Chapter 31

RECONCILIATION

That afternoon, while Benny had been surreptitiously watching Sylvia's irrepressible tears, she kept her face toward the Tide Mill without one backward look. The boat, as it cut through the water, rising and falling in the strong, steady wind, seemed ever rhythmically repeating the line of the island song:--

"Joy, sea-swept, may fade to-day Joy, sea-swept may fade to-day."

She tried to look away from her hurt and humiliation as she looked away from Anemone Cottage; tried to remember only that at the Mill Farm was Thinkright, with his confidence and calm. Oh, to be calm and fearless once more!

"Love alone will stay!"

A light seemed shed now on many a talk of Thinkright's concerning the only Love that would stay,--abide. The only Love that bred peace,--the peace that passeth understanding.

Winds and waves sang on:--

"Joy, sea-swept may fade to-day; Love alone will stay."

and above the human sweetness of the song Sylvia felt that there dwelt a deeper, higher meaning, but she could not attain to it now. Thought was pain. What she longed to do was to wipe the last week from her remembrance. The last week. She suddenly remembered its high light: the thrill with which she had worked over her pictures and the power she felt in her finger tips. Her sketches,--she had forgotten them. Her aunt, Edna, would find them. What matter? Nothing at Hawk Island mattered.

She turned her thought to the farm. The Basin was sparkling and waiting for her, the birches were bending forward in welcome. Thinkright, and the dear Fosters, she loved them all; and her boat, whose dainty oars she had never handled. Home, a dear home, awaited her. She hoped the uncontrollable fountain of her tears would dry before the Tide Mill should feel her presence and seem to say: "I told you so. Better never to believe in the sunshine. Then you cannot suffer a pang in finding that, after all, the world holds naught but bitterness and disappointment."

When the old mill finally came in sight, Sylvia averted her face. While the boat stole through its cold shadow she fixed her eyes on the smiling lake beyond, all alive in the rising tide, and glad, to its last sombre little evergreen pushing sap into the hopeful brightness of its tips.

"Thank you so much, Benny," she said, when finally she stood on the shore. "I've been a very stupid passenger, but I hope you'll forgive me."

"I didn't want to talk," returned Benny awkwardly. What he thought was, "I only wish't I was big enough to punch his head."

"I got time to carry your bag up to the house, and I'm goin' to," he added firmly.

Sylvia demurred, for she did not wish the boy to see the surprise her return would occasion; but he refused to listen to her assurances, and, dropping his anchor in the depths beside a certain rock, he strode off manfully by her side with the bag, only wishing that it were twice as heavy.

Fortune favored Sylvia, for Thinkright was the only member of the family who saw her emerge from the woods. He came down the hill to meet the newcomers, and, noting Benny's burden, understood that the girl's return was permanent.

He advanced in silence, smiling. Sylvia smiled too, bravely. "The bad penny, you see," she said, as he drew near.

"I'm glad to get the penny on any terms," he replied.

"Will you pay Benny, please, Thinkright? I hadn't any money with me."

The boy took the silver and gave up the bag, casting a furtive glance at Sylvia.

"Ye don't want me to come back for yer to-morrer?" he said.

"No, thank you, Benny. Good-by." She gave him an April smile, and he returned to the boat muttering to himself, his fist clenched and restless.

The girl met Thinkright's kind, questioning look.

"I've shown the white feather after all," she said; "but would you mind not asking me anything,--just for to-day?"

"Certainly I won't, little one. Don't tell me until you wish to."

Sylvia rested her hand on his shoulder as they walked up the hill. "I shall tell the others, if they ask, that I was homesick. Never was a truer word spoken. People have died of homesickness, haven't they, Thinkright? I thought I might die of it if I had to stay there one more night."

Her companion did not smile at this extravagance. He was wise, and knew that a wound which is resisted and thrown off by experienced and case-hardened maturity does often crush the thin skin of youth.

"Well, we shall all be thoroughly glad to get you back again, dear," he replied. "There's been a yawning hole in the house ever since you left, and Minty actually shed tears last evening in her disappointment that you didn't stay."

"Dear little Minty," said Sylvia, gratefully.

"The tears and affection were very genuine," said Thinkright smiling, "but the situation is more acute owing to the fact of your rowboat, and that she has been forbidden to use it without you."

"Poor little thing. I don't wonder. I'll take her soon, or she'll take me; but this afternoon can I stay with you a while? Have you time to talk to me, and read with me? I'm a heathen, and need a missionary."

"You're not; but I'll help you to know you're not. I was going to mend a fence, but"--

"Oh, no, mend me!" returned Sylvia.

