CHAPTER III
Although Miss Elliott fretted over the delay and was impatient to get into her cottage it was not ready until after the middle of June, and then it was a matter of hard work to make it habitable, for there were a thousand and one things to be done, for which no adequate help could be hired and which had to wait the convenience of some volunteer service. Fortunately aunt and niece were comfortably housed at Cap'n Ben's, and could bend all their energies to the business of getting their own dwelling in order. There were frequent trips to Portland shops for such odds and ends as had not been sent with the household goods, and there were many demands upon Ira Baldwin's stock of nails, tacks and such like things, so that his wares fell short of supplying the demand, and many times Miss Elliott was in despair at being unable to get the simple things she required.
She came in one day and threw herself into a rocking-chair, tired out by her struggles with the impossible. "Hereafter I am going to be a fool," she announced. "Fools get so much more done for them than smart people. There is that silly widow who has Hilltop; she can't do a blessed thing for herself, and is always appealing to this one and that in the most languishing way; the consequence is people are so sorry for her helplessness that they drop everything and run when she gets into difficulties. As for me, I might tramp the island over, and no one would budge to 'accommodate' me. I am sick of being 'accommodated.' I want to get hold of some one who wants to work for reasonable wages, and can honestly earn them."
"Poor auntie!" said Gwen sympathetically. "You're all tired out, and I don't wonder. What is the special grievance this time, or are you only growling on general principles?"
"I wanted some one to put up the window shades, and I have traipsed the place over. Each person I questioned told me he couldn't do it but maybe so-and-so would accommodate me, till finally I got desperate, went to the cottage and put up some of the shades myself. It was the most nerve-racking work to make them fit, for a sixteenth of an inch more or less makes such a difference. There are times," she added after a pause, "when I could almost declare profanity to be a necessity."
Gwen laughed. "Now, Aunt Cam, I know you have reached the limit of human endurance, and I shall appoint myself a committee of one to seek out a man-of-all-work."
"I wish you luck," returned Miss Elliott, resting her head against the back of the chair. "The trouble is," she went on after a moment, "that these blessed people spend their lives in waiting and they cannot understand why we should not be willing to do it, too. They wait for the weather, the winds, the tide. They wait for their fish, for nearly everything, and they are so in the habit of it that it bewilders them when they are hurried. They cannot comprehend a society which does not wait for anything."
"Shouldn't you like to see Manny Green, for instance, during the six o'clock rush hour in New York? Do you suppose he would understand the word hustle then?" said Gwen. "However, Aunt Cam, I am sure that there are great many who are not loafers. Look at Thad Eaton, and Miss Phosie, too. They work steadily from morning till night. Miss Phosie is such a dear. She certainly is a contrast to Miss Phenie."
"Yes," returned Miss Elliott, "the very way they cut their pies gives a clue to their characters. Miss Phenie always helps herself to the largest piece, Miss Phosie invariably takes the smallest. That tells the whole story."
"You have it in a nutshell," replied Gwen. "Now you stay here and rest, Aunt Cam, while I go on my voyage of discovery."
"Where are you going?"
"Not far."
"Whom shall you attack first?"
"That's tellings. I have an idea. If my quest fails I'll acknowledge my faith misplaced, and myself beaten, though I'm 'hop-sin',' as Asa Bates says. Lie down and rest. You have done enough for one day."
She picked up her hat and went out. Miss Elliott watched the erect figure pass the window, and turn toward the sea. "What's she going that way for?" soliloquized Miss Elliott. "Perhaps she thinks she can conjure up the wizard." But she ceased to speculate in a few minutes and dropped off into the sleep which follows great weariness.
Meanwhile Gwen went on toward the garden, following the foot path to where it dropped between the ridges, and entered a wooded way bordered by wild-rose bushes. These were not yet in bloom, but the hillside was white with daisies, and in the sheltered hollow where Cap'n Ben's apple trees struggled to resist the keen winds, a few faint pink blossoms were visible.
"Over the shoulders and slopes of the dunesI saw the white daisies go down to the sea,"
"Over the shoulders and slopes of the dunesI saw the white daisies go down to the sea,"
"Over the shoulders and slopes of the dunesI saw the white daisies go down to the sea,"
"Over the shoulders and slopes of the dunes
I saw the white daisies go down to the sea,"
murmured Gwen. "And it will be just as lovely when the roses come. They are budding now." In a few moments she emerged from the rose path into the open. Beyond the rocky ledges a little beach was visible at low tide. When the tide was up it was nearly covered, but now the pebbly sands were outlined by swathes of wet brown kelp. Mounting a rock Gwen stood looking out upon the waters of the small harbor, and presently made out the identity of a boat which was headed for the point near which she stood. "I thought I'd get here in time," she said to herself. She waited till the boat was beached and the man in it had stepped out, shouldering his oars, and turning toward the path by which she had come. Then she left her big rock and went to meet him. "I've been waiting for you, Mr. Williams," she said cheerily.
