'To see it is to love it,And love but it forever;For Nature made it what it is,And ne'er made sic anither.'"
'To see it is to love it,And love but it forever;For Nature made it what it is,And ne'er made sic anither.'"
'To see it is to love it,
And love but it forever;
For Nature made it what it is,
And ne'er made sic anither.'"
"Then here goes to lose myself," returned Dunham, "for you can't lose me. Benny, how are you going to get my boat home?"
"Don't know," drawled Benny; "couldn't swim back agin."
"Well, you could take it over to-morrow and get back somehow, couldn't you?"
"Miss Edna, she wants to go berryin' to-morrer."
"So do I, then," remarked Dunham.
"You shall," laughed Edna. "We'll send another boy."
"It's a worse problem than the fox and the goose and the corn," said John. "As Benny says, he can't swim back. I foresee a tragic future for Thinkright's boat, plying restlessly between Hawk Island and the Tide Mill, driven by the inexorable fate that hounded the Wandering Jew."
"We'll send two boys and an extra boat," returned Edna. "The island is rich in both commodities."
She let Dunham go to the little hotel that evening.
"But it will be the last time," she said to Miss Lacey after he had gone. "Why shouldn't I have a house party while Sylvia is here?"
"A man is a disturbing element on general principles," remarked Miss Martha, "but I like him, and always did, from the moment he dusted a chair for me with his handkerchief." She cleared her throat with sudden embarrassment as she glanced at Sylvia, who was listening with serious eyes.
That day's errand seemed strange and remote.
"Where have you and Mr. Dunham met before?" asked Edna, turning suddenly to her guest.
Sylvia was prepared for this question. "In Boston, only once. He met me there to arrange some business for Uncle Calvin."
"He is quite overcome by the change in your appearance. I'm not going to tell you the nice things he said about you. I don't approve of turning curly heads."
Sylvia colored and met Edna's kind eyes with a pleased, eager gaze. How lovely if the Prince should like her as did her Princess.
CHAPTER XXII
BLUEBERRYING
Benny was still unfurling his sail when his party came down to the floating dock the next morning.
Dunham was laden with lunch boxes, pails, and sweaters, and Benny looked somewhat darkly upon him as his laugh rang out in reply to a speech of his companions.
"I was givin' ye half an hour more," said the boy, as they greeted him. "Ye usually"—
"Don't betray me that way, Benny," interrupted Edna. "I'll have to confess, though, that this promptness is all owing to Mr. Dunham. He has pursued and hurried us since eight o'clock."
"I've traveled on my virtuous early rising up to the present moment," remarked Dunham; "but now I'll confess that I wasn't so crazy over the sunrise as I was at it. It was a very unwelcome pageant in my room at 3a.m."
"Oh, surely!" exclaimed Edna sympathetically. "Those cruelly light windows."
"Did you ever try a black stocking?" asked Sylvia earnestly.
"Well—occasionally," replied Dunham, regarding his feet.
"I mean on your eyes."
"No. Is that the latest? I'm from the country."
"People talk about sunshine in a shady place," said Sylvia. "I think shade in a sunny place is quite as important. Always put a black stocking under your pillow when you go to sleep in a blindless room. The light wakes you, you draw the stocking across your eyes,—and off you go again."
"Yes, but supposing the stocking does the same?" objected Dunham.
The girls laughed, much to Benny's disapproval.
"You shouldn't toss around so, then," said Edna.
"That isn't kind," remarked John. "Benny, I trust there is something black on board to draw across these lunch boxes. It is one hundred in the refrigerator on this dock."
Benny took the lunch stolidly, and stowed it under cover.
He considered Mr. Dunham an entirely superfluous member of this party.
"He's the freshest lobster ever I see," was his mental comment. "I wonder which of 'em he's sweet on?"
The passengers jumped aboard.
"Guess I'll save you the trouble of sailing her, eh, Benny?" asked John.
"You better guess again," drawled the boy, returning to his place and taking possession of the ropes. "I've got to take care of Miss Edna."
"Oh, Benny," said the girl gently, "you know this is Mr. Dunham's vacation."
"Hadn't ought to work in his vacation," returned Benny doggedly.
John was standing undecidedly looking down at him. There was an evident and large thunder cloud across Benny's brow.
"Why the grouch?" asked Johnsotto voce, looking down at Edna. "Is it chronic?"
"There are monsters in this deep, John, with green eyes," she replied mysteriously, smiling. "They're tamable when young, though. Sit down a while."
"He don't know nawthin' 'bout these ledges, does he?" asked Benny defensively.
"No," replied Edna. "That's right. You get us by the ledgy places and out into the middle of the Sound, and then Mr. Dunham will take her."
"Oh, I don't know," remarked John, dropping down in the boat with a sigh of content as the sail filled and they glided forward. "I don't know that I want anything better than this." He leaned against the gunwale and regarded Sylvia, who was sitting beside the mast. The morning stars shone in her eyes. "Miss Sylvia looks as if she agreed with me," he added.
She smiled and glanced away. Neither of these two suspected that she was a spell-bound maiden skimming over the blue waves in an enchanted shallop to some blest island, where waited a magical berry that would set her free. How should they understand that this holiday picnic was in reality a pilgrimage.
John continued to look at her. He wondered if Nat knew what he had lost.
"A penny for your thoughts, Miss Sylvia," he said after a minute.
She shook her head at him. "This isn't bargain day," she returned.
"Are they that precious?"
"They're priceless," she answered.
"Really no use bidding?"
"Not the slightest." Sylvia looked off again.
"Well, one thing about them I know without paying. You've given it away."
