CHAPTER VI
SYLVIA'S CALLER
When Dunham's telegram reached Sylvia Lacey she was for the time being powerless to disobey it. The excitement and disappointment of the interview with her aunt had resulted in a feverish attack which, though slight, destroyed her ambition to do more than lie on her narrow bed and meditate upon the situation.
She could not write to the friends at home who had pictured such a pleasant future for her with her Boston relatives. She was not able even to go out and buy a "Dramatic Mirror" to discover where Nat's company would be playing the coming week.
She lay white and slender in her black wrapper, and listlessly fingered the telegram, which was now two days old. It read:—
"Do not leave Association till you hear from me. Important.John Dunham."
"Do not leave Association till you hear from me. Important.John Dunham."
In the hopelessness of her thought her mental pictures of Dunham were always mortifying. He had heard her belittled, had heard her father slandered, had forced her to accept grudging charity, and yet the sunshine of the smile with which he had bade her good-by, his encouraging words and friendly handclasp, formed the only spot of cheer in her wilderness. The telegram was a straw to which she clung when, in the processes of dismal thought, waves seemed to go over her head.
What important matter could be coming to her? If it were only that he intended returning, with apologies or propositions from her discarded relations, she told herself with set lips that his errand would be fruitless; but even while she took comfort in reiterating this resolution, she was finding a ray of brightness in the idea that he would be the messenger.
Her aunt's words often recurred to her. "Of course we knew you would wish to get something to do."
In the precarious hand-to-mouth existence she had led with her father since she was old enough to understand his visionary, happy-go-lucky temperament, he had regarded her and taught her to regard herself as a flower of the field. He had petted her, praised her beauty, and had managed to pay their board spasmodically in first one, then another locality; and being a good fellow who usually won the hearts of his creditors, it was not until after his death that a multitude of small claims came buzzing about his daughter's ears; and it was these as much as anything which had made her accept with childlike insouciance the arrangement of the friends who packed her away to her relatives with all the celerity possible.
Her father's men friends had always admired and flattered her; she supposed that men were all alike, and that she had but to throw her lovely arms around Uncle Calvin's neck and tell him of her father's misfortunes and petty debts to have all troubles smoothed away. She had doubted a little how she should like Uncle Calvin and Aunt Martha (the latter's stiff epistles had not prepossessed her), but she had never entertained one question as to how they would like her.
To hear it declared first and foremostly that they took no interest in her, and did not want her, and secondly, that they proposed sending her out into the world to work for her living—these nightmarish facts made her rebound at once to the memory of the carefree, shabby environment where rosy possibilities had always been held before her. As her eyes rested now on the bare wall of her bedroom, it softened and melted until she saw a vision of footlights, herself in the centre of the stage, while a murmur of applause, heart-warming, inspiring, intoxicated her senses.
The day-dream soothed her to slumber, but the applause continued. Instead of rejoicing, at last it began to disturb her. Her eyes slowly opened, and she grew conscious that some one was knocking on her door.
At her summons a maid entered. "Somebody to see you, Miss. You don't feel well enough, do you?"
The girl's tone was sympathetic. Sylvia was of a different type from those who usually sought the Association. Her appearance suggested romance.
"Who is it?" she asked eagerly, half rising. "A man?"
"Yes'm."
"A tall man, very straight?"
"He ain't so awful straight," returned the maid doubtfully.
"Thick hair?" (quickly).
"Yes'm."
"Handsome teeth?"
"I—I didn't see his teeth."
"Splendid chin?"
"Law, ma'am, his beard covers his chin."
"Beard!" Sylvia sprang to her feet. "You're crazy."
"No, I ain't, ma'am. Oh, 'tain't the gentleman you came here with, and the superintendent said was one o' the best connected folks in Boston. 'Tain't him. I saw him. He's grand. I guess this one is sort of a country gentleman, but he's awful pleasant-spoken and his beard's as white as the driving snow."
Sylvia flung herself back on the bed. "You've made a mistake. He asked for somebody else."
"No, ma'am," returned the maid; "because I thought first he said 'silver lace,' and I thought maybe he was a peddler, 'cause he had a bag; so I told him we didn't want anything, and he was real nice. His eyes sort of twinkled up, and he saidhe didwant something. He wanted to see Miss—Sylvia—Lacey, real slow; and was you here? and I said you was, and he told me to tell you a cousin of your mother's wanted to see you, and his name was Jacob Johnson."
"I never heard of such a person," said Sylvia. "Does he look shabby—poor? It sounds like an impostor."
"N-no," returned the girl doubtfully. "He ain't exactly a Rube, but then you'd know he wasn't a swell, either. He looks awful nice out of his eyes. I'd like to have himmymother's cousin."
This was somewhat encouraging, but country cousins were no part of Sylvia's plan. "You go down and tell him I've been ill. I'm not able to see him," she said at last decidedly.
"I don't like to one bit," returned the maid. "I kind of hate to disappoint him." She lingered a moment, but Sylvia shrugged her shoulders and turned her face to the wall, so the girl departed.
Only a couple of minutes had passed when the knock sounded again on Sylvia's door, and the maid pushed it open without awaiting permission.
"He asked was you able to be dressed," she began, rather breathless from her quick run, "and I said you was, and he said for me to tell you he'd come about the telegram you got."
