you, or the person I thought was you, did not speak to me, nor look at
me, nor pay any more heed to me than if I had been a talking-machine
worked with a crank, I was somewhat provoked, and determined that if you
suddenly chose to freeze in that way I would freeze too, and that you
should have no more of that story in which you were so interested; and
so I smashed the loves of Tomaso and Lucilla and took up commerce, which
I was sure you would hate."
At this there was a quick flash in her eyes, and the first tremblings of
a smile at the corners of her mouth.
"Oh!" she said, and that was all she did say, as she returned to the
table and took her seat.
"Is my explanation satisfactory?" I asked.
"Oh, certainly," she answered; "and if you will excuse me for saying so,
I think you are a very fortunate man. In trying to punish me you
protected yourself,--that is, if you care to have secretaries from our
institution."
As I could not see her face, I could not determine what answer I should
make to this remark, and she continued, as she turned over the sheets:--
"What are you going to do with the pages which were written yesterday?"
"Tear them up," I replied, "and throw them into the basket. I wish to
annihilate them utterly."
She obeyed me, and tore Sister Sarah's work into very small pieces.
"Now we will go on with the original and genuine story," I said. "And as
the occurrences of yesterday are entirely banished from my mind, and as
all recollection of the point where we left off has gone, will you
kindly read two or three pages of what you last wrote?"
Several times I had perceived, or thought I had perceived, symptoms of
emotion in the back of my secretary's shawl, and these symptoms, if such
they were, were visible now. She occupied some minutes in selecting a
suitable point at which to begin, but when she had done this she read
without any signs of emotion, either in her shawl or in her face.
The story of the Sicilian young people progressed slowly, not because of
any lack of material, but because I was anxious to portray the phases as
clearly and as effectively as I could possibly do it; and whenever I
could prevent myself from thinking of something else, I applied my mind
most earnestly to this object. I flatter myself that I did the work very
well, and I am sure there were passages the natural fervor of which
would have made Sister Sarah bounce at least a yard from her chair, had
they been dictated to her, but my nun did not bounce in the least.
Before the hour at which we usually stopped work I arose from my chair,
and stated that that would be all for the day. My secretary looked at me
quickly.
"All for to-day?" she asked, a little smile of disapprobation upon her
brow. "It cannot be twelve o'clock yet."
"No," I answered, "it is not; but it is not easy to work out the answer
which Lucilla ought now to make to Tomaso, and I shall have to take time
for its consideration."
"I shouldn't think it would be easy," said she, "but I hoped you had it
already in your mind."
"Then you are interested in it?" I asked.
"Of course I am," she answered,--"who wouldn't be? And just at this
point, too, when everything depends on what she says; but it is quite
right for you to be very careful about what you make her say," and she
gathered her sheets together to lay them away.
Now I wanted to say something to her. I stopped work for that purpose,
but I did not know what to say. An apology for my conduct of the day
before would not be exactly in order, and an explanation of it would be
exceedingly difficult. I walked up and down my study, and she continued
to arrange her pages. When she had put them into a compact and very neat
little pile, she opened the table drawer, placed them in it, examined
some other contents of the drawer, and finally closed it, and sat
looking out of the window. After some minutes of this silent
observation, she half turned toward me, and without entirely removing
her gaze from the apple-tree outside, she asked:--
"Do you still want to know my name?"
"Indeed I do!" I exclaimed, stepping quickly to the grating.
"Well, then," she said, "it is Sylvia."
At this moment we heard the footsteps of Sister Sarah in the hall, at
least two minutes before the usual time.
When they had gone, I stood by my study table, my arms folded and my
eyes fixed upon the floor.
"Horace Vanderley," I said to myself, "you are in love;" and to this
frank and explicit statement I answered, quite as frankly, "That is
certainly true; there can be no mistake about it."
XXI.
LUCILLA AND I.
A Saturday afternoon, evening, and night, the whole of a Sunday and its
night, with some hours of a Monday morning, intervened between the
moment at which I had acknowledged to myself my feelings toward my
secretary and the moment at which I might expect to see her again, and
nearly the whole of this time was occupied by me in endeavoring to
determine what should be my next step. To stand still in my present
position was absolutely impossible: I must go forward or backward. To go
backward was a simple thing enough; it was like turning round and
jumping down a precipice; it made me shudder. To go forward was like
climbing a precipice with beetling crags and perpendicular walls of ice.
