CHAPTER XXVI
REVELATION
Dunham was not asleep. His half-amused, half-piqued thoughts rambled on. This niece of Judge Trent's was certainly an odd girl, with her preoccupations, her mysterious sacks of treasures, and her bottle of blackish fluid, her moods, her laughter, and her tears.
The fastidious Edna had been annoyed by last night's scene in the kitchen. Well, it was a strange scene. John recalled it now. He remembered quite well every word uttered by the rosy witch over her bubbling miniature caldron. She was concocting a philtre to make a girl happy,—herself. She had confided to the warm-hearted Irishwoman that she was in love, and condemned her stupidity that it had not been love at first sight; but since it had not been, the flame was likely to burn the longer. Didn't Jenny think so? And Jenny most reassuringly had thought so.
What sort of talks and beliefs had the girl been accustomed to in companionship with her ne'er-do-well father? Whatever her experiences, her atmosphere was one of strength and innocence. As this thought came to him with conviction, an involuntary desire to look at the subject of it caused his eyes suddenly to unclose.
The effect was electrical. Sylvia, from studying the features and hair, the outlines of throat and chest and shoulders of her vis-a-vis, had unconsciously forgotten the model in the man, had forgotten Edna Derwent. The ideal, never long absent from her thought since that morning at Hotel Frisbie, was now filling her material vision in utter unconsciousness of her scrutiny. She leaned slightly toward him in her absorption, and a woman's heart was in her eyes and tenderly curved lips when John's gaze suddenly encountered hers.
The social diplomacy which from boyhood it had been his second nature to practice stood him in good stead now.
In that instant he saw Sylvia's start and withdrawal, he felt his own color mount to match hers, but he continued absolutely motionless except for letting his eyelids fall again.
"Do forgive me," he said after a moment, in nasal and languid apology. "I hadn't an idea I should fall asleep. I'll wake up in a minute. I'm worse than a kid taken out in its baby carriage when I strike this air. Might as well chloroform me."
Sylvia was leaning against the mast, trying to swallow the heart that had leaped to her throat.
"Don't try to wake up," she replied after a time. She caught at his words as consolation, yet that look had been so deliberate, so wide. Could it be—
"My father taught me to sketch a little when I was a child," she went on, her breath still getting between her words most inconveniently. "I was wishing I had a pencil just then. You were being such a—such a docile model."
"Truly?" asked Dunham, lazily opening his eyes again. "Tell me honestly, as man to man. I prefer to know the worst. I'm sure I was all tumbled together like Grandpa Smallweed, and I've an awful suspicion that my mouth was open."
Sylvia shook her head.
"Honestly? Don't spare me."
He slowly pulled himself upright, and Sylvia shrank closer to the mast. Her eyes shone like those of a startled bird who awaits only a shade more certainty of danger to dart from the spot.
"No, no!" she exclaimed. "Were you really asleep?" she added naïvely.
He gave a low laugh.
"Excellent, tactful young lady. That is letting me down easy, even if I have been giving a good imitation of a fog horn. Really, I hope you will forgive me. There's only one way to secure my good manners on a boat, and that is to make me sail her."
Sylvia allowed herself to be reassured by the off-hand sincerity of his tone.
"Go to sleep as much as you like," she returned. "I told you I wanted to think. I'm very unhappy, Mr. Dunham," she went on after a moment, with sudden determination, and her recent excitement made actual tears veil her eyes this time.
"Why, what is the matter?"
"I have offended Edna."
"Surely not. How?"
"That is what I hoped you could tell me, else I wouldn't have mentioned it. Say, truly, if you know of anything I have done."
"I certainly do not," responded Dunham, with the more emphasis that he suddenly believed he did know—exactly. The exactness was the blow.
One of his arms was flung along the gunwale, and he frowned down at the other brown hand while the Idea, the overwhelming, absurd, pathetic, ridiculous Idea, paralyzed him.
Sylvia had not fallen in love at first sight. Whom had she recently seen for the second time? For whom was she brewing the blackish potion? Edna had suspected. That explained her undue irritation last evening. What had Sylvia found to be lacking in her philtre? For what had she gone to the woods this morning? What mystery was contained in the white bag which she defended with such zeal? Dunham felt as if his brain were softening. It was the limit of absurdity to be connecting these semi-barbaric fantasies with this sane and charming girl. He saw how Edna had been confounded and annoyed. Submerged by the Idea, he could not at once lift his eyes to Sylvia, although it stirred him to believe that those bright drops he had seen gather might be falling.
Under the sordid circumstances of her life it was quite possible that he was the first presentable man she had ever met, and the thought that she had set out with the primitive instincts and methods of a Romany girl to take him by fair means or foul roused in him a wild desire to laugh, which could be subdued only by another look at the thoughtful, feminine face so at variance with the Idea. Her soft voice broke the short silence.
