CHAPTER XIX
A NOR'EASTER
Anemone Cottage was built partly of boulders taken from the shore. Its roomy porch was supported by pillars of the same stone. The bluish tint of balsam firs stood out against the darker foliage of the evergreens that surrounded it, and such trees as cut off the superb view from the piazza had been removed, leaving vistas which were an exaltation to the beholder.
The beauty of the place sank into Sylvia's heart, and as Miss Martha appeared on the porch to meet the guests, the light of hospitality shone in her face, and the girl forgot that it had ever been difficult to greet her aunt warmly.
"Your sail has given you sharp appetites, I'm sure," said Miss Martha, "and dinner is just going to be put on the table."
They all moved into the living-room. It ran the full width of the cottage and had a wide, deep fireplace opposite the door. A round centre-table covered with books and periodicals, an upright piano, and numerous armchairs as comfortable as they were light, furnished the room.
"How charming!" exclaimed Sylvia, looking from the rugs on the floor to the cushions in the window-seats.
"Yes, it is," said Edna. "It's a fine port in a storm, but in all decent weather we scorn it."
Sylvia went to a window. A rocky path led between the symmetrical firs down toward the shore where far below boomed the noisy surf.
"And how is the boat, Sylvia?" asked Miss Martha.
"It's a joy," replied the girl, looking around brightly.
"Oh, yes, your boat," said Edna. "I'm going to invite myself over on purpose to row with you. Miss Lacey has told me all about it and its mysterious name."
Her eyes twinkled at Sylvia.
"It is—very mysterious," returned the latter, laughing.
Miss Lacey gave a quick nod. "I'm going to ask Judge Trent what it means when he comes," she declared.
"Fie, Miss Martha! How indiscreet!" laughed Edna. "Can't he have a little undisturbed flirtation with his best girl?"
She was surprised at the suddenness and depth of Miss Lacey's blush, but the little woman bustled out to the dining-room and shortly announced dinner.
It seemed to Sylvia that she had never been so hungry and that food had never tasted so delicious. She remarked upon it somewhat apologetically, and Edna laughed at her. "My dear girl, it's the way of the place," she said. "Of course we eat nothing prosaic here. These potatoes grew at the Mill Farm, these lobsters were swimming this morning. This lamb, I'm afraid, was skipping around only a few days ago on Beacon Island. This salad grew just over the fence from that daisy field we passed through this morning,—and so on."
For dessert they had a deep huckleberry pie.
"How's this, Sylvia, eh?" asked Thinkright, after the first juicy mouthful. "I thought Mrs. Lem was pretty good at it."
"It is perfect," returned Sylvia, "but how we shall look!" she added.
"Don't worry," said Edna. "I always keep a box of tooth-brushes upstairs for wanderers trapped just as you are. Of course it is a good pie. These berries were growing on the shore of Merriconeag Sound yesterday, and Miss Lacey and I picked them ourselves. Weren't we a happy, disreputable pair, Miss Martha? Our dresses were stained, our fingers were a sight, and our lips,—I'll draw a veil! We both would have done so then if we'd had any."
Sylvia listened, smiling. In her preoccupation she let her fork veer away from her plate.
"Oh!" she ejaculated regretfully. "See what I've done!" A drop of the rich dark juice had fallen on the spotless cloth and seemed to spread mischievously. "Dear, I meant to be so careful."
"Not a bit of harm," returned Edna. "That is a feature of the huckleberry season. The stain vanishes under hot water."
Sylvia's eyes clung to the spot. A thought had suddenly come to her like a lightning flash. She knew vaguely that her hostess was saying pleasant things, but she could not follow them.
"Eat your pie, Sylvia," said her aunt. "We always have a second piece. Jenny's feelings would be hurt if we didn't."
The girl commenced eating again, mechanically. "You picked these yourselves?" she said. "They grow for anybody to pick?"
"Yes, indeed," replied Edna. "I enjoy it. I think Miss Lacey considers a berrying expedition a good deal of a pleasure exertion."
"They always ripen first in such shut-in fields," objected Miss Lacey.
Edna laughed. "The kind Mrs. Lem would call hot as Topet."
"Oh, I'd love to pick them," said Sylvia. "Do they grow around the Mill Farm, Thinkright?"
Her eyes were shining as she asked her question.
"No. Nowhere around us,—that is, nowhere near. I've often wondered at it."
"Stay here, and go with me, Sylvia," said Edna cordially. "We'll let Miss Martha off, and you and I will take Benny and make a day of it."
"Oh, I'd love to!" exclaimed Sylvia. "I'll try to come over soon."
"Not at all. Always make the most of a bird in the hand. You're here now. I'm going to keep her,—oh, as long as I can, Thinkright."
He smiled at Sylvia, who smiled back, still with the excited shining in her eyes. "She seems willing, I must say," he remarked, pleased at the prospect of the two girls thus becoming acquainted.
The hour before he had to start back was spent by them all together, at first on the rocky ledges below the house where the caldrons of foam and fountains of spray made the finest show, and then roaming through the fragrant woods. At each new vista Miss Martha noted the narrowing of her niece's eyes and the absorption of her gaze.
