The Opened Shutters: A Novel

by Clara Louise Burnham

  CHAPTER XXVI

  REVELATION

  Dunham was not asleep. His half-amused, half-piqued thoughts rambledon. This niece of Judge Trent's was certainly an odd girl, with herpreoccupations, her mysterious sacks of treasures, and her bottle ofblackish fluid, her moods, her laughter, and her tears.

  The fastidious Edna had been annoyed by last night's scene in thekitchen. Well, it was a strange scene. John recalled it now. Heremembered quite well every word uttered by the rosy witch over herbubbling miniature caldron. She was concocting a philtre to make a girlhappy,--herself. She had confided to the warm-hearted Irishwoman thatshe was in love, and condemned her stupidity that it had not been loveat first sight; but since it had not been, the flame was likely to burnthe longer. Didn't Jenny think so? And Jenny most reassuringly hadthought so.

  What sort of talks and beliefs had the girl been accustomed to incompanionship with her ne'er-do-well father? Whatever her experiences,her atmosphere was one of strength and innocence. As this thought cameto him with conviction, an involuntary desire to look at the subject ofit caused his eyes suddenly to unclose.

  The effect was electrical. Sylvia, from studying the features and hair,the outlines of throat and chest and shoulders of her vis-a-vis, hadunconsciously forgotten the model in the man, had forgotten EdnaDerwent. The ideal, never long absent from her thought since thatmorning at Hotel Frisbie, was now filling her material vision in utterunconsciousness of her scrutiny. She leaned slightly toward him in herabsorption, and a woman's heart was in her eyes and tenderly curvedlips when John's gaze suddenly encountered hers.

  The social diplomacy which from boyhood it had been his second natureto practice stood him in good stead now.

  In that instant he saw Sylvia's start and withdrawal, he felt his owncolor mount to match hers, but he continued absolutely motionlessexcept for letting his eyelids fall again.

  "Do forgive me," he said after a moment, in nasal and languid apology."I hadn't an idea I should fall asleep. I'll wake up in a minute. I'mworse than a kid taken out in its baby carriage when I strike this air.Might as well chloroform me."

  Sylvia was leaning against the mast, trying to swallow the heart thathad leaped to her throat.

  "Don't try to wake up," she replied after a time. She caught at hiswords as consolation, yet that look had been so deliberate, so wide.Could it be--

  "My father taught me to sketch a little when I was a child," she wenton, her breath still getting between her words most inconveniently. "Iwas wishing I had a pencil just then. You were being such a--such adocile model."

  "Truly?" asked Dunham, lazily opening his eyes again. "Tell mehonestly, as man to man. I prefer to know the worst. I'm sure I was alltumbled together like Grandpa Smallweed, and I've an awful suspicionthat my mouth was open."

  Sylvia shook her head.

  "Honestly? Don't spare me."

  He slowly pulled himself upright, and Sylvia shrank closer to the mast.Her eyes shone like those of a startled bird who awaits only a shademore certainty of danger to dart from the spot.

  "No, no!" she exclaimed. "Were you really asleep?" she added naively.

  He gave a low laugh.

  "Excellent, tactful young lady. That is letting me down easy, even if Ihave been giving a good imitation of a fog horn. Really, I hope youwill forgive me. There's only one way to secure my good manners on aboat, and that is to make me sail her."

  Sylvia allowed herself to be reassured by the off-hand sincerity of histone.

  "Go to sleep as much as you like," she returned. "I told you I wantedto think. I'm very unhappy, Mr. Dunham," she went on after a moment,with sudden determination, and her recent excitement made actual tearsveil her eyes this time.

  "Why, what is the matter?"

  "I have offended Edna."

  "Surely not. How?"

  "That is what I hoped you could tell me, else I wouldn't have mentionedit. Say, truly, if you know of anything I have done."

  "I certainly do not," responded Dunham, with the more emphasis that hesuddenly believed he did know--exactly. The exactness was the blow.

  One of his arms was flung along the gunwale, and he frowned down at theother brown hand while the Idea, the overwhelming, absurd, pathetic,ridiculous Idea, paralyzed him.

  Sylvia had not fallen in love at first sight. Whom had she recentlyseen for the second time? For whom was she brewing the blackish potion?Edna had suspected. That explained her undue irritation last evening.What had Sylvia found to be lacking in her philtre? For what had shegone to the woods this morning? What mystery was contained in the whitebag which she defended with such zeal? Dunham felt as if his brain weresoftening. It was the limit of absurdity to be connecting thesesemi-barbaric fantasies with this sane and charming girl. He saw howEdna had been confounded and annoyed. Submerged by the Idea, he couldnot at once lift his eyes to Sylvia, although it stirred him to believethat those bright drops he had seen gather might be falling.

  Under the sordid circumstances of her life it was quite possible thathe was the first presentable man she had ever met, and the thought thatshe had set out with the primitive instincts and methods of a Romanygirl to take him by fair means or foul roused in him a wild desire tolaugh, which could be subdued only by another look at the thoughtful,feminine face so at variance with the Idea. Her soft voice broke theshort silence.

  "You know the kindest thing you could do would be to tell me if you doknow anything I have done, or even have the least suspicion ofsomething. You've known Edna so much longer than I have."

  "Yes," responded Dunham. "But aren't you too sensitive?" he added togain time.

