NICHOLAS GAYNE CONFIDES
"Are you interested in the horse-mackerel, too?" asked Diana.
The two men sat down on the grass near the girls as Barney Kelly
answered: "Moderately, Miss Wilbur. Moderately interested. Being allowed
to witness anything from _terra firma_ invests it with a certain charm.
Barrison has been merciless, I assure you, simply merciless."
"The man came here to fish," said Philip, "and I've only tried to be
hospitable."
"Deep-sea fishing," groaned his friend. "If you ever hear any tenderfoot
express ambitions to go deep-sea fishing, tell him to see me if
possible, otherwise write or wire me before he embarks."
"Did you find the motion disconcerting?" asked Diana.
Barney looked at Philip. "Don't you think I might admit as much as
that?"
Philip laughed and bit the red clover he had pulled from a bunch near
him.
"First," said Kelly, "you are waked at an hour when all men should
sleep; then you are forced to eat at a time when your soul rebels at
such outrage; after that, you go aboard beneath the stars, and you chug,
chug, miles into the darkness; but the chug-chugging you soon find to be
the best part of it for when you arrive midway between here and
Liverpool, you anchor. The sky and the sea begin to get hopelessly mixed
up. Why should I try to describe the writhings of all nature! They put a
heavy rope into your hands, it slides through your fists and removes the
skin before any one remembers that you have no gloves on. Oh, let Dante
try! I can't!"
Philip laughed. "Then I took him out next day to the pound and let him
help draw the net."
"The smell of that boat, Miss Wilbur!" Kelly's eyes rolled fiercely.
"I'm afraid you won't like the island," volunteered Veronica, who, when
she laughed had forgotten her nose and dropped her hand.
"My dear Miss Trueman, how can I tell, when I am never allowed to stay
on it? This man, when he couldn't think of anything else hydraulic to
do, has made me go in bathing in water at a temperature which no humane
person will credit when I tell them. To-day, I struck. I said to him,
do for Heaven's sake do something to show that you are at least
amphibious. So he consented to bring me up here to meet his friends, and
I shall be pleasantly surprised if you young ladies don't turn into
mermaids right before my eyes, as they do in the movies, and pop off
that beach into the water."
Veronica giggled so joyously that the speaker turned away from Diana's
serene smile and regarded her. "I assure you," he added slowly and
solemnly, "that if you do, I shall not follow you. So if you wish the
pleasure of my society you won't unfold any graceful, glittering tails."
Veronica giggled again, and, if she had only known it, her dimples were
warranted at any time to divert attention from those afflicting little
freckles.
"I can see that Kelly will be fruit for you, Veronica, on that croquet
ground," said Philip.
The guest clasped his hands rapturously. "Do you guarantee, Miss
Veronica, that croquet at this island is unfailingly played on land?"
"Hold on, Barney, don't go too fast; it's the kind of croquet you play
with an alpenstock in one hand and a mallet in the other."
"It is not, Mr. Barrison," declared Veronica stoutly. "Bert has mowed
it."
"That poor little chap? Did you work him in? Good for you. It's what he
needs."
"When are you going to have Mr. Barrison sing for us, Mr. Kelly?" asked
Diana.
Barney shrugged his shoulders. "A poor worm of an accompanist can't
answer that, Miss Wilbur."
"But I suppose you will be practicing, or rehearsing at times, will you
not?"
"Yes. I understand there is a piano in the little Casino that was
pointed out to me. I understand--eh, Barrison?"
Philip nodded. "Yes, they have allowed me to engage an hour a day on
that piano for a while, for some work we have to do."
Diana's face lighted beautifully. "And may one--may one sit on the
piazza?" she asked beseechingly.
"I should advise one not to," said Philip, "unless one has been
inoculated for strong language."
"I should not in the least mind what you said."
"But you would what Barney says, at times."
"The verdure about the hall is free," said Diana doubtfully.
"Yes, if you don't mind a baseball in the eye once in a while. That is
where the boys do congregate."
