CHAPTER XX
It was mid June, and the dwellers on Fielding's Island were making ready for "the season." The sharp winds, which even in May, sometimes nipped the buds on Cap'n Ben's apple-trees, had given place to gentle breezes. Violets and strawberry blossoms sprinkled the pasture, daisies were beginning to open, tufts of green were springing up in the crevices of the lichen-covered rocks, the song-sparrows had arrived, and the barn-swallows were wheeling in joyous flights morning and evening.
Cap'n Ben, in his second-best suit, was standing in the kitchen, adjusting his necktie before the old mahogany-framed mirror. "There's plenty of time, father," said Miss Phosie; "she hasn't blowed at the Neck yet."
"Maybe she has and maybe she hain't," returned Cap'n Ben. "Folks don't always hear her. At any rate I'm going down. Everything's all right at the cawtage: well's full, hogshead's full, house clean as a new pin. His room's all ready, ain't it, Phosie? Got a good meal for him?"
"Everything's ready," Miss Phosie told him, "but I guess maybe he'll want to eat with them."
"No, he won't. They'll have women's vittles the first day; always do. Peck around like hens. What he'll want will be something good and substantial."
"Well, he shall have it," returned Miss Phosie. She sighed as she saw her father start off eagerly for the boat-landing. How soon time covers up the footsteps of those who once travelled our road, and suddenly passed out of it. Cap'n Ben, good and kindly-souled as he was, had nothing of the sentimentalist about him, and though he had honestly sorrowed for the housemate of so many years, had easily adjusted himself to the loss, and enjoyed the present as heartily as ever. As for Miss Phosie, she lived in the past. Not a day went by that she did not go reverently into Luther Williams' vacant room to read a little from the Bible which still kept its old place on the high bureau. Not a week passed, except when snow covered every hillock, but she went to the graveyard, and lately had set out there geraniums and roses, started from slips the autumn before and tenderly nurtured all winter. To-day would bring Miss Elliott, Gwen and Kenneth. Their coming made more vivid the events of the summer before, and so she sighed.
Her memories were interrupted by Miss Zerviah's entrance. She was sure to be on hand at such a time as this. "Well, of all close-mouthed people!" she exclaimed, as she came in. "Why didn't you tell me there was to be a wedding on the island?"
"We hadn't been asked to tell," responded Miss Phosie.
"How d'you find out, Zerviah?" asked Miss Phenie, laughing.
"I heard it to my cousin's house in Portland. She knows Mrs. Carter, the lawyer's wife. I was struck dumb when Caroline says, 'I hear there's to be a fine wedding on your island.' Before I thought, s'I, 'You don't say! Who is it?' 'Miss Whitridge,' s'she, 'the niece of that Miss Elliott that's going back to China.' 'Do tell! 's'I, all taken aback, for I hadn't heard that neither. 'Of course we knew there was to be a wedding,' s'I, recollecting myself, for everybody knew her and Mr. Hilary was engaged, but we didn't know the exact day and hour. Now, Phenie, you and Phosie tell me all about it."
"'Tain't to be a fine wedding at all, they say, and because they want it should be quiet, they are having it up here. They're to be married at Miss Elliott's cawtage in a couple of weeks, then him and her is going off for a little trip." Miss Phenie gave the information.
"When's Miss Elliott going back to China? What's she going back for? Ain't she got enough means to support her, or don't she want to live on Miss Whitridge? Don't she like the young man?"
"Lands' sakes! Zerviah, how you talk," said Miss Phosie. "We've never inquired into Miss Elliott's means. Of course she likes Mr. Hilary, he's a beautiful young man, and she's perfectly satisfied, but if she's a call to go back, why of course, as a Christian woman, she'll go."
"What's she going to do with her cawtage?"
"She's going to give it to Miss Whitridge for a wedding present."
"Well, now that'll be real nice for her, won't it? Some might say Miss Elliott'd better sell it and use the money for those benighted Chinese, but I say 'Charity begins at home,' and I suppose the niece is more like a daughter, anyway. She's going to stay up for the summer, ain't she—Miss Elliott, I mean?"
"We hain't asked," said Miss Phosie in a dignified tone.
"Where's the young man going to stay?"
"With us," returned Miss Phosie curtly.
"I thought you wasn't going to take in strangers this season. What you going to buy this time? Last year you was able to get the new parlor carpet with the board money, and a proper nice one it is. Going to get curtains or chairs?"
"We don't cal'late to take anyone but Mr. Hilary," Miss Phenie declared, "and he'll be here only for the little time before he gets married."
"And you ain't going to keep on taking in strangers?"
