THE SINGING WAVES
"He has arrived," said Gwen, coming in with her hands full of wild
roses a few days later.
"He? Who?" asked her aunt.
"The millionaire, or at least the half of one, for they say he is worth
not less than half a million."
"I never heard of him," returned Miss Elliott. "What's his name?"
"He is one Cephas Mitchell, age a little over thirty I should judge;
height five feet nine, or thereabouts; complexion, uncertain;
eyes, pale greenish blue; hair, mouse-color; weight, I don't
believe I can give that, but it must be less than yours, for he
is very skinny-looking. He hails from Boston, and is a steel
something-or-other, we'll say a steel magnate."
"Your details appear to be very exact. Where did you meet him?"
"Down at the post-office. He is a guest of the ladies Gray. He was with
Miss Henrietta. I think he is a relative. It was while he was buying
fishing-tackle or something, that I received my information."
"I wonder what he is doing up here."
"He came with his mother, who is also a guest of the Grays. That makes
seven women in the house, including the servants."
"Well, were you impressed by the young man?"
"Wait till you see him and then judge for yourself." Gwen put her head
to one side as she viewed the arrangement of her roses in a bowl.
"Aren't they lovely, Aunt Cam? I got them just over the fence as I came
along. There are two letters for you and a couple of papers."
"Did you ask about the mackerel?" said Miss Elliott, picking up her
letters.
"Yes, and that's all the good it did. I was informed that our mackerel
was wrapped up, all ready to deliver, when some one came along who
wanted it, and, being on the spot, secured it, so we are minus our
mackerel as there are no more. Ira told me the tale as if it would
console me to know that it had come so far in reaching us as to be
wrapped up."
"Oh dear," sighed Miss Elliott, "then we must either eat canned
something, or try to get a lobster."
"If I could catch sight of Mr. Williams as he comes from the pound
I'd be sure to get some kind of fish," said Gwen. "I believe I'll go
hunt him up. I may not be too late." She picked up her hat and went
out again. The breeze, which always blew up freshly by ten o'clock,
no matter how warm the early morning hours, had begun to stir among
the tree-tops; the grass was vividly green upon the hummocks; in the
woods the birds were calling to each other. A tame crow sat upon a
neighboring roof, making such human noises as led Gwen to think some
one was calling her. She went down hill to the little hollow where
the cove curved in toward the marsh, then up she climbed to penetrate
a pine grove and come out again upon the spot where Luther Williams
moored his dory. She had not miscalculated for, looking up, she saw him
ahead trundling his barrow of fish. She ran after him calling as she
went, and directly he turned, dropped the handles of his barrow and
waited till she came up.
"Any fish for sale, Mr. Williams?" sang out Gwen.
"Well, not at retail," he returned, "but you're welcome to your pick."
"Couldn't do that," answered Gwen, turning over, with a hesitating
finger, the contents of the wheelbarrow.
"Then you can't have any," said Mr. Williams with a smile, essaying to
pick up the handles again.
"That is unkind," returned Gwen. "Would you condemn us to a dinner of
canned soup and potted ham when here are these beautiful fish just out
of the water? Some one bore off the mackerel we ordered, and we are
minus our chief dinner dish unless you'll let us depend upon you."
"You can depend upon me. Come, we'll make a bargain. If you will go out
in my dory with me this afternoon when I haul my nets you shall have
the finest fish in this wheelbarrow."
"Oh, I'd love to do that; it would be the nicest possible excursion,"
responded Gwen enthusiastically, "but it seems to me I shall be getting
the best of it all around."
"No, I am willing to pay for your company, and consider it is a small
price."
"Thanks," Gwen laughed. "When shall I be ready?"
"About three."
"And where shall I meet you? Right off there where your dory is?"
"Yes, if you will." He selected a fine mackerel strung it on a bit of
grass, and handed it to her. "Do you care for tinkers?" he asked.
"Tinkers? I don't know of any but those you read about who go around
the country mending tins."
"That's not the kind," replied Mr. Williams. "They are these little
fellows." He held out a tiny mackerel in his hand. "Some persons like
them better than the large ones."
"Oh, those. I never ate any, but I'd like to."
"You shall have some to-morrow for breakfast. We'll get them this
afternoon."
"You are adding more and more inducements," returned Gwen. "Indeed, Mr.
Williams, I don't know what I should do without you. There is scarcely
a day but you smooth out some difficulty for me."
The man paused before starting off with his load. An inscrutable
look was on his face. "Sometimes," he said slowly, "Heaven gives us
opportunities we thought we had lost." After which speech he moved on,
leaving Gwen to walk slowly home, pondering upon the mystifying remark.
"He certainly is a queer man," she told Miss Elliott, after
triumphantly displaying the fish.
"He has evidently taken a great fancy to you," remarked Miss Elliott.
