"Everybody doesn't like the water," returned Mrs. Lowell, moved now by the dread that the man might suspect her influence and remove the boy.
"Well, how did you like the farm?" he pursued.
"What a pleasant place it is," shereturned, seating herself on the piazza rail. "No wonder you like to spend time there. I haven't forgotten those charming sketches you showed me, either."
Gayne made a clumsy bow. "You flatter me," he said. "I make no claims."
The lady looked down on the garden border.
"The sweet peas look thirsty, Bertie," she said. "Let's water them."
The boy followed her in silence to where the coiled hose lay, and his uncle looked after them, a thoughtful frown gathering on his dark brow.
Mrs. Lowell knocked for admittance at Diana's door that evening, and entering found the girl sitting at the little desk she had added to Miss Burridge's furnishings, surrounded by books and papers.
"Is it an inopportune time?" asked the caller, hesitating.
Diana rose smiling. "That can never be for you," she replied.
"Thank you, dear child. I am so full, I long to talk to you. You may have a helpful suggestion."
"I shall be pleased to act as your confidante. Sit here, Mrs. Lowell. I was just writing my mother how fortunate I am in the fact that you are here. I encounter a good deal of difficulty in persuading my mother that I am not in a desert place and am not doing penance. I am very desirous of restraining her from coming to see for herself. I should be aghast at the prospect of taking care of her and her maid here. Yet, when I pile up superlatives, she decides that I have fallen in love with an Indian and is increasingly disturbed."
The girl looked very pretty in the peach-colored negligee she was wearing, its precious laces falling over Miss Burridge's cheap chairs and matting, and her thick bright-brown hair in disorder.
"Oh, tell her he isn't an Indian; tell her he is a Viking."
Diana's serene gaze did not falter, though her color rose.
"I do not mind your badinage," she returned, "for when I fall in love, it is going to be with a supremely unattractive man externally. I shall be the only woman who knows and understands his charm, then other women will not infringe my rights. After you hear Mr. Barrison sing, you will understand that in his career, women will bow before him like flowers in an irresistible gust of wind. I cannot imagine a worse fate for a girl than to share that career; the more brilliant it might be, the more crushing to her happiness. But this interview is getting turned about. I was to be the confidante, not you."
"Then this is my tale, my dear," said Mrs. Lowell. "I have discovered who did those sketches Mr. Gayne showed us this morning."
"Then you were right, and they were not his own?"
"Bertie's mother did them, and he inherits her talent: this poor child whom the man is trying to blot out of normal life."
"What makes you certain?"
"Because he did one before my eyes down by the shore to-day, with a swift, sure touch, and that thin, sad face of his lighted till he looked like a different being. His parents are dead. His mother was an artist. He worked with her. As soon as she left the child, his uncle forbade him to draw, and took all his materials away from him, whipped him if he found a pencil in his possession. Those sketches we saw were done either by the boy or his mother. There is no doubt of it. She eloped with his father, estranging her family from her. She was a Loring of Boston."
Diana regarded the speaker with admiration. "How wonderful for you to obtain so much information from such a source."
"Oh, it was little by little, of course. I told him his uncle had shown us some good sketches and asked him if it was not strange that Mr. Gayne could do them, taking up the art so late in life; for it seems he took it up only as Bertie laid it down; and the boy's reply was significant. He said: 'Oh, no, itis easy.' He seemed to have no suspicion, but then he hasn't life or interest enough to harbor suspicion. He just endures."
Mrs. Lowell went on to tell of Cora and the drudgery of the boy's dull and dulling existence, and her listener's eyes lost their customary serenity.
"It must not be," said the girl at last, as her companion ceased. "Have you made a diagnosis?"
"I only feel that the 'root of all evil' must be at the bottom of it," replied Mrs. Lowell. "The Old Nick, as Veronica calls him, must believe there is money to be secured, and that if he can only prove that his nephew is incompetent, he can gain charge of it. Bertie told me that his mother's people were rich."
"Of course, then, that is the key; but it does not explain what the man is doing with pickaxe and shovel up at my farm."
"Your farm, my dear?"
"Perhaps," said Diana carelessly. "But that is not interesting us now. Mrs. Lowell, I adore the unselfishness which has caused you to give your time to this boy. I have tried to converse with him, but his lack of responsiveness seems to obscure the clarity of my mental processes. I wish, however, tohave a hand in his salvation. The thing to do now, it appears to me, is to discover this Loring family. That will take money and I will supply it."
"My dear Miss Diana!"
"Drop the Miss, please. I feel honored by your friendship. Do you know of a good lawyer?"
"My husband is a lawyer."
"Then, please, ask him to proceed at once."
The girl's dignity and beauty added charm to the sense of power in an emergency which money sometimes gives. "It is galling that we cannot take the boy away from that brute immediately," she added.
"Oh, we must be so careful," exclaimed Mrs. Lowell. "Rather than let us do one thing to clear and brighten Bertie's mind his uncle would send him off the island. We must not show dislike or suspicion; and God will guide us in the footsteps we must take. He is taking care of the child now, through us."
"Really, Mrs. Lowell, your faith is very beautiful," said Diana.
"Everybody should have it. Why go alone while the Bible is right there with its marvelous promises? God's children are not puppetspulled by wires, and so people complain that the promises are not kept. We are made in His image and likeness, tributary only to Him—every good thing is possible to us if we turn toward Him instead of away from Him."
"Mr. Gayne appears to have turned away," said Diana dryly.
"Yes, he made me shudder this afternoon when he talked of Bertie's learning to swim. It was as if he hoped it might be the child's end."
Diana shook her head. "He doesn't want that."
"No, so I consoled myself afterward, but his malignant spirit bursts forth in spite of him occasionally."
Mrs. Lowell rose and the girl followed her example. The older woman approached and placed her hands on Diana's shoulders.
"I thank God," she said, "for your cooperation. I will write to my husband to-night."
"Is he as—as religious as you are?"
"Not perhaps in the same way. He does not see quite as I do, but he is a good man and loves everything good." Some recollection made the speaker smile. "I try his soulat times by not doing what he calls minding my own business. For instance, once I saw a young fellow at an elevated station in New York, dazed by drink. I was in haste and on an important errand, but I couldn't take my train and leave him there. So I went and sat down beside him and asked him where he was going. He said, to the Brooklyn ferry, but he was thick and helpless. I called a little colored boy carrying a large milliner's box, and I asked him if his errand needed to be done immediately. He was pretty doubtful, but he finally said no. So I told him I would check his box and leave a dollar with it for him when he returned, if he would take this young man straight to the Brooklyn ferry and see that he did not go in anywhere on the way. He said he would do so, and I gave him his check and car fare and some nickels for telephoning, and asked him to call me up that evening. I wrote my telephone number and left it with the box. He promised, and my train came along and I had to leave them. About six o'clock that afternoon, the telephone rang. It was my messenger. He said that when he got the young man downstairs to go to the train for the ferry, his charge became violently sick. Afterthat, he came to himself and gave a different direction to the boy. The address of an office building. He was pale and shaky. So the boy stayed with him. They went up in an elevator and into an office where the young man said that he had brought the money. They sent for some one from another office, and to this person the young man gave a roll of a thousand dollars.
