CHAPTER XII
"ROSES IN THE MOONLIGHT"
THE Maestro's house wore always a mantle of gentle aloofness, like something forgotten among its overgrown garden paths. To Kirk, it was a place under a spell; to the others, who could see its grave, vine—covered, outer walls and its dim interior crowded with strange and wonderful things, it seemed a lodging place for memories, among which the Maestro moved as if he himself were living a remembered dream.
On this rich September afternoon, they found him standing on the upper terrace, waiting for them. He took Kirk's hand, offered his arm gallantly to Felicia, and they all entered the high-studded hall, where the firelight, reaching rosy shafts from the library, played catch-as-catch-can with the shadows.
Supper, a little later, was served in the dining-room—the first meal that the Sturgises had eaten there. Tall candles burned in taller silver candlesticks; their light flowed gently across the gleaming cloth, touched the Maestro's white hair, and lost itself timidly in the dim area outside the table. Kirk was enthroned in a big carved chair at the foot of the table, very grave and happy, with a candle at either side.
"A fit shrine for devotion," murmured the Maestro, looking across at him, and then, turning, busied himself vigorously with the carving.
It was a quite wonderful supper—banquet would have been a more fitting name for it, the Sturgises thought. For such food was not seen on the little table at Applegate Farm. And there was raspberry wine, in which to drink Kirk's health, and the Maestro stood up and made a beautiful speech. There was also a cake, with nine candles flaring bravely,—no one had ever before thought to give Kirk a birthday cake with candles that he could not see, and he was deeply impressed.
And after it was all over, they gathered content about the library fire, and the Maestro went to the piano.
"Kirk," he said quietly, "I have no very exciting present for you. But once, long ago, I made a song for a child on his birthday. He was just as old as you. He has no longer any need of it—so I give it, my dear, to you. It is the greatest gift I have to give."
In the silence that followed, there crept into the firelit room the star-clear notes of a little prelude. Then the Maestro sang softly:
"Roses in the moonlight,
To-night all thine,
Pale in the shade, and bright
In the star-shine;
Roses and lilies white,
Dear child of mine!
My heart I give to thee,
This day all thine;
At thy feet let it be—
It is the sign
Of all thou art to me,
Dear child—"
But the poor Maestro could not finish the verse. He swung about on the piano-stool, trying to frame a laughing apology. Kirk went to him instantly, both hands outstretched in his haste. His fingers found the Maestro's bowed shoulders; his arms went tight about the Maestro's neck. In his passionately whispered confidence the old gentleman must have found solace, for he presently smiled,—a real smile,—and then still keeping Kirk beside him, began playing a sonata. Ken and Felicia, sunk unobtrusively in the big chairs at the hearth, were each aware of a subtle kindredship between these two at the piano—a something which they could not altogether understand.
"He brings out a side of Kirk that we don't know about," Felicia thought. "It must be the music. Oh, what music!"
It was difficult to leave a place of such divine sounds, but Kirk's bedtime was long past, and the moon stood high and cold above the Maestro's garden.
"Is it shining on all the empty pools and things?" Kirk asked, at the hedge.
"Yes, and on the meadow, and the silver roof of Applegate Farm," Phil told him.
"'Roses in the moonlight, to-night all thine,'" Kirk sang dreamily.
"Do you mean to say you can sing it so soon?" Ken gasped.
"He ran away in the moonlight," Kirk murmured. "Away to sea. Would you, Ken?"
"Not if I had a father like the Maestro, and a brother like you," said Ken, fitting the key to the door of Applegate Farm.
A very few days after Kirk had begun on his new year, he and Felicia went into Asquam to collect a few things of which the farm-house stood in need. For there had been a hint that Mrs. Sturgis might soon leave Hilltop, and Felicia was determined that Applegate Farm should wear its best face for her mother, who did not, as yet, even know of its existence. A great many little things, which Felicia had long been meaning to buy, now seemed to find a legitimate hour for their purchase. So she and Kirk went the round of the Asquam Utility Emporium, B. B. Jones Co., and the Beacon Light Store, from each of which places of business they emerged with another package.
"I told Ken we'd meet him at the boat," Felicia said, "so we might as well walk over there now, and all come home together. Oh, how thick the fog is!"
