The Inner Flame

"That field is so rough," she said.

"We'll make an armchair," said Phil.

The girl shook her head. "No, I'll gather up my book. Mr. Tremaine likes it, so I'm happy though lame, and you must talk over the illustrations together."

In truth she was glad that these two should have the opportunity for a tête-à-tête and she smiled happily to herself as she picked up the flying sheets. There was color in her cheeks, the rose-color that seemed this morning to tinge the universe. It was such a beautiful world, and for Mr. Tremaine suddenly to appear and to approve her work and to meet Phil – Phil whose eyes had seemed this morning always to see her and regard her reflectively, instead of looking over or through her – all this made a wonderful combination, a strange, sweet expectancy, as of harmonious progressions which could but resolve into one triumphant chord.

The dinner hour approached and Mrs. Fabian came out on the piazza.

"How are you, poor child?" she asked with commiseration; then meeting Kathleen's eyes, she laughed. "Here I am pitying you, and you look as if you'd been left a million. What is it? Is Mr. Tremaine so pleased with your stories?"

"He thinks they'll do," returned Kathleen.

"Very modest," said Mrs. Fabian; "but I'm quite sure from your looks that he said you were a second Hans Christian Andersen. Keeping it a secret from me, too! I'm a very good judge of stories, and you might have asked my opinion about those, at any rate."

"I felt very shy about it, mother, but now I'm just bubbling with encouragement; and perhaps Phil will make the pictures."

Mrs. Fabian regarded the rosy face admiringly.

"There, you see his business is coming along, and this morning I gave him the commission to paint our portraits."

Even this news could not dampen Kathleen's present mood.

"Yours," she returned. "Remember, I told you I refused to be perpetuated as I look now."

"I never saw you look as pretty as you do to-day, in your whole life," said Mrs. Fabian, gazing as she spoke.

The girl laughed from sheer satisfaction. "Is the big head so becoming?" she returned.

"I saw Phil taking Mr. Tremaine over to the studio," said Mrs. Fabian. "Edgar said this morning he wanted to bring Violet to dinner. He will be surprised to find Mr. Tremaine here. We shall have quite a party. I hope they won't all be late. If Phil and Mr. Tremaine get to talking over at the studio they won't know what time it is."

The air at the island, however, was of a nature to create an inner monitor which called to dinner, so the two couples soon approached from opposite directions. Mr. Tremaine and Phil were talking busily as they came, and Kathleen noted Violet's crimson heart while she drew near. She gazed questioningly at her brother whose alert happy face turned red as he met her eyes; but Violet was self-possessed when Kathleen greeted her.

"Pardon my remaining enthroned, Violet," she said. "I'm not precisely wasting steps to-day."

"I heard about it," returned the guest, coming up the steps and meeting Mrs. Fabian. "I do hope it's nothing serious."

"No, indeed. I shall soon forget it."

"I suppose neither of you will have a chocolate before dessert, but they're very very good." Violet opened the box temptingly as she took a seat beside Kathleen.

"Who is that coming with Phil?" asked Edgar.

"My publisher," returned Kathleen, proudly. "Just think, Edgar! I've written some stories, and Mr. Tremaine has accepted them!"

Edgar lifted his eyebrows and smiled wonderingly into his sister's happy face. "Good work, Kath! It may really pay to be a highbrow. Why have you kept so still about it?"

"Oh, that was natural. Supposing Mr. Tremaine had said, 'You're a nice child, Kathleen, but your little yarns are trash.' How then! Shouldn't I be glad nobody saw me hide my diminished head?"

Edgar continued to regard her curiously. He had never before noticed how really good-looking Kath was.

Violet expressed her interest and sympathy heartily, and while she was speaking, the other guests arrived and Mr. Tremaine met his son's dancing-teacher with pleasure.

It was a gay dinner-party, and Kathleen glowed with satisfaction in Mr. Tremaine's manifest interest in Phil. He could be such a useful friend.

They had coffee on the veranda, and while Edgar was planning in what manner and how soon he could segregate himself and Violet in the summer house, the boy whose duty it was to bring the mail appeared with the letters. At a sign from Mrs. Fabian he handed them to her.

