Chapter 13

UNCLE AND NIECE

For a few moments Sylvia sat absorbed in her train of thought, and suddenly coming to herself, found the stranger's intent gaze upon her. He noted her sudden embarrassment, and hastened to speak.

"Thinkright's worst enemy could never accuse him of preaching what he does not practice," he said.

"Has he any enemies?"

"He's liable to have one in me." The shaggy brows drew down, but the thin, smooth-shaven lips twitched, and the girl saw that the speech had a humorous intent.

She smiled. "Then I shall protect him. He is my cousin."

"Oh, you're related, eh?"

"Yes, and I love him. He is the only one of my relations that I can endure!"

"H'm. Poor relations."

"No, indeed. Rich relations. I am the poor relation, that is the trouble; but--if you know Thinkright you can imagine how he talks to me about it."

"Preaches. I suppose so. Hard on you."

"No." Sylvia shook her head and patted the water with an oar. "He has helped me. He knows wonderful ways of helping people."

"Well, I'll thank him not to send you out in this water in a boat that you don't know how to manage."

The form of the irritable declaration caused Sylvia to view her companion with large eyes.

"Now you're here you might as well take a lesson," went on the judge. "Try rowing a bit. If you're going to stay here you'll need to know how."

"But I'm not going to stay here," rejoined Sylvia quickly.

"Why not?" The odd little man scowled so intently at her that the girl began to feel uneasy and glanced shoreward.

"If you detest all your other relations and love Thinkright then why isn't his home the place for you?"

"It--the trouble is it isn't his home."

"Whose, then?" Judge Trent braced himself in expectation of the answer.

"The farm belongs to--to a celebrated lawyer who uses it for a summer home," replied the girl.

"Make friends with him," suggested the judge.

Sylvia's breath caught. "If--if you knew how I don't want to and how--I must!" she returned naïvely.

Her companion smiled grimly. "Well, here, now,--he's an old curmudgeon, I know him,--never mind him. Let's have a rowing lesson. Take the oars,--there, at that point. Now!" The speaker bent toward the young girl, and his dry hands closed over hers. She glanced at him half in fright, and away again as he guided her awkward movements until the boat moved slowly, but with tolerable evenness, through the water. "Now you're getting it, you see," he said at last.

Sylvia began to forget her embarrassment in interest.

"Not too deep,--only bury the oar." The speaker glanced up into the eager face so near him. Coral lips, pearly teeth, sunny curls,--loneliness, the stage, an actor husband--

"Turn it right there, steadily; see the water drip off? That's the way"--

Himself with his nose buried in a pile of papers, Martha hysterical, Dunham morose, but himself always unmoved. Laura's baby! He remembered that he had sent her a silver cup when she was born.

"Look out, a steady pull,--steady. That's enough now. You're tired. This boat is a tub. You should have a light one."

Sylvia laughed, and let her teacher pull the oars across the boat.

"Now we'll float a while," he said, resuming his seat in the bow. "So Thinkright wants you to forgive everybody; love everybody, eh? I know that's his tack."

Sylvia was breathing fast from her exertions. "Yes," she nodded. "I've never had much practice in loving people."

"No? That's the Trent in you."

She lifted her eyes in surprise at the abrupt reply. He nodded. "You said Thinkright's your cousin, then so is Judge Trent."

"Uncle," returned Sylvia briefly.

"Ah. One of the detested."

She lifted her shoulder with a gesture of dread. "I mustn't say so," she answered.

He watched her through a moment of silence.

"I wish you luck getting over it," he remarked dryly. "It's against you--being a Trent."

"But," said the girl simply, "Thinkright says if I'll only keep remembering that I haven't any relations except God, and His children, I shan't find anybody to hate."

The judge's eyes snapped. "H'm. I hope there's something in that. I hope there is. I've never paid much attention to Thinkright's little pilgrimages among his rose-colored clouds, but perhaps it might be to my advantage to do so; perhaps it might. The fact is, girl,--I'm sorry to confess it because I know it will be unwelcome news, but--I'm your Uncle Calvin."

Sylvia grasped the side of the boat, grew pale, and stared. "Oh, no!" she exclaimed. "He has a full beard. He has a round face."

"Once upon a time, as the story books say, he had."

The girl's eyes closed and her lips compressed.

"Sylvia, remember the Tide Mill." The judge's voice was rough with feeling. "Your eyes look like its shuttered windows. I'm not a monster. I'm only a human machine that didn't know how to stop grinding. I've come up here to tell you so. I thought our introductions were better made away from the family, and I expected to find you walking in the woods."

