Kitabı oku: «The Key Note», sayfa 6

CHAPTER VIII
SKETCHES

"Our pebbles are getting a good washing, aren't they?" said Mrs. Lowell, when she and her protégé had reached the shore.

The tide was high and she had Bert put the cushions in front of a rock which sprang from the grass on the edge of the stony beach. He followed her directions apathetically.

"Put your pillow against the rock. See, there is a nice slanting place. Perhaps you will take a little nap. The sea is making a rather thunderous lullaby. Try it. I shan't mind; for here are my books and my writing-paper and pencils galore."

The boy sank down beside her in the place she indicated and looked at the materials in her lap. She had opened a leather case and showed a tablet of paper fitted at the side with a case for pencils.

"Do you ever write letters, Bertie?"

"I – no."

"When you and your uncle leave home, is there no one for you to write back to?"

"There's Cora."

"Your housekeeper?"

The boy nodded, his eyes still on the books and materials in his friend's lap. She, alert to meet any show of interest on his part, took up one of the books.

"Do you ever read the Bible, Bertie?"

"I don't – no, I never did."

"Didn't your mother ever read it to you?"

The boy looked up into her eyes. "Yes, about the shepherd."

"I'm so glad that you know that psalm," she returned gently. "Can you say it? The Lord is my shepherd?"

He shook his head, and again his eyes dropped to the contents of her lap.

"It is like a game of magic music," she thought. "There is something here I should do. Divine Harmony, Divine Love, show me what it is!"

"Are you looking at this?" She took up the other book and pointed to the gold cross and crown on its cover. Then she offered it to him.

He shook his head.

"Veronica told me that your uncle hurt your feelings this morning," went on Mrs. Lowell, laying the book down.

The boy's brows drew together and his gaze sought the ground.

"You know the Bible is the most beautiful book in the world. It has hundreds of verses as lovely as those about the shepherd. This is one: Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him. Fear Him means fear to displease Him on account of our love for Him and His love for us."

It was so long since the boy had heard any mention of love that he looked up at her, still gloomily.

"You know how unhappy you always were when you displeased your mother, and you know how she pitied you for your mistake and drew you back to her – and forgave you."

"Yes – yes, I do."

"That is the way God does with us. So you see it isn't a bad thing to be pitied with love. If you ever think again of what your uncle said, just turn away from it and know that Love is taking care of you every minute. God is always here, waiting to bless us."

"I'd – I'd rather see Him," said the boy.

"Your friends are His messengers," said Mrs. Lowell.

"What – what friends have I?"

"Me, for one," replied his companion. As she leaned toward him with her spontaneous grace, he met her affectionate regard with his piteous eyes.

"Did God – did God send you to – to me?"

"I'm sure He did," she returned slowly.

"Then – then can I – take one of your pencils?"

Mrs. Lowell looked down at her writing-tablet.

"Certainly," she said, passing the whole affair to him.

A remarkable transformation took place in the boy's face. He took the folding case with its complete outfit and his companion regarded him in surprise. His eyes lighted and color came stealing up over face and brow. He looked over his shoulder apprehensively, then back at her.

"You won't tell him?" he said.

"Who? Your uncle?"

"Yes. He would beat me."

"Why? Doesn't he like you to write letters?"

The first smile she had ever seen on the boy's face altered it now as he looked at her, and her heart beat faster in a mystified sense that some cruelly bolted door had been pushed ajar.

"You can have that portfolio for your own, Bertie," she said.

"No, no, he'd kill me."

"What can you mean, dear child?"

The boy started up from his cushion and perched on top of the rock, glancing along the shore. Mrs. Lowell leaned forward and saw his hand with the pencil move swiftly here and there on the blank sheet. She said not a word, but watched the slender young face with the new alertness in the eyes.

The tide was making its splendid slow retreat, the gulls were wheeling and crying, and white as their wings the daisy drifts were beginning to appear on the uplands. Activity, growing, unfolding, all about her, the watcher felt this waif to be part of it. One of God's little ones who could not be kept in bondage.

