CHAPTER XVI
But there was no happy talk with Luther Williams the next day, for sad news came to the island, and at Cap'n Ben's house there was a grief-stricken girl, widowed while scarcely more than a child. It was an incoming vessel which brought the tidings of the loss of one of the Mary Lizzie's crew. Happy, careless, pleasure-loving Manny Green had been drowned during a heavy gale. Like most of the other fishermen, he could not swim, and had sunk for the last time before help could reach him. It was while trying to soothe Ora that Miss Phosie learned for the first time that the girl and her lover were married on the day when Ora had started for Bangor. Manny had met her on the boat, they had gone to the nearest clergyman to have the ceremony performed and Manny had taken his little bride on a long trolley ride for a wedding trip. They had spent a couple of days in a quiet inland town, and then Ora had gone on to Bangor, returning, before her family expected, that she might spend with Manny the last days he should be ashore. Not only poor little Ora, but Almira Green, was stricken by the blow, and they mourned together. "She is all alone," said Ora, "and she loved him. I think I ought to stay with her now, Aunt Phosie, for she has no one else." Therefore to Almira went the girl with the intention of passing her life under the roof which had sheltered the boyhood of her young husband.
The sorrowful news affected everyone, and it was a depressed and subdued girl who greeted Kenneth when he appeared at Wits' End that morning. The tears were very near Gwen's eyes, and she could scarce speak at first, for the thought constantly recurred: suppose it had been you. Kenneth, too, looked grave, and the joyousness of their past evening seemed to have gone from them.
"I feel so sorry for Ora," said Gwen. "We grew to be friends after a fashion, for we were companions in misery, that day of the storm, the very storm, I am afraid, in which Manny lost his life. We went down to the shore together. I was anxious about Ethel, and—" she hesitated, then made bravely frank in the remembrance of a grief which might have come to her—"I was anxious about you, for I had seen you go out."
Kenneth caught her hand and held it tightly for a moment, then laid it gently back on her lap. It was hard to have self-command at such a moment, and he would fain have taken her in his arms then and there. "If I had known you were anxious about me it would have made a difference," he said in a low voice.
She laid her hand lightly on his sleeve for just a second, and they sat looking at one another, their eyes full of the love their lips might not speak. Gwen was the first to break the silence. "You have brought the picture. It was so good of you to come early. May I see it?"
He set the picture on a chair and she knelt in front of it. "How lovely it is," she said presently with a sigh. "I think I like it better than the other. I can't believe that it is really mine. What shall I say to thank you?"
"You have already given me more thanks than are due me, and such as I value most, for you truly like it."
"I love it, and to think it is going to stay with me always! I don't agree with you in thinking no more thanks are due you."
"There is only one thing you could give," he answered unsteadily. "Perhaps I ought not to ask it, but if anything were to happen to either of us—we are soon to be separated—it would mean much to me if I could carry away the remembrance of one kiss."
Gwen stood in front of him with drooping head. Suppose anything were to happen to either of them! She lifted her face and he kissed her gently, holding her close to him for one moment, and then letting her go. "It shall not be a long time," he said passionately. "I must have the right soon. I shall work as never man worked before."
"Don't work too hard," said Gwen, with the solicitude of the woman who loves. "I can wait—I will wait, Kenneth, no matter how long, and what does it matter how long when—we love each other?"
The last words were spoken so low that he must bend his head to hear them, and for the moment his self-control was flung to the winds. "My darling!" he said, "we love each other. Bless you for saying what I dared not say." He drew her close again, and kissed her lips, her eyes, her hair, then put her from him. "It will not do," he sighed. "I cannot be a selfish beast. I will not demand anything from you. I want you to be as free as ever, but I shall never forget this blessed hour. No matter what happens, I shall have had this."
"'Now who can take from us what has been ours?'" quoted Gwen softly. "Yes, Kenneth, dear, it is best for us to be only friends, though in our hearts we feel that we are otherwise. I won't, won't, won't stand in the way of your career."
"And I won't, won't, won't stand in the way of your future if it chances that you should become tired of waiting."
"I'll not tire, but all the same we are to be friends, just good friends and comrades."
Just then a step interrupted them, and Gwen turned to greet Cap'n Ben, who had come to say that Ora wanted to see Miss Whitridge.