"For me," he said, pausing.
"Yes. I want your advice, and maybe your help. Can you put up window shades?"
He looked at her with a half-puzzled expression. "I have done it at Cap'n Ben's," he told her.
"Good!" cried Gwen. "I thought you weren't deficient in mechanical genius. We are at our wits' ends, or rather, I should say, we at Wits' End are at our wits' end. That isn't so idiotic a sentence as it sounds. You know we have named our cottage Wits' End, for my aunt was distracted to know where to stow her goods, and we continue to be at our wits' end to know how to get anything done in this perfectly fascinating, entirely maddening place. Poor Aunt Cam has worn herself out trying to get some one to put up shades. We could send to Portland for a man, but by the time we had paid his fare both ways, had paid for his time, his labor and his board, it would amount to more than the shades are worth. Now, I appeal to you, a maiden in distress. What do you advise us to do?"
"I'll put them up for you," returned he abruptly.
"Oh, Mr. Williams, how good of you. I'll confess that is what I hoped you would do. I have felt from the first that we should be friends. You have always looked at me as if you were rather interested in the new arrival, and haven't stalked by me with that defiant look some of your neighbors wear. That's why I thought I'd hunt you up and pour out my troubles to you."
"I'm glad you did," he returned. "Shall we go now?"
"To put up the shades? Can you?"
"If you have the screws and things. I can go."
"What fun to go back and tell Aunt Cam the work is all done. Have you been in our cottage? Don't you think it is perfectly charming?"
"It is a very nice little place. Will your parents be here, too?" he asked after a pause during which he strode by her side with eyes downcast.
"Oh, no. I have no parents."
A smothered exclamation caused her to turn to look at the man. His lips were compressed, his head bent.
"Oh, never mind," said Gwen, gently. "You didn't know of course. There are only Aunt Cam and myself left. I never had any brothers and sisters except one tiny baby brother who died before I was born. I always lived with my grandparents even during my mother's lifetime. Now they are all gone."
The man was silent for a little, then he asked in a queer strained voice, "How long since?"
"I was about six when my mother died. Grandfather did not live long after. Grandmother died about five years ago. Aunt Cam was a teacher in China, in one of the medical missions, but she came back after mother died. I don't know very much about my father's people. Grandmother seldom mentioned them or him. I don't remember him, for he died when I was a baby. I am a kindergarten teacher, but I wasn't well last year, and Aunt Cam insisted upon my giving up a month earlier to come up here to recruit, so I shall have a long rest. Now, Mr. Williams, you have my history." She looked at him expectantly as if inviting a like confidence.
"A man's life here can't be called exactly monotonous," he said after a pause, "for there is always incident enough if one cares for the quality of it, but there isn't much to make history of. I have lived at Cap'n Ben's for about twenty years, have fished every day when it was fit, have eaten, drunk, slept, read when I had a chance, and that is about all there is."
Gwen was silent, then she shot him a glance. "And before Cap'n Ben's?" she said.
A hot flush mounted to the man's face. "Before that there is nothing worth relating," he said. And Gwen felt herself properly rebuked for her curiosity. Why should she pry into a stranger's secrets? Yet she felt a sense of disappointment.
They presently came to the cottage perched upon the crags, yet clinging close to the rocks, showing long sloping lines, and simplicity of design. "When its newness wears off," said Gwen, "it will look just as we want it to. Come in, Mr. Williams, and I will get the shades. I can help you, if you want me to, but I am afraid I should never be able to put them up alone. I can't manage a saw, and some of the rollers are too long."
Her companion nodded. He was chary of speech, Gwen knew, but he took hold of the work as one having a personal interest in it, and before very long all the windows were furnished with shades.
Gwen surveyed them with a pleased look. "I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Williams," she said. "I am afraid I was very audacious to descend upon you as I did, but I was desperate. Shall I?" She fumbled at the little side bag she wore. "I believe the charge—some of them charge—"
Mr. Williams put up his hand peremptorily. "Stop!" he said. "I have done this only—"
"To accommodate me," exclaimed Gwen despairingly, then with a sudden smile, "Please don't say that. I am so tired of hearing it. Any other word, please."
"I have done this because it was a pleasure," he said gravely smiling. "And I will call it even if you will promise me one thing."
"And that is—"
"Whenever you get into difficulties that you will come to me, just as you did to-day, and ask me to help you. If I can do it I will."
Gwen seized his hand. "I told myself you were good and kind the very first time I saw you. Thank you so much. You make it all seem very easy when we know there is one friend we can depend upon. I am afraid I shall bother you a great deal," she continued. "You may be sorry you exacted such conditions."
