this does not seem to be a desert island. May I be permitted to ask if
it is a place of much resort?"
"Of course you may," she answered. "People sometimes come here; but
would you like it better if they did not? You need not answer; I know
you would."
This was a very free and easy lady, but if she liked that mood it suited
me very well.
"Since you will have it," I replied, "I will admit I came here because I
thought my companion and I would have the island to ourselves."
"And now you are disappointed," she said, with a smile.
She was surely a person of very pleasant humor.
"Good lady," said I, "you must not corner me. I came here because I
thought it would be a good place in which to stop awhile and grumble
undisturbed; and as you say it is proper to be unceremonious, may I ask
how you happen to be here, and if you sail your boat yourself?"
"I am here," she answered, "because I like this island. I take an
interest in it for two reasons: one is that it is a good island, and the
other is that I own it."
"Really!" I exclaimed, in sudden embarrassment, "you must pardon me! I
assure you I did not know that."
"Don't apologize," she said, raising her hand. "Scarcely any one knows,
or at least remembers, that I own this island. I bought it a good many
years ago, intending to build upon it; but it was considered too remote
from the mainland, and I have established a summer home on the island
which you can just see, over there to the west; so this island is
perfectly free to respectable seekers after solitude or fish. I may add
that I do not sail my boat, but came here this morning with my brother
and another gentleman. They have now gone up the beach to look for
shells."
"Madam," said I, "I feel that I am an intruder; but to assure you that I
am a respectable one, allow me to introduce myself," and I presented my
card.
"No, thank you," she replied, with a smile, as she gently waved back my
card; "we don't do that sort of thing here; as far as possible we omit
all ordinary social customs. We come here to rid ourselves, for a time,
of manners and customs. My other island is called the 'Tangent,' because
there we fly off from our accustomed routine of life. We dress as we
please, and we live as we please. We drop all connection with society
and its conventions. We even drop the names by which society knows us. I
am known as the 'Lady Who Sits on the Sand,' commonly condensed to the
'Sand Lady.' My brother, who spends most of his time in his boat, is the
'Middle-Aged Man of the Sea,' and his scientific friend is the 'Shell
Man.' When we have stayed on the Tangent as long as the weather and our
pleasure induce us, we return to our ordinary routine of life. Now, if
you have any title which is characteristic of you, I shall be glad to
hear it, as well as that of your companion. We consider ourselves
capable of forming unbiased opinions in regard to what is generally
known as respectability."
It struck me as a very satisfactory thing to look upon this pleasant
lady solely and simply as a human being. It is so seldom that we meet
any one who can be looked upon in that light.
"Madam," I said, "I greatly like your plan for putting yourselves out of
the world for a time, but I find it difficult properly to designate
myself."
"Oh, anything will do," she said; "for instance, your reason for
desiring to seclude yourself."
"Very well, then," said I, "you may call me a 'Lover in Check.'"
"Excellent!" she exclaimed,--"just the sort of person for this place;
and what is the other one?"
"Oh, he is an Understudy," I replied.
"Delightful," she said; "I never saw one. And here come my brother and
the Shell Man."
I was now introduced formally by my new title to the Middle-Aged Man of
the Sea, a hearty personage, with a curling beard, and to the Shell Man,
who was tall, and wore spectacles.
When my presence was explained, the brother was as cordial as the lady
had been, and proffered any assistance which I might need during my
sojourn on the island. When they took their leave, the Sand Lady urged
me to inhabit her island as long as I pleased, and hoped that I and the
Understudy would sometimes sail over to them, and see what it was to be
on a Tangent. At this I shook my head, and they all laughed at me; but
it was easy to see that they were people of very friendly dispositions.
When I reported my interview to Walkirk, he remarked, "It is impossible
to get away from people, but in all probability these folks will not
come here again."
"Perhaps not," I answered, and dropped the subject.
XXIV.
THE INTERPOLATION.
"They did not seem in the least surprised to find us here," I said to
Walkirk, as we were eating our dinner.
