"The owl and the pussy cat went to seaIn a beautiful pea-green boat,They took some honey and plenty of moneyWrapped up in a five-pound note.The owl looked up to the stars aboveAnd sang to a small guitar,'Oh, lovely Pussy, Oh, Pussy, my love,What a beautiful Pussy you are!'"
"The owl and the pussy cat went to seaIn a beautiful pea-green boat,They took some honey and plenty of moneyWrapped up in a five-pound note.The owl looked up to the stars aboveAnd sang to a small guitar,'Oh, lovely Pussy, Oh, Pussy, my love,What a beautiful Pussy you are!'"
"The owl and the pussy cat went to seaIn a beautiful pea-green boat,They took some honey and plenty of moneyWrapped up in a five-pound note.The owl looked up to the stars aboveAnd sang to a small guitar,'Oh, lovely Pussy, Oh, Pussy, my love,What a beautiful Pussy you are!'"
"The owl and the pussy cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey and plenty of money
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The owl looked up to the stars above
And sang to a small guitar,
'Oh, lovely Pussy, Oh, Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are!'"
* * * * * *
Philip had never seen Diana look as lovely as when he finished and rose. There was no doubt now that she could laugh. His enunciation was perfect, and the alternations of sentimentality and fire with which he had delivered the nonsense made it thrilling in the little room where his velvet, vibrant tones at moments shook the shells on the mantelpiece, while they flowed around the listener's heart.
"That was delectable," laughed Diana, applauding, her eyes moist with excitement.
"Yes, ain't that a funny tune?" said Mrs. Dorking, looking with affectionate pride at her grandson as he emerged around the end of the piano.
"We have to be off, Grammy," he said, "or Barney will be lost in the shuffle."
Mrs. Dorking rose and urged Diana warmly to come again, and the girl promised that she would do so. When they were outside she spoke:
"Is your Aunt Maria your grandmother's sister?"
"Oh, no." Philip laughed. "She is a good village-aunt who helps in the home. She likes to look harassed and overworked, but she adores having charge of the house since my grandfather's death, and is devoted to Grammy. Barney Kelly will have to look out for himself, for Aunt Maria is an excellent cook and Kelly would be inclined to umbumpum if he didn't mortify the flesh. He's a Canuck and one of the best fellows going."
"And are those summer cottages?" asked Diana, her glance sweeping over an adjacent field. It was high ground sloping gradually to the sea, and was dotted with shingled cottages of varying shapes and sizes.
"Yes, that was my grandfather's pasture, and many a time I've gone there for the cows. But one woman after another besieged him for the ground, and he sold it off."
"If I had some land here, I would prefer to be more isolated," said Diana.
"Then you would better speak quick," said Philip. "The country seems to have its eye on Casco Bay. There comes the boat around the point now."
They hastened their pace and went down a flight of steps which led to the wharf. It was a busy spot full of people and trunks and barrels and boxes. Everybody greeted Philip and looked at Diana, and Philip presently descried the peering face of a man on the upper deck of the approaching boat. He was dressed in a double-breasted suit of a fine check and carried a stick which, presently descrying Philip's blond head, he shook in his direction and, picking up his bag, turned and went downstairs at the call: "Land from the lower deck." The newcomer was evidently alive all over and impatient of the delay to the moment when he could run up the gangplank. From time to time he shook his stick toward Philip, and gazed at the girl beside him. At last he gained the wharf, setdown his bag and shook hands with Philip. Being presented to Miss Wilbur, he took off his hat and disclosed tight curly hair, close-clipped and groomed to the last degree of shine.
"Perfectly heavenly sail we've had down, or up, I don't know which it is," he exclaimed with a burr to hisr's which increased the enthusiastic effect of his speech.
"I told you it was paradise," said Philip.
"And you proved it by bringing one o' the angels with you," returned Kelly, smiling at Diana.
She regarded him with her usual serenity. "I see that, like Mr. Barrison, you enjoy using hyperbole," she said.
"Really," returned Kelly curiously. "Am I that clever? Yes, old chap, here's my check. I have a box somewhere around these diggings."
"Now, wait a minute," said Philip. "I lured Miss Wilbur down here with me to meet you and now I must return her honorably to her dinner.Oh, Bill."
He pushed through the crowd to where the motor stood, the center of new arrivals. "Save one seat, Bill," he said. "Lady for Miss Burridge's."
There was some good-natured crowding, but there being two more passengers for Miss Burridge's, Diana was squeezed in, and Barney Kelly, his hat waving from his hand, quite eclipsed Philip in the attentiveness with which he bade her godspeed.
"Who's the Vere de Vere?" he asked when Bill Lindsay had whipped up his engine and moved off.
"A young lady from Philadelphia," returned Philip, a trifle stiffly.
"Aren't touchy about her, are you? Great Scott, boy, you haven't had time! Now, if it had been me, a day's enough. Fire and tow. Fire and tow. You'd supply the tow all right, old cotton-top, but I'll be hanged if I can see where she'd provide the spark. Don't you touch that bag, Barrison," for Philip had caught up his guest's suitcase. "Like a condemned fool, I put the scores in it instead of in the box. There must be some horse here that wouldn't take it quite so much to heart as I do."
"All right," said Philip. "It can come up with your trunk. Here, Matt,"—for the too-popular carpenter was expressman as well,—"this is my friend Mr. Kelly. He aids and abets me when I shriek at the public and he'sloaded up his bag with music. Bring it along with his trunk, will you? Here's the check. Mr. Blake, Barney."
The newcomer shook hands with the long-legged, long-armed thin man in his shirtsleeves, and Matt Blake appraised the stranger out of his blue, grave, shrewd island eyes.
"Just crazy about this place already, Mr. Blake, just crazy about it," the newcomer assured him, and Matt Blake nodded his old straw hat and listed the volatile Barney as "another nut."
It was about a week afterward that opportunity found Mrs. Lowell and Nicholas Gayne together one evening in the living-room of the Inn. It was cool and a wood fire blazed on the hearth, but the night was still inviting and had lured the others to put on wraps and stay out of doors.
When Mrs. Lowell came in, Gayne was in a wicker rocker before the fire, his legs stretched out, and, as the lady entered, he drew them in and rose.
