The arrival of the little captain broke in upon her thoughts. "You give her these," he said. "I can't stay a minute. I'm going out with Anthony for a day's fishin'."

He rushed away, leaving Bettina with her arms full of pink roses.

She took them in to Miss Matthews. "Letty," she said, "the captain brought them. Isn't he romantic? He is making pink your color. I think it's dear of him."

Miss Matthews blushed. "I'd surely never have picked out Captain Stubbs for the romantic kind, but you never can tell."

"No, you never can tell," Betty agreed, and stood looking idly out of the window.

All at once she gave startled attention.

"Letty," she said, "Justin is flying."

Miss Matthews, half asleep, murmured, "Well, I'm glad you're not with him," and Bettina, recalled to her obligations to the invalid, answered with assumed carelessness, "So am I," and measured out Miss Matthews' medicine, and talked no more.

But her heart was beating madly as she followed his flight. He was up there—alone. Up there in that wonderful world! Was he thinking of her? Was he hearing, again, those celestial harmonies?

To-day there was no sunshine—but as he circled against the background of moving clouds her thoughts went to that wild hawk in "the wind swept sky."

She knew nothing of the danger. She did not know that, as yet, his machine was not perfected to a point where it could brave with immunity such weather as was threatened by the brooding sky. She only saw his flight—and her hurt heart craved the place which had been hers for a few brief moments of rapture.

When at last he was out of sight, she went about her little duties, but came back again and again to the window, watching for the time when he should reappear.

Anthony and the captain, half-way across the harbor, said things about Justin's recklessness, and spoke of the danger.

"Some day he'll get hurt," was the captain's conclusion, "and then he won't ever fly again."

"Yes." Anthony's eyes were following the "Gray Gull," which was now beyond the harbor and heading for the open sea; growing smaller and smaller, it was at last a mere speck on the horizon.

Then the captain and Anthony, having reached a place offshore which promised a good catch, put out their lines and entered at once upon that ecstatic state of watchfulness which is the heritage of the true fisherman.

The relief which Anthony felt from the cares which had oppressed him was magical. He was sailor enough to love the swell of the waves and the rippling music of the water as it slipped under the anchored boat; he was fisherman enough to be thrilled by the chances of capture; he was artist enough to gloat over the beauty of the dull morning—the white gulls circling overhead, the black rocks sticking their spines above the gray sea, a phantom four-masted ship sailing straight toward them out of the mists.

And he was man enough to think of the woman he loved, and to forget the pensive appealing child in the shadowy room. He had a vision of Diana up there in the forest—strong of spirit, wresting from life, even in her exile, the things which were worth while.

As they ate their lunch the little captain confided to Anthony the hope of his heart. "I'm going to ask Letty Matthews to marry me—I want to get her away from that school——"

"Good. I'll dance at your wedding."

"When am I to dance at yours?" the captain demanded, bluntly. "I should think it was about time that you were putting your furniture in that big house for Diana Gregory."

"Some of the furniture is in." Anthony slurred over the greater question by tactfully emphasizing the lesser. "I had my mother's piano sent over yesterday, and some of the things for the living-room and library. We haven't a place for them at Harbor Light—and then there's the china. I wish I could match up some of those pieces of White Canton, captain. I wonder if we could make an exchange. I've a lot of Crown Medallion which would fill out your set——"

Having thus started the little captain on his chief hobby, Anthony breathed a sigh of relief, and went on with his fishing.

The subject of the china sufficed to fill the captain's mind until the fish stopped biting, and they decided to go in.

It was just as they began their trip toward the harbor that Justin came back.

The wind was blowing now straight from the south, and the "Gray Gull" was making slow headway against it.

"Why don't he come down to the water? It's safer," said the little captain, anxiously. "There's every sign of a squall——"

But Justin kept on; between him and the harbor was the Neck, with its jagged shore line of rocks. He was evidently planning to cross the strip of land obliquely, as, in rounding the point to come up the harbor, he must get the full force of the wind—

As he sailed over them they caught the strong beat of his motor. It seemed, too, that he waved his hand; then he left them behind, keeping close to shore and above that jagged line of rocks.

"Oh, the fool," the captain murmured. "Why don't he get away from the land?"

The wind came with a mighty sweep; the air-ship gave a backward tilt, fluttered for a moment like a bird in a storm—then shot down with sickening swiftness!

"His motor has stopped," the captain shouted, "and he's lost control! If he strikes the rocks he's done for!"

Down—down! They had one glimpse of Justin struggling to free himself; they saw him jump clear, and the big machine crashed on the beach.

It was the little captain who forced his boat to record speed, but it was Anthony who went over the side and through the breakers to where Justin lay prostrate, half in and half out of the water.

Wet and dripping the doctor bent over the boy, put his hand to his heart and felt it beating faintly, then looked at the broken body and said, unsteadily:

"There's only a slim chance of saving him. We must get him to Harbor Light."

The accident had been seen from the harbor, and as the captain's boat shot around the Point with its precious burden, it met other boats coming out to meet it, and orders were shouted back and forth, so that when the rescuers reached the pier, there was a car ready for that which had gone out full of life and strength and which had come back beaten and bruised.

The girls on the porch of the big hotel cried in each other's arms, hysterically, as the car passed, and talked of the way the young aviator had looked in the morning.

But far up in a tall old house, crowned by a cupola, was a girl who did not cry. She had seen the "Gray Gull" come down and had guessed at the catastrophe. She had fainted away quietly, and lay now on the floor by the window with all of her fair hair shaken over her still white face.



CHAPTER XXI

BROKEN WINGS

It was Sophie who found Bettina. She came in quietly, wondering at the silence, then growing suddenly afraid she passed swiftly to the inner room to discover Miss Matthews still asleep and Bettina in a huddled heap on the floor.

