# The Isle of Seven Moons/Chapter 9

CHAPTER IX
"FAITHFUL AND TRUE"
Sally wasn't at all anxious to see Philip, though he came charioted in the smartest of roadsters and splendidly appointed himself. Little Miss Phoebe, the postmistress, had just stopped her wrenlike chirping long enough to shake her head for the ninetieth time, with an eloquent pity that reminded one of lavender and the infinite pathos of transient things, and the girl nodded to Philip as to a passer-by whom one remembers having seen somewhere, and stood on the top post-office step, gazing downhill over the roofs and the little grove of masts to the sea beyond, out of whose silence no message, no sign had come.
"Oh, hasn't he a distinguished air!" whispered Stella Appleby, a plump, fair-sized matrimonial filly, with prettyish blond hair and blue eyes, Sally's chum, not from any particular affinity, but purely from geographical reasons. She had the air of always scanning the horizon for trousered craft, also a predisposition to giggles, all harmless enough, signifying nothing more than that she was preparing for her trade in life, quite as the boy destined to become an electrical engineer fools with toy batteries and bells. If you listened prophetically you could hear those giggles translated ​into a not uncharming baby-talk over an infant of her own.
"Oh, isn't he distinguished!" she repeated, admiring further the sartorial graces, the Byronic collar, extending a half-inch over the lapel, the unpadded, London-cut shoulders. "Oh, why don't you say something? You never get enthusiastic over anything any more, and I must say I like enthusiasm."
The object of the adulation had finished puttering with his car, an operation ostentatiously prolonged over the new model, and was overtaking them.
"Isn't that just perfect?" persisted Stella, pinching the other's arm, and trying to delay her. Now the other youths of Salthaven obediently raised their hats two inches above their heads when addressing "a lady," but young Mr. Huntington always doffed his, and, furthermore, stood uncovered during the whole course of the conversation, no matter what the weather, providing only the lady were not ill-favoured.
"He's just like the men in Robert Chambers's stories, isn't he?" Stella prattled on, with time enough to get in one more blurb, "Look at his hair—that's the sort of hair-cut to have, not the countrified round-cut the other boys get."
Now a moment before Sally had looked most poetic, with none of the old sweetness gone, but the old care-free boyish look a little wistful, and now and then tinged with the heart's-tides. In the caverns of the deep, the pearl as it ripens always adds to its white innocence the auroral flushes of maturity. However, she answered Stella's chatter most unpoetically and rudely,—
​"Shut up!"
That tonsure was the kind Ben innocently used to acquire, to her horror. Once she and Stella had quarrelled, not speaking for three whole days, because of a similar remark about Ben's foot-wear whose squarish cut, Stella declared, lacked the Huntingdon "class." But Sally had no time for further defence of her sweetheart.
"Oh—how do you do, Phil," she said, then made as if to hurry on, but he cut across the walk in front of her.
"Why what's the matter, Miss Abstraction? Thanks for the cordial welcome to our city!" he bantered with a sarcastic "Br-r-rr" and shiver.
"Oh, I have so many things to do at home, I must hurry back."
"Don't take life so seriously, Sally."
"That's just it, Mr. Huntington, I tell her she's too serious. She's changed a lot," put in Stella, eager to be in the conversation.
"I don't mean to be," apologized Sally, "But really I've been awfully busy and I must hurry back."
"Oh, have a heart, Sally," persisted Philip. "Let me drive you out to the cove. I've just had new shock-absorbers put on my car, they're just invented—pretty nifty, too, and she rides beautifully."
"Oh, do, Sally, it would be fine—let's!" Stella put in her oar, determined to at least occupy the rear-seat, whether asked or not.
"It's very kind of you, Phil, but really I can't—but Stella would love to go."
​It would have been hard to decide whether this remark was vindictive or merely strategic, but it didn't matter, for, outmanœuvring him, she had hurried on, and Stella was enjoying the thrill of being helped in the car, with the additional and unexpected advantage of occupying that front seat.