Benny Merritt found that Mr. Dunham had spoken the truth, and that he was summoned early on the following day to take Miss Derwent to the Mill Farm; and when she appeared at the dock at the appointed hour, it proved that she was escorted by Judge Trent, rather grim of visage as he shot out sharp glances from beneath the earth-colored cap. He was not particularly fond of sailing; he greatly approved of Jenny's cooking; everything had been unusually comfortable and to his mind until Sylvia's foolish move upset everything and everybody. It was with reluctance that he accompanied Edna this morning, but her earnestness would not be gainsaid. He was forced to listen to assurances of his niece's gift, of the desirability of developing it, of the strength of the motive-spirit she had evidenced in the pains taken to carry out her desire. Then Edna unfolded to him the plans that had come to her during a wakeful night, and bespoke his coöperation. The judge scowled at the passing billows, and listened. Edna was tactful and diplomatic. She did not overdo the matter. She allowed silences to fall in which her taciturn listener might digest the food she had offered his family pride and ambition. She talked of other matters, and was just making a reference to the judge's gift to his niece of the rowboat, when Benny steered in toward the mill, and dropped his sail at the nearest spot which at this tide was practicable.

"There is the new boat, now," cried Edna; "and Sylvia and Minty are in it."

As she and the judge walked along the shore toward the little boathouse, she waved her handkerchief toward the occupants of the Rosy Cloud. It was Minty who first caught sight of the visitors.

"There's somebody a-wavin'," she said, and Sylvia stopped rowing and looked over her shoulder. She had been finding the lightness and responsiveness of her boat exhilarating, and her eyes were beaming until she caught sight of the visitors.

Even Minty saw the change that crossed her face. "I wish 't they hadn't come, too," she said regretfully. "Don't go in yet, Miss Sylvia."

"You see, Uncle Calvin gave me the boat, and he has never been inside of it," returned Sylvia, beginning to row toward shore. "You shall take her again, Minty, as soon as we are through."

She was surprised that Edna had come so promptly. She could still see the cold disapproval in her friend's face the last time she had looked upon it. What a contrast she saw now in its beaming expression!

Miss Derwent was uncomfortable, for she knew she could not be welcome, and she longed for five minutes alone with Sylvia; but Judge Trent must be considered, and she had to curb her impatience as best she might.

The judge watched the approach of the boat critically. "You go too deep, Sylvia, you go too deep," he announced as she drew near. "Minty, you row like a windmill. You'll have to take some lessons, too."

"Minty rows a good strong stroke," said Sylvia; "but she has always had such a heavy boat that she'll have to learn that this doesn't require the same effort." How strange it seemed that any one at this juncture could consider the form of rowing! When one's heart was beating and one's brain struggling to decide how to meet a difficult situation, as if anything mattered, except to reach the shore and not to forget the laws of hospitality.

"Well, well, miss," went on the judge, when he could see his niece's flushed face, "this running away is pretty business. What have you to say for yourself?"

"She needn't say anything," said Edna. "I told him you were homesick, Sylvia, and it was reason enough. You had ample reason for leaving."

The speaker made the deliberate addition significantly, and caught her friend's eye with an appeal in which Sylvia could see the flag of truce. The earnestness and sweetness of her tone and look astounded Sylvia; for had so simple an action as her coming home had power to alter such strong feeling as must goad a hostess before she can so rebuke the guest beneath her roof?

"Are you going to come ashore and let us interrupt your sport?" went on Edna.

"Unless you and Uncle Calvin care to come out for a little row," returned Sylvia. "It's a wonderful boat, Uncle Calvin."

"Yes, Edna, get in," said the judge. "You take the tiller, and I'll show Sylvia how to avoid the windmill habit. Another time for you, Minty," he added, and the child jumped out obediently.

Little did the prosaic lawyer suspect the preoccupation of his pupil during the next quarter of an hour. Sylvia did her best to obey him; and Edna, intent on keeping him in the best of humor, expressed her enjoyment of a situation whose finish she anticipated far more eagerly than did her friend; for Sylvia, although apparently intent on feathering, was planning how she could avoid being left alone for a minute with Edna.

The moment came, however, when they must land, and Judge Trent superintended the putting up of the boat. He would touch nothing, he wished Sylvia to understand and execute each detail, and gave his directions crisply. His niece welcomed this, for it kept him by her side, a position she hoped he would maintain until their departure for the island.

"What do you suppose Mrs. Lem will say to two people descending upon her for dinner?" asked Edna, when at last the three started toward the house.

"Oh, this is giving her plenty of warning," replied Sylvia. "I will tell her at once."

Edna had requested Judge Trent not to refer to his niece's sketches until she had an opportunity to speak with her alone. To this he had replied that he was a passenger, and that, as Edna had undertaken to discover a genius in his family, he would not interfere with any dramatic effect upon which she had set her heart. The two girls ascended the hill, one on each side of him, and Sylvia's heart sank as he asked Thinkright's whereabouts.

"Oh, he's off in the farm garden with Cap'n Lem," she replied; "but you're not going to leave me, are you, Uncle Calvin? I'm always being disappointed of a visit with you. Edna, you hold on to him while I go in and tell Mrs. Lem that you're here,--although Minty has probably already done so."

Far from obeying, Edna dismissed their escort the instant Sylvia had disappeared.

"This will give me a chance to have my talk with her before dinner," she said; "and afterward she can talk with you."