She ran them over with a smile. "I'm always impolite," she said, "when Mr. Fabian's letter comes, and I think everybody will forgive me." She laid the others on the rail beside her and opened the letter she held.

"I'm hoping so much he will set the day for coming."

The smiling expectancy of her face gave way to bewilderment and incredulity as she read. No one observed it, for Kathleen had started to tell an island adventure.

Her mother's voice broke in upon the tale.

"Kathleen!" she said breathlessly, "I don't understand this letter. Father is in trouble of some kind. He is trying to comfort me. He says to ask you – "

Mrs. Fabian looked up at Kathleen whose face was transformed while her mother spoke. The color left it, the laughing eyes grew startled, and she tried to rise.

Phil sprang to his feet, "What do you want, Kathleen?"

"The letters!" she said. "See if there is one for me?"

Edgar, who had been observing how remarkably good was the line of Violet's hair at the nape of her neck, brought his thoughts back with difficulty to his sister. Kath was looking frightened. What was the matter?

Mr. Tremaine leaned forward in his chair and looked with serious questioning at Kathleen while she tore open a letter from her father. Her brow drew together as she read. Mrs. Fabian regarded her helplessly, two sheets of paper blowing in her fingers.

When finally the girl dropped her letter her face had flushed again. She rose from her chair with difficulty.

"I must go to father immediately," she said.

Phil was at her side in an instant. "You can't do that," he returned, "but you can send me."

Mrs. Fabian's lips were parted. Edgar frowned and looked from one to another; then he too sprang to his feet.

"What is this, Kath?" he asked with sudden authority.

His sister regarded him absently. Edgar would suffer, of course, but just now, in the crucial moment, he didn't count; and she! Oh, how could fate have been so unkind as to hamper her at the only time in her life when it would make any difference! A time when she longed for wings to carry her to her father's side and let her throw her arms around his neck.

She looked at Edgar's frowning, questioning face with curious vagueness.

"Father has lost a great deal of money," she said, "and friends as well, because he would not yield to plans which he considered dishonorable. He told me before we left that it might come; but he had no idea the crisis was right upon him. Oh, I must, I must go to father – at once – at once!" The girl limped toward the door.

"You can't go to-day," said Phil decidedly, "but I can. I will go on this next boat with Mr. Tremaine. Tell me what – "

"What are you talking about!" It was Edgar who spoke, and his tone turned every eye upon him. His nostrils were dilated and his eyes looked dark. "Father in trouble! I'm going to him, of course."

He tried to speak quietly, but there was a thrill in his tone that echoed in Kathleen's heart. She knew as she looked at the new stern expression of the debonair countenance that in that minute the boy had become a man.

Violet gazed at him with a swelling heart and swept poor Phil with a supercilious glance wholly undeserved, but of which he was unconscious.

Edgar hastened into the house to make his preparations and Kathleen and Phil exchanged a look.

"It's all for the best," said Phil in a low tone. "Edgar will find himself."

Kathleen's hands were clasped on her breast. Mrs. Fabian regarded her beseechingly. "What do you mean?" she cried, her voice breaking hysterically. "Money and friends! What do you mean?"

Kathleen sank into the chair beside her. "I mean that father is an honest man," she said proudly.

Mr. Tremaine came to Mrs. Fabian's other side. "I was at college with your husband," he said. "Henry Fabian was always doing fine things. I suspect that this last move, whatever it is, is one of the finest. I would trust him before I would myself."

Mrs. Fabian looked from one to the other, tears running down her cheeks.

"I can't have my portrait painted, Phil," she faltered. "We're very poor."

Phil knelt down before her and put his arms around her and she rested her head on his shoulder and sobbed quietly.

"Perhaps not poor," he said; "but what if you are, Aunt Isabel? Look about at this beautiful place with everything to make people happy. Health and freedom and honor beside; and Edgar will bring his father here and everything will straighten out and we shall make him forget his troubles."

"No motor, Phil," came from the sobbing woman. "I can't imagine living without a motor."

"Indeed you can. You're going to show Mr. Fabian what a good sport he married; and we're all going to cheer him up and make him forget his nightmare before fall. You have everything that's real left – unless Mr. Fabian breaks down under this strain," added Phil artfully.

