CHAPTER XXI
REVELATION
Linda, looking at Mrs. Porter, saw in the light of their many talks that her friend was striving for the composure with which it was her wont to meet adverse circumstances.
Fred Whitcomb, too, recognizing that the older woman was the more interested of his listeners, began to address his narration chiefly to her.
"King was pretty badly off," he went on. "He was nutty for days, and some of the things he said in his delirium made me feel that—well, that perhaps he'd had a rather lonely time of it. At any rate, he had asked only that his papers should be kept from Radcliffe, so I made up my mind that I'd go through them myself."
Fred paused and gave a rather doubtful and wistful look at Linda's immovable countenance.
Mrs. Porter's eyes were shining in their attention.
"Well, I hadn't spent much time at his desk before I discovered why King had written me those directions. Henry can do what he pleases about Harriet, but I know Linda's a good sport. I know she wants the truth."
"I do," returned Linda, with cold promptness. "What had Bertram against Henry?"
"Nothing, bless your heart. The telltale package of papers concerned the Antlers Irrigation proposition. Your father was out in the West on the spot and King was in Chicago and these letters and telegrams were their correspondence at the time. It seems that Mr. Barry was completely fascinated by the proposition, but King knew the people connected with it better than Mr. Barry did; and though it appeared entirely legitimate, King begged your father to have nothing to do with it. He admitted that if it succeeded it would be a fortune, but the whole thing was on such a big scale and would involve Barry & Co. so deeply that King advised strongly and even urged that they let it alone; but after an argument of days Mr. Barry decided against him."
Fred met Linda's frowning gaze. He waited while her face flushed, then watched while the red tide sank. In her concentrated look she appeared to be angry; and Fred hurried on defensively.
"I tell you, Linda, I thought you ought to know this. You've always stood for fair play, and there the whole business world has been knocking Bertram King for months. He was a good fighter—but they knocked him down at last. If you'd seen him as I did, lying there, burning up with fever, and babbling scraps of talk that showed how he has worried—"
Linda leaned forward and took Fred Whitcomb's surprised hand in one as cold as ice. Her brow still frowned, but the relaxed lips parted.
"Thank you for telling me; thank you," she said.
Mrs. Porter hurriedly gathered together her sewing materials, stuffed them into her silk workbag, and rose.
Whitcomb, much relieved by Linda's words, also stood up.
"Don't disturb yourselves," said Mrs. Porter; "I am going home to pack. I shall go at once to Chicago."
"Do you mean to King?" asked Whitcomb.
"Of course." Mrs. Porter also seized the young man's hand, and her moist eyes poured out their gratitude. "I can't tell you, Mr. Whitcomb, how I thank you, for befriending him: it's impossible."
Fred smiled broadly. "Oh, say," he returned, "you don't need to pack. King is here."
"What!"
"Sure thing. I wouldn't have come without him. Not on your life. He didn't care much about it, but then he didn't care much about anything, and Mrs. Lindsay had said it was doing Madge a world of good—and Linda was here,"—the speaker turned and looked down at Linda, leaning back against the rock with a face as stony as its gray wall,—"so I bundled the poor chap on the train, and here we are."
"At that awful Benslow place?" gasped Mrs. Porter.
"It isn't so worse," said Fred. "I'm a dandy camper and I'll take care of King myself. The doctors told me just what to stuff him with, and, believe me, I'm going to stuff him. He doesn't slide off this planet till he gets some of the justice that's coming to him. Not if I know it. I haven't talked to him yet about my discovery of the letters, but I told Henry Radcliffe all about it the night before we left and he can do as he pleases about telling Harriet."
"Mr. Whitcomb, you have earned my life-long gratitude," repeated Mrs. Porter. "Between us we will put that dear boy on his feet again. I'm off to see him. Good-bye."
Linda felt hurt that not by word or look did her friend recognize the misery Mrs. Porter must have known she was suffering. Lightly that lady sped away around the clump of birches and was gone; and Fred Whitcomb's sturdy shoulders dropped down again near Linda's rock divan.
"I thought you were looking great when I came up a few minutes ago," he said, examining her, "but it seems to me you might raise a little more color in this perfectly wonderful air."
"You've given me a great shock, Fred."
"Well, I hated to seem to disparage your father in any way," he returned tenderly, "but I knew—I just knew, Linda, you'd want to see King get fair play."
"I do. I have blamed him cruelly myself."
"How could you help it when everybody was feeling the same way? Does he know you blamed him?"
"Yes."
"I wonder if that had anything to do with his not seeing you off that morning in Chicago?"
"Probably."
"I blamed him for that; but now," added Whitcomb, happily, "everything is understood. We mustn't have another sorrowful minute." Linda's lips were looking as if there were only sorrow on earth. "There's a great reaction in Chicago in favor of your father," he added. "The excitement has calmed down, and when Lambert Barry is spoken of now it's with the same old respect, Linda; the same old respect."
"And Bertram has done that," she said slowly.
"Indeed, he has, and as he comes back to strength he's going to feel pretty good over it, too, I can tell you. So—take a brace, Linda. I'm so happy to see you, I can hardly contain myself."
"What a good fellow you are, Fred!"
"You mean for standing by King? Think what he's done for me. Snatched my savings like brands from the burning. My boss, too, is a big beneficiary by King's efforts, and he gave me an extra long vacation so I could come up here and look after him."
"Is he very weak?"
"Not any worse than you'd expect." Whitcomb's constitutional inability to look on the dark side shone in his happy eyes. "That Cap'n Jerry of yours is a dandy, though. He brought us over from the station and he whiled the time away telling how suddenly people either convalesced or died here. King coughs a little, and that inspired the genial captain to tell of his brother who'd been 'coughin' quite a spell'; and how 'sudden' he went off at the last. He said, 'Bill got up one mornin', et a good breakfast; then all to once he fetched a couple o' hacks and was gone!'"
"Fred!" Linda frowned and smiled.
"He did, for a fact. King says he positively refuses to fetch two consecutively."
"He jokes, then," Linda spoke wistfully.
"Oh, yes. He's as game as ever."
"Fred,"—Linda clasped her hands tightly together,—"you don't know how cruel—how beastly I've been to Bertram."