"I will go, of course I will," Gwen responded. She turned to Kenneth. "You will come back later?"
"This afternoon, if I may, and I will bring some of my sketches for you to see."
Gwen gave him her hand. "Please," she said. She could not bear the thought of being parted from him for long, when there was Ora whom death had parted from her lover.
"She's at Almiry's," said Cap'n Ben, as he strode by the girl's side. "I cal'late we'll have to give her up to Almiry now, and I guess it's right she should go. Almiry's had a pretty hard time of it, working for the boy, and now her and Ora can help each other. Almiry'd pine away left to herself. It's a good thing her boarders have most all gone. She won't have much sperrit to look after 'em. Last one'll leave to-morrow. I guess she won't bother with 'em next year."
There was a feeling of fall in the air. The White Mountains stood out blue and distinct, the sea was almost indigo-hued, save where a golden path of sunlight spread across it, and where white-rimmed breakers chased each other shoreward. Everything was clean-cut and intense in color. The houses showed sharply against their background of sea, the tops of the sombre firs were outlined against the unclouded sky, the rocks showed purply-gray. The apples on Cap'n Ben's stunted little trees were slowly reddening. Only a few flowers flaunted themselves still in the gardens, dahlias, asters and sweet peas held their own, while against the gray shingles of some deserted cottages a tangle of nasturtiums displayed glowing blooms of flame-color and orange.
But bright though the day, there was a subdued air about the island. Those Gwen and Cap'n Ben met nodded gravely. There was a troubled look upon the women's faces, as though they feared a remorseless answer to the often recurring question, Who next?
In the sitting-room of Almira Green's low white cottage they found Ora at Almira's feet, her head resting in the lap of the elder woman. She did not rise as Gwen came in, and the girl, throbbing with her own new joy, knelt down by the other, put her arms around her and laid her cheek against Ora's, wet with her womanhood's first tears. There were no words to say. Comfort was too distant a thing to be looked for now; the phantom of a lost happiness hovered mockingly near, a happiness that found the sorrowing girl but a little maid, and left her a weeping wife. Almira sat, dry-eyed, her toil-worn hand fingering Ora's fair hair. "She's most worn out with crying," she said to Gwen. "It's come sooner to her than to most."
The tears sprang to Gwen's eyes. She hated the sea for the moment, that sea in which she had gloried every day during these holiday weeks. She did not wonder that fisher people did not love it, that it seemed to them a cruel thing upon which they were glad to turn their backs. "I wish there were something I could do or say," she murmured as she rose to her feet and stood looking down at Almira.
Presently Ora lifted her heavy head. "If we only had a picture of him, but we haven't. He meant to have some taken, but we spent the money that time in Portland, and he promised as soon as he came back he'd go right to the photographer's. We were going together." She dropped her head again and burst into a fresh paroxysm of weeping.
Some one knocked at the door, and Gwen turned. "Shall I go, Mrs. Green?" she asked.
Almira nodded, and Gwen went through the silent house and opened the front door. Kenneth stood there. "Oh," said Gwen, "did you come for me?"
He stepped inside. "I have brought a little study of Manny that I made one day down at the cove. It is only a quick sketch, but I think it looks rather like him, and maybe they would like to have it."
"Oh, Kenneth!" Gwen held out her hand eagerly for the small canvas. "Ora was just grieving because they have no photograph of him. You dear boy to think of coming with it."
"I worked it up a little," said Kenneth, "so it is still wet, but I thought I'd try to make it less of a sketch. Do you think it is like him?" He held off the picture at arm's length.
Gwen looked at it earnestly. "It is very like," she told him. "You have caught his happy, careless expression. He was a good-looking lad, poor boy. May I take it in? Will you go, too?"
"I'll wait outside for you."
She carried the picture carefully to the sitting-room, and set it on a chair where the light could strike it. Then she touched the forlorn figure whose face was still hidden in Almira's lap. "Ora," she said, "look here, dear. You see there does sometimes come some small comfort in our darkest hours. Mr. Hilary has brought you a little picture he made of Manny. Will you look at it? Mrs. Green, you, too, please. It is still wet and must not be touched for a day or two."
Ora sprang to her feet, and gazed with sobbing breath at the picture of Manny leaning against the railing of the boat-landing, his hat pushed back from his smiling face, his hands in his pockets, the whole attitude one of careless ease. So had his friends seen him often. "It is Manny," whispered Ora, "Manny. Aunt Almira, do see."
