A HELPER
Although Miss Elliott fretted over the delay and was impatient to get
into her cottage it was not ready until after the middle of June, and
then it was a matter of hard work to make it habitable, for there
were a thousand and one things to be done, for which no adequate help
could be hired and which had to wait the convenience of some volunteer
service. Fortunately aunt and niece were comfortably housed at Cap'n
Ben's, and could bend all their energies to the business of getting
their own dwelling in order. There were frequent trips to Portland
shops for such odds and ends as had not been sent with the household
goods, and there were many demands upon Ira Baldwin's stock of nails,
tacks and such like things, so that his wares fell short of supplying
the demand, and many times Miss Elliott was in despair at being unable
to get the simple things she required.
She came in one day and threw herself into a rocking-chair, tired out
by her struggles with the impossible. "Hereafter I am going to be a
fool," she announced. "Fools get so much more done for them than smart
people. There is that silly widow who has Hilltop; she can't do a
blessed thing for herself, and is always appealing to this one and that
in the most languishing way; the consequence is people are so sorry
for her helplessness that they drop everything and run when she gets
into difficulties. As for me, I might tramp the island over, and no one
would budge to 'accommodate' me. I am sick of being 'accommodated.' I
want to get hold of some one who wants to work for reasonable wages,
and can honestly earn them."
"Poor auntie!" said Gwen sympathetically. "You're all tired out, and I
don't wonder. What is the special grievance this time, or are you only
growling on general principles?"
"I wanted some one to put up the window shades, and I have traipsed
the place over. Each person I questioned told me he couldn't do it but
maybe so-and-so would accommodate me, till finally I got desperate,
went to the cottage and put up some of the shades myself. It was
the most nerve-racking work to make them fit, for a sixteenth of an
inch more or less makes such a difference. There are times," she
added after a pause, "when I could almost declare profanity to be a
necessity."
Gwen laughed. "Now, Aunt Cam, I know you have reached the limit of
human endurance, and I shall appoint myself a committee of one to seek
out a man-of-all-work."
"I wish you luck," returned Miss Elliott, resting her head against
the back of the chair. "The trouble is," she went on after a moment,
"that these blessed people spend their lives in waiting and they cannot
understand why we should not be willing to do it, too. They wait for
the weather, the winds, the tide. They wait for their fish, for nearly
everything, and they are so in the habit of it that it bewilders them
when they are hurried. They cannot comprehend a society which does not
wait for anything."
"Shouldn't you like to see Manny Green, for instance, during the six
o'clock rush hour in New York? Do you suppose he would understand
the word hustle then?" said Gwen. "However, Aunt Cam, I am sure that
there are great many who are not loafers. Look at Thad Eaton, and Miss
Phosie, too. They work steadily from morning till night. Miss Phosie is
such a dear. She certainly is a contrast to Miss Phenie."
"Yes," returned Miss Elliott, "the very way they cut their pies gives
a clue to their characters. Miss Phenie always helps herself to the
largest piece, Miss Phosie invariably takes the smallest. That tells
the whole story."
"You have it in a nutshell," replied Gwen. "Now you stay here and rest,
Aunt Cam, while I go on my voyage of discovery."
"Where are you going?"
"Not far."
"Whom shall you attack first?"
"That's tellings. I have an idea. If my quest fails I'll acknowledge my
faith misplaced, and myself beaten, though I'm 'hop-sin',' as Asa Bates
says. Lie down and rest. You have done enough for one day."
She picked up her hat and went out. Miss Elliott watched the erect
figure pass the window, and turn toward the sea. "What's she going
that way for?" soliloquized Miss Elliott. "Perhaps she thinks she can
conjure up the wizard." But she ceased to speculate in a few minutes
and dropped off into the sleep which follows great weariness.
