Part 9

"Right you are," said Anthony Robeson, coming up behind them, "and I hope you may convince her of it. She has no confidence in her own powers."

Rachel stood looking at them a moment, her dark eyes very bright. "To see you two," she said slowly at length, "is to believe it all."

The evening promised to be a gay one. The men of the party had sent to town for many lanterns, flags and decorations of the sort, and had made the porch and lawn the setting for a brilliant scene. A dozen young people had been asked out, and came enthusiastically.

"We'll wind up with a flourish," said Anthony in his wife's ear as they descended the stairs together, "and then we'll send them all off to-morrow where they'll cease from troubling. I think it was the best plan in the world, but I'll be glad to prowl about my beloved home without observing Cathcart scowling at Lockwood, Roger Barnes evading Suzanne, or even my good boy Wayne with that eternal wonder on his face as to why his flat does not look like our Eden."

"Hush—and don't look too happy to-morrow, Tony. Oh, here comes Rachel. Isn't she lovely?"

"Now, watch," murmured Anthony, his face full of amusement. "It's as good as the best comedy I ever saw. See Suzanne. She never looked toward Rachel, but don't tell me she wasn't aware of the very instant Rachel came upon the porch. I believe she read it in Roger Barnes's face. I'll wager ten to one his pulse isn't countable at the present instant."

"I don't blame him," Juliet answered, smiling at her guests. "She's my ideal of a girl who won't hold out a finger to the men."

"Yes, she's your sort," admitted Anthony. "I know what it is—poor fellows—I've been through it. Your cold shoulder used to warm up my heart hotter than any other girl's kindness. Look at the boys now. They can't jump and run away from the other girls, but they'd like to. And they're all deadly anxious for fear the others will get the start. Say, Julie, you ought not to have asked those new youngsters down from town. They'll catch it, sure as fate; they're at the susceptible age. I see five of them now, all staring at Rachel."

"You positively mustn't stay here with me any longer," whispered Juliet. "Go and devote yourself to her and keep them off for a little."

"Not on your life," Anthony returned "She can take care of herself. If I mix up in this fray you're likely to be husbandless. Lockwood and Roger are getting dangerous, and I'm going to keep on the outskirts where it's safe."

They were all upon the lawn—Rachel, unable to help herself, according to Anthony's intimation, the centre of a group of men who would not give each other a chance—when a stranger appeared upon the edge of the circle of light. He stood watching the scene for a moment—a tall, slender fellow, with a pale face and deep-set eyes. Then he asked somebody to tell Miss Redding that Mr. Huntington would like to speak with her. Rachel, thus summoned, rose, looked about her, caught sight of the stranger, and went swiftly down the lawn. A dozen people, among them all the men who had been the guests of the week, saw the meeting. They observed that the newcomer put out both hands, that his smile was very bright, and that he stood looking down into Miss Redding's face as if at sight of it he had instantly forgotten everything else in the world.

Rachel, leaving him, came back up the lawn to find her hostess. As she passed it became evident to a good many pairs of sharp eyes that her beauty had received a keen accession from the sweeping over her cheeks of a burning blush—so unusual that they could not fail to take note of it.

Juliet came back down the lawn with Rachel, who presented Mr. Huntington; and presently, without a word of leave-taking to any one else, the two went away down the road.

"Now, who under the heavens was that?" grunted Louis Lockwood in Anthony's ear, catching his host around the corner of the house.

"Don't know."

"Brother, perhaps?"

"Hasn't any."

"Relative?"

"Don't know."

"Just a messenger, maybe?"

"Give it up."

"She blushed like anything."

"Did she? Man she is going to marry, probably."

"Oh, that can't be!"

"The lady looks marriageable to me," observed Anthony, strolling away.

He ran into Cathcart.

"Say, who was that fellow, Tony?" began Stevens.

"Don't ask me."

"He looked confoundedly as if he meant to embrace her on the spot."

"So he did," agreed Anthony soothingly. "Don't blame him, do you? He may not have seen her for a month. What condition do you suppose you'd be in if a week should get away from you out of her vicinity?"

"Bother you, Tony—don't you know who he was?"

"Intimate friend, I should judge."

"She turned pink as a carnation."

"Say hollyhock," suggested Anthony, "or peony. Only a vivid colour could do justice to it."

"That's right," groaned Cathcart. "She never looked like that for any of us."

