HOME-COMING
Often during the remainder of the journey Linda questioned her aunt
about her own and her father's childhood. Hitherto she had avoided
as far as possible all mention or knowledge of his antecedents and
the struggles which preceded his success. Again she felt the relief
consequent upon opening a mental door until now painstakingly kept
closed. Instead of the thorn again came up the fir-tree, as her
thoughts, led by Miss Barry, roved about the hard but wholesome past,
and she acquainted herself with the good stock which had produced her
lost treasure.
"Don't grieve. Speed him on," had been Mrs. Porter's tender and strong
admonition. Linda tried to remember it every time that submerging wave
of realized loss went sweeping suffocatingly over her head.
Miss Barry, rousing from practical thoughts of her home and
housekeeping, or waking from a nap, usually saw her niece poring over
letters, and occasionally it was Bertram King's that she held in her
hands.
Once when this was the case Miss Belinda held out a metal box. "Try
some of this ginger," she said. "Coals to Newcastle! Did you ever?
Isn't Mr. King the impudent one?"
Linda leaned politely toward the confection, then drew back again.
"Don't waste it on me, Aunt Belinda. I don't seem to care for sweets."
"Well, I hope Mrs. Porter will. I can't eat all these things alone,"
replied Miss Barry, casting a glance toward the varied boxes.
At the same time she let that eagle glance come back to her niece.
"I hope you're going to remember," she said impressively, "that that
fine man to whom we owe so much is related to Mrs. Porter."
"What?" asked the girl absent-mindedly. "Oh," suddenly gathering her
aunt's meaning. "Yes, certainly."
Miss Barry sniffed. "Linda," she said, "I don't know but I'd ought to
go and dig up your grandmother's slipper!"
The girl smiled, and the older woman shook her head. "She is a handsome
thing," she thought.
Mrs. Porter thought so too when she met them in Portland. In spite of
the change wrought in her pupil's appearance during the last month she
reflected how beauty at twenty-one will be beauty still.
"There's no place like home!" exclaimed Miss Barry, as she accepted
Mrs. Porter's embrace. "I'm aching for one look at the ocean."
"Isn't she saucy to our grand lake?" asked Mrs. Porter, putting her
hand through Linda's arm, and leading the way to the motor waiting
outside.
"What does this mean?" asked Miss Barry. "The train's good enough for
us."
"No, it's such a beautiful afternoon. It will rest you both to motor
home," said Mrs. Porter. She supported Linda's arm, noting the
feebleness of the girl's movements.
The two black-clothed women entered the car, the porter put in their
suit-cases, Mrs. Porter jumped in, and they started. As yet Linda
had scarcely spoken. It was curious to her to see her teacher thus,
off duty, wearing an outing hat and corduroy. She, who had always
been surrounded with a wall of delicate formality which no pupil save
herself had ever had the audacity to break down, now smiling, tanned
and rosy, girlish in her soft white hat, seemed another identity. Linda
regarded her teacher gravely, while the latter responded cheerfully to
Miss Barry's questions. The sun shone, the breeze was crisp.
As they emerged into the suburbs and countryside, all the joyousness of
June smote upon the travelers' tired senses.
Linda turned her wistful eyes away when Mrs. Porter met them, a
reassuring strength in her regard.
"Jerry was so disappointed when I told him he needn't come to the
station for us," she said. "All your neighbors are excited over your
home-coming."
"H'm," sniffed Miss Barry in a one-sided smile. "Luella accommodatin'
any boarders?"
"Yes, a mother and daughter from New York."
"H'm. Their bones beginning to show yet?"
Mrs. Porter laughed. "If it is as you say, why shouldn't Miss Luella
advertise a reducing establishment? I'm sure it would pay."
The speaker's cheer covered a pang. Linda's slenderness and pallor
spoke eloquently, and made her forget the girl's probable injustice to
Bertram King.
Linda had made but one visit before to the Cape. That was ten years
ago, when her aunt's cottage was first built. It had been a flying trip
with her father and mother, and she had slight recollection of the
place. Her mother had cared more for mountains than sea, and Linda had
visited them on both sides of the ocean. It was now to a practically
new place that the motor was carrying her.
She straightened herself with interest when the settlement came in
sight, and her large gaze sought for the little house that had been her
father's gift of love to his sister.
Mrs. Porter saw her eagerness. "Just about three minutes away now," she
said.
"Is that it? The brown one?" asked the girl as they neared the rocky
point.
"Yes, the Gull's Nest," replied Mrs. Porter. "I don't know what Miss
Barry calls it, but how could it have any other name?"
