THE NEWPORT LETTER
Blake went back through the grove of firs to the cove bank and there he
saw the boy again. He had sunk down on his back and, as Blake
approached, appeared to be asleep. The man stooped over him.
"Hello, kid," he said.
As the boy did not move, Matt shook him gently by the shoulder. Bert
jumped up with a start.
"I didn't--didn't hear you," he said. Then, looking up and seeing that
it was a stranger, he got to his feet.
"Does--does Uncle Nick want me?" he asked.
Blake shook his head. "No, he's busy. You better go down the road with
me."
"He told me--told me to wait for him," said the boy.
"Well, he doesn't want you now. He wants you to go along with me. I've
just left him."
Upon this the boy followed obediently, and they walked together over the
field to the road. Blake occasionally looked at the unsmiling young
face as he cogitated on Gayne's plans for the lad.
"Like it pretty well here?" he asked.
"No--yes--I don't know," was the answer.
The delicacy and refinement of the boy's face, and the utter
hopelessness of it, stirred his companion, as he considered the one he
had left in the tattered armchair. They walked on in silence until they
had nearly reached the little island cemetery. Then the boy's long
lashes lifted. He seemed to be gazing at the shafts and headstones.
"Uncle Nick says the--the ghosts don't have far to walk," he remarked.
The carpenter put his hand on Bert's shoulder. "Stuff and nonsense," he
said. "You're too big a boy to believe that foolishness."
The dark eyes regarded him. "That's what Mrs. Lowell says. She says God
takes care of us."
The carpenter nodded. "That's right," he returned emphatically. "I hope
He's got His eye on you right now and will see you through. You tie to
Mrs. Lowell and you believe what she says."
"Uncle Nick doesn't want me to. He says I'm--I'm better off alone."
"You're the best judge of that, I should say," remarked Matt bluntly.
"We're all entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I
hope you'll get 'em, kid. Stand up for yourself. Do you like Mrs.
Lowell?"
"I--I don't know.--It isn't any use for me to--to like her. Uncle Nick
doesn't." They began to pass hedges of wild roses. "She likes--likes
flowers," added the boy.
"Take her some, that's right, take her some," said Blake, stopping and
going to the side of the road.
"You won't tell Uncle Nick?" said Bert anxiously.
"No, blast him, I won't tell him. Here, I've got a knife. They know how
to defend themselves all right, don't they?"
Bert gathered some of the flowers, amazingly large and deep of color
they were, and Matt cut more, and a charming bunch was in the boy's hand
at last. Blake noted that the sight of it brought color into the pale
face.
"This must be another secret," said Bert. "Mrs. Lowell and I have some
already."
They plodded on again.
"That's right," said Blake. "Hold 'em tight. That Mrs. Lowell and Miss
Wilbur are friends worth having, I'm thinking." The man frowned at his
own thoughts. The creed of the island had, as its first article: Mind
your own business. Matt wished he could go to Mrs. Lowell and pour out
to her all he had learned this afternoon, but had his pledged word not
prevented, his own habit and training would have made it difficult.
When they reached the field which divided the road from the Inn, Blake
parted from the boy, who started off for home with his prize. He
stumbled over the knolls while looking at the blossoms, and inhaling
their delicious fragrance.
When he had nearly reached the house, he met the quartette of croquet
players, the girls escorting the men to the road.
Veronica and Barney Kelly came first and Diana and Philip followed.
"Oh, how lovely, Bertie!" exclaimed Veronica, stopping and stooping the
five sun-kisses to smell deep of the roses.
"They are not--they are not for you," said the boy hastily.
"You've no taste, then," said Kelly, while Veronica laughed. "Have you a
better girl than this one?"
Bertie pushed on in nervous haste, and Diana's smile did not detain
him.
"Not for you either, apparently," remarked Philip.
"No," said Veronica. "I'm _good_, Miss Wilbur is _better_, but his
_best_ girl is at home on the porch."
