Before the hour at which we usually stopped work I arose from my chair,
and stated that that would be all for the day. My secretary looked at me
quickly.

"All for to-day?" she asked, a little smile of disapprobation upon her
brow. "It cannot be twelve o'clock yet."

"No," I answered, "it is not; but it is not easy to work out the answer
which Lucilla ought now to make to Tomaso, and I shall have to take time
for its consideration."

"I shouldn't think it would be easy," said she, "but I hoped you had it
already in your mind."

"Then you are interested in it?" I asked.

"Of course I am," she answered,--"who wouldn't be? And just at this
point, too, when everything depends on what she says; but it is quite
right for you to be very careful about what you make her say," and she
gathered her sheets together to lay them away.

Now I wanted to say something to her. I stopped work for that purpose,
but I did not know what to say. An apology for my conduct of the day
before would not be exactly in order, and an explanation of it would be
exceedingly difficult. I walked up and down my study, and she continued
to arrange her pages. When she had put them into a compact and very neat
little pile, she opened the table drawer, placed them in it, examined
some other contents of the drawer, and finally closed it, and sat
looking out of the window. After some minutes of this silent
observation, she half turned toward me, and without entirely removing
her gaze from the apple-tree outside, she asked:--

"Do you still want to know my name?"

"Indeed I do!" I exclaimed, stepping quickly to the grating.

"Well, then," she said, "it is Sylvia."

At this moment we heard the footsteps of Sister Sarah in the hall, at
least two minutes before the usual time.

When they had gone, I stood by my study table, my arms folded and my
eyes fixed upon the floor.

"Horace Vanderley," I said to myself, "you are in love;" and to this
frank and explicit statement I answered, quite as frankly, "That is
certainly true; there can be no mistake about it."




XXI.

LUCILLA AND I.


A Saturday afternoon, evening, and night, the whole of a Sunday and its
night, with some hours of a Monday morning, intervened between the
moment at which I had acknowledged to myself my feelings toward my
secretary and the moment at which I might expect to see her again, and
nearly the whole of this time was occupied by me in endeavoring to
determine what should be my next step. To stand still in my present
position was absolutely impossible: I must go forward or backward. To go
backward was a simple thing enough; it was like turning round and
jumping down a precipice; it made me shudder. To go forward was like
climbing a precipice with beetling crags and perpendicular walls of ice.

The first of these alternatives did not require any consideration
whatever. To the second I gave all the earnest consideration of which I
was capable, but I saw no way of getting up. The heights were
inaccessible.

In very truth, my case was a hard one. I could not make love to a woman
through a grating; and if I could, I would not be dishonorable enough to
do it, when that woman was locked up in a room, and could not get away
in case she did not wish to listen to my protestations. But between the
girl I loved and myself there was a grating compared with which the
barrier in the doorway of my study was as a spider's web. This was the
network of solemn bars which surrounded the sisters of the House of
Martha,--the vows they had made never to think of love, to read of it or
speak of it.

To drop metaphors, it would be impossible for me to continue to work
with her and conceal my love for her; it would be stupidly useless, and
moreover cowardly, to declare that love; and it would be sensible,
praiseworthy, and in every way advantageous for me to cease my literary
labors and go immediately to the Adirondacks or to Mount Desert. But
would I go away on Saturday or Sunday when she was coming on Monday? Not
I.

She came on Monday, surrounded by a gray halo, which had begun to grow
as beautiful to my vision as the delicate tints of early dawn. When she
began to read what she had last written, I seated myself in a chair by
the grating. When she had finished, I sat silent for a minute, got up
and walked about, came back, sat down, and was silent again. In my whole
mind there did not seem to be one crevice into which an available
thought concerning my travels could squeeze itself. She sat quietly
looking out of the window at the apple-tree. Presently she said:--

"I suppose you find it hard to begin work on Monday morning, after
having rested so long. It must be difficult to get yourself again into
the proper frame of mind."

"On this Monday morning," I answered, "I find it very hard indeed."

She turned, and for the first time that day fixed her eyes upon me. She
did not look well; she was pale.

"I had hoped," she said, with a little smile without any brightness in
it, "that you would finish the story of Tomaso and Lucilla; but I don't
believe you feel like composing, so how would you like me to read this
morning?"

"Nothing could suit me better," I answered; and in my heart I thought
that here was an angelic gift, a relief and a joy.

"I will begin," she said, "at the point where I left off reading." She
took up a portion of the manuscript, she brought her chair within a yard
of the grating, she sat down with her face toward me, and she read.
Sometimes she stopped and spoke of what she was reading, now to ask a
question, and now to tell something she had seen in the place I
described. I said but little. I did not wish to occupy any of that
lovely morning with my words,--words which were bound to mean nothing.
As she read and talked, some color came into her face; she looked more
like herself. What a shame to shut up such a woman in a House where she
never had anything interesting to talk about, never anybody interested
to talk to!

After the reading of half a dozen pages during which she had not
interrupted herself, she laid the manuscript in her lap, and asked me
the time. I told her it wanted twenty minutes of twelve. She made no
answer, but rose, put the manuscript in the drawer, and then returned
with a little note which she had taken from her pocket.

"Mother Anastasia desired me to give you this," she said, folding it so
that she could push it through one of the interstices of the grating;
"she told me to hand it to you as I was coming away, but I don't think
she would object to your reading it a little before that."