"He ain't a stranger. He was a great friend of Mr. Williams and father's very fond of him. He'd feel more at home here than anywhere else, and we're all his friends, Zerviah," Miss Phosie spoke.
"I should think you wouldn't be such good friends with any of 'em, after their coming in for all Mr. Williams' money that ought to have gone to you, seeing he made his home in this house so many years."
Miss Phosie wheeled around, a red spot in each cheek. "There, you've said enough," she exclaimed. "There was nobody had a better right to his money than his own relations, and even if it had been left to us, father said after we found out she really was his relation, we couldn't have accepted it. I guess the legacy he left us was quite enough to show how he felt toward us Tibbetts."
"But there's Ora," persisted Miss Zerviah; "it would have come in good for her and the child."
"Ora won't suffer," said Miss Phenie, herself aroused to resentment. "There's enough of us to look after her, and when we're gone she won't be a pauper."
"She'll have others to look after her, if reports are true," returned Zerviah. "I hear Ned Symington goes around that way pretty often, and that he's terrible fond of the baby, young as it is."
"Ned ain't the only one that's fond of the baby," said Miss Phenie, taking up the cudgels. "We all think he's a pretty fine child, and Almira's wrapped up in him. I don't know as I ever see anybody so taken with a baby. She says he's the living image of Manny."
"Well, I hope he'll not lead her the dance Manny did," began Miss Zerviah, then perceiving that even Miss Phenie looked offended, she went on, "not but what Manny was a nice agreeable young man, and if he'd had time to prove it no doubt he'd shown himself a proper husband and father. It is wonderful how Almira is wrapped up in that baby; she looks ten years younger, and it's real pleasant to see how settled Ora is. She's turned out real well, everybody says."
"I don't see why she shouldn't," Miss Phosie fired up again.
"There you go, Phosie. I declare, anybody'd think I was casting slurs on the whole family, and I ain't thought of such a thing. I'm sure I was only thinking of your advantage when I spoke of the money."
"It would be more to our advantage if you didn't speak of it," returned Miss Phosie. "There they come, Phenie. The boat had blowed, you see."
Miss Zerviah made her escape and the Tibbett sisters went out to meet the travellers.
Every day after this saw some new arrival. The Hardy girls were among the first and soon after came Mr. and Mrs. Cephas Mitchell to their new cottage, but a stone's throw from Wits' End. It was rather a pretentious affair with many turrets, bay windows and balconies, the building of which had rendered Thad Eaton nearly distraught. "It isn't half as artistic and suitable as our dear Wits' End," said Gwen to her aunt, "but it is very characteristic of the pair, and they will like it much better than ours. I can scarcely wait to see Ethel, and I know she will want to see me." Consequently hers was the first call upon the newcomers.
Ethel's wedding had been a gorgeous Easter affair, and that the duties of bridesmaid might not devolve upon Gwen, who had no desire for the part, Miss Elliott and her niece spent their holiday week at Old Point where Kenneth joined them. Therefore Gwen had not seen Ethel since the latter left Washington for her new home.
"I have been simply wild to see you," cried the new Mrs. Mitchell when Gwen appeared. "I've a thousand questions to ask and have such loads to tell you. How do you like our new cottage? We were so afraid it wouldn't be all right, and I almost dreaded to come into it, but it really isn't a disappointment at all. Cephas had a man from Portland to get the furniture in place and the draperies, and we sent the servants ahead, so there was nothing to do but walk in."
"Aunt Cam and I had such fun arranging Wits' End ourselves," said Gwen with a reminiscent smile.
"Oh, but I hate that sort of thing," said Ethel. "It is all very well when you have a fancy for it, but it was such a relief to us to find it all ready. Cephas didn't want me to have any of the bother." She spoke with the pride and satisfaction generally so obvious in the bride.
Gwen looked around the room, conventional in every detail, though comfortable, and even more luxurious than such a place demanded. "I should think it would be exactly right for you," she said. "It is so nice to think we shall have you for neighbors all summer."
"Oh, but we are not to be here all summer. We shall go to Bar Harbor in August, and between whiles we shall take short cruises on the yacht, but this is a lovely place for headquarters. Did you know Cephas had bought a yacht? It ought to be here to-day. It isn't named yet so you must help us out on that. Now tell me all about yourself. Are you really going to be married up here? Just like one of your romantic ideas, though I think it will be lovely, only my dear, I have been wondering, if you use your living-room for the ceremony, where will you serve the wedding breakfast?"
"Oh, dear, that is just what is troubling Aunt Cam," Gwen confessed. "We may have to stand on the Pinnacle to be married, and have the breakfast in Sheldon woods, for all I know."
"Please let us offer you our house for it. We are so near it would be nothing to step over here, and Cephas would be charmed I know. He has such a high regard for you."