Meanwhile Gwen went on toward the garden, following the foot path to
where it dropped between the ridges, and entered a wooded way bordered
by wild-rose bushes. These were not yet in bloom, but the hillside was
white with daisies, and in the sheltered hollow where Cap'n Ben's apple
trees struggled to resist the keen winds, a few faint pink blossoms
were visible.
"Over the shoulders and slopes of the dunes
I saw the white daisies go down to the sea,"
murmured Gwen. "And it will be just as lovely when the roses come. They
are budding now." In a few moments she emerged from the rose path into
the open. Beyond the rocky ledges a little beach was visible at low
tide. When the tide was up it was nearly covered, but now the pebbly
sands were outlined by swathes of wet brown kelp. Mounting a rock Gwen
stood looking out upon the waters of the small harbor, and presently
made out the identity of a boat which was headed for the point near
which she stood. "I thought I'd get here in time," she said to herself.
She waited till the boat was beached and the man in it had stepped
out, shouldering his oars, and turning toward the path by which she
had come. Then she left her big rock and went to meet him. "I've been
waiting for you, Mr. Williams," she said cheerily.
"For me," he said, pausing.
"Yes. I want your advice, and maybe your help. Can you put up window
shades?"
He looked at her with a half-puzzled expression. "I have done it at
Cap'n Ben's," he told her.
"Good!" cried Gwen. "I thought you weren't deficient in mechanical
genius. We are at our wits' ends, or rather, I should say, we at
Wits' End are at our wits' end. That isn't so idiotic a sentence as
it sounds. You know we have named our cottage Wits' End, for my aunt
was distracted to know where to stow her goods, and we continue to be
at our wits' end to know how to get anything done in this perfectly
fascinating, entirely maddening place. Poor Aunt Cam has worn herself
out trying to get some one to put up shades. We could send to Portland
for a man, but by the time we had paid his fare both ways, had paid for
his time, his labor and his board, it would amount to more than the
shades are worth. Now, I appeal to you, a maiden in distress. What do
you advise us to do?"
"I'll put them up for you," returned he abruptly.
"Oh, Mr. Williams, how good of you. I'll confess that is what I hoped
you would do. I have felt from the first that we should be friends. You
have always looked at me as if you were rather interested in the new
arrival, and haven't stalked by me with that defiant look some of your
neighbors wear. That's why I thought I'd hunt you up and pour out my
troubles to you."
"I'm glad you did," he returned. "Shall we go now?"
"To put up the shades? Can you?"
"If you have the screws and things. I can go."
"What fun to go back and tell Aunt Cam the work is all done. Have you
been in our cottage? Don't you think it is perfectly charming?"
"It is a very nice little place. Will your parents be here, too?"
he asked after a pause during which he strode by her side with eyes
downcast.
"Oh, no. I have no parents."
A smothered exclamation caused her to turn to look at the man. His lips
were compressed, his head bent.
"Oh, never mind," said Gwen, gently. "You didn't know of course. There
are only Aunt Cam and myself left. I never had any brothers and sisters
except one tiny baby brother who died before I was born. I always lived
with my grandparents even during my mother's lifetime. Now they are all
gone."
The man was silent for a little, then he asked in a queer strained
voice, "How long since?"
"I was about six when my mother died. Grandfather did not live long
after. Grandmother died about five years ago. Aunt Cam was a teacher in
China, in one of the medical missions, but she came back after mother
died. I don't know very much about my father's people. Grandmother
seldom mentioned them or him. I don't remember him, for he died when I
was a baby. I am a kindergarten teacher, but I wasn't well last year,
and Aunt Cam insisted upon my giving up a month earlier to come up
here to recruit, so I shall have a long rest. Now, Mr. Williams, you
have my history." She looked at him expectantly as if inviting a like
confidence.
"A man's life here can't be called exactly monotonous," he said after
a pause, "for there is always incident enough if one cares for the
quality of it, but there isn't much to make history of. I have lived at
Cap'n Ben's for about twenty years, have fished every day when it was
fit, have eaten, drunk, slept, read when I had a chance, and that is
about all there is."
