Diana never forgot that ride in the dark to Harbor Light. It was a clear night, with the sea like a sheet of silver under the moon. The big building, which loomed up, at last, before her, seemed, with its yellow-lighted windows, like some monster of giant size, gazing wide-eyed upon the waters.
The gardens, through which she passed, were heavy with the scent of hyacinths; the slight wash of the waves on the beach only emphasized the stillness.
As she drove up to the doorway, two night nurses flitted through the corridor, ghost-like in their white uniforms.
Then came Anthony. His face looked worn and worried.
"We couldn't save her, Diana," he said, tensely.
"Oh, the poor little thing!"
"We made a fight for it. I sent for you because if she roused I wanted you to be there."
"If you had telephoned sooner."
"I could not. The change was very sudden." He flung himself into a chair. "Oh, what is all my skill worth, Diana, when I couldn't save that child?"
She had seen him in such moods before, when he had felt powerless against all the opposing forces of disease and death.
But she did not care that others should see him. It was enough that she should know that this great doctor Anthony had his weaknesses. The rest of the world should not know it.
"Come out into the garden," she coaxed; "the air will do you good."
As they walked up and down the garden paths he gave her more definite details. "She did not know that she was going. There was no reason to trouble her gentle soul with fears. And so, at last, when she drifted off into the silence, she was smiling."
"And I am sure that she was still smiling when on the other side she found Love waiting."
"How wonderfully you put it, Di."
"It is not because I put it that way; it is because it is wonderful. Do you know, Anthony, that has always been my idea of heaven—as a place where Infinite Love waits. If that little child had lived shewould have faced a future of loneliness—now she will never be lonely—never sick—never unhappy."
"But she wanted to live."
"But she didn't know life, Anthony—as some of us know it, as a place of unfulfilled dreams——"
They had reached the beach, and the track of the moon spread out before them, ending only at the horizon.
"She followed the path o' the moon," said Diana, softly, "a little white soul in a silver boat. Death is a great adventure, Anthony."
"Sometimes I feel as if I were merely a longshoreman, who helps to load the boats as they start on that great adventure——"
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, we doctors see so much of pain which we cannot ease, so much misery which we cannot prevent. We see the innocent suffering for the guilty—the weak bearing the burdens which belong to the strong—and even if we try our hardest we can't change these things—and the boats still go sailing out to the Unknown——"
"Anthony, I wish I might be sure of one thing——"
"What, dear girl——?"
"That you would never change your presentpoint of view. So many doctors lose faith in human nature because they see only the diseased side, and their vision becomes distorted. And, losing their faith in man, they lose faith in God. The thing which has always made you, in my eyes, a great man as well as a great surgeon has been the fact that you have seemed to understand that you were working with Infinite Love toward the completion of a perfect plan; you have seemed to understand that life is good as long as it is lived wisely and well; that death is good when it ends suffering and sorrow. These things you have seen and known—I want you always to see and know them."
"If any one could make me see and know them it is you, Diana."
They were silent after that, and presently she said that she must go.
Anthony took her home himself in his little car, and when at last they reached her door he said, gratefully: "What should I do without your friendship? At least I have that, Diana."
She hesitated. "It must be a long distance friendship, Anthony."
"What do you mean?"
"I am going away."
"Oh, why should you? We are self-controlled man and woman, not impulsive boy and girl. We have set our feet on a hard path. Why shouldn't we cheer each other along the way?"
"I'm afraid it wouldn't be fair—to Bettina."
"Why not? My friendship for you need deprive her of nothing."
"I must think it over."
"Don't think. Don't analyze at all. Just stay." A grave smile lighted his face. "I'm not making this as a selfish proposition, Diana. I shan't expect to absorb you, to take you away from other friendships. But I want you to be near me at such times as this; when my world was without a ray of light, you illumined it with your friendly taper."
Diana climbed the steps in an uplifted mood. This, then, was the solution of the difficulty. She had been making high tragedy of the situation when it might be solved sensibly. She remembered a quotation which she had copied in her school note-book: "My friend is one with whom I can associate my choicest thought." Her friendship with Anthony could go on as before. She could be an inspirational force in his life. Had she the right to refuse?
She found Bettina and Sophie sitting up for her.
"Oh, you're back so soon," Bettina said. "Is she better? Is that little girl better?"
Diana returned to realities with a shock. How selfish she had been! She had almost forgotten that poor little soul at the hospital.
"No, she isn't better." She shrank from voicing the truth. "They couldn't save her, and before I reached there she was—gone."
"Dead!" Bettina shuddered. "Oh, I think such things are dreadful; I don't see how Anthony stands it."
"It has made him very miserable," Diana told her; "he hates to lose a case."
"Then why does he do it?" Bettina demanded. "Why doesn't he give up his surgery? He has enough to do with his freaks at the sanatorium, and his sick people who need medicine."
"Would you have a man give up a thing which he can do better than other men?"
Sophie, looking on, wondered if there had ever been a greater contrast than these two women who faced each other in the rose-colored room. Diana, tall and pale, with wisps of hair flying a bit untidily from beneath her soft hat, yet still beautiful and withthe light of high resolve shining in her steady eyes; Bettina, a little slender slip of a child, her fair shining braids falling below her knees, her eyes demanding why men and women should be dedicated to hardness.
