IN THE PATH OF MOONLIGHT
For a few weeks Winn worried over the suspicions of Weston & Hill's
honesty that seemed like a cloud of danger, and then, to a certain
extent, it passed away. To no one, not even Jess, did he dare confide
them, but just drifted on, day by day, doing the duty he was paid to do.
Each week came his pay-roll and salary remittance, and an assuring and
pleasant letter from the firm. It also contained a request or hope that
he would not forget to sell stock when he could. This latter, however,
made no impression on Winn. Collectively, he had sold about one thousand
shares to these islanders, and that he felt was enough. In fact,
believing, as he had almost come to do, that the entire scheme was a
gigantic swindle, it was certainly all he intended to sell, and more
than he wished he had sold. Then there was another matter of serious
interest, and that was Mona.
Between her and himself, these summer days, there had come a little bond
of feeling, deep-rooted in her simple but passionate nature, and more
lightly in his. To her it was a new wonder-world, and as each evening
when he chanced to linger by the gate watching her, as she cared for the
sweet williams, pinks, and peonies that grew in her dooryard, or later
when he sat with her in the vine-hid porch, chatting of commonplaces or
relating incidents of the great world outside, his earnest eyes, the
melodious tones of his voice, and the careless, half cynical, half
tender way he had of expressing himself, only increased the charm.
Occasionally, on Thursday evenings, when her mother, as usual, made one
of the little band who gathered in the church, they two would stroll
over to the cliff beyond Norse Hill or up the road to Northaven to the
old tide mill. On two occasions he had persuaded her to take her violin
and visit the gorge with him, where she played at his bidding, her heart
gladdened by the thought that he cared to hear her. But she preferred
his poetic fancies and world-taught sayings to the violin, and since she
was so charming and interested a listener, it was inevitable that he
talked much. Another matter also troubled him seriously.
He had, at the beginning of their acquaintance, and from a desire to
utter pleasant words to Mona, assured her that she was gifted with a
remarkable talent for playing, and if she would but make the effort,
the world would bow before her. It was a kindly speech, and charmed as
he was by time, place, and the power of the old love songs she rendered
with such exquisite feeling, he really meant it, little realizing its
effect on her. Now that he did realize it, and could not fail to see
that every word he uttered was considered by her as authoritative, he
wished that he had been more cautious. Then again, he understood her
better and saw what an ardent child of nature she was, and how her heart
and soul vibrated to every pulse of the ocean and the mystic romance of
the wild gorge she sought so often. To him now she seemed like a
veritable nymph of old, or a mermaid, whose soul was attuned to the wild
voice of wind and wave sighing through the rock-walled ravine and the
thicket of spruce above it. For such a creature of moods and fancies to
thrust herself into a merciless world, where sentiment was a jest and
romance an illusion, seemed a sacrilege. And he was to blame for her
wish to do so! Then again, he felt that if the world could but see and
hear her, it must, perforce, crown her with the laurel wreath. True to
his impulsive nature, in this as in all things, he alternated in his own
opinions as to what was best for her.
And so the summer days passed, and Winn, half conscious that she was
learning the sad lesson of love, and yet stifling his conscience with
the feeling that he was only playing the role of big brother, which he
had decided to adopt, allowed the (to him) pleasant pastime to continue.
It may be said that it was unfair for him, a polished man of the world,
and knowing full well that there could be but one result to this
delightful intimacy, to allow it to continue, and yet he did. And it
must also be asserted, that under the same circumstances and like
provocation, few men there are who would not do likewise.
One surprise came to him, however, for he had sent to the city for a
book of instructions on the violin and a supply of new music, only to
find, when he gave them to her, that she was unable to read a note.
"I told you," she said plaintively, "that I knew nothing about music
except what Uncle Jess has taught me, and I wonder how you can think I
play so well. If only I could go away and learn even a little, I should
be so happy."
"Yes," he responded, smiling at her, for he had come to speak as he
thought and felt, "and learn also that men admired you, and grow vain of
your looks, and become one of the artful women of society, instead of
sweet and pure-minded Mona. You are better off where you are, for here
you are happy and care-free."
Then one evening came another, and more serious, revelation to him.
They had strolled up to the old tide mill, and sat watching the moon
high overhead, outlining its path of silver sheen upon the rippled
waters of the harbor, while he, as usual, was giving utterance to some
of his delicately worded sayings.
"I do not understand," she said in response to one more pointed than the
rest, "why you think so badly of womankind in the great world. Are they
all so selfish, and artful, and deceitful, as you say? I have seen some
who came here in their beautiful yachts, and they looked so nice in
their white dresses, and so sweet and gentle, I envied them."