"You know the kindest thing you could do would be to tell me if you do know anything I have done, or even have the least suspicion of something. You've known Edna so much longer than I have."
"Yes," responded Dunham. "But aren't you too sensitive?" he added to gain time.
"I hope not," answered the girl with childlike simplicity. "Thinkright says sensitiveness is only selfishness. I hope it's not that."
"Why, what has made you think Edna offended?"
Sylvia's lip trembled. "Oh, little things. Tiny things. Things a man would probably not notice. She didn't kiss me good-night last evening."
John feared the speaker was going to cry.
"She didn't me, either," he responded cheerfully. "I didn't think anything of it. I should have been more apt to notice it if she had."
Sylvia gave an April smile. "She didn't kiss me this afternoon. She was strange and unlike herself. She's been so all day. I've been thinking that perhaps I ought not to go back," finished the girl slowly.
"Perish the thought," returned Dunham hastily. He was surprised to find how earnestly he objected to any such desertion. "You must go back if only to set your thought about it straight. Ask"—No, he would not advise her to ask Edna. The latter might tell her frankly. "Edna is very much taken up with her carpentering," he went on. "Let her get over that."
"She has been so very kind to me," said Sylvia. "I want to be sure not to impose on her,—not to be in her way," and she looked so childlike and self-forgetful as she spoke, that her companion, bewildered and flattered as he was by the Look, and the Idea, indulged in a brief and pointed soliloquy:—
"Whether she is a gypsy or a saint, or whatever she is, she's a peach."
Sylvia's eyes grew wistful as the familiar home landmarks came in view.
"There is the Tide Mill," she said half to herself.
"Picturesque old affair, isn't it?" returned Dunham. "You were speaking a few minutes ago of sketching. That's a good subject."
The girl nodded, and her eyes rested on the mill pensively.
"Just as coldly heart-broken as ever," she said.
"What do you mean?"
She gave a slight gesture toward it. "Can't you see?"
Dunham gazed at the old building, standing above the inrushing tide.
"It does look rather forlorn, doesn't it," he returned, "with those blank shutters, tier upon tier."
"Yes, tear upon tear," answered Sylvia, with a faint smile at her own fancy. "One almost expects to see the salt drops raining down its face; but it is too tightly closed even for that. I was like that when I first came here, but Thinkright helped me, and I mustn't get so again, no matter what happens. I was very, very mistaken and unhappy in those days. You know I was."
The last words were uttered very low, and Dunham nodded.
"And now I've a longing, of course it's a silly one, that the Tide Mill should open its eyes too, and cheer up. I can't bear it to go on making a picture of the way I used to feel. It's as if it might drag me back again. To-day the feeling comes over me especially, because my heart is so heavy."
Sylvia's wide gaze rested on the mill, and she pressed her hand to her breast.
"Why, that's easily done," responded Dunham consolingly. "Just let Thinkright give me an axe, and I'll tickle that old pessimist's ribs until its eyes fly open and it giggles from its roof to its rickety old legs."
Sylvia shook her head. "No. Force would only do harm. Love must open the shutters."
"Love?" repeated John, staring at the speaker.
She nodded. "Yes, the same thing that opened mine."
He continued to regard her. "Do you know, you're a very odd girl," he said at last.
"No," she replied.
"To talk about Love opening those weather-beaten, rusty old blinds. How could it?"
"I don't know; but it will. I feel that it will. You will see." She gave a strange little smile, and Dunham regarded her uneasily.
For the first time it occurred to him that she might be unbalanced. In that revealing Look which he had surprised a while ago she seemed to have given herself to him. He had been strangely conscious of proprietorship in her, a sort of responsibility for her, ever since. By his strategy he had secured her unconsciousness of discovery, and thus given himself time.
She kept her eyes fixed on the shore they were approaching, and he continued to regard her furtively, from time to time.
"We can get into the Basin now, can't we, Benny?" she called to their forgotten boatman.
"Easy," he responded. "Suppose ye'll be comin' out afore eight o'clock."
"Well,—Mr. Dunham will," responded Sylvia slowly.
"And Miss Lacey also, of course," added John. According to the programme laid down by the Idea, Sylvia had an unfulfilled engagement on Hawk Island. She had yet to administer to him the contents of the black bottle, reinforced by the ingredient contained in the flat white bag. How with any consistency could she remain at the Mill Farm?
John flung back his head in a silent laugh and passed his hand across his forehead. The boat sailed toward the Tide Mill and under its cold shadow into the smiling, alluring Basin.