"I have been telling Bettina," Mrs. Martens interposed, gently, "that she will understand some day what such a man means to the world."
For once in her life Diana, tired Diana, lost patience. "She ought to know what such a man means," she said.
Bettina put her hands before her face and stood very still.
"Oh, dear child," said Diana, remorsefully, "I shouldn't have said such a thing to you. I didn't mean it."
"I SHOULDN'T HAVE SAID SUCH A THING"
Bettina's hands dropped straight at her sides. Her blue eyes were misty. "But it's true," she said. "I'm afraid—I'm afraid I'm not the wife for Anthony."
Never had there been a truer saying. Yet the two older women stood abashed before the hurt look on the little white face.
"He has always seemed to me to be the noblest man," Bettina went on. "I don't think I have everfelt that he was anything but great. You people, who have always had everything, can't understand what he seemed to me when he used to come when mother was ill. You can't understand what it meant when he came to me when I was almost dead with loneliness, and told me that he wanted to marry me—you can't understand how every night—I pray—on my knees, that I'll be good enough for him—you can't understand how grateful I am—and how I try to appreciate his work; but I'm made that way—to hate pain. I hate to know about it—to see it——" Again she shuddered.
Diana drew her close. "Oh, you poor little thing," she said, "you poor little thing."
When the dawn, not many hours later, peeped into the three rooms, it showed, in one, Sophie asleep beneath the picture of her lost lover. In another Bettina, asleep, with tears still on her lashes, and with the flashing rings rising and falling above her heart. In the third room it showed Diana, awake, after hours of weariness—writing a letter to Anthony.
When Anthony had read that letter, he left the sanatorium and took a path which led him to the hills and into the hemlock forest. The walk up the hillswas long, and the sun was hot, so that when he reached the depths of the wood he threw himself down with a grateful sense of the stillness which could not be disturbed by telephone or tap at the door. For a little while he lay with his eyes shut, steeping himself in that blessed silence.
When at last he sat up, he took from his pocket Diana's letter, and read it again, passing his hand now and then nervously through his hair, until it stood up like the ruffled plumage of an eagle.
"Dear Anthony:—"It will be easier for me to talk with you in this way than face to face. When you are with me, my point of view seems to get mixed up with your point of view, and before I know it, I find myself making promises which I cannot keep, as to-night, when I almost said I would stay—and be your friend."I have always been your friend, Anthony. Haven't I? Even when I was a little girl, and you were a big boy, you seemed to find something in me which made it worth while for you to leave the other big boys and stay with me and talk about my books. Will I ever forget how you read some of them aloud to me? I never open now my thumbed little copy of 'Cranford' without hearing your laughing voice stumbling over the mincing phrases, and as for 'Little Women,' I believe that I worshiped in you the personification of 'Laurie.'"But those were not the best times, Anthony. The best were when it was too dark to read, and I would curl up on the big bench by the side of the fire, and you would lie at full length on the hearth-rug, and the wind would blow and the waves would boom, and you would weave tales for me out of your wonderful wealth of boyish dreams."Blessed memories! But even then I believe I resented your masterfulness a bit, Anthony. There was that time when you told me that I must get my lessons before you would finish the story which was so near the end. And I cried and coaxed, but you stood firm—and I respected you for it, and hated you and loved you in one breath."Oh, my big boy Anthony! Shall I ever forget you, with your brown lock over your blue eyes, your unswerving honesty of purpose, your high ideals. When you came home from college, and I had just put up my hair, and lengthened my dresses, you started to kiss me, then stopped. 'I thought I could,' you said, with such a funny note of surprise in your voice, 'but there's something about you that sort of—holds me off, Di.'"I think then that I began to know my power over you. And how I have used it, Anthony! I have kept you single and alone all these years, because something in me would not yield to your kind of wooing."If only you could have been a cave man and could have carried me off! So many women wish that of men, especially proud women. It isn't that we admire brutality, but we want to have all of our little feminine doubts and fears overcome by the man's decisive action. And you made the mistakeof waiting patiently, asking me now and then, 'Will you?' instead of saying, 'You must.'"Yet while you could not win me, in other ways you dominated me. Do you remember the holidays when I came home from boarding-school, and you were interne at a hospital? You asked me to go to the theater with you, and at the last moment you were called to the operating room to help one of the surgeons. You telephoned that you'd send a carriage for me and my chaperon, but that you couldn't go;—and I wouldn't go either, but stayed at home and sulked, and looked at myself in the glass, now and then, to mourn over the fact that you couldn't see me in my pink organdie with the rosebuds."But you wouldn't even apologize for what I called your neglect. I said I should never go with you. You said it wasn't neglect, and that I should go. And go I did, finally, as meekly as possible, and I wore the pink organdie and had a lovely time."It's the memory of that night when you couldn't fit your plans to mine which has made me write this letter. When I came home from Harbor Light I found Bettina waiting up for me, and she broke down as the depressing realities of your work were forced upon her. I was very toploftical, Anthony—and was prepared to read her a sermon on the duties of a doctor's wife, when all at once I had a vision of myself in that rosebud organdie. I hated your work then, and I felt that you lacked something of devotion to me, to let it keep you from me."But later I felt differently. The world began to call you a great man—and