She picked the girl up in her strong arms, and carried her back to the big room and brought water and bathed her face, murmuring anxiously, "My dear, what is it? What has happened?"

And, after a little while, Bettina whispered, "Justin," and then, a little louder, "Justin," and coming to the surface through the darkness for a third time, she clutched Sophie's arm, and cried, "Oh, is he killed? Is Justin killed?"

Holding the shuddering little creature close, Sophie protested: "My dear, what is it? What have you dreamed?"

"I didn't dream. Oh, Sophie, I didn't dream. I saw him up in the air, and I saw him—fall——"

So it had come. So it came to all men who flew. Every bit of blood was drained from Sophie's face. But, fighting for composure, she held out such hope as she could. "My dear, are you sure? How did you know?"

"I was standing by the window when he—came down——"

"But there may have been some one to help him—and he was over the water—and he can—swim——"

Footsteps were ascending the stairs lightly but hurriedly. The two women turned their white faces to the door. Captain Stubbs stood on the threshold.

"He's hurt," he said. "Justin's hurt. He's at Harbor Light—and he's asked for Betty—and Anthony says that she must come."

In a big room that overlooked the sea lay the bird man with broken wings. After that first murmured plea for "Betty" he had showed no sign of returning consciousness.

On the floor above him they were getting ready for the operation. Nurses and doctors, in ghostly white, had set themselves to various preparatory tasks. And presently everything was in readiness for the great Dr. Anthony.

He was delayed by a white-faced slip of a thing, whom he led at once into his private office, leaving Captain Stubbs outside as a proud and patient sentinel.

When he had closed the door, Anthony took the little cold hands in his. "He is going to get well, Betty, if my skill can make him. I've got to operate at once—and there's a big chance—the other way——" He hesitated, then said, gently, "You love him, child?"

"Yes—oh, yes."

"And he loves you—how blind I've been! How much trouble might have been saved if I had known."

There was no bitterness in his voice, only a great regret.

"And now," he went on, "I'm going to save him for you, if I can. And I've sent a nurse to take care of Letty Matthews so that you can have Sophie with you."

He had thought of everything. It came to Bettina then what he meant to the world—this great Dr. Anthony—she had hated his mission of healing—and the skill which might now mean to her a lifetime of happiness instead of unutterable woe.

She tried, faltering, to tell him something of what she was feeling.

"Hush, dear child. You could not know. And now you must be very brave, and pray your little white prayers for Justin, and, please God, we shall bring him through."

Then he had gone away and Sophie had come, and the dreadful time of waiting had begun.

Sophie, who had walked in the Valley of the Shadow with her own beloved, knew the right things to say to the child who clung to her.

"Dearest, think of all you will mean to him when he gets well. Why, there's never an opportunity for a woman like that of having the man she loves dependent upon her—you can do all of the lovely little things for him."

"But if he should not—get well?"

"You are not to think of that."

"I must think of it."

"Hush, dear, don't. You can't help him or yourself by crying—I know how you feel—but think of this. If you should lose him, you will still have known love at its best. And you will never be content with a lesser thing. Oh, Betty, child, it is the shallow people who ask, 'Is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved?' How can there be any doubt? The woman who has not loved is only a half creature."

"I know. Oh, Sophie, it seems such an awful thing to say, but if this hadn't happened I should never have been sure that for me there could never be any one else but Justin."

Tactfully, the older woman led her on to talk of her doubts and fears, and of her terror lest she might deal with love lightly, as her father had done. And then Sophie spoke reverently of her own perfect marriage.

"It was during his illness," she said, "that I learned to know my husband. I think I had always been a bit selfish. He had seemed so strong that I had heaped my burdens upon him. He wanted me to be happy, so he withheld all cares from me. But the time came when he knew it was not right to withhold such cares. He knew that I was to face separation and loneliness, and so he helped me to get ready. Oh, Betty, dear, I can't tell you how wonderful he was. He knew that death must come to him, and yet he never whimpered. He was a brave soldier going down to battle, and not once did he flinch. But gradually he came to lean on me; once he cried in my arms—not from fear, but because he must leave me. These things are not easy to speak of—but where at first I had merely loved, I came to worship. I saw how he had shielded me, and when he left me I had the precious memory not only of his care for me—but of my care for him—and his appreciation of it."

There was a silence in which not only the "white prayers" of Bettina ascended, but the fervent ones of the woman who had suffered and lost.

Then came a nurse with the message, "Dr. Blake wishes me to say that all conditions are favorable," and they permitted themselves to hope.

Other people were coming now to Harbor Light—great men from the yachts, people from the big hotels, fellow-aviators of Justin's—the townsfolk and sailors—children who had worshiped the flying man of the smiling countenance.

But no one was shown into the inner office except Bobbie and Doris and Sara.

It was in that first moment of her meeting with Bettina that Sara blotted out the last vestige of smallness and of jealousy.

She went straight up to the girl whom Justin loved, and put her arms about her. "Oh, you poor dear thing," and they wept together.

Then Bettina asked, "How did you know?"

"Everybody knows," Sara said, hysterically. "Did you think you could hide it?"

Doris was weeping, too, in Bobbie's arms, and Bobbie's white, set face showed what he was feeling for his friend. "Oh, what made him go out on such a day—of all the crazy things——"

"I told him not to," said Captain Stubbs, who had kept hitherto in the background, "but there's no fool like a young fool, and I said it at the time. But it was God's own providence that we were there when he fell. And if any one can fix him up it's Anthony."

Bettina heard, and thought of her former fear of this place, which seemed now a sacred house of healing. Was she the same girl who had railed so bitterly against Anthony's profession? She felt that she wanted to tell him how great he was. Why, he was a wonderful man—and he was going to save Justin as he had saved others. Daily he fought battles with death and conquered. He must conquer now!

Up-stairs in the operating room was being played a game of skill which had for its pawns human life and human reason.

