CHAPTER VIII
A BUSINESS INTERVIEW
Miss Barry's brow was troubled as, that afternoon, in much harassment of mind, she wended her way to the home of her elder niece. Miss Belinda had always approved of Harriet. She was wont to declare with energy that there was no nonsense about Harriet. To-day when she went into the apartment she found the young wife in a violet tea-gown sorting a pile of little stockings.
"Harry does go through his clothes so," were her first words after their greeting.
"Give me a needle, for mercy's sake!" exclaimed Miss Barry avidly, pulling off her black gloves. "If I could feel for five minutes that I was of some use, it would put flesh on my bones."
"Then take off your hat, Aunt Belinda, and in a few minutes we'll have a cup of tea. Selma has taken Harry down into the park, but he'll be back before you go. Do you know, he misses Linda dreadfully? You must tell her when you go back. He was asking for her again this morning. There's scarcely been a day since she left school that she hasn't had a romp with him until – and he adores her. Perhaps it would divert her if I should bring him over. What do you think?"
The traces of grief and strain were still in Harriet's face, and she asked the question with solicitude.
Miss Barry seated herself by the dainty workstand, and seizing the little stockings with eagerness shook her head.
"I find my best way is not to think, Harriet," she said emphatically. "Linda acts like a sleep-walker most of the time, but this morning she got to looking over some things in her bureau drawer, and she's been crying her eyes out."
Harriet dashed away a quick tear as she sat opposite her aunt, replacing a button on a little white blouse.
"I do want to get her away from here, and I broached the subject this morning, but she took fright at once." Miss Belinda's busy needle ran in and out of the spot where a small active toe had peeped through.
"I wish," replied Harriet, "that there were something in the world she
must
do. There's no such blessing at a time like this as not to be able to brood. A husband and baby have rights that can't be put aside. I do wish Linda cared for some one of the men who admire her. I don't believe there's one who would let the changes in her fortune weigh with him at all. I hope, Aunt Belinda, it doesn't hurt your feelings to see me wearing this colored gown." The speaker lifted her eyes to her aunt's somber black. "Father never believed in mourning, but he was a prominent man, and I want to wear the badge of respect before people who would expect it. I'll wear black in the street, but Henry and little Harry would feel the gloom of it in the house, and though Henry hasn't said anything about it, I have decided not to wear mourning at home."
"You've got a lot of sense," was her aunt's response. "I believe in that."
"We can't mourn any less," and Harriet dashed away another tear. "No girls ever had a better father than ours."
Miss Belinda lifted her eyes from her work.
"Mr. King called this morning, and brought more flowers for Linda. If flowers would heal hearts Linda would never shed another tear, but she can't seem to bear them. She won't let one blossom be in the room."
"I suppose they look too cheerful," said Harriet. "How is poor Bertram?"
"Thin as a rail. Looks as if he had the weight of the nation on him, and I suppose he has. I guess from what I hear these days are terribly hard on him."
"Terribly," echoed Harriet. "Henry's just heart-broken over the situation."
"Has Henry lost money in Barry & Co.? Don't tell me if you don't want to."
"No. Of course Henry's young, and has never had much money to invest, but Father never wanted family connections mixed up in his business. I know that sounds as if he didn't feel certain of his propositions; but there isn't a man who knew Father and Barry & Co. who wouldn't tell you he believed in their absolutely honest intention. I've had only one talk with Bertram about the business since – but he called me up this noon and said he must see Linda and me together as soon as she is able."
Miss Barry dropped her work again, and regarded her niece's dark head, drooped over her work.
"You like Bertram King, don't you?"
"Indeed I do." Harriet looked up in surprise. "Henry and I both love him like a brother."
"Well, I just wanted to know if you felt him worthy of all confidence."
"Oh, you've heard that talk, have you?"
"What talk?" asked Miss Belinda cautiously.
"About his being the moving spirit of Barry & Co. That always irritates Henry and me beyond everything. As if my father were invertebrate, and couldn't think for himself."
"Well, Linda believes it. That is, she believes Mr. King had an abnormal influence over your father. In fact, she blames Mr. King for the disaster."
"She's in an abnormal state herself. That's what's the matter. I know her grief at losing Father is profound, and no doubt the money loss means more to her than it does to me. Henry and I have talked it over, and we feel it will be just as well for Harry if he doesn't have so much money to look forward to as we expected. With Linda it's different. It does deprive her of much that perhaps she expected to do. We don't know what her thoughts have been all these days she has lain there so quiet. She thinks Bertram is to blame for taking on that irrigation business?"
"To blame for everything. She – she used some pretty strong language this morning."
"Oh, but that's Linda," responded Harriet quickly. "She's always extreme."
"Do you think Mr. King is in love with her?" asked Miss Barry bluntly.
