at Sylvia, her portfolio in her lap, pen in hand, and her blue eyes
turned toward me, anxiously waiting for me to speak; it was so
enchanting that my mind could with difficulty be kept to the work in
hand. But it would not do to keep Sylvia waiting. Her pen began to tap
impatiently upon the paper, and I went on. We had written a page or two
when she interrupted me.
"It seems to me," she said, "that if Tomaso really starts for Naples it
will be a good while before we get to the end of the story. So far as I
am concerned, you know, I would like the story just as long as you
choose to make it; but we haven't very much time, and it would be a
dreadful disappointment to me if I should have to go away before the
story is ended."
"Why do you feel in a hurry?" I asked. "If we do not finish this
morning, cannot I come to you to-morrow?"
"Oh, no, indeed," she answered. "It's only by the merest chance, you
know, that I am writing for you this morning, and I couldn't do it
again. That would be impossible. In fact, I want to get through before
the boat comes back. Not that I should mind mother, for she knows that I
used to write for you, and I could easily explain how I came to be doing
it now; and I should not care about Uncle or Mr. Heming; but as for Miss
Laniston,--that is the lady who is visiting us,--I would not have her
see me doing this for anything in the world. She hates the House of
Martha, although she used to be one of its friends, and I know that she
would like to see me leave the sisterhood. She ridicules us whenever she
has a chance, and to see me here would be simply nuts to her."
"Is she a bad-tempered lady?" I asked. "Do you know her very well? Could
you trust her in regard to anything important?"
"Oh, I know her well enough," said Sylvia. "She has always been a friend
of the family. She is wonderfully well educated, and knows everything
and has never married, and travels all about by herself, and is just as
independent as she can be. She has very strong opinions about things,
and doesn't hesitate to tell you them, no matter whether she thinks you
like it or not. I have no doubt she is perfectly trustworthy and
honorable, and all that; but if you knew her, I do not think you would
like her, and you can easily see why I shouldn't want her to see me
doing this. It would give her a chance for no end of sneers at the work
of the sisters."
"Has she never said anything about your acting as my amanuensis?" I
asked.
"No, indeed," replied Sylvia. "You may be sure she never heard of that,
or she would have made fun enough of it."
It was impossible for me to allow this dear girl to remain longer in
ignorance of the true state of affairs.
"Miss Raynor," I said,--how I longed to say "Sylvia"!--"I am ashamed
that I have allowed you to remain as long as this under a
misunderstanding, but in truth I did not understand the case myself. I
did not know that the lady of this house was your mother, but I have met
her, and have been kindly entertained by her. I did not know Miss
Laniston's name, but I have also met her, and talked to her about you,
and she knows you used to write for me, and I do not like her."
Sylvia answered not a word, but, as she sat and looked at me with
wide-open eyes, I told her what had happened since my companion and I
had landed at Racket Island. I omitted only my confidences to Mother
Anastasia and Miss Laniston.
"Mother Anastasia has been here," repeated Sylvia, "and she never told
me! That surpasses all. And mother never mentioned that you had been
here, nor did any one." She gazed steadfastly upon the ground, a little
pale, and presently she said, "I think I understand it, but it need not
be discussed;" and, closing her portfolio, she rose to her feet.
"Sylvia," I exclaimed, springing up and stepping nearer to her, "it must
be discussed! Ever since I parted from you at the window of your
writing-room I have been yearning to speak to you. I do not understand
the actions of your family and friends, but I do know that those actions
were on your account and on mine. They knew I loved you. I have not in
the least concealed the fact that I loved you, and I hoped, Sylvia, that
you knew it."
She stood, her closed portfolio in one hand, her pen in the other, her
eyes downcast, and her face grave and quiet. "I cannot say," she
answered presently, "that I knew it, although sometimes I thought it was
so, but other times I thought it was not so. I was almost sure of it
when you took leave of me at the window, and tried to kiss my hand, and
were just about to say something which I knew I ought not to stay and
hear. It was when thinking about that morning, in fact,--and I thought
about it a great deal,--that I became convinced I must act very promptly
and earnestly in regard to my future life, and be true to the work I had
undertaken to do; and for this reason it was that I solemnly vowed to
devote the rest of my life to the House of Martha, to observe all its
rules and do its work."