"Who?" he asked. "Oh, the people who came over this morning? Quite
likely they saw us when we were sailing this way. We passed their island
at no great distance. There is no reason why they should object. Your
soft hat and flannel shirt would not prevent them from seeing that you
were a gentleman."
I nodded, and sat silent for a time.
"Walkirk," said I, "suppose we sail over to those people this afternoon?
It might be interesting."
"Very good," he answered, turning suddenly to watch a sea gull, which
had made a great swoop toward us, as if attracted by the odors of our
meal; "that will be an excellent thing to do."
In making our way, that afternoon, in the direction of the Tangent, our
course was not mathematically correct, for the wind did not favor us,
and it was impossible to sail in a right line; but the sun was still
high when we reached the larger island, and made the boat fast to a
little pier.
This island was much more attractive than the one on which we were
camping. The ground receded from the beach in rolling slopes covered
with short grass, and here and there were handsome spreading trees. On a
bluff, a few hundred yards from the pier, stood a low, picturesque
house, almost surrounded by a grove. The path to the house was plainly
marked, and led us along the face of a little hill to a jutting point,
where it seemed to make an abrupt turn upward. As we rounded this point,
we saw on a rocky ledge not far ahead of us a lady dressed in white. She
was standing on the ledge, looking out over the water, and apparently
very much engaged with her own thoughts, for she had not yet perceived
our approach.
At the first glance I saw that the figure before us was not the Sand
Lady. This was a tall and graceful woman, carrying no weight of years.
She held her hat in her hand, and her dark hair was slightly blown back
from a face which, seen in profile against the clear blue sky, appeared
to me to be perfect in its outline. We stopped involuntarily, and at
that moment she turned toward us. Her face was one of noble beauty, with
great dark eyes, and a complexion of that fine glow which comes to women
who are not quite brunettes.
Walkirk started, and seized my arm. "Good heavens," he whispered, "it is
Mother Anastasia!"
As we now advanced toward the lady, I could scarcely believe what I had
heard; certainly I could not comprehend it. Here was one of the most
beautiful women I had ever beheld, dressed in a robe of soft white
flannel, which, though simple, was tasteful and elegant. She had a bunch
of wild flowers in her belt, and at her neck a bow of dark yellow
ribbon. I particularly noticed these points, in my amazement at hearing
Walkirk say that this was the Mother Superior of the House of Martha.
As we approached, she greeted us pleasantly, very much as if she had
expected our coming, and then, addressing Walkirk, she said, with a
smile:
"I see, sir, that you recognize me, and I suppose you are somewhat
surprised to find me here, and thus," glancing at her dress.
"Surprised, madam!" exclaimed Walkirk. "I am astounded."
"Well," said she, "that sort of thing will happen occasionally. The
people on this island have been expecting a visit from you gentlemen,
but I really do not know where any of them are. It is not always easy to
find them, but I will go and see if the Sand Lady is in the house, and
if so I will tell her of your arrival. Of course," she continued, now
turning to me, "you both will remember that in this place we put
ourselves outside of a good many of the ordinary conventions, and are
known by our characteristics instead of our names."
I assured her we understood this, and considered it an admirable idea.
"As you, sir," turning to Walkirk, "have met me before, I will
immediately state that I am known on this island only as the
'Interpolation.'"
She turned to walk toward the house, but stopped. "We are all here to
enjoy ourselves, and it is against the rules to worry each other with
puzzles. I therefore will at once say, in explanation of my name, that I
have briefly thrust myself into the life of my friends; and of my
appearance, that the Middle-Aged Man of the Sea, who is a very
self-willed person, caused the costume which I ordinarily wear, and in
which I arrived, to be abstracted and hidden, so that I am obliged,
while here, to wear clothes belonging to others. Now, you see, Mr.
Understudy, everything is as plain as daylight."
"They have been talking about us," I remarked, as the lady rapidly
walked away, "and of course, having recognized you, she must know who I
am."
"Know you? There is no doubt of it," he answered. "She must have seen
you often in the village, although you may never have noticed her."
"I certainly never have," said I; "in fact, I make it a point not to
look under the bonnets of those gray-garbed women."
"When you meet them in the street?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied.
"She knows us both," said Walkirk, "and she has now gone to the house to
tell the people who we are; and yet I am surprised that she met us so
serenely. She could not possibly have known that the two men on that
little island were her neighbors in the village of Arden."
I made no answer. I was strangely excited. I had flown to an uninhabited
island to get away from Sylvia, and, if my conscience could be made to
work properly, to get away from all thoughts of her; and here I had met,
most unexpectedly and suddenly, with one who was probably the most
intimate connection of the girl from whom I was flying. I was amazed; my
emotion thrilled me from head to foot.
"It is just like women," remarked Walkirk, as we slowly walked toward
the house, "to put on disguises to conceal their identities, but they
have no respect for our identities. Without doubt, at this moment Mother
Anastasia is telling the lady of the house all about you and your
grandmother, your position in society, and the manner in which you were
furnished with a secretary from the House of Martha."
Still I did not reply. "Mother Anastasia!" I said to myself. "Here is a
gray-garbed sister transformed into a lovely woman. Why should not
another sister be so transformed? Why should not Sylvia be here, in soft
white raiment, with flowers and a broad hat? If one can be thus, why not
the other?" The possibility fevered me.
We found the mistress of the house--the same who was called the Sand
Lady--upon a piazza. Her demeanor had been pleasant enough when we had
seen her before, but now she greeted us as cordially as if we had been
old friends. It was plain enough that Mother Anastasia had told her all
about us. Her brother and the Shell Man were also there, and the first
was friendly and the latter polite. The Mother Superior was on the
piazza, but keeping a little in the background, as if she felt that she
had had her turn.
"And now, Mr. Lover in Check and Mr. Understudy," said the Sand Lady, "I
present you with the freedom of this island, as I have already presented
you with the freedom of the other. If what we happen to be doing
interests you, join us. If it does not, interest yourselves as you
please. That is our custom here."
The mention of the name which I had applied to myself gave me a little
shock. Under the circumstances I did not like it. It was possible that
the Mother Superior of the House of Martha might know what it meant; and
whether she knew it now, or ever should come to know it, I did not wish
the knowledge to come to her in that way.
"There is still another one of our family," said the Sand Lady; "but she
is very independent, and may not care for me to present you just now. I
will go and ask her."
She stepped off the piazza, and went to a lady who was reading in a
hammock, under a tree near by. In a minute or two this lady arose, and,
with her book in her hand, came toward us. She was a woman of good
figure, and with a certain air of loftiness. Her dress was extremely
simple, and she may have been thirty years old. Approaching us, she
said:--
"I wish to introduce myself. I am a 'Person.' In this place that is all
I am. It is my name. It denotes my characteristics. Your titles have
been mentioned to me. The ceremony is over," and, with a little nod, she
returned to her hammock.
"Now," said the Man of the Sea, "who could prune away conventionalities
better than that?" He then announced that in half an hour the tide would
serve for fishing,--that he was going out in his boat, and would take
any one who cared to accompany him; and this announcement having been
made, he settled himself upon the piazza to talk to us. The conversation
was interesting and lively. The people at this house were well worth
knowing.
The Sand Lady and Walkirk went in the boat to fish. The latter had been
very prompt to accept the invitation. I do not know whether the Shell
Man went with them or not. At all events, he disappeared, and Mother
Anastasia and myself were left upon the piazza. It surprised me that
events had so quickly shaped themselves to my advantage.
"Do you insist," I said, when we were left alone, "on being called an
Interpolation?"
"Of course I do," she answered; "that is what I am."
"You like plain speech."
"I am very fond of it," was her reply.
During the general conversation I had determined that as soon as an
opportunity offered I would speak very plainly to this lady. I looked
about me. The occupant of the hammock was not far away. I surmised that
she could readily hear me if I spoke in my ordinary tone.
"Plain speech appears difficult to you," remarked my companion.
I still looked about me. "It strikes me," said I, "that beyond the other
side of the house there is a bluff from which one might get a view of
the mainland. Would you like to go and find out whether that is so or
not?"
"I have seen that view several times," she answered; and then, after a
little pause, she added, "But I don't mind in the least seeing it
again." Together we walked to the bluff. There we found two rude seats
which had been made for the convenience of viewers, and on one of these
she seated herself.
"Now," said she, "please sit down, and you may immediately begin to ask
me about Sister Ha--"
"Oh, do not call her by that name!" I cried.
She laughed. "Very well, then," said she, "what shall I call her?"
"Sylvia," I replied.
She opened her eyes. "Upon my word," she exclaimed, "this is progress!
How did you come to know that her name is Sylvia?"
"She told me," I answered. "But why do you think I want to ask you about
Sylvia?"
"I knew there was no other reason for your wishing to have a private
talk with me; but I must admit that I would not have felt warranted to
act upon my assumptions had you not announced yourself in this place as
a Lover in Check."
"But could not some one else have held me in check?" I asked.
"No, sir," said she. "I have heard of the manner in which you parted
from your late secretary."
This conversation was getting to be plainer than I desired it to be. I
was willing to declare my position, but I did not care to have it
declared for me. I was silent for a minute.
"I did not suppose," I then said, "that you were so well informed. You
think that I am a lover held in check by the circumstances surrounding
the lady you designated my late secretary?"
"I do."
"May I ask," I continued, with a little agitation, "if Sylvia considers
me in this light, and if she has--expressed any opinion on the subject?"
"Those are pretty questions," said the lady, fixing her dark eyes upon
me. "She has said nothing about the light in which she considers you. In
fact, all she has told me about you has been in answer to questions I
have put to her; but had she spoken of you as a lover, checked or
unchecked, of course you would have been none the wiser for me. Sylvia
is a simple-hearted, frank girl, and I have thought that she might not
have suspected the nature of your very decided liking for her; but now
that I have found out that she let you know her as Sylvia I am afraid
she is deeper than I thought her. I should not be surprised if you two
had flirted dreadfully."
"I never flirt," I answered emphatically.
"That is right," said she. "Never do it."
"But why," I asked, "did you allow her to continue to come to me, if you
thought I had a decided liking for her, and all that?"
"Because I chose to do it," she replied, with not the ripple of a smile
nor the furrow of a frown upon her face.
I looked at her in amazement.
"Madam," said I, "Interpolation, Mother Anastasia, or whatever name you
give yourself, begin now and tell me about Sylvia, and speak to me
freely, as I speak to you. I love her with all my heart. If I can, I
intend to marry her, Martha or no Martha. I care not what may be the
odds against me. Now you see exactly where I stand, and as far as I am
concerned you may speak without restraint."
"You are certainly very clear and explicit," she said, "and I shall be
glad to tell you about Sylvia."
XXV.
ABOUT SYLVIA.
"Before I begin," continued my companion, slanting her hat so as to
prevent the sun from meddling with the perfect tones of her complexion,
"tell me what you already know about this young lady. I do not wish to
waste any information."
"All I know," said I, "is that her family name is Raynor,--my
grandmother told me that,--that she is absolutely, utterly, and even
wickedly out of place in the House of Martha, and that I want her for my
wife."
"Very good," said my companion, with a smile. "Now I know what not to
tell you. I am very fond of Sylvia. In fact, I believe I love her better
than any other woman in the world"--
"So do I," I interrupted.
She laughed. "For a lover in check you are entirely too ready to move.
For years I have looked upon her as a younger sister, and there is no
good thing which I would not have lavished upon her had I been able, but
instead of that I did her an injury. At times I have thought it a
terrible injury."
"You mean," I asked, "that you have allowed her to enter the House of
Martha?"
"Your quickness is wonderful," she said, "but you do not put the case
quite correctly. Had it been possible for me to prohibit her joining our
sisterhood, I should have done so; but she was perfectly free to do as
she pleased, and my advice against it was of no avail. It was my example
which induced her to enter the House of Martha. She had had trouble. She
wished to retire from the world, and devote herself to good works which
should banish her trouble. I had so devoted myself. She loved me, and
she followed me. I talked to her until I made her unhappy, and then I
let her go her way. But the great object of my life for nearly a year
has been to make that girl feel that her true way is out of the House of
Martha."
"Then she is not bound by vows or promises?" I asked, with some
excitement.
"Not in the least," said she. "She can leave us when she pleases. I do
not think she likes her life or her duties, unless, indeed, they lead
her in the direction of dictated literature; but she has a firm will,
and, having joined us, has never shown the slightest sign of a desire to
leave us. She always asserts that, when the proper time arrives, she
shall vow herself a permanent member of our sisterhood."
"What preposterous absurdity!" I exclaimed. "She will never conform to
your rules. She hates nursing. She has too much good sense to insult her
fine womanly nature by degrading and unnecessary sacrifices."
"How delightfully confidential she must have been!--but I assure you,
sir, that she never said that sort of thing to me. There were things she
liked and things she did not like, but she showed no signs of
rebellion."
"Which was wise," I said, "knowing that you thought she ought not to be
there, any way."
"Oh, but she is a little serpent," exclaimed my companion, "and so wise
to confide in you, and without flirting! It must have been charming to
see."
I did not reply to this remark, which I considered flippant, and my mind
was not inclined to flippancy.
"It may appear strange to you," she continued, "and would probably
appear strange to any one who did not understand the case, that I should
have allowed her to become your amanuensis, but this whole affair is a
very peculiar one. In the first place, it is absolutely necessary that
Sylvia should work. It is not only her duty as a sister, but without it
she would fall into a morbid mental condition. She is not fitted in any
way for the ordinary labors of our House, so I was glad to find
something which would not only suit her, but would so interest her that
it would help to draw her away from us, and back into the world, to
which she rightfully belongs. This must appear an odd desire for a
mother superior of a religious body, but it is founded on an earnest and
conscientious regard for the true welfare of my young friend.
"And then there was another reason for my allowing her to come to you.
You would smile if you could picture to yourself the mental image I had
formed of you, which was founded entirely on your grandmother's remarks
when she came to see me about engaging one of our sisters as your
secretary. Before this matter was discussed I may have seen you in the
village, but I never had known you even by sight, and from what that
good lady said of you I supposed that you were decidedly middle-aged in
feeling, if not in years; that you were extremely grave and studious,
and wished, when engaged upon literary composition, to be entirely
oblivious of your surroundings; and that you desired an amanuensis who
should be simply a writing-machine,--who would in no way annoy you by
intruding upon you any evidence that she possessed a personality. A
sister from our House, your grandmother urged, would be the very person
you needed, and infinitely better suited to the position than the
somewhat frivolous young women who very often occupy positions as
amanuenses.
"It was for these reasons that I sent Sylvia to write at the dictation
of the sedate author of the forthcoming book on European travel. Even
when I heard that a love-story had been introduced into the descriptions
of countries, I concluded, after consideration, not to interfere. I did
not think that it would be of any disadvantage to Sylvia if she should
become a little interested in love affairs; but that you should become
interested in a love affair, such as that you have mentioned to me, I
did not imagine in the remotest degree."
"I am sure," said I, "that your motives as far as Sylvia was concerned,
and your action as far as I am concerned, were heaven-born. And now, as
we are speaking plainly here together, let me ask you if you do not
think you would be fulfilling what you consider your duty to Sylvia by
aiding me to make her my wife! There can surely be no better way for her
to fill her proper place in the world than to marry a man who loves her
with his whole heart. I know that I love her above all the world; I
believe that I am worthy of her."
She answered me in a tone which was grave, but gentle. "Do you not know
you are asking me to do something which is entirely impossible? In the
first place, my official position precludes me from taking part in
affairs of this nature; and although I am willing to admit that I see no
reason why you might not be a suitable partner for Sylvia, I must also
admit that, on the other hand, I have no reason to believe that Sylvia
would be inclined to accept you as such a partner. I have no doubt that
she has made herself very agreeable to you,--that is her nature; I know
that she used to make herself very agreeable to people. You must
remember that, even should Sylvia leave us, your chances may be no
better than they are now."