It was late the next night before Bettina found time to write a letter to Anthony. The town clock had struck ten, and Miss Matthews was asleep in the inner room. As Bettina settled herself at her desk there came through the open window the fragrance of the sea—the night was very still; she could hear across the harbor the beat of the music in the yacht club ballroom, and there was the tinkle of a mandolin on some anchored boat.
She found it difficult to put on paper the things which she decided must be said. Striving to explain she tore up sheet after sheet, then, growing restless at her repeated failure, she rose from her desk and crossed the room to the cabinet in the corner. In one of the drawers was a packet of letters from her mother. They were exquisite in phrasing and in sentiment. She wondered if she might not borrow from them something of their grace.
As she opened the drawer, her eyes fell on the little carved box. Mechanically she reached for it, and touched the spring. Then she stood staring down at her father's ring!
The words which she had once said to Diana echoed insistently in her ears: "People who can love many times, who can go from one person to another, aren't worth thinking about."
Why—she was like her father! He had loved once, and then he had loved again—and he had broken her mother's heart!
Shuddering, she flung the ring from her, and it rolled under the cabinet. She knelt to grope for it, and, having found it, she shut the box. But, like Pandora, she had let out a whole army of evil fancies, and they continued to oppress her.
When she went back to her desk she could not write, and at last she put away her papers and, wrapping herself in her long white coat, climbed to the cupola.
She had slept there many times with her mother. With only the stars above them, and on each side a view of the wide stretches of the sea, they had talked together, and Bettina had learned the beauty of the older woman's nature; having suffered much, she had forgiven everything.
"Your father," she would say, "was like a childseeking the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. He was always looking for romance, forgetting that the most wonderful romance is that of the hearthstone and of the quiet heart. If he had ever really loved he would have known the joy of self-sacrifice, of self-effacement—but he did not love——"
"Love is self-sacrifice." Such had been the verdict of the woman who had given all, and who had received nothing. It was a hard philosophy, acquired after years of dreariness, and the child had listened and absorbed and believed. She had heard nothing of love's fulfilment, of the raptures of mutual tenderness. Hence she had been content with Anthony's somewhat somber wooing, until that moment when she had drifted with Justin through infinite space, and had learned the things which might be.
The thought of herself as mistress of Anthony's big house by the sea weighed heavily upon her. In those great rooms she would move softly for the rest of her days. Anthony would work and read and ponder, and when he was at Harbor Light she would sit lonely through the gray winter evenings, and the sad summer twilights. But with Justin—oh, the limitless possibilities!
With him each day would bring its wealth of vivid experience—there would be always the glory of his strength, the uplift of his radiant youth!
She put the vision from her. So had her father striven for joy, and he had missed all the great meanings of life—and she would not be like her father.
The wind was rising, and wailed fretfully above the waters. The stars were blotted out.
Bettina shivered. What a dark world it was!
She rose and went down-stairs. Again she sat down to her desk. But this time she wrote rapidly, and the letter that she wrote was not to Anthony!
When she had sealed and stamped it, she crept down the shadowy stairway, thence to the narrow street.
The mail box was at the corner, and she sped toward it; as she came back on flying feet, a whisper reached her from the darkness of the garden—a whisper which made her heart stand still.
"Betty——"
"Justin——"
He emerged from the shadows. "I didn't dare to hope I should see you. I ran away from the yacht club dance—and I'm due back there now. But I wanted you. I think I must have wished so hardthat I wished you here. I wouldn't ring for fear I should wake poor Miss Matthews."
His eager whisper met no like response. "You shouldn't have come," she said, dully.
He bent down to look at her. Under the light from the street lamp he could see the disorder of her fair hair, the frightened look in her eyes.
"Dear one—what is it?"
"You mustn't call me that. Did you get my letter?"
"Yes. That's why I came—I knew that by this time you would have written to Anthony—that you were—free——"
"But I haven't written to Anthony."
"You haven't? Wasn't that the letter you just mailed?"
"No—I was mailing a letter to you——"
A sudden fear clutched him. "What did you have to say to me?"
"That—oh, Justin, I can't give Anthony up——"
"Why not?"
"Oh——We can't talk here. Come up-stairs quietly—we mustn't disturb Letty."
She glided ahead of him, and when he came into the shadowy room she was standing by the cabinet.
"I've something to show you," she said, and opened the carved box and held it out to him.
"It's my father's ring," she said; "he broke my mother's heart—and I won't break Anthony's."
Then, in halting sentences, she told him how that day she had come upon the ring. She told him her mother's history. And he listened, and insisted at last, tenderly, that she had made mountains out of mole-hills. But he found her obstinate.
"I must not break my promise," she insisted. "Happiness could never come to us."
And, white and wistful in the face of his flaming arguments, she held to her determination until he left her.
He had turned away wrathfully, and had reached the top of the winding stairway, when he heard her sobbing.
He came back swiftly, and gathered her in his arms.
"You're mine," he said, holding her close. "You know that, Betty."
She drew back from him. "Please," she begged, and so he let her go, and made his way blindly out of the room.
