Mr. Wrenn approached him. "Herbert, you have no reason to like the name of Gayne. What do you say to dropping it? What do you say to being Herbert Loring, Second?"
"If Mrs. Lowell says so," he responded. He might have said: "What's in a name?" For the excited color had settled in his cheeks. Let them call him what they liked. He was going, boldly and unafraid, to have a pencil.
Luther Wrenn gave himself the luxury of calling at the Copley-Plaza the next morning, perhaps as a bracer for his afternoon appointment. When he sent up his name, he received a summons to come to a room on the floor above Diana's.
Entering, he found the group he had left yesterday, minus Mrs. Wilbur, chatting and laughing before a boy's wardrobe spread out on the bed. As he shook hands with the boy himself, the lawyer looked him over with satisfaction. From the barber to the haberdasher, the lad had evidently been served well; and though pale and thin, Herbert Loring, Second, stood there a credit to his name already, and full of promise for the future. A wardrobe trunk in steamer size stood at one side of the room and a fine suitcase beside it.
"Is everything all right, Herbert?" asked Mr. Wrenn, with a hand on the boy's shoulder and his eyes wandering over the variety of apparel laid out on the bed. "Nothing seems to be missing."
"I have—I have blue pyjamas," said the boy.
"And did they sleep all right, eh?"
"They did not," said Philip. "I had the other room opening off Bert's bath and I prowled once in a while to see how the land lay, and the electric light was evidently too easy. He was always examining his box."
"What box is that?" asked Mr. Wrenn.
The boy was keeping lifted eyes on him, not quite sure whether this dispenser of gifts was going to be displeased at the burning of midnight electricity. At the question he hurried to a table and brought the new sketching materials which had interfered with his dreams.
Mr. Wrenn gave the boy's shoulder a little shake and laughed. "They won't run away in the night," he said. "Better sleep and keep your eyes bright. When do you plan to return to the island, Mrs. Lowell?"
She was sitting with Diana by the bed, where they were sewing markers on Bert's new possessions. "If your afternoon interview proves satisfactory, and you can arrange that we shall not be molested, I think we might go to-morrow," she replied.
"Want to go back to the island, Herbert?" asked Mr. Wrenn. The appealing eyes, solike Helen Loring's, were winning him more and more with their trustfulness.
"I—I don't care where we go if he—if nobody takes me away from—from Mrs. Lowell."
"You dear youngster," said that lady, her swift needle stitching busily.
"Well, it is my intention that nobody shall, for the present. Of course, when these charming ladies hamper themselves with husbands, it brings in an element of uncertainty. What sort of a man is Monroe Lowell, now? I suppose his wife is entirely impartial."
Mrs. Lowell laughed. "The finest ever," she said, "but I see signs of impatience beginning to show in his letters. So I hope he will soon join us. Probably I know what you are thinking of, Mr. Wrenn, but let us not cross any bridges until we come to them. The right way is sure to open."
The lawyer nodded. "I will let you have a bulletin as soon as the final farewells are said this afternoon. I hope to secure the island from further intrusion."
Diana looked up from her work. "Would it not be well to offer him money not to return?"
Philip, who was engaged in snipping themarkers apart, spoke: "If he comes, I can take the bone of contention to my place until the hurricane is passed."
"I am quite certain he will not go," said Mrs. Lowell quietly.
"Why is that?" asked Mr. Wrenn. "I must confess to some qualms myself."
"Because it is not right for him to go," said Mrs. Lowell.
"My dear young lady," the lawyer smiled, "if that is the only ground for your belief, my limited observation of the gentleman suggests that he never has done anything right in his life unless by accident. But no money, Miss Diana. Start that once with that individual and you will be purchasing something from him at intervals the rest of his life. I must be off. Good-bye, Herbert."
The boy started. He had been hanging over his treasures and handling them, oblivious to everything around him. This gentleman, who knew his mother and had showered upon him so many benefits, was looking at him now with kind, serious eyes, and Bert became mindful of a little talk Mrs. Lowell had had with him this morning.
He walked up to the lawyer and held out his slender hand. "I thank you—sir," he said.
"Good boy. I will see you again before you leave," and, bowing to the others, Mr. Wrenn went out, Philip accompanying him to the elevator.
"Thank you, Mr. Barrison, for your good offices," he said as they shook hands.
"Never had so much fun in my life," said Philip. "Made me wish I had half a dozen of my own and the coin to treat them like that."
The lawyer bent his heavy brows upon him and smiled. "Are events shaping themselves toward that end? That extremely charming young woman who has been making you the slave of the lamp is enough to turn any man's head."
Philip flushed. "Any man's headwouldbe turned," he responded quickly, "if he thought of her as approachable. No, some common mortal for me some day, I hope, but she's a goddess, you know."
