The Key Note

As she spoke, a man appeared on the other side of the cove. He skirted it and, hurrying, passed them and disappeared in a grove of fir trees.

Mrs. Lowell looked at her companion with large eyes.

"All the Sherlock Holmes in me responds to that man," she said in a low tone. "This is no time to let our feet hang over. He probably is the very one who came across in the rowboat and he is on an errand. His whole manner showed it. We're on the right bank. So we're on the farm now. Let us go into those woods and see what happens."

"Shall we not be intruding?" said Diana, hesitating.

"I hope so," returned Mrs. Lowell valiantly, and she seized her companion's hand and drew her toward the grove. There a winding path greeted them, a lover's lane, between close-growing firs, and together they sped along the scented aisle. The man was the swifter and, by the time they emerged from the fir grove, he was approaching a huge willow tree near the crumbling farmhouse built in a hollow with protecting mounds of green hills and trees on three sides of it.

They saw Gayne come out of the house and shake hands with the man, giving him a most effusive welcome, but before he had had opportunity to do more than this, the host descried the other visitors.

The eyes of both young women being excellent, they were able to observe the lightning change which took place in the pleased excitement of his face. The ugly frown that appeared was banished as soon as he could control himself. He said something to the other man, and the latter walked on to a rise of ground where he stood to enjoy the view, and Gayne came to meet the ladies.

"Ah, good-day," he said with as pleasant a manner as he could command. "Your explorations are leading you far this morning."

"Is this the Dexter farm?" asked Mrs. Lowell.

"The very same," replied Gayne lightly. "I see its creepy reputation has aroused your curiosity. Too bad there isn't more here to gratify it. It is a very tame place by daylight, as you see."

"The house is a ruin, they tell me. Doesn't it seem a pity that should have been allowed? The place is full of possibilities, isn't it?"

"I should say not," returned Gayne, speaking curtly in spite of his best efforts. "It is about the least attractive part of the island. Far from the open ocean, no place to bathe, cuddled into a hollow, no views."

Mrs. Lowell met his impatient look.

"I thought the very reason you chose this for a sort of artist camp was on account of the views," she said pleasantly.

"A headquarters. A headquarters only," said Gayne quickly. "I haven't locomotor ataxia, you know," he added, laughing; "I can still get about."

"I should like very much to see that old house," said Mrs. Lowell, her gaze wandering over to it. "We interrupted your greeting of a friend. Please don't let us detain you. We will just roam around here a bit."

Nicholas Gayne hesitated for an instant as the young women moved toward the house, but he followed them.

"There is nothing to see, I assure you, and it's an unsafe place. The floors are rotting; you are liable to fall through anywhere. I really feel as if I ought to beg you to confine your curiosity to the outside."

"You speak quite like the owner of the place," said Mrs. Lowell, with an access of dignity not lost upon Gayne. "We will absolve you if any accident befalls us."

The man's frown at her reply was so unpleasant that Diana felt some timidity and took her friend's arm.

"Another time, perhaps," she suggested.

"Why not now, since we are here," returned Mrs. Lowell calmly. "A haunted house isn't to be seen every day." She smiled. "Do join your friend, Mr. Gayne. He seems to have found some view well worth looking at. We shall not stay long."

"Oh, take your time," returned Gayne, seeing that he could not prevent the intrusion, and altering his manner to that of a host. "Perhaps you would like to see my artist camp as you call it. I did find one spot where there is a dry season and my canvases can be safe."

He led the way into the farmhouse. The paper on the little hallway in oval designs of faded green landscapes had peeled and was hanging from the wall. They passed into a living-room where tattered and splintered furniture and a rusty stove met the eye. Back of this was the artist's den evidently. A table stood in the center, on which reposed a palette, some brushes, a couple of sketch-books, and a portfolio. Against the side of the room were a few canvases leaning against the wall, and in bold relief, supported against the table, stood a pickaxe and a shovel.

Mrs. Lowell regarded Gayne's flushed countenance as he picked up the tools and pushed them behind a screen.

"Your still-life studies, appropriate to an abandoned farm?" she laughed.

"They don't look very artistic, I must say," returned Gayne. "Of course, I'm an amateur of the amateurs," he went on, picking up the portfolio (he pronounced it amatoor), "but a man is all the better for having a fad, no matter how footless. Since you are here and have caught me red-handed, you may as well know the worst."