"What's that?"
"They're happy."
"Oh, yes." The girl smiled. How impossible it would be for either of her companions to conceive the cause of her happiness. They need not lack one day that which she had craved for weeks.
As they sailed on, Benny Merritt's stolid eyes glanced from time to time toward Edna. He was guiltily aware that they had passed the vicinity of dangerous ledges. The most uncomfortable feature of the situation was that he knew Miss Derwent to be equally aware of it.
"If he was to sail, I don't know what they brought me fer," he reflected gloomily.
He did know that it was necessary for some one to watch the boat and keep her off the rocks while the others were ashore, but Benny's elders have been known thus to fence with facts.
Edna caught his roving glance at last and raised her brows questioningly.
"Well," said the boy reluctantly, "I s'pose Mr. Dunham can sail now if he wants to."
The manner in which John received the sullen permission reminded Edna of many a past occasion when her friend had not contented himself with getting what he wanted, but managed to transform reluctance into grace.
"Dangerous coast around the island, is it, Benny?" asked John without moving.
"How do ye mean?"
"Treacherous. Hidden rocks to look out for and all that?"
"Not now. Ye could set a church, steeple an' all, where we are now."
"Do you carry a chart?"
"Yes, fer Miss Edna. I never look at it."
"Is it much trouble to get at it?" John rose as he spoke, and came over to the sailor, taking a place beside him.
"Dunno as it is," vouchsafed Benny. "It's in the locker." With some further hesitation he allowed John to take the sail, and proceeded to rummage for the chart, which he shortly produced.
"Now let's have a look at this," said Dunham, giving back the boat into Benny's hands, but remaining beside him as he spread the chart out on his knees.
Edna could see that he was making comments and asking questions which Benny answered with increasing detail, and she turned to Sylvia with a smile.
"That is so characteristic."
"What?"
"Why, John wants to sail this boat; but he won't do it till he's made Benny fall in love with him. So few men would care, or even notice, whether Benny liked it or not; but John was never content with merely getting his own way."
Sylvia looked at the speaker wistfully. "Do you admire it in him?" she asked.
Edna smiled. "Well, I like it at all events. The result is so agreeable. You'll see him sail this boat home while Benny chaperons him with all the pride of a doting guardian."
"It makes him very fascinating to people, I suppose," said Sylvia.
"Oh, yes. John has all sorts of equipment for that purpose."
"And does he—does he think right?" asked Sylvia timidly.
"I believe he doesn't look at things from our standpoint exactly, but his nature is fine. I used to consider that it was his vanity that demanded approval of everybody he had dealings with, but it seems to me now more like an instinctive desire to create a right atmosphere. Why should he care to win Benny Merritt?"
"Perhaps he wants to borrow his boat," replied Sylvia naïvely.
Edna's clear laugh rang out.
"I see you won't let me make a hero of him," she said.
"Oh, I will, I will!" exclaimed Sylvia earnestly, coloring. "Only you were speaking of his having his own way, and I wondered if—if he was just as charming to people when he wasn't trying to get it."
"Ah, that would put him on a pedestal, wouldn't it?" replied Edna mischievously. "Let's watch him, and see."
CHAPTER XXIII
A PHILTRE
By the time the party returned that evening Benny was still sitting beside Dunham, but the boy was doing all the talking, while John was sailing. Not even when they reached the ledges did Benny remember his proud privilege as pilot, but allowed his companion to conduct the boat's devious course while he expatiated on some races that had taken place earlier in the season. Had they not gone swimming together before luncheon, and had not Dunham's athletic feats and man-to-man treatment of the island boy completely subjugated him?
The tin pails they had carried were now in the locker, brimming with berries. The breeze that cooled the party all the way diminished gradually as the sun lowered, and at last the boat crept on slow wings to its mooring like a weary bird to its nest.
"And very lucky we were to get here instead of having to walk the length of the island," said Edna, as she jumped out on the dock. "John, how should you have liked to walk two miles carrying all the berries?"
Dunham shook his head as he bundled their paraphernalia out of the boat. "I should have insisted on sitting down to supper at once. It would have been a case like that of the 'Niger tiger:'—
'They returned from the rideWith the berries inside.'"
'They returned from the rideWith the berries inside.'"
'They returned from the ride
With the berries inside.'"
Edna laughed and added, "'And the smile on the face of'—who? Not one of us would have dared to smile. Even now Sylvia is the only presentable member of the party."
John looked at the younger girl curiously.
"It's a fact, Miss Sylvia, your self-control to-day has been something uncanny. Don't you like blueberries?"
"More than that," returned the girl significantly. "I love them."
"But not to eat," remarked Edna. "Of course Sylvia is too well-bred to love anything to eat. I don't know the fate she designs for those treasures of hers, but I suspect she intends to have them set in a necklace with elaborate pendants."
Sylvia colored, her eyes shining as she hugged a full pail away from the curious, laughing gaze of her companions. Every berry in it had been selected for its size and darkness; and when the others had begged for one plum from her appetizing collection she had guarded them jealously, and, refusing to allow her pail to be placed with the others on the return trip, had held it in her lap, superior to all jeers and the alarming threats of her ravenous companions.
Leaving the boat the trio bade Benny good-night and started up the hill.
"Now then, John, say good-by to your hotel," said Edna.
"Going to take me home to supper? Good work," he returned.
"Yes, and we shan't let you go back to that room full of sunrise, either."
"That sounds great"—began Dunham eagerly. "But I can't trouble you," he added. "Miss Sylvia has told me how to banish the light. What do you suppose Miss Martha would say if I asked her to lend me a black stocking?"
