CHAPTER IX
EDNA DERWENT
The supper was good, and for many weeks Sylvia had not eaten so hungrily. Minty's eyes continued to devour her as the guest devoured the biscuit and honey; and it required an occasional warning, "Eat your supper, Minty," from Mrs. Lem, to deliver Sylvia periodically from the round, expressionless stare.
"What delicious milk!" said the girl, as she set down her empty glass; "and this cream would make city people open their eyes."
"It don't seem to me it's quite as rich as common," returned Mrs. Lem. "We often have it so thick it has to be dilated with water."
Sylvia met Thinkright's eyes and laughed. "That is a frequent necessity in the city," she said. "I wish it weren't."
"Oh, yes," Mrs. Lem raised her eyebrows, "I know it. Of course it takes such legions o' milk to supply the cities you can't trust 'em around a pump. Have some more o' the lobsters, Miss Lacey."
"Oh, no, thank you."
"Then," said Thinkright, "perhaps you'd like to go and help Minty bring home her Daisy."
"Who is Daisy?" asked Sylvia of the solemnly staring child, who had been mute throughout the meal.
"My cow," drawled Minty.
"I'm mortally afraid of cows," declared Sylvia.
"Daisy ain't ugly," returned Minty.
"Then if you'll promise to take care of me"—
"I will," declared the child, her cheeks flushing with the pleasure that her drawl could not convey.
"She usually gits the cow afore supper," explained Mrs. Lem, "but to-day she couldn't very well." She looked complacently at her child's toilet. "You needn't mind the dishes, Minty."
At the permission the child fled from the room and clattered up the back stairs. The others rose from the table, and Mrs. Lem assumed a large apron and began gathering up the dishes.
"You may help if you like, Sylvia," said Thinkright. "We want you to feel at home."
The girl hesitated. She disliked wrecks of meals, and the way for her to feel at home was to do nothing at all. She began awkwardly to take up the silver.
"No, no, don't do it, Miss Lacey." Mrs. Lem perceived at once the unaccustomed touch, and her New York hypothesis was strengthened. "You hain't any apern, and I do think," with an airy laugh, "you might git unpacked afore they set you to work."
"Oh, yes, let her help till Minty comes," said Thinkright, with the manner of conferring a favor upon the guest, who echoed a faint agreement and went on gathering up the knives and forks, while her host left the house. Her ordeal did not last long, for Minty, still flushed of cheeks from the excitement of the occasion, soon reappeared, the splendors of her recent costume as completely vanished as were Cinderella's at the stroke of twelve.
Her dark calico clung around her slim little body, and the white string that tied her braid was in evidence.
"Put on your sweater, Minty, and run up and git Miss Lacey's jacket for her. It's real fresh," said her mother.
The sun had ceased casting sparkles across the sea when they went out of doors, and the shadows were lengthening. The loveliness of the increasing rose-light in the west caused Sylvia to forget all annoying doubts as to where to pour the water from the half-empty glasses, and all objections to the remains of lobster.
"What a pretty place you live in, Minty!" she exclaimed, as they walked back of the house through an orchard of small apple trees, gnarly and stunted enough from their struggle with the elements through the winter, but with all bumps and twists veiled now in rose-tinted clouds of white bloom.
"Yes, 'tis. I like it a whole lot better'n Hawk Island."
"Where is that?"
"Oh, off there." Minty pointed a vague finger behind them seaward. "We lived there when father went fishin' afore he was drownded. I was real small, and I didn't have no cow. Daisy was born the year we come here, and Thinkright gave her to me."
"Oh, she's a pet, then; so I needn't be afraid of her."
"No-o, she wouldn't hook nobody! Beside, didn't you know if you're skeered o' things they're likely to happen?"
"Oh, are they? Well, luckily I'm not scared of many things."
"Where do you live?" asked Minty, renewing her grave stare at the admired guest.
"I,"—Sylvia's mind flew back over a panorama of abiding places. "A—I think I shall have to say nowhere," she replied after a pause. "I'm a tramp, Minty."
The child regarded her, unsatisfied and skeptical. "Why, where's yer mother and father?" she drawled.
"I,"—again the mutability and doubtfulness of all things were brought home to Sylvia. "I don't know," she replied. "They are dead."
"There ain't any such thing," returned Minty. "When folks seem to be dead they're goin' on livin' jest the same. Thinkright says so."
"Does my cousin Thinkright know everything?" inquired Sylvia smiling.
"Of course he does." There was a brief pause, and then the catechism continued.
"How old be you?"
"Guess?"
"I don't know. You've got on long dresses and yer tall, but yer hair's shorter'n mine."
"Yes, I've been very ill and my hair all came out. It used to be straight as yours. I went to bed with my long hair braided smoothly, and got up with these new little kinks."
"I wish I knew where I could ketch that kind o' sickness," returned Minty, regarding the bright auburn rings enviously, "but don't tell Thinkright I said so," she added, with an afterthought. "He thinks bein' sick's as wrong as lyin'."
"My cousin Thinkright has some very odd ideas," returned Sylvia.
"There's Daisy a-mooin'," exclaimed Minty, her face lighting. "She hears us talkin'."
"Well, don't forget to tell her how charming I am, will you? It gives me the shivers to think I'm walking straight up to a pair of horns and not a fence in sight."
