CAPITULATION
When Sylvia finally drew near the kitchen she heard talking and
laughing within. Turning the handle and opening the door, a happy
domestic scene was revealed, of which the strange girl was the centre.
Her hat and jacket were lying on a calico-covered couch, a large apron
enveloped her cloth gown, and she was wiping the dishes as Mrs. Lem
washed them at the sink. Minty was running back and forth putting them
away. Thinkright and Cap'n Lem were seated near the stove, and as the
door opened a burst of laughter escaped from them at some remark of the
visitor.
At sight of Sylvia's white face her cousin arose.
"I was just beginning to wonder where you were, little girl," he said
kindly. "I want you to know Miss Edna Derwent. This is my cousin,
Sylvia Lacey, Edna."
The latter came forward, holding in one hand a plate and towel, while
she offered the other to Sylvia's cold acceptance.
"I'm fond of the name of Lacey," said the visitor, smiling into the
other girl's grave eyes with the same gay, sweet expression that a few
minutes ago had rested on Benny the boatman. Thinkright noted the quick
hardening of Sylvia's face.
"Your Miss Lacey is aunt to this one, Edna," he said, "but Sylvia
doesn't know Miss Martha yet. She has lived in the West all her life."
Mrs. Lem's sharp ears absorbed this information.
"Your aunt keeps house for Miss Derwent in the summer time at her
cottage on Hawk Island," he went on, turning to Sylvia.
"I have a mother who unfortunately doesn't like the island, Miss
Lacey," explained Edna, returning to the sink. "Take this plate, Minty,
please."
"Guess you want another wiper, too, don't yer?" asked the child.
"I'll take as many as you'll give me," responded Miss Derwent. "I'd
like a fresh wiper every two plates; but don't you encourage me, Minty,
or I shan't be popular with your mother. Fill up the kettle, too,
there's a dear. I'm a reckless scalder. Why, the stove lid's under that
kettle. I wondered why it wasn't hotter."
"Wait till I find the hooker," cried Minty, diving down under the stove
in search of the iron.
"Minty Foster, how many times have I told you never to take that hooker
off the string?" said her mother reprovingly.
"I jest wanted it to crack nuts with," explained Minty, as she fished
the lifter out triumphantly.
"Well, don't you never untie it again!" responded her mother severely.
"Yes, you'll crack it some day," remarked Edna, "and then what would
you do, miles from a hooker as you are? I was telling you, Miss Lacey,
that I have a mother with only one foible,--she doesn't like our
island. You will see what heresy it is when you come over there. So
Miss Martha has taken pity on me the last few summers, and I think she
loves it as much as I do."
Sylvia's embarrassment was painful, as the speaker paused, looking at
her in the natural expectation of a response.
"I don't know her," was all the reply her lips could utter.
"Then perhaps you will meet her first at my house," returned Edna
brightly. "That would be very pleasant for me, I'm sure. I should enjoy
the novelty of making near relatives acquainted."
"I shan't be here when she comes," responded Sylvia quickly.
"Indeed? Why, I'm sorry. I supposed you were to be a summer guest. You
know Judge Trent, of course."
Sylvia's hot blush under the innocent question caused her cousin to
come to the rescue again.
"No, even though he is her uncle," he said. "Strange state of things,
isn't it?"
"Her uncle, and Miss Lacey her aunt?" returned Miss Derwent. "I never
knew they were related."
"They aren't. It's the two sides of the house, you see."
"Miss Sylvy's the missin' link," put in Cap'n Lem, softly slapping his
knee and shaking his head while his eyes closed tightly. "Don't look
it, does she?"
"Now, Cap'n, don't git another spell o' the shallers," put in Mrs. Lem
as the old man's chuckles threatened a crescendo.
"But you see I got ahead of the other relations," went on Thinkright.
"I am her mother's cousin, and I put in my claim first."
"Oh, you'll like Judge Trent so much," said Edna, looking at the grave
face in its aureole of curls. "He is a dear, but nobody dares to tell
him so. By the way, Thinkright," the quaint name fell charmingly from
the girl's lips as she turned to him, "I hear that a man I used to
know, a Mr. Dunham, has gone into Judge Trent's office."
"So you know Dunham, do you?" returned her host.
"Yes, for a long time we saw a great deal of each other. Then Harvard
for him and Vassar for me drifted us apart, but we have a lot of mutual
friends, and while I was in New York the past winter a girl wrote me
mournfully of his departure from Boston."
"I don't blame her for mourning," said Thinkright kindly,--"do you,
Sylvia?" turning to the young girl, who was mortified to feel her color
mounting again. "Sylvia knows Mr. Dunham."
"How stupid of him! Oh, how stupid of him!" was Sylvia's angry thought.
"I met him once only, on business," she said briefly.
Her manner and the blush mystified Miss Derwent.
"But didn't you like him? He used to be the most popular boy. One
summer when mother was with me at the island she invited him to come to
us, but his vacation had already been bespoken. I should like to renew
our acquaintance. Perhaps Judge Trent will ask him here now. I hope
so."