"Aunt Almira," murmured Mrs. Green. "Some one still calls me that." She raised her eyes, leaned forward and looked long and earnestly at the picture, then the blessed relief of tears came to her. She dropped her head on Ora's shoulder and shook with sobs. The act of dependence aroused Ora to a sense of responsibility. "There, there," she whispered, "don't take on, Aunt Almira. We've got each other, and we loved him."
Mrs. Green wiped her eyes. "Please thank the gentleman," she said. "It was very kind of him."
"There ain't a thing we'd sooner have, please tell him," said Ora. "It's wonderful." It was hard for these people to say even so much. Thanks were not easily expressed, obligations were rarely admitted. Gracious acceptance did not come naturally, but Gwen felt that they were sincerely gratified.
"I'll tell Mr. Hilary," she said, "and I know he will be glad you like the picture. He would not come in."
"Perhaps you'll bring him another time," said Almira. "I'd like to tell him we appreciate his present."
Ora followed Gwen to the door. "I know now why you understood," she said in a low voice. "I hope you'll be very, very happy."
"Oh, Ora, we must wait a long while, and no one knows yet, not even my aunt, so please—"
"I won't mention it, but I know, and I'm glad he did that picture. I'm glad he's the one, for he must be good and kind to think of bringing it. I can't tell you what it means to have it."
This was saying a great deal, and Gwen knew it meant more than extravagant thanks from some others. She kissed the girl's pale cheek and went out into the bright sunlight.
"Shall we go home by the rocks?" asked Kenneth, coming forward.
"No, I don't want to look at the sea to-day," Gwen told him. Then she gave him the messages from the two women she had just left, and they talked softly of the picture as they walked along.
Further on they met Ethel Fuller. "We're going to-morrow," she said. "Aunt Harriet wanted to go long ago, and she's sorry now we didn't leave yesterday. It is dreadful to be in a house where there is such trouble, and we can't do a thing. I'm quite ready myself to go now. We shall stop in Boston for a few days."
Gwen smiled. "And Mr. Mitchell?"
"He is going to-morrow, too. He gave up his trip to Bar Harbor, after all." Ethel looked exultant.
"Then you'll have his escort to Boston. That's good. I hope he'll make it pleasant for you while you're there."
"He's sure to do that. I am coming over to see you this afternoon, Gwen, to say good-by. I left Aunt Harriet making her rounds, but I have my packing to do. Auntie is so forehanded; her trunks are all ready. I'm really dying to be off. It will be good to get into the stir and bustle of a city again, and I love the Boston shops. I suppose you'll be going soon, Mr. Hilary."
"My sister is beginning her preparations, I believe, though I shall stay while the weather is pleasant."
Ethel gave Gwen a laughing glance as she walked on. "See you this afternoon," she said.
"Then we shall not have our walk to the woods," remarked Kenneth when Ethel was out of hearing.
Gwen shook her head. "Afraid not, but to-morrow we shall have the island to ourselves or nearly so. The Gray sisters go next week. Most of the boarders have gone, and I noticed more than one cottage closed for the winter as I came along. I shall love it when the transients stop traipsing over the pasture, and cease to crowd the rocks like a flock of pelicans. Already the place seems more our own."
"There will be a moon, though rather late to-night. May I come to Wits' End and watch it rise?"
"Most certainly, and what about the sketches?"
"I left a load of them with Miss Elliott. You can look at them at your leisure."
"Without the showman?"
"Do you want him?"
"I want him to tell me the merits of each, so you'd better come along now. You can stay to dinner. There will be quantities of excellent chowder, warmed over baked beans, with whatever vegetables we can scrape together. I think there is pie for dessert. Can you stand the combination?"
"It sounds appetizing, especially the chowder. I see Ira's wagon going our way; I'll send word to my sister not to expect me." He ran after the wagon, which was turning into the cove road, and gave his message.