"Oh, forget it," Fred's worshiping eyes met the mourning gaze.
"I'd like to; and I could if Bertram would, but he never will, I'm afraid. He hates me."
"He'll get over it."
"Tell me, Fred,—you must have spoken to him about me. What does he say?"
Whitcomb looked off as if consulting his memory. "I can't remember his mentioning your name since Reason resumed her throne. He used to babble about you and your father, too, during his illness; but nothing connected: nothing that I can remember."
"I'm really surprised that he was willing to come where I was staying."
"I don't believe he knew it till we were on the train. I told him about the Lindsays and that I believed it was the right place for him."
"But he must have known this was where Mrs. Porter was, and that she was with Aunt Belinda. He must have known I was with them."
Whitcomb shrugged his shoulders under this insistence. "Perhaps he did," he admitted. "I spoke several times about you on the train, of course,—how I anticipated seeing you and all that." The speaker's eyes again sought some personal reassurance from his companion's distant gaze.
"And he didn't say anything?"
"I don't remember. I didn't notice. I don't think so."
"Fred,"—Linda leaned forward in her earnestness and wrung her hands together,—"you don't know how hard it is for me to sit here and wait instead of running—running to Bertram and confessing the wrong I've done and imploring his forgiveness."
"None of that: none of that." Whitcomb raised a warning hand. "You mustn't say things to King to excite him. He's glassware, remember, glassware." The speaker sank on his elbow, bringing his eager, boyish face nearer the girl's white gown. His hat was on the grass beside him and his thick hair fell forward in his movement.
"But here I am, Linda," he added, in a different tone, "husky to the limit. When it comes to me, go as far as you like. You haven't seemed conscious of me yet."
"Oh, yes, I'm conscious of you. I'm very grateful to you for finding out the truth and taking such care of Bertram." The girl's eyes were glowing in her pale face. "'Instead of the thorn';—Fred, did you ever read the Bible?"
Whitcomb sat up under the sudden question, and stared at her.
"The Bible!" he repeated. "Why, sure thing—some of it."
"There's a promise in it, 'Instead of the thorn shall come up the fir tree.' It struck some chord in me when first I read it and it seems to mean more and more. See those firs,"—Linda waved her hand to where on the other side of the little brook the soft variation of color in the evergreens stood against the sky. "Breathe the balm they send out in the air? Mrs. Porter has shown me how it just rests with us to do away with the wounding thorn, and receive the peace of the stanch, unchanging fir tree, with its soft, invigorating perfume and color, and the music in its branches. It has come to be a great symbol to me—the fir tree."
"Hurrah for the Tannenbaum," returned Whitcomb, mechanically, not knowing what to say to this changed Linda with the exalted eyes.
"You have done a wonderful thing for me to-day, Fred; and if only I could wipe out from my own and Bertram's memory my wickedness, the fir tree could at once begin to come up; but my father suffered for his mistake and I must suffer for mine. To be patient—to put down my willfulness—to be willing just to guard my thoughts and to think right and to leave all the rest to God—that's my lesson; and you know how hard it is for me, Fred. You know how I've always managed, and dictated, and carried my point, and never had any patience."
"You suit me all right, whatever you've done," blurted out Whitcomb, upon whom Linda's matter-of-course mention of the Creator had made a profound impression. "You've changed a lot in some ways," he went on, rather dejectedly, "but in a certain line where I'm interested, you don't seem to have made much progress. I'm the biggest donkey this side of Cairo, I know that; but when I'm away from you, I forget all the discouraging things you've ever said, and I build a lot of castles-in-the-air, each one more attractive than the last, and then the minute I get with you, with a simple twist of the wrist you tumble them all about my ears."
"Oh, Freddy!"
"Don't you 'Oh, Freddy' me. I was awfully afraid of King at one time, but when I found he wasn't in the race, I felt there wasn't anybody ahead of me and Holdfast's a good dog. I made up my mind to win."
"Oh, Fred!"
"Why shouldn't my thorn be pulled up, too? Why shouldn't I have a nice Tannenbaum with just one gift hanging on it?"
"Because, Fred, we can't any of us outline. We must be faithful and unselfish and let things grow right, and they will, because we were created for happiness. Mrs. Porter says so."
"Oh, she has inside information, has she?" returned Whitcomb, with as near an approach to a sneer as his wholesome nature could come.
"Yes, that's a very good name for it," returned Linda promptly. "Even I, Fred," she added humbly, "even I have had some inside information. In not getting me," she added gently, "you will get something better if we're all thinking right."
Silence, during which Whitcomb gloomily uprooted such long grasses as grew near him.
"I have no expectation of marrying anyone," said Linda, "and you are a hero in my eyes to-day, if that is any comfort to you."
Whitcomb lifted a frowning, obstinate gaze to hers.
"Holdfast's a good dog," he said sententiously. Presently he spoke again. "It's time for King to eat. I must go."
"I'll walk with you as far as Aunt Belinda's."
Whitcomb helped her gather up books and work and they moved away together.
CHAPTER XXII
THE PENITENT
Blanche Aurora caught sight of the two strolling through the field toward the house and she called her mistress's attention to them.
"There's the man I told you come, Miss Barry," she said eagerly; and Miss Belinda pulled down her glasses and viewed the approach.
"Why, if that isn't Mr. Whitcomb!" she said. She groaned. "I don't think I've got a supper for a man; I do hate to cater for the great, walloping things."
She craned her neck, keeping well out of range of the window in the forlorn hope that the threat might pass by. Forlorn, indeed. What place was there for the visitor to go to?
To her surprise the young man's firm step lingered but a moment at the door, then from her vantage-ground she saw him lift his hat, jump off the piazza, and walk away.
From another window Blanche Aurora's round eyes were watching too, with an unwinking gaze. She wished to see whether the stranger would seek the rock cliff; but evidently Miss Linda had been glad to see him, for he swung energetically across the grass in the opposite direction.
Miss Barry, guiltily conscious of her inhospitable attitude, and remembering with a rush the helpfulness with which Whitcomb had smoothed her path away from Chicago, met Linda as she entered.