"Where is he?"
"He has gone down to see about the trunks. One was carried on to Dorr's Island, and it must be grabbed on its way back or it may be travelling up and down the bay all summer. Do, Gwen, dear, let your breakfast be here. Remember we owe our meeting to you."
"You are a dear to put it that way. I'll have to see what auntie says, though, for my own part, I should be charmed, and I thank you a thousand times. You are happy, Ethel?"
"Of course I am. Cephas is kindness itself, and is so proud of me. He is a fine example of a true American husband."
"I am so very glad."
"And you will be happy, too. I hear only nice things of your Kenneth. Everyone says he is so talented, and will be sure to make his mark. I have always said that a good son must make a good husband,—that is one reason I was attracted to Cephas, for he is such a good son,—and not long ago I met some one from Washington who was saying the same of Kenneth. He gave up all share in his father's estate that his mother might have a larger income, as of course you know. She must be a selfish, vain, old thing—don't look so; she's not your mother-in-law yet—for when she married that rich pork-packer she never gave back one penny to Kenneth. She kept him miserable, too, all through his youth by whining and repining, and badgering him. They would have had quite enough to live comfortably if she had been willing to make a home for him, but she wanted new clothes every five minutes, and must live in nothing less than an expensive hotel, so your young man had to scramble around and make his living as best he could. Fortunately his sister, that nice Mrs. Fleming, took his part and did all she could to prevent the mother from insisting upon the dear boy's selling the coat off his back to pay her carriage hire. Of course all this is stale news to you, but I wanted you to know that the world appreciates his goodness and devotion."
"It isn't entirely stale news, although I have never heard a word of it from Kenneth."
"I can well believe that. I hope Mrs. Pork-packer won't be at the wedding."
"She is still in Europe."
"Good! Perhaps your step-father-in-law will die of eating his own pork, and will leave a rich widow who in turn will step out, so Kenneth and his sister will get the cash."
"Oh, Ethel, don't. We shall be perfectly happy and content with what we have."
"I know it, dear Miss Unworldly, for I am aware that you are quite capable of making coats for Kenneth out of discarded canvases, and of clothing yourself in studio properties after you have spent all your year's income on picture-frames."
"You absurd girl! just wait till you see the place we have selected in New York; you will be green with envy."
Ethel laughed. "And about Miss Elliott," she went on, "is it really true that she is going out to China to marry a missionary?"
"It is quite true. They have been lovers ever since Aunt Cam was my age. Now that I am provided for and he needs her, she is going to him. How I shall miss her! though we hope she will persuade him to come back here to end his days. It may be that he will consent."
"Such constancy! It seems to run in your family, for I am quite confident you would have done the same for Kenneth."
"Yes, I am sure I would," said Gwen quietly. "There comes Kenneth now. I must go."
"Please don't. Look, Cephas is with him; wait and see him."
Gwen consented and presently the two men came up. Mr. Mitchell greeted Gwen heartily. "We have been looking at the new boat," he said. "She has just arrived, and Mr. Hilary has suggested rather a unique name for her. What do you think of the Jar-fly, Ethel? It is certainly odd, don't you think?"
"The Jar-fly? What a very curious name!" Ethel looked at Kenneth and Gwen, too, stole a glance in his direction.
"The sly, audacious boy," she said to herself.
"You see," said Kenneth with unmoved gravity, "Mr. Mitchell wanted me to suggest something that had wings, to denote speed you understand. The Sea-Gull and the Eagle were too hackneyed to consider for a moment. White Wings is out of the question. The hull of the vessel is painted a sort of greenish brown, and I remembered that Gwen had told me her old nurse used to call locusts jar-flies. They are much the color of the vessel, and they fly only in summer as your yacht will do, so it struck me as rather an appropriate name."
"It certainly will puzzle everyone," said Ethel, "and I adore a name that does that. Besides there will not be another in the world's waters. I vote we adopt it, Cephas."
"Good!" he cried. "I hope we shall all have many a cruise on the Jar-fly. We are going to take her out this afternoon for a trial trip, although I already know her reputation. Perhaps we could all go." He turned to Kenneth and Gwen.
"Do," said Ethel, "We'll take a bottle of wine along and see that she receives her name promptly. You must be her sponsor, Gwen."
"But this is a Prohibition State," said Gwen with a smile. "We'd better take ginger-ale."
"Done!" said Mr. Mitchell. "I believe in following the customs, you know."
"You must be sure to get some one to paint the name to-morrow," Ethel reminded him.
"I'll do it," Kenneth offered amiably.
"Will you truly? How good of you." Ethel looked pleased. "I'm sure we should have to wait weeks for Abiel Toothacre. Everyone is so busy now."