The young fellow smiled and the lawyer still regarded him, and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Never let anything like money rob you," he said slowly and with emphasis. "Goddesses have been known to stoop to mortals before this."
"I think her parents would see to that," responded Philip, laughing.
The elevator came, and with one more nod of farewell the lawyer disappeared.
"Fierce job he's got before him," muttered Philip as he returned to the dry goods, refusing to allow his mind to dwell on his new friend's surpassingly ignorant suggestions.
Promptly at the appointed time Nicholas Gayne presented himself at the lawyer's office and was admitted to the sanctum. His air of assurance almost reached the swaggering stage, and his "How are you?" breathed a suggestion of a fortifying beverage. Without waiting for permission, he fell into the chair near the desk.
"Well, are you satisfied?" he asked triumphantly.
"Yes, I am satisfied that the boy is my old friend's grandson."
"I knew you would be. Now, how soon do you think you can fix it up?"
"Fix what up?"
"The inheritance."
"I told you the boy was not mentioned in the will."
"I know that, but what's the law for if it can't get justice done?" came the impatientquestion, and Gayne's chin shot out belligerently.
"It can and will get justice done," said Luther Wrenn slowly, "but it will take time."
"Oh, of course, I know it will, but you can advance money on a sure thing, and I'll make it worth your while as soon as the cash is in my hands."
"In yours?" The lawyer tapped his desk with a paper-cutter.
"Yes. I told you the boy's delicate. He needs care."
"I'm sure he does. It may take a year to straighten out the matter of the will."
"It don't need to," said Gayne angrily. "I've had the expense of Bert for five years and I ought to be reimbursed and provided with enough money to care for him right, until he gets all that's coming to him."
Luther Wrenn looked for a silent minute at the dark, impatient face and thick, powerful shoulders and hands, and recalled the boy's panic.
"I have obtained a good deal of information as to the occurrences of the past years as they affect Mr. Loring's grandson," he said quietly, and his visitor scowled at him, startled.
"I'm a poor man," he blustered. "I toldyou I hadn't been able to care for him right."
"If you would like," went on the lawyer slowly, "to be relieved of the boy, I am willing to take charge of him from now on for his mother's sake."
"For his mother's sake," sneered Gayne. "You know damned well that it's because you know you can get hold of the money that ought to be his."
"You have been drinking, Mr. Gayne, and the reason I don't have you put out of the office is because we shall never meet again, and it is always well to settle matters out of court if possible. I am going to tell you, instead of asking a judge to do so, why I am taking Helen Loring's boy away from you."
"Lambert Gayne's boy and my nephew!" roared Gayne. "Where do you get that stuff? Take him away from me, after all the expense—"
"Be quiet, Mr. Gayne, or I shall have to forego my peaceful plans. I have a man outside prepared to take you; so it would be better for you to listen to me."
Nicholas Gayne looked behind him in angry amazement.
"What have you done for that helplessboy?" went on Wrenn quietly. "Have you endeavored to have him properly taught and cared for? Have you allowed him the happiness, which would have cost you nothing, of exercising the talent inherited from his mother?"
"I'm a poor man,"—the declaration came with a loud burst. "He couldn't spend his time like a nabob."
"No. So you took no pains to have him educated. You allowed him to be made to scrub floors and wash windows and do any menial work which a lazy, dissolute woman could put upon him. You allowed a creature like Cora to be his companion, caring less than nothing for the possible degradation of the boy's mind and body."
Nicholas Gayne started up from his chair, purple in the face with surprise and fury.
"All this you did with the one single base intention of so beating down any sign of mental efficiency in your nephew that in time you could get the handling of his heritage."
As the words fell clearly and concisely from the lawyer's lips, Nicholas Gayne's muddled brain worked fast. Where could this devil of a lawyer have learned so much in two days? The boy was at the island. Itmust be the women. That Mrs. Lowell! But how could she have connected Bert with Herbert Loring in the first place, and how could she, with her slight opportunity, have elicited so much from the dull boy and communicated with Luther Wrenn? Gayne wished his brain were clearer, but, looking at the stony calm of the lawyer's face and the cold accusation in his eyes, he realized that the combination of legal power and money made it very hard in instances like this for a poor man like himself to get his rights.
"Now, I will detain you only a minute longer, Mr. Gayne. Herbert Loring, Second, as he will after this be called, is now at the Copley-Plaza with friends." Gayne stared and seized the back of the chair from which he had risen, apparently for support. "I shall provide for him as I think best. It is too early as yet to tell whether your criminal treatment of the child has worked permanent injury. Time and the tenderest, wisest care will be necessary to establish that, and, meanwhile, you will be left in freedom. We desire to avoid all publicity, and, if you keep out of the way and do not intrude and awaken in the boy brutal and sad associations, we may succeed in restoring him to a normalcondition, but, I assure you, if you even show your face near the boy or interfere in any degree, you will be called upon to answer serious charges, and witnesses will be easy to procure."