What meant the glowing expression in her niece's face? Had there really been more than appeared in her friendship for Fred Whitcomb?
"That was Mr. Whitcomb, wasn't it? Why didn't he come in? What a surprise to see him here," said Miss Barry. "After all," she added mentally, "those broiled lobsters would probably have satisfied him."
Linda put an arm about her aunt's shoulders and drew her into the living-room.
There was a roseate gleam in the dusky distance as Blanche Aurora withdrew through the swing door.
Miss Barry could feel a nervous tension in the arm about her, and as she looked curiously into the pale, excited face she felt certain that portentous news was impending.
"I don't care if she has,"—the swift thought fled through her mind. "He's young and only beginning life, but he's a good boy. I like him; and I grudged the poor fellow a meal!"
"Yes, it was Fred," said Linda, seating herself and her captive on a wicker divan.
"Why didn't you ask him in?"
"Because he had to go to Bertram."
"Mr. King here?"
"Yes, convalescing from a serious illness; a terrible illness, Aunt Belinda,"—the girl's voice began to shake,—"an illness I helped to bring on. If"—the voice refused to go further, but broke in a flood of tears as the speaker collapsed in Miss Barry's amazed arms. "Wait—wait," sobbed Linda.
"There, there, child. There, there," was all Miss Belinda could think of to say in the way of comfort while she, her curiosity effervescent, patted the sufferer. "Where are they, Linda?" she asked gently. "In Portland?"
"No, at the Benslows'."
"The Benslows'!" ejaculated Miss Belinda. "And I grudged that boy a meal!"
"Did you say Mr. King is convalescing from something, dear?"
"Yes—yes."
"Do they want to kill him, taking him to Luella's?"
"It's—it's the Lindsays' doings,—and—and—Fred thinks it's all right. He—he has a tent, and he's taking care of him."
Miss Barry's voice was very kind and she kept on her mechanical patting of the sobbing figure. "I didn't know they were such special friends, Linda."
"They were—weren't before; but everybody wants to help—help Bertram now. You were right all the time, Aunt Belinda. He was—was behaving nobly and—and protecting Father. It was—was dear Father's mistake about—about the Antlers. It has—has all come out now. Oh, why was I so cruel!"
"Now, now, dear. Now, now," soothed Miss Belinda, snapping her moist eyelids together. Feeling her helplessness to say the right thing brought to mind her ally. "Where's Mrs. Porter, Linda?"
"Gone to see Bertram. Oh, if I only could!"
"Why, you can, of course. He isn't in bed, is he?"
"I wouldn't care if he was in bed; but how can he ever want to see me again?"
Miss Barry pursed her lips and her head gave a little shake over the bowed one. The remorse she used to wish for her niece had evidently come in an avalanche; and the New England conscience could but admit that it was good enough for her.
"Oh, there's such a thing as forgiveness in the world," she suggested comfortingly.
"You know Bertram stood next to Papa. I don't think Papa knew any difference in his love of us and him. He was just like a son to him, always so faithful and efficient."
Miss Barry raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips. A few words longed to pass them, but she bit them back.
"I fought my admiration of him always because I thought he didn't admire me. I was jealous of him, too. I was the most selfish girl in the world. I wanted to be absorbed in my own trumpery interests nearly all the time; then when I had an hour for Father I wanted him to put me above Bertram in his confidence and consideration; whereas Bertram was always standing shoulder to shoulder with him."
"Now, Linda, do be reasonable. You had to go to school. Don't blame yourself too much."
The girl slowly lifted her head and drew a long, sighing breath. "I can't eat supper, Aunt Belinda," she said after a moment of gazing into space. "You'll forgive me, won't you? I feel as if I must rest and think until to-morrow morning, and then I promise to go on as before."
"How about Mr. Whitcomb? You don't say a word about him."
"He's been splendid—wonderful. We owe it all to him that we know the truth. Bertram would have lived and died and kept silence; but Fred read the letters in his desk while he was ill. His delirious talk had roused Fred's suspicions." Linda gave another sobbing sigh, the aftermath of the storm.
"I'm awfully tired, Aunt Belinda. I'll go upstairs and perhaps I'll go to bed. Don't think of me again until to-morrow."
"Suit yourself, child," returned Miss Barry kindly. "We shall miss you at supper."
Linda vanished up the stairs and Miss Barry went out to the kitchen, where she found her maid with a very red little nose and extremely dolorous wet eyes.
"What are you crying for, Blanche Aurora?" she demanded.
"'Cause—'cause she did." A loud sniff.
"You've been listening," said Miss Barry sternly.
The little girl fairly stamped in her outraged feeling.
"I guess you ain't got no business to say that," she returned, and the honest wrath of her gaze caused her mistress to clear her throat.
"Well, well, I don't suppose you did. Miss Linda has a friend who is ill."
"He's a-goin' to drown himself, that's what," gulped Blanche Aurora, the relief of speech overbalancing her righteous wrath.
"What do you mean, you crazy child?"
"He told me he would if she wasn't glad to see him; and if Miss Linda wants me to, I'll go after him, and stop him."
The girl's hands and feet moved restlessly as if she longed to be up and doing.
"Nonsense, child. Mr. Whitcomb is always joking."
"Oh, no, Miss Barry. He warn't jokin'. He said he was her beau, and Miss Linda wouldn't cry like that—" a spasm constricted the speaker's throat—"if she hadn't given him the mitten and warn't scared what he'd do."
"Law! Blanche Aurora, it's another man she was crying about."
The restless hands quieted and the little maid listened doubtfully. Her mind was so thoroughly made up as to the tragedy that it changed reluctantly.
"Wherever Miss Linda is," went on Miss Barry solemnly, "men spring up through the ground. Who'd ever think of those two coming here to have the finishing touch put on a sick man at Luella Benslow's! If I should hire a boat and take Miss Linda out there,"—Miss Barry indicated the sea,—"out as far as the eye can reach, mermen would begin coming to the surface and swarming up the side of the vessel."
"Oh, dear," gasped Blanche Aurora. The situation was worse than she had feared, thus complicated by a man so dear to Miss Linda that loyalty to her beau could not prevent her from sobbing her heart out about him.
"Let's take him here," she said as the fruit of her swift cogitation.
