EDNA DERWENT
The supper was good, and for many weeks Sylvia had not eaten so
hungrily. Minty's eyes continued to devour her as the guest devoured
the biscuit and honey; and it required an occasional warning, "Eat your
supper, Minty," from Mrs. Lem, to deliver Sylvia periodically from the
round, expressionless stare.
"What delicious milk!" said the girl, as she set down her empty glass;
"and this cream would make city people open their eyes."
"It don't seem to me it's quite as rich as common," returned Mrs. Lem.
"We often have it so thick it has to be dilated with water."
Sylvia met Thinkright's eyes and laughed. "That is a frequent necessity
in the city," she said. "I wish it weren't."
"Oh, yes," Mrs. Lem raised her eyebrows, "I know it. Of course it takes
such legions o' milk to supply the cities you can't trust 'em around a
pump. Have some more o' the lobsters, Miss Lacey."
"Oh, no, thank you."
"Then," said Thinkright, "perhaps you'd like to go and help Minty bring
home her Daisy."
"Who is Daisy?" asked Sylvia of the solemnly staring child, who had
been mute throughout the meal.
"My cow," drawled Minty.
"I'm mortally afraid of cows," declared Sylvia.
"Daisy ain't ugly," returned Minty.
"Then if you'll promise to take care of me"--
"I will," declared the child, her cheeks flushing with the pleasure
that her drawl could not convey.
"She usually gits the cow afore supper," explained Mrs. Lem, "but
to-day she couldn't very well." She looked complacently at her child's
toilet. "You needn't mind the dishes, Minty."
At the permission the child fled from the room and clattered up the
back stairs. The others rose from the table, and Mrs. Lem assumed a
large apron and began gathering up the dishes.
"You may help if you like, Sylvia," said Thinkright. "We want you to
feel at home."
The girl hesitated. She disliked wrecks of meals, and the way for her
to feel at home was to do nothing at all. She began awkwardly to take
up the silver.
"No, no, don't do it, Miss Lacey." Mrs. Lem perceived at once the
unaccustomed touch, and her New York hypothesis was strengthened. "You
hain't any apern, and I do think," with an airy laugh, "you might git
unpacked afore they set you to work."
"Oh, yes, let her help till Minty comes," said Thinkright, with the
manner of conferring a favor upon the guest, who echoed a faint
agreement and went on gathering up the knives and forks, while her host
left the house. Her ordeal did not last long, for Minty, still flushed
of cheeks from the excitement of the occasion, soon reappeared, the
splendors of her recent costume as completely vanished as were
Cinderella's at the stroke of twelve.
Her dark calico clung around her slim little body, and the white string
that tied her braid was in evidence.
"Put on your sweater, Minty, and run up and git Miss Lacey's jacket for
her. It's real fresh," said her mother.
The sun had ceased casting sparkles across the sea when they went out
of doors, and the shadows were lengthening. The loveliness of the
increasing rose-light in the west caused Sylvia to forget all annoying
doubts as to where to pour the water from the half-empty glasses, and
all objections to the remains of lobster.
"What a pretty place you live in, Minty!" she exclaimed, as they walked
back of the house through an orchard of small apple trees, gnarly and
stunted enough from their struggle with the elements through the
winter, but with all bumps and twists veiled now in rose-tinted clouds
of white bloom.
"Yes, 'tis. I like it a whole lot better'n Hawk Island."
"Where is that?"
"Oh, off there." Minty pointed a vague finger behind them seaward. "We
lived there when father went fishin' afore he was drownded. I was real
small, and I didn't have no cow. Daisy was born the year we come here,
and Thinkright gave her to me."
"Oh, she's a pet, then; so I needn't be afraid of her."
"No-o, she wouldn't hook nobody! Beside, didn't you know if you're
skeered o' things they're likely to happen?"
"Oh, are they? Well, luckily I'm not scared of many things."
"Where do you live?" asked Minty, renewing her grave stare at the
admired guest.
"I,"--Sylvia's mind flew back over a panorama of abiding places. "A--I
think I shall have to say nowhere," she replied after a pause. "I'm a
tramp, Minty."
The child regarded her, unsatisfied and skeptical. "Why, where's yer
mother and father?" she drawled.
