CHAPTER XXXIII
"LOVE ALONE WILL STAY"
"It never ought to rain in June," said Sylvia.
She had just alighted from the train, and was in Thinkright's arms asshe said it.
"I had set my heart on just such a drive with you as we had the firsttime I came."
"This will be far better than that was, Sylvia." He held her off atarm's length, and viewed her deliberately. "We had the sunshine outsidethat day. This time it's inside."
He could see it while he spoke, shining out through blue eyes andsmiling lips, as the girl looked long into his face.
"It seems to me you are a rather elegant person to be clinging to anold farmer like me," he went on.
"Have I changed, Thinkright? You haven't. Oh, I'm so glad!"
"Yes, you have changed, little one. I'm looking at you, trying to findout how."
"I'm awfully well dressed, for one thing," whispered Sylvia, laughing."Edna would have it. She's made Uncle Calvin pay bills that I'm suremust have shocked him. Yes, I know my things look simple, but they'reright; and oh, how you do have to pay for millinery rightness, _ala_ Edna!"
"Well, I think the loafers have stared at you enough," said Thinkright."Let's get into the wagon. I've brought a rubber coat for you, but verylikely it'll be clear before we get home. Why," with sudden perception,"I know what has happened; your curls are gone."
"No, no, not gone, only promoted. I'm going to say good-by to this veryproper hat for three months, and I think I'll begin now. It would be atragedy if it should get wet."
While they still stood under the roof of the station platform, Sylviatook out her hat pins, and Thinkright unrolled and opened her neatumbrella.
"I've brought the umbrella, too," he said, with a humorous appreciationof the difference between that ample cotton shelter and the dainty silkaffair he held in his hand.
"So," regarding the uncovered coiffure which had won John Dunham'sapproval, "so that is what has become of the wreath of curls. H'm. Itmakes you look--look very grown up, Sylvia."
"It's about time," returned the girl. "Wasn't I twenty last February?"
They went to the wagon, where the baggage had been placed, and Sylviaput on the rubber coat and jumped in. A sudden peal of thunder rolled.
"A salute in your honor, my dear," said Thinkright, climbing in besideher.
"I'm delighted," she answered, as the horses started, "for it meansshowers instead of a three days' rain. Here, let's take the calicotent," she added, "then we can both get under it."
She put her little umbrella under the rubber laprobe, and, raising theweather-beaten canopy, slipped her arm through Thinkright's.
"I'm going to paint such a lovely picture of you this summer, dear,"she said, studying his face fondly.
"Of me? Oh, no."
"Oh, yes. I won't admit that any one else can paint such a likeness ofyou as I can."
"I hear good reports of your work."
"My own reports?" she laughed.
"No. Calvin's, Edna's, Mr. Dunham's."
"John's, Mr. Dunham's?"
Thinkright's answer was rather slow in coming, she thought.
"Yes. We've had occasion for some correspondence on a matter ofbusiness, and he has mentioned your promise."
"My promise to what?" asked Sylvia, suddenly interested in thefastening of the umbrella.
"The promise shown in your work," replied her companion, lookingsteadily between the horse's ears.
"Oh, yes," returned Sylvia in a small voice.
"You were a little mistaken about that match you had fixed up," saidThinkright, "between Edna and Mr. Dunham, weren't you?"
"Yes; and she's going to marry such a fine man, so worthy of her inevery way!" Sylvia spoke with enthusiasm.
"You're better pleased than if it had been Dunham?" asked Thinkright.
It was his companion's turn to hesitate. "Oh, she didn't ask myadvice," she replied at last, with elaborate lightness.
"It's rather easy to make mistakes about those matters," observedThinkright.
"Yes; and rather easy in avoiding Scylla to fall into Charybdis." Shehad spent her winter in endeavoring to avoid Charybdis. Just because ithad not been Edna who was John's ideal was no sign that the Princessdid not exist, either already selected, as Edna's lover had been, orelse still to appear. An acquaintance with Boston, and the dozens ofinteresting people she had met, had cleared her provincial vision,until she was more than ever wary of believing that an interest in herpersonality and her work meant anything deeper. There were a number ofmen who had shown her more attention than had John Dunham, aside fromthose evenings he had spent with Edna and herself. She had kept herthought filled with healthful interest in her work, the effort toplease her teachers, and to make the most of her uncle's generosity;and the winter had gone swiftly. She had spent Christmas with her aunt,and Judge Trent and Mr. Dunham had dined with them on the holiday.After dinner she had gone sleigh-riding with John, far into the frosty,sparkling country, despite Miss Lacey's protest that she couldn't seewhy they wouldn't rather stay by the fire. Miss Martha declared thatfor her part she would just as soon sit with her feet in a pail of icewater and ring a dinner-bell as to go sleighing. Upon which Judge Trentreminded her that she had not always felt so; a concession on his partto the past which furnished Miss Lacey with gratified sensations forsome time to come; the more that, instead of making some excuse toleave, her old friend had taken with extraordinary grace to the role offireside companion, and remained talking with her of Sylvia, and mutualacquaintances, until the young people's return.
