CHAPTER V.
The Stranger.
THE sun was not an hour high when I awoke, and slipping from my bed, I ran to the side window before which I had knelt not so very many hours before. I opened it wide again, and looked straight out into the woodland. A gentle breeze was blowing sibilantly through the pines, and its dew-laden, spicy breath stirred my hair, bearing with it just enough of the salt tang of the sea to make my cheeks tingle, and drive the lingering mist of sleep from my eyes.
In the broad, serene light of day, my nervous terrors of the stormy hours of darkness seemed childish, and I began to believe, after all, that that cry as well as the footsteps outside my door had been nothing but figments of my overwrought imagination. I made up my mind to say nothing about it to the others.
Hundreds of birds were twittering and calling in the trees, and far away I heard the dull boom and swirl of the surf on the lighthouse rocks. A huge old oak grew close beside my window, its stout, gnarled branches fairly sweeping the sill, and almost in reach of my hand was a robin's nest, with the mother bird sitting quietly on it, watching me critically with her bright, inquiring little eyes. She wasn't at all afraid, but had rather the pleased, excited air of a gossipy neighbor over a new arrival in the community, hesitating only over the propriety of making my acquaintance at once.
"Good morning!" I said softly. "Good morning, little neighbor lady! I'm sure we shall be good friends!"
I turned from the window, and bathed and dressed quickly. None of the rest would be up for hours yet, of course, but wild horses could have not kept me in doors. Everything called to me—the piney, salt breeze, the murmuring trees, the birds, the beckoning fingers of the sun, the echoing surge and cannonade of the waves upon the rocky shore. I felt lighthearted and happy and refreshed and young with the day, and I wanted to be out in it all!
I crept from my room, and went softly around the gallery, and down the wide shallow stairs. The great front doors were bolted fast, and I could not move them, but I heard someone stirring about in the dining-room, and turned my steps there.
A pretty, rosy-cheeked Irish girl was dusting the sideboard and the room was flooded with sunlight from the opened French windows.
"Good morning!" I said, with a smile.
She jumped at the sound of my voice, and her eyes widened with surprise, at seeing me about so early, I suppose.
"Good m-morning, Miss!" she stammered awkwardly. "'Tis a lovely morning. You're up early, Miss."
"Yes, I'm going for a walk," I replied. I stepped over the low sill of one of the windows, out upon the veranda, and stood for a moment inhaling the fresh, invigorating air in long, slow breaths which made the blood tingle in my cheeks. Ah, it was good, good to be alive on such a morning!
As I went down the path between the trees, I turned and glanced back. The housemaid stood in the window staring after me stupidly. When she became conscious of my eyes upon her, she gave a final flip of her dust-cloth at the window-casing, and disappeared.
I chose a path which skirted the house, and started off in the opposite direction from the cove where we had landed. It led me quite to the other end of the island where the old lighthouse stood. and I came upon it suddenly, as I emerged from the woods at a sharp turn in the path. The low scrub of blueberry bushes and sassafras ended in a patch of uphill, sandy, stony ground, from which the rocks of the lighthouse promontory rose sheer and sharply distinct against the deep blue line of the sky, with now and then a dash of feathery spray thrown up from behind it, like a fluttering veil.
The lighthouse itself appeared pathetically aged and forlorn in the pitiless glare of the sun, but there was nothing senile in its stately pride and air of vigilant dominance over its bleak, forgotten realms. It impressed me with a far greater solemnity than any of the ostentatiously benign ruins of cathedrals abroad had done, as it stood faithful even in decay, to the trust of long ago.
I should have liked to explore it then, but the rocks looked slippery and forbidding, and I did not know what pitfalls of rotten planking and broken, falling stairs might await me within, so I decided to defer the venture until Lorna or some of the others could come, too. I didn't like the idea of possible imprisonment there, with a sprained ankle, while the rest searched the island for me, and Aunt Julie worried herself sick. Besides, the hour might be further advanced than I had realized in my ramble through the wood, and I would not have liked to be tardy at breakfast.
I followed a different path on my return, a path which appeared to lead along the shoreward side of the island. The trees and undergrowth there were more densely grown, protected as they were from the stinging buffeting winds of the open sea, and the sturdy pines and oaks were interspersed with gracious, spreading maples, feathery in their tender, new green. The air was so clear that the shore of the mainland seemed startlingly near, and quite hilly, and, in a little shadowed cove, I saw the clustered roofs of a village.
