CHAPTER IX
It was warm and quiet in Miss Phosie's kitchen. The teakettle, as it simmered on the big stove, sang a gentle tune. On the braided mat, of various hues, slept Cap'n Ben's dog, Tinker. The window ledges held numerous tin cans and glass jars in which slips of geranium and fuchsia were planted. The table, covered with oilcloth, displayed a row of freshly baked cakes. Miss Phosie by the window, work basket at her side, was mending Luther Williams' socks. She wore her afternoon frock, for there was only supper to get, and part of that was already prepared. The frock was of black alpaca, with tight-fitting waist finished at the neck by a little lace collar which was held together by an old-fashioned pin set with a braid of hair. The dark strand was Miss Phenie's, the light her mother's, the one streaked with gray, Cap'n Ben's, the brown one that of her brother, Ora's father, who was lost at sea, the lightest of all was Miss Phosie's own. She gave a gentle sigh as she folded up the last pair of socks. "I shall be glad when the summer is over," she soliloquized, "and we settle back in the old ways. Seems as if there wasn't time for anybody or anything now. I don't wonder he keeps away so much with the house full of strangers, and folks liable to run in here any minute where he's used to laying and being comfortable with a book. To be sure he spends a good deal of time with Miss Elliott and Gwen. That young man Hilary, too, he seems to be friendly with. Well, I don't blame him; they're nice folks, real kind and pleasant, and more his kind. I hope he won't be discontented after they're gone, that's all. He appears sort of moody lately, as if he had something on his mind, or was dissatisfied in some way. I daresn't say a word to him about it, though I should like to know if there is really anything worrying him, or if it's just the boarders and the having things upsot." Her thoughts went back to the chill winter days, when, as she moved quietly about the kitchen, Luther Williams would be on the lounge near the window with a book, striving to catch the last bit of daylight, then when the short afternoon shut down, they would have a quiet chat together about the little daily doings of the household, the news of the neighborhood, or sometimes of more personal things. Miss Phosie always looked forward to that peaceful hour during which the rest of the family gathered in the sitting-room, and she washed the supper dishes and tidied up the kitchen. "It won't be long now," she told herself, "the summer's going. I kind of hate to see the lights all out in the cottages, too, and it does seem more lively to have people coming and going."
She stepped to the door and looked out beyond the blooming array of petunias, roses, and asters to the row of cottages along shore. Then her eye travelled across the pasture to a dip between ridges which showed a well-worn path leading to the house from the pines beyond. Along this way was Luther Williams accustomed to trundle his barrow. He was not coming now, and Miss Phosie turned her gaze from the path to the road. The air was sweet with the scent of new-mown hay, for everyone was cutting grass now, and it lay in long odorous windrows upon the ground by the orchard. Cap'n Ben and Silas Ford were out there working, Cap'n Ben's big booming voice rising above other sounds as he spoke to his fellow laborer.
Miss Phosie was about to close the door when she heard Zerviah Hackett's sharp tones. "Looking for Ora, Phosie? She's down at Almira Green's. I saw her there a few minutes ago helping Manny pass his time agreeably. Was you coming out or going in?"
"I just stepped to the door for a minute," returned Miss Phosie. "My! don't it smell sweet out of doors?"
"Always does in haying season," replied Miss Zerviah.
They entered the house together, and Miss Zerviah seated herself on one of the old kitchen chairs, painted black, with a decoration of flowers now dimly seen because of the rubbing of generations of backs. "In my heaven," remarked Miss Zerviah, "I hope the men will have to wash all the dishes, and either they'll have chairs four inches too high for 'em, so their legs will dangle, or else that the general size of women will be considered."
"Why, Zerviah Hackett," exclaimed Miss Phosie, "that sounds real sacrilegious."
"No 'tain't," returned Zerviah; "not according to some's doctrines, Swedenborgians, for instance."
"You been talking to the Knowles's, I guess."
"I did see Miss Knowles this morning, and had a few words with her. I guess maybe that was what put it into my head. 'Tany rate this world wasn't made for women. Did you ever notice, Phosie, how steps is always made for men on the street cars, and the seats in places where they have shows? I don't see why it would hurt a man to crook up his knees a little higher, or to take a wee mite of a shorter step getting in and out cars. I was up to the city last Monday and I've had sciatica ever since because every nameable chair I sot in bound me across my sciatic nerves. When I mentioned dish-washing I was thinking of Almira Green. There she was this time o' afternoon just getting through her dishes, and that lazy Manny settin' outside on the back porch looking pretty and making Ora laugh."