Sylvia opened her eyes again, widely, apprehensively. "Is Aunt Martha here, too?"

"No. I thought one of us would be sufficient. I saw Miss Derwent in Boston recently. She gave me news of you."

"Uncle Calvin," began the girl in a low, uneven voice, "I have said very uncivil things. Why did you deceive me?"

"I had no idea at first that you were my niece. I looked for some one totally different."

Sylvia's heart was beating with unwonted quickness. This was the man who had been willing to pay frugally for her living until she could make one for herself, while too indifferent even to see her; but Thinkright's talks had turned a searchlight upon her own predilections and expectations, with the effect of distracting her attention somewhat from the shortcomings of others. Her present excitement in the discovery of her uncle was mingled with mortification at the remembrance of what her thought had once demanded of him. The boat rocked gently over the blue ripples; the sunshine illumined alike the burnished greens of grass and foliage and the weather-beaten pallor of the implacable Tide Mill. The shrewd, lined face under the high hat kept piercing eyes on the youthful, drooping countenance opposite.

"Yes, you're totally different from what I expected," he said again. "You're no more like your mother than I am."

She flashed a suddenly suspicious glance up at the speaker. "I am proud to be like my father," she declared.

The judge shrugged his shoulders, and the girl continued hotly: "I've come to a place where no one has a kind thought or word for him. I love him twice as much as before."

"H'm," grunted Judge Trent. "Even Thinkright draws the line there, does he? Shouldn't wonder. Sam Lacey carried Laura off under his very nose."

"Thinkright doesn't talk about him," returned the girl; "but that speaks volumes."

"I'm not going to, either. I'm glad you loved him, and that you still do; and now let's see what can be done in our situation. Practically you detest me, but theoretically you love me _à la_ Thinkright. Is that about the size of it?"

Sylvia wiped her eyes and gave an April smile.

"Now," went on the judge, "supposing we take the latter clause as our working hypothesis. We're both Trents and chock-full of old Adam. I've never had any use for girls, and you have no use for old clams of uncles who keep their heads in their shells when they ought to be coming up to the scratch; but, after all, what's the good of hating one another?"

"It's no good," responded Sylvia quickly.

"Well, then, supposing you let me in on the rose-colored cloud proposition, too."

Sylvia's reply was a question. "Did you really come up here on purpose to see me?" she asked.

"I did, indeed. Ought to be back in the office this minute. Dunham--you know Dunham by the way--will have troubles of his own before I can get back."

"How is Mr. Dunham?" asked Sylvia, again splashing the water gently with an oar.

"As well as could be expected of such a fragile flower. He's straining at the leash now to get to Boston to call on Miss Derwent. I expect my arrival at the office will be the signal for a cloud of dust in which he will disappear, heading for the first train. A very fine girl, too. I 'm glad you met her. If I ever admired girls--except when I'm walking on rosy clouds--I should admire her."

"I knew you did!" exclaimed Sylvia, with a little pinch at the heart.

"You knew it, why?" asked the lawyer blankly.

"I don't know. I felt it."

Judge Trent bit his lip in a certain grim amusement. His niece, then, sometimes did him the honor to think about him still, even though she had ceased to kiss his picture.

"I'm a very jealous person," declared Sylvia frankly, looking up at him, "and vain and selfish and lazy. It's as well for you to know it."

"Indeed? So Thinkright has impressed upon you that open confession is good for the soul, eh?"

"Oh--Thinkright!" ejaculated Sylvia, with a sudden start. "I forgot. It's all wrong to say those things even about one's self."

Judge Trent nodded. "I've heard that contended. Somebody says that self-condemnation is only self-conceit turned wrong side out."

"Yes." Sylvia nodded. "I suppose from any standpoint it's still talking about yourself; but I didn't mean that. He says we mustn't say such things because it fastens the wrong more tightly to us. Of course if we do wrong we have to own it and repent, but,"--Sylvia heaved a great sigh. "That's only the beginning, the easiest part. It's _doing_ differently and not in the old way that's hard,--_not_ thinking and doing jealous, vain, selfish things." She patted the water again thoughtfully.

"Well, give me a hand up, Sylvia. I'm an old dog, but perhaps upon occasion I can bound into the rosy clouds to stroll with you."

Sylvia shook her head knowingly. "If you do bound up you'll find you have struck something more substantial than clouds; and the rose-color may appear,--yes, it _is_ there," she interrupted herself with sudden conviction. "I've perceived it in flashes, but"--her voice sank, and she shook her head again,--"it doesn't seem rosy all the time."

"Well," returned the lawyer, "there's a certain amount of reassurance in the fact that you won't dare detest either me or Miss Lacey."