"Better not risk it," returned Edna, smiling. "Sylvia is going to stay with me a week. With the addition of yourself we shall compose a very select house party."
"I came over here to stay an hour," said Sylvia.
"So did I," added Dunham.
"Well," replied Edna, "we'll sail to the Tide Mill to-morrow and get you a few belongings."
"I trust you haven't had a moment's hope that I'd refuse," said John.
"It's too lovely for anything!" exclaimed Sylvia, taking one hand from her precious pail to squeeze her friend's arm.
She had been longing for a few days here to make her experiment. There was a promontory visible from the Fir Ledges—
They neared the cottage. "Now listen," said Edna merrily; "Miss Lacey has probably seen us. In a minute she'll come out on the piazza, and say, 'The supper isn't fit to be eaten. I should think, Edna,' and so forth, and so forth."
The words had scarcely left the girl's lips when Miss Martha bustled into view. "Here you are at last, you children," she said. "The supper isn't fit to be eaten. Ishouldthink, Edna, with your experience in the length of time it always takes to get home"—
The wind-blown, disheveled trio began to laugh. "Look at this peace offering, Miss Martha," said John, holding up the pails. "Have you the heart to do anything but fall on our necks? If you had seen the drops on my brow as I stooped over those miserable little bushes."
"Yes, if anybody had seen them!" exclaimed Edna scornfully. "Go right up to the same room you had last night, John, and bathe that brow, and be down here in five minutes, if you want Miss Lacey ever to smile on you again."
Miss Martha was very proud of her dining-room at Anemone Cottage. She was wont to say at home that one of the best features of her vacation was not having to consider the cost of providing for the little household; and to-night the immaculate table, with its ferns and wild roses in the centre, was laden with good things for the wanderers who gathered about it hungrily.
"When I think how I labored to procure those berries," repeated Dunham, looking pensively at the heaped-up dish on Miss Martha's right, "it seems almost a sacrilege to eat them."
"Aunt Martha, he didn't pick a pint!" protested Sylvia. "He ought not to have one."
"Ask her what she did," returned John. "She has a sylph-like, æsthetic appearance, but I give you my word she has the most epicurean eye. She hasn't left a prize berry in those fields. Have you seen her booty?"
"No. What does he mean, Sylvia?"
"He means to distract attention from his own laziness, that's all."
"No, I don't. I mean to have some of those rotund berries of yours. Don't you, Edna? I'll wager she hasn't thrown them in with this common lot. Have you, now?"
Sylvia laughed and colored. "No," she answered.
"Then get them," said John. "They'll be good for nothing cold. Besides, I want Miss Lacey to see them. Where are they?"
Sylvia continued to smile and keep her eyes downcast, just glancing up toward Edna, who answered for her.
"Under a glass case up in her room, probably. I told you she was going to make a necklace of them. Anyway,youcertainly don't deserve one. It is just as Sylvia said, Miss Martha, he shirked in that field in a manner that was painful to witness."
"Well, he has so far to stoop," returned Miss Martha, looking at Dunham approvingly. "It must be hard for him."
"Oh, you don't know him," retorted Edna. "There's nothing he won't stoop to. He came with us and picked about ten berries, and then"—
"Miss Lacey," interrupted John, "you are so right-minded it will be a pleasure to tell you what happened. Before luncheon I went swimming with our guide, philosopher, and friend. Then such was the evil suspicion of these girls that they wouldn't take me to get berries until we had eaten luncheon. We then proceeded to demolish everything in sight except the boxes. I think Benny ate those. After that I felt as though I could snatch a few winks, but as no one of the party was wearing black stockings except the guide, philosopher, and friend, I relinquished that idea."
Miss Lacey looked up questioningly, blinking through her glasses, but the speaker proceeded:—
"Moreover, the girls wouldn't give me time to try. They dragged me out into the field and made me carry all the pails. They were willing enough while the things were empty! Well, I'd been patiently laboring about ten minutes when I began to realize how unreasonable it was for me to be taking a Turkish bath after the glorious cold plunge I'd been having; then the look that the guide, philosopher, and friend had worn as we left him returned to me with an appeal. Of course you know that affairs are very serious between him and Edna, and I felt myself in a delicate position. The thought came to me: 'Why not be magnanimous? Why not cut ice with Benny which would cool myself? I'll go back to the boat and let him take my place.' I did it. Ask him whathethinks of my action."
"Well, if you've had a good time that's all that's necessary," remarked Miss Lacey placidly, amid the jeers that followed Dunham's explanation. "That's what vacations are for."
Supper over, the party went out to the piazza, and Sylvia had no sooner seen Edna in one of the hammocks and John seated near on the boulder railing than she slipped back into the house, and to her aunt.
"Would it bother Jenny if I fussed around the stove a little, while she's doing the dishes?" she asked eagerly.
"Why, no," hesitated Miss Martha in surprise. "What do you want to do?"
"I want to make something with my berries."
"Why, child. Wait till to-morrow. Jenny will make anything you want her to."
"No, Aunt Martha." Sylvia had the unconscious air of an eager, pleading child. "It's an experiment I want to try. Please let me. I'll tell you about it afterward."
"Well, of course if you'd rather go into that hot kitchen than stay on the piazza with the others; but what in the world"—
"Oh, don't ask me, and don't tell them. They're talking about music, and they won't miss me for a little while."
Sylvia fled upstairs for her treasured pail, and down again, smiling and sparkling, into Jenny's domain. The good-natured girl made her welcome, and although Miss Lacey wished to come too, and see what her niece would be at, Sylvia laughingly closed the door upon her.