He shook his head. "No, I know what I am saying, and I am quite willing to repeat the terms of our contract."
"Very well, then it's a bargain," Gwen answered.
That night, for the first time since their arrival, Luther Williams sat at the table with Gwen and her aunt, and the girl felt sure he had made the concession to emphasize his offer of friendship which she felt was sealed since he had elected to break bread with them.
It was after supper that Manny Green came around. He had been long casting sheep's eyes at Ora, but was not encouraged by Cap'n Ben nor his daughters. Manny was a tall, good-looking lad, but shiftless and uncertain. He had been brought up by a childless aunt who had lavished her best upon him, and had made such sacrifices as caused righteous indignation among the good woman's friends.
"He's a handsome boy, that Manny Green," remarked Miss Elliott as she watched the slim-waisted Ora walk off with her admirer.
Miss Zerviah Hackett, who had dropped in for her usual evening chat, gave a snort. "Handsome is as handsome does," she said. "He's not worth shucks, Miss Elliott. He goes lobstering when he feels like it, and when he don't he stays to home. When he wants to go off sky-larkin' he borrows money from his aunt."
"I'm afraid that's so," put in Miss Phosie, "and I wish he'd stay away from Ora."
"But they're so young it can't mean anything," remarked Gwen.
"Mean anything! Why! she's sixteen," said Miss Zerviah, "and lots of girls get married at that age."
"Oh, why do their mothers let them?" cried Gwen.
"'Cause they done the same thing themselves," Miss Zerviah informed her; "and it's all right when the young man's a sober, industrious fellow, but Manny's lazy. There's no use in trying to get around it."
"I'm afraid he is," said Miss Phosie wofully.
"His father was lost at sea," Miss Zerviah went on, "and he was Almira Green's only brother, so she thinks she can't deny Emmanuel anything."
"Oh, that's his name, is it?" said Gwen. "I wondered what it could be."
"He always gets Manny," returned Miss Zerviah. "As I was saying, he's lazy, and moreover, I maintain that the man that's willin' to borrow from a woman, even if she is a near relation, is pretty poor shucks, generally speaking. Nine times out of ten she never gets it back. It does seem to me that a woman who's been a-scrimpin' herself all her life as Almira's done, and hasn't allowed herself any pleasures, has a right to her little savin's when she gits to where there's no youth left her to make up for the goings without. I'd like to know who's to look out for her when she's past lookin' out for herself. Yet she'll up and give over and over again to ease Manny's way for him, and to allow him to go off sky-larkin'. If she'd done a little more sky-larkin' herself he wouldn't have a chance to git what's her due and not his. I'm just put out about Almira."
"I hear she's going to take boarders, after all," said Miss Phenie.
"So she is, and that's what I'm fussing about. She determined she'd take a rest this summer, but I went to her house to-day and there she was whitewashin' and paperin', same as usual. 'What are you up to, Almira Green?' s'I. 'Gettin' ready for my boarders,' s'she. 'Boarders,' s'I. 'I thought you wasn't going to take 'em.' 'They wrote and wanted to come,' s'she, 'and somehow I don't seem to be able to get along without.' I was that put out I walked off without a word, for I know just as true as I'm settin' here, that Manny's been borrowin' again. He can fling around his money pretty free when it comes out of her pocket-book."
Miss Phosie looked distressed. She knew that Ora would reap the benefit of Almira's hard earnings. The girl was very young, very fond of pleasure, of the foolish little trinkets and baubles which Manny bestowed upon her. She was, moreover, a vain little person, who followed the example of her elder, rather than her younger, aunt, and was given to considering herself first, though she really had more heart than Miss Phenie. "I wish Ora wouldn't run with him," murmured Miss Phosie as Gwen passed from the room.
"Now, there, Phosie, what's the use of croaking?" said her sister. "Ora's young, and young things like a good time. Like as not she'll take up with somebody else before she thinks of getting married." Then to change the subject she remarked: "What do you think, Zerviah? Mr. Williams was up to Miss Elliott's cawtage this afternoon putting up window shades."
"I want to know!" ejaculated Zerviah, this information driving all other gossip out of her head. "I never knew him to take up with the summer people before. Did you, Phenie?"
"No, I can't say that I did, but he certainly has taken a shine to Miss Whitridge."
Miss Zerviah chuckled. This was a new item to stow away among her stores of information. "Mr. Williams is always real pleasant," she said. "I never knew anybody to say a word against him, but I can't say I ever knew him to be more'n polite to the new people, or, as a matter of fact, to anybody here on this island. He's been here going on to twenty year, Phenie, and I'll venture to say you don't know much more about him than when he came. He ain't a Maine man, I'll warrant." There was a little eagerness in her manner as she turned her eyes questioningly upon Miss Phenie.
