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.