"I was never more astonished," soliloquized Miss Martha, amused and rather pleased.
She moved outdoors, and took a rocking-chair at the opposite end of the piazza from John and Edna. The latter finally interrupted her own remarks to glance at the figure sitting in the dusk. "Come over here, Sylvia. What makes you so exclusive?"
"It isn't Sylvia," replied Miss Martha's voice.
"Where is she, then?" Edna started to leave the hammock.
"Don't disturb yourself. She's happy."
"Examining her berries probably," remarked John.
"That's just what she's doing," returned Miss Lacey, laughing.
"What do you mean?" cried Edna. "Has that girl gone daffy?"
"Now don't get up, Edna," commanded Miss Martha. "Sylvia is cooking."
"Cooking!" Edna rose from the hammock. "At this time of night? Why didn't you ask Jenny"—
"She wouldn't let me. I don't know what it is, any more than you do; but it was something she was bound to do herself, and I had to let her. What takes me is the injustice I've done that child. I never dreamed she had such domestic tendencies. I supposed she was all unpractical and artistic like her poor father, and to think here she has some recipe she's so crazy about she can't wait till morning." Miss Lacey's voice trailed away in a gratified laugh. "Perhaps it's something Mrs. Lem has taught her."
"Let's go and spy upon her," suggested John.
The two stole softly around the house on the grass to the open kitchen window, where they shamelessly remained to gaze and listen. They saw Sylvia leaning over the stove, carefully stirring something with a large spoon. Jenny turned from the sink.
"Will ye be havin' another stick, Miss Sylvia?"
"There's going to be a stick in it. Whoop!" whispered John.
"Only in the stove," replied Edna, as the fuel was added. "Cheer up, it's something good, anyway."
"What are ye after makin', Miss Sylvia?" asked the cook.
The girl pursed her smiling lips: "A philtre, Jenny. Did you ever hear of one?"
"Sure I have. We use them all the time in Boston. Mr. Derwent won't lave me even cook with water that ain't filtered. Sure, we don't need one here, and annyway, how could ye make one from berries?"
"This is a different kind of philtre. I'm brewing something that I hope will make somebody happy. A girl, Jenny. Me. This is to make me happy. That is, if it works like a charm,—and I think it will. I think it will." Sylvia repeated the words joyously as she watched and stirred.
"A love charm, is it!" ejaculated Jenny. Her mouth fell open, and she paused, staring, dish-towel in hand.
Sylvia laughed quietly. Her pretty, excited face, red from the sun and wind and with added color from the hot stove, nodded in the earnestness of her reply.
"Yes,—that's just what it is," she answered.
"You're in love, then, Miss Sylvia?"
Sylvia nodded again.
"Yes,—I am. It wasn't at first sight either, Jenny. I don't know why I was so dull,—but it's apt to last the longer. Don't you think so?"
"I do that, Miss Sylvia," returned the girl emphatically; "and sure a beauty like yerself should get whatever ye want without more charms than yer own bright eyes."
Sylvia laughed and dropped a little curtsy toward the kind Irish face.
"No,—no, it will take this," she sighed; "but with this, how I shall try, how I shall try!" The fervent tone suddenly became prosaic. "Have you any clean empty bottles, Jenny?"
The listeners at the window were dumb. Edna's expression had changed from glee to bewilderment. John took her arm and drew her away quietly. Together they moved noiselessly across the grass, but by tacit agreement not back to the piazza. For a minute of silence they strayed down the wood road, beneath the moon.
Dunham was first to break the embarrassed silence. "By Jove, for a minute there I feltde trop. The fair Sylvia was having fun with the cook, wasn't she? I wonder what she's really up to?"
"We say all sorts of things to Jenny, you know," returned Edna. "She's the best soul that ever lived."
At the same time both speakers knew that what they had seen in Sylvia's face and heard in her voice exceeded pleasantry.
An idea overwhelmed Edna. An idea which so fitted into the circumstances that betwixt its appeal and the incredibility of Sylvia's words being serious, she felt like flying from John and being alone to think over the recent scene. If only Dunham were not penetrated by the same thought that had come to her! For another minute neither spoke, and then it was John who again broke the silence.
"Say, Edna," he suddenly ejaculated, "what's the use? That girl was in earnest."
"Nonsense. She isn't a pagan," flashed the other.
"Well, I don't know. She had a father who was one. According to Judge Trent he was all for that sort of thing, and pinned his faith to everything supernatural, from a rabbit's foot to a clairvoyant."
Edna's face clouded with fastidious distaste even while she breathed a shade more freely. Evidently from John's tone her own diagnosis had not occurred to the hero of it. "She had a matrimonial scheme on foot when I first met her," he went on. "She was considering some actor because she wished to go on the stage."
"Rather strange that such a fact should have transpired in a first interview," remarked Edna dryly.
"No, because that was a session devoted merely to ways and means. But she's not saying hocus-pocus and stirring caldrons onhisaccount, you may be certain. She admitted that he was an old image."
"It's too absurd for us to discuss it," returned the girl impatiently. "Fancy a ward of Thinkright's, under his influence for weeks, having any superstition; to say nothing of the crudest and silliest one of them all."
"And who could she have up her sleeve, anyway?" asked Dunham meditatively. "Is there some swain over at the Mill Farm?"
"Of course not," returned Edna irritably. "For pity's sake stop talking as if you didn't think it was a joke."
"She wasn't joking," replied John mildly, but with a conviction that smote his companion. "She was going to bottle the stuff, too."
