A SWIMMING LESSON
That afternoon Sylvia had her first swimming lesson. She had gone
bathing several times with Minty Foster, but had never ventured beyond
her depth. There was a flight of steps leading down to the water at the
left of Edna's cottage to a little natural harbor behind the rock
masses. No sandy beach was there. One dropped into sea green depths
where only the amphibious could feel at home; but Edna was amphibious,
and even Miss Lacey's shade hat, firmly tied beneath the chin, was
sometimes seen to ride upon the wave as its owner indulged in a stately
swim from one point of rock to another. Her mouth and nose on these
occasions were lifted from the waters in a scornful grimace. Twice
across the pool Miss Martha swam with systematic deliberation, then,
her hat and hair as dry as when she went in, she ascended upon a sunny
rock, and assuming a large woolen waterproof contented herself with
observing Edna's gambols. This afternoon she did not go in. The shade
hat topped her Sunday gown of black grenadine, which was turned up
carefully about her as she sat on a rock and chaperoned her young
people. A straw "pancake" softened the asperities of her granite couch.
Dunham observed her erect attitude doubtfully. "Can't I get you some
sofa pillows?" he asked.
"No, pancakes are what I always use," returned Miss Martha decidedly.
"That's true," said Edna, "especially on Sunday. Miss Lacey is willing
to do anything on the spur of the moment except sit on it. She draws
the line there; but Sunday is no day to be luxurious, is it, Miss
Martha?--not for a person whose forefathers fought in the Revolution
and ate leather."
"And it's not a good day to go in swimming, either," returned Miss
Lacey uneasily. "I do hope, Edna, you'll come out before the islanders
begin to return from church. Some of them might come along this shore."
"Dear Miss Martha," said Edna, "we don't have Mr. Dunham every day, to
give Sylvia a swimming lesson."
"And I'm just as scared as I can be," declared Sylvia, her curly hair
and big eyes emerging from the mackintosh that enveloped her. "_I_
never asked to go and see the land 'where corals lie,' and I don't
think there's any bottom to that water."
The cottage had produced bathing suits for the guests, and although
Miss Lacey had scruples, and sat very straight, darting glances to
right and left through the trees, and held a copy of a Congregational
church paper prominently before her, she was glad of this opportunity
for her niece.
"You can learn, Sylvia," she said. "Benny Merritt taught me to swim in
that very spot, for I was determined to learn. I pulled out some of the
poor boy's hair, I remember; so be careful and don't grab Mr. Dunham by
the head."
Edna ran down a few steps, and throwing her cloak on a rock clasped her
hands above her, launched herself through the air in a graceful arch,
and disappeared in the liquid emerald.
Sylvia lifted despairing eyes to Dunham. "She just does that to make me
crazy," she said.
"We'll fool her, then," returned John. "We won't go crazy. Now lift up
your arms."
"You aren't going to put that thing on me!" exclaimed Sylvia, eyeing
with scorn the life-preserver he had picked up. "I thought that was
something to sit on." She pinioned her elbows to her side. "Oh, I'd
much rather drown than wear anything so unbecoming."
"Sylvia Lacey, lift up your arms this minute," commanded Miss Martha.
"I wore one for weeks. As it was, I pinched Benny a number of times
when I thought I was going down. Poor child, I distinctly remember a
black and blue spot on his cheek where I kicked him one day."
"Miss Sylvia, I'm growing awfully frightened," said John, while he
buckled. "Do you inherit your aunt's warlike propensities? You don't
need to pull out my hair. I'll give you a lock of it in exchange for
one of your curls." He had been observing the auburn rings that escaped
under the front of the little oilskin cap.
"So ignominious," said Sylvia, looking over her person with disfavor.
"After you get into the water I'll take it off the minute you say,"
returned Dunham. "Let's make a bet, Miss Lacey. How long do you think
she will keep it on?"
"Mr. Dunham, this is Sunday," returned Miss Martha.
"Oh, so it is. Well, I'll go and do penance. Look your last on my manly
beauty, Miss Martha. We're off. Which side of the house does your niece
take after?"