Once a trailing spray of sweetbriar clutched my skirt, and as I raised my eyes after stooping to disengage it, I saw just before me the tall, slender chimney of a house rising above the trees. I was surprised, for I had not thought myself so near Hard-a-lee, and I was sure Aunt Julie or one of the girls had told me that no one else lived on the island.
Curiosity hastened my steps, and I came upon a cleaned space, close to a little, shelving beach, and found myself facing a long, low, green-roofed bungalow. It was much smaller than Hard-a-lee, but modern and very pretty, with spacious verandas and sleeping porches above, and a dainty, trellised pergola at the side. A little dock jutted out from the shore and a trim white launch was tied to it, but the terraced lawn was neglected and overgrown, and the house, with its shuttered windows and cold chimneys wore the detached, somnolent air of having been long vacant. It looked cheerful and summery and restful, however, and I paused to gaze at it for a while before I went on into the woods.
I turned away at last, and had gone but a short distance along a new path which led back toward the center of the island when I heard a merry carolling whistle. I stopped and peered out between the trees in the direction from which it had come, and there upon the beach stood a tall young man, a perfectly strange young man, hatless and bronzed, with the sun glowing on his warm brown hair. He was throwing sticks into the water for a ridiculous, squatty, bow-legged bull dog to retrieve, and he bent his body and swung his arm out with the lithe grace of an athlete. I watched him, fascinated, when the dog, dripping and panting and twitching its blunt screw tail, came to him at last and he rolled it over and over in the hot sand, laughing aloud at its growls of affected protestation. His laugh was clear and hearty and rollicking, with no trace of self-consciousness, as if he were accustomed to be quite by himself in the big open, and wasn't afraid of being heard.
He didn't know I was there, of course, but all at once he turned with the dog at his heels, and strode into the woods directly towards me. I felt a silly, perfectly unaccountable panic lest he discover me peeping at him, and I ran on quickly up the path, never stopping until I came in sight of the kitchen gardens of Hard-a-lee.
When I rounded the corner of the veranda, they were all assembled there, and Lorna called out gayly:
"Well, you are an early bird, Maida! We thought you were still fast asleep."
"Goodness gracious, child!" exclaimed Aunt Julie, coming forward to kiss me. "Where on earth have you been? When did you get up?"
"About an hour ago," I replied to her last question first. "I awoke early, and the morning was so lovely that I simply could not stay indoors. I walked quite to the other end of the island, to the lighthouse. Everything looks fresh and green after the storm last night."
Monsieur Pelissier arrested his morning greeting to ask, with raised eyebrows:
"Ah, the storm? You are a light sleeper, then, are you not? Mlle. Bijou will not believe me that there was a storm. She insists that it was all our imaginations."
"Oh, no indeed, I watched it from my window," I returned. "The lightning was wonderful!"
"Merciful heavens, aren't you afraid of it?" Aunt Julie shuddered. "I'm glad I didn't hear it, or I should have been as nervous as a cat. Shall we go to breakfast?"
An impulse came to me to speak of the cry I had fancied I heard just before the storm broke, but it seemed so incredibly silly now, that I put it finally out of my thoughts.
During breakfast, however, I turned to Aunt Julie.
"Does someone else live on Sunset Island?" I asked. "I passed, such a pretty bungalow, on my way back from the lighthouse."
"No one lives there," Aunt Julie paused to chip an egg before she continued. "At least no one since we purchased Hard-a-lee. I tried to buy them out so that I might own the whole island, but their agent says they won't sell. They're living abroad, I believe. Their name is Barton, or Barlow"
"Barford!" Alaric interrupted. "The annointed Boston Barfords. I wish they would come back. There's a young fellow in the family, a son, who seems to be something of a cut-up, from the newspapers. His activities provide good grist when the mills of the yellow journals grind too slowly. He'd be good fun."
"Heavens, I'm glad they're not here!" ejaculated Aunt Julie. "I have trouble enough with you as it is! I can't think why they won't sell. The place has been shut up for so long."
"It doesn't look it," I remarked. "It seems to be in perfect repair."
"Oh, it was all done over last year. I guess they meant to come home, and then changed their minds." Alaric looked at me quizzically. "Made quite a tour of inspection didn't you, Maida? What do you think of the island?"