He had struck the right note. Mrs. Fabian lifted her head and wiped her eyes wildly. "I'm going with Edgar," she cried. "Henry may be ill. I shall go."

"No, dear mother," said Kathleen, gently taking her hand. "Let Edgar manage this alone. He will wire us at once."

It was nearly time for the boat and Edgar came out of the house with his bag. All his machinations of the morning had not succeeded in bringing to Violet's eyes the expression that grew there when she saw him ready to start on his hard journey. Speechless and unsmiling he pressed her hand, then kissed his mother and listened to her exhortations. Mr. Tremaine was ready, and together they started toward the wharf.

Philip was going to accompany them, but his aunt clung to him.

"Stay with us, Phil," she begged. "You are my son, too."

Mr. Fabian, heavy-lidded from a sleepless night, was working at the desk in his private office, when the door opened and closed quietly and quickly, and he looked up to see Edgar standing beside him. An added cloud passed over his face.

The young man saw it and he paid for many a misdemeanor in the pang it gave him.

"Father, I've come to see if I can be of any use," he said.

Mr. Fabian pushed his chair back and looked up at his visitor, the deep line in his forehead deeper.

"I know I have no experience, and little business sense; but if you'll take the trouble to explain the situation to me, I'll try to understand as I've never before tried to do anything; and I can at least carry out your instructions to the letter."

Mr. Fabian continued to gaze up into the sunburned face and the eyes that regarded him with steady purpose.

"I've lost a lot of money for you, my boy," he said. "Quite a half of everything I possessed."

"And come out clean," returned the other promptly. "Good for you."

Mr. Fabian kept silence, studying him for another space.

"My son," he said at last, slowly, as if to himself. "I have a son"; and he held out his hand.

Edgar clasped it in silence. Then he spoke again. "I haven't had any breakfast, and of course I couldn't sleep; so my head isn't worth much just now. Can you spare time to come out and talk to me while I eat, or shall I go alone?"

Mr. Fabian rose and his heavy eyes had brightened. "Neither of us will go alone, after this," he said.

CHAPTER XXVIII

A TIDAL WAVE

Mr. Fabian's firm stand resulted in a dissolution of his partnership, and very soon he was able to repair with Edgar to the island.

The son had found the man-to-man relationship with his father a strangely sweet one; and by the time they reached the island – so deeply had his father's steadfastness and suffering worked upon Edgar, he had no other plan than that of rejuvenating the tired man's strained nerves. Therefore, when Mr. Fabian reached the heavenly calm of his hill cottage, he found his wife and daughter ready to accompany him on a cruise. Mrs. Fabian, lukewarm sailor though she was, was as fully prepared as Kathleen; and with scarcely any delay they all started out on the yacht. Mr. Fabian urged Phil to join the party, but he could not leave his work, and in any case would not add himself to a family party at this time. He and Violet stood on the shore and watched the white sails swell as they caught the wind.

Edgar had been so absorbed in his father and his plans that she had but a flying glimpse of him after his return from New York; but it flattered her to observe that he had left his mustache in the metropolis.

Philip's assiduous work during the summer resulted in finished pictures and numerous sketches, all of which he carried back in the autumn to the stable where Pat met him with effusion.

"Sure 'tis a red Injun ye are!" he exclaimed at sight of his lodger's mahogany tints.

"Yes, and next summer, Pat, if I'm not a pauper, you're coming up there to get a red nose, too," responded Phil.

The first step toward independence had been made. He had finished the illustrations for Kathleen's fairy tales, and but a few days after his return, Mr. Tremaine came to the studio to welcome him and show him the first copy of the book; for it was October before Phil had consented to leave his enthralling Villa, being finally shooed out by Eliza who insisted that he either come over to them and live in a Christian house, or go back to his warm stable.

Phil was eager for news that Mr. Tremaine could give him.

"Aunt Isabel has written me very little," he said. "I know they are settled in an apartment near the park, but how are they all, and how do they bear the change?"

"Wonderfully well," was the reply. "Mrs. Fabian is the one to feel the pinch, of course. Kathleen, not at all. She has too much resource within herself to be dependent, and then there are not a few people of influence who would find a Van Ruysler if she hid herself on the East Side."