Her foolish little heart thumped with the engine and thrilled at their speed. It also tingled with a delightful uncertainty as to whether in that stretch of deserted shore-road, in the dark o' the pines—he wouldn't—Phil did, and there was only a feeble, countering "Oh, Mr. Huntington," and a blush from Stella, weak indeed compared to the resounding slap Sally would have given him in her present mood, to say nothing of banishment thereafter from her company. But Philip didn't seem to enjoy the innocent episode. In spite of his immaculate toilet the features looked careworn and haggard, and frequently he endangered their course by furtively looking over his shoulder, to the bewilderment of Stella, who could make out no pursuer, and to her consequent chagrin. But little caring what had happened in the shade of the pines, or anywhere, for that matter, except somewhere on that wide, unspeaking ocean, Sally went home to face Captain Bluster—and Aunt Abigail.
Aunt Abigail had come to visit, then, worse luck, to stay, and worst of all, to ally herself with her obstinate brother in his championship of Master Philip.
Very spare of frame and also of kind thoughts was Aunt Abigail. Her eyes and the point of her spectacled nose were as sharp as her scent for neighbourhood gossip and possible ​misdemeanours of Sally. The sparse hair was so tightly drawn into its knob that it seemed as if coiffured by some instrument of the Spanish inquisitors whom she resembled, or rather the iron union of one of those mediæval fanatics and some Puritan dame with a tight-corseted soul. She was forever making life a perpetual inquisition for herself and others, forever straightlacing their souls.
This championship of Philip by Cap'n Bluster was a little puzzling, for deep under the last layer of his crusty old heart was a selfish affection for the girl, and, though he rarely faced the fact, he at least subconsciously realized how barren the house would be of all life and colour and joy if she passed over its portal. Perhaps the foolish old Boltwood grudge had something to do with it, more likely the fact that her coldness to the Huntington heir made the catastrophe remote—but then, of course, Captain had a lee eye on that Huntington fortune.
All through the meal he annoyed her by constant innuendo which he meant to be subtle but which was only sly. She said nothing until Aunt Abigail was locked in rigid slumber, and she herself was sitting on the arm of the old Washington rocker. The firelight softened the stiffness of the oval portraits on the wall and the picture of Nelson s victory; flickered on the model of the ship on the mantel, the heavy side-board with its huge lobster-shaped tureen and the blue willow-ware; and wove fantastic patterns in the variegated rag-carpet on the floor.
But the comfort and cheer of the hour vanished when he took up again the thread that meandered through ​all their conversation, thoughts, and her very pattern of life.
"Well now—that's a sensible girl. Just you forget young Boltwood. He never was good enough for my girl."
The black curls withdrew from his shoulder, and the girl jumped from the arm of the chair, and said very gravely:
"Now, Father, listen. We might as well settle it once for all. Don't you ever say another word against Ben, or, much as I love you I'll leave you—yes—leave you. Something tells me he isn't lost, but if he were," here the voice faltered but she went on heroically,—"if—he were, and something I can't see now—made me marry someone else, I'd never forget him."
Like most bullying souls Captain Fell was awed and frightened by this rebellion. For all the youthful curls, Sally's black head held a good measure of wisdom. Too many dutiful wives she had seen cringe and efface themselves under the tyranny of their men-folk. She had never cringed, though she had done a lot of effacing herself, sometimes beyond what was politic or even necessary, hating rows as all really feminine women do. But she could turn, and after that explosion Captain was much more careful. Yet it did not hinder him, a few days before Halloween, from endorsing another invitation of Phil's, though he was a little less peremptory about it.
"Please go," Philip had urged, in the parlour into which Aunt Abigail had ushered him, smilingly for once. And wild and as unscrupulous as he was, the boy could be quite winning and gentle when he wanted something very badly. ​Perhaps his heart was really touched, at least he was piqued by her elusiveness.
"You'll enjoy it," he pled, "the Schaufflers have planned a bang-up party. Everyone's going, and, besides, you've turned down every invitation I've given you."
"You ought to go—it's all nonsense, you're staying in like this," boomed the Captain's voice from the favourite rocker. "Your cheeks are gettin' as pale as the white-caps out yonder," and he tweaked them—a movement she hated, it was so forever putting her back in the category of a child.
"Yes," put in Aunt Abigail, from her own stiff-backed chair, "it's your duty to go."
Sally hadn't at all missed nor was she longing now for the attentions of Philip or any of the Salthaven young men, eligible or otherwise. For some reason Providence alone knows, women have a far better developed sense of spiritual nearness than men, and ever since that memorable night under the Light she was content, much of the time, with the invisible but very real companionship of her wandering sweetheart.
But—well—maybe she hadn't been quite fair to Phil anyway she didn't want another row, so she accepted.
