CHAPTER XIII
The fog shut down again the next day, for the uncertain wind veered around again to the southeast, and for several days the weather was capricious. At last it seemed to settle and was warm, sunny and agreeable. In spite of what Gwen called "Ethel's wiles" Cephas Mitchell discreetly divided his time between the two girls, and none could say which he preferred, though by certain signs Gwen was convinced that she was first favorite. Kenneth Hilary she had not seen again except casually. The more she realized the depth of her interest in him, the more indifference she had tried to show, and prided herself upon returning his formal lifting of his cap with as formal a nod. She wondered if things must go on this way indefinitely, and, as time passed, felt more and more helpless to alter conditions, while more and more eager to do so. The precious days were drifting by, the seat of happy memories under a branchy tree on the edge of Sheldon Woods, had become a sort of altar for the worship of lost hours, and she often went there alone, but never, by any accident, permitted Cephas to select it as a resting place when they strolled in that direction. It seemed that the more unattainable the more valuable grew that lover whom she had so rudely thrust aside. Perhaps one reason for this was that closer acquaintance with Mr. Mitchell commended him less than ever to her taste, and there were days when a walk with him seemed intolerable. At other times, when Ethel made one of the party, the spirit of rivalry gave zest to the occasion, and Gwen was ready to exercise her own powers of attraction. At such times the talk was light and flippant, indeed, it seldom rose to anything more serious than the summer's experiences, the gossipy tales about the island. There was a good deal of chaffing and much laughter. Cephas enjoyed what the two girls called "kidding," and set little value upon any but trifling subjects.
The way to Sheldon Woods was full of surprises to the uninitiated. The path led from the main road past an old well, on through the orchard belonging to the "Grange." Beyond the orchard one must know well in which direction to go, for the path could scarcely be distinguished amid the thick growth of underbrush, weeds and saplings. Once on it one must be impressed by its wild beauty, and could imagine himself far from habitations. Here the sea was not in sight, only dense masses of growing things, strange vivid-colored fungi, thickets of brakes, the softest and greenest of mosses, a jungle of brambles. At last one came to a stone wall and stepped out upon an open field which appeared unexpectedly. It was here that Gwen and Mr. Mitchell saw Kenneth at work one day.
"There is your friend, Mr. Hilary," said Mr. Mitchell to his companion, as he waved a signalling hand. "Shall we go over and see what he is doing?"
"No, no," returned Gwen hastily. "He hates to be disturbed when he is sketching. I think we'd better go on." And without turning aside they followed the path across the field, and disappeared in the grove of tall pines beyond. Gwen wondered whether they were watched by the man apparently so absorbed in his work, but she did not once look back.
Once within the deep woods it was necessary to be sure of bearings, but Gwen knew the way thoroughly, and presently they entered an enclosure surrounded by encircling pines, which were so closely ranked about them that daylight scarcely penetrated the spot. The ground was soft to the tread by reason of its thick carpet of pine-needles, and soft, waving curtains of gray moss depending from the trees, helped to shut out the light.
"This seems almost a holy place," said Gwen softly. "We call it the Cathedral, and I have never seen a finer."
"It is a solemn sort of place," agreed Mr. Mitchell. "Let's get out of it. I say, Miss Whitridge, when you go abroad you will see the real thing, though I must say I never took much stock in cathedrals, even over there."
Gwen moved on. "I didn't mean to compare them to this," she said with a short laugh.
Emerging from the dense woods the sea lay before them, and from the high bluff it was easy to appreciate the nearness of neighboring islands.
"Now, where shall we sit?" said Mr. Mitchell. "That seems rather a jolly place over there under that tree with the low branches."
"No, not there," returned Gwen hastily. "I know a fine place a little further on. We are to read awhile and then go around to the other side to see the sunset. I am glad it is clear again, although I did enjoy the fog that first day. However, a week of it gets rather tiresome. One has such a very limited horizon and no perspective to speak of. Sometimes life seems like that, as if a fog had shut down suddenly and cut off all your perspective, doesn't it?"
"Eh? Oh, yes. I don't know much about perspective and things. You'll have to talk that artist talk to our friend Hilary back there. I know when I like a picture, but when it comes to stuff like perspective and atmosphere I'm not in it."
"But you do like music, opera, for example," said Gwen, feeling around for a mental point of contact.
"Certainly I like opera. It's awfully jolly to see all the ladies in their pretty clothes and to go around to the different boxes between acts."
"But the music."
