THE MILL FARM
Sylvia's sleep that night in Portland was profound. A sense of peace
and safety had grown upon her from the time she took the train out of
Boston with her new companion; and the next morning she awoke
refreshed, in a chamber filled with sunlight.
She dressed and went down to the dining-room of the boarding-house
where they were staying, and found her cousin standing by the window
looking out on the fresh green of tall elms that shaded the quiet
street.
"Well, well," he said, turning to meet her bright eyes. "Spring
outside, and spring inside. You've had a good sleep, little one."
He held out both his hands, and Sylvia put hers into them.
"Dear me, I'm afraid it's noon," for now she noticed that breakfast had
been served.
"No, we have time still to make the train I told Cap'n Lem to meet, and
eat a little something into the bargain."
The speaker moved to the table and rang a bell.
"Oh, you've waited too long for your breakfast," said Sylvia.
"No, indeed! Been watching the orioles that are bringing up a family
out in that tree. Busy times, I tell you. Makes me think of the day
Calvin and I wanted to rob an oriole's nest,--hang-birds, we called
them,--and a little girl with short curls and a sunbonnet wouldn't let
us do it; a girl who'd stand only a little higher than your elbow."
"Mother?" asked Sylvia softly.
Jacob Johnson nodded, and they sat down to breakfast.
An hour later they were speeding along in the train nearing the town
which was their destination.
"I never have been on a farm, Cousin Jacob," said Sylvia.
"'Tisn't much of a farm we have here," he replied. "Just enough to
raise a living for ourselves and the stock in the winter. The chief
business is fruit and vegetables for the summer folks. Cal--the owner
of the place likes this part of the world for what time he can get off
in summer, so he bought this little farm and hired me to run it. That
was ten years ago. I wasn't enjoying the business I was at in those
days, but I was just learning to think right about things then, and I
knew I'd be shown something else if it was best, and so I was."
"What made you know it?" asked Sylvia.
Her companion smiled without looking at her. "How do you know the sun
is shining this morning and the apple-trees are in blossom?"
"Why, I can see that."
"I saw, too, Sylvia. It's a great thing when you begin to see."
The girl observed her companion's half-averted face curiously. "Who
lives with you at the farm?" she asked.
"My two helpers. Good Cap'n Lem Foster and his daughter-in-law, young
Lem's widow. She's an excellent cook. Can you cook, little one?"
"I?" the girl laughed. "I can make Welsh rarebit."
Her companion patted her hand. "Sam Lacey brought you up, didn't he?"
he remarked.
"You see we always boarded," went on Sylvia, "because father--well, it
was better; he was contented if he could play cards and go to a show
sometimes; and when he had had too much he always kept away from me--he
was so good about that."
"Too much?" echoed her companion questioningly.
"Yes, of course he'd go out with the boys some nights, but they always
kept him away from me until he was all right again."
The matter-of-fact tone gave the listener a pang. His big hand closed
over the one he had been caressing. "You're in a prohibition state
now," he remarked.
"Yes, I remember. I've heard father speak of it. I was just thinking of
a verse he used to say:--
"'Johnny and Jane,
Maiden and swain,
Never had tasted a drop of champagne;
Reason is plain,
They lived in Maine,
Where all the folks are obliged to drink rain.'"
"H'm. I wish they were," commented the other, regarding the
black-clothed figure beside him. A thin veil was pinned to her hat in
such a way as to cover the shortness of the soft curls. Her figure was
erect, her coloring exquisite, her eyes innocent. She seemed to him
like a jewel which had been set in base metal, carelessly guarded, and
was now in danger of sinking into the mud of the highway. Laura's
little girl!
He patted her hand again.
"Here we are," he said, as the train slackened and stood still. He took
his own limp bag and Sylvia's plump, rubbed old one, and they moved
down the aisle and out upon the platform.
"There's Lem." Jacob Johnson moved across the platform, and Sylvia
followed him to where stood a two-seated wagon with a pair of strong
horses. The driver leaned one arm on his leg as he looked passively at
Sylvia. He wore a sweater and a felt hat, and had on blue overalls the
color of his eyes. He was older than his employer, and a fringe of
white whiskers surrounded his red, weather-beaten face.