Miss Matthews sleeping feverishly, became awareabove the sighing of the wind of an intermittent sound of woe.
She sat up and listened, put one foot out of bed, then the other, and throwing on her old gray wrapper, wavered toward the threshold of the door between the two rooms.
By the flickering light of the candle which burned on Bettina's desk she could see the little shaking white figure on the floor.
"Betty child," she said in a hoarse whisper, "dear child—what's the matter?"
"Oh," Bettina sat up and pushed her hair back from her tear-wet face, "oh, I've waked you up. I think I just forgot that there was any one in the whole wide world except myself——"
The expression on her tragic face told keen Miss Matthews that there was some deep trouble which needed help.
"You come right into my room," she said. "I don't dare stay up another minute. But I couldn't sleep if I tried, with a storm coming, and you can tell me all about it——"
But when she was settled luxuriously once more among her pillows, and with Betty curled up at the foot of the bed, an awkward silence fell between them.
At last Betty said, "Justin Ford was here. He's in love with me—Letty—but I sent him away——"
"Why did you send him away?"
"Because—because I'm not going to marry him, Letty——"
"Why not——"
"There's some one else. Some one who gave me these—Letty——"
She lifted her left hand with its burden of sparkling jewels.
"Who on earth?" Miss Matthews demanded.
"Anthony."
"AnthonyBlake?"
"Yes."
Miss Matthews dropped back limply.
"You'll have to tell me from the beginning," she said, faintly. "I can't quite grasp it——"
And Bettina told—of her loneliness, of Anthony's wonderful offer, and of her glad acceptance of it.
"Well, your mother would have been delighted," Miss Matthews said; "but somehow it doesn't seem right."
"Why not——?"
"Oh, I'd fixed it up that you were going to marry Justin Ford. Captain Stubbs and I watchedyou that day we went fishing, and if ever two young things seemed to be in love—well——"
"I—we are in love, Letty."
"Then why in the world are you going to marry Anthony Blake?"
"Because I've promised—and I can't be like my—father. And I can't hurt Anthony—not when he has been so good to me."
She was sobbing again, and into the eyes of the little woman who had never had a daughter came a look of motherly solicitude.
"Dear child," she said, "if you are just going to marry Anthony Blake because you are grateful, don't you do it. No man wants a woman who feels that way—and you wouldn't make him happy——"
"But—I've sent Justin away—and he's angry with me. That is why I was crying when you found me——"
She was on her knees now beside the bed, and the old maid's arms were about her.
"There—there, dearie, you've thought too much about it, and you've come to believe that it's the things you like to do which are wrong. And it's really the other way."
Miss Matthews was thinking rapidly. There wassome mystery. Anthony Blake was in love with Diana Gregory. He had always been in love with her. No one need try to tell her that he was not, for sheknew. Then why was he engaged to Betty, and why had Diana gone away?
She had a sudden inspiration.
"Listen, Betty, there's just one person who can straighten things out, and that person is Diana Gregory. Men aren't any good at a time like this. They think with their heads, but women think with their hearts, and that's the kind of thinking that you need most now——"
"But, Letty——"
Miss Matthews waved her away. "You go and write to Diana and mail it to-night, and then come back and keep me company. I'm afraid of the storm."
It was at that very moment that Anthony was also writing to Diana. When he had left Bettina he had gone straight to Harbor Light and into a little inner office where he was guarded from all intruders by the assistant who sat in the anteroom. Not even a telephone could sound its insistent note in this place where the doctor gained, in a reclining chair, his few brief moments of rest, or where he worked outthe intricacies of perplexing problems. Now and then he saw a patient there, but rarely. Usually he shut his door against all distracting influences, and gave his attention to the things which concerned himself alone.
What Sophie had told him about Diana had sent his thoughts flying to the wonder-woman up there in the woods. Even when he had talked to Bettina he had felt the consciousness of his thought of her.
Out of a full heart he wrote, holding back nothing, and when he had sealed and stamped his bulky missive, he, like Bettina, went forth to mail it.
As he passed through the garden a sudden gust of wind scattered a shower of rose petals in his path. That there were storms in the distance was evidenced by the low rumble of thunder and the vivid flashes of light.
It was on nights like this that his patients grew restless—poor abnormal things they were, afraid of life, afraid of death, seeing in wind and rain and in the battle of the elements the terrors of the supernatural.
But the night fitted in with Anthony's mood. He still wore his white linen office coat. His hat was off, and his gray hair was blown back from his forehead. The salt air exhilarated him. He felt a sudden lightness of heart. He wanted to shout like a boy. He had been grave for so long—but now his message had gone forth to Diana—to-morrow she would read it, and in two short days the answer would come.
He made his way to the beach; the vivid flashes showed the heaving blackness of the waters—the waves came in with a sullen roar.
He thought of the night when he had stood there with Diana, and when the moon had made a silver track. To-night there was no light—except Minot's—like a star. "I-love-you," it said to the lonely man who stood there in the darkness.
From somewhere in the garden a voice called him, then a nurse came running.
"I saw you go out," she panted; "perhaps you'd better come, doctor—they are getting all worked up about the storm."