At last the boy came down again and gave her his work. She looked at it in amazement. The curve of the shore, the groups of spruces, a distant cottage, the light clouds on the blue were all sketched in with a sure touch.

"Who taught you this, Bertie?"

"Nobody – but I watched my mother. She was an artist. She let me draw beside her. She knew I could. She said so. I'll show you. You won't tell?"

"Never."

The boy drew from his pocket a small folded paper. He took off the paper and revealed oiled silk. He unfolded this and a small pen-and-ink sketch came to view. It was of a woman's face, slightly smiling. There was expression in the long-lashed eyes, eyes like the boy's own. The hair waved off the forehead. Bertie held the treasure for Mrs. Lowell to see, but did not relinquish it.

"Is this your mother?"

"Yes."

"Who did it?"

"I did."

"When, Bertie, when?"

"After – afterward," he answered, and his companion could hear that some obstruction stopped his speech.

"It is very – very lovely," said Mrs. Lowell slowly, and the boy looked over his shoulder again, apprehensively.

"Did you say your uncle forbade you to sketch?"

The boy folded the little picture back carefully in its wrappings and replaced it in his pocket.

"Why do you suppose your uncle did that?" asked Mrs. Lowell.

"I don't know."

"Don't you really, Bertie?" she asked, dreading the signs of dullness she perceived altering his face as the brightness died away.

"I guess it was because he said it – it wasted my time. He took everything except this." The boy's hand rested on the pocket that held the treasure. "He didn't find this."

"Took what? Your materials, your sketching things?"

"Everything. He gets very – very angry if I take a pencil. Twice he has whipped me for it."

"But, Bertie, please try to make me understand. Mr. Gayne is an artist himself, he says."

"Yes. He says he – has money enough to live and I haven't. He says I just hang on him. So I must chop wood and – and wash windows, and Cora makes me scrub the floors. He says if he wants to waste time painting he can, but I must not."

Mrs. Lowell regarded the boy closely. "Your uncle showed me some very charming sketches up at the farm this morning."

"Did he?" returned the boy listlessly. "He never was an artist when – when she was here."

"That is strange, isn't it?" said Mrs. Lowell. "Strange that he should be able suddenly to do such good things?"

"No," said Bertie simply. "It is easy."

They were both silent for a time. The portfolio lay on the stones between them. The boy suddenly picked it up.

"I must tear this," he said.

Mrs. Lowell caught his hand just as he started to pull the sketch from the tablet.

"Won't you give it to me, Bertie?" she asked.

He hesitated. "He'll find it."

"Indeed he will not. It will go into the bottom of my trunk."

The boy took his hand away and she recovered the portfolio. He had replaced the pencil in the case.

"I should so like to give you the pencil," she said.

The boy shook his head decidedly. "No. He'd find it," he answered.

"I am very much interested about your mother being an artist," said Mrs. Lowell. "You know you are going to do everything you can to please her. She would be very sorry that your uncle has not made you happy. I am sure she wanted you to use your talent. So, very often we will take walks and I will get better materials for you than this, and you shall make many sketches."

The boy's brows drew together. It was evident that he was in such fetters of fear that the prospect was a mixed pleasure.

"Do you remember your father? When did he die?"

"I don't know. It was before – "

"Was he a kind father, and kind to your dear mother?"

"I don't know. Everybody was angry with her, all the rich people, because she – she ran away to marry him. Then she was left all – alone with me and – and she sold pictures and we were – " The voice stopped.

"Yes, I know you were happy. Then when she went away your uncle took you?"

"Yes, and Cora."

"And wasn't Cora kind to you?"

Bertie shook his head. "I don't know," he said. It seemed as if the recollection of his uncle's housekeeper made him retreat at once into the protective shell.

"Just let me ask you one more question. Your Uncle Nick was here at the island last summer. He didn't bring you with him. Where were you then?"

"Home."

"Alone?"

"No, with Cora."

"But wouldn't Cora like you to draw a pretty picture for her?"

"No. She knows Uncle Nick would hit her."

"What did you do all summer?"

"Helped Cora. Then, when she was drunk, I went in the park. Sometimes I slept there."