Sylvia brought her reminiscent thought back to the present.
"How are the Fosters?" she asked.
"Well."
"And my boat?"
"Fine. Waiting for you. Minty wanted to come over with me to get you;but I decided to be selfish." Sylvia squeezed his arm.
When they reached the height to-day, the wide view was sullen; thewaves lashing, and gnawing with white teeth at the leaden rocks under aleaden sky. The dripping firs were dark blots on the vague islands.
Sylvia recklessly let go the old umbrella, which fell backward as shestood up in the rain and looked off, affectionately. The damp rings ofhair blew about her forehead on the wind-swept height, and she reachedout her arms toward the grand, forbidding prospect.
"You can't frighten me, dearest, _dearest_!" she said exultantly."Rumble and roar as much as you like. I know what is behind the mask."
She sat down and righted the umbrella, and while the horses descendedthe hill she looked and looked, feasting her eyes on everywell-remembered landmark.
The Tide Mill loomed out of the mist.
"Poor dear!" she said, apostrophizing it. "Are things just as desperateas ever?"
Tears were glistening on the closed shutters, and running down theweather-beaten sides.
"I think when the mill is crying like that, it always seems as if itwere softening a little, Thinkright. Don't you? As if there weregreater chance of its opening its eyes and taking notice once more."
Thinkright gave a low laugh. "Your miracle hasn't come to pass yet, hasit?"
"No, but I'm going to hope, still."
"That's right. If those shutters ever open I think you'll have to bethe prime mover. No one else seems to care."
"_You_ care, Thinkright," replied the girl wistfully. "There shouldn'tbe anything sad or hopeless around the Mill Farm, least of all thatdear old neglected thing that named it."
"You're a very fanciful little girl," was the reply; but there wasnothing disapproving in the glance her companion bent upon her.
As they drove up to the farmhouse, the living-room door flew open, andMinty was disclosed, prevented by her mother from going out into therain, and expending pent-up energy by hopping up and down withirrepressible eagerness.
Mrs. Lem appeared behind her, wreathed in smiles, and coiffured andarrayed in her company best.
"It's so good to be home again," cried Sylvia, "so good, so good!" andsh
e jumped out of the wagon and seized Minty's hands and danced aroundthe living-room in the rubber coat until the child's laughter rang outgleefully.
"And how have you been, Mrs. Lem?" she asked when their breath wasgone.
"Smart," replied that lady, regarding the girl admiringly, andwondering whether by patience and perseverance she might force her ownhair to go into the shape of Sylvia's.
"I do hope you've brought us a change in the weather," went on Mrs.Lem. "When it hain't ben actually rainin' the past two weeks, there'sben so much timidity in the atmosphere that I've got hoarse as a crow,and we'll all be webfooted pretty soon if it don't clear up."
"You shall have sunshine to-morrow," declared Sylvia.
"I hain't touched the Rosy Cloud yet," said Minty, "even though youwrote I could. Thinkright said I might let her git stove on a rock, andhe'd druther I'd wait."
"Very well, Minty, to-morrow we shall begin making up for lost time.Let them watch us."
Cap'n Lem soon appeared, and the five made a happy supper party. Duringthe meal the clouds lightened and the rain abated. Mrs. Lem would nothear to Sylvia's assisting in clearing away, but sent her upstairs tounpack her trunk. She was at work at it when the western sun suddenlyshone out.
"The rainbow, the rainbow!" shouted Minty at the foot of the stairs.
"Where?" cried Sylvia.
"Over the mill."
Sylvia ran into Thinkright's room, which was on the eastern side of thehouse, and, throwing open a window, fell on her knees before it. In aprotecting, splendid arch a perfect rainbow spanned the cloud above themill. Rays of sunlight struck full upon the sightless eyes, and kissedits gray face until the tears sparkled into diamonds and the oldbuilding was beset with glory.
"The bow of promise," murmured Sylvia. She stretched out her hands tothe mill. "Just open them a little way," she said. "You're no unhappierthan I was, but I've found it such a good world! Just open yourshutters and look. You'll always be glad. Perhaps you can't haveeverything you want, perhaps not the very thing you want most. What ofthat? Can't you trust? I'm learning to. 'Love alone will stay,' and itwon't forget. It never forgets."
