The Opened Shutters Part 57

"Of course I wouldn't b.u.t.t in on the young ladies' day together,"

returned John. Benny's recital had touched him, but he could not forbear a smile at the youngster's courage of conviction. "I tell you, I'm the aggrieved party in this matter," he added.

"Oh, git out," returned the boy. "b.u.t.t in, nawthin'. You go over there and fix it up with her. Say," hopefully, "I'll sail ye over to-night if ye want to. Plenty o' moon."

"You're awfully good, Benny, but you can take it from me, I shouldn't be welcome."

The boy looked staggered for the first time.

"Has she turned you down?" he asked in a low tone. "That's so, she'd a cried jest the same if she had. Say, has she?"

Dunham made a significant gesture.

"Next time don't you be so sure you know it all, Benny," he replied.

CHAPTER x.x.xI

RECONCILIATION

That afternoon, while Benny had been surrept.i.tiously 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 pa.s.seth 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 sh.o.r.e. "I've been a very stupid pa.s.senger, 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 a.s.surances, 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 a.s.surances 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 cooperation. The judge scowled at the pa.s.sing 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 sh.o.r.e 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 sh.o.r.e. "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!