Fritz Geisling, who for many years had lived in two rooms, second floor, No. 10 Amity Place, was short, fat, and bald. Each morning he arose at seven, went out to an adjoining cafe where German cookery was served "twenty-one meals for three dollars," as stated on its bill of fare, and returned to his domicile, glancing at the small sign, "Violin Lessons," placed above the upper bell, and mounting the two flights of stairs, awaited in his office, sitting room and parlor combined, the few pupils who came his way. At noon he absorbed another of the "twenty-one for three dollar" productions of culinary art, washed down with a stein of foaming beer, and then, if it were matinée day at the Alhambra Temple of Vaudeville, betook himself thither, where he played second violin. Each evening, from the opening in September until closing time in June, he was at his post, sawing away like the machine he was and as devoid of sentiment. When he escaped the Alhambra, it was to join his cronies in a convenient saloon where pinocle, beer, and choice Teutonic gossip relieved the monotony of his existence. Year in and year out he was the same phlegmatic, good-natured Dutchman, and lived the same unvarying and emotionless existence. Of the great Rockhaven stock scheme he had never heard, and would not have understood it if he had. Of "the street" and its multiplicity of deals where "to do" the other fellow and not let him "do" you was the golden rule, he was equally innocent—a drop in the throbbing artery of human existence.
And then, one winter morning, Fritz returned to his lair to find awaiting him a strangely clad man and a young half-scared girl.
"I'm told ye gin lessons on the fiddle," said the man, "an' if ye do, I've come to engage ye fer this ere gal."
Fritz bowed low, conscious that a pair of magnificent eyes were watching him.
"It vash mine broveshion," he answered, "und von tollar each ish de brice. Ish de lady to be de pupils?"
"She's the one," came the answer; "an' I want ye to teach her all the frills, 'n' yer money's ready an' waitin' any time."
"Ish she von peginner?" came from Fritz.
"Wal, sorter, 'n' sorter not," replied the man; "my name's Hutton, an' this ere's my niece, Miss Hutton, an' I've larnt her to saw just a leetle to start her off, ez it war. If ye'd like, she'll show ye what she kin do with a bow. Play suthin' slow, Mona, fust," he added as a violin was handed her, "till ye kinder ketch yerself, an' then suthin' lively."
Mona somewhat nervously complied, and gaining courage as she forgot where she was, skipped over a half-dozen of the familiar Scotch airs she could play best, while the eyes of Fritz twinkled.
"She vash no peginner," he said elated; "she vash blain' alretty yet very mooch." And seizing a music-rack and spreading a late composition upon it, he added, "Ef de lady vill blease blay dot, ve'll see vot she can do."
"Ye've got'r now, perfessor," interposed Jess, "she can't read that music."
But a surprise was awaiting him, for though half-scared Mona hesitated and made a few slips, she played the piece through to the end without a halt.
"Why, girlie," exclaimed Jess, "I'm proud o' ye. I didn't think ye cud do so well. Now, perfessor, ye kin take her in hand; 'n' mind ye don't let up on her till she's larned the hull biznes, fer fiddlin's goin' to be her futur' perfession."
That night, when Fritz had once more escaped the crowded theatre and was quaffing his foaming stein, could any native American translate the rapid fire jargon with which he related his morning experience, he would have heard a marvellous tale.
"Mein Gott in Himmel!" Fritz exclaimed, after the fourth glass had been emptied, "but she blayed mit such feelin's und such eyes dot mit me made such strangeness feels. Ach, but she vas a vonder!"
And as time passed on, each of the two days a week when Mona came to take her lesson only served to increase that "vonder," for now that her timidity had worn away, the genius that lurked in her fingers asserted itself. In technical art she was as yet a pupil, but in the far more impressive art of inspiration and expression, so natural to her, she had naught to learn.
"She blays mit her heart und all ofer, und vorgets all I tells her of bosition und oxecution," explained Fritz to his cronies, "und ven she looks at me I forgets meinself."
Then as the weeks went by, a new idea came to Fritz, who seldom had any; and straightway he began to nurse it.
"Ef she so blays mit mein violin, ven I haf heard dat music all mein life, vot vill beoples dinks who vash to hear her on de stage?" he said to himself. "I vill say nodding und make some surbrises by and by."
That Mona had the same secret ambition he knew not, and most likely it were as well he did not. But the long upward path to her goal was not an easy one, for if Fritz had lacked emotion, he excelled in detail; and each time Mona forgot, as she so often did, it provoked expressions from him that tinged her cheeks with humiliation.
"I have much to learn," she answered almost pitifully, whenever her uncle asked of her progress, "and so much to unlearn, it seems discouraging."
"It'll come easier bimeby, girlie," he would respond cheerfully, "the fust lesson in anything is allus the hardest."
But the vexations of tuition were only a small part of Mona's burden; for as the weeks went by, and she became accustomed to her new life and surroundings, the old heartache returned, and as her uncle often insisted that she and her mother go out to some evening entertainment as a break in the quiet boarding-house life they led, a new fear assailed her. What if on street car or in theatre lobby she should suddenly meet Winn Hardy! His name had not been mentioned for many months, and it was as if he were dead.
And now Mona was unlearning the sad lesson of loving, and in its place came a new inspiration, an ambition so broad, so uplifting, so full of possibilities, that even the voice of love was stilled. At times the face of Winn would return to her, however, and always bringing a thorn.
"He is what he said all his world were," she would say to herself, "selfish, fickle, and heartless. He wished to flatter and amuse me and himself as well, but that was all." And then the moment he had held her in his arms would return to give the lie to all such thoughts.
At times she hoped that she might meet him some day, just to give one look of reproach and pass on without a word; and then she dreaded to do so, believing herself powerless to resist her own longings. Feeling thus a sense of the wrong he had done her, the tender looks and words he had uttered, and at last that one sweet moment,—all came back again. Put him out of her mind she could not, nor his face either. By night, thoughts of him haunted her pillow, and whenever she set foot out of their temporary home, no matter where she went, and until she was safe in it again, that peculiar dread was with her.
She did not know that during all these months of her suspense, Winn Hardy, discouraged at the utter failure of his ambition and hopeless of his future, was not only doing his best to put her out of his thoughts, but battling for another foothold in life. Forget her, or the obligation whispered on Rockhaven's wave-washed cliff, he could not and did not; but in the hard grind of life and competition of wage-earning, love plays only a minor part. Even less so with Winn than most, for he distrusted all sentiment, even in himself.
Few have the scope to judge another from that person's own viewpoint of needs and impulses; and Mona, untutored in the ways of man, was less competent than many.