There the boy found her, and luckily alone. He advanced holding out his
gift without a word. She colored with pleasure as she accepted it,
holding it in one hand and caressing it with the other as from time to
time she took the sweet breath of the roses.
"Thank you so much, Bertie!" she exclaimed. "It must have taken you a
long time to gather so many."
"No--he had a knife."
"Who, your uncle?"
"No--Mr. Blake. Uncle Nick mustn't know. You won't tell him?"
"No, dear child, I won't tell him." She looked in the boy's face for a
reflection of her own pleasure, but there was none. He remained
standing.
"Sit down, Bertie, you have had a long walk."
He did so with some reluctance. "This is the last--last time I'll sit
with you," he said.
"Are you going away?" she asked, much concerned.
"No, but--but Uncle Nick doesn't--doesn't want me to speak to you--and
you make me sad."
"How do I make you sad, Bertie?"
"Talking about--about things," he said vaguely. "If I don't think and
don't talk, then--then it's better. Uncle Nick says so and--and I--it is
so."
"Very well, Bertie," returned Mrs. Lowell quietly. "All I want is what
is best for you."
He looked at her sweet face with the affection in the eyes. She was
wearing a white dress and the blossoms were a roseate glow against it.
He struggled against all that he blindly felt she represented: all he
had lost, all that would have kept the present and the future from being
blank. His face suffused with color, his eyes with tears.
"I can't bear it!" he said suddenly, with more force than she had
supposed was in him, and rising with an energy of movement that sent his
chair over with a crash, he fled into the house.
Mrs. Lowell bent her head over the flowers for minutes, and, when she
raised it, there was dew upon them. She looked off a moment in thought,
then rose, went into the house and upstairs to the Gayne room. The door
was ajar. She could hear the boy sobbing. Entering, she saw him
stretched on his cot, and she approached, drawing a chair beside it.
Seating herself, she put a hand on his tightly doubled arm and looked at
the averted, dark head, its face buried in the pillow.
She spoke to him quietly: "Bertie, I am going to do just as you plan and
not ask you to go about with me any more, but I want you to remember all
the time that I love you and am thinking of you, and knowing that better
times are coming for you. No human being can have as much power over us
as God has. He isn't going to forget His own children whom He has
created. So the more you think about Him, knowing that He is
all-powerful and all-loving, the sooner you will feel His help coming to
you. We don't know just how or when, but be sure it will come if you
won't listen to discouragement. Discouragement is like a cloud that
hides the sun, and God is the sun of the whole universe. You are trying
to hide away from Him when you weep and let thoughts of grief and
despair come in."
Her voice carried through the nervous, dry sobs, and they lessened as
she talked. When she finished, the dark head lay still on the pillow.
She patted the thin arm.
"Now I will leave you, Bertie," she went on. "Try to think about the
Shepherd. 'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.' Say that over and
over to yourself, and know that it is true. Some day all these things
that seem barriers to everything that you feel makes life worth living,
will melt away. Think about it, and be hopeful, dear child. Remember I
am in the house when you want me, and remember that I love to help you.
Good-bye, dear."
She stooped over the averted face and kissed the boy's temple. Then she
passed out and down the stairs.
The answer to Diana's telegram came from her mother, and read as
follows:
Your father away on the yacht. Be cautious socially. No Loring
relatives or friends in this country. Letter follows.
The letter did follow with great promptness. It was the old story of the
worried hen who had hatched a duck.
_My dear child_:
You say you are feeling very well again, sleeping soundly and
eating with good appetite. Then do come home at once. I have
submitted to your wild-goose chase because the doctor approved, and
it was evidently working well, but I haven't really had an easy
minute since you left. When you said that even taking a maid with
you would make you nervous, and I allowed you to go off to a
strange island quite alone, I put a great constraint upon myself.