Thus was his life made up of duty. There was never an uninterrupted moment. His strength was always being drawn upon to uphold the weakness of others. To-night his whole nature craved the tumult of the wild night. Yet he must calm himself to meet the needs of those who leaned upon him.
As he turned to follow the nurse, a big car whirled through the gate, and there sounded the trilling laughter of girls, the deeper jovial bass of young men.
Beneath the brilliantly-lighted entrance of Harbor Light the car stopped, and as Anthony came up, Sara and Doris descended with much shaking out of filmy dancing frocks.
Sophie, with seeming unconsciousness of the havoc which the rain had wrought on her lovely black gown, made a smiling explanation to Anthony.
"Justin and Bobbie tried to get the top up—but something caught and I thought we should all be drenched. And then your Harbor Light shone out to welcome us——"
Anthony was glad that they had come. He craved the lightness and brightness. He seemed suddenly to be one of them again—not a sad and somber being set apart. He had a sense of relief in Bettina's absence. It was as if her youth and beauty showed the contrast of his age.
He took them up to his sitting-room, then excused himself to make his rounds. "I'm going to have something sent up for you to eat—I know what slimfare they give at the club on the nights of the dances. I'll be with you soon."
While they waited for him Sara played; Bobbie and Doris danced—and Justin talked with Sophie.
He looked worn and white, and a line cut deeply into his forehead.
"I owe you an apology," he said, "for yesterday. But I couldn't help it. Bettina was so little and lovely—you know I wouldn't harm a hair of her head——"
Something in his voice made Sophie lay her hand on his. "My dear boy, my dear boy——"
"I'm awfully hard hit," he said, "but she—she's turned me down. I fancy it was our last flight together. Do you remember Browning's 'Last Ride'—
"'And heaven just prove that I and she,Ride, ride—together—forever ride——'?
"'And heaven just prove that I and she,Ride, ride—together—forever ride——'?
"Well, my heaven will be a place where she and I shall drift through infinite space—together——"
He stood up. Sara was coming toward them—a brilliant little figure in a flame-colored gown.
"I'm not going to bore you with my worries," Justin said, quickly—"but—I—I wish you'd be awfully good—to Bettina."
Sophie carried away with her that night the vision of his tragic young face, and before she went to bed she wrote to Diana, and her letter ended thus:
"Oh, dearest girl, oh, dearest girl, what have we done, what have we done——!"
The morning after the storm Justin went forth, moodily, for his morning flight.
He found opposition, however, to his ascension. "Wait until the afternoon," was the advice given him; "there's a nasty wind."
He would not listen, but he delayed his departure, preferring to start alone, and eventually the other aviators drifted off, and he made the "Gray Gull" ready.
Going down to the pier for a last peep at the weather, he was hailed by Captain Stubbs.
"I am going to take Anthony Blake out for a day's fishin'," the little man said, as his motor boat chugged comfortably within easy talking distance. "He telephoned last night that he wanted a day away from his work, and I said that the fish would be running after the rain. I'm always mighty glad to have him go with me. He's a born fisherman.His great-grandfather and mine fished together on the banks, and our grandfathers were part owners in the same schooner. But Anthony's father went to the city and studied medicine, and his son followed in his footsteps, so that's the way the Blake boys got switched off from fishin' as a business. But it's in their blood."
"Look here," Justin interrupted, "I want to ask you a question, captain, and it's about Anthony. Did you ever think he was in love with Diana Gregory?"
"Well," the captain meditated, "I ain't ever thought much about it. But Miss Matthews sees a lot, and she told me once that Anthony Blake wouldn't ever look at any other woman but Diana, and that Diana was just keeping him on the string."
"I can't exactly fancy Diana as that sort of woman."
"Well, it ain't anything against a woman that she don't know her own mind," was the captain's philosophical reflection. "Most men don't know their own mind when it comes to marryin'. Only the difference is this: a man loses his head and asks a girl, and then he wonders if she's going to make him happy. And a woman hesitates about sayin' 'Yes,'but when she once decides, she sticks to a man through thick and thin."
In spite of his gloom Justin smiled. "Where did you learn it all, captain? You are as wise as if you had been married to a half dozen wives."
"There's a sayin'," the captain explained, "that a sailor has a wife in every port. That ain't true. Sailors as a rule are constant men. But they see a lot of wimmen creatures, and they learn that there ain't much difference, when it comes to lovin', between a Spanish lady who flirts with her eyes, and a Boston lady who flirts with her brain. They're all after the same thing, and that's a home, with a big H, and it's a credit to them that they are—otherwise we men wouldn't ever know when to settle down."
"Yet it's because of a woman that some of us never settle down." Justin's young eyes were looking out stormily upon the gray world. "It's because of some woman that we wander and are never satisfied."
The little captain gave him a keen glance. "Well, you won't ever have to worry," he said; "all you've got to do is to keep at it till you find the right woman. That's what that Betty child said to me the other day. 'Captain, if a man wants a woman, he's got to keep after her until she says 'Yes.'"
"Did Betty Dolce say that?"
"Yes—she's a smart little thing."
