and blue with
violets."

"And what of my friend, Eliza Brewster? I believe you told me you have
never seen her."

"Aunt Amy always speaks of her in her letters. She has been a great
comfort to them, so helpful and kind."

"Mrs. Fabian will have it that I am to see this wonderful island."

"You should go. It would be paradise for an artist."

"And how about yourself?" asked Phil. "You also have an aunt and a home
on that green mound I hear about."

"Oh, I'm going for the whole summer," replied Violet. "I had two weeks
last year, and it created an inordinate appetite."

"Then you knew the Fabians there."

"Yes, a little. In two weeks one doesn't make much headway with a girl
like Kathleen."

"Is she difficult for a girl, too?" asked Phil.

"Oh, yes--at least for a new girl. She reminds me of a series of locked
doors. You succeed in unlocking one, and the small room within merely
leads to another door. You must strive to unlock that, and you succeed
only to find another waiting. Such wholesome, clean, airy rooms, but
small--always small. She is fascinating to me, perhaps for that very
reason. Did you ever notice that even her hair is reserved?"

Phil smiled, as his busy hand worked. "Christmas night is the only time
I ever saw her with her hat off," he answered. "I'm afraid you're too
subtle for me."

"Oh, you'll see," said Violet; "an artist couldn't help seeing in the
daytime. What color do you think it is?"

"Dark brown."

"I knew you would say that. Wait till you see her in the sunshine. It's
almost red; and that's just like her. Even her hair keeps everything to
itself as long as it can."

Phil laughed. "Quite different from brother, eh?"

"You mean that he is frank?" asked Violet, with a perceptible
indrawing of her own frankness.

"Well, that's a mild word for it," answered Phil. "I don't know Edgar's
family crest, but the inscription should read, freely translated, 'I
give myself away.'"

The speaker laughed at his own folly, and glanced up for sympathy. The
baby bachelor's full lips were grave and her eyes a little dark.

"I like people to be frank," she said briefly.

Phil drew his own lips together in a noiseless whistle and his eyes
twinkled at the Metropolitan Tower in the sketch.

"Keep off the grass," he mused. "I thought you said reserve fascinated
you," he remarked aloud, mildly.

"One thing I don't like Mr. Fabian to reserve," said Violet, "and that
is his voice."

"Great, isn't it?" agreed Phil. "I was glad he sang for us Christmas
night."

"Oh, I supposed you had heard him many times. If he were my cousin I
would give him no rest."

"He's not mine, you see. I'm only a step-relation, and such a long
step!"

Violet bit her lip and looked at the speaker reflectively. She felt
there was no rhyme or reason in his amused expression.

"Then, that is why you haven't seen Miss Kathleen's hair in the
daylight," she said. "Have you discovered her locked doors?"

"She let me into her ballroom, at Christmas, and I think I must have
been so pleased with that I didn't try to get any further."

"I see," returned Violet. "Well, if you go to the island you'll have a
chance to explore. Of course your experience with her may be different
from mine. Perhaps an artist will have the open sesame to her doors.
I'm not a bit intellectual. I have to dance my way into people's
confidence, or I don't get there."

"I hear you teach that very pretty art."

"She teaches me," put in Ernest, who was tired of being left out of the
conversation. "I can dance a jig."

"Bully for you," said Phil. "Go ahead, right here on the path."

"Oh, I can't without any music."

"There's the music." Phil pointed with his brush-handle to a lofty
branch where the robin was pouring forth linked sweetness, long
drawn-out.

"The pebbles are too rolly," said the child. "You said you'd make me a
picture of the robin."

"So I did."

Phil pulled toward him another block of paper and swiftly washed in the
green of the lilac bush and its purple pendants. Before it, on a little
stretch of green sward, grew the robin, high-chested, alert.

"How proud he looks!" said the child, delighted.

"Yes, he is saying: 'I own the earth, and the worms therein.'" The
artist laughed to himself. "'If a worm shows his head, I gobble him up!
and I can sing as beautifully as I gobble. The world stops to watch and
listen. I am cock robin! Look at me!'"

Artist and child laughed together as Phil handed over the wet sketch
to the eager little hands. Violet's eyes were glued to it. She was
wondering if later she could make a surreptitious purchase of it for
Rex.

"I had heard of you before Christmas," she said. "One of my housemates
goes to your art school. Regina Morris."

Phil shook his head. "I've not met any of the girls. Are you a
housekeeper?"

"Three of us live together in a tiny apartment. I wish you might come
to see us sometime."

Phil looked up with his frank smile. "I'll call on you at the island if
you'll let me, and if I come--that last is such a big If, though Mrs.
Fabian is determined."

"Oh, then you'll go. I've seen enough of Mrs. Fabian to know that."

"Then it must be but for a week or two. I mustn't stay where I can't
work."

"You'll stay," nodded Violet. "You'll live under a rock if necessary
and catch fish for food."

"Are you so enthusiastic?"

"Isn't everybody?"

"Nobody, that I have heard. Eliza spoke of it like facing grim death.
Edgar says it gives him the 'Willies,' whatever they may be. Aunt
Isabel goes because her husband wants to sail."

"Did Mr. Fabian say it gave him the 'Willies'?" asked Violet, her
cheeks rose and her eyes dark again. "Why does he go, then?"

"I didn't ask him; but a bare hill lying in a wet fog doesn't sound
inviting even if one may occasionally catch a glimpse of the sea. You
know the sea and I are strangers."

"Did Kathleen talk to you about it?" asked Violet, the hurt spot
in her pride still smarting, as memory showed her pictures of waves
sparkling in moonlight, and song that turned the scene into enchantment.

"No, I believe we never mentioned the summer. She talked to me of
college and I talked to her of my one dissipation of the autumn,
an evening over there at the Players' Club,"--Phil nodded over his
shoulder toward the club windows,--"and the wit and wisdom I heard."

"I judge you have friends in the park," said Violet.

"Yes, I have a work-room over here," replied Phil vaguely. His wits
were about him when he contemplated the disconcerting possibility of
Ernest's sturdy little legs finding their way up his stable stair.

"I want to show this to mother," said the child, gloating over his
sketch. Phil had used no anæmic colors in that. The lilacs were of a
generous purple, the robin's vest a royal red. When he had thanked
the artist and they had parted, Ernest prattled of his treasure as he
walked on beside Violet.

"He's a proud bird," he said, half-soliloquizing after his kind. "He
wants the world to listen when he sings; and his eyes are so bright,
when he sees a worm coming along he gobbles him quick, and then he
looks prouder than ever."

Violet's thoughts were busy, and somewhat gloomy. Edgar had spoken
patronizingly to her of the big Western artist who had fallen into
their family circle.

Of whom was Phil thinking that gave him so much amusement while he
sketched the robin?

Violet was not sure whether her mental disturbance was more resentment
toward the artist, or hurt that Edgar Fabian should declare that he had
been bored at the island.




CHAPTER XV

JUNE


During the long winter a strong bond of friendship grew between Mrs.
Wright and Eliza Brewster. The latter's broken heart seemed to heal in
the very act of caring for the exiled lady, and in the consolation of
knowing that her own familiarity with the island, and with all domestic
cares, gave daily return for the unspeakable benefit of her home.

Upon Mr. Wright she looked from the first with a reflective and
judicial eye. He was Mrs. Wright's husband, and that fact made Eliza
rigidly careful to do her duty by him; but mentally she classified the
adopted islander as a lazy man who had all his days been looking for
a soft spot and who had been irresistibly drawn to the freedom and
irresponsibility of a life which permitted him to wear a négligée shirt
during the semi-hibernation of the winter, and made no demands upon him
beyond an occasional arising, by request, from the lounge to shovel
snow-paths and bring in fuel, and at evening to play checkers with
Captain James until an early bedtime.

He liked Eliza's cooking and her nimble, quiet ways, and externally
they were at peace; but Captain James's shrewd eyes often read Eliza's
suppressed impatience. One spring morning, when he met her in the
island road, he attempted a mild protest in favor of the master of the
house.

"Mr. Wright's a clever feller," he said argumentatively. "What's wrong
with him, Eliza?"

"What have I said about him?" she snapped.

"Don't you suppose I got eyes?" asked Captain James.

Eliza was startled. She must put even greater guard upon herself.

"Now, I ain't a-goin' to talk about him, James. I s'pose it's all right
for a great hulk of a man to own a dainty city woman and take her away
from her friends and mew her up on a snow-bank to suit his convenience."

"What you goin' back on the island for?" inquired Captain James.

"I ain't goin' back on it. I'm island folks. I find there is something,
after all, in this talk about native air."

"It's treated you all right," agreed the other, regarding her
countenance critically. "You've dropped off five years this winter.
Come summer you'll shed ten more, like enough, and look like you ought
to look, Eliza. You ain't any old woman."

Eliza ignored the blandishment.

"I can see in the glass I look better," she returned impersonally, "and
it makes me mad to think it's all because I live in the house with a
sacrifice. Supposin' I'd come back to this island alone."

"Mrs. Wright don't act like any sacrifice," protested Captain James;
"she's chipper as a canary bird."

"Of course she is. That's the kind of a wife a man like that's sure to
get. It's been my lot in life, James, to live with angels," added Eliza
fiercely. "Can you tell me why I should be just as cantankerous as
ever?"

Captain James laughed. "Mebbe there's as much truth in that talk about
original sin as there is about native air," he returned. "You always
was a limb, Eliza."

She smiled reluctantly. "I warned her before I came," she returned,
grave again. "I told her I was bad, and _set_."

"But you couldn't scare her, eh?"

"Nobody could do that. She ain't afraid of anything above ground. 'T
ain't fear makes her yield to Lazy-Bones there; and when she sets out
to make him do something he don't want to, she gets him every time."
Eliza's eyes wandered to a cottage by the roadside. "There's Betsy
Eaton watchin' us. I expect she's wonderin' why we're standin' in the
wet so long. Well, I've blown off steam and I'll run home. I s'pose
you'll be comin' up to-night to move those little pieces o' wood
around."

"Sure thing, Eliza," returned Captain James with a grin. "Lemme teach
you the game so you can play it with him times when I don't come."

In the speaker's own parlance he was trying to "get a rise" out of his
old friend; and he succeeded. Eliza's eyes flashed almost with the fire
of youth.

"I'd throw 'em at him. I know I would--every checker of 'em."

"Well, he'll be fishin' again soon," laughed Captain James soothingly,
"now his new boat's about done."

"H'm!" grunted Eliza; and with no other form of farewell, she started
to trudge up the hill toward home. The earth was moist and yielding;
the chill spring was here, and nature was drawing her green paint-brush
over the high wave of the bluff. Little star-flowers bloomed under her
energizing kisses, and shivered bravely when the east wind blew.

This morning the sun fell with sufficient warmth on the stone step for
Pluto to lie there, and blink at the first sparrow he had seen. On the
whole, Eliza's move away from New York had his entire approval. The
change from the restrictions of a city flat to this place was in itself
a delight, and far from agreeing with Eliza's estimation of the master
of the house he found him quite the most sensible human being he had
ever encountered. One who appreciated a soft lounge when he saw it, and
who always made room for a cat, and never disturbed his slumbers with
precipitate movement. Eliza watched their growing intimacy with grim
amusement.

"Birds of a feather flock together," was frequently her mental comment.

As the spring unfolded, and the early mornings were less chill, Mr.
Wright again took up his suspended practice of making sunrise visits
to his pond. At first Pluto considered this a foolish practice; but
at last he learned to connect it with attractive pieces of fish which
came his way, and again he paid tribute of admiration to the hand which
always discriminated so nicely just which point back of his ears should
be scratched in order to establish the most friendly relations.

Eliza's threat that he should reside in the chicken-house had come to
naught, for it had required but a few days for Pluto to recover from
the savagery to which his novel contact with Mother Earth at first
reduced him; and he again became a domestic animal full of content in
the equally novel petting which now fell to his share.

One day Eliza with amused memory of her childish terrors pushed open
the door of the forlorn chicken-house, and looked in; but one look was
enough. She closed it again quickly on the dirt and cobwebs. Its small
windows were opaque with the dust of years. It was almost picturesque
with its leaking roof which had once been red, huddling close to earth
under the protection of those hardy old warriors, the balm-of-Gilead
trees.

"If 'twas mine," mused Eliza, as she withdrew from the dirt and damp of
the close interior, "I'd clean it with a good fire. It's hopeless."

A sparrow lit on the despised roof, and poured a song toward the sea.

"That's so," said Eliza looking up at the tiny creature with a smile.
"It _is_ spring. It's a wonder to be in a place where there ain't one
o' your English cousins."

She turned and nearly trod on Pluto. His green eyes were fixed on the
bird. His lithe body crouched in the fresh grass and quivered along its
length in the intensity of his upward gaze.

"Pluto Brewster!" she exclaimed in desperation. "Supposin' you ever
should catch a bird up here!" She stooped and boxed his ears. He laid
them back and, blinking the eager eyes, crouched lower.

Mrs. Wright on her doorstep saw Eliza approaching, the cat under her
arm.

"He was lookin' at a sparrow," announced Eliza.

Mrs. Wright laughed. "I've heard that a cat may look even at a king,"
she said.

"If Pluto should kill birds!" exclaimed his owner desperately.

"Would you, little tiger?" asked Mrs. Wright, closing her hand over
the cat's face and giving it a little shake.

Pluto was beginning to consider that women were a sad mistake. He
struggled to get free and Eliza dropped him.

"How the spring has stolen past us," said Mrs. Wright. "Do you realize
Eliza that even June is moving on its way? Look over there at the
Fabian cottage."

"Why that's James out on the veranda."

"Yes, he has had a letter from Mrs. Fabian. She wants him to open the
house. To-day is Kathleen Fabian's Commencement."

"That's so," said Eliza coolly. "You showed me the invitation."

"It was rather nice of her to remember me, way off here, and little as
I know them."

"I guess Kathleen would be an agreeable enough girl if she was let
alone," said Eliza.

She had for some time now given up anxiety lest the high words over the
barrel in Phil's studio bear bad fruit for him; for a letter had set
her mind at rest on that score, and she felt instinctively that she had
Kathleen Fabian to thank for that.

"But any girl would be slow to cut off friendly relations with a feller
like Mr. Sidney," she considered, prejudice still holding her in a
strong grasp.

"So they're comin'," said Eliza, in a lifeless voice. The winter had
been very happy. She began to long for the fall.

"Yes, very soon."

"Is your niece comin' with 'em?"

"No; she will keep busy until July." Mrs. Wright drew a deep breath.

"Oh, how lovely this is, Eliza," she went on. "This morning makes me
think of Stopford Brooke's lines,--

    'A little sun, a little rain,
    A soft wind blowing from the West--
    And woods and fields are sweet again,
    And the warmth within the mountain's breast.'

Our mountain--what a height we should see we had if that sea could roll
back; we can feel the warmth in its breast this morning, and the lovely
miracles it is putting forth. Why don't you look happier, Eliza?"
Mrs. Wright smiled as she asked the question. Her friend's eyes were
gloomily following the movements of Captain James in the distance as he
beat rugs on the grass beside the boulder cottage.

"I guess you know why," rejoined Eliza briefly.

"The idea of letting anybody rob you of your happiness," said Mrs.
Wright. "I shall have to put Marcus Aurelius side of your bed so you
can read him before you go to sleep. I thought you were more of a
philosopher, Eliza."

"You ain't half through your disappointments in me yet," returned Eliza
drily.

"Ho!" exclaimed Mrs. Wright, resting her hand on the shoulder of her
companion as she stood a step below her. "I haven't begun on them yet."

"Just s'posin'," said Eliza, looking about at the fair prospect, "that
Mrs. Ballard could be with us to see the summer comin'. How comfortable
we'd make her!"

"I don't believe she'd come," said Mrs. Wright gently, "as much as she
loves us."

"That's what he said," returned Eliza musingly. "He said we hadn't
ought to believe we could make her happier than she is."

"He? Who?"

"Mr. Sidney."

"Good for the boy," said Mrs. Wright, who had heard so much and often
about Philip that she felt as if she had met him.

"Why can't we go on here just as we have," said Eliza regretfully.
"Why must folks come?"

"Listen to the grudging one!" exclaimed Mrs. Wright lightly. "And what
a different doctrine Nature is preaching us this morning. Look where
you will, no limitations--none. Illimitable sky, illimitable sea.
That's the way it should be in our hearts, Eliza, illimitable love."

"I dare say," returned the other with a world of obstinacy in her tone.

"The world can't be full of Mrs. Ballards, but they're all our brothers
and sisters just the same. Mr. Brooke goes on in his verse to say:--

    'A little love, a little trust,
    A soft impulse, a sudden dream,
    And life as dry as desert dust
    Is fresher than a mountain stream,'

I don't like that hard look to come in your eyes, Eliza. The feeling
behind it turns life as dry as desert dust wherever it holds sway."

"I told you--" began Eliza slowly.

"I know all about that," interrupted Mrs. Wright, "but little by little
you'll find that all hard wilfulness is flat, stale, and unprofitable.
Now you'd better spend this week before the Fabians come in trying that
recipe every time you think of them. 'A little love, a little trust, a
soft impulse.'"

"And what will Mrs. Fabian be doin' all that time?" asked Eliza
hardily. "Do you suppose she'll have any soft impulses toward me until
I give her her aunt's things? That barrel upstairs in the back bedroom
has got her grandmother's china and silver in it."

"What do you want of it, Eliza?" asked Mrs. Wright.

"To keep it away from her," was the prompt reply; and the speaker saw
a cloud pass over the eyes she had learned to love. "Anyway, Mrs.
Wright," she went on earnestly, "she left 'em all to me, all her
things, Mrs. Ballard did."

"I see," said Mrs. Wright thoughtfully. "Doubtless her grateful heart
longed to leave you her money, and deciding to do otherwise she felt
she wished you to have something equivalent."

While they talked, Captain James had started across the field toward
them, and now he drew near, walking beneath the bold and intricate
curves made by wheeling swallows, the deep blue of their backs flashing
iridescent in the sunlight.

"Say," he called, "these fellers have set up housekeepin' over there
in the Fabian porch. Snug as bugs in rugs they are. Darned if I know
what to do."

"Who?--the swallows?" asked Mrs. Wright.

"Yes." Captain James seated himself on a rustic bench in the sun. "It's
the new wind-break they had put up last summer did the mischief. Always
been too blowy other springs for 'em to try it."

"You dislike to disturb them? Is that the trouble?" asked Mrs. Wright.

"I dislike to get my head took off," returned Captain James. "Mrs.
Fabian'll have the law on me if I don't knock the nest down and clean
up, and Kathleen'll read me the riot act if I do."

The speaker pushed his hat to one side and scratched his head.

Eliza regarded him unsmiling.

"Do you always take care of their cottage?" she asked.

"Ever since they've had one," he answered. "Used to take Kathleen and
Edgar out to my pound when they wa'n't knee high to a grasshopper."

"And now she has graduated from college. Think of it," said Mrs.
Wright.

"Wa'n't I invited?" asked Captain James proudly. "I guess I was. All
engraved up pretty, and Kathleen's card inside. When they fledged
Edgar and shoved him out o' the nest he didn't remember me; but little
sober-sides there, she wa'n't goin' to forget an old friend. Edgar's
boots nor his hat don't exactly fit him, late years," went on Captain
James good-humoredly, "but Kathleen always was a brick and she ain't
got over it. I guess I'll let the swallers alone till she's had her say
anyway."

"Going to be over there this afternoon, Captain James?" asked Mrs.
Wright.

"Yes. I've got Betsy Eaton washin' the dishes and cleanin' now, and
I'll be back again on the rugs later."

"Let us go over, Eliza," said Mrs. Wright. "I want you to see what a
beautiful cottage it is."

Eliza looked at her with steady significance. "I'm goin' to be too
busy," she said slowly.

Captain James sighed and rose. "Handsome day," he remarked, as he
trudged off to dinner.

"To-morrow, then?" asked Mrs. Wright.

"No," responded Eliza firmly, freed of Captain James's presence, "nor
the day after that. I ain't double-faced, Mrs. Wright. I can't go in
when they ain't there, if I wouldn't when they are there."

Mrs. Wright laughed softly. "My square-toed Eliza," she said, turning
into the house. "Oh, I forgot to say there's a letter for you here. Mr.
Wright must have left it on the table."

Eliza had stooped over the row of sweet peas coming up thriftily
about the house, and she rose slowly and followed her friend indoors,
but when she saw the small stubbed writing on the envelope her eyes
brightened. Twice before during the winter had it come to cheer her.

"Mr. Sidney!" she said, and sat down to enjoy her letter to the full.

"DEAR ELIZA," it began.

"We had a hot day yesterday. Pat's tongue hung out and he assured
me that the only thing that would do him any good was to take off
his flesh and sit in his bones. They tell me the summer is here to
stay, and I am going to make an aisle through my opposite neighbor,
the storeroom, and get at the window in there so as to get a draught
through. The sun bakes the stable roof, but I wouldn't mind it if the
perspiration didn't run into my eyes. This state of things makes me an
easy prey to Aunt Isabel's kind insistence that I shall spend a week
with her. She says two; but that will depend on how much fog there is
and whether I have to waste time.

"I can't compliment you on being a complete letter-writer, but I judge
you have had a good winter and kept from freezing. You say the islands
have looked like frosted wedding cakes. The first part sounds good to
me. I hope you've saved some over. That's the sort of wedding cake I'd
like to dream on just now. You may believe my heart often goes homing
to the mountains. What would I give for one night under the windy
trees. The very stars are hot here--but--I like it!

"I've had a wonderful winter. I can't say I'm a belle at the Academy.
One of the teachers turned on me the other day and said he would
thank me to stop trying to teach him how to teach me. He said my
'stand-and-deliver' methods might be _de rigueur_ west of the Rockies,
but something less aggressive would be more becoming a student here
who knew as little as I did. They all have a hunted look as they come
near me; for I don't care a straw how much they snub me if I can only
get from them what I'm after; and I glow with the consciousness that I
have accomplished a lot, even though my strenuous path is strewn with
the wounded and I have some bruises myself.

"Dear Aunt Mary! I send her a wireless every night. I wonder if she
gets it!

"Aunt Isabel has been a trump to me the whole winter, patient with my
neglect, and letting me go my own gait; but she brought a thermometer
over to the stable in my absence one day and sat down in my room
waiting for it to go up. It didn't lag, and I found her sitting there
in a wilted state, and she declared that she should stay until I
promised to go with her to the island and get a coat of tan. So I
promised. It will be great to get a breath, and great to see you again,
Eliza. Kindly arrange that the third week in June shall be free from
fog. My time will be precious.

"Give my compliments to Mrs. Wright and tell her I had a pleasant chat
with her niece one morning in the park while I was sketching.

"Tell Pluto to be ready to pose with you if old ocean veils himself.

"With my best to you,

      "As ever

      "PHILIP SIDNEY."

"Now, then, Eliza," said Mrs. Wright when her companion had read this
epistle aloud.

"Now, then, what?" returned Eliza happily.

"He'll be a link. He'll have to be. You can't be crabbed and offish and
spoil his one vacation."

"Do you mean Mrs. Fabian?" Eliza gave her rare laugh as she pushed
the letter back into its envelope. "If she could help her nephew from
runnin' after common folks, she would; but she certainly won't run
after him. We shan't clash any."

"I'm glad I'm going to see the boy," said Mrs. Wright. Violet had
written of him: at first with girlish enthusiasm, but after the park
interview more grudgingly. It seemed rather silly in a grown man to be
so amused by the airs of a robin! For some unknown reason the memory of
that foolishness had rankled for days.




CHAPTER XVI

THE PEACEMAKER


Kathleen Fabian, out of school in that month of June, was at home in
body, but with her mind still clinging about the scenes of her college
life.

"I do believe, all things considered," said her mother when they were
sitting alone one morning over their coffee, "that I am against college
for girls!"

Kathleen looked up absent-mindedly from the letter she had been
reading. "What's the matter?" she asked vaguely.

"You have scarcely heard a word I have said since you came home,"
declared Mrs. Fabian. "Your thoughts are a thousand miles away all the
time."

"Not a thousand," protested the girl. "Four years is a long time, you
know. To break up one's home--to break all those ties--means so much."

"Exactly what I say," retorted Mrs. Fabian. "I should like to know
when you will begin again to realize that this is home, and that your
father and mother would like some share in your thoughts."

"Why, I must be horribly selfish," returned the girl.

"There it is again!" exclaimed her mother, increasingly nettled. "If it
takes unselfishness to show some interest in home after a girl leaves
college, I say she had better not go there."

"Very well," returned Kathleen, smiling. "Don't you ever send another
daughter; but I'm glad you made the mistake with me. I've been so
happy, mother."

"Oh, well," returned Mrs. Fabian, somewhat mollified by the wistfulness
of the girl's look and tone, "I suppose you have, and perhaps it is all
for the best; but hereafter, when I speak to you, I intend to begin
'Kathleen Fabian!' and you must reply 'Present' before I go on."

"Have you been talking to me?" asked Kathleen naïvely.

"Well, rather. I have been telling you something that should be very
interesting, considering the height of the thermometer. Father says we
are to start for the island next Wednesday; and I am holding in my hand
an acceptance from Philip Sidney to my invitation to go with us."

"How very nice," said Kathleen courteously.

Mrs. Fabian, always on the sensitive lookout where her young relative
was concerned, thought she detected a perfunctory note.

"You knew I had asked him?"

"Yes, I think you did mention it before Commencement."

"He says," said Mrs. Fabian, "that you have never talked to him about
the island."

"But think," returned Kathleen, "how seldom I have talked with him."

"Yes," returned her mother resignedly, "and how full your head is of
other matters. You were very nice to Phil on Christmas night, here. I
wasn't sure but that you would invite him yourself."

"Oh, why should I?"

"No reason, if you don't see any. Phil was very polite to you at your
graduation. Those flowers were exquisite."

"Yes." The girl smiled. "They would have worried me, but that I know
flowers are cheaper in June."

"I don't think that's a very nice thing to say," observed Mrs. Fabian.

"I meant it very nicely," returned Kathleen mildly.

"Well, perhaps it isn't so strange that you have not talked the island
to him, since you have been engrossed in other things; but I have had
all the trouble in the world to induce him to go; and if you had roused
his enthusiasm a little it would have been easier."

"Why have you urged him?" asked the girl.

Her mother regarded her for a pause, in exasperated silence. "Are you
aware," she returned at last, "that it is 87 in the shade this morning?
Are you aware that these rooms, where the draught constantly changes
the air, are slightly different from that studio, baking under a stable
roof and hemmed in by high buildings?"

"Of course, of course!"

"Are you aware," went on Mrs. Fabian sonorously, "that one who has
always previously had a home might find a brief change from cheap
restaurants invigorating in hot weather?"

"I didn't know," said Kathleen. "I thought perhaps he was too busy to
notice. He"--she hesitated, but imperceptibly to Mrs. Fabian,--"he has
not called here since I returned."

"That's just it," flashed Phil's defender. "He never spares himself.
He thinks of nothing but work. Now, I have never forced any of my
relatives on the Fabians," with heightened color, "but your father
likes Phil. He was delighted to have me ask him. He has charged me to
hold on to the boy until he can join us."

"I hope he can stay," put in Kathleen politely.

"If I can get him there," said Mrs. Fabian. "Here is this matter of the
berths, as usual. The stateroom has been engaged for a month, but we
have only Molly's berth outside."

Kathleen's eyes grew eager. "Well, that's all right," she said. "You
won't mind taking Molly in the stateroom in my place, and let Mr.
Sidney have her berth. I'll wait and come up with father."

"You not go with us? Kathleen, you're absurd." Color streamed again
over Mrs. Fabian's face.

"No, no. That will be a fine plan, and relieve you of all
embarrassment. Father will like to have me here, and I shall love to
stay with him."

Mrs. Fabian gazed at the girl in silence. She admired Kathleen
extravagantly. There was something in the girl's natural poise and
elegance which the stepmother, with an innate, unacknowledged
consciousness of inferiority, worshipped. She never forgot that
Kathleen's mother had been a Van Ruysler. Now, as if it were not enough
that Edgar scorned the island, and even if he should be granted leave
of absence would not play the courteous host to Phil, now Kathleen was
anxious to avoid him, and caught at an excuse to postpone her departure.

The girl grew uncomfortable under the fixed stare bent upon her, and
when suddenly Mrs. Fabian dropped her coffee-spoon and burying her face
in her hands burst into tears, Kathleen arose in dismay, the soft laces
of her négligée floating in the breeze she made hastening around the
table and taking the weeping one in her arms.

"I don't know what has happened," she said in bewilderment, "but I am
sure it is all my fault. I was trying to help you, mother."