"Sylvia," I gasped, "you cannot keep this vow. When you made it you did
not know I loved you. It cannot hold. It must be set aside."
She looked at me for a moment, and then her eyes again fell. "Do not
speak in that way," she said; "it is not right. Of course I was not sure
that you loved me, but I suspected it, and this was the very reason why
I took my vow."
"It is plain, then," I exclaimed bitterly, "that you did not love me;
otherwise you would never have done that!"
"Don't you think," said she, "that considering the sisterhood to which I
belong, we have already talked too much about that?"
If she had exhibited the least emotion, I think I should have burst out
into supplications that she would take the advice of her Mother
Superior; that she would listen to her friends; that she would do
anything, in fact, which would cause her to reconsider this step, which
condemned me to misery and her to a life for which she was totally
unfitted,--a career in her case of such sad misuse of every attribute of
mind and body that it wrung my heart to think of it. But she stood so
quiet, so determined, and with an air of such gentle firmness that words
seemed useless. In truth, they would not come to me. She opened her
portfolio.
"I will give you these sheets that I have written," she said; "by right
they belong to you. I am sorry the story was interrupted, for I very
much want to hear the end of it, and now I never shall."
I caught at a straw. "Sylvia," I cried, "let us sit down and finish the
story! We can surely do that. Come, it is all ready in my mind. I will
dictate rapidly."
She shook her head. "Hardly," she answered, "after what has been said.
Here are your pages."
I took the pages she handed me, because she had written them.
"Sylvia," I exclaimed, "I shall finish that story, and you shall hear
it! This I vow."
"I am going now," she responded. "Good-by."
"Sylvia," I cried, quickly stepping after her as she moved away, "will
you not say more than that? Will you not even give me your hand?"
"I will do that," she replied, stopping, "if you will promise not to
kiss it."
I took her hand, and held it a few moments without a word. Then she
gently withdrew it.
"Good-by again," she said, "I don't want you to forget me; but when you
think of me, always think of me as a sister of the House of Martha."
As I stood looking after her, she rapidly walked toward the house, and I
groaned while thinking I had not told her that if she ever thought of me
she must remember I loved her, and would love her to the end of my life.
But in a moment I was glad that I had not said this; after her words to
me it would have been unmanly, and, besides, I knew she knew it.
When I lost sight of her in the grove by the house, I turned and picked
up the pages of the story of Tomaso and Lucilla, which I had dropped. In
doing so I saw her inkstand, with its open case near by it, on the
ground by the stone on which she had been sitting. I put the inkstand in
its case, closed it, and stood for some minutes holding it and thinking;
but I did not carry it away with me as a memento. Drawing down a branch
of the tree, I hung the little case securely by its handles to a twig,
where it would be in full view of any one walking that way.
XXXIII.
THE DISTANT TOPSAIL.
I found Walkirk still fishing near the place where I had left him.
"I was beginning to be surprised at your long absence," he said, "and
was thinking of going to look for you. Have you had good luck?"
This was a hard question to answer. I smiled grimly. "I have not been
fishing," I answered. "I have been dictating my story to my nun."
The rod dropped from the relaxed fingers of my under-study, and he stood
blankly staring at me, and waiting for an explanation. I gave it.
Depressed as I was, I could not help feeling interested in the variety
of expressions which passed over Walkirk's face, as I related what had
happened since I had seen him. When I told him how near we were to our
old camp on the Sand Lady's island, he was simply amazed; his
astonishment, when he heard of the appearance of Sylvia on the scene,
was almost overpowered by his amusement, as I related how she and I had
continued the story of Tomaso and Lucilla, in the shade of the tree. But
when I informed him of Sylvia's determination to devote her life to the
work of the House of Martha, without regard to what I told her of my
love, he was greatly moved, and I am sure sincerely grieved.
"This is too bad, too bad," he said. "I did not expect it."
"Miss Raynor is young," I answered, "but the strength and integrity of
her soul are greater, and her devotion to what she believes her duty is
stronger, than I supposed. Her character is marked by a simple sincerity
and a noble dignity which I have never seen surpassed. I think that she
positively dislikes the life of the sisterhood, but, having devoted
herself to it, she will stand firmly by her resolutions and her promise
no matter what happens. As regards myself, I do not suppose that her
knowledge of my existence has any influence on her, one way or the
other. I may have interested and amused her, but that is all. If I had
finished the Italian love-story I had been telling her, I think she
would have been satisfied never to see me again."
Walkirk shook his head. "I do not believe that," he said; "her
determination to rivet the bonds which hold her to her sisterhood shows
that she was afraid of her interest in you; and if it gave her reason to
fear, it gives you reason to hope."
"Put that in the past tense, please," I replied; "whatever it may have
given, it gives nothing now. To hope would be absurd."
"Mr. Vanderley," exclaimed Walkirk, "I would not give up in that way. I
am certain, from what I know, that Miss Raynor's interest in you is
plain not only to herself, but to her family and friends; and I tell
you, sir, that sort of interest cannot be extinguished by promises and
resolutions. If I were you, I would keep up the fight. She is not yet a
vowed sister."
"Walkirk," said I, offering him my hand; "you are a good fellow, and,
although I cannot believe what you say, I thank you for saying it."
It was now long past noon, and we were both ready for the luncheon which
we had brought with us. Walkirk opened the basket, and as he arranged
its contents on the broad napkin, which he spread upon the grass, he
ruminated.
"I think," he remarked, as we were eating, "that I begin to understand
the situation. At first I could not reconcile the facts with the Sand
Lady's statement that no one lived on her island but her family, but now
I see that this creek must make an island of her domain; and so it is
that, although Captain Jabe is her neighbor, her statement is entirely
correct."
Having finished our meal, I lighted my pipe and sat down under a tree,
while Walkirk, with his rod, wandered away along the bank of the stream.
After a while he returned, and proposed that we try fishing near the
eastern outlet of the creek, where, as the tide was coming in, we might
find better sport.
"That will be a very good thing for you to do," said I, "but I shall not
fish. I am going to Mrs. Raynor's house."
"Where?" exclaimed Walkirk.
"I am going to speak to Mrs. Raynor," I answered, "whom I have known
only as the Sand Lady, but whom I must now know as Sylvia's mother. I
have determined to act boldly and openly in this matter. I have made
suit to Mrs. Raynor's daughter. I have told other people of the state of
my affections, and I think I should lose no time, having now the
opportunity, in conferring with Mrs. Raynor herself."
Walkirk's face was troubled.
"You do not approve of that?" I asked.
"Since you ask me," he answered, "I must say that I do not think it a
wise thing to do. If I properly understand Miss Raynor's character, her
mother knows that you are here; and if she is willing to have you visit
her, under the circumstances, she will make a sign. In fact, I now think
that she will make some sort of sign, by which you can see how the land
lies. Perhaps Mrs. Raynor is on your side; but I am afraid that if you
should visit the house where Miss Raynor is, it would set her mother
against you. I imagine she is a woman who would not like that sort of
thing."
"Walkirk," said I, "your reasoning is very good; but this is not a time
to reason,--it is a time to act; and I am going to see Mrs. Raynor this
day."
"I hope it may all turn out well," he replied, and walked away gravely.
I did not start immediately for the Sand Lady's house. For a long time I
sat and thought upon the subject of the approaching interview, planning
and considering how I should plead my case, and what I should answer,
and how I should overcome the difficulties which would probably be
pointed out to me.
At last, like many another man when in a similar predicament, I
concluded to let circumstances shape my plan of action, and set forth
for Mrs. Raynor's house. The walk was a long one, but I turned in order
to pass under the tree where I had begun to dictate to Sylvia; and glad
I was that I did so, for to the twig on which I had hung the case
containing her inkstand there was now attached a half sheet of note
paper. I ran to the tree, eagerly seized the paper, and read these few
words that were written on it:--
"Thank you very much for taking such good care of my little case."
"Now, then," said I to myself, proudly gazing at these lines, "this is
only a small thing, but the girl who would write it, and who would
expect me to read it, must be interested in me. She believes that I
would not fail to come here again; therefore she believes in me. That is
a great point."
For a moment I felt tempted to write something in reply, and hang it on
the tree twig. But I refrained; what I would write to Sylvia must be
read by no one but herself. That tree was in a very conspicuous
position, and my tamest words to her must not hang upon it. I carefully
folded the paper and put it in my pocket, and then, greatly encouraged,
walked rapidly to the house.
On the front piazza I found an elderly woman, with a broom. She knew me,
for she had frequently seen me during the time that I was encamped upon
the island. She was now greatly surprised at my appearance on the scene.
"Why, sir," she exclaimed, without waiting for me to speak, "have you
come back to your camp? It is too bad."
I did not like this salutation. But, making no answer to it, I asked
quickly, "Can I see Mrs. Raynor?"
"No, indeed," said she; "they've gone, every one of them, and not an
hour ago. What a pity they did not know you were here!"
"Gone!" I cried. "Where?"
"They've gone off in their yacht for a cruise," returned the woman. "The
vessel has been at Brimley for more than a week, being repaired, and she
got back this morning; and as she was all ready to sail, they just made
up their minds that they'd go off in her, for one of their little
voyages they are so fond of; and off they went, in less than two hours."
"How long do they expect to be gone?" I asked.
"Mrs. Raynor told me they would be away probably for a week or two," the
woman answered, "and she would stop somewhere and telegraph to me when
she was coming back. Of course there isn't any telegraph to this island,
but when messages come to Brimley they send them over in a boat."
Having determined to speak to Mrs. Raynor, and having set out to do so,
this undertaking appeared to me the most important thing in the world,
and one in which I must press forward, without regard to obstacles of
any kind.
"Are they going to any particular place?" I said. "Are they going to
stop anywhere?"
"There is only one place that I know of," she answered, "and that's
Sanpritchit, over on the mainland. They expect to stop there to get
provisions for the cruise, for there was but little here that they could
take with them. They wanted to get there before dark, and I don't doubt
but that, with this wind, they'll do it. If you'll step to this end of
the piazza, sir, perhaps you can see their topsail. I saw it just before
you came, as they were beginning to make the long tack."
"Yes, there it is," she continued, when we reached the place referred
to, from which a vast stretch of the bay could be seen, "but not so much
of it as I saw just now."
"Their topsail!" I ejaculated.
"Yes, sir," she said. "You can't see their mainsail, because they are so
far away, and it's behind the water, in a manner."
I stood silent for a few minutes, gazing at the little ship. Suddenly a
thought struck me. "Do you think they will sail on Sunday?" I asked.
"No, sir," she replied; "Mrs. Raynor never sails on Sunday. And that's
why I wondered, after they'd gone, why they'd started off on a Saturday.
They will have to lay up at Sanpritchit all day to-morrow; and it seems
to me it would have been a great deal pleasanter for them to stay here
Sunday, and to have started on Monday. There's no church at Sanpritchit,
or anything for them to do, so far as I know, unless Miss Raynor reads
sermons to them, which she never did here, though she's a religious
sister, which perhaps you didn't know, sir."
"Sanpritchit over Sunday," I repeated to myself.
"It's the greatest pity," said the woman, "that they didn't know you and
the other gentleman--that is, if he is with you--were coming back
to-day, for I am sure they would have been glad to take you with them.
There's room enough on that yacht, and will be more; for Mr. Heming, the
gentleman that collects shells, is not coming back with them. They are
to put him off somewhere, and he is going home. I have an idea, though I
wasn't told so, that Miss Raynor is not coming back with the rest. She
brought very little baggage with her, but she took a lot of things on
board the yacht, and that looks as if she wasn't coming back. But, bless
me, they went off in such a hurry I didn't have time to ask questions."
I now turned to go, but the woman obliged me to inform her that I had
not come to camp on the island, and that I was staying with Captain
Jabe.
"When they go off in this way," she said, "they take the maids, and
leave me and my husband in charge; and if you should fancy to come here
and camp again, I know that Mrs. Raynor would wish me to make things as
comfortable for you as I can, which, too, I'll be very glad to do."
I thanked her, and went away. "This good woman," said I to myself, "is
the person who would have read my message to Sylvia, had I been foolish
enough to hang one to the twig of the tree."
XXXIV.
THE CENTRAL HOTEL.
Captain Jabez did not return until late that Saturday evening; but as
soon as he set foot on shore I went to him and asked him if he could, in
any way, get us to Sanpritchit that night, offering to pay him liberally
for the service.
"I've got a sailboat," said he, "and ye'd be right welcome to it if it
was here; but it ain't here. I lent it to Captain Neal, of Brimley,
having no present use for it, and he won't bring it back till next week
some time. There's a dory here, to be sure; but Sanpritchit's
twenty-five miles away, and that's too far to go in a dory, especially
at night. What's your hurry?"
"I have very important business in Sanpritchit," I answered, "and if it
is possible I must go there to-night."
"Sanpritchit's a queer place to have business in," said Captain Jabe;
"and it's a pity ye didn't think of it this mornin', when ye might have
gone with me and took the train to Barley, and there's a stage from
there to Sanpritchit."
"Captain Jabez," said I, "as there seems to be no other way for me to do
this thing, I will pay you whatever you may think the service worth, if
you will take me to Sanpritchit in your grocery boat, and start
immediately. It will be slow work traveling, I know, but I think we can
surely get there before morning."
The grocer-captain looked at me for a moment, with his eyes half shut;
then he set down on the pier a basket which had been hanging on his arm,
and, putting both hands in his pockets, stared steadfastly at me.
"Do you know," he remarked presently, "that that 'ere proposition of
yours puts me in mind of a story I heard of a California man and a New
York man. The California man had come East to spend the winter, and the
New York man was a business acquaintance o' his. The California man
called at the New York man's office before business hours; and when he
found the New York man hadn't come down town yet, he went up town to see
him at his house. It was a mighty fine house, and the New York man,
being proud of it, took the California man all over it. 'Look here,'
said the California man, 'what will you take for this house, furniture
and all, just as it stands?' 'I'll take a hundred and twenty thousand
dollars,' said the New York man. 'Does that include all the odds and
ends,' asked the California man,--'old magazines, umbrellas, needles and
pins, empty bottles, photographs, candlesticks, Japanese fans, coal
ashes, and all that kind of thing, that make a house feel like a home?
My family's comin' on from California with nothin' but their clothes,
and I want a house they can go right into and feel at home, even to the
cold victuals for a beggar, if one happens to come along.' 'If I throw
in the odds and ends, it will be one hundred and twenty-five thousand,'
said the New York man. 'That's all right,' said the California man, 'and
my family will arrive, with their clothes, on the train that gets here
at 6.20 this afternoon; so if your family can get out of the house
before that time, I'm ready to pay the money, cash down.' 'All right,'
said the New York man, 'I'll see that they do it.' And at ten minutes
after six the New York family went out with their clothes to a hotel,
and at twenty minutes of seven the California family came to the house
with their clothes, and found everything all ready for 'em, the servants
havin' agreed to stay at California wages.
"Now, then," continued Captain Jabez, "I don't want to hurt nobody's
feelin's, and I wouldn't say one word that would make the smallest
infant think less of itself than it did afore I spoke, but it does
strike me that that there proposition of yours is a good deal like the
California man's offer to the New York man."
"Well," said I, "that turned out very well. Each got what he wanted."
"Yes," replied Captain Jabez, "but this ain't New York city. No, sir,
not by a long shot. I am just as willin' to accommodate a fellow-man, or
a fellow-woman, for that matter, as any reasonable person is; but if the
President of the United States, and Queen Victoria, and the prophet
Isaiah was to come to me of a Saturday night, after I'd just got home
from a week's work, and ask me to start straight off and take them to
Sanpritchit, I'd tell 'em that I'd be glad to oblige 'em, but it
couldn't be done: and that's what I say to ye, sir,--neither more nor
less." And with this he picked up his basket and went into the house.
I was not discouraged, however, and when the captain came out I proposed
to him that he should take me to Sanpritchit the next day.
"No, sir," said he. "I never have sailed my grocery boat on Sunday, and
I don't feel like beginnin'."
I walked away, but shortly afterward joined him on board his vessel,
which he was just about to leave for the night.
"Captain," I asked, "when does Sunday end in this part of the country?"
"Well, strictly speaking, it's supposed to end at sunset, or commonly at
six o'clock."
"Very well," said I; "if you will start with me for Sanpritchit at six
o'clock to-morrow evening, I will pay you your price."
I made this offer in the belief that, with ordinary good fortune, we
could reach our destination before the Raynor yacht weighed anchor on
Monday morning.
Captain Jabez considered the matter. "I am going to Sanpritchit on
Monday, any way," said he; "and if you're in such a hurry to be there
the first thing in the morning, I'd just as lieve sail to-morrow evening
at six o'clock as not."