For some minutes I stood, bewildered, dazed, doubting whether I had been
awake or dreaming. My mind could not grasp what had happened,--even my
imagination could not help me. But one thing I knew: whether this had
all been real, or whether it had been a dream, I had seen the face of
Sylvia. This I knew as I knew I lived.

Slowly I came away, scarcely knowing how I walked or where I emerged
from the woods, and crossed the open country to the house of Captain
Jabe.




XXX.

A DISCOVERY.


I found the quilting party at supper. I could see them through the open
windows of the large living-room, and I heard their chatter and laughing
when I was still a considerable distance from the house. With my mind
quivering with the emotions excited by what had happened in the woods,
it was impossible for me to join a party like this. I walked around the
barn and into a little orchard, where, between two gnarled apple-trees,
there hung an old hammock, into which I threw myself.

There I lay, piling conjecture and supposition high upon each other; but
not at all could I conjecture how it was that the face which I had last
seen in my own home, under the gray bonnet of a sister of Martha, should
flash upon my vision in this far-away spot, and from the surface of a
woodland stream.

It was growing dusky, when I heard a loud whistle, and my name was
called. I whistled in return, and in a few moments Walkirk came running
to me.

"I was beginning to get frightened," he said. "I have been looking
everywhere for you. We have had supper, and the party is breaking up.
There is no moon to-night, and the people must start early for their
homes."

"Let them all get away," I replied; "and when they are entirely out of
sight and hearing let me know, and I'll go in to supper."

"I am afraid," said Walkirk, hesitating, "that they will not like that.
You know these country people are very particular about leave-taking,
and all that sort of thing."

"I can't help it," I answered. "I don't feel at all like seeing people
at present. You can go and bid them good-by in my name."

"As an under-study?" said he, smiling. "Well, if I can tell them you are
out of condition and not feeling like yourself, that will make it all
right, and will also explain why you kept yourself away all the
afternoon." With this he left me, promising to return when the guests
had departed. It was a long time before he came back, and it was then
really dark.

"Your supper is awaiting you," he announced, "and I am afraid that Mrs.
Jabe is contemplating a hot footbath and some sort of herb tea; and we
ought to turn in pretty early to-night, for Captain Jabe has announced
that he will sail between four and five o'clock in the morning."

"Walkirk," said I, sitting up in the hammock, "I have no intention of
sailing to-morrow. I prefer to stay here for a time; I don't know for
how long."

"Stay here!" exclaimed Walkirk. "What on earth can you do here? What
possible attraction can this place have?"

"My good Walkirk," I said, rising and walking toward the house, "I am
here, and here I want to stay. Reasons are the most awkward things in
the world. They seldom fit; let us drop them. Perhaps, if Captain and
Mrs. Jabe think I did not treat their company with proper courtesy, they
may feel that I am making amends by desiring to stay with them. Any way,
I am going to stay."

Captain Jabe and his wife were very much surprised when I announced my
intention of remaining at their place for a day or two longer, but, as I
had surmised, they were also flattered.

"This is a quiet place," said the captain, "but as ye ain't very well,
and seem to like to keep to yerself, I don't see why it shouldn't suit
ye. There's plenty o' good air, and fishin' if ye want it, and we can
accommodate ye and give ye plenty to eat. I shall be back to-morrow
night, and expect to stay home over Sunday myself."

Walkirk was very much dissatisfied, and made a strong attempt to turn me
from my purpose. "If you intend to do anything in regard to Miss
Raynor," he said, "I really think you ought to get home as soon as you
can. Mother Anastasia is now having everything her own way, you know."

"Walkirk," said I, "you blow hot and cold. If it had not been for you, I
should be home this minute; but you dissuaded me from a hot chase after
Mother Anastasia, and now my ardor for the chase has cooled, and I am
quite inclined to let that sport wait."

Walkirk looked at me inquiringly. It was evident that he did not
understand my mood.

The next morning I found myself in a quandary. I had determined to make
a long tramp inland, and if necessary to ford or swim streams, and I
could not determine whether or not it would be wise to take Walkirk with
me. I concluded at last to take him; it would be awkward to leave him
behind, and he might be of use. We provided ourselves with fishing rods
and tackle and two pairs of wading-boots, as well as with a luncheon
basket, well filled by Mrs. Jabe, and started on our expedition. I felt
in remarkably good spirits.

I had formed no acceptable hypothesis in regard to what I had seen the
day before, but I was going to do something better than that; I was
going to find out if what had occurred could possibly be real and
actual. If I should be convinced that this was impossible, then I
intended to accept the whole affair as a dream which had taken place
during an unconscious nap.

When we reached the woodland stream, Walkirk gazed about him with
satisfaction. "This looks like sport," he said. "I see no reason why
there should not be good fishing in this creek. I did not suppose we
should find such pleasant woods and so fine a stream in Captain Jabe's
neighborhood."

"You must know," said I, "that I have a talent for exploration and
discovery. Had it not been for this stream, I should not have thought of
such a thing as allowing Captain Jabe and Abner to sail off by
themselves this morning."

"Really," replied Walkirk, "you care much more for angling than I
supposed."