"Of course, I was quite excited, and happy over this news, and I thanked my messenger and said: 'See what God has helped us to do to-day. That young man might have been robbed, and would have been suspected of theft by his employer and lost his character and his position.' My husband was sitting near by, reading the paper, and he looked up and said: 'Who on earth are you talking to?' I just answered: 'A little darky boy!' and went on, while my husband stared. When I told him the whole story, he laughed and shook his head. 'Hopeless,' he said, 'hopeless.' He is quite conservative, and he would like me to stay in the beaten track."
"That was fine," said Diana. "Mr. Lowell will be in sympathy with this case, I hope, and undertake it with his whole heart. I am going to give you a check to send him as aretainer. Then he will know that this is a serious business matter."
The girl sat down at her desk and wrote the check and Mrs. Lowell took it thankfully. She went to her room and wrote her letter. In due time she received a reply.
Dear One,I see you have again ceased minding your own business and I am really very proud of you in spite of your obstinacy. I thought in the wilds of Casco Bay, you might get away from responsibilities for awhile, but I might have known that, unless I set you adrift on an iceberg, you would find some lame, or halt, or blind, to succor. Even then, I think the iceberg would melt at your presence, and in short order you would be down among the mermaids explaining to them that it was error to get out on the rocks to do their hair and sing to sailors.Your story is very interesting, and while I believe that Boston is as full of Lorings as it is of beans, Miss Wilbur has made it possible to ring every Loring doorbell and ask down which steps ran the eloping daughter. Rest assured, as her lawyer I shall do my best in this affair. Owing to Mr. Wilbur's prominence in the public prints, his connections are pretty well known, and I thought I associated Herbert Loring, the railroad president, with him. I suppose Miss Wilbur would have told you if there were anything in that.
Dear One,
I see you have again ceased minding your own business and I am really very proud of you in spite of your obstinacy. I thought in the wilds of Casco Bay, you might get away from responsibilities for awhile, but I might have known that, unless I set you adrift on an iceberg, you would find some lame, or halt, or blind, to succor. Even then, I think the iceberg would melt at your presence, and in short order you would be down among the mermaids explaining to them that it was error to get out on the rocks to do their hair and sing to sailors.
Your story is very interesting, and while I believe that Boston is as full of Lorings as it is of beans, Miss Wilbur has made it possible to ring every Loring doorbell and ask down which steps ran the eloping daughter. Rest assured, as her lawyer I shall do my best in this affair. Owing to Mr. Wilbur's prominence in the public prints, his connections are pretty well known, and I thought I associated Herbert Loring, the railroad president, with him. I suppose Miss Wilbur would have told you if there were anything in that.
The remainder of the letter dealt withdifferent subjects, and, when Mrs. Lowell had finished it, she hastened to her friend, and put her question.
"I will send my father a telegram at once," responded the girl.
That form of speech was not strictly accurate, as it was rather an elaborate operation to send a telegram from the island. However, it was finally accomplished. This was the message to her father:
Have you any friends named Loring? Have we any relatives or connections by marriage of that name?Diana
Have you any friends named Loring? Have we any relatives or connections by marriage of that name?
Diana
The day after the girl had given her check to Mrs. Lowell, Bertie Gayne was not seen about the Inn all the morning. At dinnertime he returned with his uncle. Mr. Gayne's manner was disarmingly bluff and hearty. He had a cheerful word for everybody. The boy's silent manner and uninterested look were just as usual. Mrs. Lowell managed to catch his eye once or twice, but he gave no sign of understanding.
The horse-mackerel were running and the island population was all excited. The taking of one of the huge fish was an event, and very lucrative for the captors. The talk of thetable was all on this subject, and Nicholas Gayne entered into it with zest.
After dinner everybody went out in front of the house to view the telltale disturbances in the waters of the bay, where numerous small boats were hanging about awaiting their opportunity. Veronica eagerly joined the watchers as soon as she was at liberty.
"Let us walk down nearer the water," proposed Diana.
Mr. Gayne's field-glasses were being handed about, and she was afraid they would be offered to her. So she and Veronica moved down across the field and seated themselves on the grass against a convenient rock.
"Where do you think Bertie was this morning?" she asked.
"Uncle took him off with him."
"Up to the farm?"
"I suppose so. Mr. Gayne seems to think that farm might get away if he didn't see it for twenty-four hours."
"I wonder if he will not be wishing to purchase it one of these days," said Diana.
"I'd buy some clothes for Bert first if I was in his place. Everything the boy has seems to have been bought for his little brother."
"Did you ever read 'Nicholas Nickleby,' Veronica?"
"Yes, I have." The younger girl looked around brightly. "I know who you're thinking of—Smike. I've thought of Smike ever since they came."
Diana received her look with a smile. One touch of nature made them kin for the moment, and Diana, all unconscious of her companion's mental reservations, did not know that at this moment she was nearer than she had ever been to being forgiven for her various perfections.
"All my childhood," said Diana, "I used to wish I could have done something for Smike."
"I've wished that, too," said Veronica.
"Now we have an opportunity," returned Diana. "You are young and sportive and you made a good beginning."
"Oh, I did—not," returned Veronica. "You might as well try to sport with a hearse. Everything you say to him he turns his eyes on you all darkened up with those lashes, regular mourning, and you don't know where to look, yourself, nor what to say. Yes, I did want to help Smike, but so long as the law won't let us string Mr. Gayne up somewhere, lots of times I wish they'dgone to some other island. Isn't it a pity he hasn't got spunk enough to run away? Even Smike ran away."
"I am glad this boy is not inclined to do that," returned Diana, "for I feel that he has friends here and that something good should come of his summer."
"Not if Mr. Gayne can help it," declared Veronica. "He was afraid Mrs. Lowell was giving Bert too good a time with these walks and talks." She nodded her head. "Believe me, that is the reason—"
"Well, we have found you," said a voice behind them. It was a voice which made color steal up into Diana's cheeks. The girls both looked around quickly.
Philip Barrison was approaching, and with him a shorter man. Both were bareheaded.
"The blarney stone!" thought Veronica. She had been wondering when Mr. Barrison would bring him, and now she gave him what she herself would have described as the "once-over" as he smiled at Diana and lifted his hand to his tightly waved hair in salute.
What Veronica saw caused her to lift her hand to the bridge of her nose and cover its small proportions with two fingers, from both sides of which her round eyes gazed seriously.
"Are you interested in the horse-mackerel, too?" asked Diana.