Her niece looked up curiously. "Why? Do you?"
Miss Belinda made a protesting gesture with one stockinged hand.
"My dear! You'll never prove anything of that sort by me. I think he's all stirred up about her, but if she's right, that might be remorse on his part. He looked to me this morning as if some able-bodied woman ought to take him in her lap and rock him."
Harriet smiled and returned to her sewing. "Bertram has always seemed too wrapped up in business to care for girls. He likes to tease Linda and play with her, but her interests have all been apart from him. Henry and I have often talked about it, and said how nice it would be if they should care for each other. I should dislike to believe that he was the cause of our misfortunes; but Henry says that is the rumor and the general feeling. Even Father Radcliffe credits it, but I'm too loyal to Daddy to believe that a young man like Bertram could sway him."
"I think," said Miss Barry, "that you girls should give him the interview he wants, and soon. He needs all the help he can get."
"I know he does. I promised him we would see him to-morrow."
Miss Belinda glanced up. "But you haven't Linda's consent."
"She must consent. It will be good for her. It's what she needs, to have something she must do."
"She's so fond of Mrs. Porter I thought she'd be glad to go home with me and join her, but she shrinks from everything like a sensitive plant."
"She has leisure to think of what she wants, you see," returned Harriet. "I haven't. Perhaps she will come and make me a visit."
"Well, you come back with me to the house this afternoon, anyway, and make the plan for to-morrow. I think an interview with Mr. King is just what Linda needs to make her sense what the poor fellow is going through."
Accordingly, a little later Harriet donned her black street clothes, and accompanied her aunt to the house on the avenue.
They found Linda in her room, stretched in a
chaise longue
and looking out of the open window at the June sky. An incessant whirr of motors filled the spacious room.
"Don't get up," said Harriet, as the white figure moved to rise. She kissed her sister. "I'm so glad to see you dressed. You must soon get over to us. Harry talks about you every day."
As this declaration called forth no answering smile, Miss Barry left the sisters together, shaking her head as she went.
"I'm glad it isn't my job to persuade her," she thought.
Harriet came straight to the point. "I can't stay long, Linda, for I'm never away when Harry has his supper, but I came over to tell you that we must meet Bertram to-morrow."
"I can't," returned Linda, her eyes looking startled but determined.
"Yes, you can, dear. We can see him right up here if necessary, but it isn't fair not to answer his questions, and help him as much as we can."
"He doesn't need to ask any questions. He knows a hundred times as much about it all as we do; and no one can help him. He never wanted any one to help him."
"Well, we won't discuss that, dear. He must have our sanction about certain things, and every hour counts. Surely you'll bestir yourself for the honor of Barry & Co."
"For the honor of Barry & Co.," repeated Linda, in the tone of one whose fires have burned out.
So when the appointed hour arrived next day, it found Linda dressed and ready to descend the stairs at her sister's summons. Any effort was better than to allow King to come up to her room. A stranger he was and a stranger he should always remain.
The first sight of her, white and tall in her thin black gown, was a shock to King. The lips held in a tight line, the colorless face and manner, were in such marked contrast to the exuberance of the Linda he had last seen, that he marveled at the change, with a sinking of his tired heart and brain. She might well have been disturbed by his own appearance, but she scarcely looked at him.
Miss Belinda was present. The four sat around the massive table in the den; while King slowly and carefully outlined the business situation. Lambert Barry's will left bequests to various charities, ten thousand dollars to his sister in addition to the investment from which for years she had drawn what he called her allowance, and the rest of his fortune was to be divided equally between his two daughters. Bertram paused, and Linda met his hollow gaze.
"I judge the chief thing you wish to know from us," she said, "is whether we wish to give more than the law compels, to satisfy creditors."
King wondered whether grief could be responsible for the inimical look in her eyes.
"Mr. Barry, the day before he died," he returned, "expressed a longing to prevent as far as possible suffering resulting from the – the – misfortunes of Barry & Co." "I'm sure of that," returned Linda. "We spoke of it together one evening. I said that would be Barry & Co.'s way."
"Did you see trouble coming, Linda?" asked King gravely.
The girl was sitting straight and tense, and her eyes did not drop from his tired gaze.
"No. I thought at that time there was no trouble in the world that could touch my wise, honorable father."
Miss Barry moved uncomfortably, watching the girl's expression.
"I'd like to say," she put in, "that the ten thousand my brother left me I want should go to make up arrears as far as it can."
"Dear Aunt Belinda," said Harriet, putting a hand on her aunt's knee as she sat next her. "Now, we don't any of us want to be quixotic," she went on in her moderate manner. "We want to be calm and sensible."