"Howdy, Thinkright," he said, nodding as the couple approached.
"How are you, Cap'n Lem? This is my little cousin, Miss Lacey."
"Glad to see ye, Miss Lacey. Ye've got hahnsome weather," observed the
old man. "Mawdrate, too, to what it has ben. Apple-trees hev all bust
out."
"Yes, you must have had a fresh trip in this morning," responded
Thinkright, as he saw to having Sylvia's trunk and the bags put on the
wagon. At last he climbed in beside his guest. A slap of the reins set
the heavy horses trotting deliberately.
Cap'n Lem sat halfway around in his seat in order to converse on farm
matters, and Sylvia enjoyed the spring beauty about her as they drove
out of the little town and took the country road.
"How's the jedge?" asked the captain at last.
"He's well. Told me to tell you he'd be after you for lobsters before
long."
The old man gave a toothless smile. "Miss Lacey smaht?" he inquired.
"I suppose so. I didn't see her this time."
Sylvia's eyes began to look startled and questioning. Old Lem met her
gaze. "Ye've got the same name," he remarked curiously, as the fact
occurred to him, "same as Miss Marthy. Miss Marthy ain't no kin to you,
is she, Thinkright?"
"No, except through this child. This little girl is a link."
"The missin' link, eh?" returned Cap'n Lem. "Well, all I kin say is she
don't look it," and his shoulders twitched with delight. "The missin'
link," he repeated from time to time, the utterance being always
followed by a fresh convulsion of mirth as his sea-blue eyes roved to
the visitor's grave face.
"Do they come here, Cousin Jacob?" asked Sylvia uneasily, under cover
of the rattle of the wagon, "Uncle Calvin and Aunt Martha?"
"Yes, sometimes."
"Will they be likely to, soon?" asked the girl, her face hardening.
Her cousin shook his head, and she saw compassion in his shining gaze.
"Don't fret about that," he said quietly. "Hot weather in the towns is
a long way off yet."
"What'd the jedge say in the matter o' the new shed?" asked Lem, when
he had somewhat recovered from the enjoyment of his joke.
"He said he thought we'd better have the old one shingled."
"Turrible short-sighted, that's what I say," grumbled the old man; "but
he ain't ever fer branchin' out, the jedge ain't. Why didn't ye talk
him over to it, Thinkright?"
"I didn't feel strongly about it. He'd do it if I urged him; but it's
just as you say, he doesn't want to branch out. The place serves his
purpose as it is, and while he owns it he'll keep it just as compact as
it is now."
"What judge are you talking about?" asked Sylvia.
"Jedge Trent, of course," replied Cap'n Lem. "There hain't never ben a
time when he wa'n't as sot as the everlastin' hills."
"Judge Trent is this child's uncle," said Jacob Johnson.
"No offense, no offense," remarked Cap'n Lem equably. "Seems if she's
related to a lot o' folks," he added, and at this moment a team of
colts came prancing around a curve in the road, trying their best with
every nervous spring to escape their driver's control. Cap'n Lem's
heavy horses shrank and shied, then as the others clattered by they
resumed their steady gait. The old man turned and saw the white, fixed
look in Sylvia's face.
"They wouldn't do nawthin'," he declared consolingly. "They're both
powerful mawdrate hosses. Besides,"--the speaker stole a half-mischievous,
half-shy look at her companion,--"Thinkright'll tell ye it's one o' the
seven deadly sins to be skeered of anythin' that's in heaven above, or
the earth beneath, or the sea that in them is."
The curving road was leading up a hill. The gray horses soon began to
draw their burden at a walk, and when they reached the summit they
stopped, for it was a time-honored observance for them to catch their
breath at this point, as it was for the passengers, if strangers, to
hold theirs.
The grandeur hitherto concealed by earth and forest suddenly broke into
view. A limitless expanse of sea lay revealed, pierced by points of
fir-crowned land that drove rock ledges into the liquid blue. Sylvia
gazed fascinated at the snowy froth tossing itself against every gray
point. Islands of varied shapes rose here and there, some tree-covered,
some bare mounds of green, studding the rolling sapphire distances, and
the girl's breast rose involuntarily to meet the untold miles of
sparkling motion and the free, fresh, sunlit air. Her hands clasped
together, and Jacob Johnson watched her white face with its wide eyes
and mute lips.