"Well, he ain't communicative," returned Miss Phenie, "but he does talk about his childhood sometimes, and about what his father and mother used to say and do. Yes, he does talk a little, but he's a reserved man, Zerviah. He's not much of a talker at the best, though he's a great reader."
"And he's kind-hearted as he can be," interposed Miss Phosie. "He never lets me bring a stick of wood, nor a drop of water when he's 'round, and when father was laid up with rheumatiz last winter there wasn't nothin' he wasn't willin' to do. There's no kinder-hearted man in the State of Maine than him, and he's always that quiet in his speech. I never heard him use a profane word, not but what he can get mad when there's occasion, but he's too much of a gentleman to use an oath."
"That's just it," remarked Miss Zerviah, a little spitefully and with suggestive accent, "he's too much of a gentleman."
"Now, Zerviah," protested Miss Phosie, "how can you say so?"
"Say what? That he's too much of a gentleman. You said so, didn't you?"
"Not in the way you did. I said he was too much of a gentleman to swear, but you meant different."
Miss Zerviah laughed. "Have it your own way," she said, rising to go. "I must be getting up along."
"Don't be in a hurry," said Miss Phosie politely.
But Miss Zerviah had gleaned all that she could, and so, picking up her milk bucket she went out. She passed by Ora and Manny walking slowly. Further on she met Luther Williams, who answered her "Good evening" with a slight bow, but who did not stop, although Zerviah slackened her pace. She stood still altogether when he had passed and looked after him as he took the path to the shore. "Now, ain't that like him?" she murmured. "I don't believe there's another man on the island that would go wandering off among the rawks after night. He's queer, there ain't a doubt of it." And she turned her face toward her own low brown house under the hill where she lived with her father old Cap'n Dave Hackett, now too feeble for a fisherman's life, but once a fearless battler with wind and waves.
Gwen, too, was out in the soft June night. She could not be content to remain in the stuffy house, and had followed Miss Zerviah's way as far as the road. One could feel perfectly safe anywhere on the island, she well knew, and she therefore wandered on till she had reached the lower path leading along the cove. There was still light in the sky which was reflected in the water, turning it to silver. The cove was quiet enough but along the reefs outside the water was beginning to dash noisily. Lights twinkled from several yachts which had put into harbor, and were rocking, amid a small company of dories, at anchor. A big fishing schooner, however, lay darkly silent, her crew ashore making merry.
Gwen paced slowly along, her thoughts on many things. She met few persons. A boy on a wheel sped swiftly by. Two lovers, lost to everything but themselves, wandered ahead hand in hand. The dark figure of a man, looking off across the water, was silhouetted against the faint primrose of the sky where an opening in the bordering pines gave a glimpse of the further side. Presently Gwen noticed the approaching figure of some one who stepped firmly and with the swing of a city-bred person, rather than of one used to country roads and unsteady decks.
Seeing her he drew up suddenly, and doffed his cap. "I beg pardon," he said, "but can you tell me the way to one Captain Ben Tibbett's?"
Gwen looked up with a smile. "All roads lead to Rome, Mr. Hilary," she answered. "Keep straight on and you'll get there."
He bent down to observe her more closely, for the dim twilight stealing over land and sea shadowed still more duskily the pathway already dimmed by the overhanging trees.
HE BENT DOWN TO OBSERVE HER MORE CLOSELY.
HE BENT DOWN TO OBSERVE HER MORE CLOSELY.
HE BENT DOWN TO OBSERVE HER MORE CLOSELY.
"Miss Whitridge!" he exclaimed. "I am glad to see you, but what on earth are you doing 'way up here in Maine?"
"I might ask you the same question, for I am wondering how you discovered this fairest island in Casco Bay. I have a perfectly legitimate right to all it offers, for my aunt and I have arrived at the distinction of being cottagers, while you, I suppose, are a mere ship that passes in the night, and are just stopping over at the Grange for a few days."
"You are wrong, quite wrong. I have as good a right here as you. My sister has also become a householder, and I am here to see her through the dangers and difficulties of a first season on the island. She has rented a cottage over yonder," he nodded in the direction from which he had come, "and I am out on a forage for milk. We haven't had supper yet and my sister pines for a cup of tea, but cannot drink it 'dry so,' as they say down in Georgia. Were you going to walk back, and may I walk with you? I shall get lost, I am certain, unless you pilot me."
"I was going as far as the open, but as it is so little further I can as well shorten my walk that much, and it is getting dark."
"Aren't you a little scared to be coming along this dim path by night?"
"Why should I be? There is nothing in the world to be afraid of. I could walk the length and breadth of the island at midnight, and be perfectly safe. That is one of the joys of being here, this feeling of absolute security." She turned about, and the two bent their steps to where Cap'n Ben's house showed whitely in the distance.