He opened the portfolio and threw down a couple of crayon sketches of woods, water, and rocks.

"But these are good!" exclaimed Mrs. Lowell, in a tone of such astonishment that it could scarcely be considered complimentary.

Gayne shrugged his shoulders, as Diana, looking over her friend, added her approval.

"I make no pretensions," he repeated. "I amuse myself."

His guests lingered a minute over the sketches, then looked about the forlorn old homestead, but as each step was closely accompanied by Gayne, they soon took their departure, passing the stranger on his knoll as they walked toward the sea, over grassy hill and fragrant spruce-filled hollow. The stranger, as they passed, kept his hands folded behind him and stared stolidly ahead.

"Were you ever more astonished?" asked Mrs. Lowell in a low tone as if the balsamic breeze could carry her words back.

"Your suspicion that the man is sailing under false colors seems to be incorrect," replied Diana.

"He's a rascal!" declared Mrs. Lowell with conviction.

"Artists often are, I believe," returned Diana.

"I wish with all my heart I could know what he and his visitor will talk about during the next half-hour, and what that pick and shovel meant. Why was he so sorry to see us?" Mrs. Lowell's brows drew together in perplexity.

"Perhaps they are going to search for smugglers' treasures, or pirate gold," suggested Diana.

Her companion smiled. "Perhaps so. The man has some reason for promoting the foolish ghost talk and resenting visitors to his preserves. Of course, the treasure idea is as foolish as the phantoms, and just as little likely to fool a modern man in his senses."

Diana shook her head. "It is certainly rather irritating to have him assume jurisdiction over that ruin which is open and free to all," she said. "I dislike his personality extremely, but his pencil has a sure touch and those sketches showed an appreciation of values."

"If he did them," said Mrs. Lowell thoughtfully.

Diana smiled. "You surely are consistent."

Her companion drew a deep breath. "A man who can treat that fragile, sensitive, lonely boy as he does – his own brother's son at that – can plan to crush him and sweep him out of his way as he would an insect – that man is dangerously wicked, and so long as the matter has come to my notice, I must share in the responsibility."

"He would be a merciless enemy," said Diana warningly.

Mrs. Lowell shook her head. "I shall pray for the wisdom of the serpent and the harmlessness of the dove," she said.

CHAPTER VII

ANOTHER WOUND

Meanwhile Veronica, her morning work finished, had started out to oblige Mrs. Lowell. As she tripped around the house in search of the unfortunate boy, she suspected herself of hoping she should not find him. She summoned recollections of the Boston train and of various occasions since, when her sympathy for him had been roused, and by the time she espied him lying against a rock in the sunshine, her courage had risen sufficiently to address him.

"Good-morning, Bertie," she said.

He started, as was his habit when addressed, and turned his apathetic face toward her.

"Do you like to play croquet?"

The boy rose to a sitting position.

"I – " he began, then some recollection came to him. "I never did play," he finished; then, his stolid eyes meeting the fresh young face: "You don't need to be kind to me," he added bluntly.

Much disconcerted, Veronica flushed.

"What do you mean?" she returned. "I like to play croquet. I'll teach you."

"No," said the boy. "Uncle Nick said – said this morning that – that when people were – were kind to me, it was because they – they pitied me because I was a fool." The boy swallowed. "You can – go away, please."

Veronica's round eyes snapped with indignation. "Your Uncle Nick's the fool to say such a thing," she returned, her cheeks growing very red. "Don't you believe him. You and I are the youngest people here. Don't you think we ought to play together a little?"

"No. You pity me. Go away, please."

"Now, Bertie, I wish you wouldn't talk to me like that."

He averted his head and was silent, and Veronica stood there, uncertainly.

"I wonder if you are stronger than I am," she said at last.

"I don't know."

"The grass is too long on the croquet ground. I want to mow it. The lawnmower is pretty heavy. Do you think you could help me?"

The boy lay still for a minute more without meeting her eyes again. Then he pulled himself up slowly and walked beside her back to the shed.

"Mr. Barrison makes fun of our croquet ground because it is rough. I want him to see an improvement when he comes again." Veronica led the way to where the mower stood, and the boy took hold of it and drew it after him back to the desired spot.