It seemed to Sylvia that months had passed since last those white birch stems had leaned toward her and waved green banners of welcome. "Ah. Listen!" she exclaimed. A tuneful jangle as of melodious bells fell on the quiet air, and then, like the clear tones of a silver flute, this phrase:—
Bar of music
"What is it?" whispered John, meeting Sylvia's eyes suddenly alight with joy.
"My hermit thrush," she murmured. "Listen!"
Again the sweet tangle of sounds; again the clear, perfect phrase, followed by melodious little bells. Dunham and Sylvia, motionless, continued to gaze into each other's eyes, and the girl's rapt smile stirred the man, for it was kin to the one he had surprised.
The boat glided silently toward the shore. Again the sweet flute sounded from the woods. "It is my welcome home," said Sylvia softly.
CHAPTER XXVII
MISUNDERSTANDING
A figure was standing on the bank watching the boat's approach. It was Judge Trent. His hands were clasped behind his ample black coat, but instead of the usual shade to his eagle eyes a flat earth-colored cap, with an extraordinarily broad visor, gave his sharp face the effect of some wary animal that peers from under the eaves of its home.
The young people waved their hands as they recognized him.
"Come back, have you?" he said, without moving. "It's about time."
"Were you listening to that dear thrush?" asked Sylvia, as she jumped from the boat.
"I was, and have been for half an hour. The fellow's staying powers are something marvelous."
The speaker brought a hand around from his back, prepared to meet his niece, whom he scrutinized without a change of expression. She possessed herself not only of the hand, but his arm, and deliberately kissed his cheek.
"I hope you received my letter about the boat, Uncle Calvin. You don't know how happy you made me."
Dunham noted the surprised start, and received the frowning look which the judge sent in his direction. The rose leaf of Sylvia's face remained close to the parchment folds of the lawyer's cheek.
"Well, it was about time I made you happy, wasn't it?" he replied.
"I ought to stay here now," said Sylvia, "and row you about, instead of going back to Hawk Island."
"Oh. You're going back to Hawk Island?" The girl thought she detected a note of disappointment in the brusque tone.
"I'm not sure. I haven't decided," she returned.
"She is going back," observed Dunham affably, "with me in about an hour."
Judge Trent glared at the speaker. Both Sylvia's hands being clasped about his arm, he was holding himself with conscious and wooden rigidity. This was his own flesh and blood, however, and she was clinging to him, and Dunham might be hanged for all he cared.
"My niece will decide that, and not you," he returned with surprising belligerency.
"Hello!" thought Dunham, amused. "Is Arcady getting on the legal nerves?" "We're a house party," he explained firmly. "We've come over here for some clothes. We shall be obliged to start back in about an hour because we have to take you with us, and we don't want to keep you out too late."
"Hey?" asked the judge.
"Yes," said Sylvia. "Edna asked us to bring either you or Thinkright back with us."
"Now that's very untactful of you, Miss Sylvia," objected John. "Supposing she did say either of them. Don't you know, first come, first served, and moreover that Judge Trent is company?"
"Yes, I've no idea that Thinkright would leave the farm over night at this busy time, anyway," replied Sylvia. "Where is he? I must see him before I decide. I'm really not sure about going back. Perhaps, Uncle Calvin, it will be best for you and Mr. Dunham to go without me."
The lawyer's steely gaze was sunk in the soft blue depths of hers. In this mood she reminded him of his last parting with Laura. No woman since that day had clung to his arm.
He grunted a dissent. "John and I see enough of each other as it is," he returned.
"The idea of any one seeing enough of John!" was the thought that flashed through Sylvia's mind. What she said was, "Would you really rather I went too, Uncle Calvin?"
The sharp eyes under the visor saw the expression in Dunham's face at the caressing tone.
"Oh, suit yourself, of course," he replied briefly, "suit yourself;" but he carefully made no motion of his rigid arm which should discourage Sylvia from leaning upon it, and the three moved off toward the house.
Minty Foster suddenly appeared, dragging herself shyly between the trees. "I seen yer comin' past the mill," she said. Her usually stolid face was so eloquent of satisfaction at meeting Sylvia again that the girl dropped her uncle's arm, and, stooping, kissed the red cheek.
"Don't you want to go and see if Benny won't give you a sail while he's waiting for us, Minty?" she suggested.
"Y' ain't goin' back, are yer?" protested the child, round-eyed.
"I'm not quite sure," replied Sylvia. Each new, trifling incident reassured her, and went to lighten her heart. Here was home and welcome, whatever had been her mistakes abroad.
Minty ran on to the waterside, and the three resumed their walk. The chime of little joy-bells and the silvery flourish of melody continued to come from woodland depths.