"Is it?" Kirk said. "Oh, yes, there goes the siren."
"I can hardly see the Dutchman, it's so white at the end of the pier. Ken isn't there—he must have gone with Hop to see about something."
"Let's wait in the boat," Kirk suggested. "I love the gluggy way it sounds, and the way it sloshes up and down."
They put the bundles on the wharf and climbed into the boat. The water slapped vigorously against its side, for the tide was running, and above, a wraith-like gull occasionally dropped one creaking, querulous cry.
"Goodness!" Felicia exclaimed, "with all our shopping, I forgot the groceries! I'll run back. I'll not be a minute. Tell Ken when he comes." She scrambled up the steps and ran down the pier, calling back to Kirk: "Stay just where you are!"
There were more people in the grocery store than Felicia had ever seen there, for it was near the closing hour. She was obliged to wait much longer than she had expected. When she returned to the wharf, Ken was not in sight. Neither was the Flying Dutchman.
"How queer!" Phil thought. "Ken must have taken her out. How funny of him; they knew I was coming right back."
She sat down on a pile-head and began humming to herself as she counted over her packages and added up her expenditure. She looked up presently, and saw Ken walking toward her. He was alone. Even then, it was a whole second before there came over her a hideous, sickening rush of fear.
She flew to meet him. "Where's the boat—Ken, where's the boat?"
"The boat? I left her temporarily tied up. What's the mat—" At that moment he saw the empty gray water at the pier head. Two breathless voices spoke together:
"Where's Kirk?"
"He was in the boat," Felicia gasped hoarsely. "I ran back after the groceries."
Ken was at the end of the wharf in one agonized leap. In another second he had the frayed, wet end of rope in his hand.
"That salvaged line!" he said. "Phil, couldn't you see that only her stern line was made fast? I left her half-moored till I came back. That rope was rotten, and it got jammed in here and chafed till it parted."
"It's my fault," Felicia breathed.
"Mine," Ken snapped. "Oh, my heavens! look at the fog!"
"And the tide?" Felicia hardly dared ask.
"Going out—to sea."
A blank, hideous silence followed, broken only by the reiterated warning of the dismal siren at the lighthouse.
"It's like looking for a needle in a haystack. A boat would have to comb every foot of the bay in this fog, and night's coming. How long have you been gone?"
Felicia looked at her watch. She was astonished to find it had been over half an hour.
"Heaven knows where the boat could have got to in half an hour," Ken muttered, "with this tide. And the wind's going to sea, too."
Felicia shook him wildly by the arm. "Do you realize—Kirk's in that boat?" she moaned. "Kirk's in that boat—do you realize it?"
Ken tore himself free.
"No, I don't want to realize it," he said in a harsh, high voice. "Get back to the house, Phil! You can't do anything. I'm going to the harbor master now—I'm going everywhere. I may not be back to-night." He gave her a little push, "Go, Phil."
But he ran after her. "Poor old Phil—mustn't worry," he said gently. "Get back to the farm before it's dark and have it all cheerful for us when we come in—Kirk and I."
And then he plunged into the reek, and Felicia heard the quick beat of his steps die away down the wharf.
The harbor master was prompt in action, but not encouraging. He got off with Ken in his power boat in surprisingly short order. The coast guard, who had received a very urgent telephone message, launched the surf-boat, and tried vainly to pierce the blank wall of fog—now darkening to twilight—with their big searchlight. Lanterns, lost at once in the murk, began to issue from wharf-houses as men started on foot up the shore of the bay.
Ken, in the little hopeless motor-boat, sat straining his eyes beyond the dripping bow, till he saw nothing but flashes of light that did not exist. The Flying Dutchman—the Flying Dutchman—why had he not known that she must be a boat of ill omen? Joe Pasquale—drowned in February. "We got him, but we never did find his boat"—"cur'ous tide-racks 'round here—cur'ous tide-racks."
The harbor master was really saying that now, as he had said it before. Yes, the tide ran cruelly fast beside the boat, black and swirling and deep. A gaunt something loomed into the light of the lantern, and made Ken's heart leap. It was only a can-buoy, lifting lonely to the swell.
Far off, the siren raised its mourning voice.