This girl had everything, everything. It wasn't fair. Sylvia bit her
lip to keep back the excited tears. Her host saw the agitation in her
face and quickly changed the conversation, talking to Edna of her
affairs at Hawk Island, occasionally turning to Sylvia to explain some
reference, but giving her the opportunity to keep silence.
At last, to the great relief of one of the company, bedtime arrived.
"Do forgive me for yawning," said Edna, "but I've had a strenuous day
with Benny Merritt. I'll warrant the poor boy has been asleep for
hours, I worked him so hard; but the cottage is in fine shape and all
ready for Miss Martha and me to descend upon it. Oh, you must stay,"
turning suddenly to Sylvia. "You must come over to Anemone Cottage and
make me a visit." Edna did not say a long visit, for the impression
made upon her by this mute, cold girl in black was chilling; but she
seemed to need cheering, and Edna was prepared to do any missionary
work which would be a help to her dear Thinkright.
"Thank you, but I couldn't," returned Sylvia hastily. "I couldn't,
possibly."
"I wonder what is the matter with her?" thought Miss Derwent, as she
made ready for bed that night. "Perhaps her bereavement is very recent.
At all events, she has come to the right place to be helped."
Sylvia, as soon as she had closed the door of her chamber, went to the
window and knelt down with her hot forehead against the cold glass. The
stars were twinkling in an invisible sky, and she could hear a rhythmic
sound of many waters.
That girl had everything. It wasn't fair. She knew Mr. Dunham well. He
was popular, he was admired. He was of Edna Derwent's world. She was
doubtless popular and admired. What would they both think of Nat?
Nat,--stout, red-faced, not too careful of his hands. Sylvia had often
demurred concerning his careless habits. Now she knew that they alone
made him impossible. There were many other things that made him
impossible, and strangely, they were all points which were the opposite
of certain characteristics she had observed in Mr. Dunham during their
brief but informal and almost intimate relation. Miss Derwent's speech
and pronunciation reminded her sharply of his, and as her thought dwelt
upon this enviable girl making ready for her healthful, care-free
slumber in the apartment usually sacred to Judge Trent, the burden of
Sylvia's vague and helpless future bore down upon her and seemed
heavier than she could bear. Long-repressed tears were rising
scaldingly to her eyes when she heard a light tap on her door.
It might be she! She shouldn't come in! With a light bound Sylvia was
at the door, pressing upon it.
"Who is it?" she demanded in a choked voice.
It was Thinkright's voice that answered her. "Gone to bed, or sitting
up, little one?" he asked.
"Well--I'm sitting up--so far," she answered, and she opened the door
slowly.
"I thought you might be feeling a little homesick, the first night in a
strange place," he went on, "and I wanted to say good-night to you once
again."
A great, resentful sob rose in the girl's breast, and with a sudden
impulse she flung both her arms around his neck.
"Kiss me," she said chokingly. "You kissed her. How did she dare to
kiss you!"
Thinkright drew the speaker out into the corridor as he caressed her
cheek. "Come downstairs a few minutes," he said. "We might disturb Edna
if we talked up here. Can't have you go to bed thinking wrong," he went
on when they had reached the living-room where one tiny lamp still
twinkled. "Now sit right down here by me, Sylvia. My heart feels for
you. You miss your father, I know, and I wish I could be the comfort to
you I'd like to be; but we must all at last find comfort in the great
Father of all. We learn little by little that we can't lean on any arm
of flesh."
Sylvia bit back her sobs and pressed her eyes. "Poor father is better
off," she said. "I wouldn't want him back. He suffered, and he said
there wasn't any place for him here any more,--and there isn't for me,
there isn't for me!" she added passionately in a voice that shook.
"Wait, little Princess. The King's daughter is distrusting her Father,
and pitying herself, Sylvia. That's low thinking, child."
"Of course I pity myself," the girl flashed back, "and ten times more
since Miss Derwent came, taking possession of you, and Aunt Martha, and
Uncle Calvin. She has everything. Why should she, while I have
nothing?"
In the silence that followed Sylvia could see the patient lines in her
companion's forehead, and the shining of his deep eyes.
"Except you," she added contritely, clasping her hands around his
shabby coat sleeve, "I have you, but it kills me to cling to you like a
drowning man, while that girl smiles at you from the top of the
wave,--and owns everybody and everything!"
"Edna does some very good thinking," was the quiet response. "Her
temptations are different from yours, and she has struggled with them."
"What has _she_ to bear?"
"Sickness,--not her own, but that of dear ones, and an overdose of
wealth."
"Oh!" The exclamation was scornful and skeptical.