"What do you mean? She's a Lacey to the backbone."
John groaned. "Then the last hope has fled. I thought that perhaps the
ingratiating Trent characteristics might come to the rescue, but now,
expect to see me return bald and disfigured."
"Come on, you lazy people," called Edna; "it's glorious."
"O-o-o, 'where corals lie, where corals lie,'" shuddered Sylvia, as she
ran down the steps. "Just look at that mermaid. Isn't it fun? It is as
poetical as those Elgar songs. She could just make up her mind to go
down, and--_go_!"
"Well, shall we go too?" John offered his hand. She put hers into it.
"Are you game to jump?" he added.
"In a life-preserver!" ejaculated Sylvia in smiling contempt. "Yes.
There," meeting Edna's eyes as she floated at ease, "there is the
poetry. Here comes the prose tumbling after."
Physical timidity was no part of Sylvia's nature; and now secure in the
consciousness of the life-preserver, and that Dunham would take care of
her anyway, and incited by the desire to appear courageous in his eyes,
it was easy for her to take the leap. John jumped with her.
Despite her brave intention a gasping shriek burst from her as she
struck the flood. She was prepared not to be afraid of the depth of the
water, but she had forgotten its temperature.
"Oh, it's so cold!" she cried.
"No, this is quite warm," said John. "The wind has blown the surface
water in. Wait a bit and you won't mind it."
He was treading water and steadying his companion. "Want the
life-preserver off?" he laughed.
"Indeed I'd rather have it than the most gorgeous gown in Boston," she
replied breathlessly, her spirits rising as she felt the strength of
his arms. "Naught shall part me from it. Tell me what to do and I'll do
it."
Edna swam around them with nonchalant, sidelong strokes, while Dunham
went through the customary directions to the novice. She had been
splashing valiantly for some minutes when Miss Lacey, forsaking her
point of lookout, crept gingerly, with fear for her grenadine, to the
edge of the rocks.
"Children," she called in a hollow voice, "the people are returning
from church."
"Well, what shall we do?" asked John. "Edna and I can stay under for a
reasonable length of time, but I should be obliged to drown Miss
Sylvia. Does the situation demand it?"
"Benny Merritt is coming," still more acutely. "He's very near!"
"Well, when he sees this pool he'll fly with such hair as he has," said
John cheerfully.
"Oh," groaned Miss Martha, "I've so often told him it was wrong to swim
on Sunday."
"Keep him," cried Edna; "I want him. We're coming out, anyway."
"Stay _in_," commanded Miss Lacey sepulchrally. "He may pass by," and
she sank on a rock, spread out her Congregational paper, and examined
the columns from end to end with absorption.
But Benny had no idea of passing by. He had heard the voices from the
water and lounged toward Miss Lacey, but that lady declined to look up.
"Miss Sylvy's learnin' to swim, ain't she?" he remarked, when he had
stood unnoticed through a space of silence.
"Oh, good-afternoon, Benny," said Miss Martha severely. "Yes; a friend
from home came unexpectedly, and offered to help her, and she and Miss
Derwent--and---- Was there a good congregation this afternoon, Benny? I
thought best to remain here with my young people."
"Guess so. I heard 'em hollerin' as I come by a little while ago."
"Oh, Benny, you should have been there." Miss Lacey spoke more in
sorrow than in anger; she was conscious that the object lesson he was
now receiving would undo many of her faithful exhortations.
He directed an elaborate wink at the crown of her abased shade hat.
"Thought I'd ruther go swimmin'," he returned.
Miss Martha turned the leaves of her paper with a loud rustle. The
bathers were chattering and pulling themselves out of the water by the
steps.
Benny's eyes brightened as Edna's laugh sounded on his ear.
"You did very wrong to come to-day, Benny," she called to him brightly,
throwing her cloak about her and coming dripping up the steep steps.
Benny grinned sheepishly. "Come to see if Miss Lacey wanted any clams
to-morrer," he drawled.