I began to see with clearer eyes what you were doing for the world. And so I helped you at Harbor Light, and saw youthere at your best—with your forceful control of all those helpless people, with your steadiness of hand and eye, a king who ruled by virtue of his power over life and death."It was in those days, I think, that I began to worship you. But I never called my worship love. I wanted to be Me, Myself, and somehow I felt that when I was once promised to you I should have no separate identity. It was the rebellion of a strong personality against a stronger one. I was not wise enough to see that you who protected others from the storms of life might want some little haven of your own—a haven which would be—Home."But because you failed to be masterful in the one way which would have won me, because you said, always, 'Will you?' instead of, 'Come—let there be no more of this between you and me, Diana,' I went away, not understanding you, not understanding myself."And over there with Sophie, I met Van Rosen. As I look back upon it, I do not wonder that he charmed me. He was different from our American men, a lover of pleasure. He typified the spirit of joy to me—there was never a moment when he had not some vivid plan for me. We did things of which I had always dreamed."He gave a house party for me in his ancestral castle on the Rhine. And he proposed to me in an ancient chapel with the moonlight making the effigies of his old ancestors seem like living knights in golden armor."It was all so picturesque that practical America—that you, oh, I must confess it, Anthony,—seemed miles away. It seemed to me that in my own country we lived dreary lives in a workaday atmosphere. It was only in that castle on the Rhine that there were people who knew how to play. So I became engaged, and through all those months, Van Rosen and I played together."But I grew so tired of it, so deadly tired of it! Life seemed to have no meaning. And after a time I grew a little afraid. Van Rosen was different. I can't define exactly where the difference lay. But between us was the barrier of centuries of opposing traditions. I began to feel that as his wife I should be a Princess in name, but a slave in fact. Always laughing, always seeming to dance in the sunshine, he had a hardness which nothing could soften. I saw him now and then with those whom he considered his inferiors. I saw his treatment of his servants, his horses, his dogs. I heard him speak once to an old and dependent aunt, at another time to a young governess—and my cheeks burned—and I was afraid."It came back to me then how you had always treated those who were weaker than yourself. You had always been a champion of old ladies and children. Every animal, from Peter Pan to your old fat horse—that old fat horse now is living in clover since you acquired your motor cars—adored and followed you."And one day I told Van Rosen—that I couldn't marry him. You don't know how humble I felt to think that I might have hurt him. But in that moment his real self showed. He was angry, furiously angry, and I knew all at once that it was my money, and not me that he wanted."And so I came back to you——"But you had Bettina, and there was no place for me. No place for the little dark-eyed girl who had listened to the big boy on stormy nights, no place for the woman who had not known her own heart——"And now you want me to be your friend. But I can't be your friend—Anthony. Friendship is for the man and woman who have never loved. A friendship which is the aftermath of love is the shadow after the substance. Can't you see that it is so? Can't you see that there would be just two things which might happen? If I stayed here and tried to be your friend, either I should knit myself to you by ties which should bind you to your wife, or we should drift apart, having the perfect memory neither of love nor of friendship."Bettina is very young, but she has depths of which you have not dreamed, of which I had not dreamed, until I talked with her last night. I went up to her room, and we had a very sweet and tender confidence. It was almost dawn before I left her. She showed me much of her heart, as she will, I hope, some day show it to you——"Hers is a little white soul, dear friend. On the surface she has her girlish petulances, her youthful prejudices. But these? Why, I had a thousand of them, Anthony. How I snubbed those poor students whom you brought with you one afternoon to tea because their elbows were shiny and their shoes rusty. I was such a little snob, Anthony. How I should welcome them now—those great doctors, who have done so much for humanity."It is life which teaches us, dear friend. It will teach Bettina. And it must teach me this: To bear the hard things. Do you remember in those dayswhen we read of knights on the battle-field that we loved those who died fighting? And how we hated those who ran away? Well, I'm going to fight—but my fight must begin by running away."It isn't a battle which we can fight together. The two who must do things together are you and Bettina. Any friendship of ours would shut her out. That's the plain truth, and you and I are old enough to know it, Anthony."There's much more that I could say to you. Much more. But you must read between the lines. All my days I shall have in my heart the memory of my dear—big boy. Some day when I am old and you are old, we can be friends. I'll look forward to that day, and it shall be my beacon light in the darkness."It's good-bye, dear, for a long time—good-bye.Diana.
"Dear Anthony:—
"It will be easier for me to talk with you in this way than face to face. When you are with me, my point of view seems to get mixed up with your point of view, and before I know it, I find myself making promises which I cannot keep, as to-night, when I almost said I would stay—and be your friend.
"I have always been your friend, Anthony. Haven't I? Even when I was a little girl, and you were a big boy, you seemed to find something in me which made it worth while for you to leave the other big boys and stay with me and talk about my books. Will I ever forget how you read some of them aloud to me? I never open now my thumbed little copy of 'Cranford' without hearing your laughing voice stumbling over the mincing phrases, and as for 'Little Women,' I believe that I worshiped in you the personification of 'Laurie.'