"Carry the fish out to Lizzie, please, and tell her we'll have it
baked. You are a forager worth while, Gwen."
"We are to have tinkers for breakfast," said Gwen over her shoulder. "I
shall bring them home with me this afternoon."
"And what are tinkers?" asked Miss Elliott.
"Small fry," replied Gwen as she closed the door.
The afternoon was bright and clear, the drifting clouds along the
northern horizon showing that fair weather might be depended upon.
Gwen, equipped for the occasion, stepped into the boat to take the
place assigned her. Luther Williams' helper, young brown-cheeked,
dark-eyed Ned Symington, took one oar, Luther the other, and before
long they were outside the cove, and, as it seemed to Gwen, fearsomely
near the jagged reefs. But Luther's steady eye and strong arm were to
be relied upon, and when they were at anchor she had no fears beyond
those which led her to dread the lopping about of the little boat while
the net was hauled and emptied of its draught of fishes. Not for a
moment did the girl confess her qualms, though she felt she must yield
to sea-sickness any instant.
It was Ned who remarked, "She looks kinder white around the gills,
Cap'n. Guess we'd better sot her ashore, hadn't we?"
Then Luther looked up. "Is it too much for you?" he asked. "I was
taking it for granted that you were a good sailor."
"But it is such a little boat," said Gwen weakly, "and it is rougher
than I imagined."
"We're all ready to go in," he told her. "That will do, Ned."
The sight and smell of the slippery mass of fish in the bottom of the
boat did not add to her enjoyment of the situation, but she lifted her
eyes, looked steadily landward, and was presently borne inside the
reefs to the haven where she would be.
The tin bucketful of tinkers was the reward of heroism, she told Luther
Williams, as he rallied her upon being so poor a sailor. She left him
to dispose of his afternoon's haul, and carrying her prize, she took
the short cut around the little harbor to the cliffs beyond. As she
emerged from a clump of trees which crested the first rise, she met a
man whose costume was carefully studied. His arms were bared to the
shoulders, while his negligé shirt, open at the neck, displayed a
vast expanse of throat. He wore knickerbockers, highly colored golf
stockings, and tennis shoes. His hair, instead of being close-cropped,
was allowed to grow in two locks above his forehead, and these locks
waved in the breeze at each step. His whole air was one of wild abandon
as he sprang from hummock to hummock.
At sight of Gwen he poised himself upon a hillock as if about to
take flight and called out cheerily "Good afternoon, Miss Whitridge,
I'd take off my hat to you, but you see I don't wear one. Isn't this
glorious? Let me carry your pail for you. Been Ashing, I see."
Gwen surrendered her tin bucket. "Well, not exactly, Mr. Mitchell,"
she said, "but at least I accompanied the expedition, and the reward I
received for lopping around in a ticklish little boat for an hour or
more, is this hoard of tinkers. Do you know enough of the vernacular to
recognize the variety of fish?"
Mr. Mitchell peered curiously into the bucket. "They look like
mackerel," he remarked.
"You have guessed the first time. That is exactly what they are:
kindergarteners caught in a school of mackerel."
Mr. Mitchell smiled faintly and fell into step, while Gwen realized
that conventional speech was best suited to her companion. "Delightful
weather, isn't it, Mr. Mitchell?" she began. "I hope you are enjoying
the island."
"Oh, so much, Miss Whitridge. I assure you that such novel experiences
don't come my way very often. I was saying to my mother this morning
that to cast off the shackles of business and become, as it were, a
child of nature, is delightful, such a charming episode in one's life,
isn't it?"
"Charming indeed," returned Gwen, glancing down demurely at the green
and yellow golf stockings. "Shall you be here all summer, Mr. Mitchell?"
"For the greater part of it. My mother has not been well and the doctor
has prescribed Maine air and quiet, so I have promised to keep her
company for a while. Some friends at Bar Harbor are expecting me in
August. It doesn't do to live too long away from civilization, does it?"
"Well, I don't know; it depends upon what you call being civilized."
"Oh, the regulation thing, of course; living in comfortable,
well-furnished rooms, eating proper fare, dining out, and going to
places of amusement, meeting your friends at clubs and at social
functions."
"Wearing well cut clothes, walking down Commonwealth Avenue in a silk
hat and frock coat," returned Gwen with gravity.
"Yes, yes, that sort of thing. I see you understand. But it is my
principle to fall in with the customs of whatever place I happen to be
in, and that is why I dress for the island."
"I see you do," responded Gwen. "Very commendable I am sure, Mr.
Mitchell. Is your mother much of an invalid? Can't she enjoy being
here?"
"Oh, yes, she enjoys it in a measure. She thinks the air very
invigorating, and she is fond of her cousins. She hasn't ventured to
walk over this rough ground, so she sits on the porch generally. She
has her fancy-work and that interests her."
"How fortunate," murmured Gwen.