The two men sat down on the grass near the girls as Barney Kelly answered: "Moderately, Miss Wilbur. Moderately interested. Being allowed to witness anything fromterra firmainvests it with a certain charm. Barrison has been merciless, I assure you, simply merciless."
"The man came here to fish," said Philip, "and I've only tried to be hospitable."
"Deep-sea fishing," groaned his friend. "If you ever hear any tenderfoot express ambitions to go deep-sea fishing, tell him to see me if possible, otherwise write or wire me before he embarks."
"Did you find the motion disconcerting?" asked Diana.
Barney looked at Philip. "Don't you think I might admit as much as that?"
Philip laughed and bit the red clover he had pulled from a bunch near him.
"First," said Kelly, "you are waked at an hour when all men should sleep; then youare forced to eat at a time when your soul rebels at such outrage; after that, you go aboard beneath the stars, and you chug, chug, miles into the darkness; but the chug-chugging you soon find to be the best part of it for when you arrive midway between here and Liverpool, you anchor. The sky and the sea begin to get hopelessly mixed up. Why should I try to describe the writhings of all nature! They put a heavy rope into your hands, it slides through your fists and removes the skin before any one remembers that you have no gloves on. Oh, let Dante try! I can't!"
Philip laughed. "Then I took him out next day to the pound and let him help draw the net."
"The smell of that boat, Miss Wilbur!" Kelly's eyes rolled fiercely.
"I'm afraid you won't like the island," volunteered Veronica, who, when she laughed had forgotten her nose and dropped her hand.
"My dear Miss Trueman, how can I tell, when I am never allowed to stay on it? This man, when he couldn't think of anything else hydraulic to do, has made me go in bathing in water at a temperature which no humane person will credit when I tell them.To-day, I struck. I said to him, do for Heaven's sake do something to show that you are at least amphibious. So he consented to bring me up here to meet his friends, and I shall be pleasantly surprised if you young ladies don't turn into mermaids right before my eyes, as they do in the movies, and pop off that beach into the water."
Veronica giggled so joyously that the speaker turned away from Diana's serene smile and regarded her. "I assure you," he added slowly and solemnly, "that if you do, I shall not follow you. So if you wish the pleasure of my society you won't unfold any graceful, glittering tails."
Veronica giggled again, and, if she had only known it, her dimples were warranted at any time to divert attention from those afflicting little freckles.
"I can see that Kelly will be fruit for you, Veronica, on that croquet ground," said Philip.
The guest clasped his hands rapturously. "Do you guarantee, Miss Veronica, that croquet at this island is unfailingly played on land?"
"Hold on, Barney, don't go too fast; it's the kind of croquet you play with analpenstock in one hand and a mallet in the other."
"It is not, Mr. Barrison," declared Veronica stoutly. "Bert has mowed it."
"That poor little chap? Did you work him in? Good for you. It's what he needs."
"When are you going to have Mr. Barrison sing for us, Mr. Kelly?" asked Diana.
Barney shrugged his shoulders. "A poor worm of an accompanist can't answer that, Miss Wilbur."
"But I suppose you will be practicing, or rehearsing at times, will you not?"
"Yes. I understand there is a piano in the little Casino that was pointed out to me. I understand—eh, Barrison?"
Philip nodded. "Yes, they have allowed me to engage an hour a day on that piano for a while, for some work we have to do."
Diana's face lighted beautifully. "And may one—may one sit on the piazza?" she asked beseechingly.
"I should advise one not to," said Philip, "unless one has been inoculated for strong language."
"I should not in the least mind what you said."
"But you would what Barney says, at times."
"The verdure about the hall is free," said Diana doubtfully.
"Yes, if you don't mind a baseball in the eye once in a while. That is where the boys do congregate."
"He's a most ungrateful ass—Barrison," said Barney warmly. "Of course you shall sit on the piazza if you care about it. I promise to restrain mypenchantfor calling him pet names in private. I have to do it, you see, to strike a balance. At performances, who so meek as the accompanist! Barrison stands there, dolled up in his dress-clothes, probably a white carnation in his buttonhole; the women down front gazing at him and ruining their best gloves. I gaze at him, too,"—Kelly looked up with meek worship,—"like a flower at the sun, waiting for the sultan to throw the handkerchief, or, in other words, give me a careless nod, indicating that I may come to life. At last he does so, and I begin to play—subserviently, unostentatiously. Very few in the house know that I am there. He reaches his climax, he finishes with a pianissimo that curls around all the women's hearts, draws them out and strings them on a wire before him. Then the applause bursts forth. He bows over andover again, until he looks like a blond mandarin, and I rise, but nobody knows it, and when he has passed me on his way off the stage, I come to heel like a well-trained dog, and—there we are!"
As Kelly finished his harangue with a gesture of both hands, the girls were laughing and Diana was quite flushed.
"What a fool you are, Barney," said Philip calmly, still biting the honey out of the red clover. "He plays like a house afire," he added, turning to the girls. "You will be delighted."
"Oh, yes," said Kelly. "On the road I get a group. I play the Chopin and Grieg things that the girls practice at home, and they get out their vanity cases and prink and wait for Barrison to come on again."
"Oh, cut it out, you idiot!" exclaimed Philip, jumping up. "I don't believe they're going to get one of those mackerel. Let's amuse little Veronica and go up and have a game of croquet."
Meanwhile Mr. Gayne had again taken his nephew with him to the farm.
"In spite of all I say," he told the boy, "you will bother those ladies at the Inn. So if you come along with me, I'll know whereyou are." And the lad answered him not at all, but plodded up the road.
He did, however, think of some of the things Mrs. Lowell had said to him. Some of the love and courage that emanated from her gave him a novel certainty that he was not altogether friendless, and the wild roses that began to peep at him from the roadside suggested the idea that she would like it if he brought some home to her. In the idle hours of the afternoon he might gather some, and some of the myriad daisies and Indian paintbrush that decked the fields. But his heart sank at the prospect of what his uncle would say if he attempted to carry back a bouquet when they returned.
Gayne forbade the boy to enter the house when they reached their destination, just as he had done in the morning. So Bertie, his hands in his pockets, wandered about the surrounding fields and in the spruce groves, and picked up the shells the crows had dropped and emptied. Once he found a ridge of grass unusually long and green, and heard a whispering, and investigating found a narrow brook which murmured as it flowed. He followed along its bank until he came to the cove it had named, and watched the sparsestream cascade over the granite and fall thinly down its steep wall. The wet rock glistened in the sun, it seemed to the boy as if with tears. He threw himself down beside it and, leaning on his elbow, rested his head on his hand. Through the cut between this island and the next, boats were passing coming in from the foaming waves of the sea to the quiet waters of the sound. Life, beauty, peace. The boy closed his eyes. The longing to portray it all rose in him like an anguish. He felt his old torpidity to be better than this. Why should his new friend stir up a craving for the impossible? She meant to be kind. She seemed really to like him; and she had liked his drawing and had wanted him to do more. She would find that it was impossible, and he hoped that she would make no more effort. He squeezed his eyelids together to keep back stinging drops. He felt shame at his own weakness. Uncle Nick had said he had no more backbone than a jellyfish and he felt this was true. He had no physical strength to defend himself, none to take his fortunes into his own hands, as he felt most boys would do, run away and do something to keep himself from starvation.
