"IF IT WERE YOUR DAUGHTER"
It was warm and quiet in Miss Phosie's kitchen. The teakettle, as it
simmered on the big stove, sang a gentle tune. On the braided mat,
of various hues, slept Cap'n Ben's dog, Tinker. The window ledges
held numerous tin cans and glass jars in which slips of geranium and
fuchsia were planted. The table, covered with oilcloth, displayed a
row of freshly baked cakes. Miss Phosie by the window, work basket at
her side, was mending Luther Williams' socks. She wore her afternoon
frock, for there was only supper to get, and part of that was already
prepared. The frock was of black alpaca, with tight-fitting waist
finished at the neck by a little lace collar which was held together by
an old-fashioned pin set with a braid of hair. The dark strand was Miss
Phenie's, the light her mother's, the one streaked with gray, Cap'n
Ben's, the brown one that of her brother, Ora's father, who was lost
at sea, the lightest of all was Miss Phosie's own. She gave a gentle
sigh as she folded up the last pair of socks. "I shall be glad when the
summer is over," she soliloquized, "and we settle back in the old ways.
Seems as if there wasn't time for anybody or anything now. I don't
wonder he keeps away so much with the house full of strangers, and
folks liable to run in here any minute where he's used to laying and
being comfortable with a book. To be sure he spends a good deal of time
with Miss Elliott and Gwen. That young man Hilary, too, he seems to be
friendly with. Well, I don't blame him; they're nice folks, real kind
and pleasant, and more his kind. I hope he won't be discontented after
they're gone, that's all. He appears sort of moody lately, as if he had
something on his mind, or was dissatisfied in some way. I daresn't say
a word to him about it, though I should like to know if there is really
anything worrying him, or if it's just the boarders and the having
things upsot." Her thoughts went back to the chill winter days, when,
as she moved quietly about the kitchen, Luther Williams would be on
the lounge near the window with a book, striving to catch the last bit
of daylight, then when the short afternoon shut down, they would have
a quiet chat together about the little daily doings of the household,
the news of the neighborhood, or sometimes of more personal things.
Miss Phosie always looked forward to that peaceful hour during which
the rest of the family gathered in the sitting-room, and she washed the
supper dishes and tidied up the kitchen. "It won't be long now," she
told herself, "the summer's going. I kind of hate to see the lights all
out in the cottages, too, and it does seem more lively to have people
coming and going."
She stepped to the door and looked out beyond the blooming array of
petunias, roses, and asters to the row of cottages along shore. Then
her eye travelled across the pasture to a dip between ridges which
showed a well-worn path leading to the house from the pines beyond.
Along this way was Luther Williams accustomed to trundle his barrow.
He was not coming now, and Miss Phosie turned her gaze from the path
to the road. The air was sweet with the scent of new-mown hay, for
everyone was cutting grass now, and it lay in long odorous windrows
upon the ground by the orchard. Cap'n Ben and Silas Ford were out there
working, Cap'n Ben's big booming voice rising above other sounds as he
spoke to his fellow laborer.
Miss Phosie was about to close the door when she heard Zerviah
Hackett's sharp tones. "Looking for Ora, Phosie? She's down at Almira
Green's. I saw her there a few minutes ago helping Manny pass his time
agreeably. Was you coming out or going in?"
"I just stepped to the door for a minute," returned Miss Phosie. "My!
don't it smell sweet out of doors?"
"Always does in haying season," replied Miss Zerviah.
They entered the house together, and Miss Zerviah seated herself on one
of the old kitchen chairs, painted black, with a decoration of flowers
now dimly seen because of the rubbing of generations of backs. "In my
heaven," remarked Miss Zerviah, "I hope the men will have to wash all
the dishes, and either they'll have chairs four inches too high for
'em, so their legs will dangle, or else that the general size of women
will be considered."
"Why, Zerviah Hackett," exclaimed Miss Phosie, "that sounds real
sacrilegious."