Mrs. Lowell shook her head. "I'm glad your uncle brought you this time."

"Cora wouldn't stay. They had the worst fight of all. They were always fighting."

"Bertie, dear," said Mrs. Lowell tenderly, "try to know all the time that God is taking care of you and leading you. We know He will. Uncle Nick must know it, too, sometime."

"Know what?" exclaimed the boy with a start.

"That God takes care of His children. Your uncle is one, and I am one, and you are one. We shall have to keep some secrets from Uncle Nick until he grows kinder and knows that the only way to be happy is to love. I should like to know your mother's people."

"Uncle Nick says they're all dead."

"Do you know their name?"

"No."

"Think, Bertie. What was your mother's name?"

"Helen."

"What else? Can't you remember – the name on her paintings, perhaps?"

The boy was silent and his brow was puzzled. He reached into a pocket.

"I brought my book," he said, drawing forth a worn and much-thumbed pamphlet.

"I'm so glad you did," she returned.

He did not offer it to her, but she looked over his shoulder as he turned the leaves of the catalogue of an exhibition of paintings.

"There are two of my mother's," he said. He indicated the small reproductions of two landscapes and Mrs. Lowell studied them with interest.

"I can see that they must be charming," she said. "Have you any of her pictures?"

"There was one," said the boy, and he had to wait for a time before he could add: "Uncle Nick sold it."

"Let us see if there may be a list of the exhibitors," said Mrs. Lowell. "May I take it a minute?"

Bertie yielded the pamphlet and she turned to the front of the book. Yes, there was the list and her eye quickly caught the name: Helen Loring Gayne.

"Your mother's name was Loring, then."

"It's my name, too. Herbert Loring Gayne."

"Where did her people live, Bertie?"

"In Boston. I can always remember that because – because – when Uncle Nick is angry at what I – I do, he says don't try any Boston on me, and then – then I know he means my mother, because he – he didn't like – "

The boy's voice hesitated and stopped.

Mrs. Lowell called his attention to some of the other pictures in the pamphlet, speaking of the artists whose names were known to her, and he finally restored his treasure to his pocket.

When they again reached the Inn, they found Nicholas Gayne walking up and down the piazza. He came to the head of the steps.

"This is too much, Mrs. Lowell," he said with an effort at bluff good nature, "for you to burden yourself with a young hobble-de-hoy like Bert when you take your rambles."

"If I like it I suppose you have no objections," she returned pleasantly. "I assure you I had to urge him to accompany me. Too bad there aren't some young people of his own age here."

"He wouldn't know what to say to them if there were, would you, Bert?"

"No, sir," was the reply, and the boy started to go into the house.

"Here, what are you doing?" said his uncle, catching him roughly by the arm. "You haven't said good-bye to the lady after her kindness in dragging you around."

Mrs. Lowell controlled herself to speak calmly. "I tell Bert it would be a good thing for him to learn to swim while he is here."

"That's the talk!" ejaculated his uncle, throwing the arm off as roughly as he had grasped it. "Go in and win, Bert. I'll get you a bathing suit. Show 'em you ain't any milk sop. Take the dives with the best of them."

The boy stood with his eyes downcast.

"And don't sulk," went on his uncle with exasperation. "For Heaven's sake, don't sulk. That's the way it is, Mrs. Lowell, if you try to think up some jolly thing for him to do, he stands like an image. No more backbone than a jellyfish."

"Everybody doesn't like the water," returned Mrs. Lowell, moved now by the dread that the man might suspect her influence and remove the boy.

"Well, how did you like the farm?" he pursued.

"What a pleasant place it is," she returned, seating herself on the piazza rail. "No wonder you like to spend time there. I haven't forgotten those charming sketches you showed me, either."

Gayne made a clumsy bow. "You flatter me," he said. "I make no claims."

The lady looked down on the garden border.

"The sweet peas look thirsty, Bertie," she said. "Let's water them."

The boy followed her in silence to where the coiled hose lay, and his uncle looked after them, a thoughtful frown gathering on his dark brow.