At the latter name color flashed over the girl's face, and she stretched out her hand impulsively. "Oh, it's so hard to love Aunt Martha," she cried.

The judge pursed his lips, averted his eyes, and rubbed his chin the wrong way.

"I suppose you do," she continued dejectedly.

"We-ll," he returned, his sharp eyes resting on the pointed firs,--"from the rosy-cloud altitude, of course, of course."

"Then you don't like her?" cried Sylvia hopefully.

"Of course I do," returned the lawyer hastily. "Most certainly. A very fine woman; a capable woman in every way." As he spoke he scanned the banks uneasily, as though fearing that Martha might have repented of her refusal to come in his place, and had followed him. "She is most worthy of respect and--and"--his voice trailed away into silence. "Give her a hand up, too, Sylvia," he added after a moment, "and we'll all let bygones be bygones together. What do you say?"

"It's easier to have you with me, Uncle Calvin," returned Sylvia naïvely.

The judge felt the embarrassment of guilt. This was the result of his leaving Martha to bear the heat and burden of Hotel Frisbie alone. Hers had been the hours of tears and anxiety. He had kept on the even tenor of his legal way, troubling himself about nothing, and his negative misdemeanors were less heavily visited upon him. Compared to himself Martha was innocent; and it was the way of the world that such should suffer always with the guilty, and sometimes even in their place. He told himself, however, that his tenure on the situation was too light to be risked. He took ignoble refuge in generalities.

"Don't rely too much on first impressions, Sylvia. Your Aunt Martha has grieved about you. Remember, 'to err is human, to forgive divine.' Moreover,"--the speaker's lips twitched again,--"what will Thinkright say if you refuse her standing-room on our cloud? Consider well!"

Sylvia smiled through bright drops.

"Now, then, change seats with me," continued the judge, "and I'll row you in."

At the same moment Thinkright, having been absent for hours on some errand, was being greeted on his return by Mrs. Lem, who came out to the doorstep to meet him.

"Guess who's come," she said.

He looked up inquiringly. "Is Miss Derwent back again?"

"No. You'd never guess who it is this season o' the year. It's Judge Trent."

"Where is he?"

"Went down to the basin to find Miss Sylvy."

"Oh, did he?" Thinkright smiled in his interest.

"Yes. Kind of a touchin' meetin', I expect," remarked Mrs. Lem, lifting her pompadour and sighing sentimentally. Judge Trent had surprised her in a state of sleek and simple coiffure; but no sooner had his high hat disappeared down the hill than she flew into the bedroom and remedied the modest workaday appearance of her head; nor would the pompadour abate one half inch of its majestic proportions until he took his train back to Boston. She hoped she knew what was due to the lord of all he surveyed.

"How long has he been gone?" asked Thinkright.

"Oh, the best part of an hour, I should say."

"Then he must have found her," remarked the other, still with his speculative smile.

"Yes, indeed, and I hope she'll bring him home soon. It's real raw on the water to-day in spite of the sun, and the judge's bronicals ain't jest as strong as they might be."

"Oh, Mrs. Lem, Mrs. Lem," laughed Thinkright quietly, entering the house and hanging up his hat.

"There they come now!" she exclaimed, herself hastily retreating into the kitchen.

Thinkright looked out to see Sylvia's uncovered bright head level with the judge's high hat as they strolled up the hill. The lawyer's hands were clasped behind his back, and Thinkright augured peace from the deliberation of the strollers.

He met them at the door. Sylvia's grave face changed to a pensive smile at sight of him, and Judge Trent gave his cousin's hand a dry, short shake.

"How are you, Thinkright? See if you can't find a light boat and manageable oars for Sylvia in this vicinity. I found her catching crabs and losing oars at a great rate down there, and splashing herself till she resembled a mermaid. Hello, Minty," for here the child drew her doubtful and reluctant feet into the room, her wide eyes always a little shy at first of the brusque and powerful man in the high hat. "I have something for you." The judge began feeling in his coat pocket. "I bought you a bag of gumdrops, and regret that I forgot and have been sitting on them all the afternoon." He produced the paper bag. "Fortunately, they are the durable brand for sale at the village and warranted to withstand any pressure. At worst they will be lozenges now."

"Why did you surprise us?" asked Thinkright, as Minty beamingly accepted the striped bag. "Why didn't you let me send the team over?"

"Oh, you know I'm a creature of impulse," returned the lawyer, with his dry smile; "I acted with my usual lack of calculation. Made up my mind to come one minute, and took the train the next."

Thinkright did not reply, but glanced toward Sylvia, who was pulling the blue sweater off over her head.