The girl's eyes lifted to the glorifying arch. One end curved to adistant forest and was lost, and the other dipped deep within theocean. The Tide Mill grew to radiance beneath its caress. It seemed onthe point of yielding, and opening gently to the setting sun.
At the climax of color Sylvia, smiling, dropped her eyelids. She wouldnot see it fade. Suddenly, her ear was caught by a note as of a distantbell; then a tangle of bells, tiny, musical, and the song of the hermitthrush rang out from the far thicket.
Bar of music]
Sylvia caught her lip between her teeth, and her heart swelled.
The next morning nature, as always after a gloomy season, seemed tryingto cause forgetfulness of its sulks and tears by bringing the wholebattery of its charms to bear upon sea and land.
After breakfast Thinkright produced a key from his pocket. "There, mygirl," he said, "is the key to the boathouse. I know you can scarcelywait."
"That's true," replied Sylvia. "Come on, Minty."
The child's round eyes were fixed solemnly on some point beyondSylvia's shoulder.
"I don't know as I care 'bout goin' boatin' this mornin'," she replieddecorously.
"What?" returned Sylvia, astonished. She remembered now how remarkablyquiet the child had been throughout breakfast. "Why, how do you feel,Minty?"
"Smart," returned the child, still with her gaze on the uncertain pointin space.
Thinkright's eyes had a humorous twinkle. "I want Minty to help me alittle while this morning," he said. "She'll see you later."
Sylvia turned to him, demurring. "She has been looking forward to it somuch," she said.
"Yes, I know. She won't have to wait long," he replied kindly, puttinghis arm around the child's shoulders.
Mrs. Lem, her hair strained back in its least decorative twist, fixedher offspring with black eyes that snapped.
"You're a-goin' to have a good time with Thinkright, ain't you, Minty?"she asked, and the child's breath caught through her little nose as shereplied promptly:--
"Yes, I be."
Sylvia looked from one to the other uncertainly, but Thinkright waspatting the little shoulder he held, and he nodded at her reassuringly.
"Run along, Sylvia. You'll find everything in good shape."
"I never saw such a man," thought the girl as she went down the hill."How did he know that it would mean so much to me to go out alone justthis first morning? Oh, Thinkright, Thinkright," she sighed. "How greatit is to have come where you are; to have one's skylight always open,and the trap door always closed!"
She ran lightly in among the evergreens, and touched their bright budshere and there.
"That's right, precious things," she said, giving a lingering look upand down the familiar woodland path by the water side.
Then she came through the trees out upon the little dock beside herboathouse, and stood there, looking about with fond eyes at the broadsweep of the Basin waters. The snowy stems of the birches seemed aliveas they swayed forward, waving their lustrous banners across the tide.She nodded in all directions, and kissed her hands to the encirclingwoods. "I'm exactly as glad to see _you_," she said; "and you shall sitto me for your pictures, all of you. Just as soon as"--
She paused, her lips apart, her eyes wide, for all at once she caughtsight of the Tide Mill. Every one of its shutters had turned back. Thesunlight was flooding in. She grew pale, sank down upon a rock near by,and gazed. While she was thus absorbed John Dunham came out of thewoods and advanced to her. His step creaked the boards of the littledock, and she looked up. Springing to her feet, the color rushed backto her face.
"John, you here? The mill shutters have opened." She looked into hiseyes appealingly, while he held both her hands.
"The mill? That's so," he answered. "Gives the old misanthrope adifferent look, doesn't it?"
"But when--how?" asked Sylvia. "Last night it was closed. I saw it; andthe rainbow was inspiring it, and the setting sun was begging it, and Iwas coaxing it, and--look! When could it have happened? How could ithave happened?"
"You expected a miracle, didn't you?" asked Dunham. "I remember youtalked about it last summer."
"What are you doing here?" asked the girl, remembering he had herhands, and withdrawing them. "You couldn't have driven over from thevillage as early as this."
"No. I came up on business, and I'm staying in the neighborhood."
"But there isn't any neighborhood," said Sylvia.
"Is that all you know about this region?" he returned. "I'll show youwhere I'm staying, some day." John thought of his fragrant couch of hayin the barn. "Isn't it astonishing what a gay old boy that mill hasturned into? Look at it sidle around on those posts. It seems to say,'Come in. The water's fine.' Why don't we accept the invitation? Let'sgo over there."
"Oh, come. I can't wait. Here's the key to the boat-house."
