A FIRELIGHT INTERVIEW
Their path had led away from the main road across a field toward a
buff-colored house set on a rise of ground like a billow in a green sea.
Where the hill descended beyond, there grew a flourishing apple orchard.
"Since my grandfather's death, the little farm is overgrown," said
Philip. "My grandmother gets a neighbor to cut the hay and milk her cow,
and so leaves the cares of the world behind her."
A climbing rosebush nearly covered one side of the cottage, and
old-fashioned perennials clung about its base. Nothing was yet in bloom;
but soon the daisies in the field would lie in white drifts and the wild
roses, large and of a deep pink, would soften the ledges of rock
cropping out everywhere in the sweet-smelling fields.
Philip opened the door and ushered his companion into a small hallway
covered with oilcloth, then into a sunny living-room, shining clean,
with a floor varnished in yellow and strewn with rag rugs. An old lady,
seated in one of the comfortable rocking-chairs, rose to meet them. Her
face, the visitor thought, was one of the sweetest she had ever seen.
"What a pretty girl she must have been!" she reflected.
Around her neck the old lady wore a string of gold beads, and the thick
gray hair growing becomingly around her low forehead was carried back
and confined in a black net. The simple charm of her welcome to the
young girl was the perfection of good manners and her voice was low and
pleasant.
"I'm glad you've brought my boy back, Miss Wilbur, I've been missing
him."
"That's right, Grammy. Give me a good character," said Philip hugging
her and kissing her cheek. "I must have waffles, though. I'm spoiled."
Here a woman appeared at the door of the passageway that led to the
kitchen. She was very wrinkled and care-worn in appearance, yet
sprightly in her movements and manner. Many of her teeth were missing
and her thin hair was strained back out of the way. She wore a large
checked apron over her calico dress.
"Hello, there, Aunt Maria," said Philip. "This is Miss Wilbur, one of
the guests at Miss Burridge's."
"Happy to meet you," said Aunt Maria, but casually, in the manner of
one who has but slight time for trivial things like social amenities.
Then she fixed Philip with a severe stare. "Is this the day you was
expectin' the New York man?"
"It is, Aunt Maria. Don't tell me you weren't sure and haven't plenty on
hand for two man-sized appetites."
"Well, I thought 'twas. I guess I can feed you." Aunt Maria's severity
lapsed in a semi-toothless smile. "How's Priscilla Burridge gettin'
along?"
"Famously," replied Philip. "She's given me waffles every morning."
"H'm!" grunted Aunt Maria. "I guess I can cook anything Priscilla
Burridge can, give me the ingregiencies."
"The principal ingredient is a waffle iron. I'll send for one for you."
Diana had meanwhile been placed in a seat near her hostess, where she
faced the line of cheerful red geraniums on the window-sill.
"Your first visit to the island, Miss Wilbur?" asked the old lady.
"Yes, Mrs. Dorking; but not the last, I assure you."
"You like it, then?"
"I think it is a fairy-tale place."
"Miss Wilbur has been accustomed to a summer home where the hand of man
has been very busy and the foot of man has trodden out nearly all of
Nature's earmarks. She finds she likes the raw material better," said
Philip, leaning against the mantelpiece where odd shells and quaint
China objects, half-dog, half-dragon, stood as memorials to Captain
Steve Dorking's cruises. The swords of two swordfishes, elaborately
carved, leaned near him.
"The island's filling up," said the old lady. "A lot of the summer
people came yesterday and from now on they'll flock in."
"Are you glad to see them come?" asked Diana.
"Yes," returned Mrs. Dorking, a rising inflection in her kindly voice.
"They're most of them good friends of mine."
"I should say she is glad," remarked Philip. "She sits here in state and
receives them all, don't you, Grammy?"
"I don't know as there's much state about it." The old lady smiled, and
leaned toward Diana. "Miss Wilbur, I guess you've found out already that
Philip is the foolishest boy that ever lived. We can't afford to mind
his talk, can we?"
"But his singing, Mrs. Dorking," Diana looked up at Philip's tow head
towering toward the low ceiling. "It doesn't greatly matter how he talks
when he can sing as he does."
"Yes," returned the old lady, again with the moderate rising inflection.
"I will say Philip's got a real pretty voice."
"And there is a piano!" said Diana, wistfully looking across the room at
the ancient square instrument.
"That is a very polite name for it," remarked Philip.
"Oh, Mr. Barrison, could you, won't you, sing some song of the sea?" The
girl clasped her hands in prospect. "I'm your guest, you know. It is not
quite possible to refuse."
"Of the sea, eh?" Philip looked at his watch. "I think we have time
before the boat comes. I'll make a bargain with you. I'll sing you a
song if you will go down to the boat with me and meet my accompanist."
"Oh, is your accompanist coming?"