I took the note, unfolded it, and read it. Mother Anastasia wrote an
excellent hand. She informed me that it had been decided that the sister
of the House of Martha who had been acting as my amanuensis should not
continue in that position, but should now devote herself to another
class of work. If, however, I desired it, another sister would take her
place.

I stood unable to speak. I must have been as pale as the white paint on
the door-frame near which I stood.

"You see," said Sylvia, and from the expression upon her face I think
she must have perceived that I did not like what I had read, "this is
the work of Sister Sarah. I might as well tell you that at once, and I
am sure there is no harm in my doing so. She has always objected to my
writing for you; and although the morning she spent with you would have
satisfied any reasonable person that there could be no possible
objection to my doing it, she has not ceased to insist that I shall give
it up, and go to the Measles Refuge. That, however, I will not do, but I
cannot come here any more. Mother Anastasia and I are both sure that if
I am not withdrawn from this work she will make no end of trouble. She
has consented that I should go on until now simply because this day ends
my month."

I was filled with amazement, grief, and rage.

"The horrible wretch!" I exclaimed. "What malignant wickedness!"

"Oh," said Sylvia, holding up one finger, "you mustn't talk like that
about the sister. She may think she is right, but I don't see how she
can; and perhaps she would have some reason on her side if she could see
me standing here talking about her, instead of attending to my work. But
I determined that I would not go away without saying a word. You have
always been very courteous to us, and I don't see why we should not be
courteous to you."

"Are you sorry to go?" I asked, getting as close to the grating as I
could. "If they would let you, would you go on writing for me?"

"I should be glad to go on with the work," she said; "it is just what I
like."

"Too bad, too bad!" I cried. "Cannot it be prevented? Cannot I see
somebody? You do not know how much I--how exactly you"--

"Excuse me," said Sylvia, "for interrupting you, but what time is it?"

I glanced at the clock. "It wants four minutes of twelve," I gasped.

"Then I must bid you good-by," she said.

"Good-by?" I repeated. "How can you bid me good-by? Confound this
grating! Isn't that door open?"

"No," she replied, "it's locked. Do you want to shake hands with me?"

"Of course I do!" I cried. "Good-by like this! It cannot be."

"I think," she said quickly, "that if you could get out of your window,
you might come to mine and shake hands."

What a scintillating inspiration! What a girl! I had not thought of it!
In a moment I had bounded out of my window, and was standing under hers,
which was not four feet from the ground. There she was, with her
beautiful white hand already extended. I seized it in both of mine.

"Oh, Sylvia," I said, "I cannot have you go in this way. I want to tell
you--I want to tell you how"--

"You are very good," she interrupted, endeavoring slightly to withdraw
her hand, "and when the story of Tomaso and Lucilla is finished and
printed I am going to read it, rules or no rules."

"It shall never be finished," I exclaimed vehemently, "if you do not
write it," and, lifting her hand, I really believe I was about to kiss
it, when with a quick movement she drew it from me.

"She is coming," she said; "good-by! good-by!" and with a wave of her
hand she was gone from the window.

I did not return to my study. I stood by the side of the house, with my
fists clenched and my eyes set. Then, suddenly, I ran to the garden
wall; looking over it, I saw, far down the shaded village street, two
gray figures walking away.




XXII.

I CLOSE MY BOOK.


By the rarest good fortune my grandmother started that afternoon for a
visit to an old friend at the seashore, and, in the mild excitement of
her departure, I do not think she noticed anything unusual in my
demeanor.

"And so your amanuensis has left you?" she remarked, as she was eating a
hasty luncheon. "Sister Sarah stopped for a moment and told me so. She
said there was another one ready to take the place, if you wanted her."

I tried to suppress my feelings, but I must have spoken sharply.

"Want her!" I exclaimed. "I want none of her!"

My grandmother looked at me for a moment.

"I shall be sorry, Horace," she said, "if you find that the sisters do
not work to suit you. I hoped that you might continue to employ them,
because the House of Martha is at such a convenient distance, and offers
you such a variety of assistance to choose from; and also because you
would contribute to a most worthy cause. You know that all the money
they may make is to go to hospitals and that sort of thing."

"I was a little afraid, however," she continued, after a pause, "that
the sister you engaged might not suit you. She was so much younger than
the others that I feared that, away from the restraints of the
institution, she might be a little frivolous. Was she ever frivolous?"

"Not in the least," I answered; "not for an instant."

"I am very glad to hear that," she remarked,--"very glad indeed. I take
an interest in that sister. Years ago I knew her family, but that was
before she was born. I remember that I was intending to speak to you
about her, but in some way I was interrupted."

"Well," I asked, "tell me now, who is she?"

"She _is_," said my grandmother, "Sister Hagar, of the House of Martha.
She _was_ Sylvia Raynor, of New Haven. I think that in some way her life
has been darkened. Mother Anastasia takes a great interest in her, and
favors her a good deal. I know there was opposition to her entering the
House, but she was determined to do it. You say you are not going to
engage another sister? Who is to be your amanuensis?"

"No one," I answered. "I shall stop writing for the present. This is a
very good time. I've nearly reached the end of--a sort of division of
the book."