Sylvia was still holding the telegram. She started. So Mr. Dunham was not coming. He had not admired her, then. He did despise her as a cast-off poor relation. A flush rose to her cheeks, and she sprang from the bed quickly. "I'll go down," she said briefly.
"Well, I'm real glad," declared the maid. "That wrapper looks all right. I wouldn't stop to change."
She gazed admiringly at the brilliant tints of Sylvia's complexion as the girl ran a comb through her reddish curls.
"Indeed I shan't change for him," responded Sylvia. Her heart was hot within her. Dunham might have come himself. Now she should never see him again, and she didn't care. The only reason she had wished to meet him was to show him her inflexibility and independence despite her acceptance of the despised money he had forced upon her.
She swept by the maid, who continued to gaze after her with admiration, and went downstairs to the reception room.
There she found a man with gray hair and short white beard, sitting near a window, a somewhat limp bag on the floor beside him. She paused inside the doorway and stood regarding him.
There was nothing interesting in his appearance. She had had all she wanted of relatives. If those who would have been creditable would none of her, she certainly would none of this countrified individual and his claim of cousinship.
"Good-afternoon," she began coldly. "You say you have brought me some explanation of Mr. Dunham's telegram?"
"Why, why," said the stranger, gazing at her musingly as he slowly rose from his chair; "is it possible that you are Laura's little girl?"
He stood noting her repellent attitude, and Sylvia recalled the maid's ardent recommendation of the manner in which he looked out of his eyes.
"You resemble her very little," he continued, in a slow, quiet voice as pleasant as his gaze. "I hadn't remembered that Sam Lacey was so good-looking."
This familiar mention of her mother and father seemed to establish the stranger's claim, but Sylvia was reluctant to grant it. Her hand was still against every man, and her look did not soften.
As she kept silence the visitor continued. "You've heard your mother speak of her cousin Jacob Johnson, perhaps?" he asked wistfully.
"Never," returned the girl briefly.
The man nodded. The lines in his forehead accented his expression of patience. His loving eyes studied the young features before him.
"Yes," he sighed, "you were still only a little girl when she went away, and her life was full of other things." A pause. "I wanted to marry your mother, Sylvia." Something in his tone knocked at the door of the girl's heart. She closed it tighter and kept silence.
"Wanted to so much that I never married anybody," he went on with the same slow quiet. "She preferred Sam Lacey." The speaker's lips parted in a slight smile as tender as his eyes, which began to shine again. "As I say, I'd forgotten how good-looking Sam was."
The knocking at Sylvia's heart grew clamorous. This man's voice touched some chord; and he admired her. She demanded that.
"I've tried to think right about it ever since I knew how," he continued with simplicity, "but there were long years when I didn't know how, and when the whole world seemed unprofitable. It's a real gift to see you, my little Sylvia."
The loving sincerity of the closing words shook that sensitive string in the girl's sore heart painfully. Her eyes filled while she endeavored to retain her self-control.
"Itisan unprofitable world, full of coldness, full of disappointments," she answered brusquely.
He nodded. "True, true," he said, and advancing he took her cold hand gently and led her to the chair near his own.
They sat down together.
"That sense of things is the flat, stale, unprofitable stuff we hear about," he added. "You've been sick, too, they tell me."
"Who could tell you that?"
"The young man in Judge Trent's office. Dunham's his name."
Sylvia's face crimsoned, and she pulled her hand from its kindly prison.
"Then he has broken his word," she said passionately.
"Steady, my girl. Perhaps you haven't the facts, and you can't think right till you have, you know."
"He promised he wouldn't talk to Uncle Calvin about me."
"Perhaps he hasn't. You didn't think I was Judge Trent in disguise, did you?"
"Did he only talk toyou? Truly, did he?"
"So far as I know. Your uncle telegraphed for me to come to the office, and I reached there this morning. I suppose Mr. Dunham hadn't promised not to talk about you to anybody on earth, had he? Your Cousin Jacob is harmless."
Sylvia looked into the small eyes so luminous with kindness.
"But it was Uncle—Judge Trent who sent for you?"
"Yes, I think he'd somehow got the idea that you didn't care about seeing him."
"They've been cruel to me. Aunt Martha was—Oh, I mustn't, I can't speak of it!" The girl's lips pressed together after the vehement burst.
"Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth," said Cousin Jacob. The quotation from his lips became a remark. His companion looked at him in surprise. "I've an idea you're some ways off the inheritance, Sylvia."
"There's a difference between meekness and servility, I hope," she returned hotly.
"I hope so," agreed Jacob Johnson equably. "This matter's just like everything else, little girl. You haven't any call to do anything about it but just think right."
"Oh," murmured Sylvia impatiently.
"Yes, I know. It takes time, especially if you aren't in practice. That Mr. Dunham's an honest, manly chap?" He put it as a question.
"Yes, indeed."
"There, then." The visitor nodded. "So far, so good. He told me where you were."
"And not Uncle Calvin?"
"No, he'd promised not to. A girl who thought she was high-strung, excited, and mad, made him promise not to."
"Is that the way he described me?"
Cousin Jacob pointed an emphasizing finger. "She's thinking it again. No, he didn't describe you in just those words. Well, Judge Trent and Miss Lacey took this business a good deal to heart, after all; and they sent for me to tell me about things; and as long as Mr. Dunham told me where you were, I thought I'd take a run to Boston. I'd go many a mile further to see Laura's child."