"You were not!" responded Mrs. Fabian, as angrily as the softening
nature of salt water would permit. "You were trying to avoid that poor,
lonely little fellow."

Kathleen bit her lip as memory presented the stalwart, self-confident
artist before her.

"You tell me to take my young cousin if I must, and get his visit over
with before you come up there to enjoy yourself. You don't care how
much you hurt his feelings."

"Why, mother, wouldn't he think it very natural that I should keep
father company?"

"No, certainly not, when he knows that Edgar is here. He doesn't know
that Edgar isn't any use to anybody, unless it's Mrs. Larrabee. He'd
just think the truth: that you don't want to be there at the same time
he is."

"Now, mother, you're so mistaken. He wouldn't even miss me. When he
gets the view from our porch he won't know whether I'm there or not."

"Very convenient excuse; but you needn't make any more of them. I
understand you, Kathleen. Why shouldn't I, when I taught you to walk?
I'm foolish to break down before you. I ought to have more pride; but
it's the heat. I'm tired and nervous; and you come home from college
with no interest except in what you've left behind you, and want to
arrange things so that my guest at the island will have his visit
spoiled--"

"Mother, he--"

"Nobody at the cottage but me, and nobody to help entertain him but
Mrs. Wright and Eliza Brewster and--"

"Mother, he--"

"It's so often that I ask any of my friends there! So often that I bore
you and Edgar to look out for my guests! I must always be on hand for
yours, to chaperone you and see that all goes smoothly for your plans.
I suppose--"

"Mother, indeed--"

"If Phil had sunstroke, it would be all the same to you, just so he
kept out of your way; and Christmas week when we went there to tea, how
nice he was to us, and so amusing, getting everything in such perfect
order that he apologized for not dusting the marshmallows. Oh, my head
is just bursting!"

"There, mother dear, I know you will be ill, if you get so excited,"
said Kathleen, patting the heaving white silken shoulder. "Of course,
I'll go to the island with you. I didn't know you cared so much."

Mrs. Fabian lifted her swollen eyes to behold her victory. "There's one
comfort, Kathleen," she said, deep catches in her breath. "You never do
things by halves. If you do go, you'll never allow Phil to feel that he
bores you."

The girl smiled. "No, if I succeed in calling myself to his
attention," she answered, "I promise he shan't suspect it."

"If he is sometimes absent-minded," said Mrs. Fabian defensively, "I'm
sure I don't know any one who should have so much sympathy with him as
you--the very queen of wool-gatherers."

Kathleen laughed and went back to her seat at the table. "I see that I
must reform," she replied.

"I'm relieved, and I do thank you," said her mother; "but the question
remains, how are we going to get Phil there?"

"That's easy. Send Molly with the other maids by the boat. I'll hook
your gown."

"There," returned Mrs. Fabian; "you see, you might have suggested that
in the first place. I understand you well enough, Kathleen."

"I thought it would be good fun to hob-nob with father. It's so long
since I have."

"I'm going to persuade him to leave business early this year. It has
worried him unusually this winter. He can if he only thinks so. I
reminded him this morning that if he died, the business would have to
get on without him. He agreed, but said in that case the loss would be
wholly covered by insurance. Rather grim sort of humor, that. I told
him I couldn't see anything funny in such talk."

"Poor father," commented Kathleen. "Everybody is tired this time of
year. There should be some arrangement of relays in running a business.
The winter workers should be turned out to grass in May."

She looked at her father that evening with observant eyes, as together
they moved into his den after dinner. It had been closed from the sun
all day and he sank into a big leather armchair by a breeze-blown
window, following his daughter's white-clad figure with appreciative
eyes.

"I'm glad you're through college, Kath," he said.

"So I can light your cigar the rest of my life?" she asked, seating
herself on his knee and applying the lighted match.

"Partly that," he answered, drawing in the flame, "and partly for your
mother's sake. She needs more companionship than I can give her. She
has a gay nature; she likes going out. I hope you aren't too much like
me."

"I hope I'm exactly like you," the girl returned devoutly; and leaning
forward, she drew in a mouthful of the fragrant cigar smoke and
exhaled it through her nostrils. The movement was quick and graceful,
and she looked mischievously pretty.

"Don't do that, you monkey," said her father quickly.

"Why not?"

"I don't like it."

"I'm frightfully unfashionable, because I smoke so little," she
returned.

"It's a vicious habit--for women," declared Mr. Fabian.

"But I'm a suffragist; besides, men tolerate it in women now--they like
them to do it."

"Not the women they love," said Mr. Fabian quickly.

"Oh!" responded Kathleen.

"When I saw you smoking a cigarette with Edgar a little while ago," he
went on, "I spoke to you about it. Don't you remember? I told you how
unbecoming I thought it. I hoped you would heed me."

Kathleen met his serious gaze.

"That wasn't a little while ago," she said.

"Certainly it was. This winter."

"It couldn't have been later than November," she went on slowly, "for
I haven't touched a cigarette since then."

"Good girl." Mr. Fabian patted her shoulder. "It disgusted me to see
you. You'll never do it again?"

"No." She shook her head, and carefully ran her finger through a ring
of smoke as it passed her.

"I wish I could get Edgar to say the same," remarked Mr. Fabian.

"You don't set him a good example," she returned.

"You never saw me with a cigarette. Edgar has to abstain from them in
the office, but I think he sits up all night to make up for it. I have
an idea they contribute to his general uselessness."

Kathleen smoothed the care-worn lines in the speaker's brow with her
gentle fingers. He loved their touch.

"I think Edgar isn't smoking much these days," she said.

"Indeed." The response was indifferent. "Why should that be? Does Mrs.
Larrabee want them all?"

"It's on account of his voice," said Kathleen.

The tired man of affairs removed his cigar to laugh while his daughter
arranged his hair around his temples. "Edgar denying himself!" he
ejaculated quietly.

"Yes, father, he's waking up to it," said the girl, with a little
serious nod; "and that's one thing Mrs. Larrabee has really done for
him--made him believe that his voice is worth working for."

"It's the only thing she can find to flatter him about. That's all that
amounts to," said Mr. Fabian, resuming his cigar. "So long as she can
make any use of him she will keep him dangling about, and flattery is
the best bait."

"But his voice is a real gift," insisted Kathleen, with deliberate
emphasis. "Don't you think so?"

"I never heard him sing that I know of--certainly not for years."

"It is beautiful--the heart-reaching kind. If he hadn't been a rich
man's son it would have been given to the world in some shape."

"A rich man's son." Mr. Fabian repeated the words quietly, and took his
daughter's arm in a strong grasp. "Kathleen, this has been an awful
winter. I don't know what the next year will bring forth. Say nothing
to your mother, but there are threatening clouds all about me."

"Father!" The girl pressed her cheek to his, and there was a moment of
silence; then she spoke again gently. "I have often wished I might have
been your son."

The hand that had gripped her arm, stole around her and drew her close.

After a moment, she sat up again and faced him. "I came in here
to-night on purpose to speak to you about Edgar," she went on. "He
wanted me to intercede for him in a matter."

"A matter of debts, I suppose," said Mr. Fabian, his manner
imperturbable again, and his tone bitter.

"Yes, but--"

"I'm through," interrupted the man. "He has had plenty of warning. I
would not tell you, Kathleen, the number of foolish, and sometimes
disgraceful, affairs I have settled for him."

"I don't doubt it, dear, but let me tell you about this," said the girl
seriously. "Edgar has no judgment or foresight. He persists in claiming
that he was born with a golden spoon in his mouth and that whatever he
can scoop up with it is his right. He is your only son and you owe him
unlimited liberty."

"The lessons I have given him would be sufficient if he had any
brains," said the father sternly.

"Yes; but just a minute more. This debt will astonish you. It is to
Mazzini, the famous voice teacher. He has been studying with him since
January."

"Just like his vanity! Let him send the bill to Mrs. Larrabee. It is
her doing."

"Yes, it was her doing in the first place, but I suspect from what
Edgar says that she is tired of him. He hasn't seen her often of late,
and she sails for Europe anyway next week; and Edgar is so interested
in his music that now it comes first. His teacher is so enthusiastic!"

"Of course he is!" observed Mr. Fabian cynically. "They're always
enthusiastic over the voices of pupils whose pocketbooks will stand the
strain."

"Edgar sang for me last night while you and mother were out. Father,
it was a beautiful performance. It is the real thing. Of course, he
was wrong--crazy, to go into such expense without asking you, for
the lessons are frightfully dear; but if the boy were to amount to
something in an artistic line, wouldn't it be worth the investment? You
are discouraged by his lack of interest in business."

Mr. Fabian's chin sank dejectedly as he flicked the ash from his cigar
into the receiver on the stand beside his chair.

"Discouraged by his inability," he said slowly; "discouraged by his
lack of principle, by his vanity and conceit. I will give him board and
lodging as long as he wishes to live with me; but--"

"Then, dear," interrupted Kathleen, her voice thrilling with the
sympathy she felt, "try this one thing more. If the expense doesn't
appall you--"

Mr. Fabian shook his head impatiently. "That would be nothing--as yet."

"Edgar can't study through the summer. His teacher is going to Italy.
He would like to go with him--" the girl paused doubtfully.

Her father laughed. "I dare say. Edgar's European travel, however, is
over until he is engaged to sing before the crowned heads."

"Yes, I supposed so," agreed the girl; "but he means to work faithfully
all summer."

"Work faithfully! Edgar!" repeated Mr. Fabian.

"Supposing he should, father. Supposing he has found his niche in life
and will do something worth while."

"Wonderful if true," remarked Mr. Fabian.

"But it won't help to disbelieve in him. I know he began all wrong
forcing you to pay this money--"

Kathleen arose suddenly, and, moving across the room, opened the heavy
door of the den. "Come in, Edgar," she called. The invitation was
unnecessary; for the youth, in his eagerness to hear what fate was
being meted out to him within the closed apartment, had been leaning so
hard against the door that when all at once it fell away from him, he
staggered into the room with the most undignified celerity.

Stirred as Kathleen was, she had to bite her lip before she could
speak; but when her brother had gained his perpendicular and faced them
with a somewhat frightened and very crimson countenance, she broke the
silence.

"Tell father," she said, "that you know you began this new venture
wrong: that it was shameful to force him to pay this big bill for your
lessons."

Edgar choked and swallowed, meeting the eyes that were lifting to him
from the depths of the leathern armchair. Convicted of eavesdropping
and reading the cold appraisement in his father's gaze, he had not
gathered himself to utter a word when Mr. Fabian spoke.

"You have not forced me," he said slowly. "I can refuse. You are of
age. You can be sued and imprisoned quite independently of me."

Edgar's heart beat fast and he set the even teeth.

"You have counted once more on my unwillingness to have this occur; but
that unwillingness has been weakening for years."

Still Edgar did not speak. Kathleen, standing by her father's chair,
her hands clasped tightly, dared not. She noted that Edgar's gaze did
not fall. He met his father's eyes in crimson silence.

"You know," continued Mr. Fabian distinctly, "whether I have exhausted
persuasion and argument with you. You know my futile attempts to rouse
your ambition to be my coadjutor, my successor. What you do not know,
because you are incapable of understanding, is the agony of the slow
death of my hope in my only son: the successive stages of thought which
have finally reduced me to closing the account, and charging him up to
profit and loss."

Kathleen watched her brother under the lash with the same pitiful
misery she felt for his punishments when they were children.

"But you're going to try him in this new field, father," she said
beseechingly.

There was a space of silence, then Mr. Fabian spoke:--

"I am going to trust your sister's judgment in this matter, Edgar. She
believes you are in earnest. I am going to pay these tuition bills, and
the coming months will show whether this is another passing toy, or a
matter in which you can make good. To find you are good for anything,
my boy," added the father, after another painful pause, "will be an
amazing and welcome discovery."

Something clicked in Edgar's throat. He evidently wished to speak, but
his tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth. At last he found
voice.

"I don't blame you," he said jerkily, "but--I'll show you!"

Mr. Fabian nodded his head slightly. "That's what I want," he said
quietly; "I need to be shown."

Without another word, Edgar turned on his heel and left the room.

Kathleen sank on her knees and buried her face on her father's breast.

"He didn't thank you," she said, half weeping, "but he felt it. I know
he felt it. Oh, father, how I hope for your sake--"

She could not speak further, and Mr. Fabian patted her shoulder, his
eyes gazing out the darkening window.




CHAPTER XVII

MRS. FABIAN'S SCHEME


Mrs. Fabian chanced to meet Edgar as he was leaving the house
immediately after this interview. She had heard the closing of the
library door, and the expression of her son's excited face, as he
strode by her, was such that she let him go in silence.

She knew Kathleen was with her father, and she was only too willing to
use the girl as a buffer when Edgar was the subject of conversation.

She moved about restlessly until she heard Kathleen leave the den and
close the door softly behind her. Then she waylaid her daughter at the
foot of the staircase. By the soft light of the electric lantern, she
could see that the girl's eyes were red.

"Come right up to my room," she whispered, excitedly, as if the very
walls had ears. "I just met Edgar."

They ascended in silence and Mrs. Fabian led the way into her boudoir,
started an electric fan, and turned on the light.

"Has his father cut him off?" she asked, facing Kathleen, her gaze wide
with dread.

"No, oh, no." The girl sank into a chair. "It was awful, but I hope it
is the beginning of better things. Did you know that Edgar had begun to
work with his voice?"

"No! I've noticed that he has been making the most awful noises in his
room lately."

"Well, the talk grew out of that and the new debts he has contracted."

"Edgar can't turn around without getting into debt!" ejaculated his
mother desperately.

Kathleen told her then what had occurred and she listened attentively.

"Do you suppose it will amount to anything?" she asked at last.

Kathleen shook her head vaguely. "I don't know enough about the
opportunities," she replied, "and I know too much about Edgar. If he
is only going to use an accomplishment to stand in a more brilliant
limelight with those whose admiration he wants--" she shook her head
again.

Mrs. Fabian looked thoughtful. "I never saw such a look in his face as
he had just now."

"Father's words stung him, I know. He even said, 'I don't blame you.'
Perhaps he will begin now to be a man."

"I thought he might be going forever. I didn't dare to speak to him."

Kathleen gave a disclaiming exclamation. "He couldn't do that. He is
more helpless than a little new-fledged chicken."

"I don't know," returned Mrs. Fabian sapiently. "Take a weak,
good-looking fellow like Edgar, with a lovely voice, and if he became
reckless there are plenty of sporty cafés in this town where they would
pay him as an attraction. He knows that."

"Mother!" exclaimed Kathleen, aghast.

"Why, certainly!" averred Mrs. Fabian dismally elated at the dismay
she had evoked. "There are a few things I know more about than you do,
Kathleen. Imagine a handsome young fellow in correct evening clothes,
when the patrons are hilarious at midnight, rising in his place, and,
wineglass in hand, suddenly singing a love-song or ragtime. Do you
think he would get a few encores? Do you think he could get paid to
come again?" Mrs. Fabian had heard a description of lurid New Year's
Eve revels and she built a shrewd surmise upon it.

Kathleen was so worked upon by the picture that she rose restlessly,
and moving to the window gazed into the summer gloom as if searching
for a glimpse of her brother's well-carried, polished blond head.

Mrs. Fabian bridled with dignified importance as she watched her; but
her complacency was short-lived.

Kathleen suddenly faced about. "Then how," she asked, "can you wish me
to leave for the island at such a time?"

"Oh, are you going back to that again!"

"With father and Edgar in this sensitive state toward each other--to
leave them to meet alone in this great house, with no one to soften the
embarrassment. Would it be any wonder if Edgar fled to just such scenes
as you describe? And wouldn't it be decidedly our fault?"

Mrs. Fabian leaned forward in her armchair.

"You couldn't do any permanent good," she said earnestly. "Edgar must
really act alone, whether you are here or not. He hasn't done any of
his practising here anyway, except those uncanny noises in his room."

"No. There is some piano house where he has been able to use a room at
noon; but his teacher sails this week and he cannot get the room any
more. He would naturally do a lot of work at home after you were gone,
if he felt at ease; and if I were here, it would help a great deal."

Mrs. Fabian felt baffled. The truth of Kathleen's proposition was
unanswerable; and to urge any claim above Edgar's good at this crucial
time would be, she knew, inexcusable in his sister's eyes.

The girl, burdened with the double responsibility of her father's
confidence, and Edgar's future, turned again to the window and gazed
out into the darkness, while Mrs. Fabian, leaning back in the breeze
from the electric fan, put on her thinking-cap. It seemed hard that her
wayward boy, if he had started on a worthy road, should manage at his
very first step to get in her way.

Her will was strong and shrewd. When later that night she was alone
with her husband, she opened the subject.

"Kathleen tells me Edgar has taken up serious work with his voice."

"Kathleen is optimistic," was the laconic reply.

"I think, Henry, we ought to meet him half-way in any honourable
undertaking."

Mr. Fabian made an inarticulate exclamation. He was thinking of the
bill Kathleen had placed in his hands before she left him to-night.

"I can't think," proceeded Mrs. Fabian, "that anything but a high sense
of duty would induce anybody to make the blood-curdling noises that
I've heard lately from Edgar's room."

A short silence; then Mrs. Fabian spoke again. "It seems he cannot go
any longer to the place where he has done his practising. I'm afraid if
he should work evenings here, it might annoy you, Henry."

"I dare say it might," agreed the weary man, with an involuntary sigh.

"I was thinking that if he is not very busy at the office--"

"Very busy!" The father threw back his head.

"You might give him a longer vacation"--

"Edgar's whole life is a vacation," said Mr. Fabian.

"And let him go with us to the island. If he is really going to make
music his lifework he could practise regularly there and be away from
temptations, and--"

Mr. Fabian slowly faced his wife with such attention that she paused
hopefully, then went on:--

"You know Philip Sidney is going with me, and his companionship would
be so good for Edgar."

"It's a bright thought, my dear," said Mr. Fabian. "The office will be
able to struggle along without Edgar, and then we can close the house
and I can live at the club."

"Not too long," said his wife, so pleased at her sudden success that
she put her arms around his neck and kissed him. "Not too long, Henry.
You must take a long vacation this year."

He returned her caress. "One day at a time," he said briefly.

Mrs. Fabian sought her pillow, well-pleased; and contrary to her habit,
she was up betimes next morning, and hastened to her son's room before
he came down to breakfast.

"Can I come in?" she asked, knocking.

Edgar was in his shirt-sleeves adjusting his tie; and when he opened
the door and saw his mother, he gave an exclamation.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Too hot to sleep?"

A cloudless sun was promising another day with a soaring thermometer.

Mrs. Fabian noted the hard questioning in her boy's eyes. She knew he
considered her his father's aid in denying him the right to spend as a
millionaire's son should--knew that his attitude toward her had long
been defensive; and that her unusual visit to his room roused only his
suspicion of something disagreeable.

"Do you mind if I come in, dear?" she asked, her soft silks trailing
noiselessly as she moved across the room. "I am so interested in what I
hear about your music."

Edgar was silent, continuing to busy himself with his tie. He knew
his stepmother too well to believe that she had risen with the lark
to felicitate him on his last venture. He took up the ivory military
brushes she had given him and began to use them vigorously. He was
still smarting from the scene of the night before and he braced himself
for a homily on the subject of his music bill.

"I've never believed in thwarting a child's bent," said Mrs. Fabian,
flicking the ashes from a chair to make it fit to sit upon. "I said to
Philip Sidney's mother, 'let him paint.' I said to your father last
night when I heard all this, 'let Edgar sing.'"

Mrs. Fabian paused to allow her breadth of view to sink in. Edgar
glanced around at her sulkily, from his mirror, and then looked back
again.

"Now, you have no taste for commercial life, dear, why waste more time
in it at present until you see what the artistic line holds for you?"

Edgar glanced back at the speaker again quickly. What was the "<DW65>
in the fence"? Her face looked innocently out at him from a becoming
boudoir cap.

"And I suggested to your father that he let your vacation start earlier
and that you come with us to the island next Wednesday. You are going
to work for a time anyway without your teacher, and this hot atmosphere
must be so relaxing to the throat. There it is pure and bracing and you
can lay out your course of study and be undisturbed."

Edgar regarded the speaker with some interest now, but still
questioning.

"Father thinks, then, we could close the house and he would live at the
club."

Edgar tossed his head, raised his eyebrows, and proceeded to put on his
coat.

"You want to close the house. That's it," he said.

"Don't you think it would be a good plan?" asked Mrs. Fabian
ingratiatingly.

All Edgar's cynicism was not proof against allowing some satisfaction
to appear in the prospect of leaving the office routine and pursuing
the line of work which had genuinely captured his interest.

"Yes, I don't mind," he answered. "Kath going with you?"

"Yes, and Philip Sidney,--just for a short visit."

Edgar shrugged his shoulders.

"You can imagine the heat of that stable room," suggested Mrs. Fabian.

"Tophet, I suppose," agreed Edgar. "All right. I'll go." The even
teeth had been set many times since last evening in the prospect of a
_tête-à-tête_ existence with his father.

"I wish we might go on all together, but, of course, not knowing, I
didn't engage a berth for you."

"I'll go on the day train," responded Edgar; adding with his customary
grace, "I never was keen for travelling in caravans anyway."

Mrs. Fabian was not critical of his rudeness. She was too pleased at
having gained her end, and soon floated away to Kathleen's room, her
next strategic point.

She found her daughter propped up in bed with coffee and toast on a
table before her.

"Good morning, mother, you put me to shame," said the girl. "Didn't you
sleep either? This is early for you."

"Poor child," said Mrs. Fabian, seating herself on the foot of the bed
and observing the rings around the other's eyes. "Yes, I slept pretty
well, but not until after your father and I had had a long talk."

Kathleen scrutinized her mother's complacent countenance and made up
her mind that the talk could not have concerned business.

"I told him how sure I felt that Edgar was in earnest now, and we both
concluded it was time wasted to try any longer to fit a square peg into
a round hole, so your father is going to let the boy go to the island
at once with us and work at his voice there, away from temptations."

"Oh, how fine!" breathed Kathleen. "Then," she added aloud, "he will
entertain Mr. Sidney in my place, and I can stay with father."

"That's an absurd idea and you know it. Philip and Edgar would get
along like two tigers. You can see that I need you more than ever to
reconcile them."

Kathleen's face did not look encouraging. She longed to tell her mother
of her father's straits, but her lips were sealed.

"Besides," added Mrs. Fabian, with the conscious power of one who plays
the last trump, "one reason your father wishes to dispense with Edgar
is that he wants to close the house and live at the club."

Kathleen's face fell and her eyes looked away.

"You see he'll come to us all the sooner, dear," said her mother. "Men
talk about enjoying living at the club, but when they are happy family
men they tire of it very soon."

The girl smiled faintly. "We have been something of a 'happy family'
lately," she said; "but if Edgar really turns over a new leaf--"

"Oh, he has!" declared Mrs. Fabian. "I'm glad to remember that the
outdoors is large at Brewster's. I suspect he will nearly drive us
crazy, but one must exercise some self-sacrifice in this world." She
rose. "Take another nap if you can, Kathleen. I'm thankful the island
is so near for you. You're completely tired out."

But Kathleen did not take another nap. She dressed very soon, and,
pleading a desire for fresh air, left the house. She did not ask
for the machine lest her mother should offer to accompany her, but
descended in all her dainty whiteness into the subway and started for
Wall Street. Arrived at the labyrinth of offices where daily Mr. Fabian
struggled and Edgar endured, she dreaded meeting her brother, but she
saw nothing of him, and waited in an ante-room, looking about her with
a swelling heart. How little part she and her mother had ever had in
the heavy responsibilities of her father's life. She doubted if her
mother came here twice a year, and when she did it was simply to obtain
money.

She had not long to wait, for Mr. Fabian himself opened the door of his
private office, and the clerk passing out saw him stoop and kiss the
girl in the large hat strewn with lilacs.

"What brings you, my dear?" he asked, his brows knitting anxiously.
She smiled and clung to his hand as they moved inside. "You're pale,
Kathleen. Off to the island with you, child. Off to the island."

"That's just what I came about," she answered, taking the chair he set
for her, and the electric fan whirring above her head carried the scent
of orris to her father. "I would so much rather stay with you. I came
to urge you to let me."

He regarded her with eyes full of affection and gave a short laugh.

"I frightened you last night," he said. "Perhaps I did wrong."

"No, no, you didn't. Mother told me the plan to let Edgar go. That is
right. Edgar can't be a comfort to you; but I can, father. Don't shut
up the house. Let me stay with you till you are ready to go."

Mr. Fabian nodded, his eyes fixed upon the sensitive face with its
beseeching eyes.

"You're a good girl, Kathleen. You are a comfort to me, whether we're
together or not; and just now it will be an advantage to me to live
close to my associates at the club. Go without anxiety, child. I
promise to keep you advised of everything important."

The troubled eyes did not leave his face.

"Don't exaggerate what I said last night. I am not going to make any
spectacular failure, but I have my own ideas of equity and I'm not
going to wriggle out on a technicality. My course may lose me friends
as well as money; but I've got to live with myself, and there are some
memories I don't propose to entertain. Your mother has always been
moderate in her demands, she has never shared the insane ambitions of
some of her acquaintances; but her toys are very dear to her and I hate
to curtail them. It looks as if I might have to."

"It might be the making of Edgar," said Kathleen.

Her father regarded her in silent admiration. It was evident that her
own part in the loss had not occurred to her.

"Your mother's unselfishness in keeping the island summer home, because
I like its simplicity, makes this season's problem easy. By autumn I
shall know the worst."

"How I would like to stay with you right along until everything is
settled," said Kathleen fervently. "I want to be sure that you know how
happy I should be in it. I keep so busy with my slides and microscope,
and then--there's something else I do." Kathleen  consciously.
"I meant not to tell any one yet, but,--I write a little!"

"Stories, you mean?"

The girl nodded. "It is nothing, it may never amount to anything; but
the microscope suggested it to me. There is such a great world that we
never enter or think about. So you can see how happy I should be in our
big, cool house, and not a bit lonely,--if you'll only have me."

"I believe you, Kathleen, but it wouldn't work, dear. I could be at
home so little, and I'd like to cut off the expense of the house."

"Oh, oh! Is it so bad as that?"

"No, not nearly so bad; but in time of peace, prepare for war."

"Then mother had better not take her usual weeks at a resort."

Mr. Fabian raised his eyebrows. "How else is the dear lady to exhibit
her summer toilets? The fish at the island are so unappreciative."

"Don't keep things from mother," pleaded Kathleen.

"I promise not to when there is anything to tell. I was weak enough to
think out loud with you. Now, run along, my child."

"Oh, father, always be weak enough to think out loud with me. Will
you?" He had risen and she did so reluctantly.

He crushed her trim whiteness in his arms, and kissed her. "Don't make
me sorry, then. Don't cross any bridge until you come to it. Promise."

She smiled up at him bravely. "I promise," she said, and left the
office with a wistful backward look at him standing there, his eyes
following her.




CHAPTER XVIII

CASCO BAY


Pat's benevolent heart swelled with satisfaction when, a few evenings
later, Philip ran down the stable stairs, his packed suitcase in hand.

"Wish you were going along," said the artist, meeting the Irishman's
approving gaze.

"I will as soon as ye need a valet," was the reply. "Ye think I can't
put on style!" Pat winked and shook his head knowingly. "Ye'd burst wid
pride if ye saw me fixed up and waitin' on ye."

"I haven't a doubt of it. Well, so long. It will be only a few nights
before I shall be back, sizzling with you again." And Phil gave the man
a smiling nod and went out of the door, almost running into the arms of
Mrs. Fabian, who, in the trimmest of cool grey travelling gowns, was
looking askance at a spring and mattress outside the barn door.

Pat aghast, hastened to button the open throat of his shirt. "The Queen
o' Sheby," he muttered.

"Why, did I keep you waiting, Aunt Isabel?" asked Phil, with
contrition. "I was planning to be out in front in plenty of time."

"Yes, it is early, but I wanted to speak to your man a minute."

Pat bowed in the direction of the voluminous grey chiffon veil. "You
may go out and join Kathleen," Mrs. Fabian added.

"Dear me, nothing private, I hope," said Phil, vastly amused by the
conflicting emotions on the Irishman's face.

"Have you seen to putting your evening clothes away?" asked Mrs. Fabian.

"Why--why, they're hanging up there in the closet."

"Just what I expected. Run along, and I'll tell this good man what to
do."

Phil gave Pat one humorous glance and obeyed, passing out toward the
street where he soon saw Kathleen in the waiting car, her hat tied down
by a roseate veil.

Mrs. Fabian at once accosted Pat. "Could you pack up Mr. Sidney's
belongings and send them after him, if we ask you?"

"I could, mum, but 'tis only a week he'll be away."