Promptly at eight on the night of the thirtieth of October, for "Home Sweet Home" always strikes up at eleven at all Salthaven affairs, only smugglers or doctors and storks being about later than that hour, the Schauffler's Maggie ushered Sally—"Ladies to the right, Gen'lemen to the left"—into the guest-room.
A moment, like the sea-birds she preened herself, for even ​sorrow cannot drown this most normal of instincts. The large pier-glass apparently approved the brown dress, simple though it was, for it fitted her silver-birch symmetry perfectly. Simple, too, were the adornments enforced by a rigid economy, but the bitter-sweet added exquisite bits of colour. They had been crushed under her cloak, and, straight-seeing and little given to self-pity as she was, tonight she almost sentimentalized over their obvious symbolism as she rear ranged the vermilion and saffron sprays on her own troubled breast. But resolutely stifling the sigh, she fluffed up the scarlet leaves and berries in hair which almost held the sheen of the purple grackles in that earlier season when Ben was still there, then caught up a gift of Captain Harve's, a shawl from the Orient, and descended the stairs, her shoulders misted in its transparent gold.
"The very flower of girlhood," whispered kindly Mrs. Schauffler to her husband, as they stood near the door of the spacious parlour, their silver hair framed in a bower of russet oak-leaves, asters and golden-rod.
"The prettiest girl in the old town," he paternally supplemented.
And instead of one formal hand, the hostess grasped both of Sally's hands in her own, falling in love with her all over again, as men and women and children had a habit of doing each time they met her, while old Mr. Schauffler teased her as usual.
"It's lucky, Sally, that this isn't two hundred years ago—you'd be hanged for witchcraft, sure—I'll be hanged if you wouldn't!"
​And his wife added smilingly:
"This dull old world needs witchcraft like yours, my dear," and this time she couldn't resist kissing her, with an extra tenderness, perhaps thinking of the little tragedy still on the boards. To her, as to little Miss Phoebe, life would have been barren indeed without a daily manna of romance and sentiment, and over the bent head her lips formed the word "saint," adding the gentle reproof,—"Not hanged but canonized, you mean, Theodore."
"What! Train six-pounders on such a pretty clipper!" the old fellow retorted, twinkling all over and pleased as Punch at this latest perpetration.
Then Sally, of course had to look up, her cheeks rivaling the berries in her hair.
"Mr. Huntington makes the best ships, Cartwright the best sails, Aunt Presby the nicest pies,—but Mr. Schauffler makes the prettiest speeches in all Salthaven."
"Well returned, young lady," said the old gentleman, "and you and my wife," he added gallantly, "the prettiest pictures."
"That's only half true," retorted Sally.
"No, it's all true. Now, may I have the second dance? I'd ask for the first if Master Phil weren't looking so jealously at me."
"Oh, please take it," she replied, almost pleadingly, then, seeing that she was holding up the chattering line behind her, patted the handsome old man's arm and passed on, head up and smiling.
The hour for corn-popping, chestnut-roasting, and shivery ghost-stories, over, the new two-hundred dollar phonograph. ​a decided innovation in the town, was duly cranked up by the twinkling host—and the fun was on.
Very oddly-assorted couples two-stepped and—that is those of them that could—waltzed on the floor, for the Schaufflers, well-bred people in the best sense of that term, had veritably thrown open their doors. Neither purse nor family-tree determined the invitations ; all who were wholesome and spiritually sound, in short "real folks," had been bidden to the feast.
Ben Stout, the driver of the famous horse-car, furnished the low comedy, while Mr. Mather, the gold-spectacled principal of the school, essayed the high, each "monkeyshine" and quip being impartially rewarded with many-keyed laughter, although the latter's classical allusions were seldom understood. And Phil gracefully steered Sally among the bouncing couples in the second dance, which he claimed, while Lizzie Rountree, the tiny little milliner with the round eyes and crab-apple cheeks, hopped happily with good old Dr. Ferguson; Don, the poorly-dressed son of the widow Wiggins, led Mrs. Schauffler on the floor, she not minding a bit when he ruined her train; Mr. Schauffler's handsome figure escorted the pathetic grey little slip of the widow herself; and He who attended the lowly wedding in Galilee, which some of the well-tailored Pharisees with large bank accounts declared "was so mixed, you know," must have smiled approval that night.