"You are choosing the better part, too, are you?" he said, not doubting that his presence was proving as much of an attraction as the fire. Two other men had arrived, teachersfrom a boys' school, Evans and Pratt by name, and it was probable that Miss Emerson was figuratively sitting at the feet of one of them and asking questions about the stars. At all events, she was out of doors. Nicholas Gayne had looked up apprehensively at Mrs. Lowell's entrance, fearing the worst; and his relief caused him to be quite effusive in his welcome of the lady and the manner in which he brought forward a chair for her.
"Have you had a good day?" she asked as she seated herself and he fell back into his rocker.
"It has been a nice day, yes."
"I meant as to your work."
"My work?"
"Yes, your sketching."
"Oh. Oh, yes, of course. Fine. Very clear. Very good views."
"I suppose you elaborate these in your studio in town."
"What? Oh, well—it isn't much of a studio at that. It is more or less on the side—my art work. I—I make no pretensions. Everybody's got to have a fad to be truly happy, haven't they? I like to scrawl and daub a little."
"You are modest. I've been expecting youwould show us some of these views. This place is surely one to tempt the artist. Doubtless you have seen some of Frederic Waugh's canvases done from the sketches he made here."
"Eh? Who? Oh, yes, of course," replied Gayne lamely. "Strange that that Miss Wilbur should ever have struck this island. I understand she's the daughter of the steel man. I suppose she's slumming." Gayne laughed.
Mrs. Lowell could not force a responsive smile. "She is a very charming girl." After a pause: "I've had several talks with your nephew, Mr. Gayne."
Her companion shook off the ash from his cigar into the fire.
"You did the talking, I'm sure," he responded dryly, and his manner made her determined to be doubly careful how she proceeded.
"This place should build him up," she said. "He seems a rather fragile boy."
"Yes. He grew too fast; makes him rather weedy. Too bad he didn't keep pace mentally. He's weedy there, too."
"I should think it might be well to have him tutored for an hour a day while he is here."Mrs. Lowell tried to speak carelessly as she kept her eyes on the blaze.
"How could you find a tutor in a place like this?" was the response. "Surely Mr. Pratt and Mr. Evans—I understand they are teachers—wouldn't take kindly to the task of trying to find Bert's brains while they're on their vacation."
"No, I was thinking of a very simple plan. Miss Burridge's niece, Veronica, would perhaps be glad to work with the boy an hour a day. She has a good common education."
"Nothing doing, Mrs. Lowell." Nicholas Gayne sat up in his chair and evidently put a constraint upon himself. "You come upon this problem as a new one and you think you understand it, but you don't. You think it's not hopeless, but it is. The boy began by being backward and he's got worse and worse all his life. He couldn't keep up with any class in school and I finally took him out. Oh, I've done my best, believeme. I had a tutor come to the house for a while, but I was finally convinced that Bert hadn't the equipment to thinkwith. Of course, there's schools for deficient children, but have you got any idea what they cost? I'm a poor man. I couldn't pay what they tax you. Bert'llend up in an institution, that's the place for him; but I'm soft-hearted. I'll keep him with me as long as I can. The doctors all warn you that it isn't safe. That kind of weak intellect is liable to take a dangerous turn any time. There's thousands of cases where relations have insisted on keeping morons like Bert near them too long. I only hope I shan't. Just take my advice, Mrs. Lowell, and don't have much to say to the boy. He gets along best when he's left alone. It doesn't do to try to wake up that kind of a brain. There's no normal balance there, and any sharpening is liable to make it take a wrong shoot. I've been on this problem five years, and, believeme, I know something about it."
The speaker's voice grew more and more blustering as he proceeded, and Mrs. Lowell could feel her limbs trembling with the intensity of her own feeling and the necessity for concealing her thoughts from him.
"He is your brother's child, I understand," she said quietly, when Gayne had made his last emphatic gesture and sunk back in his chair, red in the face.
"Yes, he is. These things are awful in a family."
"Awful," echoed Mrs. Lowell.
The next morning, after breakfast, she went to Diana's room and knocked. The girl welcomed her in. She was shaking a blanket.
"I do enjoy making my bed so much," she said. "I learned how at school."
"Then let me watch you do it while I talk to you." The visitor sat down, and Diana went on in the most earnest manner to tuck in sheets and pat and smooth pillows as if her life depended on the squareness of corners.
"I had a talk with Mr. Gayne last night."
"I observed you through the window. I felt a certainty that you were not happy."
"It was an ordeal, but I verified my suspicions—my worst suspicions. The man is planning to get his nephew out of the way, to have him shut up."
Diana left the flap of a pillow-case to its fate and faced her caller.
"To incarcerate him!"
"Yes. In an asylum. Some state institution. He has been training the boy toward that end. You have seen it. I have seen it. What is his motive? That is the question."
"Don't you think it may be merely to rid himself of a burden which hampers his life?"
"But his own flesh and blood!" exclaimed Mrs. Lowell. "Does any one live who would go to such lengths without a greater reason? Miss Wilbur, let us see what the man does in these daily rambles of his. I am convinced that his artistic pose is a cloak. He didn't even know who Frederic Waugh was."
"Oh, but to accompany the creature!" protested Diana.
"No, of course, we shouldn't find out anything by accompanying him except that he cannot sketch, and I'm sure of that already. But let us go to walk this morning, and why not visit the haunted farm?"
"No reason except that he knows we are aware that he haunts the place, which, if I were a ghost, would make it immune from my visits."
"Yes, but he cannot expect us to remember or care where he goes. I feel I must be doing something about this, no matter how slight, and—and don't let Miss Emerson join us as we go out."
"Perish the thought!" said Diana devoutly.
"God will not let this outrage take place," said Mrs. Lowell, her thought leaping back from Miss Emerson to the neglected boy. "Iwish I could ask Bertie to go with us, but I feel I must be very careful not to let his uncle suspect the depth of my interest."
"Miss Emerson is very timorous about horned cattle," said Diana. "We can remember that. Sunburn, too. She has a great dread of becoming tanned."
With these encouraging considerations the two amateur detectives stole downstairs. Mrs. Lowell went to the kitchen where Veronica was as usual at this hour drying the breakfast dishes.
"Miss Veronica," she said, "would you do a little missionary work this morning?"