"He wouldn't want his evening clothes. Do you know what a moth-bag is?"

"I do not, thin."

"Well, go to the store and ask, please. Brush Mr. Sidney's evening
clothes thoroughly and put them in the bag, seal it up tight, and hang
it in the closet. The careless boy. That's what comes of always having
had a mother."

"Lot's o' folks is jist that careless," remarked Pat. He was beginning
to feel that even a queen, if she invaded his own vine and fig tree,
might be a little less peremptory.

"You may send everything else, except of course his winter overcoat.
By the way, you may get another moth-bag for that, and treat it in the
same manner."

"He'll not be stayin', mum. He's all for work."

"Has he been sleeping out here on these hot stones?" demanded Mrs.
Fabian, with dilating nostrils, looking at the mattress.

"No, mum, he usually took the bed," responded the Irishman.

"Well, you've carried his upstairs, I see."

"I'll have to break it to ye that he did it himself," said the man.

Mrs. Fabian ignored his manner. Her thought was filled with Philip's
situation.

"Well, here," she said, with a preoccupied air, and, taking a bill
from the fine-mesh purse which hung from her wrist, she held it out to
the Irishman. "Take this and do what I've asked you. You needn't prepay
the trunk if you send it. Keep the change, and I hope the heat here
won't grow any worse. Good-bye." And Mrs. Fabian turned on her heel and
the grey chiffon floated away up the alley.

Pat looked at the five-dollar bill he held and tossed his head. "Who is
that bye," he muttered, "and will he iver live in the stable ag'in?"

Suddenly, bethinking himself that he might see the grand departure of
his lodger, he hurried out to the street, and was in time to see Phil's
straw hat loom amid a confusion of grey and rosy streaming veils.

"Sure, 'tis only the rich enjoys this life," he thought good-naturedly,
and unbuttoning his neckband again, he returned to his palm-leaf fan.

As the motor flew breezily through the hot city streets, Philip gave
himself up to the pleasure of his outing. Mrs. Fabian regarded him with
supreme satisfaction, and Kathleen, though a little heartsore from
parting with her father, dared not indulge in a pensive moment, knowing
that her mother would pounce upon it alertly and later reproach her.

They passed the evening in the stateroom of the flying train, and Mrs.
Fabian narrated with much dignity the tale of Edgar's retirement from
commercial life in favor of the arts. Philip pricked up his ears when
he learned that the heir of the house was expected at the island at
once.

Kathleen was not obliged to talk much, and at last they all ceased
fanning themselves and shouting remarks against the clatter of the open
windows, and retired.

After breakfast the following morning, as they entered a carriage to
cross Portland, Kathleen nodded at Philip.

"Say good-bye to heat," she remarked.

"Hard to believe," returned the Westerner, who had tried to refrain
from talking of his native mountains. His thoughts often travelled back
even to the stable studio where certain work begun stood awaiting his
return; but soon after they entered the boat for the island, he began
to see Kathleen's words fulfilled. The ladies wrapped themselves in
heavy coats and Mrs. Fabian begged Phil to put on his sweater; but he
held his hat in his hand and declared his desire to be chilled to the
bone.

As they pulled out past the near islands into wide spaces of sea,
interest slowly grew in Phil's eyes. His comments grew less frequent,
and finally stopped. The islands rose tree-crowned from the water,
casting deep green reflections at their feet. Phil took a notebook from
his pocket, and occasionally asking the name of an island, he wrote it
in the book. Kathleen, understanding his intent, and knowing that he
would not fulfil it because of greater satisfaction further on, smiled
at her mother.

"What did I tell you?" she asked.

"Well, what did you?"

"That he wouldn't know whether I was here or not."

"Sh--!"

"He can't hear me any more than if he were anæsthetized."

"Hush, Kathleen."

"I'll prove it." She raised her voice. "Mr. Sidney!"

Phil not only did not reply, but after a moment more he moved away to
another and more unobstructed spot.

Kathleen gave a low laugh and Mrs. Fabian looked pleased.

"He is enjoying it, isn't he?" she returned. "This day is a wonderful
bit of good fortune. First impressions are so important. What made you
expect him to behave like this?"

"I think I must have a groping, artistic sense myself. At any rate,
I knew what Casco Bay must do to an artist when he comes upon it all
unprepared."

Mrs. Fabian sighed. "Well, I'm glad our coming here does somebody some
good. Are you going on forever calling that boy 'Mr.'? Of course, he
can't be informal with you unless you will be so with him."

"Mother dear, I tell you it doesn't matter," laughed the girl. "He has
gone into a trance and he probably won't come out of it till the first
fog. By that time, perhaps I shall feel entirely informal."

Captain James stood on the pier when the boat approached Brewster's
Island. Kathleen caught sight of him and waved her handkerchief.

"Mother, it's time to go and make passes over Philip," she said. "He'll
have to wake up."

Mrs. Fabian went to the guest and touched him on the arm. For an hour
and a half he had not addressed them.

He started.

"We're there, Phil," she said.

He followed her, and glanced at Kathleen with a sensation of guilt. He
seized the bags with an alacrity intended to offset his preoccupation.

"It's a wonderful bay," he said.

Kathleen was not regarding him. She was leaning over the rail, waving
again toward a tall lean man on the wharf, who smiled, well-pleased,
and jerked his head in her direction.

Soon many passengers were streaming up the gangplank, and in a minute
Kathleen was greeting the tall lean man with a gayety Phil had never
before seen in her demeanor.

Mrs. Fabian next shook hands with him, and introduced Phil, who, in the
confusion and limitations of the commonplace wharf, had quite regained
his normal alertness.

"You gave us a very nice day, Cap'n James," said Mrs. Fabian
graciously. "Where's the carriage?"

"Waitin'. Can't take you all, I'm afraid. Mrs. Frick from down-along
engaged me ahead."

"Ahead of us?" inquired Mrs. Fabian superbly.

"Got one seat," said Captain James. He was accustomed to Mrs. Fabian's
autocracy.

"That's all we want," said Kathleen. "Mr. Sidney and I will walk up."

So Mrs. Fabian and the bags were stowed in the carriage and the young
people were started on their walk before Tom had turned heavily into
the road.

"What air!" exclaimed Phil, as they struck into the deep grass.

"One can live on it," agreed the girl.

"Don't expect me to; I feel wonderful pangs already. Gramercy Park had
nearly cured me of eating."

He smiled down at his companion in the roseate veil tied under her
chin, and she glanced up at the city pallor of his face. "I should
think it might," she agreed. "Wait a week. We shall both look like
tomatoes and feel like disembodied spirits."

"I'm afraid I behaved like the latter, coming down the bay; but really
I forgot everything. I want to study the boat-tables and go back to
some of those wonderful shores."

Kathleen smiled demurely. "This doesn't cut much of a figure by
contrast, does it?" she said.

They were crossing diagonally through a green field which led gently up
to the island road.

"It's beautifully fresh here," replied Phil politely, looking about the
bare treeless expanse rolling up to a bluff against illimitable sky.

A village store upon the road, a little school-house and a cottage or
two, were all that was to be seen.

Above, on Mrs. Wright's doorstep, Eliza Brewster was standing, opera
glass in hand, watching the tall figure and the rosy veil coming up
through the field. She had restrained herself from running down to
the road, for she dreaded Mrs. Fabian, and Phil for the moment had
forgotten that Eliza might be in the neighborhood. His eyes brightened
as they reached the road. He had been privately wondering why the
Fabians had chosen this unpromising island as their abiding place. Now
he caught sight of the spreading cove, its brilliant banks dark with
evergreen trees, while in sheltered spots maples and birches stood amid
a riot of shrubs inviting the birds.

"That's a fine cove," he said, his eyes fixed on the far reaches of the
sea.

"So the yachtsmen think," returned Kathleen.

"Let's look at it a minute," said Phil.

The girl paused obediently and a smile touched the corners of her lips.
Phil's impersonality with regard to herself was novel; for Kathleen
had the intangible quality called charm to such a degree that nothing
masculine had ever before been able to approach so near to her without
striving to win her favor.

From that first Sunday in the stable studio she had perceived that if
she were going to see more of this new factor in the family circle she
must do the striving if she were to become a factor to him. A dread
that she might desire to do this had beset her ever since, and warned
her away from him with a sense of self-preservation.

He stood forgetful of her now, and narrowed his eyes to the picture.

"Well, have you looked enough?" she asked. "How are the pangs?"

"Yes, yes," he replied hurriedly. "I can come back."

"Certainly, we promise not to lock you up," she answered,
half-laughing. "We'll get better views of it, too, as we go on," she
added, and turned at a right angle into a green ribbon road leading up
a second incline.

Phil looked about vaguely, and followed her. He noticed on the crest
above them a cottage of boulders and shingles.

"Yours?" he asked.

"Home, sweet home," she answered.

Captain James passed them now with his load, and by the time they
reached the cottage, Mrs. Fabian was on the steps to welcome them; but
Philip was absorbed in the surprise which the summit of that hill gave
the newcomer. Before him, but a few rods away, spread the Atlantic,
foaming at the foot of the bluff. Distant islands came near in the
crystal air, their outline defined by rocks, which in the distance
seemed ribbons of sandy beach. The superb breadth of view, ending
either in the horizon or in the irregular skyline of the mainland, took
the breath of the unfamiliar.

Mrs. Fabian straightened with pleasure in the spellbound look of her
guest as, his hat dropped upon the grass, he gazed in silence. It was
her island and her view. She started to speak, but Kathleen touched her
finger to her lips with a suggestive smile; so the lady sank instead
into a hammock chair. Her maid Molly came out of the house, greeted
the ladies and carried in their bags, saying that dinner would be
served whenever they were ready.

Philip, from his stand below on the grass, turned and looked up at
them, his eyes dark with the blue of the sea.

"I understand now," he said, "why you haven't talked about it."

"Come in and have something to eat," suggested his exultant hostess.
"We have noon dinner. Kathleen simply refuses to shorten the day with a
long evening meal."

Philip gave the girl a brilliant smile of appreciation.

"After dinner," went on Mrs. Fabian, "Kathleen will take you to walk to
some of our pretty places."

"No, indeed," said the girl hastily. "I understand just how Mr. Sidney
will love to explore for himself. I wouldn't spoil his surprises."

Philip said nothing to the contrary. His thoughts were absorbed
taking mental stock of the materials he had brought, and he followed
mechanically into the charming cottage whose every window framed a
water scene, waves creaming upon the rocks which stretched granite
fingers unceasingly to grasp them, while unceasingly they slipped away.

As soon as Phil reached his room he threw open his suitcase with
feverish haste and examined all the sketching paraphernalia he had
packed so hastily.

The music box which called to meals played all its tunes, but the guest
did not appear. At last Mrs. Fabian sent Molly to knock on his door.

"What a wonderful day," she said to Kathleen when they were alone, "and
in June one is so likely to strike fog and rain. Now let it come. He
has seen what Brewster's Island really is--or he will see when you have
taken him about this afternoon. The only drawback to the whole trip so
far has been your refusal to do that. How could you be so abrupt, my
dear?"

"Mother, don't try to manage an artist," replied the girl emphatically.
"He will want only to be let alone. Can't you see it? And so do I."
Kathleen looked remarkably defiant. "I want to be let alone. This is my
vacation, too, remember. I have worked as hard as he has."

Mrs. Fabian met her child's determined regard with surprise. Kathleen
did look pale and thin, now that she had time to observe it. The heat
of the train last night had not been conducive to sleep.

"Very well, dear," she acquiesced with meekness. "Perhaps you ought to
lie down this afternoon. I'm sure I shall. I'd like the very waves to
be still."

As she spoke the last word, Philip appeared and they sat down at table.
The combination of the air and the delicious fresh sea-food to one
long unaccustomed to home fare made the guest suspend all artistic
calculations and do such justice to the dinner that Mrs. Fabian sighed.

"It is such a satisfaction to have a man's appetite at the table,"
she said, when Phil made laughing apology and referred to the city
restaurants. "To-morrow we shall have two men."

"To be sure," thought Phil. These were Edgar's mother and sister and
home. Somehow he could not fit the _blasé_ society man into this
Arcadia. He must make the most of to-day.

As his hunger wore away he looked more and more from the windows. The
dining-room might have been on a ship for the freedom of its vast sea
views. When they rose from the table, he looked at Kathleen with
boyish expectancy.

"Are we going to walk?" he asked.

Mrs. Fabian interposed with the best intentions. "I don't think
Kathleen had better go, after all, Phil," she said. "She is very tired.
She is going to lie down. You won't mind running about this first
afternoon by yourself, I'm sure."

Kathleen saw disappointment and then concern grow in the guest's face,
for he suddenly observed that she was pale.

"Nonsense, I wouldn't think of wasting time lying down," she said
cheerfully. "Wait a few minutes. I'll be downstairs in a jiffy."

Mrs. Fabian watched her as she ran lightly up the stairway.

"Do you think she ought to go?" asked Phil doubtfully.

"Philip," returned his hostess dryly, "don't ask me what I think. If
you ever have a daughter twenty years old and just out of college, you
will find the safest, wisest course is not to think at all." But she
smiled as she said it; for this time Kathleen's waywardness was not
displeasing.




CHAPTER XIX

FLASHES OF BLUE


When Kathleen ran downstairs a little later, Phil looked at her in
smiling surprise. The elegant Miss Fabian had disappeared. In her stead
was a young girl, shorter by the height of a fashionable boot-heel, and
with braided hair wound around her head, fastened by a broad bow of
black ribbon. Her short, dark-blue skirt reached to her ankles and a
Tam o' Shanter crowned her head.

Phil turned to his hostess. "What a strong family resemblance your
youngest bears to Miss Fabian. I should know she was her sister if I
met her anywhere."

"Yes, this is Kathleen, not Miss Fabian. Don't forget it. When you come
back, I expect you to be treating each other as cousins should. Don't
let her walk too far, Phil." Mrs. Fabian stifled a yawn. "I think I
shall take a nap in the wind-break."

She watched the pair as they moved away from the house. The breeze was
tossing the short dark hair on Phil's uncovered head. Kathleen, in her
rubber-soled, heelless shoes, scarcely reached his ear.

"I'm glad now," mused Mrs. Fabian, "that Kathleen is a Van Ruysler
iceberg. If she were a susceptible girl, I wouldn't wish her to be with
that man a minute. What matter if he is a high-minded, fine chap? If he
didn't care for her she'd suffer just the same." And Mrs. Fabian gave a
yawn mightier than its predecessors and sought her favorite nook.

Meantime Eliza Brewster was making restless sallies from the kitchen
to the front room and gazing over toward the boulder cottage. She felt
sure Phil would inquire about her, and not let too much time pass
before he ran across the field to Mrs. Wright's.

The dinner dishes were washed and cleared away and Eliza had on a clean
gingham dress and white apron. Mrs. Wright saw her expectancy.

"Mr. Sidney is a stranger in a strange land," she said. "He will be
entirely dependent on his hosts this first day. Why shouldn't we run
over there?" she added with a bright thought. "That's only island
neighborliness."

But Eliza shook her head.

"It would be the very way to begin a new chapter," urged Mrs. Wright.

Eliza gazed from the window by which she was sitting. In the evolution
to health and peace which the winter had brought, her causes of offence
had gradually retreated into greater perspective, and the broad calm
outlook which Mrs. Wright brought to bear on the untoward as well as
the agreeable events of life had affected the narrow hardness of her
own observations. Nevertheless, to beard the lioness in her den on the
very day of her arrival would be a feat entirely beyond Eliza; so she
only shook her head again, put on a shade hat, turned up the skirt of
her dress, and went out to weed the sweet peas.

Thus it was that, with her back to the boulder cottage and her hands
busy with the earth she loved, she did not hear steps that approached
on the springy turf; and the first notice she had of the arrival of
callers was a man's voice speaking above her.

"Doing finely, aren't they?" was the remark.

Well she knew the voice. She stepped on her petticoat in her haste to
arise, and two strong hands went under her arms and lifted her to her
feet.

"Mr. Philip!" she said gladly.

He was laughing down at her, and Pluto was on his shoulder. Kathleen
Fabian stood a few feet away, and Eliza nodded a greeting to her
while she allowed Phil to shake both her hands, green stains and all.
Mrs. Wright, seeing them from a window, came out to welcome Kathleen
and meet Phil, and the usual felicitations on the weather and first
impressions followed.

"I can see," said Phil, "that I am going to be miserly of my days. I
was just asking Miss Kathleen if all this beauty is liable to vanish in
a fog-bank to-morrow."

"And she told you not at all liable, I'm sure," said Mrs. Wright; "but
if it does--that is the beauty of the island--you'll sit before a
blazing open fire and enjoy that quite as well." Phil shook his head.
"The mere amazement of enjoying a fire at the end of the past week
would, indeed, be absorbing for a while; but I want to try my hand at
this--this new world." He looked off at the blue of the crested waves
and the blue of the distant hills. "We are just on our way to the boat
now to send a night letter to Pat to get him to send on some stuff. I'm
glad you're such a near neighbor, Eliza. I shall be seeing you often."

"I'll not waste your time now asking you into the house," said Mrs.
Wright, "but some wet day you must come in and try our fireplace. When
does your brother come, Miss Kathleen?"

"To-morrow; and your niece, Mrs. Wright?"

"In another week, I think. I long to get hold of the child."

After a few more amenities, in which Eliza took but little part, except
to gaze at Phil with wistful eyes, the young people started for the
wharf.

"What a bonny young man," said Mrs. Wright, looking after them.

"Ain't he just about right?" agreed Eliza proudly. "You see there ain't
any philanderin' there. He just wants to work and work. Here, Pluto!
Kitty, kitty," for the cat was running after the departing couple. He
paused, not from obedience, but because he saw that their course lay
downhill and he preferred a sheltered sunny corner by the step.

Phil sent his night letter by the purser of the boat, and the two went
back up the hill. Mrs. Fabian beckoned to them from the veranda.

"I thought you would be asleep by this time," said Kathleen.

"I thought I would, too," returned Mrs. Fabian. "Come here and let me
show you how careless Cap'n James has been."

They followed her to the shelter of the windbreak where her favorite
hammock hung, and whirring wings nearly brushed Phil's face as they
entered. The nook was enclosed on two sides with glass, and Mrs. Fabian
pointed to the snug lofty corner where the swallows had nested. The
young were grown and one had ventured out upon a beam.

"Oh, oh!" exclaimed Kathleen, with soft delight. "We're in time for
the coming-out party. Come here, mother, you're frightening them." And
Mrs. Fabian found herself seized unsympathetically and drawn to a safe
distance.

"But I must sleep, Kathleen. I'm exhausted. I was just dozing off when
those creatures swooped across me chattering. I nearly jumped out of
the hammock. It was a nervous shock."

"I suppose," said the girl, "they were saying, 'Why couldn't those big
clumsy human beings have stayed away just one more day!' You must be a
mascot, Phil, so many fortunate happenings for your first day."

She was quite unconscious that the name had slipped out, and the guest
smiled and seated himself on the railing near her while Mrs. Fabian in
a rocking-chair began to be consoled for her lost nap.

"Perhaps you would prefer to go on exploring," added Kathleen, "but I
really can't miss this function."

"I wouldn't miss it for a farm," responded the guest, eyes fixed on the
nest.

Mrs. Fabian pulled her chair so that its rockers scraped the boards.

"We must all be still as mice," warned Kathleen softly.

Her mother looked up at the seething nest with disfavor. Since her
young people considered the show such a treat, she would be obliged to
edit the lecture she had been preparing for Captain James. The parent
birds flew in and out in a state of great excitement, and one of them
fed the venturesome little fellow on the beam, whereupon the others
stretched their necks and vociferated with wide mouths.

"But they're so slow," complained Mrs. Fabian. "Why don't they fly and
be done with it? I can hardly keep my eyes open."

"They may not go for an hour, or perhaps all night--oh, if they are
so unkind as to wait until we're all asleep to-morrow morning!" said
Kathleen.

"Then I don't know that I shall wait," said Mrs. Fabian.

"Perhaps you'd better not," agreed the girl, her eyes fixed on the
young bird lest he should elude her. "We're none of us invited to this
party, you see."

Upon this, the venturesome little swallow appeared to have an attack
of homesickness, for, instead of flying away, he hopped back to the
nest, where he immediately became very unpopular with his brothers and
sisters. Whatever the spot into which he had this morning fitted so
snugly, it seemed to have disappeared.

"Well, did you ever!" exclaimed Mrs. Fabian in exasperation. "Why
couldn't Phil climb up there and set them all out on the beam and take
the nest down. I'm sure it would just help them along."

"Worse than pulling open a rosebud," said Kathleen.

"Very well, then," returned Mrs. Fabian. "I shall go upstairs."

No one objecting, she rose and suited the action to the word; and
Kathleen and Phil were left to a welcome solitude.

The parent swallows soon ceased to notice the two large, strange birds
perched on the veranda railing below.

Kathleen had discarded her Tam and as she sat between Phil and the
wind-break, the sun gave him the red glints in her "reserved hair."

The tide was going out, but rushing with a splendid sweep toward the
foot of their hill, the sky had occasional billows of downy white lying
against its clear blue. The sweet wind swept the fresh grass where
daisies were beginning to appear, and all down the irregular coast-line
of the island the snowy foam broke on rock and sand.

The iridescent blue of the swallows' backs and the delicate rose of
their breasts lent an exquisite touch of color, as they flew and
wheeled in the curving flight designed to tempt the solemn-faced young,
crowded so uncomfortably in the outgrown nest.

Again one struggled out upon the beam. The cunning parents fed it,
while the others begged in vain. Then again the old birds were away in
airy flight.

"Come out, come out in the sunshine," they seemed to cry, wheeling back
toward the nest. "Come out to the ecstasy of wind and waves. The whole
world, the world of sea and sky, is ours."

Kathleen for an instant turned about to her companion. "Do you see how
he can resist?" she asked.

"Kathleen!" exclaimed Phil.

She turned back, but too late. In that instant the young bird on the
beam had flown.

"They're right there, though," said Phil excitedly, and indeed the
birds kept wheeling above the bluff, when, wonder of wonders, the other
young ones, struggling to the edge of the nest as if unable to resist
the intoxication of the sight, flew out into the open.

For a minute the bright air was astir with the whir of wings. It was
impossible to distinguish the young birds from the old; then they all
alighted on the ridge-pole of a small summer house which stood on the
edge of the bluff.

Kathleen turned to Phil, her hands clasped on her breast. He thought
her enchanted eyes and smile suggested the unlocking of one of her
inner doors.

"Yes," he replied, nodding, "I never saw anything prettier than that."

The girl looked back at the summer house. The birds were still sitting
there all in a row. The two watched until again wings were afloat in
the bright air; then they ran down the steps to see what would be the
next resting-place, and saw the birds alight on posts and netting about
the tennis court. When again they flew, they disappeared.

Kathleen sighed. "In my next incarnation," she said, "I choose to be a
swallow on Brewster's Island."

"Then," said Phil, looking at her radiant face, "I'm glad I happened to
be a man during your present one."

The open door closed. Phil thought he could almost hear it click. In an
instant the dark eyes were the reflective ones he had known.

"Thank you kindly, sir," she said. "That was good fun. Shall we go on
now with our interrupted walk?"

He continued to regard her. "I have an idea that you have walked
enough. Twice up and down this hill and over to Mrs. Wright's is
enough."

"Ho!" returned the girl lightly, "I walk all day here."

"Yes, after you have cooled off and slept for a night or two; but I
suggest the hammock now."

They were standing in the shade and not a hint of red showed in the
girl's soft hair. "There are weeks to rest in," she said. "We ought to
make the most of this perfect day."

Phil still regarded her. The excitement of the closing college
experiences and the city heat had left their mark; and he did not know
of other and deeper reasons for her weariness. The flush of pleasure in
the swallow ball had departed.

"Come," he said decidedly, "let's try the hammock."

"Really, Mr. Sidney," she answered, smiling, "I know when I'm tired."

But he proceeded up the veranda steps and she followed him into the
wind-break.

"I'm willing," he said, "to go two steps forward and one back in my
acquaintance with you; but I draw the line at two back. It sounded very
friendly a few minutes ago when you called me Phil. I hope you'll see
your way clear to doing it again sometime."

While he spoke, Philip was testing the ropes of the hammock.

"Oh, I'm sure I didn't call you Phil," she said in surprise.

"Let me see. Did I call you Kathleen?"

"I think you did," she replied, a delicate formality in her voice; "but
the circumstances certainly excused it."

"I hope they will continue to excuse it, for I feel it coming on that I
shall do it again. You took off Miss Fabian with your tailor gown." He
turned and faced her. "Didn't you?" he added.

She shrugged her shoulders, and smiled again. "Perhaps."

"Then get right down on this couch, little Kathleen," he ordered,
smiling, and after a moment's hesitation the girl obeyed. He drew
over her the linen coverlet that had lain on a neighboring chair, and
looked, not at her, but with fascinated eyes through the broad sheets
of glass which guarded the hammock from the wind.

"Now, if you can feel sober enough to sleep in this intoxicating place,
do so," he said.

Kathleen, propped high on cushions, folded her arms beneath her head.

"But isn't it questionable courtesy for both your hostesses to go to
sleep, no matter how sober they may be?" she asked.

"There's another hostess here," he returned, with a brilliant look down
into her uplifted eyes.

"Yes, I know," said Kathleen.

"My best girl," said Phil, moving out of the wind-break.

Kathleen smiled. "Yes, I like her, too," she answered. "I never had a
lonely moment on this island in my life; so I shall not worry about
you. There's another hammock around on the other side of the porch. Why
don't you go to sleep yourself?"

"Because I'm afraid I should wake up in Gramercy Park," returned Phil,
and, vaulting over the porch railing, he disappeared from Kathleen's
view.

Walking to the back of the house, he gazed down at the waters of the
cove, then across the field to the long low white farmhouse where he
had found Eliza, then back again at the water. "Miss Manning said I
should stay here if I had to live under a rock," he reflected.

One week: one week was all he had planned for, although Mrs. Fabian had
pressed him for two.

What were two weeks now in prospect? He knew his aunt would welcome him
for an indefinite stay, but Kathleen doubtless had plans for guests,
and moreover Edgar's advent was but one little night away. He shuddered
at the prospect of the gilded youth's questions and comments on his
work.

He decided to walk around the edge of the island. Then he looked back
toward Mrs. Wright's house. He remembered the look of disappointment in
the depths of Eliza's shade hat when he had paid the fleeting visit on
his way to the wharf.

"I'll go to see her once more," he reflected, "and have her off my
mind, for I'm afraid I shall forget when I get a little deeper in here."

Accordingly, he moved off with long swinging steps through the soft
deep grass, and Mrs. Wright saw him coming. She was sitting with her
book on the rustic bench which took the place of piazza at the old
farmhouse.

"Eliza," she called, "your young man is coming back."

It was an hour afterward that Mrs. Fabian, her grudge against the
swallows mollified by a nap, came downstairs to the living-room to
reconnoitre. All was so still that she knew that either those dull
birds were still dawdling, or else that her young people had seen them
off and were away again.

She peered from a window into the glass enclosure, and to her surprise
saw her daughter asleep in the hammock. How slender and pale looked the
sleeping face.

"Poor child. She's worn out, I wonder where Phil is."

As if the gaze had disturbed the sleeper, Kathleen turned on her pillow
and opened her eyes.

Mrs. Fabian promptly left the house and came out to her swinging couch.

"So you took forty winks, too," she said, casting a glance up at the
deserted nest. "Where's Phil?"

"I don't know," returned Kathleen languidly. "I scarcely know where I
am."

"I hope I didn't wake you, gazing from the window; but it's no use your
trying to sleep again, for Cap'n James is coming up at last with the
trunks. Kathleen, I've had a bright idea," added Mrs. Fabian alertly.

The girl stifled a yawn.

"You know Phil won't stay here unless he's working. I'm going to have
him do our portraits for father's Christmas present!"

Kathleen was wide awake instantly.

"It would cost so much, mother," she said.

Mrs. Fabian stared at her. "What an idea!" she retorted. "Phil hasn't
come to enormous prices yet!"

"But you would not want to pay him a small price. It wouldn't be right."

"Since when have you become so economical?" asked Mrs. Fabian,
laughing. "After Christmas, I must tell your father of this talk. How
he will laugh. You and Edgar should be shaken up. Phil's sketches of
his mother show his gift for getting likeness. I don't know whether he
has ever painted a portrait, but I have every confidence in him."

"Then have yours done, dear," said Kathleen. "You're looking as well as
usual, but nothing would hire me to have my lantern jaws perpetuated."

"Oh, a week or two of this will make you bloom, child."

"Yes, especially my nose," returned the girl.

