THE MAN AND THE MAID
King's improvement was slow, but steady, and the stretch of good
weather upon which he happened on arriving at the Cape enabled him to
live out-of-doors and was a great factor in his favor.
Miss Barry called on him very early in his stay, bringing with her an
appetizing little custard. It was a form of food which King had always
detested, but feigning polite enthusiasm he tasted it to please her,
and promptly discovered that the gastronomic question was no longer,
"What is it?" but merely, "Where is it?" He finished the custard.
Mrs. Porter was a daily visitor, and one afternoon, when they had
walked over to the big rock and were resting there, she told him of her
own Arcadian retreat beside the spring.
"In such a little while you will be able to walk as far as that," she
said. "You will enjoy seeing Miss Barry's cottage, too. Did you know
it was her brother's gift?"
King nodded. "She was telling me about it the other day."
The sun had already begun to paint hues of health on his face and his
voice was gaining resonance. "I try to visualize Mr. Barry here in his
rôle of 'barefoot boy with cheek of tan,' but it's a hard proposition."
"So it is for Linda. She follows up old Jerry or any one else she can
find who went to school with her father, and gleans every possible
anecdote of his boyhood."
King leaned his head back on the rock and gazed up into space. "Isn't
it wonderful here?" he said. "I've thought many times since I arrived
of the old woman who, when she first beheld the ocean, exclaimed,
'Thank the Lord, that at last He's let me see enough of something!'"
"Yes, it's emancipation. Linda and I have often remarked that it would
seem impossible to have narrow thoughts here. She doesn't wish to
intrude, Bertram, but she would like to come to see you."
King met the sweet, questioning expression of his companion's eyes. "I
see plainly," he answered with a smile, "that you and I must have it
out about Linda. Your persistent references to her each time you come
show that she is very much on your mind."
"She is very much on my mind," returned Mrs. Porter gravely. "I wish
you would send a kindly message to her by me, and say that you would be
glad to see her."
"But I wouldn't, Maud," returned King mildly. "What would you do in
that case? Of course, you know the whole situation, and know that
Whitcomb with his grand little revelation bouleversed all Linda's fixed
ideas."
"Oh, she is so changed, Bertram," exclaimed Mrs. Porter. "She's not the
Linda you knew."
"Perhaps; but it's safe to say that she's still--still tremendous. I'm
more or less shaky yet; and I must confess that the prospect of an
interview with Linda in a cyclone of repentance makes me--well, shrink.
It croozles me, if you know what that means. Sort of takes me in the
pit of the stomach."
"You're all wrong. She has been through the fire, and she has learned
self-control." Mrs. Porter paused to choose her words. "She longs,
Bertram--longs for your forgiveness.
"I've nothing to forgive her," he returned pleasantly. "She had plenty
of company in the mistake she made."
Something in Mrs. Porter's loving look and wistful eyes caused the
speaker to change his tone.
"I won't fence with you, Maud. I told you once I loved Linda. I did,
with a depth which seemed to exhaust my power of loving. It's true
that one doesn't feel a pin-prick when at the same moment he is struck
a mortal blow. The fatal fact was not that Linda blamed me for the
sorrow that had fallen upon her. It was that there was no desire on
her part to give me a chance: to hear my side of the story: none of
the extenuation which one ray of love would have naturally expressed.
Instead, there was hatred in her eyes. That was the only thing that
mattered."
King leaned back against the rock, breathing fast. "I tell you this,
Maud. You're the only person in the world who will know it, and
we won't speak of it again. I know Linda so well. I know how this
revulsion of feeling would express itself with her. She would like
to come over here and wait on me by inches. My wish would be her law;
but that would matter no more than her mistake about the Antlers. The
essential fact has been revealed, and--nothing else matters."
"Is your present feeling for her dislike, then?" asked Mrs. Porter.
"Certainly not."
"It would be no pain to you to meet her?"
"It would be a bore," returned King gently. "Isn't that enough? Of
course, it will have to come some day; but I've been a good deal
indulged lately, and I believe in putting off an evil day. I should
like Linda to have worked off some of her repentant steam before we
meet."
King, his self-possession regained, smiled again into his companion's
face. "Whitcomb is devoted to her. Let her work it off on him," he
added.
"She will never marry him," said Mrs. Porter.
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," was the polite response.
Mrs. Porter leaned toward her companion with her broad, charming smile.
"Bertram King, that's a lie," she remarked slowly.
He winked and lifted his eyebrows.
"There's a lot for you to learn about love," she went on. "To love
unselfishly is the best thing that can happen to anybody."
"There's no such thing as unselfish love," declared King.