To her, the words "I love you" were a sacred obligation, far above all selfish needs and vulgar money making and, like the glittering star of fame, an inspiration.
It had been sweet to her in those summer days, but the real star of fame was now rising in her horizon, and the lesser one slowly fading away.
She was fast losing her old timidity, and as each day she felt herself gaining a better mastery over her violin, the darling wish of her new ambition grew stronger.
And then another influence came to her aid, for phlegmatic Fritz, in whose life the mechanical duty of each evening's playing and the convivial hours with his cronies had measured his ambition, became imbued with a broader one, and that to train his pupil for public playing, and so, when thus fitted and launched in this new life under his tuition, to pose as the discoverer of a genius. And more than that, as her eyes began to work their spell upon him, the hope of love entered his heart.
"Ah, Mees Hutton," he would say to her, when her lesson had been rendered, "you haf der spirit, der soul of der blaying alretty yet, and some day you haf him and der vorld vill listen entranced;" and his little eyes would twinkle and rotund face glow with an enthusiasm that was like wine to Mona.
And now another brand of fuel was added to the fire of her ambition, for a great singer's appearance in the city was heralded in the press and Jess, already warped into the world's ways of dress and amusement, took Mona and her mother to hear this operatic star. They had already visited most of the theatres, and though Mona had felt a constant dread of meeting one, the sight of whose face she knew would seem like a knife thrust, she was gradually overcoming that. At first a timid girl and stranger to the city ways, her keen and ready observation of them had made rapid change in her self-possession. Then, too, the difference in her own and her mother's wardrobe had been a help, for Jess had spared no money in his new rôle of husband and father, and so far as dress went with all three, no observer would realize that they came from an out-of-the-way island, where garb and deportment were unknown factors in life.
But that evening at the opera, with all its attendant excitement of richly gowned womankind whose décolleté costumes and sparkling jewels became a revelation to Mona, the handsome men, the exquisite music, the wonderful singing, and the chief star, ablaze with diamonds, bowing and smiling as wreaths and baskets of costly flowers were passed over the footlights to her, wrought a spell upon Mona as nothing else could have done. She was amazed, entranced, overwhelmed, intoxicated; and when the seclusion of her own home was reached, the reflective heart-burst of feeling came.
"Father," she whispered, her face aglow, when she was about to give him the usual good-night kiss, "if I could stand before an audience, as that singer did, and thrill them, as she did to-night, I would be willing to lie down and die."
"That's a good speerit," he answered, smiling, his eyes a-twinkle; "but if ye cud do it, ye'd a durn sight better feel ye'd like to live 'n' keep on doin' it, 'n' make 'em pay ye good money, an' pass up flowers on top o' that." Which sage observation perhaps best illustrates the difference between a genius and a philosopher.
That night, sleep was slow in reaching Mona's pillow, and when it came she dreamed that she was standing before a vast throng and suddenly, impressed by the fear of them, sinking into unconsciousness.
To Mona, reared beyond the world of wealth and social custom, the great city she was now in seemed a monster hive. An endless tangle of crowded streets, of pushing humanity, and towering buildings. The ceaseless din of street cars and rumbling teams, the people who elbowed her aside as they hurried on, the vehicles that halted not when she crosses a street, the grand ladies alighting from their carriages and sweeping by her as if she was without right; and worse than all these, the apes who ogled at her on the street, and even followed her to her home,—each and all became a teacher that taught her self-reliance. She grew to look at the great city as it did at her, without feeling and without interest. They cared not for her right, or her life even; why should she for them? It was the best education possible, and imparted a certain indifference toward everybody and everything, and hardened her, in a way.
Then Fritz, with his little scheme, entered into her education, and one day, after he had asked her to play some of her best selections, a stranger stepped out from an inner room to be introduced to her as the manager of the Alhambra Theatre.
"My friend Geisling has told me about you, Miss Hutton," he said, "and I wished to hear you play as you naturally would, so I asked to be kept in hiding to hear you. You have a decided talent, and if you have the courage, I think you could do a musical turn and do it well. If you will come to the Alhambra to-morrow at ten with my friend here, we will give you a rehearsal."
And Mona felt as if she were at that moment facing an audience!
"I have an ambition to play well, and some day in public," she said faintly, and hardly realizing how it all came about, "but not yet. Oh, no, I wouldn't dare," and she looked helplessly at her teacher.
"Ah, Mees Hutton, but you vill," he said excitedly, "und your fader said you vill, und dat eet vas to be you broveshion, und you vill to blease me try, I dinks," and he placed one hand upon his heart and bowed low.
"Oh, not yet, no! no!" exclaimed Mona, her heart sinking, as she stood face to face with her longed-for opportunity. "I am not ready yet and haven't the courage."
"That is but a mere trifle, Miss Hutton," answered the manager, looking at her saintlike eyes, her sweet face, rounded shoulders, and swelling bosom; and calculating their commercial value for stage purposes to a nicety. "A mere trifle; you have the face and form, you play with exceeding grace and delicate expression, no doubt due to your native talent, and are sure to please. All you need is to forget that you are playing to an audience, and you will win a storm of hands."
Then, like a shrewd man of business, he began politely to question her. Where she came from, who taught her first, and how she came to wish to play in public? In ten minutes he had grasped her entire history.
"It is not necessary," he said finally, to reassure her, "that you make your first appearance at once. Come to the theatre to-morrow and look us over. I feel sure you will succeed and win for yourself a great name. And, by the way, I'd like a photograph of you in evening dress cut low."
Then, as if the matter were all settled, and this new attraction for his vaudeville stage already engaged, he bowed himself out.
And Fritz beamed.
"Ein grand chance, Mees Hutton, an' der great luck you haf, und it vas mein alretty yet," he said, "und you vill got de people crazy mit your blayin', und I vas your teacher!"
And he came near then and there going down on his knees and declaring his passion.
When Mona reached her home she was flushed and trembling with excitement. "Oh, father," she said to Jess, "they want me to play at the theatre, and to come to-morrow to try it with no one there; and he wants my picture, and I am scared half to death," which incoherent speech can easily be excused.
"I don't approve on't an' never have," said her mother, severely. "It ain't a girl's place to be fiddlin', an' 'fore people at that. I don't believe in it."
"Now, Letty," answered Jess, pleasantly, "don't go to discouragin' the gal first go-off. We've threshed that straw all over long 'go, 'n' don't say no more. The time'll cum, 'n' soon, too, when ye'll feel mighty proud of Mona. We'll fix ye up, girlie," he added, addressing her, "with one of them low-cut gowns,—not too low, but jist nice 'n' modestlike,—'n' we'll both o' us be thar to take keer on ye an' fetch flowers home fer ye." And that subject was disposed of.
