THE POOL
The next day being Sunday Miss Lacey vetoed the excursion after berries
as a snare to Benny Merritt's feet, which should be turned toward the
little island church, whether or not they would be.
"Never mind," said Edna philosophically; "the longer we wait the more
berries we shall find. We can count on good weather for some time now."
"You wouldn't want to sail anyway to-day," said Miss Lacey. "It looks
blue enough, but there are white caps left over from yesterday that
would never get _me_ to ride on them, I can tell you."
"The Sound isn't rough," replied Edna; "but we'll all be good girls and
write letters. Come down to the Fir Ledges with us, Miss Lacey. We'll
write there."
"Thank you, I've outgrown that," replied Miss Martha briskly. "Sit with
your heels higher than your head, and no decent place to lean, and just
at the most important moment have the wind double your paper over or
blow it away. No, thank you; but there's room at the table for all of
us if you'll be sensible."
The table was a round one placed in an angle of the spacious piazza,
which had been glassed in as protection from the prevailing wind.
Here Miss Martha was wont to gather her writing materials, and with her
back to the view, not for fear of its temptations, but in order to get
a better light, indite many an underlined epistle to her friends at
home. She sometimes had Edna's company, but that could not be to-day.
The young hostess was enjoying too much exhibiting the charms of her
beloved habitat to the guest who thrilled in such responsive
appreciation at the moments and places where others had often proved
disappointing.
"No bribe could induce us to be sensible," was Edna's response to Miss
Lacey's suggestion. "We are going to the Fir Ledges, and there is no
knowing when you will see us again."
"Oh, yes, there is," returned Miss Martha dryly. She was seating
herself for her enjoyable morning. She was going to send Selina Lane
some of Jenny's receipts. "There will be halibut and egg sauce, lemon
meringue pie, and various other things served in this house at 1.30,"
she went on, "and I have an idea that you'll take an interest in them."
Edna and Sylvia exchanged a thoughtful look. "Perhaps we may," said
Edna.
"I'm sure of it," added Sylvia with conviction.
Miss Lacey's satisfied laugh followed the pair down the woodland road,
and she looked after them.
"Everything has turned out so well," she thought. "I remember how this
summer stood up in my mind as one of the obstacles to letting Sylvia
come to me, for I didn't see where I could leave her while I came to
Hawk Island,--and now, just look. I really do think Edna has taken a
fancy to the child, though even _I_ can't always judge of Edna's
feelings by her actions."
Miss Martha looked fixedly at the side of the house, her pen poised in
her hand. She was weighing the question as to whether it would be well
to mention to Selina Lane her niece's presence at Anemone Cottage. If
she spoke of her, it might lead in future to embarrassing questions; if
she did not speak of her, Selina was liable to learn of Sylvia from
some other source; for no way had yet been discovered of permanently
concealing anything from Miss Lane, and that spinster, so fond of
jumping at conclusions that she frequently overleaped them, would be
sure to decide that Miss Martha was ashamed of her niece.
To tell or not to tell! She was still balancing her pen and the
question when a firm tread crunched the gravel behind her, and turning
she beheld a man advancing to the steps.
He was dressed in outing flannels, and his cap was presumably in his
pocket. At least he had none on his head. Miss Lacey rose with a start
and hurried to the steps.
"Why, Mr. Dunham, I was never so surprised in my life!" she exclaimed.
He smiled. "I was told that you would look more kindly upon a surprise
party at ten in the morning than at ten at night," he answered.
His eyes were level with Miss Martha's as she stood two steps above him
on the piazza, and he pressed her hard, little, unresponsive hand. But
if her hand was hard her heart was not, and it was with much
appreciation of the visitor's attractive personality that she urged him
to take his choice of the piazza chairs.
"This is a great place," he remarked, as she fluttered back to her
table, and he dropped on the piazza rail. "I've never been on the
islands before,--only sailed past them."
"But how did you get here so early? Were you at the Island House all
night?"
"Not at all. When Mr. Johnson returned on Friday he found Judge Trent
and myself in possession. This morning I went out with Cap'n Lem to his
pound, so was ready for an early start over here; and it surely is a
great place."
Dunham looked off upon the rolling billows breaking in snow here and
there above unseen ledges.
"Your clothes are wet. You had a rough sail."
"In spots, yes; but it's rather sheltered between here and the Tide
Mill. You're looking well, Miss Lacey."