"Who?"
"The sick man."
"Mr. King!" ejaculated Miss Barry.
King! His name was King! That settled it. Blanche Aurora's heart bled for the gay, broad-shouldered young man who had gained her sympathy, but Miss Linda's wishes were paramount.
"Let's take him here and cure him," she repeated stoutly.
"You're perfectly crazy, child," was the startled reply. "I shouldn't consider taking a man into my house; and I think they'll make out all right at Luella's with our help. I shall let you take nice things over to him once in a while."
Blanche Aurora's breast swelled with excitement. She should see the King: see the wonderful person who could wring tears from the powerful and self-contained Miss Linda; but at the same time she felt very, very sorry for Fred Whitcomb. Going about to get supper she narrowly escaped scorching the biscuit and she poured the tea into the water pitcher.
The long evening had dimmed to twilight when Mrs. Porter appeared at Linda's open door. The girl had left it ajar as an invitation to her.
"What's this? What are you doing?" asked the older woman cheerily as she descried the face on the pillow.
"Hating myself," returned Linda briefly.
Mrs. Porter's pleasant laugh sounded. "There's nothing in that," she returned, and she came and sat on the foot of the bed.
"He's better, or you couldn't laugh," said Linda.
"Yes, he is. That nice Whitcomb is a regular steam engine. He has a tent with all the outdoor sleeping paraphernalia and they don't expect to spend many nights indoors. Of course, it's just the right season for the experiment."
"Does Bertram—does he look very—very ill?"
"Oh, rather frail, of course; but he looks very good to me with his nice gray eyes so care-free."
"He has the most lovely teeth I ever saw," said Linda with a gulp.
"Yes; they're just as nice as ever."
"I wish you were in a serious mood, Mrs. Porter."
"How can I be when I'm so relieved and grateful?"
"Can't you be a little sorry for me, who am absolutely miserable?" Linda's words were interspersed with catches in the throat, but she was determined to weep no more.
"No one should be that. Cheer up, girlie. That nice Whitcomb—"
Linda jerked her face around into the pillow. "Oh, don't go on calling him 'that nice Whitcomb!' It seems as if I was born just to make everybody miserable!"
Mrs. Porter squeezed the ankle by which she was sitting. "Not everybody. I'm sure Madge Lindsay will give you a vote of thanks if you don't absorb Mr. Whitcomb."
"Why? Has she come to life?" inquired Linda gloomily.
"I should say she has. Everybody over there is galvanized with all this excitement. Mrs. Lindsay says Luella nearly went out of her mind at first with two men impending, and she told Mrs. Lindsay she couldn't do so much cooking: that she'd have to get a 'chief' from Portland; but I tell you, Mrs. Lindsay is a general. She promised Miss Benslow to help her. She exiled Pa to his boathouse and hired Letty Martin to wash dishes,—that's Blanche Aurora's sister,—and Luella, from being desperate, is now on the top of the wave. That nice Whitcomb—excuse me,"—the speaker gave the ankle a little shake,—"I mean that strong, good-natured Freddy has kissed the blarney stone, probably. At any rate, Luella is his bond slave already."
"What relation are the Lindsays to him?"
"Mrs. Lindsay told me. She and Fred's father are own cousins."
"That's not too near," said Linda dismally.
"No, but don't order any wedding presents yet, though I assure you Madge looked very fetching this afternoon in a rose corduroy gown and hat."
"Oh, I shan't do anything pleasant yet," responded Linda. "Mrs. Porter, I don't see how you can keep me in suspense. Didn't Bertram speak of me at all?"
"I—I don't think so."
"Don't think so! Wouldn't you be certain if he had?"
"I'm sure he didn't, then."
"You know all you've said to me about our being punished for everything wrong we do."
"Yes."
"How long—how long do you think my punishment will last?" asked Linda naïvely.
"What does it consist in? What do you mean?"
"Bertram's not forgiving me. I have that awful feeling that Bertram never will forgive me—never can like me again, when—when"—the nervous excitement in the low voice increased—"he's the most important person in the world to me: the one Father loved best and who has helped him most. Think what I've done! Put myself beyond the pale of his liking: his forgiveness." A dry sob shook the speaker. "And Fred hasn't told him about the letters. He doesn't dream yet that we know the truth; and Fred says I mustn't tell him: that he mustn't be excited."
"Hush, Linda. Think, dear. You know enough truth to steer by now. 'Cast thy burden on the Lord, and He will sustain thee.' All your part is to think right and do right to-day. You don't want to escape punishment, do you?"
"Yes, I do. I've been punished enough, just in the last few hours. I want Bertram to know I suffer and to forgive me, and to accept my appreciation of all he has done."
"Look out there, Linda,"—Mrs. Porter indicated the starry firmament visible through the broad window, every golden point scintillating in the crystal clear air. "The marvelous order and peace of that sky will rest you and make you realize what it is to allow yourself to be guided by the same Mind that planned those unthinkable depths yet which notes the sparrow's fall. Turn to Him. Never mind Bertram King and Linda Barry. Just know that God is Love, and that to-morrow you will be guided to take steps in the right direction. 'Commit thy way unto Him and He will bring it to pass.'"
"Bring what to pass?" asked Linda eagerly. "What?"
"Ah, there comes in the temptation to outline. We can't tell what; but we must have faith that it will be the best thing, the happiest thing."
"Yes, I know," dejectedly. "I preached it all to Fred."
"That's it, dear. We don't really know these truths—they're not ours until we've lived them."
A few minutes longer Mrs. Porter sat on the foot of Linda's bed. The crescent moon dropped into the west, and the waves lapped the rugged shore in long, murmurous sweeps.
They talked no more, and when Mrs. Porter said good-night and went to her own room, had it not been so dark she would have observed that a photograph of Bertram King had found a place on Linda's table.
CHAPTER XXIII
A GOOD NEIGHBOR
Miss Benslow was wont to refer to her weather-beaten house, woefully in need of paint, as "the homestead." In her grandfather's time the place had been a small farm, but Cy Benslow had sold all of it but a couple of acres to Portland people who had put up cheap summer cottages.
