Chapter 34
its gray face until the tears sparkled into diamonds and the old building was beset with glory.
"The bow of promise," murmured Sylvia. She stretched out her hands to the mill. "Just open them a little way," she said. "You're no unhappier than I was, but I've found it such a good world! Just open your shutters and look. You'll always be glad. Perhaps you can't have everything you want, perhaps not the very thing you want most. What of that? Can't you trust? I'm learning to. 'Love alone will stay,' and it won't forget. It never forgets."
The girl's eyes lifted to the glorifying arch. One end curved to a distant forest and was lost, and the other dipped deep within the ocean. The Tide Mill grew to radiance beneath its caress. It seemed on the point of yielding, and opening gently to the setting sun.
At the climax of color Sylvia, smiling, dropped her eyelids. She would not see it fade. Suddenly, her ear was caught by a note as of a distant bell; then a tangle of bells, tiny, musical, and the song of the hermit thrush rang out from the far thicket.
Sylvia caught her lip between her teeth, and her heart swelled.
The next morning nature, as always after a gloomy season, seemed trying to cause forgetfulness of its sulks and tears by bringing the whole battery of its charms to bear upon sea and land.
After breakfast Thinkright produced a key from his pocket. "There, my girl," he said, "is the key to the boathouse. I know you can scarcely wait."
"That's true," replied Sylvia. "Come on, Minty."
The child's round eyes were fixed solemnly on some point beyond Sylvia's shoulder.
"I don't know as I care 'bout goin' boatin' this mornin'," she replied decorously.
"What?" returned Sylvia, astonished. She remembered now how remarkably quiet the child had been throughout breakfast. "Why, how do you feel, Minty?"
"Smart," returned the child, still with her gaze on the uncertain point in space.
Thinkright's eyes had a humorous twinkle. "I want Minty to help me a little while this morning," he said. "She'll see you later."
Sylvia turned to him, demurring. "She has been looking forward to it so much," she said.
"Yes, I know. She won't have to wait long," he replied kindly, putting his arm around the child's shoulders.
Mrs. Lem, her hair strained back in its least decorative twist, fixed her offspring with black eyes that snapped.
"You're a-goin' to have a good time with Thinkright, ain't you, Minty?" she asked, and the child's breath caught through her little nose as she replied promptly:--
"Yes, I be."
Sylvia looked from one to the other uncertainly, but Thinkright was patting the little shoulder he held, and he nodded at her reassuringly.
"Run along, Sylvia. You'll find everything in good shape."
"I never saw such a man," thought the girl as she went down the hill. "How did he know that it would mean so much to me to go out alone just this first morning? Oh, Thinkright, Thinkright," she sighed. "How great it is to have come where you are; to have one's skylight always open, and the trap door always closed!"
She ran lightly in among the evergreens, and touched their bright buds here and there.
"That's right, precious things," she said, giving a lingering look up and down the familiar woodland path by the water side.
Then she came through the trees out upon the little dock beside her boathouse, and stood there, looking about with fond eyes at the broad sweep of the Basin waters. The snowy stems of the birches seemed alive as they swayed forward, waving their lustrous banners across the tide. She nodded in all directions, and kissed her hands to the encircling woods. "I'm exactly as glad to see _you_," she said; "and you shall sit to me for your pictures, all of you. Just as soon as"--
She paused, her lips apart, her eyes wide, for all at once she caught sight of the Tide Mill. Every one of its shutters had turned back. The sunlight was flooding in. She grew pale, sank down upon a rock near by, and gazed. While she was thus absorbed John Dunham came out of the woods and advanced to her. His step creaked the boards of the little dock, and she looked up. Springing to her feet, the color rushed back to her face.
"John, you here? The mill shutters have opened." She looked into his eyes appealingly, while he held both her hands.
"The mill? That's so," he answered. "Gives the old misanthrope a different look, doesn't it?"
"But when--how?" asked Sylvia. "Last night it was closed. I saw it; and the rainbow was inspiring it, and the setting sun was begging it, and I was coaxing it, and--look! When could it have happened? How could it have happened?"
"You expected a miracle, didn't you?" asked Dunham. "I remember you talked about it last summer."
"What are you doing here?" asked the girl, remembering he had her hands, and withdrawing them. "You couldn't have driven over from the village as early as this."
"No. I came up on business, and I'm staying in the neighborhood."
"But there isn't any neighborhood," said Sylvia.
"Is that all you know about this region?" he returned. "I'll show you where I'm staying, some day." John thought of his fragrant couch of hay in the barn. "Isn't it astonishing what a gay old boy that mill has turned into? Look at it sidle around on those posts. It seems to say, 'Come in. The water's fine.' Why don't we accept the invitation? Let's go over there."
