Dolan of Sugar Hills by Kate Starr Page B

jacket.
    She was standing swaying a little in the small cabin, for the Passage was proving a little rough, when someone knocked peremptorily on the door, then without waiting turned the knob and entered.
    Cane Dolan stood there.
    “All right, Miss Guthrie, pack up,” he said briskly.
    “Pack up?”
    “That’s what I said.”
    “Where are we going to this time?”
    “What do you mean, ‘this time?’ Do you think all that has been happening has just been my idea of a Cook’s Tour?”
    “I only asked you where we were going,” replied Sheila indignantly.
    “Where we intended when we set off—Silverwake, of course.”
    “But you said The Star wouldn’t alter its route, that we’d be aboard for a few days.”
    “ The Star has altered its route, we’ll be off within the quarter hour.”
    Sheila stood a moment, confused. McAllister had said they would have to continue the cruise until it suited him to put them off, and Cane had appeared to be satisfied by that.
    She became aware that Cane was standing regarding her, that he wore a hostile look.
    “When you’ve finished considering it all, trying to put it in place, you might start to throw a few things in your bags,” he remarked acidly.
    She turned and gathered up an armful, sensing reluctantly that the man was under some sort of strain. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dolan,” she proffered.
    The apology did not satisfy him.
    “Finish your packing,” he ordered. “One of the crew will bring your bags up. I’ll be waiting on deck.”
    “Has Silverwake a jetty?”
    “No, we’re rowed ashore, either that or Tress will come out.”
    “The handyman?”
    “Yes.” He hesitated a moment, then went to the door. “Don’t take too long.”
    But Sheila took much longer than she need have in spite of there being really little to pack. Somehow she found she could not move quickly.
    She was still in the cabin when one of the boys came breezing in. “The dinghy’s down to take you and Mr. Dolan in, Miss Guthrie. These your bags?”
    “Yes,” said Sheila. She followed behind him up the steps.
    The Star had anchored some hundred yards from an island ... an island like the other Barrier Reef islands, pine-clad, white-beached, a little ring of reef.
    She stood looking at it silently. This was the island her father had fallen in love with, had believed to be his. This was the island that had brought her these thousands of miles from England, for her it was to have been journey’s end.
    Journey’s end? The fact came strongly and certainly to Sheila that she was looking at this island with more distaste than enchantment. Somehow, she could not have put a finger on it, expressed it in words, she knew that she did not like the place.
    Her other island, yes, her blue and white island, her frigate bird island, but not this one, never Silverwake. Why, she realized, I don ’ t even want to go ashore.
    In her surprise at her reactions she had not noticed the house upon the island. Now she did—and widened her eyes.
    It was a large, costly house, easily, the largest of any of the island houses she had seen on the trip.
    “Why, it’s a mansion,” she murmured aloud.
    “Not exactly that, but it’s certainly no shanty,” Cane Dolan drawled dryly. “It cost a penny, and it’s worth many more pennies, of that you ... and someone else ... can be sure.”
    There was bitterness in his tone. There was also ... and Sheila was surprised when she considered the prepossessing size of the place ... no pride in it at all.
    She bade her farewells, shook hands with the skipper, then descended the steps.
    Dolan called, “Thanks, McAllister, I appreciate this,” and the captain nodded his head.
    The dinghy came closer and closer to shore. Looking only at the house, Sheila did not see the three people under the palms just above the beach until they were almost in.
    Cane carried her through the shallow water to the sand, and the Star man brought in the bags. He waved goodbye and pushed off