"An excellent idea," said my grandmother, with animation. "You ought to
go to the sea or the mountains. You have been working very hard. You are
not looking well."

"I shall go, I shall go," I answered quickly; "fishing, probably, but I
can't say where. I'll write to you as soon as I decide."

"Now that is very pleasant," said my grandmother, as she rose from the
table, "very pleasant indeed; and if you write that you will be away
fishing for a week or two, I shall stay at the Bromleys' longer than I
intended,--perhaps until you return."

"A week or two!" I muttered to myself.

Walkirk had sharper eyes than those of my grandmother. I am sure that
when he came that evening he saw immediately that something was the
matter with me,--something of moment. He was a man of too much tact to
allude to my state of mind; but in a very short time I saved him all the
trouble of circumspection, for I growled out that I could not talk about
travels at present, and then told him that I could not write about them,
either, for I had lost my secretary. His countenance exhibited much
concern.

"But you can get another of the sisters," he said.

What I replied to this I do not remember, but I know I expressed myself
so freely, so explicitly, and with such force that Walkirk understood
very well that I wanted the secretary I had lost, that I wanted none
other, and that I wanted her very much indeed. In fact, he comprehended
the situation perfectly.

I was not sorry. I wanted somebody to whom I could talk about the
matter, in whom I could confide. In ten minutes I was speaking to
Walkirk in perfect confidence.

"But you can't do anything," said he, when there came a pause. "This is
a case in which there is nothing to do. My advice is that you go away
for a time, and try to get over it."

"I am going away," I replied.

"You could do nothing better," Walkirk remarked. "I am altogether in
favor of that, although of course such counsel is against my own
interests."

"Not at all," said I, catching his meaning, "for I shall take you with
me."

After a considerable pause in the conversation Walkirk inquired if I had
decided where I would go.

"No," I answered, "that is your affair. My desire is to get away from
every place where there is any chance of seeing a woman. I wish to
obliterate from my mind all idea of the female human being. In fact, I
think I should like to take lodgings near a monastery, and have the
monks come and write for me,--a different one every day."

Walkirk smiled. "Since you wish me to select your retreat," he said, "I
am bound to have an opinion regarding it. I might advise a visit to the
Trappists of Kentucky, or to some remote fishing and hunting region; but
it strikes me that a background made up of exclusive association with
men would be very apt to bring out in strong relief any particular
female image which you might have in your mind. I should say that the
best way of getting rid of such an image would be to merge it in a lot
of other female images."

"Away with the idea!" I cried. "Walkirk, I will neither merge nor
relieve. I will go with you to some place where we shall see neither men
nor women; where we can hunt, fish, sail, sleep, read, smoke, and banish
the world. I don't wish you to take a servant. We can do without
service, and if necessary I can cook. I put the whole matter in your
hands, Walkirk, and when you have decided on our destination let me
know."

The next afternoon Walkirk found me at my club in the city, and informed
me that he had selected a place which he thought would suit my purposes.

"No people?" I asked.

"None but ourselves," replied he.

"Very good," said I. "When can we start?"

"I shall be ready to-morrow afternoon," he answered, "and I will call
for you at your house."




XXIII.

RACKET ISLAND.


We traveled all night, and early in the morning alighted at a small
station, on the shore of a broad bay. Here we found moored a cat-rigged
sailboat, of which Walkirk took possession, and we stowed therein the
valises, guns, and fishing tackle which we had brought with us. I
examined the craft with considerable interest. It was about twenty feet
long, had a small cabin divided into two compartments, and appeared to
be well stocked with provisions and other necessaries.

"Is it to be a long cruise?" I said to Walkirk; "and do you know how to
sail a boat?"

"With this wind," he answered, "we should reach our destination in a
couple of hours, and I consider myself a very fair skipper."

"Up sail, then," I cried, "and I am not in the least hurry to know where
I am going."

Walkirk sailed a boat very well, but he did it in rather an odd way, as
if he had learned it all out of a book, and never had handled a tiller
before. I am not a bad amateur sailor myself, but I gave no
consideration to the management of our craft. Walkirk had said that he
knew where he was going, and was able to sail there, and I left the
matter entirely to him; and whether or not this were his first essay in
sailing, in due time we ran upon a low beach, and he exclaimed:--

"Here we are!"

I rose to my feet and looked about me. "Now, then," said I, "I shall ask
you, where are we?"

"This is Racket Island," he replied, "and as soon as we get the boat
pulled up and the sail down I will tell you about it."

"Racket Island," said Walkirk, a short time afterwards, as we stood
together on a little sandy bluff, "was discovered two years ago by me
and a friend, as we were sailing about in this bay. I suppose other
people may have discovered it before, but as I have seen no proof of
this I am not bound to believe it. We named it Racket Island, having
found on the beach an old tennis racket, which had been washed there by
the waves from no one knows where. The island is not more than half a
mile long, with a very irregular coast. The other end of it, you see, is
pretty well wooded. We stayed here for three days, sleeping in our boat;
and so far as solitude is concerned, we might as well have been on a
desert island in the midst of the Pacific. Now I propose that we do the
same thing, and stay for three days, or three weeks, or as long as you
please. This is the finest season of the year for camping out, and we
can moor the boat securely, and cook and sleep on board of it. There is
plenty of sand and there is plenty of shade, and I hope you will like
it."