The purple had faded from Nicholas Gayne's face and it was ashy under the sunburn. He opened his lips to speak, but no sound came. Mr. Wrenn touched a button on his desk and the office door opened. Gayne started and looked toward it.
"I feel that we understand each other perfectly, Mr. Gayne," said the lawyer, pleasantly. "Good-afternoon."
Nicholas Gayne mumbled something and, moving as swiftly as his unsteady knees would permit, he disappeared from that office, fear engulfing all his other emotions. He wondered which of the men in plain clothes, whom he saw moving about outside, was the one who might have been his escort.
Luther Wrenn took up the telephone and called Diana.
"Mr. Wrenn speaking."
An excited voice answered, all serenity thrown to the winds. "Oh, Mr. Wrenn, is it over?"
"Yes, Miss Diana, and very satisfactorily.I'm a little tired and I believe I won't make you another call to-day."
"I'msureyou must be tired," sympathetically.
"I just wanted you and Mrs. Lowell to know that you may plan to take the nine o'clock train for Portland to-morrow morning with as much freedom as if our precious uncle had passed away from the planet."
"Thank you, thank you."
"And, by the way, Miss Diana, you may tell Mr. Barrison, too."
"Oh, of course, I should."
"Do you know, I find him a very engaging young man. Why, why are your cheeks blooming so? Can't one say as much as that for relaxation after a nasty quarter of an hour?"
A soft gurgle of laughter went to the listening lawyer.
"I did not know you ever condescended to such play, Mr. Wrenn."
"Well, don't tell, will you? My best wishes to you all, and especially to Herbert, and tell him I shall come to the island to look him over in a short time."
"Do. Mr. Barrison will take you fishing."
"Is he always successful? Does he know just what bait to use?"
Another soft gurgle. "You don't understand, Mr. Wrenn. He uses too much bait. He catches too many fish. Good-bye. My mother has just come in. She is going with us to Maine." A pause. "She hopes to see you there. Good-bye."
Before the arrival of the Copley-Plaza contingent at the island, Matt Blake received the following letter:
Dear Matt:You know the business that brought me to Boston. I proved my position all right. The old man's lawyer couldn't deny it, but the boy, not being named in the will, as, of course, I knew he wouldn't be, the lawyer said it would take a long time before he could get anything for Bert, and advised me to put the boy into his hands. So I'm going to let him run matters to suit himself.I'm asking you if you will be good enough to pack up my stuff at the island and send everything on C.O.D. to the address on the card I enclose. You know what I found at the farm, but I've got to wait till I can get some backing before I can do anything about it. Keep it under your hat, though. You know what I left at the farm, too: out in the kitchen. Take that for your trouble. I don't know what I'm going to do next. What I do know is that a lawyer has no more blood than a turnip, and that a man can goto the expense and trouble of taking care of a boy for five years and then be asked to hand him over to those that know he'll have money, without even a thank you for all he has done. I'm disgusted with the world.Your friend,Nicholas Gayne
Dear Matt:
You know the business that brought me to Boston. I proved my position all right. The old man's lawyer couldn't deny it, but the boy, not being named in the will, as, of course, I knew he wouldn't be, the lawyer said it would take a long time before he could get anything for Bert, and advised me to put the boy into his hands. So I'm going to let him run matters to suit himself.
I'm asking you if you will be good enough to pack up my stuff at the island and send everything on C.O.D. to the address on the card I enclose. You know what I found at the farm, but I've got to wait till I can get some backing before I can do anything about it. Keep it under your hat, though. You know what I left at the farm, too: out in the kitchen. Take that for your trouble. I don't know what I'm going to do next. What I do know is that a lawyer has no more blood than a turnip, and that a man can goto the expense and trouble of taking care of a boy for five years and then be asked to hand him over to those that know he'll have money, without even a thank you for all he has done. I'm disgusted with the world.
Your friend,Nicholas Gayne
When he read this, Matt Blake looked off thoughtfully, his thin lips twitching.
"I hope Phil Barrison can tell me all that's between those lines," he thought.
"Come here, Aunt Priscilla," called Veronica at the top of her lungs. It was a joyous call, and Miss Burridge hurried into the dining-room where, a few minutes before, she had left Veronica sweeping, and found her standing still and confronting a boy who stood, hat in hand, while on the floor beside him reposed a new and handsome suitcase.