"She won't do nawthin';" the child smiled at the comical grimace her companion made, and a turn in the path revealed a white cow at the end of her tether looking eagerly toward them. A clump of evergreens rose beyond her.
"I think I'll climb one of those trees," said Sylvia. "She looks too glad to see me."
Minty laughed aloud, and running to the white cow threw her arms around her neck.
"Now then, introduce us," said Sylvia. "This is Miss Daisy Foster, I believe. So happy not to meet you, my dear! Please don't look as if you were going to rush into my arms the minute Minty lets go."
Minty laughed delightedly.
"I guess you'd better git back of her, Miss Lacey. When I untie her she might fall foul of yer and never mean to, she's so anxious for the barn."
Sylvia skipped toward the pines with alacrity. The sea wind and the situation had brought color into her cheeks.
"Why, the cow is anchored!" she exclaimed; for she perceived an ancient anchor at her feet to which that end of the rope was fastened.
"Yes. Daisy can't dragheranchor," returned Minty, her fingers busy with the knot at the cow's neck, "though she'd like to lots o' times. There now, Bossy, don't act so drove. I know it's later'n common, but I had a good reason, and 'tain't thinkin' right to be impatient." With the last word the rope fell free, and as the cow gave a bound Minty clung to its horns, and was carried forward, her feet scarcely touching the grass. Sylvia's heart leaped to her throat for a moment, but Minty's delighted laugh came back to her, and the guest laughed, too, at the child's antics.
Minty, glowing with superiority, could not resist this prime opportunity to make an impression, so went on with the romp as familiar to her as a more sedate method of locomotion, and finally the cow's gyrations carried her out of sight, leaving Sylvia alone and happy under the pine trees.
"Isn't it the strangest thing in the world that I should be here?" she thought, looking about. A memory returned to her of the cheap boarding-house in Springfield where her father breathed his last; of the worries that followed his decease; of her hurried journey; of the shock dealt her in Boston; of the stranger-cousin descending, as it were, out of the clouds to bear her up from the lowlands of mortification and hurt, to where the sea winds chased dull care away. The future troubled Sylvia very little. The thorn in the present was that Judge Trent owned this soft, grassy knoll on which she stood, owned that straight, symmetrical balsam fir yonder whose bright green tips full of the new life of spring were breathing balm on the air; owned the gambrel roof under which was her inviting chamber. Did he know she was here? She could not remember what her cousin had said about that. Mr. Dunham had sent for Thinkright. Yes, now she remembered: Judge Trent had told him to send, doubtless to ease his conscience; to get her out of sight, and yet to know that his sister's child was safe.
Well, his sister's child would show him—— At the revengeful impulse Thinkright's face suddenly rose before her with the words he had used about slapping back.
"The evening is perfect," exclaimed Sylvia aloud. The rose-light had begun to crimson the water. It drew her. She ran down the slope to the belt of birch and evergreen which surrounded the basin. Rays from the sinking sun were kissing the sightless upper windows of the Tide Mill until the weather-beaten shutters grew pink.
Sylvia entered the fragrant path she had traversed with her host that afternoon, and followed it toward the point of land beyond the mill. Suddenly a voice clear, bright, yet low-pitched fell on her ears, and almost simultaneously she caught a glimpse of the speaker between the trees.
The girl stood on the brink of the water, talking to some one in a small boat whose sail was flapping. Sylvia could not proceed without coming into sight, so she waited in order not to disturb the adieux. The boat had evidently just landed this passenger, who carried a bag and was dressed in a dark tailor suit.
The skipper, a sun-burned young fellow, was showing a row of strong white teeth at some sally from the lady when Sylvia's eyes fell upon him.
"I wish ye'd let me carry the bag up fer ye," he said.
"No, I'm going to punish myself for not being ready in time for you to sail into the Basin. I ought to know by this time that it's no use arguing with the tide."
"Always seems more sot here than anywhars," agreed the boy.
"Besides, I want you to have time to telephone for that carriage. Don't let them make any mistake. I must catch the one o'clock train."
"Yes. When are ye comin' fer good, Miss Edna?"
"Oh, in just a few weeks. June, some time. It'll be pulling me, pulling me, from now on, Benny."
She smiled, and Sylvia could see her face. Black hair that shone with a fine silken lustre grew thickly about a white forehead. Brows that lay like smooth touches of satin swept in two fine lines above gay, kind brown eyes. Her smile merited the adjective "sweet" more than any Sylvia had ever seen; but the boatman's next words startled the listener.
"Miss Lacey comin', too, I s'pose?"
"Of course. What a question to ask a lone, lorn girl?"
"She didn't stop long last season."
"No; for I was in Switzerland. Why should she? But I can't spare her now, and she's written me that she'll come just as usual, so Anemone Cottage will be itself again."
"Well"—the boy hesitated for words to express his pleasure—"we can stand it if you can," he finished.
"All right, Benny," she laughed. "Get to Gull Point as quick as you can. I've just one idea now, and that's the telephone. Good-by." She waved her hand as he set the sail and took his oars to pull into the wind.
Sylvia saw him nod and smile back. Then that happened on which she had counted. The stranger came up into the path, and without seeing the watcher, walked swiftly away.