"I do!" I cried. "On Racket Island let us settle!"

For two days I experienced a sort of negative enjoyment. If I could not
be at home dictating to my late secretary, or, better still, looking at
her, as she sat close to the grating, reading to me, this was the next
best thing I could do. I could walk over the island; I could sail around
it; I could watch Walkirk fish; I could lie on the sand, and look at the
sky; and I could picture Sylvia with her hair properly arranged, and
attired in apparel suited to her. In my fancy I totally discarded the
gray garb of the sisters of the House of Martha, and dressed my nun
sometimes in a light summer robe, with a broad hat shading her face, and
again in the richest costumes of silks and furs. Sometimes Walkirk
interrupted these pleasant reveries, but that, of course, was to be
expected.

In several directions we could see points of land, but it did not
interest me to know what these were, or how far away they were. Walkirk
and I had Racket Island to ourselves. My grandmother was happy with her
friends, and where the rest of the world happened to stow themselves I
did not care. Several times I said this to myself, but it was a mistake.
I cared very much where Sylvia stowed herself. Philosophize as I might,
I thought of her continually in that doleful House of Martha; and as I
thought of her there I cried out against the shortcomings of
civilization.

We had pitched a small tent in the shelter of a clump of trees on the
higher part of the island; and near this, on the morning of our third
day, I was sitting, smoking, and trying the effect of Sylvia's face
under a wide black hat heavy with ostrich plumes, when Walkirk
approached me, carrying a string of freshly caught fish.

"I am sorry to say," said he, "that in coming here to escape the society
of women we have made a failure, for one of them is sitting on the
beach, on the other side of the island."

I sprang to my feet with an abrupt exclamation.

"How did the woman get here?" I cried. "I thought this place was
deserted."

"It is; I know every inch of it. No one lives here, but this female
person came in a small sailboat. I saw it tied up, not far from where
she is sitting."

"If women come here," I said, "I want to go, and you may as well get
ready to leave."

"I think," remarked Walkirk, "that it would be well not to be in too
great a hurry to leave. I know of no place where we are less likely to
be disturbed, and so long as these dry nights continue there can be no
pleasanter camping place. She may now be sailing away, and the chances
are we shall never see her again."

"I'll go and look into the matter," said I.

I walked over the ridge of the little island, and soon caught sight of a
female figure sitting on the sandy beach. Near by was the boat which
Walkirk had mentioned. As soon as I saw her I stopped; but she must have
heard my approach, for she turned toward me. I had come merely to make
an observation of her, but now I must go on. As I approached her I
turned as if I were about to walk along the shore, and as I passed her I
raised my hat. She was a lady of middle age, of a reddish blonde
complexion, and her hair was negligently put up under a plain straw hat.
Her large blue eyes, her slightly uplifted brows, and the general
expression of her rather thin face gave me the idea that she was a
pleasantly disposed woman, who was either very tired or not in good
health.

"Good-morning, sir," she said. "On desert islands, you know, people
speak to each other without ceremony."

I stopped, and returned her salutation. "Excuse me," I remarked, "but
this does not seem to be a desert island. May I be permitted to ask if
it is a place of much resort?"

"Of course you may," she answered. "People sometimes come here; but
would you like it better if they did not? You need not answer; I know
you would."

This was a very free and easy lady, but if she liked that mood it suited
me very well.

"Since you will have it," I replied, "I will admit I came here because I
thought my companion and I would have the island to ourselves."

"And now you are disappointed," she said, with a smile.

She was surely a person of very pleasant humor.

"Good lady," said I, "you must not corner me. I came here because I
thought it would be a good place in which to stop awhile and grumble
undisturbed; and as you say it is proper to be unceremonious, may I ask
how you happen to be here, and if you sail your boat yourself?"

"I am here," she answered, "because I like this island. I take an
interest in it for two reasons: one is that it is a good island, and the
other is that I own it."

"Really!" I exclaimed, in sudden embarrassment, "you must pardon me! I
assure you I did not know that."

"Don't apologize," she said, raising her hand. "Scarcely any one knows,
or at least remembers, that I own this island. I bought it a good many
years ago, intending to build upon it; but it was considered too remote
from the mainland, and I have established a summer home on the island
which you can just see, over there to the west; so this island is
perfectly free to respectable seekers after solitude or fish. I may add
that I do not sail my boat, but came here this morning with my brother
and another gentleman. They have now gone up the beach to look for
shells."

"Madam," said I, "I feel that I am an intruder; but to assure you that I
am a respectable one, allow me to introduce myself," and I presented my
card.

"No, thank you," she replied, with a smile, as she gently waved back my
card; "we don't do that sort of thing here; as far as possible we omit
all ordinary social customs. We come here to rid ourselves, for a time,
of manners and customs. My other island is called the 'Tangent,' because
there we fly off from our accustomed routine of life. We dress as we
please, and we live as we please. We drop all connection with society
and its conventions. We even drop the names by which society knows us. I
am known as the 'Lady Who Sits on the Sand,' commonly condensed to the
'Sand Lady.' My brother, who spends most of his time in his boat, is the
'Middle-Aged Man of the Sea,' and his scientific friend is the 'Shell
Man.' When we have stayed on the Tangent as long as the weather and our
pleasure induce us, we return to our ordinary routine of life. Now, if
you have any title which is characteristic of you, I shall be glad to
hear it, as well as that of your companion. We consider ourselves
capable of forming unbiased opinions in regard to what is generally
known as respectability."

