"So you love him, do you, little girl?" he asked, smiling faintly down at her as he encircled her with his great arm.

"Yes, Zenas Henry," she whispered.

For a moment he held her close as if he could never let her go.

"Well, Tiny," he said, "I don't know as we have anything to say against it. He's your nephew an' she's my daughter--yes, my daughter," he added fiercely, "in spite of the Lees and the Galbraiths." With a swift gesture he turned toward Robert Morton. "Young man, I am payin'

you a heavy fee for that motor-boat. I'm handin' over to you the most precious thing I have in the world. See you value it as you should or, by G.o.d, your life won't be worth a straw to Willie, the three captains, or me."

They saw him wheel abruptly and stride alone into the shadow of the low pines. Silently the others drifted from the room and Delight was left alone with her lover.

As Bob caught the girl in his arms, a great wave of pa.s.sion surged through his body, causing its every fiber to vibrate in tune with the mad beating of his heart. He kissed her hair, her cheeks, the white curve of her exquisite throat; he buried his face in her hair and let his hands wander over its silky ripples.

"I love you," he panted,--"I love you with all my heart. Tell me you love me, Delight."

"You know I do," was the shy answer.

Again he kissed her soft lips.

"I mustn't stay, Bob," she said at last, trying to draw herself from his embrace. "Zenas Henry is alone somewhere, almost broken-hearted; I must find and comfort him."

But the arms that held her did not loosen their hold.

"Please let me go, Bob dear," she coaxed. "We mustn't be selfish."

Her request struck the right note and instantly she was free.

Robert Morton followed her to the door and stood watching as she hurried along the copper-matted path of the woods sunflecked and mottled with shadow.

What a sweet miracle it was, he mused! She was his now before all the world, thanks to Willie's skilful pilotage. Where was the little old man--that dreamer of dreams, who with Midas-like touch left upon everything with which he came in contact the golden impress of his heart? He must seek him out and thank him for his aid.

Perhaps the thought carried with it a potent charm of magic, for no sooner had Robert Morton framed it than the inventor himself appeared on the threshold.

"Well, another of my ships has made port!" cried he triumphantly.

His delicate face was illumined with a joy so transcendent that one might easily have believed that it was to him love's touchstone had been given.

"I never can thank you, Willie!" burst out the young man.

"Be good to Delight, my boy, an' make her happy; that's all the thanks I want," was the grave response.

A pause fell between them. Perhaps Willie was thinking of the days that must inevitably come when the girl he had loved since childhood would be far away. How dull the gray house would be when she no longer flitted in and out its doors! Try as he would to banish the selfish reflection, it returned persistently. Then suddenly something quite outside himself put the reverie to rout.

It was the querulous voice of Janoah Eldridge.

"I was right about them Galbraiths," he cried exultantly, standing in the doorway and hurling the words into the room where the two men lingered. "'Twas exactly as I said. Lyman Bea.r.s.e's boy went up on the Boston train one afternoon in front of Snelling an' that other feller who was here, an' he heard every word they uttered. He said they talked the whole way about gettin' a patent out on your invention.

Now, Willie Spence, was I right or warn't I? Mebbe you'll believe me the next time I warn you against folks."

CHAPTER XXI

SURPRISES

The next morning Robert Morton awoke with the fixed determination that another sun should not go down until he had acquainted Mr. Galbraith with Janoah's accusations. The misgivings, the suspicions, the fears he entertained must be cleared up at any cost or further residence beneath Willie's roof would be impossible. If necessary he would go to New York to see the financier. But he must know where the blame for Snelling's treachery lay, whether with the capitalist or with his employee. Accordingly he arose early, and having breakfasted went down to the store where the nearest telephone was and called up the Belleport residence. He was fortunate in getting Parker, the old butler, on the wire.

"Mr. Galbraith, Mr. Bob?" came the voice of the servant. "Yes, sir, he arrived home last night. I think he is going over to Wilton to-day to see you. I heard him saying something about it. Wait a minute. I hear him on the stairs now."

There was a pause; then after a delay another voice that Bob instantly recognized to be that of the master of the house called:

"Bob? Well, h.e.l.lo, boy! I guess you thought we had all left you and your affairs high and dry, didn't you? I've been in New York, you know--am just back. I want to see you as soon as I can about several important matters. Suppose I run over in the car this morning? Will you be there? Good! I'll see you later, then."

Robert Morton hung up the receiver and walked meditatively along the sandy road to the gray cottage. The die was cast. Whatever happened, it could not be worse than had been the days of suspense and anxiety that he had endured.