"Of course. It is probably some sort of berry wine that she has heard of, and she wants to surprise us. It was unkind of us to watch her. Never let her know it, will you, John?"
"No; and if she gives me a drink in a few days all shall be forgiven."
Edna took a deep breath, feeling that a foolish fancied burden, such as one bears in dreams, had been lifted from her.
At the same time Sylvia's face, bending above the brew, haunted her, and the excited girlish voice echoed in her ears, bringing back her unwelcome doubts. Was it not precisely John who was destined to drink that precious wine?
CHAPTER XXIV
SYLVIA'S MYSTERY
Dunham and Miss Derwent prolonged their walk, and an hour had elapsed before they returned to the piazza. By that time Sylvia was sitting there in the moonlight with her aunt.
She had been telling herself how glad she was that John and Edna felt free to go away without her. It was only the assurance that she should not be in danger of hampering them that would make her happy in accepting Edna's invitation to prolong her stay.
How glorious the world must look to-night to Edna! This enchanting evening world with its dreaming waves, and myriad spires of fragrant firs stretching toward the luminous sky strewn thickly with pulsing stars. She shook off some thought that insinuated itself into her conscious desire. No, no. Her place was here with Aunt Martha. Her thought must dwell only on the possible artistic achievements of her future; her heart turn to no lover save the good genius she had sealed up in a bottle.
While her thoughts flowed, Miss Lacey talked. The latter was chiefly concerned with the menu for the coming week, and since Sylvia's descent upon the culinary department she seized upon her as a kindred spirit.
"Catering for men is very different from feeding women, I can tell you, Sylvia. They're not going to be put off with a little salad, or fruit and whipped cream, or fal-lals of that sort. We must have roasts and steaks now, besides what my father used to call Cape Cod turkey,—that's codfish, my dear. Jenny's boiled cod and egg sauce is perfectly delicious, and fish does make brains, they say. I suppose Judge Trent would like to have us feed it to Mr. Dunham."
"I hope you don't intend to tell the house party that," remarked Sylvia.
Miss Martha giggled. "Well, things are comparative. Judge Trent is so surpassingly clever, and when you see this great big fellow in the office with him you can't help thinking of quality and quantity, you know; but he must have an average mind anyway, or your uncle wouldn't have any use for him. There they come now."
Two slow-moving figures appeared among the trees, and advanced to the piazza. "Welcome, wanderers," went on Miss Martha, repressing a yawn. "I think I shall bequeath Sylvia to you now, and retire."
Her niece knew that no implication of reproach was intended in this speech, but she dreaded that the others might misunderstand.
"I don't need to be bequeathed to any one," she declared. "I'm like that poet who said he was never less alone than when alone. Fancy being lonely on this island in the company of these stars and waves and pines! Edna, when you wish to move your family away, and leave the cottage in the care of a hermit, I speak to be the hermit."
"I see you are properly captured," returned Edna.
"She's fallen in love with the cook stove now," remarked Miss Martha. "I told her she'd had a couple of spies on her doings."
Edna glanced at her guest. Sylvia's smiling, inquiring eyes looked from her to John, who spoke:—
"Yes, there you were stirring some mysterious caldron," he answered; "there in the dark of the moon, and there was something so fiery about your countenance and attitude that we didn't dare remain."
"You were wise," returned Sylvia. "I thought I felt some presence. Didn't you hear me say,—
'By the pricking of my thumbsSomething wicked this way comes'?"
'By the pricking of my thumbsSomething wicked this way comes'?"
'By the pricking of my thumbs
Something wicked this way comes'?"
"Well, we're expecting to benefit by your labors in time," said John.
"I wish I thought you would," returned Sylvia dreamily.
"Oh, don't be so modest. Let us judge, anyway."
"I've no doubt you would be a judge," said the girl meditatively.
"Say will be," he corrected.
Sylvia lifted her shoulders with a little gesture of dread.
"I haven't positively made up my mind that I dare try it on you," she said softly.
"Oh, you must. You'll find me the most docile dog in the pack."
Edna listened with annoyance. She had suddenly become critical of Sylvia's manner.
The girl turned to her.
"Will it be necessary to go to the Mill Farm before afternoon, to-morrow?" she asked.
"Perhaps not. Why?"
"Because there is—because I want—I should like to stay here in the morning."
"Mr. Dunham and I might go over without you," suggested Edna. "Mrs. Lem could doubtless give me what you want."
The alacrity of Sylvia's assent to this proposition puzzled the hostess still further.
"Oh, no, there'd be plenty of time if we went in the afternoon," said John. "Let's take the witch with us for luck."
Edna regarded him as he stood against a boulder pillar looking down at Sylvia. "She may not need to use her bottle," was her reflection.
"Do sing us something, Edna," said Sylvia.
"Not to-night, please. I don't feel like singing; and when I don't it is an infliction on my poor audience."
"I wish you would, Edna. I've not heard you," said Dunham.
"Just the reason why I refuse," she returned. "I'm far too vain."
"She is the spirit of music," said Sylvia, regarding her hostess affectionately.
"But the spirit isn't always willing?" asked Dunham.
"No, not always," returned Edna, rising. "This is Liberty Hall, people, so don't move till you get ready; but if you'll excuse me I'm going to bed."
Sylvia rose at once. She would like to linger on this dim piazza for hours, and to fancy that Dunham stayed too from choice and not from courtesy; but she well knew that the charm of the occasion would vanish with Edna, and even if it were not so, the Prince's companionship was not for her without the Princess.
Dunham turned to her. "It isn't sleepy time for you, too, is it?"
"Yes, I believe it is. I'm sorry to be so—so unsporty."