It struck me as a very satisfactory thing to look upon this pleasant
lady solely and simply as a human being. It is so seldom that we meet
any one who can be looked upon in that light.

"Madam," I said, "I greatly like your plan for putting yourselves out of
the world for a time, but I find it difficult properly to designate
myself."

"Oh, anything will do," she said; "for instance, your reason for
desiring to seclude yourself."

"Very well, then," said I, "you may call me a 'Lover in Check.'"

"Excellent!" she exclaimed,--"just the sort of person for this place;
and what is the other one?"

"Oh, he is an Understudy," I replied.

"Delightful," she said; "I never saw one. And here come my brother and
the Shell Man."

I was now introduced formally by my new title to the Middle-Aged Man of
the Sea, a hearty personage, with a curling beard, and to the Shell Man,
who was tall, and wore spectacles.

When my presence was explained, the brother was as cordial as the lady
had been, and proffered any assistance which I might need during my
sojourn on the island. When they took their leave, the Sand Lady urged
me to inhabit her island as long as I pleased, and hoped that I and the
Understudy would sometimes sail over to them, and see what it was to be
on a Tangent. At this I shook my head, and they all laughed at me; but
it was easy to see that they were people of very friendly dispositions.

When I reported my interview to Walkirk, he remarked, "It is impossible
to get away from people, but in all probability these folks will not
come here again."

"Perhaps not," I answered, and dropped the subject.




XXIV.

THE INTERPOLATION.


"They did not seem in the least surprised to find us here," I said to
Walkirk, as we were eating our dinner.

"Who?" he asked. "Oh, the people who came over this morning? Quite
likely they saw us when we were sailing this way. We passed their island
at no great distance. There is no reason why they should object. Your
soft hat and flannel shirt would not prevent them from seeing that you
were a gentleman."

I nodded, and sat silent for a time.

"Walkirk," said I, "suppose we sail over to those people this afternoon?
It might be interesting."

"Very good," he answered, turning suddenly to watch a sea gull, which
had made a great swoop toward us, as if attracted by the odors of our
meal; "that will be an excellent thing to do."

In making our way, that afternoon, in the direction of the Tangent, our
course was not mathematically correct, for the wind did not favor us,
and it was impossible to sail in a right line; but the sun was still
high when we reached the larger island, and made the boat fast to a
little pier.

This island was much more attractive than the one on which we were
camping. The ground receded from the beach in rolling slopes covered
with short grass, and here and there were handsome spreading trees. On a
bluff, a few hundred yards from the pier, stood a low, picturesque
house, almost surrounded by a grove. The path to the house was plainly
marked, and led us along the face of a little hill to a jutting point,
where it seemed to make an abrupt turn upward. As we rounded this point,
we saw on a rocky ledge not far ahead of us a lady dressed in white. She
was standing on the ledge, looking out over the water, and apparently
very much engaged with her own thoughts, for she had not yet perceived
our approach.

At the first glance I saw that the figure before us was not the Sand
Lady. This was a tall and graceful woman, carrying no weight of years.
She held her hat in her hand, and her dark hair was slightly blown back
from a face which, seen in profile against the clear blue sky, appeared
to me to be perfect in its outline. We stopped involuntarily, and at
that moment she turned toward us. Her face was one of noble beauty, with
great dark eyes, and a complexion of that fine glow which comes to women
who are not quite brunettes.

Walkirk started, and seized my arm. "Good heavens," he whispered, "it is
Mother Anastasia!"

As we now advanced toward the lady, I could scarcely believe what I had
heard; certainly I could not comprehend it. Here was one of the most
beautiful women I had ever beheld, dressed in a robe of soft white
flannel, which, though simple, was tasteful and elegant. She had a bunch
of wild flowers in her belt, and at her neck a bow of dark yellow
ribbon. I particularly noticed these points, in my amazement at hearing
Walkirk say that this was the Mother Superior of the House of Martha.

As we approached, she greeted us pleasantly, very much as if she had
expected our coming, and then, addressing Walkirk, she said, with a
smile:

"I see, sir, that you recognize me, and I suppose you are somewhat
surprised to find me here, and thus," glancing at her dress.

"Surprised, madam!" exclaimed Walkirk. "I am astounded."

"Well," said she, "that sort of thing will happen occasionally. The
people on this island have been expecting a visit from you gentlemen,
but I really do not know where any of them are. It is not always easy to
find them, but I will go and see if the Sand Lady is in the house, and
if so I will tell her of your arrival. Of course," she continued, now
turning to me, "you both will remember that in this place we put
ourselves outside of a good many of the ordinary conventions, and are
known by our characteristics instead of our names."

I assured her we understood this, and considered it an admirable idea.

"As you, sir," turning to Walkirk, "have met me before, I will
immediately state that I am known on this island only as the
'Interpolation.'"