Sylvia had seen no home in the vicinity beside the farmhouse, and the familiar mention of Miss Lacey made it doubly certain that this low-voiced stranger, this girl whose broada's and lack ofr's sounded oddly upon Sylvia's Western ears, was going fast as her trim feet could carry her to Thinkright's home. A strange feeling beset Sylvia. The newcomer's perfect costume, the assurance and refinement of her manner, even the unconscious adoration in Benny's sea-blue eyes, all pointed to a superiority which made Sylvia vaguely resentful of her.
What Miss Lacey had she been talking about? Aunt Martha, of course. Hadn't Cap'n Lem spoken of her also? What was she to this girl,—this raven-haired, charming girl who was nobody's despised niece?
Sylvia's heart beat hotly, and she began to run. Why was she wasting time when she wished to see what sort of reception would be accorded this stranger? Possibly, even, she was a favorite with Judge Trent. The thought gave Sylvia a forlorn pang, but she hurried on. Soon she again caught sight of the newcomer, who was passing out of the woods and starting up the incline that led to the house. Sylvia at once began to move slowly, her feet noiseless on the grass.
Cap'n Lem and Thinkright now came in view, returning from the barn, and Sylvia's eyes grew large as she heard the stranger's gay cry and the men's response.
They hastened down the hill to meet her. Cap'n Lem took her bag while she laughingly received their surprised welcome, and she threw her arms around Thinkright's neck and kissed him. Neither of the three observed Sylvia, who followed at a distance until they went inside and the house door closed upon them.
Pausing, to wonder and speculate, the chill of the evening made the girl shiver. The door had shut her out. She felt lonely and forlorn.
CHAPTER X
CAPITULATION
When Sylvia finally drew near the kitchen she heard talking and laughing within. Turning the handle and opening the door, a happy domestic scene was revealed, of which the strange girl was the centre. Her hat and jacket were lying on a calico-covered couch, a large apron enveloped her cloth gown, and she was wiping the dishes as Mrs. Lem washed them at the sink. Minty was running back and forth putting them away. Thinkright and Cap'n Lem were seated near the stove, and as the door opened a burst of laughter escaped from them at some remark of the visitor.
At sight of Sylvia's white face her cousin arose.
"I was just beginning to wonder where you were, little girl," he said kindly. "I want you to know Miss Edna Derwent. This is my cousin, Sylvia Lacey, Edna."
The latter came forward, holding in one hand a plate and towel, while she offered the other to Sylvia's cold acceptance.
"I'm fond of the name of Lacey," said the visitor, smiling into the other girl's grave eyes with the same gay, sweet expression that a few minutes ago had rested on Benny the boatman. Thinkright noted the quick hardening of Sylvia's face.
"Your Miss Lacey is aunt to this one, Edna," he said, "but Sylvia doesn't know Miss Martha yet. She has lived in the West all her life."
Mrs. Lem's sharp ears absorbed this information.
"Your aunt keeps house for Miss Derwent in the summer time at her cottage on Hawk Island," he went on, turning to Sylvia.
"I have a mother who unfortunately doesn't like the island, Miss Lacey," explained Edna, returning to the sink. "Take this plate, Minty, please."
"Guess you want another wiper, too, don't yer?" asked the child.
"I'll take as many as you'll give me," responded Miss Derwent. "I'd like a fresh wiper every two plates; but don't you encourage me, Minty, or I shan't be popular with your mother. Fill up the kettle, too, there's a dear. I'm a reckless scalder. Why, the stove lid's under that kettle. I wondered why it wasn't hotter."
"Wait till I find the hooker," cried Minty, diving down under the stove in search of the iron.
"Minty Foster, how many times have I told you never to take that hooker off the string?" said her mother reprovingly.
"I jest wanted it to crack nuts with," explained Minty, as she fished the lifter out triumphantly.
"Well, don't you never untie it again!" responded her mother severely.
"Yes, you'll crack it some day," remarked Edna, "and then what would you do, miles from a hooker as you are? I was telling you, Miss Lacey, that I have a mother with only one foible,—she doesn't like our island. You will see what heresy it is when you come over there. So Miss Martha has taken pity on me the last few summers, and I think she loves it as much as I do."
Sylvia's embarrassment was painful, as the speaker paused, looking at her in the natural expectation of a response.
"I don't know her," was all the reply her lips could utter.
"Then perhaps you will meet her first at my house," returned Edna brightly. "That would be very pleasant for me, I'm sure. I should enjoy the novelty of making near relatives acquainted."
"I shan't be here when she comes," responded Sylvia quickly.
"Indeed? Why, I'm sorry. I supposed you were to be a summer guest. You know Judge Trent, of course."
Sylvia's hot blush under the innocent question caused her cousin to come to the rescue again.
"No, even though he is her uncle," he said. "Strange state of things, isn't it?"
"Her uncle, and Miss Lacey her aunt?" returned Miss Derwent. "I never knew they were related."
"They aren't. It's the two sides of the house, you see."
"Miss Sylvy's the missin' link," put in Cap'n Lem, softly slapping his knee and shaking his head while his eyes closed tightly. "Don't look it, does she?"
"Now, Cap'n, don't git another spell o' the shallers," put in Mrs. Lem as the old man's chuckles threatened a crescendo.
"But you see I got ahead of the other relations," went on Thinkright. "I am her mother's cousin, and I put in my claim first."