"I,"--again the mutability and doubtfulness of all things were brought
home to Sylvia. "I don't know," she replied. "They are dead."
"There ain't any such thing," returned Minty. "When folks seem to be
dead they're goin' on livin' jest the same. Thinkright says so."
"Does my cousin Thinkright know everything?" inquired Sylvia smiling.
"Of course he does." There was a brief pause, and then the catechism
continued.
"How old be you?"
"Guess?"
"I don't know. You've got on long dresses and yer tall, but yer hair's
shorter'n mine."
"Yes, I've been very ill and my hair all came out. It used to be
straight as yours. I went to bed with my long hair braided smoothly,
and got up with these new little kinks."
"I wish I knew where I could ketch that kind o' sickness," returned
Minty, regarding the bright auburn rings enviously, "but don't tell
Thinkright I said so," she added, with an afterthought. "He thinks
bein' sick's as wrong as lyin'."
"My cousin Thinkright has some very odd ideas," returned Sylvia.
"There's Daisy a-mooin'," exclaimed Minty, her face lighting. "She
hears us talkin'."
"Well, don't forget to tell her how charming I am, will you? It gives
me the shivers to think I'm walking straight up to a pair of horns and
not a fence in sight."
"She won't do nawthin';" the child smiled at the comical grimace her
companion made, and a turn in the path revealed a white cow at the end
of her tether looking eagerly toward them. A clump of evergreens rose
beyond her.
"I think I'll climb one of those trees," said Sylvia. "She looks too
glad to see me."
Minty laughed aloud, and running to the white cow threw her arms around
her neck.
"Now then, introduce us," said Sylvia. "This is Miss Daisy Foster, I
believe. So happy not to meet you, my dear! Please don't look as if you
were going to rush into my arms the minute Minty lets go."
Minty laughed delightedly.
"I guess you'd better git back of her, Miss Lacey. When I untie her she
might fall foul of yer and never mean to, she's so anxious for the
barn."
Sylvia skipped toward the pines with alacrity. The sea wind and the
situation had brought color into her cheeks.
"Why, the cow is anchored!" she exclaimed; for she perceived an ancient
anchor at her feet to which that end of the rope was fastened.
"Yes. Daisy can't drag _her_ anchor," returned Minty, her fingers busy
with the knot at the cow's neck, "though she'd like to lots o' times.
There now, Bossy, don't act so drove. I know it's later'n common, but I
had a good reason, and 'tain't thinkin' right to be impatient." With
the last word the rope fell free, and as the cow gave a bound Minty
clung to its horns, and was carried forward, her feet scarcely touching
the grass. Sylvia's heart leaped to her throat for a moment, but
Minty's delighted laugh came back to her, and the guest laughed, too,
at the child's antics.
Minty, glowing with superiority, could not resist this prime
opportunity to make an impression, so went on with the romp as familiar
to her as a more sedate method of locomotion, and finally the cow's
gyrations carried her out of sight, leaving Sylvia alone and happy
under the pine trees.
"Isn't it the strangest thing in the world that I should be here?" she
thought, looking about. A memory returned to her of the cheap
boarding-house in Springfield where her father breathed his last; of
the worries that followed his decease; of her hurried journey; of the
shock dealt her in Boston; of the stranger-cousin descending, as it
were, out of the clouds to bear her up from the lowlands of
mortification and hurt, to where the sea winds chased dull care away.
The future troubled Sylvia very little. The thorn in the present was
that Judge Trent owned this soft, grassy knoll on which she stood,
owned that straight, symmetrical balsam fir yonder whose bright green
tips full of the new life of spring were breathing balm on the air;
owned the gambrel roof under which was her inviting chamber. Did he
know she was here? She could not remember what her cousin had said
about that. Mr. Dunham had sent for Thinkright. Yes, now she
remembered: Judge Trent had told him to send, doubtless to ease his
conscience; to get her out of sight, and yet to know that his sister's
child was safe.
Well, his sister's child would show him---- At the revengeful impulse
Thinkright's face suddenly rose before her with the words he had used
about slapping back.