"THAT LAZY MANNY SETTIN' OUTSIDE ON THE BACK PORCH."
"THAT LAZY MANNY SETTIN' OUTSIDE ON THE BACK PORCH."
"THAT LAZY MANNY SETTIN' OUTSIDE ON THE BACK PORCH."
Miss Phosie flushed up. "Ora hain't accountable for Manny's behavior," she said, "and as long as she's done her work I don't see why she's called upon to do other people's."
"I hain't a-blaming her," returned Miss Zerviah, "not but what she mightn't have taken a hand at the dishes, but seems to me she could encourage Manny to be brisker."
"I guess Manny's drawed his traps," retorted Miss Phosie, "and I don't see that many of the men about here give much time to wiping dishes." Miss Zerviah always so antagonized Miss Phosie that she won from her the only tart speeches she was liable to make. However, Miss Zerviah was used to argument and did not in the least mind it.
"He could fetch water and wood," she insisted, "and he could give a hand here and there, even to dishes, and it wouldn't hurt him. Other men do for their families and hain't called upon to help except to pay the bills. The trouble with Manny is he hain't never taken responsibilities, and it looks to me as if he never would. I dunno how he's going to make out with matrimony I'm sure."
"Who's saying anything about Manny's undertakin' matrimony?" asked Miss Phosie sharply.
"Oh, I can see through a millstone if it has got a hole in it, and when two young things walk and talk together every opportunity they get, it's easy enough to prophesy what'll take place."
"Manny hain't the only admirer Ora has," Miss Phosie argued, nervously settling her sewing materials in her basket. "I'm sure that young man from the Neck wants to keep company with her."
"The one the boys run off the island by hiding his boat? He won't come back. He was showed too plain he wasn't wanted."
"I guess Manny Green ain't the only spoiled child that's got married," returned Miss Phosie, taking another line of argument, "and what's more there's plenty on this island that was spoiled in their youth and turned out good family men after all. I could mention quite a few."
"I'm glad you're so hopeful. Manny's for all the world like his grandpap Pritchard. He was the kind that sot around on a chair and wore his clothes in creases. Howsomever, it's easy for you with your father before you as an example and Mr. Williams, too. You don't have to lug wood and water like Almira does."
"Not when Mr. Williams is around," Miss Phosie said proudly, "and I guess there's enough of us in this house to have an eye to Ora, Zerviah."
"Well, I'm sure I thought you ought to know what's going on," said Miss Zerviah. "That's why I stopped by to tell you that Ora was down at Almira's. I thought maybe you didn't know it."
"Almira's quite fond of Ora." Miss Phosie pursed up her mouth primly. "And I'm sure she's welcome there."
"Oh, very well, if you take it that way." Miss Zerviah rose to go. "I certainly would be glad if anybody was interested enough to keep an eye on a niece of mine. Your father's hay looks pretty good, Phosie. He has quite a crop this year. Hill Evans hain't begun to cut his yet. He's always behind, and like as not just as he gets it cut there'll come up a thunder-storm. Just his luck, he'll say, too. Well I must be going. I see you keep well. How's Phenie?"
"She's nicely, thank you."
"Keep your house full of boarders?"
"We've all we care for."
"They going to stay long?"
"As long as it suits them, and that will suit us."
"You was lucky to have some one come in just as soon as Miss Elliott left. I hear Mr. Williams is greatly taken up there, whether it's the aunt or the niece nobody knows. Maybe he's thinking of marrying again; he's quite well-to-do they say. I've heard his wife ran off and left him and that's why he come away from home."
Miss Phosie winced. She knew this was but a feeler on Zerviah's part, who had always felt aggrieved that she could learn no more of Luther Williams than was given out by Cap'n Ben's family, though she had never before voiced her curiosity quite so plainly. "Mr. Williams has a right to do as he chooses," said Miss Phosie with dignity. "If anyone's been fooling you with that cock-and-bull story you can tell them his wife is dead and has been for many a year."
"Humph!" Miss Zerviah sniffed. "Well, I suppose you ought to know, seeing he's been living under your roof for all these years. It's a wonder to me he didn't set up to one of you Tibbett girls long ago."