"Would you know him, Aunt Priscilla?"
Miss Burridge pulled down her spectacles and gazed at the trim figure with the immaculately brushed and parted hair.
"It ain't Bertie Gayne? Why, it is! Where are the other folks? Somebody has been being awful good to you."
How could it be possible that the boy they sent away a few days ago could be the same one who looked at them now with happy eyes and a faint smile.
"They're coming," he answered. "Mr. Blake brought me up—in his wagon, and the others had to wait—for the car, and they were going to take a drive."
Matt Blake here appeared in the open doorway from the piazza, bearing on his back a shining new trunk.
"Where's this going?" he asked.
"I'll show you," said the boy, and they made a procession up the stairs, Bert leading and the women bringing up the rear, full to the lips of questions ready to pour out upon Matt, who was smiling, eyes twinkling under his burden, at the amazed countenances of Miss Burridge and Veronica.
"Where's your Uncle Nick?" asked Veronica when they reached the bedroom.
"No," said Bert quickly; "no, he isn't coming."
"Isn't?" cried Miss Burridge as Blake set the trunk down. "Matt, has Mr. Gayne come into money?"
"This Mr. Gayne has," returned Blake, grinning and indicating the boy.
"No, my name isn't Gayne any more," said Bert gravely. "I am Herbert Loring, Second."
"That so?" said Matt. "There you have it, ladies. You've read about the Prince and the Pauper, haven't you? You sent away the pauper and got back the prince."
"Yes," said the boy; "my grandfathergave me all these things because he didn't need money any more."
While the boy spoke, Blake noticed that he was looking at Nicholas Gayne's trunk.
"Kind o' in the way, ain't it? That's a good place for yours to stand. We'll pull Mr. Gayne's trunk out here where I can pack it. He wants me to send him all his things."
Bert's face looked as if sunlight suddenly struck it. It was as if now only he entirely credited the fact that there was nothing to apprehend in the way of a reckoning.
"You are going to send all Uncle Nick's things to him?"
"Yes, everything but you," replied Matt jocosely.
"But I—I don't belong to him any more," explained Bert eagerly. "He gave me to—to the lawyer."
"Good work," said Blake, and, lifting the lid of the old trunk, he fell to opening the dresser drawers.
"Matt Blake," said Miss Burridge, "willyou tell me what has happened?"
"Ever hear of Herbert Loring, one o' Boston's rich men? Well, he died suddenly and this boy's his grandson, and the lawyer has persuaded Mr. Gayne to take his handsoff." As an addendum to his explanation, Matt bestowed upon Miss Burridge a wink which seemed to say: "More anon."
"And Mr. Gayne isn't coming back?" asked Miss Burridge, sundry financial considerations occurring to her.
"I guess he'll pay up all right," said Blake, reading her thought. "You make out what he owes. I'll see to it. Come on, Herbert Loring, help me to get your uncle's duds together so I won't be packing any o' yours."
"That wouldn't make—make any difference," said the boy, "because Mrs. Lowell said for me not to wear them any more." And he turned to with a will, emptying dresser and closet while Matt packed.
"I hear the motor," said Veronica suddenly.
Miss Burridge had been in a flutter ever since Diana's telegram, saying that her mother and maid would return with her. Miss Priscilla's outlook on life was placidly democratic, but somehow the prospect of having to care for the wife of the steel magnate loomed as something overwhelming. She and Veronica hurried downstairs to meet the guests. Mrs. Lowell and Diana were inhigh spirits. Léonie had fortunately discovered some resemblance in the island to a fishing village of her childhood and had sat with Bill Lindsay on the front seat coming up. He understood her trim appearance, even if half of what she said so volubly was lost to him.
The springs of the machine were not reminiscent of Mrs. Wilbur's Rolls-Royce, and her lorgnette had not yet been able to discover what charm this corner of the world had exercised upon her daughter. She had been predisposed, from her first view of Philip Barrison, to give him the credit, or discredit; and during the trip from Boston, she had kept one eye upon every move he or Diana had made toward the other. But the examination had revealed nothing. Philip had not even been assiduous toward herself. She would have suspected that instantly. As a matter of fact, almost all the way to Portland, he had concentrated his attention on a book of Brahms' songs, which were welcomed effusively by a curly-headed Irishman in white sweater and trousers who met them when they landed from the island steamer.
"Is it the mother of the goddess, then?" he said when he was presented. "You lostyour heart, I'm sure, to that ride down the bay, Mrs. Wilbur."
"It was very lovely. I should like to come around here in the yacht sometime. The rudder chain, or whatever it was on that little boat, nearly banged a hole in my head."
Diana smiled on Kelly. "Mamma has begun roughing it, that's all," she said. "I warned her."
