THE PEACEMAKER

Kathleen Fabian, out of school in that month of June, was at home in body, but with her mind still clinging about the scenes of her college life.

"I do believe, all things considered," said her mother when they were sitting alone one morning over their coffee, "that I am against college for girls!"

Kathleen looked up absent-mindedly from the letter she had been reading. "What's the matter?" she asked vaguely.

"You have scarcely heard a word I have said since you came home," declared Mrs. Fabian. "Your thoughts are a thousand miles away all the time."

"Not a thousand," protested the girl. "Four years is a long time, you know. To break up one's home—to break all those ties—means so much."

"Exactly what I say," retorted Mrs. Fabian. "I should like to know when you will begin again to realize that this is home, and that your father and mother would like some share in your thoughts."

"Why, I must be horribly selfish," returned the girl.

"There it is again!" exclaimed her mother, increasingly nettled. "If it takes unselfishness to show some interest in home after a girl leaves college, I say she had better not go there."

"Very well," returned Kathleen, smiling. "Don't you ever send another daughter; but I'm glad you made the mistake with me. I've been so happy, mother."

"Oh, well," returned Mrs. Fabian, somewhat mollified by the wistfulness of the girl's look and tone, "I suppose you have, and perhaps it is all for the best; but hereafter, when I speak to you, I intend to begin 'Kathleen Fabian!' and you must reply 'Present' before I go on."

"Have you been talking to me?" asked Kathleen naÏvely.

"Well, rather. I have been telling you something that should be very interesting, considering the height of the thermometer. Father says we are to start for the island next Wednesday; and I am holding in my hand an acceptance from Philip Sidney to my invitation to go with us."

"How very nice," said Kathleen courteously.

Mrs. Fabian, always on the sensitive lookout where her young relative was concerned, thought she detected a perfunctory note.

"You knew I had asked him?"

"Yes, I think you did mention it before Commencement."

"He says," said Mrs. Fabian, "that you have never talked to him about the island."

"But think," returned Kathleen, "how seldom I have talked with him."

"Yes," returned her mother resignedly, "and how full your head is of other matters. You were very nice to Phil on Christmas night, here. I wasn't sure but that you would invite him yourself."

"Oh, why should I?"

"No reason, if you don't see any. Phil was very polite to you at your graduation. Those flowers were exquisite."

"Yes." The girl smiled. "They would have worried me, but that I know flowers are cheaper in June."

"I don't think that's a very nice thing to say," observed Mrs. Fabian.

"I meant it very nicely," returned Kathleen mildly.

"Well, perhaps it isn't so strange that you have not talked the island to him, since you have been engrossed in other things; but I have had all the trouble in the world to induce him to go; and if you had roused his enthusiasm a little it would have been easier."

"Why have you urged him?" asked the girl.

Her mother regarded her for a pause, in exasperated silence. "Are you aware," she returned at last, "that it is 87 in the shade this morning? Are you aware that these rooms, where the draught constantly changes the air, are slightly different from that studio, baking under a stable roof and hemmed in by high buildings?"

"Of course, of course!"

"Are you aware," went on Mrs. Fabian sonorously, "that one who has always previously had a home might find a brief change from cheap restaurants invigorating in hot weather?"

"I didn't know," said Kathleen. "I thought perhaps he was too busy to notice. He"—she hesitated, but imperceptibly to Mrs. Fabian,—"he has not called here since I returned."

"That's just it," flashed Phil's defender. "He never spares himself. He thinks of nothing but work. Now, I have never forced any of my relatives on the Fabians," with heightened color, "but your father likes Phil. He was delighted to have me ask him. He has charged me to hold on to the boy until he can join us."

"I hope he can stay," put in Kathleen politely.

"If I can get him there," said Mrs. Fabian. "Here is this matter of the berths, as usual. The stateroom has been engaged for a month, but we have only Molly's berth outside."

Kathleen's eyes grew eager. "Well, that's all right," she said. "You won't mind taking Molly in the stateroom in my place, and let Mr. Sidney have her berth. I'll wait and come up with father."

"You not go with us? Kathleen, you're absurd." Color streamed again over Mrs. Fabian's face.

"No, no. That will be a fine plan, and relieve you of all embarrassment. Father will like to have me here, and I shall love to stay with him."