"It's all a bluff, too. Just as if we didn't know that as soon as the rest of us innocents are quiet and dreaming of blueberries, your window will fly open and off you'll go on a broomstick."
Sylvia smiled. "I don't believe any one of this party will dream as hard of blueberries as I shall," she declared.
"Come now, you know you're trading on a man's supposed superiority to curiosity,—only supposed, mind you."
"I never even supposed it," put in Sylvia with light scorn.
"Tell me what you were brewing on that stove to-night."
Edna's features were rigid in her impatience with John's pursuance of an uncomfortable subject. They were all in the living-room now, and she and Sylvia were standing with lighted candles in their hands.
Sylvia pursed her lips demurely. "I will—perhaps—if it works, Mr. Dunham."
"Works? Ferments, do you mean? Now you're talking sense. No unfermented grape juice in mine."
Sylvia laughed and looked around at Edna, who was grave and seemed waiting politely. "Poor Edna. She's tired," she thought, and nodding a good-night to John, she moved toward the stairs. "I'll see you when you come up, Edna," she added, and disappeared.
Dunham watched the light figure in its swift ascent, and then turned toward his hostess.
"She won't tell us," he announced, smiling.
"How could you keep on talking about it, John?" said Edna, speaking low.
His face fell at her tone. "Why not?" he asked blankly. "Have you changed your mind about its being a joke?"
"Oh—I"—Edna scarcely understood her own attitude toward the little incident, and hesitated most uncharacteristically. "I think it was rather foolish and—and unpleasant, somehow. I—good-night, John," she put out her hand and he took it. "I hope you won't know anything about the sunrise, and that the cradle of the deep won't be too noisy for you. You needn't lock up. Just close the doors and window when you're ready to come in. We don't insult Arcady with bolts. Good-night."
The following day dawned bright. Edna regarded the extraordinary light in Sylvia's eyes and her unwonted gayety of manner at the breakfast-table with mental questioning.
"The most annoying thing has occurred," she said. "This day of all days the carpenters for whom I've been waiting all summer have turned up. I shan't be able to leave home. Could you people wait until to-morrow to go over to the farm?"
"I'm afraid not," returned John. "I must go and report, as well as make myself more presentable. Who knows what to-morrow may be like? As probably as not Neptune will be throwing snowballs in all directions."
"And when he does, Edna sings!" exclaimed Sylvia, turning her vital, sparkling gaze on her hostess. "You'd better hope he does;—but not to-day, not to-day!" Her voice dropped to a low, exultant note, and then she laughed and blushed, meeting John's quizzical, curious look.
"By Jove, I believe the stuffhasworked and she's been trying it, Edna," he said. "It's early in the day, but she's lit up for a fact. How was your ride, little witch?"
"The grandest thing you ever knew. I'd have taken you up behind me if I'd known what it was going to be. There's nothing like a bird's-eye view of this region."
"What are you talking about, Sylvia?" asked Miss Martha.
"Why, I rode all over Casco Bay last night on a broomstick. It was like visiting a wonderful picture gallery. There was a planet that cast a path across the water as the moon sank. The headlands jutted out into the waves, the cottages nestled among the trees. I went to the Mill Farm and looked through Uncle Calvin's window and blew him a kiss as he lay asleep."
"Did he have his hat on?" inquired Miss Martha, and John and Edna laughed.
"Why didn't you bring home your clothes?" asked Edna.
"I did try to, but the broomstick bucked so when I tried to pass through my window, I saw I should raise the household, and I didn't want to startle them; so I raced away home again above the waves, while all the stars sang together!"
"Have you been taking a foolish powder?" inquired Miss Martha, cutting her beefsteak.
"You'll travel by wave to-day," remarked John. "I don't propose to go over to the Tide Mill afoot and alone."
"After noon, then."
"Very well. Have it your own way. You'd get ducked less this morning, though."
"Yes, but something might happen to keep us. We might not get back in the afternoon."
"Why, she's just crazy about this place, Edna," remarked Miss Lacey.
Edna smiled with the grace of a gratified hostess, but she did not raise her eyes. Sylvia was crazy about something, but what was it? She seemed transformed from the quiet, intense, grateful girl whom Thinkright brought to the island so recently.
As they rose from the table Sylvia eyed John curiously.
"I suppose you'll go pretty soon to see Benny about getting the boat for this afternoon, won't you?" she asked.
"Yes," he rejoined. "You'd better come with me."
"No," her breath caught, and she flushed so deeply that he looked at her in wonder. "I can't. I have something to do. I—you'd better go soon, for he might take the boat off for the day, you know."
John hooked his thumbs in his trousers pockets and regarded her at ease and at length.
"You're the guiltiest-looking being I ever saw," he remarked. "I couldn't be retained to defend you unless you could contrive a different expression. Now take the advice of one who knows, and don't go near that bottle again this morning."
Sylvia gave a breathless little laugh, and her eyes shone through the embarrassment caused by his curious gaze.
"That's just"—she began. "No. Go along, please. I can't go with you."
"Creature of mysteries"—he began.
"Do go on. You really must get a boat. I'm ashamed to be borrowing Edna's clothes," and she ran away upstairs.
Half an hour later she was lost. Edna had been captured by her workmen. Miss Lacey was closeted with Jenny. Dunham lingered with the newspaper on the piazza, thinking he would speak once more with Sylvia before he left on his quest, but she did not reappear.
At last he went and stood beneath her window and called. He could see the white curtains swaying gently in the morning air, but no blithe face appeared between them. No voice answered his call.