But Mona scarce closed her eyes in sleep that night, and when, with Jess and her teacher to care for her, she entered the stage door of the Alhambra at ten the next day, a new world opened before her.
Its entrance was a tangle of painted scenery, beautiful on one side, dirty and tobacco-stained on the other. A dozen stage carpenters and helpers were at work with hats on, and never even looked at her. The stage seemed a cold, cheerless barn, as large as the seating part, and a chaos of stage properties of all sorts and shapes. A flat, painted tree leaned against a piano, on top of which was a wooden rock. A roll of carpet lay across a desk, and a coil of dirty rope and an imitation fireplace were on top of an elegant sofa.
Then the manager appeared, coatless, but with hat on.
"Ah, good morning, Miss Hutton," he said, not even noticing Fritz or her uncle; "glad to see you, though it's a little early. Look around and make yourself at home, or I'll show you to a dressing room. We will hear you play presently."
And glad to escape from the cheerless spot, Mona signified that she would wait his bidding in a private room.
It was a half-hour ere he appeared, and Mona's stage training began.
She was instructed how to step out from the wings, where to halt on the stage, how to bow, to step side-wise and backward; and when these lessons had been learned, the manager with a few friends and Jess and her teacher took seats in front, and she walked out once more with her violin. She had expected to be badly scared, but it was all so matter-of-fact, and her deportment considered as of more importance than her playing, that when it came to that it was the easiest of all.
Twice she played the two selections Fritz had decided upon, the first, a medley of Scotch airs, and for an encore, the gem of all she knew—"Annie Laurie."
When she concluded each time, a sincere ripple of applause from the group of men composing her audience encouraged her.
"She'll win 'em," asserted the manager, tersely, when Mona had retired, "if only she can go on once and not wilt."
"I want you to come here daily for a week," he said to Mona, when she was ready to leave, "and get used to this matter. Your playing is excellent, and if you can forget the audience for ten minutes and do as well, you are made!"
But warmer encouragement came from Jess when home was reached that day.
"I'm proud o' ye, girlie," he said, his face glowing and his eyes alight, "I'm proud o' ye, 'n' if ye'll fiddle as ye kin 'n' hold yer head 'fore 'em, I'll shed tears o' joy. We'll rig ye up," he continued, "right away, an' all ye need to do is jist to say to yerself, 'I kin do it,' an' feel it, an' ye will."
How easy to say, but alas, how hard to do!
For a week Mona lived in a trance with only one thought, and that of the awful moment when she must perforce stand alone before that hydra-headed monster—an audience.
Sometimes her heart failed for a moment, and it seemed she could never do it; then a strain of the indomitable will that had come down to her from her Carver ancestors arose, and she said to herself, "I will."
Then back of that lay another point of pride. "Perhapshewill be there to see me," she thought.
For all these months, while she had silently fought her own heartache, Winn Hardy's face and words had been ever present.
All the covert flatteries he had spoken in the cave, all the praises of her playing, the description of the wonderful woman before whom the world bowed, the tender words of love he had uttered, to end with one cold letter of dismissal, and she left to rise above and conquer her own pain alone and unaided, came back now.
It was well that they did.
And when the supreme moment of her trial came, and robed in spotless white, without an ornament, save her matchless eyes, her perfect throat, her rounded arms, she stepped into view of that audience, not for one instant did she falter.
The Alhambra was filled that evening with its usual gathering in search of pleasure. A few hundred blasé men and women who had seen everything on the boards of the regular theatres now drifted into this, hoping for a new sensation. Twice as many more store girls whose escorts had brought them there because admission was cheap, and a medley of all sorts, old and young. The saucy balladist in short skirts had sung her song, the soloist in black had picked off his banjo act, the acrobats had leaped and twisted and turned, the magician pulled a stock of worsted balls, a hoopskirt, and a rabbit out of a silk hat borrowed from the audience, and then, after frying an egg in it, returned it unharmed; and the usual vaudeville program was nearing its end when those listless people saw Mona step out from the wings and, without once lifting her eyes to them, bow slightly, and raising her violin, begin playing.
And even as Winn's heart had been touched by the wonderful sweetness of her simple music that day in the cave, so were theirs reached now.
It was not classic, or new, or unheard before—just a medley of old-time Scotch airs that carried the mirth of a merry dance and the mood of tender love. But the mirth and the mood were there, thrilling, quivering, whispering, even as a human voice would speak.
And when the yearning of that medley ended its final appeal, and Mona for the first time raised her eyes to them as she bowed, a storm of applause that fairly shook the building greeted her.
Again and again was it repeated, until, bending her queenlike head, she once more raised her violin.
And now came "Annie Laurie."
Slowly caressing her violin with her face, even as a mother would her babe, Mona played.
And every whispered heartache, every pulse of undying love that that old, old song contains, came forth to reach and thrill the hearts of that audience as naught else could.
When it was ended and Mona bowed low, what a storm came!
Men rose and cheered and women, too, while they brushed the tears away.
Again and again did that wave of stamping and voiced applause arise, till the very roof quivered, and still once again.
And Mona, the poor child, whose will, stronger than love, had carried her through that awful ordeal without a break, now out of sight, lay sobbing in the arms of Jess.
She had won her fame without a flaw, and then, womanlike, had collapsed.
The doubt and distrust of all humanity, first implanted in Winn Hardy's mind by his friend and adviser, Nickerson, was now working its inevitable injury. Much of it had been brushed away during Winn's association with the simple and honest people of Rockhaven and especially Jess; but now that he was back again in the city and in touch with its pushing, selfish life, once more cynicism ruled him. His vocation as reporter paid poorly; he was in daily contact with unscrupulous and suspicious men, saw poverty begging in alleyways and arrogant wealth riding in carriages, men obsequiously bowing before the rich and snubbing the poor, and on all sides and in all ways he was made to realize that money was the god the city worshipped, and show, its religion.
On Sunday, when the usual morning chimes answered each other, his thoughts flew to Rockhaven and the two bells there; but when with his aunt, in church, he listened to the operatic singing and classic sermon, it all seemed to lack heart and sincerity, and not one solitary note of supplication entered the minister's prayer. Then the elegantly dressed ladies who greeted one another as at a reception, the men who looked bored and at the close of the service seemed relieved, each and all seemed to Winn to be there on exhibition.
Then, too, his moral safeguards were in daily danger, and the sneering Nickerson, their assailant.
"Well, old boy," he said to Winn one evening at the club, "how do you like penny-a-lining these cold winter days? Is an editorship any nearer in sight?"
"Nothing in sight for me except one demnition grind," replied Winn, disconsolately; "I get discouraged sometimes and think I am no good on earth."