"No 'tain't," returned Zerviah; "not according to some's doctrines,
Swedenborgians, for instance."
"You been talking to the Knowles's, I guess."
"I did see Miss Knowles this morning, and had a few words with her. I
guess maybe that was what put it into my head. 'Tany rate this world
wasn't made for women. Did you ever notice, Phosie, how steps is always
made for men on the street cars, and the seats in places where they
have shows? I don't see why it would hurt a man to crook up his knees a
little higher, or to take a wee mite of a shorter step getting in and
out cars. I was up to the city last Monday and I've had sciatica ever
since because every nameable chair I sot in bound me across my sciatic
nerves. When I mentioned dish-washing I was thinking of Almira Green.
There she was this time o' afternoon just getting through her dishes,
and that lazy Manny settin' outside on the back porch looking pretty
and making Ora laugh."
[Illustration: "THAT LAZY MANNY SETTIN' OUTSIDE ON THE BACK PORCH."]
Miss Phosie flushed up. "Ora hain't accountable for Manny's behavior,"
she said, "and as long as she's done her work I don't see why she's
called upon to do other people's."
"I hain't a-blaming her," returned Miss Zerviah, "not but what she
mightn't have taken a hand at the dishes, but seems to me she could
encourage Manny to be brisker."
"I guess Manny's drawed his traps," retorted Miss Phosie, "and I
don't see that many of the men about here give much time to wiping
dishes." Miss Zerviah always so antagonized Miss Phosie that she won
from her the only tart speeches she was liable to make. However, Miss
Zerviah was used to argument and did not in the least mind it.
"He could fetch water and wood," she insisted, "and he could give a
hand here and there, even to dishes, and it wouldn't hurt him. Other
men do for their families and hain't called upon to help except
to pay the bills. The trouble with Manny is he hain't never taken
responsibilities, and it looks to me as if he never would. I dunno how
he's going to make out with matrimony I'm sure."
"Who's saying anything about Manny's undertakin' matrimony?" asked Miss
Phosie sharply.
"Oh, I can see through a millstone if it has got a hole in it, and when
two young things walk and talk together every opportunity they get,
it's easy enough to prophesy what'll take place."
"Manny hain't the only admirer Ora has," Miss Phosie argued, nervously
settling her sewing materials in her basket. "I'm sure that young man
from the Neck wants to keep company with her."
"The one the boys run off the island by hiding his boat? He won't come
back. He was showed too plain he wasn't wanted."
"I guess Manny Green ain't the only spoiled child that's got married,"
returned Miss Phosie, taking another line of argument, "and what's
more there's plenty on this island that was spoiled in their youth and
turned out good family men after all. I could mention quite a few."
"I'm glad you're so hopeful. Manny's for all the world like his
grandpap Pritchard. He was the kind that sot around on a chair and wore
his clothes in creases. Howsomever, it's easy for you with your father
before you as an example and Mr. Williams, too. You don't have to lug
wood and water like Almira does."
"Not when Mr. Williams is around," Miss Phosie said proudly, "and
I guess there's enough of us in this house to have an eye to Ora,
Zerviah."
"Well, I'm sure I thought you ought to know what's going on," said Miss
Zerviah. "That's why I stopped by to tell you that Ora was down at
Almira's. I thought maybe you didn't know it."
"Almira's quite fond of Ora." Miss Phosie pursed up her mouth primly.
"And I'm sure she's welcome there."
"Oh, very well, if you take it that way." Miss Zerviah rose to go. "I
certainly would be glad if anybody was interested enough to keep an eye
on a niece of mine. Your father's hay looks pretty good, Phosie. He has
quite a crop this year. Hill Evans hain't begun to cut his yet. He's
always behind, and like as not just as he gets it cut there'll come up
a thunder-storm. Just his luck, he'll say, too. Well I must be going. I
see you keep well. How's Phenie?"
"She's nicely, thank you."
"Keep your house full of boarders?"