"I wish she had told me about you instead of wasting time making me kiss Uncle Calvin's picture good-night." The scornful tone brought another smile to her companion's lips.
"Your Uncle Calvin has made his mark," he said.
"A black and blue one, I'll warrant," retorted Sylvia.
Jacob Johnson shook his head gravely. "He's made his mark, and your Cousin Jacob is only a farmer."
Sylvia's lips had nearly formed the words, "I thought so." Her eyes dropped involuntarily to the limp bag.
"I was wondering what you were intending to do here in Boston, little girl?"
"I can't stay in Boston," she returned, and her lip quivered. "Just think, Cousin Jacob, I'm spending Uncle Calvin's money when I hate him! Isn't it awful?"
"It is," returned the other, with conviction. "Hating folks is the very worst business anybody can invest in."
"I didn't mean that. Isn't it awful to be obliged to him? You don't know. You don't understand."
"Yes, I do," the speaker nodded. "I know the whole thing from A to izzard. Well, how do you expect to leave Boston, and what will you do?"
"Go on the stage."
"Oh, I guess not, little one. How old are you? You look fifteen, but you're more. I remember when you were born, and how I envied Sam."
"I'm nineteen."
"If you were going on the stage, it would have been well to be thinking of it even sooner. Have you had any experience?"
"No, except knowing an actor."
"And you're counting on his help?"
"Yes. I think I'd better marry him."
Jacob Johnson looked at her in silence. "You love him?" he asked at last.
"A—pretty well."
Her companion shook his head, smilingly. "Is he famous?"
"No. He says his chance has never really come."
"Young?"
"Oh, no."
Cousin Jacob threw back his head. "What a way out of trouble: to many an actor of that sort whom you love pretty well! You are very good to look at, Sylvia, my child, and any chance you could get on the stage would come from that. Bad business, hard business, dangerous business. Anyway, you're not strong yet. I have a proposal to make you. Come up with me to the farm for a while and drink milk."
"Why, Cousin Jacob!" Sylvia's cheeks had grown very white, and now a little color stole back into them. "Oh, you're kind!"
"Well, then, if you think so, come!"
"When?" Sylvia already had a sick dread of the little room upstairs and its thoughts.
"Now."
"To-day—to-night?" eagerly.
He nodded. "We may as well go to Portland to-night as to stay here. Then we'll go to the farm to-morrow."
Sylvia took his hand in both hers and looked earnestly into his eyes. "Forgive me," she begged.
"For what?"
"For being so—so snippy when I first came into the room; for not believing in you, nor wanting you."
Cousin Jacob took her chin in his hard hand and his shining gaze met hers.
"You weren't thinking right, Sylvia. Oughtn't it to make you easier on other folks? Other folks who didn't know you, who didn't believe in you, who didn't want you? They weren't thinking right, and they suffered for it afterward just as we all do. You'd have been kind to your Cousin Jacob in the end, anyway. They'd have been kind in the end to their niece. I saw you weren't glad to see me. I might have picked up my grip and left"—
"Oh, I'm so glad you didn't. I'm so glad you didn't! You'll wait while I pack?"
He patted her shoulder. "Yes, oh, yes. I'll wait."
CHAPTER VII
THE MILL FARM
Sylvia's sleep that night in Portland was profound. A sense of peace and safety had grown upon her from the time she took the train out of Boston with her new companion; and the next morning she awoke refreshed, in a chamber filled with sunlight.
She dressed and went down to the dining-room of the boarding-house where they were staying, and found her cousin standing by the window looking out on the fresh green of tall elms that shaded the quiet street.
"Well, well," he said, turning to meet her bright eyes. "Spring outside, and spring inside. You've had a good sleep, little one."
He held out both his hands, and Sylvia put hers into them.
"Dear me, I'm afraid it's noon," for now she noticed that breakfast had been served.
"No, we have time still to make the train I told Cap'n Lem to meet, and eat a little something into the bargain."
The speaker moved to the table and rang a bell.
"Oh, you've waited too long for your breakfast," said Sylvia.
"No, indeed! Been watching the orioles that are bringing up a family out in that tree. Busy times, I tell you. Makes me think of the day Calvin and I wanted to rob an oriole's nest,—hang-birds, we called them,—and a little girl with short curls and a sunbonnet wouldn't let us do it; a girl who'd stand only a little higher than your elbow."
"Mother?" asked Sylvia softly.
Jacob Johnson nodded, and they sat down to breakfast.
An hour later they were speeding along in the train nearing the town which was their destination.
"I never have been on a farm, Cousin Jacob," said Sylvia.
"'Tisn't much of a farm we have here," he replied. "Just enough to raise a living for ourselves and the stock in the winter. The chief business is fruit and vegetables for the summer folks. Cal—the owner of the place likes this part of the world for what time he can get off in summer, so he bought this little farm and hired me to run it. That was ten years ago. I wasn't enjoying the business I was at in those days, but I was just learning to think right about things then, and I knew I'd be shown something else if it was best, and so I was."
"What made you know it?" asked Sylvia.
Her companion smiled without looking at her. "How do you know the sun is shining this morning and the apple-trees are in blossom?"
"Why, I can see that."