"I guess you have some of your poor father's artistic taste," she said to her at one pause.
"I wish my father could have seen this place," was Sylvia's reply.
When the time came for Thinkright to make his adieux she clung to him.
"I declare I believe she's homesick at the parting," said Miss Lacey to Edna. They two were standing on the piazza and the others a little way off on the grass; but Sylvia was not homesick, she was whispering to her cousin: "I'm staying for a reason, Thinkright!" she said. "I've had an idea. I believe it's a good one."
He patted her shoulder. "That's right, that's right." He gestured toward the rolling expanse about them. "For every drop of water in that ocean there are thousands of possibilities of good for every one of God's children. The shutters are open, little one. Why shouldn't the blessing flow in?"
And so began for Sylvia the visit which always afterward stood out in her memory unique in the poignancy of its novel impressions. Despite the simplicity of life at Anemone Cottage, there was an order and smoothness in the management of details which constantly attracted and charmed the guest. The poetry of the wild enchanting surroundings was ever sounding a new note in sky or sea or flower, and the companionship of Edna Derwent was an experience which Sylvia seized upon with an eagerness wholly devoid of worldly considerations.
It was on a Friday that Thinkright had left her at the island. During that night a northeast wind sprang up, and on Saturday a storm prevented the expedition after berries. It was a wonderful day to Sylvia.
Torrents of rain beat upon the windows, the atmosphere was a blur through which the surf thundered mysteriously.
Logs blazed merrily in the great fireplace. Sylvia found a feast of many courses in the illustrations of the magazines. Edna was interested to see her discrimination.
"Oh, I remember," she said. "Miss Lacey told me your father was an artist."
Miss Martha was sitting by the fire darning stockings, and at this she gave an involuntary alert glance at her niece where she sat with Edna by the round table, her head bent above one of the periodicals.
"My father never learned to apply himself. He was not deeply interested in his work," replied Sylvia. The blue eyes looked up into Edna's dark ones. "No one ever taught my father how to think right," she added.
"I see," returned Miss Derwent; "but your interest must have been a great help to him."
"No, I was never any help to him. As I look back I seem to myself to have been only a chrysalis. I had eyes and saw not, and ears and heard not. I only began to live when I came to the Mill Farm. Poor father!"
Edna's eyes were soft. "I understand," she said.
Miss Lacey did not understand, but she suspected. She saw the look that passed between the two girls, and remembered Thinkright's peculiar views and Edna's adherence to them.
"'Tisn't doing Sylvia any harm, anyway," she reflected, "and I know she'll never have a disloyal thought of her father," and she pulled another stocking over her hand.
"Well, you are interested now, certainly," remarked Edna, increasingly surprised at the girl's perception of the quality of the work of the various artists, combined with such comparative ignorance of their names and reputations.
"I have never had much opportunity," said Sylvia simply, "and, as you can see, I never made the most of what I did have. I suppose father had ambition once"—
"Indeed he did, my dear!" put in Miss Lacey emphatically.
Sylvia started. In her absorption she had forgotten her aunt's presence.
"Yes, I suppose so," she replied; "but things went hard with him, and for years past the only work he could depend upon were the pictures he made for advertisements and an occasional cartoon for a paper."
"Indeed," returned Miss Lacey, leaning forward and poking the fire in her embarrassment. This was entirely gratuitous frankness on Sylvia's part. "Well, I can assure you he was made for better things," she went on, bridling. "When you visit me I will show you a landscape in my parlor worth a thousand of the daubs people rave over. Half the time you can't tell whether they're trying to paint a tulip field or a prairie fire. Ridiculous! You can almost count the rings on the horns of the cows in this landscape. It's what I call apicture."
It was well that Miss Lacey enjoyed this work of art, for it was all she had to show for many a squeeze given to her slender purse by the artist.
Edna paused in the talk she was led into by her guest's eager attention and questions.
"Listen to the surf!" she exclaimed. "You must see that show, Sylvia. We must go down to the rocks."
"Fine! But I haven't any other clothes if I wet these," returned the girl, looking down.
"Oh, it's bathing suits to-day, and rubbers, and mackintoshes."
Soon they were equipped; and leaving the cottage by the back door they worked their way around the corner of the house to the sea front, and by the help of the sturdy trees that were making their usual good fight with the elements managed to creep down to the upper tier of rocks. Here it was impossible to hear one another speak, and the girls' exhilaration could be expressed only by glances as they clung to each other and the rocks, where to-day the foam flakes flew about them, although it was usually high and dry for some distance below this. The fine sharp needles of rain, which at first made their eyes smart, ceased for a time, and they watched the giant waves at their hoarse, clamorous revel, joining the roar with their own shrieks of mirth and excitement whenever some reckless fling of spray drenched them from head to foot.
Edna had placed Turkish towels and their clothing in a shed at the back of the house, and when finally the rain began again to cut their eyes and shut away even the nearest view, she succeeded in dragging the reluctant and dripping Sylvia thither, and they again made ready for the house.
"Come in, you two mermaids," exclaimed Miss Lacey when they appeared. She threw more logs on the fire. "I began to think you had gone to see the land 'where corals lie.'"