Truly I cared very little for angling, but I had discovered that Walkirk
was an indefatigable and patient fisherman. I had intended that he
should cross the stream with me, but it now occurred to me that it would
be far better to let him stay on this side, while I pursued my
researches alone. Accordingly I proposed that he should fish in the part
of the stream which I had seen the day before, while I pressed on
farther. "In this way," I remarked artfully, "we shall not interfere
with each other." Had I supposed that there was the slightest
possibility of the appearance on the stream of the apparition of the day
before, I should have requested Walkirk to fish from the top of a
distant tree. But I had no fears on this score. If what I had seen had
been a phantasm, my under-study would have to doze to see it, and I knew
he would not do that; and if what I had seen was real, it would not
appear this morning, for the water was too low for swimming. The creek,
as I now perceived, was affected by the tide, and its depth was very
much less than on the preceding afternoon.

I turned to the right, and followed the stream for some distance; now
walking by its edge, and now obliged, by masses of undergrowth, to make
a detour into the woods. At last I came to a spot where the stream,
although wide, appeared shallow. In fact, even in the centre I could see
the stones at the bottom. I therefore put on my wading-boots and boldly
crossed. The woods here were mostly of pine, free from undergrowth, and
with the ground softened to the foot by a thick layer of pine needles.

Now that I was on the other side of the creek, I desired to make my way
out of the woods, which could not, I imagined, be very extensive. To
discover a real basis for yesterday's vision, I believed that it would
be necessary to reach open country. Leaving the stream behind me, it was
not long before I came to a rude pathway; and although this seemed to
follow the general direction of the creek, I determined to turn aside
from the course I was taking and follow it. After walking for nearly a
mile, sometimes seeing the waters of the stream, and sometimes entirely
losing sight of them, I found the path making an abrupt turn, and in a
few minutes was out of the woods.

The country before me was very much like that about Captain Jabe's
residence. There were low rolling hills covered with coarse grass and
ragged shrubbery, with here and there a cluster of trees. Not a sign of
human habitation was in sight. Reaching the top of a small hill, I saw
at my right, and not very far before me, a wide expanse of water. This I
concluded must be the bay, although I had not expected to see it in this
direction.

I went down the hill toward the shore. "If what I seek is in reality," I
said to myself, "it will naturally love to live somewhere near the
water." Near the beach I struck a path again, and this I followed, my
mind greatly agitated by the thoughts of what I might discover, as well
as by the fear that I might discover nothing.

After a walk of perhaps a quarter of an hour I stopped suddenly. I had
discovered something. I looked about me, utterly amazed. I was on the
little beach which the Sand Lady had assigned to Walkirk and me as a
camping ground.

I sat down, vainly endeavoring to comprehend the situation. Out of the
mass of wild suppositions and conjectures which crowded themselves into
my mind there came but one conviction, and with that I was satisfied:
Sylvia was here.

It mattered not that the Sand Lady had said that hers was the only house
upon the island; it mattered not that Captain Jabe had said nothing of
his neighbor; in truth, nothing mattered. One sister of the House of
Martha had come to this place; why not another? What I had seen in the
woods had been no fantasy. Sylvia was here.




XXXI.

TAKING UP UNFINISHED WORK.


My reasons for believing that Sylvia was on this island were
circumstantial, it is true, but to me they were entirely conclusive, and
the vehement desire of my soul was to hasten to the house and ask to see
her. But I did not feel at all sure that this would be the right thing
to do. The circumstances of this case were unusual. Sylvia was a sister
of a religious house. It was not customary for gentlemen to call upon
such sisters, and the lady who was the temporary custodian of this one
might resent such an attempt.

It was, however, impossible for me entirely to restrain my impulses, and
without knowing exactly what I intended to do I advanced toward the
house. Very soon I saw its chimneys above the trees which partly
surrounded it. Then, peeping under cover of a thicket, I went still
nearer, so that, if there had been any people in the surrounding
grounds, I could have seen them; but I saw no one, and I sat down on a
log and waited. It shamed me to think that I was secretly watching a
house, but despite the shame I continued to sit and watch.

There was the flutter of drapery on a little porch. My heart beat
quickly, my eyes were fixed upon the spot; but nothing appeared except a
maid who brought out some towels, which she hung on a bush to dry. Then
again I watched and watched.

After a time four people came out from the house, two of them carrying
colored parasols. I knew them instantly. There was the Middle-Aged Man
of the Sea, and his friend the Shell Man; and there was the Sand Lady,
and my enemy who called herself a Person. They went off toward the
little pier. Sylvia was not with them, nor did she join them. They
entered their boat and sailed away. They were going fishing, as was
their custom. The fact that Sylvia was not with them, and that no one of
them had stayed behind to keep her company, caused my heart to fall. In
cases like mine, it takes very little to make the heart fall. The
thought forced itself into my mind that perhaps, after all, I had seen a
vision, and had been building theories on dreams.

Suddenly the shutter of an upper window opened, and I saw Sylvia!

It was truly Sylvia. She was dressed in white, not gray. Her hair was
massed upon her head. There was no gray bonnet. She looked up at the
sky, then at the trees, and withdrew.

My heart was beating as fast as it pleased. My face was glowing, and
shame had been annihilated. I sat and watched. Presently a door opened,
and Sylvia came out.

Now I rose to my feet. I must go to her. It might not be honorable to
take her at this disadvantage, but there are moments when even honor
must wait for a decision upon its case. However, there was no necessity
for my going to Sylvia; she was coming to me.

