you went back to bed. I'm going, anyway."
"Sylvia!"
Sylvia paused in the doorway.
"Did you kiss me that night or did I dream it?"
"The idea!" But Sylvia's cheeks were less ambiguous in their answer
than her lips as she fled into the corridor.
"Bless her!" grunted Phil. "Just wait until I get on my feet. I
wouldn't care if she were Miss Midas herself, I'd run off with her. I
wish she'd kiss me again."
But it was May now and Sylvia had not kissed him again. Though she took
very good care of her guest that particular attention did not seem to be
included in the list. Up to this time, too, Phil had not been
sufficiently "on his feet" either to run off with his hostess or even to
have the presumption to ask her to marry him.
May in Maryland! Is there anything lovelier the world over? Roses in
the gardens, wistaria dripping purple trails from the balconies, waxen,
fragrant magnolia bloom! Red bud and dogwood on the hills! Green fire
everywhere!
In Sylvia's garden Phil Lorrimer lay stretched at ease in a canopied
hammock watching a pair of red birds carry on a lively courtship in the
magnolia tree. He was getting on famously it was declared. Certainly he
felt too much energy to be willing to stay recumbent much longer. He
was beginning to be restless. It was a wonder he had not begun before.
It was not so long ago that if any one had told him he would stay
contentedly for nearly two months away from his beloved clinic he would
have thought them mad and no doubt told them so. But sickness is a
powerful leveller and Phil had other things on his mind beside medicine
and surgery these May days.
"Enter egg nogg," announced Sylvia suddenly arriving, Hebe like, with a
tray and a tall glass of foaming yellow deliciousness.
Phil sat up.
"Gee! What business has a great hulking idiot like me to loaf around
and let an angel like you wait on him hand and foot?"
"Angels aren't conspicuous for their hands and feet. They are all wings
like that mosquito there. Don't let him bite. He'll disfigure your
beauty. And don't stop to concoct highfaluting speeches. Your business
is to drink."
"All right I will, if you'll sit down too." He patted the hammock
beside him and Sylvia accepted the invitation.
When he had disposed of the egg nogg he set the empty glass on the tray
on the grass where Sylvia had deposited it. Then he turned to look at
his companion. Sylvia was well worth looking at these days. Her old
rose bloom and "moonshininess" were back again. She had returned close
to the "jubilant springs" from which she had journeyed afar during the
troublous winter past, though perhaps the little girl Sylvia had
disappeared forever in the course of her devious wayfaring. At any
rate, the new womanliness was very becoming.
"Is this a good time to propose?" demanded Phil so suddenly that Sylvia
blushed like a schoolgirl and drooped her head, but her lips twitched
roguishly as she averred that it was as good a time as any.
"Very well. Remember I'm scared to death. I never proposed to a girl
before in my life and I'm never going to do it again. One, two, three!
Sylvia, will you marry me?"
Sylvia lifted her head then and her eyes met Phil's straight and brave
with the fine surrender of a proud woman.
"Yes," she said quietly.
"Thank the Lord!" Phil mopped his perspiring brow. "If you don't mind
kissing me again I'd feel a little more as if it were real. I've lived
a dreadfully long time on that heavenly kiss. I'd like an earth one,
please."
An hour later they were still in the hammock as blissful and mutually
self-absorbed as the redbirds.
"Sylvia, do you realize that I haven't any money, thanks to this
heavenly-infernal smash up of mine, that even my job is knocked galley
westward by all this business? If I weren't too jolly happy to think at
all I should think I was an idiot and an ass if nothing worse to ask a
girl to marry me under the circumstances."
"Don't think," said Sylvia. "What is the use? You will get caught up
quick enough when you are well again. Don't talk about money. It
leaves a bad taste in your mouth."
"All right, I won't. But, Sylvia, there is another thing." Phil's eyes
strayed over the beautiful May sweet garden, on to the great red brick
house whose open doors suggested hospitality and affluence and home
happiness on a bountiful scale. "Have you thought you will have to give
this up and come and live in a little airtight compartment in New York?"