Your wire shows me that you are encountering some of the
circumstances which I feared, and which will lead to future
embarrassment. Some people are evidently trying to claim
acquaintance or even relationship with our family. I wired you that
there were no Lorings connected with us in this country. It was an
odd coincidence that just after I sent the message to you, I picked
up a newspaper and saw that Herbert Loring had returned from Paris
and was staying at the Copley-Plaza. I am quite certain _he_ has
not emigrated to your island. So my message is true enough. He is a
distant cousin of your father's and though not an old man is a very
broken one, owing to family troubles. Seeing his name in the paper
brought up sad memories and made me thankful for a good,
conscientious daughter who will always remember what is due her
family, and now, when you are thrown among ordinary people, such as
you have never come in contact with, is a good time to speak of
such a tragedy. Mr. Loring's only child was a daughter, a pretty,
artistic girl of whom he was inordinately proud and fond. She
became infatuated with a man whom her father forbade her even to
see. She eloped with him. Oh, the agony she caused that father, who
had lost his wife years before. Of course, he did the only thing
possible in such a case--forbade her name to be mentioned. He
became very ill, and, as soon as he was convalescent, gave up
business and went abroad. He has spent all the years since--about
fifteen, I think--in traveling about, trying to recover his health
and divert his mind. Now the poor, weary man has come back again. I
am wondering if he will open his house. He is wealthy, and, if his
health is restored, he may do so and take up life again. I am sure
your father will wish to communicate with Mr. Loring as soon as he
returns from his cruise. Perhaps the lonely man will accept an
invitation to visit us.
I think it a grave question whether the artistic temperament does
not furnish more sorrow than joy to the world. I am proud and
thankful that I have a daughter to whom an infatuation would be an
impossibility. Come back, Diana, if you feel strong enough. I
promise to preserve you from gayety if you wish me to do so. I do
not feel at all easy about you. Please write and set a date for
coming, explaining also all that lay behind your wire. Your
affectionate
MOTHER
By the time Diana finished reading this letter, her hands were
trembling.
She hurried to Mrs. Lowell's room. A rather stifled voice bade her
enter. Her friend was stooping over the washstand bathing her eyes. Her
face, as she looked up through the splashing, showed an April smile.
"I knew it was you," she said. "I recognized the step, and I knew you
wouldn't mind discovering that I cry once in a while."
"My dear Mrs. Lowell, I'm sorry for whatever distresses you."
"Oh, it is just that dear talented, wretched boy. I couldn't help
weeping a few little weeps; but what happy thing has happened to you, my
dear?" she added, catching the excitement in the girl's face. She dried
her own finally, and came forward and Diana put the letter into her
hands.
They both stood in silence until Mrs. Lowell had finished reading and
looked up. Her cheeks were as flushed as Diana's, and they exchanged a
radiant gaze and then sat down.
"One always weeps too soon," said Mrs. Lowell at last.
"I was thinking," said Diana, looking off, "that it might be a good plan
for me to go to Mr. Loring myself."
"You good girl! Do you know him?"
"Not at all, but any one can go to the Copley-Plaza, and I can tell him
I am his cousin."
"You're a precious child. When had you thought of going?"
"Immediately," said Diana, with recovered serenity.
"Shall I go to Boston with you?"
"It will not be necessary, I think."
"But your mother would prefer it, I am sure. Yes, I see that I should
go," added Mrs. Lowell, casting a glance at the rich stationery in her
hand with its heading "Idlewild, Newport, R. I." She could feel the
probable disapproval of this move which Mrs. Wilbur would feel.
Nicholas Gayne did not come back to the Inn to supper that afternoon.
Bertie came to the table expecting his uncle would be there and not
daring to absent himself, but he showed the effect of his unwonted
outburst in such extra pallor and lassitude that Veronica was moved to
give him her choicest offerings. Mrs. Lowell thought it best for his
calm not to take any notice of him, but she and Diana found it difficult
to control the excitement that beset their hearts as they looked at him:
the drooping bird in the cage of a cruel and neglectful master, the key
that would unlock its door almost in their hands.
The next morning they took the early boat from the island, leaving word
that they were going to Boston for a few days. Miss Burridge gave them
their coffee and toast and bade them God-speed, little reckoning how
appropriate was the prayer for them.