"Very well," returned the judge; "but don't get flighty, Edna. Remember, I'm not a millionaire."

Sylvia's face, when she emerged from the house to find her friend waiting alone, was expressive; and Edna answered quite as if she had spoken.

"Yes, I sent him away. I had to see you alone. Please forgive me for yesterday, and give me ten minutes--no, five; I believe you'll ask for the next five yourself."

It was Edna's old winning smile that again beamed upon her perplexed friend. The vague change and coolness had disappeared. "Choose a place where no one will disturb us," she added.

In silence Sylvia walked to the Æolian pine tree, and they seated themselves on the rustic seat.

"How amazed you must have been at my severity yesterday," began Edna, "when you could not have had the vaguest idea at what I was hinting."

Sylvia still kept silence. She was astonished by the light-hearted, almost humorous note in her companion's voice.

"_You_ must have had an idea, I suppose," she returned noncommittally.

To her further surprise Edna actually laughed. "Yes, I had an idea, but I'm mortally ashamed of it to-day. Could you be so magnanimous, Sylvia, as not to ask me what it was?"

The girl kept silence for a moment. Surely if her offense had concerned John Dunham, nothing could have occurred since yesterday to alter facts--but stay! and not all the sun kisses that had warmed Sylvia's face could conceal that she grew suddenly pale. If Edna and John had come to a mutual discovery since yesterday, that would explain the happy excitement which seemed to have engulfed all other feeling for Edna.

"You will have to explain a little," she said, and her self-control made her voice cold.

"Oh, it's too absurd, Sylvia--honestly. Sometime when we're quite old ladies I'll tell you,--that is, if you'll forgive me without my confessing now. Of course if you won't,"--Edna's eyes besought her friend merrily,--"I shall have to; but really I want to beg off."

"You have something important to tell me," said Sylvia, "something besides that."

"Two things. I didn't sleep at all last night for two reasons: one was for happiness, the other for regret that I had hurt you."

It was, then, as Sylvia had surmised. What reason was there for feeling such shock? Had she not always been prepared for this, and been waiting for it?

"Oh, I can't bear to have you look so frozen, Sylvia." Edna suddenly took her friend's hand. "I do apologize sincerely for yesterday, and I am going to tell you what no one else knows or will know for some time, owing to the strange circumstances. The mail last evening brought my father's consent to my marrying the man I love. I'll not tell you more about it yet, except that he is an Englishman, and we had almost despaired of winning over my parents. What? Not a word, Sylvia?" For the blue eyes gazed, and the parted lips were stiffly mute. After a minute warmth began to flow back into the younger girl's face. The hand Edna held began to return its pressure.

"I am happy for you," said Sylvia, and the two smiled into each other's eyes.

"Happy enough to forgive me on trust?" asked Edna.

"Yes," answered the other slowly; but the question her heart and pride were asking must be expressed.

"Does--does Mr. Dunham know what idea it was that made you reproach me yesterday?"

"John?" Edna laughed. "Oh, dear, no."

"Well,"--Sylvia gave a long-drawn sigh,--"I will not press you, though of course I'm curious."

"You're very good; and now I'll come to the other discovery which kept me awake. We found your sketches last evening."

Edna paused.

"Yes, I forgot them." Sylvia's companion noted the light that came into her eyes. "I suppose they are only daubs to you, but I was so happy doing them!"

"And we were happy looking at them. I can't think that with all that talent you are not hoping to study."

"Of course I hope; but against hope, for who would take enough interest"--

"Your uncle. I. Every friend you have."

Sylvia's lips parted eagerly. "Did Uncle Calvin really feel it was worth while?"

"Indeed he did. You can't remain at this blessed little farm all next winter, hibernating. How should you like to come to Boston and study?"

"Oh, it is my ideal!" Sylvia clasped her hands.

"It is going to _be_, my dear. Judge Trent has promised."

The young artist caught her lip in her teeth and drew a long breath.

"Meanwhile you shouldn't waste time," went on Edna. "The Keenes,--you know Mr. and Mrs. Keene, the illustrators,--have an artist camp in the White Mountains. They are dear friends of mine. How should you like to go up there soon,--in a few days, if I find they will accept you?"

"Edna, you take my breath away."

"Yes, I know; but it would be the finest thing for you, especially if it led to your studying with them during the winter. I don't think there could be a better place for you than their studio. If Judge Trent consents, will you go? I can telegraph to-day. The camp lasts only for a short time, and I don't want you to miss it."

A strange commingling of delight and reluctance seethed in Sylvia's brain, and her thought flashed to Hawk Island.

"To go so soon!" she said, scarcely aware that she spoke.

"Yes, immediately, or it would not be worth while. Such an opportunity, Sylvia; and, if I read the sketches aright, the motive power that lay behind your guarding of those big berries would drive you much further than to the White Mountains."

"Yes. Oh, yes, Edna. What a friend you are!"

"Then it is settled?"

"Yes, indeed, if Uncle Calvin"--

"Oh, leave Uncle Calvin to me. His dry bones are about to be vitalized."