The Key Note

"Good-morning, dear," he said, turning and putting his arm around her. "We have your mother laid out, haven't we?"

"Why, Daddy, what is the matter? The coördination of her nervous system seems entirely thrown out."

He smiled heartlessly. "She didn't sleep much, honey. Neither did you," regarding her closely.

"No, Daddy," she replied, rather breathlessly. "I seem to be more reposeful when the yacht is in motion."

"'Rocked in the cradle of the deep,' eh? Want to go ashore this morning?"

"No, I think not. Mrs. Lowell is coming out for tea this afternoon, a little good-bye visit."

"All right, then. What do you say to some cribbage?"

"Fine, if we cannot be of any assistance to Mamma. Are you sure?"

"Yes, my love. She has been drinking heavily of 'the wine of astonishment' and must sleep it off. If there is any humble pie on board, you might have Léonie take her some for luncheon."

"What are you talking about, Daddy? Poor Mamma!"

"Yes, she is absolutely one of the finest. I thought so when she was eighteen, and cute, with a little turn-up nose and dimples something like that Veronica girl, and I think so now; but the best of women must sometimes lie by until they get a new perspective."

"Daddy, I don't understand you. You and Mamma have – have differed about something, I fear."

"Well, it – it might be described that way. Morris," – turning toward his valet who was near, – "the cribbage-board, please."

Diana strove valiantly not to have a miserable day. She played cribbage with her father until luncheon was served on deck. Then she gave orders for her tea, and Léonie came to remind her of her promise that she might show Bill Lindsay over the yacht. He arrived about the same time as Mrs. Lowell, and Léonie, frightened to death of her mistress's strange mood, besought Diana to remain with her mother while she should fulfill the promise to her island pal, and bid him a long and racking farewell.

So Diana left Mrs. Lowell with her father while she ventured to her mother's bedside and sat down, silently. A handkerchief, redolent of cologne, covered the sufferer's eyes.

"Who is that?" came faintly from the blinded one.

"It is I, Mamma," said Diana meekly. "Are you feeling a little better?"

"Diana," – the voice was still faint but stern, – "have I been a good mother to you?"

"Mamma, dear, there never was a better. How can you ask?"

"Because no one else thinks so."

Diana threw herself on her knees beside the bed and took the hand that was outside the rosy silk coverlet. "Dearest, I am not feeling very well to-day and you will destroy my poise if you say such things. My heart feels sore for some reason, so do not give it any blows. You know how Daddy and I think there is nobody in the world like you. Daddy was talking about it this morning and telling me how cute and pretty you were when he first knew you," – Diana's voice began to quaver, – "told me about your dimples and everything, and how you were just as attractive to him now as you had been then, and" – Diana succumbed and tears fell on the hand she held – "and if I am ever married, Mamma, – I do so hope that in twenty-five years afterward – he – he will feel that way about me."

One eye emerged from the cologne bandage and viewed the girl's lovely, bowed head.

"Now, don't cry, Diana," firmly. "Why in the world should you cry? You have a wonderful life opening before you. You've known nothing yet but school, and I want you to spend a little time thinking of the possibilities of the future. With your looks and the money at your command, there is no social experience among the highest-placed and most cultivated people abroad and at home that you may not enjoy. You've heard the saying: 'Of the unspoken word you are master, the spoken word is master of you.' It is the same with actions. You are deliberate by nature, and exquisite by breeding. Never commit yourself to anything impulsively. No mother would be a good mother who did not say as much as this to you."

Diana experienced a sudden stricture of the heart that dried her eyes and held her motionless over the hand she held. She knew all at once the cause of her parents' difference. She had never in her life been able to conceal anything from her father. She flushed deeply. Whatever he had said to her mother must have been in Philip's favor. With thoughts, humble, frightened, resentful, racing through her mind, she did not know how long she had been kneeling there when Léonie came in with soft step, and she looked up to see her mother's eye again eclipsed. She remembered Mrs. Lowell.

"Léonie is here now and I must go, dearest. Mrs. Lowell has come out for some tea. Shall Léonie bring you some?"

"No. I want nothing. I am feeling better, Diana. Don't distress yourself about me."

The girl kissed the forehead above the bandage and passing Léonie saw that her eyes, too, were red.

"I wonder if this day will ever be over", she thought dismally.

She found her father and Mrs. Lowell having a visit, charming to each of them, and tea was served at once.

While they were eating and drinking, the island steamer came into the cove and up to its landing.

"I suppose our delightful musician friends are leaving on that boat," said Mrs. Lowell. "Shan't we stand at the rail, and wave a good-bye?"

"No, I wouldn't," returned Diana hastily. "Everybody except the right ones will take the greeting to themselves, and – " Indeed, she would not wave to Philip after his cruelty in singing that song! And obeying it so literally as not to manage one word of farewell to her alone!

"Little snob, eh, Mrs. Lowell?" said her father.

The steamer was turning around to leave.

"He is going!" cried Diana's heart. The whole day to have passed with no sign from him! Cruel! Cruel! "You know, Daddy, Mrs. Lowell and I must see something of each other the coming winter if only for Bert's sake. He is related to us."

The passenger boat was passing near now. The yacht felt its waves. Diana turned her eyes toward it in spite of herself. Some people were waving handkerchiefs toward the handsome yacht, and the Captain whistled three times. The yacht replied, and Charles Wilbur stood up and saluted. Diana's heart beat hard and painfully. She looked back at the tea-table.

"Tell us, Daddy, just what relation Mr. Herbert Loring was to you."