Her thoughts were working fast. She had been happy in the thought that
they were now in the place where neither her mother nor Edgar could
commit themselves to any large expense. Her father had said that by
autumn he should know where he stood. She could not say any more,
however, for Captain James's wagon had arrived, and Mrs. Fabian went
to see to the disposition of the trunks and to give her caretaker
explicit low-voiced directions as to examining for and eliminating any
and all birds' nests found in future on the premises, and at last she
brought him around to the wind-break to point out the one he was to
remove now, with all its traces, at the earliest possible moment.

Kathleen, still lying, her hands clasped under her head, looked up at
him with a smile.

"I'm so glad you didn't notice that nest any sooner, Cap'n James," she
said. "You might have disturbed it."

Captain James chewed a wisp of grass and favored the girl with a wink.

"It wasn't like you," said Mrs. Fabian, with elaborately gentle rebuke,
"not to have this wind-break cleaner. Look at the windows."

"I had Betsy Eaton wash 'em on the outside," said the captain
imperturbably, and winked at Kathleen again.

"It was fine of you, Cap'n James," she laughed. "They flew to-day, and
I was at the party."

Mrs. Fabian looked from one to the other of the laughing ones, in
injured dignity.

"Very well," she said at last; "now, if you're quite sure it won't
disturb the plans of man or beast, Cap'n James, I'd like to have this
wind-break cleaned."

"'Nuff said," returned the man, and once more grinning down at the
girl's laughing face, he went back to his helper sitting on the wagon.




CHAPTER XX

ELIZA SURRENDERS


Eliza had begun some work in the kitchen which she could not at once
leave when Mrs. Wright called her, so the latter brought Phil into the
house.

"No wonder Eliza didn't expect me twice a day," he said. "What an
interesting old place this is."

"Yes," answered Mrs. Wright; "and we are making the most of the few
days that it will still be all ours. Miss Jane Foster, who owns it,
comes almost immediately to take possession and receive her summer
boarders."

"But won't that be a rest for you?"

"Scarcely; for Eliza has taken such a laboring oar that I live in the
lap of luxury, so far as work is concerned."

Eliza came in, in time to hear this statement. "Don't you believe it,
Mr. Philip. She's the busy bee of the house; but we've both had just
enough to do."

"Eliza!" exclaimed Phil, approaching and taking both her hard hands.
"Why, I didn't half see you in that shade hat! You look like a new
being."

Eliza laughed and  under the scrutiny. Her added pounds had
distributed themselves comfortably and becomingly. She did, indeed,
bear little resemblance to the haggard creature of the autumn.

"Why, let me look at you!" went on the artist gladly. "You've robbed
me of a whole lot of good material. If you posed for me now, it would
amount to nothing more than the portrait of a lady."

Mrs. Wright laughed, well pleased, and amused, too, at the embarrassed
manner in which Eliza pulled away her hands.

"But you stay on here, I suppose, just the same," said Phil, turning
back to his hostess.

"Oh, yes. I've taken a room for Violet, my niece, and Miss Foster has
made a business arrangement with Eliza to be her helper, so the only
great difference will be the arrival of new people."

Considerations immediately ran through Phil's head of this home as a
possibility for his prolonged stay. Second thought, however, pictured
the going and coming of summer boarders and the impossibility of
privacy. Besides, he could not afford it.

He picked up a small black book which his eye had caught lying beside
the Bible on Mrs. Wright's table.

"Oh!" he said, raising his eyebrows and looking at her with a smile.

"Do you know it?" she asked.

"My mother lives by it," he returned.

"Then her boy does, I'm sure," said Mrs. Wright.

"He tries to," answered Phil. "I was just thinking now of our
philosophy, and trying to know that, if it's right for me to stay on
this island, it will come to pass. I feel as if I could do a lot of
work here."

"Mrs. Fabian will have too much of a houseful?"

"Perhaps not; but there couldn't be any independence in that; and I
couldn't bring paint rags into her spick-and-span cottage."

"Take board here," suggested Mrs. Wright.

Phil shook his head. "I don't want to give the price for a long pull.
Miss Manning prophesied that I should live under a rock rather than
leave. I'll go rock-hunting some day."

"There must be some way, Mr. Philip!" exclaimed Eliza, who had
listened attentively. The intensity of her manner reminded Phil of
other days.

"You should have more stables on the island," he returned. "It's very
thoughtless of you."

"We can all help him, remember, Eliza," said Mrs. Wright--"you know
I've told you--by thinking right."

"Goodness knows, I'd think anything that'd keep him here," returned
Eliza bluntly. "He's as white as a candle, and it makes me sick to
think o' the perspiration runnin' into his eyes. What d'you want me to
think? I'll say the moon's made o' green cheese, if it'll do any good."

"No, it only does good to think the truth. It's law. You remember how
I've told you that we live under laws and they aren't material ones?
Our thoughts are our whole concern. Get thought right, and action takes
care of itself. You're stopping up one of the channels through which
good can come to you and yours. You consider Mr. Sidney one of yours,
I'm sure."

Eliza averted her eyes uncomfortably.

"Yes," went on Mrs. Wright, smiling, "I'm speaking right out in
meeting, because you've told me that Mr. Sidney knows of your
antagonism."

"She's talkin' about the barrel," remarked Eliza dryly.

"Oh, the barrel!" laughed Phil. "I'd forgotten about that. So has Aunt
Isabel, I fancy."

"I'll bet a cookie she went to your room and tried to get it," said
Eliza, eyeing him shrewdly.

Phil nodded. "Yes, she did."

Eliza struck her hands together with satisfaction. "I'd give more'n a
cookie to have seen her face when she got there," she said triumphantly.

"No, I wasn't talking about the barrel," continued Mrs. Wright. "That
is your own affair: whether you care to keep those family treasures
or to give them up. I was speaking in general about your forgiving
Mrs. Fabian as you would be forgiven, and banishing discord from the
atmosphere. How can you tell how much sunlight that cloud is holding
back from this dear boy of Mrs. Ballard's?"

Eliza stared into space and bit her lip. The three were standing in a
group near the table.

"Well, sit down, anyway," she said briefly, and they did so.

Phil saw that there was method in Mrs. Wright's choosing of this
particular opportunity to make a point. Hers was the face of a
peacemaker and it was easy to see what pain she would find in discord.

Now she turned to Phil and asked him about his father and mother, and
he told her of the mountains, and his periodical longing for them. This
place, he added, gave him a similar sense of exhilaration. It seemed as
if he were breathing again for the first time since November.

"You've got to stay," said Eliza nervously; "that's all there is about
it."

He smiled. "The bark on a tree isn't as tight as I am," he replied.
"I've planned to make my money do just so much."

"'With God all things are possible,'" remarked Mrs. Wright.

"Yes," he laughed; "I'm going to look for a cave with a skylight."

Eliza's thoughts were painfully busy. The constant dropping of the
winter had made an impression on their adamant. Supposing there should
be anything in what Mrs. Wright just said. Supposing God were to punish
her for continuing to hate an enemy; punish her by holding back some
benefit from her dear one's _protégé_.

She stirred around in her chair during a pause. "I've been thinkin'
to-day," she said carelessly, "that I didn't exactly know what I was
goin' to do with that barrel. I've got to bring it down from upstairs
before Jennie gets here."

"Let me do that for you," said Phil quickly. "I've been honing to lift
something heavy all the afternoon. I've felt as if I could lick my
weight in wild cats ever since dinner."

He started up with such eagerness that Eliza mechanically arose and
went to the stairs, Phil following; and Mrs. Wright, a hopeful light in
her eyes, looked on.

"We've got to get these rooms ready for boarders," explained Eliza as
they went up to the second story. "It's real clever of you to lug the
barrel down for me."

Phil smiled covertly as he recognized the old bone of contention with
the flourishing address he had executed, and he steered it down the
narrow stairs successfully.

Eliza had preceded him nimbly.

As soon as she reached the living-room, Mrs. Wright approached her.

"Where are you going to put it?" she asked, looking wistfully at Eliza.

"Oh, anywhere," replied the latter with bravado.

"Jane wouldn't like it in here, of course," remarked Mrs. Wright.

"Well, I suppose I have a right to my own room, haven't I?" Eliza
retorted sharply.

"Wouldn't it be very much in the way, dear? You have it fixed so pretty
in there."

"Well, what's the reason it can't stand in the shed?" asked Eliza, with
defiance.

Mrs. Wright shook her head. "'Where moth and rust doth corrupt,'" she
said slowly.

Phil now had the barrel down, and was standing beside it, waiting.

"Whither away, now?" he asked.

"Eliza," said Mrs. Wright, "there's a wheelbarrow out in the shed."

Eliza  and bit her lip. "Do you know," she said, turning to
Phil, "Mrs. Wright wants me to give those things to Mrs. Fabian?"

"Well, it would tickle Aunt Isabel almost to pieces," he admitted.

"Do you see any reason or justice in it?"

Phil smiled. "It's a luxury to do an unreasonable thing once in a
while," he answered.

"If I thought it would do you the least bit o' good," said Eliza, "I'd
do anything. I'd find a white hair in a black dog's tail and burn it
by the light o' the moon, at midnight," she added scornfully; "but
unluckily I ain't superstitious."

Phil glanced at Mrs. Wright's sweet, earnest face, and understood that
she had thought deeply of the prospect of discord between the two
cottages.

"Come on, Eliza," he said, with boyish enthusiasm, "it would be great
fun to see Aunt Isabel's face. Even if you were after revenge, coals of
fire are a mighty punishment, and if you're only being magnanimous and
letting bygones be bygones why, who knows but it will be the means of
my finding the cave with the skylight?"

Eliza turned away suddenly from his laughing eyes. "All right," she
said, "take it! I'll show you where the wheelbarrow is; and when you've
got it across that hubbly field you won't be looking for wild cats to
fight."

"Oh, but you'll steady the barrel."

"Will I! Well, you can guess again, young man." Eliza's eyes flashed.

"Oh, pshaw," he said. "Don't make two bites of a cherry. If the barrel
goes, you go."

Eliza met his gay, determined look with exasperation.

"This is persecution," she declared angrily; then added beseechingly,
"Don't make me, Mr. Philip."

"I couldn't let you miss it," he returned. "We have the white hair of
the black dog, but, you see, we have to burn it."

Eliza looked appealingly toward Mrs. Wright, whose face was expectant.

"Dear Eliza," she said.

"Don't you 'dear' me," snapped Eliza. "Come this way, Mr. Philip."

She marched out of the room, and Mrs. Wright seized and squeezed Phil's
hand as he passed. He gave her a laughing look.

Soon the march across the field began. Mrs. Wright watched them
from the window. Eliza, her shade hat tied primly down beneath her
chin, steadied the barrel when Phil's route encountered too great an
irregularity.

"Dear martyr," thought Mrs. Wright, who had caught a glimpse of
her companion's expression as they moved away. "She does love that
beautiful boy. I hope her reward will come soon."

Captain James had just driven back down the hill after bringing up the
trunks when Phil and Eliza reached the shaven sward about the Fabian
cottage.

Phil dropped the wheelbarrow at the steps.

"Wait here a minute, Eliza, till I reconnoitre," he said. "This was a
sleeping castle when I left."

"Now, if they're asleep--" said Eliza, hastily and hopefully; but Phil
had disappeared quietly around the corner which led to the windbreak.
As he approached, the sound of voices mingled with the tide, so he
advanced with confidence.

Kathleen was sitting on the edge of the hammock facing her mother, who
looked around as Phil came in view.

"Here we are, awake at last," she said. "Where have you been? How well
you look! You have quite a flush."

He came close to her. "I've been helping Eliza Brewster bring you a
present," he said.

Mrs. Fabian was all attention, but a look of resentment spread over her
countenance.

"She is here with me," went on Phil, low and rapidly. "It means a good
deal, you know. I hope you will be very nice to her."

Kathleen, alertly comprehending, rose from the hammock and moved past
her mother and around to where Eliza stood by the steps, schooling
herself.

"You can't get out of a barrel what ain't in it," she reflected.
"'Tain't any use tappin' a barrel o' vinegar and bein' mad 'cause maple
syrup don't come out."

"You scarcely spoke to me this morning," said Kathleen pleasantly, "you
were so glad to see Mr. Sidney."

Eliza shook hands awkwardly. Kathleen Fabian seemed even to her
prejudice to ring true. "She don't inherit vinegar," thought Eliza. "I
don't know why I shouldn't give her the benefit o' the doubt. Maybe she
is maple clear through."

Mrs. Fabian now came in stately fashion around the corner into view.
Her eyes caught sight of the barrel and glistened. It was almost
impossible to believe that--

"How do you do, Eliza?" she said, in mellifluous tones. "Mr. Sidney
tells me you wish to see me--"

"Yes, about this barrel," interrupted Eliza, with nervous haste. "It's
some o' the things Mrs. Ballard left me that I thought you'd enjoy
havin'. It's her silver and china, just as I packed 'em in New York. I
haven't taken out anything."

"Why, really, Eliza, do you know, I appreciate that very much," said
Mrs. Fabian graciously, "and I shall enjoy them far more here than I
could in New York. I--"

"Yes,'m," said Eliza, "I've got to hurry back to get supper. We have a
real early tea."

"No, not until you've come in and seen where Aunt Mary's things are to
be. I really couldn't allow you to go without sitting down a minute to
rest."

"No, no, thank you," said Eliza, more hurriedly.

"Perhaps you did come in and see the cottage while it was being
prepared for us."

"No, ma'am," returned Eliza, arrested in flight. "I've never been as
near to it as this."

"I wish you would come in, then," said Kathleen. "We think it's very
pretty."

So Eliza yielded, and Phil followed her into the house, showing her the
views from the windows, and before she came out again she had exchanged
remarks with Mrs. Fabian on the increased price of lobsters and other
practical subjects.

"Really quite human," commented Mrs. Fabian when the guest had departed.

"And how well she looks," said Kathleen.

"Now," remarked her mother complacently, "you see my own has come to
me. I knew Eliza was half-crazy last autumn. I just anticipate pulling
over those funny old things."

Meanwhile Phil and Eliza were retracing their steps across the field.

"There! that didn't hurt much, did it?" he asked.

"I haven't got much use for her," replied Eliza, "but I do believe
Kathleen Fabian's a sensible girl."

"Our friend Edgar is coming to-morrow," remarked Phil.

Eliza looked up at him shrewdly from beneath the shade hat. "Is that
the reason you want to be a cave man?"

Phil laughed. "Perhaps it's one," he admitted. "He's a
rather--well--pervasive person, we'll say. I need elbow room to
work. Isn't this a great place, Eliza?" The speaker's eyes swept the
surroundings. "You're farther from the sea than the Fabians. You have a
grand orchard, I see," added Phil, laughing; "or does it belong to that
little cottage over there?"

"Where? Oh, you mean the chicken-house?"

"Chicken-house! Are the hens here so high-toned they have to have
windows besides their roosts? There are places out West where the
reason for the cows giving little milk is said to be because they
become so enchanted with the scenery that they forget to eat. I suppose
those hens go up to the second floor to watch the sunset."

Phil looked curiously at the little story and a half building guarded
by the balm-of-Gilead trees.

"Law, there ain't any hens there," replied Eliza. "A pig wouldn't live
there now. I'm itchin' to burn it down, it's so dirty."

"Nobody lives there?" asked Phil.

"No, not since Granny Foster that it was built for. She scared us
children out of our wits in her time, and I s'pose we pestered her,
'cause of course we was imps and couldn't keep away. We'd rather play
tricks on her than eat, but only a few got their courage up to do more
than knock on the door and run away. That door! My! to think I can walk
up to it and open it. It seems wonderful even now."

"Let's go and open it," said Phil, eagerly, beginning to stride in that
direction.

"Oh, no, Mr. Philip, keep away. It's too dirty and musty in there for
words. Jennie quit keepin' hens a long time ago, and I guess she just
let it rot away there, 'cause 'twa'n't worth cleanin'!"

"Oh, but I want to see where little Eliza was scared," persisted Phil,
hurrying so fast that Eliza was obliged to run after him. She stood
away a little, though, with her long nose lifted while he opened the
door and his eager eyes swept the interior.

"Don't you go in there, oh, don't, Mr. Philip," she said. "I can tell
you just what there is, a parlor and a kitchen, and a rough kind o'
steps that go upstairs where there's only half a floor. It would make a
grand bonfire. I wish Jennie'd let us."

"She owns it, does she? The woman that's going to keep your
boarding-house?"

"Oh, yes; all this land's hers and the orchard."

Phil closed the dingy door and walked around back of the cottage.
Apparently, Granny Foster had liked the view of the open ocean,
contrary to the taste of most of the women on the island, who had good
reason to dread its mighty power. At any rate, while the front of the
little house grew straight out of the grass, the back had once boasted
a piazza, which had fallen away and capsized in the field which ran
down to the water's edge.

"What a view your old lady had!" said Phil, standing still and
listening to the rustling leaves that whispered in the orchard.

"'Tis a sightly place," said Eliza.

The artist looked with starry eyes over the little cottage again and
then at his companion.

"It's wonderful," he said.

"'M-h'm," agreed Eliza; "and it'll do you all the good in the world if
you can only stay here."

Phil's radiant smile beamed upon her.

"Why, I'm going to stay. Can't you see what I'm thinking?"

"No," replied Eliza, staring at him curiously.

"I've found my cave." He waved his hand toward the chicken-house. "Do
you think Jennie'll let me have it?"

"Mr. Philip!" exclaimed Eliza distractedly, clasping her hard hands as
his meaning broke upon her. "There ain't any use to talk about it even!
How could I ever clean that place for you!"

"I shan't let you touch it! Hurrah!" exclaimed the artist, turning a
somersault in the grass and coming right-side up so suddenly that Eliza
blinked.

"Oh, my sorrows and cares!" she mourned; "it's the craziest idea"--

"When, when did you say she's coming?"

"To-morrow. Dear, dear!" Eliza was half laughing and half crying.

"Then I've only to wait one night. Oh, it's too good to be true, like
everything else that happens to me." Another flight of long arms and
legs accompanied by a whoop of joy, and once more Phil was right-side
up and catching Eliza by the arm.

"Let's go and tell Mrs. Wright," he exclaimed, and hurried his
companion toward the farmhouse, where Mrs. Wright was sitting on the
rustic bench.

"He's crazy," declared Eliza. "Tell him so. There must be lots o'
better places. That wouldn't smell good in a thousand years."

But when Phil had divulged his great plan, Mrs. Wright nodded.

"The very thing," she said. "I'm sure Jane will let you use it free,
and be glad to have it put in shape. Then you can take as many or as
few meals here as you like."

Her calm, happy approval closed Eliza's lips in a desperate silence.

"I must rush back to my hostesses," said Phil. "Hurrah for us, Eliza.
I'll go to every boat to meet Jennie."

He started across the field on a long, swinging run.

"Splendid boy," mused Mrs. Wright, aloud, looking after him.

Eliza had sunk on the bench, dumb.

"Now, then," her friend turned to her; "see how you've helped him."

Eliza's eyes snapped. "Do you mean to say," she retorted, speaking fast
and defiantly, "that if I hadn't gone over to Mrs. Fabian's and given
her the dishes, he wouldn't 'a' found that chicken-house?"

Mrs. Wright smiled and shook her head.

"There's only one thing I know, Eliza," she said with deliberation,
"and that is that Love is Omnipotence, and that in every problem we
mortals have the choice of looking down into error and discord, or up
into Truth and Harmony."

Eliza's breath caught in her throat, and she felt so strangely stirred
that she rose abruptly and went into the house.




CHAPTER XXI

THE SINGER


The combination of at last having a definite aim in life, and the
cutting rebuke received in his father's library, had caused Edgar
Fabian to wake up.

On the hot morning when he took the train for Portland, he even looked
a little pale from the unwonted vigil of the night before. As he tossed
on his bed in the small hours, he had fretted at the heat, but it
was not temperature that made him survey the causes for his father's
drastic words; and he recalled the emotion which Kathleen had not been
able to conceal with a sort of affectionate dismay. Kathleen was a good
sort, after all. She had worked for him, he knew, and mitigated the
situation so far as she could.

"Father wants to be shown, does he?" he thought, clenching his teeth.
"Well, I'll show him. I will."

His soul was still smarting when he boarded the train in the breathless
station and the porter carried his suitcase to his chair in the day
coach.

A group of girls were standing about the neighboring seat, but he did
not regard them. One of them observed him, and for her the thermometer
suddenly went up ten degrees more.

"Hurry girls, you must go," she said, softly and peremptorily, moving
with them to the end of the car. "How I wish you didn't have to!" Then,
as they reached the door, the flushed one squeezed their arms. "That
was Mr. Fabian, girls!" she added.

"Where? Where?" they ejaculated, looking wildly about.

"Back there in the very next chair to mine. Oh, get off, dears."

They regarded the rosy face.

"Slyboots!" exclaimed Roxana.

"Indeed, I knew nothing of it!" declared Violet.

"Very well." Regina spoke in hasty exhortation. "The sun shines hard
enough for you to make all the hay there is. I've a great mind to throw
a pump after you!"

The friends slipped off just in time, and Violet waved them a laughing
adieu; then her face sobered while her eyes shone. She could not go
back to her place at once. The combination was more than flesh and
blood could endure nonchalantly: her work finished, she starting for
the island earlier than she had hoped, with the joyful anticipation of
surprising her aunt, and, instead of journeying alone, to find _the_
man beside her.

Violet was extremely indignant with herself for calling Edgar _the_
man. Never one thing had he done to deserve it. There was no one
on earth to whom in reality she was more indifferent. She allowed
conductors, porter, passengers, and luggage to stumble by and over her
in the narrow passage while she reflected upon the utter uncongeniality
of herself and Edgar Fabian; the gulf fixed between their lots, their
habits, their tastes. A man who was so artificial that he couldn't like
Brewster's Island. How could any girl with genuine feeling do more than
politely endure him!

Violet finally, having been bumped and trodden on until she realized
that she was being scowled at by all comers, stepped under the portière
into the ladies' room and looked in the glass. The neatest and trimmest
of visions regarded her.

"I don't care a snap how I look, but I am dreadfully warm," she
thought, and taking a powder-puff from her mesh bag, she raised her
veil and cooled her crimson cheeks and dabbed her nose; then she pinned
the veil back closely; and gave her bright eyes a challenging and
warning gaze.

"If you dare!" she murmured, then moved out into the aisle again and
sought her place.

Edgar had hung up his hat, his back was to the car, and his gloomy eyes
gazed out of the window. Violet sank into her chair, turning its back
to him. "There!" she thought sternly, "we can ride this way all day.
There's not the slightest necessity for recognition."

An hour passed and this seemed only too true. She took up the copy of
"Life" which Roxana had left with her, and looked through it with more
grim determination than is usually brought to bear upon that enlivening
sheet.

Everything continued to be quiet behind her. She wondered if Edgar had
gone to sleep; but what was it to her what he was doing? She became
conscious that there were more strokes on the illustrations than the
artists had intended.

"I must take off my veil!" she reflected.

Of course, no girl can take off her veil and hat without making some
stir. She hoped she should not attract her neighbor's attention by
these movements. She didn't.

At last all was comfortably arranged, and she picked up the periodical
which had been Regina's offering and looked at her chatelaine watch,
wondering how much time had been wasted already.

She never before heard of a man who stayed in his seat on the train
unless he was an invalid. One would think he would at least walk up
and down once in a while. She turned her chair a little away from the
window and toward the aisle. A fat man who was her vis-à-vis glanced
at her, and finding the glance most satisfactory, looked again, long
enough to make her aware of him. She swung slowly back toward the
window, but not so far that she could not command movements in the
aisle.

Of course, Mr. Fabian was asleep. He had probably been turning night
into day in the festivities which society events had recorded as
preceding Mrs. Larrabee's departure for Europe.

The thought was a tonic. She loved to realize how insignificant and
selfish was the life this young man led; making him not worth a second
thought to a womanly woman who scorned to associate with any man to
whom she could not look up, and he hadn't shaved off that blond pointed
mustache, either; how she despised mustaches.

"Why--why, Miss Manning." The interested greeting broke forth directly
above her, and she started and looked up straight into the scorned
mustache. "How wonderful," said Edgar. "I was just wondering who liked
the 'Century' better upside down than right-side up; then I noticed
that whoever it was had pretty hair, so I looked again and saw it was
you."

"I"--stammered Violet, blushing violently and dropping the
magazine,--"I think I was so sleepy I didn't know--I--where did you
spring from?"

"Just now from the smoking-room, but I'm here, right here in this chair
next to you. Can you beat it? Are you for the island?"

"Yes."

"I, too. Great that we should meet. Let me turn your chair around. I
was never so glad to see you."

"Why? Were you bored?" Violet's tone and manner of courteous
indifference were so excellent that they deceived the fat man, who
regarded the _contretemps_ over the top of his paper and felt quite
chivalrously impatient of the "fresh guy" who had interrupted the young
traveller's meditations; and heartily commiserated the girl for the
coincidence which had made her the prey of an acquaintance.

"No, not more bored than usual," replied Edgar, having arranged the
chairs at the best angle for sociability, "but if you talk to me I may
forget how I want to smoke."

Violet raised her eyebrows. "Oh, I'm to be useful and not ornamental,"
she said with an icily sweet smile.

"You can't help being ornamental," said Edgar, drumming nervously on
the arm of his chair. "There, that's the last compliment I'm going
to give you. I warn you. I'm a bear to-day. I'm sorry for you." The
speaker was pale and Violet laid both pallor and nervousness to the
door of the vivacious lady about to sail for foreign shores.

"Yes," she replied, looking at him blandly. "I saw that your charming
friend Mrs. Larrabee is leaving."

Edgar looked around quickly. "Yes, she's leaving. I bade her good-bye
last night."

"Is that why you wish to smoke all the time?" asked Violet, with cooing
gentleness.

"All the time! Great Scott! I've had just one cigarette since I got up."

"You said you had just come from the smoking-room."

"Yes, but I hadn't been in. That's the trouble. I'm cutting it out."

"Why? Have you made a virtuous vow?"

"I'm afraid I'm in no mood for joking this morning." Edgar frowned and
twisted his mustache.

Violet spoke with laughing sweetness.

"Nothing is more easy than to escape it," she said, and deftly turned
her chair with its back to him.

He seized it by the arm and twisted it around again.

"No, you don't," he said. "Forgive me; you know the stereotyped advice
to newly married couples about the two bears; 'bear and forbear,' don't
you? Well, remember it, please."

"I don't see the parallel," said Violet coolly; "and anyway, is the
advice directed entirely at the woman?"

"No, I'm bearing with you now for turning your back to me, you who are
going to teach me to clog when we reach the island." He gave her the
smile designed to melt the icy heart.

"In consideration," returned Violet, "for a continuous ripple of song."

Edgar suddenly looked important, and gazed out of the window. Then he
turned back to the girl who was regarding him.

"What do you think of my voice--honestly?" he asked.

"I think it is one of the most beautiful I have ever heard," she
answered promptly.

He nodded slowly. "I fished to some purpose, didn't I," he said
gravely. "Well, since you really think that, and I've always admired
your sincerity, you may be interested to know that I have given up
business in order to cultivate it."

There being nobody present who was employed in Mr. Fabian's office, the
dignity of this statement was not impaired by hilarity; and Violet,
greatly impressed, clasped her hands.

"Oh, I'm so glad," she said. "All your friends will be so glad."

Had she known it, she might have added, "and all your business
associates"; but neither word nor look minimized the enthusiasm of the
moment.

Enough of Violet's faith and admiration shone in her speaking eyes to
fall like balm on Edgar's wounded soul. He began to heal under it;
began to mount into his wonted atmosphere of assurance.

"I've been studying ever since January with Mazzini. I've kept quiet
about it because, after all,"--the speaker spread his hands in a modest
gesture,--"he might be mistaken in his extremely enthusiastic estimate."

"Oh, no, no!" said Violet earnestly. Edgar drank more healing from the
fountain of her eyes. "What shall you do? Go into opera?"

"I don't know yet," replied the aspirant, with the air of one who was
holding Mr. Hammerstein in the hollow of his hand, uncertain whether
to throw him over or to be gracious. "I'm very much alone in this," he
added, meeting the girl's gaze with an air of confidence. "Of course
my father and mother and sister are willing; in fact, they are pleased
that I have undertaken this."

"Think of giving up smoking!" exclaimed Violet. "What a sacrifice that
means to a man! I should think your family would see by that how in
earnest you are."

"Yes, they believe I am in earnest; but when one in a family is keenly
temperamental and the others are not, there are only certain planes on
which they can meet, you understand?"

"By all means!" Violet understood perfectly.

"I have certain ideas that I never divulge to them. They would only
laugh. What would it mean to them if I were to say that I had purple
moods--and red moods--"

"Probably nothing," returned Violet, quickly and with close attention.
"Black and green and blue are the only common ones."

