UNCLE ROBERT IS EFFECTIVELY DAMPED
When Colonel Lane arrived at Hawk’s Nest, he found the place _en fête_.
“Wings and Winds” had come out and there was a general jubilation.
A pile of dainty green volumes stood upon the dining-room table, and
Uncle Robert was uncorking champagne.
Colonel Lane had not advised his friends of his coming, as he had a
sort of Sherlock Holmes idea that he might make a discovery or two by
coming without warning.
“Bravo!” shouted Uncle Robert, putting down the bottle, that he might
grasp his friend’s hand. “This is a pleasant surprise; and you are just
in time to join us in a glass to ‘Wings and Winds.’”
In nervous haste, Uncle Robert pounced upon one of the green volumes,
opening it at the title page to show to his friend, who was now holding
Annie Barrimore’s hand between his own two, and looking at her in that
tender, adoring way, which never failed to call up the pretty girlish
blush.
“Look! my boy!” cried Uncle Robert, beaming and swelling with pride,
“Isn’t it nicely produced?
“_Wings and Winds._
“_By Robert Burns._
Take it in your hand man! Uncut edges, you see, and beautiful paper!”
Colonel Lane took the little volume and admired it, while the proud
author struggled with the wire on a “magnum.”
All at once Phyllis, who had run to Philip in the smoking-room to
inform him that her father had come, plucked at the parental sleeve.
“We didn’t expect you, dad,” she said, using that rapid manner of
speech which was an indication in her case of excitement.
Colonel Lane kissed his daughter, noting with anxiety that she was
certainly not looking well, also that her eyes did not meet his. His
face softened as he looked at her, but changed and became severe when
Philip came in wearing a patronizing smile.
“Ah, Colonel!” he said, as he extended a hand. “You are come at the
right moment to congratulate the author of ‘Wings and Winds.’”
For Mrs. Barrimore’s sake Colonel Lane gave his hand to Philip with a
show of friendliness, but the young man saw dislike in the fine, stern
face.
“Very nicely got up, isn’t it?” Philip next said, as he took up one of
the volumes.
Opening it haphazard, he conned a page, while an amused smile played
about his mouth.
Colonel Lane eyed him with marked disfavor.
“Got to run the gauntlet of reviewers yet, though,” Philip remarked.
“I am not afraid of reviewers,” blurted out Uncle Robert, who had
succeeded in opening the bottle, and was filling the glasses. “I am
not going to let the thought of a man in an iron mask spoil to-night’s
pleasure. But the proverb says, ‘He who talks of happiness summons
grief,’ so we will not talk of it. Drink to the success of ‘Wings and
Winds!’”
Every glass was raised.
Mrs. Barrimore was standing by the Colonel, and when the toast had
been drunk, she said to him: “Now you must have a meal, and you will
stay here to-night, won’t you? Mrs. Ransom will not have made any
preparations.”
“Of course he will stay!” exclaimed Uncle Robert. “We are going to make
a night of it, eh, Lane?”
Philip went back to the smoking-room, the little volume in his hand,
and after a moment Phyllis followed him.
“It’s awful rot, you know!” said Philip, indicating the book of verse.
“Oh, don’t say that!” answered Phyllis. “Mr. Burns is so happy about
it.”
“He won’t be very happy when he reads the reviews, however,” said
Philip. “Look here! He rhymes _home_ with _throne_. Listen, did you
ever read such drivel?
“‘_Where are joys like those of home? I would not change them for
a throne, I have no wish afar to rove, When here I find a home and
love._’”
“I think it is very pretty,” said Phyllis, who liked Uncle Robert, and
did not like to hear his work run down.
“That is because you are an ignorant little girl!” Philip told her,
pinching her cheek.
Philip went on reading:
“‘_I wandered through the dales of dawn._’ What _are_ the ‘dales of
dawn’? Perhaps he means _at_ dawn. ‘_My unaccustomed eyes fast set._’
Good heavens! ‘fast set.’ If he means fast shut, he ought to go on to
describe how he came a cropper in the ‘dales of dawn.’ Well, all I hope
is that the public won’t find out that the author of this idiotic
drivel is my uncle!”
Philip and Phyllis had their backs to the open door. They did not see
Uncle Robert transfixed on the threshold.
He had come in search of them, and--_he had heard!_
All the light had died out of his face when he stole away. He did not
join his sister and Colonel Lane. He went out into the garden.
There was a frost, and the stars were shining.
But Uncle Robert, who loved nature in all her moods, did not note the
sparkle upon the laurel bushes or the quiet splendor of the starlit sky.
He walked along the gravel path slowly and painfully, his eyes cast
down. A copy of his book was in his breast pocket. He felt it there, as
if a dead hand was laid upon his heart.
Was all that he had heard true? Philip was clever. He was a critic. Was
this the kind of thing that would be said by reviewers of his little
book? Would they all sneer and ridicule him?
“There is no fool like the old fool!” he told himself with a melancholy
shake of the head. “I have learned a lesson.”