Gwen was silent, then she shot him a glance. "And before Cap'n Ben's?"
she said.
A hot flush mounted to the man's face. "Before that there is nothing
worth relating," he said. And Gwen felt herself properly rebuked for
her curiosity. Why should she pry into a stranger's secrets? Yet she
felt a sense of disappointment.
They presently came to the cottage perched upon the crags, yet clinging
close to the rocks, showing long sloping lines, and simplicity of
design. "When its newness wears off," said Gwen, "it will look just as
we want it to. Come in, Mr. Williams, and I will get the shades. I can
help you, if you want me to, but I am afraid I should never be able to
put them up alone. I can't manage a saw, and some of the rollers are
too long."
Her companion nodded. He was chary of speech, Gwen knew, but he took
hold of the work as one having a personal interest in it, and before
very long all the windows were furnished with shades.
Gwen surveyed them with a pleased look. "I don't know how to thank you,
Mr. Williams," she said. "I am afraid I was very audacious to descend
upon you as I did, but I was desperate. Shall I?" She fumbled at the
little side bag she wore. "I believe the charge--some of them charge--"
Mr. Williams put up his hand peremptorily. "Stop!" he said. "I have
done this only--"
"To accommodate me," exclaimed Gwen despairingly, then with a sudden
smile, "Please don't say that. I am so tired of hearing it. Any other
word, please."
"I have done this because it was a pleasure," he said gravely smiling.
"And I will call it even if you will promise me one thing."
"And that is--"
"Whenever you get into difficulties that you will come to me, just as
you did to-day, and ask me to help you. If I can do it I will."
Gwen seized his hand. "I told myself you were good and kind the very
first time I saw you. Thank you so much. You make it all seem very
easy when we know there is one friend we can depend upon. I am afraid
I shall bother you a great deal," she continued. "You may be sorry you
exacted such conditions."
He shook his head. "No, I know what I am saying, and I am quite willing
to repeat the terms of our contract."
"Very well, then it's a bargain," Gwen answered.
That night, for the first time since their arrival, Luther Williams sat
at the table with Gwen and her aunt, and the girl felt sure he had made
the concession to emphasize his offer of friendship which she felt was
sealed since he had elected to break bread with them.
It was after supper that Manny Green came around. He had been long
casting sheep's eyes at Ora, but was not encouraged by Cap'n Ben nor
his daughters. Manny was a tall, good-looking lad, but shiftless and
uncertain. He had been brought up by a childless aunt who had lavished
her best upon him, and had made such sacrifices as caused righteous
indignation among the good woman's friends.
"He's a handsome boy, that Manny Green," remarked Miss Elliott as she
watched the slim-waisted Ora walk off with her admirer.
Miss Zerviah Hackett, who had dropped in for her usual evening chat,
gave a snort. "Handsome is as handsome does," she said. "He's not worth
shucks, Miss Elliott. He goes lobstering when he feels like it, and
when he don't he stays to home. When he wants to go off sky-larkin' he
borrows money from his aunt."
"I'm afraid that's so," put in Miss Phosie, "and I wish he'd stay away
from Ora."
"But they're so young it can't mean anything," remarked Gwen.
"Mean anything! Why! she's sixteen," said Miss Zerviah, "and lots of
girls get married at that age."
"Oh, why do their mothers let them?" cried Gwen.
"'Cause they done the same thing themselves," Miss Zerviah informed
her; "and it's all right when the young man's a sober, industrious
fellow, but Manny's lazy. There's no use in trying to get around it."
"I'm afraid he is," said Miss Phosie wofully.
"His father was lost at sea," Miss Zerviah went on, "and he was Almira
Green's only brother, so she thinks she can't deny Emmanuel anything."
"Oh, that's his name, is it?" said Gwen. "I wondered what it could be."