"He's a most ungrateful ass--Barrison," said Barney warmly. "Of course
you shall sit on the piazza if you care about it. I promise to restrain
my _penchant_ for calling him pet names in private. I have to do it, you
see, to strike a balance. At performances, who so meek as the
accompanist! Barrison stands there, dolled up in his dress-clothes,
probably a white carnation in his buttonhole; the women down front
gazing at him and ruining their best gloves. I gaze at him, too,"--Kelly
looked up with meek worship,--"like a flower at the sun, waiting for the
sultan to throw the handkerchief, or, in other words, give me a careless
nod, indicating that I may come to life. At last he does so, and I begin
to play--subserviently, unostentatiously. Very few in the house know
that I am there. He reaches his climax, he finishes with a pianissimo
that curls around all the women's hearts, draws them out and strings
them on a wire before him. Then the applause bursts forth. He bows over
and over again, until he looks like a blond mandarin, and I rise, but
nobody knows it, and when he has passed me on his way off the stage, I
come to heel like a well-trained dog, and--there we are!"
As Kelly finished his harangue with a gesture of both hands, the girls
were laughing and Diana was quite flushed.
"What a fool you are, Barney," said Philip calmly, still biting the
honey out of the red clover. "He plays like a house afire," he added,
turning to the girls. "You will be delighted."
"Oh, yes," said Kelly. "On the road I get a group. I play the Chopin and
Grieg things that the girls practice at home, and they get out their
vanity cases and prink and wait for Barrison to come on again."
"Oh, cut it out, you idiot!" exclaimed Philip, jumping up. "I don't
believe they're going to get one of those mackerel. Let's amuse little
Veronica and go up and have a game of croquet."
Meanwhile Mr. Gayne had again taken his nephew with him to the farm.
"In spite of all I say," he told the boy, "you will bother those ladies
at the Inn. So if you come along with me, I'll know where you are." And
the lad answered him not at all, but plodded up the road.
He did, however, think of some of the things Mrs. Lowell had said to
him. Some of the love and courage that emanated from her gave him a
novel certainty that he was not altogether friendless, and the wild
roses that began to peep at him from the roadside suggested the idea
that she would like it if he brought some home to her. In the idle hours
of the afternoon he might gather some, and some of the myriad daisies
and Indian paintbrush that decked the fields. But his heart sank at the
prospect of what his uncle would say if he attempted to carry back a
bouquet when they returned.
Gayne forbade the boy to enter the house when they reached their
destination, just as he had done in the morning. So Bertie, his hands in
his pockets, wandered about the surrounding fields and in the spruce
groves, and picked up the shells the crows had dropped and emptied. Once
he found a ridge of grass unusually long and green, and heard a
whispering, and investigating found a narrow brook which murmured as it
flowed. He followed along its bank until he came to the cove it had
named, and watched the sparse stream cascade over the granite and fall
thinly down its steep wall. The wet rock glistened in the sun, it seemed
to the boy as if with tears. He threw himself down beside it and,
leaning on his elbow, rested his head on his hand. Through the cut
between this island and the next, boats were passing coming in from the
foaming waves of the sea to the quiet waters of the sound. Life, beauty,
peace. The boy closed his eyes. The longing to portray it all rose in
him like an anguish. He felt his old torpidity to be better than this.
Why should his new friend stir up a craving for the impossible? She
meant to be kind. She seemed really to like him; and she had liked his
drawing and had wanted him to do more. She would find that it was
impossible, and he hoped that she would make no more effort. He squeezed
his eyelids together to keep back stinging drops. He felt shame at his
own weakness. Uncle Nick had said he had no more backbone than a
jellyfish and he felt this was true. He had no physical strength to
defend himself, none to take his fortunes into his own hands, as he felt
most boys would do, run away and do something to keep himself from
starvation.
For years he had been fed as an animal might have been fed: at any hour
that suited Cora, and with anything she might happen to have in the
house. He was undernourished, neglected, crushed, and spiritless. He
despised his weakness as much as his uncle despised him, and he was
conscious that it was a new estimate of himself that he was now making,
an estimate due to the awakening of thought that had come to him through
that lady who meant to be kind. He felt very bitterly toward her as he
lay there, his eyes closed to the loveliness of sea and sky.