"But those were not the best times, Anthony. The best were when it was too dark to read, and I would curl up on the big bench by the side of the fire, and you would lie at full length on the hearth-rug, and the wind would blow and the waves would boom, and you would weave tales for me out of your wonderful wealth of boyish dreams.
"Blessed memories! But even then I believe I resented your masterfulness a bit, Anthony. There was that time when you told me that I must get my lessons before you would finish the story which was so near the end. And I cried and coaxed, but you stood firm—and I respected you for it, and hated you and loved you in one breath.
"Oh, my big boy Anthony! Shall I ever forget you, with your brown lock over your blue eyes, your unswerving honesty of purpose, your high ideals. When you came home from college, and I had just put up my hair, and lengthened my dresses, you started to kiss me, then stopped. 'I thought I could,' you said, with such a funny note of surprise in your voice, 'but there's something about you that sort of—holds me off, Di.'
"I think then that I began to know my power over you. And how I have used it, Anthony! I have kept you single and alone all these years, because something in me would not yield to your kind of wooing.
"If only you could have been a cave man and could have carried me off! So many women wish that of men, especially proud women. It isn't that we admire brutality, but we want to have all of our little feminine doubts and fears overcome by the man's decisive action. And you made the mistakeof waiting patiently, asking me now and then, 'Will you?' instead of saying, 'You must.'
"Yet while you could not win me, in other ways you dominated me. Do you remember the holidays when I came home from boarding-school, and you were interne at a hospital? You asked me to go to the theater with you, and at the last moment you were called to the operating room to help one of the surgeons. You telephoned that you'd send a carriage for me and my chaperon, but that you couldn't go;—and I wouldn't go either, but stayed at home and sulked, and looked at myself in the glass, now and then, to mourn over the fact that you couldn't see me in my pink organdie with the rosebuds.
"But you wouldn't even apologize for what I called your neglect. I said I should never go with you. You said it wasn't neglect, and that I should go. And go I did, finally, as meekly as possible, and I wore the pink organdie and had a lovely time.
"It's the memory of that night when you couldn't fit your plans to mine which has made me write this letter. When I came home from Harbor Light I found Bettina waiting up for me, and she broke down as the depressing realities of your work were forced upon her. I was very toploftical, Anthony—and was prepared to read her a sermon on the duties of a doctor's wife, when all at once I had a vision of myself in that rosebud organdie. I hated your work then, and I felt that you lacked something of devotion to me, to let it keep you from me.
"But later I felt differently. The world began to call you a great man—and I began to see with clearer eyes what you were doing for the world. And so I helped you at Harbor Light, and saw youthere at your best—with your forceful control of all those helpless people, with your steadiness of hand and eye, a king who ruled by virtue of his power over life and death.
"It was in those days, I think, that I began to worship you. But I never called my worship love. I wanted to be Me, Myself, and somehow I felt that when I was once promised to you I should have no separate identity. It was the rebellion of a strong personality against a stronger one. I was not wise enough to see that you who protected others from the storms of life might want some little haven of your own—a haven which would be—Home.
"But because you failed to be masterful in the one way which would have won me, because you said, always, 'Will you?' instead of, 'Come—let there be no more of this between you and me, Diana,' I went away, not understanding you, not understanding myself.
"And over there with Sophie, I met Van Rosen. As I look back upon it, I do not wonder that he charmed me. He was different from our American men, a lover of pleasure. He typified the spirit of joy to me—there was never a moment when he had not some vivid plan for me. We did things of which I had always dreamed.
"He gave a house party for me in his ancestral castle on the Rhine. And he proposed to me in an ancient chapel with the moonlight making the effigies of his old ancestors seem like living knights in golden armor.
"It was all so picturesque that practical America—that you, oh, I must confess it, Anthony,—seemed miles away. It seemed to me that in my own country we lived dreary lives in a workaday atmosphere. It was only in that castle on the Rhine that there were people who knew how to play. So I became engaged, and through all those months, Van Rosen and I played together.
"But I grew so tired of it, so deadly tired of it! Life seemed to have no meaning. And after a time I grew a little afraid. Van Rosen was different. I can't define exactly where the difference lay. But between us was the barrier of centuries of opposing traditions. I began to feel that as his wife I should be a Princess in name, but a slave in fact. Always laughing, always seeming to dance in the sunshine, he had a hardness which nothing could soften. I saw him now and then with those whom he considered his inferiors. I saw his treatment of his servants, his horses, his dogs. I heard him speak once to an old and dependent aunt, at another time to a young governess—and my cheeks burned—and I was afraid.
"It came back to me then how you had always treated those who were weaker than yourself. You had always been a champion of old ladies and children. Every animal, from Peter Pan to your old fat horse—that old fat horse now is living in clover since you acquired your motor cars—adored and followed you.
"And one day I told Van Rosen—that I couldn't marry him. You don't know how humble I felt to think that I might have hurt him. But in that moment his real self showed. He was angry, furiously angry, and I knew all at once that it was my money, and not me that he wanted.