Edna shook her finger at him. "We don't swim on Sunday. Understand,
Benny? We go to church and sing with all the good people--don't we?"
for Benny was changing from one foot to the other, alternately grinning
and solemn under Edna's bright gaze.
"Yes,--when you don't miss of it," returned the boy, who had hung
around the church steps to-day and peered within until he had satisfied
himself that this was one of the missing days. He was a sufficiently
docile attendant at the sanctuary whenever it meant staring for an hour
at the back of Miss Derwent's head.
"And whenever we miss, it is for some important reason," returned Edna
impressively. "This is Mr. Dunham, Benny," for here John and Sylvia
came up the steps. "He is a friend of mine from home. This is Benny
Merritt, who is going to take us huckleberrying and blueberrying
to-morrow."
"Awfully good of you, Benny, I'm sure," said Dunham, throwing down the
life-preserver, while Sylvia nodded at the boy and pulled off her
oilskin cap.
"Oh, he isn't taking you berrying. You wouldn't care for it, would
you?" asked Edna.
"I don't know. I'm like the fellow who was asked if he could play the
violin. He said he didn't know, for he had never tried."
Miss Lacey looked from one to another of the bathers, who were now
sitting in the sun. She wondered what Mr. Dunham meant by talking about
to-morrow. Was he not instantly going to get into his clothes and start
on his way to the Tide Mill?
The same question was flitting through Edna's brain. She wondered if
her mother would approve her repeating the invitation to John to visit
Anemone Cottage under present circumstances. The young man himself took
possession of the situation.
"Your arrival is very opportune, Benny," he said. "I've just been
wondering who I could get to sail Mr. Johnson's boat back to the farm."
Edna's eyelids lifted. She wondered if her old friend had determined to
invite himself.
"You know where the Tide Mill is, I suppose?" went on Dunham, for Benny
looked unillumined.
"It is Thinkright's boat he wishes to have sailed back," said Edna.
"Oh, yes," answered Benny. "I know."
"I'm going to investigate your island a little farther, Edna," said
John. "I've found that there's a hostelry here. I can't bear to tear
myself away in ten minutes."
"To linger on Hawk Island is to be lost," returned Edna. "To change the
song slightly,--
'To see it is to love it,
And love but it forever;
For Nature made it what it is,
And ne'er made sic anither.'"
"Then here goes to lose myself," returned Dunham, "for you can't lose
me. Benny, how are you going to get my boat home?"
"Don't know," drawled Benny; "couldn't swim back agin."
"Well, you could take it over to-morrow and get back somehow, couldn't
you?"
"Miss Edna, she wants to go berryin' to-morrer."
"So do I, then," remarked Dunham.
"You shall," laughed Edna. "We'll send another boy."
"It's a worse problem than the fox and the goose and the corn," said
John. "As Benny says, he can't swim back. I foresee a tragic future for
Thinkright's boat, plying restlessly between Hawk Island and the Tide
Mill, driven by the inexorable fate that hounded the Wandering Jew."
"We'll send two boys and an extra boat," returned Edna. "The island is
rich in both commodities."
She let Dunham go to the little hotel that evening.
"But it will be the last time," she said to Miss Lacey after he had
gone. "Why shouldn't I have a house party while Sylvia is here?"
"A man is a disturbing element on general principles," remarked Miss
Martha, "but I like him, and always did, from the moment he dusted a
chair for me with his handkerchief." She cleared her throat with sudden
embarrassment as she glanced at Sylvia, who was listening with serious
eyes.
That day's errand seemed strange and remote.
"Where have you and Mr. Dunham met before?" asked Edna, turning
suddenly to her guest.
Sylvia was prepared for this question. "In Boston, only once. He met me
there to arrange some business for Uncle Calvin."
"He is quite overcome by the change in your appearance. I'm not going
to tell you the nice things he said about you. I don't approve of
turning curly heads."
Sylvia colored and met Edna's kind eyes with a pleased, eager gaze. How
lovely if the Prince should like her as did her Princess.