"I saw, too, Sylvia. It's a great thing when you begin to see."
The girl observed her companion's half-averted face curiously. "Who lives with you at the farm?" she asked.
"My two helpers. Good Cap'n Lem Foster and his daughter-in-law, young Lem's widow. She's an excellent cook. Can you cook, little one?"
"I?" the girl laughed. "I can make Welsh rarebit."
Her companion patted her hand. "Sam Lacey brought you up, didn't he?" he remarked.
"You see we always boarded," went on Sylvia, "because father—well, it was better; he was contented if he could play cards and go to a show sometimes; and when he had had too much he always kept away from me—he was so good about that."
"Too much?" echoed her companion questioningly.
"Yes, of course he'd go out with the boys some nights, but they always kept him away from me until he was all right again."
The matter-of-fact tone gave the listener a pang. His big hand closed over the one he had been caressing. "You're in a prohibition state now," he remarked.
"Yes, I remember. I've heard father speak of it. I was just thinking of a verse he used to say:—
"'Johnny and Jane,Maiden and swain,Never had tasted a drop of champagne;Reason is plain,They lived in Maine,Where all the folks are obliged to drink rain.'"
"'Johnny and Jane,Maiden and swain,Never had tasted a drop of champagne;Reason is plain,They lived in Maine,Where all the folks are obliged to drink rain.'"
"'Johnny and Jane,
Maiden and swain,
Never had tasted a drop of champagne;
Reason is plain,
They lived in Maine,
Where all the folks are obliged to drink rain.'"
"H'm. I wish they were," commented the other, regarding the black-clothed figure beside him. A thin veil was pinned to her hat in such a way as to cover the shortness of the soft curls. Her figure was erect, her coloring exquisite, her eyes innocent. She seemed to him like a jewel which had been set in base metal, carelessly guarded, and was now in danger of sinking into the mud of the highway. Laura's little girl!
He patted her hand again.
"Here we are," he said, as the train slackened and stood still. He took his own limp bag and Sylvia's plump, rubbed old one, and they moved down the aisle and out upon the platform.
"There's Lem." Jacob Johnson moved across the platform, and Sylvia followed him to where stood a two-seated wagon with a pair of strong horses. The driver leaned one arm on his leg as he looked passively at Sylvia. He wore a sweater and a felt hat, and had on blue overalls the color of his eyes. He was older than his employer, and a fringe of white whiskers surrounded his red, weather-beaten face.
"Howdy, Thinkright," he said, nodding as the couple approached.
"How are you, Cap'n Lem? This is my little cousin, Miss Lacey."
"Glad to see ye, Miss Lacey. Ye've got hahnsome weather," observed the old man. "Mawdrate, too, to what it has ben. Apple-trees hev all bust out."
"Yes, you must have had a fresh trip in this morning," responded Thinkright, as he saw to having Sylvia's trunk and the bags put on the wagon. At last he climbed in beside his guest. A slap of the reins set the heavy horses trotting deliberately.
Cap'n Lem sat halfway around in his seat in order to converse on farm matters, and Sylvia enjoyed the spring beauty about her as they drove out of the little town and took the country road.
"How's the jedge?" asked the captain at last.
"He's well. Told me to tell you he'd be after you for lobsters before long."
The old man gave a toothless smile. "Miss Lacey smaht?" he inquired.
"I suppose so. I didn't see her this time."
Sylvia's eyes began to look startled and questioning. Old Lem met her gaze. "Ye've got the same name," he remarked curiously, as the fact occurred to him, "same as Miss Marthy. Miss Marthy ain't no kin to you, is she, Thinkright?"
"No, except through this child. This little girl is a link."
"The missin' link, eh?" returned Cap'n Lem. "Well, all I kin say is she don't look it," and his shoulders twitched with delight. "The missin' link," he repeated from time to time, the utterance being always followed by a fresh convulsion of mirth as his sea-blue eyes roved to the visitor's grave face.
"Do they come here, Cousin Jacob?" asked Sylvia uneasily, under cover of the rattle of the wagon, "Uncle Calvin and Aunt Martha?"
"Yes, sometimes."
"Will they be likely to, soon?" asked the girl, her face hardening.
Her cousin shook his head, and she saw compassion in his shining gaze.
"Don't fret about that," he said quietly. "Hot weather in the towns is a long way off yet."
"What'd the jedge say in the matter o' the new shed?" asked Lem, when he had somewhat recovered from the enjoyment of his joke.
"He said he thought we'd better have the old one shingled."
"Turrible short-sighted, that's what I say," grumbled the old man; "but he ain't ever fer branchin' out, the jedge ain't. Why didn't ye talk him over to it, Thinkright?"
"I didn't feel strongly about it. He'd do it if I urged him; but it's just as you say, he doesn't want to branch out. The place serves his purpose as it is, and while he owns it he'll keep it just as compact as it is now."
"What judge are you talking about?" asked Sylvia.
"Jedge Trent, of course," replied Cap'n Lem. "There hain't never ben a time when he wa'n't as sot as the everlastin' hills."
"Judge Trent is this child's uncle," said Jacob Johnson.
