Captain Jabe's cows were carefully selecting the edible portions of the
herbage, and, having passed the crest of a rounded hill, I found myself
on the edge of a piece of woodland, which seemed to be of considerable
extent. This suited my mood exactly, and I was soon following the curves
and bends of a rude roadway, in places almost overgrown by vines and
bushes, which led me deeper and deeper into the shadowed recesses of the
woods. It was now about four o'clock in the afternoon. The sun was still
well up, and out in the open the day was warm for an up-and-down-hill
stroll; but here in the woods it was cool and quiet, and the air was
full of the pleasant summer smells that come from the trees, the leaves,
and the very earth of the woods.
It was not long before I came upon a stream of a character that somewhat
surprised me. It was not very wide, for at this spot the trees met above
it, darkening its waters with their quivering shadows; but it was
evidently deep, much deeper than the woodland streams of its size to
which I had been accustomed. I would have liked to cross it and continue
my walk, but I saw no way of getting over. With a broken branch I
sounded the water near the shore, and found it over two feet deep; and
as it was no doubt deeper toward the middle, I gave up the idea of
reaching the other side. But as I had no particular reason for getting
over, especially as I should be obliged to get back again, I contented
myself easily with my present situation, and, taking a seat on the
upheaved root of a large tree, I lighted a cigar, and gave myself up to
the delights of this charming solitude. I was glad to be away from
everybody, even from Walkirk, the companion I had chosen for my summer
journey.
There were insects gently buzzing in the soft summer air; on the other
side of the stream, in a spot unshadowed by the trees, the water was
sparkling in the sunlight, and every little puff of the fitful breeze
brought to me the smell of wild grapes, from vines which hung from the
trees so low that they almost touched the water. It was very still in
these woods. I heard nothing but the gently rustling leaves, the faint
buzzing in the air, and an occasional tiny splash made by some small
fish skimming near the surface of the stream. When I sat down on the
root of the tree, I intended to think, reflect, make plans, determine
what I should do next; but I did nothing of the sort. I simply sat and
drank in the loveliness of this woodland scene.
The stream curved away from me on either hand, and the short stretch of
it which I could see to the left seemed to come out of the very heart of
the woods. Suddenly I heard in this direction a faint regular sound in
the water, as if some animal were swimming. I could not see anything,
but as the sounds grew stronger I knew that it must be approaching. I
did not know much of the aquatic animals in this region; perhaps it
might be an otter, a muskrat, I knew not what. But, whatever it was, I
wanted to see it, and, putting down my cigar, I slipped softly behind
the tree at whose foot I had been sitting.
Now the swimming object was in view, coming rapidly toward me down the
middle of the stream. There was but little of it above the water, and
the shadows were so heavy that I could see nothing but a dark point,
with a bright ripple glancing away from it on either side. Nearer and
nearer it came into the better lighted portion of the stream. It was not
a small animal. The ripples it made were strong, and ran out in long
lines; its strokes were vigorous; the head that I saw grew larger and
larger. Steadily it came on; it reached the spot in the clear light of
the sun. It was the head of a human swimmer. On the side nearest me, I
could see, under the water, the strokes of a dark-clad arm. Above the
water was only a face, turned toward me and upward. A mass of long hair
swept away from it, its blue eyes gazed dreamily into the treetops; for
a moment the sunbeams touched its features. My heart stopped
beating,--it was the face of Sylvia.
Another stroke and it had passed into the shadow. The silvery ripples
came from it to me, losing themselves against the shore. It passed on
and on, away from me. I made one step from behind the tree; then
suddenly stopped. On went the head and upturned face, touched once more
by a gleam of light, and then it disappeared around a little bluff
crowned with a mass of shrubbery and vines. I listened, breathless; the
sounds of the strokes died away. All was still again.
For some minutes I stood, bewildered, dazed, doubting whether I had been
awake or dreaming. My mind could not grasp what had happened,--even my
imagination could not help me. But one thing I knew: whether this had
all been real, or whether it had been a dream, I had seen the face of
Sylvia. This I knew as I knew I lived.
Slowly I came away, scarcely knowing how I walked or where I emerged
from the woods, and crossed the open country to the house of Captain
Jabe.
XXX.
A DISCOVERY.