The wholesome fun and colour fed brightly-tinted fancies to the busy shuttle of the girl's brain, though two of darker hue were constantly weaving in and out of the pattern,—the ​thoughts of Ben's absence and a certain look in Philip's eyes, portending that something she had long feared, something she knew he and her father and Aunt Abigail were doing their utmost to bring about.
"Isn't this a peach of a waltz, Sally?"
"Yes—but it isn't a clingstone. Don't hold me so tight."
"That wasn't tight, Sally."
"Tighter than necessary," and then, because she was worried, she snapped,—"You heard what I said."
"Why are you so stand-offish with me, Sally?"
She relented.
"I'm sure I didn't mean to be. If there's one thing I can't stand in people it's not being true to their friends." She was hoping he would accept that construction—it was getting to be a euphemism as it was—"I hope I'm not that way myself," she finished.
"You've avoided me, haven't you now?"
Sally's blush was very red, the answering fib white:
"N-n-no."
Not having entirely escaped the Puritan curse of hyper-conscience, she felt guilty, although all her avoidance had been mere self-defence. He reversed—she couldn't help noticing that he did it beautifully—she tried the same manœuvre with the conversation:
"Isn't the colouring of those leaves over there beautiful?"
It was too abrupt, and the trick didn't work.
"Almost as pretty as you are in that dress."
"Well, Phil, if you won't take a hint, I'll ask you right out plain. Please don't be personal, tonight or any night. Let's ​change the subject from me to something else—leaves, dancing, anything—let's talk of Stella!"
This last subject, to which Sally referred a little maliciously, had just been thrust upon them by fat Billy Plum, who did most of his dancing pump-handle fashion with his arms, to Stella's evident disgust. Phil skilfully steered away from the impending collision while Stella gazed soulfully over Billy's fat shoulder at the fascinating cavalier.
"I won't change the subject, now I've got you here," persisted Sally's escort. "I'm going to tell you what I think of you."
"Why, Phil, I haven't intended to be mean to you. If I have, I do beg your pardon, indeed I do."
"That wasn't what I meant. Shall I really tell you what I think of you?"
"Oh, Phil, please don't be personal again or I'll stop dancing."
"Not while I've got my chance—Sally I love you."
The girl went white, stopped short with the music, writhed from his grasp, and hurried towards her hostess, calling in agitation:
"Oh, Mrs. Schauffler, I have a message for you."
Safe within the shelter of that kindly lady's wing, she stammered:
"Mrs. Schauffler, I hate to leave right now, but I have a headache and——"
"Oh, I'm sorry, dear," and she looked anxiously at the pretty flushed face, reading there signs of other troubles besides the alleged indisposition. "Just run upstairs and lie ​down on the couch. You'll be better in a moment—here are the salts—wait a second, Sally, and I'll go with you."
"No, thank you, Mrs. Schauffler"—the girl was determined not to give Phil any further chance of continuing the disagreeable subject on the walk home—"I hate to leave, for you've given me a lovely time—but I must go now—I'll tell you about it some other time."
Seeing her very real distress, Mrs. Schauffler no longer protested.
"All right, dear. Don't you worry. Theodore"—she called to her husband.
"Oh, don't bother, Mrs. Schauffler, I can run home alone. The moon is up and it isn't dark."
"Go alone? I should say not," briskly interjected the old gentleman. "You've been favouring the young squirts all the evening. Now we old fellows have our innings," then to overcome her reluctance he whispered,—"besides, you'll do me a favour. I'm dying for a smoke."
So after all, Phil saw Stella home and thereby gained the parting kiss at the gate, which many Salthaven girls allowed as the proper finish to an enjoyable party, but which Sally would as certainly have denied.
It was a more mystical caress she was venturing at her window, that window over whose sill she had climbed that memorable night, three months ago. She threw open her shutters. The wind drove the grey gondolas of the clouds across the wistful face of the moon. They were sailing south!
Taking the leaves from her hair, she kissed them, then ​tossed them over the sill. And the wind took the scarlet messengers, frail and intangible and warm-coloured as her own thoughts, twirling them, spinning them, as if weighing them in its buffeting palms, then drove them, too, to the south. Was it there? Perhaps in those shining islands! Anyway as, following the old, foolish custom of leal daughters of the sea, she took her lamp and placed it in her window, she whispered a prayer that they might be wafted to where ever it was.