But Justin's thoughts were not of her "smartness" but of her pathetic loveliness. All night her sobs had echoed in his heart. When he had driven his gay party home after their stop at Anthony's, he had ridden for miles alone in the storm. He had welcomed the beat of the rain in his face. He had yearned for some adventure which would shut out that vision of the shadowy room.
But no adventure had been forthcoming, and so he had sought his uneasy couch, and had tried to sleep, and had risen at the first crow of cocks.
He brought his mind back with difficulty to the captain. "I'm going up this morning, captain. I'll wigwag to you and Anthony if you're outside."
"Don't you go," the little captain advised earnestly; "this isn't any morning to fly. There's all sorts of storms about, and you can't tell what minute you'll get into one."
"Didn't you like to sail your ship in a storm—didn't you like the excitement of it—the battle with the wind and waves?"
"That's different. I knew my ship was seaworthy. I knew what I had to face in an ordinary storm. Butyou take one of those Chinese typhoons, or a hurricane that blew up from the Gulf, and I didn't enjoy it. Not a bit. I'd go miles to get out of one, and I learned this, after I had looked death in the face a hundred times, that foolhardiness doesn't pay. You go slow, and wait for a quiet day."
Justin laughed recklessly. "I'll take my chances."
"Well, there's no fool like a young fool." The little captain started his motor with a jerk, and its comfortable chugging was at once changed to an angry snort.
Justin did not at once go back to the sheds. He climbed a path which led to the adjoining hotel, and made his way to the writing rooms.
The people who lounged on the porches looked at him curiously as he passed. Those who had been there longest whispered to the newcomers the magic of his name. More than one girl remarked the beauty of the somber young countenance, and the strength of the straight young figure.
In the writing room of the big hotel Justin wrote to Diana. It was his last hope. He wrote hurriedly, using the elaborately monogrammed house paper, and his script was interspersed with dashes, with now and then a boyish blot.
When he had finished he went to the desk of the girl in the corridor who sold post-cards and magazines, and bought a stamp.
Anthony was delayed, somewhat, in starting out with Captain Stubbs by the news that Miss Matthews was worse.
He found her with a high fever, and he also found Bettina in a state of agitated apology.
"I'm afraid I talked to her too late. But we—we were afraid of the storm."
"She'll be all right in a few hours, but you've got to get some rest. I'll send a nurse."
"No—Sophie said she would come—early this afternoon—and then I can sleep—and I've had little naps on the couch——"
As he turned to go he stopped and said, with some hesitation: "You didn't write the letter to the Big Bear, Betty."
She blushed. "I'm not going to write it."
"Why not?"
"Because—I've changed my mind about it—I've really nothing to tell you—and every woman has a right to change her mind."
She tried to say it saucily, but was not successful, and he, vaguely relieved, responded, "I'm glad—that you are not troubled," kissed her lightly on her forehead, and went away. And she looked after him and sighed, and wondered if all the years which stretched before them would be as dreary as this.
The arrival of the little captain broke in upon her thoughts. "You give her these," he said. "I can't stay a minute. I'm going out with Anthony for a day's fishin'."
He rushed away, leaving Bettina with her arms full of pink roses.
She took them in to Miss Matthews. "Letty," she said, "the captain brought them. Isn't he romantic? He is making pink your color. I think it's dear of him."
Miss Matthews blushed. "I'd surely never have picked out Captain Stubbs for the romantic kind, but you never can tell."
"No, you never can tell," Betty agreed, and stood looking idly out of the window.
All at once she gave startled attention.
"Letty," she said, "Justin is flying."
Miss Matthews, half asleep, murmured, "Well, I'm glad you're not with him," and Bettina, recalled to her obligations to the invalid, answered with assumed carelessness, "So am I," and measured out Miss Matthews' medicine, and talked no more.
But her heart was beating madly as she followed his flight. He was up there—alone. Up there in that wonderful world! Was he thinking of her? Was he hearing, again, those celestial harmonies?
To-day there was no sunshine—but as he circled against the background of moving clouds her thoughts went to that wild hawk in "the wind swept sky."
She knew nothing of the danger. She did not know that, as yet, his machine was not perfected to a point where it could brave with immunity such weather as was threatened by the brooding sky. She only saw his flight—and her hurt heart craved the place which had been hers for a few brief moments of rapture.
When at last he was out of sight, she went about her little duties, but came back again and again to the window, watching for the time when he should reappear.
Anthony and the captain, half-way across the harbor, said things about Justin's recklessness, and spoke of the danger.
"Some day he'll get hurt," was the captain's conclusion, "and then he won't ever fly again."
"Yes." Anthony's eyes were following the "Gray Gull," which was now beyond the harbor and heading for the open sea; growing smaller and smaller, it was at last a mere speck on the horizon.
Then the captain and Anthony, having reached a place offshore which promised a good catch, put out their lines and entered at once upon that ecstatic state of watchfulness which is the heritage of the true fisherman.