I found the quilting party at supper. I could see them through the open
windows of the large living-room, and I heard their chatter and laughing
when I was still a considerable distance from the house. With my mind
quivering with the emotions excited by what had happened in the woods,
it was impossible for me to join a party like this. I walked around the
barn and into a little orchard, where, between two gnarled apple-trees,
there hung an old hammock, into which I threw myself.
There I lay, piling conjecture and supposition high upon each other; but
not at all could I conjecture how it was that the face which I had last
seen in my own home, under the gray bonnet of a sister of Martha, should
flash upon my vision in this far-away spot, and from the surface of a
woodland stream.
It was growing dusky, when I heard a loud whistle, and my name was
called. I whistled in return, and in a few moments Walkirk came running
to me.
"I was beginning to get frightened," he said. "I have been looking
everywhere for you. We have had supper, and the party is breaking up.
There is no moon to-night, and the people must start early for their
homes."
"Let them all get away," I replied; "and when they are entirely out of
sight and hearing let me know, and I'll go in to supper."
"I am afraid," said Walkirk, hesitating, "that they will not like that.
You know these country people are very particular about leave-taking,
and all that sort of thing."
"I can't help it," I answered. "I don't feel at all like seeing people
at present. You can go and bid them good-by in my name."
"As an under-study?" said he, smiling. "Well, if I can tell them you are
out of condition and not feeling like yourself, that will make it all
right, and will also explain why you kept yourself away all the
afternoon." With this he left me, promising to return when the guests
had departed. It was a long time before he came back, and it was then
really dark.
"Your supper is awaiting you," he announced, "and I am afraid that Mrs.
Jabe is contemplating a hot footbath and some sort of herb tea; and we
ought to turn in pretty early to-night, for Captain Jabe has announced
that he will sail between four and five o'clock in the morning."
"Walkirk," said I, sitting up in the hammock, "I have no intention of
sailing to-morrow. I prefer to stay here for a time; I don't know for
how long."
"Stay here!" exclaimed Walkirk. "What on earth can you do here? What
possible attraction can this place have?"
"My good Walkirk," I said, rising and walking toward the house, "I am
here, and here I want to stay. Reasons are the most awkward things in
the world. They seldom fit; let us drop them. Perhaps, if Captain and
Mrs. Jabe think I did not treat their company with proper courtesy, they
may feel that I am making amends by desiring to stay with them. Any way,
I am going to stay."
Captain Jabe and his wife were very much surprised when I announced my
intention of remaining at their place for a day or two longer, but, as I
had surmised, they were also flattered.
"This is a quiet place," said the captain, "but as ye ain't very well,
and seem to like to keep to yerself, I don't see why it shouldn't suit
ye. There's plenty o' good air, and fishin' if ye want it, and we can
accommodate ye and give ye plenty to eat. I shall be back to-morrow
night, and expect to stay home over Sunday myself."
Walkirk was very much dissatisfied, and made a strong attempt to turn me
from my purpose. "If you intend to do anything in regard to Miss
Raynor," he said, "I really think you ought to get home as soon as you
can. Mother Anastasia is now having everything her own way, you know."
"Walkirk," said I, "you blow hot and cold. If it had not been for you, I
should be home this minute; but you dissuaded me from a hot chase after
Mother Anastasia, and now my ardor for the chase has cooled, and I am
quite inclined to let that sport wait."
Walkirk looked at me inquiringly. It was evident that he did not
understand my mood.
The next morning I found myself in a quandary. I had determined to make
a long tramp inland, and if necessary to ford or swim streams, and I
could not determine whether or not it would be wise to take Walkirk with
me. I concluded at last to take him; it would be awkward to leave him
behind, and he might be of use. We provided ourselves with fishing rods
and tackle and two pairs of wading-boots, as well as with a luncheon
basket, well filled by Mrs. Jabe, and started on our expedition. I felt
in remarkably good spirits.
I had formed no acceptable hypothesis in regard to what I had seen the
day before, but I was going to do something better than that; I was
going to find out if what had occurred could possibly be real and
actual. If I should be convinced that this was impossible, then I
intended to accept the whole affair as a dream which had taken place
during an unconscious nap.
