The Inner Flame

"I'd like to know why not," retorted Eliza, who had read between the lines of Phil's letters during the winter; and illustrated her imaginings with looks and actions remembered from the season before. "Think of the pictures you've sold this winter. Look how quick you've begun your success. Has Kathleen many beaux?"

"She has worshippers," returned Phil, with a slight smile; "and several of them come much nearer to her than I can."

"You can if you want to," said Eliza bluntly; "you're a great fool if you don't."

Philip turned and looked at the speaker in surprise. Her words were so exactly opposite to the training he gave himself night and morning.

"'Tain't as if her father was so rich any more. Nobody could say you was after money, and," Eliza's voice lost its hardness, "your – your Aunt Mary left me her ring you remember."

Phil smiled at her openly now, then he went on with his work.

"You're a loyal soul, Eliza, and you always yearn to give me everything I want; but Miss Fabian will be married long before I'm able to ask any woman to trust herself to me."

Eliza gave him a fierce nod and drew down the corners of her mouth.

"I – don't – believe it!" she said, so significantly that Phil flushed and looked at her again.

"I've got eyes if you haven't," she added; and with this Parthian shot she rose and went back to the house.

Philip went on with his work, but the flush stayed, and there was a line between his shining eyes.

At this juncture Pat came up from the wharf with a heavy package. The family had returned to the house in Gramercy Park, and he and Phil had vacated the stable this spring.

"Sure the Queen o' Sheby hersilf stepped off the boat," he announced as he came into the Villa.

"My Aunt come!" exclaimed Phil, turning around quickly. "I wonder what changed their plan. Was she alone?"

"She was not, thin," declared the Irishman proudly. "D'ye think the Princess didn't come straight up and hold out her pretty hand with a smile swate enough to beckon the bees? 'How d'ye do, Pat,' says she. ''Tis fine ye're to be here this summer,' says she. 'We shall call upon you for a lot o' help,' she says."

Philip stood still in indecision. No, he wouldn't hurry over. They knew he was not expecting the arrival; and he fell to business again.

The Irishman looked about him, on pictures and sketches.

"Sure 'tis a power o' work ye've done, me bye," he said. "I feel I shud have on a bathin' suit to look at 'em."

Eliza from her window saw Captain James drive up to the boulder cottage and saw the ladies dismount, and with them the maid of all work with whom they intended this year to live the simple life. Pat would be a valuable auxiliary.

It was evening before Phil went across the field to call. A brilliant planet showed a pale wake of light across the water, forerunner of the moon which was soon to rise.

"So serene, so soft, is she," thought Phil, in whose head Eliza's words still rang, "and so remote," he added. "So she shines on me, and on all, alike. Eliza hasn't seen the others, so she thinks me selected"; and he pressed down the stopper which a long time ago he fitted to repress disturbing emotions; for in the last hours they had effervesced threateningly around its rough edges.

Mrs. Fabian received him effusively and Kathleen with the calm directness to which he had adjusted himself.

"Your portrait comes off this summer, Aunt Isabel," he said.

"I can't afford it, my dear," she answered.

Phil shook his head. "If I painted a portrait of every Fabian on earth, would it pay my debt to you?" he asked. "And anyway I have the finest collection of Sidneys in the country; but there isn't a portrait among them."

"Do yourself sometime, Phil, will you?" suggested Kathleen.

"Yes, and you," he replied. "I want to do a picture of you on my terrace. Pat and I have brought up the bay to-day; and I want to begin it immediately."

"I know," laughed Kathleen. "You want to do both mother and me before our complexions desert us."

"I'll take you alternate days if you'll let me. I'd like you to-morrow, for my background is just as I want it." He turned to Mrs. Fabian. "Will you lend me your daughter to-morrow? I have the finest of Irish terriers for a watch-dog, you know."

Mrs. Fabian shrugged her shoulders. "I certainly shan't waste my time chaperoning you two cousins at this late day," she answered.

On the afternoon following Eliza met Kathleen coming across the field. She looked at her in surprise, for instead of khaki the girl was wearing a filmy white gown whose length was lifted from the clover and buttercups, and carried over her arm.

Eliza looked admiringly at the lithe figure, and the deep eyes that beamed kindly upon her.

"No wonder you are startled, Eliza; I am going to sit for my portrait," she said, clasping Miss Brewster's hard hand.

"You look as if you was ready for your wedding," returned Eliza.

"I should like it to be here if I ever have one," said Kathleen; and Eliza watched the rose-color spread from the girl's cheek to her brow, while the young eyes kept their steady, kind regard; then she inquired of Eliza as to the winter.

"I do believe she kind o' likes me for his sake," thought Eliza, standing still to look after the slender, graceful figure when Kathleen moved on amid the daisies and clover.

"She's a flower herself. That's what she is, and Mr. Philip didn't go as red as a beet for nothin' when I spoke yesterday. He thinks she's above him. There ain't anybody above him!"

