Chapter III
The train was ten minutes late, and while she paced the platform atSawyer Falls, the nearest station, Marcia fidgeted.
She had never seen any of Jason's family. At first a desultorycorrespondence had taken place between him and his sister, Margaret;then gradually it had died a natural death--the result, no doubt, of hisindolence and neglect. When the letters ceased coming, Marcia had letmatters take their course.
Was it not kinder to allow the few who still loved him to remainignorant of what he had become and to remember instead only as thedashing lad who in his teens had left the farm and gone to seek hisfortune in the great world?
She had written Margaret a short note after his death and had receiveda reply expressing such genuine grief it had more than ever convincedher that her course had been the wise and generous one. What troubledher most in the letter had been its outpouring of sympathy for herself.She detested subterfuge and as she read sentence after sentence,which should have meant so much and in reality meant so little, theknowledge that she had not been entirely frank had brought with it anuncomfortable sense of guilt. It was not what she had said but what shehad withheld that accused her.
Marcia Howe was no masquerader, and until this moment the hypocrisyshe had practiced had demanded no sustained acting. Little by little,moreover, the pricking of her conscience had ceased and, fading intothe past, the incident had been forgotten. Miles of distance, years ofsilence separated her from Jason's relatives and it had been easy toallow the deceit, if deceit it had been, to stand.
But now those barriers were to be broken down and she suddenly realizedthat to keep up the fraud so artlessly begun was going to be exceedinglydifficult. She was not a clever dissembler.
Moreover, any insincerity between herself and Sylvia would strike at thevery core of the sincere, earnest companionship she hoped would springup between them. Even should she be a more skillful fraud than she daredanticipate and succeed in playing her role convincingly, would there notloom ever before her the danger of betrayal from outside sources?
Everyone in the outlying district had known Jason for what he was. Therehad been no possibility of screening the sordid melodrama from thepublic. Times without number one fisherman and then another had comebringing the recreant back home across the channel, and had aided ingetting him into the house and to bed. His shame had been one of theblots on the upright, self-respecting community.
As a result, her private life had perforce become common property andall its wretchedness and degradation, stripped of concealment, had beenspread stark beneath the glare of the sunlight.
It was because the villagers had helped her so loyally to shoulder aburden she never could have borne alone that Marcia felt toward themthis abiding affection and gratitude. They might discuss her affairs ifthey chose; ingenuously build up romances where none existed; they mighteven gossip about her clothes, her friends, her expenditures. Theirchatter did not trouble her. She had tried them out, and in the faceof larger issues had found their virtues so admirable that their vicesbecame, by contrast, mere trivialities.
Moreover, having watched her romance begin, flourish, and crumble; andhaving shared in the joy and sorrow of it, it was not only natural,but to some degree legitimate they should feel they had the right tointerest themselves in her future.
Not all their watchfulness was prompted by curiosity. Some of itemanated from an impulse of guardianship--a desire to shield her fromfurther misery and mishap. She was alone in the world, and in the eyesof the older inhabitants who had known her parents, she was still agirl--one of the daughters of the town. They did not mean to stand idlyby and see her duped a second time.
The assurance that she had behind her this support; that she wasrespected, beloved, held blameless of the past, not only comforted butlent to her solitary existence a sense of background which acted as asort of anchor.
Not that she was without standards or ideals.
Nevertheless, human nature is human nature and it did her no harm torealize she was not an isolated being whose actions were of no concernto anyone in the wide world.
Separated though she was by the confines of her island home, she wasnot allowed to let her remoteness from Wilton detach her from it, norabsolve her from her share in its obligations. She had her place andevery day of the year a score of lookers-on, familiar with her generalschedule, checked up on her fulfillment of it.
If, given limited leeway, she did not appear for her mail or forprovisions; if she was not at church; if the lights that should havetwinkled from her windows were darkened, someone unfailingly put outacross the channel to make sure all was well with her. Nay, more, ifany emergency befell her, she had only to run up a red lantern on thepole beside her door and aid would come. What wonder then that, in faceof such friendliness, Marcia Howe failed to resent the community'sgrandmotherly solicitude?
She had never kept secrets from her neighbors--indeed she never had hadsecrets to keep. Her nature was too crystalline, her love of truth toointense.
If she had followed her usual custom and been open with Jason's sister,the dilemma in which she now found herself would never have arisen.Granted that her motive had been a worthy one had it not been audaciousto make of herself a god and withhold from Margaret Hayden facts she hadhad every right to know, facts that belonged to her? Such burdens weregiven human beings to bear, not to escape from.
Why should she have taken it upon herself to shield, nay prevent Jason'sflesh and blood from participating in the sorrow, shame, disappointmentshe herself had borne? The experience had had immeasurable influence inher own life. Why should it not have had as much in Margaret's?
Alas, matters of right and wrong, questions of one's responsibilitytoward others were gigantic, deeply involved problems. What her dutyin this particular case had been she did not and would now never know,nor was it of any great moment that she should. Margaret was beyond thereach of this world's harassing enigmas. If with mistaken kindness shehad been guided by a pygmy, short-sighted philosophy, it was too late,reflected Marcia, for her to remedy her error in judgment.
But Sylvia--Jason's niece?
With her coming, all the arguments Marcia had worn threadbare for andagainst the exposure of Jason's true character presented themselvesafresh. Should she deceive the girl as she had her mother? Or should shetell her the truth?
She was still pondering the question when a shrill whistle cut short herreverie.
There was a puffing of steam; a grinding of brakes, the spasmodicpanting of a weary engine and the train, with its single car, came to astop beside the platform.
Three passengers descended.
The first was a young Portuguese woman, dark of face, and carrying abulging bag from which protruded gay bits of embroidery.
Behind her came a slender, blue-eyed girl, burdened not only with herown suit-case but with a basket apparently belonging to a wee, wizenedold lady who followed her.
"Now we must find Henry," the girl was saying in a clear but gentlevoice. "Of course he'll be here. Look! Isn't that he--the man justdriving up in a car? I guessed as much from your description. You neednot have worried, you see. Yes, the brakeman has your bag and umbrella;and here is the kitten safe and sound, despite her crying. Goodbye, Mrs.Doane. I hope you'll have a lovely visit with your son."
The little old lady smiled up at her.
"Goodbye, my dear. You've taken care of me like as if you'd been my owndaughter. I ain't much used to jauntin' about, an' it frets me. Are yourfolks here? If not, I'm sure Henry wouldn't mind--"
"Oh, somebody'll turn up to meet me, Mrs. Doane. I'll be all right.Goodbye. We did have a pleasant trip down, didn't we? Traveling isn'treally so bad after all."
Then as Marcia watched, she saw the lithe young creature stoop suddenlyand kiss the withered cheek.
The next instant she was swinging up the platform.
The slim figure in its well-tailored blue suit; the trimly shod feet;the small hat so provokingly tilted o
ver the bright eyes, the wealthof golden curls that escaped from beneath it all shattered Marcia'scalculations. She had thought of Sylvia Hayden as farm-bred--the productof an inland, country town--a creature starved for breadth of outlookand social opportunity. It was disconcerting to discover that she wasnone of these things.
In view of her sophistication, Marcia's proposed philanthropy took on anaspect of impertinence.
Well, if she herself was chagrined, there was consolation in seeing thatthe girl was equally discomfited.
As she approached Marcia, she accosted her uncertainly with the words:
"Pardon me. I am looking for a relative--a Mrs. Howe. You don't happento know, do you--"
"I'm Marcia."
"But I thought--I expected--" gasped the girl.
"And I thought--I expected--" Marcia mimicked gaily.
For a moment they looked searchingly into one another's faces, thenlaughed.
"Fancy having an aunt like you!" exclaimed the incredulous Sylvia, stillstaring with unconcealed amazement.
"And fancy having a niece like you!"
"Well, all I can say is I'm glad I came," was the girl's retort. "Iwasn't altogether sure I should be when I started East. I said tomyself: 'Sylvia you are taking a big chance. You may just be wastingyour money.'"
"You may still find it's been wasted."
"No, I shan't. I know already it has been well spent," announced thegirl, a whimsical smile curving her lips.
"Wait until you see where you're going."
"I am going to Paradise--I'm certain of it. The glimpses I've had of theocean from the train have convinced me of that. Do you live where youcan see it, Aunt Marcia? Will it be nearby?"
"I shall not tell you one thing," Marcia replied. "At least only one,and that is that I flatly refuse to be Aunt Marcia to you!"
"Don't you like me?" pouted Sylvia, arching her brows.
"So much that your aunt-ing me is absurd. It would make me feel likeMethuselah. I really haven't that amount of dignity."
"Ah, now my last weak, wavering doubt is vanquished. Not only am I gladI came but I wish I'd come before."
She saw a shadow flit across her aunt's face.
"You weren't asked until now," observed Marcia with cryptic brevity.
"That wouldn't have mattered. Had I known what you were like, I shouldhave come without an invitation."
In spite of herself, Marcia smiled.
"Here's the car," she answered. "What about your trunk?"
"I didn't bring one."
"You didn't bring a trunk! But you are to make a long visit, child."
"I--I wasn't sure that I'd want to," Sylvia replied. "You see, I was awee bit afraid of you. I thought you'd be a New England prune. I had noidea what you were like. If I'd brought my things, I'd have been obligedto stay."
"You're a cautious young person," was Marcia's dry observation. "'Twouldserve you right if I sent you home at the end of a fortnight."
"Oh, please don't do that," begged Sylvia. "It's in _The Alton CityCourier_ that I have gone East to visit relatives for a few weeks. IfI should come right back, everybody would decide I'd stolen the familysilver or done something disgraceful. Besides--my trunk is all packed,locked, strapped and I've brought the key," added she with disarmingfrankness. "It can be sent for in case--"
"I see!" nodded Marcia, her lips curving into a smile in spite ofherself, "I said you were cautious."
"Don't you ever watch your own step?"
As the myriad pros and cons she had weighed and eliminated beforeinviting her guest passed in quick review before Marcia's mind, shechuckled:
"Sometimes I do," she conceded grimly.