HEIRLOOMS

As the Fabian car started toward home, Edgar hoped his sister would rally him on his failure to chastise the puny artist from the West. Anything was better than one of Kathleen's "stills," as he called his sister's periods of scornful silence. He was Kathleen's elder, he was her brother. By every law of propriety she should be guided by him and lean upon his opinions; but as he now reflected she was "more apt to jump on them."

At present her sombre eyes looked straight ahead under the picture hat, and her countenance expressed only composure of mind and body. He had thrown away his cigarette, and he began to hum the favorite aria from "Madam Butterfly." Kathleen, if she spoke at all, would probably try to persuade him to say nothing to their mother of the scene just passed. He would offer her an opening for speech. Perhaps she was anxious in spite of her acted composure.

"I heard 'Butterfly' last week," he said. "Farrar can have me."

Silence.

"Well," he looked around at the slender dark face with the eyes full of slumberous fire. "Well, why don't you get off one of those juices of yours about the fair Geraldine probably not being aware of her good luck, et cetera?"

The chauffeur was playing with the speed limit. They would soon be at home. Kathleen realized that this would be the only opportunity to speak with her brother alone.

She slowly turned her head and met his quickly averted gaze. "You are not usually so chivalrous toward mother," she said. "Why did you think it worth while to make such a fuss?"

"Twitting on facts is bad taste," declared Edgar with his usual air of insouciance. If his sister would only talk, all would be well.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Why, Aunt Mary's faithful retainer showed the poorest possible taste. She said if mother knew that those antiques were left unprotected by anything but the oil-stove, she would prance over to that stable and nab them."

Kathleen stared at him. "Do you mean that she would?"

"Like a shot," responded Edgar cheerfully. "Wasn't I bound to resent it?"

Kathleen kept silence a space. Since she had been at home this time, her mother had told her with some excitement of Eliza's presumption in retaining articles of no value to a servant.

"And whether I was warranted or not," went on Edgar, elated by her muteness, "'there comes an opportunity in the lives of men' which seldom knocks on a man's door the second time. I flatter myself I was quick enough to shut the box between that wild and woolly Westerner and us, so that he won't expect anything more of me, in any event."

"I should think not," returned Kathleen slowly. "The childish way you took your playthings and went home was ridiculous."

Edgar's face flamed. "Don't be nasty, Kathleen, just because you know how," he said, dropping his careless tone. "No doubt you thought it was very funny to see me lifted about like a doll, and on my knees lighting a stove. I went there to please you, but I can tell you a very little of alleys and stables will do for me. When I go slumming it'll be where the poor know their place and know mine."

"Oh, Edgar," said Kathleen hopelessly. "Well, is it your intention to tell mother what happened?"

"I'm going to keep that up my sleeve. It may come in handy sometime."

"It would hurt her feelings, and do no good," said the girl.

"Do no good? What! Not if it kept her from inviting the cowboy early and often to the house? Oh, yes, I've no doubt he's got you all right. He's a looker, and girls are all alike."

Kathleen did not condescend to notice this thrust. Her eyes turned back to gaze upon the road as it flew beneath their car. "Don't lie awake planning to avoid Mr. Sidney," she said quietly. "He will probably always see you first; but from the moment you tell mother about this petty little scene we've just passed through, you need never come to me for assistance in any line. I shall not give it to you."

Stealing a side glance at his sister's face, Edgar Fabian knew that she meant what she said.

"Supposing," she went on presently, "that you had smoothed over an awkward moment, and that we had had tea in Aunt Mary's egg-shell cups, and had let that brave fellow think he was giving us pleasure, and that you had sung something to his mandolin in your charming voice;—think of the difference in situation to us all. Instead of four hurt people, scattering, and feeling awkward and ashamed, we should have given the stranger in a strange land a little housewarming to begin life with here."

"Not four hurt people, if you please," retorted Edgar with bravado; but he was surprised, and somewhat affected by his sister's picture. His charming voice would doubtless have increased the host's respect for him.

"I expect sometime, of course," he went on with a superior air, "to be a patron of the arts to a certain extent. If the cowboy makes good, and learns to keep his hands off his betters, I may do something for him yet."

Kathleen's risibles were not easily stirred; but now she laughed low, and so heartily that Edgar's inflation over her compliment to his voice became as a pricked balloon. She even wiped away a tear as she ceased.

"Philip Sidney is going to interest the patrons of art," she said at last.

"What makes you so sure?" asked Edgar with a sneer. "His physique?"