"And so I came back to you——
"But you had Bettina, and there was no place for me. No place for the little dark-eyed girl who had listened to the big boy on stormy nights, no place for the woman who had not known her own heart——
"And now you want me to be your friend. But I can't be your friend—Anthony. Friendship is for the man and woman who have never loved. A friendship which is the aftermath of love is the shadow after the substance. Can't you see that it is so? Can't you see that there would be just two things which might happen? If I stayed here and tried to be your friend, either I should knit myself to you by ties which should bind you to your wife, or we should drift apart, having the perfect memory neither of love nor of friendship.
"Bettina is very young, but she has depths of which you have not dreamed, of which I had not dreamed, until I talked with her last night. I went up to her room, and we had a very sweet and tender confidence. It was almost dawn before I left her. She showed me much of her heart, as she will, I hope, some day show it to you——
"Hers is a little white soul, dear friend. On the surface she has her girlish petulances, her youthful prejudices. But these? Why, I had a thousand of them, Anthony. How I snubbed those poor students whom you brought with you one afternoon to tea because their elbows were shiny and their shoes rusty. I was such a little snob, Anthony. How I should welcome them now—those great doctors, who have done so much for humanity.
"It is life which teaches us, dear friend. It will teach Bettina. And it must teach me this: To bear the hard things. Do you remember in those dayswhen we read of knights on the battle-field that we loved those who died fighting? And how we hated those who ran away? Well, I'm going to fight—but my fight must begin by running away.
"It isn't a battle which we can fight together. The two who must do things together are you and Bettina. Any friendship of ours would shut her out. That's the plain truth, and you and I are old enough to know it, Anthony.
"There's much more that I could say to you. Much more. But you must read between the lines. All my days I shall have in my heart the memory of my dear—big boy. Some day when I am old and you are old, we can be friends. I'll look forward to that day, and it shall be my beacon light in the darkness.
"It's good-bye, dear, for a long time—good-bye.
Diana.
How still it was in the hemlock forest! A squirrel which had ventured down from the branches flattened himself against the trunk of a tree and peered curiously at the figure which lay face downward on the fragrant carpet. One hand, outflung, caught at a little bush and held on as if in agony. The other hand grasped the sheets of gray paper, which, close-written, in feminine script, had brought a message of infinite pain and loss.
The yacht yard in which Bobbie's boat was hauled up for repairs lay at the foot of the rocks to the north of Diana's house. From the north porch, therefore, one could look down on the activities which had to do with the bringing in, and putting into shape the fine craft which through the summer were anchored in the harbor. A marine railway floated the boats in and out at high tide, and at such times creaked complainingly.
It was on the north porch that Sophie and Bettina sat on the morning after Diana's departure—Sophie knitting a motor scarf for Anthony, Bettina hemstitching white frills.
Below in the yacht yard the master gave orders, and the machinery of the marine railway began its clanking chorus. Bettina glanced over the rail. "Bobbie's boat is going out," she said, "and he and Justin are on board."
Justin saw her and called, "May I come up?"
Bettina shook her head at him. "If he thinks I'm going to shriek an answer to the housetops, he's mistaken."
Again she shook her head at him, and Justin immediately offered excuses to Bobbie.
"You won't mind," he said, "if I go up there?"
Bobbie jeered. "Talk about me! You're here to-day and there to-morrow. Yesterday it was Sara, and now it's Betty Dolce."
"It was never Sara."
"That's what I said when I fell in love with Doris, but you wouldn't believe me. And I can't quite see the difference."
"I've never cared for Sara in that way."
"Then you have jolly well flirted with her."
"Don't try to be English with your 'jolly wells.'"
Bobbie turned his back on Justin. "I suppose, then, you're not going to have lunch with me?" he said over his shoulder.
"Why can't we all have lunch with you?"
"Who is—all?"
"Betty, and Mrs. Martens—and me——"
"Doesn't Doris come into it?"
"Of course, if you can get her up."
"I can always get her up. You know that. Butthere's nobody just now in the world for you but Betty Dolce."
Nobody but Bettina! Justin admitted it to himself triumphantly. Please God, there should never be any one but Bettina!
Perhaps something of his thought showed in his face, for Bobbie clapped him on the shoulder with a hearty, "Go in and win her, old man, and we'll have a double wedding."
"If my wedding," solemnly, "were as sure as yours, I'd burn incense to the gods."
"Well, why don't you make it sure?"
"I can't. She stands on her pedestal, and I can't reach up to her."
"Man, you're afraid of her."
"It isn't that. But I'm not in this race to fall out, Bobbie. I guess you can see that."
Bobbie nodded. "Anybody who has eyes can see it," he said.
The little yacht was in the water now, still helpless because of her furled sails.
Justin, making a bridge of the small boats tied to the floating pier, gained dry land, and continued his conversation with Bobbie across the intervening space. "Suppose we cut the luncheon out, and gofor a sail this afternoon. We can land off Gloucester way and have tea at the Lobster Pot."
"Tea, meaning lobster sandwiches," said Bobbie. "Do you know, Justin, that the whole coast is blossoming with lobster sandwiches? Once upon a time one ate muffins with their tea. But now nobody takes tea. They take coffee and lobster sandwiches. And I don't like sea foods, and I don't drink coffee. Otherwise it is all right."
"We'll have muffins and jam. And you and Doris shall have a table by yourselves, and Bettina and I, and we'll ask Anthony to look after Mrs. Martens." He stopped. "No, we won't ask Anthony—he has a fashion of claiming Bettina. He's her guardian, you know."