Mrs. Fabian gazed at the girl in silence. She admired Kathleen extravagantly. There was something in the girl's natural poise and elegance which the stepmother, with an innate, unacknowledged consciousness of inferiority, worshipped. She never forgot that Kathleen's mother had been a Van Ruysler. Now, as if it were not enough that Edgar scorned the island, and even if he should be granted leave of absence would not play the courteous host to Phil, now Kathleen was anxious to avoid him, and caught at an excuse to postpone her departure.

The girl grew uncomfortable under the fixed stare bent upon her, and when suddenly Mrs. Fabian dropped her coffee-spoon and burying her face in her hands burst into tears, Kathleen arose in dismay, the soft laces of her nÉgligÉe floating in the breeze she made hastening around the table and taking the weeping one in her arms.

"I don't know what has happened," she said in bewilderment, "but I am sure it is all my fault. I was trying to help you, mother."

"You were not!" responded Mrs. Fabian, as angrily as the softening nature of salt water would permit. "You were trying to avoid that poor, lonely little fellow."

Kathleen bit her lip as memory presented the stalwart, self-confident artist before her.

"You tell me to take my young cousin if I must, and get his visit over with before you come up there to enjoy yourself. You don't care how much you hurt his feelings."

"Why, mother, wouldn't he think it very natural that I should keep father company?"

"No, certainly not, when he knows that Edgar is here. He doesn't know that Edgar isn't any use to anybody, unless it's Mrs. Larrabee. He'd just think the truth: that you don't want to be there at the same time he is."

"Now, mother, you're so mistaken. He wouldn't even miss me. When he gets the view from our porch he won't know whether I'm there or not."

"Very convenient excuse; but you needn't make any more of them. I understand you, Kathleen. Why shouldn't I, when I taught you to walk? I'm foolish to break down before you. I ought to have more pride; but it's the heat. I'm tired and nervous; and you come home from college with no interest except in what you've left behind you, and want to arrange things so that my guest at the island will have his visit spoiled—"

"Mother, he—"

"Nobody at the cottage but me, and nobody to help entertain him but Mrs. Wright and Eliza Brewster and—"

"Mother, he—"

"It's so often that I ask any of my friends there! So often that I bore you and Edgar to look out for my guests! I must always be on hand for yours, to chaperone you and see that all goes smoothly for your plans. I suppose—"

"Mother, indeed—"

"If Phil had sunstroke, it would be all the same to you, just so he kept out of your way; and Christmas week when we went there to tea, how nice he was to us, and so amusing, getting everything in such perfect order that he apologized for not dusting the marshmallows. Oh, my head is just bursting!"

"There, mother dear, I know you will be ill, if you get so excited," said Kathleen, patting the heaving white silken shoulder. "Of course, I'll go to the island with you. I didn't know you cared so much."

Mrs. Fabian lifted her swollen eyes to behold her victory. "There's one comfort, Kathleen," she said, deep catches in her breath. "You never do things by halves. If you do go, you'll never allow Phil to feel that he bores you."

The girl smiled. "No, if I succeed in calling myself to his attention," she answered, "I promise he shan't suspect it."

"If he is sometimes absent-minded," said Mrs. Fabian defensively, "I'm sure I don't know any one who should have so much sympathy with him as you—the very queen of wool-gatherers."

Kathleen laughed and went back to her seat at the table. "I see that I must reform," she replied.

"I'm relieved, and I do thank you," said her mother; "but the question remains, how are we going to get Phil there?"

"That's easy. Send Molly with the other maids by the boat. I'll hook your gown."

"There," returned Mrs. Fabian; "you see, you might have suggested that in the first place. I understand you well enough, Kathleen."

"I thought it would be good fun to hob-nob with father. It's so long since I have."

"I'm going to persuade him to leave business early this year. It has worried him unusually this winter. He can if he only thinks so. I reminded him this morning that if he died, the business would have to get on without him. He agreed, but said in that case the loss would be wholly covered by insurance. Rather grim sort of humor, that. I told him I couldn't see anything funny in such talk."

"Poor father," commented Kathleen. "Everybody is tired this time of year. There should be some arrangement of relays in running a business. The winter workers should be turned out to grass in May."

She looked at her father that evening with observant eyes, as together they moved into his den after dinner. It had been closed from the sun all day and he sank into a big leather armchair by a breeze-blown window, following his daughter's white-clad figure with appreciative eyes.

"I'm glad you're through college, Kath," he said.