"No offense, no offense," remarked Cap'n Lem equably. "Seems if she's related to a lot o' folks," he added, and at this moment a team of colts came prancing around a curve in the road, trying their best with every nervous spring to escape their driver's control. Cap'n Lem's heavy horses shrank and shied, then as the others clattered by they resumed their steady gait. The old man turned and saw the white, fixed look in Sylvia's face.
"They wouldn't do nawthin'," he declared consolingly. "They're both powerful mawdrate hosses. Besides,"—the speaker stole a half-mischievous, half-shy look at her companion,—"Thinkright'll tell ye it's one o' the seven deadly sins to be skeered of anythin' that's in heaven above, or the earth beneath, or the sea that in them is."
The curving road was leading up a hill. The gray horses soon began to draw their burden at a walk, and when they reached the summit they stopped, for it was a time-honored observance for them to catch their breath at this point, as it was for the passengers, if strangers, to hold theirs.
The grandeur hitherto concealed by earth and forest suddenly broke into view. A limitless expanse of sea lay revealed, pierced by points of fir-crowned land that drove rock ledges into the liquid blue. Sylvia gazed fascinated at the snowy froth tossing itself against every gray point. Islands of varied shapes rose here and there, some tree-covered, some bare mounds of green, studding the rolling sapphire distances, and the girl's breast rose involuntarily to meet the untold miles of sparkling motion and the free, fresh, sunlit air. Her hands clasped together, and Jacob Johnson watched her white face with its wide eyes and mute lips.
The exceptional beauty of the May day caused even Cap'n Lem to expend silent approval on the familiar scene. He waited for a longer period than usual before he clucked to the horses, and they began a cautious descent of the winding road, their heavy hind-quarters braced almost against the wagon in their experience of sundry rolling stones.
"Hahnsome weather, surely," he remarked.
"I've never, never dreamed of anything like it," ejaculated Sylvia, and relapsed into dumbness.
Her host smiled, well pleased.
As the road descended to a level it approached the water of a small bay whose sheltered reaches watered a luxuriant evergreen growth among which appeared an occasional birch. These adorned the sloping bank, interspersed with rock, and turned the blue depths to green as they leaned toward the water as if in the effort to catch their own lovely reflections.
"We'll get out here and walk up to the house, Cap'n," said Thinkright. "Tell Mrs. Lem we'll be there by supper time. We had our luncheon on the road."
Sylvia took the hand her host offered in silence, and jumped out of the wagon. Cap'n Lem clucked to the horses again, and they rattled away.
"Why does he call you Thinkright?" the girl asked abruptly, as her companion paused on a clearing in the grassy bank to let her view the picture before them.
Jacob Johnson smiled. "They rather like nicknames in this part of the world," he answered. "I didn't realize how much I used the expression until all the neighbors began to label me. I knew I was always trying to be on the mental watch, and what is much in the mind will out, I suppose. How do you like this basin? We think it very pretty."
Apparently it was an inland lake that lay at their feet, sparkling and rippling in the triumphant fullness of the tide. At the point where the curving shore ran out to sea stood a large deserted tide mill on posts, midway in the water. Its shuttered windows looked like eyes closed against the surrounding beauty, and seemed protesting against the witnesses of its failure. Twice every day, like a tumultuous rushing river the tide poured water into the spacious basin, until its ripples clambered ten feet toward the eagerly bending trees, and later the capricious flood rushed back to the bosom of the sea. There had been enormous power at work under the old mill. What was lacking that it had fallen into disuse and closed its eyes upon an unappreciative world?
"It's a picturesque place, eh, Sylvia?" Thinkright repeated his question as she gazed and kept silence.
"Yes," she replied, "but the view above was—there aren't words."
"True;" her companion nodded. "You see a farm wouldn't do well at such a height, so we have to come down to shorter views and shorter distances; but it's a great thing to know that all the grandeur is there. We've seen it, and we know we've seen it, and we can't forget it; it's an inspiration to us. It takes a lot of wisdom to sail out on that ocean you saw up there, to avoid the ledges and to manage wisely in the winds; but to sail or row about on this basin is within the power of most landlubbers. Nature's always reading us life lessons, Sylvia, always."
"I'm not one of the afraid kind," returned the girl, with a toss of her head. "I only wish I had a chance to go out on that ocean."
"Yes, I know. On the stage, for instance," returned her companion. "The ledges and the squalls have no terrors for you."
"I hope I have some brains and some common sense," she answered.
Thinkright laid a kind hand on her shoulder. "It's perfectly true that neither ledge nor wind could harm you if you knew why. Daniel was safe in the lions' den, but it was because he knew why."
At the touch of his hand the girl shrunk away, and he instantly dropped it. Her blue eyes met his now, dark and cold. "I have found that you don't always think right," she said. "Why did you deceive me?"
Her companion looked at his watch.
"We'd better be walking along," he remarked, and they entered a well-worn path just wide enough for two that led through the woods, but kept close to the small salt lake, whose shining blue shimmered between the branches.
"I haven't deceived you, little one," he answered.
"You knew that nothing would have induced me to be a guest at Judge Trent's farm," declared the girl hotly.
"What's the difference?" asked her companion mildly. "You were eating his bread in Boston."
Sylvia's cheeks flushed. "I—I"—she hesitated, "I wasn't going to do it long."
"You shan't do it here a day longer than you wish to," returned Thinkright. "Now, child, suppose a case. Suppose your Uncle Calvin and your Aunt Martha had shown you perfect love instead of indifference, how would you have felt toward them?"