The hand that gave it to him trembled. It seemed the crown of all thatDunham should be with her the first time she approached the openedshutters.
In a couple of minutes he was pulling the light craft across the Basin.
"Do you think we can possibly get in?" asked Sylvia. "How I have wantedto get inside that mill!"
"Then we shall have to, that's all," replied her companion, his eyes onher absorbed face, above which the breeze was blowing a little mass ofauburn curls. "I think if I stood in the boat, and you stood on myshoulders, you might reach a lower window."
"I hope it won't come to that," she answered; "but I am afraid theladders will have rotted away. We may find people there. Why, weprobably shall. I don't know why I haven't come down to earth enough torealize that only the owners could have opened the mill."
Dunham nodded. "They must have entered to open it, too. What man hathdone, man can do. You shall get in, else what is the use of _my_ beinghere? Say you're glad I'm here, Sylvia."
She
nodded at him collectedly. "If you get me in, I will," shereturned.
They found an upright ladder, weather-beaten but still strong, besideone of the posts. Dunham tied the boat, then began to climb up, Sylviafollowing, and in a minute more they stood inside the desolatebuilding, where strips of sunlight patched the floor. It was deserted.
"Well?" questioned John, as the girl looked all about.
"I thought it would be like this," she answered. "Can we get up higher?There must be a fine view."
Dunham found a flight of steps in a corner, and climbed it, Sylviafollowing.
The ramshackle old building had platforms rather than floors, leavingspace in the middle for the machinery which ran up through it, andstairs led from one to another of these. These steps looked newer thantheir surroundings. When the visitors had reached the next to the upperfloor, Dunham led Sylvia to a window, and together they exclaimed uponthe wide beauty of the great, open bay.
"Whoever owns this old mill owns a palace," said Sylvia. She placed herhand lovingly on the edge of a hoary shutter. "Didn't I tell you it wasworth while to open your eyes, dear?"
She glanced at John, who was standing, tall and thoughtful, at theother side of the window, watching her. She smiled with rather unsteadylips. "You would laugh if you knew how much it means to me to bestanding in here," she said.
"Not more to you than to me, I am sure," he returned. "I've neverforgotten a fanciful thing you said about this mill last summer. Yousaid that Love would open the shutters some day. Listen, Sylvia, do youhear that?"
Across the still water rang the woodland bells that preceded thetriumphant flourish of the thrush's song.
"I should like that for my wedding music," said Dunham slowly, after aminute. "Those are the only bells that should chime upon my wedding ifI had my wish."
Sylvia's heart beat fast. She thought it cruel of him to look at herlike that.
He continued: "There is a spot over there in the woods near a thicketof white birches that I have selected as the spot for the ceremony."
"Very poetical," returned Sylvia. "Such a plan suits this outlook."
"I see there are some more stairs," said Dunham, looking about. "Shallwe do the thing thoroughly? Let's go to the top."
He preceded the girl up the steep flight, and turned to give her hishand for the last steps. Sylvia emerged upon a newly-placed floor, andlooked about her in a daze.
She glanced back at Dunham, then again her wondering eyes swept thegreat apartment in which she found herself.
It was a studio, furnished with every convenience for an artist's work,and many luxuries for an artist's idleness.
Again the girl turned pale, as at the moment when first she discoveredthe Tide Mill this morning.
She sank into a wicker chair by one of the many windows framing theirvast views, and continued silent.
Dunham pulled up an ottoman to her feet, and sat upon it.
She dared not believe the signs in his eyes. "You are Uncle Calvin'smessenger"--she began, at last.
He shook his head. "No, I've bought this mill myself for a weddingpresent; but whether for my bride or another man's I don't know yet.The only objection to this plan has been that it appeared to take agood deal for granted, and I want you to know that it doesn't. You saidLove would open the shutters, and it has; but I don't know how much youcare for me, I only know how much I care for you."
Sylvia's eyes, startled, incredulous, tender, filled slowly from herheart, until again John met that Look, never for one second forgotten.
He reached out his hand, questioning still, and now her longing wassatisfied to put hers within it, in its rightful home.
Across the silence rang the Hermit's song; for even the Hermit had amate.
After a while Sylvia lifted her head from her lover's shoulder.
"I suppose there may be some troubles in the world still, John," shesaid.
"Possibly," he replied, the hint of a smile on his lips as he lookedinto the face so close to his.
"We can do without joy many times, John. We can meet everything nowwithout a fear. Do you remember:
'Kiss my lips and softly say, "Joy, sea-swept, may fade to-day; Love alone will stay!'"
The Riverside Press_Electrotyped and printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A._
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