As she walked directly to the spot where I stood, I saw Sylvia as I had
seen her in my day-dreams,--a beautiful girl, dressed as a beautiful
girl should dress in summer time. In one hand she carried a portfolio,
in the other a little leathern case. As she came nearer, I saw that she
was attired exactly as Mother Anastasia had been dressed when I met her
here. Nearer she came, but still she did not see me. I was not now
concealed, but her eyes seemed fixed upon the path in which she was
walking.

When she was within a hundred feet of the thicket through which her path
would lead, I advanced to meet her. I tried to appear cool and composed,
but I am afraid my success was slight. As for Sylvia, she stopped
abruptly, and dropped her leathern case. I think that at first she did
not recognize me, and was on the point of screaming. Suddenly to come
upon a man in the midst of these solitudes was indeed startling.

Quickly, however, I made myself known, and her expression of fright
changed to one of amazement. I am happy to say that she took the hand I
offered her, though she seemed to have no words with which to return my
formal greeting. In cases like this, the one who amazes should not
impose upon the amazed one the necessity of asking questions, but should
begin immediately to explain the situation.

This I did. I told Sylvia how I had been accidentally brought to Captain
Jabe's house, how I had strolled off in this direction, and how
delighted I was to meet her here. In all this I was careful not to
intimate that I had suspected her presence in this region. While
speaking, I tried hard to think what I should say when she should
remark, "Then you did not know I was here?" But she did not make this
remark. She looked at me with a little puzzled wrinkle on her brow, and
said, with a smile:--

"It is absolutely wonderful that you should be here, and I should not
know it; and that I should be here, and you should not know it."

Ever since my meeting with Mother Anastasia it had been my purpose, as
soon as I could find or make an opportunity, to declare to Sylvia my
love for her. Apart from my passionate yearning in this direction, I
felt that what I had done and attempted to say when I had parted from my
secretary made it obligatory on me, as a man of honor, to say more, the
moment I should be able to do so.

Now the opportunity had come; now we were alone together, and I was able
to pour out before her the burning words which so often, in my hours of
reverie, had crowded themselves upon my mind. The fates had favored me
as I had had no reason to expect to be favored, but I took no advantage
of this situation. I spoke no word of love. I cannot say that Sylvia's
demeanor cooled my affection, but I can say that it cooled my desire for
instantaneous expression of it. After her first moments of astonishment,
her mind seemed entirely occupied with the practical unraveling of the
problem of our meeting. I endeavored to make this appear a very
commonplace affair. It was quite natural that my companion and I should
come together to a region which he had before visited.

"Yes," said she, "I suppose all out-of-the-way things can be made
commonplace, if one reasons long enough. As for me, of course it is
quite natural that, needing a change from the House of Martha, I should
come to my mother's island."

"Your mother!" I stammered.

"Yes," she answered. "Mrs. Raynor, who spends her summers in that house
over there, is my mother. Her brother is here, too, and she has some
friends with her. Mother Anastasia was away recently on a little jaunt,
and when she came back she said that I looked tired and wan, and that I
ought to go to my mother's for a fortnight. So I came. That was all
simple enough, you see."

Simple enough! Could anything be more extraordinary, more enigmatical? I
did not know what to say, what course to pursue; but in the midst of my
surprise I had sense enough to see that, until I knew more, the less I
said the better. Sylvia did not know that I had visited her mother's
island and her mother's house. It is possible that she did not know that
Mother Anastasia had been here. I must decide whether or not I would
enlighten her on these points. My disposition was to be perfectly open
and frank with her, and to be thus I must enlighten her. But I waited,
and in answer to her statement merely told her how glad I was that she
had a vacation and such a delightful place to come to. She did not
immediately reply, but stood looking past me over the little vale beyond
us.

"Well, here I am," she said presently, "and in a very different dress
from that in which you used to see me; but for all that, I am still a
sister of the House of Martha, and so"--

"So what?" I interrupted.

"I suppose I should go back to the house," she answered.

Now I began to warm up furiously.

"Don't think of it!" I exclaimed. "Now that I have met you, give me a
few moments of your time. Let me see you as you are, free and
undisguised, like other women, and not behind bars or in charge of old
Sister Sarah."

"Wasn't she horrid?" said Sylvia.

"Indeed she was," I replied; "and now cannot you walk a little with me,
or shall we sit down somewhere and have a talk?"

She shook her head. "Even if mother and the rest had not gone away in
the boat, I could not do that, you know."

If she persisted in her determination to leave me, she should know my
love in two minutes. But I tried further persuasion.

"We have spent hours together," I said; "why not let me make you a
little visit now?"

Still she gently shook her head, and looked away. Suddenly she turned
her face toward me. Her blue eyes sparkled, her lips parted, and there
was a flush upon her temples.

"There is one thing I would dearly like," she said, "and I think I could
stay for that. Will you finish the story of Tomaso and Lucilla?"

"I shall be overjoyed to do it!" I cried, in a state of exultation.
"Come, let us sit over there in the shade, at the bottom of this hill,
and I will tell you all the rest of that story."

Together we went down the little slope.

"You can't imagine," she said, "how I have longed to know how all that
turned out. Over and over again I have finished the story for myself,
but I never made a good ending to it. It was not a bit like hearing it
from you."