Two red spots flamed in Miss Phosie's cheeks, and she pressed her hands together till the knuckles showed the strained clasp. She swallowed hard. No apt retort would come to her lips. She felt Zerviah's inquisitive eye upon her. Presently a fitting response suggested itself to her. "Mr. Williams stands in the place of the brother we lost," she said, holding her head high. "Father always says so, and I'm sure no brother could be more thoughtful than him, and no son neither."
Miss Zerviah's hand was on the latch and she slipped out the door as some one passed the window. "Well, good-bye," she said hastily. She felt that she would rather not meet Luther Williams in Miss Phosie's presence, just then.
He greeted her with a lifting of the cap and a "Good evening, Miss Zerviah," as he entered the kitchen where Miss Phosie stood with the light of triumph in her eye. "Been having a set-to with Zerviah?" he said pleasantly, knowing that the two seldom met without a tilt of words. "What was the cause of the battle this time?"
"She's been spying on Ora," replied Miss Phosie, glad to be able to speak truthfully. "I declare, Mr. Williams, she'd like to run this whole island. I believe she'd try to worm a secret out of a log. Do you think, Mr. Williams, we'd ought to separate Ora from Manny? She might go to her mother's folks for awhile. Manny mayn't exactly be up-and-coming, but he hasn't bad habits. He's awful good company, full of fun, and everybody likes him. It doesn't seem quite right to stand between two that love each other, does it? Supposing she was your daughter what would you do about it?"
Mr. Williams' face twitched as he sat down on the lounge, but he made no answer at once.
"You know," Miss Phosie went on. "You stand in the place of a brother to us, as you always say, and Phenie don't like to discuss this with me. She's never one to worry overmuch, and tells me I mustn't cross my bridges till I come to 'em, but it seems to me we've just about set foot on this one. Do you think I'm too anxious, Mr. Williams? How would you feel if it was your daughter?"
"That's a pretty hard question to answer, Phosie," said Mr. Williams after a silence. "Maybe it might be a good thing to send her away for awhile until you get your bearings. Maybe it would be a good test. She's very young, and such young things aren't always constant. It might be a good thing for Manny, too. You could tell Ora that when Manny can provide a home for her it will be time enough for them to be thinking of matrimony. She may meet some one in Bangor that she'd like better, a richer man, maybe. She's not seventeen yet, is she?"
"She will be in a couple of weeks. I'm thinking, Mr. Williams, that it would be pretty bad if she should happen to take a fancy to a worse man than Manny. You can't never tell how some of these city men'll turn out, and we know all there is to know about Manny. If she should do worse I'd feel that we'd separated two loving hearts and been punished for doing it. It hain't money that brings happiness, you know, Mr. Williams, and she's been brought up among fishermen. She's used to the ways here."
"A fisherman's wife has a hard time sometimes."
"Yes, they work hard, a good many of 'em, but there's worse than working hard, and we're pretty peaceful and contented with our lot here on the island, the most of us. You see I'm trying to look on both sides."
"I see you're trying to be the fair and just person you always are, Phosie. You always put yourself in the place of others, but I don't see that you put many in your place."
"I can't see any difference."
"Well, it's this way. You think to yourself what should I like if I were so-and-so, not what would so-and-so like if she were I."
Miss Phosie shook her head. Such fine distinctions were beyond her. "Well, I'm sure I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Williams, for your advice. I'll speak to father, and I'll talk to Ora, and maybe we can send her away for a visit. She might like the change. I see her coming now, and I guess this is as good a time as any other. Don't you go, Mr. Williams, we'll just slip upstairs where we won't be disturbed." And Miss Phosie went out to bid Ora follow her to the upper room which they shared together. Miss Phenie must have a room to herself, so it was Miss Phosie who had always had Ora for a room-mate.
Luther Williams leaned back in his favorite place. "What should I do if it were my daughter?" he soliloquized. "I'd give her to the man she loved if he were half a decent fellow. Who knows the curse of money better than I? Yet—" His thoughts flew to Gwen who had lately said she would choose her father to be like him. Suppose it were such a girl as Gwen, could he condemn her to poverty, the anxious eating cares that insufficient means would bring? Could he see that untroubled face growing lined and care-worn? those slender hands roughened and hardened by work? that sunny nature saddened or embittered? He shook his head. "It wouldn't do. All of one thing or all of the other isn't right. There must be judicious mixing. I'd sooner see her overboard than wrecking her happiness by marrying for money alone, and I'd sooner see her earning her comfortable little salary for a lifetime than to have her working her fingers to the bone for a careless indifferent husband. There must be judicious mixing and then—"
He sat a long time thinking. So long that Miss Phosie, returning to prepare supper, found him still sitting there. "I've talked with Ora," she said. "And I think she's willing to go, especially as Manny is talking of going off sword-fishing. He's never been but once, but perhaps if he gets fairly started he'll keep on. Almira never encouraged him to go, fearing something would happen to him, but Ora thinks he'll go if he hears she is going away. She's as good as said she'd promised to marry him, and she sees he'd ought to make a start. If he does well, I don't see any harm in encouraging him, do you?"