Edna laughed and took the pins out of her hair, so that it rolled in damp lengths about her. Sylvia's curls were gemmed with bright drops, and both girls were rosy and sparkling from their tussle with the gale.
"Sylvia has the only hair that ever ought to go to the seashore," remarked Edna, looking with open admiration at the piquant face under the jeweled diadem. "You can take a chair, Sylvia, but I shall have to turn my back to that lovely fire."
Sylvia stretched herself luxuriously in a reclining chair before the blaze while her hostess sank on the rug and spread her dark locks to the heat.
"You do look like a mermaid," said Sylvia.
"Mermaids sing," remarked Edna. "Would you like to hear me sing?"
"I don't know," replied the other slowly, "whether I could stand one more thing. I think I might pass away if you should sing, the way you look now."
Edna laughed. "I feel like singing," she said, and jumping up, went to the piano and pulled over the music.
"I think Miss Lacey started me by speaking about 'Where Corals Lie.' I'll sing the Elgar 'Sea Pictures.'"
Edna had an even, contralto voice, and sang with the charm of temperament; but to the sensitive listener the enchantment of the sea seemed to linger in the tones of this creature who, with the sparkling drops still shining in her dark hair, poured out such strange and moving music. It stirred Sylvia to the depths.
At the close of the song "Where Corals Lie," she sighed some comment, and Miss Martha spoke:—
"That isn't what you'd call aprettytune, not near as pretty as a lot that Edna sings," she remarked, "but that song goes right to my backbone somehow and chills right up and down it; and the way she says,—
'Leave me, leave me, let me goAnd see the land where corals lie,'
'Leave me, leave me, let me goAnd see the land where corals lie,'
'Leave me, leave me, let me go
And see the land where corals lie,'
it sort of comes over me when she stays long down on the rocks in a storm, and makes me feel queer."
"That's right, Miss Lacey," remarked Edna, without turning around. "I'm a very sentimental and desperate person."
"You are when you sing, my dear," retorted Miss Martha with conviction.
"Now I'll give you the Capri one," said Edna, "but I never saw a day at Capri that fitted it as every day does here;" and with wind and wave outside making an obligato to her flowing accompaniment, she sang "In Haven."
"Closely let me hold thy hand,Storms are sweeping sea and land,Love alone will stand."Closely cling, for waves beat fast,Foam flakes cloud the hurrying blast,Love alone will last."Kiss my lips and softly say,'Joy, sea-swept, may fade to-day;Love alone will stay.'"
"Closely let me hold thy hand,Storms are sweeping sea and land,Love alone will stand.
"Closely let me hold thy hand,
Storms are sweeping sea and land,
Love alone will stand.
"Closely cling, for waves beat fast,Foam flakes cloud the hurrying blast,Love alone will last.
"Closely cling, for waves beat fast,
Foam flakes cloud the hurrying blast,
Love alone will last.
"Kiss my lips and softly say,'Joy, sea-swept, may fade to-day;Love alone will stay.'"
"Kiss my lips and softly say,
'Joy, sea-swept, may fade to-day;
Love alone will stay.'"
Sylvia's hands were pressed to her eyes when the song was finished, and her aunt looked at her curiously, for she saw that she could not speak. Had Miss Martha been told that the young man in Judge Trent's office had any part in the tumult of feeling that sent the color to Sylvia's temples and the tears to her eyes she would have scouted the idea as too wild for consideration.
"Thatisa very pretty one," Miss Martha remarked in the silence that followed. She spoke to ease what she felt to be a tense situation. At the same time she winked at Edna, who had turned about to face her auditors. Sylvia's eyes remained hidden so Miss Martha continued:—
"There's something about those words that makes me think of 'Oh, Promise Me.' That's my favorite song. Do see if you can't remember it, Edna."
But the latter rose and came back to the fire.
"I must dry my hair," she said. "That's the drawback of not being a real mermaid."
She sank again on the rug near Sylvia.
The latter uncovered her flushed eyes and reached one hand down to Edna, who took it.
"If you hadn't—hadn't had anything," said Sylvia unsteadily, "you'd understand."
"I do," replied Edna; but she was mistaken. Though she pressed the hand very sympathetically she did not understand.
CHAPTER XX
THE POOL
The next day being Sunday Miss Lacey vetoed the excursion after berries as a snare to Benny Merritt's feet, which should be turned toward the little island church, whether or not they would be.
"Never mind," said Edna philosophically; "the longer we wait the more berries we shall find. We can count on good weather for some time now."
"You wouldn't want to sail anyway to-day," said Miss Lacey. "It looks blue enough, but there are white caps left over from yesterday that would never getmeto ride on them, I can tell you."
"The Sound isn't rough," replied Edna; "but we'll all be good girls and write letters. Come down to the Fir Ledges with us, Miss Lacey. We'll write there."
"Thank you, I've outgrown that," replied Miss Martha briskly. "Sit with your heels higher than your head, and no decent place to lean, and just at the most important moment have the wind double your paper over or blow it away. No, thank you; but there's room at the table for all of us if you'll be sensible."
The table was a round one placed in an angle of the spacious piazza, which had been glassed in as protection from the prevailing wind.