"You remember the tale where the members of a community by common
agreement met in the city's public square, and each one laid down his
burden, and taking up some one else's went home with it? The story runs
that on the following day every man and woman returned to discard the
new burden and take up his own again. Supposing Edna took yours"--
Sylvia broke in: "She would be a girl who is a stranger in a strange
land with no rights anywhere; whose nearest ones cast her off; who has
no future, no money, no home, no plans. A girl who doesn't know how to
clear a table or wash a dish in her cousin's house, while a strange
girl comes in and takes charge of everything. I didn't even know how to
kiss you!"
Thinkright smiled. "Edna," he said, "began that when she was twelve
years old. It was the year I first came here, and I let her ride on the
hay-wagon and gave her the sort of good times she had never known in
her life. Her father is a chronic invalid. The doctors recommended the
sea, and quiet, and great simplicity of life, so they built Anemone
Cottage. Mrs. Derwent is a woman devoted to the world and fashion, but
she made heroic efforts to endure Hawk Island for her husband's sake
during several seasons. But there wasn't any right thinking done in
that cottage except what Edna did, a child as happy there as a bird let
loose from a cage; and after a while they gave it up. Edna continues to
come, every season they'll let her, and I can assure you, little one,
she needs the refreshment. She needs it. Brave, beautiful Edna!"
The peroration was uttered as an audible soliloquy, and it caused the
listener to pull her hand from the calloused palm where it had been
clinging.
"Good-night," she said abruptly, and started to rise.
Thinkright seized her arm gently and drew her back beside him. "Just a
moment," he said quietly. "You said a minute ago that you had me; as if
I counted for something."
"What's the use, when your interest is all wrapped up in that girl?"
"Oh, you poor little thing, you poor little thing!" he murmured.
His thoughtful tone made Sylvia hot.
"And every word I say you despise me more," she flashed forth. "You
know you're sorry you came to Boston to get me. I can't be any
different; I'm just myself."
"Of course you are. That's the comfort that we have. You'll find
yourself some time, and discover a very different being from the one
you are conscious of now. I'd like to see you get well, little one, for
your mother's sake and your own, and mine."
"I am nearly well," returned Sylvia, surprised at the sudden
digression.
Her companion shook his head. "Fevers of body are bad, but fevers of
mind are worse. Will you take me for your doctor, child, and let me
help you to find the sane, sweet, capable Sylvia Lacey who manifests
her inheritance from the Father of us all?"
The girl's eyes grew moist, and she bit her lip. Her poor, vain sense
struggled, but she was sore at the heart which this tone of his always
pressed strangely.
"I'd better go away," she said in a voice that trembled.
Her companion placed a kind hand on her shoulder. "If you were to go
away, you would not escape from Love," he answered. "Love enfolds you
this moment and all moments. It needs only to be recognized and trusted
to begin its transforming work in your consciousness. Even life is only
consciousness, Sylvia, and you cannot be conscious without thinking.
Then what it means to guard the thought,--to think truth, and not
falsity!"
"How are we to know when we are thinking truth?" returned the girl, her
breast heaving.
"As we are told to judge everything,--by its fruits. The fruit of your
thinking has not brought you happiness; then let us get a new set of
thoughts. That is all you need to begin with, Sylvia, a new set of
thoughts; and you can't get them until you welcome a new guest into
your heart." He paused.
"Who? You?" asked the girl.
Her companion smiled. "No, not I, little one. The guest's name is
Humility." He waited a moment and then proceeded. "You are entertaining
two guests now who are eating you out of house and home; devouring your
substance literally. Their names are Vanity and Self-love. Vanity has a
thin skin, is very easily injured. The other one whispers to you to
hate your aunt and uncle, and to be jealous of Edna Derwent. They can't
stay where Humility enters. Take her in. Listen to her. She will
whisper to you that it isn't of so much consequence what comes to the
Sylvia Lacey you are conscious of at present. She will promise you that
if you will listen to her and make her your own, you will learn a
happier Sylvia, a better consciousness in God's good time. 'Great peace
have they who love His law. Nothing shall offend them.' What a new
world you would enter, my girl, when you found that nothing could give
you offense!"
A strange wrestling was going on in his listener's breast and her
breathing was unsteady. Seeing that she was not ready to speak,
Thinkright proceeded:--
"You have heard of the Brotherhood of Man. It isn't a mere phrase when
you think right. All,--all of us, children of one Father, all with
rights to the same inheritance, what should make us cold or grudging,
one toward another? What is to prevent our spontaneous gladness in
another's success. His happiness and good fortune become ours. It is
all in the family, you see. There are no limitations to be placed on an
_infinite_ inheritance, are there? Our Father's love is impartial, and
all that we ask in His name He has promised to give us. You couldn't
ask in His name to eclipse Edna Derwent, could you? or to receive any
other gift which would appeal to those two guests I hope you will turn
out. These are small beginnings of great thoughts, Sylvia, but they
point to that 'large place' where your consciousness belongs, and where
Love waits to lead you."
The pressure on the door of the girl's heart overwhelmed its
resistance. She leaned her forehead against the shoulder so near her.
Her breath caught in a sob. "I'll try," she breathed humbly, "I'll
try."