CHAPTER IX
A WORKING PLAN

Mrs. Lowell knocked for admittance at Diana's door that evening, and entering found the girl sitting at the little desk she had added to Miss Burridge's furnishings, surrounded by books and papers.

"Is it an inopportune time?" asked the caller, hesitating.

Diana rose smiling. "That can never be for you," she replied.

"Thank you, dear child. I am so full, I long to talk to you. You may have a helpful suggestion."

"I shall be pleased to act as your confidante. Sit here, Mrs. Lowell. I was just writing my mother how fortunate I am in the fact that you are here. I encounter a good deal of difficulty in persuading my mother that I am not in a desert place and am not doing penance. I am very desirous of restraining her from coming to see for herself. I should be aghast at the prospect of taking care of her and her maid here. Yet, when I pile up superlatives, she decides that I have fallen in love with an Indian and is increasingly disturbed."

The girl looked very pretty in the peach-colored negligee she was wearing, its precious laces falling over Miss Burridge's cheap chairs and matting, and her thick bright-brown hair in disorder.

"Oh, tell her he isn't an Indian; tell her he is a Viking."

Diana's serene gaze did not falter, though her color rose.

"I do not mind your badinage," she returned, "for when I fall in love, it is going to be with a supremely unattractive man externally. I shall be the only woman who knows and understands his charm, then other women will not infringe my rights. After you hear Mr. Barrison sing, you will understand that in his career, women will bow before him like flowers in an irresistible gust of wind. I cannot imagine a worse fate for a girl than to share that career; the more brilliant it might be, the more crushing to her happiness. But this interview is getting turned about. I was to be the confidante, not you."

"Then this is my tale, my dear," said Mrs. Lowell. "I have discovered who did those sketches Mr. Gayne showed us this morning."

"Then you were right, and they were not his own?"

"Bertie's mother did them, and he inherits her talent: this poor child whom the man is trying to blot out of normal life."

"What makes you certain?"

"Because he did one before my eyes down by the shore to-day, with a swift, sure touch, and that thin, sad face of his lighted till he looked like a different being. His parents are dead. His mother was an artist. He worked with her. As soon as she left the child, his uncle forbade him to draw, and took all his materials away from him, whipped him if he found a pencil in his possession. Those sketches we saw were done either by the boy or his mother. There is no doubt of it. She eloped with his father, estranging her family from her. She was a Loring of Boston."

Diana regarded the speaker with admiration. "How wonderful for you to obtain so much information from such a source."

"Oh, it was little by little, of course. I told him his uncle had shown us some good sketches and asked him if it was not strange that Mr. Gayne could do them, taking up the art so late in life; for it seems he took it up only as Bertie laid it down; and the boy's reply was significant. He said: 'Oh, no, it is easy.' He seemed to have no suspicion, but then he hasn't life or interest enough to harbor suspicion. He just endures."

Mrs. Lowell went on to tell of Cora and the drudgery of the boy's dull and dulling existence, and her listener's eyes lost their customary serenity.

"It must not be," said the girl at last, as her companion ceased. "Have you made a diagnosis?"

"I only feel that the 'root of all evil' must be at the bottom of it," replied Mrs. Lowell. "The Old Nick, as Veronica calls him, must believe there is money to be secured, and that if he can only prove that his nephew is incompetent, he can gain charge of it. Bertie told me that his mother's people were rich."

"Of course, then, that is the key; but it does not explain what the man is doing with pickaxe and shovel up at my farm."

"Your farm, my dear?"

"Perhaps," said Diana carelessly. "But that is not interesting us now. Mrs. Lowell, I adore the unselfishness which has caused you to give your time to this boy. I have tried to converse with him, but his lack of responsiveness seems to obscure the clarity of my mental processes. I wish, however, to have a hand in his salvation. The thing to do now, it appears to me, is to discover this Loring family. That will take money and I will supply it."

"My dear Miss Diana!"

"Drop the Miss, please. I feel honored by your friendship. Do you know of a good lawyer?"

"My husband is a lawyer."