Edgar looked at her suspiciously. Had the fountain of healing
admiration vanished, and was she laughing at him? Not at all. She was
regarding him with a respect and awe which he could not doubt.

"Explain the others to me. Do you think you could?" she asked.

"I'm afraid not," he answered gently, "but, well, for instance, while
in the purple mood I could never learn to clog. Does that mean anything
to you?"

"Ah, yes," returned Violet fervently. "I see. You would be too intense."

"Exactly. In the red, I might. It would depend on which way it took me."

His listener nodded earnestly. "Yes, yes. A berserk rage is red. They
always see red in books."

"But so is a glowing sunset red," said Edgar. "The red of joy. I see
you understand. Oh, what rest it is to have people understand!"

Violet glowed. Some memory recurred to her. "Does Mr. Sidney know about
this?" she asked.

Edgar shrugged his shoulders. "He is at the island with my people. They
may have told him."

The girl's rosy lips set. "Now," she wondered, "would he chuckle over
foolish sketches of conceited robins! At all events, he would very soon
give it up."

The two travellers had a wonderful day together, undaunted by heat and
cinders.

Edgar gave Violet as dainty a luncheon as circumstances permitted, and
when they reached Portland too late for the last boat, he left her at
her hotel with the promise to call for her in the morning.

The boat they took next day was the same one which bore Miss Jane
Foster to her summer home; so when, after the cooling ride down the
bay, they arrived at Brewster's Island and saw Philip Sidney and Eliza
Brewster waiting with Kathleen, Edgar pointed Eliza out to Violet with
amusement.

"I wonder how Sidney enjoys his shadow," he remarked, "I suppose she's
trailing him all over the place."

As Mrs. Wright had no expectation of her niece's early arrival, Eliza
looked out with indifference from under her closely tied shade hat at
the fair girl in neat tailor gown who stood by Edgar as the boat pulled
in; and the exclamation of her companions was her first intimation that
it was Violet Manning.

Eliza stood quietly amid the greeting and laughing and explanations of
the young people, and was introduced to Miss Manning; then she caught
sight of Jane Foster, for whose eagerly expected face Phil had been
gazing over the heads of everybody, notwithstanding that he had no idea
what she looked like.

"Better go home with the Fabians and come to us later," she suggested,
speaking low to him.

"Guess again, Eliza," he returned softly. Then he turned to Kathleen.
"I'll not interrupt your first _tête-à-tête_ with your brother. I'll
walk up the hill with Miss Manning and see Mrs. Wright's face when we
appear."

Kathleen nodded her agreement, and when they all reached the road, she
opened her eyes at the manner in which her brother parted from Violet.
Neither spoke. They clasped hands and exchanged a look, which was, to
say the least, unusual.

"You and Miss Manning seemed to be giving each other the grip," she
laughed when the two began their ascent slowly. "Do you belong to the
same secret society?"

His reply was still more amazing. "We do," he answered impressively.
"You guessed right the very first time. That girl has more sense in a
minute than the general run have in years."

"I always liked her," returned Kathleen, wondering.

As for Philip, he carried Violet's suitcase and Miss Foster's bag and
received the jubilant chatter of the young girl with appreciative
assent, casting sheep's eyes all the way up the hill at the modest
owner of the chicken-house, who little suspected that the big handsome
young man who was carrying her bag cared more to get one monosyllable
from her than for all the pleasant things this pretty girl might say to
him.

Mrs. Wright, busy taking Eliza's place in the preparations for the
early dinner, was not watching for the arrival, and the first warning
she had of Violet's presence was two vigorous arms being thrown around
her neck.

Her first impression was that Jane Foster had an attack of emotional
insanity, but in a moment she was returning the embrace.

"My little girl, what does this mean?" she cried joyously. "Not a
flower in your room. Nothing ready."

"Yes, dinner is. I can smell it. Oh, Aunt Amy, _you_ and vacation, and
no city and no heat, and the divine island smell, and twenty-four hours
in the day, and seven days in the week. Oh, it's too much happiness!"
And Violet danced back into the living-room straight into the arms of
Mr. Wright, who had just been washing his hands for dinner.

"Right you are, Violet. No place like the island," he said heartily,
while Eliza and Jane Foster regarded the newcomer with calm wonder. How
could they know the glamour that was gilding all?

Phil was so preoccupied, he scarcely noticed the girl's antics. His
eyes were fixed with the most lover-like eagerness on Jane Foster's
serious countenance.

"Had you better ask her or I, Eliza?" he murmured, under cover of
Violet's laughter.

"You'd better not trust me," replied Eliza darkly, upon which Phil
interrupted Miss Foster as she was starting for the stairs.

"Might I speak to you one moment before you go up?" he asked.

Her calm eyes turned to him. "You want board?" she asked.

"No--not exactly. Would you mind coming outside a minute. I'd like to
see you alone."

Jane Foster looked into the brilliant face, wondering; then she
followed him outside the door. Perhaps he wanted to buy the farmhouse.
She had made some calculation before she reached the rustic bench; but
his first words dashed her expectations.

"Miss Foster, I'm an artist and like them all, at first, I haven't
any money. I've been wondering if you'd let me camp down in your
chicken-house and do some work. What rent would you want?"

Jane Foster regarded him calmly. "'T ain't habitable," she said.

"I'll make it so," he returned forcefully.

"I can't imagine--" she began slowly.

"You don't have to," he interrupted ardently. "Imagining is my
business." He beamed upon her with a smile that warmed her through and
through from the chill of the boat. "If you haven't any other use for
it just now--"

"Oh, 'tain't any use," she said slowly.

"Then I may?" Phil embarrassed Miss Foster terribly by seizing her hand.

Violet observed them from a window. "Is Mr. Sidney proposing to Miss
Foster?" she laughed, turning to Eliza.

"Yes, he is, exactly," returned the latter, hanging up her shade hat.

"Well, I can't imagine anyone refusing him," said Violet.

"I only hope she will," muttered Eliza; but the devout words were
scarcely out of her lips when Phil came into the room like a cyclone
and she was seized and swung up till her respectable head nearly grazed
the ceiling.

"It's mine," he cried. "Hurray!" and went out of the house again and
across the field toward the boulder cottage.




CHAPTER XXII

THE NEW STUDIO


In spite of the incense Edgar had been receiving, he was still a
somewhat chastened being; and he had no disagreeable remarks to make
about Phil when Mrs. Fabian wondered why he stayed so long at the
Wright cottage. He objected to the fact somewhat on his own account.
No doubt Violet was entertaining Philip. She had the artistic soul and
Phil was horribly good-looking. It was a soothing thought that he was
practically penniless and that he must soon return to his labors in New
York.

"How long are you expecting Phil to stay here?" he asked his mother
after a glance or two across the empty field.

"He says only a week," replied Mrs. Fabian, "but I hope to make it at
least two. He's daft about the island."

"But he couldn't work here," said Edgar with conviction. "You've no
place for oil and turpentine and splotches generally."

"That's what he says," sighed Mrs. Fabian. "I told him this morning
we'd give up the summer-house to him."

Edgar faced her. "Where do I come in?" he asked. "I expect the
summer-house to save your lives from me. I don't believe we can have
two artists in the family."

Kathleen caught the last words as she came downstairs. "Don't worry,"
she said lightly. "Phil will have none of us. He wants either a
ten-acre lot or a stable."

"Well, where is he?" asked Edgar, with some irritation. "I'm as hungry
as a hunter."

"And we have Aunt Mary's pretty things. Eliza gave them to mother."

"You don't say so! Well, the Angel of Peace has moulted a feather on
this island. There, I see Phil now, loping across the field. Do order
dinner to be served, mother."

The music-box was playing when the guest entered.

"Oh, am I late?" he cried contritely, and took the stairs in three
bounds.

"How burned he is already!" laughed Mrs. Fabian. "You will be looking
like that in a few days, Edgar."

The latter was standing, high-chested and with repressed impatience, in
an attitude his mother knew. He had not at all liked the radiance of
Phil's countenance as the latter burst into the room.

"This dinner is especially ordered for you, dear," said Mrs. Fabian
soothingly, "from the clam soup to the strawberry shortcake."

"When am I going to have any of it?" inquired Edgar. "Is it worth while
to be formal here?"

"Oh, he'll be down in one minute," said Kathleen; and indeed Philip
soon appeared and they all seated themselves.

"Last offence, really," said the guest gaily, "but one must be granted
a little extra license when he's proposing."

The waitress had placed the filled soup-plates before the family sat
down; and Edgar promptly choked on his first mouthful. Violet had told
him of meeting Phil in Gramercy Park. Where else and how often had the
perfidious girl been with him?

Kathleen swallowed her spoonful of soup, but it was not hot enough to
account for the strange burning heat which suddenly travelled down her
spine.

Mrs. Fabian alone looked up. "Don't take our breath away like that,"
she protested. "Who is the woman? Violet Manning or Eliza Brewster?"

"I dreamed of her all last night," returned Phil, eating hungrily. "I
knew she was coming, and I could hardly wait to learn my fate. Didn't
you notice that I merely played with my breakfast this morning?"

"You ate like a hunter. Didn't he, Kathleen?"

Phil laughed and raised his happy eyes to his hostess.

"Well, you'd save a whole lot of dinner this noon, only that she said
'Yes.'"

There was a miniature storm of hurt vanity in Edgar Fabian's breast.
That was the way with these "lookers." Let them have scarce the price
of a laundry bill, yet a girl couldn't resist them; and that gaze
of almost awed admiration in Violet's eyes yesterday. It had meant
nothing then but a tribute to genius. Phil should not have that look at
his table daily! Edgar wouldn't stand it. He would match his singing
against the other's painting, and time would show if Philip Sidney
would have a walk-away. She couldn't be happy with a pauper like that,
and she should be saved.

As for Kathleen, she could not stop to criticize Philip's blunt
announcement. Whether he were jesting or in earnest his sudden words
had flashed an awful light upon her own sentiments.

"There's no depth to it," she thought now in defence of her pain. "I
know in time."

"Tell us more this minute," said Mrs. Fabian, "and stop eating, you
unromantic creature! I didn't even suspect that you knew Violet Manning
well. You sly-boots. I'm offended with you."

"The lovely Violet!" exclaimed Phil, "I left her having an attack of
emotional insanity over there."

He looked up and met a gaze from Edgar, suggestive of locking horns;
and remembered Gramercy Park, and Violet's sudden dignity.

"But not on my account," he went on easily. "My inamorata's name is
Jane!" He cast his eyes adoringly ceilingward. "Dear little name!
Quaint little name! Jane!"

The relaxation that travelled throughout Kathleen's limbs was as
painful and as exasperating as the burn had been. Her eyes were fixed
on her soup-plate, and she smiled.

Edgar's teeth shone with the utmost glee. Phil wasn't such a bad sort
after all. He regarded him with interest, waiting for the sequel.

"Philip Sidney, don't be idiotic," said Mrs. Fabian. "My soup is
getting cold waiting for you to explain yourself."

"Why, Jane Foster came this morning, mother," said Kathleen. "I'll help
you out."

"And I can really only stay with you a week, Aunt Isabel," added Phil.

"She has taken you for a boarder? And all this fuss is about that?"
asked Mrs. Fabian. "I should scarcely have thought you'd be so crazy to
change my house for hers."

"I know how Phil feels," said Edgar benevolently. "He wants to feel
free to make smudges."

"I do, Edgar, mind-reader that you are. Listen, then, all of you. I
proposed to Jane that she let me use her chicken-house, and Jane,
blessings on her, said the one little word to make me a happy man."

Phil's radiant gaze was bent now upon Kathleen, who met it and nodded.
"Just the thing!" she said, and her mother and brother started in on a
Babel of tongues. Mrs. Fabian had forgotten the chicken-house. She had
not been in that field for years; but Edgar approved, and altogether
they joined in Phil's jubilation, and Mrs. Fabian related how she had
prepared Pat to pack for just such an exigency.

"The little house is awfully dilapidated," said Kathleen. "Its piazza
has fallen off; and I'm sure it leaks. But perhaps you can make it fit
to hold your paraphernalia."

"Aunt Isabel, I want you and Kathleen to keep away until I'm in order,"
said Phil impressively. "You'd try to discourage me and that would
waste your time. Eliza is almost in tears, but I know what I want and
what I can do."

"A chicken-house!" exclaimed Mrs. Fabian, with second thoughts of
disgust.

"Yes, nobody can come near but Edgar; and if he does, he'll have to
scrub."

"Thank you very much," and the young man raised his eyebrows: "I have
my own work to do, you may remember." Scrubbing chicken-houses he
thought might even eclipse the memory of lighting the oil-stove.

"Of course," returned Phil, all attention. "I'm extremely interested in
this determination of yours. You certainly have the goods."

"So they tell me," said Edgar, and twisted his mustache.

"What are you going to do for furniture?" asked Mrs. Fabian. "You must
at least have some chairs and a table."

"And a lounge!" cried Phil,--"and an oil-stove." He laughed toward
Edgar. "I'm going to live there, best of aunts, and maybe take my
dinners with Jane, the star of my existence!"

"Phil, you're crazy," said Mrs. Fabian, despairing. "You will continue
to live here and work over there."

He shook his head gaily. "Don't worry. Just watch; and if you have any
attic treasures in the way of furniture, let me store them for you."

When Mrs. Fabian really understood the enterprise Phil was embarking
upon, she resigned herself, and finding an old suit of Mr. Fabian's
which he had used for fishing, she bestowed it upon her guest.

Then the work commenced. Eliza tried with a lofty sense of devotion
to lend a hand and even besought the privilege; but she was repulsed.
Philip induced Captain James to take an interest in his scheme and
render him assistance at certain epochs in the reconstruction period,
but the Captain and Jane Foster were the only persons privileged to
come near the scene of operations; and Miss Foster's heart so far went
out to her strong, determined young tenant that she began hunting in
her own garret for things to help him along.

With shovel and wheelbarrow, scrubbing-brushes, soapsuds,
disinfectants, hammer and nails, Phil went to work.

Eliza stood on her boundary-line, her hands on her hips, and watched,
her long nose lifted, while loads of refuse and debris were patiently
wheeled down to the edge of the bank and given over to the cleansing
tide.

Violet generously offered her window which gave upon the scene of
operations, and the opera-glass with which she watched birds; but Eliza
declined.

"I won't spy on him," she said, adding vindictively, "but I'll
look--the obstinate boy!"

The first time Kathleen called, Violet took her up to her room and they
sat in the open window.

"The opera-glass is scarcely any use," she explained, "for he hasn't
washed the windows yet and you can't see in at all."

Kathleen laughed, but shrank back. "I don't want him to think we're
watching," she replied.

"Oh, he knows we all are; but even after he has gone at night, we don't
dare to go and look in. We can't pass that rock there--not even Eliza."

A charming tenor voice suddenly sounded on the air, singing an aria
from "La Bohème." The girls looked and saw Edgar advancing toward the
chicken-house, peering in curiously.

Suddenly, Phil, attired in a sweater and Mr. Fabian's trousers which
scarcely reached his ankles, dashed out at the caller and pressed a
scrubbing-brush on his acceptance. Edgar suddenly stopped his lay and
ran, laughing, toward Mrs. Wright's, where he found the girls and took
them out on the water.

"I should think you'd want to help him," said Kathleen wistfully.

"I do," replied Edgar, "but I restrain myself. Phil doesn't want me,
really," he added; and he was certainly right. Phil had no time to
stumble over Marcellines.

A week passed. Jane Foster had been smiling and important for the last
few days, but not for kingdoms would Eliza have questioned her. She
had acquired an air of calm indifference, which belied the burning
curiosity within. When Phil stopped in passing to speak with her, she
talked of the weather. Mrs. Wright, on the contrary, expressed her
eagerness to see what was going on so near and yet so far from them.

"Pluto gets ahead of us," she said, "and you've trained him so well he
never tells anything."

Edgar happened to be present and he shrugged his shoulders. "Better
hurry up, Phil," he remarked, "and have your opening before interest
wanes. You'll have an anti-climax the first thing you know."

Mrs. Wright turned the gentle radiance of her eyes on the speaker.

"We heard you last night, singing as you went home, Mr. Fabian," she
said: "that lovely voice floating across the field will make us famous.
People will hear it and wonder about the source, and begin to talk of
the angel of Brewster's Island."

"Wonderfully level-headed people, those Wrights," soliloquized Edgar,
as he sauntered home. "A distinct acquisition to the island." Some
thought occurred to him. "I wish father could have heard that," he
mused.

Phil lingered behind him. He had changed into his own clothes
remarkably early this afternoon. There was an hour yet before
supper-time.

"Where are the rest of your family this afternoon?" he asked.

"Violet went with Kathleen into the woods to get some specimens she
wants for her microscope," replied Mrs. Wright.

"Where's Eliza?" Phil smiled as he asked it, and his companion smiled
in answer.

"In her room, I think."

Phil raised his eyebrows interrogatively.

"Yes, I think so, a little," she replied softly, nodding. "You see Jane
has been there every day."

"But that's all the rent I pay," protested Phil, all very quietly, for
though they were standing outdoors, the windows were open.

"Yes, but--it's a good deal for flesh and blood to bear," said Mrs.
Wright with a twinkling glance. "The green-eyed monster ramps at the
best of us, you know."

"I wonder if I could see Eliza," said Phil in his natural voice.

"Yes, I think she's in her room," returned Mrs. Wright. "I'll go and
see."

She disappeared, and Phil's eyes roved to the boulder cottage and fixed
there. A smile touched the corners of his lips. He had not meant to
carry prohibition too far with Eliza. It was genuine desire to save
her trouble as well as the wish to surprise her after her vehement
opposition to his scheme, which had made him warn her away. Now he was
eager to make it right with her.

"I remember now," said Mrs. Wright, returning; "Eliza went down the
hill this afternoon. I don't know just when she'll come back; but won't
you sit down and wait for her?"

"Thank you, I don't believe I will. I'll come back later. I've been a
runaway guest all this week," and with a smile of farewell, an eager
look grew in Phil's eyes as he started to run across the field toward
home.

In all his arrangements, each time he had gained an effect he had
thought of Kathleen's amusement and appreciation.

As soon as he found that Eliza was out of the question, his eagerness
burst forth to get the girls' point of view. He met Violet Manning
returning from the woods escorted by Edgar.

"I open the studio to-morrow," he cried gaily. "Will you come to my tea
at three-thirty?"

"Will we!" exclaimed Violet. "We couldn't have lasted much longer! I'm
glad you let us see it 'before' so we can fully appreciate it 'after.'"

Violet was looking pretty and very happy. Phil considered for one
moment whether he should ask her to pour. Even yet he felt that
Kathleen lived in a remote rarefied air of elegance. Would one dare ask
her to dispense tea in a chicken-house? But he wisely kept silence.
Aunt Isabel might yet enter into what she continued to term his
foolishness.

With a wave of his hand, he fled on his way, and found Kathleen,
flushed from her walk, carrying mosses to the table in the wind-break.

"I've finished," he cried, vaulting over the railing and appearing
beside her. "Want to see it?"

She looked up into his expectant eyes.

"Are we invited?" she returned.

"To-morrow, everybody is; but I thought I'd like you to see it right
now--if you aren't too tired."

"A private view!" she exclaimed. "Who was ever too tired for that? But
I'm of the earth so earthy, I shall have to go in and wash my hands."

"No, no, don't," replied Phil softly. "You'd meet Aunt Isabel, and
this is to be clandestine. Wipe your hands on this,"--he pulled his
handkerchief out of his pocket,--"and come."

Kathleen laughed and brushing her fingers free of traces of the
treasured moss, she wiped them and they started across the field.

"Here's hoping Violet and Edgar don't see us," said Phil, and took the
path he had trodden so often straight to the hen-house, and which did
not pass very near the Wrights.

As they approached, Kathleen looked curiously at the little cottage
with its sloping red roof, nestling close to the ground on the breast
of the hill and sheltered by the tall Balm-of-Gilead trees. Their
rustling leaves held always a murmur as of rain and to-day fleecy white
clouds piled against the blue sky behind the cottage.

As they drew near, Kathleen stopped and clasped her hands, and laughter
bubbled from her lips.

"That's clever!" she exclaimed heartily, and Phil's eyes danced as she
met them.

A swinging sign had been hung above the low door. Upon it strutted a
splendid cock and above his proudly lifted comb appeared the legend:--

      VILLA CHANTECLER.

Phil threw open the low door with a sweeping bow; and Kathleen paused
on the threshold with a low cry of surprise; then stepped into the
cool, dusky interior.

She found herself in a low-ceiled room with small-paned windows set
high. A golden radiance streamed through, falling on the soft tone of
floor and walls.

On a table draped with dull green a tall candlestick and ivory-tinted
plate reflected gleams of light.

Kathleen sank on the cushions of a long, low divan.

"You can paint Rembrandt portraits in here!" she said. "Don't explain
how you've done it. I don't want to know. It is the most restful,
delightful studio I've ever seen--and smelling of ambergris?"

"No, only of bay leaves."

Phil waited and let her look at the hangings, the cushioned chairs, and
spindle legs of the quaint table.

"You like it," he said after a pause of deep satisfaction.

She looked up at him. "I am making genuflexions to you in my mind."

He laughed. "But the best is yet to come. Sit where you are."

He moved to the back of the room and opened a door toward the ocean.
It was as if a brilliant panel had suddenly been set in the dark wall.

Kathleen sprang to her feet.

"Like enamel!" she said softly, and approached the opening.

It led upon a terrace with a white railing. Tall white pillars at
either end were crowned with dark-green bay.

"Is it a stage-setting," she said, "or is it practicable?"

"Come out and see."

Together they moved outside and the wind came up out of the sea across
the sleeping field and swept their faces and set the young leaves of
the orchard to whispering with sweet fresh lips to their gnarled stems.

Kathleen looked up at her companion, smiled and shook her head.

"You have added poetry to our island," she said. "I didn't think any
one could do that."

Phil met her gaze.

"And you," he said, "have put the finishing touch to my satisfaction."




CHAPTER XXIII

PHILIP'S LETTER


DEAREST MOTHER:--You remember I told you I had found a pig's ear and
was going to make a silk purse out of it despite the scepticism of the
neighborhood. Behold the purse! I call it the Villa Chantecler. It has
taken me the whole week, but the result--well, Kathleen says I have
added poetry to the island, and I suspect she is authority on poetry,
although that too is hidden in one of the locked rooms I've told you
about. She gives just enough of herself to each person to fit every
occasion; but the way she took the first view of the Villa yesterday
was like everything else she does; perfection. I didn't know I was
going to write that. I didn't know I thought it. That's the beauty of
having some one to whom you can think aloud. You find out what you do
think; but she and I touch only on the high places and when we leave
the island we shall fly apart for the whole winter again; with pleasant
memories, however. She has a positive talent for letting people alone.
I love such people!

Now, to tell you how I did my little trick. I could never have done
it but for New England tenacity and thrift. They never throw anything
away in this part of the world; and even importations like Aunt Isabel
collect some lumber-room outcasts rather than injure the scenery by
throwing them over the bank.

Jane Foster, adorable landlady and Lady Bountiful that she is, turned
me loose in her attic, and told me to help myself. So, first of all,
I made the hen-house shine with cleanliness. Then Cap'n James helped
me drag up its dejected piazza which had capsized in the neighboring
field. We nailed it to the house and painted it white.

Aunt Isabel had discarded a Crex rug, which I took for my studio, also
a three-legged divan and chairs whose cane seats had surrendered. These
I mended and cushioned. In Miss Foster's attic, I found what I should
think were all the potato sacks that had ever been used in the Foster
family. These made my hangings and cushions, although the poverty they
implied nearly reduced Jane to tears. She implored me to use turkey red
and found enough in the attic to begin on. The stuff smelled so new,
I'm nearly certain the dear woman bought it and placed it there.

I found an old spinet under the eaves. Its voice had long departed;
but its charming legs and framework were intact. I placed some boards
across that and used my green bathrobe for a cover. I took a straight
length of pipe, fixed it into a wooden stand, topped it with a spool,
bronzed the whole thing, and behold, a stunning candlestick in which
stands a tall wax candle.

Among the refuse I had carried out of the place, I had found charming
old plates, heavy as lead, crackled with age, and cream and gray in
color. These I disposed variously, and I am perfectly sure Cap'n James
and Jane Foster have laid their heads together in order to condole
over the fact that so pleasant a young man should have so gloomy and
unpicturesque a taste when he expects to get his living by that same
lame faculty. In fact, Cap'n James unburdened his mind one day. He
said:--

"Ain't you goin' to have anything cheerful 'round here? It looks to me
more fit for hens than it does for folks right now."

Under the house I found lengths of drain-pipe. These I used on my
terrace at the back of the Villa, overlooking the sea. When I had
placed these pillars at each end of the railing and crowned them with
the polished bay that grows luxuriantly here, I had a quite Italian
effect, I assure you.

Jane looks at me with pitiful eyes, and yesterday came down to the
Villa with a framed chromo from her parlor wall.

"I just as lieves you'd use it as not," she said, "and anyway you might
put it up till the folks have seen the place. Your own paintin's can go
up later." I almost kissed her, she pitied me so, and I could see that
she agreed with Cap'n James, who said the place gave him the "Injun
blues."

There is a rough stairway that leads to the half-floored room above.
I took a drain-pipe to make a newel post for that. It is surmounted
with a bronze Mercury on a pedestal. The pedestal is a small, rusty tin
wash-basin that I found under the house. I covered it with varnish and
rolled it in sand, inverted it, and behold! I also gave an appearance
of advanced age to the Mercury; so the general appearance is as of a
treasure from Pompeii.

If only you and father could see and feel the beauty and the heavenly
quiet of the place. I have a kitchen, too. The door was a wreck, and I
tacked upon it a dark ornate window shade which tones in with all the
rest.

Sometimes I feel as if I were only living to see you again. I know it's
what I'm working for anyway; and I well know that you are working for
me every day of your dear life.

I love you.

      PHIL.




CHAPTER XXIV

PHILIP ENTERTAINS


Philip still had Eliza on his mind, so when Kathleen had left him,
he went back to the farmhouse and had the good fortune to meet Eliza
returning home.

"I'm looking for you!" he called cheerfully.

She regarded him unsmiling. "Well," she remarked carelessly, "you look
like a gentleman of leisure."

"Just what I am. You guessed right. My Villa is finished and I've been
waiting for you because I'm going to let everybody in to-morrow and I
wanted you to see it with me alone."

"My opinion ain't worth anything," said Eliza; "besides, it's pretty
near time to get supper. Miss Foster went up to Portland to-day."

"I know she did. That's why I'm in a hurry to take you into the studio
before the boat arrives. You know how discouraging you were, Eliza, and
I wanted to surprise you. I'd have liked to surprise everybody, but,
of course, I hadn't the nerve to keep Miss Foster out. The rent I pay
didn't warrant it." The speaker twinkled down into Eliza's unresponsive
eyes. "I'm going to give a tea to-morrow and I want to talk it over
with you."

They had strolled near to the rustic bench where Mrs. Wright was still
sitting with her work.

"Eliza is going with me to have a private view of the Villa," said
Phil. "Your turn to-morrow. I'm going to give a tea. Will you come?"

"Most assuredly," answered Mrs. Wright. "As soon as you cleaned those
windows, my curiosity began to effervesce."

"I can't go now," said Eliza. "I've waited this long, I guess I can
wait till to-morrow. I've got to get supper."

Philip threw an arm around her and drew her forward.

"Boarders have come, Mr. Philip," she exclaimed. "They'll see you."

"I hope they will," he responded firmly. "If they don't know I love
you, it's the best way to tell them."

Eliza walked along stiffly, perforce, toward the forbidden ground.

"Yes, I thought I'd make a grand splurge to-morrow, and give a tea," he
continued. "I want you to preside."

"Do what?"

"Pour. I want you to pour for me."

"H'm. Ridiculous! Let one of the girls do it."

"Well, just as you say. Now, then," they were drawing near the little
house, "prepare! Be a good sport now, and own yourself wrong if you
think you are. See my shingle?"

Eliza's eyes followed his gesture and caught sight of the crowing cock.

"H'm," she said; then they went inside.

Eliza looked about in silence for a minute.

"It's clean," she said at last; and Phil knew she was moved to catch at
a word of praise as one says of a neighbor's plain and uninteresting
baby, "How healthy he looks!"

He began explaining his devices to Eliza and her heart was touched by
his joy in all this cheap gloom.

By the time he opened the back door, she was ready to weep over him;
and she said:--

"That's a real sightly piazza."

Then they moved into the little kitchen.