I found her a seat on a low stone near the trunk of a tree, and I sat
upon the ground near by, while my soul bounded up like a loosened
balloon.

"Happy thought!" she exclaimed. "I came out here to write letters, not
caring for fishing, especially in boats; how would you like me to write
the rest of the story from your dictation?"

Like it! I could scarcely find words to tell her how I should like it.

"Very well, then," said she, opening her portfolio and taking out some
sheets of paper. "My inkstand is in that case which you picked up;
please give it to me, and let us begin. Now this is a very different
affair. I am finishing the work which the House of Martha set me to do,
and I assure you that I have been very much dissatisfied because I have
been obliged to leave it unfinished. Please begin."

"I cannot remember at this moment," I said, "where we left off."

"I can tell you exactly," she answered, "just as well as if I had the
manuscript before me. Tomaso held Lucilla by the hand; the cart was
ready in which he was to travel to the sea-coast; they were calling him
to hurry; and he was trying to look into her face, to see if he should
tell her something that was in his heart. You had not yet said what it
was that was in his heart. There was a chance, you know, that it might
be that he felt it necessary for her good that the match should be
broken off."

"How did you arrange this in the endings you made?" I asked. "Did you
break off the match?"

"Don't let us bother about my endings," she said. "I want to know
yours."




XXXII.

TOMASO AND LUCILLA.


On this happy morning, sitting in the shade with Sylvia, I should have
much preferred to talk to her of herself and of myself than to dictate
the story of the Sicilian lovers; but if I would keep her with me I must
humor her, at least for a time, and so, as well as I could, I began my
story.

The situation was, however, delightful: it was charming to sit and look
at Sylvia, her portfolio in her lap, pen in hand, and her blue eyes
turned toward me, anxiously waiting for me to speak; it was so
enchanting that my mind could with difficulty be kept to the work in
hand. But it would not do to keep Sylvia waiting. Her pen began to tap
impatiently upon the paper, and I went on. We had written a page or two
when she interrupted me.

"It seems to me," she said, "that if Tomaso really starts for Naples it
will be a good while before we get to the end of the story. So far as I
am concerned, you know, I would like the story just as long as you
choose to make it; but we haven't very much time, and it would be a
dreadful disappointment to me if I should have to go away before the
story is ended."

"Why do you feel in a hurry?" I asked. "If we do not finish this
morning, cannot I come to you to-morrow?"

"Oh, no, indeed," she answered. "It's only by the merest chance, you
know, that I am writing for you this morning, and I couldn't do it
again. That would be impossible. In fact, I want to get through before
the boat comes back. Not that I should mind mother, for she knows that I
used to write for you, and I could easily explain how I came to be doing
it now; and I should not care about Uncle or Mr. Heming; but as for Miss
Laniston,--that is the lady who is visiting us,--I would not have her
see me doing this for anything in the world. She hates the House of
Martha, although she used to be one of its friends, and I know that she
would like to see me leave the sisterhood. She ridicules us whenever she
has a chance, and to see me here would be simply nuts to her."

"Is she a bad-tempered lady?" I asked. "Do you know her very well? Could
you trust her in regard to anything important?"

"Oh, I know her well enough," said Sylvia. "She has always been a friend
of the family. She is wonderfully well educated, and knows everything
and has never married, and travels all about by herself, and is just as
independent as she can be. She has very strong opinions about things,
and doesn't hesitate to tell you them, no matter whether she thinks you
like it or not. I have no doubt she is perfectly trustworthy and
honorable, and all that; but if you knew her, I do not think you would
like her, and you can easily see why I shouldn't want her to see me
doing this. It would give her a chance for no end of sneers at the work
of the sisters."

"Has she never said anything about your acting as my amanuensis?" I
asked.

"No, indeed," replied Sylvia. "You may be sure she never heard of that,
or she would have made fun enough of it."

It was impossible for me to allow this dear girl to remain longer in
ignorance of the true state of affairs.

"Miss Raynor," I said,--how I longed to say "Sylvia"!--"I am ashamed
that I have allowed you to remain as long as this under a
misunderstanding, but in truth I did not understand the case myself. I
did not know that the lady of this house was your mother, but I have met
her, and have been kindly entertained by her. I did not know Miss
Laniston's name, but I have also met her, and talked to her about you,
and she knows you used to write for me, and I do not like her."

Sylvia answered not a word, but, as she sat and looked at me with
wide-open eyes, I told her what had happened since my companion and I
had landed at Racket Island. I omitted only my confidences to Mother
Anastasia and Miss Laniston.

"Mother Anastasia has been here," repeated Sylvia, "and she never told
me! That surpasses all. And mother never mentioned that you had been
here, nor did any one." She gazed steadfastly upon the ground, a little
pale, and presently she said, "I think I understand it, but it need not
be discussed;" and, closing her portfolio, she rose to her feet.

"Sylvia," I exclaimed, springing up and stepping nearer to her, "it must
be discussed! Ever since I parted from you at the window of your
writing-room I have been yearning to speak to you. I do not understand
the actions of your family and friends, but I do know that those actions
were on your account and on mine. They knew I loved you. I have not in
the least concealed the fact that I loved you, and I hoped, Sylvia, that
you knew it."

