CHAPTER IV
Kenneth Hilary was not an old friend, nor indeed was he more than a chance acquaintance, since he and Gwen had met but twice, once at a tea and again in a railway station when a like destination threw them together for an hour as travelling companions, and it is doubtful if their paths would have crossed again if chance had not cast them both upon Fielding's Island.
"Kenneth Hilary is here," Gwen told her aunt the next morning after the casual meeting.
"And who is he?"
"Oh, don't you know? He is Madge McAllister's friend. I met him at her tea last winter, and afterward we happened to take the same train from Washington. He was going to Annapolis, and I was going to Baltimore. Now I am sure you remember."
"Yes, I believe I do. What is he doing here?"
"Helping his sister get settled, at least that is what he was doing last evening. She is the wife of a naval officer and is here for the summer with her two little children. I fancy she is not rolling in wealth, though comfortably off maybe."
"And he?"
"Not wealthy either. In fact I believe he's a writer or a journalist, or perhaps it's an artist. Anyhow he spoke of doing some work up here, so I fancy he has time on his hands as he mentioned remaining the entire summer."
"Perhaps he is here for his health."
"You wouldn't say so if you could see him. He looks like a college athlete, and I cannot fancy him ill."
"Where did you run across him?"
"On the cove road. I was taking a walk and he was coming here for some milk. He asked me the way without knowing who I was. When we recognized each other we came back together."
Miss Elliott was thoughtful for a moment, then she smiled. "I suppose," she remarked, "that it would not be prudent to warn you not to fall in love with him. You know there is the possible millionaire who is to redeem the family fortunes."
"I am afraid this is an impossible place to meet him," returned Gwen. "Millionaires don't come to little isolated islands. They go where their splendor can shine like the sun at noon. You should have taken me to Newport or Bar Harbor, Aunt Cam, if you expected great things of me."
"Then there could have been no Wits' End."
"Oh, I am satisfied. I'd rather have Wits' End than all the millionaires going. It was you who began it, you know. I'm not sighing for point lace and diamonds at present whatever I may do later on. Just now my cravings are much better filled here than they could be anywhere else, so please don't mourn on my account because of unreachable glories. Let's talk about something else. To-day we come to our own. Think of it! We shall eat supper in that adorable cottage with our eyes turned toward the sea. We can have all the fresh air we want. We can sit out on the rocks all day if we like, and can go to bed with the noise of the waves in our ears."
But neither Gwen nor her aunt had bargained upon such an uproar of waters as they listened to that first night at Wits' End, for the wind blew up from the southeast, bringing a storm with it, and before morning the breakers were thundering against the rocks, fairly shaking the little cottage to its foundations. For three days the storm lasted, to the delight of the girl who revelled in the fierce tumult. At the end of the third day Gwen looked forth from the back door. "It's clearing," she said, "and I am going out to look at the surf. You'll come, too, Aunt Cam."
"Presently," promised Miss Elliott. "I must get up these draperies first."
"How can you stop when there are such wonders out of doors?"
"I'll come directly," was all that Miss Elliott vouchsafed, and in short skirt, high rubber boots and golf-cape Gwen went forth. Rolling masses of smoke-colored clouds scudded across the sky. Below it plunged and bellowed the gray sea, which reared itself monstrously and flung its huge breakers against the unyielding rocks in a long line of surf. All along the coast jagged pinnacles and deep chasms received the hissing waves, in their furious onrush, only to fling them back in masses of spray. Where the crags were highest, the chasms deepest, or the far spreading reefs offered most resistance, there was a perfect welter of tossing, seething, bubbling spray which was formed into wonderful balls and was flung aloft by the unseen spirits of the deep. Close in shore a small boat had drifted. At each swell of the surging tide it was taken up and hurled against the rocks until, bit by bit, it was battered to pieces. A few sea-gulls poised themselves above the turbulent ocean, their snowy breasts scarcely discernible in the toss of hurtling waves. Flecks of white blown far in by the mighty gale appeared like strange pale blossoms dotting the fresh green grass which fringed the path along the bluff.