"Loved them, of course, and been thankful." Sylvia's angry eyes grew moist.
"That would have been a happier state of mind than what you have now, wouldn't it?"
"Of course." All the girl's sore spots were aching. "Why do you ask such a question?"
"Just to remind you of the fact. Now why should you let them make you lose the joy of being loving and thankful?"
"Why—how unreasonable! I can't help it, of course."
"Yes, you can. It's wonderful, Sylvia, but yes, you can. Think of being able to get out of the heat and turmoil of resentment and anger into the kingdom of heaven! You know where Jesus said it was?"
"No, I don't."
"Within you. The kingdom of heaven is within you."
"I guess not," returned Sylvia, with heaving breast. "Father always said there was plenty of old Adam in me, and I know it isn't human nature to be loving toward people that have treated me as they did."
"No, indeed it isn't. Your only chance is in finding out that you have a higher nature inherited from our Father in heaven, who the Bible declares is Love. When you allow that nature to have sway you will, as somebody has beautifully put it, 'think God's thoughts after him.' You will think mercifully and lovingly of your uncle and aunt, and forgive them as you would be forgiven. That way lies happiness."
The girl raised her blue eyes to his curiously. "So you consider it thinking right to live in a sort of a fools' paradise?"
Her companion smiled at her and his eyes shone. "I leave it to you if it isn't better than yours," he returned. "You believe in God, don't you, Sylvia?"
She cast down her glance. "I've thought lately sometimes that I'd like to; but he's so far away, on the outest edge of the universe."
"Why, what's the name of the place he lives in?"
"Heaven, I suppose."
"Well, where did I just remind you is the kingdom of heaven?"
Sylvia shrugged her shoulders. Thinkright's voice had again that tone that tapped at her heart as at a closed door, and instinctively she resisted it.
"Within you, little child," went on her companion, after a waiting pause. "God far away? 'Nearer than hands and feet,' Sylvia, 'nearer than hands and feet.'"
"I don't understand anything of what you're saying," returned the girl abruptly.
"Well, isn't this a pretty path?" asked Thinkright, looking about them. "It seems only yesterday that all these evergreens were loaded with snow." As he spoke, a song-sparrow near by poured out a flood of melody.
"Ah!" exclaimed the girl, her eyes glistening.
"Oh, if you like birds you are going to enjoy the Mill Farm. We have a very respectable choir in these woods. Now we could keep on in this path past the mill, 'way out to the end of the peninsula, but we don't this time; instead we turn right here and then"—the speaker waved his hand up a gentle incline, at the head of which stood an oblong white house with green blinds; "that's the Mill Farm."
"Judge Trent's farm." Sylvia's eyes met those of her host. "Why did you deceive me?" she repeated, gazing at him while they stood still in the soft grass.
Thinkright brought the knuckles of one of his hands into the hard palm of the other. "I asked you to come to the farm, didn't I? You were not thinking kindly of Judge Trent then; you were wasting your time thinking wrong about his wrong doings. If I'd said come and be your uncle's guest at the Mill Farm instead of at the Young Woman's Christian Association, you'd have questioned and doubted some time probably, and we might not have caught that evening train to Portland, and it was best for me to get home."
Sylvia bit her lip.
"Now there isn't one thing to do but think right," went on her host kindly, "and you'll be happy as a girl should be. You believe there's satisfaction in slapping back, and it galls you because you can't. It's the greatest mistake you can imagine. The satisfaction of slapping back only leads on to greater complications and final disaster in a logical sequence. Now, I'm not penniless, my little cousin. Just at present you're my guest."
"Oh, am I really, Cousin Thinkright?" cried the girl eagerly.
"Surely you are."
"Then I can begin to have a good time right off," she exclaimed, her white cheeks flushing as she took his arm in her relief.
He smiled as they walked slowly up the incline. "Always have a good time," he said. "The daughter of a great King should hide her head in shame if she admits any other thought."
CHAPTER VIII
IN HARBOR
As Cap'n Lem's team drew deliberately up the hill to the house, his daughter-in-law and grandchild came out on the doorstep. "Hello, Lucil; hello, Minty," he cried.
Twelve-year-old Araminta, dressed in a red plaid frock, long of legs and arms, round of eyes, and with her braid beribboned in pink in honor of the unknown, looked her disappointment. "They never come!" she exclaimed. "We might jest as well as not rode to town, ma."
"Well, we couldn't 'a' known it, and no use cryin' over spilt milk," returned her mother. Mrs. Lemuel Foster had raised her pompadour exceptionally high this morning, and the knot at the back of her head had the psyche-like protuberance reserved for state occasions.
"Whoa, Jim. Hi thar, Pete," said Cap'n Lem, for his steeds began to exhibit spirit at the proximity of the barn. "Oh, yes, they come all right."
"Then who is it?" cried the two on the doorstep, in perfect unison. Thinkright's message had not specified the nature of his guest.
"The missin' link," replied Cap'n Lem. "Haw, haw, haw!"
The pent-up roar burst forth at last.
"Father, hehain'tbrought home a monkey!" Mrs. Lem's consciousness of the trail on her black brilliantine suddenly failed to support her company manner. "Do tell me you're foolin'!" she added acutely.