Nickerson looked at him with a sarcastic smile.
"Winn, my dear fellow," he said at last, "I'm going to be very candid with you, so don't be angry with me. To begin with you are too honest and too good-hearted. You think of others first and yourself last, and then you have scruples. Now scruples don't go here in the city, and whoever cultivates them gets left. In the first place, Weston & Hill played you for a dupe, and if I hadn't come to the rescue, you'd have been stranded on the island and out five hundred, and the natives would have been ready to ride you on a rail. Then when we saved your bacon and you knew they were two thieves, you even returned them the little extra money they had sent you to pay the men. I won't say anything about the heroic way you made your aunt's loss good. It was heroic, but it wasn't sense.
"Now, after all this eye-opening experience, and you on your uppers, so to speak, I offered to start you in a lawful business, you won't have it, simply because it smacks of gambling! Winn, you are one of the best fellows in the world, and I like you, but you are a fool—net!"
"Well, I'll keep on being one," answered Winn warmly (for no man enjoys plain truth), "before I'll open a bucket shop and knowingly rob people."
"Yes, and walk while the rest ride," asserted Jack, tersely, "you know the old deacon's advice to his son just starting out in life,—'Make money, my son, honestly if you can, but make it!'"
"All very good," replied Winn, "but old. I doubt whether you can change my fool ideas, if you talk till doomsday; but you may mellow them. And that reminds me of another fool thing I've done. I bought the sole right, title, and deed of the Rockhaven Granite Company's quarry a few weeks ago."
"The wisest buy you ever made, my boy," answered Jack, quickly; "and now if you will hustle around and get some men to put money into a new company, you will be in luck once more." Then, as another idea came to this quick-witted man of the world, he added, "What's the matter with Jess Hutton and all the money we made for him?"
But Winn was silent, while a tide of memory swept over his feelings. And in it was Mona, with her tender love, and Jess, with the heart and hand he offered at parting, and all the good people on the island whom Winn knew to be his friends. And as all the possibilities Rockhaven contained came back to him, now it suddenly dawned upon him that Jack Nickerson had named him rightly.
"I see I've put you to sleep," continued Jack, after the long pause while he watched Winn, "and now I'll wake you up. I saw Ethel Sherman in a box at the theatre last night, with our mutual friend, Simmons. He must have reached his second childhood!"
Then Winn did wake up.
And more than that, a few unconsidered trifles connected with this same vivacious Ethel assumed index shape. He recalled that she had for the past six weeks specified the evenings she would be at home to him, for a week ahead. He also recalled that a plenitude of choicest flowers had always graced her parlor lately.
"And why not," he answered coolly, "old Simmons is a widower worth a million, has just built an elegant new residence of the granite we quarried, and Ethel's in the market. I think she shows good sense—at least your kind of good sense, Jack."
"Yes, and of all experienced people," asserted Nickerson, defiantly. "Sentiment is a fine thing in books or on the stage, it may influence silly girls or callow boys, but it's out of date in this age."
And Winn, recalling his own early episode with Ethel, and the lesson in life that for weeks had been forced upon him, was more than half inclined to believe his friend to be right.
And yet, as he thought of this prospective January and May affair, and a fossil like Simmons, with dyed hair, false teeth, and certainly sixty years wrinkling his face, he felt disgusted with Ethel. And the more he thought of the groove he was in, of the cold, selfish, grasping city life where mammon was king and sentiment a jest, the more his heart turned to Rockhaven. Then the thought of Mona came back to him, and a yearning for her, impossible to resist. And with it, self-reproach that he had let his own discouragement control his actions so long. A few days more did he waver, and then his heart's impulse won.
The winter had nearly passed and the days were lengthening when this impulse came, but he waited no longer.
"I'm going to Rockhaven," he said to his aunt that night, "and shall be gone a few days. I've obtained a week's leave of absence from the paper, and start to-morrow. I want to see Jess Hutton and some of my old friends there. I've also an idea that possibly the quarry can be started again. If I can bring it about," he added, after a pause, "how would you feel about loaning me a few thousand dollars, auntie?"
Then the motherly side of Mrs. Converse spoke out.
"I'll do it gladly, Winn," she responded. "I've felt all along that the money you saved me was more yours than mine, and you shall have all of it that you need."
And when Winn left the city, as once before, a new courage and new hopes tinged his horizon.
And first and foremost in them was the flowerlike face and soulful eyes of Mona.
The wisest of us, however, are but mere bats in this world, blindly flying hither and thither. At times one may, by sheer good luck, fly free; and then again we strike our heads against a wall.
Yet we think we are very wise.
And so, Winn Hardy, full of hope and love, found, when he reached the coast town where the steamerRockhavenmade landing, that her trips were but twice a week now and he had a full day to wait.
How slowly it passed while he chafed at the delay! how his eagerness to be with Mona grew! how his longing increased as he counted the hours he must wait! and with all mingled a self-reproach, need not be specified. For it had dawned upon Winn that his conclusions regarding Mona might have been wrong, and once we feel that we have made a mistake, we soon feel sure that it must be so.
And Winn was now certain.
But he would and could repair it easily. All that was necessary was to assure Mona that he had been discouraged or he would have written again, and to reproach her gently for neglecting to answer his letter.
How easily we plan excuses for our own conduct, and how like a child's toy we are apt to consider a woman's heart!
When, after a day's wait that seemed a week to Winn, theRockhavenmade landing, he leaped aboard to grasp Captain Roby's hand almost as he would a father's. But a half gale was blowing outside, the captain nervously anxious to unload, and start back; and only a word of greeting did Winn receive until the steamer was well under way toward Rockhaven. Then, feeling privileged, he entered the little pilot house.
"Well, Captain Roby," he said, "how are you and how's the island?"
"Oh, it's thar yit," answered that bronze-faced skipper, shifting the wheel a point and heading seaward, "an' likely to stay thar. It seems sorter nat'rel to see ye, Mr. Hardy," he added cheerfully, "an' I'm right glad to git the chance. We've been wonderin' what become o' ye an' how the quarryin' business was comin' out. Ye ain't thinkin' o' startin' it up agin, air ye?"
"Possibly," answered Winn, "in fact, that is a part of my errand here, and to make you all a visit. The old company failed, as, I presume, you know, and I've bought the quarry myself now."
"I'm mighty glad on't," replied the captain cordially, "an' so'll all on us be. We've sorter took to ye, Mr. Hardy."
"And how is my old friend, Jess?" asked Winn, unable to withhold that query longer, "and Mrs. Hutton and her daughter and Mrs. Moore?"