The exceptional beauty of the May day caused even Cap'n Lem to expend
silent approval on the familiar scene. He waited for a longer period
than usual before he clucked to the horses, and they began a cautious
descent of the winding road, their heavy hind-quarters braced almost
against the wagon in their experience of sundry rolling stones.
"Hahnsome weather, surely," he remarked.
"I've never, never dreamed of anything like it," ejaculated Sylvia, and
relapsed into dumbness.
Her host smiled, well pleased.
As the road descended to a level it approached the water of a small bay
whose sheltered reaches watered a luxuriant evergreen growth among
which appeared an occasional birch. These adorned the sloping bank,
interspersed with rock, and turned the blue depths to green as they
leaned toward the water as if in the effort to catch their own lovely
reflections.
"We'll get out here and walk up to the house, Cap'n," said Thinkright.
"Tell Mrs. Lem we'll be there by supper time. We had our luncheon on
the road."
Sylvia took the hand her host offered in silence, and jumped out of the
wagon. Cap'n Lem clucked to the horses again, and they rattled away.
"Why does he call you Thinkright?" the girl asked abruptly, as her
companion paused on a clearing in the grassy bank to let her view the
picture before them.
Jacob Johnson smiled. "They rather like nicknames in this part of the
world," he answered. "I didn't realize how much I used the expression
until all the neighbors began to label me. I knew I was always trying
to be on the mental watch, and what is much in the mind will out, I
suppose. How do you like this basin? We think it very pretty."
Apparently it was an inland lake that lay at their feet, sparkling and
rippling in the triumphant fullness of the tide. At the point where the
curving shore ran out to sea stood a large deserted tide mill on posts,
midway in the water. Its shuttered windows looked like eyes closed
against the surrounding beauty, and seemed protesting against the
witnesses of its failure. Twice every day, like a tumultuous rushing
river the tide poured water into the spacious basin, until its ripples
clambered ten feet toward the eagerly bending trees, and later the
capricious flood rushed back to the bosom of the sea. There had been
enormous power at work under the old mill. What was lacking that it had
fallen into disuse and closed its eyes upon an unappreciative world?
"It's a picturesque place, eh, Sylvia?" Thinkright repeated his
question as she gazed and kept silence.
"Yes," she replied, "but the view above was--there aren't words."
"True;" her companion nodded. "You see a farm wouldn't do well at such
a height, so we have to come down to shorter views and shorter
distances; but it's a great thing to know that all the grandeur is
there. We've seen it, and we know we've seen it, and we can't forget
it; it's an inspiration to us. It takes a lot of wisdom to sail out on
that ocean you saw up there, to avoid the ledges and to manage wisely
in the winds; but to sail or row about on this basin is within the
power of most landlubbers. Nature's always reading us life lessons,
Sylvia, always."
"I'm not one of the afraid kind," returned the girl, with a toss of her
head. "I only wish I had a chance to go out on that ocean."
"Yes, I know. On the stage, for instance," returned her companion. "The
ledges and the squalls have no terrors for you."
"I hope I have some brains and some common sense," she answered.
Thinkright laid a kind hand on her shoulder. "It's perfectly true that
neither ledge nor wind could harm you if you knew why. Daniel was safe
in the lions' den, but it was because he knew why."
At the touch of his hand the girl shrunk away, and he instantly dropped
it. Her blue eyes met his now, dark and cold. "I have found that you
don't always think right," she said. "Why did you deceive me?"
Her companion looked at his watch.
"We'd better be walking along," he remarked, and they entered a
well-worn path just wide enough for two that led through the woods, but
kept close to the small salt lake, whose shining blue shimmered between
the branches.
"I haven't deceived you, little one," he answered.
"You knew that nothing would have induced me to be a guest at Judge
Trent's farm," declared the girl hotly.
"What's the difference?" asked her companion mildly. "You were eating
his bread in Boston."
Sylvia's cheeks flushed. "I--I"--she hesitated, "I wasn't going to do
it long."