Here Miss Martha was wont to gather her writing materials, and with her back to the view, not for fear of its temptations, but in order to get a better light, indite many an underlined epistle to her friends at home. She sometimes had Edna's company, but that could not be to-day. The young hostess was enjoying too much exhibiting the charms of her beloved habitat to the guest who thrilled in such responsive appreciation at the moments and places where others had often proved disappointing.
"No bribe could induce us to be sensible," was Edna's response to Miss Lacey's suggestion. "We are going to the Fir Ledges, and there is no knowing when you will see us again."
"Oh, yes, there is," returned Miss Martha dryly. She was seating herself for her enjoyable morning. She was going to send Selina Lane some of Jenny's receipts. "There will be halibut and egg sauce, lemon meringue pie, and various other things served in this house at 1.30," she went on, "and I have an idea that you'll take an interest in them."
Edna and Sylvia exchanged a thoughtful look. "Perhaps we may," said Edna.
"I'm sure of it," added Sylvia with conviction.
Miss Lacey's satisfied laugh followed the pair down the woodland road, and she looked after them.
"Everything has turned out so well," she thought. "I remember how this summer stood up in my mind as one of the obstacles to letting Sylvia come to me, for I didn't see where I could leave her while I came to Hawk Island,—and now, just look. I really do think Edna has taken a fancy to the child, though evenIcan't always judge of Edna's feelings by her actions."
Miss Martha looked fixedly at the side of the house, her pen poised in her hand. She was weighing the question as to whether it would be well to mention to Selina Lane her niece's presence at Anemone Cottage. If she spoke of her, it might lead in future to embarrassing questions; if she did not speak of her, Selina was liable to learn of Sylvia from some other source; for no way had yet been discovered of permanently concealing anything from Miss Lane, and that spinster, so fond of jumping at conclusions that she frequently overleaped them, would be sure to decide that Miss Martha was ashamed of her niece.
To tell or not to tell! She was still balancing her pen and the question when a firm tread crunched the gravel behind her, and turning she beheld a man advancing to the steps.
He was dressed in outing flannels, and his cap was presumably in his pocket. At least he had none on his head. Miss Lacey rose with a start and hurried to the steps.
"Why, Mr. Dunham, I was never so surprised in my life!" she exclaimed.
He smiled. "I was told that you would look more kindly upon a surprise party at ten in the morning than at ten at night," he answered.
His eyes were level with Miss Martha's as she stood two steps above him on the piazza, and he pressed her hard, little, unresponsive hand. But if her hand was hard her heart was not, and it was with much appreciation of the visitor's attractive personality that she urged him to take his choice of the piazza chairs.
"This is a great place," he remarked, as she fluttered back to her table, and he dropped on the piazza rail. "I've never been on the islands before,—only sailed past them."
"But how did you get here so early? Were you at the Island House all night?"
"Not at all. When Mr. Johnson returned on Friday he found Judge Trent and myself in possession. This morning I went out with Cap'n Lem to his pound, so was ready for an early start over here; and it surely is a great place."
Dunham looked off upon the rolling billows breaking in snow here and there above unseen ledges.
"Your clothes are wet. You had a rough sail."
"In spots, yes; but it's rather sheltered between here and the Tide Mill. You're looking well, Miss Lacey."
"Who wouldn't in such a place," she rejoined; "and just think, Mr. Dunham, my niece is here."
"So I understand." The young man gave a tentative glance around at the house.
"Oh, they're not in. Miss Derwent is never in, unless it storms the way it did yesterday, and then she's liable to be in oilskins hanging on to some rock and scaring me out of my seven senses. Sylvia's just like her. They were both out yesterday."
"I'm glad to learn that your niece is strong enough for that," returned Dunham.
Miss Lacey made a gesture. "She did it, anyway." She lowered her voice to a confidential pitch. "Haven't things worked around wonderfully, Mr. Dunham?" The speaker drew back, giving him a significant look.
"How do you mean?" asked Dunham cautiously.
"Since that day we were at Hotel Frisbie. I haven't dared look to see how many new gray hairs that week gave me, and here we are, all so calm and happy. Miss Derwent being so kind and hospitable to Sylvia, and none of my doings at all. You see, it would have been such an impossible thing for me to suggest that my niece should visit here, but it came around in the most natural way through Thinkright."
"It is fine," returned Dunham. Sylvia's name still meant for him only the dew-laden eyes that beseeched him as he left her at the Association that day in Boston. He felt some curiosity as to how Miss Lacey had finally made her peace, and he felt sure that she would like to tell him; but the younger Miss Lacey's affairs were none of his.
"I'm sorry not to find Miss Derwent," he said.
"Oh, you'll find her," returned Miss Lacey briskly. "You will stay to dinner with us, of course."
"Certainly not," returned Dunham quickly.
"Why, you will. We have it at noon, you know."
"In these togs?" asked John incredulously—"Miss Derwent?"
"Oh, hers aren't any better," returned Miss Martha. "That's the island fashion."
"No,—I'll go to the—what did you say? There's some sort of a hotel here, isn't there?"