The relief which Anthony felt from the cares which had oppressed him was magical. He was sailor enough to love the swell of the waves and the rippling music of the water as it slipped under the anchored boat; he was fisherman enough to be thrilled by the chances of capture; he was artist enough to gloat over the beauty of the dull morning—the white gulls circling overhead, the black rocks sticking their spines above the gray sea, a phantom four-masted ship sailing straight toward them out of the mists.
And he was man enough to think of the woman he loved, and to forget the pensive appealing child in the shadowy room. He had a vision of Diana upthere in the forest—strong of spirit, wresting from life, even in her exile, the things which were worth while.
As they ate their lunch the little captain confided to Anthony the hope of his heart. "I'm going to ask Letty Matthews to marry me—I want to get her away from that school——"
"Good. I'll dance at your wedding."
"When am I to dance at yours?" the captain demanded, bluntly. "I should think it was about time that you were putting your furniture in that big house for Diana Gregory."
"Some of the furniture is in." Anthony slurred over the greater question by tactfully emphasizing the lesser. "I had my mother's piano sent over yesterday, and some of the things for the living-room and library. We haven't a place for them at Harbor Light—and then there's the china. I wish I could match up some of those pieces of White Canton, captain. I wonder if we could make an exchange. I've a lot of Crown Medallion which would fill out your set——"
Having thus started the little captain on his chief hobby, Anthony breathed a sigh of relief, and went on with his fishing.
The subject of the china sufficed to fill the captain's mind until the fish stopped biting, and they decided to go in.
It was just as they began their trip toward the harbor that Justin came back.
The wind was blowing now straight from the south, and the "Gray Gull" was making slow headway against it.
"Why don't he come down to the water? It's safer," said the little captain, anxiously. "There's every sign of a squall——"
But Justin kept on; between him and the harbor was the Neck, with its jagged shore line of rocks. He was evidently planning to cross the strip of land obliquely, as, in rounding the point to come up the harbor, he must get the full force of the wind—
As he sailed over them they caught the strong beat of his motor. It seemed, too, that he waved his hand; then he left them behind, keeping close to shore and above that jagged line of rocks.
"Oh, the fool," the captain murmured. "Why don't he get away from the land?"
The wind came with a mighty sweep; the air-ship gave a backward tilt, fluttered for a moment like a bird in a storm—then shot down with sickening swiftness!
"His motor has stopped," the captain shouted, "and he's lost control! If he strikes the rocks he's done for!"
Down—down! They had one glimpse of Justin struggling to free himself; they saw him jump clear, and the big machine crashed on the beach.
It was the little captain who forced his boat to record speed, but it was Anthony who went over the side and through the breakers to where Justin lay prostrate, half in and half out of the water.
Wet and dripping the doctor bent over the boy, put his hand to his heart and felt it beating faintly, then looked at the broken body and said, unsteadily:
"There's only a slim chance of saving him. We must get him to Harbor Light."
The accident had been seen from the harbor, and as the captain's boat shot around the Point with its precious burden, it met other boats coming out to meet it, and orders were shouted back and forth, so that when the rescuers reached the pier, there was a car ready for that which had gone out full of life and strength and which had come back beaten and bruised.
The girls on the porch of the big hotel cried in each other's arms, hysterically, as the car passed,and talked of the way the young aviator had looked in the morning.
But far up in a tall old house, crowned by a cupola, was a girl who did not cry. She had seen the "Gray Gull" come down and had guessed at the catastrophe. She had fainted away quietly, and lay now on the floor by the window with all of her fair hair shaken over her still white face.
It was Sophie who found Bettina. She came in quietly, wondering at the silence, then growing suddenly afraid she passed swiftly to the inner room to discover Miss Matthews still asleep and Bettina in a huddled heap on the floor.
She picked the girl up in her strong arms, and carried her back to the big room and brought water and bathed her face, murmuring anxiously, "My dear, what is it? What has happened?"
And, after a little while, Bettina whispered, "Justin," and then, a little louder, "Justin," and coming to the surface through the darkness for a third time, she clutched Sophie's arm, and cried, "Oh, is he killed? Is Justin killed?"
Holding the shuddering little creature close, Sophie protested: "My dear, what is it? What have you dreamed?"
"I didn't dream. Oh, Sophie, I didn't dream. I saw him up in the air, and I saw him—fall——"
So it had come. So it came to all men who flew. Every bit of blood was drained from Sophie's face. But, fighting for composure, she held out such hope as she could. "My dear, are you sure? How did you know?"
"I was standing by the window when he—came down——"
"But there may have been some one to help him—and he was over the water—and he can—swim——"
Footsteps were ascending the stairs lightly but hurriedly. The two women turned their white faces to the door. Captain Stubbs stood on the threshold.
"He's hurt," he said. "Justin's hurt. He's at Harbor Light—and he's asked for Betty—and Anthony says that she must come."
In a big room that overlooked the sea lay the bird man with broken wings. After that first murmured plea for "Betty" he had showed no sign of returning consciousness.
On the floor above him they were getting ready for the operation. Nurses and doctors, in ghostly white, had set themselves to various preparatory tasks. And presently everything was in readiness for the great Dr. Anthony.
He was delayed by a white-faced slip of a thing, whom he led at once into his private office, leaving Captain Stubbs outside as a proud and patient sentinel.