"The evening is perfect," exclaimed Sylvia aloud. The rose-light had
begun to crimson the water. It drew her. She ran down the slope to the
belt of birch and evergreen which surrounded the basin. Rays from the
sinking sun were kissing the sightless upper windows of the Tide Mill
until the weather-beaten shutters grew pink.
Sylvia entered the fragrant path she had traversed with her host that
afternoon, and followed it toward the point of land beyond the mill.
Suddenly a voice clear, bright, yet low-pitched fell on her ears, and
almost simultaneously she caught a glimpse of the speaker between the
trees.
The girl stood on the brink of the water, talking to some one in a
small boat whose sail was flapping. Sylvia could not proceed without
coming into sight, so she waited in order not to disturb the adieux.
The boat had evidently just landed this passenger, who carried a bag
and was dressed in a dark tailor suit.
The skipper, a sun-burned young fellow, was showing a row of strong
white teeth at some sally from the lady when Sylvia's eyes fell upon
him.
"I wish ye'd let me carry the bag up fer ye," he said.
"No, I'm going to punish myself for not being ready in time for you to
sail into the Basin. I ought to know by this time that it's no use
arguing with the tide."
"Always seems more sot here than anywhars," agreed the boy.
"Besides, I want you to have time to telephone for that carriage. Don't
let them make any mistake. I must catch the one o'clock train."
"Yes. When are ye comin' fer good, Miss Edna?"
"Oh, in just a few weeks. June, some time. It'll be pulling me, pulling
me, from now on, Benny."
She smiled, and Sylvia could see her face. Black hair that shone with a
fine silken lustre grew thickly about a white forehead. Brows that lay
like smooth touches of satin swept in two fine lines above gay, kind
brown eyes. Her smile merited the adjective "sweet" more than any
Sylvia had ever seen; but the boatman's next words startled the
listener.
"Miss Lacey comin', too, I s'pose?"
"Of course. What a question to ask a lone, lorn girl?"
"She didn't stop long last season."
"No; for I was in Switzerland. Why should she? But I can't spare her
now, and she's written me that she'll come just as usual, so Anemone
Cottage will be itself again."
"Well"--the boy hesitated for words to express his pleasure--"we can
stand it if you can," he finished.
"All right, Benny," she laughed. "Get to Gull Point as quick as you
can. I've just one idea now, and that's the telephone. Good-by." She
waved her hand as he set the sail and took his oars to pull into the
wind.
Sylvia saw him nod and smile back. Then that happened on which she had
counted. The stranger came up into the path, and without seeing the
watcher, walked swiftly away.
Sylvia had seen no home in the vicinity beside the farmhouse, and the
familiar mention of Miss Lacey made it doubly certain that this
low-voiced stranger, this girl whose broad _a_'s and lack of _r_'s
sounded oddly upon Sylvia's Western ears, was going fast as her trim
feet could carry her to Thinkright's home. A strange feeling beset
Sylvia. The newcomer's perfect costume, the assurance and refinement of
her manner, even the unconscious adoration in Benny's sea-blue eyes,
all pointed to a superiority which made Sylvia vaguely resentful of
her.
What Miss Lacey had she been talking about? Aunt Martha, of course.
Hadn't Cap'n Lem spoken of her also? What was she to this girl,--this
raven-haired, charming girl who was nobody's despised niece?
Sylvia's heart beat hotly, and she began to run. Why was she wasting
time when she wished to see what sort of reception would be accorded
this stranger? Possibly, even, she was a favorite with Judge Trent. The
thought gave Sylvia a forlorn pang, but she hurried on. Soon she again
caught sight of the newcomer, who was passing out of the woods and
starting up the incline that led to the house. Sylvia at once began to
move slowly, her feet noiseless on the grass.
Cap'n Lem and Thinkright now came in view, returning from the barn, and
Sylvia's eyes grew large as she heard the stranger's gay cry and the
men's response.
They hastened down the hill to meet her. Cap'n Lem took her bag while
she laughingly received their surprised welcome, and she threw her arms
around Thinkright's neck and kissed him. Neither of the three observed
Sylvia, who followed at a distance until they went inside and the house
door closed upon them.
Pausing, to wonder and speculate, the chill of the evening made the
girl shiver. The door had shut her out. She felt lonely and forlorn.