"Never," said Anthony promptly, and got away, chuckling.

"Hold on, there, Robeson, man," said the voice of Dr. Roger Barnes, and Anthony found himself again held up.

"Come on, old Roger boy," said his host pleasantly. "We'll amble down the road a bit and give you a chance to get a grip on yourself. No, I don't know who he is. I'm all worn out assuring Louis and Steve of that. She did turn red, she did look upset—with joy, I infer. That girl has made more havoc in one short week—playing off all the while, too—than Suzanne and Marie have accomplished in the biggest season they ever knew. And I believe, Roger boy, you're about the hardest hit of any of them."

The doctor did not answer. The two had walked away from the house and were marching arm in arm at a good pace down the road.

"She's as poor as a church mouse," suggested Anthony.

There was no reply.

"She has a dead weight of a helpless father and mother."

The doctor put match to a cigar.

"Juliet says her brother died of dissipation in a gambling-house."

Doctor Barnes began to chew hard on a cigar that he had failed to light.

"But she's a mighty sweet girl," said Anthony softly.

"See here, Tony," the doctor burst out.—"Oh, hang it all—"

"I see," said his friend, with a hand on his shoulder. "Go ahead, Roger Barnes—there's nothing in life like it; and the good Lord have mercy on you, for the sort of girl worth caring for doesn't know the meaning of the word."

"All gone, little girl," said Anthony jubilantly, as he turned back into the house the next evening, after watching out of sight the big touring-car of Lockwood's which had carried all his house-party away at once. "They are mighty fine people and I like them all immensely—but—I have enjoyed to the full this speeding the parting guest. And now for my vacation. It begins to-morrow."

"What shall we do?" asked Juliet, allowing him to draw her into his favourite settle corner.

"Go fishing. If you'll put up a jolly little—I mean a jolly big—lunch, and array yourself in unspoilable attire, I'll give you a day's great sport, whether we catch any fish or not. There's one fish you're sure of—he's always on the end of your line: hooked fast, and resigned to his fate. Juliet, are they really all gone?"

"I'm sure they are."

"Good Mary McKaim—peace be to her ashes, for she never gets any on the toast—has she gone, too?"

"She's packing."

"Rachel safe at home with her presumable fiancé?"

"He can't be her fiancé, Tony—"

"That's what Lockwood said—but I suppose he can, just the same. Rachel away, do you say?"

"Yes. She didn't come over to-day at all, you know."

"I noticed it—by the gloom on three stalwart men's faces. Well, if everybody's safely out of the way I'm going to commit myself."

"To what, Tony?"

She was laughing, for he had risen, looked all about him with great anxiety, tiptoed to each door and listened at it, and was now come back to stand before her, smiling down at her and holding out his arms.

"To the statement," he said, gathering her close and speaking into her upturned rosy face, "that without doubt this is the dearest home in the world, and that you are the sweetest woman who ever has stood or ever will stand here in it."

XIX.—ALL THE APRIL STARS ARE OUT

It was an April night—balmy with the breath of an exceptionally early spring. All the April stars were out as Anthony came to the door of the little house, and opening it flung himself out upon the porch, drawing great breaths. He looked up into the sky and clasped his arms tightly over his breast.

"O God," he said aloud, "take care of her—"

He went back into the house after a minute, and paced the floor back and forth, back and forth, stopping at each turn to listen at the foot of the stairs; then took up his stride again, his lips set, his eyes dark with anxiety. Over and over he went to the open door to look up at the stars, as if somehow he could bear his ordeal best outdoors.

When half the night had gone Mrs. Dingley came downstairs. Anthony met her at the foot. She smiled reassuringly into his face.

"This is hard for you, dear boy," she said. "But they think by morning—"

"Morning!" he cried.

"Everything is going well—"

"It's only two o'clock. Morning!"

"She says tell you she's going to be very happy soon."

But at that Anthony turned away, where his face could not be seen, and stood by the open door. Mrs. Dingley laid an affectionate hand on his arm.

"Don't worry, Tony," she said gently.

"I can't help it."

"This is new to you. Juliet is young and strong—and full of courage."

"Bless her!"

"In the morning you'll both be very happy."

"I hope so."

"Why, Anthony, dear," said the kindly little woman, "I never knew you to be so faint of heart."