Miss Lacey came out of the house, carrying a pot of water for the sweet peas.
"I can't think what has become of Sylvia," she said. "I've been looking for her, too. I certainly didn't see her go out."
"All right. If she left by the window I might as well be off," he rejoined. "I didn't know the broomstick worked by day. I thought it was only the other end."
"I guess, to tell the truth," returned Miss Lacey, laughing, "Sylvia doesn't know much more about one end of the broom than she does of the other."
CHAPTER XXV
THE LITTLE RIFT
When Sylvia reappeared that noon she carried a pillowcase, which she held before her by its corners with care. She thought to slip around the house to the back door, but Edna and John rose from a corner of the piazza and greeted her.
Dunham viewed the graceful bare head and warm, demurely smiling face in its tree setting as the girl approached.
"Doesn't she look like a dryad?" he said to his companion.
"Oh," cried Edna, "so it was fir balsam you wanted to get, Sylvia. You weren't very successful, I'm afraid. Your bag looks flat."
"Serves you right for not begging me to go with you," added John. "Edna has been swallowed up all the morning. I think it was very careless of you not to realize what a help I should have been."
Sylvia shook her sunny head. "No, I needed to be alone," she returned.
"Fir balsam, Edna!" exclaimed Dunham with sudden scorn. "What she has been after is herbs and simples for the caldron. I've always yearned to know what a simple is. Here is my grand opportunity." The young man came toward the girl with outstretched hands. Sylvia stepped back.
"Don't touch this bag, Mr. Dunham," she said, her fingers closing more tightly upon it.
He laughed and seized the case.
Her lips set and her eyes dilated. "I mean it!" she exclaimed. "Don't touch it."
Her face had changed to intense seriousness, and under her flashing gaze his laughter died.
"Just a peep," he said in surprise.
"No, no," cried Sylvia acutely.
He could see that her breath was coming fast, and Edna observed it also, looking on at the little scene with a sense of perplexity and disapproval.
Dunham dropped his hands, and there was a disarming break in the girl's voice as she thanked him and ran into the house.
She gave Edna a look as she passed, and brief as it was there was an appeal and a confiding in that look.
Dunham shrugged his shoulders. "What now, I wonder?" he said, as he rejoined her.
"Sylvia doesn't seem to have outgrown a love of schoolgirl mysteries," returned Edna coolly.
In a few minutes the family were called to dinner, and Sylvia was again the happiest of the company. The sparkle in her eyes seemed to have permeated her voice as well. By comparison the hostess's manner seemed unresponsive and preoccupied.
"What a pity you can't come over to the Tide Mill this afternoon, Edna," said Sylvia. "We couldn't have a better breeze."
Edna gathered her straying thoughts. "I know it," she replied, "but the bird in the hand is the only one worth anything here. I have my carpenters now, so business must come before pleasure. See if you can't bring back Thinkright or Judge Trent with you, to lend dignity to our house party. You'd better get an early start so you won't have Miss Lacey patrolling the shore to-night and looking for a sail."
Edna did not meet Sylvia's gaze as she spoke, and the latter gained an impression of strangeness in her friend's manner. As they all strolled away from the table and out of doors, Sylvia made a movement to link her arm in Edna's. Was it a coincidence that the latter suddenly drew away, saying, "I'm going to get my golf cape for you, Sylvia. It will be very cool coming back."
"I have my sweater," replied the girl, her gay face sobering.
"Yes, but you'll like the golf cape, too, I'm sure, as the sun goes down."
Sylvia thought she perceived a new note in Edna's tone, a courtesy, a perfunctoriness, that chilled her. When did it commence? Her thoughts flew back over the past twenty-four hours, and it recurred to her that last evening Edna, for the first time, left her room with a pleasant word, but without kissing her good-night. At the time she had not thought twice of the omission, but now to her awakened suspicion it seemed ominous. Edna had up to this time treated her with a frank demonstrativeness very sweet to Sylvia. Twenty-four hours ago she would have been certain that in departing even for this little trip of half a day her friend would have given her some slight caress. She watched now intently for the opportunity, but Edna brought the golf cape and put it on John's arm. "Be sure you take Benny with you," she said. "You aren't a sufficiently ancient mariner yet for these parts. Now I must fly to the carpenters, good people.Au revoir."
"Oh, Edna!" cried Sylvia earnestly, taking an involuntary step after the girl. "Couldn't I possibly stay and help the carpenters and have you go? I'd a thousand times rather. I hate to leave the island."
"Nonsense," laughed Edna. "Where is your loyalty to the Mill Farm? Good-by," and she disappeared.
It was not the reply she would have made yesterday. Sylvia was certain of it, and it was a grave maiden who stepped sedately by Dunham's side as they struck across the field toward the dock. It never occurred to her that if something had happened to offend Edna the matter could concern anybody or anything but Dunham.
Oh, how lovely the day was! How happy her morning had been! How wondrous would be this world of fragrant land and sparkling water if only Edna would have kissed her good-by! And to be going sailing amid this paradise with John Dunham! It was cruel that the very crown of all the blessed situation must be put from her as a joy, and accepted only as a utilitarian measure. For had she not already in some way stepped outside her rightful place?
Benny Merritt's stolid countenance grew still graver as the two drew near the floating dock.
"Where's Miss Edna?" he asked.
"Not coming," replied Dunham. "Yes, I know it's an outrage, Benny, but she has the carpenters. It seems to be an island ailment as bad as the measles for confining people to the house; but cheer up, you have Miss Sylvia and me."
"Got a real good chance to-day," grumbled Benny; "Miss Edna'd like it."