For years he had been fed as an animalmight have been fed: at any hour that suited Cora, and with anything she might happen to have in the house. He was undernourished, neglected, crushed, and spiritless. He despised his weakness as much as his uncle despised him, and he was conscious that it was a new estimate of himself that he was now making, an estimate due to the awakening of thought that had come to him through that lady who meant to be kind. He felt very bitterly toward her as he lay there, his eyes closed to the loveliness of sea and sky.
He had lain there half an hour when Matt Blake came across from the road and passed near him.
"Poor youngster," he thought. "I guess it's true he ain't all there." The feeling that the boy was not capable of responding kept him from calling out some sort of greeting as he passed, and he went on through the spruce grove to the farm-house. "Hello the house," he called.
"That you, Blake?" came from within. "Yes, I'm out here at the back. Come in."
The carpenter made his way through to the studio, and there Nicholas Gayne rose from an armchair to meet him, and swayed slightly as he stood.
"You sent for me," said Blake, regarding the other's red-rimmed eyes.
"Yes, and you'll be glad I did when you see this, eh, old man?"
Gayne lurched toward the screen and took a bottle from behind it, and held it out triumphantly. "Kind o' dizzy 'cause I been asleep and you waked me sudden. 'Twas the shock, you see, the shock." He lurched back toward the table where there was a glass. He filled this half-full and offered it to his caller. "It's the real thing, the real thing," he said.
"I smell that it is," returned Blake dryly. "That's too stiff for me. No, no, Gayne," he added as the latter started to raise it to his own lips, and he took the glass from him, "you've had too much now. If you want anything of me, tell me while you've got sense enough to talk."
"You insult me, Blake," said the other with dignity. "I'm a gentleman and I know when I've had enough, and I know when I've had too much. Some folks never know that, but I do."
The carpenter regarded him impassively, and set the bottle and glass out of his reach. "Now go ahead. Tell me what you want."
"Want you to shingle the kitchen so's Ican—can cook there. Come and I'll show you." He opened a door in the studio which led into a damp room where the rain had fallen unmolested. "Want you to shingle this room."
"Nothing doing," said the carpenter.
"You won't say that when I show you what I've got here." Gayne's speech was thick and he took Blake's arm and led him across to a large covered stone crock sitting on a bench. "Home brew, Matt. Home brew. We can have many a cozy evening here when this gets into shape."
"Going to keep a horse?" asked the carpenter, lifting up what appeared to be a nosebag.
"No, no, that's strainer. You leave it to me, Matt. I'll give you something'll make your hair curl. All you got to do is shingle—"
"You ain't going to pay for having somebody else's property shingled?"
"'Tain't going to be somebody else's. Going to be mine. I'm going to buy the farm. There's a fortune on it." The speaker's legs were planted far apart to preserve his equilibrium, but even at that he swayed so far toward his visitor that Blake put up his hand to hold him off.
"Which have you found, gold or oil?" he asked, laughing.
His host assumed an impressive dignity. "Not gold, not oil. Spring."
"A spring? Of course you have. They're all over the lots. You'd better patronize 'em, too. You certainly need to put more water in it."
"I'm goin' tell you secret, Blake," said Gayne.
"Better not," said the carpenter good-naturedly.
"Goin' tell you. I've found mineral spring here."
"That so?" was the unperturbed reply.
"Great and won-wonderful water. Don't tell anybody."
"All right."
"Had chemist 'zamine it. Says it's got everything in it to cure you. Fortune in it. Fortune. You don't b'lieve me."
"Sounds a little fishy," remarked Blake.
"Lemme take your arm—I'll lead you to it."
The visitor supplied the arm and Gayne's heavy weight hung upon it. They went out of doors and Gayne stopped and looked around cautiously. "Where's that brat?" he demanded.
"Do you mean the boy? He's over there by the cove. Asleep, I think."
"Then come on. Can't trust him 'cause they're the kind that speak the truth. Fools, you know. Can trust you, Blake. Trust you anywhere."
"Thank you," returned the visitor dryly.
At some distance from the house, in a hollow overhung with rocks, the heavy weight on Matt's arm became heavier and Gayne pushed away some turf and stones with his foot, disclosing a puddle of dark-colored water. He stooped and, picking up a rusty tin cup, half-filled it, and presented it to his companion whose arm he released.
"There, if you don't b'lieve me!" he said triumphantly.
The carpenter accepted the cup doubtfully and smelled of it. "Phew!" he exclaimed with a grimace.
"'Course," said the other. "Sulphur. Won'ful sulphur spring. Cure you of ever'thing. Had it an'lyzed. Drink it."
Blake took a cautious sip.
"Tell you, Matt," said Gayne, speaking slowly and nodding with tipsy solemnity, "'twas m' guardian angel guided me to that spring."
The carpenter glanced at him with disfavor. "One sniff's enough to convince anybody o' that," he remarked. "At that, it's better for you than the stuff you've got in there on the table. Now, look here, Gayne, you're going to be sorry to-morrow you told me about this—"
"Wouldn't tell anybody else," vowed Gayne, solemnly, seizing his companion by the arm and pushing back the concealing turf and stones with his foot. "Nobody else on this earth. Fools own the farm put up the price if they knew."
"But what I was going to say is you needn't be sorry," went on Blake. "I'm not going to tell a soul. I don't want to be mixed up in your affairs, but do you think you can understand if I talk to you?"
"Un'stand! Well!" exclaimed Gayne. "I'm a man o' brains I'll have you know."
"Well, if you've got any, use 'em now," said Blake impatiently. "There ain't any money in a mineral spring unless you've got piles o' dough to put it on the market. Don't you know that?"
"I sh'd say so," nodded Gayne, triumphant again. "That's just what I'm goin' to have: piles o' dough. Bushels."
"Where are you goin' to get it?"
"Well, I'll tell you, Matt, 'cause you're a good friend and you know how to hold your tongue. That boy out there, that poor numskull is the heir to a big enough fortune to f'nance twenty springs."
"He is?" returned Blake, astonished. "What do you mean?"
"His grandfather is one of the richest men in Boston. Went to see him once. Took my proofs with me. Wouldn't look at 'em. Turned me out. He's sick as the devil. Always travelin' 'round tryin' to get well. I wouldn't—I would not give him one cup o' this water." Gayne gestured impressively as he made the ferocious declaration. "Just come home from Europe now. Saw it in the paper," he added.