The wind was still blustering through the sombre pines that stood huddled together where the pasture ended, but there were breaks in the flying clouds, and along the west a faint yellow band of light was beginning to shine. As it grew wider and wider it touched the purply-gray rocks with amber; creeping out to sea it turned the leaden masses of water to green, and further on found out the white cottages and red roofs on a distant island. At last it struck with a golden radiance the sails of a far-off vessel, making it appear like a magic ship bound for a land of happy fancy.
The ground, sodden with moisture, oozed water at every step Gwen took, and the tufts of meadow grass were surrounded by small pools. The girl paused first at one point, then another, each outlook fascinating her. At the most rugged point where a giant stairway led down to a fierce turbulence of whirling breakers, she stood transfixed. It seemed strange within sight and sound of that howling sea to see little wild strawberries spotting the hummocks and to hear a song-sparrow's blithe notes above the noise of the pounding waves.
"Isn't it wonderful?" said a voice by her side.
She turned her head slightly to see Kenneth Hilary clad in oil skins and booted for wet weather. "It is beyond words," returned the girl. "I did not dream of seeing anything so marvellous."
"I have been out all day," said Kenneth. "I managed to make two sketches, and I am going to make another when I find just the right spot."
"Isn't it just here?"
"A little further along I think. I am so divided between this ocean side of the island with all its tremendous uproar, and that wonderful sky over the cove that I am torn asunder. How have you been faring? Does your cottage stand bad weather?"
"We have been having a lovely quiet time getting odds and ends finished up, and the cottage stood the storm wonderfully. There was only one tiny leak. How did you all get along?"
"I was nearly drenched in the early hours of the first morning, but I think there was no real damage done. We put basins under the leaks. I moved my bed and let the old roof drip. I shall hunt up a man to get the roof in order at once."
"I hope he may do it before the next storm," returned Gwen. "Our nearest neighbors have been telling us they did not get much satisfaction." She smiled at the recollection.
"Why? How was it?" asked Kenneth.
"Miss Gray went off in a state of indignation to hunt up Thad Eaton. I can imagine the tone of voice in which she said: 'Mr. Eaton, my roof leaks.'"
"What did he say?"
"He said—" Gwen's eyes grew merry. "He said, 'Is that so, Miss Gray? So does mine.'"
Kenneth laughed. "I take the lesson to heart. I'll get a bundle of shingles and some paint before the next storm on the principle if you want a thing done, do it yourself. Here's the place." He set down his color-box and prepared to begin his sketch. Gwen watched him for a few minutes, then she moved off to join Miss Elliott whom she saw coming toward them. "When you get through," she said over her shoulder, "come to Wits' End and have a cup of tea."
The young man looked up brightly. "Thanks, I'll do it," he responded, then turned his attention to his sketch.
Gwen advanced to meet her aunt. "Isn't it the most gloriously awe-inspiring thing you ever saw?" she cried. "We thought it was superb from our upper windows, but you get more variety by walking along the bluff. I suppose I'd better go for the mail; we haven't had any for two days."
"I'll go with you," said Miss Elliott. "I want some things at the store if they are to be had."
They turned from the wild commotion of the ocean to the quieter side of the island. Down by the harbor there was little noise save the distant booming of the sea. The vessels which had put in from the storm lay gently rocking at each swell of the tide. From the low white house at the top of the hill Cap'n Ben came out in his sou'wester. He stood for a moment looking westward, then went down toward the long flight of steps which led to the wharf. Along the road, which extended like a backbone from one end of the island to the other, figures appeared at irregular intervals, going in the direction of the little store nestling under the hill by the harbor. As Gwen and her aunt passed by Almira Green's they saw her come to the door and hold out her hand to make sure the rain was over. Then she gathered her skirts closely about her, and picked her way down the narrow garden path to shake the moisture from the heads of some crimson peonies, and to tuck up a bit of vine torn from its trellis by the gale. The western horizon showed clearly now, the wind died down and the sun shone out brilliantly. The storm was over, though all night long, the dwellers along the bluff, when half awake, heard the booming of the sea.
"You are the first to break bread with us," said Gwen to Kenneth Hilary as she handed him a cup of tea. "How do you like our cottage? We are so proud of it that it is a perfect joy to show it off. Don't you think we have a fine fireplace?"
The young man looked around the room. "It is charming, perfectly charming," he said. "Who planned it?"
"We did it all ourselves, Aunt Cam and I."