"Who wouldn't in such a place," she rejoined; "and just think, Mr.
Dunham, my niece is here."
"So I understand." The young man gave a tentative glance around at the
house.
"Oh, they're not in. Miss Derwent is never in, unless it storms the way
it did yesterday, and then she's liable to be in oilskins hanging on to
some rock and scaring me out of my seven senses. Sylvia's just like
her. They were both out yesterday."
"I'm glad to learn that your niece is strong enough for that," returned
Dunham.
Miss Lacey made a gesture. "She did it, anyway." She lowered her voice
to a confidential pitch. "Haven't things worked around wonderfully, Mr.
Dunham?" The speaker drew back, giving him a significant look.
"How do you mean?" asked Dunham cautiously.
"Since that day we were at Hotel Frisbie. I haven't dared look to see
how many new gray hairs that week gave me, and here we are, all so calm
and happy. Miss Derwent being so kind and hospitable to Sylvia, and
none of my doings at all. You see, it would have been such an
impossible thing for me to suggest that my niece should visit here, but
it came around in the most natural way through Thinkright."
"It is fine," returned Dunham. Sylvia's name still meant for him only
the dew-laden eyes that beseeched him as he left her at the Association
that day in Boston. He felt some curiosity as to how Miss Lacey had
finally made her peace, and he felt sure that she would like to tell
him; but the younger Miss Lacey's affairs were none of his.
"I'm sorry not to find Miss Derwent," he said.
"Oh, you'll find her," returned Miss Lacey briskly. "You will stay to
dinner with us, of course."
"Certainly not," returned Dunham quickly.
"Why, you will. We have it at noon, you know."
"In these togs?" asked John incredulously--"Miss Derwent?"
"Oh, hers aren't any better," returned Miss Martha. "That's the island
fashion."
"No,--I'll go to the--what did you say? There's some sort of a hotel
here, isn't there?"
"Yes. Some sort," returned Miss Lacey, "but not your sort. Don't say
another word about it, Mr. Dunham. Why, Miss Derwent would be
scandalized,--an old friend like you. You said you were, didn't you?"
she added, with sudden questioning.
"Yes, so old that I shall be new," returned Dunham, smiling. "I only
hope she'll remember me."
"Why didn't Judge Trent come with you? We should have been very pleased
to see him at dinner, too," said Miss Lacey, with a little excess of
formality.
"I did ask him, but he said he wasn't tired of terra firma yet."
"Has he come to stay?"
"Yes, for a while. We've locked up the offices and are going to forget
dull care together. He's devoted to this region, isn't he?"
"Yes, and what is more interesting and wonderful--to Sylvia," returned
Miss Martha, again dropping her voice as if there might be
eavesdroppers in Arcady. "That is, he must be. He has given her the
loveliest boat."
"I saw it the evening we came. Mr. Johnson was showing it to him."
"What did he say about its name?" eagerly.
"Its name?"
"Yes. The Rosy Cloud."
"Why,--nothing."
"Didn't Thinkright ask him anything?"
"Not that I remember."
"Has Judge Trent said anything to you about Sylvia?"
"Not a word."
Miss Lacey, who had been leaning forward, flung herself back in her
chair.
"If there's anything exasperating on earth it's a man!" she exclaimed.
"Well"--for John laughed, "excuse me, Mr. Dunham, you can't help it;
but men never know when anything is interesting. Now I can tell you
just where you'll find those girls, and I'm going to let you go. You
take that path through the woods, and it'll bring you into an open
field, but you'll still see a path. Keep right on till if you took
another step you'd fall about fifty feet and have to swim. There you'll
find a huddle of ledges and ravines and brave little firs that have
hooked their roots into the rock somehow, and there you'll find also a
couple of girls who went down to write letters, and I know haven't
written a word; and do keep an eye on your watch and get them here by
quarter past one. Things are so much nicer when they are hot and good,
and Edna is no more to be trusted than if she was five. If she happened
to get to watching a barnacle eat its dinner she'd never once think of
her own."
Just at present Miss Derwent was certainly not thinking of dinner. The
tide was falling, and she and her companion were seated amid the
sighing firs and watching its retreat; that is, Sylvia was watching,
and Edna was reading aloud to her. At last Edna looked up from her book
and leaned forward to look over the ledge.