"Then he'll leave his money where it won't do you any good," said Blake.
"I'll break the will. I've thought it all out. I'm a man o' brains. Bert'll get the money."
"Perhaps the boy won't want to spend it on springs."
A crafty change came over Gayne's face and he smiled. "He won't have any say. I'm his guardian, ain't I? And he's non compos,ain't he? He'll be put where he belongs, believe me."
"You'll shut him up, do you mean?" asked Blake, frowning.
"F'r his own good. You understand?"
"Your guardian angel suggested that to you, too, probably."
"Prob'bly did, Matt," was the pious reply. "If all his kind was shut up there'd be less crime in the papers. I put it off and put it off, but I ought to do it and do it soon."
The carpenter regarded the speaker in silence for some moments. Gayne's eyes were closing and opening sleepily.
"Now, see here, man. You go in the house and sleep this off. I'll take the boy down-along with me."
"I won't allow it," Gayne shook his head. "Women at the house pamperin' him. I won't have it. He'll stay where I am till I get him settled for life."
"I'm goin' to take the boy along with me," repeated Blake, speaking louder. "You're in no state for him to see you. Where'd you get your stuff, anyway?"
"Chemist p'esc'iption," said Gayne, as his companion drew him along at as swift a pace as possible.
"Well, next time, drink out o' your own mud puddle. I think it comes from the lower regions, anyway. You might as well be getting used to it."
Gayne laughed, but rather feebly. He was beginning to wonder just what he had said to his friend.
Matt got him into the house and into the lop-sided armchair where he had found him, and he fell asleep at once. Then the carpenter took the partly filled glass from the table and held it up to the light.
"I'd like it," he mused, "but, by thunder, that loafer's worse 'n a temperance lecture." And he threw the whiskey out of an open window.
The bottle he placed behind the screen; then, with one last disgusted look at his host, whose head was hanging sideways with the mouth open, he left the house.
Blake went back through the grove of firs to the cove bank and there he saw the boy again. He had sunk down on his back and, as Blake approached, appeared to be asleep. The man stooped over him.
"Hello, kid," he said.
As the boy did not move, Matt shook him gently by the shoulder. Bert jumped up with a start.
"I didn't—didn't hear you," he said. Then, looking up and seeing that it was a stranger, he got to his feet.
"Does—does Uncle Nick want me?" he asked.
Blake shook his head. "No, he's busy. You better go down the road with me."
"He told me—told me to wait for him," said the boy.
"Well, he doesn't want you now. He wants you to go along with me. I've just left him."
Upon this the boy followed obediently, and they walked together over the field to theroad. Blake occasionally looked at the unsmiling young face as he cogitated on Gayne's plans for the lad.
"Like it pretty well here?" he asked.
"No—yes—I don't know," was the answer.
The delicacy and refinement of the boy's face, and the utter hopelessness of it, stirred his companion, as he considered the one he had left in the tattered armchair. They walked on in silence until they had nearly reached the little island cemetery. Then the boy's long lashes lifted. He seemed to be gazing at the shafts and headstones.
"Uncle Nick says the—the ghosts don't have far to walk," he remarked.
The carpenter put his hand on Bert's shoulder. "Stuff and nonsense," he said. "You're too big a boy to believe that foolishness."
The dark eyes regarded him. "That's what Mrs. Lowell says. She says God takes care of us."
The carpenter nodded. "That's right," he returned emphatically. "I hope He's got His eye on you right now and will see you through. You tie to Mrs. Lowell and you believe what she says."
"Uncle Nick doesn't want me to. He says I'm—I'm better off alone."
"You're the best judge of that, I should say," remarked Matt bluntly. "We're all entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I hope you'll get 'em, kid. Stand up for yourself. Do you like Mrs. Lowell?"
"I—I don't know.—It isn't any use for me to—to like her. Uncle Nick doesn't." They began to pass hedges of wild roses. "She likes—likes flowers," added the boy.
"Take her some, that's right, take her some," said Blake, stopping and going to the side of the road.
"You won't tell Uncle Nick?" said Bert anxiously.
"No, blast him, I won't tell him. Here, I've got a knife. They know how to defend themselves all right, don't they?"
Bert gathered some of the flowers, amazingly large and deep of color they were, and Matt cut more, and a charming bunch was in the boy's hand at last. Blake noted that the sight of it brought color into the pale face.
"This must be another secret," said Bert. "Mrs. Lowell and I have some already."
They plodded on again.
"That's right," said Blake. "Hold 'emtight. That Mrs. Lowell and Miss Wilbur are friends worth having, I'm thinking." The man frowned at his own thoughts. The creed of the island had, as its first article: Mind your own business. Matt wished he could go to Mrs. Lowell and pour out to her all he had learned this afternoon, but had his pledged word not prevented, his own habit and training would have made it difficult.
When they reached the field which divided the road from the Inn, Blake parted from the boy, who started off for home with his prize. He stumbled over the knolls while looking at the blossoms, and inhaling their delicious fragrance.
When he had nearly reached the house, he met the quartette of croquet players, the girls escorting the men to the road.
Veronica and Barney Kelly came first and Diana and Philip followed.
"Oh, how lovely, Bertie!" exclaimed Veronica, stopping and stooping the five sun-kisses to smell deep of the roses.
"They are not—they are not for you," said the boy hastily.
"You've no taste, then," said Kelly, while Veronica laughed. "Have you a better girl than this one?"
Bertie pushed on in nervous haste, and Diana's smile did not detain him.
"Not for you either, apparently," remarked Philip.
"No," said Veronica. "I'mgood, Miss Wilbur isbetter, but hisbestgirl is at home on the porch."
There the boy found her, and luckily alone. He advanced holding out his gift without a word. She colored with pleasure as she accepted it, holding it in one hand and caressing it with the other as from time to time she took the sweet breath of the roses.
"Thank you so much, Bertie!" she exclaimed. "It must have taken you a long time to gather so many."
"No—he had a knife."
"Who, your uncle?"
"No—Mr. Blake. Uncle Nick mustn't know. You won't tell him?"
"No, dear child, I won't tell him." She looked in the boy's face for a reflection of her own pleasure, but there was none. He remained standing.
"Sit down, Bertie, you have had a long walk."
He did so with some reluctance. "This is the last—last time I'll sit with you," he said.
"Are you going away?" she asked, much concerned.
"No, but—but Uncle Nick doesn't—doesn't want me to speak to you—and you make me sad."
"How do I make you sad, Bertie?"
"Talking about—about things," he said vaguely. "If I don't think and don't talk, then—then it's better. Uncle Nick says so and—and I—it is so."
"Very well, Bertie," returned Mrs. Lowell quietly. "All I want is what is best for you."