"What a pity we haven't time to find that darling hermit!" said the girl. "He must be near. Once I succeeded in discovering him, and I sat so quietly he didn't mind me, even if he saw. He was on the very topmost twig of a pine, so little and so brown against the vast blue. Uncle Calvin, I'm so glad you bought the Mill Farm!"
"Well, so am I," replied the judge.
"Some time," said Sylvia, "when you get very—unexpectedly—rich, I wish you'd buy the Tide Mill."
"You do?" grunted the lawyer. "What for, pray? Want to see a bonfire on the water?"
"Oh, dear, no!" Sylvia glanced around at Dunham. "Wouldn't it be tragic, after all its troubles, to see it burned at the stake?"
"She wants to tie blue ribbons around its neck and chuck it under the chin," explained John.
"Ah, I see," said the judge, smiling grimly as he remembered Sylvia's comments on the mill the first day he met her.
"There's Thinkright," cried Sylvia, suddenly breaking from her companions and running fleetly toward the house.
With one accord the two men watched her greet the third by kissing him first on one cheek and then on the other.
"It was only one of yours, Judge," said Dunham. "If I were you I'd call him out."
"I don't grudge it to him," returned the lawyer. "She's making up to him for her mother's lack."
He waited a moment, hoping John would continue on the subject. He had thought often of his niece since his last visit, and in the past days had heard only good words for her; but Thinkright might be expected to be partial to Laura's child, and the Fosters were scarcely judges. He wished very much to learn the opinion of the girl which would be formed by a man of John's world and experience. Dunham kept silent as they pursued their measured walk, and the judge's desire forced the question.
"Well, and how do you find Miss Lacey, now you've had a near view?"
"Oh—Miss Lacey. Yes. Brisk and busy as a little bumblebee. The round peg in the round hole, as you might say."
"H'm," returned the judge. "I'm interested to know how she strikes a man of your sort."
"She's all right, I tell you," returned John argumentatively. "You don't know a good thing when you see it, Judge. Domestic, capable, executive, cheerful,"—John warmed to his subject. His heart had been made soft to-day, and he remembered the row of inappropriate poplars.
"Domestic? That's a pleasant surprise. But how about manners and breeding? I'm aware that what might pass muster with me might look very different under the lens of the society man. I've only to scratch your legal skin, John, to find a society man. I've always known that."
"Why, I should call her manners mighty comfortable ones," returned the young man. "She's a practical homemaker, that's what she is; and you're a—well, it's unintelligent of you to go on living alone, that's all, with that wrinkled map of Ireland for your only appetizer."
The judge looked thoughtful. "I hadn't got as far as that," he said. "My habits are pretty hopelessly settled, I'm afraid. I don't think I ought to inflict myself on anybody at this late day."
"Nonsense. I know she wouldn't look at it that way, and perhaps this summer'll do the business. When you get over to Hawk Island and see her"—
"See who!" Judge Trent faced his companion, and his shaggy brows moved up and down portentously beneath the overhanging eaves of his brown cap. "You mortal idiot," he thundered, "who are you talking about?"
Dunham's mouth fell open. "Miss Lacey. You said—Miss Lacey! Did you—were you asking about Sylvia?"
"No!" roared Judge Trent wrathfully. "I asked about Miss Lacey. What are you doing with Sylvia's name? Miss Lacey I say, and you'd better say so, too!"
John mechanically drew his cap from his pocket, and fanned his heated countenance. Little did Judge Trent suspect how far this young man had rambled and swam and floated and sailed from that port where Sylvia might have been Miss Lacey to him. So it washermanners and breeding upon which her uncle desired a society man's verdict. What if he should describe to the judge the Look, the Idea, and the Potion that awaited his home-coming?
Then there rushed over him the matrimonial bureau zeal with which he had done his best for Miss Martha. The combination reminiscence was too much. If it severed his connection with the law offices at Seaton forever, his self-control must snap, and all at once he threw back his head with a laugh which woke every echo that side the Tide Mill.
A black and towering shadow suddenly appeared at one of the farmhouse windows. Mrs. Lem, with Judge Trent an actuality and the splendid Mr. Dunham a constantly impending possibility, had been helmeted daily from early morn till set of sun. It was her imposing crest that John's storm of hilarity had brought into view.
The judge's fearful scowl relaxed, and he seized his companion's arm.
"I called you some names, didn't I, Boy," he said, when he could make himself heard. "Overlook it, won't you? I didn't know you were such a fool as not to be able to see when a chapter in a man's life is closed. Now let's begin at the beginning again. You who know all there is to know about girls, you for whom the exception proves the rule that you can manage them with one hand tied behind you,—what do you think of the exception? Tell me now. What do you think of Sylvia?"
"No, no, Judge," gasped Dunham. "Let me off. I'm exhausted."
"Brace up. I want to know."