Philip had telephoned down to bespeak the motor in order that the august Mrs. Wilbur might not be obliged to linger on the wharf where, on account of the adjacent fish-house, the odors were not always of Araby, and the only seat was a weather-worn board a little wider than a knife-blade.
Diana leaned out of the car just before they drove away and offered him her hand. "Have I thanked you nearly enough, Mr. Barrison?" she asked, and Barney Kelly observed her melting eyes. "You have filled in every need and been an untold help to us all in this affair. Even Mr. Wrenn said the nicest things about you."
"And about you," returned Philip pressing her willing hand. "I think Mr. Wrenn has had the time of his life the last few days."
"It has been very exciting, very happy—"
"Had we not better start, Diana?" put in Mrs. Wilbur. "I just caught a glimpse of a dreadful fish over there by a post. Do they catch whales here?"
"They stop at nothing, Mrs. Wilbur," Barney assured her. "Good-bye, good-bye."
The motor sped off with a grinding noise.
"You've put in your time well, eh, Barrison?"
"What makes you think so?"
"My word! If Miss Wilbur ever turned those lamps on me with that look in them, I'd fly right in and singe my wings for life."
"I don't intend to singe mine," said Philip quietly. "They think I've been useful in this one-act play they've been staging and they are grateful, that's all. The goddess is as transparent and honest as any child that ever lived. She doesn't want to light any flame for the moth, she has far too big a soul. Did you notice that the boy I took away looked different from the one we brought back to-day?"
"It wasn't the same one, was it?"
"Yes, with a few renovations in mind and body. I'll tell you about it as we go along."
When Mrs. Wilbur went out on the Innpiazza and was assailed with the island sights and odors, the snowy daisy drifts, the dark evergreens, the rock-lashed foam dragging at the pebbles and flinging them back with a never-ceasing crescendo and diminuendo, the soaring, sweeping gulls above and beneath the blue, she did not speak for a time, and it was a place where her lorgnette failed.
Léonie, however, kept up a joyous undertone. "Mais, c'est comme chez moi. C'est vraiment comme chez moi, et Mr. Beel, he will take me to see ze poisson."
"Mr. Beel" kept his word, and not once, but many times, did Mrs. Wilbur look about vainly for her maid in a place where there was no bell to ring for her, and no clocks for her to see when she was without, and Bill's motor was running up and down the road in such a convenient way for him to stop and take on an eager passenger, for whom no fishing boat was too dirty, and who could swim as well as any fish in the bay.
"Do let her go, Mamma," Diana said one morning when they were alone. "She is having a real vacation. When you are once attired and your hair is dressed, can I not perform any other office for you?"
"But I don't know which is the maid,Léonie or I," said Mrs. Wilbur. "First she had to have a sweater and I sent for that. Then she wanted a bathing-suit and I sent for that. Then she bought herself some fishing tackle and, if she can't get out in a boat, she sits on the wharf with her feet hanging over and fishes for those—those—"
"Cunners?" suggested Diana.
"Yes; and she knows every one of the island boys, and how does she know when I need her? She doesn't think anything about it."
"That's it," returned Diana, nodding. "She has lost her head. That is what we all do. You will, too, Mamma. I heard you laughing and laughing with Mr. Kelly yesterday."
"He is such a droll creature," said Mrs. Wilbur, with a reminiscent smile. "It's such a queer place here," she went on with a puzzled brow. "You could put this whole Inn into the ballroom at Newport, and there isn't space enough to turn around in the little rooms; yet out of doors it is all space, and something in the air makes you want to run and jump. I might as well tell you, Diana, my mind is just getting set at rest on the subject of Mr. Barrison. Your craze for thisplace seemed unnatural, and when I first saw him in Boston, I suspected that he was the cause." The lady met her daughter's calm eyes which contradicted her changing color.
"What should have disturbed you about that?" asked the girl quietly.
"Disturbed me! That you should have come off here alone and fallen in love with nobody knows who?"
"Oh, a good many people are learning who. That is really the chief trouble with him: I mean from a girl's standpoint. He is rapidly becoming one of the stars of the musical world."
"And why is that a drawback?" Mrs. Wilbur began to feel somewhat bewildered by her daughter's attitude.
Diana's color was rather high, but she turned toward her mother with entire calm. "I am not going to marry a man whom other women besiege. My husband will be rather short. I think he will stoop and be nearsighted and wear spectacles. He will incline to baldness, but he will be very charming—to me, and he will be mine." The smile that accompanied this declaration was so winning that Mrs. Wilbur was startled.
"Diana, have you met any such person?"she returned. "I don't like the sound of him at all!"
"Not yet," admitted Diana. "But I keep him in mind. He fights off other types."