He looked at her sweet face with the affection in the eyes. She was wearing a white dress and the blossoms were a roseate glow against it. He struggled against all that he blindly felt she represented: all he had lost, all that would have kept the present and the future from being blank. His face suffused with color, his eyes with tears.
"I can't bear it!" he said suddenly, with more force than she had supposed was in him, and rising with an energy of movement that sent his chair over with a crash, he fled into the house.
Mrs. Lowell bent her head over the flowers for minutes, and, when she raised it, therewas dew upon them. She looked off a moment in thought, then rose, went into the house and upstairs to the Gayne room. The door was ajar. She could hear the boy sobbing. Entering, she saw him stretched on his cot, and she approached, drawing a chair beside it.
Seating herself, she put a hand on his tightly doubled arm and looked at the averted, dark head, its face buried in the pillow.
She spoke to him quietly: "Bertie, I am going to do just as you plan and not ask you to go about with me any more, but I want you to remember all the time that I love you and am thinking of you, and knowing that better times are coming for you. No human being can have as much power over us as God has. He isn't going to forget His own children whom He has created. So the more you think about Him, knowing that He is all-powerful and all-loving, the sooner you will feel His help coming to you. We don't know just how or when, but be sure it will come if you won't listen to discouragement. Discouragement is like a cloud that hides the sun, and God is the sun of the whole universe. You are trying to hide away from Him when you weep and let thoughts of grief and despair come in."
Her voice carried through the nervous, dry sobs, and they lessened as she talked. When she finished, the dark head lay still on the pillow. She patted the thin arm.
"Now I will leave you, Bertie," she went on. "Try to think about the Shepherd. 'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.' Say that over and over to yourself, and know that it is true. Some day all these things that seem barriers to everything that you feel makes life worth living, will melt away. Think about it, and be hopeful, dear child. Remember I am in the house when you want me, and remember that I love to help you. Good-bye, dear."
She stooped over the averted face and kissed the boy's temple. Then she passed out and down the stairs.
The answer to Diana's telegram came from her mother, and read as follows:
Your father away on the yacht. Be cautious socially. No Loring relatives or friends in this country. Letter follows.
Your father away on the yacht. Be cautious socially. No Loring relatives or friends in this country. Letter follows.
The letter did follow with great promptness. It was the old story of the worried hen who had hatched a duck.
My dear child:You say you are feeling very well again, sleeping soundly and eating with good appetite. Then do come home at once. I have submitted to your wild-goose chase because the doctor approved, and it was evidently working well, but I haven't really had an easy minute since you left. When you said that even taking a maid with you would make you nervous, and I allowed you to go off to a strange island quite alone, I put a great constraint upon myself. Your wire shows me that you are encountering some of the circumstances which I feared, and which will lead to future embarrassment. Some people are evidently trying to claim acquaintance or even relationship with our family. I wired you that there were no Lorings connected with us in this country. It was an odd coincidence that just after I sent the message to you, I picked up a newspaper and saw that Herbert Loring had returned from Paris and was staying at the Copley-Plaza. I am quite certainhehas not emigrated to your island. So my message is true enough. He is a distant cousin of your father's and though not an old man is a very broken one, owing to family troubles. Seeing his name in the paper brought up sad memories and made me thankful for a good, conscientious daughter who will always remember what is due her family, and now, when you are thrown among ordinary people, such as you have never come in contact with, is a good time to speak of such a tragedy. Mr. Loring's only child was a daughter, a pretty, artistic girl of whom he was inordinately proudand fond. She became infatuated with a man whom her father forbade her even to see. She eloped with him. Oh, the agony she caused that father, who had lost his wife years before. Of course, he did the only thing possible in such a case—forbade her name to be mentioned. He became very ill, and, as soon as he was convalescent, gave up business and went abroad. He has spent all the years since—about fifteen, I think—in traveling about, trying to recover his health and divert his mind. Now the poor, weary man has come back again. I am wondering if he will open his house. He is wealthy, and, if his health is restored, he may do so and take up life again. I am sure your father will wish to communicate with Mr. Loring as soon as he returns from his cruise. Perhaps the lonely man will accept an invitation to visit us.I think it a grave question whether the artistic temperament does not furnish more sorrow than joy to the world. I am proud and thankful that I have a daughter to whom an infatuation would be an impossibility. Come back, Diana, if you feel strong enough. I promise to preserve you from gayety if you wish me to do so. I do not feel at all easy about you. Please write and set a date for coming, explaining also all that lay behind your wire.Your affectionateMother
My dear child:
You say you are feeling very well again, sleeping soundly and eating with good appetite. Then do come home at once. I have submitted to your wild-goose chase because the doctor approved, and it was evidently working well, but I haven't really had an easy minute since you left. When you said that even taking a maid with you would make you nervous, and I allowed you to go off to a strange island quite alone, I put a great constraint upon myself. Your wire shows me that you are encountering some of the circumstances which I feared, and which will lead to future embarrassment. Some people are evidently trying to claim acquaintance or even relationship with our family. I wired you that there were no Lorings connected with us in this country. It was an odd coincidence that just after I sent the message to you, I picked up a newspaper and saw that Herbert Loring had returned from Paris and was staying at the Copley-Plaza. I am quite certainhehas not emigrated to your island. So my message is true enough. He is a distant cousin of your father's and though not an old man is a very broken one, owing to family troubles. Seeing his name in the paper brought up sad memories and made me thankful for a good, conscientious daughter who will always remember what is due her family, and now, when you are thrown among ordinary people, such as you have never come in contact with, is a good time to speak of such a tragedy. Mr. Loring's only child was a daughter, a pretty, artistic girl of whom he was inordinately proudand fond. She became infatuated with a man whom her father forbade her even to see. She eloped with him. Oh, the agony she caused that father, who had lost his wife years before. Of course, he did the only thing possible in such a case—forbade her name to be mentioned. He became very ill, and, as soon as he was convalescent, gave up business and went abroad. He has spent all the years since—about fifteen, I think—in traveling about, trying to recover his health and divert his mind. Now the poor, weary man has come back again. I am wondering if he will open his house. He is wealthy, and, if his health is restored, he may do so and take up life again. I am sure your father will wish to communicate with Mr. Loring as soon as he returns from his cruise. Perhaps the lonely man will accept an invitation to visit us.
I think it a grave question whether the artistic temperament does not furnish more sorrow than joy to the world. I am proud and thankful that I have a daughter to whom an infatuation would be an impossibility. Come back, Diana, if you feel strong enough. I promise to preserve you from gayety if you wish me to do so. I do not feel at all easy about you. Please write and set a date for coming, explaining also all that lay behind your wire.
Your affectionateMother
By the time Diana finished reading this letter, her hands were trembling.
She hurried to Mrs. Lowell's room. Arather stifled voice bade her enter. Her friend was stooping over the washstand bathing her eyes. Her face, as she looked up through the splashing, showed an April smile.