She stood, her closed portfolio in one hand, her pen in the other, her
eyes downcast, and her face grave and quiet. "I cannot say," she
answered presently, "that I knew it, although sometimes I thought it was
so, but other times I thought it was not so. I was almost sure of it
when you took leave of me at the window, and tried to kiss my hand, and
were just about to say something which I knew I ought not to stay and
hear. It was when thinking about that morning, in fact,--and I thought
about it a great deal,--that I became convinced I must act very promptly
and earnestly in regard to my future life, and be true to the work I had
undertaken to do; and for this reason it was that I solemnly vowed to
devote the rest of my life to the House of Martha, to observe all its
rules and do its work."

"Sylvia," I gasped, "you cannot keep this vow. When you made it you did
not know I loved you. It cannot hold. It must be set aside."

She looked at me for a moment, and then her eyes again fell. "Do not
speak in that way," she said; "it is not right. Of course I was not sure
that you loved me, but I suspected it, and this was the very reason why
I took my vow."

"It is plain, then," I exclaimed bitterly, "that you did not love me;
otherwise you would never have done that!"

"Don't you think," said she, "that considering the sisterhood to which I
belong, we have already talked too much about that?"

If she had exhibited the least emotion, I think I should have burst out
into supplications that she would take the advice of her Mother
Superior; that she would listen to her friends; that she would do
anything, in fact, which would cause her to reconsider this step, which
condemned me to misery and her to a life for which she was totally
unfitted,--a career in her case of such sad misuse of every attribute of
mind and body that it wrung my heart to think of it. But she stood so
quiet, so determined, and with an air of such gentle firmness that words
seemed useless. In truth, they would not come to me. She opened her
portfolio.

"I will give you these sheets that I have written," she said; "by right
they belong to you. I am sorry the story was interrupted, for I very
much want to hear the end of it, and now I never shall."

I caught at a straw. "Sylvia," I cried, "let us sit down and finish the
story! We can surely do that. Come, it is all ready in my mind. I will
dictate rapidly."

She shook her head. "Hardly," she answered, "after what has been said.
Here are your pages."

I took the pages she handed me, because she had written them.

"Sylvia," I exclaimed, "I shall finish that story, and you shall hear
it! This I vow."

"I am going now," she responded. "Good-by."

"Sylvia," I cried, quickly stepping after her as she moved away, "will
you not say more than that? Will you not even give me your hand?"

"I will do that," she replied, stopping, "if you will promise not to
kiss it."

I took her hand, and held it a few moments without a word. Then she
gently withdrew it.

"Good-by again," she said, "I don't want you to forget me; but when you
think of me, always think of me as a sister of the House of Martha."

As I stood looking after her, she rapidly walked toward the house, and I
groaned while thinking I had not told her that if she ever thought of me
she must remember I loved her, and would love her to the end of my life.
But in a moment I was glad that I had not said this; after her words to
me it would have been unmanly, and, besides, I knew she knew it.

When I lost sight of her in the grove by the house, I turned and picked
up the pages of the story of Tomaso and Lucilla, which I had dropped. In
doing so I saw her inkstand, with its open case near by it, on the
ground by the stone on which she had been sitting. I put the inkstand in
its case, closed it, and stood for some minutes holding it and thinking;
but I did not carry it away with me as a memento. Drawing down a branch
of the tree, I hung the little case securely by its handles to a twig,
where it would be in full view of any one walking that way.




XXXIII.

THE DISTANT TOPSAIL.


I found Walkirk still fishing near the place where I had left him.

"I was beginning to be surprised at your long absence," he said, "and
was thinking of going to look for you. Have you had good luck?"

This was a hard question to answer. I smiled grimly. "I have not been
fishing," I answered. "I have been dictating my story to my nun."

The rod dropped from the relaxed fingers of my under-study, and he stood
blankly staring at me, and waiting for an explanation. I gave it.

Depressed as I was, I could not help feeling interested in the variety
of expressions which passed over Walkirk's face, as I related what had
happened since I had seen him. When I told him how near we were to our
old camp on the Sand Lady's island, he was simply amazed; his
astonishment, when he heard of the appearance of Sylvia on the scene,
was almost overpowered by his amusement, as I related how she and I had
continued the story of Tomaso and Lucilla, in the shade of the tree. But
when I informed him of Sylvia's determination to devote her life to the
work of the House of Martha, without regard to what I told her of my
love, he was greatly moved, and I am sure sincerely grieved.

"This is too bad, too bad," he said. "I did not expect it."

"Miss Raynor is young," I answered, "but the strength and integrity of
her soul are greater, and her devotion to what she believes her duty is
stronger, than I supposed. Her character is marked by a simple sincerity
and a noble dignity which I have never seen surpassed. I think that she
positively dislikes the life of the sisterhood, but, having devoted
herself to it, she will stand firmly by her resolutions and her promise
no matter what happens. As regards myself, I do not suppose that her
knowledge of my existence has any influence on her, one way or the
other. I may have interested and amused her, but that is all. If I had
finished the Italian love-story I had been telling her, I think she
would have been satisfied never to see me again."

Walkirk shook his head. "I do not believe that," he said; "her
determination to rivet the bonds which hold her to her sisterhood shows
that she was afraid of her interest in you; and if it gave her reason to
fear, it gives you reason to hope."

"Put that in the past tense, please," I replied; "whatever it may have
given, it gives nothing now. To hope would be absurd."