The worst trouble lay in the wounds about the head. But there were other dreadful complications, and many times in the hours that followed it seemed that the game was lost.

All through the tiresome ordeal not once did a muscle of the great surgeon quiver. Not once did he show dismay at that which was most baffling; not once did he show weakness at that which was most pitiful.

But when at last his great task was ended, his face was worn and gray.

Yet as he went to change his clothes, through the fabric of his weariness and of his anxiety ran a thread of joy in the thought that the barriers were down between himself and Diana, and that he might love her now without reproach.

When at last he descended to his little office, he spoke hopefully. "His strength and youth are in his favor—and I'm going to pull him through."

Yet he knew in his heart that he was flinging a defiance at destiny.

He arranged to keep Bettina at Harbor Light.

"Justin might ask for you again," was his explanation.

So Bobbie and Doris and Sara and Sophie went away together, and when there was no one else to hear, Anthony said to Bettina, gently, "My dear, why didn't you tell me?"

Curled up in a big leather chair, she spoke of her fear of hurting him, of being inconstant—like her father.

She seemed such a child in her blue serge suit with its red silk tie, and with the shady hat which had been pinned on hastily when the summons came. But the things she was saying were womanly things, and for the first time since he had known her Anthony perceived the possibilities of which Diana had been so sure—this little Betty child, transformed by love, would one day be an inspiration and a help to the man she would marry.

"If I have hurt you," she said, as she finished, "I—I can only ask you to forgive me. If this had not happened, I think I should have—kept my promise. But now you know—and you will not want me to keep it."

"No. I do not want you to keep it. Oh, what a tragedy we have made of it all. I might have made it so easy for you."

"You, Anthony?"

"Yes."

He sat silent for a moment, his fingers tapping the arm of his chair, those strong flexible fingers which an hour ago had done such magical feats of surgery. Bettina's eyes were held by them.

"I hardly know how to begin; it has to do with—Diana."

"Diana?"

"I love her, dear——"

"Diana?" Bettina spoke, breathlessly. "Oh, and does she love you—Anthony?"

"I have always loved her—but I thought I had lost her—then when she came back from Europe I found that she was still free—and that—she cared. But by that time I had engaged myself to a dear child who really didn't love me at all."

"But why didn't you tell me, Anthony?"

"Because, my dear, I thought you might be made unhappy."

To others there might have seemed something humorous in the situation—in its almost farcical complications and misunderstandings. But these two saw none; the issues were too deep, too serious; death was too near in that upper room.

"Was that why—she went away——?" Bettina whispered.

"Yes."

"Oh, write and tell her to come back."

"I have written. I wrote yesterday. I saw that you were not happy. I felt that I had no right to permit you to marry me when my heart was bound up in another woman—as it was bound up in her. I felt that in marriage there is something which goes beyond conventional honor. As a physician I have seen much of unhappiness—and I could not sanction in myself that which I would not have sanctioned in another. So I told Diana. I think instinct warned me there was some one else, after your flight with Justin."

"And now—if he gets—well."

Anthony stood up. "He shall get well," he said, steadily. "I scarcely dare think of the things which are coming to you and to me, dear child. But when I think of them my heart says, 'Thank God.'"

If she wept now in his arms, it was as a daughter might weep in the arms of a father—there was love between them at last, but it was the love of tried friendship, of passionate gratitude on her part, of protective affection on his.

When he had quite soothed her, she drew off the sparkling rings. "These must go back to you," she said; "some day you must give them to Diana."

He shook his head. "I shall give her pearls. She belongs to the sea, Bettina; she's the wife for a man of sailor instincts like myself—we love the harbor, and the great lights that are high above it, and the little lights that are low—and so I shall give her pearls.

"But you must keep these," he went on; "not to wear on your third finger—Justin, please God, shall some day look after that—but to wear on your right hand, as my gift to you—for luck and a long and happy life."

In the evening they rode over to see Miss Matthews, and found her sitting up. "I feel better," she said, "and there's something in the air. I want to know why I have a nurse, and why Bettina went away while I was asleep?"

"And I want to know," said Anthony, sternly, "why you are out of bed?"

"Because I am better," said Letty Matthews, "there's nothing in this world that can cure a person like curiosity—and I had to know what was going on."

So Anthony told her, and she wept to think of the fate of the bird man with the broken wings.

But she was cheered by the coming of Captain Stubbs. He bore on a tray such a supply of delicious viands that Miss Matthews urged that Bettina and Anthony should stay and have supper.

Bettina could not eat.

"Please, I'm not hungry," she said, and went down the winding stairway, and when she came back her arms were full of roses.

"Will you let him have them in his room?" she asked Anthony.

"He shall see them first when he opens his eyes," Anthony promised; "they shall carry all of your messages to him."

In the hushed room at Harbor Light there was darkness—and there was the fragrance of many flowers.

Out of the darkness a faint voice wavered, "Lilacs?"

The nurse bent over the high hospital bed. "Roses—lovely ones."

A long silence. Then, "Lovely ladies?" said the faint voice.

He could see them with his eyes shut—a whole procession of pretty ladies, all floating in the dimness. Just their faces on a broad band of light, over which the gray mists rolled now and then and blurred the outlines. Then the faces would again shine out, smiling—gay and sad, pensive and glad.

"Lovely ladies," he said again.

They followed him into his dreams, and kept him company until the pain began—that racking, wrenching pain; then they flew from him and left him alone to suffer.

After a long time, when the nurse had bared his shoulder and had pricked it with something that felt like a pin, they came back—all those lovely faces; only now they seemed to peep from behind clouds of smoke, heavier than the mists, and more tantalizing in their concealments.

So they came and went through the long night, leaving when the pain racked him, returning always when the nurse did things to his shoulder with her little shining instrument.