"So I can light your cigar the rest of my life?" she asked, seating herself on his knee and applying the lighted match.

"Partly that," he answered, drawing in the flame, "and partly for your mother's sake. She needs more companionship than I can give her. She has a gay nature; she likes going out. I hope you aren't too much like me."

"I hope I'm exactly like you," the girl returned devoutly; and leaning forward, she drew in a mouthful of the fragrant cigar smoke and exhaled it through her nostrils. The movement was quick and graceful, and she looked mischievously pretty.

"Don't do that, you monkey," said her father quickly.

"Why not?"

"I don't like it."

"I'm frightfully unfashionable, because I smoke so little," she returned.

"It's a vicious habit—for women," declared Mr. Fabian.

"But I'm a suffragist; besides, men tolerate it in women now—they like them to do it."

"Not the women they love," said Mr. Fabian quickly.

"Oh!" responded Kathleen.

"When I saw you smoking a cigarette with Edgar a little while ago," he went on, "I spoke to you about it. Don't you remember? I told you how unbecoming I thought it. I hoped you would heed me."

Kathleen met his serious gaze.

"That wasn't a little while ago," she said.

"Certainly it was. This winter."

"It couldn't have been later than November," she went on slowly, "for I haven't touched a cigarette since then."

"Good girl." Mr. Fabian patted her shoulder. "It disgusted me to see you. You'll never do it again?"

"No." She shook her head, and carefully ran her finger through a ring of smoke as it passed her.

"I wish I could get Edgar to say the same," remarked Mr. Fabian.

"You don't set him a good example," she returned.

"You never saw me with a cigarette. Edgar has to abstain from them in the office, but I think he sits up all night to make up for it. I have an idea they contribute to his general uselessness."

Kathleen smoothed the care-worn lines in the speaker's brow with her gentle fingers. He loved their touch.

"I think Edgar isn't smoking much these days," she said.

"Indeed." The response was indifferent. "Why should that be? Does Mrs. Larrabee want them all?"

"It's on account of his voice," said Kathleen.

The tired man of affairs removed his cigar to laugh while his daughter arranged his hair around his temples. "Edgar denying himself!" he ejaculated quietly.

"Yes, father, he's waking up to it," said the girl, with a little serious nod; "and that's one thing Mrs. Larrabee has really done for him—made him believe that his voice is worth working for."

"It's the only thing she can find to flatter him about. That's all that amounts to," said Mr. Fabian, resuming his cigar. "So long as she can make any use of him she will keep him dangling about, and flattery is the best bait."

"But his voice is a real gift," insisted Kathleen, with deliberate emphasis. "Don't you think so?"

"I never heard him sing that I know of—certainly not for years."

"It is beautiful—the heart-reaching kind. If he hadn't been a rich man's son it would have been given to the world in some shape."

"A rich man's son." Mr. Fabian repeated the words quietly, and took his daughter's arm in a strong grasp. "Kathleen, this has been an awful winter. I don't know what the next year will bring forth. Say nothing to your mother, but there are threatening clouds all about me."

"Father!" The girl pressed her cheek to his, and there was a moment of silence; then she spoke again gently. "I have often wished I might have been your son."

The hand that had gripped her arm, stole around her and drew her close.

After a moment, she sat up again and faced him. "I came in here to-night on purpose to speak to you about Edgar," she went on. "He wanted me to intercede for him in a matter."

"A matter of debts, I suppose," said Mr. Fabian, his manner imperturbable again, and his tone bitter.

"Yes, but—"

"I'm through," interrupted the man. "He has had plenty of warning. I would not tell you, Kathleen, the number of foolish, and sometimes disgraceful, affairs I have settled for him."

"I don't doubt it, dear, but let me tell you about this," said the girl seriously. "Edgar has no judgment or foresight. He persists in claiming that he was born with a golden spoon in his mouth and that whatever he can scoop up with it is his right. He is your only son and you owe him unlimited liberty."

"The lessons I have given him would be sufficient if he had any brains," said the father sternly.

"Yes; but just a minute more. This debt will astonish you. It is to Mazzini, the famous voice teacher. He has been studying with him since January."

"Just like his vanity! Let him send the bill to Mrs. Larrabee. It is her doing."

"Yes, it was her doing in the first place, but I suspect from what Edgar says that she is tired of him. He hasn't seen her often of late, and she sails for Europe anyway next week; and Edgar is so interested in his music that now it comes first. His teacher is so enthusiastic!"