"Mr. Vanderley," exclaimed Walkirk, "I would not give up in that way. I
am certain, from what I know, that Miss Raynor's interest in you is
plain not only to herself, but to her family and friends; and I tell
you, sir, that sort of interest cannot be extinguished by promises and
resolutions. If I were you, I would keep up the fight. She is not yet a
vowed sister."

"Walkirk," said I, offering him my hand; "you are a good fellow, and,
although I cannot believe what you say, I thank you for saying it."

It was now long past noon, and we were both ready for the luncheon which
we had brought with us. Walkirk opened the basket, and as he arranged
its contents on the broad napkin, which he spread upon the grass, he
ruminated.

"I think," he remarked, as we were eating, "that I begin to understand
the situation. At first I could not reconcile the facts with the Sand
Lady's statement that no one lived on her island but her family, but now
I see that this creek must make an island of her domain; and so it is
that, although Captain Jabe is her neighbor, her statement is entirely
correct."

Having finished our meal, I lighted my pipe and sat down under a tree,
while Walkirk, with his rod, wandered away along the bank of the stream.
After a while he returned, and proposed that we try fishing near the
eastern outlet of the creek, where, as the tide was coming in, we might
find better sport.

"That will be a very good thing for you to do," said I, "but I shall not
fish. I am going to Mrs. Raynor's house."

"Where?" exclaimed Walkirk.

"I am going to speak to Mrs. Raynor," I answered, "whom I have known
only as the Sand Lady, but whom I must now know as Sylvia's mother. I
have determined to act boldly and openly in this matter. I have made
suit to Mrs. Raynor's daughter. I have told other people of the state of
my affections, and I think I should lose no time, having now the
opportunity, in conferring with Mrs. Raynor herself."

Walkirk's face was troubled.

"You do not approve of that?" I asked.

"Since you ask me," he answered, "I must say that I do not think it a
wise thing to do. If I properly understand Miss Raynor's character, her
mother knows that you are here; and if she is willing to have you visit
her, under the circumstances, she will make a sign. In fact, I now think
that she will make some sort of sign, by which you can see how the land
lies. Perhaps Mrs. Raynor is on your side; but I am afraid that if you
should visit the house where Miss Raynor is, it would set her mother
against you. I imagine she is a woman who would not like that sort of
thing."

"Walkirk," said I, "your reasoning is very good; but this is not a time
to reason,--it is a time to act; and I am going to see Mrs. Raynor this
day."

"I hope it may all turn out well," he replied, and walked away gravely.

I did not start immediately for the Sand Lady's house. For a long time I
sat and thought upon the subject of the approaching interview, planning
and considering how I should plead my case, and what I should answer,
and how I should overcome the difficulties which would probably be
pointed out to me.

At last, like many another man when in a similar predicament, I
concluded to let circumstances shape my plan of action, and set forth
for Mrs. Raynor's house. The walk was a long one, but I turned in order
to pass under the tree where I had begun to dictate to Sylvia; and glad
I was that I did so, for to the twig on which I had hung the case
containing her inkstand there was now attached a half sheet of note
paper. I ran to the tree, eagerly seized the paper, and read these few
words that were written on it:--

"Thank you very much for taking such good care of my little case."

"Now, then," said I to myself, proudly gazing at these lines, "this is
only a small thing, but the girl who would write it, and who would
expect me to read it, must be interested in me. She believes that I
would not fail to come here again; therefore she believes in me. That is
a great point."

For a moment I felt tempted to write something in reply, and hang it on
the tree twig. But I refrained; what I would write to Sylvia must be
read by no one but herself. That tree was in a very conspicuous
position, and my tamest words to her must not hang upon it. I carefully
folded the paper and put it in my pocket, and then, greatly encouraged,
walked rapidly to the house.

On the front piazza I found an elderly woman, with a broom. She knew me,
for she had frequently seen me during the time that I was encamped upon
the island. She was now greatly surprised at my appearance on the scene.

"Why, sir," she exclaimed, without waiting for me to speak, "have you
come back to your camp? It is too bad."

I did not like this salutation. But, making no answer to it, I asked
quickly, "Can I see Mrs. Raynor?"

"No, indeed," said she; "they've gone, every one of them, and not an
hour ago. What a pity they did not know you were here!"

"Gone!" I cried. "Where?"

"They've gone off in their yacht for a cruise," returned the woman. "The
vessel has been at Brimley for more than a week, being repaired, and she
got back this morning; and as she was all ready to sail, they just made
up their minds that they'd go off in her, for one of their little
voyages they are so fond of; and off they went, in less than two hours."

"How long do they expect to be gone?" I asked.

"Mrs. Raynor told me they would be away probably for a week or two," the
woman answered, "and she would stop somewhere and telegraph to me when
she was coming back. Of course there isn't any telegraph to this island,
but when messages come to Brimley they send them over in a boat."

Having determined to speak to Mrs. Raynor, and having set out to do so,
this undertaking appeared to me the most important thing in the world,
and one in which I must press forward, without regard to obstacles of
any kind.

"Are they going to any particular place?" I said. "Are they going to
stop anywhere?"