"Who is that chap sketching over there on the rocks?"
Gwen glanced seaward. "Oh, that is Mr. Hilary. He is here for the
summer, too."
"Queer how a man can like to spend his time doing that sort of thing.
I'd never be content to sit around daubing paint on canvas," remarked
Mr. Mitchell. "An active life for me," and he lengthened his stride,
giving an added spring to his gait.
"No," returned Gwen dreamily, "I shouldn't imagine you could be content
to do such things."
Mr. Mitchell glanced down at her with a gratified expression. "I say,
Miss Whitridge," he said, "you are appreciative."
Gwen's childlike laugh rang out merrily. There was such smug self
satisfaction in his manner. "Thank you," she returned. "I believe I am
more thankful for my appreciative faculty than for anything else. For
instance, at this present moment I am loving that beautiful tender haze
that overspreads the distance, and I am hearing the most delicately
lovely motive in that musical murmur of the waves on the beach. You
don't always hear it just like that, only when the tide is at a certain
point and it is not too rough. Listen." She stopped and Mr. Mitchell
obediently halted also.
"They are pretty noisy at night sometimes," he said, "the waves I mean,
and they aren't very noisy now, but what their motive is beyond coming
in and going out I cannot see." He looked bewildered and half annoyed.
"This will never do," said Gwen to herself. "I mean they sing a
little--tune to me," she explained.
Mr. Mitchell visibly brightened. "Oh, yes, now you put it that way I
suppose one could fancy something of the kind, but I'm not much for
fancies, of that sort, I mean. Of course I take fancies to things--and
persons." He gave the girl a swift look.
"This is better," thought Gwen. "I suppose you enjoy solid facts,"
she said. "I confess I haven't much patience, myself, with visionary
people. If it were not for the practical ones we should all be very
uncomfortable."
"Exactly. That is what I always say, though I'm not such a clodhopper
as not to enjoy beauty," another glance.
"Then," said Gwen calmly, "I hope you will let me show you some of the
beauties of this island."
"Thanks awfully. That's awfully good of you. You see my mother doesn't
think she can walk much, and the other ladies don't care to. They all
like to go to Portland, and they enjoy excursions and drives, but I'd
have to do my walking alone unless--"
"Unless a bold young woman offered to go with you."
"Now, Miss Whitridge, don't say that. You are most hospitable and kind,
in my opinion."
"That is what I meant to be," returned Gwen.
"When can we begin? What shall you show me first?"
"Pebbly Beach, I think. Each pebble is such a nice solid fact you will
enjoy it."
"Can we go to-morrow?"
"In the afternoon, yes."
"Thanks. And after Pebbly Beach?"
"Water Cove, perhaps. Thunder Hole will have to wait for a rough day,
and Sheldon Woods when we are better acquainted."
"And why?"
"Because it is the Holiest of Holies, and is not to be introduced to
any passing acquaintance."
"Oh, I say now, Miss Whitridge, you mustn't consider me a passing
acquaintance, and besides I don't see what difference it makes anyway.
Woods are woods, you know."
"Are they?" returned Gwen. "I don't think so."
"Oh, I don't mean that I insist upon going there first, you know,"
returned Mr. Mitchell with a little less of his ready assurance. "I'm
perfectly willing to follow wherever you lead. Shall I carry these in
for you? No? Then to-morrow at what hour?"
"Shall we say four?" said Gwen after a moment's thought.
"Yes--but--"
"What does that 'but' mean? Have you something else to do at that hour?"
"Oh dear, no. Only why not earlier? Unless you take a nap."
"If I should happen to do that I'd be wide awake before then. Suppose
we make it half-past three. Will that suit you, Mr. Mitchell?"
"Perfectly."
"Auf wiedersehen, then." She carried in her bucket of fish to display
to Miss Elliott. "Look at our small fry, Aunt Cam," she exclaimed.
"Enough for supper and breakfast, and to send to the House of the Seven
Gables."
"Gwen!"
"Well, dearest!"
"What makes you say that?"
"Because it is so apt. Seven women and one lone man who is being talked
to death, I am sure. I wonder if that is why he is so thin."
"The millionaire, you mean?"
"The creature with such a faulty sense of humor that he couldn't
recognize a joke if he met one in broad daylight. A true
primrose-on-the-river's-brim man."
"Oh dear me, Gwen, is he like that?"
"Well, he is above all things practical. I suppose one ought to be
thankful he is, for remove his festoons of bank notes and what would he
be?"
"You are a trifle practical yourself, my dear. You have an absolute
talent for economics."
"Don't," groaned Gwen. "You will make me feel that I am too thoroughly
fitted to be a poor man's wife to throw myself away on a millionaire.