"I'll pull up all the wickets," said the girl eagerly, and, as she did so, she cast a side-glance at her companion, waiting, and she thought his face the most hopeless and sad she had ever looked upon. She could feel her own eyes sting.

"None of that, none of that," she told herself.

"Now, don't you get too tired," she said. "Let me take my turn." She followed him as he went across the ground once and back again. She chattered of the weather, the sea, the song sparrows, and he answered never a word, just pushed the clicking little machine until the perspiration stood out on his forehead.

"Now, you must let me take it," said Veronica. "I didn't mean that I couldn't do any of it. I just felt it would be tiresome to do it all."

She insisted, and the boy yielded the lawnmower to her, and, standing still, took out his handkerchief and wiped his face.

Veronica pushed the mower valiantly up and down the ground. It was a cumbrous one and somewhat rusty. So the effort she let appear was not all assumed. When she returned, the boy took it from her and went to work again. He was on the last lap when Mrs. Lowell and Diana appeared, coming up from the sea, having returned from their ramble by the rocky shore instead of by the road. Mrs. Lowell's face lighted as she saw what was going on, and she cast a grateful look at Veronica as she approached.

"Good for you, Bertie," she said, as he at last dropped the mower and again wiped his hot face. "It is fine of you to help Veronica."

He looked at her for a second mutely, and then turned away.

"Thank you," called Veronica as he moved off. "I'll bring you an extra large piece of pie this noon. I must go in and set the table now," she added to the others, and she winked at Mrs. Lowell who followed her into the house.

"You succeeded better than I hoped," said Mrs. Lowell. "Activity is what that boy needs."

"I wish whipping-posts hadn't been abolished," said Veronica. "I could see Uncle Nick tied up there and enjoy the activity that followed."

Then she told Mrs. Lowell of the reception Bertie had given her and all he had said.

Mrs. Lowell shook her head in silence and laid her hand on the girl's shoulder. "You can see we have work to do there," she replied. "We must not be discouraged."

Diana had heard the recital. "What an extraordinary circumstance it is," she said, "that strangers should be endeavoring to build for the boy while his next of kin systematically tears down."

"That is what I was telling you," replied Mrs. Lowell. "The man is pursuing a system." She shook her head again, and added as if to herself: "But he cannot defy Omnipotence."

It was probably a very good thing for Mr. Gayne that he did not return to-day to the noon dinner. The waitress would have been likely to give him cool soup, warm water, and the undesirable portions of meat and vegetables. She served the boy with the best of everything. In the chatter about the table, he was never included, so his silence was not noticeable, but Mrs. Lowell observed the pallor under the sunburn, the hopeless droop of the mouth, and the languid appetite that should have been voracious in a growing boy fresh from exercise.

After dinner she stopped him, the others all having gone out on the piazza. He was moving toward the stairway.

"Where are you going, Bertie?"

"Upstairs."

"I don't think we ought to waste this weather in the house. Do you?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I do. It is liable to change any time now. We have had so much sunshine. We ought to make the most of it."

"You go out, then," said the boy.

"But I would rather you came, too."

"No. You pity me, that's all."

"No," returned Mrs. Lowell quietly. "I pity your uncle, not you."

The boy stared at her, unmoved.

"I pity him because he doesn't know how to make you happy."

"You don't need to – to take any trouble," was the stolid reply.

"It isn't a trouble. I like you. I like to have you with me. I went up to the farm this morning – the haunted farm."

"Did – did you see anything?"

"Yes. Supposing we go down to the beach and I'll tell you about it. You shall carry two cushions for us; then if you want to take a nap you can do so while I read."

"I would rather – rather be alone."

Mrs. Lowell met his wretched eyes with her irresistible smile which had in it selflessness, love, and courage.

"No, you wouldn't, dear boy. Besides, it is an impossibility. We are never alone. You know the Father we talked about the other day, the One who showed your mother how to love you. He is with us all the time, and no one and nothing can separate us from Him, no matter what seems to be."

"Could I see Him if I – if I died? Because I'd like to – to die and see – my mother."

"You will see her at the right time," said Mrs. Lowell. "You have a great deal to do for her first. Were you going upstairs to sleep? No doubt you are sleepy after all that mowing. It was very kind of you to do it for Veronica."

"I didn't do it for her." There was no stammering in the declaration. "She thought I did, but I didn't."