He had lain there half an hour when Matt Blake came across from the road
and passed near him.
"Poor youngster," he thought. "I guess it's true he ain't all there."
The feeling that the boy was not capable of responding kept him from
calling out some sort of greeting as he passed, and he went on through
the spruce grove to the farm-house. "Hello the house," he called.
"That you, Blake?" came from within. "Yes, I'm out here at the back.
Come in."
The carpenter made his way through to the studio, and there Nicholas
Gayne rose from an armchair to meet him, and swayed slightly as he
stood.
"You sent for me," said Blake, regarding the other's red-rimmed eyes.
"Yes, and you'll be glad I did when you see this, eh, old man?"
Gayne lurched toward the screen and took a bottle from behind it, and
held it out triumphantly. "Kind o' dizzy 'cause I been asleep and you
waked me sudden. 'Twas the shock, you see, the shock." He lurched back
toward the table where there was a glass. He filled this half-full and
offered it to his caller. "It's the real thing, the real thing," he
said.
"I smell that it is," returned Blake dryly. "That's too stiff for me.
No, no, Gayne," he added as the latter started to raise it to his own
lips, and he took the glass from him, "you've had too much now. If you
want anything of me, tell me while you've got sense enough to talk."
"You insult me, Blake," said the other with dignity. "I'm a gentleman
and I know when I've had enough, and I know when I've had too much. Some
folks never know that, but I do."
The carpenter regarded him impassively, and set the bottle and glass out
of his reach. "Now go ahead. Tell me what you want."
"Want you to shingle the kitchen so's I can--can cook there. Come and
I'll show you." He opened a door in the studio which led into a damp
room where the rain had fallen unmolested. "Want you to shingle this
room."
"Nothing doing," said the carpenter.
"You won't say that when I show you what I've got here." Gayne's speech
was thick and he took Blake's arm and led him across to a large covered
stone crock sitting on a bench. "Home brew, Matt. Home brew. We can have
many a cozy evening here when this gets into shape."
"Going to keep a horse?" asked the carpenter, lifting up what appeared
to be a nosebag.
"No, no, that's strainer. You leave it to me, Matt. I'll give you
something'll make your hair curl. All you got to do is shingle--"
"You ain't going to pay for having somebody else's property shingled?"
"'Tain't going to be somebody else's. Going to be mine. I'm going to buy
the farm. There's a fortune on it." The speaker's legs were planted far
apart to preserve his equilibrium, but even at that he swayed so far
toward his visitor that Blake put up his hand to hold him off.
"Which have you found, gold or oil?" he asked, laughing.
His host assumed an impressive dignity. "Not gold, not oil. Spring."
"A spring? Of course you have. They're all over the lots. You'd better
patronize 'em, too. You certainly need to put more water in it."
"I'm goin' tell you secret, Blake," said Gayne.
"Better not," said the carpenter good-naturedly.
"Goin' tell you. I've found mineral spring here."
"That so?" was the unperturbed reply.
"Great and won-wonderful water. Don't tell anybody."
"All right."
"Had chemist 'zamine it. Says it's got everything in it to cure you.
Fortune in it. Fortune. You don't b'lieve me."
"Sounds a little fishy," remarked Blake.
"Lemme take your arm--I'll lead you to it."
The visitor supplied the arm and Gayne's heavy weight hung upon it. They
went out of doors and Gayne stopped and looked around cautiously.
"Where's that brat?" he demanded.
"Do you mean the boy? He's over there by the cove. Asleep, I think."
"Then come on. Can't trust him 'cause they're the kind that speak the
truth. Fools, you know. Can trust you, Blake. Trust you anywhere."
"Thank you," returned the visitor dryly.
At some distance from the house, in a hollow overhung with rocks, the
heavy weight on Matt's arm became heavier and Gayne pushed away some
turf and stones with his foot, disclosing a puddle of dark-colored
water. He stooped and, picking up a rusty tin cup, half-filled it, and
presented it to his companion whose arm he released.
"There, if you don't b'lieve me!" he said triumphantly.