The first of these alternatives did not require any consideration
whatever. To the second I gave all the earnest consideration of which I
was capable, but I saw no way of getting up. The heights were
inaccessible.
In very truth, my case was a hard one. I could not make love to a woman
through a grating; and if I could, I would not be dishonorable enough to
do it, when that woman was locked up in a room, and could not get away
in case she did not wish to listen to my protestations. But between the
girl I loved and myself there was a grating compared with which the
barrier in the doorway of my study was as a spider's web. This was the
network of solemn bars which surrounded the sisters of the House of
Martha,--the vows they had made never to think of love, to read of it or
speak of it.
To drop metaphors, it would be impossible for me to continue to work
with her and conceal my love for her; it would be stupidly useless, and
moreover cowardly, to declare that love; and it would be sensible,
praiseworthy, and in every way advantageous for me to cease my literary
labors and go immediately to the Adirondacks or to Mount Desert. But
would I go away on Saturday or Sunday when she was coming on Monday? Not
I.
She came on Monday, surrounded by a gray halo, which had begun to grow
as beautiful to my vision as the delicate tints of early dawn. When she
began to read what she had last written, I seated myself in a chair by
the grating. When she had finished, I sat silent for a minute, got up
and walked about, came back, sat down, and was silent again. In my whole
mind there did not seem to be one crevice into which an available
thought concerning my travels could squeeze itself. She sat quietly
looking out of the window at the apple-tree. Presently she said:--
"I suppose you find it hard to begin work on Monday morning, after
having rested so long. It must be difficult to get yourself again into
the proper frame of mind."
"On this Monday morning," I answered, "I find it very hard indeed."
She turned, and for the first time that day fixed her eyes upon me. She
did not look well; she was pale.
"I had hoped," she said, with a little smile without any brightness in
it, "that you would finish the story of Tomaso and Lucilla; but I don't
believe you feel like composing, so how would you like me to read this
morning?"
"Nothing could suit me better," I answered; and in my heart I thought
that here was an angelic gift, a relief and a joy.
"I will begin," she said, "at the point where I left off reading." She
took up a portion of the manuscript, she brought her chair within a yard
of the grating, she sat down with her face toward me, and she read.
Sometimes she stopped and spoke of what she was reading, now to ask a
question, and now to tell something she had seen in the place I
described. I said but little. I did not wish to occupy any of that
lovely morning with my words,--words which were bound to mean nothing.
As she read and talked, some color came into her face; she looked more
like herself. What a shame to shut up such a woman in a House where she
never had anything interesting to talk about, never anybody interested
to talk to!
After the reading of half a dozen pages during which she had not
interrupted herself, she laid the manuscript in her lap, and asked me
the time. I told her it wanted twenty minutes of twelve. She made no
answer, but rose, put the manuscript in the drawer, and then returned
with a little note which she had taken from her pocket.
"Mother Anastasia desired me to give you this," she said, folding it so
that she could push it through one of the interstices of the grating;
"she told me to hand it to you as I was coming away, but I don't think
she would object to your reading it a little before that."
I took the note, unfolded it, and read it. Mother Anastasia wrote an
excellent hand. She informed me that it had been decided that the sister
of the House of Martha who had been acting as my amanuensis should not
continue in that position, but should now devote herself to another
class of work. If, however, I desired it, another sister would take her
place.
I stood unable to speak. I must have been as pale as the white paint on
the door-frame near which I stood.
"You see," said Sylvia, and from the expression upon her face I think
she must have perceived that I did not like what I had read, "this is
the work of Sister Sarah. I might as well tell you that at once, and I
am sure there is no harm in my doing so. She has always objected to my
writing for you; and although the morning she spent with you would have
satisfied any reasonable person that there could be no possible
objection to my doing it, she has not ceased to insist that I shall give
it up, and go to the Measles Refuge. That, however, I will not do, but I
cannot come here any more. Mother Anastasia and I are both sure that if
I am not withdrawn from this work she will make no end of trouble. She
has consented that I should go on until now simply because this day ends
my month."