"You have reason to be proud. I congratulate you upon having the artistic sense to keep to simple lines. They're mighty good ones, too. This is a jolly room, just enough in it for cosiness."
"Aunt Cam has one room full of her ponderous furniture, her books and family relics, but we tried to choose judiciously in furnishing the rest of the house. Auntie said she was tired of paying storage, and we cannot keep up much of an establishment in the city. She hated to part with her heirlooms and it was a problem to know what to do with them till it suddenly occurred to us to build a cottage here, call it our home and spill over into it such things as we could not use in the city. So you see the result. We think our household gods are as safe here as they would be in a storage warehouse, and between times there is no storage to pay. We do not have to wear ourselves out in trying to decide where we shall spend our summers in order to escape the heat, and we think we are very sensible people to have come to such a conclusion as we did."
"You were sensible. I wouldn't mind a shack here myself, for I never saw a spot more to my liking. But, alas, an impecunious artist can't indulge in any such dreams till he has made his ten-strike. I was glad enough to accept Nell's suggestion that I chip in with her this summer and come up here, for it gives me the chance to get at the kind of work I have been longing to do, and to work out some illustrations I have on hand. They are rather jolly to slash away at when one can sit in the cool and do them, though ordinarily I can't stand much of that sort of thing."
"I am afraid you are an impatient sort of somebody," remarked Gwen.
"Yes, I am afraid I am. I hate to be hedged about by conditions, and I hate to do things I don't like to do."
"Who doesn't?" returned Gwen. "But we have to. It's part of our development. I don't think anyone has the right to please only himself."
"Oh no, of course not, and we don't get the chance to, even granting we had the right. But I don't see the use of deliberately choosing unpleasant things to do."
Gwen was thoughtful for a moment. "I think many persons do deliberately choose unpleasant things for the sake of those they love. Isn't that what the joy of sacrifice means?"
"I suppose so. Perhaps I might do it for such a reason. I could, I know, but not when there seems no necessity for it."
"Aren't you ambitious enough to do it for your own sake?"
"That depends upon what you call ambition. I'd rather be happy than famous. In fact I've spent so much time in trying to find out how to be happy, that I haven't had much leisure to try to be famous."
Gwen shook her head. "There's something wrong with your philosophy. You mustn't try so hard to be happy. You should go on the principle that you will be happy if you do your duty."
"Who knows his duty? I never did have any patience with the people who say: 'Be sure you're right, then go ahead.' The going ahead is easy enough; it's the being sure you're right that bothers you, and even then I've discovered that selfish people are quite as happy, if not happier than unselfish ones."
"Dear me!" sighed Gwen, "you're a terrible iconoclast. I always have been taught just the opposite."
"Well, but look around you. Aren't the self-complacent, self-satisfied people the ones who flourish like a green bay tree? They get more out of life than the self-sacrificers who in the long run are seldom given credit for the things they do, but are often censured for not doing more."
Gwen put her hands over her ears. "Oh dear, oh dear, if you keep on I shall have no theories left. If you are thinking of the material side of life, no doubt there is some truth in what you say, but if you have spiritual aspirations you will never step up through any such beliefs. I can see the force of your argument. There are Miss Phenie and Miss Phosie Tibbett, for example. Miss Phosie is continually doing for others, and I can't remember that Miss Phenie ever did anything for Miss Phosie or anyone else, except things she is obliged to do, but I have heard her call Miss Phosie selfish because she did not do more, because she didn't do certain things that Miss Phenie would no more do than she would fly, and yet I am sure, of the two, that Miss Phosie has spiritual delights of which her sister never dreams."
"The way to the land of spiritual delight is very hard for some. I find it rather an interesting study to watch the lives of others, and try to discover what really goes to make up their actual pleasures. These good island people whose influences have been so different from ours I'd like to get at their point of view."
"I think human nature is about the same the world over, though I admit the difference in points of view."
"Tell me some more of your observations of the 'Tibbett girls' as I hear them called. How did you happen to discover so much?"
