Cairns might have taken this very lightly; even with a reservation that she knew realities did not fit the ideal; that such realities were not for the elect always;—but he chose to regard it instead, as an expression of Vina's yearning, which she felt safe in disclosing for the sake of the ingenious picture she made…. He looked about this remarkable studio in the heart of New York, where a really great task was being wrought to endure. Sometimes it seemed to him that the spirits of the saints came to rest in this place, where the woman worshipped them through her work…. And he knew she meant much that she said; that to her, work was not enough of the breath of life…. She had not completed her picture; rather life had not completed it for her.
Cairns confided in Bedient the Nantucket story, and an idea, occurred to the latter that delighted him. It was one of the evenings when they dined together at the Club…. Another day, Cairns inquired of Vina what took her to Nantucket in summer, curious as to the material arrangement.
"My own people used to go there summers when I was a little thing," she told him, "and of late—there are many friends who ask me over."
"Say, Vina, when you get over to Nantucket, would you be terribly disconcerted to discover some morning, down among the wharves there, with a copy of Moby Dick, and a distressed look from deciding whether breakfast should be of clam or cod chowder—me?"
"I should be glad of all things," she said with quiet eagerness. "There are so many ways to pass the hours——"
"Besides walking in Lily Lane in the dusk?"
"Yes…. There's the ride over the open moors. It's like Scotland in places, with no division or fences, and the sea away off in all directions. Then, we must go to the lighthouse, one of the most important of America, and the first to welcome the steamers coming in from Europe. And the Haunted House on Moor's End, the Prince Gardens and the wonderful old water-front—where I am to discover you—once so rich and important in the world, now forgotten and sunken and deserted, except for an old seasoned sea captain here and there, smoking about, dreaming as you imagine, of the China trade or the lordly days of the old sperm fishery, and looking wistfully out toward the last port…. Venice or Nantucket—I can hardly say which is more dream-like or alluring, or sad with the goneness of its glory…. I'd love to show you, because I know every stick and stone on the Island, and many of its quaint people."
"And when do you think you will go?" he asked.
"I don't know, David,—not before the last of June. And I won't be able to stay very long this year, because there is no place to work there. I ought to have a little change and rest, but I can't afford to 'run down' entirely—just enough to freshen the eye."
Cairns nodded seriously….