It was true, Mrs. Fabian lived too much in reflected glory to suffer loneliness, and as the winter went on Kathleen drew her into artistic circles where Philip's interests lay, and gradually she gained much pride and satisfaction in the understanding of technical terms, and learned not to discuss pictures. She even occasionally felt some remorse in the remembrance of Mrs. Ballard and was conscious of a wish that she might have sympathized with her more.

The startling event in the family, however, was provided by Edgar. The great Mazzini was as good as his word, and Edgar Fabian started in at once, on his return to New York, as a teacher of the vocal art. Successful is too mild a word to be applied to the young tenor. Mazzini procured him opportunities to sing in drawing-rooms where he had heretofore been the entertained. He sent pupils to him, and they advertised him con amore. Before the winter was over he became a fad. He drew a good salary in a fashionable church. Other musicians sneered at him as a poseur, and turned their lunch tables into knockers' clubs to ease their minds concerning the vagaries of this upstart.

Edgar, with his characteristic self-assurance gave full play to the moods of which he had spoken in the past to Violet. Perhaps he was not blind to the fact that it was good advertising, but in any case it was a temperamental fling which gave him the utmost satisfaction.

He had different sets of hangings made, divan covers, cushions, et cetera, easily removed and placed in a box couch, so that his pupils sometimes found a purple studio, sometimes a crimson, sometimes one in luminous gold. None knew beforehand in which mood the wonderful young maestro would be found; and they talked of him with bated breath.

His sister took the liberty, early in his career, of laughing at this ebullition of fancy, but she soon found that Edgar took himself seriously, and she repressed her smiles; for nothing succeeds like success; and Edgar Van Ruysler Fabian was an idol whom it was not her place to knock from his pedestal.

Violet Manning meanwhile was industriously proceeding with her own teaching. As some of it lay in fashionable schools, she heard echoes of Edgar's popularity, and she and her housemates often attended the church where he sang. He came to their apartment occasionally and relaxed from the strain of living up to the ideal of his admirers whom he terrorized grandly at moments, after the most approved Mazzini methods.

Once he had the three bachelor maids at a chafing-dish supper at his studio. He was in a red mood that night, and the crimson hangings reminded Violet of the glowing heart which always lay on her dressing-table.

The function was an informal and jolly one. One of the men present was Edgar's accompanist, and he had played for Violet to dance. It was a triumphant occasion for the girl. She looked charming in a thin iridescent gown which changed with the blues and greens of the sea while she floated and pirouetted, as light and tireless as thistledown. Edgar's eyes were bright with pride in her and she was wildly applauded, sharing the honors of the evening with him.

Edgar sang the better for the inspiration of her, and when at her request he began, "O moon of my delight," she closed her eyes, shutting out the gay company and the diffused rosy light. Again she saw him stretched on the grass in the silvery radiance of a still, still night.

"I think Mr. Fabian is in love with Violet," said Regina afterward, privately, to Roxana.

"I think he is in love with himself," returned Roxana; "and I take off my hat to Violet, for I believe she knows it, too. I'm afraid if I were her age and he wanted me, I'd marry him even if I knew he'd beat me all the time he wasn't singing."

Her housemates noticed that Violet never spoke of Edgar, and they drew their conclusions. She had a sketch of his head done by Phil in an idle moment, pinned up on her wall. That and the bonbon box were the only evidences of the acquaintance save those occasional calls with which Edgar favored the apartment. The fact that he came at all was important, for his engagements were legion.

Philip carried himself much as he had done the winter before. Through the Fabians and Mr. Tremaine he began to have invitations, but he declined them. Mr. Tremaine bought the painting of the wave which he had seen at the island, and one of his friends bought another of Phil's marines.

The artist kept on with his work in the life class at the Academy. Edgar sometimes tried to get him for a festivity at the studio, but, as he told his sister in disgust, one might as well try to get the Shah of Persia.

Every Sunday evening Phil spent at the Fabians' but never since he had returned to town had he made opportunity to resume a disturbing intimacy with Kathleen. Her book was having a fairly good sale, and the girl was at work upon another. Their lives lay apart mainly except on the Sunday evenings when Mr. Fabian, once again adjusted to his business life, claimed the guest far more than any of the others.