"I've been waiting for you to tell me what to do here," said the
artist, and Eliza rose to the bait and began pulling things about and
showing him where shelves must be placed.

"How are you goin' to give a tea," she asked, "with one broken mug?"

"Borrow cups and saucers from Aunt Isabel. That's easy; but," he
looked down at Eliza, whose face had regained its usual alertness,
"it occurred to me that perhaps I have some of my own--those that you
packed for me and that ran away to the island."

"Mr. Philip, I'm a fool to forget those!" responded the other, after
gazing at him in silence. "You shall have every one of 'em. They're all
mixed in with the Foster things. I'll pick 'em out; and we'll lend you
all you need beside."

"Would it interfere with supper proceedings if we were to do it right
now?"

"Law! it ain't time to get supper yet," responded Eliza, so promptly
that, as they hurried out of the door, Phil stooped to break a long
blade of grass to bite.

A vigorous search was at once instituted for the china, and Phil and
Eliza carried it down to the studio; and as they went, Mr. Wright came
up from the water and joined his wife.

"We're to be let in to-morrow," she said. "He has finished."

"Well, it's been a job," remarked Mr. Wright, who had occasionally sat
on a log and watched Phil at his roof-mending or some other strenuous
part of the work.

"Yes, he ought to succeed," said Mrs. Wright. "He hasn't a lazy bone in
his body."

"There aren't many of us that have at his age," remarked Mr. Wright.
"Are there, Pluto?"

The cat had run to meet him like a dog. For him the scent of Mr.
Wright's fishing trousers was as the perfume of Araby; and he followed
him to the room in the shed where his friend changed them for
habiliments more generally agreeable.

At last Phil returned to the boulder cottage where he found Mrs. Fabian
and Kathleen in the wind-break. The latter was working at the table,
sorting the moss specimens for her slides.

She looked up at him now with a new realization of his powers.

"Well, you said this morning to-day would finish the work," said Mrs.
Fabian, closing her novel on her finger for a mark. "Are you through?"

"As nearly as I ever shall be," he replied, throwing himself into a
chair near Kathleen's table and regarding her deft fingers at their
work.

"Well, I'm glad," said Mrs. Fabian, "for we've seen nothing of you. I
like the way you visit us."

He looked at her quickly to see if there were feeling behind the
accusation.

"Now, you'll have to stay on a week when you are not so preoccupied."

"Not if he doesn't wish to, mother," said Kathleen, going on with her
work. Her cheeks were still flushed from the warm tramp to the woods;
the red glints in her hair shone lustrous.

"It does look like making use of you, doesn't it?" he said impetuously.
"But you're so good to me, both of you. To-morrow you'll forgive me,
Aunt Isabel, when you see I have a place to work and trouble no one. I
do hope it won't rain."

"Oh, no," said Kathleen, handling a tiny bit of moss. "The moon holds
the weather."

Mrs. Fabian laughed. "Kathleen, the astronomer," she said.

The girl nodded. "It may not be a scientific way to put it, but I've
always noticed it here. It will be full to-morrow night. The weather
won't change till the moon does."

"Delightfully consoling," said Phil, continuing to watch her averted
face. It seemed to him this was the first time since Christmas
night that his mind had been sufficiently at leisure from itself to
concentrate upon her. He suddenly remembered that she used to like
cigarettes. He had not yet seen her use one. Perhaps she was aiding
Edgar in the stern limit which he was imposing upon himself.

"I wonder," he said, "if either of you would pour for me at my grand
tea to-morrow."

Kathleen did not look up, but her cheeks grew warmer while she
manipulated the moss.

"Oh, a tea in the chicken-house," laughed Mrs. Fabian.

The light jeering tone struck Kathleen as coming at a particularly
unfortunate moment.

"I will. Be glad to," she said heartily.

"Whom are you going to invite? The fish?" laughed Mrs. Fabian.

Phil's naïveté was dashed by her tone. Kathleen felt it.

"Mother's jealous, Phil," she said, "because she has seen so little of
you all the week. She is at fever heat of curiosity as to what you have
been doing; and as for tea! Mother's an inebriate. She won't leave any
for the fish. You'll see."

Phil looked at the speaker gratefully, and leaned toward her a little.
"I have the right barrel at last," he said. "The one that ran away to
the island. Do you remember?"

His eyes were so very speaking that Kathleen dropped hers to the moss.
She nodded and smiled.

"It knew where it ought to go, didn't it?" she returned.

Mrs. Fabian's countenance had sobered. She knew the descendant of the
Van Ruyslers so well that she understood that she had offended.

"Can't one make a bit of fun once in a while?" she asked in injured
tones of Kathleen when next they were alone.

"Yes, once in a while," answered the girl, and kissed her.

"It'll be something funny for you to look back upon when you come out,
Kathleen, that your first function after graduating took place in a
chicken-house."

"I hope I shall not be homesick for it," thought the girl; but she only
smiled.

"Kathleen is certainly touchy about Phil," mused Mrs. Fabian. "She
glared up at me just the way she did last fall when I wanted to get
Aunt Mary's silver. She is the queerest girl!"

The moon or something else did hold the weather and the artist could
have had no better day on which to give his proof that where there's a
will there's a way.

The company swarmed through the little house, laughing, admiring,
questioning. At last they stood on the terrace.

"My dear boy!" exclaimed Mrs. Wright. "You could have no better view if
you were a millionaire!"

"The only thing lacking," cried Violet, "is a white peacock. Where is
the white peacock?"

"How about it, Edgar?" asked Phil. "Couldn't you stand out there for
the lady?"

"The nightingale could never deceive us," said Mrs. Wright, bending her
universally loving gaze on Edgar, whose chin was held rather higher
than usual.

"That's so," cried Phil. "Sing us something, Edgar, right here and now."

"Certainly," responded the gifted one, regarding his host as he
launched easily into song:--

      "'I'm looking for a lobster and I think you'll do.'"

Mrs. Fabian did not join in the laugh. She had moved inside, and her
lorgnette was fixed on a closed door.

"I must see in there, Phil," she said.

"Of course, you must, Mrs. Bluebeard," he replied. "You may all go in
this once, but it's the last time ever, I warn you, for that is my
kitchen."

They swarmed through to the little room, where Edgar perceived with
a groan an oil-stove burning cosily in the midst of canvas, paints,
easel, et cetera.

"_I'll_ never go in again, I promise you," he declared.

At the host's invitation, the company arranged themselves on
the rejuvenated chairs and couch, and Kathleen made tea at the
spindle-legged table.

Mrs. Fabian's lorgnette was bent upon the newel post.

"However did you make him stand up, dear?" she asked, regarding the
Mercury which had winged his way from her garret. "We haven't been
upstairs yet, remember."

"And you won't go till you're tired of life," returned the host.
"It abounds in trapdoors and, aside from my affection for you, the
furniture down here couldn't stand being fallen on."

Being turned ceilingward, Mrs. Fabian's lorgnette discovered that
branches of bay had been woven through the rafters in some places. She
shrugged her shoulders.

"You'll get rained on in this dilapidated old place," she said. "A few
bay leaves can't deceive me."

"Madam! Are you aware that you are talking about the Villa Chantecler?
That roof is as tight as a drum."

Mrs. Fabian stirred the lemon in her substantially thick cup; and
looked admiringly at the energetic host.

"I only hope, Phil," she sighed, "that you aren't too practical to
succeed in your profession. So few artists would know how to mend a
roof or even remember the necessity for it. I hope it isn't a bad sign."

Edgar, sitting with Violet on the railing, drinking tea, heard his
mother's comment.

"A good deal in that, I think," he remarked softly. "I've never seen
any of Phil's things except that rough black-and-white stuff he has in
there. He never seemed to me to have a particle of temperament."

Violet was inclined to agree. She had seen nothing amusing in Philip's
chaff about the peacock. She thought it quite as silly as were the
other comments on the robin.

"I wish you would sing something," she said. "Do, and surprise them."

"I can't. I haven't even a banjo."

"I've noticed you have everything over at the house: banjo, guitar,
mandolin, everything. You must leave one of them over here. Music would
sound perfectly charming in this place."

"_Any_ music?" asked Edgar, smiling.

She returned his look from the tops of her eyes. "Bold fisherman," she
replied.

Her companion scanned the horizon: "The moon is going to be great
to-night. It looks as if it would rise clear out of the water. Want to
go for a sail?"

"I don't believe I can," replied Violet. "I have an engagement."

"An engagement!" returned Edgar, sceptically. "Are you going to read
aloud to your aunt?"

Violet smiled at him provokingly. "You're not the only man on this
island," she remarked.

A quick flush mounted to Edgar's forehead.

"Phil?" he asked quickly.

She nodded, mutely, and took the last swallow of her tea.

Her companion looked as if he might be in the throes of the red mood.

"That's beastly," he said, dismayed to think that in all Phil's
preoccupation he had had sufficient forethought to secure Violet for
this perfect evening. "Since when?" he demanded fiercely.

"Since yesterday," she returned demurely, apparently unconscious that
the arrangement caused annoyance.

"Very well, then, we'll take the yacht," he said, "and let the crowd
go. Phil can help me sail her. I was intending to take the motor-boat
and you alone."

"I don't know whether Mr. Sidney would care to," she returned coolly,
"but it's very kind of you."

Edgar regarded her, baffled. "What--what had you planned to do?"
he asked. He knew the question was inexcusable and braced himself
for a snub; but the sweet Violet, exultant at his open disturbance,
administered none.

"Nothing special," she replied. "Mr. Sidney is invited to dine with us,
in celebration of the completion of the improvements he has been making
on the estate. That's all."

"Oh, absurd!" declared Edgar. "As if you couldn't dine any foggy night.
Well, you don't need to stay after dinner. He isn't your guest."

Violet regarded him with an ironical smile.

"I've been taught manners," she said. "Beside, perhaps I want to stay.
Didn't that occur to you?"

Edgar scowled and looked off on the ocean and back again. "I don't want
to take the whole family out in order to get you," he said, fuming.

"I wouldn't," she answered, laughing. "It isn't worth the trouble."

Her companion clenched his even teeth. He didn't want to risk Philip's
meandering about the island alone with Violet on such an evening
as this was going to be. He would be sure to talk of his work and
his hopes, and her confoundedly soulful eyes would look back at him
comprehendingly, and a precedent would be established and--

"You see, Mr. Sidney expects to take all his dinners with us after he
begins working here," went on Violet sweetly. "It will be so convenient
just to run across."

Edgar gave her a furious glance, but the simplicity of her regard was
complete.

Mrs. Wright came to the open door. "We're going now, Violet," she said.
"Will you come? Our host positively refuses to allow us to help him
put things away, and he will follow a little later. I've been hoping,"
turning to Edgar, "that you might be moved to sing as you sat out here."

The young man had sprung to his feet and was trying to banish evidences
of the red mood from his brow.

"I wanted to take Violet out on the water to-night," he said. "It seems
there's an obstacle."

"Yes, a large one," returned Mrs. Wright pleasantly. "Lots of evenings
coming, but I don't know about letting my little girl go on the water
at night."

"I guarantee her safety. I've come here ever since I was a baby, Mrs.
Wright, and I'm an amphibious animal; but if Sidney should ever suggest
it, remember he's a landlubber. Half the time they don't know enough to
be afraid."

"Very true," returned Mrs. Wright, with her natural graceful sweetness
of manner, which at least succeeded in making Edgar feel rude. "Come,
dear," turning to Violet, "I'd like to have you come with me."

So the girl rose and yielded her cup to Edgar, who took it with
dignity. He, the ex-cavalier of Mrs. Larrabee, not to be able to mould
circumstances among these poor and provincial people!

He took leave of Philip, and tendered his congratulations with an air
fitted to grace marble halls. "I believe," he added, "you don't dine at
home to-night."

"No," replied Phil, "Miss Foster is very kindly entertaining her
tenant."

Edgar pricked up his ears; and instantly ran after Violet. "Phil says
Jane Foster invited him," he said vehemently. "I shall call for you by
eight o'clock. I'll take the best care of her, Mrs. Wright. I assure
you I will, and bring her in early."

He was off before he could be gainsaid, and Mrs. Wright noticed that
Violet's expression was such as might be worn by a well-grown kitten
who had been hilariously entertained in a game with a mouse which was
as yet unfinished and highly promising.

The events of the week had thrown light on the happiness Violet evinced
the day of her arrival under Edgar Fabian's escort. Mrs. Wright's
tenderness for her orphan niece was alertly watchful. She put an arm
around her now and drew her away from the house, and they walked slowly
across the grass.

"It really is perfectly safe to go on the water with Edgar," said the
girl, half laughing.

"For me, it might be," returned Mrs. Wright quietly.

Violet blushed deeply, and dreaded what might be coming.

"The Fabians are nice people," went on her aunt, "very rich people and
able to give you pleasures, and I like you to be friendly with them;
but I'm a little afraid of this situation."

"You needn't be," burst forth the girl impulsively. "Edgar doesn't
really care much about me."

"That's the trouble," said Mrs. Wright quietly.

The reply was so unexpected that Violet felt a sharp twinge of
mortification and a spontaneous desire to show her aunt that she was
wrong. There were lots of small proofs that she might give her--

"No," she returned, suddenly serious. "He cares very much for me in
a certain way: my understanding of his gift--and his hopes--and his
career. His family mean to be kind, but they're so unsympathetic.
They're not temperamental like him and--"

Violet paused because Aunt Amy was smiling. It was unkind to smile at
such a time. Very well! Her lips should be sealed from this time on.
She would never again speak to her about Edgar!

"He is very attractive even with all his conceit," said Mrs. Wright,
who was quite conscious that the girl's slender body had suddenly
a resentful rigidity. "A beautiful tenor voice and conceit seem to
be inseparable in this mundane sphere; and if my little girl has
understood and responded to his outpourings about himself she is
charming to him." Mrs. Wright paused and then went on: "Look around,
Violet, and realize that you are the only girl here to whom he can show
attention. Did he show you any in New York? Did he go out of his way
for you? You fell right into his reach on the train and he took the
gifts the gods provided; and they were very sweet gifts."

The speaker squeezed her unresponsive listener, whose heart was beating
hotly. "As a rule men are marauders," she went on. "As a rule, women
are single-hearted, faithful. There are exceptions. I want to give you
one piece of advice and I can't put it too strongly. Take it in and
act upon it, and it may save you a world of hurt vanity, and possibly
a broken heart. No matter how a man behaves toward you,--no matter how
he looks, or what he does,--or what he says,--don't believe or even
imagine that he loves you until he tells you he does, in so many words."

There were tears in the baby-bachelor's blue eyes. Among the stormy
emotions that filled her was the horrible suspicion that, instead of
being a foreordained victor, the kitten might possibly in the end be
the mouse's victim.

"Now, Mr. Sidney," went on Mrs. Wright's calm voice, "is a man who I
believe has hold of life by the right end."

"He is always making fun of Edgar," burst forth Violet, her breath
coming fast. "You heard what he said about the peacock."

At this, Mrs. Wright fell a peg lower in her niece's estimation, for
she laughed.

"I knew what he meant," she answered, "but I couldn't let the lovely
singer's feelings be hurt."

"Knew what he meant!" exclaimed Violet, indignantly, and suddenly
breaking away from her aunt's embrace, she ran toward the house and
disappeared.

Mrs. Wright followed the fleeing form with her eyes, and nodded gently.

"I thought so. Only just in time," she said to herself. The seed was
dropped, and even though the ground did have to be harrowed to get the
necessary depth, it was better so.

The evening was as beautiful as Edgar Fabian had foreseen. One of the
many charms of Brewster's Island was the habit the wind had of lulling
at sunset, often making the evening air milder than that of day.

To-night the sun had sunk in a clear sky behind the White Mountains.
All the family at the Wright cottage had come out after supper to see
the Presidential Range, ninety miles away, silhouetted black against
the golden glory.

"One can breathe here," thought Philip. "One can breathe here." He
wondered if Kathleen were watching the sunset.

"Oh, but turn around," cried Violet suddenly. "This is a three-ringed
circus. One should live on a pivot here on a clear night."

Phil turned obediently, and saw the waters dashing against a huge disk
of pale gold.

Kathleen, lying in her hammock, arm folded beneath her head, was also
watching the moon.

Edgar sat near her on the steps, smoking his third cigarette that day.
It was his rigid allowance. He saw dimly the figures come out from the
Wright cottage and his first impulse was to stroll across and join
them; but pride forbade. Supposing he were to get there just in time to
see Violet walk off with Philip.

"What a perfect evening!" said Kathleen lazily. "Go in and get the
guitar, Edgar, and sing me something."

Sing something! Edgar's teeth clenched at the thought.

"I've practised such a lot to-day, I'm no good," he replied.

"Why, I didn't hear you," she said.

"No. I took my trusty pitch-pipe down in the woods and scared the
birds. I have some mercy on you and mother."

"What is your aim?" asked his sister. "What do you want to do? Concert
work?"

"Yes, perhaps. Mazzini says I could teach right now if I wanted to."

"Teach?" repeated Kathleen, trying to speak respectfully, but smiling
at the man in the moon, who grinned back as if he understood.

"Of course, there's no necessity for that, so I shall simply prepare
myself for public work; recitals; possibly go abroad for the prestige
of study over there. Not that I need it but the name goes a long way,
and if I should go into opera it is best to begin there."

The man in the moon grew redder in the face. So did Kathleen; but she
knew that sublime self-assurance is an asset not to be despised. She
looked at her brother's trim shapely head, rising from the white silk
collar of his negligée shirt.

"Does Mazzini really think you are already prepared to teach?" she
asked.

"Oh, yes. I had very few errors in method to unlearn, and he says,
given a good voice, a good presence, and good looks, tact, and an
attractive studio, pupils will come fast enough," replied Edgar
carelessly. "He said he'd send me his overflow; but of course all that
was in joke. He knows that it is no question of money with me."

Kathleen ceased to smile at the moon, for her thoughts recurred to
their father, meeting his problems in the heat of the great city. So
far his letters had breathed no hint of trouble.

"That's a glorious feeling, Edgar," she said soberly, "to feel certain
that you can be independent."

"Yes," he returned, speaking low, and holding the cigarette between his
fingers. "I said I'd show father, and I will."

The remainder of his thoughts he did not voice; but there was some one
else he meant to show. The vivacious Mrs. Larrabee who had dared to use
him when it suited her and then discard him with raised eyebrows and a
scornful word. She should see him win the plaudits of the multitude;
then, when she endeavored to add her incense and claim to have been his
inspiration, it should be his turn to show cold disdain. He ground the
even teeth at some memory.

"I want to tell you, Edgar," went on Kathleen in the same serious tone,
"that I am proud of your determination; proud of your regular work;
proud of your cutting down on smoking; and it will overwhelm me with
joy to see you succeed."

"Thanks, Kath," he returned. "I appreciate that."

"And I also want to ask you not to make love to Violet Manning," went
on the low, serious voice.

Edgar was dumb, and now the man in the moon met _him_ with a grin.

"You know it will be only an idle pastime with you, and because she is
the only girl here. It might mean a lot to her, and--it's a hard world
for girls."

Kathleen had not intended to end her appeal in that way, but the
declaration broke from her.

"She doesn't care a picayune for me," returned Edgar. "Don't you
worry." He hoped his sister would contradict him; but she did not.

"You might be able to make her," she said. "Be too manly to try, Edgar.
Do, do be unselfish and honest."

The earnest deliberation of her tone caused her listener to reflect for
a moment; and the man in the moon, by this time crimson in the face,
met his frowning regard mirthfully.




CHAPTER XXV

BY MOONLIGHT


While Edgar was still frowning, and divided between consoled pride
and a consciousness of guilt, a tall dark form came into sight in the
moonlit landscape. It broke into a run as it neared the cottage, and
with a sense of relief Edgar recognized Philip Sidney, who bounded over
the piazza railing.

Catching sight of Edgar sitting alone, he spoke eagerly:--

"Has Kathleen gone anywhere?"

"No, she's there in the hammock. How did you break away so early?"

"I didn't think it was going to be easy," replied Phil half laughing,
and looking toward the shadowy hammock where Kathleen in her white gown
was watching him; "but we finished supper a long time ago, and--and
have been talking ever since. We had told each other about everything
we knew, and so I thought"--his voice trailed away--"well, I think I
was homesick."

"Why didn't you bring Violet with you?" asked Edgar.

"I tried to; that is, I suggested that it was too heavenly a night to
keep still, and asked her if she would like to go to walk--" As he
talked, Phil kept his eyes on the white figure in the hammock and he
spoke eagerly as if he were justifying himself. "But," he went on, "she
said she had a headache and felt that she must excuse herself."

Edgar looked up triumphantly at the man in the moon, but he refused
to see the joke. His hilarious mood had changed. He beamed down now
in pensive golden serenity with the usual remote benevolence for all
lovers which has won his reputation.

"What was there in that tea I made?" inquired Kathleen lazily. "Mother
has the headache, too. Isn't it a shame on such an evening."

"Too bad," said Phil perfunctorily. He approached the hammock and
neither he nor Kathleen noted that Edgar made an unostentatious
departure such as the comic papers describe as a cat-like sneak.
Certainly Pluto could not have moved any more quietly, and his heart
was gay.

"Headache!" he thought, the even teeth broadly exhibited. "What that
headache needs is the water-cure"; and the boarders sitting out in
front of the Wright cottage heard the "Toreador Song" blithely whistled
by some one coming across the field.

When Edgar arrived at the farmhouse he looked about for a familiar
figure. Among the little group, Eliza Brewster was the only one he
knew. He approached her with his most debonair manner.

"Good evening, Eliza. Will you please tell Miss Manning I am here?"

"She's got the headache, Mr. Fabian."

"So Mr. Sidney said; but I thought she might see me for just a minute.
I want to tell her something important."

"Well, that's too bad, 'cause she's gone to bed. I'll take any message
you want me to, and give it to her in the morning. I'd rather not
disturb her now 'cause I just took her up a pitcher o' water and she
told me she was goin' to try to go to sleep."

Edgar was so blankly silent that Eliza spoke again.

"I'll call Mrs. Wright if you'd rather see her. She's in her room
writin' a letter."

"No, no, don't trouble yourself," said the visitor, lightly. "Good
night."

He moved away quickly toward the Villa Chantecler and made a détour
around it. The little piazza overlooking the sea gleamed white in the
moonlight. The bay leaves stood up crisp and polished. Edgar recalled
the mocking in Violet's eyes as they had sat there this afternoon. To
lose an evening like this. It was a crime!

Coming out beside the orchard he looked up at the windows of Violet's
room. They were dark.

His hopeful vanity relinquished the hope that she had manoeuvred to get
rid of Phil in order to leave the coast clear for himself. He moved up
the incline and threw himself down in the shadow. He could hear a stir
at the front of the house. The lingerers in the moonlight were moving
inside and he could see lamps twinkle in rooms where the shades were
pulled down.

In a few minutes more all lights vanished. Only the rising tide broke
the stillness. Edgar had been giving himself over to dreams of a
brilliant future in which his only handicap consisted of his father's
money. Would the cynical blasé critics be able to be as fair to him as
if he had been discovered among the peasants of Italy?

Suddenly he realized that never would a more wonderful stage-setting be
his than that which now surrounded him. He rose on his elbow and looked
up again at Violet's windows.

Then he began to sing. Into the girl's unrestful dreams the sound fell
like balm:----

    "Drink to me only with thine eyes,
    And I will pledge with mine."

She was wide awake suddenly and looking wide-eyed toward the open
windows.

    "Leave but a kiss within the cup
    And I'll not ask for wine."

Her heart beat fast and she pressed her hand over her eyes, every
faculty absorbed in listening to the melting loveliness of the voice.

Last night she would have knelt happily by the open window and called
out a hushed "Bravo," to the singer.

Now she lay perfectly still after the song ceased.

"It is because there isn't any other girl here," she reflected. "He is
a fashionable man with countless friends. I am a dancing-teacher whom
he forgets in town and always will forget.--That's the most beautiful
voice in the world," she thought with swift irrelevance; but Edgar,
looking up at the windows, saw only blankness. He smiled to himself. He
felt that she was not asleep.

The moon shed a wondrous luminous glow in the clear heavens as it
sailed above him. The "man" looked into vast space as though no such
hilarity as that of his earlier mood had been possible.

Edgar sang again. The higher the range of the song, with the more ease
did his voice thrill the still night.

    "Oh, Moon of my delight, that knows no wane,
    The Moon of heaven is rising once again.
    How oft hereafter rising shall she look
    Through this same garden after me in vain!

    And when thyself with shining foot shall pass
    Among the guests star-scattered on the grass,
    And in thy joyous errand reach the spot where I made one,
      Turn down an empty glass!"

Violet did not know when or how she reached the window, but the ending
of the song found her kneeling there, sobbing quietly, her head buried
on her crossed arms. The moonlight fell on her shining hair. Edgar saw
her and, springing up, came near, careful to keep in shadow, for other
window shades had risen.

"Violet!" he called softly.

No answer.

"Violet!" he said again. A hand white in the moonlight motioned him
away, and he believed that she was weeping. Tears of sympathy, of
triumph, sprang to his own eyes. So before very long would hundreds be
shaken by his art.

"Just say good night, Violet," he begged softly; but she would not look
up. She waved her hand again, and her shade came down.

Only one week since she had come to the island and it seemed months.
Her aunt's words had pierced what she knew now had been a hope. How
could she have been so insane as to hope it! Even given such a wild
supposition as that Edgar Fabian would marry a nobody, what comfort or
peace was in store for his wife? Violet had seen a play called "The
Concert," in which a wife had been obliged to share her artist husband
with a miscellaneous lot of female admirers. Better a thousand times
to marry a shoemaker or any other obscure body and so be left to his
undisturbed possession.

Aunt Amy was terribly right. More right than she knew.

Violet crept back to bed in a tumult of sensible reasoning,
accompanying which was an intoxicating obbligato of divine music, which
sang and sang through her excited brain.

Meanwhile Edgar, strolling back deliberately through the field, smiled
at his own thoughts. So the mocking eyes had been quenched. What a fine
combination that girl was: so spirited, so sincere, so temperamental.

Kathleen's appeal recurred to him. "She's right, I suppose," he
reflected. "After smelling hothouse flowers all winter, the wild rose
is alluring; but--" his further thoughts were vague; but they comprised
a virtuous intention of fair play towards the girl whom he had left
weeping at the feet of his genius.

       *       *       *       *       *

Kathleen sprang to a sitting posture as Philip approached the hammock,
and sitting on its edge, swung gently.

"Well," he said, smiling, "aren't we going to the rocks?"

"Oh, are we?"

"Certainly. I was afraid I shouldn't get back before you had gone. I
was afraid you and Edgar might be making the most of the opportunity
for a fraternal _tête-à-tête_."

"We were; but we found the piazza satisfactory for it."

"Blasé creatures!" returned Phil. "Hurry, Kathleen," he added eagerly.
"Get your coat."

"I wonder if mother may not need me."

"No one needs you so much as I do to-night," was the impulsive
response. "The Villa finished, a summer's work before me, a full moon,
a rising tide. I feel as if I could hardly contain myself to-night,
and I've been holding my wings folded, and listening to Miss Foster
and Eliza deplore the high price of fruit, and sympathizing with Miss
Manning's headache, and holding wool for Mrs. Wright, all the time in a
prickly heat for fear you would be gone somewhere; and then to get over
here and find you lying like a little white cloud in the hammock--it's
just like everything else that happens to me--just the best thing in
the world!"

Kathleen laughed at the boyish joy of his tone. "Well, I'll see if
mother needs me," she said, and went into the house and to her mother's
room.

The moonlight streamed across the floor and the figure on the bed
turned. "Is that you, Kathleen?" asked the prostrate one, through her
nose.

"Yes, how are you feeling, dear? Can I do anything for you?"

"Why, yes, Kathleen. If you've had enough of the piazza, you might
light the lamp and read to me a little while."

The simple request magnified itself to a disaster. Kathleen frowned,
not at her mother, but at herself. Was this all the progress she had
made?

"Shall I leave Phil alone?" she asked quietly.

Mrs. Fabian revived. "I thought he was over at the Wrights."

"He was; but he just came home. Violet had a headache, too."

"Where is Edgar?"

"I don't know."

"Oh, then, stay with him. It's too bad for a headache in every house
to spoil his evening. I wonder if I couldn't get down to the piazza.
Perhaps I'd feel better in the fresh air."

A little pulse, its existence hitherto unsuspected, began doing queer
things in Kathleen's throat.

"Phil wants to go down to the rocks," she said.

"Well, why doesn't he? He was mooning all over the island alone last
night."

"He thinks I am going with him. I came in for my coat. Shall I tell him
you need me?"

"Oh, no. Go with him. And don't speak to me when you come in. I shall
be asleep. I'm feeling better."