She turned to walk toward the house, but stopped. "We are all here to
enjoy ourselves, and it is against the rules to worry each other with
puzzles. I therefore will at once say, in explanation of my name, that I
have briefly thrust myself into the life of my friends; and of my
appearance, that the Middle-Aged Man of the Sea, who is a very
self-willed person, caused the costume which I ordinarily wear, and in
which I arrived, to be abstracted and hidden, so that I am obliged,
while here, to wear clothes belonging to others. Now, you see, Mr.
Understudy, everything is as plain as daylight."

"They have been talking about us," I remarked, as the lady rapidly
walked away, "and of course, having recognized you, she must know who I
am."

"Know you? There is no doubt of it," he answered. "She must have seen
you often in the village, although you may never have noticed her."

"I certainly never have," said I; "in fact, I make it a point not to
look under the bonnets of those gray-garbed women."

"When you meet them in the street?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied.

"She knows us both," said Walkirk, "and she has now gone to the house to
tell the people who we are; and yet I am surprised that she met us so
serenely. She could not possibly have known that the two men on that
little island were her neighbors in the village of Arden."

I made no answer. I was strangely excited. I had flown to an uninhabited
island to get away from Sylvia, and, if my conscience could be made to
work properly, to get away from all thoughts of her; and here I had met,
most unexpectedly and suddenly, with one who was probably the most
intimate connection of the girl from whom I was flying. I was amazed; my
emotion thrilled me from head to foot.

"It is just like women," remarked Walkirk, as we slowly walked toward
the house, "to put on disguises to conceal their identities, but they
have no respect for our identities. Without doubt, at this moment Mother
Anastasia is telling the lady of the house all about you and your
grandmother, your position in society, and the manner in which you were
furnished with a secretary from the House of Martha."

Still I did not reply. "Mother Anastasia!" I said to myself. "Here is a
gray-garbed sister transformed into a lovely woman. Why should not
another sister be so transformed? Why should not Sylvia be here, in soft
white raiment, with flowers and a broad hat? If one can be thus, why not
the other?" The possibility fevered me.

We found the mistress of the house--the same who was called the Sand
Lady--upon a piazza. Her demeanor had been pleasant enough when we had
seen her before, but now she greeted us as cordially as if we had been
old friends. It was plain enough that Mother Anastasia had told her all
about us. Her brother and the Shell Man were also there, and the first
was friendly and the latter polite. The Mother Superior was on the
piazza, but keeping a little in the background, as if she felt that she
had had her turn.

"And now, Mr. Lover in Check and Mr. Understudy," said the Sand Lady, "I
present you with the freedom of this island, as I have already presented
you with the freedom of the other. If what we happen to be doing
interests you, join us. If it does not, interest yourselves as you
please. That is our custom here."

The mention of the name which I had applied to myself gave me a little
shock. Under the circumstances I did not like it. It was possible that
the Mother Superior of the House of Martha might know what it meant; and
whether she knew it now, or ever should come to know it, I did not wish
the knowledge to come to her in that way.

"There is still another one of our family," said the Sand Lady; "but she
is very independent, and may not care for me to present you just now. I
will go and ask her."

She stepped off the piazza, and went to a lady who was reading in a
hammock, under a tree near by. In a minute or two this lady arose, and,
with her book in her hand, came toward us. She was a woman of good
figure, and with a certain air of loftiness. Her dress was extremely
simple, and she may have been thirty years old. Approaching us, she
said:--

"I wish to introduce myself. I am a 'Person.' In this place that is all
I am. It is my name. It denotes my characteristics. Your titles have
been mentioned to me. The ceremony is over," and, with a little nod, she
returned to her hammock.

"Now," said the Man of the Sea, "who could prune away conventionalities
better than that?" He then announced that in half an hour the tide would
serve for fishing,--that he was going out in his boat, and would take
any one who cared to accompany him; and this announcement having been
made, he settled himself upon the piazza to talk to us. The conversation
was interesting and lively. The people at this house were well worth
knowing.

The Sand Lady and Walkirk went in the boat to fish. The latter had been
very prompt to accept the invitation. I do not know whether the Shell
Man went with them or not. At all events, he disappeared, and Mother
Anastasia and myself were left upon the piazza. It surprised me that
events had so quickly shaped themselves to my advantage.

"Do you insist," I said, when we were left alone, "on being called an
Interpolation?"

"Of course I do," she answered; "that is what I am."

"You like plain speech."

"I am very fond of it," was her reply.

During the general conversation I had determined that as soon as an
opportunity offered I would speak very plainly to this lady. I looked
about me. The occupant of the hammock was not far away. I surmised that
she could readily hear me if I spoke in my ordinary tone.

"Plain speech appears difficult to you," remarked my companion.

I still looked about me. "It strikes me," said I, "that beyond the other
side of the house there is a bluff from which one might get a view of
the mainland. Would you like to go and find out whether that is so or
not?"

"I have seen that view several times," she answered; and then, after a
little pause, she added, "But I don't mind in the least seeing it
again." Together we walked to the bluff. There we found two rude seats
which had been made for the convenience of viewers, and on one of these
she seated herself.

"Now," said she, "please sit down, and you may immediately begin to ask
me about Sister Ha--"

"Oh, do not call her by that name!" I cried.

She laughed. "Very well, then," said she, "what shall I call her?"

"Sylvia," I replied.

She opened her eyes. "Upon my word," she exclaimed, "this is progress!
How did you come to know that her name is Sylvia?"