I was filled with amazement, grief, and rage.
"The horrible wretch!" I exclaimed. "What malignant wickedness!"
"Oh," said Sylvia, holding up one finger, "you mustn't talk like that
about the sister. She may think she is right, but I don't see how she
can; and perhaps she would have some reason on her side if she could see
me standing here talking about her, instead of attending to my work. But
I determined that I would not go away without saying a word. You have
always been very courteous to us, and I don't see why we should not be
courteous to you."
"Are you sorry to go?" I asked, getting as close to the grating as I
could. "If they would let you, would you go on writing for me?"
"I should be glad to go on with the work," she said; "it is just what I
like."
"Too bad, too bad!" I cried. "Cannot it be prevented? Cannot I see
somebody? You do not know how much I--how exactly you"--
"Excuse me," said Sylvia, "for interrupting you, but what time is it?"
I glanced at the clock. "It wants four minutes of twelve," I gasped.
"Then I must bid you good-by," she said.
"Good-by?" I repeated. "How can you bid me good-by? Confound this
grating! Isn't that door open?"
"No," she replied, "it's locked. Do you want to shake hands with me?"
"Of course I do!" I cried. "Good-by like this! It cannot be."
"I think," she said quickly, "that if you could get out of your window,
you might come to mine and shake hands."
What a scintillating inspiration! What a girl! I had not thought of it!
In a moment I had bounded out of my window, and was standing under hers,
which was not four feet from the ground. There she was, with her
beautiful white hand already extended. I seized it in both of mine.
"Oh, Sylvia," I said, "I cannot have you go in this way. I want to tell
you--I want to tell you how"--
"You are very good," she interrupted, endeavoring slightly to withdraw
her hand, "and when the story of Tomaso and Lucilla is finished and
printed I am going to read it, rules or no rules."
"It shall never be finished," I exclaimed vehemently, "if you do not
write it," and, lifting her hand, I really believe I was about to kiss
it, when with a quick movement she drew it from me.
"She is coming," she said; "good-by! good-by!" and with a wave of her
hand she was gone from the window.
I did not return to my study. I stood by the side of the house, with my
fists clenched and my eyes set. Then, suddenly, I ran to the garden
wall; looking over it, I saw, far down the shaded village street, two
gray figures walking away.
XXII.
I CLOSE MY BOOK.
By the rarest good fortune my grandmother started that afternoon for a
visit to an old friend at the seashore, and, in the mild excitement of
her departure, I do not think she noticed anything unusual in my
demeanor.
"And so your amanuensis has left you?" she remarked, as she was eating a
hasty luncheon. "Sister Sarah stopped for a moment and told me so. She
said there was another one ready to take the place, if you wanted her."
I tried to suppress my feelings, but I must have spoken sharply.
"Want her!" I exclaimed. "I want none of her!"
My grandmother looked at me for a moment.
"I shall be sorry, Horace," she said, "if you find that the sisters do
not work to suit you. I hoped that you might continue to employ them,
because the House of Martha is at such a convenient distance, and offers
you such a variety of assistance to choose from; and also because you
would contribute to a most worthy cause. You know that all the money
they may make is to go to hospitals and that sort of thing."
"I was a little afraid, however," she continued, after a pause, "that
the sister you engaged might not suit you. She was so much younger than
the others that I feared that, away from the restraints of the
institution, she might be a little frivolous. Was she ever frivolous?"
"Not in the least," I answered; "not for an instant."
"I am very glad to hear that," she remarked,--"very glad indeed. I take
an interest in that sister. Years ago I knew her family, but that was
before she was born. I remember that I was intending to speak to you
about her, but in some way I was interrupted."
"Well," I asked, "tell me now, who is she?"
"She _is_," said my grandmother, "Sister Hagar, of the House of Martha.
She _was_ Sylvia Raynor, of New Haven. I think that in some way her life
has been darkened. Mother Anastasia takes a great interest in her, and
favors her a good deal. I know there was opposition to her entering the
House, but she was determined to do it. You say you are not going to
engage another sister? Who is to be your amanuensis?"
"No one," I answered. "I shall stop writing for the present. This is a
very good time. I've nearly reached the end of--a sort of division of
the book."
"An excellent idea," said my grandmother, with animation. "You ought to
go to the sea or the mountains. You have been working very hard. You are
not looking well."
"I shall go, I shall go," I answered quickly; "fishing, probably, but I
can't say where. I'll write to you as soon as I decide."
"Now that is very pleasant," said my grandmother, as she rose from the
table, "very pleasant indeed; and if you write that you will be away
fishing for a week or two, I shall stay at the Bromleys' longer than I
intended,--perhaps until you return."
"A week or two!" I muttered to myself.
Walkirk had sharper eyes than those of my grandmother. I am sure that
when he came that evening he saw immediately that something was the
matter with me,--something of moment. He was a man of too much tact to
allude to my state of mind; but in a very short time I saved him all the
trouble of circumspection, for I growled out that I could not talk about
travels at present, and then told him that I could not write about them,
either, for I had lost my secretary. His countenance exhibited much
concern.
"But you can get another of the sisters," he said.
What I replied to this I do not remember, but I know I expressed myself
so freely, so explicitly, and with such force that Walkirk understood
very well that I wanted the secretary I had lost, that I wanted none
other, and that I wanted her very much indeed. In fact, he comprehended
the situation perfectly.
I was not sorry. I wanted somebody to whom I could talk about the
matter, in whom I could confide. In ten minutes I was speaking to
Walkirk in perfect confidence.
"But you can't do anything," said he, when there came a pause. "This is
a case in which there is nothing to do. My advice is that you go away
for a time, and try to get over it."
"I am going away," I replied.
"You could do nothing better," Walkirk remarked. "I am altogether in
favor of that, although of course such counsel is against my own
interests."
"Not at all," said I, catching his meaning, "for I shall take you with
me."
After a considerable pause in the conversation Walkirk inquired if I had
decided where I would go.
"No," I answered, "that is your affair. My desire is to get away from
every place where there is any chance of seeing a woman. I wish to
obliterate from my mind all idea of the female human being. In fact, I
think I should like to take lodgings near a monastery, and have the
monks come and write for me,--a different one every day."
Walkirk smiled. "Since you wish me to select your retreat," he said, "I
am bound to have an opinion regarding it. I might advise a visit to the
Trappists of Kentucky, or to some remote fishing and hunting region; but
it strikes me that a background made up of exclusive association with
men would be very apt to bring out in strong relief any particular
female image which you might have in your mind. I should say that the
best way of getting rid of such an image would be to merge it in a lot
of other female images."
"Away with the idea!" I cried. "Walkirk, I will neither merge nor
relieve. I will go with you to some place where we shall see neither men
nor women; where we can hunt, fish, sail, sleep, read, smoke, and banish
the world. I don't wish you to take a servant. We can do without
service, and if necessary I can cook. I put the whole matter in your
hands, Walkirk, and when you have decided on our destination let me
know."
The next afternoon Walkirk found me at my club in the city, and informed
me that he had selected a place which he thought would suit my purposes.
"No people?" I asked.
"None but ourselves," replied he.
"Very good," said I. "When can we start?"
"I shall be ready to-morrow afternoon," he answered, "and I will call
for you at your house."
XXIII.
RACKET ISLAND.
We traveled all night, and early in the morning alighted at a small
station, on the shore of a broad bay. Here we found moored a cat-rigged
sailboat, of which Walkirk took possession, and we stowed therein the
valises, guns, and fishing tackle which we had brought with us. I
examined the craft with considerable interest. It was about twenty feet
long, had a small cabin divided into two compartments, and appeared to
be well stocked with provisions and other necessaries.
"Is it to be a long cruise?" I said to Walkirk; "and do you know how to
sail a boat?"
"With this wind," he answered, "we should reach our destination in a
couple of hours, and I consider myself a very fair skipper."
"Up sail, then," I cried, "and I am not in the least hurry to know where
I am going."
Walkirk sailed a boat very well, but he did it in rather an odd way, as
if he had learned it all out of a book, and never had handled a tiller
before. I am not a bad amateur sailor myself, but I gave no
consideration to the management of our craft. Walkirk had said that he
knew where he was going, and was able to sail there, and I left the
matter entirely to him; and whether or not this were his first essay in
sailing, in due time we ran upon a low beach, and he exclaimed:--
"Here we are!"
I rose to my feet and looked about me. "Now, then," said I, "I shall ask
you, where are we?"
"This is Racket Island," he replied, "and as soon as we get the boat
pulled up and the sail down I will tell you about it."
"Racket Island," said Walkirk, a short time afterwards, as we stood
together on a little sandy bluff, "was discovered two years ago by me
and a friend, as we were sailing about in this bay. I suppose other
people may have discovered it before, but as I have seen no proof of
this I am not bound to believe it. We named it Racket Island, having
found on the beach an old tennis racket, which had been washed there by
the waves from no one knows where. The island is not more than half a
mile long, with a very irregular coast. The other end of it, you see, is
pretty well wooded. We stayed here for three days, sleeping in our boat;
and so far as solitude is concerned, we might as well have been on a
desert island in the midst of the Pacific. Now I propose that we do the
same thing, and stay for three days, or three weeks, or as long as you
please. This is the finest season of the year for camping out, and we
can moor the boat securely, and cook and sleep on board of it. There is
plenty of sand and there is plenty of shade, and I hope you will like
it."
"I do!" I cried. "On Racket Island let us settle!"
For two days I experienced a sort of negative enjoyment. If I could not
be at home dictating to my late secretary, or, better still, looking at
her, as she sat close to the grating, reading to me, this was the next
best thing I could do. I could walk over the island; I could sail around
it; I could watch Walkirk fish; I could lie on the sand, and look at the
sky; and I could picture Sylvia with her hair properly arranged, and
attired in apparel suited to her. In my fancy I totally discarded the
gray garb of the sisters of the House of Martha, and dressed my nun
sometimes in a light summer robe, with a broad hat shading her face, and
again in the richest costumes of silks and furs. Sometimes Walkirk
interrupted these pleasant reveries, but that, of course, was to be
expected.
In several directions we could see points of land, but it did not
interest me to know what these were, or how far away they were. Walkirk
and I had Racket Island to ourselves. My grandmother was happy with her
friends, and where the rest of the world happened to stow themselves I
did not care. Several times I said this to myself, but it was a mistake.
I cared very much where Sylvia stowed herself. Philosophize as I might,
I thought of her continually in that doleful House of Martha; and as I
thought of her there I cried out against the shortcomings of
civilization.
We had pitched a small tent in the shelter of a clump of trees on the
higher part of the island; and near this, on the morning of our third
day, I was sitting, smoking, and trying the effect of Sylvia's face
under a wide black hat heavy with ostrich plumes, when Walkirk
approached me, carrying a string of freshly caught fish.
"I am sorry to say," said he, "that in coming here to escape the society
of women we have made a failure, for one of them is sitting on the
beach, on the other side of the island."
I sprang to my feet with an abrupt exclamation.
"How did the woman get here?" I cried. "I thought this place was
deserted."
"It is; I know every inch of it. No one lives here, but this female
person came in a small sailboat. I saw it tied up, not far from where
she is sitting."
"If women come here," I said, "I want to go, and you may as well get
ready to leave."
"I think," remarked Walkirk, "that it would be well not to be in too
great a hurry to leave. I know of no place where we are less likely to
be disturbed, and so long as these dry nights continue there can be no
pleasanter camping place. She may now be sailing away, and the chances
are we shall never see her again."
"I'll go and look into the matter," said I.
I walked over the ridge of the little island, and soon caught sight of a
female figure sitting on the sandy beach. Near by was the boat which
Walkirk had mentioned. As soon as I saw her I stopped; but she must have
heard my approach, for she turned toward me. I had come merely to make
an observation of her, but now I must go on. As I approached her I
turned as if I were about to walk along the shore, and as I passed her I
raised my hat. She was a lady of middle age, of a reddish blonde
complexion, and her hair was negligently put up under a plain straw hat.
Her large blue eyes, her slightly uplifted brows, and the general
expression of her rather thin face gave me the idea that she was a
pleasantly disposed woman, who was either very tired or not in good
health.
"Good-morning, sir," she said. "On desert islands, you know, people
speak to each other without ceremony."