Chapter 24

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 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 stuff _has_ worked 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."