"She told me," I answered. "But why do you think I want to ask you about
Sylvia?"

"I knew there was no other reason for your wishing to have a private
talk with me; but I must admit that I would not have felt warranted to
act upon my assumptions had you not announced yourself in this place as
a Lover in Check."

"But could not some one else have held me in check?" I asked.

"No, sir," said she. "I have heard of the manner in which you parted
from your late secretary."

This conversation was getting to be plainer than I desired it to be. I
was willing to declare my position, but I did not care to have it
declared for me. I was silent for a minute.

"I did not suppose," I then said, "that you were so well informed. You
think that I am a lover held in check by the circumstances surrounding
the lady you designated my late secretary?"

"I do."

"May I ask," I continued, with a little agitation, "if Sylvia considers
me in this light, and if she has--expressed any opinion on the subject?"

"Those are pretty questions," said the lady, fixing her dark eyes upon
me. "She has said nothing about the light in which she considers you. In
fact, all she has told me about you has been in answer to questions I
have put to her; but had she spoken of you as a lover, checked or
unchecked, of course you would have been none the wiser for me. Sylvia
is a simple-hearted, frank girl, and I have thought that she might not
have suspected the nature of your very decided liking for her; but now
that I have found out that she let you know her as Sylvia I am afraid
she is deeper than I thought her. I should not be surprised if you two
had flirted dreadfully."

"I never flirt," I answered emphatically.

"That is right," said she. "Never do it."

"But why," I asked, "did you allow her to continue to come to me, if you
thought I had a decided liking for her, and all that?"

"Because I chose to do it," she replied, with not the ripple of a smile
nor the furrow of a frown upon her face.

I looked at her in amazement.

"Madam," said I, "Interpolation, Mother Anastasia, or whatever name you
give yourself, begin now and tell me about Sylvia, and speak to me
freely, as I speak to you. I love her with all my heart. If I can, I
intend to marry her, Martha or no Martha. I care not what may be the
odds against me. Now you see exactly where I stand, and as far as I am
concerned you may speak without restraint."

"You are certainly very clear and explicit," she said, "and I shall be
glad to tell you about Sylvia."




XXV.

ABOUT SYLVIA.


"Before I begin," continued my companion, slanting her hat so as to
prevent the sun from meddling with the perfect tones of her complexion,
"tell me what you already know about this young lady. I do not wish to
waste any information."

"All I know," said I, "is that her family name is Raynor,--my
grandmother told me that,--that she is absolutely, utterly, and even
wickedly out of place in the House of Martha, and that I want her for my
wife."

"Very good," said my companion, with a smile. "Now I know what not to
tell you. I am very fond of Sylvia. In fact, I believe I love her better
than any other woman in the world"--

"So do I," I interrupted.

She laughed. "For a lover in check you are entirely too ready to move.
For years I have looked upon her as a younger sister, and there is no
good thing which I would not have lavished upon her had I been able, but
instead of that I did her an injury. At times I have thought it a
terrible injury."

"You mean," I asked, "that you have allowed her to enter the House of
Martha?"

"Your quickness is wonderful," she said, "but you do not put the case
quite correctly. Had it been possible for me to prohibit her joining our
sisterhood, I should have done so; but she was perfectly free to do as
she pleased, and my advice against it was of no avail. It was my example
which induced her to enter the House of Martha. She had had trouble. She
wished to retire from the world, and devote herself to good works which
should banish her trouble. I had so devoted myself. She loved me, and
she followed me. I talked to her until I made her unhappy, and then I
let her go her way. But the great object of my life for nearly a year
has been to make that girl feel that her true way is out of the House of
Martha."

"Then she is not bound by vows or promises?" I asked, with some
excitement.

"Not in the least," said she. "She can leave us when she pleases. I do
not think she likes her life or her duties, unless, indeed, they lead
her in the direction of dictated literature; but she has a firm will,
and, having joined us, has never shown the slightest sign of a desire to
leave us. She always asserts that, when the proper time arrives, she
shall vow herself a permanent member of our sisterhood."

"What preposterous absurdity!" I exclaimed. "She will never conform to
your rules. She hates nursing. She has too much good sense to insult her
fine womanly nature by degrading and unnecessary sacrifices."

"How delightfully confidential she must have been!--but I assure you,
sir, that she never said that sort of thing to me. There were things she
liked and things she did not like, but she showed no signs of
rebellion."

"Which was wise," I said, "knowing that you thought she ought not to be
there, any way."

"Oh, but she is a little serpent," exclaimed my companion, "and so wise
to confide in you, and without flirting! It must have been charming to
see."

I did not reply to this remark, which I considered flippant, and my mind
was not inclined to flippancy.

"It may appear strange to you," she continued, "and would probably
appear strange to any one who did not understand the case, that I should
have allowed her to become your amanuensis, but this whole affair is a
very peculiar one. In the first place, it is absolutely necessary that
Sylvia should work. It is not only her duty as a sister, but without it
she would fall into a morbid mental condition. She is not fitted in any
way for the ordinary labors of our House, so I was glad to find
something which would not only suit her, but would so interest her that
it would help to draw her away from us, and back into the world, to
which she rightfully belongs. This must appear an odd desire for a
mother superior of a religious body, but it is founded on an earnest and
conscientious regard for the true welfare of my young friend.