"I'd like to hear about it first," was the cautious reply.
"Veronica is ready for every good word and work, Mrs. Lowell," put in Miss Burridge, "but she's a busy child."
"I know that, but I wondered if she could give half an hour to playing a game of croquet with Bert Gayne."
"Oh, land!" exclaimed the girl, aghast. "He won't want to."
"That's the point, Miss Veronica,"—Mrs. Lowell looked with her loving, radiant gaze into the young girl's eyes. "We want to make him know that young people don'tshrink from him. He knows that I don't. I want him to know that an attractive young girl like you doesn't either. You can see that his mind is sick. He has had great sorrow."
"Sure!" said Veronica. "It's sorrow enough to have that uncle of his."
"Ve-ronica!" exclaimed Miss Burridge with one of her warning looks at the back of Genevieve's head.
"You know now what I meant by calling it missionary work," said Mrs. Lowell. "Think about it if you have time. You will find the boy dull and distrustful. I have great hopes of you. Try to make him bright and trustful. I know it can't be done in a minute." The speaker again smiled confidentially into the girl's eyes.
Diana appeared in the entrance.
"Miss Emerson is in the hammock," she said softly. "Shall we take the back way?"
They slipped out the kitchen door and Veronica scrubbed a plate already dry.
"Mrs. Lowell is the sweetest, prettiest, most darling woman I ever saw," she stated.
"But nothin' like that Miss Diana," uttered Genevieve in, for her, a lowered voice. "She's so grand it scares me when she looksat me, and Matt Blake says her father owns the whole of Pennsylvania."
Veronica turned up an already aspiring nose and grunted disparagingly. It was hard to forgive Diana for being a goddess and not chewing gum.
"'Where every prospect pleases,'" said Diana, "'and only man is vile.'"
They had crossed the field and come up to the height of the road which commanded an extensive view of the bay and other islands. They stood still for a minute.
"Are you at all interested in metaphysics, Miss Diana?" asked her companion.
"I think I am. I am interested in everything."
"I don't like the latter half of that quotation," said Mrs. Lowell. "It stands to reason that God couldn't create anything vile."
"No, of course," agreed the girl. "It is man who makes himself vile."
"God's man couldn't do that either," returned Mrs. Lowell. "There is no potentiality in him for vileness."
"Then," said Diana, "how do you explain Mr. Gayne and his like?"
"He is a man whose real selfhood is buried under a mass of selfishness and cruelty, the beliefs of error and mortality. God doesn'teven know what the poor creature believes, and all his mistakes and blundering will have to be blotted out finally by suffering, unless he should learn to turn to the Love that is always available; for God can't know anything unlike Himself."
"Your ideas are quite new to me," said the girl. "I am an Episcopalian."
Mrs. Lowell smiled. She understood this final tone.
"Then you are satisfied, I see."
"So far as religion goes, yes."
"Religion goes all the way, my dear girl."
They turned to the right and continued their walk.
"The islanders call this direction 'up-along,' Mr. Blake told me," said Diana. "If we had turned south we should have gone 'down-along.' Isn't that quaint? Mr. Barrison's grandmother lives down-along. He took me to see her the other day, the sweetest old lady."
"That refreshing young man hails from here, then?"
"Yes. He is the Viking type, is he not? I can picture him in the prow of one of those strange Norse ships. Physically he seems an anachronism."
Mrs. Lowell smiled. "Physically, perhaps, but colloquially he is certainly an up-to-the-minute American."
"He is an eminent singer and has shown himself a hero in arriving at that point."
"A hero, really?"
"Yes, but most unconsciously so."
"He is certainly as unaffected and straightforward as a child," said Mrs. Lowell. "I hope he will sing for us."
"I have heard him once," said Diana. "It was merely a nonsense song, because he had only an heirloom of a piano—a harp he called it, and I imagine harpsichords did sound similar to that. Now, we are on a high point of the island, Mrs. Lowell."
They paused again and, looking off, saw a vast ocean in all directions, foam breaking on its ledges. Mrs. Lowell drew a long breath of delight.
"'Every prospect pleases,'" she said.
"Does it not seem a pity," returned Diana, "that it is our duty to hunt for a vile, imitation man?"
Mrs. Lowell laughed. "He is scarcely even an imitation," she replied. "But come," she sighed, "let us go after him. I wonder what gave this farm its reputation." They walked on.
"I'll ask Mr. Blake," began Diana. "Oh, here he comes now."
The carpenter was returning down the island preparing to take up his freight duties on the wharf. Diana accosted him and introduced him to Mrs. Lowell.
The latter shook hands with Matt, her radiant smile beaming, "I am glad to meet you, Mr. Blake," she said. "You seem to be Miss Wilbur's oracle. She is always quoting you, and I am rather curious about this farm up here. Why do they call it haunted?"
"Oh," said Blake, "let any place be left empty a few years, and windows get loose, and blinds bang, and it's called haunted."
"I suppose that is often true," said Mrs. Lowell. "It is an abandoned farm, then?"
"Yes, for many years."
"I don't know why I have never inspected it," said Diana, "when who knows but it is the very homestead for me?"
Matt Blake shook his head and smiled. "The old house is crumbling away. There is a part of it that'll keep the rain off, and there Mr. Gayne keeps his stuff."
"Stuff?" echoed Mrs. Lowell interrogatively.
"Brushes and paints and pencils and all his outfit," said Blake.
"Oh, oh, yes," replied the lady. "You know in the West a squatter claims complete rights to the land he has settled on. I hope Mr. Gayne hasn't established an ownership up there that will make us seem like intruders. We thought we would like to see this exciting place."
"'Tain't exciting," said Matt Blake with another shake of the head. "It's asleep and snoring, the Dexter farm is."
"Who does own the place?" asked Diana with interest.
"It would take a pretty smart lawyer to find that out," was the reply. "It's been in litigation longer than it's been haunted. There's three women, I believe, pullin' and haulin' on it."
"I think I might pull and haul, too, if I find I like it," said Diana with her most dreamy serenity, and Matt Blake laughed.
"Well, you won't," he returned. "'Twould give a body the Injun blues to live there. How Mr. Gayne can stand it even in the daytime is a mystery to me; and there don't either o' the claimants really want it. They live around the State somewheres. I s'pose itwould be hard to buy 'em out at that, because landowners here seem to think the island's goin' to turn into a regular Newport and that they'll make a fortune if they only hang on."