"Supposing," said Mrs. Wilbur sharply, "some very desirable man, as attractive as Mr. Barrison, for instance, were to say he wouldn't marry you, because you are too pretty—other men would look at you."
"You do think he is attractive, do you, Mamma?"
"Why—certainly," returned Mrs. Wilbur, not quite sure even yet that the admission was safe.
"The cases are not parallel," said Diana. "Women as a rule are more faithful, and men are conceited. The average man must have severe lessons before he believes that the woman who has loved him will turn to some one else."
"Why, Diana, I am surprised at you. You talk in such a sophisticated way; but, my dear, let me remind you that you have some one beside yourself to please when you marry. Your father may give you an unlimited check-book, but he won't give youcarte blanchewhen it comes to marrying. He isn't going to welcome into the family anyinsignificant little scarecrow such as you are counting on."
If Philip wanted to hear Diana laugh, it was a pity he wasn't near now, for she burst forth so merrily that Veronica peeped out the window.
"I see you are going to be as difficult as I am, Mamma," she said at last.
It was soon after this that the cottage people with one accord begged Philip to give a recital in the hall. The summer colony was an appreciative and cultured one. Many of them had known Philip from his boyhood, and were watching his career with interest. So it was an occasion of intimacy and delight.
When the evening arrived, the hall was decked with flowers, and the singer and his accompanist appeared in white flannels. Philip was his own programme, announcing his songs and receiving at times stentorian requests for special encores.
Mrs. Wilbur, as she looked and listened, felt that she gained an understanding of Diana's arguments: not that, in any case, she desired this young man for a son-in-law, but she was greatly surprised at the beauty of his voice and his art. It was a feast he gave them that night in the uncalculating opulenceof his youth and strength: Arias from "Bohème" and "La Tosca"; the "Dream Song" from "Manon"; ballads; a group of modern French songs; another of old English. Barney Kelly's accompanying was perfect. He was among strangers, and he was as serious throughout as if they were performing in Carnegie Hall. Despite the fact that the piano was an upright, he played a group of Chopin, Palmgren, and Debussy with great charm, and the contingent from the Inn led the strong applause. As he bowed, Kelly recognized Veronica's rosy, serious face and wildly active hands.
At the close of the recital, Mrs. Wilbur was more excited than she had been for years.
"He'swonderful, Diana," she said, standing up while she was still in the throes of hand-clapping. "Wonderful!We must try to get him for an October date in Pittsfield. Our room is quite large enough. He will make a sensation."
"Yes," said Diana, rather faintly. "That is the easiest thing he does." Her face was pale. The possible charmer with the bald head and spectacles had had a hard fight to-night.
Barney Kelly disappeared through someback door while Philip's enthusiastic friends gathered around him, and Veronica dashed out on the front piazza, cleared the steps in two bounds, and the July moon aided her progress between the bushes to the back of the hall where a figure in white was straying.
"Mr. Kelly," she called breathlessly, "you were perfectly splendid. Why didn't you stay and let the people tell you so?"
"Oh, I don't know them," said Barney carelessly. "And they want to eat up Barrison."
"But they want to eat up you, too. Didn't you see how crazy they were about that last funny out-of-tune thing you played?"
Kelly laughed.
"And don't you go away; they're going to dance."
"Oh, do they want me to play?"
"Don't you dare to play! Don't you dare to let them know you can." Barney laughed again. "Well, of course, they know now you can, but not dance music."
"You're a very nice child, Veronica." Barney looked at her little dimpled rose face, and the pale green dress she wore.
"Well, if I am, then come around to thefront piazza with me. They're setting back the chairs."
Meanwhile Mrs. Wilbur was drawing Diana toward the group surrounding Philip. "I don't know what to say to you that won't sound too effusive," she said as soon as she could get his attention and his hand. "Will you come to us in October and sing a recital?"
"I shall be glad to, if I can. I will see about my dates." As Philip replied, he looked at Diana. She gave him a pale smile and said nothing. More people approached and Mrs. Wilbur drew away, her daughter with her.
"Miss Diana," said Philip, across the heads of the crowd, "they are going to dance. Will you stay?"
Diana nodded. "You like to dance, Mamma. You stay, too."
"Oh, not in this little place where everybody will be stepping on every one else. Beside, Léonie's beau is waiting outside to take us home. I will go with Miss Burridge and tell Bill to come back for you in an hour. I suppose you don't need a chaperon for I don't see your ideal here to-night, Diana," in a lowered voice. "You were right about Mr. Barrison. Let us pray that women don'tmake a complete fool of him. You don't look just right, dear. Don't stay late. I'll tell Bill to come back in an hour. Oh, there is that comical Mr. Kelly." Mrs. Wilbur sailed up to him. "Thank you so much for this evening. You were delightful, Mr. Kelly, and Mr. Barrison is most fortunate in having you."