Whatever was the errand that had brought Eliza into the field this afternoon she abandoned it, and turned slowly back toward the farmhouse, glancing often at the Villa through whose door the slender white figure had disappeared.

"I wish there was somethin' I could do to help 'em," she thought. "That pretty critter can't do a thing against Mr. Philip's determination if he's set out. I know him."

"Why was Kathleen so exquisite?" asked Mrs. Wright as Eliza came in.

"Settin' for her portrait," answered Eliza absently. "Said she was too dressed up to come and see you, but would come to-morrow."

"She was a picture already, coming bareheaded through that flowery field," said Mrs. Wright.

Eliza did not respond. She disappeared into her own room and closed the door. Then she unlocked her trunk and took from its depths a package which she untied, disclosing a fine camel's-hair shawl. She unfolded it with loving fingers, and regarded it. "A good enough weddin' present even for her," she muttered.

Then she reached into another corner and took out a tin box which she unlocked and drew forth a tiny velvet case, rubbed and worn. When she opened this, tears rushed to her eyes and she lifted it to her lips. "Nothin' could make you so happy, my dear one," she murmured brokenly. "Nothin'! Nothin'!"

Half an hour later Eliza entered the Villa. Pat was doing some scraping of palette knives in the kitchen. She looked timidly out on the terrace. A lovely living picture met her eyes. Kathleen was sitting on the white railing, her filmy gown falling in folds at her feet. Behind her rose the bay-crowned pillar casting shadows on the red-glints of her hair.

"Mr. Philip, please excuse me," said Eliza humbly; "but could you spare Pat to go on an errand for us?"

"Yes, yes," replied Phil absently, working at a white heat.

Eliza withdrew with quiet celerity. The errand she required was to be performed at a distance, and she was so nervous while she gave Pat directions that he grinned at her.

"Ye're thinkin' about thim!" he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the terrace.

Eliza's eyes widened. "Why in the world should I think about them?" she asked, all the time tolling Pat away toward the farmhouse.

"I cud look at 'em from now till Christmas sittin' there," he responded. "I don't blame ye."

"I haven't asked you about the turtle doves," said Phil, sketching in Kathleen's hands.

"They believe themselves the happiest people in the world, and perhaps they are. Violet has really convinced me that she is the right girl for Edgar. A meek one would have little chance."

"They're coming up here, I suppose."

"Oh, yes. Edgar can't get his vacation from the church quite yet, and she'll not come till he can."

"Of course not," replied Phil simply. "How can one voluntarily live without the other a day after the great discovery is made?"

Kathleen made no answer to this. The lump that rose in her throat was rebellious; and the artist, looking up suddenly, met fire in the depths of her dark eyes. The lids dropped. His hand grew suddenly unsteady.

"Tell me when you're tired, Kathleen," he said. "We have the summer." He smiled as he spoke; but it was a rigid sort of smile.

The field sown thickly with the late wild-flowers of the island, and stretching to a sparkling sea, the rustling orchard leaves, and the crown of bay behind the queenly young head, the soft white figure with the loosely dropped hands! It was no time or place for Kathleen to look at him like that.

"I'm tired now, I believe," she said, quietly. "Will it be enough for to-day?"

"At least until you're rested. Come in and let me show you a sketch I did yesterday."

She rose and lifted her white shoulders with a movement of weariness, then they moved inside the room.

A vase of daisies stood on the table. "I believe," said Phil, "I should have asked you to wear daisies in your hair."

They were standing by the table and he took three of the long stems and breaking them to convenient length made a movement toward her head. Then he shrank. "Put them in, will you?" he asked.

The least smile touched her lips, and her hands hung down.

"You know best what you want," she replied and inclined her regal head toward him.

The golden radiance streamed through the small-paned windows and reddened her hair.

Phil's fingers trembled as they tucked the flower stems under the soft folds. He dropped his eyes from the lustrous tints, and they caught a sudden elusive spark of violet, then green that shone on the table. He looked closer, and pointed.

"Did you leave your ring there?" he asked.

Kathleen looked. A diamond ring was shining beneath the tall candlestick.

She shook her daisy-crowned head.

"It's not mine," she said, wondering. "I never saw it."

"Nor I." Phil's breath came faster. "This is an enchanted place, Kathleen. The very spirit of the sea must have pitied me in my struggle and brought this ring." The ring! He looked at it, dazed for another moment, then like a flash he remembered Eliza's interruption, and his illumined eyes met Kathleen's, grave and wondering.

"I adore you, my darling. I give up the fight." He kept his eyes on hers as he picked up the quaint little jewel and pressed it to his lips.

Kathleen smiled at him, then her eyes veiled and dropped.

He lifted her hand and slowly put the ring on her finger; for the inner sanctuary of her heart had flown open, and he had seen within.

Quickly he clasped her close in his arms. She clung to him, and the golden radiance enveloped them.

THE END