"Yes. Some sort," returned Miss Lacey, "but not your sort. Don't say another word about it, Mr. Dunham. Why, Miss Derwent would be scandalized,—an old friend like you. You said you were, didn't you?" she added, with sudden questioning.
"Yes, so old that I shall be new," returned Dunham, smiling. "I only hope she'll remember me."
"Why didn't Judge Trent come with you? We should have been very pleased to see him at dinner, too," said Miss Lacey, with a little excess of formality.
"I did ask him, but he said he wasn't tired of terra firma yet."
"Has he come to stay?"
"Yes, for a while. We've locked up the offices and are going to forget dull care together. He's devoted to this region, isn't he?"
"Yes, and what is more interesting and wonderful—to Sylvia," returned Miss Martha, again dropping her voice as if there might be eavesdroppers in Arcady. "That is, he must be. He has given her the loveliest boat."
"I saw it the evening we came. Mr. Johnson was showing it to him."
"What did he say about its name?" eagerly.
"Its name?"
"Yes. The Rosy Cloud."
"Why,—nothing."
"Didn't Thinkright ask him anything?"
"Not that I remember."
"Has Judge Trent said anything to you about Sylvia?"
"Not a word."
Miss Lacey, who had been leaning forward, flung herself back in her chair.
"If there's anything exasperating on earth it's a man!" she exclaimed. "Well"—for John laughed, "excuse me, Mr. Dunham, you can't help it; but men never know when anything is interesting. Now I can tell you just where you'll find those girls, and I'm going to let you go. You take that path through the woods, and it'll bring you into an open field, but you'll still see a path. Keep right on till if you took another step you'd fall about fifty feet and have to swim. There you'll find a huddle of ledges and ravines and brave little firs that have hooked their roots into the rock somehow, and there you'll find also a couple of girls who went down to write letters, and I know haven't written a word; and do keep an eye on your watch and get them here by quarter past one. Things are so much nicer when they are hot and good, and Edna is no more to be trusted than if she was five. If she happened to get to watching a barnacle eat its dinner she'd never once think of her own."
Just at present Miss Derwent was certainly not thinking of dinner. The tide was falling, and she and her companion were seated amid the sighing firs and watching its retreat; that is, Sylvia was watching, and Edna was reading aloud to her. At last Edna looked up from her book and leaned forward to look over the ledge.
"It is low enough," she said. "Let us go down there, Sylvia. I want to show you the pools."
Leaving their books and papers covered from the breeze with a shawl, the girls climbed down the rough rocks.
"We call this the giant's bath-tub," said Edna, when they reached an oblong hollow rock brimming with brine.
"I'd hate to take a bath with some of those creatures," remarked Sylvia, her eyes on certain small objects of various shapes.
"I, too; and see how crusted the rock is with barnacles. How their edges do cut! Dear little things, they'll go to sleep now till the tide comes back again."
"Go to sleep!" laughed Sylvia. "As if they were anything but gray stones!"
"Indeed, you are mistaken. I wonder if I could wake one of those fellows up," and Miss Derwent splashed water over one of the stony clusters. They remained lifeless.
"The tide has left them too recently," she said. "They're not hungry."
"Oh, Edna,—I mean Miss Derwent."
"No, call me Edna. I'd like you to. Sometimes I can make them open those stiff shells and put out five little fingers to gather in their food."
Sylvia shook her head. "You've told me lots of fairy stories the last two days, but that is the most improbable. What are you doing?"
"Getting you a sea urchin." Edna had rolled her sleeves to the shoulder and was plunging her arm into the water. She brought out a spiny prize.
"What is it covered with? Wet grass?" asked Sylvia, regarding the blackish object with disfavor. "Why, you said those charming lavender candlesticks of yours, all embroidered in tiny holes, were sea urchins."
"So they are, but this is smaller. I'm going to try to get you some big ones. Do you care for starfish?" Edna swooped upon one and drew it forth waving its pink legs helplessly.
"Of course!" exclaimed Sylvia excitedly. "How lovely. I'm going to have a sea cabinet."
"Oh, there," cried Edna, "I see a big urchin now, but I'm afraid I can't get him!"
"Can't?" exclaimed a voice incredulously. "He'll give himself to you," and Dunham dropped lightly from the rock above the absorbed girls, who sat up suddenly to find him standing beside them.
Sylvia was first to recognize the apparition. "Mr. Dunham!" she exclaimed, and the blood pulsed in her ears with the voice of the sea.
"Why, it is Mr. Dunham," said Edna, and leaning on her wet hand she reached up the other to greet him. Then he shook hands with Sylvia.
"It's a good thing you carry around those curls for people to know you by, Miss Lacey," he said.
Her upturned eyes were dark with excitement, her sudden color was high. There were little freckles across the bridge of her piquant nose. She was alive and glowing in every line.
"Where did you spring from?" asked Edna, brushing back a lock of hair with the back of her wet hand.
"First from the office, then from the Tide Mill, later from your house propelled by Miss Lacey, and ultimately from that rock, to discover by what magic there was some big urchin that Miss Derwent couldn't get. I never knew one who wasn't at her service,—the regiment headed by myself."
"On the contrary," returned Edna, "I distinctly remember when mother tried to get you to come to us here and you refused."