The morning was close and humid, a land breeze wafting across the fields perfumes of sun-scorched pine and blossoming roses. Scarce a ripple marred the glittering surface of the bay that stretched like a sheet of burnished bra.s.s as far as one could see. Now and then a faint zephyr, rising from the wooded slopes, swept down the hill, swirling into billows of vivid emerald the coa.r.s.e salt gra.s.s that swayed on the marshes. So still it was that every whisper of the surf lapping the edge of the bar could be heard; over and over the waters stole up on the sh.o.r.e, fretted into foam and receded, each wave creeping rhythmically back into the deep to a song of shifting sand and pebbles.

How silvery the tiny houses of the hamlet looked against the azure of the sky! The few scattered trees that had braved the onslaughts of repeated gales listed landward, but the pines sheltered in the hollows of the dunes stood erect and darkly mysterious, their plumes bending idly in the soft wind.

It was all a part of the idyl, the daydream, Robert Morton thought,--too flawless a thing to last. Willie, so childlike and simple, his kindly aunt, Delight with her rare beauty, and even the romance of his love seemed a part of its unreality. Was it not to be expected that sooner or later man with his blundering touch would destroy the loveliness, making prose of the poem? The Galbraiths, Snelling, the greed for money, Janoah's jealousy and evil suspicions--ah, it did not take long for such influences to mar the peace of a heaven and smear the grime of earth upon its fairness! Only glimpses of perfection were granted the dwellers of this planet,--quick, transient flashes that mirrored a future free from finite limitations. He who expected to remain on the heights in this world was doomed to disappointment.

Slowly he skirted the curving beach and reached the weathered cottage where the sun beat hotly down, kissing into flower every bud of the clinging roses that festooned its gray doorway. Willie welcomed him but a glory had pa.s.sed from the old man's face since the conversation of the night before. How could it be otherwise? Sleepless hours had left behind them weary, careworn lines; and in the troubled depths of the blue eyes the old interrogation had once more awakened. Bob knew not how to meet its silent combat between hope and disappointment, and he hailed as a glad relief the beating echo of the Galbraiths'

motor-car as it swept the horseshoe outline of the harbor and came to a stop before the gate.

Mr. Galbraith, who was alone, beckoned to him, and as the younger man climbed to the seat beside him said:

"I thought perhaps you might like to go for a spin along the sh.o.r.e. It is warm to-day and we shall get more breeze; besides, we can talk more freely in the automobile than here or at the Belleport house. Roger has just arrived and also Howard Snelling."

In spite of himself, Robert Morton betrayed his surprise.

"Mr. Snelling back again!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, he is down," was the laconic answer.

For all his boasted eagerness to talk, however, Richard Galbraith did not immediately avail himself of the privilege of conversation. On the contrary, as Bob shot a questioning glance toward him, he thought he detected for the first time in his life a strange uneasiness in the capitalist's habitually self-contained manner. He seemed to be framing an introduction for what he wished to say.

"I have several matters to talk over with you, Bob," he began at last in a resolute tone. "Some of them are pleasant and some of them may not, I fear, prove to be so. But we must take them as they come, and pleasant or unpleasant, I want you to believe that I have no choice but to place them before you. I have always felt for you a warm friendship, my boy, and that friendship has in no way lessened.

Therefore if any word I speak causes you unhappiness, I want you to remember that I only say it because I must. We are not always permitted to readjust life according to our inclinations. Duty maps out many of our paths and we must close our lips and travel them."

He stopped as if considering how to proceed.

"While in New York," he presently resumed, "I probated Madam Lee's will. She was possessed of a large estate and knew very definitely what she wanted done with it. The will was made several years ago, and no doc.u.ment that I have ever seen was more specifically and conscientiously drawn up. Although she left jewels and heirlooms to my family, she left none of her other property to the Galbraiths, explaining that her daughter had all she needed and that both Cynthia and Roger had more already than was good for them." He smiled humorously. "I guessed pretty accurately what she intended to do, as some time ago we talked the matter over, and I heartily approved of her proposed bequest."

He cleared his throat and in wondering silence Robert Morton waited.

"The property was left in bulk to an old friend whom Madam Lee had known for years--some one entirely outside the family."

Bob did not speak.

"I would gladly see the Lee money administered as its owner desired to have it," Mr. Galbraith went on. "Her ideas were wise, kind, and just, and the fulfilment of her wishes would have brought to me--to us all--the greatest happiness. But since that will was made a new condition has arisen. Delight Hathaway, the child of her favorite daughter, has appeared. Had the old lady lived, I feel certain that in view of this fact she would have altered the doc.u.ment that this girl might inherit at least a portion of the fortune in which her mother never had any share. You knew Madam Lee very intimately, Bob--probably better than any of the rest of us. What do you think?"