"But you're not going, Mrs. Wilbur?"
"Yes; good-night."
"No, not until you've danced once with me. There, the music is just going to begin." And, sure enough, Miss Burridge stood back and waited while Mrs. Wilbur's little satin-clad feet tripped lightly around in the dance with the volatile Barney, and she talked to him about the date in October and promised she would dance with him again at that time.
Mrs. Lowell and Herbert had been enjoying the concert and had told Philip so, and now stood back watching the dancing.
"Would you like to learn to dance?" asked Mrs. Lowell.
"No."
"It sounds better to say, 'No, Mrs. Lowell,' or, 'No, I thank you.'"
"Then I will," said the boy.
"I like to dance," said Mrs. Lowell, "and I wish you would learn."
"Then I will," said the boy again.
The music had thrilled his artist soul. It seemed all a part of the entrancing night, a part of the safe world of love into which he had been guided.
Mrs. Wilbur looked back into the hall from the piazza before she stepped into the motor. Diana was already dancing with Philip Barrison. She watched their smooth movements for a minute, then turned to Mrs. Lowell who had just emerged with her boy.
"This—this gathering, this settlement here, seems rather like a family party, doesn't it?" she said, with a sort of troubled curiosity.
"Yes; nearly all of these people have known each other for many summers."
"I feel a little strange to go and leave Diana."
"I don't think you need," replied Mrs. Lowell.
"I suppose," said Mrs. Wilbur, "if the steed were going to be stolen, it would have happened before this. The stable door has been open for weeks."
"Quite so," said Mrs. Lowell, laughing. "It is so light, Bert and I are going to walk up to the Inn."
"I am going to send the car back for Diana in one hour," declared Mrs. Wilbur. Herdaughter's theories were all very well, but this was a distractingly beautiful night and the echoes of that marvelous voice were even yet thrilling her own nerves. Léonie was sitting at the front of the car with Bill Lindsay, and Mrs. Wilbur mounted into the back seat with Miss Burridge.
"I suppose Miss Veronica will return with my daughter," she said.
"I only hope so," returned Miss Burridge resignedly. "Mr. Kelly has promised to see to her."
"I don't feel like dancing," said Diana, as her partner guided her through the narrow spaces.
"No one would suspect it," he replied. "I was just thinking that this night was to be superlative in all directions."
"But how can one endure this silly music when 'Manon! Manon!' is echoing through the heart!"
Philip did not reply, nor did he release her until the gay strumming at the piano ceased. Then they went out on the piazza. The laughing, chattering young people were streaming out into the air, and occupying every available seat. The field surrounding the hall was light as day.
"Let us go down to the rocks," said Philip.
"I mustn't because my mother is going to send the car back for me in one hour. You've no idea how firmly my mother can say 'one hour' and mean it."
"There should be no rules on a night like this," Philip regarded his companion, pale in the moonlight as her pale, filmy garments. "I feel like quoting a choice spirit of my childhood days. He was trying to get me to go on a tear of some kind with him, and I told him my mother would worry. He said, 'Oh, come on. Scoldings don't hurt, whippings don't last long, and she da'sn't kill you.'"
Diana smiled. "Now that she is here, she likes to tuck me in," she said.
"I would she had waited until after the moon. Well, let us go to the near rocks. I will keep watch of the time."
They went down the populous steps.
"Oh, Mr. Barrison!" exclaimed a woman upon whom he nearly trod. "What ecstasy you have given us!"
It was Miss Emerson. She was cooling off from a dance with Mr. Pratt, and was in high feather, because neither he nor Mr. Evans knew another woman present, save Veronica,and her acquaintance, though not wide, seemed intensive.
"Yes, that was corking," said Mr. Evans. "We sure do thank you. Say, folks, I'm tired. I'm going to trot along."
"Back to the Inn?" asked Philip with interest.
"Yes. Anything I can do for you?"
"If you will be so kind. Mrs. Wilbur has just gone. Will you be kind enough to tell her not to worry if her daughter is a little later than she expected? Tell her you left her in good hands and we are going to walk up after a while."
"Certainly. Be glad to," replied Evans.
"Oh," breathed Diana, softly, as they moved on into the glory of the night, "I'm quite sure you should not have done that."
"Do you want to be shut up in a tin Lizzie to-night?"
"No, nor anywhere."
Philip led her to the shore and found a corner among the rocks from which they could watch the beaten silver of the billows rushing tumultuously landward, breaking in foam about their eyrie, and slipping back in myriad bridal veils.