"Oh, yes there is, and you proved that you experienced it. You put
Linda's happiness above your own. You willingly endured injustice to
mitigate her pain. Don't you know that your nature was enriched by
that? Don't you know that your action, now that she understands it,
reflects upon her, and uplifts her nature and her ideals? We can't
crystallize, because we're the children of God; and God is Infinite
Love, and Love is a divine principle which is ever active. You
assume too much when you hold Linda to the narrow development of her
school-girl days. You can remain behind your human defenses and refuse
to forgive her if you choose--"
"I told you, and honestly, that I have nothing to forgive."
Mrs. Porter shook her head. "God doesn't treat us so when we turn
to Him repentantly. He doesn't say there is nothing to forgive and
leave us with the sharp thorn unremoved. That sweet sense that God is
Love is borne in upon us after a genuine repentance, and gives the
consciousness that we shall be upheld if we long to be, and guarded
from a repetition of the offense."
"My dear Maud, you're way beyond my depth."
"No, Bertram, I am not. You reflected something of the divine in that
tender protecting love you felt for Linda. I don't despair of you. In
spite of all the things you have been saying to fortify your human
self, I know, for actions speak louder than words, that a very lofty
affection once found place in your heart, and that pure flame cannot
die because it was a reflection of that which is immortal and eternal.
Never mind Linda. God will take care of her, too. Your business is with
your own thought, to keep it in a high place, trusting to be led to
that happiness which God has prepared for them that love Him, without
outlining what that happiness shall consist in."
King drew a long breath and smiled, looking long and affectionately at
his companion.
"Isn't she the great little preacher!" he remarked.
"Oh, it's all so simple!" exclaimed Mrs. Porter softly, clasping her
hands together. "Why can't everybody see it!"
When she went home to-day, she told Linda nothing of this interview.
The girl had ceased to cross-question her friend on her return from
these visits; for she never received any satisfaction, and the
invitation she longed for never came.
Blanche Aurora was very much alive to the fact that her adored one was
the only member of the family who had not called on the convalescent.
She was not entirely satisfied to have it so. King's photograph had
been framed, and Blanche Aurora in the growing scarcity of wild roses
made little bouquets of clover and daisies and placed them between the
two pictures, and she noticed that Linda allowed the sharing.
Whitcomb came to call sometimes, but between his attentions to King
and the carrying out of Madge's various plans, his time was pretty well
occupied.
Late one afternoon Blanche Aurora found Linda in the hammock and alone.
She seized her opportunity.
"Say, Miss Linda," she began, "we've got a real good Bavarian cream for
Mr. King's supper. 'Tain't convenient for me to take it over. I wonder
if you could."
Linda sat up, and regarded the white-aproned short figure. The pink bow
atop quivered with the depth of its owner's imaginings and deep-laid
schemes. The keen eyes observed that Linda flushed and hesitated.
"Mrs. Porter is still in Portland?" she asked.
"Why, yes, and didn't you know Miss Barry went too? I've got to get
their supper, you see; and the cream come out awful good."
Linda rose. "Yes, I'll go," she said quietly; but there was no quiet
within.
All the way across the field, her heart hurried. She had never called
at the Benslow house. To go for the first time to see King, without his
request, and risk his betraying, perhaps, before the others, that she
was unwelcome, was an ordeal which she dreaded, but the desire to see
him rose above the confusion of her crowding thoughts, and though her
hands trembled on the covered bowl she pushed on.
The lovely late afternoon light struck across the field. Bertram King,
wandering down from the piazza, noted the golden sheen upon the grass
and the majestic cloud-effects in the vast arch above. His near-sighted
eyes beheld a white figure advancing in the golden light.
He hastened his steps in welcome.
"Good for you," he cried. "I was getting very tired of myself. There's
been an exodus from here to Portland to-day. I know I'm a big boy now,
since Whitcomb was willing to leave me. Even Miss Benslow is out and
I'm holding the fort."
All the time that his words were calling through the still air, he
was walking toward the visitor. Linda's face from doubt grew radiant.
The relieved, happy color rose in her cheeks. Her lovely eyes beamed.
In her white gown and with her shining, grateful joy, she was very
beautiful as her light springing step brought her near and into
King's field of vision. His breath caught in the shock and he stood
stock-still.
"I'm glad to see you, too, Bertram," she cried. Her eyes were starry,
her smile enchanting.
"Why, Linda! I beg your pardon. I thought you were Maud," he exclaimed.
The change in his tone, his blank surprise and ebbing eagerness, set
Linda's heart to beating wildly. The stricture in her bosom drew back
the radiant promise from her face.
King saw the transformation with a pang. "Forgive my shouting at you
like that," he went on, struggling for his self-possession. It was
as if Linda's soul had been revealed to him for an instant, joyous,
hopeful, humble: the new Linda of whom Maud had spoken.
