The Inner Flame: A Novel

CHAPTER XXVIII 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 suc ceeds 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. "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 Transcriber's Notes: Minor punctuation and printer errors repaired. Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including obsolete and variant spellings and other inconsistencies. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE INNER FLAME: A NOVEL *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. 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