"Wal, Jess an' the Widder Hutton took a notion to git hitched long 'fore Christmas," answered the captain slowly, "an' they're gone to the city 'n' taken Mona with 'em. We gin 'em a great send-off, and I run ashore jist a purpose for 'em. It's curus ye haint seen Jess up thar. I'd a-s'posed ye would."
Winn's heart sank.
"When do you go back, captain?" he said finally, trying to hide his bitter disappointment. "I supposed you made daily trips as usual."
"Only Tuesdays and Fridays," he answered; "thar ain't much need o' runnin' oftener."
And this was Friday!
And Winn, the now ardent Romeo, had three full days and four nights to spend on Rockhaven, and Juliet was not there!
There are many of the fair sex who will say that it served him right.
And what a picture of cheerless desolation was this sea-girt island when Winn neared it! A half gale was blowing, the waves leaping high against the snow-topped cliffs, and as theRockhaven, rolling, pitching, and half coated with frozen spray, turned into the little harbor and neared her dock, only one man, shivering in oil skins, was there to meet her.
"I wish ye'd put up with me," said Captain Roby to Winn, when the steamer's plank was shoved out. "We'd be more'n glad to hev ye, an'll make ye welcome."
And Winn, dreading the empty white cottage next to Mrs. Moore's fully as much as that excellent woman's curiosity, accepted the captain's offer. That evening, in spite of Winn's disappointment, was a pleasant one to him, for the news of his arrival had flown like the wind, and a constant stream of callers came to the captain's house. It seemed as if all Rockhaven was desirous of extending a welcome hand, and from Parson Bush down to men whose names Winn had never known, they kept coming. Never before had he been so lionized or made to feel that he had so many friends, and so cordially did they one and all greet him that, had the Rev. Bush suggested that they all join in a hymn of thankfulness, Winn would not have been more surprised. It recalled the parting words of Jess, and in a forcible way.
But alas! that genial philosopher was absent!
Winn, however, saw his opening, and with a little natural pride, stated that he now owned the quarry, and, if some capital could be furnished by these island people, he was in a position to put in a matter of five or ten thousand dollars, and the industry would be started anew. Then as a climax to this proposition, he read to them the history of the Rockhaven Granite Company and gave a description of the auction of its assets.
But he did not mention the price he had paid for the quarry.
It was midnight ere the crowd dispersed and Winn, proud and happy, was shown to his room. But the next day a reaction came; for when he called upon Mrs. Moore, as he felt he must, the closed white cottage next door and the little dooryard, now under snow, where Mona had reared her flowers, seemed like a tomb. His worthy landlady was overjoyed to see him, however, and gave an explicit account of the wedding that had occurred, of Mrs. Hutton's dress, how pretty Mona looked and how happy all were. She, too, supposed Winn must have heard of it, and marvelled greatly that the Hutton family could have been in the city now three months, and Winn not meet them. Where they were stopping, what doing, and when they were to return, she knew not. So Winn left her, as much in the dark as ever.
And then, though the snow lay thick on the ledges swept by the ocean's winds, like a love-lorn swain he must visit Norse Hill and go over to the gorge to peer into its interior, and the cave, then back to the old tide mill and to the village. When Sunday came he was really glad to attend church, and by evening was so disconsolate that he wished for wings to fly to the mainland. In spite of cordiality, Rockhaven was now a desolate spot.
And when Tuesday came and he sailed away, the sole passenger over the misty ocean with Captain Roby, Winn was a wiser and sadder man. When he reached the city he felt that if he could but find Mona, to kneel at her feet and beg for her love would be a blessed privilege.
When Winn reached home, he found two messages awaiting him, one from Ethel Sherman asking him to call, and another bidding him journey to the home of his boyhood and attend to a business matter at once. His birthplace, an almost worthless hillside farm, had been leased to strangers, but they had scarce obtained a living and, finally, having denuded it of about everything except the stones and the old weather-beaten farmhouse, had deserted it, leaving three years' taxes unpaid.
And Winn, the sole heir, was now asked to come and pay them, or allow his boyhood home to be sold for that purpose.
This, following the bitter disappointment of his Rockhaven trip, seemed the last straw; and when he called upon Ethel, as perforce he felt he must, he was in an unenviable frame of mind.
But she was sweetness personified.
"Why, Winn, my dear friend," she said, "what have I done to you that you should desert me so? It's been three weeks since I've set eyes upon you except at church, and then you would not look at me."
"I don't imagine that you have suffered much," replied Winn, savagely, looking at an immense bunch of American Beauty roses on the centre-table, and thinking of Simmons. "I am a worker in the hive these days, and 'sassiety' isn't for me."
Ethel looked at him and laughed.
"My dear boy," she said sweetly, "you ought to send your temper to the laundry and feel grateful I wanted to see you. I refused an invitation to the opera this eve just to have a visit with you, and you come cross as two sticks."
"I'm sorry," he answered, "but I have troubles of my own, and life isn't all a picnic. For instance, I've got to take a two-hundred-mile ride into the country to-morrow, pay up the taxes, and find a tenant for the old farm. I've just returned from a business trip, away five days, and the editor told me this afternoon if I wanted more time off now I'd better resign."
"He's a brute," said Ethel.
"No, he's a business man," replied Winn, "and I'm his servant, that is all. I don't intend to be much longer, or any man's for that matter."
"I'm so glad," she asserted, in the cooing, sympathetic tone a woman knows so well how to use; "you are capable of better things, Winn, and I shall welcome the day when you are your own master."
Then Winn, his vexed spirit soothed by this woman's gentle sympathy, his self-respect restored by her praise, looked at her admiringly. "Ethel," he said, "you can mark the two extremes of womankind—angel or devil—with equal facility. If ever I attempt a novel, you shall be the heroine."
"Better not," she laughed. "I've no sentiment, and a heroine without a heart would be a flat failure. No," she continued musingly, "I've not even a little one. I used to think I had, but I've outgrown it. Sentiment on a woman's part these days is a weakness for men to trample upon. Sister Grace had sentiment. Now she lives in four rooms and tends baby, while hubby escapes to the club. No, thanks. No sentiment in mine, please."
"I begin to think it's folly on either side," asserted Winn, soberly, "and especially in business. Jack says 'be good and you'll be lonesome,' and calls me a fool for being honest. You say I am out of my groove here and that a woman with a heart is a stupid. I am inclined to think that there is no such thing as truth, honor, and sentiment except among old fogies and children."
"There isn't and there is," responded Ethel, philosophically; "no one is all bad, or at least but few are, while not many are all good. Only, in matters of the heart, a woman who has one is bound to suffer, unless she meets and weds a young god, and gods are scarce in this day and generation."
"But is she likely to be the happier by marrying for money and position?" queried Winn, pointedly.