The house was set back some two hundred feet from the sea and a few Balm-of-Gilead trees relieved the monotony of the wind-swept landscape.
Madge Lindsay had found places for a couple of hammocks, which Fred Whitcomb observed with satisfaction on his arrival with his charge.
"You're perfectly welcome to them," Miss Lindsay assured him. "Did you ever play the rôle of a head of cabbage for six weeks?"
"Is it anything like a blockhead?" inquired Whitcomb. "I've played that all my life."
"Yes, they're ever so much the same," drawled Madge. Perhaps she had affected a drawl to offset her devoted mother's snappy, nervous manner. At any rate, it was second nature now. "You're not allowed to have an idea when you're assigned the rôle of cabbage head; so it amounts to the same thing as your limitation."
"Thanks awfully," returned Whitcomb. "It's worth everything to discover sympathy." He was establishing King in a steamer chair on the piazza while they were talking: a precarious piazza it was, with a list to leeward.
Mrs. Lindsay looked on solicitously and held ready a steamer rug. "These slanting boards used to make me seasick at first," she said, "but after a while you don't mind anything here, the air is so divine and there's so much of it." She extinguished King's evident shiver with her rug.
"Thank you, Mrs. Lindsay," he said. "Do you guarantee that in a short time I shall act and feel less like a shaky old woman? Or, perhaps, I'm more like a baby. Whitcomb's brought everything along but a nursing-bottle, and his beefiness makes me feel like a rattling skeleton."
"Oh, just be a cabbage, Mr. King," advised Madge, "and you'll come out all right. You know how much stress is laid on thinking these days. Don't think a shaky old woman, and don't think a baby, but think a cabbage. It's the most restful thing in the world; and there's nothing and nobody here to inspire a thought."
"You have neighbors," said King, "according to Whitcomb. A cousin of mine, Mrs. Porter, is staying here with Miss Barry. Mrs. Porter is the sort to inspire even a cabbage."
"Not when she's being one herself," returned Madge. "She's a music teacher! Who can blame her? I know if I were one, I'd be a murderess too.—Yes, they are over there, and so is Linda Barry. I hope neither of you is attached to her, for I think she's the coldest, most impossible girl I ever met."
"Surely you know of her sorrow?" said Whitcomb, and his expression was a reproach to the girl's drawling speech.
"Oh, so you are attached! Forgive me, won't you? All the same, if I'm ever in mourning I'm determined not to freeze my sister-woman and slink away from her into by-ways."
"Madge, dear," warned Mrs. Lindsay.
"Oh, Mother and Miss Barry have had some traffic over ferns; and Mrs. Porter's offishness is different from Linda Barry's. She's a queen, Mrs. Porter is. I'd take lessons of her just for the companionship, only that she'd think I thought I had a voice."
"And so you have, a very nice one," chirped Mamma.
"Her goose is such a swan," exclaimed Madge, with a lazy smile. "No one should be without a mother."
"Shoo, all of you," said Whitcomb, motioning with his hands. "I want King to go to sleep."
The convalescent's eyes closed as his head rested against the pillow of his reclining chair. "There goes Whitcomb, again," he announced through his nose. "Baby always goes to sleep in his carriage when he hits the oxygen, you know."
"No, no, Mr. King. Cabbage, cabbage," exclaimed Madge in reminder, as she jumped off the rickety steps.
Her acquaintance with Whitcomb had been very casual heretofore. There had been a few hours in New York and a few hours in Chicago at various times when cousinly amenities were exchanged; and now, as her youthful vitality had reasserted itself, the rôle of vegetable was becoming a frightful bore, and this invasion of the two young men restored an interest in life.
There was a level plain back of Miss Benslow's house and Madge had discovered signs that previous boarders had essayed to play tennis there. She led Whitcomb to it now.
"Don't you think we might fix it up?" she asked.
He looked dubiously at the tufts of grass. "And crack a few tendons over these hummocks?" he suggested. "Do you play much?"
Her dark eyes gave him a provocative glance. "I might surprise you," she drawled.
"Good enough. It will be better than nothing."
"Which? A girl antagonist or the court?"
"I'll tell you that later."
"Then go and ask Luella for a scythe and a lawn mower. Let's begin right off. I'm aching to play."
"Don't believe I can this afternoon," returned Whitcomb, rather consciously. "I ought to go over to Miss Barry's and call the first thing."
"Oh, yes. I forgot the attachment." Madge's dark, tanned face lighted brilliantly with a gleam of white teeth. She feigned a shiver. "Be careful that she doesn't freeze you. To call on Linda Barry seems an intrepid act to me."
"You didn't grow up with her."
"I suppose she's really charming when one knows her," said Madge, as they turned away from the potential court and strolled toward the house. Whitcomb's manner as he replied had suggested danger. "She's certainly lovely to look upon."
"You haven't seen her yet in a normal condition," he replied, somewhat mollified. "People can't get over shocks like hers in a minute. This must have been a great place for her, though."
Whitcomb's eyes swept the vastness of sea and sky.
"If you don't find her much improved, tell her of the cabbage stunt," said Madge. Then she pointed out to her companion the low, broad, shingled cottage, clinging to the rocky shore, and turned away toward the house.
"To-morrow morning for the tennis court," said Whitcomb gayly as he left her.
"How tiresome," she thought. "That Barry iceberg will never like me, and now Fred will want to drag her into everything. If only Mr. King had his sea legs."
She looked disapprovingly toward the piazza, where the convalescent's clear-cut face showed, sleeping against the blue chintz pillow.
"Where has Fred gone, dear?" asked her mother's voice at her elbow. The sharp eyes had witnessed her child's desertion.
"Gone over to call on Linda Barry. I think that's all he came here for."
"H'm. Shows Fred's not mercenary. Still, you know, things aren't going to turn out so badly as people expected. I had a talk with Fred this morning and he's quite optimistic. It seems that that Mr. King is the hero of the whole affair. I'll tell you about it sometime. Hasn't he an aristocratic face!" added Mrs. Lindsay, with an approving snap of her eyes toward the steamer chair.
"I wanted to fix the tennis court. I wish that human Thermos bottle was in Kamchatka."