"His sketches, his superiority to his circumstances, and his behavior to Eliza," returned Kathleen composedly.

"Great Scott!" exclaimed her brother. "I'd like to see myself saddled with that gargoyle and a wild-cat, in an unfurnished stable on a dismal afternoon."

"Yes, you've shown your sympathy and assistance in a manly and powerful manner," said Kathleen, as the car stopped before the brown-stone front of their home.

"Sarcasm, Miss Fabian," returned her brother, as he assisted her to alight, "is the cheapest and meanest of weapons. Each one to his taste. That state of things suited him. It wouldn't suit me. That's all. It takes all sorts of people to make the world."

Mrs. Fabian was in the drawing-room, and as her children entered she looked up expectantly, then her face fell.

"I told you to bring Phil back with you to tea."

"I forgot it, mother, really," said Kathleen. She sat down and began taking off her gloves. "But he couldn't have come."

"No," added Edgar. "He had a guest; your friend Eliza Brewster was there with her cat."

"Eliza!" echoed Mrs. Fabian, sitting up. "Is she going to cook for Philip?"

"No," said Kathleen. "She is going to Brewster's Island to-night."

"I tried," added Edgar, "to get her to send you the cat as a souvenir, but she refused."

"I'm glad she is leaving town," said Mrs. Fabian. "She is a very ungrateful person and I detest ingratitude. Moreover, a person who is in an anomalous position is always annoying, and Aunt Mary made Eliza so much a member of her family that the woman doesn't know her place. What was she doing over at Phil's?"

"Overseeing the moving in of Aunt Mary's dunnage," replied Edgar.

"Why! Has he more than one room?" asked Mrs. Fabian with interest.

"No, mother," said Kathleen, in a tone designed to offset Edgar's sprightly scorn. "He has just one, and nothing in it but piles of Indian blankets and a table and chair."

"The chair for Eliza, mind you," put in Edgar, "while Kathleen and I were stowed on the floor."

A spark glowed in the girl's eyes as she regarded her brother. "He let you sit on a barrel, I remember," she said.

"Oh, yes," returned Edgar; "and speaking of barrels," he went on, a belligerent spark glowing in his eyes, "a ripping thing happened. All this old stuff came over while we were there, and among them a barrel of dishes. Well, Sidney opened it and began taking out the things, but instead of the coarse stuff Eliza had meant to give him, there were gold-banded china, and colonial silver tea-things—"

Mrs. Fabian's backbone suddenly seemed of steel. "Aunt Mary had a few fine old things," she interrupted.

"Well, there they were. She'd given Sidney the wrong barrel. You should have seen her face. She was ready to faint."

"You say she leaves to-night?" Mrs. Fabian's eyes were looking far away through the wall of her house toward Gramercy Park. "Philip won't want the care of those delicate old things," she added. "I'll get some proper ones for him in the morning."

Edgar laughed gleefully, none the less that Kathleen's lips were grave.

"If I were you, mother," said the girl, "I would let them work it out. Eliza seems to have taken the helm over there."

"Of course she has," agreed Mrs. Fabian sharply. "Taking is Eliza's forte. That china and silver belonged to my grandmother. If Aunt Mary didn't have enough thoughtfulness to leave it to me in writing, is that any reason it should not be mine?"

"Aunt Mary knew," said Kathleen, "that you had everything you wanted."

"Everything I needed, perhaps," retorted Mrs. Fabian, with excitement, "but I certainly want my own grandmother's things; and Providence has thrown them into my hands. I shall explain everything to Philip and he will be glad to have me take them. Isn't he all that I said he was, Kathleen?"

"He is very interesting," returned Kathleen quietly.

Then she rose and went to the door. Edgar followed her uneasily to the foot of the stairs.

"I'm not going to peach, Kath, don't worry," he said. "I'll keep the compact. I just wanted to prove to you that I knew the mater."

His sister turned on him. "I told you that you should have been the girl and I the man," she said; and he winced under the contempt of her look. "If mother gets those things to-morrow, the result for you will be just what I promised. I shall never be at your call again."

"You said—" began Edgar, perturbed.

But Kathleen ran swiftly upstairs. Her brother returned to the drawing-room.

"What's the matter with Kathleen?" inquired Mrs. Fabian. "She behaved so strangely."

"Oh," returned Edgar, shaking his head as if exasperated beyond patience, "Kath's a stiff. She can't see a joke if she runs into it. Now, I think that barrel business was funny, don't you?"

"It's something more than funny," returned Mrs. Fabian impressively. "It's Providence, as I said."