When we reached the woodland stream, Walkirk gazed about him with
satisfaction. "This looks like sport," he said. "I see no reason why
there should not be good fishing in this creek. I did not suppose we
should find such pleasant woods and so fine a stream in Captain Jabe's
neighborhood."
"You must know," said I, "that I have a talent for exploration and
discovery. Had it not been for this stream, I should not have thought of
such a thing as allowing Captain Jabe and Abner to sail off by
themselves this morning."
"Really," replied Walkirk, "you care much more for angling than I
supposed."
Truly I cared very little for angling, but I had discovered that Walkirk
was an indefatigable and patient fisherman. I had intended that he
should cross the stream with me, but it now occurred to me that it would
be far better to let him stay on this side, while I pursued my
researches alone. Accordingly I proposed that he should fish in the part
of the stream which I had seen the day before, while I pressed on
farther. "In this way," I remarked artfully, "we shall not interfere
with each other." Had I supposed that there was the slightest
possibility of the appearance on the stream of the apparition of the day
before, I should have requested Walkirk to fish from the top of a
distant tree. But I had no fears on this score. If what I had seen had
been a phantasm, my under-study would have to doze to see it, and I knew
he would not do that; and if what I had seen was real, it would not
appear this morning, for the water was too low for swimming. The creek,
as I now perceived, was affected by the tide, and its depth was very
much less than on the preceding afternoon.
I turned to the right, and followed the stream for some distance; now
walking by its edge, and now obliged, by masses of undergrowth, to make
a detour into the woods. At last I came to a spot where the stream,
although wide, appeared shallow. In fact, even in the centre I could see
the stones at the bottom. I therefore put on my wading-boots and boldly
crossed. The woods here were mostly of pine, free from undergrowth, and
with the ground softened to the foot by a thick layer of pine needles.
Now that I was on the other side of the creek, I desired to make my way
out of the woods, which could not, I imagined, be very extensive. To
discover a real basis for yesterday's vision, I believed that it would
be necessary to reach open country. Leaving the stream behind me, it was
not long before I came to a rude pathway; and although this seemed to
follow the general direction of the creek, I determined to turn aside
from the course I was taking and follow it. After walking for nearly a
mile, sometimes seeing the waters of the stream, and sometimes entirely
losing sight of them, I found the path making an abrupt turn, and in a
few minutes was out of the woods.
The country before me was very much like that about Captain Jabe's
residence. There were low rolling hills covered with coarse grass and
ragged shrubbery, with here and there a cluster of trees. Not a sign of
human habitation was in sight. Reaching the top of a small hill, I saw
at my right, and not very far before me, a wide expanse of water. This I
concluded must be the bay, although I had not expected to see it in this
direction.
I went down the hill toward the shore. "If what I seek is in reality," I
said to myself, "it will naturally love to live somewhere near the
water." Near the beach I struck a path again, and this I followed, my
mind greatly agitated by the thoughts of what I might discover, as well
as by the fear that I might discover nothing.
After a walk of perhaps a quarter of an hour I stopped suddenly. I had
discovered something. I looked about me, utterly amazed. I was on the
little beach which the Sand Lady had assigned to Walkirk and me as a
camping ground.
I sat down, vainly endeavoring to comprehend the situation. Out of the
mass of wild suppositions and conjectures which crowded themselves into
my mind there came but one conviction, and with that I was satisfied:
Sylvia was here.
It mattered not that the Sand Lady had said that hers was the only house
upon the island; it mattered not that Captain Jabe had said nothing of
his neighbor; in truth, nothing mattered. One sister of the House of
Martha had come to this place; why not another? What I had seen in the
woods had been no fantasy. Sylvia was here.
XXXI.
TAKING UP UNFINISHED WORK.
My reasons for believing that Sylvia was on this island were
circumstantial, it is true, but to me they were entirely conclusive, and
the vehement desire of my soul was to hasten to the house and ask to see
her. But I did not feel at all sure that this would be the right thing
to do. The circumstances of this case were unusual. Sylvia was a sister
of a religious house. It was not customary for gentlemen to call upon
such sisters, and the lady who was the temporary custodian of this one
might resent such an attempt.
It was, however, impossible for me entirely to restrain my impulses, and
without knowing exactly what I intended to do I advanced toward the
house. Very soon I saw its chimneys above the trees which partly
surrounded it. Then, peeping under cover of a thicket, I went still
nearer, so that, if there had been any people in the surrounding
grounds, I could have seen them; but I saw no one, and I sat down on a
log and waited. It shamed me to think that I was secretly watching a
house, but despite the shame I continued to sit and watch.
There was the flutter of drapery on a little porch. My heart beat
quickly, my eyes were fixed upon the spot; but nothing appeared except a
maid who brought out some towels, which she hung on a bush to dry. Then
again I watched and watched.
After a time four people came out from the house, two of them carrying
colored parasols. I knew them instantly. There was the Middle-Aged Man
of the Sea, and his friend the Shell Man; and there was the Sand Lady,
and my enemy who called herself a Person. They went off toward the
little pier. Sylvia was not with them, nor did she join them. They
entered their boat and sailed away. They were going fishing, as was
their custom. The fact that Sylvia was not with them, and that no one of
them had stayed behind to keep her company, caused my heart to fall. In
cases like mine, it takes very little to make the heart fall. The
thought forced itself into my mind that perhaps, after all, I had seen a
vision, and had been building theories on dreams.
Suddenly the shutter of an upper window opened, and I saw Sylvia!
It was truly Sylvia. She was dressed in white, not gray. Her hair was
massed upon her head. There was no gray bonnet. She looked up at the
sky, then at the trees, and withdrew.
My heart was beating as fast as it pleased. My face was glowing, and
shame had been annihilated. I sat and watched. Presently a door opened,
and Sylvia came out.
Now I rose to my feet. I must go to her. It might not be honorable to
take her at this disadvantage, but there are moments when even honor
must wait for a decision upon its case. However, there was no necessity
for my going to Sylvia; she was coming to me.
As she walked directly to the spot where I stood, I saw Sylvia as I had
seen her in my day-dreams,--a beautiful girl, dressed as a beautiful
girl should dress in summer time. In one hand she carried a portfolio,
in the other a little leathern case. As she came nearer, I saw that she
was attired exactly as Mother Anastasia had been dressed when I met her
here. Nearer she came, but still she did not see me. I was not now
concealed, but her eyes seemed fixed upon the path in which she was
walking.
When she was within a hundred feet of the thicket through which her path
would lead, I advanced to meet her. I tried to appear cool and composed,
but I am afraid my success was slight. As for Sylvia, she stopped
abruptly, and dropped her leathern case. I think that at first she did
not recognize me, and was on the point of screaming. Suddenly to come
upon a man in the midst of these solitudes was indeed startling.
Quickly, however, I made myself known, and her expression of fright
changed to one of amazement. I am happy to say that she took the hand I
offered her, though she seemed to have no words with which to return my
formal greeting. In cases like this, the one who amazes should not
impose upon the amazed one the necessity of asking questions, but should
begin immediately to explain the situation.
This I did. I told Sylvia how I had been accidentally brought to Captain
Jabe's house, how I had strolled off in this direction, and how
delighted I was to meet her here. In all this I was careful not to
intimate that I had suspected her presence in this region. While
speaking, I tried hard to think what I should say when she should
remark, "Then you did not know I was here?" But she did not make this
remark. She looked at me with a little puzzled wrinkle on her brow, and
said, with a smile:--
"It is absolutely wonderful that you should be here, and I should not
know it; and that I should be here, and you should not know it."
Ever since my meeting with Mother Anastasia it had been my purpose, as
soon as I could find or make an opportunity, to declare to Sylvia my
love for her. Apart from my passionate yearning in this direction, I
felt that what I had done and attempted to say when I had parted from my
secretary made it obligatory on me, as a man of honor, to say more, the
moment I should be able to do so.
Now the opportunity had come; now we were alone together, and I was able
to pour out before her the burning words which so often, in my hours of
reverie, had crowded themselves upon my mind. The fates had favored me
as I had had no reason to expect to be favored, but I took no advantage
of this situation. I spoke no word of love. I cannot say that Sylvia's
demeanor cooled my affection, but I can say that it cooled my desire for
instantaneous expression of it. After her first moments of astonishment,
her mind seemed entirely occupied with the practical unraveling of the
problem of our meeting. I endeavored to make this appear a very
commonplace affair. It was quite natural that my companion and I should
come together to a region which he had before visited.
"Yes," said she, "I suppose all out-of-the-way things can be made
commonplace, if one reasons long enough. As for me, of course it is
quite natural that, needing a change from the House of Martha, I should
come to my mother's island."
"Your mother!" I stammered.
"Yes," she answered. "Mrs. Raynor, who spends her summers in that house
over there, is my mother. Her brother is here, too, and she has some
friends with her. Mother Anastasia was away recently on a little jaunt,
and when she came back she said that I looked tired and wan, and that I
ought to go to my mother's for a fortnight. So I came. That was all
simple enough, you see."
Simple enough! Could anything be more extraordinary, more enigmatical? I
did not know what to say, what course to pursue; but in the midst of my
surprise I had sense enough to see that, until I knew more, the less I
said the better. Sylvia did not know that I had visited her mother's
island and her mother's house. It is possible that she did not know that
Mother Anastasia had been here. I must decide whether or not I would
enlighten her on these points. My disposition was to be perfectly open
and frank with her, and to be thus I must enlighten her. But I waited,
and in answer to her statement merely told her how glad I was that she
had a vacation and such a delightful place to come to. She did not
immediately reply, but stood looking past me over the little vale beyond
us.
"Well, here I am," she said presently, "and in a very different dress
from that in which you used to see me; but for all that, I am still a
sister of the House of Martha, and so"--
"So what?" I interrupted.
"I suppose I should go back to the house," she answered.
Now I began to warm up furiously.
"Don't think of it!" I exclaimed. "Now that I have met you, give me a
few moments of your time. Let me see you as you are, free and
undisguised, like other women, and not behind bars or in charge of old
Sister Sarah."
"Wasn't she horrid?" said Sylvia.
"Indeed she was," I replied; "and now cannot you walk a little with me,
or shall we sit down somewhere and have a talk?"
She shook her head. "Even if mother and the rest had not gone away in
the boat, I could not do that, you know."
If she persisted in her determination to leave me, she should know my
love in two minutes. But I tried further persuasion.
"We have spent hours together," I said; "why not let me make you a
little visit now?"
Still she gently shook her head, and looked away. Suddenly she turned
her face toward me. Her blue eyes sparkled, her lips parted, and there
was a flush upon her temples.
"There is one thing I would dearly like," she said, "and I think I could
stay for that. Will you finish the story of Tomaso and Lucilla?"
"I shall be overjoyed to do it!" I cried, in a state of exultation.
"Come, let us sit over there in the shade, at the bottom of this hill,
and I will tell you all the rest of that story."
Together we went down the little slope.
"You can't imagine," she said, "how I have longed to know how all that
turned out. Over and over again I have finished the story for myself,
but I never made a good ending to it. It was not a bit like hearing it
from you."
I found her a seat on a low stone near the trunk of a tree, and I sat
upon the ground near by, while my soul bounded up like a loosened
balloon.
"Happy thought!" she exclaimed. "I came out here to write letters, not
caring for fishing, especially in boats; how would you like me to write
the rest of the story from your dictation?"
Like it! I could scarcely find words to tell her how I should like it.
"Very well, then," said she, opening her portfolio and taking out some
sheets of paper. "My inkstand is in that case which you picked up;
please give it to me, and let us begin. Now this is a very different
affair. I am finishing the work which the House of Martha set me to do,
and I assure you that I have been very much dissatisfied because I have
been obliged to leave it unfinished. Please begin."
"I cannot remember at this moment," I said, "where we left off."
"I can tell you exactly," she answered, "just as well as if I had the
manuscript before me. Tomaso held Lucilla by the hand; the cart was
ready in which he was to travel to the sea-coast; they were calling him
to hurry; and he was trying to look into her face, to see if he should
tell her something that was in his heart. You had not yet said what it
was that was in his heart. There was a chance, you know, that it might
be that he felt it necessary for her good that the match should be
broken off."
"How did you arrange this in the endings you made?" I asked. "Did you
break off the match?"
"Don't let us bother about my endings," she said. "I want to know
yours."
XXXII.
TOMASO AND LUCILLA.
On this happy morning, sitting in the shade with Sylvia, I should have
much preferred to talk to her of herself and of myself than to dictate
the story of the Sicilian lovers; but if I would keep her with me I must
humor her, at least for a time, and so, as well as I could, I began my
story.