"It's charming," I said, but my tone was a little dry, I'm afraid. Without knowing why, I resented his tone. I wasn't prying into other people's affairs. Why shouldn't I have looked at the empty bungalow, if I felt like it? I was glad I hadn't mentioned seeing the strange young man, or Alaric would have teased me about it, too.
I watched him curiously. His appearance belied his bantering tone. He was chalky and hollow-eyed, and although he drank several cups of strong coffee he ate scarcely anything, and later, on the veranda, his hand trembled when he lit a cigarette. I wondered if he could possibly be dissipated; perhaps he had been drinking late the night before with Monsieur Pelissier. But the Frenchman was as debonairly master of himself as ever.
"I'm going to write some letters," Aunt Julie announced after breakfast. "Sunday always seems to me the best letter writing day of the week. Alaric will go to the mainland tomorrow morning in the launch for the mail. If you have any letters to send, Maida, just leave them on the table in the hall tonight."
"Thank you, Aunt Julie," I replied. "I don't think I shall write any today, but I'm looking forward to a letter from Daddy. He will surely let me know tomorrow what time he will arrive on Wednesday."
"Oh, yes, of course." Something in her tone made me glance quickly at Aunt Julie. Her good-natured, disingenuous face wore a peculiar, uncomfortable expression, and there was a pause which none of the rest attempted to break.
"My trunks should arrive soon," I finally suggested. "I will appreciate it if you will look after them."
"Certainly," Alaric replied.
Lorna slipped her arm through mine.
"Come!" she said. "I'm going to show you over the house. I know you'll love that quaint old wing I told you about, the part that was built of the cabins of the old wreck."
There were four huge rooms in a square on the first floor; the drawing-room and dining-room on the right of the entrance hall, the library and billiard room on the left. It was the latter that the wing adjoined, which Lorna spoke of, and it was charmingly quaint and interesting. The floor was evidently that of an old deck, the walls and ceilings heavily beamed and ribbed, with port holes for windows and ship's lanters for light, containing cunningly concealed electric light bulbs. It had been arranged as a smoking-room and lounge, and instead of chairs there were bunks built in around the walls and a rude, heavy, scarred old table was clamped to the floor in the center. It was a curious, incongruous addition to the rest of the house, but thoroughly consistent in itself, and I wondered how Aunt Julie had managed to refrain from spoiling it with fluffy curtains at the ports, and rug and bric-a-brac monstrosities.
Alaric seemed to have gotten over his nervous mood by lunch time, and in the afternoon I played him three sets of tennis. He drove a hard, fast game, and although I won the first set four to two, I remember, he took the victory from me easily in the rest.
Warm and a little tired, but glowing from the exercise, I was on my way to my room, to rest and change before dinner, when I encountered the housemaid in the hall, the same young Irish girl who had stared at me so curiously that morning. She jumped again when I came suddenly upon her just outside my door, and hurried off as fast as she could go, looking back over her shoulder with round eyes. She seemed to be very inexperienced and badly trained for her position in such a well-managed household as this. Her uncouth manner annoyed me as much as the veiled insolence of Aunt Julie's maid, Lucie.
Oh, I would be glad when Daddy came! At the thought of him, a memory flashed across my mind of Aunt Julie's peculiar, uncomfortable manner that morning when I had spoken of his coming. Could she have divined that I meant to ask him to take me away with him?
The next morning, Alaric went to the mainland, not in the launch, but in his own racing motor-boat, and brought back the mail.
My trunks had not arrived—but Aunt Julie assured me that express matter was often late.
There was a letter for me from Daddy, though, and I seized it eagerly and tore it open. As I glanced down the usual blunt, typewritten page to his dear, familiar signature at the bottom, my heart sank, and for a moment I could not trust myself to speak because of the tears which choked me. He wasn't coming, after all! He was going to sail on Wednesday, instead of Saturday, without seeing me.
"Oh, isn't it a shame, Maida!" Aunt Julie looked up from a letter which she too, had received from Daddy. "Your father won't be able to come to us! He says that urgent business on the other side necessitates his sailing by the first steamer Wednesday. It is a great disappointment for all of us, of course, we had so looked forward to having him with us here at Hard-a-lee, but you must not let it grieve you too much, child. He tells me that he will visit us on his return, and it will be only a few weeks before you will see him again, at the most."