"Well, now, I'll wager," declared her son argumentatively, "that if you take the law into your own hands and bring that old truck over here, Kathleen will cut us both."

"What in the world is the reason? Was she so impressed with Philip? I think he's irresistible myself, but Kathleen is so unimpressionable—and beside, he won't disapprove."

"I'm not so sure. He treats Eliza as if she was the one best bet. I don't pretend to know all Kath thinks. She's a high-brow and a crank. Do you suppose she'd look at a man unless he was a college professor? I guess not."

"Don't speak of your sister so, Edgar. You have reason to be grateful that she is not an ordinary silly flirt."

"Flirt!" ejaculated Edgar, with rolling eyes. "Do you suppose she'd sit on the stairs with anything but a Latin book, or flirt with anything but a microscope?"

"Well, then, you don't have to worry about her?"

"Don't I!" retorted Edgar laconically.

"I must say," pursued Mrs. Fabian virtuously, "it is too much for Kathleen always to expect me to hold her judgment superior to mine. I shall do in this matter what I see fit."

"Then it's all up with me," observed Edgar.

"What do you mean?"

"She'll visit it on me. She always does." Edgar was beginning to wish that he had not played with fire. "Beside, in this case, Eliza says that old stuff belongs to her; is hers to do as she pleases with."

"Yes," returned Mrs. Fabian, with righteous indignation. "Possession is nine tenths of the law; and if I get that possession we'll see what the law can do for her!"

"Oh," protested Edgar petulantly, "why do you want to bother with it?"

His mother's eyes were glistening. In fancy she saw the convenient barrel in which was compactly stowed Aunt Mary's little store of heirlooms.

"Because," she answered with dignity, "genuine old things like that are not to be despised. They would be just the thing at the island."

"That's what Eliza thought," said Edgar drily.

"The idea," exclaimed Mrs. Fabian, "of her using such things in the sort of home she'll have!"

"Perhaps she'll console Mrs. Wright with them," said Edgar. "You were pitying her last night for her winter exile."

"If she did, Mrs. Wright would give them back to me at once," declared Mrs. Fabian; "but never mind, there will be no need now. Providence has thrown them right into my hands. Occasionally you can see justice work out in this world."

Edgar looked toward the portiÈres. Kathleen might return. There was no sign of any one approaching, however.

"Well, I'm in wrong with Kath for having spoken of it, then," he said. "Let me have twenty, will you, mother? You can afford to on the strength of the heirlooms."

"I can't, Edgar."

"Ten, then; you owe me that much, I'm sure."

Mrs. Fabian's lips took a tight line.

"You know, Edgar," she said impressively, "your father has forbidden me to give you money. He says you must learn the worth of it."

The youth shrugged his shoulders impatiently, and throwing himself into an easy-chair, stretched his legs toward the blazing logs and stared at the fire with the gloom of one who feels that he has killed the goose that laid the golden eggs. He had not, however, told of Eliza's insult and his own wrathful departure from the stable. He could defend himself to Kathleen so far, when next they met, and it might possibly soften her heart.

When Philip Sidney bounded up the stable stairs, he came in upon Eliza, who was standing as he had left her, and with such a woe-begone expression that, meeting her tragical gaze, he burst into a peal of laughter.

"Oh, Mr. Philip, Mr. Philip!" she mourned. "I've spoiled everything."

"What! Let the kettle boil over?"

"No, no; you'll make light of it for my sake; but I've turned the Fabians against you! That pert little bantam will go home and tell his mother everything, and it'll make a lot o' difference. They might have been lots o' use to you."

"Don't borrow trouble, Eliza. I'm not going to have our last visit spoiled. I don't make use of my friends anyway; and beside, I'm going to be too busy to have any. Come, now, make the tea. I want to see you drink so much that you 'swell wisibly before my wery eyes.' Shall we use this fine old silver jug?"

"Mr. Sidney." Eliza wrung her hands. "You're awful smart and strong; can we get this barrel headed up again and off to the depot to-night?"

"Why," Phil hesitated, "I suppose so, but wouldn't you rather have your tea in comfort now, before we go out to dinner, and let me do the barrel to-morrow and send it off?"

"There wouldn't be any barrel," returned Eliza darkly. "Not unless you packed and sent it before you went to your school."

"Why not?"

"You heard me tell 'em right to their face," said Eliza.

"Oh, surely," protested Phil, "you don't think Mrs. Fabian would do anything highhanded?"

"Wouldn't she, though?" returned Eliza. "She hasn't got over it yet that Mrs. Ballard sent your mother a diamond pin and didn't leave her anything."