For a moment Sylvia was startled out of her new content. Her eyes, too,
followed Phil's. Never had Arden Hall seemed so dear, so infinitely
desirable as now in the ripe hour of her happiness. Somehow she had
never thought of that particular complication though it was obvious
enough. To lose the Hall now that she had just come into the very heart
of it, or to have it again for brief holidays only, snatched "on the
wing" as she had said once before! A redbird flashed like a flame
before her in the sunshine. The redbirds would soon be nesting.
Mechanically the thought crossed her mind. Nesting! That was it. She,
too, would be nesting in the heart of the man she loved. She looked
back to Phil who was watching her with troubled eyes.
"I shan't care, if I have you," she said.
And it was true, would always be true for Sylvia Arden. She had been
like the empty marshes, waiting for the tide to come in. The tide had
come, full flood, sweeping every inlet and lagoon. There were no vacant
places in her whole being. Love filled it all. Nothing mattered any
more except this big, strange, beautiful, engulfing thing which had come
to her and taken possession. Felicia's prophecy had come true. Sylvia
had found the real thing at last, and knew the difference between it and
the specious substitute with which she had striven to be content.
*CHAPTER XXV*
*WARP AND WOOF*
Early in June, Sylvia and her little circle were shocked and saddened by
the sudden death of Angus McIntosh. He had gone to the office as usual
but had come in early in the afternoon, and in the dusk Gus had found
him sitting in the big chair beneath his mother's picture looking as
serene as if he had just fallen asleep. It seemed there had been for
quite a while past the probability that the very thing which had
happened would happen. This Gus had known and had been in a measure
prepared, though we are never fully armed against such loss. When our
dear ones leave us there is always a sad surprise about it. We can
never quite believe they can really go, however we think our minds are
fortified.
Silent in his grief as in his love, Gus went quietly about the grave
duties which his foster-father's death imposed upon him, but no one
could have seen the lad and not known he was suffering acutely. To
Sylvia alone he seemed able to voice the grief that possessed him and to
her he turned with natural impulse to seek solace from one who knew what
the dead man had meant to the lonely boy. Sylvia gave him all the
comfort and friending she could in his hour of need. She felt very
pitiful for him not only because of this sorrow but because she knew he
had another scarcely healed hurt, though this new grief had driven it
into the background.
When the old man's will was read many were surprised to learn that aside
from some bequests to servants and old friends and a small annuity to
"my beloved son, Augustus Nichols," the bulk of Angus McIntosh's hard
earned and considerable property was left to Thomas Daly in trusteeship
to found a hospital for Greendale. When people tried to commiserate Gus
on his rather meager sharings he had rejected their condolences. It
appeared he had for some time known of the disposition Angus McIntosh
had made of his estate. It had, indeed, been by the lad's own wish that
he was not burdened by the management and responsibility of a great
property.
"What would I want with all that money?" he asked Sylvia. "I should
have hated it. I don't want money. I've never wanted it. I've had
more than my share already in my musical training. Thanks to his
generosity, my violin will bring me all the income I can stand. I
couldn't tend to a big property and keep on playing. I've got to play.
It is all I'm fit for. He understood. We talked it over so often. And
he didn't want to fritter away his money in little driblets in small
charities. He wanted to leave it in a lump sum where it would really do
some good. The hospital seemed to be the best. His mother died because
she didn't have proper medical care. It always hurt him to think about
it. He wants a room named after her. Oh, he knew exactly what he was
doing. I wish people would stop sympathizing with me. I don't want
their sympathy."
So surprisingly it came about that Tom Daly's castle in the air suddenly
appeared convertible to brick and mortar. And the beauty of having it
so minutely and perfectly planned in advance was that there need not be
the slightest delay in getting the substance of things hoped for under
way. Thanks to Doctor Tom's unflagging effort other bequests to the
hospital were already forthcoming, including Lois Daly's gift of love,
but the big unhampered lump sum provided by Angus McIntosh's will made
it possible to carry out the doctor's dreams on a scale which he had
hardly dared hope to contemplate hitherto.