"Well," returned John, wiping his eyes, "I think she made a tardy arrival on this planet. She's too late for her century."
"An old-fashioned girl, eh? I rather like that."
"Older fashioned than you're thinking of. She belongs in legends, and all sorts of stories that begin 'Once upon a time.' Do you catch the idea? She's the exact opposite in every respect of that excellent lady we—no, I mean I have just been talking about,—her aunt."
The judge's face fell, though his eagle glance was sharp.
"Yet, it is the Lacey blood that's done it," he said. "You mean she's erratic, visionary, unpractical."
"Yes. I mean that I think her very charming bonnet, if she ever wore one, would have a bee in it."
"John, that's worse than I feared," replied the judge dejectedly. "Confound Sam Lacey! She's a rather engaging girl with it all?"
"Immensely so. In fact, to such an extent that most people would prefer to follow her moods rather than to revel in the excellent qualities of a good housekeeper."
"What does Edna think?" asked the lawyer.
"Oh, come, come, Judge!" protested Dunham. "If you have the man's standpoint,—a wholly admiring standpoint, I hope you understand,—that ought to satisfy you for one day."
"I shall go back with you to Hawk Island," announced Judge Trent briefly. "Sylvia shall go too. I wish to observe her outside this atmosphere."
Meanwhile Sylvia had borne Thinkright away, in front of the house to the shade of the Æolian pine tree, and pulled him down beside her on a rustic seat.
"Oh, Thinkright, it's ages since you and I sat here last."
"Happy ages, I hope," he answered.
"Yes, I've been living a poem ever since I said goodby to you, until this noon. I've been walking on air,—living in a happy dream; then suddenly a bucket of cold water was dashed over me, and I came to myself."
"Are you sure it was yourself you came to?" asked Thinkright, for he saw the trouble in the eyes he loved. "Sometimes our dreams are nearer the truth than our mistaken waking notions."
"Oh, I wish this were a dream!" returned the girl devoutly; "for I've offended Edna."
"How?"
"If I only knew! I've gone through every incident of my stay, and I can't find a clue. I've been so careful about Mr. Dunham."
"About Mr. Dunham?"
"Yes; never to try even to attract his attention or behave as if I expected him to notice me."
"I don't understand at all," said Thinkright. "Do you mean that he and Edna care for each other?"
"Why, of course."
"But they haven't met often of late."
"I know; but of course she never could forget him, and they're so much alike in all their ways and tastes"—
"Hold hard, little one. Edna Derwent has a court of admirers at home. It isn't likely she has ever had time to think of Mr. Dunham."
"Oh, you know there couldn't be another like him," was Sylvia's quick response, given so devoutly that her companion regarded her more closely.
"I saw as soon as he came how things were, and would be; and I was extra careful. I've really almost avoided him, and yet, I'm going to tell you honestly, Thinkright, while he admires Edna so much, I seem to amuse him, and he has taken more notice of me than I wish he would; because of course all he thinks about me is that I'm a Western product, and he is curious about my difference from them. I can't imagine how I did it, but in some way I've offended Edna."
"How does she show it?"
"Just by a little coldness and difference in her manner; but it makes all the difference to me; and I want to stay with you now!" She came close to him and looked up into his face.
"There isn't a thing to do," he returned, "except to think right about it. I suppose you've been remembering that?"
"Ye-es, some," answered Sylvia, with hesitation.
"That's Mr. Dunham coming along with the judge now, isn't it?" asked Thinkright.
"Yes. Edna invited us yesterday to spend a week at the cottage, and we planned to come over to-day to get our clothes; and then last night she was cool to me, and this noon she was still more changed,—or else I noticed it more,—and oh," added the girl hastily, "they're coming this way. Tell them you want me to stay here, please do!"
"Does Edna expect you back?"
"Yes, but"—
"And you haven't attempted any explanation with her?"
"No, but"—
Thinkright patted the arm near him.
"Can't have my little girl show the white feather like that. You and Edna both know how to think. There isn't any power that can prevent your meeting on the right ground, and there is nothing hidden that shall not be revealed. The truth, even about this trifle, whatever it may be, will set you free."
"Is this a secret session?" asked Judge Trent as the two men approached.
Sylvia's speaking countenance seemed to say that it was; but Thinkright arose and shook hands with John.
"Edna's invited me to come back with these young people," said the lawyer. "She wanted you instead, I believe, but for reasons I'll go first, if you have no objection."
"None in the world," returned his cousin, "for I couldn't stay away just now."
"Sylvia, I think you'd better pack your bag," went on Judge Trent. "Time is flying."
Thinkright deliberately studied Dunham's expression as the latter watched the young girl, whose indecision and trouble were obvious.