"Harriet," her younger sister turned to her, "we do want to be quixotic, if that is what the world calls returning money secured under false pretenses. So far as I am concerned, there is only one possibility for peace for me, and that is to keep our father's memory as clean before the world as it always has been. I can speak only for my share, of course, but my wish is this: that this house, the motors, and all these belongings, be sold – "
"You can keep your electric, Linda," interrupted King.
She brought her eyes back to him.
"You cannot tell me what I may keep," she answered, slowly and incisively, and the young man frowned wonderingly at her tone.
"I want everything sold," she went on. "I want my share of money, property, life insurance, everything, added together, and applied
pro rata
to the losses of every one who put a misplaced trust in Barry & Co."
"Linda – " began Bertram gently.
She rose suddenly and turned upon him, her nostrils dilating.
"Tell me this, Bertram King. Have you a dollar invested in the Antlers Irrigation Company?"
King started to his feet, and viewed the girl in amazement. Her brow was furrowed, and the eyes in her white face blazed.
"Speak," she insisted.
A flood of color rushed to the man's very forehead as he realized her open enmity. In silence they stood thus for a moment.
"I refuse to answer you," he said at last.
Her gaze swept him scornfully. "It is what I expected." Then she turned to her sister, speaking gently. "Settle it between you now, Harriet. I suppose I may dispose of my own, and you know my wishes. They won't change."
After she had gone out, Harriet seized Bertram's hand as he stood dazed.
"Forgive her, Bertram," she said anxiously. "I do believe she's nearly crazy."
He sat down again, very pale, and with no comment proceeded to sort his papers.
Miss Barry's earrings were trembling, and she thought with longing of the peace of her "Gull's Nest."
CHAPTER IX
CORRESPONDENCE
Before Miss Barry's train had reached Chicago, Linda had received a telegram conveying sympathy from Mrs. Porter. A pile of notes and letters lay now unopened on her desk. Her sister had read the telegram at the time of its arrival, and left it on the table beside Linda's bed, where one day she read it; but the girl refused the least pressure on her wound from even the most friendly and delicate fingers. This very afternoon, when, tingling with excitement and antagonism, she swept from the room, she passed the maid who was at the door, just bringing in the mail. Somewhat hesitatingly the girl offered the letters to her young mistress. She and all the other servants stood in awe of the suffering that had so altered the jolly, careless, imperious young woman.
Linda, her heart beating tumultuously with its indignation, accepted the package automatically, and went on upstairs to her room.
She raised her hand to her throat in the effort to stop its choking, and threw down the letters. The handwriting on the top one was familiar and full of happy association. Here was one person who loved her, and understood her, and whose patience had never failed.
With the picture vividly before her of the faces of her scandalized sister and aunt, she caught up this letter and held it to her breast, her large gaze fixed straight ahead. The kindly expression, the humorous smile, the loving eyes of her teacher as they had rested on her hundreds of times, strove with the other picture. She felt she could bear to have Mrs. Porter talk to her. She moved to the door and locked it, conscious suddenly that she was trembling; then she sank into a chair and opened the letter.
My dear Linda
(it began), —
I have waited a full week to write to you because I felt that at first you wouldn't care to read a letter even from me. Do you notice that "even"? Yes, I feel sure you love me as I do you, sincerely, and it gives me courage to talk to you just as if you were lying beside me on these sun-warmed rocks, with the cool wind trying in spurts to snatch off the duck hat that is shading my eyes. It can't succeed, for the hat is tied on with the white veil you gave me. There is a little scent of orris in it still, marking it as yours, and giving me the pleasant feeling of one of your "bear's hugs."
I am sorry to be a thousand miles off from my little girl's troubles, and so all this week I have been trying to know that the opposite of this sense of separation is the truth; that all that I love in you is mine still, and that the greater part of what I could do for you if I were there it is my privilege to do here. The personal touch, the interchange of loving looks, is dear to our human sense, but sometimes even these get in the way of the loftier, broader mission which God's children may perform for one another.
I have been thinking much about your father, a man whose keen sense of honor, and large charity, will be discerned more and more clearly when the present confusion is straightened out.
Linda's suddenly blinded eyes closed, and she again held the letter to her breast a minute before going on.
He is incapable of wrong intention. Do you notice that I say "is"? I wonder if you are feeling that sense of continuous immortal life which is your rightful and best comfort at this time. All that you loved best in your father were traits which your hands could not touch. Your heart and mind only discerned them. They are yours still, and they were that real part of him which God sustained and now sustains, and which were the reflections of His Light and Love.
I cannot touch your body now, any more than if it had ceased to dwell upon this earth, – any more than you can touch your father's, – but that makes you no less real to me. My tall little Linda speaks to me in her generosity, her lovingness, her gayety, as vividly as if you were beside me this minute, and it would be so if I knew I was never to look upon your face again. "The flesh profiteth nothing," the Bible says; and it is one of those lightning flashes of truth that glance away from us until the trained thought is sensitized to receive it; but after that, little by little it proves itself.