"I knew it was you," she said. "I recognized the step, and I knew you wouldn't mind discovering that I cry once in a while."
"My dear Mrs. Lowell, I'm sorry for whatever distresses you."
"Oh, it is just that dear talented, wretched boy. I couldn't help weeping a few little weeps; but what happy thing has happened to you, my dear?" she added, catching the excitement in the girl's face. She dried her own finally, and came forward and Diana put the letter into her hands.
They both stood in silence until Mrs. Lowell had finished reading and looked up. Her cheeks were as flushed as Diana's, and they exchanged a radiant gaze and then sat down.
"One always weeps too soon," said Mrs. Lowell at last.
"I was thinking," said Diana, looking off, "that it might be a good plan for me to go to Mr. Loring myself."
"You good girl! Do you know him?"
"Not at all, but any one can go to the Copley-Plaza, and I can tell him I am his cousin."
"You're a precious child. When had you thought of going?"
"Immediately," said Diana, with recovered serenity.
"Shall I go to Boston with you?"
"It will not be necessary, I think."
"But your mother would prefer it, I am sure. Yes, I see that I should go," added Mrs. Lowell, casting a glance at the rich stationery in her hand with its heading "Idlewild, Newport, R. I." She could feel the probable disapproval of this move which Mrs. Wilbur would feel.
Nicholas Gayne did not come back to the Inn to supper that afternoon. Bertie came to the table expecting his uncle would be there and not daring to absent himself, but he showed the effect of his unwonted outburst in such extra pallor and lassitude that Veronica was moved to give him her choicest offerings. Mrs. Lowell thought it best for his calm not to take any notice of him, but she and Diana found it difficult to control the excitement that beset their hearts as they looked at him: the drooping bird in the cage of a cruel and neglectful master, the key that would unlock its door almost in their hands.
The next morning they took the early boat from the island, leaving word that they were going to Boston for a few days. Miss Burridge gave them their coffee and toast and bade them God-speed, little reckoning how appropriate was the prayer for them.
Arrived at the hotel in Boston, an inquiry for Herbert Loring revealed that he was still there, but indisposed and not seeing visitors.
In the suite Diana engaged, the two friends discussed ways and means, and it was decided that Diana should write a note to the invalid and make herself known.
My dear Mr. Loring(she wrote),I might perhaps call you Cousin Herbert, for I believe my father, Charles Wilbur, claims relationship, and, if you grant me permission, I certainly shall do so. I believe you and my father had time to see something of one another before steel swallowed him up and you became absorbed in railroads. My mother is at our cottage in Newport, and is wondering whether you could be induced to visit us when Father returns from a cruise he is taking. I am here in the hotel for a short time, and would like very much to call on you if there is some half-hour when you would feel like seeing a relative, even though you could not grant a similar privilege to an outsider. I shall be so glad if you can allow me to make your acquaintance. It would be a satisfaction to my parents to hear from you by word of mouth. My mother saw by the papers that you were back in this country and shewrote me of it. I have been on one of the islands in Casco Bay where one gets very near to Nature's heart: the best thing that can happen to a tired schoolgirl.Kindly let me hear from you, and I shall be grateful if you will see me. After all, though we are strangers, blood is thicker than water!Yours cordiallyDiana Wilbur
My dear Mr. Loring(she wrote),
I might perhaps call you Cousin Herbert, for I believe my father, Charles Wilbur, claims relationship, and, if you grant me permission, I certainly shall do so. I believe you and my father had time to see something of one another before steel swallowed him up and you became absorbed in railroads. My mother is at our cottage in Newport, and is wondering whether you could be induced to visit us when Father returns from a cruise he is taking. I am here in the hotel for a short time, and would like very much to call on you if there is some half-hour when you would feel like seeing a relative, even though you could not grant a similar privilege to an outsider. I shall be so glad if you can allow me to make your acquaintance. It would be a satisfaction to my parents to hear from you by word of mouth. My mother saw by the papers that you were back in this country and shewrote me of it. I have been on one of the islands in Casco Bay where one gets very near to Nature's heart: the best thing that can happen to a tired schoolgirl.
Kindly let me hear from you, and I shall be grateful if you will see me. After all, though we are strangers, blood is thicker than water!
Yours cordiallyDiana Wilbur
"This is most extraordinary, upon my word, it is most extraordinary," was Herbert Loring's comment when he had read this communication. His words might have been addressed to thin air or to Marlitt, his man; and Marlitt knew by experience that it was well not to appropriate them until he had received some further hint. So he stood at attention and looked with interest at the view from an opposite window.
His employer was a haggard man, with a white mustache and gray hair. He was immaculately groomed and was seated in a reclining chair, his feet supported on the footrest. He wore a rich dressing-gown of gray silk. One noticed that his left arm was never raised, but with his right hand he now stroked his mustache. There were pouches under the eyes he lifted to his valet.
"Here is a schoolgirl in the hotel who wantsto come to see me; says she's my cousin. I'm a nice figure to receive a schoolgirl."
Marlitt raised his eyebrows. "You are certainly in shape to receive anybody, sir. But this young lady? May she be an impostor, sir?"
"No. I think not." Marlitt perceived that the note was an agreeable incident. "She says she is the daughter of Wilbur, the Philadelphia steel man. It's odd that they should not have forgotten me."
"Begging your pardon, sir, I think if you were not so determined to deny yourself to friends, you would find that no one who had once known you would have forgotten."
The sick man glanced back at the note in his lap. It escaped him on the slippery silk and he made an involuntary effort with the useless arm to recover it. He frowned, and Marlitt, stooping quickly, picked up the sheet and restored it. The invalid read the letter once again.
"Send word to this young lady that I will see her at three-thirty to-day," he said at last.
With much rejoicing, Diana, when she had received this word, arrayed herself for the call. She wore a thin gray gown with a rose at thegirdle, and Mrs. Lowell, regarding her with admiration, thought no one could be better equipped externally to win the fastidious masculine heart.
Herbert Loring thought so, too, when at the appointed hour she entered his room, and he received a swift impression of her fine quality.
"Welcome, my little cousin," he said as he met her eyes and the serene and charming smile irradiating her youthful beauty. "I am a useless hulk; can't get out of this chair without help. So you will pardon me."
She put her hand in the one he offered, and Marlitt placed a chair beside him in such fashion that she faced him.
"That makes it the more gracious of you to receive me," she replied.
"I should never have known what I missed, had I refused," he said gallantly. "My friend Wilbur has a very beautiful daughter."
Marlitt disappeared into the next room, and Diana blushed.
"Even in spite of sunburn?" she said.
"I was really touched, Cousin Diana, that your parents should remember me sufficiently for you to take the trouble to come to see me. It is a long time since anything haspleased me so much. I have been such a rover that I am a stranger in my own land."