Mrs. Lindsay laughed. "They retain heat as well as cold, remember. Perhaps Fred knows what is inside that one better than you do."
Madge yawned and put an arm around her mother as they walked toward the house. They were excellent friends.
The following morning, when Whitcomb had finished ministering to the convalescent's needs, and had placed him comfortably in the hammock, he was ready for the tennis court proposition.
It proved that Luella's lawn mower was an antique whose working days were over; and she indicated to the young people a house where one could be borrowed. It was not Miss Barry's cottage!
When they had traversed some distance across the field on the errand, a demurely stepping figure approached them. It was a very young girl in a blue frock, bareheaded, and carrying with great solicitude a bowl covered with a napkin.
As she approached, Whitcomb recognized her, and it was with some relief that she recognized him, bareheaded, and in khaki trousers and sweater, with a general appearance of being long for this world. He was laughing and talking with Luella's boarder in a reassuring manner, and when his eyes fell upon her, he spoke. "Why, good-morning, Blanche Aurora."
"Good mornin', Mr. Whitcomb," she responded loudly in her best manner and with a sharp glance at the dark young lady in the rose gown.
"Whither away, Blanche Aurora?"
"I'm carryin' jell to the king," she announced.
"What's this?" Fred's eyes lighted curiously on the snowy napkin. "Something nice for King, eh? Bertram the first?"
"Lemon jell," announced Blanche Aurora, with a proud accession of lung power, and an evident desire not to be delayed.
"Well, Mr. King's over there in a hammock," said Whitcomb, looking doubtful. "I don't believe I need to go back."
"Go back? Of course not!" cried Madge.—"Ask for Mrs. Lindsay when you get to Miss Benslow's and she'll see to it. Come on, Fred."
Blanche Aurora gave the young lady one look, as cold and impersonal as china-blue optics are capable of bestowing, and moved on her way. Call for Mrs. Lindsay! Not likely, now that she knew the king was easy prey in a hammock.
"But poor King," protested Whitcomb, as he followed Madge's determined march. "Is it fair? No cotton for his ears."
"Oh, she probably won't see him at all. The young one will give the jelly to Mother and she'll attend to it."
Little Madge Lindsay knew of the swelling heart beneath the blue gingham frock. Blanche Aurora's confused and excited meditations had conferred royalty upon the mysterious stranger, and should she find him informally wearing a crown in his hammock, it would not astonish her in the least.
Arriving at the Benslow house, she cast glances askance toward piazza and windows, fearing that some one might inquire her business; but it was ten-thirty in the morning, a busy time for housekeepers, and she proceeded unmolested toward the Balm-of-Gilead trees.
One hammock hung empty, its fringes stirring but lightly in the protected nook to which the trees owed their life.
The visitor caught sight of fair hair on the pillow of the second swinging couch, and continuing from the head a long black chrysalis.
She approached eagerly. King, glancing around at a sound, suddenly saw beside him a blue-clothed figure with long, white, pipe-stem legs, and white sneakers. The newcomer's red braided hair glinting in the sun was surmounted by a voluminous blue bow.
As he turned his head, the better to see his visitor, she burst forth in one breath: "I'm Miss Belinda Barry's help, Blanche Aurora Martin, Blanche Aurora for short, and I've brought you a snack, O King."
The invalid turned, chrysalis and all, the better to view the bowl being extended to him.
"Why—why"—he said, exhibiting broadly the teeth Linda had commended,—"somebody is being very kind to me."
"It's Miss Barry; but I made the jell and she sent it with her compliments. Snacks is good for folks that's sick and delicate."
As she spoke, the visitor was devouring the royal features with intent to verify her suspicion concerning the new photograph, and to understand the great man's influence on Miss Linda.
"What did you say was your name?"
"Blanche Aurora."
"Well, you're a very kind little girl. Do you say that jelly is for me?"
"Yes, and you'd better eat it right off, O King, 'cause the middle o' the mornin' is the time for snacks. I've got a spoon in here,"—she took off the napkin and revealed it. "If you eat it now, you see, I can take the bowl back; 'cause if it once gits in with Luella's things, no tellin' when we'd ever see it again."
King's gray eyes twinkled. "Blanche Aurora, you're a joy," he declared mildly, "and never in my life have I seen anything look so good as that jelly."
"It is good, O King," admitted the visitor, stentorianly modest. "It's got orange juice in it, too."
"Then, get that chair over there under the tree, and bring it here where you'll be more sociable; and would you mind getting the pillow out of the other hammock so I can be royally propped up. If I'm a king, nothing's too good for me, eh?"
"Of course, nothin's too good for you," declared Blanche Aurora solemnly, as she carried out his directions.
"I'm afraid somebody has been—well—stringing you, to put it informally, concerning myself," remarked the invalid when his visitor had propped his shoulders to her liking. "If my head should lie any uneasier if it wore a crown, the game wouldn't be worth the candle. Could you pull that pillow a little higher—there, that's fine. Now, then, for the jelly."
The visitor took it from the chair, and handing it to him, seated herself, with her demurest company manner.
"One thing more, you good child. Can you tuck the end of that rug under my feet?"
"Is your feet cold?" asked Blanche Aurora sharply as she jumped up and complied. "Do you wish you had a hot-water bag?"
"I dare say Whitcomb brought one."
"But the hens can lend you all you want," declared Blanche Aurora earnestly. "They don't need 'em this weather."
"The hens? What sort of a place have I got into?"
So the visitor explained Luella's invention, and King laughed till he was weak, while the little girl eyed him solemnly.
"Do stop," he begged. "Spare me this last humiliation of being in the old hen's class. Now, Blanche Aurora, here goes." And he began an appreciative attack on the jelly.
CHAPTER XXIV
WHITCOMB'S CONFESSION
Blanche Aurora never removed her eyes from her beneficiary.
"The best jelly ever," he remarked between two mouthfuls.
"You don't talk a bit like a king," she declared judicially.
"Have you known many?"
"Only in stories."
"Somebody evidently has told you a fairy story about me,"—the speaker continued to eat industriously. "Who tried to induce you to believe that I was anything but an American rack of bones?"
"I knew you was a great man, and they said King."
"A great man, eh? How's that?"