Kathleen came over to the bed and kissed her mother, and Mrs. Fabian
patted her hand. "Tell Phil I wish I could go, too," she said with
nasal sleepiness.

Kathleen smiled, and going to her own room took a white polo coat and
hurried downstairs.

Phil met her with relief, and she gave him a couple of cushions.

"I began to think," he said, "that she did want you."

"Only for a minute," returned Kathleen. "She sent word she wished she
was able to come with us."

The girl looked up at her companion as they moved down on the grass and
he smiled at her with bravado.

"Not one polite lie to-night," he answered; "I want you all to myself.
Think how seldom it has happened."

Kathleen laughed from sheer contentment.

"I think Cap'n James is the only one who has seen you alone," she
replied.

"He's been a trump: and now," Phil inflated his lungs and looked about
the irregular outline of the island lying in sheeted silver, and at the
great lighthouses flashing in the distance, "I have a foothold in this
paradise."

Their destination was the spot where rocks rose highest on the island's
shore, turning the rising tide into boiling cauldrons of white foam,
and meeting the tremendous impact of the great waves with jagged
granite shelves that flung the compact water high in fountains of
diamonds. Giant power, giant unrest, fascinating beauty glittering with
phosphorescence, and silvered for miles with moonlight.

"Let me help you, Kathleen," said Phil, offering his hand.

"'Bred and bawn in a briar patch,'" she responded, springing lightly
over the rocks.

"I follow you, then," he answered; and Kathleen led the way to a partly
sheltered nook, too inaccessible for most less-accustomed visitors,
and so, remote from certain other figures which loomed penguin-like on
points of rock.

"Father thinks he made the mistake of his life in not buying the
island outright," said the girl; "then there wouldn't be any penguins."

"Supposing you had bought the Villa Chantecler? Where would I be?"
asked Phil, as he settled down a little below the seat she had chosen,
and tried to put the second cushion behind her back.

"Not at all," she said, turning to him. "Share and share alike." She
laughed softly. "When I'm married, I'm going to have the tenderloin cut
in two. Once in a while a husband wants his wife to have it all, but
mostly I've noticed the wife expects the husband to have it all."

"That's like my mother," said Phil, resting his elbow on the discarded
cushion. "I have the most wonderful mother."

"I know you have." Kathleen met the eyes lifted to her with a gaze as
grave as their own and a sympathy that opened the flood-gates to all
that was pressing in her companion's heart to-night.

"No one but myself knows how wonderful," said Phil, looking back at the
water, something swelling in his throat. After a pause he went on. "We
never had much money, and I couldn't pull away and do what I wished.
That would be no return for my father's efforts and denials for me.
Mother understood. Her whole life was a living example of self-denial
and courage. She taught me to think clearly and showed me the value of
noble-mindedness, virtue, and controlling love. It was her splendid
patience and wisdom that gave me education and standing-room in the
world."

Kathleen did not speak, but he felt her receptivity.

"It was very early when I began to think and dream and plan along
entirely different lines from those my lot promised. My whole being
from a child cried out for artistic expression; and what pathetic
outbursts there were! I understand it now. Doesn't it seem natural for
a child born in the month of May with a mother like a Madonna, sweet
and gentle, to chase butterflies and pick flowers for their beauty
and fragrance? And that child--I can't remember when he didn't long
to create; but firmly, day by day, he was urged toward the practical.
Create! Yes; but let it be machinery; money.

"The marble building with its sculpture against the blue of the sky,
the painting that makes men wonder, the book that sets their hearts to
throbbing--that was what I craved; and often lost my head in craving,
my whole being vibrating with a great cry of joy in the thought of such
creation. Can't you see it? The month of May--and the flowers--and
God's universe--and the boy!"

The last word choked in Phil's throat.

"Your mother," said Kathleen in a low voice. "She understood."

Phil looked up, and surprised the tenderness, the comprehension in the
face bent toward him. "She understood," he returned slowly, "but she
thought she saw her duty. I went to college. I forgot her many times,
and every time I was a fool. At last, I came out and was put to the
treadmill; but in my last year at school a wonderful thing happened
to my mother. A Mr. Tremaine visited our cabin and left with her a
little book. Sometime I will tell you about it if you care to know;
but it made a great difference in her life. My work in the mine seemed
typical of my life. The grime, the clank of machinery, the perfunctory
drudgery, and the hand's breath of blue sky above. I crushed my
longings and tried to be practical. Could purgatory be worse than, with
such a nature, to be caged in underground gloom? The glimpse of sky was
like my mother's eyes with their joy, their knowledge. She talked to
me, she permeated me with the new point of view; the new strength; the
new patience. My father praised my efficiency, and then suddenly the
nightmare was broken by a message as from heaven--you know the rest!"
Philip turned quickly, and again met his companion's speaking eyes.

"Kathleen, can you forgive me!" he exclaimed. "This has been an orgy of
egotism!" Even as he gazed, the dark eyes veiled themselves. Only then
he realized how wide-open the doors had been thrown.

"I thank you for telling me," she said, with her direct look.

"I seem," he answered, with a vague unrest,--"I seem always to have
been going to tell you. There is--there is no one but you to whom I
could talk like that." He stared out on the water, then changed the
position of the cushion.

"Was that Mr. Tremaine a publisher?" asked Kathleen.

"I don't know. Mother has always wished she might know who he was."

"There is a Mr. Tremaine who lives in Gramercy Park who is a friend of
father's."

"Gramercy Park?" repeated Phil, and suddenly remembered. "Then I
believe his son and heir was my first and only patron. I made a picture
for a small Tremaine one day in the park with Violet Manning."

"Wouldn't it be odd if it turned out to be the same?" said Kathleen.

A magnificent burst of spray clattering in myriad drops on the rock
near them warned them that their tenure of the place was short.

The girl smiled. "I think, as we have spoken of Mr. Tremaine, I must
return your confidence with another"; and Phil, looking up suddenly,
saw a new shy consciousness in the slender face which was for some
reason disagreeable.

"Don't tell me to-night, Kathleen!" he said impulsively.

"Why not?" she asked, wondering.

"I don't know," he answered honestly; "only that everything is perfect.
What you tell me might change it. Any change would be for the worse."

Kathleen smiled thoughtfully into space.

"I suppose," she said, with a little shrug, "if you had urged me I
might have popped back into my shell. I'm terribly at home in a shell!
But as it is I think I'm going to tell you."

Phil looked at the delicate face, smiling in the moonlight.

"Is it something you have made up your mind to do?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, looking at him, surprised. "How did you guess?"

"Then don't tell me till to-morrow. I want to think that this won't
end--that it will always be a rising tide and--and we watching it
together."

That newly acquired pulse of Kathleen's asserted itself again, but she
swallowed past it resolutely. "Oh, I shall still be able to watch the
rising tide--once in a while," she answered, laughing. "But I'm going
to tell you. I'm writing a little book. There!"

"What?" cried Phil.

"Yes, and I'm going to publish it. Mr. Tremaine likes the idea. He is
the only one I've told."

"And is that all?" asked Phil eagerly.

"All!" Kathleen regarded him with mock indignation. The little pulse
prevented its being genuine. "Is all you're going to do, just to paint
pictures, Mr. Sidney?"

"Why, I think that's bully," exclaimed Phil, turning so suddenly as to
test the sharpness of his rocky couch. "Tell me about it."

"Well, for the past year, I have been bewitched by the microscope. It
reveals a world that we are too clumsy to discern. The idea occurred to
me to write a series of microscopic fairy tales."

"Fine! Fine!"

"It's great fun. And of course they will be illustrated."

"Who's going to do it?"

"You."

Phil looked up quickly. She was laughing and blushing. "Of course you
wouldn't consider it," she said, "but there might be money in it. How
do you feel toward pot-boilers?"

"I don't know, Kathleen. Tell me more. What sort of illustrations?"

"Well, you saw me with that moss yesterday that I had brought up out of
the woods? The slide I was making was to be the design for a tree in
the illustration. I thought to make the pictures educational in a way.
To put in a corner of the page what the original was. Moss, seaweed, an
aphide, or whatever it happened to be."

"What a pretty idea!" said Phil.

"Of course, you don't want to do it, though," she went on in a
different tone. "Just as your studio is finished, and you are aching to
paint."

"It's good of you to think of me," replied the artist warmly. "I don't
know that I could do that work. I should have to satisfy Mr. Tremaine
with a sample. We couldn't put our educational tips on the pictures,
but there could be a thin cover for each illustration with the
description on a corner of that."

"Oh, yes, much better," agreed Kathleen.

They talked a little longer and the splendid tide suddenly splashed
them with glittering spray.

"A broad hint," laughed Kathleen, springing up. "We must go back."

Phil sighed. "I'm sorry," he said, and getting reluctantly to his feet,
he started to give his hand to Kathleen, then remembering that she
preferred independence, he picked up the cushions and started ahead of
her.

They had nearly crossed the rocks when a cry from her arrested him.

He turned. She had sunk down in the moonlight.

"Oh, how dull of me!" she cried. "I'm used to my rubber-soled shoes."

"What! Turned your ankle?" Phil flung the cushions over upon the grass,
and hurried to her.

"I'm afraid so."

"I ought to have helped you," said Phil, with contrition, "but I
thought you preferred--"

"I do. I'm a regular mountain goat." Kathleen was half laughing in a
way that showed her pain.

Phil lifted her gently, and she went on:--

"Everybody knows nowadays that the best way to treat a strain is to
walk right ahead. Oh!"

"Yes, that may do on flat ground," said Phil; "I'm a mountain goat too,
so don't be afraid"; and, lifting her in his arms, he carried her over
the remaining rocks and set her down upon the grassy bank.




CHAPTER XXVI

TIDES


Philip paused a moment when he reached the grassy bank.

"You're quite sure you wish to walk?" he said.

"I certainly am," she returned with an effort at lightness. "It's the
best thing I can do, now that I've been so careless."

He set her down gently, and picked up the cushions with one hand while
he put the other under her arm, and they started; but there was no
path; the points of granite and the grassy hummocks made difficult
walking for sound feet. Phil felt his companion's sudden limps and
cringes, the while she was talking valiantly of the satisfaction it was
to feel that a little pain didn't matter, so long as one knew that the
best thing for a strain was exercise; but all the time it seemed to her
that home was miles away, and that this Transgressors' Boulevard would
never end.

Phil smiled down at the dark uncovered head so near his shoulder; then
as she sank in an unexpected hollow:--

"Pluck is all very well, Kathleen," he said, "but I'm going to pick you
up again."

"No, no, Phil! You could never carry me home. I'm much too heavy to be
doing these foolish things." Tears of vexation stood in the girl's eyes.

"I needn't carry you home," he returned quietly, "but it is all my
fault that you slipped. As soon as we get to level ground you shall try
again. Cushions will be safe in Arcadia, I fancy," he added, storing
them at the foot of a rock they were passing. "I can come back for
them."

"Put this heavy polo coat with them," said Kathleen, trying not to cry.
"No need of carrying any more than you have to. Oh, Phil, really! I
could hop. Couldn't I hop if you lifted me on one side?"

"We'll hop, skip, and jump when we get on the level," he returned,
wrapping the coat carefully about her, and taking her up again.

"Put your arm around my neck, please. There we are." He moved on at a
good pace. "Can't you feel that it's easy?"

"I'm so ashamed to make you this trouble." Kathleen's lip quivered.

"I'm so ashamed that you are hurt, but I need the exercise," rejoined
her bearer. "What am I going to do now that I don't have to struggle
with the Villa? Have you a rowboat?"

"Yes," returned Kathleen, in a small voice.

They were approaching a cottage with sightless midnight eyes. She had
no idea what time it was, but devoutly hoped they were the only persons
awake on the island. It was ridiculous to be carried about like this,
and a terrible imposition on an innocent guest; but how wonderful he
was, striding along from hummock to hummock with apparent ease.

"Then I'll do some rowing, if you'll let me. Do you like to row?"

"Yes," came again in such a small, choked voice, that Phil suddenly
turned his head and his face came close to Kathleen's. The elegant
remote Miss Fabian, with the slumbrous eyes and the red-brown hair, was
a helpless child in his arms.

"Are you suffering?" he asked, and such a note of tenderness sounded
suddenly in his voice that the girl's heart gave a great throb.

"Only in my mind," she faltered, trying to laugh. "You'll set me down
as soon as we reach the point, won't you? It's easy from there."

It was not very easy from there, but Kathleen set her teeth, and walked
it, leaning on Phil's arm, and sometimes stopping to rest.

"And I thought it was such a small island," she said with a little
sighing laugh when at last the home piazza was reached.

Philip helped her upstairs to her room.

"Shall I knock on your mother's door?" he asked.

"No, indeed. I can get on perfectly well now." She held out her hand.
"Will you forgive me?"

He took it and looked straight into her eyes without speaking.

For an instant he held her hand, still mute, then turned, and instead
of going to his room went downstairs again.

Kathleen, closing her door softly, heard him. She stood a moment
perfectly still, her lambent eyes looking into space, the long straight
lines of her white coat shining in the dim room.

"If it should be!" she thought with awe. "If it should be!"

Philip went out on the porch. The tide was receding and dragging in and
out the stones of the beach. He frowned thoughtfully at the rolling
expanse. "This is disturbing," he reflected. His blood was pumping and
dragging mightily at locked doors of his own which he knew must be
locked for years to come.

"And even then it cannot be Kathleen who opens them," he reminded
himself. While she was flashing about to fashionable functions in her
limousine the coming season, he would still be planning which meal to
make the substantial one of the day.

"The cushions!" he thought suddenly, and, finding relief in action,
he began running back with long, even strides, through the silent,
silvered fields.

       *       *       *       *       *

Before ten o'clock the next morning Edgar presented himself at the
farmhouse to make inquiries for the invalid. He was eager to begin
treating Violet right; and as a commencement he brought a box of
bonbons which he had ordered from the city before that resolution was
made. However, flowers and candy were conventional attentions. So were
books. He reflected that no one could criticize his giving Violet a
marked copy of Tennyson.

"She isn't here," Mrs. Wright told him when he reached the house. "She
has gone somewhere to get an extra coat of tan and see the tide come
in."

"Why didn't I come sooner!" exclaimed Edgar, vexed. "I thought her
headache--I thought she wouldn't be up early."

"Oh, I think you must have exorcised that last night," said Mrs.
Wright. "How we all enjoyed the medicine! Will you promise to sing
every night if one of us will fall ill?"

Edgar smiled and twisted his mustache. "We have a lame duck over at our
house," he said. "Kathleen managed to slip on the rocks last night.
She's as plucky as they make 'em, though. She's limping around. Phil
was with her--not very bright of him, I must say."

"Oh, I'm sorry he has that cloud over his first morning at the studio,"
returned Mrs. Wright. "I saw him go in there an hour ago."

"You're sure Violet isn't there?" asked Edgar quickly.

"Oh, perfectly," rejoined Mrs. Wright quietly. "We're as much warned
off the Villa as ever, now, you know. I hope he is going to do great
things."

"Yes, I hope so," said Edgar absently. "This full sunlight isn't
particularly good for Violet's head. Don't you think I'd better find
her and get her out of it?"

"Oh, it's the steadiest little head in the world. Last night was simply
the exception that proves the rule."

"Well, then, she'll be fit for tennis. I'm going to find her and see if
we can't have some singles before dinner."

"All right, if you can find her."

Edgar tossed his head. "Perhaps I couldn't put a girdle 'round the
earth, but this island's a cinch"; and with the beribboned box under
his arm and the sun glinting on his polished blond head, Edgar set off
running toward the rocks where Kathleen had met her slip.

Perhaps, he reflected, it was just as well that Violet had been _hors
de combat_ last evening. If they had come down here in the moonlight,
and he had sung, and she had turned upon him that wonderful, confiding,
devout look which warmed every fibre of his vanity, there is no telling
what he might have said or done. He was shrewd enough to know that
Mrs. Larrabee's rebuff had caused a rebound in which just such an
innocent, womanly girl as Violet Manning could catch his heart in both
hands. She had laughed at him yesterday afternoon, and to force her
to capitulate he might have done something foolish in the evening. Now
that pitfall--the time, the place, and the girl--was past, and the
bright clear winds of morning found him forewarned and forearmed; but
friendly, perfectly friendly. He thoroughly liked Violet Manning.

All this time he was running toward the show-place at high tide, the
precipitous rocks whose walls and crannies repulsed the crashing waves,
causing a never-ending series of fountains, and cascades of crystal
water.

A few penguins in shade hats studded the heights this morning, but
Violet was not among them. He walked past slowly, scanning the rocks.
A few rods farther on, a small harbor pierced the island's side. Its
farther bank was soft with evergreens; a sturdy growth of tall spruces
which fixed their roots amid the inhospitable rocks.

An artist had set up his easel on the near shore, and was sitting on
a camp-stool before it, working busily. A large straw hat was crowded
down to the tops of his ears to thwart the wind, and Edgar wondered
who might be the competitor of the painter who was working away at the
Villa Chantecler. He glanced carelessly at the artist and then renewed
his scrutiny of the rocks; being so engrossed, that the next time his
gaze went forward, he saw that a girl was lying on the rock near the
easel, leaning on her elbow and alternately watching the artist and the
sea.

Edgar suspected the truth with a wave of anger. How could Phil be in
two places at once? He had allowed Kathleen to slip on the rocks.
Probably he had been absent-minded. This had been planned for; Mrs.
Wright couldn't have known it.

He strode forward.

"Good morning!" he said, with awe-inspiring dignity.

"Oh, hello," returned Violet carelessly, turning her head so as to see
the newcomer.

Could this nonchalant girl be she who had wept at the window!

"I went over to the house to see how you were," said Edgar severely,
"and Mrs. Wright said you were watching the tide."

"Yes," returned Violet, lazy in the sun, "but I found something so much
better to watch."

"You can't see anything from there," declared Edgar, speaking crisply.

"Do you allow that, Mr. Sidney?" asked the girl.

"I allow anything but people to talk to me," said Phil, busy with the
blues and greens of the water.

"There, you see!" said Violet accusingly. "He hadn't said a word of
reproach to me before you came"; and the little minx allowed herself
to throw a devoted glance in the direction of the artist's hat. If the
mouse were going ultimately to make its escape, surely the kitten was
entitled to whatever fun it could find in the situation.

Edgar pulled himself together.

"It's great just now," he said. "Don't you want to come out on the
rocks, and see the row?"

Violet shook her head and touched her finger to her lips warningly.

Edgar scowled and looked at Phil's swift brush. Confound the girl,
how was he to treat her magnanimously if she wouldn't give him an
opportunity?

He held out the beribboned box and raised his eyebrows, gesturing with
his head toward the rocks.

"Is there a string tied to it?" asked Violet, with a saucy, lazy
smile; and Edgar lifted his chin superbly and tossed the box into her
lap.

"The only girl here," she reflected; for she felt tempted to be
flattered by the implied forethought.

"How perfectly sweet," she said and opened the luxurious box. Rising
to her knees she lifted a chocolate in the little tongs and put it in
Philip's mouth.

"_Mille remerciments_," he mumbled; "but don't do it again, please."

"Phil wants to be alone," said Edgar. "Can't you see that?" He held out
his hand to Violet to rise. She ignored it, but rose with supple grace.

"Well," she said, "if little boys will come and chatter to me, I
suppose I shall have to go. It's been so interesting, Mr. Sidney.
That's going to be wonderful. I hope you'll let me watch you again
sometime."

"You didn't really want to stay there, did you?" asked Edgar, when they
had begun to climb out on the rocks at a point where there were no
other gazers.

"Indeed I did, marplot," returned the girl, "but three's a crowd when
one is painting."

"Oh, very well," said Edgar, stiffly; "I'll stay away the next time."

"That's right. Do," returned Violet. "Have a chocolate? These are
delicious."

"No, I thank you." Edgar gave a dark glance at his companion. He did
not like her mood.

"I didn't know you cared more for painting than for music," he said.

"More?" she returned with wide eyes. "Oh, no, I'm an impartial and
humble admirer of all the arts."

Wasn't she going to speak of last evening? He stood in silence beside
her for a space to give her opportunity; but she was engrossed in
munching a chocolate.

"My!" she said, regarding the heavy, satin, heart-shaped crimson box
admiringly, "I've gazed at these with awe in shop windows, and then
gone in and bought ten cents worth in a striped bag. I feel so grand!"

"I was disappointed last night," said Edgar, his gloomy regard changing
slowly to his best look of devotion. There was nothing for him in
Violet's eyes this morning. The expression he craved must be brought
back in order that he might exercise care to treat her fairly.

"Because I couldn't go to walk with Mr. Sidney?" she rejoined, with the
ironical gayety Edgar hated. "I was, too; but your charming serenade
almost made up for it."

Edgar ground the even teeth. "I suppose it was foolish of me to exert
myself," he said. "I probably waked you up."

"Oh, it didn't sound like the least bit of exertion," replied Violet.
"The ease of your singing is really its great charm. You didn't mind my
laughing, right at the end, did you?"

"Laughing!"

"Yes; you see Miss Foster is on my side of the house, and when you sang

      'Turn down an empty glass,'

I knew she'd think it was a prohibition song, and I nearly suffocated."

Edgar met her dancing eyes, and glared at her while she ate a chocolate
with relish.

"And I thought you were temperamental!" he muttered.

"Do you wonder really that Maine is a prohibition state?" she asked
conversationally. "Here, eat this peppermint one for me. I don't like
them," and the even teeth opened mechanically to receive the bonbon she
popped between them. "I mean because it's so intoxicating here anyway.
Why, I can hardly keep my feet still this morning"; and as they were
standing, Violet, on her flat rock, and with the great crimson heart
pressed to her breast, began to clog.

Edgar half unconsciously moved away to where he could see her nimble
feet. "Whistle," she laughed. "Whistle, and I won't come to you, my
lad!"

Edgar whistled, he couldn't help it. Her fair hair blowing, her
sea-blue eyes shining, and her sure feet dancing, she seemed the
incarnation of the radiant morning. He found himself patting in rhythm,
and whistling like a bird until she tired and sank in a blue heap on
the rock.

"Oh, it's a jolly world," she cried.

"And you're a jolly girl!" he exclaimed, striding over and flinging
himself down beside her. "Why don't you teach me to do that? You
promised."

"I've begun twice, haven't I? You haven't any patience."

"Oh, that was in the woods. What could I do on a hillside? Teach me in
the summer house this afternoon."

"That's where you ought to be now, practising," said Violet.

"I've put in half an hour this morning."

"That isn't enough. It's time for another."

"Oh, you want me to go, do you, so you can go back and watch Phil?"

"Well, I never before had a chance to see the wheels go 'round in a
painting. Don't you think it's wonderful?"

"Yes, he's a wizard. It's a pity you couldn't go with him last night.
He took Kath and she managed to turn her ankle."

"So he has been telling me. I'm sorry. So you'd rather have had mine
turned? Then I couldn't have taught you to clog, remember."

"No; he might not have gone mooning around then. He might have paid
more attention to _you_."

Violet glanced at the speaker out of the tail of her eye and ate a
chocolate. Then she cast a look over on the point where the easel
stood. "He is so good-looking," she sighed. "I like smooth-faced men."

"My mustache is catching it next, is it?" said Edgar irritably,
twisting that treasure.

"Oh, I simply despise mustaches," rejoined Violet equably; "but of
course if it makes you look older, or more dignified, or helps you in
your career, you have to wear one."

"I don't know as there's any 'have to' about it," returned Edgar. "It's
just a matter of taste with me"; he made the addition with a superior
carelessness.

"So it is with me," returned Violet with engaging frankness. "Here's
another peppermint." She picked it up in the silver tongs. "Open your
mouth and shut your eyes and I'll give you something to make you wise."

Edgar jerked back his head, seized the confection in his fingers, and
scaled it across the rocks.

"I loathe peppermint," he said shortly, "and as for making me wise,
you're making me wiser every day. Will you, or will you not give me a
lesson in clogging this afternoon?"

"I _will_!" returned Violet, dramatically. "You paid partly in advance
last night, and I'm the soul of honor!"

He met her mischievous eyes with a baffled look. He longed to shake
her. His hand lifted mechanically to his mustache and dropped again. He
had lost faith in that, too.




CHAPTER XXVII

THE SON


When Philip returned to dinner that day he found a strange man sitting
on the veranda with Kathleen. The table beside her was filled with
loose sheets of paper, and she was reading aloud.

As Phil approached she looked up.

"We spoke of an angel last night," she said, "and lo, he appeared
to-day. This is Mr. Tremaine, and he knows you already."

Phil laid down his impedimenta and his hat, and shook hands.

The grey-eyed portly stranger smiled as they greeted. "Miss Fabian has
told me so much about you," he said, "that I am wondering if you belong
to the Sidneys who took me in in the mountains of Montana one night
five or six years ago."

Philip's perfunctory gaze quickened.

"And you left my mother a little book?" he asked quickly.

The pressure of the newcomer's handclasp tightened. He nodded.

"The very same," he said. "And you do belong to that charming woman."

"You did a great deal for us, Mr. Tremaine," said Phil heartily.

"And this Kathleen child says we're not through with each other. She
wants you to illustrate this clever little book of hers."

"If he will," put in the girl quickly. "You don't know yet what small
business it will be for him to picture my stuff. Show us what you have
done this morning."

"I hear you are my neighbor in Gramercy Park," said Mr. Tremaine while
Phil stooped to get his picture. "I hear that the artist who did my
son's treasure, 'The Proud Robin,' stands before me."

Phil laughed and turned his canvas about. A great wave uplifted its
heavy snowy crest, just at the point of breaking into rushing surge.

"Stand back," cried Kathleen, "it's coming!" Her cheeks reddened. "You
do such true things, Phil!"

"Upon my word!" said Mr. Tremaine, "Miss Fabian is right. That's really
great, Mr. Sidney. One gets the weight of the water. I think the
breadth and perception of the mountains helped you in that. How long
have you been so intimate with the physiognomy of old Ocean?"

"I have been at this off and on for some days in time stolen from house
decoration."

"There is time before dinner," said Kathleen, "and Mr. Tremaine is
going to stay such a little while, take him over to the Villa. I want
him to be sure to see it though I begrudge his seeing it without me,
too!"

"Sure you can't go?" asked Mr. Tremaine.

Kathleen looked ruefully at her right foot, wearing a loose slipper of
her mother's.

"That field is so rough," she said.

"We'll make an armchair," said Phil.

The girl shook her head. "No, I'll gather up my book. Mr. Tremaine
likes it, so I'm happy though lame, and you must talk over the
illustrations together."

In truth she was glad that these two should have the opportunity for
a _tête-à-tête_ and she smiled happily to herself as she picked up
the flying sheets. There was color in her cheeks, the rose-color that
seemed this morning to tinge the universe. It was such a beautiful
world, and for Mr. Tremaine suddenly to appear and to approve her
work and to meet Phil--Phil whose eyes had seemed this morning always
to see her and regard her reflectively, instead of looking over or
through her--all this made a wonderful combination, a strange, sweet
expectancy, as of harmonious progressions which could but resolve into
one triumphant chord.

The dinner hour approached and Mrs. Fabian came out on the piazza.

"How are you, poor child?" she asked with commiseration; then meeting
Kathleen's eyes, she laughed. "Here I am pitying you, and you look as
if you'd been left a million. What is it? Is Mr. Tremaine so pleased
with your stories?"

"He thinks they'll do," returned Kathleen.

"Very modest," said Mrs. Fabian; "but I'm quite sure from your looks
that he said you were a second Hans Christian Andersen. Keeping it a
secret from me, too! I'm a very good judge of stories, and you might
have asked my opinion about those, at any rate."

"I felt very shy about it, mother, but now I'm just bubbling with
encouragement; and perhaps Phil will make the pictures."

Mrs. Fabian regarded the rosy face admiringly.

"There, you see his business is coming along, and this morning I gave
him the commission to paint our portraits."

Even this news could not dampen Kathleen's present mood.

"Yours," she returned. "Remember, I told you I refused to be
perpetuated as I look now."

"I never saw you look as pretty as you do to-day, in your whole life,"
said Mrs. Fabian, gazing as she spoke.

The girl laughed from sheer satisfaction. "Is the big head so
becoming?" she returned.

"I saw Phil taking Mr. Tremaine over to the studio," said Mrs. Fabian.
"Edgar said this morning he wanted to bring Violet to dinner. He will
be surprised to find Mr. Tremaine here. We shall have quite a party. I
hope they won't all be late. If Phil and Mr. Tremaine get to talking
over at the studio they won't know what time it is."