"It is low enough," she said. "Let us go down there, Sylvia. I want to
show you the pools."
Leaving their books and papers covered from the breeze with a shawl,
the girls climbed down the rough rocks.
"We call this the giant's bath-tub," said Edna, when they reached an
oblong hollow rock brimming with brine.
"I'd hate to take a bath with some of those creatures," remarked
Sylvia, her eyes on certain small objects of various shapes.
"I, too; and see how crusted the rock is with barnacles. How their
edges do cut! Dear little things, they'll go to sleep now till the tide
comes back again."
"Go to sleep!" laughed Sylvia. "As if they were anything but gray
stones!"
"Indeed, you are mistaken. I wonder if I could wake one of those
fellows up," and Miss Derwent splashed water over one of the stony
clusters. They remained lifeless.
"The tide has left them too recently," she said. "They're not hungry."
"Oh, Edna,--I mean Miss Derwent."
"No, call me Edna. I'd like you to. Sometimes I can make them open
those stiff shells and put out five little fingers to gather in their
food."
Sylvia shook her head. "You've told me lots of fairy stories the last
two days, but that is the most improbable. What are you doing?"
"Getting you a sea urchin." Edna had rolled her sleeves to the shoulder
and was plunging her arm into the water. She brought out a spiny prize.
"What is it covered with? Wet grass?" asked Sylvia, regarding the
blackish object with disfavor. "Why, you said those charming lavender
candlesticks of yours, all embroidered in tiny holes, were sea
urchins."
"So they are, but this is smaller. I'm going to try to get you some big
ones. Do you care for starfish?" Edna swooped upon one and drew it
forth waving its pink legs helplessly.
"Of course!" exclaimed Sylvia excitedly. "How lovely. I'm going to have
a sea cabinet."
"Oh, there," cried Edna, "I see a big urchin now, but I'm afraid I
can't get him!"
"Can't?" exclaimed a voice incredulously. "He'll give himself to you,"
and Dunham dropped lightly from the rock above the absorbed girls, who
sat up suddenly to find him standing beside them.
Sylvia was first to recognize the apparition. "Mr. Dunham!" she
exclaimed, and the blood pulsed in her ears with the voice of the sea.
"Why, it is Mr. Dunham," said Edna, and leaning on her wet hand she
reached up the other to greet him. Then he shook hands with Sylvia.
"It's a good thing you carry around those curls for people to know you
by, Miss Lacey," he said.
Her upturned eyes were dark with excitement, her sudden color was high.
There were little freckles across the bridge of her piquant nose. She
was alive and glowing in every line.
"Where did you spring from?" asked Edna, brushing back a lock of hair
with the back of her wet hand.
"First from the office, then from the Tide Mill, later from your house
propelled by Miss Lacey, and ultimately from that rock, to discover by
what magic there was some big urchin that Miss Derwent couldn't get. I
never knew one who wasn't at her service,--the regiment headed by
myself."
"On the contrary," returned Edna, "I distinctly remember when mother
tried to get you to come to us here and you refused."
"Not refused. Regretted with tears. This is my party call,--the first
opportunity I've had to make it."
"Well, you see now what you missed." Edna waved her hand toward the
landscape.
"Don't I! From the moment of leaving the Tide Mill until I discovered
your blonde and brunette heads bending over this pool my pilgrimage has
been one long reminiscent wail."
"Oh, of course if you talk that way you will restore my complacency.
When did you come to the Tide Mill?"
"Friday."
"In time for the storm, then."
"Yes, but Judge Trent was with me. We sang,--
'You and I together, Love,
Never mind the weather, Love.'"
Edna looked at him with curiosity and approval. A hundred incidents of
their old friendship were returning to her thought. It was almost the
same boyish head and face that topped this tall personage.
"You're just as silly as ever, John, aren't you?" she said. "I'm so
glad."
He laughed toward Sylvia. "There's a reference for you, Miss Lacey."
"You please her. What more can you ask?" returned Sylvia.
It had all, all been a preparation for this moment. For this cause
Thinkright had found her and brought her to the farm and taught her his
philosophy. For this cause she had risen from the plane where Nat and
Bohemia had been possibilities. For this cause Edna had given her her
gracious friendship. The Prince and Princess had met in her presence,
and she was as sure it was meeting never to part as she was that her
earthly ideals could never be severed from theirs.
