Barnes had said to Aunt Philomela when she demurred at certain things running counter to her own convictions, “Now that we have begun this game, we must play it for all it’s worth. We must stick it out to the end.”
Lying there in his room on the little white bed, Barnes repeated that again to himself. It meant just one thing; that in all fairness, he must now play the brother in this household as well as the prodigal. He had been admitted within these sacred precincts not as a friend, but as an actor. Honor demanded that he must not presume further than this. That was as clear as a June morning. To take advantage of his position for any personal consideration would be to turn traitor to the old gentleman, to Aunt Philomela, to the girl herself.
Well and good. There was no sense in arguing further along this line. As a gentleman it did not behoove him to discuss it even with himself. Looking then at Langdon’s suit impersonally, as a brother, how must he consider it? Dr. Merriweather was a sufficient voucher for the man’s social standing. What of the man himself? He had seen enough of him to realize that he was clean-limbed, clean-hearted. He had also had a glimpse into the man’s soul and had found there a brother artist.
Barnes sprang from the bed and taking a chair by the open window inhaled the perfumed night breeze. He was tempted hard to throw this whole matter from his mind, but he gripped himself. Langdon had said, “She has filled my soul with song.”
And his own soul this same woman had filled with pictures. He saw down the whole long gallery. There were the pictures by the Thames, by the Seine, by the saffron road, and by the Schuyler brook. They waited but the touch of her fingers upon his arm to spring into reality for all the world to admire. Barnes was breathing rapidly. He checked himself.
There, too, in another heart were the songs. They waited but the brush—of her lips—to be sung. It came hard to acknowledge that. His ancestors, facing English guns, never did a harder thing.
Looking at the matter frankly then, as an artist as well as a brother, there was no ground upon which he could contest Langdon’s right to sue for this girl’s hand. There remained only his own man right to fight for his life. But he could not avail himself of this except by deserting this old gentleman—except by coming upon the field frankly as an enemy. His thoughts continually went back to the army code; he was here, as it were, upon parole. To abuse that position would be as cowardly a thing as to fire upon a flag of truce.
It took Barnes four feverish hours to thresh out these manifest truths, but when it was over he found himself in a state of curious self-possession. He had never felt calmer in his life. But somehow this room was not big enough for him; he felt the need of getting out where there was nothing overhead between him and the stars, where to the right and left he should be bounded only by the East and the West. He had not undressed, so he stole out of the room, down the stairs and out by the little Dutch door. It was odd how important a part, first and last, this inanimate object had played in his life. It was this which had first attracted him to the house; it was through this that he had led her when they had gone to the hill-top together; hard by this that Langdon had made his confession; and now it furnished him a temporary means of escape from his prison.
Barnes made his way to the top of the hill. The air was cool, the sky was deep, and below him, but the ghost of itself, lay the saffron road. He studied it with grim interest. It was no longer a glad highway through the King’s dominions and it no longer led on, but away. Even the big atlas in the library had proven that in whatever direction he might journey, it must always be away.
There was only one path now which offered him even a destination and that was back to his mother. If it had been possible he would have pushed on in the dark along this ghost road until he reached her. He would like to sit in the park with her and talk over things. He strode a half dozen steps down the hill. Then he came back. When the old gentleman now sleeping so peacefully awoke, he would ask for his son. The thin hands would fumble about for another hand and they must find what they sought.
Barnes threw himself down flat and elbows on the ground rested his chin in his hands. Below him in shadow lay all that vast unexplored country upon which only yesterday he had gazed with her by his side. To-night it was boundless—limitless. Where before it had seemed like a virgin woodland, sun-lighted, it now seemed as somber as a Doré forest. It would be a grim affair—adventuring through this land alone. The pictures a man would bring back with him—Ah, they would be pictures of Hell.
The dawn came softly, tenderly, and like evil before a good woman, the shadows stole away. The dawn came just as Eleanor might come into a room at dusk and light the candles. In the ivory East appeared the red that was in her cheeks; in the black, lowhanging clouds, appeared the gold that was in the black of her hair. A fierce desire for his paints seized him. No one had ever pictured the dawn because no one before had ever divined its secret. The dawn was Eleanor.
He heard footsteps behind and glancing around saw Langdon. The latter paused, started, and then came on again. His face was alight and he looked like one inspired.
“Joe,” he said half in awe, “to put that into music, you would have to put Eleanor into music. Then—then—what a symphony you would have!”
Barnes sprang to his feet.
“Good God, man,” he cried, “what brought you to this spot?”
“Don’t you hear it?” persisted Langdon. “The world all dark and cavernous—like those days in Paris; then her voice calling—far in the distance; then a low morning song, like a morning prayer; then her voice coming nearer until, in a wild medley of song, her presence breaks upon the world and the world awakes—as a soul awakes.”
Standing very erect, his head back, Langdon faced the East.