"Do not speak such desecrating words!" begged Diana. "Do not hint at waking the island from its alluring, scented dream."
Matt Blake gave her a patient stare. "Just as you say," he returned. He had already, as a fruit of many interviews with Diana, given her up as a conundrum. He tipped his hat and continued on his way.
The two companions pursued theirs, and soon came to where a rather steep hill led down to the northern beach.
"Now, we do not go down there unless we wish to be 'set across.' That is what they call it: set across to the next island, our near neighbor."
"We must do it some day," replied Mrs. Lowell, looking at that other green hill rising out of the sea.
As they stood gazing, they saw a man run across the rocks on its shore and hail a rowboat which came to meet him.
"It is within rowing distance, isn't it?" said Mrs. Lowell.
"Yes. Little Genevieve told me, one can always find some fisherman who is willing to act as a ferry." Diana looked about. "I think we shall be obliged to ask our path to the farm. Let us go to that cottage over there. It is probably on our way."
They proceeded to a house near the road where cats and chickens seemed equally numerous, and knocked.
"Will you tell us how to get to the Dexter farm?" asked Diana of the woman who answered the summons.
The woman pointed. "You go right up that way to Brook Cove and you'll really be on the farm then if you keep to the right bank. You'll see the old house near a big willow tree."
They thanked her and moved on.
"What pleasant voices these people have," said Diana. "They have not been obliged to shout above clanging trolleys and auto horns."
"No; all except Genevieve," returned Mrs. Lowell. "I should guess that she had been brought up in a boiler factory."
"Yet it is a piercing sweetness," protested Diana.
Mrs. Lowell laughed. "The island can do no wrong, eh?"
"Perhaps I am somewhat partial," admitted the girl.
They sprang along over the rough hillside, and at last came to a deep, precipitous cleft in its shore. The rocky sides of the hollow were decked with clumps of clinging shrub and evergreen and the clear water lapped a miniature beach.
"Why Brook Cove?" asked Mrs. Lowell. "I suppose there must be one about here. What a mystery the springs are in the midst of all this salt water. Miss Burridge says everybody has a well."
Diana gave her her most dreamy and seraphic look.
"Angels fold their wings and restIn this haven of the blest,"
"Angels fold their wings and restIn this haven of the blest,"
"Angels fold their wings and restIn this haven of the blest,"
"Angels fold their wings and rest
In this haven of the blest,"
she replied.
"I wish only angels did," sighed Mrs. Lowell. "You remind me of our errand."
"Don't you think we might spare a few minutes for repose?" asked Diana, looking wistfully at the bank where the grass grew close and green to the very edge of the chasm.
"You want to sit down and let your feet hang over," laughed Mrs. Lowell. "You may as well confess it."
As she spoke, a man appeared on the otherside of the cove. He skirted it and, hurrying, passed them and disappeared in a grove of fir trees.
Mrs. Lowell looked at her companion with large eyes.
"All the Sherlock Holmes in me responds to that man," she said in a low tone. "This is no time to let our feet hang over. He probably is the very one who came across in the rowboat and he is on an errand. His whole manner showed it. We're on the right bank. So we're on the farm now. Let us go into those woods and see what happens."
"Shall we not be intruding?" said Diana, hesitating.
"I hope so," returned Mrs. Lowell valiantly, and she seized her companion's hand and drew her toward the grove. There a winding path greeted them, a lover's lane, between close-growing firs, and together they sped along the scented aisle. The man was the swifter and, by the time they emerged from the fir grove, he was approaching a huge willow tree near the crumbling farmhouse built in a hollow with protecting mounds of green hills and trees on three sides of it.
They saw Gayne come out of the house and shake hands with the man, giving him a mosteffusive welcome, but before he had had opportunity to do more than this, the host descried the other visitors.
The eyes of both young women being excellent, they were able to observe the lightning change which took place in the pleased excitement of his face. The ugly frown that appeared was banished as soon as he could control himself. He said something to the other man, and the latter walked on to a rise of ground where he stood to enjoy the view, and Gayne came to meet the ladies.
"Ah, good-day," he said with as pleasant a manner as he could command. "Your explorations are leading you far this morning."
"Is this the Dexter farm?" asked Mrs. Lowell.
"The very same," replied Gayne lightly. "I see its creepy reputation has aroused your curiosity. Too bad there isn't more here to gratify it. It is a very tame place by daylight, as you see."
"The house is a ruin, they tell me. Doesn't it seem a pity that should have been allowed? The place is full of possibilities, isn't it?"
"I should say not," returned Gayne, speaking curtly in spite of his best efforts. "It is about the least attractive part of the island.Far from the open ocean, no place to bathe, cuddled into a hollow, no views."
Mrs. Lowell met his impatient look.
"I thought the very reason you chose this for a sort of artist camp was on account of the views," she said pleasantly.
"A headquarters. A headquarters only," said Gayne quickly. "I haven't locomotor ataxia, you know," he added, laughing; "I can still get about."
"I should like very much to see that old house," said Mrs. Lowell, her gaze wandering over to it. "We interrupted your greeting of a friend. Please don't let us detain you. We will just roam around here a bit."
Nicholas Gayne hesitated for an instant as the young women moved toward the house, but he followed them.
"There is nothing to see, I assure you, and it's an unsafe place. The floors are rotting; you are liable to fall through anywhere. I really feel as if I ought to beg you to confine your curiosity to the outside."
"You speak quite like the owner of the place," said Mrs. Lowell, with an access of dignity not lost upon Gayne. "We will absolve you if any accident befalls us."
The man's frown at her reply was sounpleasant that Diana felt some timidity and took her friend's arm.
"Another time, perhaps," she suggested.
"Why not now, since we are here," returned Mrs. Lowell calmly. "A haunted house isn't to be seen every day." She smiled. "Do join your friend, Mr. Gayne. He seems to have found some view well worth looking at. We shall not stay long."
"Oh, take your time," returned Gayne, seeing that he could not prevent the intrusion, and altering his manner to that of a host. "Perhaps you would like to see my artist camp as you call it. I did find one spot where there is a dry season and my canvases can be safe."