"Not refused. Regretted with tears. This is my party call,—the first opportunity I've had to make it."
"Well, you see now what you missed." Edna waved her hand toward the landscape.
"Don't I! From the moment of leaving the Tide Mill until I discovered your blonde and brunette heads bending over this pool my pilgrimage has been one long reminiscent wail."
"Oh, of course if you talk that way you will restore my complacency. When did you come to the Tide Mill?"
"Friday."
"In time for the storm, then."
"Yes, but Judge Trent was with me. We sang,—
'You and I together, Love,Never mind the weather, Love.'"
'You and I together, Love,Never mind the weather, Love.'"
'You and I together, Love,
Never mind the weather, Love.'"
Edna looked at him with curiosity and approval. A hundred incidents of their old friendship were returning to her thought. It was almost the same boyish head and face that topped this tall personage.
"You're just as silly as ever, John, aren't you?" she said. "I'm so glad."
He laughed toward Sylvia. "There's a reference for you, Miss Lacey."
"You please her. What more can you ask?" returned Sylvia.
It had all, all been a preparation for this moment. For this cause Thinkright had found her and brought her to the farm and taught her his philosophy. For this cause she had risen from the plane where Nat and Bohemia had been possibilities. For this cause Edna had given her her gracious friendship. The Prince and Princess had met in her presence, and she was as sure it was meeting never to part as she was that her earthly ideals could never be severed from theirs.
Edna and John both laughed at the earnestness of her naïve reply.
"She intends to keep me in my place, doesn't she?" he said to Edna.
"Evidently," she replied, "but we're both willing you should sit down. Won't you?"
"I think I'd rather look at myself in your mirror. Isn't that what you were doing when I descended upon you?"
"No. We have no need here for mirrors from month's end to month's end, for we never wear hats."
"Tush, tush," returned Dunham, lowering himself with some care among the projections of the inhospitable rock. "I'm sure you both patronize mirrors for the pure pleasure of it. In the minute I stood waiting and watching up there I expected to see you turn into—who was what's-his-name, Narcissus? Narcissi, then."
"Nonsense. You should use more local color. Say Anemones; but I warn you, we don't allow pretty speeches up here."
"That's unfortunate," returned Dunham, "for I've been in Seaton for months, and there's nobody to make love to there but Miss La—" He nearly bit his tongue off in the suddenness of his halt, but he did save himself. "What is in this pool, then, if not starry eyes?" he added suddenly, bending over the stone trough with interest.
"Starfish," replied Edna. "See this one. I pulled it out just before you came."
The starfish was clinging pinkly to the rock, and beyond him lay the urchin, the blackness of its draggled spines turning to green as it dried in the sun.
"Who's your friend?" asked John, regarding it. "Looks like a miniature Paderewski. Say, he's getting up steam."
In fact, the urchin had begun dragging itself in a stately and scarcely perceptible progress across the rock toward its native pool. The three watched it.
"Isn't there any law here against speeding?" asked Dunham with concern. "First water mobile I ever saw. Take his number, somebody. It's a scandal."
"He's number one," said Sylvia. "We're going to get some more. I 'm going to have a cabinet."
"You are? Well, I don't think a sport like that would be a safe member of any cabinet."
"Here. I'll show you the urchin I couldn't get," said Edna. "You'll reach him for us. My arm isn't long enough. See that big dark spot down in the corner? That is Sylvia's candlestick. A beautiful, lilac, embroidered candlestick."
"Who'd have thought it!" responded Dunham, rolling up his sleeves. In a minute the dripping prize was being offered to Sylvia, who clasped her hands and drew back.
"Would you mind putting him down?" she said. "He looks so big and—whiskery."
"Oh, I'm ashamed of you, Sylvia," laughed Edna. "Now you have to find another just his size, Mr. Dunham. She has to have a pair."
"She does, eh?" returned John resignedly. "I don't know what I'll draw out of this grab bag next," and he plunged his arm in again.
"No, no, you mustn't do that!" cried Edna,—"clouding up the water like that. We have to peer. Come and peer, Sylvia." They all leaned over the side of the pool. "See that little starfish? He's lost a leg already in his short career; and those pretty anemones! Why didn't I bring a pail. I shall make an aquarium for you on the piazza, and we'll have anemones, and undistinguished urchins who will never be in a cabinet or hold candles, and starfish, and barnacles. Oh, there's a baby, John. Quick,there! Oh, I can get it myself." She reached down in a flash and drew forth a tiny urchin.
"You startled me so," said John plaintively. "You said a baby, and I couldn't see even a bulrush."
"Oh, I shall educate you in time," returned Edna. "There, Sylvia, that will be the infant member of your cabinet."
"It seems pretty low down to kidnap a fellow of that size," remarked Dunham.
"But she's going to have a complete set of urchins,—from a little green pea to a personage."
"When you reach the personage class, remember me, Miss Sylvia. I have other references than this scoffing maiden."
Sylvia smiled. "But perhaps you wouldn't care to carry candles."
"Not care to burn candles before you? Of course I should."
"He's at it again, Sylvia," sighed Edna. "It's dreadful to have a starved man on our hands."