"We've all we care for."
"They going to stay long?"
"As long as it suits them, and that will suit us."
"You was lucky to have some one come in just as soon as Miss Elliott
left. I hear Mr. Williams is greatly taken up there, whether it's the
aunt or the niece nobody knows. Maybe he's thinking of marrying again;
he's quite well-to-do they say. I've heard his wife ran off and left
him and that's why he come away from home."
Miss Phosie winced. She knew this was but a feeler on Zerviah's part,
who had always felt aggrieved that she could learn no more of Luther
Williams than was given out by Cap'n Ben's family, though she had never
before voiced her curiosity quite so plainly. "Mr. Williams has a
right to do as he chooses," said Miss Phosie with dignity. "If anyone's
been fooling you with that cock-and-bull story you can tell them his
wife is dead and has been for many a year."
"Humph!" Miss Zerviah sniffed. "Well, I suppose you ought to know,
seeing he's been living under your roof for all these years. It's a
wonder to me he didn't set up to one of you Tibbett girls long ago."
Two red spots flamed in Miss Phosie's cheeks, and she pressed her hands
together till the knuckles showed the strained clasp. She swallowed
hard. No apt retort would come to her lips. She felt Zerviah's
inquisitive eye upon her. Presently a fitting response suggested itself
to her. "Mr. Williams stands in the place of the brother we lost," she
said, holding her head high. "Father always says so, and I'm sure no
brother could be more thoughtful than him, and no son neither."
Miss Zerviah's hand was on the latch and she slipped out the door as
some one passed the window. "Well, good-bye," she said hastily. She
felt that she would rather not meet Luther Williams in Miss Phosie's
presence, just then.
He greeted her with a lifting of the cap and a "Good evening, Miss
Zerviah," as he entered the kitchen where Miss Phosie stood with the
light of triumph in her eye. "Been having a set-to with Zerviah?" he
said pleasantly, knowing that the two seldom met without a tilt of
words. "What was the cause of the battle this time?"
"She's been spying on Ora," replied Miss Phosie, glad to be able to
speak truthfully. "I declare, Mr. Williams, she'd like to run this
whole island. I believe she'd try to worm a secret out of a log. Do
you think, Mr. Williams, we'd ought to separate Ora from Manny? She
might go to her mother's folks for awhile. Manny mayn't exactly be
up-and-coming, but he hasn't bad habits. He's awful good company, full
of fun, and everybody likes him. It doesn't seem quite right to stand
between two that love each other, does it? Supposing she was your
daughter what would you do about it?"
Mr. Williams' face twitched as he sat down on the lounge, but he made
no answer at once.
"You know," Miss Phosie went on. "You stand in the place of a brother
to us, as you always say, and Phenie don't like to discuss this with
me. She's never one to worry overmuch, and tells me I mustn't cross my
bridges till I come to 'em, but it seems to me we've just about set
foot on this one. Do you think I'm too anxious, Mr. Williams? How would
you feel if it was your daughter?"
"That's a pretty hard question to answer, Phosie," said Mr. Williams
after a silence. "Maybe it might be a good thing to send her away for
awhile until you get your bearings. Maybe it would be a good test.
She's very young, and such young things aren't always constant. It
might be a good thing for Manny, too. You could tell Ora that when
Manny can provide a home for her it will be time enough for them to be
thinking of matrimony. She may meet some one in Bangor that she'd like
better, a richer man, maybe. She's not seventeen yet, is she?"
"She will be in a couple of weeks. I'm thinking, Mr. Williams, that it
would be pretty bad if she should happen to take a fancy to a worse man
than Manny. You can't never tell how some of these city men'll turn
out, and we know all there is to know about Manny. If she should do
worse I'd feel that we'd separated two loving hearts and been punished
for doing it. It hain't money that brings happiness, you know, Mr.
Williams, and she's been brought up among fishermen. She's used to the
ways here."