"Why, it was this way. My grandmother and his mother were – "

Diana never knew what they were, for the island steamer was moving toward the mouth of the cove. Handkerchiefs were waving from the stern. It receded. It rounded the rocks at the farthest point, and disappeared.

"That is very interesting, indeed," said Mrs. Lowell. "I shall tell Bert. He will be glad and proud of the connection. I have a fine boy there, Mr. Wilbur. I am hoping my husband won't mind my taking such a responsibility." She rose to go.

"You have a good ally in Luther Wrenn," remarked Mr. Wilbur, arranging her wrap.

"Yes, and in you, I hope?"

"Certainly. At your service. A big responsibility awaits that youngster. Let us hope he will grow up to be as clean-cut and simply honest as young Barrison."

"You do like him, don't you?" said Mrs. Lowell with her direct look.

"Very much, so far. I don't know how he may carry sail in the prosperity before him, but so far he seems to be all to the good."

The small boat was summoned for the guest. Bill Lindsay had gone off in the dory that brought him. Diana went alone with her friend to the head of the awninged stairway.

Mrs. Lowell saw the marks of distress in the young face, and she held the girl's hand for a minute. "God bless you," she said, and kissed her lovingly. "Trust Him, my dear," she added meaningly. "He is taking care of you. Claim it and know it. Good-bye."

Diana watched the boat glide toward the shore. "This awful day is nearly over," she thought. "I feel as if my good angel was going away in that boat."

Mrs. Wilbur did not arise for dinner. Diana and her father ate it alone in state. Keen to do her duty and grateful to him for his attitude toward the man whom she must henceforth forget, she had dressed herself in her prettiest gown. At twenty, pensive eyes with shadows about them are not unbecoming, and her father looked across at her admiringly.

"The Count de No-Account or some other titles, should be here to-night, my dear. The moon-goddess is too lovely to beam upon no one more thrilling than her humdrum old daddy."

"As if any one could come up to him," rejoined Diana affectionately. "You remind me of the way Mamma was talking this afternoon, of all the possibilities money opens to a girl, abroad and at home. She did not stop to think what a standard she had set up by marrying you."

Her father nodded slowly, regarding her with a curious smile. "Indeed. So little Mamma was able to sit up with a comforter around her and show you the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of them, was she? Well, well. Foxy little Mamma."

Diana blushed violently and busied herself with her salad. "I am sorry we have to sleep in Portland harbor to-night. It won't be quiet for Mamma."

There were no more personalities during the meal. The girl and her father went on deck and watched the sunset together, after which Mr. Wilbur said he would go down and see his wife, and Diana was left alone. She had a deeply cushioned seat moved near the yacht's rail in the stern, and leaned back to watch the cove darken and the lights flash out on the other boats. Her thoughts ran over a résumé of the summer. How long the weeks stretched out in retrospect! How they had fled in passing! Presently, the moon arose over the hill-road. She thought of last evening when their group had welcomed it. Philip had said that night on the rocks that he should not forget that she was as distant from him as that planet, and he had kept his word. Not to see his merry eyes again. Not to see the sensitiveness of his smile when he looked at her. Not to hear him call her a goddess, not to hear him sing except as others heard him.

"Only we'll sit upon the daisied grass,And hear the larks, and see the swallows pass.Only we'll live awhile as children play,Without to-morrow, without yesterday."

She had heard the song all day, and her heart now felt sick and empty as she sat there, that golden moon beaming down upon her alone, and striking to silver the ripples across the cove. She leaned among her cushions and turned her face aside. Her eyes began to smart, and she closed them. The wind as usual had gone down with the sun, and the awning fringes were but faintly stirred.

Suddenly she felt that the boat was moving. So smooth and silent its motion, that, when she looked up, the yacht was halfway out of the cove. She leaned forward.

"Oh, good-bye," she murmured, and she held out her hands toward the wooded bank. "Good-bye. Oh, good-bye, Isola Bella. I shall always love you, and every blade of grass, and every daisy, and every swallow."

Tears veiled the shadowy woods. She dashed them away, and resisted the sob that rose in her throat. The yacht moved swiftly out into the waves of the summer sea. It was now only the end of the wooded bluff which she could perceive in the moonlight. She leaned back again, and, covering her eyes, relaxed, holding her quivering lip between her teeth.

A neighboring movement made her look up, expecting her father.

Philip Barrison stood there.

She caught her breath. "It is impossible!" she gasped.

"Yes, it is." He took her outstretched hands and sank down beside her. "It is a midsummer night's dream; but I couldn't – I tried, Diana, but I couldn't resist. Your father asked me – said I might come – even at the last minute." At each pause Philip kissed the hands he was holding. "Are you – that is the one vital question – are you glad I came, my goddess?"

The look she gave him in the moonlight made him take her quickly in his arms, and she sank into them with the certainty of the bird that finds its nest.

"I don't know how I dared this, Diana, – dared the future, I mean. How can I be the right one to win the prize of the whole world?"

"Because you are the only man in the whole world for me, and you felt it, and I felt it. Oh, Philip, I won't be so selfish as in the way I have talked to you. I am never going to grudge that others should admire you."

"No, you never will," he answered. "The sparkle of what others may say is like the phosphorescence down there in the unlighted places. The radiance and glow filling my whole being now is an eternal thing. I can't believe it yet, it will take me a long time to believe it, but, oh, my beautiful one, I wish, I do wish you were a poor girl!"

She lifted her head from his breast, looking at him with glorified eyes. "I should be," she said slowly, "if you did not love me – Philomel."

They kissed, and the moon shone down on the beaten foam of the snowy wake in a long, ineffable silence.