They fled from him, too, when he opened his eyes and saw hazily that there was a light, and a great many flowers, and that Anthony was standing in a sort of bower of them.

And Anthony was saying to some unseen person who stood at the head of the bed, "Did he notice the flowers?"

"Yes."

"Good—you can take them out now—nurse."

He had tried to tell Anthony about the pretty ladies. But they had come back and were whirling about him on that band of light—and there was one with dark hair with a crescent moon above the parting—and there was one who came closer than the others, and who had hair that shone like gold, and a little white face.

"Betty——"

The nurse did not catch the name—but Anthony's quick ear was at once attentive.

"She loves you, dear boy; and I'm going to make you well, so you may marry her."



CHAPTER XXII

THE ENCHANTED FOREST

Far up in the hills the Beautiful Lady went daily to the post-office for her mail.

It was a long walk, and the path skirted the edge of the forest. Leaving the path one entered upon a world of dim green light, a world of soft whispering sounds, a world of enchantment; and it was into this world that Diana's feet strayed as she came and went. It was here she spent most of her mornings; it was here she found the solitude she craved.

The guests at the mountain house called the Beautiful Lady exclusive; but it was an exclusiveness which matched her air of remoteness, and since such friendships as she encouraged were with those who were lonely and tired and sick, she made no enemies by her withdrawal from the conventional life of the place.

The lazy folk on the porch who were content to wait for the mail bag which came at noon by carrier always watched with curiosity the departure and return of the stately woman who was said to be wealthy and of great social eminence. She went alone and came back just in time for lunch, having loitered on the way to read her letters.

The letters, however, were not always satisfying. They brought such meager news of that which lay so near her heart! Sophie kept persistently away from topics which might be disturbing; Bettina's girlish epistles really told nothing—and Anthony wrote not at all.

Yet such scraps as she could glean formed the excitement of Diana's day, and always she had a vague and formless hope—a hope for which she reproached herself. Always she hoped for a letter from Anthony.

She knew that he ought not to write. She knew that if he did write she would not answer—but the longing of her heart would not be stilled.

As far as possible she forced her mind to thoughts of the future, and it was thus she had evolved the plan which she had written to Sophie. It was the only way in which her life could be linked with Anthony's; they would thus share in a work which might continue in interest to the end of their days.

There were times, however, when all of her optimism, all of her philosophy failed, and when her whole nature cried out for reality—not for dreams.

It was on one of these days of depression that she left behind her the hotel piazza with its chattering crowd, and drifted somewhat languidly across the lawn, past the tennis courts, and out into the mountain path.

In her modish frock of gray linen, with a parasol of leaf green, she seemed to merge gradually into the grayness and greenness of the forest beyond. She might have been a dryad returning to her tree, or as an artist in the group on the porch remarked, "a nymph in a Corot setting."

How still it was in the forest! Even the birds seemed to respect the silences, and slipped from branch to branch like shadows. The squirrels, flattened heads downward against gray tree trunks, whisked up and out of sight as the intruder advanced. A strayed butterfly went by in a wavering flight, seeking the sunshine and the flowers of the open fields.

Diana loved the forest, but more than all she loved the sea. She missed the wild music of the waves and wind. The hills seemed to shut her in; she wanted the wide spaces, the limitless expanse of blue—she wanted the harbor with its many lights.

Yet if Anthony married Betty it would be years before she would dare go back. His work was there, and he must stay; she would be exiled from the place she loved.

Her steps quickened as if she would fly from the thought. She passed again beyond the edge of the arching trees, and came upon a winding road. Its last curve brought her to a little settlement of which the store, which was also the post-office, was the most imposing building.

The postmistress knew her and had the package ready. "Lots of letters, two papers and a half dozen magazines," she said, cheerily. "I don't see how you find time to read so many."

"I have nothing to do but read. I am not a lucky busy person like yourself." Diana was smiling as she turned up the corners of each letter to glance at the one beneath.

On top was Sophie's daily budget, black-edged and bulky. Bettina's showed a faddish slender monogram. Following was Justin's—she knew that boyish scrawl; a business letter or two, a bill, an advertisement, and then—her heart leaped. On the flap of a great square envelope blazed the seal which Anthony had chosen for his house of healing—a lighthouse flashing its beacon over stormy waters.

The little postmistress wondered at the radiance which illumined the face of the lovely lady. Diana, in saying a hurried farewell, sparkled like a girl.

"You've given me such wonderful letters this morning," she said, breathlessly. "I must run away and read them."

And she did run, literally, when she had passed beyond the limits of the village. Holding up her narrow skirt, her parasol under her arm, her precious burden of mail hugged tightly, she left the path, and again entered upon the enchanted forest.

She knew of a place where she would read Anthony's letter, a warm little hollow, with a still silver pool beyond, a pool which, with its upstanding reeds and rushes, was merged at its farthest edge into a blurred purple background.

Safe at last in her retreat she opened Anthony's letter, forgetting the others in her eagerness, seeing only the firm, simple script which crowded a dozen pages.

He began quietly, but evidently, as he wrote, Anthony had been swayed by emotions which had mastered him, and he had written with fire and intensity, and, as she read, her heart responded tremulously:

"DEAR DIANA:

"Sophie has told me of your plan—your wonderful plan which has to do with my work and with me, and which shall link our futures in an interest which shall be above reproach.

"It was like you to think of it, and I shall not try to thank you. Indeed you will not want my thanks. You and I are beyond conventional concealments, and you know, as I know, that the thing which you are doing is for your own happiness as well as for mine, and I am glad that it is so, because your happiness is the thing which I most desire.

"I have not wanted to think of you up there in the hills. You belong to the sea, dear girl, and I know you are missing it, as we are missing you. I know, too, that, as you read this, you will say: 'He is overstepping bounds. He must not write these things to me.' But I am going to write them, Diana, for the time has come when we must face the big truths, and let the half-truths go.