"Be game, Miss Sylvia, be game," suggested John. "Steamer leaves dock in half an hour sharp, as Judge Trent elects to have a late supper at Anemone Cottage rather than an early one in the shade of Mrs. Lem's pompadour."
"Then I'm going, am I, Thinkright?" asked Sylvia, her eyes appealing to him as she rose.
"Of course you're going," put in the judge authoritatively. "I've had no visit with you yet."
"All right," returned Sylvia, smiling faintly at her uncle; but she took Thinkright's arm.
"I'll meet you in half an hour," she said to the other men, and started toward the house, with her cousin captive.
"Get your thought right on the way back, little one," he said. "You know how. You have nothing to conceal from Edna, I suppose?"
Sylvia did not answer at once, and Thinkright, after a moment, turned and looked into her grave, downcast face.
She spoke, after the little silence, with a collected dignity which was very becoming. "I'm ready to give Edna an account of every action of mine beneath her roof."
"Very well, my child. I haven't a doubt of it. It's better for you to go back to-night. I'm sure you think so."
"Yes, I do think so," replied Sylvia.
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE POTION
They were a rather silent party on the homeward way. Dunham sailed the boat. Benny Merritt, fortified with thick slices of Mrs. Lem's good bread and butter, fell asleep and snored peacefully. He had bargained with Minty for this substantial repast as the price of sailing her around the Basin, and Sylvia had been quite concerned that he had no appetite for the afternoon tea which the others took before setting forth.
At Anemone Cottage the party was received with acclaim. Miss Lacey's cheeks had been very pink from the moment of discovering with her spyglass a fourth figure in the boat; and Judge Trent had no cause to complain of his supper.
The effervescent spirits which had this morning been Sylvia's seemed now to have passed into her hostess, and the glad eagerness with which the younger girl followed the other's mood was noted and appreciated by Dunham, who, when he could catch Sylvia's eye, sent her reassuring smiles, not one of which was lost upon Edna.
Sylvia almost persuaded herself that she had been imaginative and unjust. Of course Edna had been too occupied in greeting Judge Trent just now, and in caring for his comfort, to give her more than a smiling nod of welcome on her arrival, but Edna's good cheer at the supper table was charming, and each guest in his way showed response to her mood.
"I've another day of my carpenters to-morrow," she said after a while, "and I can't be sorry. They're great fun. I'm having the shed changed. The architect had suggested a more acute angle than my carpenter liked. I told Willis I thought he was improving on Mr. Lane's lines, and he replied, with that delightful drawl, 'Ye-us, he had sech a quick yank!'"
Another day of the carpenters! Sylvia was sorry to hear this, since it occupied Edna; and yet, one more day alone on the shore! Ah, what joy, if she could only escape Dunham and her uncle!
The evening was perfect, and when the party rose from the table they gravitated as usual to the piazza.
"What a clear horizon!" said Edna. "The moon will be coming up in a few minutes. Do you feel properly romantic, Judge Trent?"
"I feel the nearest approach to it that a man in my class ever does," he replied. "That was an excellent supper, Edna. If you'll show me the way to the kitchen I could almost kiss the cook, if she would consider it."
Miss Lacey was listening and bridling triumphantly behind a neighboring pillar.
"You needn't go so far," rejoined Edna gayly. "Miss Lacey made that dessert."
The judge was unperturbed, as he stood, his hands clasped behind him. "In that case, Martha," he remarked, his impersonal gaze resting on the shadowy distance, "please consider yourself chastely saluted."
"This evening demands music," said Edna. "I'll sing for you to-night, John."
"Good girl," returned Dunham, with an involuntary glance toward Sylvia's starlit face.
The hostess went indoors, and Sylvia started after her. "Do you mind if I sit near the piano, Edna?" she asked.
"And miss the moonrise? I certainly should not allow it. Stay right where you were."
"Of course, stay right where you were," said John quietly, "or rather sit here." He placed a cushion for Sylvia on the top step, and as she accepted the position he placed himself at her feet.
Miss Martha sank into a rocking-chair, and Judge Trent moved down upon the grass, where he walked back and forth, a shadowy figure in the evening hush, for the wind goes down with the sun at Hawk Island.
"Ask her to sing the 'Sea Pictures,'" suggested Sylvia to her companion.
John called his request, and Edna complied. She had scarcely commenced the first song when a halo of light appeared on the horizon, foretelling the edge of the orange-colored disc which soon began its splendid ascent from the silhouetted waves. The air was full of the scent of sweet peas, that clung in lavish abundance to the base of the cottage. The vista of firs framed the rising moon, which gradually flecked the water with dancing gold. Edna's voice flooded the air with strange melody.