"Lambert was always telling me to name it and he'd give me some writing
paper, stamped."
"And why didn't you?"
"I did." Miss Barry tossed her head a little toward the welcoming waves.
"What is it?" asked Mrs. Porter eagerly.
"Oh, no matter," returned Miss Belinda.
"You haven't told? Do you mean you haven't _told_?" Mrs. Porter's eyes
twinkled at the proof of New England reticence.
"What's in a name, anyway?" returned Miss Belinda evasively.
Her niece regarded the flush on her aunt's thin cheek wistfully, and
wondered what bit of sentiment she was concealing.
The wonder heightened the interest with which she entered the cottage.
The little house was unexpectedly roomy within. Lambert Barry had given
his sister _carte blanche_ as to coziness, provided she would have
room enough for him and his when they could arrange to come; but the
nearness to the great diapason of the waves had repelled his wife, and
after he lost her the engrossed business man could make only flying
visits to the scenes of his childhood. There were the rooms, however,
and Linda was soon led to hers.
"It's the one I always called your father's room, Linda," said Miss
Barry, as she ushered her in.
Mrs. Porter, after brief explanation of her preparations, had remained
below stairs to leave them alone.
Linda looked from the windows on the limitless ocean, dotted with
distant sails; on the fleecy islands of cloud in a sky as blue, as
limitless.
She turned back to her companion. A look of satisfaction had overspread
her aunt's wan face.
"You've been very good to me, Aunt Belinda," she said deliberately.
"I've known it all the time, but I shall appreciate it more and more."
"Well, well, that's all right, child," returned the other hastily. "I
think there's everything here to make you comfortable. The bathroom's
here, between your room and mine; and if there's anything you want that
you don't see, just let me know."
She went out and left Linda standing there, her wide gaze fixed on the
open sea and ships. Islands were but distant scenes from the Cape.
Here the granite cliffs rose high and higher. She could get glimpses
along the shore of their hollows, which soon would shelter luxuriant
deep-pink wild roses, but now waved with snowy daisies, flirting with
the foam which ever sought to reach them.
An hour afterward she went downstairs, and found Mrs. Porter sitting
with a book in the glassed-in end of the veranda.
"See? I've been saving this hammock for you," said Mrs. Porter, looking
up.
Linda stood still and smiled, looking with fascinated eyes at the sea.
Mrs. Porter remained quiet, watching the girl's face grow grave.
"It's very wonderful after the city, isn't it?" she asked at last.
"Yes. The noise on the avenue was constant, then the banging and
confusion of trains. This is like being born into a new world. I was
wondering just now if Father felt that same great contrast and peace
when he waked up."
"I'm sure he did," replied Mrs. Porter. She said no more to urge her
friend to lie down, but dropped her book and took up some sewing that
lay on the table beside her.
Pretty soon Linda came over to the hammock and seated herself on
its edge, and at that moment Miss Barry appeared with an armful of
neglected bon-bon boxes.
"This is day before yesterday's candy," she announced, "but most of
them haven't been opened at all, and any that you don't want will
find a market in the neighborhood." The speaker raised her eyebrows
significantly.
Mrs. Porter smiled. "Poor little Blanche Aurora, for instance. She's
been a good little helper."
"You don't mean to say she hasn't broken dishes."
"Well, not so very many, really. She's been very much excited over your
home-coming."
When Jerry came with the trunks, his sea-blue eyes regarded Linda with
respectful interest, while he shook hands with her aunt.
"Ye look some faded, Belinda," he remarked.
"I'll pick up," was the reply. "This is my niece, Cap'n Holt."
Linda brought her absent-minded gaze back with a start, realizing that
the "expressman" was being introduced to her.
He put out his rough hand kindly, and she saw by his expression that he
was acknowledging her bereavement. She put her hand in his in silence.
"Cap'n Holt knew your father, Linda," said Mrs. Porter.
The girl's eyes met his. "Did you work for my father?" she asked.
"Dunno 'bout that," was the good-humored response. "I was the oldest,
and I guess mebbe he worked fer me some."
Cap'n Holt's lips twitched as if a humorous continuation of his
declaration was imminent, but Linda's grave looks and her black gown
restrained him. A faint color mounted to the girl's cheeks. She must
remember hereafter!
"He was well liked around here, your father was," finished Jerry Holt
warmly.
"Thank you," said Linda, and Jerry dropped her smooth young hand
awkwardly.
"Sometime you must tell me about when he was a little boy," she
continued, still gazing at him.