When he had closed the door, Anthony took the little cold hands in his. "He is going to get well, Betty, if my skill can make him. I've got to operate at once—and there's a big chance—the other way——" He hesitated, then said, gently, "You love him, child?"
"Yes—oh, yes."
"And he loves you—how blind I've been! How much trouble might have been saved if I had known."
There was no bitterness in his voice, only a great regret.
"And now," he went on, "I'm going to save him for you, if I can. And I've sent a nurse to take care of Letty Matthews so that you can have Sophie with you."
He had thought of everything. It came to Bettina then what he meant to the world—this great Dr. Anthony—she had hated his mission of healing—and the skill which might now mean to her a lifetime of happiness instead of unutterable woe.
She tried, faltering, to tell him something of what she was feeling.
"Hush, dear child. You could not know. And now you must be very brave, and pray your little white prayers for Justin, and, please God, we shall bring him through."
Then he had gone away and Sophie had come, and the dreadful time of waiting had begun.
Sophie, who had walked in the Valley of the Shadow with her own beloved, knew the right things to say to the child who clung to her.
"Dearest, think of all you will mean to him when he gets well. Why, there's never an opportunity for a woman like that of having the man she loves dependent upon her—you can do all of the lovely little things for him."
"But if he should not—get well?"
"You are not to think of that."
"I must think of it."
"Hush, dear,don't. You can't help him or yourself by crying—I know how you feel—but think of this. If you should lose him, you will still have known love at its best. And you will never be content with a lesser thing. Oh, Betty, child, it is the shallow people who ask, 'Is it better to haveloved and lost than never to have loved?' Howcanthere be any doubt? The woman who has not loved is only a half creature."
"I know. Oh, Sophie, it seems such an awful thing to say, but if this hadn't happened I should never have been sure that for me there could never be any one else but Justin."
Tactfully, the older woman led her on to talk of her doubts and fears, and of her terror lest she might deal with love lightly, as her father had done. And then Sophie spoke reverently of her own perfect marriage.
"It was during his illness," she said, "that I learned to know my husband. I think I had always been a bit selfish. He had seemed so strong that I had heaped my burdens upon him. He wanted me to be happy, so he withheld all cares from me. But the time came when he knew it was not right to withhold such cares. He knew that I was to face separation and loneliness, and so he helped me to get ready. Oh, Betty, dear, I can't tell you how wonderful he was. He knew that death must come to him, and yet he never whimpered. He was a brave soldier going down to battle, and not once did he flinch. But gradually he came to lean on me; once he cried in my arms—not from fear, but becausehe must leave me. These things are not easy to speak of—but where at first I had merely loved, I came to worship. I saw how he had shielded me, and when he left me I had the precious memory not only of his care for me—but of my care for him—and his appreciation of it."
There was a silence in which not only the "white prayers" of Bettina ascended, but the fervent ones of the woman who had suffered and lost.
Then came a nurse with the message, "Dr. Blake wishes me to say that all conditions are favorable," and they permitted themselves to hope.
Other people were coming now to Harbor Light—great men from the yachts, people from the big hotels, fellow-aviators of Justin's—the townsfolk and sailors—children who had worshiped the flying man of the smiling countenance.
But no one was shown into the inner office except Bobbie and Doris and Sara.
It was in that first moment of her meeting with Bettina that Sara blotted out the last vestige of smallness and of jealousy.
She went straight up to the girl whom Justin loved, and put her arms about her. "Oh, you poor dear thing," and they wept together.
Then Bettina asked, "How did you know?"
"Everybody knows," Sara said, hysterically. "Did you think you could hide it?"
Doris was weeping, too, in Bobbie's arms, and Bobbie's white, set face showed what he was feeling for his friend. "Oh, what made him go out on such a day—of all the crazy things——"
"I told him not to," said Captain Stubbs, who had kept hitherto in the background, "but there's no fool like a young fool, and I said it at the time. But it was God's own providence that we were there when he fell. And if any one can fix him up it's Anthony."
Bettina heard, and thought of her former fear of this place, which seemed now a sacred house of healing. Was she the same girl who had railed so bitterly against Anthony's profession? She felt that she wanted to tell him how great he was. Why, he was a wonderful man—and he was going to save Justin as he had saved others. Daily he fought battles with death and conquered. He must conquer now!
Up-stairs in the operating room was being played a game of skill which had for its pawns human life and human reason.
The worst trouble lay in the wounds about the head. But there were other dreadful complications, and many times in the hours that followed it seemed that the game was lost.
All through the tiresome ordeal not once did a muscle of the great surgeon quiver. Not once did he show dismay at that which was most baffling; not once did he show weakness at that which was most pitiful.
But when at last his great task was ended, his face was worn and gray.
Yet as he went to change his clothes, through the fabric of his weariness and of his anxiety ran a thread of joy in the thought that the barriers were down between himself and Diana, and that he might love her now without reproach.
When at last he descended to his little office, he spoke hopefully. "His strength and youth are in his favor—and I'm going to pull him through."
Yet he knew in his heart that he was flinging a defiance at destiny.