One day Phil Lorrimer, up in New York, had a letter from Tom Daly. The
latter had for some time been considering the advisability, even the
necessity, of taking to himself a professional partner. His hands had
been already full before the hospital project had matured. Now they
were overflowing. All of which was preliminary to asking the younger man
if he would consider moving to Greendale to become Tom Daly's associate.
Phil's breath came hard as he read. It was of all things the one he
would have liked best if he had chosen. Tom Daly had long been a boyish
idol of his, and since the boy had attained his own manhood he had seen
even more clearly the bigness of the other man's vision, the scope of
the service he was rendering Greendale. Nothing could have pleased or
flattered the young doctor more than that Tom Daly should consider him
worthy of the proffered post.
Moreover, Phil's sickness had taken heavy toll even of his abundant
young vitality. It would be a year at least before he would be
perfectly strong again, and he had been warned since he had been back
that it was extremely doubtful whether he would be able to stand the
city work and city life. Here was his release in dignified, desirable
form.
There were other considerations, too. It was no small inducement that
he could be near his mother in Greendale. He had realized more than
ever of late how hard it was for her to have her loved ones so
scattered. His father was in China, his sister in Constantinople, he
himself might just as well be at the uttermost parts of the earth for
all she saw of him under normal conditions. And his going to Greendale
would put an end to that source of regret and anxiety.
But, chief of all naturally, was the knowledge that the arrangement
would bring joy to Sylvia. In spite of her sincere willingness to go
anywhere with him he knew it was hard for her to leave the beloved home
of her heart. And now there would be no need of such a sacrifice. The
cottage and the Hall were but a stone throw apart, an admirable
proximity so far as the professional partnership was concerned.
So Phil wired, "Accept gladly, if Sylvia approves," and had hardly sent
the message before an enthusiastic letter arrived from Sylvia imploring
him to say yes to Doctor Tom's proposition if it were not in any way
contrary to his wishes and ambitions.
"Of course it is just too heavenly to think of our living at Arden
Hall," she had written, "but, Phil, don't let any thought of me
influence your decision. Whatever you want, I want. You know I'd be
happy going to sea in a sieve with you if you elected to be a sieve
pilot. But, oh Phil, I can't help hoping you will want to come to
Greendale."
All of which made Sylvia's approval fairly evident.
Soon after this Phil went to call on the Huntleys, who had been kindness
itself to him and to his mother during the latter's stay in the city.
The doctor was not at home but Mrs. Huntley was delighted to see him and
hovered over him with tea and sandwiches and cakes as a fond female bird
hovers over its offspring with juicy worms.
When Phil came to revealing his future plans he did so a little warily
remembering how he had refused Justin Huntley's generous offer. But
Mrs. Huntley seemed genuinely pleased.
"How lovely for you! Now you can marry that sweet girl and everything
will be quite all right, will it not?"
Phil explained that everything would have been quite all right in any
case since the "sweet girl" had been willing to come to him if he had
not been able to come to her.
"Quite as it should be," Mrs. Huntley had declared approvingly. "But I
am glad it has come out as it has just the same. Do you know, Philip,
I've always been a little glad you didn't take Justin's offer, dearly as
I should have loved to have you with us."
Phil hesitated to speak, not being quite certain of his hostess' course
of reasoning. But she soon enlightened him.
"It isn't the kind of work for a young man," she went on. "It is too
disillusioning. Don't you think so? It might have made you a
little--just a little--cynical, you know. Mightn't it? It is hard to
keep your faith in human nature when you have a practice like Justin's."
She paused a moment then continued with unusual affirmatives. "Justin
was a country practitioner in a little town once. He took his father's
place. Wonderful old man--Justin's father! As much of a priest as a
doctor Justin used to say. He lived among kind, simple, hard-working
people and they loved him like a father. You should have seen them
flocking in from the farms and mountains to his funeral. There was a
kind of personal relation you don't get in cities."
"No," agreed Phil. "Anyway, you don't get it in Dr. Huntley's kind of
practice. I get some few chunks of personality at the clinic."
"Sometimes I've wished Justin had stayed in the country and followed his
father's steps. But I suppose it had to be this way. Justin wasn't
satisfied until he had worked his way to the top, though sometimes one
wonders what the top really is," she sighed. "But, anyway, I am glad
your father's son is going to have a different outlook. Justin will be
glad, too. He liked your refusal, though it disappointed him. He
understood."