And Barnes facing Langdon saw his picture fade—fade—until some demon in him made him feel for a moment that it would be right for him to battle with this man in defense of his own. How simple it would be if here on this hill-top in the early morning the two might grapple until one was left supreme. Langdon turned and caught a flash in the eyes of this other which drove the music from his soul.
“What’s the matter?” he exclaimed. “You look feverish.”
Barnes did not answer for a moment. He very deliberately sat down. He felt ashamed of this primeval instinct. If in the days to follow he couldn’t show any better control over himself than this, he had better find it out now.
“Sit down, Langdon,” he said. “What got you up so early?”
“The dawn,” answered Langdon.
As he seated himself, he took one swift look at Barnes’ face, but he soon forgot whatever it was he had observed a second ago. He had more vital things in mind than the passing mood of a prodigal.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he explained. “Somehow the fact of having spoken to you made all the things I’ve been merely dreaming all this while seem intensely real.”
“I wouldn’t let them be too real until—I had spoken to her.”
“I know,” Langdon answered quickly, “I don’t wish to presume. But a man isn’t responsible for his unbidden thoughts, is he?”
“Who is?” asked Barnes.
“No one. No one—on earth.”
“But every man has to stand for himself—the consequences of his thinking.”
“I’m willing to do that. But—well, I don’t suppose you realize how big a part a woman plays in work of my sort.”
“I think I do.”
“She’s the very life of it.”
“The very life,” repeated Barnes.
“In business, it’s every man for himself; but in music you’ve got to have someone to sing to, someone to play for.”
“What about the masters?”
“Oh, when a man’s a genius, it’s different. But when you’re just human—well, that’s all I am and I’m glad of it. I don’t care for lonely grandeur, Joe. I only want to climb as high as I can go with Eleanor.”
“Good Lord,” exploded Barnes, “can a man go any higher than that?”
“I can’t at any rate,” answered Langdon, simply.
Barnes studied him a moment. Then he said more quietly, “And you’re sure you can go as far as that? You’re sure you can go as high as she can take you, Langdon?”
“A man can’t tell, Joe,” answered Langdon, sincerely, “but at times—like this morning—I feel as though there were no heights I couldn’t reach. She seems to put the whole world into song. I find myself trying to set to music everything she looks at. It’s wonderful. It’s—it’s almost terrifying. Why, when you were telling her about Alaska—I watched her eyes and almost caught a symphony there.”
Barnes moved uneasily.
“What is it?” demanded Langdon. “It seems as though you ought to understand.”
“Why should I understand?”
“Your eyes,” answered Langdon.
He leaned closer and for a second stared into them. Then he rose and stood in front of Barnes.
“Why there’s a symphony in them,” he exclaimed. “A great, big tragic theme—of some sort!”
Barnes smiled grimly.
“If I were an artist,” he said, “I’d paint you as you stand there saying that, Langdon. There’s a big triumphant picture in you—of some sort!”
Barnes made his feet and for a moment the men stood side by side looking down upon the green valley which was slowly coming to life there below them. What a song it was; what a picture it was! The blazing sun was big enough to make both of it. For a second Barnes caught a flash of some hidden meaning in this thought. Then his face hardened; even the sun could not do both through one man alone.
Barnes turned abruptly.
“I’ll see you after breakfast, I suppose?”
“Yes,” answered Langdon, “I’ll come over early.”
Barnes hesitated. This hill-top now seemed like a strategic point. To go meant leaving Langdon in possession. But this was only a concrete example of the whole problem which he had worked out earlier in the night. If he had entered this household upon the same plane upon which Langdon had entered it, then he would have a right to remain on the hill-top and fight for his pictures and all those meant. But he hadn’t. That was the point. When he left Aunt Philomela that first night and went upstairs, he had given a silent pledge of honor. To some men this might seem a nice point, open at least to argument. But Barnes all his life had lived by nice points. That was his glory as an artist. Without another word, he trudged back down the hill.
The house was still asleep. It looked like a very young girl asleep. It took the morning light drowsily and peacefully. Beneath the windows, the flowers fresh from their dew bath met the eye of the sky proudly and unashamed. It was impossible for Barnes, in the face of these things, to brood. He couldn’t as yet endure the confines of his room, but he strode off down the damp road with good spirit. Then he turned off to the right and crossed the fields to the brook. Here in a clump of alders he undressed and threw himself into the stinging cold waters. As he bobbed up pink with every vein responding, he shook the water from his eyes and struck across to the other bank. So for ten minutes he swam in and out over the clean sands and water-cress like the king trout himself. And when he came out it was with his brain clear and his heart beating sturdily.
Barnes found Mr. Van Patten awake and waiting for him when he came back to the house. The old gentleman measured time by the twittering of the birds in the morning, and their sleepy chirp at night. His voice was stronger and the grip of his hand on Barnes’ arm firmer. But more than this Barnes noticed that which at first frightened him—an awakening in the aged face, a new expression about the eyes in place of the blank, fixed stare.