Mrs. Lowell smiled again and nodded. "I understand," she said. "I'm sorry I didn't know your mother. I believe she would like you to go outdoors with me now."

"You don't – don't need to – to have me. I'm – I'm all right."

Mrs. Lowell could see the wound throb.

"I know I don't need to. I should think you could see that I really want you."

He hesitated and looked away.

"Now," she went on, "I will go up to my room and get some cushions and my books and we will have a nice read or a nice snooze, and perhaps get some more stones for our collection. Perhaps you have some book you would like to bring."

"I haven't any books – except a paper one."

"Bring it," said Mrs. Lowell with interest. "I would like to see it. Let us meet down here in five minutes, then."

She went up the stairs and the boy followed.

When she came down again, the corridor and living-room were empty. Perhaps the lad had decided against her plan after all. She sank down in a chair by the door and closed her eyes.

"Dear Father," she prayed, "Thy will be done, and may my thought be ever ready to separate between the real and the unreal. Let me not be discouraged by the seeming, but may I remember every moment what Thy will is, and that Thine omnipotent Love is ever present. Let me reflect Thine intelligence and take my human footsteps wisely. Let me know that Thy Truth will uncover the error that is to be met, and that I cannot be dismayed, for Thou art with me, and underneath are the everlasting arms."

Footsteps sounded on the uncarpeted stairs and she looked up and saw Bertie.

"I thought I wouldn't come," he said. "Then I thought you – you might wait – "

"You see I did," said Mrs. Lowell, "and here are the cushions. Will you take them, please?"

The boy picked them up and they set forth.

As they crossed the piazza, Mrs. Lowell nodded to Miss Emerson and the two men with her. These followed the pair with their eyes as they descended the steps, and started across the field.

"By Jove, that young nut is in luck," said Mr. Evans, a short, thick-set man, with spectacles.

"Why, do you think Mrs. Lowell is so attractive?" asked Miss Emerson.

"Of course. Don't you?"

"Why, I think she's a very good-looking woman," was the reply. "Her husband is coming up later."

Mr. Evans shook his head mournfully. "I'm afraid it won't make any difference to me. I've tried to prattle to her a little, but she doesn't hear me, or, if she does, I've been weighed and found wanting. I talked to her quite a while my first morning here. As soon as I saw her I determined to make hay while the sun shone, but I soon found I couldn't make any, or even cut any ice either. So, since then, I just look at her from afar."

"I'm sure you're too easily discouraged," said Miss Emerson with some acerbity. "You underrate your own attractiveness, Mr. Evans. Any woman who would rather spend her time with that poor, forlorn image of a boy than with men of intellect, cannot be so very interesting, herself."

Mr. Pratt, a tall, slender, long-necked gentleman, here spoke: "I judge from what Mr. Gayne says that the boy is pretty far gone mentally. He said he supposed he really shouldn't have brought him up here. Gayne has a heavy burden on his hands evidently. It's naturally hard to bring one's self to shutting up any one who is your own kin, and, as Gayne says, you're between the devil and the deep sea, for you may put it off too long. It looks like a case of dangerous melancholia to me."

Miss Emerson shuddered. "All I know is that if Mrs. Lowell was as sensitive as I am, she never in the world could bear to have that boy around with her as much as she does. Mr. Gayne, an artist as he is! What he must suffer in that constant association!"

"He doesn't seem to be much with his nephew," remarked Mr. Evans.

"Well, I should think rooming with him was enough," retorted the lady. "He has a cot for the boy right in his own room."

"Well, it isn't my business," yawned the other. "Come on, Pratt. I hear they've taken a horse-mackerel and it's down on the wharf. Let's go and see it."

"Oh, I think those giant fish are so interesting!" exclaimed Miss Emerson, sitting up alertly.

Mr. Evans nodded at her over his shoulder as the two friends started off.

"After your siesta you ought to get Miss Wilbur and come down," he said.

"I don't want any siesta," thought the lady crossly. "Why did I get into this hammock? They would probably have asked me if I hadn't been lying down."

She had not yet discovered the domestic status of the two men, although she had put out many a feeler to learn whether they were unprotected males. She was wearing one of her prettiest dresses since their arrival, but the emergency sport suit of baronet satin would not come forth from its hanger on any such uncertainty.

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.