Sylvia's responsive sense yielded to the witchery of the hour. Petty thoughts were swept away. John's eyes were constantly drawn back to her rapt face as the light grew clearer.
"The little stars are going out, do you see?" she murmured, and he nodded.
Soon Edna began the accompaniment of "In Haven," the one which Sylvia called the island song. The first notes brought a new light to her face, and she smiled into Dunham's upturned eyes.
"This is mine," she said. The words of the song came clearly to them, as the moon-path broadened and lengthened between the spires of the firs.
"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 leaned her head against the vine-wreathed stone, and her eyes closed against the glory of a world that seemed hushing itself to listen,—closed against John Dunham, whose personality had so strangely permeated the song on the day she first heard it. What a different day from this, and how long, long ago it was! Then storm was sweeping sea and land; the hurrying blast, the beating waves, the driven foam flakes, had been an actuality. Now all unrest was in her own thought, while o'er sea and land brooded a peace that suggested eternity. The sweetness of that which alone would last,—how it appealed to her!
She could see beneath her lashes the moonlight falling on John's strong profile, and on the brown hands that clasped his knee. If, without word or look, he could reach up to her one of those hands, and she could put her own into it with the knowledge that there was its rightful place, what would every storm of circumstance mean to her henceforth!
She came to herself with a start. Here on Edna's very piazza, enjoying her hospitality, she was indulging in a dream of theft from her. If her thoughts could be so betrayed, might it not be that some action had indeed given Edna just cause of offense? She remembered the day when, in the boat with her newly discovered uncle, he had told her that Dunham was straining at the leash to get away to Boston to Miss Derwent. Every moment of the latter's charming hospitality, and now her glorious voice, doubtless bound him closer to her. Sylvia knew herself to be not of their world, and perhaps she was more of a novelty to Dunham than she could realize. It was some strangeness in her, possibly some unconsciousgaucherie, that so often called his attention to herself. Surely she should blush forever that, so soon as her thoughts escaped control, the subject began to attempt to betray her Princess and usurp her place.
"I mustn't stay here. I ought not to stay," thought Sylvia in sudden panic. "I cannot be trusted."
The song closed. Dunham turned his head and looked up at his companion.
"Your song, is it?" he asked softly. "Let me in, too. It belongs to this place."
"Go and tell Edna how you like it," said Sylvia. "She always says it belongs to this island."
"And to her present guests especially," rejoined Dunham. "Won't you seal the partnership before I go?"
He reached his hand up to her with the movement she had pictured.
Her own were clasped behind her head. "No," she answered quickly. "Take Edna's hand upon it. Let her know how you love it, for it is one of her own favorites."
Dunham still hesitated, regarding the moonlit face, and Sylvia suddenly rose and, passing him, ran down the steps and joined Judge Trent in his measured promenade.
Miss Martha marveled at the ease with which her niece took possession of the lonely man who courted loneliness; and she could see by the way the judge turned toward the young girl, as she took his arm, that he was not an unwilling captive. "I shouldn't wonder if the child made Calvin real human," she thought, with a contented sigh. Sylvia was a possession which they held in common. Miss Martha seemed to see a future in which her relation with her ex-lover ceased to be one of armed neutrality.
Dunham, who had gone into the house to thank his entertainer, soon reappeared, with Edna beside him. They strolled off the piazza and down the rock path toward the golden street which joined the short avenue of firs, and Sylvia saw them no more that night.
She took care to be in bed, with her light out, before Edna came upstairs, only calling to her a cheery good-night as she passed her door. She hoped her friend would come in and stay for a little talk, but Edna paused only for a moment to exclaim upon the beauty of the evening and the pity of the fact that sleep was a necessity. Then she too said good-night, and passed on.
Affairs the next morning turned out quite as Sylvia would have had them. At breakfast she discovered that Judge Trent and Dunham had departed early on a fishing expedition. Edna was absorbed with her carpenters and their alterations, and Sylvia found no difficulty in escaping unquestioned to the woods, the pillow slip hanging over her arm.
This time when she returned at noon there was no one in sight, and she laid down bottle and bag in a corner of the piazza while she went to the well for a drink. Returning, she again took the flat, stiff pillow slip and went upstairs with it.
The men came home to dinner a little late. They brought no treasures back save those of John's imagination; and he regaled the company during the meal with such accounts of the morning's experiences as caused Miss Martha to entertain fears concerning his ultimate destination.
They all left the table at last in a gale of merriment, and went out on the piazza to drink their coffee. When they had finished Edna offered to show Judge Trent a shady hammock where breezes were warranted to lull all but the uneasiest conscience to rest. It was swung between two balsam firs, and the young people, leaving the judge therein, his cap pulled down over his eyes, went back to the piazza.
As soon as Dunham went up the steps his eye fell on a bottle on the floor in a corner. He recognized it at once, and pounced upon it.