"And I believed nobody but a king could make Miss Linda cry."
The gray eyes lifted for a look at the visitor before the eating recommenced.
"Not guilty," said King.
"She cried somethin' terrible 'cause you was sick."
The memory seemed to make the small piquant nose tingle, for Blanche Aurora wiggled it and snapped the china-blue eyes.
"She cries a good deal, I suppose."
"She never cries," declared the small maid indignantly. "Why should anybody that can have anythin' in the world and do anythin' in the world cry? I didn't know Miss Linda could cry; but her beau came over—"
The gray eyes lifted again, for a moment, but the convalescent's appetite appeared to be still ravenous.
"—And she was walkin' with him, and she come into the house and told Miss Barry you was sick, and—" Again Blanche Aurora's nose and lips wiggled in grievous reminiscence.
"Do you mean Mr. Frederick Whitcomb?"
"That's him. He told me he was her beau, but I guess he ain't no longer. I don't believe"—a shrewd look coming into the blue gazing eyes—"I don't believe she'd cry like that about him, 'cause she never does cry." The addition was made with a return of indignation. "She's the beautifulest, kindest lady in the whole world."
"H'm," mumbled King, over an extra large spoonful.
"She give me this dress"—the speaker grasped a fold of the azure gingham—"and a pink one, too, and ribbons. She used to wear the dresses herself, 'fore her pa died. When she come here first I looked like a scarecrow."
"My compliments, Blanche Aurora." King bowed toward his companion whose small white teeth gleamed in a face thrilled into vivacity. "You do Miss Linda credit."
"So I wondered what you was like, O King—I mean Mr. King. I guess you're just plain Mister, ain't you?"
"There never was a plainer."
"And so, when I seen this new likeness on Miss Linda's table, standin' by her pa's, I wondered if perhaps 'twas you, and it is!" finished Blanche Aurora with all the triumph of a Sherlock Holmes. "I put a wild rose front of her pa every day, and says I to her this mornin', 'Shall I git a rose for the new picture, too?'—but she looked awful sad and she shook her head and says, 'I'm afraid not, Blanche Aurora. We need pansies for that'; and we ain't got a pansy on the place. I'm awful sorry."
"Do you know, I don't believe I can quite finish this delicious jelly? I feel now as if my sweater wouldn't give any more."
"Well, you've et quite a lot," observed the visitor, looking into the bowl.
"I certainly have; and will you thank Miss Barry for me, and tell her that I feel in these noticeable bones that I'm going to be up and around before very long?"
"I'll tell her; and, oh, yes! Be you able to see folks?"
King's eyes twinkled. "Well, I seem to have seen you without any danger."
"Yes, but they didn't expect I was goin' to see you." There was a triumphant gleam in the speaker's eyes. "They told me to leave the jell."
"You think for yourself, don't you, Blanche Aurora?" laughed King, settling down comfortably into his pillow.
"I was bound I was goin' to see who it was could make Miss Linda sob, and sob, and besides, I wanted to see if the likeness was you that wasn't ever on her table before."
Long after the visitor's departure King lay, a deep line between his brows, his perplexed thoughts accompanied by the constant sound as of rain in the rustling Balm-of-Gilead leaves above him. Linda in wild tears; Linda placing a photograph of himself beside that of her father and all following Fred Whitcomb's visit; there was something here to be inquired into.
It was nearly noon when the laborers on the tennis court returned. King could hear their laughter as they approached the house; and shortly Whitcomb appeared beside the hammock, exasperatingly robust and gay, and wiping his moist brow.
"How goes it?" he asked, grasping the rope and swinging the couch.
"Stop that, or I'll murder you," growled King.
"Sure thing. I forgot," said Whitcomb as he tightened his hold and brought the chrysalis to a standstill. "Madge Lindsay's a scream," he continued. "She's more fun than a barrel of monkeys. She knows every word of the Winter Garden and Follies songs for the last two years. I'll get her started so you can hear her one of these times."
"Good Lord, deliver us!" uttered King devoutly.
"Got a grouch, old man?" asked Whitcomb with a solicitous change of tone. "Did Blanche A-roarer, the human siren, blow her whistle too near you? We met her and she said she was bringing you jell."
"She did, and it's safely stowed away under my sweater. What are you going to do next?"
"Why, we thought we'd go into the water. We both took a Turkish bath out there on that Transgressor's Boulevard that we're trying to turn into a tennis court. It's high tide, and Madge says there's a beach down here where we can get a ducking when the water's high. That's the trouble with this place. It's so jagged and deep, only a submarine could go bathing here at low tide. Why?" added Whitcomb. "Did you want me for anything?"
"No. What should I want you for? Get out."
"All right. You'll be coming with us in a little while. So long. We're watching the time and we'll be on hand for dinner. Mackerel, the fair Luella told me. I can hardly wait."
King gazed after his friend as the latter ran across the grass and disappeared within their tent. He closed his eyes, and opening them in a few minutes at a sound, found beside him a figure in a long black cloak, with a dark face beneath a red bathing-cap. Miss Lindsay was smiling down at him.
"We're going for a dip, Mr. King. I wish you could come."
"Pardon my not rising," said the invalid.
"It's such fun to have somebody to play with. I'm so glad you brought Fred here. I was getting so bored."
"That's a consoling way of putting it," remarked King. "It's a proud moment when I am spoken of as taking anybody anywhere."
"Oh, you'll be out of that hammock in a week. Do you like the banjo, Mr. King?"
"I hate it," he replied distinctly; then seeing the dark face fall, "but not more than I do everything."
"So discouraging," drawled Madge. "I was going to promise to give you some perfectly jolly darky tunes to-night."
"Good Lord, deliver us!" again rose to King's lips, but he swallowed the phrase. "Don't mind about me," he said. "Just give me a few board nails to bite, and let it go at that. I'm not worse than other convalescents, I dare say."
"Lemon jelly wasn't the thing to feed him," said Madge to Whitcomb, as a few minutes later they were scrambling down the bank toward a short stretch of pebbly beach. "He should be fed saccharine and nothing else. You never do know what to do with such people. You don't like not to be civil. You have a wonderful disposition, Fred. Yes, you have. I've always noticed it."