"The big truth is this—that you and I love each other. The half-truth is—that Bettina loves me, and that I must not break her heart.

"I am troubled about Bettina. Certainly the child is not happy. All of her brightness has left her. She is pale and thin, and I am too wise a physician of bodies not to know something, too, of hearts. You may say that my attitude has affected her; that she had felt instinctively the difference in me. But it is not that. I am sure it is not that. When I asked her to-night if there was anything between us, she faltered that she had something to tell me that she would write.

"Perhaps I should wait until her letter comes, but I cannot wait. You are so vividly with me at this moment, Diana, that I can almost hear your voice calling above the noise of the wind and waves. I can see you as I like you best—all in white. I can feel your presence as I felt it that night in the empty house as you stood on the threshold of that moonlighted room.

"Oh, dear girl, come back to me. I must have you in my life. Otherwise it will be a thwarted life—and a lonely one. For whether you marry me or not, I will not marry Betty. I do not love her, and she shall not spend her days as the unloved wife of one whose thoughts are all with a wonder-woman up in the hills.

"Can't you see it as I do? We must not so profane marriage, Betty and I. There is no idea of honor so false as that which holds a man or a woman to a promise which has ceased to have a vital and a vivid meaning.

"No man has a right to plan for a home unless Love is to be the corner-stone. These things are sacred, and not to be spoken of except to those who understand. But my love for you and your love for me would form a barrier against all the sweet and tender meanings for Betty of wifehood and motherhood.

"That's the plain truth of it. I'm a blunt man, and I've said it as it has come to me after days of pondering.

"I am not saying these things that I may marry you. I am saying them because they are true. Surely we can find a way to make Bettina happy. Her youth and loveliness must always win love. The hearts of the boys at the club are all under her little feet, and Justin—oh, if I only dared hope that she could care for Justin——

"But marry her I will not, even if I go alone through life.

"For me you are the One Woman, Diana. In these days of separation from you I have thought of many things, but of none more than this: that we men, having loved one woman, deceive ourselves, when we lose her, with the thought that another like her may be found—but she is never found, and so we go through life half-men, unsatisfied, with hungry hearts.

"There's a big storm coming. I wish you might go down to the beach and walk with me in the wind. How often we have walked together in beating storms, Diana, and have gloried in them—so we would face the storms of life together; so I cannot face them with any other—or alone.

"Oh, girl, come back to me. I need you. I must have you. I will have you. You are mine.

"ANTHONY."

The letter dropped from her fingers. She hid her face in her hands. His call echoed thunderingly in her ears. But she must not listen; she must not.

She yielded for the moment, however, to the sweetness of his insistent demand. Curled up in the warm little hollow she dreamed of the things which might be—putting off, as long as possible, the moment of decision.

The other letters lay unheeded at her feet. All friendship seemed futile at such a time. What could Sophie, or Bettina or Justin say which could match those burning words of her lover?



The sun, rising higher, filtered through the branches and fell like golden rain upon the surface of the pool—the purple shadows gave way to emerald vistas; a trail of honey-bees traveled unerringly toward a hidden honey store. It was high noon in the forest!

Diana, waking to the fact that the hours had flown, gathered up her other letters, and opened the one on top of the pile. It was Justin's. What could he have to say to her, this boy who lived his life so lightly?

But when she had read the scrawled words she sat staring at them, hardly believing the things which had been written.

"DEAR LADY:

"Betty Dolce told me last night of her engagement to Anthony. But it was too late. You see it has come to this: that there isn't any one in the world for me but Betty—she's so little and young and sweet, and she has waked up the man in me, and that's what no other girl has ever done.

"But she won't break her promise, and last night I left her crying, and I can't stand the thought of it. I just can't stand it. When it was only I who suffered, I could get along, but now—why, it's Betty's happiness against all the rest.

"Am I doing a dishonorable thing, Diana, when I ask her to tell Anthony the truth?

"You shall decide for us. I cannot think clearly; I love her too much.

"JUSTIN."

What had inspired Justin to write to her like that? Did Betty know? Did Sophie? She went to the reading of the other letters eagerly, and when at last they lay before her, and the whole pitiful little story was revealed, the tears were running down her cheeks. Oh, the unhappiness of the dear young hearts—and the happiness which was to come!

Those who had assembled on the porch of the hotel in the before-luncheon hour were struck by something unusual in the bearing of the Beautiful Lady as she came toward them. All the listlessness of the morning had gone. Her head was up and she walked swiftly, lightly.

"She makes me think of the 'Winged Victory,'" was the comment of the observant artist. "She gives the same impression of triumphant motion."

At other times Diana had rather resented the inspection of the people on the porch. But to-day all of the faces looked friendly—she felt that she would like to say to them all, "I am going home to be happy." But what she really did was to bow somewhat shyly, and to go on with flaming cheeks.

The artist looked after her. "I wonder if she knows that she belongs to the goddess type of the Golden Age," he said, and sighed.

It was just at dusk that Diana stepped once more within the borders of the enchanted forest, and sought the warm little hollow beside the pool. In her filmy gown of midnight blue she moved like a shadow among deeper shadows—her neck and shoulders gleaming white.

* * * * *

About her were all the eerie noises of the dark, the little, little sounds of little, little things.

"Good-bye," Diana whispered, "good-bye—dear forest."

The sounds seemed to swell triumphantly into a love song—the weird and wonderful song of the night. From bush and branch call answered call, mate invited mate; all the wild things of the wood were voicing their need, each of the other.

So the Beautiful Lady left behind her the sheltered hollow in the wood, and turned her face toward the sea with its beating storms, and she turned with gladness.

It was late the next afternoon when she came at last to her home on the harbor.

Sophie, warned by a telegram, was waiting for her.

"Oh, dearest dear," she said, as they embraced each other in the garden, "you beauty! Why, Diana, you don't look a day over twenty."