"And then there was another reason for my allowing her to come to you.
You would smile if you could picture to yourself the mental image I had
formed of you, which was founded entirely on your grandmother's remarks
when she came to see me about engaging one of our sisters as your
secretary. Before this matter was discussed I may have seen you in the
village, but I never had known you even by sight, and from what that
good lady said of you I supposed that you were decidedly middle-aged in
feeling, if not in years; that you were extremely grave and studious,
and wished, when engaged upon literary composition, to be entirely
oblivious of your surroundings; and that you desired an amanuensis who
should be simply a writing-machine,--who would in no way annoy you by
intruding upon you any evidence that she possessed a personality. A
sister from our House, your grandmother urged, would be the very person
you needed, and infinitely better suited to the position than the
somewhat frivolous young women who very often occupy positions as
amanuenses.

"It was for these reasons that I sent Sylvia to write at the dictation
of the sedate author of the forthcoming book on European travel. Even
when I heard that a love-story had been introduced into the descriptions
of countries, I concluded, after consideration, not to interfere. I did
not think that it would be of any disadvantage to Sylvia if she should
become a little interested in love affairs; but that you should become
interested in a love affair, such as that you have mentioned to me, I
did not imagine in the remotest degree."

"I am sure," said I, "that your motives as far as Sylvia was concerned,
and your action as far as I am concerned, were heaven-born. And now, as
we are speaking plainly here together, let me ask you if you do not
think you would be fulfilling what you consider your duty to Sylvia by
aiding me to make her my wife! There can surely be no better way for her
to fill her proper place in the world than to marry a man who loves her
with his whole heart. I know that I love her above all the world; I
believe that I am worthy of her."

She answered me in a tone which was grave, but gentle. "Do you not know
you are asking me to do something which is entirely impossible? In the
first place, my official position precludes me from taking part in
affairs of this nature; and although I am willing to admit that I see no
reason why you might not be a suitable partner for Sylvia, I must also
admit that, on the other hand, I have no reason to believe that Sylvia
would be inclined to accept you as such a partner. I have no doubt that
she has made herself very agreeable to you,--that is her nature; I know
that she used to make herself very agreeable to people. You must
remember that, even should Sylvia leave us, your chances may be no
better than they are now."

"Madam," I said, leaning toward her, and speaking with great
earnestness, "I will take all possible chances! What I ask and implore
of you is, that if you should ever be able to do the least little thing
which would give me the opportunity to plead my own suit before Sylvia,
you would do it. I can give her position and fortune. I think I am
suited to her, and if love can make me better suited, I have love
enough. Now tell me, will you not do this thing? If you have the
opportunity, and see no reason against it, will you not help me?"

"This is a hard position for me," she said, after a pause, "and all I
can promise you is this: I love Sylvia, and I am going to do whatever I
think will be of the greatest advantage to her."

"Then," I asserted with continued earnestness, "it shall be my labor to
prove that to love the man who loves her as I do will be her greatest
good! If I do that, will you be on my side?"

She smiled, looked at me a few moments, and then answered, "Yes."

"Your hand upon it!" I cried, leaning still farther forward. She laughed
at the enthusiastic warmth of my manner, and gave me her hand.

"It is a promise!" I exclaimed, and was about to raise her fingers to my
lips when she quickly drew them away.

"I declare," she said, rising as she spoke, "I did not suppose that you
would forget that I am the Mother Superior of the House of Martha."

"Excuse me," I replied, "but you are not that; with your own mouth you
have assured me that you are an Interpolation, and there is nothing in a
social or moral law which forbids a suitable expression of gratitude to
an Interpolation."

"Sir," said she, "I think I have seen quite as much as is necessary of
the view which you asked me here to look upon."




XXVI.

MOTHER ANASTASIA.


In the half hour during which I remained alone upon the bluff, awaiting
the return of Walkirk and the fishing party, I thought as much of the
lady with whom I had been talking as the lady of whom I had been
talking.

"How is it possible," I asked myself, "that this gentlewoman, warm with
her rich blooded beauty, alive with ripe youth, born to delight the soul
of man and fire his heart, should content herself to be a head nurse in
a hospital; to wander in an unsightly disguise among dismal sick-beds;
to direct the management of measles-refuges; to shut herself up in a
bare-floored, cold-walled institution with narrow-minded Sister Sarahs;
to be, in a word, the Mother Superior of the House of Martha?"

That she should occupy this position seemed to me a crime. There were
many women in the world who could do all she was doing, but there were
few who could take her place in the world of full, true life.

When the fishing party returned, I went to the house to take leave of
our new friends.

"You must go?" said the Sand Lady. "And where, may I ask, is it
imperative that you should go?"

"To the island where you have so kindly allowed us to sojourn," I
replied.

"You sleep in the cabin of your boat, I believe?" she said; and I
answered that we did.

"Very well, then," continued she, "why not bring your floating home to
this island? It is in every way better than that. I will give you
exclusive rights over a little bay and an adjoining dell. There you can
cook your own meals when you like, or you can come to us when you like;
we always have more than enough for all who inhabit this island. In the
evening you can sit alone on the beach and think of the far-away loved
one, or you can come up to the house and play whist or twenty questions.
The Understudy can go fishing with my brother; they suit each other
admirably. What do you say?"