"I fancy I am something of an optimist," admitted Whitcomb, "but I need to be, as badly as anybody that ever lived. Now I'm trying to think that that sunny water will feel the way it looks."
"Come on, then," cried Madge, flinging aside her cloak, and seizing his hand she drew him, protesting and howling, into the icy flood. The wind was offshore, and Madge, thoroughly acclimated, had been anticipating mischievously the effect upon the tenderfoot.
He was game, however, and Lake Michigan had made him practically amphibious, so they had an exhilarating swim before coming out on the white pebbles for a sun bath.
"I'm afraid it will be a long time before King can stand that," remarked Whitcomb.
"What did you mean," asked Madge, "by saying a few minutes ago that you need a happy disposition more than other people? Is it because Mr. King is so difficult?"
"No," replied Whitcomb, gathering up a few pebbles and beginning to play jackstones. He avoided his companion's very good-looking but enterprising eyes.
"Well, aren't you going to tell me?"
"I don't know why I shouldn't. You're my cousin. I adore a girl who doesn't care a hang for me."
"The Thermos bottle," thought Madge acutely. "But you won't tell me who?" she hazarded aloud.
"Why should I?"
"You don't have to; but just remember this, Freddy Whitcomb. Look at this great ocean. It's like the great world. That saying, 'there's just as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it,' is true; and"—Madge captured Whitcomb's reluctant gaze with as bright eyes as ever sparkled under a red cap—"some people are only fish with gold scales," she drawled.
"She isn't," blurted out the young man defensively.
"Of course not," laughed Madge. "Want to go in once more?"
Whitcomb sprang to his feet. "Once more, and then what ho! for the mackerel!"
As he helped Madge up the bank a little later he said: "I must stay with King this afternoon."
"And call at the Barrys'," thought his companion.
"I'm afraid he got sort of down this morning, all alone."
"Well, we'll have another go at the court to-morrow," replied Madge good-naturedly. "Freddy needn't have worried," she thought. She was far too clever to satiate a man with her society.
King came to the dinner table and did full justice to the meal. "I'm quite sure," he said to Mrs. Lindsay, "that those hammocks were dedicated to the naps of yourself and your daughter, and I want to assure you that I've had my share of them for to-day."
The ladies protested kindly.
"I've had my eye on a big rock there is over there nearer the water," said King. "I'm going to try my rickety legs that far."
A chorus of approval of the plan arose, and after a short time of sitting about the discouraged piazza, he and Whitcomb rambled slowly off.
To King's disgust, his friend as they left had picked up a steamer rug.
"Oh, cut it out," begged the convalescent.
"Shut up!" returned the other cheerfully.
Arrived at their goal, he threw down the rug and King was glad to sit on it under the lee of the big rock.
"What did you do yesterday, Freddy?" asked King, going directly to the subject uppermost in his mind.
"I called on Linda and Mrs. Porter. Mrs. Porter told you, didn't she?"
"Yes. She came over, exuding gratitude to you at every pore, and adorably sympathetic and charming to me."
"Well, that's all right, isn't it?" returned Whitcomb, a little uncomfortable under his friend's gaze, which seemed more portentous than was necessary. "Women always overdo the gratitude business. Just like her to praise me for engineering an extra long vacation for myself."
"Freddy, you haven't told me everything," said King sternly. "Now, spit it right out in Papa's hand."
"What are you talking about?" asked the other uneasily.
"I don't know, but I'm going to find out. When Linda left Chicago I was the blackest sheep on her black list. What did you tell her to change her attitude? It wasn't that I had been ill, for she would have buried me cheerfully. Now, out with it!"
"Is this the third degree?" Whitcomb was gathering the daisies within reach.
"Yes. It wasn't any opinion you had of me contrary to hers. She thinks for herself; so give me the real stuff."
"Why do you believe she has changed?" Whitcomb returned the other's gaze now doggedly.
"Because, after you left, she wept;—according to impartial testimony, loud and long. Also she dug up my photograph and placed it on a table beside her father's. This information was fed to me with the jelly."
"Blanche Aurora!" exclaimed Whitcomb, scowling.
"Exactly. Now, then!"
"Well," said Whitcomb, "it seems the time to tell you. While you were in the hospital your jabbering aroused my suspicions. I wasn't Henry Radcliffe and I hadn't been forbidden; so I went through some of your papers. When I had found the Antlers correspondence I didn't need to go any farther."
King's thoughtful frown deepened and his face grew slowly and darkly red.
Whitcomb maintained his steady regard. "At that time I didn't know whether you were going to live or not, but I did know that justice was going to be done you."
Recollection of Whitcomb's devotion swept over the other man like a tide, submerging the first sensation of outraged privacy: of having been outwitted.
"You meant well," he said in a low tone.
"Yes, and I did well," said Whitcomb slowly. "I didn't tell Radcliffe till the night before we left Chicago. Harriet was in Wisconsin. I don't know her so well as Linda; but Linda is as fair-minded as another fellow. There was only one thing to do in her case."
There was a short silence, then Whitcomb continued:—
"I'll tell you frankly that if I had had any idea of the depth of her feeling in the matter, I should have hesitated. This laying down your life for a friend isn't in my line. It's beyond me. You know how I've banked on seeing her. Well, she can't see me. I used to be awfully afraid of you and it passed. Now I'm afraid of you again."
King saw his friend's increasing difficulty of speech, and he put a hand on the big brown arm.
"No cause, Freddy. Absolutely no cause," he said.
There was silence for a time, then King sank back from the erect posture he had maintained.
"It can't be helped," he said, speaking low. "It can't be helped."
"No," said Whitcomb roughly, "and it ought not to be helped. There was no sense in your quixotism."
"Would you, do you believe," asked King slowly,—"would you do as much for Linda?"
The other looked up at him sharply.
"Did you do it for Linda?"
"Yes; every act of my life I believed was for Linda," returned King quietly.
"Then"—began Whitcomb excitedly.
"Yes; then," interrupted King, still quietly. "Then; not now. It's over. It's finished."
Whitcomb frowned off toward the illimitable sea; and Madge's attempt at consolation came back to him. He repudiated it. Linda Barry was peerless.