"He has been very good to me, and you, too," said Phil, warmly. "I hope
you don't think I don't appreciate his kindness and was ungrateful. It
was a big thing to offer a young man. But I couldn't take it. I had to
hold tight for my kind of a job. And, thanks to luck and Doctor Daly, I
have it."
Watching the fine, earnest, young face, with its clear, honest, blue
eyes, and that firm, strong chin, Mrs. Huntley thought Phil Lorrimer
owed his opportunity chiefly to his own intrinsic worth, clear head, and
fine ideals, which was true. But perhaps almost more was he beholden to
a big-souled missionary out in China who had set him a standard of
manhood to follow and a gentle, low-voiced woman who lived at the foot
of Sylvia's Hill and had a gift for mothering.
July brought Stephen Kinnard back to Greendale after much wandering,
from Alaska to Mexico, from Mexico to Quebec, and finally to Maryland.
He had written charming desultory letters from time to time to Felicia
and had been especially rejoiced over her having won the competition as
he had prophesied. But never in any of the letters had he pressed again
the question he had asked in September. Among other arts Stephen
Kinnard possessed the art of long patience and the power of biding his
time.
Occasionally jolly, friendly, brotherly epistles had come for Hope, too.
At first Hope had blushed delightfully over them and read and reread
them until she fairly knew them by heart. But as the letters came less
frequently she gradually ceased to watch for them. Youth needs
something more substantial than a chimera to feed upon. Moreover, in
June, a young architect had come to Greendale to build Doctor Tom's
hospital, a rather clever young man with some Beaux Arts letters after
his name and a good eye for a pretty girl. Passing up the Hill and down
it as he did frequently in his interviews with the Doctor, he had
occasion to go by the Oriole Inn and it took him remarkably little time
to discover that it was agreeable to drop in afternoons for a cup of tea
in the quaint dining-room or out under the trees which the orioles still
haunted. Perhaps not the least of the charms of the place was the
presence of the fair-haired, slender lily of a girl who hovered about
with a pleasing anxiety that he be well served and often took the task
of ministration upon herself in her zeal.
Out of the corner of her eye Martha watched this too, even as she had
watched Hope and Stephen the previous summer. It had for some time been
evident to Martha's astute vision that so long as Hope remained
unclaimed there would always be honey seekers about her sweet rose.
Much as she dreaded to have Hope marry she thought she would prefer the
sad certainty of such a contingency to the eternal worrying lest Hope be
somehow hurt and her white flower-likeness be made to droop in the dust.
The young architect apparently meant business. By July he was spending
most of his free hours in Hope's society. Martha had almost settled
down to acquiesce in the idea of Hope's surrender when she heard that
Stephen Kinnard was back in Greendale, news which brought the anxious
pucker back to her forehead.
But she need not have worried. Hope was pleased to see Stephen as a
younger sister might have been glad to welcome back a long absent
brother. She had all but forgotten she had ever had any dreams about
him. The real love which was daily more engrossing made the pale little
phantom love so insignificant as to be scarcely a thing to be recalled.
It had been love and not the lover that Hope had hungered for from the
first.
As for Stephen himself, Hope had never dwelt except upon the outer
margins of his consciousness. He had admired her as the artist in him
always paid tribute to beauty wherever he found it. He had a fatal gift
of kindness always and gave careless largess easily to lovely women
whenever they had the luck to cross his path. That Hope had invested
him, even temporarily, with the glamour of her sweet, shy, little dreams
he had no manner of idea. He had, from the beginning, paid homage to a
higher court.
Shrewdly perceiving that the chief obstacle to his suit was Sylvia,
Stephen did not blunder into a premature insistence. Sylvia's wedding
was set for early September. He could afford to wait a little, though
he took pains to make himself very useful and desirable in little ways
to the household on the Hill while he waited.