He led the way into the farmhouse. The paper on the little hallway in oval designs of faded green landscapes had peeled and was hanging from the wall. They passed into a living-room where tattered and splintered furniture and a rusty stove met the eye. Back of this was the artist's den evidently. A table stood in the center, on which reposed a palette, some brushes, a couple of sketch-books, and a portfolio. Against the side of the room were a few canvases leaning against the wall, and in bold relief, supported against the table, stood a pickaxe and a shovel.
Mrs. Lowell regarded Gayne's flushed countenance as he picked up the tools and pushed them behind a screen.
"Your still-life studies, appropriate to an abandoned farm?" she laughed.
"They don't look very artistic, I must say," returned Gayne. "Of course, I'm an amateur of the amateurs," he went on, picking up the portfolio (he pronounced itamatoor), "but a man is all the better for having a fad, no matter how footless. Since you are here and have caught me red-handed, you may as well know the worst."
He opened the portfolio and threw down a couple of crayon sketches of woods, water, and rocks.
"But these are good!" exclaimed Mrs. Lowell, in a tone of such astonishment that it could scarcely be considered complimentary.
Gayne shrugged his shoulders, as Diana, looking over her friend, added her approval.
"I make no pretensions," he repeated. "I amuse myself."
His guests lingered a minute over the sketches, then looked about the forlorn old homestead, but as each step was closely accompanied by Gayne, they soon took theirdeparture, passing the stranger on his knoll as they walked toward the sea, over grassy hill and fragrant spruce-filled hollow. The stranger, as they passed, kept his hands folded behind him and stared stolidly ahead.
"Were you ever more astonished?" asked Mrs. Lowell in a low tone as if the balsamic breeze could carry her words back.
"Your suspicion that the man is sailing under false colors seems to be incorrect," replied Diana.
"He's a rascal!" declared Mrs. Lowell with conviction.
"Artists often are, I believe," returned Diana.
"I wish with all my heart I could know what he and his visitor will talk about during the next half-hour, and what that pick and shovel meant. Why was he so sorry to see us?" Mrs. Lowell's brows drew together in perplexity.
"Perhaps they are going to search for smugglers' treasures, or pirate gold," suggested Diana.
Her companion smiled. "Perhaps so. The man has some reason for promoting the foolish ghost talk and resenting visitors to his preserves. Of course, the treasure idea is asfoolish as the phantoms, and just as little likely to fool a modern man in his senses."
Diana shook her head. "It is certainly rather irritating to have him assume jurisdiction over that ruin which is open and free to all," she said. "I dislike his personality extremely, but his pencil has a sure touch and those sketches showed an appreciation of values."
"If he did them," said Mrs. Lowell thoughtfully.
Diana smiled. "You surely are consistent."
Her companion drew a deep breath. "A man who can treat that fragile, sensitive, lonely boy as he does—his own brother's son at that—can plan to crush him and sweep him out of his way as he would an insect—that man is dangerously wicked, and so long as the matter has come to my notice, I must share in the responsibility."
"He would be a merciless enemy," said Diana warningly.
Mrs. Lowell shook her head. "I shall pray for the wisdom of the serpent and the harmlessness of the dove," she said.
Meanwhile Veronica, her morning work finished, had started out to oblige Mrs. Lowell. As she tripped around the house in search of the unfortunate boy, she suspected herself of hoping she should not find him. She summoned recollections of the Boston train and of various occasions since, when her sympathy for him had been roused, and by the time she espied him lying against a rock in the sunshine, her courage had risen sufficiently to address him.
"Good-morning, Bertie," she said.
He started, as was his habit when addressed, and turned his apathetic face toward her.
"Do you like to play croquet?"
The boy rose to a sitting position.
"I—" he began, then some recollection came to him. "I never did play," he finished; then, his stolid eyes meeting the fresh young face: "You don't need to be kind to me," he added bluntly.
Much disconcerted, Veronica flushed.
"What do you mean?" she returned. "I like to play croquet. I'll teach you."
"No," said the boy. "Uncle Nick said—said this morning that—that when people were—were kind to me, it was because they—they pitied me because I was a fool." The boy swallowed. "You can—go away, please."
Veronica's round eyes snapped with indignation. "Your Uncle Nick's the fool to say such a thing," she returned, her cheeks growing very red. "Don't you believe him. You and I are the youngest people here. Don't you think we ought to play together a little?"
"No. You pity me. Go away, please."
"Now, Bertie, I wish you wouldn't talk to me like that."
He averted his head and was silent, and Veronica stood there, uncertainly.
"I wonder if you are stronger than I am," she said at last.
"I don't know."
"The grass is too long on the croquet ground. I want to mow it. The lawnmower is pretty heavy. Do you think you could help me?"
The boy lay still for a minute more without meeting her eyes again. Then he pulled himself up slowly and walked beside her back to the shed.
"Mr. Barrison makes fun of our croquet ground because it is rough. I want him to seean improvement when he comes again." Veronica led the way to where the mower stood, and the boy took hold of it and drew it after him back to the desired spot.
"I'll pull up all the wickets," said the girl eagerly, and, as she did so, she cast a side-glance at her companion, waiting, and she thought his face the most hopeless and sad she had ever looked upon. She could feel her own eyes sting.
"None of that, none of that," she told herself.
"Now, don't you get too tired," she said. "Let me take my turn." She followed him as he went across the ground once and back again. She chattered of the weather, the sea, the song sparrows, and he answered never a word, just pushed the clicking little machine until the perspiration stood out on his forehead.
"Now, you must let me take it," said Veronica. "I didn't mean that I couldn't do any of it. I just felt it would be tiresome to do it all."
She insisted, and the boy yielded the lawnmower to her, and, standing still, took out his handkerchief and wiped his face.
Veronica pushed the mower valiantly upand down the ground. It was a cumbrous one and somewhat rusty. So the effort she let appear was not all assumed. When she returned, the boy took it from her and went to work again. He was on the last lap when Mrs. Lowell and Diana appeared, coming up from the sea, having returned from their ramble by the rocky shore instead of by the road. Mrs. Lowell's face lighted as she saw what was going on, and she cast a grateful look at Veronica as she approached.
"Good for you, Bertie," she said, as he at last dropped the mower and again wiped his hot face. "It is fine of you to help Veronica."