Perhaps I am talking too long, but please know that I am thinking of you daily, with thoughts full of love.
The Comforter that Jesus promised us is a real Existence, and "underneath are the everlasting arms."
"As one whom his mother comforteth so will I comfort you, saith the Lord." How I love to think of that when I think of my dear girl.
I found those words a few weeks ago on the calendar you gave me, and now I give the wonderful promise back to you. Say it over to yourself, dear child, even if you don't now see how or when it will come true, for His promises are sure. It only rests with us to open our hearts to receive them.
Your loving friend,
Maud Porter.
Linda's lip was caught between her teeth, and her brow frowning, as she finished reading. She turned the letter back to read again the sentences about her father. Here was no uncertain note.
She crumpled the sheets between her hands and closed her eyes.
"Oh, God, You have taken away my father. Help us now to clear his name!"
It was a cry from her heart, the first time in all this eternity of days that her thought had turned to the Higher Power with any feeling save resentment. She saw her friend lying on the sun-warmed rocks in the sunlit atmosphere of a joyous June day, longing to help her, longing to impart to her the sustaining calm of her own faith, and gratitude woke feebly in her.
She rose, and carried the letter to her bedroom, folding it again in its envelope. It did not belong in her desk. Such a message from the woman who had long been her ideal was a thing apart. She placed it in the back of a drawer in her dresser, and there her hand encountered a scrap of paper which she drew forth. Its clear lettering stood out against the ivory-white background.
"Instead of the thorn shall come up the fir tree – "
She read no further. The calendar again! She recalled also that leaf which in the studio she had marked for Mrs. Porter's reproach: —
"When thy father and thy mother forsake thee, then the Lord will take thee up."
She dropped the papers and covered her eyes again with her hands.
"Oh, Mother, Mother!" she moaned above her breath. "How could God, if there is a God, comfort me as you would!"
Supposing immortality, in which every Sunday in church she declared her belief, were really true. Supposing her father and mother were together. Supposing her mother were now consoling him for his mistakes, – for Bertram King's mistakes, – would that thought not bring consolation? Her worried father! Her lonely father! She sank into a chair, weeping helplessly. She had worn his pearls and danced, while he was lonely! If she could only die and go to her father and mother. Life here was ruined, and no one needed her. Harriet was engrossed with her family. Aunt Belinda's heart was in her home, stern duty alone holding her in this place.
After a few minutes the mourner lifted her bowed head, pulled a sheet of paper toward her, and wrote: —
I am bleeding. Please write to me again.
Linda.
When she had addressed the note to Mrs. Porter, she washed her face and made herself ready for the tête-à-tête dinner with her aunt, which would shortly be served in her sitting-room. She had never entered the dining-room since the last meal she ate there with her father.
She set her door open in order that Aunt Belinda should not be afraid to come in, and shortly the much-tried lady did appear, her lips set in a line of endurance. Miss Barry had never approved less of her niece than at the moment of the girl's exit from that business interview. She gave a sharp glance now at her, sitting as usual with eyes gazing from the window at nothing, and hands loosely folded in her lap.
"Harriet left her good-bye for you," she said. "She had to hurry home for Harry's supper."
"Yes," responded Linda.
Miss Belinda sat down, and the gaze she fixed on her niece waited for an explanation or an apology. None came.
Miss Barry cleared her throat. "Harriet wishes to put herself on record," she said distinctly, "as entirely disowning any such feeling toward Mr. King as you expressed."
"You know he is her husband's cousin," returned Linda passively. "One must keep harmony in a family."
"More than that, Linda Barry," continued her aunt crisply, "that young man would have had to be guilty of designing your father's downfall to deserve such words and such a manner as yours."
The girl eyed the speaker steadily, and again the fire of excitement glowed in her look.
"You saw that he could not answer my question."
"I saw that he would not."
"It would be a good plan for you to talk with some of the prominent business men of the town," remarked Linda, the light going out of her eyes.
"I don't need any business man to tell me that that poor boy is about used up – and in whose service, pray? Answer me that, Linda Barry."
"Mammon," was the sententious reply.
"Pshaw!" ejaculated her aunt. "A clever man like your father didn't trust that man for no reason. Harriet's and my heart just ached for the poor fellow this afternoon. I thought for a minute after you went out that he was going to faint."
"Yes," returned Linda listlessly; "I suppose he had been sure no one would hold him in any way responsible."
The servant here came in to spread the little table for dinner, while Miss Barry, her hands tightly locked together, gave her indignant thoughts free rein, and followed Bertram King to his room at the club.
Had she really been able to see him, she would have witnessed his finding upon his arrival a letter in Mrs. Porter's handwriting.
His white, stoical face did not change while he read it: —
Dear Bertram</i