Phil looked puzzled. "Why didn't Aunt Mary remember Aunt Isabel?" he asked.

"To tell the truth, I don't think Mrs. Ballard meant to slight her. She just didn't think anything about it. She knew Mrs. Fabian was rich, and didn't suppose she'd care for any of her little things. Your mother always acted human toward her, and was her namesake, and 'twas natural she should send her something."

"Well, well; have a cup of tea anyway." Eliza's pallor went to her host's heart. He went to the window and brought in the lemon and sugar.

Eliza followed him with her eyes.

"Do you think you can, Mr. Sidney?" she asked, her hands interlocked.

"Can what?"

"Do the barrel. I'll never forget it of you," she said fervently.

"I can't believe there's any necessity for such haste. Pat's a good watch-dog so far as thieves are concerned."

"You don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Sidney. Trust me, it's my only chance to save the dishes; and I tell you she might have the whole kit and boodle of 'em and welcome, if she'd been kind, or even decent to that little angel. 'T ain't the silver and things I want. It's to keep 'em away from her."

Phil could see that Eliza was trembling in her intensity. She had shaken her head until she had again loosened the grey locks about her gaunt face.

"I don't care anything about anything to eat, Mr. Sidney," she went on. "I can head up the barrel myself in some kind of a way, but it's got to go to the depot or else I don't, and my berth's all paid for."

"How did you ever happen to be born in New England?" returned Phil meditatively, noting her clenched hands. "You and Bernhardt would have been rivals. Settle down comfortably now. Make the tea and I'll head up the barrel after you have used one of these cups. If necessary, we'll ride on the wagon."

"Oh, Mr. Sidney, can we ride on the wagon?" exclaimed Eliza in a frenzy of gratitude.

Phil laughed. "Anyway, the barrel shall leave here to-night. I'll take one of my brushes and do such high-art addressing that it will follow you meekly to the island. Don't you worry another moment. I guarantee it."

"Then it'll have to leave here before we do," persisted Eliza.

"It shall leave here before we do. Now, are you satisfied?"

Eliza heaved a deep sigh of relief and proceeded to make the tea.

Phil was inclined to be impatient with her fears; but the next day, when he returned from the Academy, Pat met him with a grin.

"Sure ye're the divil of a bye," he said with an expansive gesture. "I'll have to put on a biled shirt every day to resave yer company. 'T was no less than the Queen o' Sheby came to see ye this mornin' an' you not gone tin minutes."

"A lady—the one who was here yesterday?"

"Sure 't was no slip of a girl in a big hat to-day, 'T was a queen, I'm tellin' ye. She rolled up in her motor car an' come here an' knocked on me door, an' me without a collar on. She was dressed in furs an' looked like she owned the earth.

"'I wish to see Mr. Sidney,' says she.

"'Thin ye'll have to go farther, mum,' says I. 'Ye'll find him at the paintin' school,' says I.

"She didn't need any paint herself, I'm tellin' ye. She got rid in the face while she was talkin'.

"'I'm his aunt,' says she, haughty-like, 'an' as long as I'm here I'll see his room,' says she; an' wid that she wint up them stairs like they belonged to her. I heerd her movin' around, an' I hurried to button me collar an' slick up. Presently I dropped the comb, for I heerd her comin' back. Before she'd got away downstairs, 'What have ye done wid the barrel?' says she. 'What bar'l? ' says I. 'The wan Mr. Sidney had here last night,' says she. Thin I remembered there was wan. 'It moved out,' says I, 'wid his company,' says I. 'What company?' says she, and her eyes snapped the way I expected to hear her say, 'Off with his head!'

"'A lady,' says I, 'wid a cat in a basket. 'T was a reg'lar movin',' says I.

"She bit her lip, and muttered: 'Just like her!' I heerd her plain, though she wasn't lookin' at me no more. Take an auld man's advice, me bye. Kape away from the Queen o' Sheby for a while; an' if ye don't tell me what was in that bar'l rollin' up an' down stairs like a restless soul, I'll be havin' the nightmare, sure."

Phil laughed, and shook his head. "The ways of women, Pat," he said, "are so far beyond me that I can't even guess."

"Can't guess what was in the bar'l? Tell me, now, or ye'll not git the key to the park nor meet yer sweetheart."

"There were dishes and silver in that barrel, Pat. Each of the women thinks she owns them."

"I'd bet on the Queen o' Sheby," said Pat.

"You'd lose, then," returned Phil, running upstairs.