Anthony faced around again. "If my strength could do her any good I'd be a lion for her," he said. "But when all I can do is to wait—and think what I'd do if—"

He was gone suddenly into the night. With a tender smile on her lips Mrs. Dingley went on upon the errand which had brought her downstairs. "It's worth something to a woman to be able to make a man's heart ache like that," she said to herself with a little sigh. Anthony would not have understood, but even in this hour the older woman, in her wisdom, was envying Juliet.

Morning came at last, as mornings do. With the first streaks of the gray dawn Anthony heard a little, high-keyed, strange cry—new to his ears. He leaped up the stairs, four at a time, and paused, breathless, by the closed door of the blue-and-white room. After what seemed to him an interminable time Mrs. Dingley came out. At sight of Anthony her face broke into smiles, and at the same moment tears filled her eyes.

"It's a splendid boy, Tony," she said. "I meant to come to you the first minute, but I waited to be perfectly sure. He didn't breathe well at first."

But Anthony pushed this news aside impatiently. "Juliet?" he questioned eagerly.

"She's all right, you poor man," Mrs. Dingley assured him. "You shall see her presently, just for a minute. The first thing she said was, 'Tell Tony.' Go down now—I'll call you soon."

Anthony stole away downstairs to the outer door again. This time he ran out upon the porch and down the lawn and orchard, in the early half-light, to the willow path by the brook. He dashed along this path to its end and back again, as if he must in some way give expression to his relief from the tension of the night. But he was back and waiting impatiently long before he received his summons to his wife's room.

On his way up he wrung the friendly hand of Dr. Joseph Wilberforce, the best man in the city at times like these, and thanked him in a few uneven words. Then he came to the door of the blue-and-white room.

"Don't be afraid, Tony," said a very sweet, clear voice; "we're ever so well—Anthony Robeson, Junior, and I."

Anthony Robeson, Senior, walked across the room in a dim, gray fog which obscured nearly everything except the sight of a pair of eyes which were shining upon him brightly enough to penetrate any fog. At the bedside he dropped upon his knees.

"I suppose I'm an awful chump," he murmured, "but nothing ever broke me up so in all my life."

Juliet laughed. It was not a sentimental greeting, but she understood all it meant. "But I'm so happy, dear," she said.

"Are you? Somehow I can't seem to be—yet. I'm too badly scared."

"He's such a beautiful big boy."

"I suppose I shall be devoted to him some time, but all I can think of now is to make sure I've got you."

The pleasant-faced nurse in her white cap came softly in and glanced at Tony meaningly.

"If you'll come in here you may see your son, Mr. Robeson," she said, and went out again.

Anthony bent over his wife. "Little mother," he whispered, with a kiss, and obediently went.

Across the hall he stood looking dazedly down at the round, warm bundle the nurse laid in his arms.

"My son," he said; "how odd that sounds."

Then he hastily gave the bundle back to the nurse and got away downstairs, wiping the perspiration from his brow.

"Never dreamed it was going to knock me over like this," he was saying to himself. "I can't look at her; I can't look at him; I feel like a big boy who has seen a little fellow take his thrashing for him."

And in this humble—albeit most sincerely thankful—frame of mind he absently drank his breakfast coffee, and never realised that in her confusion of spirit good Mary McKaim, who was here again in time of need, had brewed him instead a powerful cup of tea.

XX.—A PRIOR CLAIM

"Come up, come up—you're just the people we want," cried Anthony heartily from his own porch. "Thought you'd be getting out to see us some of these fine August nights. Sit down—Juliet will be out in a minute."

"Baby asleep?" asked Judith Carey, as she and Wayne settled comfortably into two of the deep bamboo chairs with which the porch was furnished.

"To be sure he's asleep at this hour," Anthony assured her proudly; "been asleep for two hours. Regular as a clock, that youngster. Nurse trained him right at the beginning, and Juliet has kept it up. Four months old now, and sleeps from six at night till four in the morning without waking. How's that?"

"I suppose it's remarkable," agreed Wayne meekly, "but I don't know anything about it. He might sleep twenty-three hours out of twenty-four—I shouldn't understand whether to call him a prodigy or an idiot."

"Why, yes, you would," Judith interposed with spirit. "Think of that baby on the floor above us. They're walking the floor half the night with her."

"Girl babies may be different," Carey suggested diffidently, at which Anthony shouted. "I don't care—all the girls I ever knew wanted to sit up nights," Carey insisted with a feeble grin.