He looked at her for a second mutely, and then turned away.
"Thank you," called Veronica as he moved off. "I'll bring you an extra large piece of pie this noon. I must go in and set the table now," she added to the others, and she winked at Mrs. Lowell who followed her into the house.
"You succeeded better than I hoped," said Mrs. Lowell. "Activity is what that boy needs."
"I wish whipping-posts hadn't been abolished," said Veronica. "I could see UncleNick tied up there and enjoy the activity that followed."
Then she told Mrs. Lowell of the reception Bertie had given her and all he had said.
Mrs. Lowell shook her head in silence and laid her hand on the girl's shoulder. "You can see we have work to do there," she replied. "We must not be discouraged."
Diana had heard the recital. "What an extraordinary circumstance it is," she said, "that strangers should be endeavoring to build for the boy while his next of kin systematically tears down."
"That is what I was telling you," replied Mrs. Lowell. "The man is pursuing a system." She shook her head again, and added as if to herself: "But he cannot defy Omnipotence."
It was probably a very good thing for Mr. Gayne that he did not return to-day to the noon dinner. The waitress would have been likely to give him cool soup, warm water, and the undesirable portions of meat and vegetables. She served the boy with the best of everything. In the chatter about the table, he was never included, so his silence was not noticeable, but Mrs. Lowell observed the pallor under the sunburn, the hopeless droop of the mouth, and the languid appetite thatshould have been voracious in a growing boy fresh from exercise.
After dinner she stopped him, the others all having gone out on the piazza. He was moving toward the stairway.
"Where are you going, Bertie?"
"Upstairs."
"I don't think we ought to waste this weather in the house. Do you?"
"I don't know."
"Well, I do. It is liable to change any time now. We have had so much sunshine. We ought to make the most of it."
"You go out, then," said the boy.
"But I would rather you came, too."
"No. You pity me, that's all."
"No," returned Mrs. Lowell quietly. "I pity your uncle, not you."
The boy stared at her, unmoved.
"I pity him because he doesn't know how to make you happy."
"You don't need to—to take any trouble," was the stolid reply.
"It isn't a trouble. I like you. I like to have you with me. I went up to the farm this morning—the haunted farm."
"Did—did you see anything?"
"Yes. Supposing we go down to the beachand I'll tell you about it. You shall carry two cushions for us; then if you want to take a nap you can do so while I read."
"I would rather—rather be alone."
Mrs. Lowell met his wretched eyes with her irresistible smile which had in it selflessness, love, and courage.
"No, you wouldn't, dear boy. Besides, it is an impossibility. We are never alone. You know the Father we talked about the other day, the One who showed your mother how to love you. He is with us all the time, and no one and nothing can separate us from Him, no matter what seems to be."
"Could I see Him if I—if I died? Because I'd like to—to die and see—my mother."
"You will see her at the right time," said Mrs. Lowell. "You have a great deal to do for her first. Were you going upstairs to sleep? No doubt you are sleepy after all that mowing. It was very kind of you to do it for Veronica."
"I didn't do it for her." There was no stammering in the declaration. "She thought I did, but I didn't."
Mrs. Lowell smiled again and nodded. "I understand," she said. "I'm sorry I didn'tknow your mother. I believe she would like you to go outdoors with me now."
"You don't—don't need to—to have me. I'm—I'm all right."
Mrs. Lowell could see the wound throb.
"I know I don't need to. I should think you could see that I really want you."
He hesitated and looked away.
"Now," she went on, "I will go up to my room and get some cushions and my books and we will have a nice read or a nice snooze, and perhaps get some more stones for our collection. Perhaps you have some book you would like to bring."
"I haven't any books—except a paper one."
"Bring it," said Mrs. Lowell with interest. "I would like to see it. Let us meet down here in five minutes, then."
She went up the stairs and the boy followed.
When she came down again, the corridor and living-room were empty. Perhaps the lad had decided against her plan after all. She sank down in a chair by the door and closed her eyes.
"Dear Father," she prayed, "Thy will be done, and may my thought be ever ready to separate between the real and the unreal.Let me not be discouraged by the seeming, but may I remember every moment what Thy will is, and that Thine omnipotent Love is ever present. Let me reflect Thine intelligence and take my human footsteps wisely. Let me know that Thy Truth will uncover the error that is to be met, and that I cannot be dismayed, for Thou art with me, and underneath are the everlasting arms."
Footsteps sounded on the uncarpeted stairs and she looked up and saw Bertie.
"I thought I wouldn't come," he said. "Then I thought you—you might wait—"
"You see I did," said Mrs. Lowell, "and here are the cushions. Will you take them, please?"
The boy picked them up and they set forth.
As they crossed the piazza, Mrs. Lowell nodded to Miss Emerson and the two men with her. These followed the pair with their eyes as they descended the steps, and started across the field.
"By Jove, that young nut is in luck," said Mr. Evans, a short, thick-set man, with spectacles.
"Why, do you think Mrs. Lowell is so attractive?" asked Miss Emerson.
"Of course. Don't you?"
"Why, I think she's a very good-looking woman," was the reply. "Her husband is coming up later."
Mr. Evans shook his head mournfully. "I'm afraid it won't make any difference to me. I've tried to prattle to her a little, but she doesn't hear me, or, if she does, I've been weighed and found wanting. I talked to her quite a while my first morning here. As soon as I saw her I determined to make hay while the sun shone, but I soon found I couldn't make any, or even cut any ice either. So, since then, I just look at her from afar."
"I'm sure you're too easily discouraged," said Miss Emerson with some acerbity. "You underrate your own attractiveness, Mr. Evans. Any woman who would rather spend her time with that poor, forlorn image of a boy than with men of intellect, cannot be so very interesting, herself."
Mr. Pratt, a tall, slender, long-necked gentleman, here spoke: "I judge from what Mr. Gayne says that the boy is pretty far gone mentally. He said he supposed he really shouldn't have brought him up here. Gayne has a heavy burden on his hands evidently. It's naturally hard to bring one's self to shutting up any one who is your ownkin, and, as Gayne says, you're between the devil and the deep sea, for you may put it off too long. It looks like a case of dangerous melancholia to me."