Diana had not expected to feel guilty of false pretences, but this speech accused her even while it lent her increased courage, since his was a heart that could be touched.
"I hope you will visit us," she said, "after I return to Newport."
"Are you on your way there now?"
"No, not quite yet. It is difficult to tear one's self away from Casco Bay after one once falls under the spell."
Loring nodded. "I know the environment. Very piney and fresh and all that. Cold water though, very cold."
"Yes, but we all take dips in it."
"Youth!" said the sick man, shaking his head. "Youth!"
"If one does not swim, I know it is quite too cold," said Diana. "I am glad you are familiar with that country, for then you can sympathize with my enthusiasm. I long to have a place there of my own and, perhaps with such congruity of taste, you and I together can persuade my parents that it would not be too erratic in me to buy a part of that green hill and be there a little while every year."
The invalid nodded. "I'll say Amen to anything you indicate," he returned readily.
How devoutly Diana hoped this promise might be kept!
"I have another reason for being glad to meet a man relative just now," she went on. "There are some people at the Inn where I am staying who present such a strange problem. When injustice is obviously being done, one longs to help."
Her companion nodded. "That is natural, but usually futile," he said. "It is a very good rule to 'keep off the grass.'"
"Yes, but this affair makes me very unhappy, Cousin Herbert."
"A shame," he returned, and he would like to have patted her pretty hand, but she was on his left side. "Too bad there is always some serpent in paradise. Don't be too tender-hearted, my dear. Don't be too tender-hearted. It doesn't pay. Of course, where-ever you go people will try to lay you under tribute. You must learn to wear an armor, a full suit of chain armor under your dainty costumes."
"This is not a question of money," said Diana, her heart beating faster and, for the first time, she quaked at the full realizationof her errand. "Would you let me tell you about it, Cousin Herbert?"
"Why, of course, my child, if it is any satisfaction to you to confide in such a useless old cripple as I have become."
"You are far from that," returned the girl, steadying the voice which threatened to waver. "Your opinion on the subject will be very valuable to me."
The sick man lifted his heavy eyebrows and smoothed his mustache. "Then proceed, by all means," he said. "One thing I have in tragic abundance is time; and I am flattered."
"There is a man at our Inn," began Diana, her fingers tightly intertwined in her lap, "who has a young boy in his power. The lad is his nephew. He shows every sign of years of neglect. The uncle continually betrays himself, and scarcely tries to hide the fact that he is looking forward to incarcerating the boy in some institution for the deranged."
"Simply to get rid of him?"
"No; there is money back in the family somewhere, and we—I have come to the conviction that this man believes the boy will fall heir to it, and that, if he is safely out of the way, the uncle as guardian will get control of this money."
"What sort of mentality does the boy seem to have?"
"He is a sensitive, fine-grained lad with just the sort of nature which persistent brutality will blight and paralyze. He has been so neglected that he has little physical resistance and one can see him being gradually crushed with as little hope of escape as the fly in the spider's web."
"And you take it greatly to heart, eh?" said the invalid, regarding the girl's flushed face and appealing eyes.
"Wouldn't any one?" she asked.
"A confounded nuisance to have such a circumstance mar your vacation."
"Oh, think of the boy's side of it, Cousin Herbert!"
"You want my opinion? I think the law could take a hand there."
"Yes; but the law is so slow!" Diana swallowed. "So near a relative as an uncle, own brother to the boy's father, can put up a hypocritical fight and establish a very strong claim."
Herbert Loring shook his head. "My dear child, in your position, if you begin on this Quixotic business, there will be no end to it, believe me. You can't right all the wrongs inthe world, and you will have the pack in full cry after you if it is known that you have let down the bars. You can state this case to a lawyer, and put it in his hands with the understanding that you will pay the bills, but your identity must be kept secret. Then let them fight it out. You can't do any more than that. A pity I didn't know you were here this morning. My lawyer was with me." The speaker's tired eyes smiled and the corners of his mustache lifted slightly. "I have celebrated my return by destroying my will and the new business was to have been finished this morning, but I was uncertain about some matters that the lawyer is looking up to-day. He will come to-morrow morning to draw up the new will, and before he goes I will send for you and you shall tell him about your boy and his ogre of an uncle."
Diana's heart was beating fast now. She summoned all her courage. "What is so exciting to me, Cousin Herbert," she began,—and he wondered to hear the wavering in her voice,—"is that lately I have learned that this lad is related to some one rich and powerful who could rescue him at once."
A puzzled frown came in Loring's forehead.
"Any one I know?" he asked.
"Surely, or I should not trouble you at a time when you are not feeling strong. Cousin Herbert, this neglected boy belongs to you. He is your grandson." Diana unconsciously stretched her clasped hands toward him.
A strange white change came over her listener's face and the expression that awoke in the eyes that met hers was terrible to her.
"This is the explanation of your desire to make my acquaintance," he said in a changed voice.
She was so frightened that she seemed to hear her own heartbeats. "The boy's name is Gayne. Herbert Loring Gayne," she went on, desperately.
"Miss Wilbur, you have ventured in where angels would fear to tread," said the sick man sternly, "but you awake no memory. That room where you intrude is bare and empty. You—"
"He is talented," pleaded Diana. "Very talented as an artist. Any family might be proud to own him and bring him out of a cellar into the sunshine. Think of the interest in life it would give you. Think it over, Cousin Herbert. Just be willing to see him once—"
While she was talking, her companion touched the bell on the table beside him and the words died on her lips as the valet came into the room.
"I am tired, Marlitt," said the invalid huskily. "Miss Wilbur is ready to go." His head fell back against a down pillow. "Pardon my not attending you to the door," he added, ignoring the girl's wet-eyed confusion. She gathered herself together and rose.
"Thank you for allowing me to come in," she said, inclining her head; then she turned toward the door which Marlitt held open.
She continued to hold her head high until she reached her own apartment, where Mrs. Lowell was waiting. The latter started to her feet as she viewed her friend's entrance and noted her excited color and trembling lips.
Diana succeeded in uttering one word, "Hopeless," then she succumbed into Mrs. Lowell's arms and fell into wild weeping on her shoulder.
Led to a couch, she lay upon it and continued weeping while Mrs. Lowell sat beside her and held her hand comfortingly.
"We did right to come, however," she said, when, after a time, the girl was quiet, "and you fulfilled your duty bravely in going tohim. You cannot tell what fruit your visit may bring forth. Don't try to tell me about it now. He has suffered a terrible wound to his pride and heart, and even after many years it could smart when touched. We mustn't be discouraged. Our mission is a righteous one and so God is on our side, and if we don't accomplish the child's deliverance in this way, we shall in some other way. I am going to read to you one of the most inspired and inspiring poems ever written," and, taking up her Bible, Mrs. Lowell turned its pages and read aloud the ninety-first psalm.