"Do you like cranberries?" asked Gwen. "I think we shall have some of them, too. I adore them. If you gather them when they are just turning pink, not red, they make much better sauce than when they are fully ripe. If you will not tell anyone I'll show you where they grow." She led the way across the pasture to a marshy spot a short distance from the beaten path. Lifting the graceful tendrils of the pretty vines, she showed, buried in soft gray-green moss, the tiny globes of waxy pink. "This is my own special find," she said. "I have already gathered two quarts, and to-morrow I can get more. I am glad there is a to-morrow," she added. "Now come and show me the sketches. I hope there are some moonlit waves. Isn't it wonderful to see the golden gates open and that glittering pathway unroll upon the sea? One feels as if it led up—up to some enchanted palace. I can almost persuade myself into starting across the shiny road to fairy land. Then those little dancing flecks, 'patines of bright gold,' are like water-fairies luring one on to where the glittering path leads. I can scarce resist them."
"Don't follow them, please."
"I won't, I promise you. Are there any moonlights among your sketches?"
"Several. I have tried to express the effect very often, but I am afraid I have made many failures."
"Perhaps I can tell whether you have or not."
The sketches occupied the time till the dinner hour, after which meal Kenneth took his leave, but not before Miss Fuller arrived. The door had hardly closed after the young man when Ethel grasped Gwen's hand. "Congratulate me," she cried, "I'm engaged."
"Really?" Gwen looked pleased. "Of course it is Mr. Mitchell, and that accounts for his giving up Bar Harbor."
"Yes, and I have to thank you for making us known to each other. It might not have happened if we had not gone to Jagged Island that day, for I am candid enough to admit that you occupied first place up to then. However our being in common danger, as it were, put us on a different footing. Ever since then I have noticed a difference in his manner toward me. It was Jagged Island that settled it, I am sure. Do give me the satisfaction of hearing that you really do not mind, Gwen. Now that I have actually won the race I feel a little guilty."
"My dear, you needn't in the very least. I am perfectly delighted. It isn't every day that one's friends marry millionaires. I congratulate you with all my heart, and have not the smallest pang."
"It only happened yesterday," Ethel went on, "but I had to tell you before I left. It will be announced when we get home. Aunt Harriet is so pleased."
Gwen's smile might be called a veritable grin. "Of course she is. Very few aunts would not be."
"Would yours?"
"I am not sure. She is so darlingly unworldly that she might ask all sorts of probing questions that one couldn't answer to her satisfaction. Shall you be married soon, Ethel?"
"In the spring, I think. Who could ever dream that in this little unfashionable isolated place I should meet a man like Cephas? As Aunt Harriet says, I might have gone up and down the coast for years and never have found his like. I was so disgusted, too, when we first arrived at what seemed to me a perfectly impossible place. It has been the loveliest summer I ever spent, and it is all due to you, Gwen." In her great content Ethel was at her best.
"I am so very, very glad," murmured Gwen.
"I do wish the Hardy girls were still here, and Flossy Fay." Ethel would have enjoyed the triumph of announcing her engagement to them.
"All the other butterflies have flown," said Gwen. "We are the only ones left."
"I have my doubts about your being a butterfly at all," returned Ethel. "I think you tried to be and failed."
"Why do you think that?"
Ethel smiled. "You'll not like it if I tell you why."
"I promise not to turn and rend you."
"Then I think you would rather help a poor man build up his fortunes by—we will say—stirring up pancakes in a studio—than to be mistress of an establishment on Commonwealth Avenue."
"Do give me credit for more common sense than to consent to spoil a man's career would indicate," replied Gwen lightly. "No, it just happens that I shouldn't care to live in Boston, having been brought up south of Mason and Dixon's line."
Ethel laughed. "Tell that to the marines! I'll yet see in some exhibition a 'portrait of the artist's wife' in which I shall recognize my friend Gwendolin Hilary, née Whitridge."
"All right. Have it your own way," said Gwen, trying not to look conscious. "At all events I am honestly glad for you, Ethel, as I want you to believe."
"Oh, I believe; I'm only too ready to. Good-by, dear. I count on you to be one of my bridesmaids."
"No rash promises," declared Gwen. "I shall then be teaching finger-plays and kindergarten songs to such an extent that there'll be no time to devote to wedding fixings."
"I shall count on you, nevertheless. Good-by and thank you for being the dear generous girl that you are."
Gwen watched the red jersey disappear over the brow of the hill. "'Tis an ill wind that blows nobody good," she said to herself. "I suppose the Lord sent a millionaire my way just to see what I'd do, and to teach me not to make vain boasts. I feel very meek when I think of Commonwealth Avenue."