"I'm so happy, Sophie. Happy women are always young. Oh, I've so much to tell you. Your letter came with all the other letters. How silly we have been! That's the way with half the troubles in life. How easy it would be to be happy if only we could look into the minds of other people."

Peter Pan, hearing Diana's voice, came to them, tumultuously, leaping above the nasturtium borders and the brilliant flower beds.

Diana picked him up. "Think of it, Peter," she said, in her thrilling voice; "you're going to live up the road with me for all the rest of your life—in Anthony's house, and I am going to live there, too."

Sophie gasped. "Oh, has it come to that?"

"It has come to everything that means happiness," Diana answered. "Let's go up-stairs, Sophie, where we can talk."

As they entered the house Delia came to meet them. Her face lacked its usual beaming welcome. "Oh, my dear," she said, "I'm glad to see you so much better, but it is a sad errand which has brought you."

"Sad—what do you mean, Delia?"

The two women exchanged glances, and Sophie faltered, "Didn't you get my telegram, Diana?"

"Telegram—no, I've heard nothing."

"It's Justin. He's dreadfully hurt. His air-ship fell, and Anthony has him at Harbor Light."

She sketched the details. "Betty is there. Anthony won't let any one see him. But he thinks Betty should be within call."

"Oh, Sophie, is it as bad as that——?"

"It is about as bad as it can be, Diana."

When they had talked it over, it was decided that Diana should call up Anthony and ask to see Betty at Harbor Light; when she had given the telephone number she found herself shivering with expectation. In a moment she would hear his voice!

She was told, however, that Dr. Blake was out on an important case; that he would not be back until late.

"Perhaps I'd better wait until he returns before I make any plans," Diana told Sophie, and then Sara came in—a subdued Sara, with much of her sharpness modified, and they had dinner together, and were served by the adoring Delia.

After dinner Diana grew restless, and, wandering alone in the garden, found her feet straying in the direction of Anthony's house on the rocks.

Peter Pan followed her, and waited for her when she went in, having learned caution from his last imprisonment.

Diana knew where the key was kept, and felt for it behind a cornice. She let herself in and shut the door behind her. The lights from the street lamps showed that some pieces of furniture had been placed since her last visit. There were rugs beneath her feet. On the table in the hall was the end of a candle in a quaint silver holder, and a cup contained matches.

She lighted the candle, and made a tour of the lower floor. In the living-room she set two big chairs side by side on the hearth and laughed a little, fancying her head and Anthony's close together. In the dining-room were treasures of china—the White Canton in unchipped dozens. She set two places on the polished table, and drank Anthony's health in a mystical cup of tea.

She ascended the stairs. There were massive beds and massive highboys and lowboys and tables and chairs everywhere, but in the room to which she had brought the lilacs there was nothing but a little old-fashioned piano, and the gray pottery bowl which had held her flowers. Evidently Anthony had changed his plans, and this place which he had dedicated to her was to be used simply as a sitting-room or music room for Bettina.

The candle flared and went out. Diana sat down on the old-fashioned round stool in front of the little piano. Anthony's mother had played on that little piano. It had been his father's gift to his bride.

With her hands resting on the keys she sat and looked out over her beloved harbor.

There was a little silver moon—Diana's moon, the crescent of the huntress.

Well, it was Diana's night! Her fingers struck softly the chords of the music she had created.



On the other side of the street, a tired man, coming out of a house where a sick woman had needed his services, halted and held up his head.

He crossed the road and entered the house.

The rugs deadened the sound of his steps. He stopped on the threshold of that upper room. He could see the faint outlines of the tall white figure; he knew the voice, the song.

"Diana, my dear girl!"

She turned and stood up.

"Anthony—oh, Anthony, I have come back—to you."



CHAPTER XXIII

THE PROCESSION OF PRETTY LADIES

For days the procession of pretty ladies kept Justin company. Then they floated away on the rolling mists, and he found real faces bending over him,—the nurse's with its fresh comeliness, and Anthony's with a light on it which transfigured it.

One morning when he waked a white rose lay on his pillow.

"Did you put it there, nurse?"

"No. Miss Dolce came."

On Anthony's next visit Justin asked: "Why didn't you let me see her?"

"She sees you every day. Just a peep in at your door. But always when you are asleep."

"But why not when I am awake?"

"It would tire you too much, dear boy."

"Only let me look at her."

So at last Bettina stood beside him, very pale, but with her eyes shining.

Justin could not lift his hurt hands to touch her, so she bent down and laid her cheek against his, and whispered, "When you are well, we are going to be—married."

"I know—sweetheart."

"And—may I have the little silver ring for my wedding ring, Justin?"

"Yes, sweetheart."

She was not white now, but all rosy with blushes. As she again bent over him he felt the thrilling power of her youth and beauty. Her presence was like wine, reviving him. Her words were a loving cup held to his lips.

"Oh, my Betty, help me to live," he whispered, weakly.

"Hush; oh, my poor, poor boy."

In the weeks that followed it seemed as if only love were holding Justin back from death. There were days when Bettina was not allowed to see him; there were other days when Anthony dared not tell her the fears which assailed him, when he avoided all of her questions, confiding only in Diana.

"There's an awful chance that he will never walk."

Diana, very pale, asked, "Is it his spine?"

"Yes."

"And he was so strong and beautiful."

"He will never fly again, Diana."

"Oh, poor Justin!"

"And poor Betty. I wonder if, when all the first glamour is gone, she will be able to stand the test."

"I am sure she will. She has been so brave."

"If I know Justin, he won't let her marry him when he learns the truth."

"Oh, Anthony!"

"I haven't given up hope, however. His wonderful vitality and perfect health may bring about that which now seems impossible."