"To the best of my observation—yes," she answered, understanding perfectly well what he meant. "And it's to obtain your opinion on that very subject I asked you to call."
Winn looked at her long and fixedly.
Once he had thought this girl the incarnation of all that was lovely and lovable. Young, handsome, and yet not of the Dresden china order, but warm, passionate, full of life and good spirits. She was all that now, but hard-hearted, cool-headed, a diamond among her sex, but not a pansy.
And so far as he could judge, one who would seek and accept only a golden setting. Once he had loved her madly, now he enjoyed her keen wit, her veiled flatteries, her perfect poise, her polished sarcasm, realizing that she was likely to be an ornament to the man who won her, but never a heart companion. And now he admired her intensely, but loved her not at all.
"Winn," she said at last, smiling, "have you analyzed me sufficiently to answer my question now?"
"No," he replied evasively, "and I never can. I've learned one thing, and learned it well, and that is, it's folly to tell a woman truth in such matters. They prefer lies that are flattering."
"Men never do, I suppose," she said, with a tinge of sarcasm.
"Oh, yes, they do," he admitted candidly; "men positively thirst for flattery—especially from a woman. But it is safer to tell them the truth. They will in time forgive that, even if it hurts, but a woman never will."
"That's a man's estimate," she asserted, "not a woman's. My belief is, truth is an unsafe knife to use in either case. But you have not answered my question."
"It's hard to do that," he responded, "for it all depends upon what a woman's idea of happiness is. You, who assert that you are without heart and believe sentiment a folly, would be miserable, if mated to a poor man, be he never so faithful in love. You want luxuries, fine gowns, and plenty of them, since you have beauty; you move in a circle where show is religion and extravagance a necessity. To you and your associates, these wants have become habits and rule you all."
Ethel sighed.
"We are a hollow set, I'll admit," she said, "and leave the price tag on all we give away; but still you do not answer my question."
"No, and no man or woman can," he responded. "As they say on the street, 'it's a gamble either way.' If you marry for love and secure a cottage, you will sigh for a mansion. If you obtain the mansion and miss the love, you will sigh for the cottage."
Then looking at the vase of roses standing near, as if they exhaled a revelation, he added slowly, "You will be true to your surroundings, Ethel, and whoever buys you will pay your price."
She flushed slightly.
"You put it into unvarnished words," she answered, laughing to conceal the hurt, "but I can't complain. I asked you for the truth." Then, in self-defence, she added, a little sadly, "It's not my fault, Winn, that I am for sale; it's the fault of society and its dictum. I say at times, as I said to-night, that sentiment is folly; and then again comes a yearning for something sweeter, something better than this life of show and shallow platitudes. Occasionally I feel it all a mistake, and envy Grace. Last summer, when I was up in the mountains, we went driving one day and stopped at a farmhouse to buy a glass of milk. The house was a hovel almost; two little children barefooted and bareheaded played under a tree, and inside a woman was singing. When she brought us the milk, she, too, was barefoot. We passed that way later, on our return, and she was still singing at her work. And, in spite of her surroundings, there was something in her voice that awoke my envy. Her life was poverty personified; there wasn't another house in sight, and yet she was happy."
And Winn, wondering what this all meant and marvelling that this imperative beauty, this leader of fashion, courted, flattered, and sought by all, could have one such touch of human feeling, looked at her in utter astonishment.
"Ethel," he said, "almost am I persuaded that you have a heart."
"You had better not," she answered, with a laugh that was a sneer, "you might pity me, and then I should despise myself;" and, pulling out one of the roses that drooped toward the table, she slowly picked it to pieces.
"Life is but a succession of moods, Winn," she continued, after a pause; "and some contain the rustle of angels' wings and some the clicking of devils' teeth. At times I hate the whole world and envy the nuns I meet in the street, and then again I think them fools."
Then she arose and seated herself at the piano. For a full ten minutes she lightly touched the keys, now a few chords of dreamy waltz music, then a low, plaintive love song, and finally a bit of Sousa, while Winn quietly studied her.
Suddenly she turned.
"Winn," she said, looking him full in the face, "I am going to be very rude. Tell me what made you go to Rockhaven?"
His eyes fell. "To see Jess Hutton," he answered, "and the quarry. I bought it at the auction a month ago."
It was fairly well said, but not over well.
"Thanks," she replied, "and forgive my query. There is no need of repeating it."
And it was weeks after before it dawned on him what she wished to find out.
There was nothing that could depress Winn just now any more than to visit his boyhood home. It had been twelve years since he left the hillside farm, and to return to it, even for a few days and on the errand that called him, was melancholy in the extreme. Then his trip to Rockhaven had not helped his feelings. He had gone there expecting to find Mona, and believing that a few words of explanation would set matters right. He had even planned what to say and how to say it, and in the fulness of his faith in himself and her, believed that she would easily overlook what he now knew was a cruel neglect on his part. Just why he had let his own discouragement rule him so long and in such a way, he could not now understand. And the more he thought of it and saw his own conduct as it was, the worse it seemed. Perhaps she had never received the letter! Perhaps also she had written, and it had failed to reach him. And when he recalled the parting, and that all her happiness and life, almost, seemed to rest on his promise to return, he almost cursed his own stupidity.
Verily, a pearl of great price had been cast at his feet, and he had been too witless to pick it up.
And now she was here in the city, and had been for months. And other men might be looking into her winsome eyes, and whispering of love!
And with these self-reproaches and jealous surmises for company, Winn sped onward toward his boyhood home.
It was dark ere a slow-moving stage landed him at the village tavern and a cheerless supper.
And the next day's visit to the spot!
The only redeeming feature seemed to be that it was warm and the sun shone—one of those first spring days that come the last of March, and with it the early-arriving bluebirds. They were there when Winn reached the now deserted farmhouse, where a snow-drift still lingered against its northern side and patches of the same winter pall draped each stone wall. The brook which crossed the meadow in front was a brimming torrent; the barn shed across the road was filled with a confusion of worn-out vehicles, broken and rusted farming tools half buried in snow, a drift of which remained in the empty barn, the door of which had fallen to earth: the fences had great gaps in them; gates were missing; and ruin and desolation were visible on all sides.
The house that had once been "Home, Sweet Home," to Winn was the most lugubrious blotch of all. It had grown brown and moss-covered with time and the elements, missing window-panes were replaced with rags, bushes choked the dooryard, and, as he peered into what had once been the "best room," snow lay on the floor and strips of paper hung from the walls.
How small the house seemed to what it once had! The old well-sweep had been used to patch the garden fence, the woodshed roof had fallen in, and a silence that seemed to crawl out of that old ruin brooded over it.