"Starved. That reminds me. Pardon me, ladies, if I look at my watch. Ah, half an hour's grace. I am going to ask you both to dine with me to-day. The procession moves at one sharp. If there are any signs of reluctance on the part of the hostess and her guest, I am to take one in each hand, with whatever fishy impedimenta cannot be lost, and repair with you to your cot. Miss Martha has spoken."
Edna laughed. "I'd forgotten, John, just what a shy flower you were!" she said.
CHAPTER XXI
A SWIMMING LESSON
That afternoon Sylvia had her first swimming lesson. She had gone bathing several times with Minty Foster, but had never ventured beyond her depth. There was a flight of steps leading down to the water at the left of Edna's cottage to a little natural harbor behind the rock masses. No sandy beach was there. One dropped into sea green depths where only the amphibious could feel at home; but Edna was amphibious, and even Miss Lacey's shade hat, firmly tied beneath the chin, was sometimes seen to ride upon the wave as its owner indulged in a stately swim from one point of rock to another. Her mouth and nose on these occasions were lifted from the waters in a scornful grimace. Twice across the pool Miss Martha swam with systematic deliberation, then, her hat and hair as dry as when she went in, she ascended upon a sunny rock, and assuming a large woolen waterproof contented herself with observing Edna's gambols. This afternoon she did not go in. The shade hat topped her Sunday gown of black grenadine, which was turned up carefully about her as she sat on a rock and chaperoned her young people. A straw "pancake" softened the asperities of her granite couch.
Dunham observed her erect attitude doubtfully. "Can't I get you some sofa pillows?" he asked.
"No, pancakes are what I always use," returned Miss Martha decidedly.
"That's true," said Edna, "especially on Sunday. Miss Lacey is willing to do anything on the spur of the moment except sit on it. She draws the line there; but Sunday is no day to be luxurious, is it, Miss Martha?—not for a person whose forefathers fought in the Revolution and ate leather."
"And it's not a good day to go in swimming, either," returned Miss Lacey uneasily. "I do hope, Edna, you'll come out before the islanders begin to return from church. Some of them might come along this shore."
"Dear Miss Martha," said Edna, "we don't have Mr. Dunham every day, to give Sylvia a swimming lesson."
"And I'm just as scared as I can be," declared Sylvia, her curly hair and big eyes emerging from the mackintosh that enveloped her. "Inever asked to go and see the land 'where corals lie,' and I don't think there's any bottom to that water."
The cottage had produced bathing suits for the guests, and although Miss Lacey had scruples, and sat very straight, darting glances to right and left through the trees, and held a copy of a Congregational church paper prominently before her, she was glad of this opportunity for her niece.
"You can learn, Sylvia," she said. "Benny Merritt taught me to swim in that very spot, for I was determined to learn. I pulled out some of the poor boy's hair, I remember; so be careful and don't grab Mr. Dunham by the head."
Edna ran down a few steps, and throwing her cloak on a rock clasped her hands above her, launched herself through the air in a graceful arch, and disappeared in the liquid emerald.
Sylvia lifted despairing eyes to Dunham. "She just does that to make me crazy," she said.
"We'll fool her, then," returned John. "We won't go crazy. Now lift up your arms."
"You aren't going to put that thing on me!" exclaimed Sylvia, eyeing with scorn the life-preserver he had picked up. "I thought that was something to sit on." She pinioned her elbows to her side. "Oh, I'd much rather drown than wear anything so unbecoming."
"Sylvia Lacey, lift up your arms this minute," commanded Miss Martha. "I wore one for weeks. As it was, I pinched Benny a number of times when I thought I was going down. Poor child, I distinctly remember a black and blue spot on his cheek where I kicked him one day."
"Miss Sylvia, I'm growing awfully frightened," said John, while he buckled. "Do you inherit your aunt's warlike propensities? You don't need to pull out my hair. I'll give you a lock of it in exchange for one of your curls." He had been observing the auburn rings that escaped under the front of the little oilskin cap.
"So ignominious," said Sylvia, looking over her person with disfavor.
"After you get into the water I'll take it off the minute you say," returned Dunham. "Let's make a bet, Miss Lacey. How long do you think she will keep it on?"
"Mr. Dunham, this is Sunday," returned Miss Martha.
"Oh, so it is. Well, I'll go and do penance. Look your last on my manly beauty, Miss Martha. We're off. Which side of the house does your niece take after?"
"What do you mean? She's a Lacey to the backbone."
John groaned. "Then the last hope has fled. I thought that perhaps the ingratiating Trent characteristics might come to the rescue, but now, expect to see me return bald and disfigured."
"Come on, you lazy people," called Edna; "it's glorious."
"O-o-o, 'where corals lie, where corals lie,'" shuddered Sylvia, as she ran down the steps. "Just look at that mermaid. Isn't it fun? It is as poetical as those Elgar songs. She could just make up her mind to go down, and—go!"
"Well, shall we go too?" John offered his hand. She put hers into it. "Are you game to jump?" he added.
"In a life-preserver!" ejaculated Sylvia in smiling contempt. "Yes. There," meeting Edna's eyes as she floated at ease, "there is the poetry. Here comes the prose tumbling after."