"You shan't do it here a day longer than you wish to," returned
Thinkright. "Now, child, suppose a case. Suppose your Uncle Calvin and
your Aunt Martha had shown you perfect love instead of indifference,
how would you have felt toward them?"
"Loved them, of course, and been thankful." Sylvia's angry eyes grew
moist.
"That would have been a happier state of mind than what you have now,
wouldn't it?"
"Of course." All the girl's sore spots were aching. "Why do you ask
such a question?"
"Just to remind you of the fact. Now why should you let them make you
lose the joy of being loving and thankful?"
"Why--how unreasonable! I can't help it, of course."
"Yes, you can. It's wonderful, Sylvia, but yes, you can. Think of being
able to get out of the heat and turmoil of resentment and anger into
the kingdom of heaven! You know where Jesus said it was?"
"No, I don't."
"Within you. The kingdom of heaven is within you."
"I guess not," returned Sylvia, with heaving breast. "Father always
said there was plenty of old Adam in me, and I know it isn't human
nature to be loving toward people that have treated me as they did."
"No, indeed it isn't. Your only chance is in finding out that you have
a higher nature inherited from our Father in heaven, who the Bible
declares is Love. When you allow that nature to have sway you will, as
somebody has beautifully put it, 'think God's thoughts after him.' You
will think mercifully and lovingly of your uncle and aunt, and forgive
them as you would be forgiven. That way lies happiness."
The girl raised her blue eyes to his curiously. "So you consider it
thinking right to live in a sort of a fools' paradise?"
Her companion smiled at her and his eyes shone. "I leave it to you if
it isn't better than yours," he returned. "You believe in God, don't
you, Sylvia?"
She cast down her glance. "I've thought lately sometimes that I'd like
to; but he's so far away, on the outest edge of the universe."
"Why, what's the name of the place he lives in?"
"Heaven, I suppose."
"Well, where did I just remind you is the kingdom of heaven?"
Sylvia shrugged her shoulders. Thinkright's voice had again that tone
that tapped at her heart as at a closed door, and instinctively she
resisted it.
"Within you, little child," went on her companion, after a waiting
pause. "God far away? 'Nearer than hands and feet,' Sylvia, 'nearer
than hands and feet.'"
"I don't understand anything of what you're saying," returned the girl
abruptly.
"Well, isn't this a pretty path?" asked Thinkright, looking about them.
"It seems only yesterday that all these evergreens were loaded with
snow." As he spoke, a song-sparrow near by poured out a flood of
melody.
"Ah!" exclaimed the girl, her eyes glistening.
"Oh, if you like birds you are going to enjoy the Mill Farm. We have a
very respectable choir in these woods. Now we could keep on in this
path past the mill, 'way out to the end of the peninsula, but we don't
this time; instead we turn right here and then"--the speaker waved his
hand up a gentle incline, at the head of which stood an oblong white
house with green blinds; "that's the Mill Farm."
"Judge Trent's farm." Sylvia's eyes met those of her host. "Why did you
deceive me?" she repeated, gazing at him while they stood still in the
soft grass.
Thinkright brought the knuckles of one of his hands into the hard palm
of the other. "I asked you to come to the farm, didn't I? You were not
thinking kindly of Judge Trent then; you were wasting your time
thinking wrong about his wrong doings. If I'd said come and be your
uncle's guest at the Mill Farm instead of at the Young Woman's
Christian Association, you'd have questioned and doubted some time
probably, and we might not have caught that evening train to Portland,
and it was best for me to get home."
Sylvia bit her lip.
"Now there isn't one thing to do but think right," went on her host
kindly, "and you'll be happy as a girl should be. You believe there's
satisfaction in slapping back, and it galls you because you can't. It's
the greatest mistake you can imagine. The satisfaction of slapping back
only leads on to greater complications and final disaster in a logical
sequence. Now, I'm not penniless, my little cousin. Just at present
you're my guest."
"Oh, am I really, Cousin Thinkright?" cried the girl eagerly.
"Surely you are."
"Then I can begin to have a good time right off," she exclaimed, her
white cheeks flushing as she took his arm in her relief.
He smiled as they walked slowly up the incline. "Always have a good
time," he said. "The daughter of a great King should hide her head in
shame if she admits any other thought."