"See!" Falkner pointed back to the old seaport grown dim in the distance behind them. The sun was falling behind the steeples, and only the black smoke from engine and chimney marked the edge of the shore. Far away to the north opened a long reach of blue water and at the head of the bay green fields descending gently to the sea. The Swallow was a lonely dot in the open waters, dipping, rising, the sun on its white sail,—fleeing always. Falkner sat beside her, circling her shoulders with his arm, talking of the sea and the boat as if they had sailed for many days like this together and were familiar with all. His arm as it touched her said, 'I love you!' And his eyes resting on her face said, 'But we are happy, together, you and I,—so strangely happy!'
What was left there behind—the city and the vessels, the land itself—was all the mirage of life, had never been lived by them. And this—the swaying, sweeping boat, a dot upon the ocean and they together, heart by heart, going outward to the sea and night—was all that was real. Could it be possible that they two would ever land again on that far shore of circumstance, hemmed in by petty and sorrowful thoughts?
Yet across the dream came the thought of the Little Man, waiting behind there, and the woman knew that on the morrow after the morrow she should wake. For life is stronger than a single soul! …
To the west and north there were islands, long stretches of sea opening between their green shores, far up into the coast land. The wind freshened and died, until at last in the twilight with scarcely a ripple the Swallow floated into a sheltered cove on the outermost of all the islands. A forest of stiff little spruces covered the sea point, and behind this was a smooth green field, and above on the crest of the island a small white farm-house.
"A man named Viney used to live there," Falkner said, breaking a long silence. "Either he or some one else will take us in." Margaret helped him anchor, furl the sails, and then they went ashore, pulling the tender far up on the shingle beech beside the lobster-pots. They crossed the field—it was nearly dark and the Swallow was a speck on the dark water beneath—and knocked at the white farm-house.
"It is like what you knew must be so when you were a child," whispered
Margaret.
"But suppose they turn us away?"
"Why, we'll go back to the Swallow or sleep under the firs! But they won't. There is a charm in all our doings this day, dearest."
The Vineys welcomed them, and gave them supper. Then Mr. Viney, divining that with these two wanderers a love matter was concerned, remarked suggestively:—
"Maybe you'd like to go over to my son's place to sleep. My son's folks built a camp over there on the Pint. It's a sightly spot, and they've gone back to the city. Here, Joe, you show 'em the path!"