Bettina, since she could not minister to Justin, spent the days in ministering to others. In the great workshop where men and women of wealth wove rugs and made pottery as if their bread and butter depended upon it, she became a familiar figure. The patients loved to have her there, and she went from one to the other, a charming little helper in her white frock, with her air of girlish grace.

In those days her beauty assumed a new aspect. All the petulance was gone from her expression—the restlessness from her manner.

"How lovely she is!" said nurses and patients and doctors, and they spoke not of her physical beauty, but of her loveliness of mind and of soul.

Whenever she was allowed to see Justin she came to him with hope in her shining glance. And one day Anthony let her take the nurse's place, so that for the first time they were alone.

It was then that Justin told her of the Procession of Pretty Ladies. "Anthony says it was the morphine," he said, "but whatever it was, they kept me company for days."

Betty laughed. "You'll soon have a real procession of pretty ladies. Diana wants to come, and Sophie and Sara and Doris. But Anthony insists that they must wait until you can sit up."

"When will that be?"

"Soon."

"How soon?"

"Don't ask so many questions. As soon as it is good for you, you impatient boy."

"I am impatient. I want to be up and out. I want to fly again over the harbor. Betty, all the lovely days are going, and I am lying here like a log."

Her heart seemed to stand still. She knew that he would never fly again. Anthony had told her that he might prepare her in part for the truth. But Justin must not know.

She spoke hurriedly. "I should hate to have you fly again—I should always be thinking of the time I saw you fall."

"It's the only thing I can do well, Betty."

"There are so many things that you can do—with me."

He smiled. "What could I do—with you?"

"You could build a little workroom in the top of our house—our house, dear boy; and you could sit there and invent wonderful things to make other men safe who go up in the air, and I could watch you do it."

"But why should I be shut up, dearest? I'm not made for that sort of thing. I'd rather be out—in the open."

There was a note of alarm in his voice. Bettina tried to laugh naturally. "Because I'd rather have you with me, you venturesome youth—then I should know you were safe."

"If anything could hold me down it would be you,—Betty."

She was silent for a moment, then she said, with hesitation, "Justin, dear——"

"Yes?"

"I don't want to wait until you are well—to be married——"

As he turned on her his puzzled glance the color flooded her face. "Perhaps it isn't usual for a woman to say—such a thing. Perhaps I shouldn't say it. But—I want to feel that I belong to you—I want to know that I have the right to be always at your side. I want to know that—where you go—I can go—Justin——"

The bandages were still on his hands and arms, those hands which yearned to take her hands, those arms which ached to enfold her.

But his eyes held a look which was a caress. "But it would not be fair to you, sweetheart,—to spend your honeymoon in nursing me."

"It would be fair to me. Oh, Justin, Justin, it isn't just sweetheart love that I am giving you; it is wife love and mother love—I feel sometimes as if you were my hurt little boy, and that I'd give my life to help you——"

She was not crying, but her voice held an emotion which was deeper than tears; her steadfast eyes met his; her little hands were laid lightly on the covers above his heart.

And suddenly he saw her enthroned—a woman, not a child—a wife, not a playmate. Her youth and beauty were still there to charm him, but back of them was a quality which would hold him until the end—a divine quality of tenderness, of compassion, of eternal constancy.

And, in response, he brought the best that manhood can bring to woman—reverence and that high regard which makes of marriage a spiritual bond.

He tried to speak, but his voice failed. Then, as she bent above him, she heard his whisper:

"Kiss me—my wife!"

* * * * *

In the days which followed the pretty ladies came in a charming procession—Diana and Sophie, little Sara, bravely wistful, Doris escorted by Bobbie. And last, but not least in importance, came Letty Matthews, in a new white dress and rose-wreathed hat, and with happiness glorifying her plain features.

But though they came and went, all these good friends of his, and he smiled and greeted them, his eyes went always beyond them to the little white and gold creature with the woman-eyes. And his voice would call for her, and until she came he would not be content.



CHAPTER XXIV

THE AFTERGLOW

Anthony vetoed absolutely the idea of a marriage before Justin's fate should be finally decided.

"But if he knows," Bettina urged with trembling lips, "if he knows that he may be—crippled—he will say that I shall not marry him. You know that he would say that, Anthony."

"And he would be right. A chronic invalid should not marry, Betty. I have great hope of his recovery. You and he must live on that hope a little longer."

Bettina begged Diana to intercede, and that lovely lady, having claimed Anthony for a twilight walk on the beach, began her plea.

But after the first words she found that she must deal not with the man who loved her, but with the great Dr. Anthony.

"I shall certainly not allow it. I am not, of course, her legal guardian, and so I cannot prevent it in that way. But I can tell Justin."

"But she will not be happy without him, Anthony. If it were you, I should marry you."

"I should not let you."

"You could not help it."

They faced each other—this strong man and this strong woman. With their wills opposed, each seemed immovable. It was evident that only a great depth of affection could bring harmony between their dominant natures.

Anthony, smiling at the earnestness of his beloved, did not yield an inch. "These things are not to be decided by sentiment, dear. There are meanings in marriage far beyond mere romance, far beyond the fate of the two individuals who make the contract. We doctors must uphold the ideal of physical perfection lest the race suffer. Moreover Bettina does not know, she cannot know, what life would mean under such conditions. She does not know her own strength, her own weakness. She must learn something of life before she takes its heaviest burdens upon her. If in the years to come she can sustain Justin by her friendship, let it be that. She must not marry him."

"You—with your friendships, Anthony! Love cannot go back to friendship."

She had seated herself on a stone bench which backed by a clump of pines, commanded a wide view of the sea. He hesitated, wondering how he might chase away the shadow which lay on her lovely face.

"Dear heart, we must not disagree about a thing which may right itself. Tell Betty that, if she will be patient for a few weeks, I shall hope to withdraw my opposition."

Her eyes did not meet his.

"Are you thinking that I am cruel, Diana?"