Edgar, finding that the propinquity of Phil and Violet during his absence in the summer had not produced any results, altered his expectations of trouble from that quarter. He made it a point to spend his Sunday evenings with the family, in order, as his mother said, to keep up the acquaintance; and on one of these evenings, toward spring, he brought Violet Manning to supper.

The busy young teacher's friendship with Kathleen had not progressed. The latter firmly believed that any romantic notions which such a girl might conceive for Edgar would bring her to grief in the end; and his present amazing popularity but augmented that conviction; so the girls had exchanged one call only during the season.

Violet responded to Mrs. Fabian's invitation for this Sunday and Edgar regarded her critically throughout the evening.

Never had he felt himself such authority on girls as now. They crowded his studio. Fashionable girls, wealthy girls, pretty girls, plain girls, clever ones, dull ones, aggressive, and shy girls; and he had frequently detected himself comparing the more interesting with Violet. Her spirit, her poise, her independence, her compact, graceful, healthy body, always stood the test.

As of old, to-night she seemed more interested in Phil than in himself. Her spontaneous joy over the news that during the past week he had sold a third picture, actually roused again Edgar's old train of thought. How did he know what had occurred during the summer, between the farmhouse and the Villa? Were these two only waiting, perhaps, until Phil began to find a sale for his pictures?

Poor little Violet was not intriguing. She found herself embarrassed in Edgar's family circle, and she was defending herself in the only way she knew. It seemed as if it must be legible on her face that she out-adored the adoration of all the singer's pupils; and it was a relief to her when she and the object were at last in a taxicab on the way home. The cover of the darkness, and the sober return to thoughts of to-morrow's duties, made her heave an inaudible sigh; but it is the unexpected that always happens.

Edgar's teeth were tightly closed and every street-lamp they passed showed him gazing at his companion.

"I wonder," he said at last, – "I wonder, Violet, why I've never been able to make you like me better. Other – other people like me."

"Probably that's the reason," returned the girl lightly. "Some one must help strike an average."

She did not say it easily; for she was obliged to swallow between sentences; but she said it pretty well, and applauded herself.

"You see I love you, Violet," he went on, as simply as the most non-temperamental swain could have spoken.

She shrank into her corner, and when he tried to take her hands she crossed them quickly on her breast.

"Which mood is this?" she asked, a tumultuous beating under the crossed hands.

"You don't believe me," said Edgar quietly. "It's true, Violet. I want you to marry me. You've made me believe once or twice – and yet the next moment I always feel your utter indifference. I'm afraid you're a flirt."

"I know you are!" responded the girl, her fingers whitening against her fluttering heart. "I'm afraid of you, Edgar."

Happiness leaped into his eyes and he gathered her hands into his in spite of her.

"Have you ever seen 'The Concert'?" she asked breathlessly.

"Oh, that's what you mean!" exclaimed Edgar triumphantly.

"You shouldn't marry," said Violet. "You are like a matinée idol. You will lose your capital when you marry, unless you are like that selfish man. I warn you, I am not like that wonderful wife. I couldn't bear it."

"You've thought about it, then," said Edgar joyously.

"Yes, oh, yes," replied Violet, her defences down and tears welling through her half-closed lids. "I'm sure I should be miserable."

"Then you love me." Edgar drew her out of her corner into his arms. "Violet, I promise you – "

"Dear," she interrupted him, "I am just as much afraid of myself as of you. No convention would hold me. The minute I found you were not honest with me – that you concealed from me – I should go. You would look about, and I shouldn't be there."

Edgar held her close in ecstatic possession.

"And that's why I'll be honest with you, Violet. I swear it. If we're both honest, what can – "

The taxi-cab driver threw open the door.

Once again the daisy-snow drifted over the hills on Brewster's Island; and Eliza sat in the doorway of the Villa Chantecler watching Phil adjust his possessions.

"When are the Fabians coming?" she asked.

"Next week."

"Are you and Miss Kathleen goin' to do another book this year?"

"I hope so. She's going to let me see her story when she comes. She has written her first novel."

Eliza's eyes studied him sharply during a silence.

"Is she engaged yet?" she asked.

"Not that I know of."

"I thought you two were pretty thick one time there last summer."

"It's not for the likes o' me to be thick with the likes o' her," replied Phil, busy setting up an easel.