Miss Emerson shuddered. "All I know is that if Mrs. Lowell was as sensitive as I am, she never in the world could bear to have that boy around with her as much as she does. Mr. Gayne, an artist as he is! What he must suffer in that constant association!"
"He doesn't seem to be much with his nephew," remarked Mr. Evans.
"Well, I should think rooming with him was enough," retorted the lady. "He has a cot for the boy right in his own room."
"Well, it isn't my business," yawned the other. "Come on, Pratt. I hear they've taken a horse-mackerel and it's down on the wharf. Let's go and see it."
"Oh, I think those giant fish are so interesting!" exclaimed Miss Emerson, sitting up alertly.
Mr. Evans nodded at her over his shoulder as the two friends started off.
"After your siesta you ought to get Miss Wilbur and come down," he said.
"I don't want any siesta," thought the lady crossly. "Why did I get into thishammock? They would probably have asked me if I hadn't been lying down."
She had not yet discovered the domestic status of the two men, although she had put out many a feeler to learn whether they were unprotected males. She was wearing one of her prettiest dresses since their arrival, but the emergency sport suit of baronet satin would not come forth from its hanger on any such uncertainty.
"Our pebbles are getting a good washing, aren't they?" said Mrs. Lowell, when she and her protégé had reached the shore.
The tide was high and she had Bert put the cushions in front of a rock which sprang from the grass on the edge of the stony beach. He followed her directions apathetically.
"Put your pillow against the rock. See, there is a nice slanting place. Perhaps you will take a little nap. The sea is making a rather thunderous lullaby. Try it. I shan't mind; for here are my books and my writing-paper and pencils galore."
The boy sank down beside her in the place she indicated and looked at the materials in her lap. She had opened a leather case and showed a tablet of paper fitted at the side with a case for pencils.
"Do you ever write letters, Bertie?"
"I—no."
"When you and your uncle leave home, is there no one for you to write back to?"
"There's Cora."
"Your housekeeper?"
The boy nodded, his eyes still on the books and materials in his friend's lap. She, alert to meet any show of interest on his part, took up one of the books.
"Do you ever read the Bible, Bertie?"
"I don't—no, I never did."
"Didn't your mother ever read it to you?"
The boy looked up into her eyes. "Yes, about the shepherd."
"I'm so glad that you know that psalm," she returned gently. "Can you say it? The Lord is my shepherd?"
He shook his head, and again his eyes dropped to the contents of her lap.
"It is like a game of magic music," she thought. "There is something here I should do. Divine Harmony, Divine Love, show me what it is!"
"Are you looking at this?" She took up the other book and pointed to the gold cross and crown on its cover. Then she offered it to him.
He shook his head.
"Veronica told me that your uncle hurt your feelings this morning," went on Mrs. Lowell, laying the book down.
The boy's brows drew together and his gaze sought the ground.
"You know the Bible is the most beautifulbook in the world. It has hundreds of verses as lovely as those about the shepherd. This is one: Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him. Fear Him means fear to displease Him on account of our love for Him and His love for us."
It was so long since the boy had heard any mention of love that he looked up at her, still gloomily.
"You know how unhappy you always were when you displeased your mother, and you know how she pitied you for your mistake and drew you back to her—and forgave you."
"Yes—yes, I do."
"That is the way God does with us. So you see it isn't a bad thing to be pitied with love. If you ever think again of what your uncle said, just turn away from it and know that Love is taking care of you every minute. God is always here, waiting to bless us."
"I'd—I'd rather see Him," said the boy.
"Your friends are His messengers," said Mrs. Lowell.
"What—what friends have I?"
"Me, for one," replied his companion. As she leaned toward him with her spontaneous grace, he met her affectionate regard with his piteous eyes.
"Did God—did God send you to—to me?"
"I'm sure He did," she returned slowly.
"Then—then can I—take one of your pencils?"
Mrs. Lowell looked down at her writing-tablet.
"Certainly," she said, passing the whole affair to him.
A remarkable transformation took place in the boy's face. He took the folding case with its complete outfit and his companion regarded him in surprise. His eyes lighted and color came stealing up over face and brow. He looked over his shoulder apprehensively, then back at her.
"You won't tell him?" he said.
"Who? Your uncle?"
"Yes. He would beat me."
"Why? Doesn't he like you to write letters?"
The first smile she had ever seen on the boy's face altered it now as he looked at her, and her heart beat faster in a mystified sense that some cruelly bolted door had been pushed ajar.
"You can have that portfolio for your own, Bertie," she said.
"No, no, he'd kill me."
"What can you mean, dear child?"
The boy started up from his cushion and perched on top of the rock, glancing along the shore. Mrs. Lowell leaned forward and saw his hand with the pencil move swiftly here and there on the blank sheet. She said not a word, but watched the slender young face with the new alertness in the eyes.
The tide was making its splendid slow retreat, the gulls were wheeling and crying, and white as their wings the daisy drifts were beginning to appear on the uplands. Activity, growing, unfolding, all about her, the watcher felt this waif to be part of it. One of God's little ones who could not be kept in bondage.
At last the boy came down again and gave her his work. She looked at it in amazement. The curve of the shore, the groups of spruces, a distant cottage, the light clouds on the blue were all sketched in with a sure touch.
"Who taught you this, Bertie?"
"Nobody—but I watched my mother. She was an artist. She let me draw beside her. She knew I could. She said so. I'll show you. You won't tell?"
"Never."
The boy drew from his pocket a smallfolded paper. He took off the paper and revealed oiled silk. He unfolded this and a small pen-and-ink sketch came to view. It was of a woman's face, slightly smiling. There was expression in the long-lashed eyes, eyes like the boy's own. The hair waved off the forehead. Bertie held the treasure for Mrs. Lowell to see, but did not relinquish it.
"Is this your mother?"
"Yes."
"Who did it?"
"I did."
"When, Bertie, when?"
"After—afterward," he answered, and his companion could hear that some obstruction stopped his speech.
"It is very—very lovely," said Mrs. Lowell slowly, and the boy looked over his shoulder again, apprehensively.
"Did you say your uncle forbade you to sketch?"
The boy folded the little picture back carefully in its wrappings and replaced it in his pocket.
"Why do you suppose your uncle did that?" asked Mrs. Lowell.