Jerry Holt winked hard as he drove his team away from those appealing
eyes. "She takes it hard," he said to himself, "she takes it hard."
Luella Benslow had seen him drive by with the trunks, and she was
working in her garden as he returned. Luella had not succeeded in
entirely breaking down the reserve of that pleasant-faced Mrs. Porter,
who had been keeping house for Belinda. The socially experienced
musician had known how to awe her. Luella was by no means certain that
Belinda Barry's loss had dulled her speech, so she restrained the
curiosity which urged her to create an immediate errand at the Barry
cottage.
Jerry must pass her house on his return, so she set herself to work at
piling some wood, her father not being amenable to the performing of
such an arduous task.
Her regimentals for such labor consisted of a deep shaker bonnet
provided with a flowing collar, in which her complexion was shielded.
She also wore a complication of capes, and a terraced arrangement of
aprons, one above the other, the whole giving the strong, sportive sea
wind an assorted lot of banners, which it tossed in all directions.
As Jerry's wagon approached, Luella was too deafened by the wind
and her shaker to hear the wheels on the soft earth. She was at the
roadside, gathering the smaller wood which had fallen by the way,
and the back view of her stooping figure presented an appearance
which Jerry's steed, mentally consulting a long experience, could not
remember to have seen paralleled. Deciding that it would be on the safe
side to approach no nearer, Molly planted her forefeet, and all Jerry's
adjurations failed to persuade her to move. Her eloquent ears went
forward and back.
At last there came borne to Luella a stentorian yell.
"Git up! Git up, I tell ye, Luella."
She slowly lifted her head, turned, and brushing her hair out of her
eyes beheld Molly with feet planted and ears laid back. Jerry was
standing up in his wagon, gesticulating with his whip.
"Git up, I tell ye! The hoss won't go _by_ ye!" he yelled.
Luella arose with alacrity, but slowly, her arms full of kindling.
This she dropped incontinently, and Molly shied as the fluttering
figure ran forward.
"I want to speak to you, Jerry. Don't go till you tell me about 'em!"
she said breathlessly. "Do excuse my looks," she added with a simper.
"I can overlook 'em if Molly can," replied Jerry.
Both Molly and Luella seemed to be indulging in a return to the
skittishness of youth.
Jerry had twice taken Luella home from singing school in days gone
by, and he had been ticketed as one of her beaux ever since! A
might-have-been with whom she consistently played the game.
She pushed her shaker back. "Have you seen the orphan?" she added,
again brushing stray locks of hair out of her curious eyes.
"Yes."
"What's she like? Awful proud, I s'pose."
"Mebbe. She favors Lambert. He went some on looks, you remember."
"How should I remember?" returned Luella with a coy smile, which showed
dentally the evenness of piano keys. "I was so _much_ younger than you
and Mr. Barry."
"I wish Luella's teeth wouldn't kind o' drop," reflected Jerry Holt.
"It makes me dizzy."
He snapped his whip gently, while Molly, reassured, rested in the first
position.
"I think I'd ought to call real soon," said Luella. "Don't you?"
"Well, 'f I was you I'd let 'em ketch their breath," remarked Jerry
impersonally.
"The Mrs. Lindsay and her daughter stayin' with me, they're related to
a young man in Chicago that's a dear friend o' the Barrys," went on
Luella eagerly. "I think 't would make the orphan feel more to home to
know she had a mewchal friend in the neighborhood. Don't you?"
"Couldn't say," drawled Jerry.
"_Sh!_" hissed Luella, lowering her voice portentously. "The ladies are
about sure their relation had all his money in Lambert Barry's bank.
_Sh!_ They think from all they've heard he was a scoundrel. You can't
talk about folks that's dead, though, can you?"
"Well, some folks find it's the safest time."
"Well, what do _you_ think, Jerry?" she asked, still low-voiced,
pressing close to the wagon.
"I think I got to be goin'. Careful there, Luella. Don't let Molly step
on ye."
"Well," she returned, retreating, "I've always believed I could write
a play as good as anybody else for those here emotion pictures, and
this'd be a splendid story, with Lambert Barry for the villain, and his
beautiful daughter believin' in him; don't you think so? I'd make her
beautiful, you know."
Jerry Holt's lips twitched as he gathered up the reins.
"Well, one thing sure, Nature's saved ye the trouble there, Luella. Git
ap, Molly."
Luella looked after the wagon, her mouth open in her interest. Her
friend's meaning slowly percolated. Then she hurried toward the house,
removing aprons as she went, to inform her boarders of the arrival.