"Even so. But when is an accompanist not an accompanist? Answer: When he
comes to the sea to fish. I've lured you far from home and dinner, so
you come to the boat with me and I'll send you home in Bill Lindsay's
chariot."
"Very well, but--please sing!"
"Oh, yes. A song of the sea is the order, I understand. Meanwhile, I
accompany myself on the harp."
Philip moved over to the piano. It was placed so he could look over the
case at his listeners. He ran his fingers over the yellow keys which
gave out a thin, tinkling sound, and then plunged into song:
"The owl and the pussy cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey and plenty of money
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The owl looked up to the stars above
And sang to a small guitar,
'Oh, lovely Pussy, Oh, Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are!'"
* * * * *
Philip had never seen Diana look as lovely as when he finished and rose.
There was no doubt now that she could laugh. His enunciation was
perfect, and the alternations of sentimentality and fire with which he
had delivered the nonsense made it thrilling in the little room where
his velvet, vibrant tones at moments shook the shells on the
mantelpiece, while they flowed around the listener's heart.
"That was delectable," laughed Diana, applauding, her eyes moist with
excitement.
"Yes, ain't that a funny tune?" said Mrs. Dorking, looking with
affectionate pride at her grandson as he emerged around the end of the
piano.
"We have to be off, Grammy," he said, "or Barney will be lost in the
shuffle."
Mrs. Dorking rose and urged Diana warmly to come again, and the girl
promised that she would do so. When they were outside she spoke:
"Is your Aunt Maria your grandmother's sister?"
"Oh, no." Philip laughed. "She is a good village-aunt who helps in the
home. She likes to look harassed and overworked, but she adores having
charge of the house since my grandfather's death, and is devoted to
Grammy. Barney Kelly will have to look out for himself, for Aunt Maria
is an excellent cook and Kelly would be inclined to umbumpum if he
didn't mortify the flesh. He's a Canuck and one of the best fellows
going."
"And are those summer cottages?" asked Diana, her glance sweeping over
an adjacent field. It was high ground sloping gradually to the sea, and
was dotted with shingled cottages of varying shapes and sizes.
"Yes, that was my grandfather's pasture, and many a time I've gone
there for the cows. But one woman after another besieged him for the
ground, and he sold it off."
"If I had some land here, I would prefer to be more isolated," said
Diana.
"Then you would better speak quick," said Philip. "The country seems to
have its eye on Casco Bay. There comes the boat around the point now."
They hastened their pace and went down a flight of steps which led to
the wharf. It was a busy spot full of people and trunks and barrels and
boxes. Everybody greeted Philip and looked at Diana, and Philip
presently descried the peering face of a man on the upper deck of the
approaching boat. He was dressed in a double-breasted suit of a fine
check and carried a stick which, presently descrying Philip's blond
head, he shook in his direction and, picking up his bag, turned and went
downstairs at the call: "Land from the lower deck." The newcomer was
evidently alive all over and impatient of the delay to the moment when
he could run up the gangplank. From time to time he shook his stick
toward Philip, and gazed at the girl beside him. At last he gained the
wharf, set down his bag and shook hands with Philip. Being presented to
Miss Wilbur, he took off his hat and disclosed tight curly hair,
close-clipped and groomed to the last degree of shine.
"Perfectly heavenly sail we've had down, or up, I don't know which it
is," he exclaimed with a burr to his _r_'s which increased the
enthusiastic effect of his speech.
"I told you it was paradise," said Philip.
"And you proved it by bringing one o' the angels with you," returned
Kelly, smiling at Diana.
She regarded him with her usual serenity. "I see that, like Mr.
Barrison, you enjoy using hyperbole," she said.
"Really," returned Kelly curiously. "Am I that clever? Yes, old chap,
here's my check. I have a box somewhere around these diggings."
"Now, wait a minute," said Philip. "I lured Miss Wilbur down here with
me to meet you and now I must return her honorably to her dinner. _Oh_,
Bill."
He pushed through the crowd to where the motor stood, the center of new
arrivals. "Save one seat, Bill," he said. "Lady for Miss Burridge's."
There was some good-natured crowding, but there being two more
passengers for Miss Burridge's, Diana was squeezed in, and Barney Kelly,
his hat waving from his hand, quite eclipsed Philip in the attentiveness
with which he bade her godspeed.
"Who's the Vere de Vere?" he asked when Bill Lindsay had whipped up his
engine and moved off.
"A young lady from Philadelphia," returned Philip, a trifle stiffly.
"Aren't touchy about her, are you? Great Scott, boy, you haven't had
time! Now, if it had been me, a day's enough. Fire and tow. Fire and
tow. You'd supply the tow all right, old cotton-top, but I'll be hanged
if I can see where she'd provide the spark. Don't you touch that bag,
Barrison," for Philip had caught up his guest's suitcase. "Like a
condemned fool, I put the scores in it instead of in the box. There must
be some horse here that wouldn't take it quite so much to heart as I
do."