"Oh, don't say any more about it," exclaimed Sylvia. "I'm wretched because she couldn't come."
Dunham looked at the speaker in surprise at the acute tone. He could have sworn that a sudden mist veiled her eyes.
"Oh, go on," he said. "Trample on my feelings as much as you like," and as he arranged Sylvia's cushions he gave a second sharp glance at her face. What had become of the sparkle and effervescence of the morning?
"Ain't you goin' to sail, Mr. Dunham?" asked Benny, amazed to see John settle down near Sylvia.
"Thought I wouldn't, going over," replied John.
Benny gave a sniff which was eminently cynical, as he grasped the tiller and the situation.
"Well, I know which one it is now, anyway," he soliloquized, as the boat crept forth across the harbor.
Sylvia was surprised too. Her heart beat a little faster.
"Oh, I'm sure you'd better sail," she said. "I want to think."
John laughed. "This is evidently not my lucky day," he remarked. "I think even now we ought to go back for the bottle."
"What bottle?"
"The one you were clutching so closely with that white bag this noon. That certainly must have been the real stuff. You remember we noticed the effect at breakfast. Then instead of taking me with you to the woods and drinking fair, you went alone, and at dinner were still more illuminated; but the last dose seems to have worn off. I'm in favor of going back for the bottle. Say the word and I'll tell Benny."
Sylvia averted her face and smiled. "Yes, that was a good tonic," she said.
John looked at her curiously.
"But you must concoct something with more staying power," he went on. "At dinner you were scintillating. Crossing the field just now the light had all gone out."
Sylvia shook her head slightly. What a comfort it would be if she could talk out her perplexities to him and with him.
"You know," she returned, "it is only good friends who can indulge in the luxury of silence when they are together."
"Very pretty," he replied. "It's very gratifying to believe myself moreen rapportwith you than either Edna or your aunt."
"I wish you'd go and sail the boat," said Sylvia suddenly.
"I will, coming back," returned Dunham tranquilly, "for we shall probably have another passenger. This is our first tête-à-tête, remember."
"No, our second. I do remember," replied Sylvia.
In those forlorn days at the Association when he was always in her thought, what would have been her pleasure to look forward certainly to the present situation. The boat had left the harbor now and was bounding along its liquid path with the speed which made it the pride of Benny's heart.
John, leaning against the gunwale, continued to regard her.
"We don't need to recall that day," he said. "Why remember the chrysalis after the butterfly is in the air?"
"Oh, it's good for the butterfly;—keeps her grateful. However, I'm not a butterfly. I'm a bee."
"What? The busy kind?"
Sylvia nodded.
"You don't look it. At this moment you convey a purely ornamental idea."
"I know better, for my nose is sunburned. Besides, Mr. Dunham," the girl looked squarely into the amused eyes, "you mustn't flirt with me."
"Perish the thought. But for argument, why not?"
"Because I can't flirt back."
Dunham smiled. "Can't or shan't?"
"Well, shan't," she returned.
"But why?" protested her companion mildly. "Surely you see that the situation demands it. The stage is all set. I'll admit we shall have a moon coming back, but Judge Trent's hat may eclipse it."
"I have given up the stage," replied Sylvia.
"Never mind. You can still be an amateur. You can't be a summer girl without accepting her responsibilities."
"I'm not a summer girl. I just told you I'm a bee, and not a butterfly."
"But even bees are keen for the flowers of life. You're not a thrifty bee unless you investigate and see how much honey you can get out of me."
Sylvia laughed reluctantly. "No wonder Edna calls you a shy flower," she replied. Her heart had a sudden pang of remembrance. "How beautiful Edna is," she said, meeting her companion's lazy eyes.
"Yes. You say she sings well?"
"Enchantingly."
"Does she sing Schubert?"
"Ye-yes. I think he is the one, isn't he, who wrote 'Death and the Maiden'? She sang that Sunday morning before we went down in the woods. How long ago it seems!" Sylvia spoke wistfully and looked away, and again a mist stole across her vision.
"Oh, let 'Death and the Maiden' go to—I was thinking of 'Who is Sylvia? What is she, that all the swains adore her?'"
"I told you, Mr. Dunham, that you mustn't."
"I'm only offering the bee a sample of my goods."
"That isn't the sort that it pays to store. That's only fit for a butterfly's luncheon."
"What is your special brand, then? You're rather a puzzle to me."
It was true. Sylvia did puzzle this young man, accustomed to being a centre of social attraction wherever he went. Her exceptional prettiness and naïveté had at first promised asauce piquanteto his golden vacation hours. The sauce had indeed proved piquant, but by reason of its difficulty of access. Most girls he had known would have been more interested in himself than in the blueberries on the day of their picnic, but Sylvia had been unaffectedly and convincingly absorbed. Most girls would have picked up the metaphorical handkerchief he had thrown last evening, and remained on the piazza with him for a time. Most girls would have secured instead of eluded his escort to the woods this morning, and under the present circumstances would have made hay in the exhilarating sunshine with a grace and vigor which would have absolved him from all effort.
He was quiet so long that Sylvia stole a glance at him. His eyes were closed, and she thought he had fallen asleep; so she let her gaze rest. The effect of strength and repose in his attitude made her long for pencil and paper, but she had none. Never mind, she could sketch him later from memory; and to do so she must study him now. With a purely artistic intent surely it was no harm to dwell upon the lines of his strong nose and chin, the humorous curves of his lips, and enjoy the effect of the warm, wind-rumpled hair around his forehead; and so her eyes remained fixed and she was unconscious of the light that began to warm and glow softly within them.