This was his boyhood home, and on it lay the burden of three years' taxes and a mortgage!
And as Winn looked into windows and then entered, crossing floors gingerly, lest they give way and pitch him into the cellar, he felt that it would be a mercy to the world to set the old rookery on fire and remove it from human sight.
The solitary note of joy about it was a bluebird piping away in the near-by orchard, and for that bird's presence there, Winn felt grateful.
Then he wandered over the orchard, searching for the tree that had borne seek-no-further apples, and another where he had once met a colony of angry hang-legs while climbing to rob a bird's nest. He failed to reach the nest, but those vicious wasps reached him easily enough, and as Winn recalled the incident he smiled—the first time that day.
For two hours he roamed about the farm, now hunting for the tree where he had shot his first squirrel, and then the thicket in which he had once kept a box-trap set for rabbits. He followed the brook up to the gorge, sauntered through the chestnut grove and back to where a group of sugar maples and a sap house stood, thankful that the familiar rocks yet remained and that the trees had not been cut away, and for the bluebirds, chirping a welcome.
Then he left the scenes of his boyhood days, so happy in memory, and as he drove away, turned for a last look at the old brown house, feeling much as one does after visiting an ancient graveyard where ancestors lie buried.
He had a week's leave of absence from his duties, now ahead of him, and he went cousining. He also hunted up a few old schoolmates, putting himself in touch with their rustic lives and talking over school days.
Then he returned to the city, feeling that luck had dealt unfairly by him and that he was more out of place than ever.
And now began a period in Winn's life which he never afterward recalled without a chill of dread. To no one did he confide his feelings, for no one, he felt, could understand them. It was not exactly a love-lorn fit of despondency, and yet it was, for Mona was ever present in his thoughts. He avoided Jack Nickerson, hating to listen to his inevitable sneering, and kept away from Ethel Sherman. He hunted for news items, as duty called him, visiting the stock exchange, the theatre, the court rooms, and the morgue. And while he looked for news, recording simple drunks and their penalties, suicides and their names and history, and the advent of theatrical stars with equal indifference, he scanned the crowded streets and all public places, ever on the watch for one fair face. Often he would stand on a corner for an hour, watching the passing throng, and then at a theatre entrance until all had departed. And though he was one of that busy throng of pushing people, a spectator of careless, laughing humanity crowding into and out of playhouses, he was not of them. Instead was he a disappointed, discouraged man, whose ambitions had come to naught and whose hopes were in shadow. He was moody and silent at home and aimless at his work, and as the days went by with never one glimpse of the face he now longed to see more than all else in the world, he grew utterly hopeless.
How many times had he lived over those summer days on Rockhaven, how often fancied himself in the cave listening to the artless words and simple music of that child of nature, and how he cursed his own stupidity and lack of appreciation, need not be specified.
With him, as with us all, the blessings that had been his seemed to brighten and grow dearer as they took flight.
And of Mona or her whereabouts, not one word or hint had reached him.
To that city, surfeited with pleasure, a new sensation had come, and while Winn Hardy was aimlessly gathering news items, too disconsolate to read the amusement notes even, and caring not at all what happened in stage-land, it was slowly spreading. A little ripple at first, when the few who could appreciate the exquisite nature of Mona's simple music, heard her to go away charmed and come again, the while telling all whom they knew of it, until the "Alhambra" was packed each night and "Mlle. Mona in Scotch Melodies," as the sign that flanked either side of the stage read, was all the rage. Then the papers picked it up and the musical critics exhausted their vocabularies about her. They extolled her pose, expression, and inflection; they went into raptures over technique, time, and timbre; they lauded her classic profile, her arm, her throat, her eyes; while Mona, unmindful of all their clatter, forgot herself each night as she threw her very heart and soul into her playing.
And Fritz grew mad with love!
She practised still, hours each day on new and classic music; he insisted that she should, and when some soulless sonata, some delirious composition full of leaps and quivers and trills was learned, she executed it at night.
But it was the simple and sweet old songs of Bonnie Scotland that won applause.
And when, as happened almost nightly, some admirer gave a basket or bouquet of costly flowers to an usher to be passed up over the footlights to her, they were usually tied with tartan ribbon.
And the little German teacher had almost lost his reason.
Twice he had been on his knees before her, and with hand on heart and in broken English, disclosed his love for "Mein Fraulein Liebchen."
But Mona only shook her head.
He wept, he raved, he smote his breast, and would have kissed the shoes she wore, if she would have but stood still and allowed it.
There were others who sent her notes tucked in baskets of flowers, they begged for an interview, for just one word of reply. They covered pages with wild declarations of love, they sent her costly jewels tied to love missives, in the vain hope of an answer, and gathered at the stage door to see her pass in and out. But Jess, like an old watch dog, was always on guard. He went with her to the "Alhambra" each night and waited until she had "done her turn," and after she had changed her garb, helped her into a carriage and rode home with her.
He well might care for her, for each week the manager paid for her "act" what would have been regarded on Rockhaven as a small fortune, and considered it cheap at that price.
And Mona, growing accustomed now to the sea of faces she had once feared, watched them covertly each evening, hoping and yet dreading to catch sight of a certain one among them.
It was all a new wonder world, a strange, sweet intoxication, and like a dream to her. She rejoiced in her power, conscious, as well she might be, how she could sway the thousands to wild applause and some to tears. And when it was all over and she away from the scene of her triumph each time, she wondered ifhehad made one in that audience. And what would he say and think, if he was? And what would he do? Had he quite forgotten the simple child who amused him one summer, or would he seek her out?
And when she thought of how like a silly girl she had raised her lips to him at the moment of parting, and the tears she had shed, her face burned.
Then pride came forth, and she felt that, if he ever did seek her again, he would have to beg forgiveness on his knees, protesting even as Fritz had, before she would extend a hand even. For Mona was growing proud and conscious of her own power at this time.
The weeks during which she had nightly reigned as a queen over thousands, the storms of applause she had heard when bowing and smiling before them, and all the flatteries of flowers and words that had been showered upon her, had wrought its inevitable change. Only to Uncle Jess was she the same. And he?
Well, never in his life had so much happiness come as now. He seemed to grow younger each day, for in the new joy that had come to Mona he found his own. Then, too, a change came to Mona's mother. No longer did she consider "fiddlin' a man's business," and frown at her child. In their temporary home that daughter ruled supreme, her every wish gratified, her every whim considered just right.
"We'll go back 'n' visit the island fer a spell," Jess said, when the season at the "Alhambra" was nearing its close; "an' then we'll take ye 'round, girlie, an' let ye see the world. I kin 'ford it now, 'n' the best is none too good fer ye."
