Instead of the Thorn

"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."