Edna and John both laughed at the earnestness of her naïve reply.
"She intends to keep me in my place, doesn't she?" he said to Edna.
"Evidently," she replied, "but we're both willing you should sit down.
Won't you?"
"I think I'd rather look at myself in your mirror. Isn't that what you
were doing when I descended upon you?"
"No. We have no need here for mirrors from month's end to month's end,
for we never wear hats."
"Tush, tush," returned Dunham, lowering himself with some care among
the projections of the inhospitable rock. "I'm sure you both patronize
mirrors for the pure pleasure of it. In the minute I stood waiting and
watching up there I expected to see you turn into--who was
what's-his-name, Narcissus? Narcissi, then."
"Nonsense. You should use more local color. Say Anemones; but I warn
you, we don't allow pretty speeches up here."
"That's unfortunate," returned Dunham, "for I've been in Seaton for
months, and there's nobody to make love to there but Miss La--" He
nearly bit his tongue off in the suddenness of his halt, but he did
save himself. "What is in this pool, then, if not starry eyes?" he
added suddenly, bending over the stone trough with interest.
"Star_fish_," replied Edna. "See this one. I pulled it out just before
you came."
The starfish was clinging pinkly to the rock, and beyond him lay the
urchin, the blackness of its draggled spines turning to green as it
dried in the sun.
"Who's your friend?" asked John, regarding it. "Looks like a miniature
Paderewski. Say, he's getting up steam."
In fact, the urchin had begun dragging itself in a stately and scarcely
perceptible progress across the rock toward its native pool. The three
watched it.
"Isn't there any law here against speeding?" asked Dunham with concern.
"First water mobile I ever saw. Take his number, somebody. It's a
scandal."
"He's number one," said Sylvia. "We're going to get some more. I 'm
going to have a cabinet."
"You are? Well, I don't think a sport like that would be a safe member
of any cabinet."
"Here. I'll show you the urchin I couldn't get," said Edna. "You'll
reach him for us. My arm isn't long enough. See that big dark spot down
in the corner? That is Sylvia's candlestick. A beautiful, lilac,
embroidered candlestick."
"Who'd have thought it!" responded Dunham, rolling up his sleeves. In a
minute the dripping prize was being offered to Sylvia, who clasped her
hands and drew back.
"Would you mind putting him down?" she said. "He looks so big
and--whiskery."
"Oh, I'm ashamed of you, Sylvia," laughed Edna. "Now you have to find
another just his size, Mr. Dunham. She has to have a pair."
"She does, eh?" returned John resignedly. "I don't know what I'll draw
out of this grab bag next," and he plunged his arm in again.
"No, no, you mustn't do that!" cried Edna,--"clouding up the water like
that. We have to peer. Come and peer, Sylvia." They all leaned over the
side of the pool. "See that little starfish? He's lost a leg already in
his short career; and those pretty anemones! Why didn't I bring a pail.
I shall make an aquarium for you on the piazza, and we'll have
anemones, and undistinguished urchins who will never be in a cabinet or
hold candles, and starfish, and barnacles. Oh, there's a baby, John.
Quick, _there_! Oh, I can get it myself." She reached down in a flash
and drew forth a tiny urchin.
"You startled me so," said John plaintively. "You said a baby, and I
couldn't see even a bulrush."
"Oh, I shall educate you in time," returned Edna. "There, Sylvia, that
will be the infant member of your cabinet."
"It seems pretty low down to kidnap a fellow of that size," remarked
Dunham.
"But she's going to have a complete set of urchins,--from a little
green pea to a personage."
"When you reach the personage class, remember me, Miss Sylvia. I have
other references than this scoffing maiden."
Sylvia smiled. "But perhaps you wouldn't care to carry candles."
"Not care to burn candles before you? Of course I should."
"He's at it again, Sylvia," sighed Edna. "It's dreadful to have a
starved man on our hands."
"Starved. That reminds me. Pardon me, ladies, if I look at my watch.
Ah, half an hour's grace. I am going to ask you both to dine with me
to-day. The procession moves at one sharp. If there are any signs of
reluctance on the part of the hostess and her guest, I am to take one
in each hand, with whatever fishy impedimenta cannot be lost, and
repair with you to your cot. Miss Martha has spoken."
Edna laughed. "I'd forgotten, John, just what a shy flower you were!"
she said.