Juliet came out, welcoming her friends with the cordiality for which she was famous. "It's so hot in town," she condoled with them. "You should get out into our delicious air oftener. Somehow, with our breezes we don't mind the heat."

"It's heaven here, anyhow," sighed Carey, stretching back in his chair with a long breath. Judith looked sober.

"You say it's heaven," commented Anthony, staring hard at his friend, "and you profess to admire everything we do, and eat, and say, but you continue to pay good money every week for a lot of extremely dubious comforts—from my point of view."

"It's one of the very best places in that part of the city," protested Judith.

Anthony eyed her keenly. "Yes; if that's what you're paying for you've got it, I admit. If it's a consolation to you to know that the address you give when you go shopping is one that you're not ashamed of—why, you're all right. But I reckon Juliet here doesn't blush when she orders things sent home to the country."

"Oh, Juliet—" began Judith; "she doesn't need an address to make all the salespeople pay her their most respectful attention. She—"

"I understand," said Anthony. "That sweetly imperious way of hers when she shops—I remember it the first time I ever went shopping with her—"

Juliet gave him a laughing glance. "If I remember," she said, "it wasn't I who did all the dictating on that historic expedition when we furnished this house."

"We've got to go shopping again," Anthony informed them. "We're planning to put a little wing on the house, opening from under the stairs in the living-room, for a nursery and a den."

"Going to put the two together?" asked a new voice from the dimness of the lawn.

"Oh—hullo, Roger Barnes, M.D., F.R.C.S.—come up. No, I think we'll have a partition between. But I want a room below stairs for Tony, Junior, so his mother won't wear herself out carrying him up and down. That youngster weighs seventeen pounds and a fraction already."

"I was confident I'd get some statistics if I came out," said the doctor, settling himself near Juliet—with a purpose, as she instantly recognised. "It seemed to me I couldn't wait longer to learn how much he had gained since I met Tony day before yesterday. It was seventeen without the fraction then."

"That's right—guy me," returned Anthony comfortably. "I don't mind—I've the boy."

"I want a talk with you," said the doctor softly to Juliet, as the others fell to discussing the project of the enlarged house. "I've got to have it, too—or go off my head."

Juliet nodded, understanding him. Presently she rose. "I have an errand to do," she said. "Will you walk over to the Evanstons' with me, Roger?"

"Now, tell me," began the doctor the instant they were off, "is she going to persist in this awful sacrifice?"

"Poor Rachel," breathed Juliet. "So many lovers—and so unhappy."

"Is she unhappy?" begged the doctor. "Is she? If I only were sure of it—"

"What girl wouldn't be unhappy—to be making even one man out of two as miserable as you?"

"But you know what I mean. Is she going to marry Huntington out of love as well as pity—or only pity?"

"Roger"—Juliet stood still in the road, regarding him in the dim light with kind eyes—"if I knew I wouldn't tell you. That's Rachel's secret. But I don't know. She's as loyal as a magnet, and as reserved as—you would want her to be if you were Mr. Huntington."

"She's everything she ought to be. I'm a dastard for saying it, but I could forgive her for being disloyal enough to him to show me just a corner of her heart. Even if she loves him it's what I called it—an awful sacrifice—a man dying with consumption. If she doesn't—except as the friend of her early girlhood, when she didn't know men or her own heart—Juliet, it's impious."

"Roger, dear, keep hold of yourself," Juliet replied. "You're too strong and fine to want to come between her and her own decision—if she has made it."

"If you were a man," said he hotly, "would you let a woman marry you—dying?"

"Yes," answered Juliet stoutly, "if she insisted."

"Women are capable of saying anything in an argument," he growled. "I say it's outrageous to let her do it. She doesn't love him—she does love me," he blurted.

Juliet turned to him anxiously. "Roger, do you know what you are saying?"

"Yes, I do. I've got to tell somebody, and there's nobody but you—you perfect woman. If ever a man knew a thing without its being put into words I know that. It was only a look, weeks ago, but I'm as sure of it as I am of myself. I've had nothing but coolness from her since, but that's in self-defense. And the thought that, loving me, she's going to give herself to him—a wreck—do you wonder it's driving me mad?"

"You ought not to have told me this," said Juliet, tears in her voice. "If Rachel is doing this it's because she's sure she ought—"