He arranged to keep Bettina at Harbor Light.
"Justin might ask for you again," was his explanation.
So Bobbie and Doris and Sara and Sophie wentaway together, and when there was no one else to hear, Anthony said to Bettina, gently, "My dear, why didn't you tell me?"
Curled up in a big leather chair, she spoke of her fear of hurting him, of being inconstant—like her father.
She seemed such a child in her blue serge suit with its red silk tie, and with the shady hat which had been pinned on hastily when the summons came. But the things she was saying were womanly things, and for the first time since he had known her Anthony perceived the possibilities of which Diana had been so sure—this little Betty child, transformed by love, would one day be an inspiration and a help to the man she would marry.
"If I have hurt you," she said, as she finished, "I—I can only ask you to forgive me. If this had not happened, I think I should have—kept my promise. But now you know—and you will not want me to keep it."
"No. I do not want you to keep it. Oh, what a tragedy we have made of it all. I might have made it so easy for you."
"You, Anthony?"
"Yes."
He sat silent for a moment, his fingers tapping thearm of his chair, those strong flexible fingers which an hour ago had done such magical feats of surgery. Bettina's eyes were held by them.
"I hardly know how to begin; it has to do with—Diana."
"Diana?"
"I love her, dear——"
"Diana?" Bettina spoke, breathlessly. "Oh, and does she love you—Anthony?"
"I have always loved her—but I thought I had lost her—then when she came back from Europe I found that she was still free—and that—she cared. But by that time I had engaged myself to a dear child who really didn't love me at all."
"But why didn't you tell me, Anthony?"
"Because, my dear, I thought you might be made unhappy."
To others there might have seemed something humorous in the situation—in its almost farcical complications and misunderstandings. But these two saw none; the issues were too deep, too serious; death was too near in that upper room.
"Was that why—she went away——?" Bettina whispered.
"Yes."
"Oh, write and tell her to come back."
"I have written. I wrote yesterday. I saw that you were not happy. I felt that I had no right to permit you to marry me when my heart was bound up in another woman—as it was bound up in her. I felt that in marriage there is something which goes beyond conventional honor. As a physician I have seen much of unhappiness—and I could not sanction in myself that which I would not have sanctioned in another. So I told Diana. I think instinct warned me there was some one else, after your flight with Justin."
"And now—if he gets—well."
Anthony stood up. "He shall get well," he said, steadily. "I scarcely dare think of the things which are coming to you and to me, dear child. But when I think of them my heart says, 'Thank God.'"
If she wept now in his arms, it was as a daughter might weep in the arms of a father—there was love between them at last, but it was the love of tried friendship, of passionate gratitude on her part, of protective affection on his.
When he had quite soothed her, she drew off the sparkling rings. "These must go back to you," she said; "some day you must give them to Diana."
He shook his head. "I shall give her pearls. She belongs to the sea, Bettina; she's the wife for a man of sailor instincts like myself—we love the harbor, and the great lights that are high above it, and the little lights that are low—and so I shall give her pearls.
"But you must keep these," he went on; "not to wear on your third finger—Justin, please God, shall some day look after that—but to wear on your right hand, as my gift to you—for luck and a long and happy life."
In the evening they rode over to see Miss Matthews, and found her sitting up. "I feel better," she said, "and there's something in the air. I want to know why I have a nurse, and why Bettina went away while I was asleep?"
"And I want to know," said Anthony, sternly, "why you are out of bed?"
"Because I am better," said Letty Matthews, "there's nothing in this world that can cure a person like curiosity—and I had to know what was going on."
So Anthony told her, and she wept to think of the fate of the bird man with the broken wings.
But she was cheered by the coming of CaptainStubbs. He bore on a tray such a supply of delicious viands that Miss Matthews urged that Bettina and Anthony should stay and have supper.
Bettina could not eat.
"Please, I'm not hungry," she said, and went down the winding stairway, and when she came back her arms were full of roses.
"Will you let him have them in his room?" she asked Anthony.
"He shall see them first when he opens his eyes," Anthony promised; "they shall carry all of your messages to him."
In the hushed room at Harbor Light there was darkness—and there was the fragrance of many flowers.
Out of the darkness a faint voice wavered, "Lilacs?"
The nurse bent over the high hospital bed. "Roses—lovely ones."
A long silence. Then, "Lovely ladies?" said the faint voice.
He could see them with his eyes shut—a whole procession of pretty ladies, all floating in the dimness. Just their faces on a broad band of light, over which the gray mists rolled now and then andblurred the outlines. Then the faces would again shine out, smiling—gay and sad, pensive and glad.
"Lovely ladies," he said again.
They followed him into his dreams, and kept him company until the pain began—that racking, wrenching pain; then they flew from him and left him alone to suffer.
After a long time, when the nurse had bared his shoulder and had pricked it with something that felt like a pin, they came back—all those lovely faces; only now they seemed to peep from behind clouds of smoke, heavier than the mists, and more tantalizing in their concealments.
So they came and went through the long night, leaving when the pain racked him, returning always when the nurse did things to his shoulder with her little shining instrument.