“Are the curtains raised?” demanded Mr. Van Patten.
“Yes,” answered Barnes, “as high as usual.”
“Put them way up,” insisted Mr. Van Patten. “I want all the light there is.”
Barnes snapped them to the top. The room became flooded with the morning sunshine. When he turned, the old gentleman was upon his elbow straining towards them.
“What is it?” Barnes asked in some alarm.
Mr. Van Patten fell back again with almost a smile about his lips.
“Nothing,” he answered. “Sit over here by my side.”
Barnes took his usual position between the windows and the bed. Mr. Van Patten turned to face him.
“Joe,” he began, “I lost five years of you out of my life and I’ve been wondering just how far I’m to blame for it.”
“But that’s all over with now,” suggested Barnes.
“As far as I’m concerned. But there’s you—I don’t want you to suffer what I suffered. I want you to learn.”
“As a son, I’ve learned,” answered Barnes.
“But not as a father, Joe. I suppose some day you’ll marry.”
“Marry?”
“And have a son of your own.”
“It—it doesn’t sound probable just at present,” answered Barnes.
“Well, you will, my boy. And the best I can pray for you is that you’ll find another woman like your mother.”
There was just one woman like that mother to whom the old gentleman referred. Barnes caught his breath at thought of it.
“I suppose there is another,” murmured Mr. Van Patten. “For someone, Eleanor is going to be just such another.”
“Yes,” said Barnes. “I think she’s that one other.”
Mr. Van Patten moved uneasily.
“It’s easier to think of your marrying than of Eleanor marrying,” he said. “But I suppose she will. Have you seen much of Carl?”
Barnes jumped at the question.
“Why, yes,” he answered, “I’ve—I’ve seen a good deal of him lately.”
“I’m glad of that, Joe. Eleanor has been thrown in with him nearly every day this summer. What sort of a man does he appear—to a man?”
“But you’ve talked with him yourself, haven’t you?”
“Not much. I haven’t felt like seeing anyone. Aunt Philomela likes him. Do you?”
It was a direct question. Barnes answered it directly.
“Yes.”
“He is clean and sincere?”
“Yes.”
“Eleanor says he has a very great gift in music.”
“I’m no judge of that, but I believe he’s honest as an artist.”
“Well. Well. The girl must choose for herself. I’ve thought the intimacy was growing.”
“I think it is.”
“He would make her happy?”
“If she loves him, I have no doubt of it.”
“But she must be sure of her love. I trust you, Joe, to make that point clear to her.”
“I think you may trust her for that.”
“She will act up to her conviction but she is young—younger than her years. And I—without my eyes—I can’t be much of a father.” He reached for Barnes’ hand.
“You must be son and father and brother all in one, Joe.”
“I’ll do my best,” answered Barnes.
“I know you will, boy. I know you will. You’ve grown wonderfully in these last five years. But I think you would have grown just the same if you had not gone away. The fault was mine. I didn’t stay young enough for you.”
“You seem very young to me now.”
“Ah, yes. I’ve grown young. That is the secret I’ve worked out in the dark; as the son grows old, the father must grow young.”
The Princess stalked into the room and jumped upon the bed. The father reached out to stroke her back and faced the door for Eleanor. She entered with the blush of the morning in her cheeks. She nodded with a smile at Barnes and then with a little laugh pressed her lips against her father’s forehead.
“Dad,” she exclaimed, “you look so much better. You look so much better every morning.”
“I’ll soon be out of bed now,” he answered with conviction.
Then he did the same thing which had startled Barnes upon his entrance—he rose to his elbow and strained his eyes towards the girl as though he had suddenly become endowed with his sight again. Miss Van Patten glanced up swiftly at Barnes, as though for an explanation. The latter could only stare back.
“What’s the trouble, Daddy?” she stammered.
His face was not troubled but he did not look as he looked yesterday.
“Nothing, child, nothing. Dr. Merriweather is coming to-day?”
“Shall I send for him?”
“No, but if Carl comes over—Carl is coming to-day?”
“I don’t know,” she answered.
“He told me that he was coming this morning,” put in Barnes.
“Then when he comes, tell him to ask the doctor to drop over this evening.”
“Very well, Daddy.”
Mr. Van Patten smiled.
“Joe says he finds Carl a fine fellow.”
The girl glanced up swiftly at Barnes. He met her eyes fairly. Then he nodded.
“Yes,” he answered, “I think he is.”
“But Daddy,” she exclaimed, and her cheeks grew a deeper crimson as she spoke, “you have seen him. You know.”
“The young are better judges of the young, than the old are,” he answered.
And reaching for her hand, he patted it tenderly.
“Carl has often said he wished to see more of you, Daddy. Perhaps now that you’re stronger—”
“Joe must see for me,” answered Mr. Van Patten. “I leave Carl to him for the present.”
Barnes arose.
“Father,” he said, “I will come up again—after Carl arrives.”
Whereupon he retired. To all intents and purposes it was a retreat.