"There is always one night in the summer,and this is the night," said Philip. "Think of viewing the moon in company with the goddess herself! If you only wouldn't mind leaning against my arm. I'm sorry to have that rock cutting into your dandy gown."
"Thank you, but it doesn't. I have a very good place here."
"Comfortable enough to tell me that you liked the music?"
Diana looked around at him slowly, and he laughed softly.
"Yes, I know you did. I know if I ever could sing, I sang to-night. There was something new in it. It taught me something, something I've been waiting for. They've always told me, my teachers, that the one thing I needed was to fall in love. It must have happened—happened, somehow, when I wasn't looking." Philip crossed his arms behind his head, leaned back and looked at the high sailing moon. "Thank you, great goddess Diana, I am at your feet. You have dropped upon me a spark of the divine fire. I build you an altar. The flame shall never go out."
The girl beside him bit her lip and silence fell between them. The bright billows swept in and crashed apart.
"I suppose that is what love means to an artist," she said at last. "The nourishing of his art. That is all."
"That is all it can mean to me," he answered; "but isn't it enough? An object to worship with all a man's strength, receiving the return of inspiration?"
She looked at him as he lay there reclining against the rock, his upturned face not seeking hers. This evening had shown her in miniature the truth of all she had felt and, because her heart was beating fast, she clung more strongly than ever to the spectacled gentleman with the scanty hair.
"Say something, divine one," he said suddenly, turning to her.
"Don't confuse me with the moon, Mr. Barrison," she warned him.
"But at least can't you congratulate me?"
"Yes, I can, on many things; but—don't fall in love with any ideal less impersonal than a planet."
"I don't intend to, but why these words of wisdom?"
"Because any—any mere mortal girl married to you would be miserable."
"Oh, come, now!" Philip sat up, andfrowned at her with a quizzical smile. "So you think I ought to try kindness first, do you? Why?"
Diana turned her fair moonlit face directly to him. "Because you cannot ever belong to yourself, even. Much less to her."
"I don't quite get that."
"I can't speak for all girls, but for myself, if I ever have a husband, I want—I want to creep off into a corner with him."
"A corner like this rock?"
"This is big enough."
"How would that suit the great Charles Wilbur?"
"It would not suit him. I know that. The homely little stoop-shouldered man, with the lovely soul, whom I mean to marry, will not altogether please my father."
Philip's eyes grew big in the moonlight. "Have you picked him out?"
"Yes, as an ideal. Other women will leave me in possession of him."
"Ah," Philip nodded, "I begin to see." They were both silent again. At last Philip spoke again. "I deny that that girl you are warning me away from would have such a rocky time. What do you suppose I should care for the babble, no matter how kind itwas, how sweet even, of other women? I should see only her."
"You think so," said Diana. "I know you think so. And at first it would probably be so, but a singer's appetite for flattery grows. Of course it does. I'm not blaming you. It's just your career."
Silence again, until Philip spoke. "Very well, I shall hunt you out in your corner with your faithful gnome, and I shall beg: (he sang) 'Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I will pledge with mine.'"
Philip sang the song entirely through, slowly and deliberately, and Diana closed her eyes, and the laces on her sleeve trembled. The glory of the night, the glory of the voice were all one. She shrank into her corner and held desperately to her ideal.
When he had finished, Philip looked at her. Her head rested back upon the rock, her eyes were closed. The mysterious light lent her face a strange radiance.
"Diana," he said, and there was a thrill in his voice, "you are well named. Goddess of the moon you certainly are, and this night is an epoch in my life. I love, and in spite of your skepticism I shall be true." She opened her eyes and looked at him, and he drew along, quick breath. "I can't let you stay here any longer. Your wrap isn't enough. Now we will sprint up to the Inn. Do you feel like it?"
"Oh, is it over?" she said softly.
"Yes, or else it has just begun. I am not sure which," he answered, and rising he gave her his hand and helped her to her feet. "The moon is no farther away from me than you," he said in the moment while he held her hand. "I am not going to forget it."
"Then it is I!" she thought, with a bound of the heart that turned her faint.
They scarcely spoke on the long, heavenly walk up the island. The sea was starry as the sky with the lights of fishing boats, and phosphorescence gleamed where the water was in shadow.
When he took her hand for good-night on the piazza of the Inn, she said: "I haven't thanked you for this wonderful evening. You know I do—Philomel."
He smiled down at her. "That reminds me of our first meeting here. 'Philomel with melody,' you said. I remember what I had been singing, too. It is still true." He kissed her hand, jumped over the piazza rail, narrowly missing the sweet peas, and strodeaway. The girl stood in the shadow watching the tall, white figure and listening to the waves of song that floated back through the moonlight.