"Look here, Justin. Did it ever occur to you that he'd like to be more—than a guardian?"
"It's Diana for Anthony, Bobbie."
"I'm not so sure. Doris says there is something queer about it all——"
"Queer?"
"Oh, about Diana having Bettina here, and then going away and leaving her——"
"Sara's been talking. Doris wouldn't think such unpleasant things, Bobbie—there isn't anything between Anthony and Betty. There can't be anything——"
But even as he said it he was stabbed by the memory of Bettina's radiant look of pride as she sat beside Anthony on the night of the yacht club dance.
"No man," said Bobbie, "is going to wait forever, and Betty Dolce is a very lovely little lady. All the boys at the club are crazy about her, and if it hadn't been for Doris there's no telling how I might have felt—but Doris is the last one, Justin."
"Good. I'll wigwag from the porch, Bobbie. Keep your eyes open for my signal."
Bettina, still hemstitching on white frills, welcomed Justin with a charming smile, but with a decided negative to his invitation.
"I'm going out with Anthony."
Justin eyed her reproachfully. "I told you once before that three was a crowd——"
"Oh, but this time it isn't three, but two—Anthony and I are going alone in his little car, and we are to have dinner at Green Gables."
All the laughter died out of his face. "Oh, I'm afraid you must think me all kinds of fool." He turned abruptly to Sophie. "Mrs. Martens, you'llgo in Bobbie's boat, won't you? He's dying to ask Doris."
"Do you really want me?" Sophie asked, brightly.
"Always, dear lady."
Bettina, bending over her frills, felt a sudden sense of desolation.
"Oh, dear," she said, wistfully. "Why do all the nice things come at once?"
With that sigh, joy came back to Justin.
He dropped into a chair beside her. "What time will you get home to-night?" he asked.
"At eight. Anthony's office hours begin then."
"May I come up?"
"May he, Sophie?"
"It's my bridge night at the club, dear——"
"Oh——"
"Please," Justin pleaded.
Sophie laughed. "Well, Delia shall chaperon you. Of course you may come, Justin."
Justin, signaling Bobbie a moment later, was conscious of a wild desire to shout to the four winds of heaven the fact that for one little hour he was to have his goddess to himself.
For Justin's coming that night Bettina put on her white crêpe tea gown with the little lace mantle.She was very tired after her ride with Anthony. There had been no reason for fatigue. He had been most kind and considerate. But Bettina's little efforts at conversation had seemed to her childishly inadequate. She had felt a sense of deadly depression. What should she do to interest him through all the years? Would he always have his mind on the things of which she knew nothing? Would she always try and never make a success of her efforts to enter into his life?
She had tried to tell him about Justin—about their compact of friendship—yet the words had died on her lips. Suppose he did not understand? Suppose he did not approve? Suppose he should forbid her to have a big brother—as he had forbidden her to fly in the "Gray Gull" with Justin?
She dared not risk such a catastrophe. She clung desperately to the thought of Justin's youth and gayety. No, Anthony might not understand, so why should she discuss it with him?
At dinner Anthony roused himself and had played the gracious host. Yet on the return trip he had relapsed into silence, and she had again felt that sense of desperate failure. Oh, what kind of wife was she going to make for this grave Anthony, this greatDr. Anthony, who loved her and whom she loved?
It was on the return trip, too, that he had spoken of their coming marriage. "Why can't it be soon, Bettina?" he had said. "Why should we wait, you and I?"
She knew that there was no good reason. That a few weeks ago she would have been radiant at the prospect.
Yet she told him, nervously, that if he didn't mind, it would be better to wait—a little. There were things to do.
And he had acquiesced, because of his masculine ignorance of the things which must really be done.
"The big house will be ready," he said, "when you are ready."
As she changed her gown on her return home, Bettina meditated soberly on the situation. Diana, when they had talked together, had pointed out that the women who married such men as Anthony must be content to make sacrifices. "He belongs to the world, dear child," she had said; "you must remember that, if you would be happy. It must be your joy to help him in his great work."
Bettina was beginning to be a little afraid of thefuture. It was not that she did not love Anthony—why, Anthony was the best man in the whole wide world. But everybody expected so much of her, and she was not quite sure that she should come up to the full measure of their expectations.
As she came down the stairs, Justin was waiting for her.
"Oh, you little beauty," his heart whispered; "you little white and gold beauty."
She had twisted her hair low on her neck, and her delicate lace mantle fell about her like folded gossamer wings.
"We will sit in the library," she said. "I have had a fire built. It is so damp and foggy outside. Sophie said you had to come in early from your sail on account of it."
"We came near not coming in at all," Justin told her. "Doris was terribly scared. But Mrs. Martens was as cool as possible. It's rather risky business outside on such a day. The rocks are like needle points under the water."
"I'm a terrible coward."
"You only think you are. When are you going to fly with me?"
"Never—please."
He had placed a chair for her by the fire, and stood leaning over the back of it.
"Never is a long time—little sister."
"But I should be afraid."
"Not with me."
Silence.
"Not with me." He came around so that he could look into her face. "Would you be afraid with me?"