"There is only one place that I know of," she answered, "and that's
Sanpritchit, over on the mainland. They expect to stop there to get
provisions for the cruise, for there was but little here that they could
take with them. They wanted to get there before dark, and I don't doubt
but that, with this wind, they'll do it. If you'll step to this end of
the piazza, sir, perhaps you can see their topsail. I saw it just before
you came, as they were beginning to make the long tack."

"Yes, there it is," she continued, when we reached the place referred
to, from which a vast stretch of the bay could be seen, "but not so much
of it as I saw just now."

"Their topsail!" I ejaculated.

"Yes, sir," she said. "You can't see their mainsail, because they are so
far away, and it's behind the water, in a manner."

I stood silent for a few minutes, gazing at the little ship. Suddenly a
thought struck me. "Do you think they will sail on Sunday?" I asked.

"No, sir," she replied; "Mrs. Raynor never sails on Sunday. And that's
why I wondered, after they'd gone, why they'd started off on a Saturday.
They will have to lay up at Sanpritchit all day to-morrow; and it seems
to me it would have been a great deal pleasanter for them to stay here
Sunday, and to have started on Monday. There's no church at Sanpritchit,
or anything for them to do, so far as I know, unless Miss Raynor reads
sermons to them, which she never did here, though she's a religious
sister, which perhaps you didn't know, sir."

"Sanpritchit over Sunday," I repeated to myself.

"It's the greatest pity," said the woman, "that they didn't know you and
the other gentleman--that is, if he is with you--were coming back
to-day, for I am sure they would have been glad to take you with them.
There's room enough on that yacht, and will be more; for Mr. Heming, the
gentleman that collects shells, is not coming back with them. They are
to put him off somewhere, and he is going home. I have an idea, though I
wasn't told so, that Miss Raynor is not coming back with the rest. She
brought very little baggage with her, but she took a lot of things on
board the yacht, and that looks as if she wasn't coming back. But, bless
me, they went off in such a hurry I didn't have time to ask questions."

I now turned to go, but the woman obliged me to inform her that I had
not come to camp on the island, and that I was staying with Captain
Jabe.

"When they go off in this way," she said, "they take the maids, and
leave me and my husband in charge; and if you should fancy to come here
and camp again, I know that Mrs. Raynor would wish me to make things as
comfortable for you as I can, which, too, I'll be very glad to do."

I thanked her, and went away. "This good woman," said I to myself, "is
the person who would have read my message to Sylvia, had I been foolish
enough to hang one to the twig of the tree."




XXXIV.

THE CENTRAL HOTEL.


Captain Jabez did not return until late that Saturday evening; but as
soon as he set foot on shore I went to him and asked him if he could, in
any way, get us to Sanpritchit that night, offering to pay him liberally
for the service.

"I've got a sailboat," said he, "and ye'd be right welcome to it if it
was here; but it ain't here. I lent it to Captain Neal, of Brimley,
having no present use for it, and he won't bring it back till next week
some time. There's a dory here, to be sure; but Sanpritchit's
twenty-five miles away, and that's too far to go in a dory, especially
at night. What's your hurry?"

"I have very important business in Sanpritchit," I answered, "and if it
is possible I must go there to-night."

"Sanpritchit's a queer place to have business in," said Captain Jabe;
"and it's a pity ye didn't think of it this mornin', when ye might have
gone with me and took the train to Barley, and there's a stage from
there to Sanpritchit."

"Captain Jabez," said I, "as there seems to be no other way for me to do
this thing, I will pay you whatever you may think the service worth, if
you will take me to Sanpritchit in your grocery boat, and start
immediately. It will be slow work traveling, I know, but I think we can
surely get there before morning."

The grocer-captain looked at me for a moment, with his eyes half shut;
then he set down on the pier a basket which had been hanging on his arm,
and, putting both hands in his pockets, stared steadfastly at me.

"Do you know," he remarked presently, "that that 'ere proposition of
yours puts me in mind of a story I heard of a California man and a New
York man. The California man had come East to spend the winter, and the
New York man was a business acquaintance o' his. The California man
called at the New York man's office before business hours; and when he
found the New York man hadn't come down town yet, he went up town to see
him at his house. It was a mighty fine house, and the New York man,
being proud of it, took the California man all over it. 'Look here,'
said the California man, 'what will you take for this house, furniture
and all, just as it stands?' 'I'll take a hundred and twenty thousand
dollars,' said the New York man. 'Does that include all the odds and
ends,' asked the California man,--'old magazines, umbrellas, needles and
pins, empty bottles, photographs, candlesticks, Japanese fans, coal
ashes, and all that kind of thing, that make a house feel like a home?
My family's comin' on from California with nothin' but their clothes,
and I want a house they can go right into and feel at home, even to the
cold victuals for a beggar, if one happens to come along.' 'If I throw
in the odds and ends, it will be one hundred and twenty-five thousand,'
said the New York man. 'That's all right,' said the California man, 'and
my family will arrive, with their clothes, on the train that gets here
at 6.20 this afternoon; so if your family can get out of the house
before that time, I'm ready to pay the money, cash down.' 'All right,'
said the New York man, 'I'll see that they do it.' And at ten minutes
after six the New York family went out with their clothes to a hotel,
and at twenty minutes of seven the California family came to the house
with their clothes, and found everything all ready for 'em, the servants
havin' agreed to stay at California wages.