"All right," said Philip. "It can come up with your trunk. Here,
Matt,"--for the too-popular carpenter was expressman as well,--"this is
my friend Mr. Kelly. He aids and abets me when I shriek at the public
and he's loaded up his bag with music. Bring it along with his trunk,
will you? Here's the check. Mr. Blake, Barney."
The newcomer shook hands with the long-legged, long-armed thin man in
his shirtsleeves, and Matt Blake appraised the stranger out of his blue,
grave, shrewd island eyes.
"Just crazy about this place already, Mr. Blake, just crazy about it,"
the newcomer assured him, and Matt Blake nodded his old straw hat and
listed the volatile Barney as "another nut."
It was about a week afterward that opportunity found Mrs. Lowell and
Nicholas Gayne together one evening in the living-room of the Inn. It
was cool and a wood fire blazed on the hearth, but the night was still
inviting and had lured the others to put on wraps and stay out of doors.
When Mrs. Lowell came in, Gayne was in a wicker rocker before the fire,
his legs stretched out, and, as the lady entered, he drew them in and
rose.
"You are choosing the better part, too, are you?" he said, not doubting
that his presence was proving as much of an attraction as the fire. Two
other men had arrived, teachers from a boys' school, Evans and Pratt by
name, and it was probable that Miss Emerson was figuratively sitting at
the feet of one of them and asking questions about the stars. At all
events, she was out of doors. Nicholas Gayne had looked up
apprehensively at Mrs. Lowell's entrance, fearing the worst; and his
relief caused him to be quite effusive in his welcome of the lady and
the manner in which he brought forward a chair for her.
"Have you had a good day?" she asked as she seated herself and he fell
back into his rocker.
"It has been a nice day, yes."
"I meant as to your work."
"My work?"
"Yes, your sketching."
"Oh. Oh, yes, of course. Fine. Very clear. Very good views."
"I suppose you elaborate these in your studio in town."
"What? Oh, well--it isn't much of a studio at that. It is more or less
on the side--my art work. I--I make no pretensions. Everybody's got to
have a fad to be truly happy, haven't they? I like to scrawl and daub a
little."
"You are modest. I've been expecting you would show us some of these
views. This place is surely one to tempt the artist. Doubtless you have
seen some of Frederic Waugh's canvases done from the sketches he made
here."
"Eh? Who? Oh, yes, of course," replied Gayne lamely. "Strange that that
Miss Wilbur should ever have struck this island. I understand she's the
daughter of the steel man. I suppose she's slumming." Gayne laughed.
Mrs. Lowell could not force a responsive smile. "She is a very charming
girl." After a pause: "I've had several talks with your nephew, Mr.
Gayne."
Her companion shook off the ash from his cigar into the fire.
"You did the talking, I'm sure," he responded dryly, and his manner made
her determined to be doubly careful how she proceeded.
"This place should build him up," she said. "He seems a rather fragile
boy."
"Yes. He grew too fast; makes him rather weedy. Too bad he didn't keep
pace mentally. He's weedy there, too."
"I should think it might be well to have him tutored for an hour a day
while he is here." Mrs. Lowell tried to speak carelessly as she kept
her eyes on the blaze.
"How could you find a tutor in a place like this?" was the
response. "Surely Mr. Pratt and Mr. Evans--I understand they are
teachers--wouldn't take kindly to the task of trying to find Bert's
brains while they're on their vacation."
"No, I was thinking of a very simple plan. Miss Burridge's niece,
Veronica, would perhaps be glad to work with the boy an hour a day. She
has a good common education."
"Nothing doing, Mrs. Lowell." Nicholas Gayne sat up in his chair and
evidently put a constraint upon himself. "You come upon this problem as
a new one and you think you understand it, but you don't. You think it's
not hopeless, but it is. The boy began by being backward and he's got
worse and worse all his life. He couldn't keep up with any class in
school and I finally took him out. Oh, I've done my best, believe _me_.
I had a tutor come to the house for a while, but I was finally convinced
that Bert hadn't the equipment to think _with_. Of course, there's
schools for deficient children, but have you got any idea what they
cost? I'm a poor man. I couldn't pay what they tax you. Bert'll end up
in an institution, that's the place for him; but I'm soft-hearted. I'll
keep him with me as long as I can. The doctors all warn you that it
isn't safe. That kind of weak intellect is liable to take a dangerous
turn any time. There's thousands of cases where relations have insisted
on keeping morons like Bert near them too long. I only hope I shan't.
Just take my advice, Mrs. Lowell, and don't have much to say to the boy.