During the summer Sylvia had a few brief letters from Jack. He was
well, intensely thrilled by the experience he was undergoing, rejoicing
endlessly, apparently, in his luck at having at last found a genuine
task which he could pursue with all the zest of play. Physical courage
had always been an inherent characteristic with him. Danger agreed with
him as he had said to Sylvia. In deeds of daring he had always
delighted, simply, with no fuss about it. Jack was never spectacular.
It was merely that being a good gambler he liked hazards. This game of
life and death made an excellent substitute for the game of love in
which he had gallantly lost. In fact it seemed he found even greater
satisfaction in it. At any rate, he was in it, as he had been in love,
with all his might and main and with all his heart.
Sylvia's engagement, expected as it had been, had appeared to disturb
little less than the surface of his exultant, new found joy of service.
Perhaps the larger issues swallowed up his private grief even as they
had swallowed Hilda Jensen's. Certainly he had little time for thought
or brooding. Life crowded thick around him. He was in the same unit
with John Armstrong and that in itself was a satisfaction, for the two
had long been staunch friends. Hilda, also, he saw occasionally as she
was working in the hospital at Neuilly, not far from the front.
It was Hilda who wrote in August that Jack had been wounded and was in
the hospital in her care. The injury, though painful, was not serious
and Jack made light of it as well he might, for he had been "cite" for
"distinguished service under fire" and won the Croix de Guerre.
"The men all say he has a charmed life," wrote Hilda. "The Poilus are
quite superstitious about him. He goes anywhere, everywhere with his
car, in the most unheard of, impossible places with the utmost disregard
of it and himself. John says he never saw anything like him. He keeps
them all, French and American alike, in an uproar of mirth, too. Even
in the hospital it is the same. He tells his funniest stories and makes
his absurdest jokes and has everybody in a good humor without trying. He
is the sunniest fellow I ever knew. You can't down him. You needn't
worry about him as far as you are concerned, Sylvia. I don't mean he
doesn't care. He does care tremendously. He deserves the Croix de
Guerre, in love, too. He has been under fire. You can see that. But
what I mean is, he is so thoroughly wholesome and happy-hearted he will
come out all right. He can't help it. John says it is making a man of
him over here, and I believe it is true, though I think you started that
process.
"But, oh, Sylvia, it is dreadful! If ever it ends I shall fly back to
safe, peaceful, happy America and try to forget all the agonies I've
seen and lived over here. We all hope America will manage to keep out
of war, but it seems as if she could not long do so with safety and
honor. It is hard to forget the _Lusitania_, and for us it is almost
harder to forget Belgium. Americans at home will never fully understand
Belgium. For us it has been stamped with red hot irons upon our minds
and memories. We cannot forget."
As Sylvia eagerly read this letter she couldn't help hoping that somehow
or other this terrible experience Hilda and Jack were going through
together might, in time, bring them still nearer. Women are incorrigible
matchmakers where their old lovers are concerned, and Jack and Hilda had
long been good friends. They were both too essentially sane and too
young to let their lives be wrecked by the hapless experiences with
which they had started out. If only they might find consolation and
happiness in each other Sylvia thought she would have nothing left to
wish for.
And so summer days came and went, with their joys and their sorrows,
their dreams and their despairs, their losses and their gains, woven all
into the common web of life. And finally again came September.
*CHAPTER XXVI*
*THE END AND THE BEGINNING*
Cloudless September afternoon! The same blue space of sky beyond the
shining-leaved magnolia; the same pink and white riot of cosmos; the
same dial dedicating itself to none but sunny hours! And again Barb and
Suzanne and Sylvia on the porch at Arden Hall. Externally everything
was much as it had been a twelve month ago. But the year had brought
its changes and left its traces as years will. As the shell's growth is
marked by its increasing number of circles so spiritual development
stamps its impress upon human faces and even more on human souls. Barb
and Suzanne and Sylvia were less unchanged than the outer world. All
three had grown in the grace of wisdom, each according to her way and
measure.
Barb was still quiet and humble of heart, but the year had given her the
poise which comes from increasing self dependence and even more from
depths and widths of experience. Barbara was learning to base life
broad on the roots of things and faced the world serenely content if a
little gravely, going the "softlier all her days for the dream's sake"
as so many women do.