"Of course he is!" observed Mr. Fabian cynically. "They're always enthusiastic over the voices of pupils whose pocketbooks will stand the strain."

"Edgar sang for me last night while you and mother were out. Father, it was a beautiful performance. It is the real thing. Of course, he was wrong—crazy, to go into such expense without asking you, for the lessons are frightfully dear; but if the boy were to amount to something in an artistic line, wouldn't it be worth the investment? You are discouraged by his lack of interest in business."

Mr. Fabian's chin sank dejectedly as he flicked the ash from his cigar into the receiver on the stand beside his chair.

"Discouraged by his inability," he said slowly; "discouraged by his lack of principle, by his vanity and conceit. I will give him board and lodging as long as he wishes to live with me; but—"

"Then, dear," interrupted Kathleen, her voice thrilling with the sympathy she felt, "try this one thing more. If the expense doesn't appall you—"

Mr. Fabian shook his head impatiently. "That would be nothing—as yet."

"Edgar can't study through the summer. His teacher is going to Italy. He would like to go with him—" the girl paused doubtfully.

Her father laughed. "I dare say. Edgar's European travel, however, is over until he is engaged to sing before the crowned heads."

"Yes, I supposed so," agreed the girl; "but he means to work faithfully all summer."

"Work faithfully! Edgar!" repeated Mr. Fabian.

"Supposing he should, father. Supposing he has found his niche in life and will do something worth while."

"Wonderful if true," remarked Mr. Fabian.

"But it won't help to disbelieve in him. I know he began all wrong forcing you to pay this money—"

Kathleen arose suddenly, and, moving across the room, opened the heavy door of the den. "Come in, Edgar," she called. The invitation was unnecessary; for the youth, in his eagerness to hear what fate was being meted out to him within the closed apartment, had been leaning so hard against the door that when all at once it fell away from him, he staggered into the room with the most undignified celerity.

Stirred as Kathleen was, she had to bite her lip before she could speak; but when her brother had gained his perpendicular and faced them with a somewhat frightened and very crimson countenance, she broke the silence.

"Tell father," she said, "that you know you began this new venture wrong: that it was shameful to force him to pay this big bill for your lessons."

Edgar choked and swallowed, meeting the eyes that were lifting to him from the depths of the leathern armchair. Convicted of eavesdropping and reading the cold appraisement in his father's gaze, he had not gathered himself to utter a word when Mr. Fabian spoke.

"You have not forced me," he said slowly. "I can refuse. You are of age. You can be sued and imprisoned quite independently of me."

Edgar's heart beat fast and he set the even teeth.

"You have counted once more on my unwillingness to have this occur; but that unwillingness has been weakening for years."

Still Edgar did not speak. Kathleen, standing by her father's chair, her hands clasped tightly, dared not. She noted that Edgar's gaze did not fall. He met his father's eyes in crimson silence.

"You know," continued Mr. Fabian distinctly, "whether I have exhausted persuasion and argument with you. You know my futile attempts to rouse your ambition to be my coadjutor, my successor. What you do not know, because you are incapable of understanding, is the agony of the slow death of my hope in my only son: the successive stages of thought which have finally reduced me to closing the account, and charging him up to profit and loss."

Kathleen watched her brother under the lash with the same pitiful misery she felt for his punishments when they were children.

"But you're going to try him in this new field, father," she said beseechingly.

There was a space of silence, then Mr. Fabian spoke:—

"I am going to trust your sister's judgment in this matter, Edgar. She believes you are in earnest. I am going to pay these tuition bills, and the coming months will show whether this is another passing toy, or a matter in which you can make good. To find you are good for anything, my boy," added the father, after another painful pause, "will be an amazing and welcome discovery."

Something clicked in Edgar's throat. He evidently wished to speak, but his tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth. At last he found voice.

"I don't blame you," he said jerkily, "but—I'll show you!"

Mr. Fabian nodded his head slightly. "That's what I want," he said quietly; "I need to be shown."

Without another word, Edgar turned on his heel and left the room.

Kathleen sank on her knees and buried her face on her father's breast.

"He didn't thank you," she said, half weeping, "but he felt it. I know he felt it. Oh, father, how I hope for your sake—"

She could not speak further, and Mr. Fabian patted her shoulder, his eyes gazing out the darkening window.