The Opened Shutters Part 26

"No. I thought one of us would be sufficient. I saw Miss Derwent in Boston recently. She gave me news of you."

"Uncle Calvin," began the girl in a low, uneven voice, "I have said very uncivil things. Why did you deceive me?"

"I had no idea at first that you were my niece. I looked for some one totally different."

Sylvia's heart was beating with unwonted quickness. This was the man who had been willing to pay frugally for her living until she could make one for herself, while too indifferent even to see her; but Thinkright's talks had turned a searchlight upon her own predilections and expectations, with the effect of distracting her attention somewhat from the shortcomings of others. Her present excitement in the discovery of her uncle was mingled with mortification at the remembrance of what her thought had once demanded of him. The boat rocked gently over the blue ripples; the sunshine illumined alike the burnished greens of gra.s.s and foliage and the weather-beaten pallor of the implacable Tide Mill. The shrewd, lined face under the high hat kept piercing eyes on the youthful, drooping countenance opposite.

"Yes, you're totally different from what I expected," he said again.

"You're no more like your mother than I am."

She flashed a suddenly suspicious glance up at the speaker. "I am proud to be like my father," she declared.

The judge shrugged his shoulders, and the girl continued hotly: "I've come to a place where no one has a kind thought or word for him. I love him twice as much as before."

"H'm," grunted Judge Trent. "Even Thinkright draws the line there, does he? Shouldn't wonder. Sam Lacey carried Laura off under his very nose."

"Thinkright doesn't talk about him," returned the girl; "but that speaks volumes."

"I'm not going to, either. I'm glad you loved him, and that you still do; and now let's see what can be done in our situation. Practically you detest me, but theoretically you love me _a la_ Thinkright. Is that about the size of it?"

Sylvia wiped her eyes and gave an April smile.

"Now," went on the judge, "supposing we take the latter clause as our working hypothesis. We're both Trents and chock-full of old Adam. I've never had any use for girls, and you have no use for old clams of uncles who keep their heads in their sh.e.l.ls when they ought to be coming up to the scratch; but, after all, what's the good of hating one another?"

"It's no good," responded Sylvia quickly.

"Well, then, supposing you let me in on the rose-colored cloud proposition, too."

Sylvia's reply was a question. "Did you really come up here on purpose to see me?" she asked.

"I did, indeed. Ought to be back in the office this minute. Dunham--you know Dunham by the way--will have troubles of his own before I can get back."

"How is Mr. Dunham?" asked Sylvia, again splashing the water gently with an oar.

"As well as could be expected of such a fragile flower. He's straining at the leash now to get to Boston to call on Miss Derwent. I expect my arrival at the office will be the signal for a cloud of dust in which he will disappear, heading for the first train. A very fine girl, too.

I 'm glad you met her. If I ever admired girls--except when I'm walking on rosy clouds--I should admire her."

"I knew you did!" exclaimed Sylvia, with a little pinch at the heart.

"You knew it, why?" asked the lawyer blankly.

"I don't know. I felt it."

Judge Trent bit his lip in a certain grim amus.e.m.e.nt. His niece, then, sometimes did him the honor to think about him still, even though she had ceased to kiss his picture.

"I'm a very jealous person," declared Sylvia frankly, looking up at him, "and vain and selfish and lazy. It's as well for you to know it."

"Indeed? So Thinkright has impressed upon you that open confession is good for the soul, eh?"

"Oh--Thinkright!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Sylvia, with a sudden start. "I forgot.

It's all wrong to say those things even about one's self."

Judge Trent nodded. "I've heard that contended. Somebody says that self-condemnation is only self-conceit turned wrong side out."

"Yes." Sylvia nodded. "I suppose from any standpoint it's still talking about yourself; but I didn't mean that. He says we mustn't say such things because it fastens the wrong more tightly to us. Of course if we do wrong we have to own it and repent, but,"--Sylvia heaved a great sigh. "That's only the beginning, the easiest part. It's _doing_ differently and not in the old way that's hard,--_not_ thinking and doing jealous, vain, selfish things." She patted the water again thoughtfully.

"Well, give me a hand up, Sylvia. I'm an old dog, but perhaps upon occasion I can bound into the rosy clouds to stroll with you."

Sylvia shook her head knowingly. "If you do bound up you'll find you have struck something more substantial than clouds; and the rose-color may appear,--yes, it _is_ there," she interrupted herself with sudden conviction. "I've perceived it in flashes, but"--her voice sank, and she shook her head again,--"it doesn't seem rosy all the time."

"Well," returned the lawyer, "there's a certain amount of rea.s.surance in the fact that you won't dare detest either me or Miss Lacey."

At the latter name color flashed over the girl's face, and she stretched out her hand impulsively. "Oh, it's so hard to love Aunt Martha," she cried.

The judge pursed his lips, averted his eyes, and rubbed his chin the wrong way.

"I suppose you do," she continued dejectedly.

"We-ll," he returned, his sharp eyes resting on the pointed firs,--"from the rosy-cloud alt.i.tude, of course, of course."

"Then you don't like her?" cried Sylvia hopefully.

"Of course I do," returned the lawyer hastily. "Most certainly. A very fine woman; a capable woman in every way." As he spoke he scanned the banks uneasily, as though fearing that Martha might have repented of her refusal to come in his place, and had followed him. "She is most worthy of respect and--and"--his voice trailed away into silence. "Give her a hand up, too, Sylvia," he added after a moment, "and we'll all let bygones be bygones together. What do you say?"

"It's easier to have you with me, Uncle Calvin," returned Sylvia navely.

The judge felt the embarra.s.sment of guilt. This was the result of his leaving Martha to bear the heat and burden of Hotel Frisbie alone. Hers had been the hours of tears and anxiety. He had kept on the even tenor of his legal way, troubling himself about nothing, and his negative misdemeanors were less heavily visited upon him. Compared to himself Martha was innocent; and it was the way of the world that such should suffer always with the guilty, and sometimes even in their place. He told himself, however, that his tenure on the situation was too light to be risked. He took ign.o.ble refuge in generalities.

"Don't rely too much on first impressions, Sylvia. Your Aunt Martha has grieved about you. Remember, 'to err is human, to forgive divine.'

Moreover,"--the speaker's lips twitched again,--"what will Thinkright say if you refuse her standing-room on our cloud? Consider well!"

Sylvia smiled through bright drops.

"Now, then, change seats with me," continued the judge, "and I'll row you in."

At the same moment Thinkright, having been absent for hours on some errand, was being greeted on his return by Mrs. Lem, who came out to the doorstep to meet him.

"Guess who's come," she said.

He looked up inquiringly. "Is Miss Derwent back again?"

"No. You'd never guess who it is this season o' the year. It's Judge Trent."

"Where is he?"

"Went down to the basin to find Miss Sylvy."

"Oh, did he?" Thinkright smiled in his interest.