"Oh, come. I can't wait. Here's the key to the boat-house."
The hand that gave it to him trembled. It seemed the crown of all that Dunham should be with her the first time she approached the opened shutters.
In a couple of minutes he was pulling the light craft across the Basin.
"Do you think we can possibly get in?" asked Sylvia. "How I have wanted to get inside that mill!"
"Then we shall have to, that's all," replied her companion, his eyes on her absorbed face, above which the breeze was blowing a little mass of auburn curls. "I think if I stood in the boat, and you stood on my shoulders, you might reach a lower window."
"I hope it won't come to that," she answered; "but I am afraid the ladders will have rotted away. We may find people there. Why, we probably shall. I don't know why I haven't come down to earth enough to realize that only the owners could have opened the mill."
Dunham nodded. "They must have entered to open it, too. What man hath done, man can do. You shall get in, else what is the use of _my_ being here? Say you're glad I'm here, Sylvia."
She nodded at him collectedly. "If you get me in, I will," she returned.
They found an upright ladder, weather-beaten but still strong, beside one of the posts. Dunham tied the boat, then began to climb up, Sylvia following, and in a minute more they stood inside the desolate building, where strips of sunlight patched the floor. It was deserted.
"Well?" questioned John, as the girl looked all about.
"I thought it would be like this," she answered. "Can we get up higher? There must be a fine view."
Dunham found a flight of steps in a corner, and climbed it, Sylvia following.
The ramshackle old building had platforms rather than floors, leaving space in the middle for the machinery which ran up through it, and stairs led from one to another of these. These steps looked newer than their surroundings. When the visitors had reached the next to the upper floor, Dunham led Sylvia to a window, and together they exclaimed upon the wide beauty of the great, open bay.
"Whoever owns this old mill owns a palace," said Sylvia. She placed her hand lovingly on the edge of a hoary shutter. "Didn't I tell you it was worth while to open your eyes, dear?"
She glanced at John, who was standing, tall and thoughtful, at the other side of the window, watching her. She smiled with rather unsteady lips. "You would laugh if you knew how much it means to me to be standing in here," she said.
"Not more to you than to me, I am sure," he returned. "I've never forgotten a fanciful thing you said about this mill last summer. You said that Love would open the shutters some day. Listen, Sylvia, do you hear that?"
Across the still water rang the woodland bells that preceded the triumphant flourish of the thrush's song.
"I should like that for my wedding music," said Dunham slowly, after a minute. "Those are the only bells that should chime upon my wedding if I had my wish."
Sylvia's heart beat fast. She thought it cruel of him to look at her like that.
He continued: "There is a spot over there in the woods near a thicket of white birches that I have selected as the spot for the ceremony."
"Very poetical," returned Sylvia. "Such a plan suits this outlook."
"I see there are some more stairs," said Dunham, looking about. "Shall we do the thing thoroughly? Let's go to the top."
He preceded the girl up the steep flight, and turned to give her his hand for the last steps. Sylvia emerged upon a newly-placed floor, and looked about her in a daze.
She glanced back at Dunham, then again her wondering eyes swept the great apartment in which she found herself.
It was a studio, furnished with every convenience for an artist's work, and many luxuries for an artist's idleness.
Again the girl turned pale, as at the moment when first she discovered the Tide Mill this morning.
She sank into a wicker chair by one of the many windows framing their vast views, and continued silent.
Dunham pulled up an ottoman to her feet, and sat upon it.
She dared not believe the signs in his eyes. "You are Uncle Calvin's messenger"--she began, at last.
He shook his head. "No, I've bought this mill myself for a wedding present; but whether for my bride or another man's I don't know yet. The only objection to this plan has been that it appeared to take a good deal for granted, and I want you to know that it doesn't. You said Love would open the shutters, and it has; but I don't know how much you care for me, I only know how much I care for you."
Sylvia's eyes, startled, incredulous, tender, filled slowly from her heart, until again John met that Look, never for one second forgotten.
He reached out his hand, questioning still, and now her longing was satisfied to put hers within it, in its rightful home.
Across the silence rang the Hermit's song; for even the Hermit had a mate.
After a while Sylvia lifted her head from her lover's shoulder.
"I suppose there may be some troubles in the world still, John," she said.
"Possibly," he replied, the hint of a smile on his lips as he looked into the face so close to his.
"We can do without joy many times, John. We can meet everything now without a fear. Do you remember:
'Kiss my lips and softly say, "Joy, sea-swept, may fade to-day; Love alone will stay!'"
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