"Why, I think 't would be splendid!" cried Minty eagerly, watching her grandfather's heaving shoulders. "Where'd ye leave 'em, grandpa?"
"Daown t' the Basin."
Minty clapped her hands, and her round eyes shone. "To let it have a drink and run through the woods. Oh, what fun! I'll let it sleep with me."
Her mother gave her a sounding slap. "Hold your tongue, Minty Foster, and let the cap'n speak. Why did Thinkright ask me to get the best room ready, then? If a monkey comes into this house I go out of it, and Istayout."
"'Tain't a monkey, no, 'tain't," returned Cap'n Lem tearfully but pacifically; "but I made the best joke, Lucil, if I do say it. I'm laughin' yit. Ye couldn't 'preciate it till ye see her, then I'll tell ye, an if yew don't bust your sides"—
"Her? Is she young or old?" demanded Mrs. Lem, recovering a sense of the lustre on her brilliantine.
"Oh, pretty so-so," returned her father-in-law aggravatingly.
"Then they'll be up here in a few minutes," said Mrs. Lem, her black eyes snapping. "Get in out o' the wind, Minty, or you won't have no Boston left." She smoothed the limp roll into which Minty's front hair had been coaxed, and pushed her inside the open door, where the child lingered.
"You might tell who she is, grandpa," she called.
"Why, then,—come now, I will. It's mean to tease ye. It's Miss Lacey."
"Oh—!" A long-drawn sound of disappointment escaped from both his hearers. "Why couldn't Thinkright have said so!" exclaimed Mrs. Lem. "Miss Lacey'd jest as lieves have seen us in our every-day things."
"I don't care," said Minty, hopeful still. "Miss Lacey nearly always brings me somethin'."
"Take that pink ribbon right off your braid," commanded her mother, reëntering the house.
"Oh, no, ma, it goes so good with this dress," pleaded Minty, looking down affectionately at the red plaid.
"Let her keep 'em on," said Cap'n Lem. "They ain't no time to change. They're a-comin' right up. Thinkright asked me to tell ye they'd be here for supper. They hain't had nothin' but trash on the road, I guess. Miss Lacey looks kind o' peak-ed;" and so saying, the old man drove on to the barn, his eyes closed tight as he slapped his knee in enjoyment of this second witticism, possibly even better than the first.
Minty skipped around helping her mother with the tea things, but her round eyes were first to discern the pair who came in sight on the hillside.
"There they be," she exclaimed, running to the window; "and ma," in deep excitement, "they're hookin' arms!"
"What are you talkin' about?" exclaimed her mother, whose pompadour fairly heaved in the jerk with which its wearer rose from the oven at this significant information.
"They are," repeated Minty, secure in her tremendous discovery; "come and look. Do you s'pose," in a hushed tone, "do you spose they're beaux, ma?"
"Hold your tongue, Minty Foster; you're too young to say such things," returned her mother; but the pompadour continued in a state of violent unrest as Mrs. Lem gazed at the new-comers and rapidly reviewed the situation and its possibilities. "I can't say it wouldn't be fittin'," she murmured, as she stood behind her daughter.
The approaching pair seemed absorbed in close conversation as they sauntered slowly, the lady's face downcast and her companion's eyes upon her.
"I'll never stay here with her, though, never in this world,"—went on Mrs. Lem, "and probably she wouldn't want me to."
"Oh, ma, then we'll have to go back to Hawk Island. I don't want to," wailed Minty.
"Hush!" commanded her mother, giving the child's shoulder a nervous shake. "Don't you dare to cry, Minty Foster. I guess you lived at Hawk Island a good while, and you can do it again."
"Yes, but then pa wasn't drownded; and here we've got"—
"As comfortable as I've made Thinkright, too. I'd call it downright ungrateful if 't was anybody but him," went on Mrs. Lem, paying no further attention to her offspring than to give the small shoulder another warning shake. "I s'pose he thinks age is goin' to steal on him before long, and he'd better be provided with some sure caretaker, and I can't deny 't would be a fine thing for Miss Marthy. I can just see them sharp eyes o' hers lookin' around here and takin' 'count o' stock. I always thought she was terrible curious about how things went on here."
"P'raps they're married a'ready," hazarded Minty dismally.
The pompadour wavered almost to its fall in the start Mrs. Lem gave.
"Araminty Foster, how could you have such a thought at your age!" However, the housekeeper's fast-beating heart suddenly accepted the probability of the suggestion.
"Leggo my shoulder, ma." Minty wriggled out of the excited clutch. "I don't care, they walk jest the way Jim an' Kitty did when they come out o' church."
"What do you s'pose she's all in black for? Miss Marthy never had anybody to lose that ever I heard of. You don't suppose she'd go in black for one o' the Derwents, do you? It makes her look awful slim, and she walks so slow. Maybe she's been sick."
The couple were drawing very near. Thinkright evidently called his companion's attention to something in the top of the tall pine that grew near the house. Sylvia lifted her head, the chiffon veil floated backward, and she gazed long up into the tree while the watchers at the window stared.
"Why,—wha—" gasped Minty.
"Never mind!" ejaculated Mrs. Lem, in an altered tone. "Tell me, does my Boston look all right?" One trembling hand patted the imposing erection of shining black hair, while with the other the speaker pulled the open-mouthed Minty away from the window. "Now don't you never tell what we thought, Minty Foster, not if wild horses was to drag you.Remember!"
