The Opened Shutters Part 47

"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 pa.s.senger. This is our first tete-a-tete, remember."

"No, our second. I do remember," replied Sylvia.

In those forlorn days at the a.s.sociation 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 b.u.t.terfly is in the air?"

"Oh, it's good for the b.u.t.terfly;--keeps her grateful. However, I'm not a b.u.t.terfly. 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 b.u.t.terfly."

"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 b.u.t.terfly'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 navete 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 circ.u.mstances 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 att.i.tude 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.

CHAPTER XXVI

REVELATION

Dunham was not asleep. His half-amused, half-piqued thoughts rambled on. This niece of Judge Trent's was certainly an odd girl, with her preoccupations, her mysterious sacks of treasures, and her bottle of blackish fluid, her moods, her laughter, and her tears.

The fastidious Edna had been annoyed by last night's scene in the kitchen. Well, it was a strange scene. John recalled it now. He remembered quite well every word uttered by the rosy witch over her bubbling miniature caldron. She was concocting a philtre to make a girl happy,--herself. She had confided to the warm-hearted Irishwoman that she was in love, and condemned her stupidity that it had not been love at first sight; but since it had not been, the flame was likely to burn the longer. Didn't Jenny think so? And Jenny most rea.s.suringly had thought so.

What sort of talks and beliefs had the girl been accustomed to in companionship with her ne'er-do-well father? Whatever her experiences, her atmosphere was one of strength and innocence. As this thought came to him with conviction, an involuntary desire to look at the subject of it caused his eyes suddenly to unclose.

The effect was electrical. Sylvia, from studying the features and hair, the outlines of throat and chest and shoulders of her vis-a-vis, had unconsciously forgotten the model in the man, had forgotten Edna Derwent. The ideal, never long absent from her thought since that morning at Hotel Frisbie, was now filling her material vision in utter unconsciousness of her scrutiny. She leaned slightly toward him in her absorption, and a woman's heart was in her eyes and tenderly curved lips when John's gaze suddenly encountered hers.

The social diplomacy which from boyhood it had been his second nature to practice stood him in good stead now.

In that instant he saw Sylvia's start and withdrawal, he felt his own color mount to match hers, but he continued absolutely motionless except for letting his eyelids fall again.

"Do forgive me," he said after a moment, in nasal and languid apology.

"I hadn't an idea I should fall asleep. I'll wake up in a minute. I'm worse than a kid taken out in its baby carriage when I strike this air.

Might as well chloroform me."

Sylvia was leaning against the mast, trying to swallow the heart that had leaped to her throat.

"Don't try to wake up," she replied after a time. She caught at his words as consolation, yet that look had been so deliberate, so wide.

Could it be--

"My father taught me to sketch a little when I was a child," she went on, her breath still getting between her words most inconveniently. "I was wishing I had a pencil just then. You were being such a--such a docile model."

"Truly?" asked Dunham, lazily opening his eyes again. "Tell me honestly, as man to man. I prefer to know the worst. I'm sure I was all tumbled together like Grandpa Smallweed, and I've an awful suspicion that my mouth was open."