"He always gets Manny," returned Miss Zerviah. "As I was saying, he's
lazy, and moreover, I maintain that the man that's willin' to borrow
from a woman, even if she is a near relation, is pretty poor shucks,
generally speaking. Nine times out of ten she never gets it back. It
does seem to me that a woman who's been a-scrimpin' herself all her
life as Almira's done, and hasn't allowed herself any pleasures, has
a right to her little savin's when she gits to where there's no youth
left her to make up for the goings without. I'd like to know who's to
look out for her when she's past lookin' out for herself. Yet she'll up
and give over and over again to ease Manny's way for him, and to allow
him to go off sky-larkin'. If she'd done a little more sky-larkin'
herself he wouldn't have a chance to git what's her due and not his.
I'm just put out about Almira."
"I hear she's going to take boarders, after all," said Miss Phenie.
"So she is, and that's what I'm fussing about. She determined she'd
take a rest this summer, but I went to her house to-day and there she
was whitewashin' and paperin', same as usual. 'What are you up to,
Almira Green?' s'I. 'Gettin' ready for my boarders,' s'she. 'Boarders,'
s'I. 'I thought you wasn't going to take 'em.' 'They wrote and wanted
to come,' s'she, 'and somehow I don't seem to be able to get along
without.' I was that put out I walked off without a word, for I know
just as true as I'm settin' here, that Manny's been borrowin' again.
He can fling around his money pretty free when it comes out of her
pocket-book."
Miss Phosie looked distressed. She knew that Ora would reap the
benefit of Almira's hard earnings. The girl was very young, very
fond of pleasure, of the foolish little trinkets and baubles which
Manny bestowed upon her. She was, moreover, a vain little person, who
followed the example of her elder, rather than her younger, aunt, and
was given to considering herself first, though she really had more
heart than Miss Phenie. "I wish Ora wouldn't run with him," murmured
Miss Phosie as Gwen passed from the room.
"Now, there, Phosie, what's the use of croaking?" said her sister.
"Ora's young, and young things like a good time. Like as not she'll
take up with somebody else before she thinks of getting married." Then
to change the subject she remarked: "What do you think, Zerviah? Mr.
Williams was up to Miss Elliott's cawtage this afternoon putting up
window shades."
"I want to know!" ejaculated Zerviah, this information driving all
other gossip out of her head. "I never knew him to take up with the
summer people before. Did you, Phenie?"
"No, I can't say that I did, but he certainly has taken a shine to Miss
Whitridge."
Miss Zerviah chuckled. This was a new item to stow away among her
stores of information. "Mr. Williams is always real pleasant," she
said. "I never knew anybody to say a word against him, but I can't
say I ever knew him to be more'n polite to the new people, or, as a
matter of fact, to anybody here on this island. He's been here going on
to twenty year, Phenie, and I'll venture to say you don't know much
more about him than when he came. He ain't a Maine man, I'll warrant."
There was a little eagerness in her manner as she turned her eyes
questioningly upon Miss Phenie.
"Well, he ain't communicative," returned Miss Phenie, "but he does talk
about his childhood sometimes, and about what his father and mother
used to say and do. Yes, he does talk a little, but he's a reserved
man, Zerviah. He's not much of a talker at the best, though he's a
great reader."
"And he's kind-hearted as he can be," interposed Miss Phosie. "He never
lets me bring a stick of wood, nor a drop of water when he's 'round,
and when father was laid up with rheumatiz last winter there wasn't
nothin' he wasn't willin' to do. There's no kinder-hearted man in the
State of Maine than him, and he's always that quiet in his speech. I
never heard him use a profane word, not but what he can get mad when
there's occasion, but he's too much of a gentleman to use an oath."
"That's just it," remarked Miss Zerviah, a little spitefully and with
suggestive accent, "he's too much of a gentleman."
"Now, Zerviah," protested Miss Phosie, "how can you say so?"