"Oh, you'll like Judge Trent so much," said Edna, looking at the grave face in its aureole of curls. "He is a dear, but nobody dares to tell him so. By the way, Thinkright," the quaint name fell charmingly from the girl's lips as she turned to him, "I hear that a man I used to know, a Mr. Dunham, has gone into Judge Trent's office."
"So you know Dunham, do you?" returned her host.
"Yes, for a long time we saw a great deal of each other. Then Harvard for him and Vassar for me drifted us apart, but we have a lot of mutual friends, and while I was in New York the past winter a girl wrote me mournfully of his departure from Boston."
"I don't blame her for mourning," said Thinkright kindly,—"do you, Sylvia?" turning to the young girl, who was mortified to feel her color mounting again. "Sylvia knows Mr. Dunham."
"How stupid of him! Oh, how stupid of him!" was Sylvia's angry thought.
"I met him once only, on business," she said briefly.
Her manner and the blush mystified Miss Derwent.
"But didn't you like him? He used to be the most popular boy. One summer when mother was with me at the island she invited him to come to us, but his vacation had already been bespoken. I should like to renew our acquaintance. Perhaps Judge Trent will ask him here now. I hope so."
This girl had everything, everything. It wasn't fair. Sylvia bit her lip to keep back the excited tears. Her host saw the agitation in her face and quickly changed the conversation, talking to Edna of her affairs at Hawk Island, occasionally turning to Sylvia to explain some reference, but giving her the opportunity to keep silence.
At last, to the great relief of one of the company, bedtime arrived.
"Do forgive me for yawning," said Edna, "but I've had a strenuous day with Benny Merritt. I'll warrant the poor boy has been asleep for hours, I worked him so hard; but the cottage is in fine shape and all ready for Miss Martha and me to descend upon it. Oh, you must stay," turning suddenly to Sylvia. "You must come over to Anemone Cottage and make me a visit." Edna did not say a long visit, for the impression made upon her by this mute, cold girl in black was chilling; but she seemed to need cheering, and Edna was prepared to do any missionary work which would be a help to her dear Thinkright.
"Thank you, but I couldn't," returned Sylvia hastily. "I couldn't, possibly."
"I wonder what is the matter with her?" thought Miss Derwent, as she made ready for bed that night. "Perhaps her bereavement is very recent. At all events, she has come to the right place to be helped."
Sylvia, as soon as she had closed the door of her chamber, went to the window and knelt down with her hot forehead against the cold glass. The stars were twinkling in an invisible sky, and she could hear a rhythmic sound of many waters.
That girl had everything. It wasn't fair. She knew Mr. Dunham well. He was popular, he was admired. He was of Edna Derwent's world. She was doubtless popular and admired. What would they both think of Nat? Nat,—stout, red-faced, not too careful of his hands. Sylvia had often demurred concerning his careless habits. Now she knew that they alone made him impossible. There were many other things that made him impossible, and strangely, they were all points which were the opposite of certain characteristics she had observed in Mr. Dunham during their brief but informal and almost intimate relation. Miss Derwent's speech and pronunciation reminded her sharply of his, and as her thought dwelt upon this enviable girl making ready for her healthful, care-free slumber in the apartment usually sacred to Judge Trent, the burden of Sylvia's vague and helpless future bore down upon her and seemed heavier than she could bear. Long-repressed tears were rising scaldingly to her eyes when she heard a light tap on her door.
It might be she! She shouldn't come in! With a light bound Sylvia was at the door, pressing upon it.
"Who is it?" she demanded in a choked voice.
It was Thinkright's voice that answered her. "Gone to bed, or sitting up, little one?" he asked.
"Well—I'm sitting up—so far," she answered, and she opened the door slowly.
"I thought you might be feeling a little homesick, the first night in a strange place," he went on, "and I wanted to say good-night to you once again."
A great, resentful sob rose in the girl's breast, and with a sudden impulse she flung both her arms around his neck.
"Kiss me," she said chokingly. "You kissed her. How did she dare to kiss you!"
Thinkright drew the speaker out into the corridor as he caressed her cheek. "Come downstairs a few minutes," he said. "We might disturb Edna if we talked up here. Can't have you go to bed thinking wrong," he went on when they had reached the living-room where one tiny lamp still twinkled. "Now sit right down here by me, Sylvia. My heart feels for you. You miss your father, I know, and I wish I could be the comfort to you I'd like to be; but we must all at last find comfort in the great Father of all. We learn little by little that we can't lean on any arm of flesh."
Sylvia bit back her sobs and pressed her eyes. "Poor father is better off," she said. "I wouldn't want him back. He suffered, and he said there wasn't any place for him here any more,—and there isn't for me, there isn't for me!" she added passionately in a voice that shook.
"Wait, little Princess. The King's daughter is distrusting her Father, and pitying herself, Sylvia. That's low thinking, child."
"Of course I pity myself," the girl flashed back, "and ten times more since Miss Derwent came, taking possession of you, and Aunt Martha, and Uncle Calvin. She has everything. Why should she, while I have nothing?"
In the silence that followed Sylvia could see the patient lines in her companion's forehead, and the shining of his deep eyes.
"Except you," she added contritely, clasping her hands around his shabby coat sleeve, "I have you, but it kills me to cling to you like a drowning man, while that girl smiles at you from the top of the wave,—and owns everybody and everything!"
"Edna does some very good thinking," was the quiet response. "Her temptations are different from yours, and she has struggled with them."
"What hassheto bear?"
"Sickness,—not her own, but that of dear ones, and an overdose of wealth."
"Oh!" The exclamation was scornful and skeptical.
"You remember the tale where the members of a community by common agreement met in the city's public square, and each one laid down his burden, and taking up some one else's went home with it? The story runs that on the following day every man and woman returned to discard the new burden and take up his own again. Supposing Edna took yours"—
Sylvia broke in: "She would be a girl who is a stranger in a strange land with no rights anywhere; whose nearest ones cast her off; who has no future, no money, no home, no plans. A girl who doesn't know how to clear a table or wash a dish in her cousin's house, while a strange girl comes in and takes charge of everything. I didn't even know how to kiss you!"
Thinkright smiled. "Edna," he said, "began that when she was twelve years old. It was the year I first came here, and I let her ride on the hay-wagon and gave her the sort of good times she had never known in her life. Her father is a chronic invalid. The doctors recommended the sea, and quiet, and great simplicity of life, so they built Anemone Cottage. Mrs. Derwent is a woman devoted to the world and fashion, but she made heroic efforts to endure Hawk Island for her husband's sake during several seasons. But there wasn't any right thinking done in that cottage except what Edna did, a child as happy there as a bird let loose from a cage; and after a while they gave it up. Edna continues to come, every season they'll let her, and I can assure you, little one, she needs the refreshment. She needs it. Brave, beautiful Edna!"
The peroration was uttered as an audible soliloquy, and it caused the listener to pull her hand from the calloused palm where it had been clinging.
"Good-night," she said abruptly, and started to rise.
Thinkright seized her arm gently and drew her back beside him. "Just a moment," he said quietly. "You said a minute ago that you had me; as if I counted for something."
"What's the use, when your interest is all wrapped up in that girl?"
"Oh, you poor little thing, you poor little thing!" he murmured.
His thoughtful tone made Sylvia hot.
"And every word I say you despise me more," she flashed forth. "You know you're sorry you came to Boston to get me. I can't be any different; I'm just myself."
"Of course you are. That's the comfort that we have. You'll find yourself some time, and discover a very different being from the one you are conscious of now. I'd like to see you get well, little one, for your mother's sake and your own, and mine."
"I am nearly well," returned Sylvia, surprised at the sudden digression.
Her companion shook his head. "Fevers of body are bad, but fevers of mind are worse. Will you take me for your doctor, child, and let me help you to find the sane, sweet, capable Sylvia Lacey who manifests her inheritance from the Father of us all?"
The girl's eyes grew moist, and she bit her lip. Her poor, vain sense struggled, but she was sore at the heart which this tone of his always pressed strangely.
"I'd better go away," she said in a voice that trembled.
Her companion placed a kind hand on her shoulder. "If you were to go away, you would not escape from Love," he answered. "Love enfolds you this moment and all moments. It needs only to be recognized and trusted to begin its transforming work in your consciousness. Even life is only consciousness, Sylvia, and you cannot be conscious without thinking. Then what it means to guard the thought,—to think truth, and not falsity!"
"How are we to know when we are thinking truth?" returned the girl, her breast heaving.
"As we are told to judge everything,—by its fruits. The fruit of your thinking has not brought you happiness; then let us get a new set of thoughts. That is all you need to begin with, Sylvia, a new set of thoughts; and you can't get them until you welcome a new guest into your heart." He paused.
"Who? You?" asked the girl.
Her companion smiled. "No, not I, little one. The guest's name is Humility." He waited a moment and then proceeded. "You are entertaining two guests now who are eating you out of house and home; devouring your substance literally. Their names are Vanity and Self-love. Vanity has a thin skin, is very easily injured. The other one whispers to you to hate your aunt and uncle, and to be jealous of Edna Derwent. They can't stay where Humility enters. Take her in. Listen to her. She will whisper to you that it isn't of so much consequence what comes to the Sylvia Lacey you are conscious of at present. She will promise you that if you will listen to her and make her your own, you will learn a happier Sylvia, a better consciousness in God's good time. 'Great peace have they who love His law. Nothing shall offend them.' What a new world you would enter, my girl, when you found that nothing could give you offense!"
A strange wrestling was going on in his listener's breast and her breathing was unsteady. Seeing that she was not ready to speak, Thinkright proceeded:—
"You have heard of the Brotherhood of Man. It isn't a mere phrase when you think right. All,—all of us, children of one Father, all with rights to the same inheritance, what should make us cold or grudging, one toward another? What is to prevent our spontaneous gladness in another's success. His happiness and good fortune become ours. It is all in the family, you see. There are no limitations to be placed on aninfiniteinheritance, are there? Our Father's love is impartial, and all that we ask in His name He has promised to give us. You couldn't ask in His name to eclipse Edna Derwent, could you? or to receive any other gift which would appeal to those two guests I hope you will turn out. These are small beginnings of great thoughts, Sylvia, but they point to that 'large place' where your consciousness belongs, and where Love waits to lead you."
The pressure on the door of the girl's heart overwhelmed its resistance. She leaned her forehead against the shoulder so near her. Her breath caught in a sob. "I'll try," she breathed humbly, "I'll try."
CHAPTER XI
THINKRIGHT'S LETTER
Back in the dingy offices of Calvin Trent the sunshine revealed time-honored ink stains and other immovable relics which held their own despite a thorough house-cleaning which Hannah had recently given the rooms.
The judge had apologized to Dunham at the time.
"Until this affair of the Lacey girl is settled," he said, "Miss Martha is liable to come in upon us at any time, and we might as well be prepared."
"By all means," Dunham had responded devoutly. "Unless there is a chemical change brought about in the anteroom I shall be obliged to ask you to attend the door yourself."
This particular sunshiny morning, as John was opening the mail, he found a letter beginning, "Dear Cal:"
It was postmarked Maine, and he passed it over to his employer in silence. Judge Trent was reading the morning paper at the time, and just glancing at his cousin's writing, he clutched the sheet in his left hand and went on with his editorial.
Dunham smiled down at his pile of correspondence. "Absence hasn't made the heart grow any fonder," he reflected. "The governor's interest in Curly Head appears to be about where it was."
Then he thought of Miss Lacey and the contrasting eagerness with which she would greet a letter from Maine. He breathed an involuntary sigh of satisfaction that whatever the bulletin his own responsibility in the matter was over, and that the lesson he had received concerning the unwisdom of rushing in where relatives feared to tread was likely to last during his lifetime.
"'M, h'm," breathed the judge at last, laying down the paper and setting his hat a little farther back on his head. His thought was evidently still busy with the morning news as his eyes moved vacantly to the letter; but beginning to read, the corners of his lips drew down, not in scorn, but with a movement habitual to him when interested.
He read slowly; even read the letter twice. It ran as follows:—
"Dear Cal,—Laura's little girl was very willing to come up here with me, and I was exceedingly glad to bring her, for poor influences in her life have made her a victim. I've had several talks with her. She has received only a desultory education, and isn't fitted for any life-work. She has been fed on froth mentally, and in Sam's worst straits has evidently never been obliged to do anything more severe in the way of manual labor than to mend her father's clothes; but withal she is innocent and honest, and not to blame, in the absence of a mother or any wise guidance, for not rising higher than her father's standards. You and Martha gave her heart and pride a great shock. Her mother used always to talk much about you in particular, and taught her little girl to kiss your picture good-night. So you can understand the surprise and disappointment of the sequel. You know what Laura meant to me, and while I would in any case do what I could for this child, it is my pleasure, and in your and Martha's default, seems to be my duty, to assume charge of her. I have determined upon this, for the girl is a starved specimen, and very needy. I tell you this in advance in case the new responsibility should take me away from the farm for any reason, so that all may be understood, and we may be guided. Edna Derwent looked in on us for one night. She says Martha is to be with her again this summer, and bade me beg you to take time to call on her the next time you are in Boston. She is exulting in her summer's prospect of sea, sky, and freedom, in her usual winning manner. Her parents are to travel with friends for some time, leaving Edna to be a child again. She says she is often tempted to feel old and tired."
"Dear Cal,—Laura's little girl was very willing to come up here with me, and I was exceedingly glad to bring her, for poor influences in her life have made her a victim. I've had several talks with her. She has received only a desultory education, and isn't fitted for any life-work. She has been fed on froth mentally, and in Sam's worst straits has evidently never been obliged to do anything more severe in the way of manual labor than to mend her father's clothes; but withal she is innocent and honest, and not to blame, in the absence of a mother or any wise guidance, for not rising higher than her father's standards. You and Martha gave her heart and pride a great shock. Her mother used always to talk much about you in particular, and taught her little girl to kiss your picture good-night. So you can understand the surprise and disappointment of the sequel. You know what Laura meant to me, and while I would in any case do what I could for this child, it is my pleasure, and in your and Martha's default, seems to be my duty, to assume charge of her. I have determined upon this, for the girl is a starved specimen, and very needy. I tell you this in advance in case the new responsibility should take me away from the farm for any reason, so that all may be understood, and we may be guided. Edna Derwent looked in on us for one night. She says Martha is to be with her again this summer, and bade me beg you to take time to call on her the next time you are in Boston. She is exulting in her summer's prospect of sea, sky, and freedom, in her usual winning manner. Her parents are to travel with friends for some time, leaving Edna to be a child again. She says she is often tempted to feel old and tired."
The rest of the letter was devoted to mention of the farm matters, and Judge Trent glanced through it with a careless frown. The increasing absorption with which he had made his perusal roused Dunham's curiosity. Twice the lawyer's feelings carried him to the pitch of audible expression. His exclamations were brief and monotonous. When he arrived at the point describing his niece's caressing his picture he slowly ejaculated, "Getout." And when the matter concerned Thinkright's renouncing his care of the farm the reader made use of the same words, vigorously varying the emphasis thus: "Getout."
John speculated upon the information Judge Trent was receiving. Perhaps Sylvia had revolted against being immured on a New England farm and had escaped to Nat.
The judge dropped the letter and stared ahead of him. Thinkright's implied accusation nettled him more than all Miss Martha's tearful reproaches. For the first time his duty toward his niece presented itself as so reasonable as to be impossible of escape.
He looked at Dunham, who sedulously did not look at him. The young man was thinking of amignonneface as he had last seen it with quivering lips, trying to smile in response to his encouraging parting words. At last the judge spoke:—
"Well, Thinkright took her up there."
"Ah?" responded Dunham. Whatever his curiosity, he determined that his conversation on this embarrassing subject should never exceed monosyllables.
"Sickly looking, is she?" pursued the lawyer after a pause.
"Yes," replied John; then memory reminding him that this was not strictly the case, he availed himself of the remainder of his vocabulary: "and no," he added.
"I should like to know what Thinkright means by her being starved," said Judge Trent irritably.
Silence from Dunham, frowning at his papers.
"I believe I'll send you up there," began the lawyer after a minute.
"I believe you won't," retorted his subordinate with surprising promptness.
The older man stared. "I should like to know how the girl is carrying sail; how she eats, whether she seems contented. An eyewitness, now"—
"Not me," said John briefly.
"Lost your conceit, eh?" asked the judge, grinning.
"No more family parties for me," returned Dunham doggedly.
"Oh, come now, be good-natured and obliging."
"Never again while I live," was the response.
"I've never praised you half enough for your work on that job," said the judge ingratiatingly. "The more I think of it the more I wonder where we'd have brought up in the affair if it hadn't been for you."
"You might as well flatter the Sphinx," remarked John impersonally.
Judge Trent laughed. "Afraid of a little girl, eh?"
Dunham shrugged his shoulders. "I shouldn't be the first man. Why don't you send Miss Lacey?"
"H'm," grunted the judge thoughtfully.
John smiled. "Provide her with a full suit of chain-armor and I fancy she'd accept the detail."
"I'm going in town to-morrow," soliloquized the judge aloud. "I might go and ask Edna Derwent."
"Who?" demanded Dunham, looking up with sudden alertness.
"Edna Derwent."
"Of Commonwealth Avenue?"
"Yes. What's the matter?"
"Nothing. I am only surprised that your calling list includes her."
"Well, now, why should you be?"
"No reason, of course," returned John, smiling, "except that she's a girl; and girls,—I thought they were all under the ban. You'll have to take your hat off, you know."
"H'm," grunted the judge again.
"I'll tell you what," suggested John, "send me there. I'll go."
"Do you know her?"
"Used to—well. I haven't seen her for years. It's her family I referred to when I spoke of friends of mine going up into Casco Bay."
"Yes. Hawk Island."
"That's the place. I was invited there once, but couldn't accept."
"Very nice girl, Edna," remarked the judge.
Dunham emitted a noiseless whistle. "She must be a wonder," he replied. "I didn't know there were any nice girls."
"You think you're smart, don't you?" said the judge.
"I shall if I get an errand to Miss Derwent to-morrow."
"Then who's to go to the Tide Mill?" demanded the lawyer.
"You and Miss Lacey, hand in hand. It's fitting that you should protect one another."
"Miss Lacey lives with Edna Derwent at the island in the summer,—keeps house for her, plays watch-dog, and all that sort of thing."
"Indeed? How small the world is! I knew I felt drawn to Miss Lacey. I'd forgotten until you mentioned it how I adore Miss Derwent. Do give me the detail, Judge."
"Get out. You can't do that Boston business. I suppose you'd better mail this letter to Miss Lacey," tossing the missive over to the young man's desk.
"I can take it to her house this evening. I have to go to thank her for my handkerchief that she sent back. Do you want me to—no!" with a sudden turn back to his desk.
"Do I want you to what?"
"Nothing."
"Don't be an idiot!" exclaimed the lawyer, exasperated by his own indecision concerning this affair so foreign to his experience.
"No, it's none of my business," said Dunham.
"Do I want you to ask Miss Lacey if she'll go up to the farm? Yes, I do. Tell her all expenses paid."
After supper that night, for they had supper at six in this rural city of Seaton, John Dunham took a trolley car for the tree-lined street where Miss Lacey's cottage stood behind its row of poplars.
"Utterly inappropriate," mused Dunham, smiling to himself as he glanced up at these "old maids of the forest." "They would be far better placed in front of Judge Trent's. He is a bachelor by conviction."
Miss Lacey saw the young man coming up the walk, and herself opened the door, although she kept a little maid of fourteen, who attended school by day and assisted Miss Martha in her free hours for her board and lodging.
"How do you do, Mr. Dunham?" she said, brow and voice anxious. "I hope nothing bad has brought you."
"Do you call gratitude and admiration bad?" asked John, as she hastily shook hands with him.
"There's very little of either ever walks in this door," returned Miss Martha dejectedly. "Step into the parlor, please. I'll pull up the shades in one minute."
She suited the action to the word, and as she threw open a window the scent of lilacs floated into the room. "These are nice long evenings, aren't they?" she pursued lugubriously. "What are you grateful for, Mr. Dunham?"
"My handkerchief, of course."
"Law! Your handkerchief!" repeated Miss Lacey. "Do sit down."
A swift glance at the spider-legged furniture caused John to choose the haircloth sofa, whose shining surface bulged substantially. He wondered where the judge used to sit. Any of the chairs would have held him, but perhaps they both used this sofa. If so, they must have led a migratory existence; and perhaps its slipperiness had infected and undermined the stability of the judge's affections.
"You didn't need to make any fuss about the handkerchief," added Miss Martha.
"Indeed I should," replied Dunham, immediately conscious of beginning to glide, and anchoring himself with an arm across the mahogany back. "It would be sacrilege ever to use such a miracle of whiteness and shine, with a cameo monogram."
"How foolish," returned Miss Martha, visibly cheered.
