The Opened Shutters Part 39

"In a life-preserver!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Sylvia in smiling contempt. "Yes.

There," meeting Edna's eyes as she floated at ease, "there is the poetry. Here comes the prose tumbling after."

Physical timidity was no part of Sylvia's nature; and now secure in the consciousness of the life-preserver, and that Dunham would take care of her anyway, and incited by the desire to appear courageous in his eyes, it was easy for her to take the leap. John jumped with her.

Despite her brave intention a gasping shriek burst from her as she struck the flood. She was prepared not to be afraid of the depth of the water, but she had forgotten its temperature.

"Oh, it's so cold!" she cried.

"No, this is quite warm," said John. "The wind has blown the surface water in. Wait a bit and you won't mind it."

He was treading water and steadying his companion. "Want the life-preserver off?" he laughed.

"Indeed I'd rather have it than the most gorgeous gown in Boston," she replied breathlessly, her spirits rising as she felt the strength of his arms. "Naught shall part me from it. Tell me what to do and I'll do it."

Edna swam around them with nonchalant, sidelong strokes, while Dunham went through the customary directions to the novice. She had been splashing valiantly for some minutes when Miss Lacey, forsaking her point of lookout, crept gingerly, with fear for her grenadine, to the edge of the rocks.

"Children," she called in a hollow voice, "the people are returning from church."

"Well, what shall we do?" asked John. "Edna and I can stay under for a reasonable length of time, but I should be obliged to drown Miss Sylvia. Does the situation demand it?"

"Benny Merritt is coming," still more acutely. "He's very near!"

"Well, when he sees this pool he'll fly with such hair as he has," said John cheerfully.

"Oh," groaned Miss Martha, "I've so often told him it was wrong to swim on Sunday."

"Keep him," cried Edna; "I want him. We're coming out, anyway."

"Stay _in_," commanded Miss Lacey sepulchrally. "He may pa.s.s by," and she sank on a rock, spread out her Congregational paper, and examined the columns from end to end with absorption.

But Benny had no idea of pa.s.sing by. He had heard the voices from the water and lounged toward Miss Lacey, but that lady declined to look up.

"Miss Sylvy's learnin' to swim, ain't she?" he remarked, when he had stood unnoticed through a s.p.a.ce of silence.

"Oh, good-afternoon, Benny," said Miss Martha severely. "Yes; a friend from home came unexpectedly, and offered to help her, and she and Miss Derwent--and---- Was there a good congregation this afternoon, Benny? I thought best to remain here with my young people."

"Guess so. I heard 'em hollerin' as I come by a little while ago."

"Oh, Benny, you should have been there." Miss Lacey spoke more in sorrow than in anger; she was conscious that the object lesson he was now receiving would undo many of her faithful exhortations.

He directed an elaborate wink at the crown of her abased shade hat.

"Thought I'd ruther go swimmin'," he returned.

Miss Martha turned the leaves of her paper with a loud rustle. The bathers were chattering and pulling themselves out of the water by the steps.

Benny's eyes brightened as Edna's laugh sounded on his ear.

"You did very wrong to come to-day, Benny," she called to him brightly, throwing her cloak about her and coming dripping up the steep steps.

Benny grinned sheepishly. "Come to see if Miss Lacey wanted any clams to-morrer," he drawled.

Edna shook her finger at him. "We don't swim on Sunday. Understand, Benny? We go to church and sing with all the good people--don't we?"

for Benny was changing from one foot to the other, alternately grinning and solemn under Edna's bright gaze.

"Yes,--when you don't miss of it," returned the boy, who had hung around the church steps to-day and peered within until he had satisfied himself that this was one of the missing days. He was a sufficiently docile attendant at the sanctuary whenever it meant staring for an hour at the back of Miss Derwent's head.

"And whenever we miss, it is for some important reason," returned Edna impressively. "This is Mr. Dunham, Benny," for here John and Sylvia came up the steps. "He is a friend of mine from home. This is Benny Merritt, who is going to take us huckleberrying and blueberrying to-morrow."

"Awfully good of you, Benny, I'm sure," said Dunham, throwing down the life-preserver, while Sylvia nodded at the boy and pulled off her oilskin cap.

"Oh, he isn't taking you berrying. You wouldn't care for it, would you?" asked Edna.

"I don't know. I'm like the fellow who was asked if he could play the violin. He said he didn't know, for he had never tried."

Miss Lacey looked from one to another of the bathers, who were now sitting in the sun. She wondered what Mr. Dunham meant by talking about to-morrow. Was he not instantly going to get into his clothes and start on his way to the Tide Mill?

The same question was flitting through Edna's brain. She wondered if her mother would approve her repeating the invitation to John to visit Anemone Cottage under present circ.u.mstances. The young man himself took possession of the situation.

"Your arrival is very opportune, Benny," he said. "I've just been wondering who I could get to sail Mr. Johnson's boat back to the farm."

Edna's eyelids lifted. She wondered if her old friend had determined to invite himself.

"You know where the Tide Mill is, I suppose?" went on Dunham, for Benny looked unillumined.

"It is Thinkright's boat he wishes to have sailed back," said Edna.

"Oh, yes," answered Benny. "I know."

"I'm going to investigate your island a little farther, Edna," said John. "I've found that there's a hostelry here. I can't bear to tear myself away in ten minutes."

"To linger on Hawk Island is to be lost," returned Edna. "To change the song slightly,--

'To see it is to love it, And love but it forever; For Nature made it what it is, And ne'er made sic anither.'"

"Then here goes to lose myself," returned Dunham, "for you can't lose me. Benny, how are you going to get my boat home?"

"Don't know," drawled Benny; "couldn't swim back agin."

"Well, you could take it over to-morrow and get back somehow, couldn't you?"

"Miss Edna, she wants to go berryin' to-morrer."

"So do I, then," remarked Dunham.

"You shall," laughed Edna. "We'll send another boy."

"It's a worse problem than the fox and the goose and the corn," said John. "As Benny says, he can't swim back. I foresee a tragic future for Thinkright's boat, plying restlessly between Hawk Island and the Tide Mill, driven by the inexorable fate that hounded the Wandering Jew."