I looked straight into her eyes.
"Aunt Julie, you knew that Daddy wasn't coming," I said, deliberately. "Why didn't you tell me?"
My heart-breaking disappointment made me savage, and although I blushed for my rudeness afterward, I would not have checked it then if I could, for I felt that I had been very unfairly treated.
"My dear child," Aunt Julie came to me and put her arms about me, impulsively. "I'll tell you the truth. I really didn't think, from what he told me when I last saw him, that he would be able to come, but while there was the slightest chance that he could manage to spare the time, I could not bear to have you disappointed, perhaps unnecessarily. This financial matter is of vital importance to him, or he would certainly have deferred it, if he possibly could, to have seen you once more before sailing. If I had told you of my doubts, and then he had been able to come after all, you would have grieved for nothing. You cannot blame me for not wanting to spoil the pleasure of your first few days here."
I drew myself quietly from her arms.
"Please forgive me, Aunt Julie," I said slowly. "I am sorry I spoke so hastily. Daddy is all that I have in the world, you know, and I—I am bitterly disappointed. If you will excuse me now, I will go to my room."
Blinded with the tears I could not control any longer, I stumbled up the stairs, and threw myself on the couch. Daddy! Daddy! I wanted him so! Perhaps Aunt Julie had been right after all, when she said he knew that money was the only thing which counted in the world! Perhaps he didn't love me. I might be only a nuisance and a care to him, a burden which he was glad to shift to other people's shoulders. It must be that all he thought of, all that he lived for, was this sordid money game!
Then a quick revulsion of feeling came to me and I was bitterly ashamed of myself for such a disloyal thought. Of course Daddy loved me, better than anything in all this world! I was too young and inexperienced to be able to understand his colossal financial affairs, but I knew that a great many other people depended on him, and he was morally responsible for the safety of their fortunes, and could not think only of himself and his own inclinations. Common sense told me, too, that no possible question of my comfort and well-being could have entered his mind. On the contrary, he must have felt more contented and at peace about me than at any other time since mother died, knowing that I was with old and dear friends. I could not help wishing, however, that he hadn't so easily taken it for granted that I would be happy with them. Daddy, like most dominant men, never considered the possibility of a point of view other than his own until it was forcibly presented to him.
How could I go through the long weeks and months of the interminable summer which stretched out before me, with such uncongenial, shallow, desperately common people! Oh, why hadn't Daddy come!
I became aware at last of a light insistent knocking at the door, and I sat up wiping my eyes and called: "Come in."
The knob turned, but the door did not open, and suddenly remembering that I had locked it, I went quickly and turned the key.
Lorna stood on the threshold, and at the sight of her wistful face, alive with sympathy, my heart opened to her. After all, she wasn't like the rest, and even they hadn't meant to be unkind.
"My poor Maida!" she said. "I didn't mean to intrude upon you, but I couldn't bear to think of you up here all alone on this lovely day, crying your eyes out over something that cannot be helped. But you mustn't feel as you said down stairs, that he is all you have in the world. You're not alone, Maida dear. Of course we are no relation, but we are such old friends that it is almost as if we were of the same family."
"I know, and I'm afraid I seemed dreadfully rude, but I had looked forward so to seeing Daddy that I was heartsick," I replied. "It was silly of me to cry, but I couldn't help it."
"Of course you couldn't!" Lorna put her arm about my waist, and drew me to the window. "But you are not going to cry any more, are you? The days will soon pass, and we will have lots of happy times together. For you will be happy with us, Maida. I am sure that when you see your father again you will be able to tell him that."
"Oh, yes," I said, smiling faintly, and trying to speak with an assurance which somehow I did not feel.
"Well, bathe your eyes now and we'll go down to the others, shall we? Mother is worrying for fear you still feel hurt toward her."
"I don't, truly I don't," I replied as earnestly as I could. "We will go down at once, of course."
At the door a few minutes later, she paused and with a hand upon each of my shoulders she said, almost abruptly:
"I like you, you dear, funny, little thing! I mean that you shall not be unhappy! I should feel wretched, guilty,—about not telling you that your father would not come, of course—if you were. You will try, then, to forget this disappointment and be happy once more?"
There was something in her repressed manner which I could not at all understand. As I gave her my assurance, I felt more than ever that she was a very strange sort of a girl, indeed.