The carpenter accepted the cup doubtfully and smelled of it. "Phew!" he
exclaimed with a grimace.
"'Course," said the other. "Sulphur. Won'ful sulphur spring. Cure you of
ever'thing. Had it an'lyzed. Drink it."
Blake took a cautious sip.
"Tell you, Matt," said Gayne, speaking slowly and nodding with tipsy
solemnity, "'twas m' guardian angel guided me to that spring."
The carpenter glanced at him with disfavor. "One sniff's enough to
convince anybody o' that," he remarked. "At that, it's better for you
than the stuff you've got in there on the table. Now, look here, Gayne,
you're going to be sorry to-morrow you told me about this--"
"Wouldn't tell anybody else," vowed Gayne, solemnly, seizing his
companion by the arm and pushing back the concealing turf and stones
with his foot. "Nobody else on this earth. Fools own the farm put up the
price if they knew."
"But what I was going to say is you needn't be sorry," went on Blake.
"I'm not going to tell a soul. I don't want to be mixed up in your
affairs, but do you think you can understand if I talk to you?"
"Un'stand! Well!" exclaimed Gayne. "I'm a man o' brains I'll have you
know."
"Well, if you've got any, use 'em now," said Blake impatiently. "There
ain't any money in a mineral spring unless you've got piles o' dough to
put it on the market. Don't you know that?"
"I sh'd say so," nodded Gayne, triumphant again. "That's just what I'm
goin' to have: piles o' dough. Bushels."
"Where are you goin' to get it?"
"Well, I'll tell you, Matt, 'cause you're a good friend and you know how
to hold your tongue. That boy out there, that poor numskull is the heir
to a big enough fortune to f'nance twenty springs."
"He is?" returned Blake, astonished. "What do you mean?"
"His grandfather is one of the richest men in Boston. Went to see him
once. Took my proofs with me. Wouldn't look at 'em. Turned me out. He's
sick as the devil. Always travelin' 'round tryin' to get well. I
wouldn't--I would not give him one cup o' this water." Gayne gestured
impressively as he made the ferocious declaration. "Just come home from
Europe now. Saw it in the paper," he added.
"Then he'll leave his money where it won't do you any good," said Blake.
"I'll break the will. I've thought it all out. I'm a man o' brains.
Bert'll get the money."
"Perhaps the boy won't want to spend it on springs."
A crafty change came over Gayne's face and he smiled. "He won't have any
say. I'm his guardian, ain't I? And he's non compos, ain't he? He'll be
put where he belongs, believe me."
"You'll shut him up, do you mean?" asked Blake, frowning.
"F'r his own good. You understand?"
"Your guardian angel suggested that to you, too, probably."
"Prob'bly did, Matt," was the pious reply. "If all his kind was shut up
there'd be less crime in the papers. I put it off and put it off, but I
ought to do it and do it soon."
The carpenter regarded the speaker in silence for some moments. Gayne's
eyes were closing and opening sleepily.
"Now, see here, man. You go in the house and sleep this off. I'll take
the boy down-along with me."
"I won't allow it," Gayne shook his head. "Women at the house pamperin'
him. I won't have it. He'll stay where I am till I get him settled for
life."
"I'm goin' to take the boy along with me," repeated Blake, speaking
louder. "You're in no state for him to see you. Where'd you get your
stuff, anyway?"
"Chemist p'esc'iption," said Gayne, as his companion drew him along at
as swift a pace as possible.
"Well, next time, drink out o' your own mud puddle. I think it comes
from the lower regions, anyway. You might as well be getting used to
it."
Gayne laughed, but rather feebly. He was beginning to wonder just what
he had said to his friend.
Matt got him into the house and into the lop-sided armchair where he had
found him, and he fell asleep at once. Then the carpenter took the
partly filled glass from the table and held it up to the light.
"I'd like it," he mused, "but, by thunder, that loafer's worse 'n a
temperance lecture." And he threw the whiskey out of an open window.
The bottle he placed behind the screen; then, with one last disgusted
look at his host, whose head was hanging sideways with the mouth open,
he left the house.