"Say what? That he's too much of a gentleman. You said so, didn't you?"
"Not in the way you did. I said he was too much of a gentleman to
swear, but you meant different."
Miss Zerviah laughed. "Have it your own way," she said, rising to go.
"I must be getting up along."
"Don't be in a hurry," said Miss Phosie politely.
But Miss Zerviah had gleaned all that she could, and so, picking up her
milk bucket she went out. She passed by Ora and Manny walking slowly.
Further on she met Luther Williams, who answered her "Good evening"
with a slight bow, but who did not stop, although Zerviah slackened her
pace. She stood still altogether when he had passed and looked after
him as he took the path to the shore. "Now, ain't that like him?" she
murmured. "I don't believe there's another man on the island that would
go wandering off among the rawks after night. He's queer, there ain't
a doubt of it." And she turned her face toward her own low brown house
under the hill where she lived with her father old Cap'n Dave Hackett,
now too feeble for a fisherman's life, but once a fearless battler with
wind and waves.
Gwen, too, was out in the soft June night. She could not be content to
remain in the stuffy house, and had followed Miss Zerviah's way as far
as the road. One could feel perfectly safe anywhere on the island, she
well knew, and she therefore wandered on till she had reached the lower
path leading along the cove. There was still light in the sky which was
reflected in the water, turning it to silver. The cove was quiet enough
but along the reefs outside the water was beginning to dash noisily.
Lights twinkled from several yachts which had put into harbor, and
were rocking, amid a small company of dories, at anchor. A big fishing
schooner, however, lay darkly silent, her crew ashore making merry.
Gwen paced slowly along, her thoughts on many things. She met few
persons. A boy on a wheel sped swiftly by. Two lovers, lost to
everything but themselves, wandered ahead hand in hand. The dark figure
of a man, looking off across the water, was silhouetted against the
faint primrose of the sky where an opening in the bordering pines gave
a glimpse of the further side. Presently Gwen noticed the approaching
figure of some one who stepped firmly and with the swing of a city-bred
person, rather than of one used to country roads and unsteady decks.
Seeing her he drew up suddenly, and doffed his cap. "I beg pardon," he
said, "but can you tell me the way to one Captain Ben Tibbett's?"
Gwen looked up with a smile. "All roads lead to Rome, Mr. Hilary," she
answered. "Keep straight on and you'll get there."
He bent down to observe her more closely, for the dim twilight stealing
over land and sea shadowed still more duskily the pathway already
dimmed by the overhanging trees.
[Illustration: HE BENT DOWN TO OBSERVE HER MORE CLOSELY.]
"Miss Whitridge!" he exclaimed. "I am glad to see you, but what on
earth are you doing 'way up here in Maine?"
"I might ask you the same question, for I am wondering how you
discovered this fairest island in Casco Bay. I have a perfectly
legitimate right to all it offers, for my aunt and I have arrived at
the distinction of being cottagers, while you, I suppose, are a mere
ship that passes in the night, and are just stopping over at the Grange
for a few days."
"You are wrong, quite wrong. I have as good a right here as you. My
sister has also become a householder, and I am here to see her through
the dangers and difficulties of a first season on the island. She has
rented a cottage over yonder," he nodded in the direction from which he
had come, "and I am out on a forage for milk. We haven't had supper
yet and my sister pines for a cup of tea, but cannot drink it 'dry so,'
as they say down in Georgia. Were you going to walk back, and may I
walk with you? I shall get lost, I am certain, unless you pilot me."
"I was going as far as the open, but as it is so little further I can
as well shorten my walk that much, and it is getting dark."
"Aren't you a little scared to be coming along this dim path by night?"
"Why should I be? There is nothing in the world to be afraid of. I
could walk the length and breadth of the island at midnight, and be
perfectly safe. That is one of the joys of being here, this feeling of
absolute security." She turned about, and the two bent their steps to
where Cap'n Ben's house showed whitely in the distance.