The Opened Shutters Part 61

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

"LOVE ALONE WILL STAY"

"It never ought to rain in June," said Sylvia.

She had just alighted from the train, and was in Thinkright's arms as she said it.

"I had set my heart on just such a drive with you as we had the first time I came."

"This will be far better than that was, Sylvia." He held her off at arm's length, and viewed her deliberately. "We had the suns.h.i.+ne outside that day. This time it's inside."

He could see it while he spoke, s.h.i.+ning out through blue eyes and smiling lips, as the girl looked long into his face.

"It seems to me you are a rather elegant person to be clinging to an old farmer like me," he went on.

"Have I changed, Thinkright? You haven't. Oh, I'm so glad!"

"Yes, you have changed, little one. I'm looking at you, trying to find out how."

"I'm awfully well dressed, for one thing," whispered Sylvia, laughing.

"Edna would have it. She's made Uncle Calvin pay bills that I'm sure must have shocked him. Yes, I know my things look simple, but they're right; and oh, how you do have to pay for millinery rightness, _a la_ Edna!"

"Well, I think the loafers have stared at you enough," said Thinkright.

"Let's get into the wagon. I've brought a rubber coat for you, but very likely it'll be clear before we get home. Why," with sudden perception, "I know what has happened; your curls are gone."

"No, no, not gone, only promoted. I'm going to say good-by to this very proper hat for three months, and I think I'll begin now. It would be a tragedy if it should get wet."

While they still stood under the roof of the station platform, Sylvia took out her hat pins, and Thinkright unrolled and opened her neat umbrella.

"I've brought the umbrella, too," he said, with a humorous appreciation of the difference between that ample cotton shelter and the dainty silk affair he held in his hand.

"So," regarding the uncovered coiffure which had won John Dunham's approval, "so that is what has become of the wreath of curls. H'm. It makes you look--look very grown up, Sylvia."

"It's about time," returned the girl. "Wasn't I twenty last February?"

They went to the wagon, where the baggage had been placed, and Sylvia put on the rubber coat and jumped in. A sudden peal of thunder rolled.

"A salute in your honor, my dear," said Thinkright, climbing in beside her.

"I'm delighted," she answered, as the horses started, "for it means showers instead of a three days' rain. Here, let's take the calico tent," she added, "then we can both get under it."

She put her little umbrella under the rubber laprobe, and, raising the weather-beaten canopy, slipped her arm through Thinkright's.

"I'm going to paint such a lovely picture of you this summer, dear,"

she said, studying his face fondly.

"Of me? Oh, no."

"Oh, yes. I won't admit that any one else can paint such a likeness of you as I can."

"I hear good reports of your work."

"My own reports?" she laughed.

"No. Calvin's, Edna's, Mr. Dunham's."

"John's, Mr. Dunham's?"

Thinkright's answer was rather slow in coming, she thought.

"Yes. We've had occasion for some correspondence on a matter of business, and he has mentioned your promise."

"My promise to what?" asked Sylvia, suddenly interested in the fastening of the umbrella.

"The promise shown in your work," replied her companion, looking steadily between the horse's ears.

"Oh, yes," returned Sylvia in a small voice.

"You were a little mistaken about that match you had fixed up," said Thinkright, "between Edna and Mr. Dunham, weren't you?"

"Yes; and she's going to marry such a fine man, so worthy of her in every way!" Sylvia spoke with enthusiasm.

"You're better pleased than if it had been Dunham?" asked Thinkright.

It was his companion's turn to hesitate. "Oh, she didn't ask my advice," she replied at last, with elaborate lightness.

"It's rather easy to make mistakes about those matters," observed Thinkright.

"Yes; and rather easy in avoiding Scylla to fall into Charybdis." She had spent her winter in endeavoring to avoid Charybdis. Just because it had not been Edna who was John's ideal was no sign that the Princess did not exist, either already selected, as Edna's lover had been, or else still to appear. An acquaintance with Boston, and the dozens of interesting people she had met, had cleared her provincial vision, until she was more than ever wary of believing that an interest in her personality and her work meant anything deeper. There were a number of men who had shown her more attention than had John Dunham, aside from those evenings he had spent with Edna and herself. She had kept her thought filled with healthful interest in her work, the effort to please her teachers, and to make the most of her uncle's generosity; and the winter had gone swiftly. She had spent Christmas with her aunt, and Judge Trent and Mr. Dunham had dined with them on the holiday.

After dinner she had gone sleigh-riding with John, far into the frosty, sparkling country, despite Miss Lacey's protest that she couldn't see why they wouldn't rather stay by the fire. Miss Martha declared that for her part she would just as soon sit with her feet in a pail of ice water and ring a dinner-bell as to go sleighing. Upon which Judge Trent reminded her that she had not always felt so; a concession on his part to the past which furnished Miss Lacey with gratified sensations for some time to come; the more that, instead of making some excuse to leave, her old friend had taken with extraordinary grace to the role of fireside companion, and remained talking with her of Sylvia, and mutual acquaintances, until the young people's return.

Sylvia brought her reminiscent thought back to the present.

"How are the Fosters?" she asked.

"Well."

"And my boat?"

"Fine. Waiting for you. Minty wanted to come over with me to get you; but I decided to be selfish." Sylvia squeezed his arm.

When they reached the height to-day, the wide view was sullen; the waves las.h.i.+ng, and gnawing with white teeth at the leaden rocks under a leaden sky. The dripping firs were dark blots on the vague islands.

Sylvia recklessly let go the old umbrella, which fell backward as she stood up in the rain and looked off, affectionately. The damp rings of hair blew about her forehead on the wind-swept height, and she reached out her arms toward the grand, forbidding prospect.

"You can't frighten me, dearest, _dearest_!" she said exultantly.