Chapter 23

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 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. I _should_ think, 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, _you_ certainly 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 what _he_ thinks 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 felt _de 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 on _his_ account, 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?