"Now, then," continued Captain Jabez, "I don't want to hurt nobody's
feelin's, and I wouldn't say one word that would make the smallest
infant think less of itself than it did afore I spoke, but it does
strike me that that there proposition of yours is a good deal like the
California man's offer to the New York man."

"Well," said I, "that turned out very well. Each got what he wanted."

"Yes," replied Captain Jabez, "but this ain't New York city. No, sir,
not by a long shot. I am just as willin' to accommodate a fellow-man, or
a fellow-woman, for that matter, as any reasonable person is; but if the
President of the United States, and Queen Victoria, and the prophet
Isaiah was to come to me of a Saturday night, after I'd just got home
from a week's work, and ask me to start straight off and take them to
Sanpritchit, I'd tell 'em that I'd be glad to oblige 'em, but it
couldn't be done: and that's what I say to ye, sir,--neither more nor
less." And with this he picked up his basket and went into the house.

I was not discouraged, however, and when the captain came out I proposed
to him that he should take me to Sanpritchit the next day.

"No, sir," said he. "I never have sailed my grocery boat on Sunday, and
I don't feel like beginnin'."

I walked away, but shortly afterward joined him on board his vessel,
which he was just about to leave for the night.

"Captain," I asked, "when does Sunday end in this part of the country?"

"Well, strictly speaking, it's supposed to end at sunset, or commonly at
six o'clock."

"Very well," said I; "if you will start with me for Sanpritchit at six
o'clock to-morrow evening, I will pay you your price."

I made this offer in the belief that, with ordinary good fortune, we
could reach our destination before the Raynor yacht weighed anchor on
Monday morning.

Captain Jabez considered the matter. "I am going to Sanpritchit on
Monday, any way," said he; "and if you're in such a hurry to be there
the first thing in the morning, I'd just as lieve sail to-morrow evening
at six o'clock as not."

It was not much after the hour at which some people in that part of the
country, when they have a reason for it, still believe that Sunday comes
to an end, that the grocery boat left her pier with Captain Jabez,
Abner, Walkirk, and me on board. There was nothing at all exhilarating
in this expedition. I wanted to go rapidly, and I knew we should go
slowly. I had passed a dull day, waiting for the time to start, and, to
avoid thinking of the slow progress we should make, I soon turned in.

I woke very early, and went on deck. I do not know that I can remember a
more disagreeable morning. It was day, but the sun was not up; it was
not cloudy, but there was a filmy uncertainty about the sky that was
more unpleasant than the clouds. The air was cold, raw, and oppressive.
There was no one on deck but Abner, and he was at the wheel, which, on
account of the grocery store occupying so large a portion of the after
part of the vessel, was placed well forward. Only a jib and mainsail
were set, and as I came on deck these were fluttering and sagging, as
Abner carefully brought the vessel round. Now I saw that we were
floating slowly toward the end of a long pier, and that we were going to
land.

As I leaned over the side of the vessel, I did not wonder that Captain
Jabez thought Sanpritchit was not much of a place to do business in.
There were few houses, perhaps a dozen, scattered here and there along a
low shore, which rose, at one end of the place, into a little bluff,
behind which I saw a mast or two. On the pier was a solitary man, and he
was the only living being in sight. It was that dreary time before
breakfast, when everything that seems cheerless is more cheerless,
everything that is sad more sad, everything that is discouraging more
discouraging, and which right-minded persons who are able to do so spend
in bed.

Gradually the vessel approached the pier, and Abner, to whom I had not
yet spoken, for I did not feel in the least like talking, left the
wheel, and, as soon as he was near enough, threw a small line to the man
on the pier, who caught it, pulling ashore a cable with a loop in the
end, threw the latter over a post, and in a few minutes the grocery boat
was moored. The man came on board, and he and Abner went below.

It was too early to go on shore, for nothing could be done at that
bleak, unearthly hour; but I was in that state of nervous disquietude
when any change is a relief, and I stepped ashore. I was glad to put my
feet upon the pier. Now I felt that I was my own master. It was too soon
to go on board the yacht, but I could regulate my movements as I
pleased, and was very willing to be alone during the hour or two in
which I must remain inactive.

I walked over the loose and warped planks of the pier, the dull water
rippling and flopping about the timbers beneath me, inhaling that faint
smell of the quiet water and soaked logs, which is always a little
dispiriting to me even at less dispiriting hours. The crowing of one or
two cocks made me understand how dreadfully still everything was. The
stillness of the very early morning is quite different from that of the
night. During the latter people are asleep, and may be presumed to be
happy. In the former they are about to wake up and be miserable. That,
at least, was my notion, as I walked into the little village.

Not a creature did I see; not a sound did I hear except my own
footsteps. Presently I saw a cat run around the corner of a house, and
this was a relief. I walked on past a wide space, in which there were no
houses, when I came to a small, irregularly built white house, in front
of which hung a sign bearing the inscription "Central Hotel." If
anything could have made me more disgusted with the world than I then
was, it was this sign. If the name of this miserable little country
tavern had been anything suitable to itself and the place, if it had
been called The Plough and Harrow, The Gray Horse, or even The Blue
Devil, I think I should have been glad to see it. A village inn might
have been a point of interest to me, but Central Hotel in this mournful
settlement of small farmers and fishermen,--it was ridiculous!

However, the door of the house was open, and inside was a man sweeping
the sanded floor. When he saw me, he stopped his work and stared at me.