  "I hope not," answered the girl with childlike simplicity. "Thinkrightsays sensitiveness is only selfishness. I hope it's not that."

  "Why, what has made you think Edna offended?"

  Sylvia's lip trembled. "Oh, little things. Tiny things. Things a manwould probably not notice. She didn't kiss me good-night last evening."

  John feared the speaker was going to cry.

  "She didn't me, either," he responded cheerfully. "I didn't thinkanything of it. I should have been more apt to notice it if she had."

  Sylvia gave an April smile. "She didn't kiss me this afternoon. She wasstrange and unlike herself. She's been so all day. I've been thinkingthat perhaps I ought not to go back," finished the girl slowly.

  "Perish the thought," returned Dunham hastily. He was surprised to findhow earnestly he objected to any such desertion. "You must go back ifonly to set your thought about it straight. Ask"--No, he would notadvise her to ask Edna. The latter might tell her frankly. "Edna isvery much taken up with her carpentering," he went on. "Let her getover that."

  "She has been so very kind to me," said Sylvia. "I want to be sure notto impose on her,--not to be in her way," and she looked so childlikeand self-forgetful as she spoke, that her companion, bewildered andflattered as he was by the Look, and the Idea, indulged in a brief andpointed soliloquy:--

  "Whether she is a gypsy or a saint, or whatever she is, she's a peach."

  Sylvia's eyes grew wistful as the familiar home landmarks came in view.

  "There is the Tide Mill," she said half to herself.

  "Picturesque old affair, isn't it?" returned Dunham. "You were speakinga few minutes ago of sketching. That's a good subject."

  The girl nodded, and her eyes rested on the mill pensively.

  "Just as coldly heart-broken as ever," she said.

  "What do you mean?"

  She gave a slight gesture toward it. "Can't you see?"

  Dunham gazed at the old building, standing above the inrushing tide.

  "It does look rather forlorn, doesn't it," he returned, "with thoseblank shutters, tier upon tier."

  "Yes, tear upon tear," answered Sylvia, with a faint smile at her ownfancy. "One almost expects to see the salt drops raining down its face;but it is too tightly closed even for that. I was like that when Ifirst came here, but Thinkright helped me, and I mustn't get so again,no matter what happ
ens. I was very, very mistaken and unhappy in thosedays. You know I was."

  The last words were uttered very low, and Dunham nodded.

  "And now I've a longing, of course it's a silly one, that the Tide Millshould open its eyes too, and cheer up. I can't bear it to go on makinga picture of the way I used to feel. It's as if it might drag me backagain. To-day the feeling comes over me especially, because my heart isso heavy."

  Sylvia's wide gaze rested on the mill, and she pressed her hand to herbreast.

  "Why, that's easily done," responded Dunham consolingly. "Just letThinkright give me an axe, and I'll tickle that old pessimist's ribsuntil its eyes fly open and it giggles from its roof to its rickety oldlegs."

  Sylvia shook her head. "No. Force would only do harm. Love must openthe shutters."

  "Love?" repeated John, staring at the speaker.

  She nodded. "Yes, the same thing that opened mine."

  He continued to regard her. "Do you know, you're a very odd girl," hesaid at last.

  "No," she replied.

  "To talk about Love opening those weather-beaten, rusty old blinds. Howcould it?"

  "I don't know; but it will. I feel that it will. You will see." Shegave a strange little smile, and Dunham regarded her uneasily.

  For the first time it occurred to him that she might be unbalanced. Inthat revealing Look which he had surprised a while ago she seemed tohave given herself to him. He had been strangely conscious ofproprietorship in her, a sort of responsibility for her, ever since. Byhis strategy he had secured her unconsciousness of discovery, and thusgiven himself time.

  She kept her eyes fixed on the shore they were approaching, and hecontinued to regard her furtively, from time to time.

  "We can get into the Basin now, can't we, Benny?" she called to theirforgotten boatman.

  "Easy," he responded. "Suppose ye'll be comin' out afore eighto'clock."

  "Well,--Mr. Dunham will," responded Sylvia slowly.

  "And Miss Lacey also, of course," added John. According to theprogramme laid down by the Idea, Sylvia had an unfulfilled engagementon Hawk Island. She had yet to administer to him the contents of theblack bottle, reinforced by the ingredient contained in the flat whitebag. How with any consistency could she remain at the Mill Farm?

  John flung back his head in a silent laugh and passed his hand acrosshis forehead. The boat sailed toward the Tide Mill and under its coldshadow into the smiling, alluring Basin.

  It seemed to Sylvia that months had passed since last those white birchstems had leaned toward her and waved green banners of welcome. "Ah.Listen!" she exclaimed. A tuneful jangle as of melodious bells fell onthe quiet air, and then, like the clear tones of a silver flute, thisphrase:--

  Bar of music]

  "What is it?" whispered John, meeting Sylvia's eyes suddenly alightwith joy.

  "My hermit thrush," she murmured. "Listen!"

  Again the sweet tangle of sounds; again the clear, perfect phrase,followed by melodious little bells. Dunham and Sylvia, motionless,continued to gaze into each other's eyes, and the girl's rapt smilestirred the man, for it was kin to the one he had surprised.

  The boat glided silently toward the shore. Again the sweet flutesounded from the woods. "It is my welcome home," said Sylvia softly.