The air at the island, however, was of a nature to create an inner
monitor which called to dinner, so the two couples soon approached from
opposite directions. Mr. Tremaine and Phil were talking busily as they
came, and Kathleen noted Violet's crimson heart while she drew near.
She gazed questioningly at her brother whose alert happy face turned
red as he met her eyes; but Violet was self-possessed when Kathleen
greeted her.

"Pardon my remaining enthroned, Violet," she said. "I'm not precisely
wasting steps to-day."

"I heard about it," returned the guest, coming up the steps and meeting
Mrs. Fabian. "I do hope it's nothing serious."

"No, indeed. I shall soon forget it."

"I suppose neither of you will have a chocolate before dessert, but
they're very very good." Violet opened the box temptingly as she took a
seat beside Kathleen.

"Who is that coming with Phil?" asked Edgar.

"My publisher," returned Kathleen, proudly. "Just think, Edgar! I've
written some stories, and Mr. Tremaine has accepted them!"

Edgar lifted his eyebrows and smiled wonderingly into his sister's
happy face. "Good work, Kath! It may really pay to be a highbrow. Why
have you kept so still about it?"

"Oh, that was natural. Supposing Mr. Tremaine had said, 'You're a nice
child, Kathleen, but your little yarns are trash.' How then! Shouldn't
I be glad nobody saw me hide my diminished head?"

Edgar continued to regard her curiously. He had never before noticed
how really good-looking Kath was.

Violet expressed her interest and sympathy heartily, and while she
was speaking, the other guests arrived and Mr. Tremaine met his son's
dancing-teacher with pleasure.

It was a gay dinner-party, and Kathleen glowed with satisfaction in Mr.
Tremaine's manifest interest in Phil. He could be such a useful friend.

They had coffee on the veranda, and while Edgar was planning in what
manner and how soon he could segregate himself and Violet in the summer
house, the boy whose duty it was to bring the mail appeared with the
letters. At a sign from Mrs. Fabian he handed them to her.

She ran them over with a smile. "I'm always impolite," she said, "when
Mr. Fabian's letter comes, and I think everybody will forgive me." She
laid the others on the rail beside her and opened the letter she held.

"I'm hoping so much he will set the day for coming."

The smiling expectancy of her face gave way to bewilderment and
incredulity as she read. No one observed it, for Kathleen had started
to tell an island adventure.

Her mother's voice broke in upon the tale.

"Kathleen!" she said breathlessly, "I don't understand this letter.
Father is in trouble of some kind. He is trying to comfort me. He says
to ask you--"

Mrs. Fabian looked up at Kathleen whose face was transformed while her
mother spoke. The color left it, the laughing eyes grew startled, and
she tried to rise.

Phil sprang to his feet, "What do you want, Kathleen?"

"The letters!" she said. "See if there is one for me?"

Edgar, who had been observing how remarkably good was the line of
Violet's hair at the nape of her neck, brought his thoughts back with
difficulty to his sister. Kath was looking frightened. What was the
matter?

Mr. Tremaine leaned forward in his chair and looked with serious
questioning at Kathleen while she tore open a letter from her
father. Her brow drew together as she read. Mrs. Fabian regarded her
helplessly, two sheets of paper blowing in her fingers.

When finally the girl dropped her letter her face had flushed again.
She rose from her chair with difficulty.

"I must go to father immediately," she said.

Phil was at her side in an instant. "You can't do that," he returned,
"but you can send me."

Mrs. Fabian's lips were parted. Edgar frowned and looked from one to
another; then he too sprang to his feet.

"What is this, Kath?" he asked with sudden authority.

His sister regarded him absently. Edgar would suffer, of course, but
just now, in the crucial moment, he didn't count; and she! Oh, how
could fate have been so unkind as to hamper her at the only time in
her life when it would make any difference! A time when she longed for
wings to carry her to her father's side and let her throw her arms
around his neck.

She looked at Edgar's frowning, questioning face with curious vagueness.

"Father has lost a great deal of money," she said, "and friends
as well, because he would not yield to plans which he considered
dishonorable. He told me before we left that it might come; but he
had no idea the crisis was right upon him. Oh, I must, I must go to
father--at once--at once!" The girl limped toward the door.

"You can't go to-day," said Phil decidedly, "but I can. I will go on
this next boat with Mr. Tremaine. Tell me what--"

"What are you talking about!" It was Edgar who spoke, and his tone
turned every eye upon him. His nostrils were dilated and his eyes
looked dark. "Father in trouble! I'm going to him, of course."

He tried to speak quietly, but there was a thrill in his tone that
echoed in Kathleen's heart. She knew as she looked at the new stern
expression of the _debonair_ countenance that in that minute the boy
had become a man.

Violet gazed at him with a swelling heart and swept poor Phil with a
supercilious glance wholly undeserved, but of which he was unconscious.

Edgar hastened into the house to make his preparations and Kathleen and
Phil exchanged a look.

"It's all for the best," said Phil in a low tone. "Edgar will find
himself."

Kathleen's hands were clasped on her breast. Mrs. Fabian regarded
her beseechingly. "What do you mean?" she cried, her voice breaking
hysterically. "Money and friends! What do you mean?"

Kathleen sank into the chair beside her. "I mean that father is an
honest man," she said proudly.

Mr. Tremaine came to Mrs. Fabian's other side. "I was at college with
your husband," he said. "Henry Fabian was always doing fine things. I
suspect that this last move, whatever it is, is one of the finest. I
would trust him before I would myself."

Mrs. Fabian looked from one to the other, tears running down her cheeks.

"I can't have my portrait painted, Phil," she faltered. "We're very
poor."

Phil knelt down before her and put his arms around her and she rested
her head on his shoulder and sobbed quietly.

"Perhaps not poor," he said; "but what if you are, Aunt Isabel? Look
about at this beautiful place with everything to make people happy.
Health and freedom and honor beside; and Edgar will bring his father
here and everything will straighten out and we shall make him forget
his troubles."

"No motor, Phil," came from the sobbing woman. "I can't imagine living
without a motor."

"Indeed you can. You're going to show Mr. Fabian what a good sport he
married; and we're all going to cheer him up and make him forget his
nightmare before fall. You have everything that's real left--unless Mr.
Fabian breaks down under this strain," added Phil artfully.

He had struck the right note. Mrs. Fabian lifted her head and wiped her
eyes wildly. "I'm going with Edgar," she cried. "Henry may be ill. I
shall go."

"No, dear mother," said Kathleen, gently taking her hand. "Let Edgar
manage this alone. He will wire us at once."

It was nearly time for the boat and Edgar came out of the house with
his bag. All his machinations of the morning had not succeeded in
bringing to Violet's eyes the expression that grew there when she
saw him ready to start on his hard journey. Speechless and unsmiling
he pressed her hand, then kissed his mother and listened to her
exhortations. Mr. Tremaine was ready, and together they started toward
the wharf.

Philip was going to accompany them, but his aunt clung to him.

"Stay with us, Phil," she begged. "You are my son, too."

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Fabian, heavy-lidded from a sleepless night, was working at the
desk in his private office, when the door opened and closed quietly
and quickly, and he looked up to see Edgar standing beside him. An
added cloud passed over his face.

The young man saw it and he paid for many a misdemeanor in the pang it
gave him.

"Father, I've come to see if I can be of any use," he said.

Mr. Fabian pushed his chair back and looked up at his visitor, the deep
line in his forehead deeper.

"I know I have no experience, and little business sense; but if you'll
take the trouble to explain the situation to me, I'll try to understand
as I've never before tried to do anything; and I can at least carry out
your instructions to the letter."

Mr. Fabian continued to gaze up into the sunburned face and the eyes
that regarded him with steady purpose.

"I've lost a lot of money for you, my boy," he said. "Quite a half of
everything I possessed."

"And come out clean," returned the other promptly. "Good for you."

Mr. Fabian kept silence, studying him for another space.

"My son," he said at last, slowly, as if to himself. "I have a son";
and he held out his hand.

Edgar clasped it in silence. Then he spoke again. "I haven't had any
breakfast, and of course I couldn't sleep; so my head isn't worth much
just now. Can you spare time to come out and talk to me while I eat, or
shall I go alone?"

Mr. Fabian rose and his heavy eyes had brightened. "Neither of us will
go alone, after this," he said.




CHAPTER XXVIII

A TIDAL WAVE


Mr. Fabian's firm stand resulted in a dissolution of his partnership,
and very soon he was able to repair with Edgar to the island.

The son had found the man-to-man relationship with his father a
strangely sweet one; and by the time they reached the island--so deeply
had his father's steadfastness and suffering worked upon Edgar, he
had no other plan than that of rejuvenating the tired man's strained
nerves. Therefore, when Mr. Fabian reached the heavenly calm of his
hill cottage, he found his wife and daughter ready to accompany him on
a cruise. Mrs. Fabian, lukewarm sailor though she was, was as fully
prepared as Kathleen; and with scarcely any delay they all started out
on the yacht. Mr. Fabian urged Phil to join the party, but he could not
leave his work, and in any case would not add himself to a family party
at this time. He and Violet stood on the shore and watched the white
sails swell as they caught the wind.

Edgar had been so absorbed in his father and his plans that she had
but a flying glimpse of him after his return from New York; but
it flattered her to observe that he had left his mustache in the
metropolis.

Philip's assiduous work during the summer resulted in finished pictures
and numerous sketches, all of which he carried back in the autumn to
the stable where Pat met him with effusion.

"Sure 'tis a red Injun ye are!" he exclaimed at sight of his lodger's
mahogany tints.

"Yes, and next summer, Pat, if I'm not a pauper, you're coming up there
to get a red nose, too," responded Phil.

The first step toward independence had been made. He had finished the
illustrations for Kathleen's fairy tales, and but a few days after his
return, Mr. Tremaine came to the studio to welcome him and show him the
first copy of the book; for it was October before Phil had consented
to leave his enthralling Villa, being finally shooed out by Eliza who
insisted that he either come over to them and live in a Christian
house, or go back to his warm stable.

Phil was eager for news that Mr. Tremaine could give him.

"Aunt Isabel has written me very little," he said. "I know they are
settled in an apartment near the park, but how are they all, and how do
they bear the change?"

"Wonderfully well," was the reply. "Mrs. Fabian is the one to feel
the pinch, of course. Kathleen, not at all. She has too much resource
within herself to be dependent, and then there are not a few people of
influence who would find a Van Ruysler if she hid herself on the East
Side."

It was true, Mrs. Fabian lived too much in reflected glory to suffer
loneliness, and as the winter went on Kathleen drew her into artistic
circles where Philip's interests lay, and gradually she gained much
pride and satisfaction in the understanding of technical terms, and
learned not to discuss pictures. She even occasionally felt some
remorse in the remembrance of Mrs. Ballard and was conscious of a wish
that she might have sympathized with her more.

The startling event in the family, however, was provided by Edgar.
The great Mazzini was as good as his word, and Edgar Fabian started
in at once, on his return to New York, as a teacher of the vocal art.
Successful is too mild a word to be applied to the young tenor.
Mazzini procured him opportunities to sing in drawing-rooms where he
had heretofore been the entertained. He sent pupils to him, and they
advertised him _con amore_. Before the winter was over he became a fad.
He drew a good salary in a fashionable church. Other musicians sneered
at him as a _poseur_, and turned their lunch tables into knockers'
clubs to ease their minds concerning the vagaries of this upstart.

Edgar, with his characteristic self-assurance gave full play to the
moods of which he had spoken in the past to Violet. Perhaps he was not
blind to the fact that it was good advertising, but in any case it was
a temperamental fling which gave him the utmost satisfaction.

He had different sets of hangings made, divan covers, cushions, et
cetera, easily removed and placed in a box couch, so that his pupils
sometimes found a purple studio, sometimes a crimson, sometimes one in
luminous gold. None knew beforehand in which mood the wonderful young
_maestro_ would be found; and they talked of him with bated breath.

His sister took the liberty, early in his career, of laughing at
this ebullition of fancy, but she soon found that Edgar took himself
seriously, and she repressed her smiles; for nothing succeeds like
success; and Edgar Van Ruysler Fabian was an idol whom it was not her
place to knock from his pedestal.

Violet Manning meanwhile was industriously proceeding with her own
teaching. As some of it lay in fashionable schools, she heard echoes
of Edgar's popularity, and she and her housemates often attended the
church where he sang. He came to their apartment occasionally and
relaxed from the strain of living up to the ideal of his admirers whom
he terrorized grandly at moments, after the most approved Mazzini
methods.

Once he had the three bachelor maids at a chafing-dish supper at his
studio. He was in a red mood that night, and the crimson hangings
reminded Violet of the glowing heart which always lay on her
dressing-table.

The function was an informal and jolly one. One of the men present
was Edgar's accompanist, and he had played for Violet to dance. It
was a triumphant occasion for the girl. She looked charming in a thin
iridescent gown which changed with the blues and greens of the sea
while she floated and pirouetted, as light and tireless as thistledown.
Edgar's eyes were bright with pride in her and she was wildly
applauded, sharing the honors of the evening with him.

Edgar sang the better for the inspiration of her, and when at her
request he began, "O moon of my delight," she closed her eyes, shutting
out the gay company and the diffused rosy light. Again she saw him
stretched on the grass in the silvery radiance of a still, still night.

"I think Mr. Fabian is in love with Violet," said Regina afterward,
privately, to Roxana.

"I think he is in love with himself," returned Roxana; "and I take off
my hat to Violet, for I believe she knows it, too. I'm afraid if I were
her age and he wanted me, I'd marry him even if I knew he'd beat me all
the time he wasn't singing."

Her housemates noticed that Violet never spoke of Edgar, and they drew
their conclusions. She had a sketch of his head done by Phil in an
idle moment, pinned up on her wall. That and the bonbon box were the
only evidences of the acquaintance save those occasional calls with
which Edgar favored the apartment. The fact that he came at all was
important, for his engagements were legion.

Philip carried himself much as he had done the winter before. Through
the Fabians and Mr. Tremaine he began to have invitations, but he
declined them. Mr. Tremaine bought the painting of the wave which he
had seen at the island, and one of his friends bought another of Phil's
marines.

The artist kept on with his work in the life class at the Academy.
Edgar sometimes tried to get him for a festivity at the studio, but, as
he told his sister in disgust, one might as well try to get the Shah of
Persia.

Every Sunday evening Phil spent at the Fabians' but never since he
had returned to town had he made opportunity to resume a disturbing
intimacy with Kathleen. Her book was having a fairly good sale, and
the girl was at work upon another. Their lives lay apart mainly except
on the Sunday evenings when Mr. Fabian, once again adjusted to his
business life, claimed the guest far more than any of the others.

Edgar, finding that the propinquity of Phil and Violet during his
absence in the summer had not produced any results, altered his
expectations of trouble from that quarter. He made it a point to spend
his Sunday evenings with the family, in order, as his mother said, to
keep up the acquaintance; and on one of these evenings, toward spring,
he brought Violet Manning to supper.

The busy young teacher's friendship with Kathleen had not progressed.
The latter firmly believed that any romantic notions which such a girl
might conceive for Edgar would bring her to grief in the end; and his
present amazing popularity but augmented that conviction; so the girls
had exchanged one call only during the season.

Violet responded to Mrs. Fabian's invitation for this Sunday and Edgar
regarded her critically throughout the evening.

Never had he felt himself such authority on girls as now. They crowded
his studio. Fashionable girls, wealthy girls, pretty girls, plain
girls, clever ones, dull ones, aggressive, and shy girls; and he had
frequently detected himself comparing the more interesting with Violet.
Her spirit, her poise, her independence, her compact, graceful, healthy
body, always stood the test.

As of old, to-night she seemed more interested in Phil than in himself.
Her spontaneous joy over the news that during the past week he had sold
a third picture, actually roused again Edgar's old train of thought.
How did he know what had occurred during the summer, between the
farmhouse and the Villa? Were these two only waiting, perhaps, until
Phil began to find a sale for his pictures?

Poor little Violet was not intriguing. She found herself embarrassed
in Edgar's family circle, and she was defending herself in the only
way she knew. It seemed as if it must be legible on her face that she
out-adored the adoration of all the singer's pupils; and it was a
relief to her when she and the object were at last in a taxicab on the
way home. The cover of the darkness, and the sober return to thoughts
of to-morrow's duties, made her heave an inaudible sigh; but it is the
unexpected that always happens.

Edgar's teeth were tightly closed and every street-lamp they passed
showed him gazing at his companion.

"I wonder," he said at last,--"I wonder, Violet, why I've never been
able to make you like me better. Other--other people like me."

"Probably that's the reason," returned the girl lightly. "Some one must
help strike an average."

She did not say it easily; for she was obliged to swallow between
sentences; but she said it pretty well, and applauded herself.

"You see I love you, Violet," he went on, as simply as the most
non-temperamental swain could have spoken.

She shrank into her corner, and when he tried to take her hands she
crossed them quickly on her breast.

"Which mood is this?" she asked, a tumultuous beating under the crossed
hands.

"You don't believe me," said Edgar quietly. "It's true, Violet. I want
you to marry me. You've made me believe once or twice--and yet the
next moment I always feel your utter indifference. I'm afraid you're a
flirt."

"I know you are!" responded the girl, her fingers whitening against her
fluttering heart. "I'm afraid of you, Edgar."

Happiness leaped into his eyes and he gathered her hands into his in
spite of her.

"Have you ever seen 'The Concert'?" she asked breathlessly.

"Oh, that's what you mean!" exclaimed Edgar triumphantly.

"You shouldn't marry," said Violet. "You are like a matinée idol.
You will lose your capital when you marry, unless you are like that
selfish man. I warn you, I am not like that wonderful wife. I couldn't
bear it."

"You've thought about it, then," said Edgar joyously.

"Yes, oh, yes," replied Violet, her defences down and tears welling
through her half-closed lids. "I'm sure I should be miserable."

"Then you love me." Edgar drew her out of her corner into his arms.
"Violet, I promise you--"

"Dear," she interrupted him, "I am just as much afraid of myself as
of you. No convention would hold me. The minute I found you were not
honest with me--that you concealed from me--I should go. You would look
about, and I shouldn't be there."

Edgar held her close in ecstatic possession.

"And that's why I'll be honest with you, Violet. I swear it. If we're
both honest, what can--"

The taxi-cab driver threw open the door.

       *       *       *       *       *

Once again the daisy-snow drifted over the hills on Brewster's Island;
and Eliza sat in the doorway of the Villa Chantecler watching Phil
adjust his possessions.

"When are the Fabians coming?" she asked.

"Next week."

"Are you and Miss Kathleen goin' to do another book this year?"

"I hope so. She's going to let me see her story when she comes. She has
written her first novel."

Eliza's eyes studied him sharply during a silence.

"Is she engaged yet?" she asked.

"Not that I know of."

"I thought you two were pretty thick one time there last summer."

"It's not for the likes o' me to be thick with the likes o' her,"
replied Phil, busy setting up an easel.

"I'd like to know why not," retorted Eliza, who had read between
the lines of Phil's letters during the winter; and illustrated her
imaginings with looks and actions remembered from the season before.
"Think of the pictures you've sold this winter. Look how quick you've
begun your success. Has Kathleen many beaux?"

"She has worshippers," returned Phil, with a slight smile; "and several
of them come much nearer to her than I can."

"You can if you want to," said Eliza bluntly; "you're a great fool if
you don't."

Philip turned and looked at the speaker in surprise. Her words were so
exactly opposite to the training he gave himself night and morning.

"'Tain't as if her father was so rich any more. Nobody could say you
was after money, and," Eliza's voice lost its hardness, "your--your
Aunt Mary left me her ring you remember."

Phil smiled at her openly now, then he went on with his work.

"You're a loyal soul, Eliza, and you always yearn to give me everything
I want; but Miss Fabian will be married long before I'm able to ask any
woman to trust herself to me."

Eliza gave him a fierce nod and drew down the corners of her mouth.

"_I--don't--believe it!_" she said, so significantly that Phil flushed
and looked at her again.

"_I've_ got eyes if you haven't," she added; and with this Parthian
shot she rose and went back to the house.

Philip went on with his work, but the flush stayed, and there was a
line between his shining eyes.

At this juncture Pat came up from the wharf with a heavy package. The
family had returned to the house in Gramercy Park, and he and Phil had
vacated the stable this spring.

"Sure the Queen o' Sheby hersilf stepped off the boat," he announced as
he came into the Villa.

"My Aunt come!" exclaimed Phil, turning around quickly. "I wonder what
changed their plan. Was she alone?"

"She was not, thin," declared the Irishman proudly. "D'ye think the
Princess didn't come straight up and hold out her pretty hand with a
smile swate enough to beckon the bees? 'How d'ye do, Pat,' says she.
''Tis fine ye're to be here this summer,' says she. 'We shall call upon
you for a lot o' help,' she says."

Philip stood still in indecision. No, he wouldn't hurry over. They knew
he was not expecting the arrival; and he fell to business again.

The Irishman looked about him, on pictures and sketches.

"Sure 'tis a power o' work ye've done, me bye," he said. "I feel I shud
have on a bathin' suit to look at 'em."

Eliza from her window saw Captain James drive up to the boulder cottage
and saw the ladies dismount, and with them the maid of all work with
whom they intended this year to live the simple life. Pat would be a
valuable auxiliary.

It was evening before Phil went across the field to call. A brilliant
planet showed a pale wake of light across the water, forerunner of the
moon which was soon to rise.

"So serene, so soft, is she," thought Phil, in whose head Eliza's words
still rang, "and so remote," he added. "So she shines on me, and on
all, alike. Eliza hasn't seen the others, so she thinks me selected";
and he pressed down the stopper which a long time ago he fitted to
repress disturbing emotions; for in the last hours they had effervesced
threateningly around its rough edges.

Mrs. Fabian received him effusively and Kathleen with the calm
directness to which he had adjusted himself.

"Your portrait comes off this summer, Aunt Isabel," he said.

"I can't afford it, my dear," she answered.

Phil shook his head. "If I painted a portrait of every Fabian on earth,
would it pay my debt to you?" he asked. "And anyway I have the finest
collection of Sidneys in the country; but there isn't a portrait among
them."

"Do yourself sometime, Phil, will you?" suggested Kathleen.

"Yes, and you," he replied. "I want to do a picture of you on my
terrace. Pat and I have brought up the bay to-day; and I want to begin
it immediately."

"I know," laughed Kathleen. "You want to do both mother and me before
our complexions desert us."

"I'll take you alternate days if you'll let me. I'd like you to-morrow,
for my background is just as I want it." He turned to Mrs. Fabian.
"Will you lend me your daughter to-morrow? I have the finest of Irish
terriers for a watch-dog, you know."

Mrs. Fabian shrugged her shoulders. "I certainly shan't waste my time
chaperoning you two cousins at this late day," she answered.

On the afternoon following Eliza met Kathleen coming across the field.
She looked at her in surprise, for instead of khaki the girl was
wearing a filmy white gown whose length was lifted from the clover and
buttercups, and carried over her arm.

Eliza looked admiringly at the lithe figure, and the deep eyes that
beamed kindly upon her.

"No wonder you are startled, Eliza; I am going to sit for my
portrait," she said, clasping Miss Brewster's hard hand.

"You look as if you was ready for your wedding," returned Eliza.

"I should like it to be here if I ever have one," said Kathleen; and
Eliza watched the rose-color spread from the girl's cheek to her brow,
while the young eyes kept their steady, kind regard; then she inquired
of Eliza as to the winter.

"I do believe she kind o' likes me for his sake," thought Eliza,
standing still to look after the slender, graceful figure when Kathleen
moved on amid the daisies and clover.

"She's a flower herself. That's what she is, and Mr. Philip didn't go
as red as a beet for nothin' when I spoke yesterday. He thinks she's
above him. There ain't anybody above him!"

Whatever was the errand that had brought Eliza into the field this
afternoon she abandoned it, and turned slowly back toward the
farmhouse, glancing often at the Villa through whose door the slender
white figure had disappeared.

"I wish there was somethin' I could do to help 'em," she thought. "That
pretty critter can't do a thing against Mr. Philip's determination if
he's set out. I know _him_."

"Why was Kathleen so exquisite?" asked Mrs. Wright as Eliza came in.

"Settin' for her portrait," answered Eliza absently. "Said she was too
dressed up to come and see you, but would come to-morrow."

"She was a picture already, coming bareheaded through that flowery
field," said Mrs. Wright.

Eliza did not respond. She disappeared into her own room and closed the
door. Then she unlocked her trunk and took from its depths a package
which she untied, disclosing a fine camel's-hair shawl. She unfolded it
with loving fingers, and regarded it. "A good enough weddin' present
even for her," she muttered.

Then she reached into another corner and took out a tin box which she
unlocked and drew forth a tiny velvet case, rubbed and worn. When she
opened this, tears rushed to her eyes and she lifted it to her lips.
"Nothin' could make you so happy, my dear one," she murmured brokenly.
"Nothin'! Nothin'!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Half an hour later Eliza entered the Villa. Pat was doing some scraping
of palette knives in the kitchen. She looked timidly out on the
terrace. A lovely living picture met her eyes. Kathleen was sitting on
the white railing, her filmy gown falling in folds at her feet. Behind
her rose the bay-crowned pillar casting shadows on the red-glints of
her hair.

"Mr. Philip, please excuse me," said Eliza humbly; "but could you spare
Pat to go on an errand for us?"

"Yes, yes," replied Phil absently, working at a white heat.

Eliza withdrew with quiet celerity. The errand she required was to be
performed at a distance, and she was so nervous while she gave Pat
directions that he grinned at her.

"Ye're thinkin' about _thim_!" he said, jerking his thumb over his
shoulder in the direction of the terrace.

Eliza's eyes widened. "Why in the world should I think about them?" she
asked, all the time tolling Pat away toward the farmhouse.

"I cud look at 'em from now till Christmas sittin' there," he
responded. "I don't blame ye."

       *       *       *       *       *

"I haven't asked you about the turtle doves," said Phil, sketching in
Kathleen's hands.

"They believe themselves the happiest people in the world, and perhaps
they are. Violet has really convinced me that she is the right girl for
Edgar. A meek one would have little chance."

"They're coming up here, I suppose."

"Oh, yes. Edgar can't get his vacation from the church quite yet, and
she'll not come till he can."

"Of course not," replied Phil simply. "How can one voluntarily live
without the other a day after the great discovery is made?"

Kathleen made no answer to this. The lump that rose in her throat was
rebellious; and the artist, looking up suddenly, met fire in the depths
of her dark eyes. The lids dropped. His hand grew suddenly unsteady.

"Tell me when you're tired, Kathleen," he said. "We have the summer."
He smiled as he spoke; but it was a rigid sort of smile.

The field sown thickly with the late wild-flowers of the island, and
stretching to a sparkling sea, the rustling orchard leaves, and the
crown of bay behind the queenly young head, the soft white figure with
the loosely dropped hands! It was no time or place for Kathleen to look
at him like that.

"I'm tired now, I believe," she said, quietly. "Will it be enough for
to-day?"

"At least until you're rested. Come in and let me show you a sketch I
did yesterday."

She rose and lifted her white shoulders with a movement of weariness,
then they moved inside the room.

A vase of daisies stood on the table. "I believe," said Phil, "I should
have asked you to wear daisies in your hair."

They were standing by the table and he took three of the long stems and
breaking them to convenient length made a movement toward her head.
Then he shrank. "Put them in, will you?" he asked.

The least smile touched her lips, and her hands hung down.

"You know best what you want," she replied and inclined her regal head
toward him.

The golden radiance streamed through the small-paned windows and
reddened her hair.

Phil's fingers trembled as they tucked the flower stems under the soft
folds. He dropped his eyes from the lustrous tints, and they caught a
sudden elusive spark of violet, then green that shone on the table. He
looked closer, and pointed.

"Did you leave your ring there?" he asked.

Kathleen looked. A diamond ring was shining beneath the tall
candlestick.

She shook her daisy-crowned head.

"It's not mine," she said, wondering. "I never saw it."

"Nor I." Phil's breath came faster. "This is an enchanted place,
Kathleen. The very spirit of the sea must have pitied me in my struggle
and brought this ring." The ring! He looked at it, dazed for another
moment, then like a flash he remembered Eliza's interruption, and his
illumined eyes met Kathleen's, grave and wondering.

"I adore you, my darling. I give up the fight." He kept his eyes on
hers as he picked up the quaint little jewel and pressed it to his lips.

Kathleen smiled at him, then her eyes veiled and dropped.

He lifted her hand and slowly put the ring on her finger; for the inner
sanctuary of her heart had flown open, and he had seen within.

Quickly he clasped her close in his arms. She clung to him, and the
golden radiance enveloped them.


THE END


       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber's Notes:

Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

Minor punctuation and printer errors repaired.

Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully
as possible, including obsolete and variant spellings and other
inconsistencies.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Inner Flame, by Clara Louise Burnham

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