We have just had a long talk, and I see an ever increasing vista of
engagements to walk. I have promised to show him the beauties of the
island. I wonder if I could manage them all in one day. Now that I am
free from the magnetism of his presence I am wondering at my readiness
to offer myself as 'guide, philosopher and friend.' He carried my fish
home for me."
"Then--"
"You think tinkers are not the only fish I have landed? At all events I
find that goldfish are a trifle difficult to digest, and oh, they are
so bony. I don't know how they would seem served up with diamond sauce.
I might enjoy the sauce, and forget the fish. Anyhow, and seriously
speaking, it is a great thing to have at last discovered the long
desired millionaire. Did you observe his looks, his free step and his
wild and woodland air? He out-islands the islanders."
"I saw him," answered Miss Elliott. "I did think him a trifle
over-dressed for the occasion."
"Under-dressed you mean. Nothing short of coral clasps could hitch
his sleeves up higher, and I am sure there is a full yard of throat
exposed to sun and air. I was foolish enough to try being fanciful when
I talked to him. I wish you could have seen his expression. To-morrow
we go to Pebbly Beach and I shall talk steel rails to him all the way.
I am afraid he will suggest carting away all the pebbles to fill in
railroad beds, though it won't matter as it can't be done. I am bound
he shall find me sympathetic, though I die in the attempt. I'm going
out on the porch. Come along, dear. Why should you ever sit indoors?"
"As soon as I have finished this letter I'll come."
Gwen picked up a book and went out. The singing waves were rippling
in over the reefs. The sandpipers added a plaintive note once in a
while to the universal melody, and from the grove beyond the marsh
song-sparrows and wrens piped in harmony. The farther island lay
distinctly outlined now in the sun, and the haze had moved on to the
mainland which it enveloped in a faint purple mist. The windows of a
house on a distant island flamed out like a beacon light as the sun
touched them. The sky was blue above, the sea a deeper blue beneath.
Soon more vivid colors would stain the west, and would drop rose and
violet and gold upon the waters.
Letting her book lie in her lap unopened, Gwen permitted her eyes to
dwell upon the scene before her. "It is almost too lovely," she sighed.
Presently some one waved a hand to her from a rock just below. "Do you
hear them?" came the question.
"Hear what?" said Gwen, rising to her feet.
"The singing waves," was the reply. "Such a queer, quaint little motive
that reminds me of Grieg: only a few notes repeated and repeated with
a different accompaniment, so that although it is monotonous there is
infinite variety. Do you hear?"
Gwen stepped out upon the flat rock in front of the porch. "I hear,"
she said. "I have been thinking the motive lovely, but I failed to get
the suggestion of Grieg. It is like. Have you made a successful sketch,
Mr. Hilary?"
"Would you like to see?"
"I'd like it immensely."
"I'll bring it up."
He came springing up the cliff, and turned his sketch around to show
her what he had been doing. "It's just off here." He waved his hand.
"I see; a bit of the Pinnacle and the singing waves curling and
rippling around the feet of the rocks. How well you have suggested that
movement of the water, those queer circles and sinuous markings. I like
the color you find in the rocks. They are not gray at all. Yes, I like
it. It is better than the last. What is that other one? May I see it?"
He handed her the second canvas he carried. Gwen held it off. A single
white-capped wave leaped up from a gray-green sea. One could feel the
toss of spray and could catch the pearly light. Gwen observed it long.
"I like that, too," she said, "though it's rather more commonplace. It
should please the popular taste, but it doesn't touch the first."
"In other words, it is more salable but not so artistic."
"Yes, I think that is it. You will have to exhibit your canvases after
a while, when you have enough. I am sure you could find buyers."
The young man made no reply, but silently set his sketches aside. "I
saw you out with Luther Williams," he said presently.
"Yes, and I came near to being seasick in that little boat that flopped
about so wickedly at anchor, but I was rewarded with a whole bucketful
of tinkers, and I don't mind looking back upon the afternoon now it is
over."
"Who is the individual with the antennae and the buoyant step?" asked
Kenneth, bending over his box.
"Oh, that? A steel magnate from Boston. He does look rather like some
queer insect, though his ambitions are very human. I fancy he will
never grow wings here below. He could never get along at all in the
upper air, for he is of the earth, earthy, and if he is an insect he is
not the flying kind."
"A hopping one, may be, a grasshopper?"
"Yes, his flights would never be higher. He makes rather a good
grasshopper."
"I should call him a jar-fly. You know that's what the negroes call
locusts sometimes."
"But why a jar-fly?"
"He jars me," returned the young man shouldering his painting kit.
"Dreadful!"
Kenneth laughed and took his departure, Gwen watching him. "He is much
better fun," she soliloquized, "but alas, he is as poor as poverty.
Why does the gift always come with the gauntlet? The singing waves! the
singing waves! How well he understood. Come out, Aunt Cam, come out,"
she called. "The sun is about to set, and I refuse to eat one tinker
till the sky grows gray."