She knew that she would not. She had not been afraid in the storm. But these things were not to be told.
She did not meet his eyes, but shook her head.
He was struck by her troubled look.
"Tired—little sister?" he asked.
Her lips quivered. "Very tired."
His heart yearned over her. She seemed such a little thing in that stately room with its high ceilings, its massive furniture, its book-lined walls. The only light came from the fire, and from a silver lamp which hung over Diana's desk. On the table near Bettina was a bowl of pink hyacinths, which filled the room with the fresh fragrance of spring.
He was conscious of these things, however, only as a setting for her beauty. And he was more than everconscious of his desire to place himself between her and the world which might hurt her. "Let me help you," he said, earnestly. "Don't you know that my only desire is to serve you?"
She considered him, wistfully. "It's dear of you to say that."
He sat down, leaning toward her.
"It isn't dear of me. It isn't even good of me. It's simply self-preservation. Don't you know, can't you see that I have only one thought—your happiness; only one wish—to be always near you?"
There was no mistaking the significance of his flaming words.
She shrank back. "Oh, you must not say such things."
"Why not?"
"Because. Oh, you called yourself my friend."
"I am more than that," he said, steadily. "I am your lover."
"Please—oh, please."
She began to sob like a little child. "Oh, big brother," she told him, "you have spoiled everything."
He knelt beside her chair. "How have I spoiled things?"
"I wanted you for my friend."
"I am your friend, dear one."
Very still and pale she fought against the sweetness of the truth he was forcing upon her.
"Please—go away," she whispered.
He rose to his feet. "I shall not give you up."
She rose also, a frail little thing in her floating draperies, and laid her hand lightly on his arm.
"There are things which I cannot tell you. But I need a friend. If you care for me you'll let me be your—little sister; you won't trouble me by saying such things as you have said—to-night."
He tried with all the strength of his young manhood to hide his own hurt and meet her need.
"I could kill myself for making you cry. I'm going to be good now. Really and truly your good big brother."
She glanced up at him with charming shyness.
"I'll forget the things that you have said to-night—if you won't say them again."
"I shall not tie myself to an impossible promise," he repeated, "but I am going to tie you to a promise."
"Me?" She faced him.
"Yes. Oh, see here," boyishly, "I brought something for you to-night. I have noticed that you don't wear rings, but I want you to wear this." He opened his hand and showed her, lying on the palm, a little silver ring. "It's just a simple trinket that my sister wore as a child. I'd like to think that it would tie you to me always—for remembrance. I had hoped that you would let me give you another some time. But this—why, you can't object to wearing it—and it would mean a lot to me if you would——"
Her slender fingers touched it. "How sweet of you to think of it——"
"Then you'll wear it?"
"Yes—because you are—my friend."
He took her hand in his and fitting the slender band first on one finger and then on another found a place for it at last on the little finger of her left hand.
"With this ring," he said, softly, "I take you always—for my friend——"
Then he stood looking down at her. "What a lovely little thing you are," he said. "You're so tiny that I could pick you up and carry you off, yet I tremble when I touch your hand."
She drew a quick short breath.
"You aren't to say such things to me—you know."
"I'll be good."
She knelt down like a child on the hearth-rug, and held her hand forward so that the light of the fire might shine on the silver circlet.
"Why, it's engraved," she said, "with two hearts."
"Yes," he said; "your heart and mine."
As she bent forward, the thin chain which she wore about her neck swung forward from among the laces of her gown, and, "tinkle, tinkle," sounded the chime of the flashing rings which Anthony had given her.
Justin saw her catch at them, saw her look of frightened appeal as she thrust them hurriedly back into their hiding-place.
She rose slowly from the rug; slowly she took the little silver ring from her finger; slowly she handed it back to him.
"Please, I must not wear it," she said, with a break in her voice. "I must give it back to you—my friend."
In the clear days which followed, Justin gave his undivided attention to flying. Not once did he see Bettina. Not once did he join the party of young people of which he had been the leading spirit.
In vain did Bobbie formulate enticing plans.
"We'll go to Cat Island with Captain Stubbs, fish all day, and have chowder on the rocks."
There had been one glorified fishing trip for Justin with Bettina. He wanted no other.
"I've wasted enough time," he said shortly. "I came here to practice flying, not to do social stunts."
Sara urged him also. "You haven't played a set of tennis with me since you came up," she complained. "Of course I know you're simply crazy over Betty Dolce, but that needn't cut me out entirely. I thought my friendship meant something to you, Justin."
"It does," Justin told her, honestly, "but I'm notin a mood for tennis, and as for Betty Dolce, I haven't seen her for a week."
Sara was cheered by his statement. If his absorption was simply in his flying machine, she could wait. Men always returned finally from machines to femininity.
So Justin flew and flew, looking down at times upon the tops of the houses in the quaint coast towns, at other times having beneath him and above him blue sea and blue sky.
And everywhere he went, he knew that people were craning their necks and crying out in wonder, for in this part of the world, at least, such aerial craft were rare visitors.
And when he grew tired of great heights, he would let his shining ship slide down the air currents until it touched the water; then like a mammoth aquatic bird it would swim the surface, and the sailors on the big yachts would lean out over the sides and hail him, and the motor boats would follow him, until, at last, growing impatient of their close observance, he would rise again, higher and higher in the golden haze; earth would be left behind, and he would be alone with his thoughts.