"When it isn't too heavy. I like a ripping good singer who gives you a high note that makes you nearly jump out of your seat. It's exciting to hear how high she will go, and some of the airs run in my head for hours, that one that Caruso sings for example." He began to whistle "La donna é mobile."
Gwen gave a deep sigh. "And how about the Wagner operas?"
"Can't stand them. I went to hear Lohengrin once, and came out before the last act. I leave out Aida now, too. The good old-timers suit me, old Trovatore and Martha, and some of the new ones aren't bad, the ones with catchy music."
"You didn't like Aida?" Gwen fairly groaned.
"Bored me to death. Could hardly sit through it. I wouldn't have, only the ladies I was with appeared to like it, so I stayed on their account."
Gwen made no comment but opened the book she had brought, a copy of Kipling. She had considered his masculine taste in making the selection. "Now I'll read you my favorite 'Bell Buoy' right here where we can get the sound of one. 'White Horses' is really my favorite, but it is not in this volume. I'll read first and then you can pick out something to read to me."
She opened the book and proceeded to read. Her listener sat with hands behind his head and Gwen hoped he was impressed, for she read well. "What do you think of it?" she asked as she closed the book.
"Well, I can't make out exactly what he's driving at. I'm not a great one for poetry. Once in a while you come across some rattling good thing like 'Hans Breitmann's Party,' something that makes you laugh. I don't mind that sort of poetry."
Gwen slipped the book behind her. "What do you like to read, Mr. Mitchell?"
"Oh, I don't have much time to do more than run through the newspapers, or a magazine sometimes when I'm on a train."
"But I thought all Bostonians were very intellectual." There was disappointment in Gwen's tones at discovery of his especial taste in literature. She had thought he might declare himself for history, at least.
"Well, I suppose a good many Boston folks are intellectual. I don't profess to be. Life's too short to spend over books. I enjoy this free life," he stretched out his arms bared to the shoulders, "and I like tennis and golf and that sort of thing, for exercise. I enjoy a nice light opera with a lot of pretty girls in the chorus, or a good play, not too tragic a one. I'm pretty fond of a horse and a boat. I shall have a yacht up here next year, I think."
"A yacht would be lovely," said Gwen brightening. "You could go cruising all around among the islands."
"Yes, and up the coast to Bar Harbor. Yes, a yacht would be jolly good fun."
"Shall you be glad to get back to the city, or do you feel as if you would like to stay up here forever living the free life?" queried Gwen.
"Not forever. Nobody would care to do that who'd ever lived in a city, unless it were some queer freak like Mr. Williams."
"Don't call him a freak." Gwen spoke with some asperity.
"Well, he's an oddity, at least. I can't make him out. To be sure I don't know him very well, but it strikes me as queer that a man should want to live on this island. It's all very well for a summer holiday, but in winter, no, thank you. Yes, I shall be glad to get back, to see the fellows at the club, and to put on a different sort of rig from this. It won't be bad to see the inside of a theatre, either, and go to a first-class dinner, or a German."
Gwen smiled. She did not despise these things herself. "One looks at life very differently in the city, doesn't one?" she remarked.
"Yes, there's the fun of it. When I do a thing I want to do it thoroughly. When I'm at home I do as my neighbors do; when I am here I try to follow the example of those around me."
"Sensible man! So we will not read any more. Come, let's go around to the other side, and see what it looks like. We'd better not go back through the woods, for after the sun goes down it gets pretty dark and spooky in there, so we will go back by the road."
"You're not afraid? Not when I'm with you?" He spoke tenderly, and more than ever Gwen declared for the road.
"Not afraid," she said, "but it takes longer, and I don't want to miss my supper, nor do I want you to miss yours."
"A good substantial reason," returned Mr. Mitchell approvingly. "I hope it will be a pleasant day to-morrow." He looked at the sky. "Are you a good weather prophet, Miss Whitridge?"
"Not very, though I should say it would be warm. To-day is warmer than any we have had for a long time. Any special reason to be curious about the weather, Mr. Mitchell?"
"I promised Miss Fuller I'd row her over to Jagged Island. It's an engagement of long standing, you know, and the time is getting short."
"I remember you promised long ago. Shall you go fishing?"
"Perhaps we shall try our hands at it."
"Cap'n Ben says that the steamboats and launches are beginning to scarcen the mackerel and that they are not so plentiful this year as usual."
"Scarcen is a good word."
"So I think. I shall adopt it from henceforth. Cap'n 'Lias Hooper's vessel, the Mary Lizzie, sails to-morrow," remarked Gwen casually, "so yours will not be the only fishing expedition that goes out."