He gets along best when he's left alone. It doesn't do to try to wake up
that kind of a brain. There's no normal balance there, and any
sharpening is liable to make it take a wrong shoot. I've been on this
problem five years, and, believe _me_, I know something about it."
The speaker's voice grew more and more blustering as he proceeded, and
Mrs. Lowell could feel her limbs trembling with the intensity of her own
feeling and the necessity for concealing her thoughts from him.
"He is your brother's child, I understand," she said quietly, when Gayne
had made his last emphatic gesture and sunk back in his chair, red in
the face.
"Yes, he is. These things are awful in a family."
"Awful," echoed Mrs. Lowell.
The next morning, after breakfast, she went to Diana's room and
knocked. The girl welcomed her in. She was shaking a blanket.
"I do enjoy making my bed so much," she said. "I learned how at school."
"Then let me watch you do it while I talk to you." The visitor sat down,
and Diana went on in the most earnest manner to tuck in sheets and pat
and smooth pillows as if her life depended on the squareness of corners.
"I had a talk with Mr. Gayne last night."
"I observed you through the window. I felt a certainty that you were not
happy."
"It was an ordeal, but I verified my suspicions--my worst suspicions.
The man is planning to get his nephew out of the way, to have him shut
up."
Diana left the flap of a pillow-case to its fate and faced her caller.
"To incarcerate him!"
"Yes. In an asylum. Some state institution. He has been training the boy
toward that end. You have seen it. I have seen it. What is his motive?
That is the question."
"Don't you think it may be merely to rid himself of a burden which
hampers his life?"
"But his own flesh and blood!" exclaimed Mrs. Lowell. "Does any one
live who would go to such lengths without a greater reason? Miss Wilbur,
let us see what the man does in these daily rambles of his. I am
convinced that his artistic pose is a cloak. He didn't even know who
Frederic Waugh was."
"Oh, but to accompany the creature!" protested Diana.
"No, of course, we shouldn't find out anything by accompanying him
except that he cannot sketch, and I'm sure of that already. But let us
go to walk this morning, and why not visit the haunted farm?"
"No reason except that he knows we are aware that he haunts the place,
which, if I were a ghost, would make it immune from my visits."
"Yes, but he cannot expect us to remember or care where he goes. I feel
I must be doing something about this, no matter how slight, and--and
don't let Miss Emerson join us as we go out."
"Perish the thought!" said Diana devoutly.
"God will not let this outrage take place," said Mrs. Lowell, her
thought leaping back from Miss Emerson to the neglected boy. "I wish I
could ask Bertie to go with us, but I feel I must be very careful not to
let his uncle suspect the depth of my interest."
"Miss Emerson is very timorous about horned cattle," said Diana. "We can
remember that. Sunburn, too. She has a great dread of becoming tanned."
With these encouraging considerations the two amateur detectives stole
downstairs. Mrs. Lowell went to the kitchen where Veronica was as usual
at this hour drying the breakfast dishes.
"Miss Veronica," she said, "would you do a little missionary work this
morning?"
"I'd like to hear about it first," was the cautious reply.
"Veronica is ready for every good word and work, Mrs. Lowell," put in
Miss Burridge, "but she's a busy child."
"I know that, but I wondered if she could give half an hour to playing a
game of croquet with Bert Gayne."
"Oh, land!" exclaimed the girl, aghast. "He won't want to."
"That's the point, Miss Veronica,"--Mrs. Lowell looked with her loving,
radiant gaze into the young girl's eyes. "We want to make him know that
young people don't shrink from him. He knows that I don't. I want him
to know that an attractive young girl like you doesn't either. You can
see that his mind is sick. He has had great sorrow."
"Sure!" said Veronica. "It's sorrow enough to have that uncle of his."
"Ve-ronica!" exclaimed Miss Burridge with one of her warning looks at
the back of Genevieve's head.
"You know now what I meant by calling it missionary work," said Mrs.
Lowell. "Think about it if you have time. You will find the boy dull and
distrustful. I have great hopes of you. Try to make him bright and
trustful. I know it can't be done in a minute." The speaker again smiled
confidentially into the girl's eyes.
Diana appeared in the entrance.
"Miss Emerson is in the hammock," she said softly. "Shall we take the
back way?"
They slipped out the kitchen door and Veronica scrubbed a plate already
dry.
"Mrs. Lowell is the sweetest, prettiest, most darling woman I ever saw,"
she stated.
"But nothin' like that Miss Diana," uttered Genevieve in, for her, a
lowered voice. "She's so grand it scares me when she looks at me, and
Matt Blake says her father owns the whole of Pennsylvania."
Veronica turned up an already aspiring nose and grunted disparagingly.
It was hard to forgive Diana for being a goddess and not chewing gum.