"All—all right," gasped the child, "but"—
"They ain't no but. The cap'n 's been playin' smart again an' fooled us. Don't you let on, Minty—never,never."
The series of jerks which accompanied the rapid flow of words was too energetic for Minty to retain sufficient breath to let on anything. Her mother trailed the brilliantine across the room with a self-command and return of composure truly remarkable, and throwing open the door, met the grave gaze of the guest with unsmiling majesty.
"How do you do, Mrs. Lem?" said Thinkright. "This is my young cousin, Sylvia Lacey, who is going to make us a visit. And this little girl is Minty Foster, Sylvia."
"Glad to see you, I'm sure, Miss Lacey," returned Mrs. Lem, giving the offered hand a loose shake. "Won't you step in?"
Minty said no word, but stared at the new-comer fixedly. The house door opened directly into the kitchen.
"We don't use front doors much in this part of the world," observed Thinkright, as he ushered in the guest.
"Will you step into the front room, Miss Lacey?" asked Mrs. Lem, with a grand air, "or would you prefer to go directly upstairs to your chamber?"
There was an atmosphere of the world about Sylvia which Mrs. Lem recognized at once from long experience with summer people; and secure in her pompadour, the psyche knot, and the shine of her best gown, she wished to show this young girl that her sophistication was shared even in a rural district. To be sure, the extraordinary telegram from Thinkright had left the family free to believe that it was a personage whom he was bringing home with him—probably some important friend of Judge Trent; and to have their varied guesses met by the fact of a white-faced girl in mourning was disappointing. Nevertheless, to Mrs. Lem's suspicious eyes Sylvia had a cold, proud air, which caused the housekeeper to glory in her toilet and be grateful for her knowledge of the world. It should be Greek meeting Greek.
"Oh, she'll go to her room," said Thinkright. "Cap'n Lem and I will bring her trunk and satchel right up. Supper's nearly ready, I suppose, Mrs. Lem?"
"Whenever you are," returned that lady elegantly. "I will accompany you, Miss Lacey."
Minty, though she said no word, prepared to follow, apparently not able to remove her round gaze from the visitor.
"You may make the toast, Minty," said her mother warningly, and the child took a reluctant step backward.
Sylvia followed the brilliantine up a narrow staircase.
"You're from Boston, I presume, Miss Lacey?"
"Yes, just now," returned Sylvia.
"Not your home, then?"
"No."
"There. Walk in. This is your chamber."
Mrs. Lem threw open the door of a blue-papered room whose ceiling sloped at one side, while on the other were two windows curtained in dimity.
"I didn't expect to see a room of this size," said Sylvia.
"Oh, it's quite a copious house," returned Mrs. Lem leniently, "for a country place. It took me some while to get used to these slopin' kind o' rooms. I ain't from these parts. I lived to Clarksville before I was married. There, you can loop them curtains back more if you want to."
"They're very pretty," commented the girl.
"Yes. Of course they ain't point de spray, but they do well enough for here."
"Looped back. Oh, I should think so," said Sylvia, pushing the folds aside and looking down the western decline of the hill, where a wide reach of Casco Bay came in view. Small snowy sails were flying out to sea, like a flock of white butterflies.
"I guess the fishermen think handsome weather's set in. Them are the mackerel boats," explained Mrs. Lem. "They ain't had a good chance for a fortnight. It's ben so cold and homely 'twa'n't plausible for 'em to go out." Mrs. Lem patted her pompadour.
"I can see a thousand Christmas trees from this window," said Sylvia.
"Yes, it's real sightly. Judge Trent has just the same view from his room. It's his favorite."
Sylvia's face fell. "When does he come?" she asked.
"Oh, he comes and goes all summer. He don't make no long stay except in August."
Here the two men with Sylvia's trunk and bag came noisily up the narrow stairs. It was a very moderate-sized trunk as those of summer people go, and the visitor lost some social prestige in Mrs. Lem's eyes as the latter observed it. Moreover, Boston was not the girl's home. Nevertheless, there was that unmistakable air of the world. Possibly she was from wicked, fashionable, reckless New York, and being in mourning had come here with but few possessions to recuperate.
"Wall, how are ye likin'?" asked Cap'n Lem, when they had deposited the trunk.
He set his arms akimbo and smiled toothlessly upon the visitor. "I said 'twas Miss Lacey, didn't I?" he added to Mrs. Lem, with a delighted wink.
"Yes, and you said somethin' else, too," retorted Mrs. Lem. "You say a lot o' things beside your prayers."
Upon this Cap'n Lem's cackling laugh burst forth. "She don't look it, does she?" he responded. "So ye're likin' all right, air ye, Miss Sylvy?"
"I could sit by these windows twenty-four hours," returned the girl.
"Might git a little hungry, mebbe?"
"Yes, Mrs. Lem," put in Thinkright. "Sylvia and I have had only sandwiches and sponge cake since this morning. We're all ready as soon as she has washed her face."
Mrs. Lem bowed affably, and the three went out and closed the door.
Sylvia moved to the dimity-draped dresser and took off her hat. She smiled at the memory of her recent interview. "Cousin Thinkright says she can cook, though," she reflected. "I hope he's a judge."