The sun was setting in a mass of rolling clouds. The air soft and warm, even as it blew over stretches of water, was of a more languorous quality than usual. The waves stole in gently, lapping the stones with a placid murmur. The cove was as smooth as glass, except where a boat, manned by two rowers, left a brilliant line of ripples in its wake. The floors of the great chasms indenting the shores, displayed long ropes of maroon-colored kelp where the tide had gone out. The main land, beginning at the Neck, stretched its curving fingers out into the quiet sea as if it would clutch the islands beyond and draw them into safe keeping against a time when great breakers should threaten them. Gwen and her companion stood watching the sky till the sun disappeared behind the piled-up clouds, which, showing golden edges, drifted off towards the horizon, finally hiding the distant mountains from view. Retracing their steps the man and maid went on down hill toward the road, and further to where they must skirt Little Harbor. Just at this point Gwen gave a quick glance toward a cottage close to the cove shore, and on the porch caught sight of a man standing, with folded arms, looking out upon the water. She gave a gentle sigh as she went through the little gate on the opposite side of the way.
The next morning was balmy and still, only a slight breeze filled the sails of Captain Hooker's fishing schooner which passed out of the cove. Gwen standing on the rocks, watched it slipping slowly by. Some one on the vessel blew a long blast upon a horn, and presently, further on, a group of women gathered to watch the vessel out of sight, and to wave farewell to those on board. In the group Gwen distinguished Almira Green and Ora. She remembered that Manny was going out to the Banks that day with the other fishermen. "Poor little Ora!" said the girl to herself. "And poor Almira, too," she added. "I am glad to have no lover who must follow the high seas." She watched the vessel grow smaller and smaller, and presently her attention was attracted to a smaller craft, a little row-boat moving steadily toward Jagged Island. "I believe there are Ethel and Mr. Mitchell!" she exclaimed. "Joy go with you, my dears! I am absolutely convinced that I could not stand a man who preferred comic operas to 'Aida,' and who had no soul above newspapers. You are quite welcome, Ethel dear. I hope you are prepared with plenty of bait, and will land your beautiful gold fish." She made a deep curtsey and laughed. "I am sure he is just about as bony and unpalatable as any other gold fish would be to me," she said to herself.
She turned her eyes from the small boat to another which had just rounded the point, and was making toward one of the inner islands. She looked at it attentively for a moment, then sprang over the rocks toward the cottage, coming out directly with a pair of field glasses. "I thought so," she murmured. "Everybody is going out to-day, it appears. I was sure that was Cap'n Ben's boat. I wonder if he is going off sketching. He is all alone." The "he" could scarcely apply to Cap'n Ben. "He is sailing off toward Pond Island. He isn't going there, I know; I suppose to some point further on. That's the third boat to go out from here this morning. Dear me! I wonder what I shall do to-day. It seems a wee bit lonely on the island. Bother! there comes Miss Henrietta, skipping over the rocks like a hart upon the mountains. I can't pretend not to see her."
Miss Henrietta, the youngest of the Gray sisters, had arrived at that uncertain period of life when she hesitated to associate with women older than herself for fear she might be supposed of the same age. She, therefore, sought the society of those much younger, hoping to be accredited with a like youthfulness. Gwen usually tried to avoid her, not because she did not enjoy older companions, but because, as she said, Miss Henrietta was the kind who took in at one glance what you had on, and criticized it afterward. She was always very ready with suggestion. "You would think," said Gwen to her aunt, "that Miss Henrietta had a copyright on all possible suggestions, she is so ready to make them and acts as if you had infringed her rights if ever you present one of your own to her." To each other Ethel and Gwen always spoke of Miss Henrietta as "Household Hints." So just now, Gwen, waiting for Miss Henrietta to come up, knew a suggestion would be ready, and so it was.
"I just thought I'd run over and tell you," said the elder lady, "that I find tennis shoes injurious, and I suggest that you don't wear them."
"I haven't found them so," returned Gwen.
"But you will," insisted Miss Henrietta.
"I'll wait till I do," said Gwen a little shortly, but with a smile. "Were you coming to Wits' End, Miss Henrietta?"
"No, I saw you out here and I thought I'd join you. One tires of one's elders constantly, don't you think?"
"I never tire of Aunt Cam," replied Gwen, "and we see more of one another at Wits' End than we do in the city."
"Couldn't you find a prettier name for your cottage?" asked Miss Henrietta. "Why not call it Rock Rest, or something like that?"
"We don't want to be commonplace, and Wits' End just suits us."