And he thought always of Bettina.
He thought of her as he had first seen her, in the shadowy room, with her shabby black dress and her white and gold beauty. He thought of her as she had come toward him under the lilacs, a flower among the flowers. Again he saw her dancing, like a wraith, in the moonlight; he saw her, in the little blue serge frock and shady hat, measuring him with her cool eyes; and again, laying plates on the flapping cloth with white hands, or racing with him against the wildness of the storm. He saw her with her fair wet braids hanging to her knees, and her slender fingers twisting among the gold. He saw her with the light of the harness-room fire upon her as she promised to be his friend.
But most of all he saw her as she had been that last night in the great library, frail and white in her floating draperies.
"You have spoiled everything," she had said.
How had he spoiled everything?
In one moment he would resolve to have it out with her. In the next he would plan to go away, to give her up, to forget her.
A few weeks ago he had not known her. He had liked many women, but had loved none. He had been heart-whole and fancy free. And now his life,his happiness, all of his future, were bound up in this little pale child with the wonderful hair!
Up and up, higher and higher. It was like the flight of an eagle.
And far below, on a porch which overhung the harbor, two women watched with beating hearts.
"Oh, why will he do it?" Sophie asked, in agonized tones. "It is so dangerous."
Bettina caught her breath. "Somehow I can't think of the danger," she said. "He isn't afraid, and to me it seems—very wonderful—as if he had wings, and could fly—straight up—to heaven——"
As Justin had thought all that week of Bettina, so she had thought of him; every moment of the day, and into the night, the vision was upon her.
Again she was held by those mocking eyes, again she was thrilled by that mad race in the rain. She saw him as he had been on the night of the yacht club dance, with his laughing air of conquest; as he had been in the great library, saying steadily, "I am your lover——"
He had gone from her, angry, that night because she would give him no explanation of her refusal to take the silver ring.
"I cannot, I cannot," she had repeated.
He had caught hold of her hands. "You are not a flirt," he had said; "you are too sweet and good for that—but what do you mean by your mysteries——Oh, why can't you tell me the truth?"
She had looked at him, dumbly, and he had rushed away, leaving her unforgiven.
She had written at once to Diana, asking to be released from her promise to keep her engagement secret. "People ought to know," was the reason she gave.
She had also telephoned to Anthony. She wanted to see him. To tell him that she would marry him as soon as he wished. That would be the solution. Then Justin would understand, and would forgive her.
She felt that more than anything in the whole wide world she wanted Justin's forgiveness.
Anthony had come, and they had gone into the library where she had talked with Justin, and Anthony, preoccupied and silent, had placed a chair for her, and had stood where Justin had stood. And she had shivered and had begged, "Sit down where I can see you."
He had taken the chair opposite her, and suddenly she had surprised herself and him by coming overto him, and slipping to her knees beside his chair, and sobbing with her face hidden.
He had lifted her in his arms, and had soothed her like a child. "What is it, dear heart?" he had demanded.
And, like a child, she had answered:
"Oh, please, let's get married right away——"
She had explained haltingly that she had been lonely since Diana went away, and unhappy. She—she missed her mother—and Diana's house wasn't her home. Sophie was dear, but, oh, it would be much better to be married as soon as she could get ready.
"And how soon will that be?" gravely.
"In a month. I think everybody should be told now."
He agreed. "Perhaps it should have been announced at once, but Diana seemed to think that it was best to wait."
"Diana doesn't know—everything."
"No, but she is wise in many things."
"Anthony?"
"Yes?"
"When we are—married, will you and Diana be just as good friends?"
"I hope that we may——"
Something in his tone had made her look up and say quickly, "Oh, Iwantyou to be friends. You didn't think that I was jealous—ofDiana?"
He had thought she might be. If she knew the truth she would surely have a right to be. But she did not know the truth.
"Why did you ask?" he probed.
"Because," feverishly, "it doesn't seem right, does it, that just because a man and a woman are married they should never have any men or women friends? There's Bobbie, for example—and—and Justin—I shan't have to be just your wife, shall I? I can have them for friends?"
"Of course." Yet even as he said it he wondered if he would care to have her allegiance divided—as his was divided. Oh, wise Diana, who had refused to be what she had no right to be, what he would not want his own wife to be, when once she was bound to him—the dear friend of another man.
"You and I," he said, "must try to be all in all to each other." Then after a pause, "Do you really love me, child?"
"Oh, yes." Again she drew a sobbing breath.
"I am such an old fellow," he said, in a troubledway, "and you are made for bright things and gay things. I wonder if you will be happy with an old tired fellow like me——"
In her simplicity she believed that his appeal was that of love, and out of the gratitude which she felt that she owed him she tried to respond.
"Oh, I do love you," she whispered, "and when we are married—we shall be happy——"
Presently she tugged at the thin chain about her neck, and brought forth the rings.
"After this I shall wear them," she said, "for all the world to see."
When Anthony went home he answered Diana's letter. He had sent her flowers on the day that she had left—her favorite violets and valley lilies. Beyond that he had made no sign.
But now he wrote: