CHAPTER XII
A LOST OAR
Mrs. Lem's awe of the new Miss Lacey was short-lived. The fact that she came out of that vague locality known as the West seemed to soothe the housekeeper's latent suspicion that the young girl might be "big feeling." Sylvia was reticent even in the presence of Edna Derwent, and this silence could not proceed from snobbishness; moreover, her spirits rose after the departure of the Boston girl, and Mrs. Lem decided that Thinkright's guest was, in spite of her slim height and the dignity of her black garments, only a shy girl who needed encouraging.
"Do you think Miss Derwent's pretty?" she asked Sylvia after Edna had made her adieux.
"Very," answered Sylvia, who was enveloped in the apron the guest had worn the night before, and was awkwardly wiping dishes as the housekeeper washed them. Minty had gone to school.
"I know folks most always think so," said Mrs. Lem, whose pompadour had collapsed with her theories of Sylvia's New York origin; "but I don't know," she went on judicially, "when you come to diagnose Edna's features they ain't anything so great. Her nose wouldn't ever suit me,—kind of insignificant."
Mrs. Lem's own feature was of the strong Roman variety. "They're just rollin' in gold," she went on. "It's a wonder to me Edna sets such store by Anemone Cottage when they've got such a luxuriant home in Boston."
Sylvia listened with lowered eyes intently fixed on her work. She had wakened this morning with a sensation of relaxation. Some habitual tense resistance had given way. She was subdued and conscious of relief, as if from a cessation of responsibility. She realized what caused this as her interview with Thinkright rushed back upon her thought. He saw through her. That was her mental admission. He did not admire her at all, and yet for her mother's sake he would not despise her. He had made her view herself in a totally new light.
She had promised him to try to be humble. The thought had mingled with the sea's rhythmic lullaby as it hushed her restless soul to sleep last night. He had offered her a new God who was Love,—his God. One who gave him happiness and content. Why should she resist? Was there really such a God? if so, then He had led her to this unheard-of and unsuspected cousin, the one being in the universe who granted her the right to be, her right to rest in his care and protection.
With the thought came a novel rush of gratitude to the unknown God of whom she had never thought as a friend, a Father, One to count upon. She had turned her head on the pillow last night and buried her eyes with a certain gladness and hope.
In quiet she had sat through the hurried breakfast hour this morning, in serenity had bade the guest good-by, and with a novel ambition had asked Mrs. Lem to be allowed to assist her. A wakened sense, a new outlook on the world, filled her consciousness now while the housekeeper rambled on.
Edna Derwent had everything. Very well, it was the lesson that Thinkright had set her, to be willing that Edna should have it, to put away that heat of envy which had been like a sharp tooth at her vain heart. In the exaltation that followed yielding herself to the learning of this lesson a sense of humor had little place; so she listened intently to the substance of Mrs. Lem's information with scarcely a smile at its manner.
"I tell you, though, money won't buy everything," went on the housekeeper, scalding a fresh panful of china. "Here's a fresh wiper, Miss Sylvy. Mr. Derwent's ben entirely incapacitated for business or pleasure for years. What good's his money to him? All them luxuriant carriages and high-steppin' charges,—he'd give 'em all, I guess, to be able to walk off ten miles the way Thinkright can, and him his own age."
"It must be hard for Miss Derwent," returned Sylvia, able to-day to accept this idea.
"Jest so," agreed Mrs. Lem. "The more that her mother jest loves society and fine doin's and pines after 'em, so that Edna, who loves both father and mother, is caught betwixt the upper and nether grindstone, as the old sayin' is, and has the life about squoze out of her sometimes."
Sylvia bit her lip. "It's difficult to imagine it," she replied, "when one sees her so bright and happy as she has been here."
"Yes, this is the Hawk Island Miss Derwent. I've heard the other side from Thinkright. I lived over on the island summers when she and her pa and ma used to be there together, but I never knew any of 'em. I used to see the child rampagin' around the rocks in sneakers and cotton dresses, and her ma readin' to her pa in hammocks on the piazza; but later years she's gone with 'em to waterin' places in Europe. Leastwise that's what folkssay, though where they'll find any more water than they can here gets me. You know how some folks is. The fishin' 's always better somewheres else. Yes," continued Mrs. Lem sagely, "we don't know what we're doin' when we're envyin' folks. There's a skeleton in most family closets. Most everybody's got somethin' to contend with. I used to think," she lowered her voice, "that the Creator sent 'em for our good. Thinkright says not; so I humor him, and I hope it won't be visited on me. I apologize reg'lar in my prayers at night. It's jest as well to be on the safe side."
Sylvia's grave little mouth broke into a sudden smile, but her eyes were wistful.
"I should love to believe as my cousin does," she answered. "He said we must judge everything by the fruits, and he is so good, so good."
"Yes, Thinkright's fruits is all right," agreed Mrs. Lem, squeezing out her dishcloth. "He ain't any feeble critter either, I tell you. When Judge Trent's here and somethin' goes wrong, and he scowls under them brows o' his, I often feel like sayin' to him, 'Thinkright ain't even afraid of his Creator; and I guess he ain't goin' to care for a few scowls o'yours.' Judge Trent gees and haws some, but he always has to come around if Thinkright's sure he's right. There ain't only one thing that man's afraid of, and that's doin' wrong; and though you hain't seen so very much o' the world yet, you'll find out that's quite an ovation in the way o' lookin' at things."
Sylvia's brain made a vain grasp for the word Mrs. Lem was trying to use. Two days afterward when she was out on the basin in Thinkright's rowboat "innovation" came to relieve her bewilderment.
Minty's lean, strong arms had often rowed her about the little salt lake, but Sylvia was ambitious to be her own boatman; and this afternoon she was practicing by herself, catching crabs and splashing, laughing at her own awkwardness until, breathing fast, her pale cheeks pink from exertion, she pulled in her oars and floated on the blue ripples, looking at the full green of leafy boughs among the sombre richness of the evergreens, and listening to the spring gladness of the robin's songs.
It was all very lovely. The Tide Mill only refused to be cheered. Silent, enduring, wrapped in memories, it stood gray and unapproachable.
"Poor old thing," murmured Sylvia, addressing it. "You're not thinking right." She laughed softly, and ran her hands through her thick curls.
Instantly an oar glided off the boat. She jumped for it, but it was too late. Nearly capsizing, her heart beat as the boat rocked back into safety and she tried to scull after the runaway with the remaining oar. Her inexperience and the clumsiness of the boat baffled her. The floating oar rose and fell, gently increasing its distance, and splash as she might she could not gain upon it.
A curt voice suddenly called from the shore behind her, "Here, girl, girl! Stop that. Be quiet, and probably you'll float in."
She turned involuntarily, and beheld, standing on the verge, a small, elderly man wearing a silk hat and scowling while he motioned to her imperiously.
Obediently she ceased her ineffectual splashing, and the boat danced and floated shoreward.
"Then why doesn't the oar float in, too?" she asked anxiously.
"Ask Neptune," returned the stranger curtly.
"I mustn't lose that oar," cried the girl.
"Why didn't you take care of it, then?" rejoined the judge, and the boat just then venturing near him and curtsying, he jumped aboard of her with an agility that astonished the passenger. The craft rocked in the shock.
"Sit still," commanded the judge, and Sylvia remained motionless while he seized the oar, and going to the end of the boat, began sculling with a practiced hand, which was at strange variance with his costume.
The trouble in Sylvia's eyes vanished, and two little stars danced therein as she saw by the steady approach of their craft that the lost was as good as found, and so had leisure to gaze furtively at her gondolier. The down-drawn corners of the judge's lips, his shaggy frown at the oar coquetting on the ripples with a breeze which was flapping the skirts of his formal frock coat, and the firm set forward of his high silk hat, formed an incongruous picture.
He took no notice of her gaze. "The currents in this basin," he said half to himself, "are most aggravating."
"They seem to have soured the disposition of the Tide Mill," ventured Sylvia.
"Eh?" returned the judge, glancing down into the eyes that laughed as mischievously as the small pearly teeth. The sunshine, glinting in the silky curls and brightening them to red, seemed laughing too.
"If you've never seen the Tide Mill before, do look at it," she went on. "Doesn't it seem as if it was refusing to be comforted?"
"It couldn't make its salt," remarked the judge briefly.
"Queer, with so much about," returned Sylvia demurely.
The lawyer caught her starry gaze again. He took no notice of her little joke.
"Can you swim?" he asked sternly.
"No," she returned.
"Then you've no business out here in a boat without some older person."
Sylvia was wearing Minty's blue sweater, and the heated, rosy face above it looked like that of a child. Judge Trent after his unexpected arrival had come down to the Basin to search for the pale and mourning niece concerning whom his conscience had been awakened. He had been looking for the black-clothed figure on the walk, at the moment when the dilemma of the awkward child in the boat had attracted his attention.
"The children of this neighborhood should every one be taught to swim and manage a boat, girls as well as boys," he went on. "They are not. It is a very stupid mistake."
"I do want to learn very much," returned Sylvia meekly. "Minty Foster, a little girl here, has given me one lesson, and I came out to practice this afternoon."
"Minty can row very well," said the judge. "I hope you've learned a lesson about watching your tools. Experience is a good teacher." As he spoke he reached the runaway oar and snatched it up dripping.
"Oh, I'm so much obliged," said Sylvia. She possessed a dimple in one cheek, and it was very busy while Judge Trent, his lips down-drawn, pushed both oars through the rowlocks beside her.
This accomplished, he sat down in the end of the boat and looked at her. She grasped the oars, wondering what he expected her to do. She felt that it would be a dangerous thing to splash that broadcloth, and she dared not laugh beneath the frowning, speculative gaze.
"I thought I knew all the people around these parts," he said, while Sylvia let the boat float. "I never saw you before."
"I'm a visitor," returned the girl. "Isn't it beautiful here?"
"There isn't any better place in this world," returned the lawyer impassively, "and I doubt very much if there is in the next."
He saw now that his companion was older than he had thought. He recalled, too, that she had made some comment on the Tide Mill.
"What was it you said about the Tide Mill?" he asked.
"Only that itwilllook so sad and unapproachable even when the sun shines like this; as if its feelings had been hurt and it could never pardon or forget."
The judge continued to gaze. He was being penetrated by a suspicion. This girl knew Minty Foster. Supposing—
But he had called on Miss Derwent, and she had verified Thinkright's description. It was her impression of muteness, pallor, sadness, which had decided the judge to drop his affairs and have a look at the farm. What did Edna mean? What did Thinkright mean? Was it a plot to work on his sympathies? This smiling maid with mischief in her eyes frolicking recklessly in the clumsy old rowboat was the opposite type from the cold, pale specimen he had braced himself to meet in the Basin path. She would have been suitably environed in its changeless sombre firs. This girl, with her length of limb and graceful breadth of shoulder, had greater affinity with the white birches delicately fluttering their light bright greens as they leaned eagerly toward the water and Sylvia.
"The Tide Mill hurt beyond pardon, eh?" he returned. "Well, possibly itdidn'trelish the epithets of the men who sank their money in it."
The flight of fancy was unprecedented for the speaker. He was sensible of unwonted excitement in a possibility.
His companion was still dimpling at the lean figure in the roomy frock coat and high hat.
Laura had been a small woman. The judge was considering that if his companion should rise she would equal or overtop his height.
Starved. Very needy. So Thinkright had put it. Nonsense. Thisriantedryad of the birches could be nothing to him.
"Shows a small disposition, though, after all these years," he added after the brief pause. "Don't you think so? Nursing injuries and bearing malice and all that sort of business?"
The smile died from Sylvia's face. She half averted it, and trailed her fingers through the quiet ripples. "Thinkright says so," she answered.
And then the judge knew that those young lips so suddenly grave had kissed his picture good-night, that that young head had been pillowed on his sister's breast, and had constituted whatever brightness was in her troubled life.
A strange tightening constricted his throat, for, the temporary heat of the girl's exertion with the oars passing away, he saw her cheeks pale, and it was with a grave glance that she looked at him again. "Do you know Thinkright Johnson?" she asked.
He nodded.
"I suppose he is the best man in the world," she added. "Don't you?"
The high hat nodded again. Judge Trent would not have given unqualified assent to so sweeping an assertion, but, poorer than Dunham on a recent occasion, he had not even monosyllables at his command. It did something novel to him to remember Laura and then picture this girl alone at the Hotel Frisbie.
They floated in silence for nearly a minute, then the judge spoke: "Thinkright has some very good ideas. It's an excellent practice, for instance, to forgive your enemies, and even on some special occasions to stretch a point and forgive your friends."
The young girl looked up at him. If this stranger knew her cousin he could not be quite a stranger. "He is trying to teach me to think right," she said simply. "It seemed at first as if it were going to be easy even though it was different; but, oh, it's hard sometimes! I get sore inside just as my arms used to in the gymnasium at school. Father wrote me a note once to get me excused from physical exercise; but," she gave a little laugh and shrugged the shoulders of the blue sweater, "Thinkright won't write me any note of excuse."
"H'm," thought the judge uncomfortably, "I guess she's got some of the Trent old Adam to buck up against." His gaze did not remove from the half-averted head with its sun-crowned, red-gold aureole.
"Who'd have thought Sam Lacey's carrot-top could be made over into that?" he mused.
CHAPTER XIII
UNCLE AND NIECE
For a few moments Sylvia sat absorbed in her train of thought, and suddenly coming to herself, found the stranger's intent gaze upon her. He noted her sudden embarrassment, and hastened to speak.
"Thinkright's worst enemy could never accuse him of preaching what he does not practice," he said.
"Has he any enemies?"
"He's liable to have one in me." The shaggy brows drew down, but the thin, smooth-shaven lips twitched, and the girl saw that the speech had a humorous intent.
She smiled. "Then I shall protect him. He is my cousin."
"Oh, you're related, eh?"
"Yes, and I love him. He is the only one of my relations that I can endure!"
"H'm. Poor relations."
"No, indeed. Rich relations. I am the poor relation, that is the trouble; but—if you know Thinkright you can imagine how he talks to me about it."
"Preaches. I suppose so. Hard on you."
"No." Sylvia shook her head and patted the water with an oar. "He has helped me. He knows wonderful ways of helping people."
"Well, I'll thank him not to send you out in this water in a boat that you don't know how to manage."
The form of the irritable declaration caused Sylvia to view her companion with large eyes.
"Now you're here you might as well take a lesson," went on the judge. "Try rowing a bit. If you're going to stay here you'll need to know how."
"But I'm not going to stay here," rejoined Sylvia quickly.
"Why not?" The odd little man scowled so intently at her that the girl began to feel uneasy and glanced shoreward.
"If you detest all your other relations and love Thinkright then why isn't his home the place for you?"
"It—the trouble is it isn't his home."
"Whose, then?" Judge Trent braced himself in expectation of the answer.
"The farm belongs to—to a celebrated lawyer who uses it for a summer home," replied the girl.
"Make friends with him," suggested the judge.
Sylvia's breath caught. "If—if you knew how I don't want to and how—I must!" she returned naïvely.
Her companion smiled grimly. "Well, here, now,—he's an old curmudgeon, I know him,—never mind him. Let's have a rowing lesson. Take the oars,—there, at that point. Now!" The speaker bent toward the young girl, and his dry hands closed over hers. She glanced at him half in fright, and away again as he guided her awkward movements until the boat moved slowly, but with tolerable evenness, through the water. "Now you're getting it, you see," he said at last.
Sylvia began to forget her embarrassment in interest.
"Not too deep,—only bury the oar." The speaker glanced up into the eager face so near him. Coral lips, pearly teeth, sunny curls,—loneliness, the stage, an actor husband—
"Turn it right there, steadily; see the water drip off? That's the way"—
Himself with his nose buried in a pile of papers, Martha hysterical, Dunham morose, but himself always unmoved. Laura's baby! He remembered that he had sent her a silver cup when she was born.
"Look out, a steady pull,—steady. That's enough now. You're tired. This boat is a tub. You should have a light one."
Sylvia laughed, and let her teacher pull the oars across the boat.
"Now we'll float a while," he said, resuming his seat in the bow. "So Thinkright wants you to forgive everybody; love everybody, eh? I know that's his tack."
Sylvia was breathing fast from her exertions. "Yes," she nodded. "I've never had much practice in loving people."
"No? That's the Trent in you."
She lifted her eyes in surprise at the abrupt reply. He nodded. "You said Thinkright's your cousin, then so is Judge Trent."
"Uncle," returned Sylvia briefly.
"Ah. One of the detested."
She lifted her shoulder with a gesture of dread. "I mustn't say so," she answered.
He watched her through a moment of silence.
"I wish you luck getting over it," he remarked dryly. "It's against you—being a Trent."
"But," said the girl simply, "Thinkright says if I'll only keep remembering that I haven't any relations except God, and His children, I shan't find anybody to hate."
The judge's eyes snapped. "H'm. I hope there's something in that. I hope there is. I've never paid much attention to Thinkright's little pilgrimages among his rose-colored clouds, but perhaps it might be to my advantage to do so; perhaps it might. The fact is, girl,—I'm sorry to confess it because I know it will be unwelcome news, but—I'm your Uncle Calvin."
Sylvia grasped the side of the boat, grew pale, and stared. "Oh, no!" she exclaimed. "He has a full beard. He has a round face."
"Once upon a time, as the story books say, he had."
The girl's eyes closed and her lips compressed.
"Sylvia, remember the Tide Mill." The judge's voice was rough with feeling. "Your eyes look like its shuttered windows. I'm not a monster. I'm only a human machine that didn't know how to stop grinding. I've come up here to tell you so. I thought our introductions were better made away from the family, and I expected to find you walking in the woods."
Sylvia opened her eyes again, widely, apprehensively. "Is Aunt Martha here, too?"
"No. I thought one of us would be sufficient. I saw Miss Derwent in Boston recently. She gave me news of you."
"Uncle Calvin," began the girl in a low, uneven voice, "I have said very uncivil things. Why did you deceive me?"
"I had no idea at first that you were my niece. I looked for some one totally different."
Sylvia's heart was beating with unwonted quickness. This was the man who had been willing to pay frugally for her living until she could make one for herself, while too indifferent even to see her; but Thinkright's talks had turned a searchlight upon her own predilections and expectations, with the effect of distracting her attention somewhat from the shortcomings of others. Her present excitement in the discovery of her uncle was mingled with mortification at the remembrance of what her thought had once demanded of him. The boat rocked gently over the blue ripples; the sunshine illumined alike the burnished greens of grass and foliage and the weather-beaten pallor of the implacable Tide Mill. The shrewd, lined face under the high hat kept piercing eyes on the youthful, drooping countenance opposite.
"Yes, you're totally different from what I expected," he said again. "You're no more like your mother than I am."
She flashed a suddenly suspicious glance up at the speaker. "I am proud to be like my father," she declared.
The judge shrugged his shoulders, and the girl continued hotly: "I've come to a place where no one has a kind thought or word for him. I love him twice as much as before."
"H'm," grunted Judge Trent. "Even Thinkright draws the line there, does he? Shouldn't wonder. Sam Lacey carried Laura off under his very nose."
"Thinkright doesn't talk about him," returned the girl; "but that speaks volumes."
"I'm not going to, either. I'm glad you loved him, and that you still do; and now let's see what can be done in our situation. Practically you detest me, but theoretically you love meà laThinkright. Is that about the size of it?"
Sylvia wiped her eyes and gave an April smile.
"Now," went on the judge, "supposing we take the latter clause as our working hypothesis. We're both Trents and chock-full of old Adam. I've never had any use for girls, and you have no use for old clams of uncles who keep their heads in their shells when they ought to be coming up to the scratch; but, after all, what's the good of hating one another?"
"It's no good," responded Sylvia quickly.
"Well, then, supposing you let me in on the rose-colored cloud proposition, too."
Sylvia's reply was a question. "Did you really come up here on purpose to see me?" she asked.
"I did, indeed. Ought to be back in the office this minute. Dunham—you know Dunham by the way—will have troubles of his own before I can get back."
"How is Mr. Dunham?" asked Sylvia, again splashing the water gently with an oar.
"As well as could be expected of such a fragile flower. He's straining at the leash now to get to Boston to call on Miss Derwent. I expect my arrival at the office will be the signal for a cloud of dust in which he will disappear, heading for the first train. A very fine girl, too. I 'm glad you met her. If I ever admired girls—except when I'm walking on rosy clouds—I should admire her."
"I knew you did!" exclaimed Sylvia, with a little pinch at the heart.
"You knew it, why?" asked the lawyer blankly.
"I don't know. I felt it."
Judge Trent bit his lip in a certain grim amusement. His niece, then, sometimes did him the honor to think about him still, even though she had ceased to kiss his picture.
"I'm a very jealous person," declared Sylvia frankly, looking up at him, "and vain and selfish and lazy. It's as well for you to know it."
"Indeed? So Thinkright has impressed upon you that open confession is good for the soul, eh?"
"Oh—Thinkright!" ejaculated Sylvia, with a sudden start. "I forgot. It's all wrong to say those things even about one's self."
Judge Trent nodded. "I've heard that contended. Somebody says that self-condemnation is only self-conceit turned wrong side out."
"Yes." Sylvia nodded. "I suppose from any standpoint it's still talking about yourself; but I didn't mean that. He says we mustn't say such things because it fastens the wrong more tightly to us. Of course if we do wrong we have to own it and repent, but,"—Sylvia heaved a great sigh. "That's only the beginning, the easiest part. It'sdoingdifferently and not in the old way that's hard,—notthinking and doing jealous, vain, selfish things." She patted the water again thoughtfully.
"Well, give me a hand up, Sylvia. I'm an old dog, but perhaps upon occasion I can bound into the rosy clouds to stroll with you."
Sylvia shook her head knowingly. "If you do bound up you'll find you have struck something more substantial than clouds; and the rose-color may appear,—yes, itisthere," she interrupted herself with sudden conviction. "I've perceived it in flashes, but"—her voice sank, and she shook her head again,—"it doesn't seem rosy all the time."
"Well," returned the lawyer, "there's a certain amount of reassurance in the fact that you won't dare detest either me or Miss Lacey."
At the latter name color flashed over the girl's face, and she stretched out her hand impulsively. "Oh, it's so hard to love Aunt Martha," she cried.
The judge pursed his lips, averted his eyes, and rubbed his chin the wrong way.
"I suppose you do," she continued dejectedly.
"We-ll," he returned, his sharp eyes resting on the pointed firs,—"from the rosy-cloud altitude, of course, of course."
"Then you don't like her?" cried Sylvia hopefully.
"Of course I do," returned the lawyer hastily. "Most certainly. A very fine woman; a capable woman in every way." As he spoke he scanned the banks uneasily, as though fearing that Martha might have repented of her refusal to come in his place, and had followed him. "She is most worthy of respect and—and"—his voice trailed away into silence. "Give her a hand up, too, Sylvia," he added after a moment, "and we'll all let bygones be bygones together. What do you say?"
"It's easier to have you with me, Uncle Calvin," returned Sylvia naïvely.
The judge felt the embarrassment of guilt. This was the result of his leaving Martha to bear the heat and burden of Hotel Frisbie alone. Hers had been the hours of tears and anxiety. He had kept on the even tenor of his legal way, troubling himself about nothing, and his negative misdemeanors were less heavily visited upon him. Compared to himself Martha was innocent; and it was the way of the world that such should suffer always with the guilty, and sometimes even in their place. He told himself, however, that his tenure on the situation was too light to be risked. He took ignoble refuge in generalities.
"Don't rely too much on first impressions, Sylvia. Your Aunt Martha has grieved about you. Remember, 'to err is human, to forgive divine.' Moreover,"—the speaker's lips twitched again,—"what will Thinkright say if you refuse her standing-room on our cloud? Consider well!"
Sylvia smiled through bright drops.
"Now, then, change seats with me," continued the judge, "and I'll row you in."
At the same moment Thinkright, having been absent for hours on some errand, was being greeted on his return by Mrs. Lem, who came out to the doorstep to meet him.
"Guess who's come," she said.
He looked up inquiringly. "Is Miss Derwent back again?"
"No. You'd never guess who it is this season o' the year. It's Judge Trent."
"Where is he?"
"Went down to the basin to find Miss Sylvy."
"Oh, did he?" Thinkright smiled in his interest.
"Yes. Kind of a touchin' meetin', I expect," remarked Mrs. Lem, lifting her pompadour and sighing sentimentally. Judge Trent had surprised her in a state of sleek and simple coiffure; but no sooner had his high hat disappeared down the hill than she flew into the bedroom and remedied the modest workaday appearance of her head; nor would the pompadour abate one half inch of its majestic proportions until he took his train back to Boston. She hoped she knew what was due to the lord of all he surveyed.
"How long has he been gone?" asked Thinkright.
"Oh, the best part of an hour, I should say."
"Then he must have found her," remarked the other, still with his speculative smile.
"Yes, indeed, and I hope she'll bring him home soon. It's real raw on the water to-day in spite of the sun, and the judge's bronicals ain't jest as strong as they might be."
"Oh, Mrs. Lem, Mrs. Lem," laughed Thinkright quietly, entering the house and hanging up his hat.
"There they come now!" she exclaimed, herself hastily retreating into the kitchen.
Thinkright looked out to see Sylvia's uncovered bright head level with the judge's high hat as they strolled up the hill. The lawyer's hands were clasped behind his back, and Thinkright augured peace from the deliberation of the strollers.
He met them at the door. Sylvia's grave face changed to a pensive smile at sight of him, and Judge Trent gave his cousin's hand a dry, short shake.
"How are you, Thinkright? See if you can't find a light boat and manageable oars for Sylvia in this vicinity. I found her catching crabs and losing oars at a great rate down there, and splashing herself till she resembled a mermaid. Hello, Minty," for here the child drew her doubtful and reluctant feet into the room, her wide eyes always a little shy at first of the brusque and powerful man in the high hat. "I have something for you." The judge began feeling in his coat pocket. "I bought you a bag of gumdrops, and regret that I forgot and have been sitting on them all the afternoon." He produced the paper bag. "Fortunately, they are the durable brand for sale at the village and warranted to withstand any pressure. At worst they will be lozenges now."
"Why did you surprise us?" asked Thinkright, as Minty beamingly accepted the striped bag. "Why didn't you let me send the team over?"
"Oh, you know I'm a creature of impulse," returned the lawyer, with his dry smile; "I acted with my usual lack of calculation. Made up my mind to come one minute, and took the train the next."
Thinkright did not reply, but glanced toward Sylvia, who was pulling the blue sweater off over her head.
CHAPTER XIV
BLIND MAN'S HOLIDAY
Upon Judge Trent's return to town John Dunham did not disappear in a cloud of dust to make his call on Miss Derwent. He took the precaution to telephone, and discovered that she was out of the city.
He felt considerable curiosity regarding his employer's experiences at the farm, but true to his new and safe policy he asked not a single question. Business required the judge's immediate attention upon his arrival, but as soon as affairs in the office quieted he remembered the promise he had made Dunham.
"Now then, boy," he said one morning, "there isn't any reason why you can't run along to-day and call on Miss Derwent."
"The bird has flown. I 'phoned to the house. She has gone to New York to be a bridesmaid. Isn't coming back till time to leave for Maine."
"H'm. Too bad," returned the judge absent-mindedly.
"Thank you. Don't let it depress you."
"Eh?" looking up; Dunham was bending over the morning mail.
"Ever been in that Casco Bay region?" went on the judge.
"Yes, I yachted along the coast from Bar Harbor to Portland one summer."
"It's a fine, unspoiled part of the world," remarked the lawyer with unusual pensiveness, setting his hat farther back from his forehead and looking into space. "When I get a glimpse of it as I did this week, I'm tempted to hasten my retirement, to bid farewell to the squabbling world, and turn fisherman,—begin to spread nets for mackerel instead of my fellow men, and trap only such lobsters as will blush in a pot instead of in court."
"Hear, hear," said Dunham. "You must have had good weather up there,—or else," he added, "fallen in love with your niece."
Judge Trent still looked into space. "Yes," he went on slowly, "move my books to the Mill Farm, leave Hannah the house, but not my address, and begin rising at 4a.m.for breakfast with Cap'n Lem. Then row out to my pound, take in the fish, and send them to Boston. What retaining fee could compare to the satisfaction of making money that way? Think of the sights and sounds, the peace of mind!"
"Yes," said John, "but consider the obstacles."
"There wouldn't be any. I'd leave the good will of the office to you."
"I'm very grateful, but you forget. What would any well-regulated fish say to afternoon dress at 4a.m., and wouldn't the wind blow your hat off?"
"John, you're a frivolous youth," responded the judge thoughtfully; "but," in a warmer tone, "there are some things you do very well. I"—still more warmly—"I have a little commission for you this afternoon."
Dunham looked up suspiciously.
"It happens very nicely that you don't wish to go to Boston to-day. I think it is due Miss Lacey that she should receive news of her niece's welfare. She knows I've been up there and"—
"Yes, she does know it," interrupted John with emphasis. "She is waiting with great eagerness to hear your report."
"Precisely," returned the judge mildly. "Now I'll tell you all about it."
"Why do you tell me?" inquired Dunham firmly.
"How can you tell Miss Lacey if I don't?"
"I'm not going to tell her."
"Why not? You've been there once."
"My dear Judge Trent," began John impressively, "I was late in coming to it, I know; but I have lately been turning my talents to minding my own business"—
"Which is mine," put in Judge Trent. "It's what I engaged you for."
"Well and good, but not to attend to your pleasures," retorted John, with a grin; "your family and domestic affairs. You will naturally visit Miss Lacey this afternoon. You couldn't do less."
The judge scowled. "I might call her up on the 'phone," he said gloomily.
"You might," returned John, "if you could send her a mind wave which would draw her to the corner grocery. I have had one appointment made by postcard, to speak to her at the corner grocery."
"Call it up, then, and ask them to send for her," commanded the judge curtly.
"Certainly, if you say so," responded Dunham, "but don't you think if she got you on the wire from there, her conversation might be too entertaining and instructive to the listeners? Her methods at the 'phone are—unusual. The day we talked I heard her distinctly through the window as well as over the wire."
Judge Trent groaned. "I haven't crossed her threshold in ten years, but I suppose I shall have to do it if you're going to be so confoundedly obstinate and disobliging."
"Certainly," returned Dunham smoothly. "It's time such unneighborly habits were broken up. And say, Judge, ask her to feel round and find out if Miss Derwent doesn't want to see me at her island this summer."
"H'm. Trust you among those lobster traps?" returned the judge irascibly. "Never. I feel some responsibility to your family."
As Miss Lacey said afterward, it was the greatest mercy that she wasn't out that evening. She had been inclined to go over to Selina Lane's to get a skirt pattern, but some trifle had prevented her setting forth, so that she sat rocking gently in her sitting-room, enjoying blind man's holiday at about eight o'clock, and reflecting on the contents of a letter from Miss Derwent which she held in her lap, when she saw in the dusk an unmistakable figure turn in at her gate.
"Calvin!" she exclaimed, and surprised color mounted to her forehead as she rose to open the door.
"No lights. I thought you were out," was Judge Trent's greeting.
Now Miss Lacey knew from the etiquette column in "The Ladies' Friend" that it wasde rigueurto allow a gentleman caller to take care of his own hat, but, as she reflected in a lightning flash, that authority on manners and morals in "The Ladies' Friend" had never met Judge Trent. The reluctance with which he now yielded up his boon companion vindicated her lack of confidence. She deposited it on the hall table.
"Step right in, Calvin," she went on. "I hardly know how to wait for your news. I'll light the lamp in an instant." She proceeded to do so, conscious of a fleeting wish that the visitor would note the brightness of the chimney and clearness of the flame, and read a lesson to Hannah. She breathed a sigh as she realized the hopelessness of the aspiration.
The judge was standing, waiting in silence for her to be seated. No movement or expression showed that the objects about him bore different associations from those connected with his office furniture, and if she took her seat on the haircloth sofa with an idea that he would join her she was disappointed. He parted his coat-tails and perched upon a straight-backed structure of mahogany, usually avoided by every caller.
"Well, Martha, I haven't much to tell. She's very pretty."
"I told you so, Calvin. I told you that was the trouble."
"Precisely. In addition I must say she has very little use for us,—for you and me."
Miss Lacey shook her head mournfully. "How did she treat you? Did she flash up and snap her eyes?"
"No, she shut them with a sort of a take-it-away expression."
"But she is safe now, isn't she? You will let her stay at the farm, won't you?"
"Yes, of course," returned the judge.
"Does she look so ill and pitiful?"
"No, she's picking up. She seems perfectly contented under Thinkright's wing."
"You don't know what that means," returned Miss Martha fervently. "After that dreadful talk about the stage, and marrying actors, I didn't know as she'd be willing to stay in the country with a plain man like Thinkright."
"She doesn't think he's plain. She considers him a mixture of Adonis and Solomon."
"Very well. Whateveryoumay see fit to do, Calvin,Ishall thank God on my bended knees," declared Miss Martha devoutly. "To think that her immortal soul isn't lost and our two families disgraced through our—own—fault, is a blessing we don't either of us deserve."
"Rub it in, Martha, rub it in," returned the judge.
"No, I'm not one of the nagging kind. I don't intend to rub it in, but I'll own it, once and for all. Go on, please. What else?"
Judge Trent waved his hands. "Nothing else, practically."
"Why, there must be a lot more to tell. IfI'dbeen the one to go up there I should have a thousand things to tell you."
The lawyer raised one devout glance toward the ceiling. "I'm sure of it, Martha; but you know the limitations of a mere man. Beside, I suppose pretty soon now you will be seeing for yourself. Miss Derwent said she should go early this season."
"Why, yes. Next week. I just received the letter to-day. It comes as a surprise, and I shall have to hurry, getting ready to close my house. Edna hadn't expected to be free so quickly, but her parents' plans have changed, and so hers can. She's been up at the farm, too, and seen Sylvia, you know."
"Yes. We all know Sylvia now," returned the judge with grim humor.
"Oh, I wish you would tell me more," begged Miss Martha. "Did she treat you decently before you came away?"
"Oh, yes. You know Thinkright's peculiar notions. His hell-fire is right here or nowhere, and he's been teaching Sylvia how to keep her toes out of the flames,—how to climb up out of these lowlands of sorrow. She was pretty well stranded after years of vagabond life. Excuse me, Martha, but we all knew Sam; and after our rebuff she was in a fit state to swallow Thinkright's cheerful theories whole. I don't claim much knowledge of what I can't see or touch, but it wouldn't surprise me if the Power that Is let us sidetrack ourselves on purpose to put Sylvia in Thinkright's care. I shouldn't have known how to handle the results of Sam's training, and if you'd had the job I suspect you'd have begun at the outside and tried to teach the girl habits of order and all that. Thinkright and I sat up late one night talking the matter over. Sylvia would have driven you to drink, and you would have driven her to join a traveling circus."
"Calvin!" interrupted Miss Martha, gasping. "I'm a white ribbon"—
"You are, Martha, without a spot or stain; but it wouldn't have been any use to try to veneer Sylvia, as it were. Now these remarks are not opprobrious. They are designed to comfort you for the apparent mistakes of the trip to Hotel Frisbie. Things have come out better than we could have arranged them. Sylvia's guardian angel was holding Thinkright in the background, like a trump card, as you might say"—
"No, I mightn't, Calvin Trent! You're saying the most awful things!" exclaimed Miss Lacey.
"Well, you'll be up there in a few days," remarked the judge, rising. "I just wanted to assure you that Sylvia is doing well, and that you can be perfectly tranquil about her; so good-by, Martha. I hope you will have a satisfactory summer."
"We shall see you at Hawk Island, of course," returned Miss Lacey, as they shook hands. "Edna always counts on it, you know."
"It will perhaps do quite as well if I send Dunham. He is accustomed to representing me."
"Oh, is he coming to the Tide Mill?" asked Miss Martha in pleasant surprise.
"There's no telling. I suppose he'll have to take a vacation somewhere. Young men are so unreasonable nowadays. Imagine me at his age kiting off to the seashore."
"Why, I'm sure," returned Miss Martha with some consciousness, "we used to enjoy those drives to Swampscott very much."
"Another incarnation. That was another incarnation," responded the lawyer quickly, passing into the hall where he pounced eagerly upon the hat from which he had endured such ruthless separation. Saying good-by once more, he departed.
Miss Lacey watched him disappear into the star-lit, fragrant night.
"IfI'dmarried him," she murmured, "he wouldn't wear a coat after it was shiny at the seams."
Her heart was beating a little faster than usual, and her cheeks were warm as she closed the door.