"No, oh, no. But your wisdom won't cure Betty's heartache."

"It may save her future heartaches."

"I wonder if a woman's point of view is ever a man's point of view, Anthony?"

"Only when two people love each other very much, dear. Then each tries to look at life through the other's eyes. We men would grow brutal without you to curb us. But, on the other hand, you need, now and then, the masculine common-sense view-point."

"I don't want the common-sense point of view in this, Anthony."

He laid his hands on her shoulders and stood looking down at her.

"Diana."

"Yes."

"What is it, dear?"

"I don't quite like—being curbed, Anthony."

She was laughing a little for, in spite of her rebellion, there was something stimulating in the thought of his masterfulness. "You see, I've always ruled," she said.

"You shall still rule, everywhere, except in one little corner of my kingdom which has to do with things medical—over that I must still reign."

"Of course if you think that you are right in this——"

"I know that I am right. Look at me, Diana."

Thrilled by his tone of command, she did look at him with eyes like stars.

Then, knowing that he had conquered, he drew her up to him and said, gently, "We doctors have to seem cruel to be kind—but you must never believe me cruel, Diana."

So July passed and August, and the little town took on all the beauty of its September coloring. The dahlias blazed from every fence corner. Against the gray rocks their masses of brilliance tempted the brushes of the artists who came to paint.

The yachts began to leave the harbor, some of them going South, some of them making their exit to the clanking chorus of the marine railway. The yacht clubs sounded their last guns, packed away their pennants and hauled up their floating docks. The hotels were closed, and most of the mansions on the Neck were deserted. The summer folk were turning toward the city, and the little seaport town was settling down to its winter routine.

It was on one of those quiet September days that Anthony said to Bettina, "Set your wedding day, my dear."

"Oh, Anthony, may I, really?"

"Yes. The specialists who came yesterday gave a final decision. Justin is going to get—well."

The invalid, propped up in a big chair, was approached thus:

"Would you mind if it were a big affair, Justin?"

"Not if you want it that way, sweetheart."

"I don't, if you don't. But Diana and the rest are planning——"

He laughed. "I want the whole world to see you, and I want all the bells to ring, and I want to run away afterward with you, and to have our honeymoon last forever."

So they were married from Diana's, at high noon, and as the bride descended the stairway, a sigh of admiration went up from the waiting guests. Her costume had been copied from an old painting, and emphasized her likeness to those medieval Venetian beauties whose blood ran in her veins. Her veil was caught back, cap-fashion, from her face, then fell to her feet. The silken thinness of her gown was weighted with silver embroideries.

Slightly to the left of the officiating clergyman was a screen of white roses. As Bettina advanced, the screen was set aside, and showed Justin, in a big chair, pale and smiling, and seeing only his bride as she came toward him.

Standing by her lover's side, Bettina gave the responses clearly. And when he placed on her finger the little silver ring, it was she who bent and kissed him.

As soon as the ceremony was over, the bridegroom was whisked away, to be followed by the bride when she had cut the wedding cake.

In the library at the head of the stairs she found him. He was on his feet, unsupported, and looking expectantly toward the door.

She gave a little cry. "Justin, you must not——!"

He laughed and held out his arms to her. "Anthony said I might. Just to show you. He didn't quite dare for the wedding. But I want you to know that you are not marrying—a broken reed—dearest."

She looked up at him. "How good it seemed," she whispered, "to see your face above mine. I—I am just as high as your heart—Justin."

* * * * *

Snow over the harbor. Snow, too, at Harbor Light.

Anthony's patients, warmly housed, were busy with Christmas work. Women who had always bought perfunctory Christmas presents, and to whom the holiday season had meant merely a weary round of shopping, bent eagerly over the bit of pottery or of weaving which was to carry a message of peace and good will. Men, whose gift-giving had lost all of its precious meanings, were carving quaint weather-vanes and toys with infinite pains, and reveling in their skill.

Diana, moving from one to the other, encouraged and suggested.

"I am so glad we worked out that mistletoe design for the pottery and the holly for the little white rugs," she said; "it makes the work so much more interesting."

"It is you who makes the work interesting," said her adoring husband who was at her elbow. "Don't you ever wish for anything else? Wouldn't you like to be down South with Justin and Betty—with purple seas and cocoanut palms and tennis and golf and good times?"

"I'd rather be here with you. Every time you come back from an important case or operation I feel as if you were a knight returning from battle—no woman can have that feeling when her husband isn't doing vital things—but I'll wait until I get home, Anthony, to tell you the rest of it—the whole of Harbor Light has its eyes on us."

It was not curiosity which drew the eyes toward them. To these weary creatures, many of whom had lost their illusions, the romance of their beloved doctor had given new hope. Their belief in the happiness of another made their own chances of happiness seem less remote.

It was late that night, however, before Diana could tell Anthony "the rest of it." He was delayed by a call to an outside case, and she sat up to wait for him.

The snow had stopped, and as she stood at the window in her room looking out, Minot's flashed above the horizon, and the big light on the Point flamed against the darkness like a sun. The little twinkling fair weather lights of the summer were gone. Only these remained through the beating storms to send out their warnings to the ships.

It was the great lights of the harbor which served humanity; it was great men like Anthony who served!

Smiling a little, in the fulness of her content, she turned back into the fire-lighted room, and went to her piano.

Anthony, coming up the stairs, spent and chilled, heard her singing:

"The stormy evening closes now in vain, Loud wails the wind and beats the driving rain, While here in sheltered house With fiery-painted walls, I hear the wind abroad, I hark the calling squalls— 'Blow, blow,' I cry, 'you burst your cheeks in vain! Blow, blow,' I cry, 'my love is home again!'"

On the threshold of this blessed sanctuary all of his weariness seemed to vanish; here he found rest and refreshment—here, at last, he had found fulfillment of all his dreams.

The End

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