"I see your friend Miss Fuller has gone off with our young man," said Miss Henrietta, ignoring Gwen's reply. "She is quite a handsome girl. What do you think of her character, Gwen? I wish some one would tell her that a red jersey is not becoming."
"I think it is becoming." Gwen set aside the question.
"Oh, never, my dear, never. I don't see how you can think so. Then she has such a fad for mushrooms; she is forever looking for them. How she can like such things I cannot see.
"Dear me!" Gwen shook her head. "It is sad that one so young should have such depraved tastes."
Miss Henrietta looked offended. "I see you are bound to disagree with me," she said tartly. "By the way, why didn't you go to Jagged Island with your friends?"
"Perhaps because I didn't want to, and perhaps for other reasons," returned Gwen noncommittally.
"Do you think it was quite the thing for them to go off alone in that way? I am afraid your friend isn't very particular about the proprieties."
"Why didn't you go, Miss Henrietta?"
"I had other things to do," said she bridling.
"For pity's sake go along and do them," rose to Gwen's lips, but she said only, "I think we all have plenty to do up here, and that reminds me I must finish a letter before I go for the mail. As Mr. Mitchell is away to-day, perhaps you would like me to bring yours, too."
"Oh, if you will." The offer was smilingly accepted, and Gwen returned to the cottage, leaving Miss Henrietta ready to swoop down upon the Hardy girls who were coming along the rocks.
"What's the matter?" asked Miss Elliott as Gwen threw herself into a chair. "You look as if some one had been rubbing you the wrong way."
"Some one has been. I met Miss Henrietta out on the rocks just now. She is so picky and so ready to condemn fads and fancies in others when she is full of them herself. She asked me why I wore tennis shoes; she found fault with Ethel for wearing red, and for liking to hunt for mushrooms. She asked me what I thought of Ethel's character, too. What business is it of hers what I think?"
"She was probably trying to find out if Ethel would make a suitable wife for your millionaire, Gwen," Miss Elliott said laughing.
"My millionaire? I could never marry a man who reads only newspapers, who can't appreciate good music, and doesn't know a poor picture from a fine one."
"If those are your only objections, they don't seem very weighty ones. He probably reads only newspapers because he is too busy a man for anything else, and as for the other things, it may be only a lack of opportunity for studying the best. He may be a very fine man who would make an estimable husband, and yet not be a connoisseur in art or music."
"Oh, dear, why is it that the men who would make estimable husbands must so often be unattractive? I am afraid it isn't lack of opportunity that's the matter with Cephas. It lies deeper than that. But his deficiencies will never bother Ethel, so she shall have him. I think they will suit one another admirably. Are you disappointed, Aunt Cam, that you must forego his nephewly embraces, and that he is not to call you 'my dear aunt'?"
"Nonsense, Gwen, of course not. I don't care a rap for him in any capacity."
"But you think he will suit Ethel. You don't exactly approve of Ethel, I am afraid."
"Not altogether. I like her. She is very agreeable, and even brilliant, sometimes. She seems to be a person who has many engaging charms but few sterling qualities. She has not a spiritualizing effect upon one, and I am afraid her standards are decidedly of a material order. I can fancy her quite satisfied without the ennobling things of life."
"She has a sweet disposition, and she has beautiful theories," said Gwen thoughtfully.
"But does she practise them?"
"Not when it is inconvenient. I am afraid she is rather a brilliant butterfly, but she is vastly entertaining."
"What has become of your artist friend?" asked Miss Elliott suddenly.
Gwen immediately became very busy rearranging the pillow on the divan. "Oh, he's around," she said with apparent indifference. "You know his sister and the children have gone off for some weeks, so of course I see nothing of them. I saw him yesterday out sketching. To-day he has gone somewhere in a boat. Everyone has gone off in a boat. Ethel and Mr. Mitchell are on their way to Jagged Island, Manny Green is off for the Banks, and Mr. Hilary has gone up along to some unknown spot. I am quite desolate without my playmates. I think I shall have to hunt up Daddy Lu."
But Luther Williams had gone to his favorite haunt in Middle Bay, Gwen discovered, for no one had seen him since morning. So the girl returned to the house and busied herself with unimportant things till it was time for the afternoon's mail. "I'll stop in to see Miss Phosie," she said as she passed out, "so don't expect me right back, Aunt Cam." She looked across to Jagged Island wondering if the two who had rowed over that morning had yet returned. She looked toward the north to see if Cap'n Ben's little boat were on its way back, but except for a motor boat chugging along and some white sails far off there were no vessels visible. So she turned toward the cove and was soon in Miss Phosie's bright kitchen.