They fled from him, too, when he opened his eyes and saw hazily that there was a light, and a great many flowers, and that Anthony was standing in a sort of bower of them.
And Anthony was saying to some unseen person who stood at the head of the bed, "Did he notice the flowers?"
"Yes."
"Good—you can take them out now—nurse."
He had tried to tell Anthony about the pretty ladies. But they had come back and were whirling about him on that band of light—and there was one with dark hair with a crescent moon above the parting—and there was one who came closer than the others, and who had hair that shone like gold, and a little white face.
"Betty——"
The nurse did not catch the name—but Anthony's quick ear was at once attentive.
"She loves you, dear boy; and I'm going to make you well, so you may marry her."
Far up in the hills the Beautiful Lady went daily to the post-office for her mail.
It was a long walk, and the path skirted the edge of the forest. Leaving the path one entered upon a world of dim green light, a world of soft whispering sounds, a world of enchantment; and it was into this world that Diana's feet strayed as she came and went. It was here she spent most of her mornings; it was here she found the solitude she craved.
The guests at the mountain house called the Beautiful Lady exclusive; but it was an exclusiveness which matched her air of remoteness, and since such friendships as she encouraged were with those who were lonely and tired and sick, she made no enemies by her withdrawal from the conventional life of the place.
The lazy folk on the porch who were content to wait for the mail bag which came at noon by carrier always watched with curiosity the departure and return of the stately woman who was said to be wealthy and of great social eminence. She went alone and came back just in time for lunch, having loitered on the way to read her letters.
The letters, however, were not always satisfying. They brought such meager news of that which lay so near her heart! Sophie kept persistently away from topics which might be disturbing; Bettina's girlish epistles really told nothing—and Anthony wrote not at all.
Yet such scraps as she could glean formed the excitement of Diana's day, and always she had a vague and formless hope—a hope for which she reproached herself. Always she hoped for a letter from Anthony.
She knew that he ought not to write. She knew that if he did write she would not answer—but the longing of her heart would not be stilled.
As far as possible she forced her mind to thoughts of the future, and it was thus she had evolved the plan which she had written to Sophie. It was the only way in which her life could be linked with Anthony's; they would thus share in a work which might continue in interest to the end of their days.
There were times, however, when all of heroptimism, all of her philosophy failed, and when her whole nature cried out for reality—not for dreams.
It was on one of these days of depression that she left behind her the hotel piazza with its chattering crowd, and drifted somewhat languidly across the lawn, past the tennis courts, and out into the mountain path.
In her modish frock of gray linen, with a parasol of leaf green, she seemed to merge gradually into the grayness and greenness of the forest beyond. She might have been a dryad returning to her tree, or as an artist in the group on the porch remarked, "a nymph in a Corot setting."
How still it was in the forest! Even the birds seemed to respect the silences, and slipped from branch to branch like shadows. The squirrels, flattened heads downward against gray tree trunks, whisked up and out of sight as the intruder advanced. A strayed butterfly went by in a wavering flight, seeking the sunshine and the flowers of the open fields.
Diana loved the forest, but more than all she loved the sea. She missed the wild music of the waves and wind. The hills seemed to shut her in;she wanted the wide spaces, the limitless expanse of blue—she wanted the harbor with its many lights.
Yet if Anthony married Betty it would be years before she would dare go back. His work was there, and he must stay; she would be exiled from the place she loved.
Her steps quickened as if she would fly from the thought. She passed again beyond the edge of the arching trees, and came upon a winding road. Its last curve brought her to a little settlement of which the store, which was also the post-office, was the most imposing building.
The postmistress knew her and had the package ready. "Lots of letters, two papers and a half dozen magazines," she said, cheerily. "I don't see how you find time to read so many."
"I have nothing to do but read. I am not a lucky busy person like yourself." Diana was smiling as she turned up the corners of each letter to glance at the one beneath.
On top was Sophie's daily budget, black-edged and bulky. Bettina's showed a faddish slender monogram. Following was Justin's—she knew that boyish scrawl; a business letter or two, a bill, an advertisement, and then—her heart leaped. On theflap of a great square envelope blazed the seal which Anthony had chosen for his house of healing—a lighthouse flashing its beacon over stormy waters.
The little postmistress wondered at the radiance which illumined the face of the lovely lady. Diana, in saying a hurried farewell, sparkled like a girl.
"You've given me such wonderful letters this morning," she said, breathlessly. "I must run away and read them."
And she did run, literally, when she had passed beyond the limits of the village. Holding up her narrow skirt, her parasol under her arm, her precious burden of mail hugged tightly, she left the path, and again entered upon the enchanted forest.
She knew of a place where she would read Anthony's letter, a warm little hollow, with a still silver pool beyond, a pool which, with its upstanding reeds and rushes, was merged at its farthest edge into a blurred purple background.
Safe at last in her retreat she opened Anthony's letter, forgetting the others in her eagerness, seeing only the firm, simple script which crowded a dozen pages.
He began quietly, but evidently, as he wrote, Anthony had been swayed by emotions which hadmastered him, and he had written with fire and intensity, and, as she read, her heart responded tremulously: