CHAPTER XXX
THE LIGHT BREAKS
"Come here," said Edna, and moving aside she indicated the sketches.John drew near. "This is what was in that pillow slip yesterday."
Dunham regarded the rough work with large eyes. "By Jove!" heexclaimed. "She has it in her, hasn't she?"
"Just see the composition," returned Edna. "See the directness."
"What's it done with?" asked Dunham. "Not a brush."
"No, some sort of a stump; and it's such a queer color. I've beentrying to make out--John Dunham!" Edna's tone suddenly changed. "Thisis that blueberry juice!"
Dunham's mouth fell open. The two stood staring at each other, and, asmany perceptions and explanations flowed into their thought, theycolored slowly, and as richly as sunburn would permit.
"That is the love philtre, John," said Edna, when they had been a longtime silent, and she caught her lip between her teeth, for her owncondemnation pressed upon her more heavily with each enlighteningconsideration.
Dunham's feelings were inexpressible, and his one devout thanksgivingwas that Edna was ignorant of his own banality.
Suddenly she ran out of the room to the head of the stairs. "MissLacey," she called, "will you bring Judge Trent up here?"
The request startled Miss Martha into a sudden panic. "Dear me, Calvin,Edna wants us. I'm afraid Sylvia is ill. She looked it this noon. Oh, Iassure you she never would have stayed upstairs from laziness, never inthis world. She"--
But Judge Trent was already far in advance of the speaker, and MissLacey tripped upstairs after him, briskly.
"Come here, both of you, and I will make you proud," said Edna as theyentered the room. "These sketches are your niece's work."
"Aren't they the queerest things you ever saw?" asked Miss Martha,adjusting her eyeglasses the better to peer at the brown sheets. "Butthere's the Ledges, and there's Beacon Island, and the West Shore, andour own swimming pool from over on the Point, and"--
"Judge Trent, do you know about such work?" asked Edna. "Do you carefor this sort of thing?"
"Yes, in an ignorant sort of a way. Certainly I do."
"If you found Sylvia talented, you'd help her, I'm sure you would."
"Of course. Why? You appear excited."
Edna touched the lawyer's black sleeve as he stood in his customaryattitude, his hands behind his back. As she went on it was evident thatshe fought with tears.
"Pardon me for asking if Sylvia has any money? Has any allowance beenmade her?"
"Not by me, and it's not likely by Thinkright."
"It must be so! She can't have any money." The girl paused to swallow.Judge Trent regarded her, the corners of his mouth drawn down, at aloss to understand her manner, and ready to defy whatever accusationshe was about to bring against him.
Edna continued: "Sylvia went into the field, and spent hours selectingthe largest, darkest berries she could find. She came home and stewedthem into a substitute for paint. You remember, Miss Martha, theevening you thought she was cooking. Then she found this rough manilapaper, and contrived a stump out of something. Think how she must havelonged to paint, how she longed for materials"--
"Why didn't you tell me?" demanded Judge Trent brusquely. "How was I toknow?"
"I didn't know myself," returned Edna. "None of us knew. She was toomodest, too delicate, to tell. She went alone to do these things, totry her powers. She had come to the place where she meant to tell me.She said so to-day. Doubtless she believed in her ability at last."Edna again seized the pillow slip and shook out a number of bits ofpaper that had sunk to the bottom. There fell out with them variousstained, tightly-rolled paper stumps, which had evidently been used inlieu of brushes.
The three heads gathered together to look at the sketches of themselvesand the family at the Mill Farm.
"By Jove, she has got it in her," repeated Dunham, regarding a drawingof himself as he had appeared to be asleep in the boat.
Judge Trent was examining his own penciled face, frowning beneath thesilk hat. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "I shall have to speakto Sylvia about this. Call her in, Edna."
It was the judge's last consecutive sentence for some time. All thecompany stared in equal amazement and apprehension, as Edna suddenlybowed her head on the lawyer's little broadcloth shoulder, and shookhim with her sobs.
"Edna!" exclaimed Dunham, stepping forward, and he was unconscious ofthe severity of his voice. "Do you know you're frightening us? Where isSylvia?"
"G-gone!"
"Where, for mercy's sake?" demanded Miss Martha tremulously.
"H-home, to the Tide Mill." Edna managed to jerk out the words. "W-waita minute."
As soon as she could lift her head and wipe her eyes, a process whichgave Judge Trent infinite relief, she saw John's face grown so whiteunder its tan that it helped her to become steady.
"She's--safe, I'm sure," she said. "We had--a misunderstanding, and itwas all my fault, and I suppose she left this noon as soon as she couldget away from us. She left a note for me. I found it when I came up toknock on her door. She said she was homesick."
"I don't understand at all," said Judge Trent. "Sylvia gone back to thefarm, without a by-your-leave to her hostess? Confoundedly bad mannersI call it." The lawyer's thought was creaking through unaccustomedruts. He had been cheated out of Sylvia's companionship, after all, andhis favorite Edna was in tears. He could _not_ understand, and hisfrown was portentous.
"It is my fault," repeated Edna. "Spare me from explaining, because inthe morning I shall go over to the farm myself and make things right."
"Just like that erratic father of hers. No manners," declared thelawyer.
"Calvin Trent!" Miss Martha's eyes sparkled through her excited tears."I'll thank you to be careful how you insult my dead brother in mypresence. Your own manners in doing so are worse than anything Sam wasever guilty of!"
"Right you are, Martha," returned the startled lawyer with promptmeekness.
"Moreover," added Edna, indicating the sketches, "see Sylvia'sinheritance from that father. You've nothing to blame her for, JudgeTrent, in the manner of her leaving. I understand it perfectly. Pleasefix your mind only on her talent. Come with me to-morrow, and make herhappy by the assurance of your interest and assistance."
Judge Trent as he left the room muttered something to the effect thatthings had come to a pretty pass when he was forced at his age to spendhis time on the water, tagging back and forth after a chit of a girlwho didn't know her own mind. At the same time he recalled that Sylviahad returned to Hawk Island with reluctance, and that Edna Derwent wasnot the girl to shake him with her sobs for nothing; so he set himselfto the task of being civil to Miss Lacey for the following half-hour,with intent to make amends for his offense to her.
Dunham, left alone with Edna, asked the question which was consuminghim. Edna was placing the sketches in one of the empty drawers of thechiffonier.
"You must have had some talk with Sylvia this noon after I cameupstairs for the book," he began.
She lifted her shoulder and shook her head with a gesture ofrepugnance. "Oh, yes. Don't remind me."
Dunham feared the worst. If Edna had accused Sylvia of giving him thatpotion, he would forswear the Mill Farm forever.
He continued: "Sylvia had already felt that you were offended with her.She mentioned it in the boat yesterday. Did your interview to-day gointo detail? Did,"--John cleared his throat,--"did you tell her whather offense was?"
"No,"--Edna shook her head,--"and don't ask me what it was, John. Itold her we would talk later; but I hurt her. I hurt her, because Ididn't know." She paused, and her next words caused further relief tooverspread Dunham's countenance. "I'm glad that you understand nothingabout it, John."
"So am I," he returned cheerfully. "I know you'll fix things up allright. I think I'll just wander down the island now, and find BennyMerritt and see if he was her boatman. Cheer up, Edna. I know you canget whatever you want out of Judge Trent, and by this time to-morrownight every
thing will be going as merry as a marriage bell."
A shrewd guess helped Dunham to find the object of his search at thepost office, where Benny was seated on a barrel, pensively kicking hisheels. Dissembling his eagerness, John nodded a greeting in hisdirection, and, passing over to the corner of the grocery sacred to theGovernment pigeonholes, asked for the Derwent mail.
The portly wife of the postmaster replied that the evening boat waslate and that they were waiting for the mail.
John accepted this information with proper surprise, and, turning away,looked through the window at the lights on a swordfisher standing inthe cove. He thought he would first give Benny the chance to volunteerinformation.
He had already found that moments spent in the island grocery yieldedrich returns in diversion. It was, in the first place, cause forrejoicing that the amiable but chronically weary proprietor of theisland emporium, and his too substantial spouse, should be named Frisk.
While John stood there a girl came in and stumbled toward the postoffice window. "Have ye shet up the mail bag yet, Mis' Frisk? I want togit this package in if I possibly can. How much goes on it?"
"I'll have to see," returned the portly one, waddling out to where thegrocery scales stood on the counter. By the light of the kerosene lampshe leaned over and examined the figures.
"'M. Weighs jest two pounds," she announced.
The girl looked bewildered. "Why, they ain't but two handkerchiefs inthere, Mis' Frisk. I don't see how it could"--
"Hey?" deliberately. "Two handkerchiefs? Let's see." Anotherexamination. "Oh, ye-us," wearily. "My stomach was on the scales."
Dunham had scarcely recovered from this when another girl, a smartsummer boarder who favored him with a stare of interest as she entered,approached the proprietor.
Mr. Frisk in his shirt sleeves was viewing a too precipitate world frombehind his counter. "I'd like some marshmallows, please," said thegirl.
"Ain't got any," was the response, given with entire amiability.
"Why," disappointedly, "you did have them last week."
"Ye-us, I know. I tried carryin' ma'shmallers quite a spell: but'twan't no use. Seems if everybody wanted 'em. I couldn't keep 'em instock any time at all, so I give it up."
"Well, I do declare!" exclaimed the young woman. "And, Mr. Frisk, mymother is distressed because that cable message doesn't come fromfather. If it comes to-night"--
"Oh, that's so, there wus a telegram this noon. Ye-us, that's so. Iremember now. 'Twus from yer pa."
"Where is it? Why didn't you send it up, then?" John could hear thevexation fairly crackling in the speaker's voice.
"Why, I see he got thar all right, so I didn't know as thar wus anydrive."
Some supporting sense of humor seemed to come to the girl, for Johncould hear her desperate chuckle as she went out with the cablegram.
"Handsome evenin', Mr. Dunham," remarked the unmoved postmaster."Bo't's late, ain't it?"
John assented, and a wizened old man passed him and approached thecounter.
"Howdy, Frisk," he mumbled. "Got to have some more terbacca. Gimme apackage o' Peace and Good Will, will ye?"
The proprietor beamed sympathetically. "Ye'll have to try somethin'else this time, Uncle Ben," he drawled pleasantly. "I'm sorry, but thefact is my Peace and Good Will's mouldy."
Dunham smiled, and looked over his shoulder at Benny. He was stillcracking his heels gently against the flour barrel. The evening boatmust be in soon, and then the boy would be out on the dock, lost in theexcitement of its arrival. Dunham strolled up to him. "Good-evening,Benny."
He was surprised at the unresponsive air with which the boy nodded.John was aware of having recently completed the capture of Benny'sheart by replying to questions concerning the gold football on his fob;but to-night there was no lighting of the young sailor's face.
"Come outside, will you, Benny? I want to speak to you."
To John's further amazement, Benny, instead of bounding off the barrel,complied with reluctance; but they were finally out of doors in thevelvet darkness that preceded the moonrise.
"I want to know where you left Miss Sylvia," said John Dunhamimperiously.
The boy hesitated a minute, then spoke grudgingly. "At the Tide Mill."
"How was she?"
"Able to walk up to the house," responded the boy irritatingly.
"Look here,"--Dunham laid a heavy hand on the other's shoulder, andBenny struggled vainly to shake it off. "What's the matter with you?Was Miss Sylvia ill? I didn't see her before she went."
Benny ceased his futile writhing. "Oh, you kin hold on to me, Is'pose," he said sullenly; "but I don't care if you have got a muscle,and kin stay under water, and play football. Gosh durn you fer makin'her cry, I say."
The vim with which Benny exploded his accusation silenced Dunham for amoment, but he did not relax his grasp. "I didn't make her cry," heanswered then. "Give you my word, Benny. Can't you have any sympathyfor a fellow? I didn't know she was going, and I'm all broken up."
Benny lifted his eyes, half relenting.
"What did she cry for? What did she say? Tell me, and I'll give you thebest fishing outfit you can buy in Portland."
"Didn't say nothin' much. She come to me all white around the gills,and asked if I'd sail her home right away quick. She had her bag, and Isee she didn't cal'late to come back. She kep' a-hurryin' me up, andafter we got out o' the cove she give me a smile and thanked me forbein' so quick, and then she said, 'If you don't mind, Benny, I'm goin'to sleep. I'm jest as tired as I can be.'"
"Well, where does my making her cry come in?" In his impatience Johngave an unconscious shake to his captive.
"You leggo my collar," said Benny, with a threatened return of thesulks.
"Certainly. Excuse me." Dunham instantly dropped his hand. "You saidshe went to sleep?"
"Yes, went to sleep!" repeated the boy contemptuously. "Do folks go tosleep with their eyes wide open? I see she didn't want me to talk toher, but I watched her mighty close, 'cause I knew right off you was atthe bottom of it."
"I? What possible idea"--
"Git out. Ain't I seen you not noticin' Miss Edna any? Ain't I seen younot sail the boat when you had the chance? Ain't I seen her eyin' youwhen she thought you wan't lookin'?"
Dunham groaned. "Benny, you're horribly precocious."
The boy glowered suspiciously.
"I don't know whether I be or not. I know I've got eyes."
"And what did you see to-day?"
"Tears. Hundreds of 'em. That's what I see. If she'd a-busted outcryin' 't wouldn't 'a' ben so bad. I could 'a' said, 'Oh, you're youngyet, you don't know how many wuss things is goin' to happen to you, andI've known fellers could stay under longer'n he kin;' but I couldn'tsay a thing to comfort her when she kep' a-wip-in' away one tear at atime from her cheek, secret like. I knew she'd ben scrappin' with you,or else that you'd turned around and ben sweet on Miss Edna."
"Nothing of the sort, Benny. You're all off in both guesses. MissSylvia just went home a little sooner than she expected, and MissDerwent is going over to-morrow to spend the day with her. You're goingto take her over yourself."
"See anythin' green in my eyes?" drawled Benny. "I'll bet you ain'tgoin' over, then," he added cynically.
"Of course I wouldn't butt in on the young ladies' day together,"returned John. Benny's recital had touched him, but he could notforbear a smile at the youngster's courage of conviction. "I tell you,I'm the aggrieved party in this matter," he added.
"Oh, git out," returned the boy. "Butt in, nawthin'. You go over thereand fix it up with her. Say," hopefully, "I'll sail ye over to-night ifye want to. Plenty o' moon."
"You're awfully good, Benny, but you can take it from me, I shouldn'tbe welcome."
The boy looked staggered for the first time.
"Has she turned you down?" he asked in a low tone. "That's so, she'd acried jest the same if she had. Say, has she?"
Dunham made a significant gesture.
"
Next time don't you be so sure you know it all, Benny," he replied.