"If he does well by all means let them be happy," returned Mr. Williams emphatically. "It might be the making of Manny, and it would be a comfort to Mrs. Green to have Ora with her when the boy goes fishing. Yes, yes, Phosie, by all means. Happiness isn't so plentiful that we can afford to stand in the way of its coming to others."
"No, it isn't so plentiful," replied Miss Phosie wistfully. "I—I wish, Mr. Williams, we could do more to bring it to you. It has seemed to me lately that you've not been quite like yourself."
He gave a short laugh. "Don't worry about me, Phosie. Nobody has done as much as you have. Think of the home I have here, and the kindness you have shown me. I'd have to go pretty far to find anyone else so ready to mend and darn for me, to make the kind of preserves I like best, and to cook things as I like them. No, indeed, Phosie, my own sister could not do more to make her old brother happy. 'I was a stranger and you took me in,' without a word, and from that very first day when you saw I enjoyed your gingerbread you've baked it for me regularly." He laughed pleasantly and a faint pink suffused Miss Phosie's pale cheek.
"You've been like a brother to us, Mr. Williams. I shall never forget what you were to father and to all of us when the news came about Franklin, and how you comforted poor fatherless little Ora."
The entrance of Miss Phenie and Ora put an end to the confidential talk. Ora was quiet beyond the ordinary, and once or twice Miss Phosie thought she saw a suggestion of tears in the girl's eyes. "I hope, oh I do hope we are doing right," she said to herself, and she was even gentler to her niece than was her wont.
Miss Phenie in her best blue-and-white sateen, trimmed with lace, stepped about with the air of one unaccustomed to the performance of menial duties. She retired to the garden after cutting the cake and setting out the preserves. "I'll get some fresh flowers for the table," she said, as she sailed out. The ornamental was always her preference.
After supper Ora stole forth into the odorous night. The moon had not yet risen, though the sea reflected an expectant brightness and the afterglow still reddened the west. A light shone from the little hall where the summer people gathered for various entertainments. Some one was singing there, a song whose refrain was all of love. Ora crept up to an open window and listened for a moment, then moved softly away and was soon lost in the shadows of the mighty rocks which marked the trysting place of herself and her young lover.
Meanwhile Luther Williams was taking his evening smoke as he sauntered up the cove road toward the further point. Half way he met Kenneth Hilary. "Going the other way to-night?" he said to the young man.
"Yes, for this has been a good day for me. I wish I could stop to tell you. I will another time. Now I am bound for Wits' End. Miss Gwen is giving a chafing-dish party to-night."
"And you are in a hurry, of course."
Kenneth turned back and said a little shamefacedly, "No-o,—that is—well, you know Wits' End is a mighty good place for a fellow to be. I sold a picture to-day."
"Good! and you want to tell your news before it gets stale. I see."
"She is so sweet and sympathetic, you know."
Luther Williams smiled. "She? Who? Of course you must mean Miss Elliott."
Kenneth laughed in an embarrassed way. "Oh, I say," he began, then went on more seriously. "I do feel encouraged and I suppose that makes me hopeful. Mr. Williams, you and I have had some good talks, and I am under no end of obligation to you for the things you have said and the interest you have shown in me. Perhaps I am precipitate. Perhaps I am not prudent, but you see things do look brighter, and I may succeed sooner than I hoped. Besides, there is the other fellow—though I suppose I am a conceited ass to dream that she might prefer me—would you—do you think—you and she are such friends—I say—if you had a daughter what would you think if an impecunious fellow like me told her he loved her?"
"If I had a daughter," said Mr. Williams reflectively. "That is the second time to-day that I have been asked to consider such a state of affairs. I'll have to give the subject serious thought, I find, if I am going to be appealed to twice daily. Suppose we leave the question for the present, Mr. Hilary, and I'll consider it. Meanwhile I am keeping you from your party, so I'll say good-night with the advice, go slow." He spoke with mocking lightness, and Kenneth, feeling rather rebuffed, went on his way.