"You have something for me, I'll wager," he continued. He could see
the white napkin trembling in the suddenly unsteady hands. "Let me
take it," suiting the action to the word. "I've grown arrogantly used
to bowls coming across this field filled with something delicious,
designed to upholster these bones."
Linda had made good use of the time he gave her. Her throat was free
again. She could speak. "You look better than I expected," she said
quietly.
"And you, too, Linda. You do credit to the place." King was trying to
regain some of the plans he had formulated for their first interview;
but they had been designed to baffle effusiveness, and this girl in the
white gown seemed to radiate calm.
"Yes," she returned. "I have Blanche Aurora's word for it that the
Bavarian cream in that bowl is good. There has been an exodus to
Portland from our house, too, so she asked me to bring it over."
"Awfully good of you," said King, hot with mingled sensations. "There
never was any one so spoiled as I."
"I must run back now," said Linda. "I can see that you will soon have
the freedom of the neighborhood, and we shall be looking for you at
Aunt Belinda's."
"Oh, don't desert me," begged King. It was as if he had obtained the
promise of a wonderful gift: the lavish outpouring of a rich nature.
A veil had fallen, concealing it: a veil, pure, white, impenetrable.
Linda's eyes and voice were friendly, self-possessed.
"Blanche Aurora says snacks are good for you when you're sick and
delicate," he went on; "but never have I been reduced to eating a snack
alone. It's tea-time, too. Couldn't you make me some tea?"
Linda's dimple appeared. "I'm afraid the duty of a host presses upon
you. I'd better not. I've never called at the Benslows'. Besides, you
say there's not a chaperone on the place."
"There are the hens," said King eagerly. "Won't they do? You never saw
so many in your life. Come. We'll have tea on the piazza. Whitcomb has
rigged up an old sail across one end so Boreas shan't strike my frail
form too roughly."
He turned back toward the house, beseeching her with his eyes, and
Linda followed in silence. "I'm getting to know this bowl," continued
King, lifting it and investigating its blue stripes. "It's a magic
one, never empty excepting when I get through with it. We'll have two
spoons. I'm not stingy."
As they ascended the rickety piazza steps, King continued: "The
tea-table is in there in the living-room. I'll get--" he staggered,
and stopped. Whitcomb had been right when he said that his friend
couldn't yet bear excitement.
Linda, looking up, saw him grow ghastly pale.
"Oh, confound it!" he gasped.
The blue-and-white bowl fell from his hands down among Luella's
sweet-pea vines. He managed to take a step toward the steamer chair,
collapsed into it, and fainted away ignominiously.
Linda threw herself on her knees beside him. "Bertram, Bertram!" she
cried in grief and terror. It was for her father and for her that the
strong man had come to this. She slipped her arm around him. In her
inexperience she thought he might be dying.
"Oh, Bertram, speak to me!" she cried. There was a pitcher of water on
the neighboring table. She dipped her handkerchief into it and dabbed
his brow and his fair hair, and softly between dry sobs she called his
name. They were alone in the remote, tumbledown house. Even the ocean's
mighty grasp of its rocks sounded distant. There was no one to call
upon save the invisible Reality, and Linda turned her full heart to
the very present help.
In a minute, which seemed to her an hour, consciousness began to return
to King. Her arm was around him; she had drawn his cheek against her
bosom. As he slowly realized his position and heard her low voice, he
seemed again to see Linda as she had come toward him in her white gown
across the green gold of the field. Every paining haunting memory was
submerged in a strange, ineffable bliss.
Without opening his eyes he spoke her name.
"Yes, Bertram, yes," she responded joyfully.
"I love you, Linda."
Her heart bounded, and he felt it; and she did not change her position.
"I shall always love you. Whitcomb has stirred your gratitude toward
me. I don't care for it."
"Yes, I know," answered the girl, still holding him close.
"You wouldn't palm that off on me, would you?"
"I want to be fair"--the response was low. King's hands lay loosely
before him. "All that I am sure of is that I belong to you, Bertram."
"Are you certain that's all? It's a good deal, but it's not enough."
Linda's bosom labored. She remembered the longings of the last weeks,
the many moments of despair.
"Father loved you so," she uttered.
"That's not enough, either."
She drew herself gently away from him, but remained on her knees. He
sat up in the low chair, and their faces were on a level. Into hers
returned that look of riches unutterable and her eyes poured their gift
into his. She clasped her hands across her breast as she gazed.
The arms that had held him so close and protectingly felt empty.
"I love you, Bertram," she said, the words falling from her lips like a
vow.
Instantly the man's loose-lying hands became vital. King clasped her to
him. Their cheeks clung together and they kissed.