"Then, please, ask him to proceed at once."

The girl's dignity and beauty added charm to the sense of power in an emergency which money sometimes gives. "It is galling that we cannot take the boy away from that brute immediately," she added.

"Oh, we must be so careful," exclaimed Mrs. Lowell. "Rather than let us do one thing to clear and brighten Bertie's mind his uncle would send him off the island. We must not show dislike or suspicion; and God will guide us in the footsteps we must take. He is taking care of the child now, through us."

"Really, Mrs. Lowell, your faith is very beautiful," said Diana.

"Everybody should have it. Why go alone while the Bible is right there with its marvelous promises? God's children are not puppets pulled by wires, and so people complain that the promises are not kept. We are made in His image and likeness, tributary only to Him – every good thing is possible to us if we turn toward Him instead of away from Him."

"Mr. Gayne appears to have turned away," said Diana dryly.

"Yes, he made me shudder this afternoon when he talked of Bertie's learning to swim. It was as if he hoped it might be the child's end."

Diana shook her head. "He doesn't want that."

"No, so I consoled myself afterward, but his malignant spirit bursts forth in spite of him occasionally."

Mrs. Lowell rose and the girl followed her example. The older woman approached and placed her hands on Diana's shoulders.

"I thank God," she said, "for your cooperation. I will write to my husband to-night."

"Is he as – as religious as you are?"

"Not perhaps in the same way. He does not see quite as I do, but he is a good man and loves everything good." Some recollection made the speaker smile. "I try his soul at times by not doing what he calls minding my own business. For instance, once I saw a young fellow at an elevated station in New York, dazed by drink. I was in haste and on an important errand, but I couldn't take my train and leave him there. So I went and sat down beside him and asked him where he was going. He said, to the Brooklyn ferry, but he was thick and helpless. I called a little colored boy carrying a large milliner's box, and I asked him if his errand needed to be done immediately. He was pretty doubtful, but he finally said no. So I told him I would check his box and leave a dollar with it for him when he returned, if he would take this young man straight to the Brooklyn ferry and see that he did not go in anywhere on the way. He said he would do so, and I gave him his check and car fare and some nickels for telephoning, and asked him to call me up that evening. I wrote my telephone number and left it with the box. He promised, and my train came along and I had to leave them. About six o'clock that afternoon, the telephone rang. It was my messenger. He said that when he got the young man downstairs to go to the train for the ferry, his charge became violently sick. After that, he came to himself and gave a different direction to the boy. The address of an office building. He was pale and shaky. So the boy stayed with him. They went up in an elevator and into an office where the young man said that he had brought the money. They sent for some one from another office, and to this person the young man gave a roll of a thousand dollars.

"Of course, I was quite excited, and happy over this news, and I thanked my messenger and said: 'See what God has helped us to do to-day. That young man might have been robbed, and would have been suspected of theft by his employer and lost his character and his position.' My husband was sitting near by, reading the paper, and he looked up and said: 'Who on earth are you talking to?' I just answered: 'A little darky boy!' and went on, while my husband stared. When I told him the whole story, he laughed and shook his head. 'Hopeless,' he said, 'hopeless.' He is quite conservative, and he would like me to stay in the beaten track."

"That was fine," said Diana. "Mr. Lowell will be in sympathy with this case, I hope, and undertake it with his whole heart. I am going to give you a check to send him as a retainer. Then he will know that this is a serious business matter."

The girl sat down at her desk and wrote the check and Mrs. Lowell took it thankfully. She went to her room and wrote her letter. In due time she received a reply.

Dear One,

I see you have again ceased minding your own business and I am really very proud of you in spite of your obstinacy. I thought in the wilds of Casco Bay, you might get away from responsibilities for awhile, but I might have known that, unless I set you adrift on an iceberg, you would find some lame, or halt, or blind, to succor. Even then, I think the iceberg would melt at your presence, and in short order you would be down among the mermaids explaining to them that it was error to get out on the rocks to do their hair and sing to sailors.