Physical timidity was no part of Sylvia's nature; and now secure in the consciousness of the life-preserver, and that Dunham would take care of her anyway, and incited by the desire to appear courageous in his eyes, it was easy for her to take the leap. John jumped with her.
Despite her brave intention a gasping shriek burst from her as she struck the flood. She was prepared not to be afraid of the depth of the water, but she had forgotten its temperature.
"Oh, it's so cold!" she cried.
"No, this is quite warm," said John. "The wind has blown the surface water in. Wait a bit and you won't mind it."
He was treading water and steadying his companion. "Want the life-preserver off?" he laughed.
"Indeed I'd rather have it than the most gorgeous gown in Boston," she replied breathlessly, her spirits rising as she felt the strength of his arms. "Naught shall part me from it. Tell me what to do and I'll do it."
Edna swam around them with nonchalant, sidelong strokes, while Dunham went through the customary directions to the novice. She had been splashing valiantly for some minutes when Miss Lacey, forsaking her point of lookout, crept gingerly, with fear for her grenadine, to the edge of the rocks.
"Children," she called in a hollow voice, "the people are returning from church."
"Well, what shall we do?" asked John. "Edna and I can stay under for a reasonable length of time, but I should be obliged to drown Miss Sylvia. Does the situation demand it?"
"Benny Merritt is coming," still more acutely. "He's very near!"
"Well, when he sees this pool he'll fly with such hair as he has," said John cheerfully.
"Oh," groaned Miss Martha, "I've so often told him it was wrong to swim on Sunday."
"Keep him," cried Edna; "I want him. We're coming out, anyway."
"Stayin," commanded Miss Lacey sepulchrally. "He may pass by," and she sank on a rock, spread out her Congregational paper, and examined the columns from end to end with absorption.
But Benny had no idea of passing by. He had heard the voices from the water and lounged toward Miss Lacey, but that lady declined to look up.
"Miss Sylvy's learnin' to swim, ain't she?" he remarked, when he had stood unnoticed through a space of silence.
"Oh, good-afternoon, Benny," said Miss Martha severely. "Yes; a friend from home came unexpectedly, and offered to help her, and she and Miss Derwent—and—— Was there a good congregation this afternoon, Benny? I thought best to remain here with my young people."
"Guess so. I heard 'em hollerin' as I come by a little while ago."
"Oh, Benny, you should have been there." Miss Lacey spoke more in sorrow than in anger; she was conscious that the object lesson he was now receiving would undo many of her faithful exhortations.
He directed an elaborate wink at the crown of her abased shade hat.
"Thought I'd ruther go swimmin'," he returned.
Miss Martha turned the leaves of her paper with a loud rustle. The bathers were chattering and pulling themselves out of the water by the steps.
Benny's eyes brightened as Edna's laugh sounded on his ear.
"You did very wrong to come to-day, Benny," she called to him brightly, throwing her cloak about her and coming dripping up the steep steps.
Benny grinned sheepishly. "Come to see if Miss Lacey wanted any clams to-morrer," he drawled.
Edna shook her finger at him. "We don't swim on Sunday. Understand, Benny? We go to church and sing with all the good people—don't we?" for Benny was changing from one foot to the other, alternately grinning and solemn under Edna's bright gaze.
"Yes,—when you don't miss of it," returned the boy, who had hung around the church steps to-day and peered within until he had satisfied himself that this was one of the missing days. He was a sufficiently docile attendant at the sanctuary whenever it meant staring for an hour at the back of Miss Derwent's head.
"And whenever we miss, it is for some important reason," returned Edna impressively. "This is Mr. Dunham, Benny," for here John and Sylvia came up the steps. "He is a friend of mine from home. This is Benny Merritt, who is going to take us huckleberrying and blueberrying to-morrow."
"Awfully good of you, Benny, I'm sure," said Dunham, throwing down the life-preserver, while Sylvia nodded at the boy and pulled off her oilskin cap.
"Oh, he isn't taking you berrying. You wouldn't care for it, would you?" asked Edna.
"I don't know. I'm like the fellow who was asked if he could play the violin. He said he didn't know, for he had never tried."
Miss Lacey looked from one to another of the bathers, who were now sitting in the sun. She wondered what Mr. Dunham meant by talking about to-morrow. Was he not instantly going to get into his clothes and start on his way to the Tide Mill?
The same question was flitting through Edna's brain. She wondered if her mother would approve her repeating the invitation to John to visit Anemone Cottage under present circumstances. The young man himself took possession of the situation.
"Your arrival is very opportune, Benny," he said. "I've just been wondering who I could get to sail Mr. Johnson's boat back to the farm."
Edna's eyelids lifted. She wondered if her old friend had determined to invite himself.
"You know where the Tide Mill is, I suppose?" went on Dunham, for Benny looked unillumined.
"It is Thinkright's boat he wishes to have sailed back," said Edna.
"Oh, yes," answered Benny. "I know."
"I'm going to investigate your island a little farther, Edna," said John. "I've found that there's a hostelry here. I can't bear to tear myself away in ten minutes."
"To linger on Hawk Island is to be lost," returned Edna. "To change the song slightly,—