"Oh, you bad, bad child," said Gwen as she and Kenneth walked away. "What made you so wicked?"
Kenneth laughed. "He afforded me such an excellent opportunity, and, really, I pleased him."
"It is too mean, and they have offered their house for our wedding breakfast to be served in."
"That is good of them. However I could not resist the temptation. He did look so like an insect as he stood there, and for the moment I was reminded of my last summer's prejudices. No, darling, of course I haven't them any more. Didn't I offer to paint the yacht's name? and didn't I send them one of my pet pictures as a wedding present? It is a joke—only a joke, yours and mine. Besides, now when we speak of the Jar-fly, we shall mean the yacht, and never the owner, so in due time the reference will have an entirely different association."
"What subtle reasoning. Of course there is nothing to be done now, and we shall have to accept the joke. Still I protest it was very wicked of you."
"He is a good fellow at heart, I am sure."
"And Ethel is so entertaining and so kind. You should have heard the nice things she said of you. I am glad she married Cephas."
"And I'm glad he married her." They both laughed and went forward to see what Cap'n Ben's wagon was bringing to Wits' End.
The island could boast of but three horses, and it had not been so very long since that Cap'n Ben's yoke of oxen had been superseded by his white nag. Ira Baldwin had bought a horse within the past year, not to be outdone by Dan Stork who already had one. As these two were kept pretty busy, it fell to Cap'n Ben's lot to drive back and forth from the wharf to Wits' End during the week of the wedding. He brought the boxes of stores, from Portland, he fetched the minister and the best man from the boat, he took messages to the stores, and finally drove the bridegroom at a dashing pace to the cottage where Gwen in her simple white wedding gown was waiting.
Wits' End was a bower of blossoms on that summer day. There were banks of daisies around the living-room, long gray moss from Sheldon woods was festooned around the top of the room, the fireplace and mantel were filled with ferns and wild-flowers which all the young people of the wedding party had gone forth to gather the day before. The Gray sisters had not yet arrived at their cottage, but Mrs. Fleming and her children were on hand, so were the Hardy girls, while Jack Lansdale appeared, as he said, "just in time to be useful."
"No music?" he exclaimed when told of the day's arrangements. "That will never do!" He rushed off and returned in a little while to say that he could get Miss Eleanor Drake to bring her violin. "She plays like a breeze," he said. "I'd sing the Bridal Chorus from Lohengrin myself rather than have it left out."
"Why not all of us sing it?" cried Nelly Hardy. "I'm sure we can get up a chorus of six or eight voices, and with the violin it will be great. Dolly hasn't a bad voice, and I've rather a pleasant pipe myself."
"Come on," cried Jack, "we'll go the rounds and meet at the Hall for rehearsal." They rushed out, and so was the wedding music furnished.
Cap'n Ben's old white horse was never so gaily bedecked as that day when with white rosettes on his head and white daisies stuck along his collar he trotted down the long road to bear the bridal pair to the end of the island, from which point they would be rowed over to Dorr's and from there would drive to Brunswick. Twice on the way the white horse stopped; once it was at Cap'n Ben's door where Miss Phosie was watching. She held a small package. Gwen alighted, bridal bouquet in hand, and went up to the step. "Dear Miss Phosie," she said, "why didn't you come?"
"I couldn't," she answered. "I didn't feel that I could. I want you to have this," she whispered. "It's only an old brass candlestick that he always used in his room, but I thought you would like to have it. I wanted to give it to you myself, but I'll keep it here till you get back, for you'll not want to carry it with you."
"I shall value it beyond measure, and I shall use it for my very own," Gwen told her. "Thank you, dear Miss Phosie. Nothing I have had gives me more pleasure. I've brought you some wedding-cake and you must have some of my roses." She disengaged two or three of the fair buds and gave them with the little box of cake.
"I hope you'll be very happy," said Miss Phosie, her eyes dwelling on the radiant face. "I know he would have been glad to see this day."
Gwen stooped and kissed her. "Perhaps he does see," she said.
Just then Cap'n Ben called out, "I guess you cal'late to keep her the whul afternoon, don't ye, Phosie?" And with a last nod, Gwen turned to the carriage.
As they reached the little graveyard Kenneth leaned over and touched Cap'n Ben's shoulder. "Gwen would like you to stop a minute," he said.
Cap'n Ben drew rein and Gwen got out, following Kenneth to where the blossoms were bursting into bloom by Luther Williams' grave. Gwen laid her own flowers gently on the green sod, and stood for a moment with bowed head. Kenneth's hand sought hers, and so they went out of the little wicket gate and on, into their new life.
THE END.
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