The dry dead leaves on the big oak trees which bordered the croquet
lawn seemed to Uncle Robert to whisper, “To-night will come a wind--a
small wind, and we, nipped by frost, shall fall and be swept up by the
gardener; we shall lie dead and forgotten on the rubbish heap. But
_we_ shall be the new green leaves, and we shall laugh in the spring
sunshine and folks will say, ‘Look at the new leaves!’ They will not
know that they are _we_ come back!”
Uncle Robert laughed a little sadly as his imagination was stirred thus
by the rustle of the dry leaves.
It had always been thus with him. Fancies came with every sound and
sight of nature, and rhymes had followed--rhymes which he had just
heard called “drivel.”
And even now, in the realization that he had failed to give the songs
expression which he heard in his heart, something sang still. He could
still _hear_ the voices of nature. That was left to him.
Oddly enough, he felt no animus against Philip for his brutal
criticism. Philip had the critical gift, which had made his own work so
perfect in its way.
Uncle Robert accepted the verdict he had heard. He had no vanity. It
was only joy he had felt in seeing his rhymes in print--joy such as a
child feels over a sand castle which is to him wonderful.
The joy was gone. He was like the child who has seen a big wave wash
his wonderful castle away--and he could have wept!
Colonel Lane was eating a meal in the dining-room and Annie Barrimore
was with him.
She was speaking of Robert’s book, her shining eyes expressing the
pleasure she felt.
“It is so good to see him so glad,” she was saying. “He has been giving
joy to others all his life, and has now the thing he so desired. I do
hope the critics will be kind.”
“I hope that Philip will hold his tongue,” said the Colonel with some
asperity, remembering the expression he had noted on that young man’s
face.
Mrs. Barrimore looked troubled. “You do Philip an injustice, dear
friend,” she said. “He would not say anything to grieve his uncle, when
he sees him so happy about the book.”
“I hope not,” replied the Colonel shortly.
Mrs. Barrimore was always a little hurt when Colonel Lane spoke of
her boy in that tone of voice. This dear friend--who was so very
dear--certainly did not understand Philip.
Colonel Lane was thinking how very blind some adoring mothers could be.
He saw he had hurt her, and was sorry. To hurt so gentle a creature was
to his soldier-heart like shooting a flower.
He laid a hand on hers and said: “Let us give Robert a good time. He
said we must make a night of it. We will ask him to read some of his
verses aloud to us.”
Mrs. Barrimore smiled up at him. “That is a very sweet thought of
yours,” she said gratefully. “We will all go to the drawing-room. There
is a lovely fire, and we have not yet had our coffee. We dined rather
earlier to-night, and thought it would be nice to have our coffee
later. I will go and fetch Robert. I saw him go out into the garden.
You find Philip and Phyllis, and make them go to the drawing-room. By
the way, how do you think Phyllis is looking?”
“We will talk of Phyllis later, dear,” he said.
Uncle Robert, who had conquered himself to some degree, entered at that
moment, and taking his sister’s arm, led her to the drawing-room; where
the others joined them almost immediately.
“Now, Burns!” said the Colonel heartily. “You said we were to make a
night of it! We all want you to read us some of your verses aloud.”
A crooked smile passed over Uncle Robert’s face as he stammered: “No,
Lane. I think not. We have had enough of the book for to-night. I have
been behaving like a foolish schoolboy who has carried home his first
prize. Annie and Phyllis shall play and sing to us. Annie, old girl,
can you sing some of those old songs we used to have at home?”
Philip looked up sharply at his uncle. He saw plainly that something
was amiss, but never dreamed what it was. He felt sorry, for he was
fond of his uncle, if he thought little of his poetry.
“Do read us some of the verses, uncle,” he said.
Mr. Burns fixed his eyes on his nephew. “You should not ask me,” was
all he said.
There was an odd dignity about Uncle Robert as he spoke the brief
sentence, which escaped no one’s observation; and everyone, including
the culprit himself, felt sure that some wound was at the bottom of it.
Colonel Lane had no doubt whatever that some sneer of Philip’s had been
noticed by his uncle, and that he was deeply hurt.
Both Philip and Phyllis arrived at the truth.
“Can he have heard?” whispered Phyllis to Philip.
“It looks like it. I am horribly sorry,” Philip whispered back.
Colonel Lane, in his Sherlock Holmes capacity, noted the guarded
whispers with growing wrath.
When Philip rang for his horse to be got ready, Colonel Lane stepped up
to him and said icily: “I am coming to call on you to-morrow at four
o’clock; mind you are at home.”
“Delighted, I am sure,” replied Philip, attempting a smile, which
succeeded only in being a grimace.
“What the devil is up now, I wonder!” muttered Philip, as he rode
away. “Lane is undoubtedly on the war-path. I wonder if he knows
anything about my criticism of that infernal book? I did not lower my
voice--damn it!”
But Philip heartily wished he had kept his opinions to himself. Uncle
Robert was such a good sort. He had been so kind, so generous! Philip
cursed himself for a cad.
All the same, he was not prepared to accept a lecture from Colonel
Lane--the man who had the infernal impudence to be in love with the
mother of a grown-up son!