Winn looked at her and smiled.
"I have no doubt, little girl, you admired and envied them, and that
they looked to you as beautiful and charming as so many fairies. That
was the principal reason they came ashore--just to be seen and admired
by you people here, who, they knew, never were, and, most likely, never
would be, clad as they were. That is all these butterflies of fashion
live for--to show off their beautiful plumage and be envied by others."
"Maybe you know them best," she responded regretfully, as if sorry he
had spoiled an illusion, "but I thought them so beautiful and sweet and
so like pictures in books, it seemed to me they must be as described
there and never wicked or deceitful."
"And so you have been believing all you read in books, have you, little
one?" he said, smiling again, "and that those show birds who lit on the
island flew out of the pages of story books? And yet, the other day,
when I told you about the nymphs and elfins, you did not believe me,
Mona!"
"I have never seen those creatures," she replied, "and I have seen
these."
"Neither have you seen God, or the Saviour, or the angels," he said,
"and yet you believe they exist."
"I do," she answered firmly, "and I should go crazy with fear if I
didn't. But your wonderful creatures, who lived so long ago, did not
make this world, as God did."
"People believed they did in those days," he replied quietly, "and just
as firmly as we believe God did."
She made no answer, for the subject was beyond her, but silently
watched the beauteous moonlight picture before her.
"I should like to go into the great world," she said at last, as if that
fascinated her, "and wear beautiful dresses and see those others wear,
and hear that wonderful woman you told about play the violin, and watch
them throw flowers at her. I should like to be one with the rest just
for a little while, and then come back."
"If you did that you would never come back," he answered, "or if you did
you would be miserable ever after."
"I should have to," she said, as another side of the question presented
itself to her, "if I couldn't earn my living there."
"You would have to, surely," he answered slowly, thinking of some phases
of city existence, but allowing no hint of them to escape him. "It is
foolish to dream of these things, little girl," he continued, "for they
are impossible. Even if you had the means to join the great throng of
city revellers, you would, with your disposition, be wounded deep on all
sides. The women would say spiteful things about you, and scratch you
every way they could, as is their nature; and the men would fill your
ears with subtle flattery, and each one spread before you the most
insidious net ever woven by mortal brain. No, little sister, be content
where you are, and if you are lonely, go to the cave and listen to the
whisper of the fairies. They will never stab you to the heart, as the
worldly women will. You are like a wild rose now, and as sweet and
innocent. You say what you think and mean what you say. Your heart is
tender and true and your thoughts pure and simple. You deceive no one,
and would not, if you could."
"But might I not learn to play as the wonderful woman did," she asked
stoutly, "and could I not earn my own living if I did? I need not know,
nor care, what these spiteful women said about me, need I?"
Winn looked at her in surprise.
"And so this is the bee that has crept into the heart of my wild rose,
is it?" he said. "You thirst for fame and the laurel wreath, do you,
Mona? I thought I had come to know you well, little one," he continued
tenderly, "but this surprises me. Do you know what it means, and that to
win the world's applause you must study your art for years, and step by
step win your way up the ladder, and that already ahead of you are
hundreds who will miss no chance to push you backwards? And who will pay
for all the cost of tuition and training you must go through, Mona?"
"Uncle Jess will," she answered simply, "if I ask him. He loves me."
Winn was silent, conscious that beside him was a creature as tender as a
flower and as innocent, with a will to do and dare, or strive to do,
what few women would, and in her heart was an ambition that, like the
bee in the flower, would rob her of all life's sweetness.
"I am sorry," he said at last, "that you have this ambition. It is
creditable to you, but hopeless. Put it out of your mind before it
destroys your peace. Be your own sweet self here on the island, and some
day you will learn to love one of its hardy sons, like David Moore,
perhaps, and he will make you a home and strive for your happiness."
"I do not care for him, or any of the others," she answered, "and never
shall."
It was not the first time he had mentioned young Moore to her, but never
before in so serious a way, and it hurt.
"I am sorry," she continued, "that I told you what I have, but somehow I
thought you understood me better than any one else. It is all right,
however, and no doubt what you say is true."
He noticed there was a little quiver in her voice, and realized he had
hurt her. He had, but not in the way he thought.
For a long time they sat in silence, watching the whitened ledges that
bordered the island, the spectral spruces that grew to the right of
where they were, the twinkling gleam of the lighthouse in the distance,
and the shimmering path of moonlight across the harbor that ended at
their feet.
"It's a beautiful night," said Winn at last, "and I hate to leave this
spot, but I think it's time you were home."
And as he spoke he stooped, and, putting his hand under her arm, lifted
her to her feet.
As he did so, a single tear fell upon his hand.