"At last!" he exclaimed, and held it up to the light. "You've been in the woods again this morning." He frowned at Sylvia, who laughed softly and colored to the tips of her ears. "Aha! You look guilty enough for anything. I thought your eyes had an extra sparkle this noon."
Edna caught her lip between her teeth, and stood still, regarding her blushing guest.
A curious excitement took possession of Dunham. Had Sylvia left the bottle purposely for him to find it? "It has gone down fast since yesterday," he went on. "Remember, I saw it yesterday. Any one who comes in on this will have to be prompt and firm." He looked accusingly at the girl, who was the picture of embarrassment, as she stood there, laughing with a conscious air.
"Very well," she exclaimed suddenly. "You shan't tease me any longer about that. Here!" She seized a cup from the coffee table, and, emptying into it the remaining contents of the bottle, she handed it to Dunham.
He looked at her strangely.
"What is this? An elixir?"
"You say so," she replied saucily.
"Will it make me fluent, and sparkling, and gay?"
"You say so."
"Then I should let Edna have a share." He started to hand the cup to his hostess.
"No, no," laughed Sylvia, putting out a protesting hand. "She doesn't need it. It's not fit for Edna. Take it yourself, and—the consequences."
Dunham looked over the rim of the cup at the merry, defiant face, and drank. He then replaced the cup on the table, with sudden gravity and a look of tardy apprehension in the direction of Edna.
"It's not sweet," he said.
"No," returned Sylvia, "except in its results."
Their young hostess stood there, rigid, her hand leaning on the back of a chair. John could not meet the speaker's eyes.
"I have a new story upstairs," he said abruptly. "I'm going to get it and see if I can't induce one of you to read aloud."
He disappeared, and Sylvia regarded the empty bottle with reminiscent eyes.
"What did you expect to do with that stuff, Sylvia?" asked Edna.
"Something that will make a transformation in my life," replied the other slowly. "I want to tell you about it when we have more time. I know you have to go back now to your workmen,—but I'm very hopeful, Edna, and, unless I deceive myself greatly, I shall be happy; and you've been so wonderfully generous to a stranger, you'll be happy for me, I'm sure."
"We haven't time to talk now, as you say," returned Edna, with a measured coldness that caused her friend to look up, the light vanishing from her face. "Your actions have amazed me beyond words. Would you be willing that Thinkright should know the dreams and plans you have indulged in in this place?"
Sylvia stood dumb, transfixed, convicted of guilt.
"It does not come gracefully from your hostess to lecture you, I know; but against my will I have learned what I know, and—the disappointment has been bitter, Sylvia. Don't be vexed with me for speaking plainly. I can help you, I believe, when we get an opportunity for a quiet talk. Yes, I'm coming, Jenny," for the girl was at the door, bringing a question from the carpenter. "Excuse me, Sylvia. We'll talk later."
Dunham, upon reaching his room, forgot all about the book he had come to seek. Standing still in the middle of the floor, he alternately went into paroxysms of laughter and scowled gravely at the wall.
"Nonsense!" he ruminated. "Edna and I are both idiots. I could see that Edna was back in that kitchen while we stood there. This is the twentieth century, and Sylvia has never lived out of the world."
So from moment to moment he would dispose of the Idea; but then there was the Look. That had been unmistakable. There was a chamber in Dunham's heart where that memory picture hung, and it seemed to him impertinence to open the door. As often as the recollection returned to him he recoiled from it. That look had been a theft from Sylvia, not a gift; but she had given him the potion at last. Again John laughed at himself for believing in her intention. Again he scowled at the wall because she had fulfilled it.
At last he shook himself together. An unacknowledged longing possessed him to see how she would carry herself now. He caught up the book he had come for, and went downstairs to the piazza. Sylvia had vanished. Disappointed, he went back into the house. Straying to the piano, he sat down and began to play a Chopin prelude. It was John's one and only instrumental achievement, learned by ear, and dug out of the ivories, as one might say, by long hours of laborious search for its harmonies.
Edna glided into the room. "If you don't mind, John," she said, "this is Miss Lacey's nap-time."
He dropped his hands. "Certainly I won't mind, if you'll produce Miss Sylvia. She's slipperier than a drop of quicksilver."
Edna stiffened slightly. "Perhaps she has gone to sleep, too."
"Well, you haven't, anyway. Come! I hate those carpenters with a virulence that grows worse every hour."
The young hostess laughed. "I've only to stay with them a little while longer. Come with me. They're nearly through, and then we'll get Sylvia and go off somewhere."
John followed lazily to mysterious regions at the back of the cottage. Sylvia, listening at the head of the stairs, heard them go. It was her opportunity.