"No, indeed," continued John; "I'm going to have it framed and hung where my laundress can use it for a model."
His companion emitted a faint laugh. "I'm glad you can joke," she said, "and it's real kind of you to come and thank me for such a trifle. Oh, Mr. Dunham, I haven't had a happy minute since that day we were in Boston. I was just now sitting down to write a letter to Thinkright. He doesn't know the suspense I'm in. I suppose she's told him how hateful I was, and he thinks I don't care."
"Yes, a letter came only to-day. Here it is. It was one of my errands to bring it."
"Good news? Oh, is it good news?" Miss Lacey's attitude changed alertly, and she seized the offered envelope.
"I don't know," replied John. "She's there."
His companion had already torn open the sheet, and was reading greedily.
"Oh, dear—dear!" she ejaculated above her breath. At last she looked up. "The judge showed you this, of course?"
"No."
"Then"—
"No, really, Miss Lacey, it's none of my business, you see."
"None of your business, after you've been sokindand taken such aninterest? I should say it is! Listen."
John brought his teeth together in a resigned sigh while his hostess read aloud, occasionally lifting her eyes to comment. At the close he spoke.
"I was surprised to learn that you and Miss Derwent are friends."
"Oh, you know her?" asked Miss Martha absently.
"Up to a few years ago, I did, very well."
"You can see what opinion Thinkright has of Judge Trent and me."
"Yes," returned John, harking back to his monosyllables.
"No doubt you have the same," said Miss Lacey dismally, "even though I explained to you fully"—
"Well, your mind can be at rest now," returned Dunham. "The young lady is provided for."
"Thinkright is certainly a good man," said Miss Lacey, her brow still drawn, "although he isn't exactly what folks would call a professor. No one that knows him has a particle of doubt that he means well, and I feel that his notions can't do Sylvia any real harm when he lives such a good life."
"What are his notions? Do you mean that he is a freethinker?"
"Well," responded Miss Lacey, "I don't see how anybody could bemorefree. I should feel that I was tempting Providence to expect everything was coming my way, the way he does. I should expect a thunderbolt instead of prosperity. I told him so once, and he smiled and said then I'd probably get the thunderbolt. He says it's all a matter of what you expect and why you expect it. He asked me if the reason I expected the thunderbolt was because I believed that God was Love. He hasn't got a spark of the humility that most good folks know they must have. Why, if every Christian was like him there wouldn't be a professor left who'd call himself a poor worm or a sinner. I don't agree with Thinkright, because I'd never be so presuming with my Creator as he is, nor be certain that my Father wouldn't see fit to send me any afflictions; but I must say he has as lively a dread of sin as anybody I ever knew. There's no mistake about his being a good soul, and that's why I don't mind his notions; and, oh, I'm so glad he's got that flighty child under his wing. She'll never get any harm from his example, however queer his talk is. Edna Derwent, now, she sympathizes with him, and thinks she gets along a lot better since she's had his ideas to work on. So," Miss Lacey looked at her caller with a sudden speculative curiosity, "so you're one of Miss Derwent's satellites, are you?"
Dunham shrugged his shoulders. "I used to be, but I've been so frozen by years of her silence that now I might better be classed among her stalactites. She has a number. I've been trying to get Judge Trent to send me to Boston on business to-morrow and to call on her. He wishes to ask some questions about his niece."
"Does he, indeed?" Miss Martha sat up very straight and her eyes snapped. "Well, it's about time. I guess Thinkright's letter hurthispride a little, too."
"It did seem to stir him. Of course you are both pleased that this friend—this relative of yours has decided to adopt your niece."
"It sounds awfully,—just awfully, doesn't it, Mr. Dunham?" returned Miss Lacey, a nervous color mounting in her face. "Ourniece, and Thinkright adopting her; partly from a romantic feeling which does him the highest credit,—he adored poor Laura,—and partly from duty which I should think would be a sermon to Cal—to Judge Trent." Sudden tears sprang to the speaker's eyes, and she touched them with her handkerchief. "I've condemned myself, for, after all, while I thought I was justified, I certainly didn't stop to think enough from Sylvia's standpoint, I was so afraid I was going to be imposed upon. I'm so grateful to Thinkright, and so grateful to you, Mr. Dunham. What should we have done without you!"
"Oh, don't—don't mention it."
"But I must, I'm so grateful. I wish Judge Trent would send you on some business errand to the farm so that"—
"No, indeed," interrupted John hastily; "but he does want to send you, Miss Martha. He empowered me to request that you take the trip, permitting him to be at all expense."
"He did, did he?" retorted Miss Lacey, her eyes drying and snapping again. "Well, I should think it was about time he stopped sending folks on that errand," she continued, with a superior contempt for consistency. "It's about time he went himself. I guess he feels pretty small about the whole thing if the truth were known. Isn't that touching about Sylvia's kissing his picture? How did he feel when he read that, Mr. Dunham?"
"Impossible to tell. All he said was 'get out.'"
Miss Lacey's nostrils dilated. "Well," she ejaculated, "all is I know if I'd mar—that is," she added faintly, "I'm glad Laura didn't live to see this day. He has a great deal less excuse than I have, Mr. Dunham, and I have little enough." Miss Martha finished with sincere feeling. "You tell Judge Trent for me, Mr. Dunham, that he had better go to that farm himself."