"It was very easy. Miss Phenie sits at the head of the table and serves the dessert. Miss Phosie pours the tea and coffee, which is a harder job. Miss Phenie always helps herself to the largest supply of cream, the choicest berries, the best piece of anything that comes her way. She complacently accepts any service that Miss Phosie offers yet never tries to return it. I will give you an instance: She was crocheting a little affair to throw over her head when she goes out of doors—she takes plenty of time to do such things—and I heard her say to her sister, 'You ought to have one of these, Phosie.' 'I'd like it if I had time to make it,' said Miss Phosie. I saw Miss Phenie begin a second one, and thought of course it was for her sister, but, bless you, no. She thought she'd like a dark as well as a light one. I could have shaken her."
Kenneth nodded. "I know the kind. I have in mind such another who is possessed of a sort of mental indolence which makes her intolerant of anything but absolute ease. She detests the effort that is necessary in order to extract comfort from moderate means. She is so self-indulgent that anything short of luxury she fiercely declares she detests. She could no more understand the joy of sacrifice as you call it than she could understand the language of another world."
"It is the language of another world," declared Gwen; "the spiritual world."
Kenneth nodded. "Yes, hers is a very material one, I am sorry to say. The material things are the only ones she values. I think that is why I value them so little, and why my ambitions do not run in the direction of money-getting. I would rather find the happiness that comes along the way of common things, than to work for the mere sake of piling up gain. Work, when it can be at the thing one most loves, is the greatest joy in the world."
Gwen looked at him a little surprised. "I believe I misunderstood you. I thought you were—"
"Lazy?" He laughed. "I don't believe I am that, but I have been called selfish because I would not become a mere calculating machine. The thing I most love, for which I have the most ability is painting, and I am making a desperate try at success in that direction. Some day I may arrive. Meanwhile I am not starving my best self, though I do not fare sumptuously every day."
"I understand," returned Gwen. "I am glad you told me."
"Thank you. I thought you would understand. But what a serious talk we are having. Such a day as this has been arouses us out of conventionalities, and we have to be honest in the face of the stupendous forces of nature. I saw your friend Luther Williams out looking after his nets. I fancy they must be badly damaged by the storm."
"He certainly is a good friend. You should have seen the beautiful fish he brought us the day we came into the cottage, a gleaming, shimmering salmon, all iridescent and silvery pink. It was just out of the water. They don't often catch them here, but this happened to get in the net by accident, I suppose, and Mr. Williams brought it to us. Then he came yesterday and to-day to bring us fresh water, fearing we could not get out to the Gray's well. Our rain-water hogshead is full to overflowing, and we have caught a lot beside."
"I noticed various buckets and pans sitting around under the eaves of your porch."
"Yes, we dragged out all the things we could think of, and set them in a row so we wouldn't lose a drop. I never knew how precious water could be till I came up here. Next year we shall have our own well, and will see that the water 'convenes' into the house as Asa Bates says."
"Why not 'convene' since it is for convenience?"
"Why not, indeed?"
At this juncture Miss Camilla came in. "You are missing the sunset," she said; "it is gorgeous. Come around to the back porch."
Kenneth grabbed his color-box and rushed out. In a few minutes he was splashing on the paint in furious haste that he might catch the fast changing tints.
"It must be fine at the cove," he said, standing off to view the effect of what he had done. "I think I shall have to go down there. Thanks for the tea, Miss Whitridge, and more for the talk over the tea-cups. May I come again?"
"Certainly," replied Gwen, "and if we are not at home I give you leave to sit on our porch."
"Thanks. I'll remember that," and picking up his hat he hurried away cove-ward.
"Well," said Miss Elliott as Gwen watched him out of sight.
"Well—what?"
"What do you think of him?"
"I find him more interesting than I supposed. He is in a transition state, I imagine, feeling around for his proper element. His family oppose his artistic aims, I judge, and want him to go into a business life for which he is not fitted. I am only reading between the lines when I say his mother is a luxurious, indolent, ease-loving woman who would rather he sacrificed himself for the sake of money-getting, than have him happy in the life he loves. He did not say so, but one can read a whole life's experience from a few generalities. I am sorry for him, though he seems light-hearted, and—"
"Take care, Gwen. Take care."
"Oh, I'll take care. I have no fancy for living in a studio furnished only with unsold pictures, and I certainly don't intend to waste my energies in building up the fortunes of a struggling artist. But you wouldn't deny me a summer's companionship with an interesting young man. He will come in very handy for sailing and rowing purposes, not to mention dancing."
"Nevertheless, I repeat, take care," said her aunt.