"I don't know."
"Don't you really, Bertie?" she asked,dreading the signs of dullness she perceived altering his face as the brightness died away.
"I guess it was because he said it—it wasted my time. He took everything except this." The boy's hand rested on the pocket that held the treasure. "He didn't find this."
"Took what? Your materials, your sketching things?"
"Everything. He gets very—very angry if I take a pencil. Twice he has whipped me for it."
"But, Bertie, please try to make me understand. Mr. Gayne is an artist himself, he says."
"Yes. He says he—has money enough to live and I haven't. He says I just hang on him. So I must chop wood and—and wash windows, and Cora makes me scrub the floors. He says if he wants to waste time painting he can, but I must not."
Mrs. Lowell regarded the boy closely. "Your uncle showed me some very charming sketches up at the farm this morning."
"Did he?" returned the boy listlessly. "He never was an artist when—when she was here."
"That is strange, isn't it?" said Mrs. Lowell. "Strange that he should be able suddenly to do such good things?"
"No," said Bertie simply. "It is easy."
They were both silent for a time. The portfolio lay on the stones between them. The boy suddenly picked it up.
"I must tear this," he said.
Mrs. Lowell caught his hand just as he started to pull the sketch from the tablet.
"Won't you give it to me, Bertie?" she asked.
He hesitated. "He'll find it."
"Indeed he will not. It will go into the bottom of my trunk."
The boy took his hand away and she recovered the portfolio. He had replaced the pencil in the case.
"I should so like to give you the pencil," she said.
The boy shook his head decidedly. "No. He'd find it," he answered.
"I am very much interested about your mother being an artist," said Mrs. Lowell. "You know you are going to do everything you can to please her. She would be very sorry that your uncle has not made you happy. I am sure she wanted you to use your talent. So, very often we will take walks and I will get better materials for you than this, and you shall make many sketches."
The boy's brows drew together. It was evident that he was in such fetters of fear that the prospect was a mixed pleasure.
"Do you remember your father? When did he die?"
"I don't know. It was before—"
"Was he a kind father, and kind to your dear mother?"
"I don't know. Everybody was angry with her, all the rich people, because she—she ran away to marry him. Then she was left all—alone with me and—and she sold pictures and we were—" The voice stopped.
"Yes, I know you were happy. Then when she went away your uncle took you?"
"Yes, and Cora."
"And wasn't Cora kind to you?"
Bertie shook his head. "I don't know," he said. It seemed as if the recollection of his uncle's housekeeper made him retreat at once into the protective shell.
"Just let me ask you one more question. Your Uncle Nick was here at the island last summer. He didn't bring you with him. Where were you then?"
"Home."
"Alone?"
"No, with Cora."
"But wouldn't Cora like you to draw a pretty picture for her?"
"No. She knows Uncle Nick would hit her."
"What did you do all summer?"
"Helped Cora. Then, when she was drunk, I went in the park. Sometimes I slept there."
Mrs. Lowell shook her head. "I'm glad your uncle brought you this time."
"Cora wouldn't stay. They had the worst fight of all. They were always fighting."
"Bertie, dear," said Mrs. Lowell tenderly, "try to know all the time that God is taking care of you and leading you. We know He will. Uncle Nick must know it, too, sometime."
"Know what?" exclaimed the boy with a start.
"That God takes care of His children. Your uncle is one, and I am one, and you are one. We shall have to keep some secrets from Uncle Nick until he grows kinder and knows that the only way to be happy is to love. I should like to know your mother's people."
"Uncle Nick says they're all dead."
"Do you know their name?"
"No."
"Think, Bertie. What was your mother's name?"
"Helen."
"What else? Can't you remember—the name on her paintings, perhaps?"
The boy was silent and his brow was puzzled. He reached into a pocket.
"I brought my book," he said, drawing forth a worn and much-thumbed pamphlet.
"I'm so glad you did," she returned.
He did not offer it to her, but she looked over his shoulder as he turned the leaves of the catalogue of an exhibition of paintings.
"There are two of my mother's," he said. He indicated the small reproductions of two landscapes and Mrs. Lowell studied them with interest.
"I can see that they must be charming," she said. "Have you any of her pictures?"
"There was one," said the boy, and he had to wait for a time before he could add: "Uncle Nick sold it."
"Let us see if there may be a list of the exhibitors," said Mrs. Lowell. "May I take it a minute?"
Bertie yielded the pamphlet and she turned to the front of the book. Yes, there was the list and her eye quickly caught the name: Helen Loring Gayne.
"Your mother's name was Loring, then."
"It's my name, too. Herbert Loring Gayne."
"Where did her people live, Bertie?"
"In Boston. I can always remember that because—because—when Uncle Nick is angry at what I—I do, he says don't try any Boston on me, and then—then I know he means my mother, because he—he didn't like—"
The boy's voice hesitated and stopped.
Mrs. Lowell called his attention to some of the other pictures in the pamphlet, speaking of the artists whose names were known to her, and he finally restored his treasure to his pocket.
When they again reached the Inn, they found Nicholas Gayne walking up and down the piazza. He came to the head of the steps.
"This is too much, Mrs. Lowell," he said with an effort at bluff good nature, "for you to burden yourself with a young hobble-de-hoy like Bert when you take your rambles."
"If I like it I suppose you have no objections," she returned pleasantly. "I assure you I had to urge him to accompany me. Too bad there aren't some young people of his own age here."
"He wouldn't know what to say to them if there were, would you, Bert?"
"No, sir," was the reply, and the boy started to go into the house.
"Here, what are you doing?" said his uncle, catching him roughly by the arm. "You haven't said good-bye to the lady after her kindness in dragging you around."
Mrs. Lowell controlled herself to speak calmly. "I tell Bert it would be a good thing for him to learn to swim while he is here."
"That's the talk!" ejaculated his uncle, throwing the arm off as roughly as he had grasped it. "Go in and win, Bert. I'll get you a bathing suit. Show 'em you ain't any milk sop. Take the dives with the best of them."
The boy stood with his eyes downcast.
"And don't sulk," went on his uncle with exasperation. "For Heaven's sake, don't sulk. That's the way it is, Mrs. Lowell, if you try to think up some jolly thing for him to do, he stands like an image. No more backbone than a jellyfish."