But the current of Fate twists and turns us at will, while adown the stream of life we float, and sometimes we drift into smooth waters and again we are dashed against the rocks. With our will or against our will, no matter, we are swept on.
And a Power quite beyond our ken is ever in control.
And one evening, despondent, aimless, and feeling life a hopeless fight and Fate against him, Winn Hardy drifted into the "Alhambra."
No knowledge of the star that nightly blazed there had reached him, and if he had read of her, it was as of others who were noticed by the press and unknown to him. He came in, as he entered other theatres, on a reporter's pass, privileged to take a seat if not occupied, or else stand. In this case, it seemed the latter, for the house was packed and a fringe of men circled the foyer. The boxes were also filled; and as Winn glanced across to them, there in one, dressed in evening gown, her arms and shoulders bare, and slowly fanning herself, sat Ethel Sherman. And with her—Simmons!
It was nothing to Winn, of course, and yet it awoke disgust.
The usual vaudeville acts were on in turn, and Winn, somewhat weary with life, and watching one particular box more than the stage, was about to leave when suddenly a wild burst of applause swept over the house, and there, just tripping on to the stage, bowing and smiling as she came was—Mona!
For one instant his heart stopped beating.
Great Heavens, could it be possible, or was this some insane dream! He gasped for breath.
The house seemed to twist and turn.
And then, as he leaned against a pillar to steady himself, a hush came.
And what a picture stood before him!
Not the half-developed, ill-clad girl who had sat with him in the cave! Not the timid child with wondering eyes, looking up to him as a superior being! Not the gentle Mona, the sweet flower, awaiting his hand. Oh, no!
Instead, a proud and beautiful woman, erect and smiling, with conscious power. A stately creature with rounded arms, dimpled throat, and perfect shoulders like marble, emerging from the soft white silk that trailed upon the stage. And in the crowning coils of hair, black as night, a single pink rosebud, half open, and in her hand the same old brown violin!
Then bowing to right and left, as she swept that vast audience with her eyes, while the storm of applause continued, she raised it to her chin.
Not a breath, not a whisper now, as the matchless voice of her music rippled forth, tinkling like tiny bells on a mountain side, murmuring like a brook in forest stillness, sweet as a bird singing in the sunlight.
And when she had held that vast throng spellbound, entranced, breathless, until the last exquisite note had vibrated in their hearts, and bowed again once more, a tornado of sound burst forth. While they cheered and shouted, adown each aisle ushers hurried with costly flowers and wreaths, and baskets and bunches of them were tossed upon the stage like so many leaves.
Then Winn saw Ethel Sherman rise in her box and throw the great bunch of orchids she had held into the pile at Mona's feet.
And then that queen in white raised her violin once more. And once again, as many times before, the old love song that has thrilled the world for centuries carried Winn's heart back to the cave on Rockhaven and the twilight hour when its voice of undying love had mingled with the ocean requiem.
Lost was he now to the time and place and that spellbound audience; lost to the burst of applause that again shook the very building, to the men who cheered, the women who wept. Lost to all and everything except his own heartache.
And as he brushed his eyes free from the mist that had gathered, and turned away, it was in utter despondency and humiliation, believing his love hopeless now, and forgiveness from Mona impossible.
The next morning, reading the double-leaded headlines announcing the farewell appearance of this peerless queen of melody and the columns of fulsome praise that followed, only increased that feeling. Her laurels had been won, her crown secured, and now his love would be a worthless toy in her estimation.
All that was left was to see her, if he could, and beg her forgiveness.
But even this was denied him.
"I'm a friend of Miss Hutton's," he said to the "Alhambra" manager early that day, "and I wish to obtain her address."
"I've no doubt of it," replied the man, in a sneering tone; "lots of her admirers have wanted it, and kept on wanting it for all me."
"But I am a friend of hers," persisted Winn, his ire rising, "and I wish to see her."
"Well, go hunt for her," came the insolent answer. "She's in the city; but her address is her private property, and you don't learn it from me." And he turned away.
And Winn did likewise, too angry for further parley.
And that night, impelled a little by penitence and more by despondency, he called on Ethel Sherman.
"How did you enjoy Scotch melodies last evening?" he said gently, not wishing to seem inquisitive; "I saw you in a box at the 'Alhambra.'"
"Enjoy hardly expresses it," she answered earnestly; "I was spellbound, enraptured, and moved to tears. It was silly, I know, but I couldn't help it. Did you see me throw my flowers at the girl?"
"I did," he replied, his heart throbbing; "and you were not alone in your enthusiasm. She seemed to carry the house by storm. It was her farewell appearance, I noticed by the papers this morning."
He was trying to speak indifferently, but it was not easy.
"I am sorry," she responded, eyeing him keenly; "I've heard her five times in the past two weeks, and yesterday learned she was from Rockhaven. Did you ever hear her before?"
Then Winn knew that his secret was a secret no longer.
"I have," he admitted modestly; "she is the niece of Jess Hutton."
"And it was to see her that you went to the island two weeks ago," pursued Ethel, smiling; "I thought as much then."
For a moment she tapped the carpet with one dainty slipper, while her lips were pressed tightly together, and then she continued:—
"I knew last summer," she said, in a cool and even voice, "that you had left your heart on the island when you came back. Permit me to congratulate you. The girl is a marvel."
"It is very kind of you to say so," he responded dejectedly, "but useless. I didn't find her when I went there, and it's all over between us, I presume."
Then Ethel laughed, but it was unnatural, and like the rattle of dry bones. "Not a bit of it," she said briskly; "women with such eyes as hers do not unlearn the lesson of love easily. You may have to beg forgiveness for your neglect on your knees, but you will receive it. It is such souls as hers that give the lie to all our worldly philosophy."
"Have you such a one?" he queried thoughtlessly.
Her eyes flashed.
"No," she answered bitterly; "no one ever accused me of such folly. I have no heart, and am for sale to the highest bidder."
"I beg your pardon, Ethel," he said humbly, "I was only thinking of the long ago, and forgot what I was then."
"You need not," she replied, turning away. "I only am to blame, but—it hurt—from you."
Then, covering her eyes with one hand, she added slowly, as if the words came hard: "It's all past and gone, Winn, but—but I did not know myself then, and now it's too late. God help me!"
At the door she laid a detaining hand on his arm.
"I wish you well," she said, with a quiver in her voice; "I wish you all that's best and holiest in life. Go to your island girl, and at once. She is worthy of you, and you of her. We have been good friends, and I hope always will be. Love is only an illusion, but friendship endless. And now, good-by, and God bless you!"
And Winn, going out into the night, knew that the proud girl was reaping the pain she had sown.