Chapter 25

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 more _en rapport_ with 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 a _sauce piquante_ to 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.