Your story is very interesting, and while I believe that Boston is as full of Lorings as it is of beans, Miss Wilbur has made it possible to ring every Loring doorbell and ask down which steps ran the eloping daughter. Rest assured, as her lawyer I shall do my best in this affair. Owing to Mr. Wilbur's prominence in the public prints, his connections are pretty well known, and I thought I associated Herbert Loring, the railroad president, with him. I suppose Miss Wilbur would have told you if there were anything in that.

The remainder of the letter dealt with different subjects, and, when Mrs. Lowell had finished it, she hastened to her friend, and put her question.

"I will send my father a telegram at once," responded the girl.

That form of speech was not strictly accurate, as it was rather an elaborate operation to send a telegram from the island. However, it was finally accomplished. This was the message to her father:

Have you any friends named Loring? Have we any relatives or connections by marriage of that name?

Diana

The day after the girl had given her check to Mrs. Lowell, Bertie Gayne was not seen about the Inn all the morning. At dinnertime he returned with his uncle. Mr. Gayne's manner was disarmingly bluff and hearty. He had a cheerful word for everybody. The boy's silent manner and uninterested look were just as usual. Mrs. Lowell managed to catch his eye once or twice, but he gave no sign of understanding.

The horse-mackerel were running and the island population was all excited. The taking of one of the huge fish was an event, and very lucrative for the captors. The talk of the table was all on this subject, and Nicholas Gayne entered into it with zest.

After dinner everybody went out in front of the house to view the telltale disturbances in the waters of the bay, where numerous small boats were hanging about awaiting their opportunity. Veronica eagerly joined the watchers as soon as she was at liberty.

"Let us walk down nearer the water," proposed Diana.

Mr. Gayne's field-glasses were being handed about, and she was afraid they would be offered to her. So she and Veronica moved down across the field and seated themselves on the grass against a convenient rock.

"Where do you think Bertie was this morning?" she asked.

"Uncle took him off with him."

"Up to the farm?"

"I suppose so. Mr. Gayne seems to think that farm might get away if he didn't see it for twenty-four hours."

"I wonder if he will not be wishing to purchase it one of these days," said Diana.

"I'd buy some clothes for Bert first if I was in his place. Everything the boy has seems to have been bought for his little brother."

"Did you ever read 'Nicholas Nickleby,' Veronica?"

"Yes, I have." The younger girl looked around brightly. "I know who you're thinking of – Smike. I've thought of Smike ever since they came."

Diana received her look with a smile. One touch of nature made them kin for the moment, and Diana, all unconscious of her companion's mental reservations, did not know that at this moment she was nearer than she had ever been to being forgiven for her various perfections.

"All my childhood," said Diana, "I used to wish I could have done something for Smike."

"I've wished that, too," said Veronica.

"Now we have an opportunity," returned Diana. "You are young and sportive and you made a good beginning."

"Oh, I did —not," returned Veronica. "You might as well try to sport with a hearse. Everything you say to him he turns his eyes on you all darkened up with those lashes, regular mourning, and you don't know where to look, yourself, nor what to say. Yes, I did want to help Smike, but so long as the law won't let us string Mr. Gayne up somewhere, lots of times I wish they'd gone to some other island. Isn't it a pity he hasn't got spunk enough to run away? Even Smike ran away."

"I am glad this boy is not inclined to do that," returned Diana, "for I feel that he has friends here and that something good should come of his summer."

"Not if Mr. Gayne can help it," declared Veronica. "He was afraid Mrs. Lowell was giving Bert too good a time with these walks and talks." She nodded her head. "Believe me, that is the reason – "

"Well, we have found you," said a voice behind them. It was a voice which made color steal up into Diana's cheeks. The girls both looked around quickly.

Philip Barrison was approaching, and with him a shorter man. Both were bareheaded.

"The blarney stone!" thought Veronica. She had been wondering when Mr. Barrison would bring him, and now she gave him what she herself would have described as the "once-over" as he smiled at Diana and lifted his hand to his tightly waved hair in salute.

What Veronica saw caused her to lift her hand to the bridge of her nose and cover its small proportions with two fingers, from both sides of which her round eyes gazed seriously.