"A fisherman's wife has a hard time sometimes."
"Yes, they work hard, a good many of 'em, but there's worse than
working hard, and we're pretty peaceful and contented with our lot
here on the island, the most of us. You see I'm trying to look on both
sides."
"I see you're trying to be the fair and just person you always are,
Phosie. You always put yourself in the place of others, but I don't see
that you put many in your place."
"I can't see any difference."
"Well, it's this way. You think to yourself what should I like if I
were so-and-so, not what would so-and-so like if she were I."
Miss Phosie shook her head. Such fine distinctions were beyond her.
"Well, I'm sure I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Williams, for your advice.
I'll speak to father, and I'll talk to Ora, and maybe we can send her
away for a visit. She might like the change. I see her coming now,
and I guess this is as good a time as any other. Don't you go, Mr.
Williams, we'll just slip upstairs where we won't be disturbed." And
Miss Phosie went out to bid Ora follow her to the upper room which they
shared together. Miss Phenie must have a room to herself, so it was
Miss Phosie who had always had Ora for a room-mate.
Luther Williams leaned back in his favorite place. "What should I do
if it were my daughter?" he soliloquized. "I'd give her to the man she
loved if he were half a decent fellow. Who knows the curse of money
better than I? Yet--" His thoughts flew to Gwen who had lately said she
would choose her father to be like him. Suppose it were such a girl
as Gwen, could he condemn her to poverty, the anxious eating cares
that insufficient means would bring? Could he see that untroubled face
growing lined and care-worn? those slender hands roughened and hardened
by work? that sunny nature saddened or embittered? He shook his head.
"It wouldn't do. All of one thing or all of the other isn't right.
There must be judicious mixing. I'd sooner see her overboard than
wrecking her happiness by marrying for money alone, and I'd sooner see
her earning her comfortable little salary for a lifetime than to have
her working her fingers to the bone for a careless indifferent husband.
There must be judicious mixing and then--"
He sat a long time thinking. So long that Miss Phosie, returning to
prepare supper, found him still sitting there. "I've talked with
Ora," she said. "And I think she's willing to go, especially as Manny
is talking of going off sword-fishing. He's never been but once,
but perhaps if he gets fairly started he'll keep on. Almira never
encouraged him to go, fearing something would happen to him, but Ora
thinks he'll go if he hears she is going away. She's as good as said
she'd promised to marry him, and she sees he'd ought to make a start.
If he does well, I don't see any harm in encouraging him, do you?"
"If he does well by all means let them be happy," returned Mr. Williams
emphatically. "It might be the making of Manny, and it would be a
comfort to Mrs. Green to have Ora with her when the boy goes fishing.
Yes, yes, Phosie, by all means. Happiness isn't so plentiful that we
can afford to stand in the way of its coming to others."
"No, it isn't so plentiful," replied Miss Phosie wistfully. "I--I wish,
Mr. Williams, we could do more to bring it to you. It has seemed to me
lately that you've not been quite like yourself."
He gave a short laugh. "Don't worry about me, Phosie. Nobody has done
as much as you have. Think of the home I have here, and the kindness
you have shown me. I'd have to go pretty far to find anyone else so
ready to mend and darn for me, to make the kind of preserves I like
best, and to cook things as I like them. No, indeed, Phosie, my
own sister could not do more to make her old brother happy. 'I was
a stranger and you took me in,' without a word, and from that very
first day when you saw I enjoyed your gingerbread you've baked it for
me regularly." He laughed pleasantly and a faint pink suffused Miss
Phosie's pale cheek.
"You've been like a brother to us, Mr. Williams. I shall never forget
what you were to father and to all of us when the news came about
Franklin, and how you comforted poor fatherless little Ora."
The entrance of Miss Phenie and Ora put an end to the confidential
talk. Ora was quiet beyond the ordinary, and once or twice Miss Phosie
thought she saw a suggestion of tears in the girl's eyes. "I hope, oh
I do hope we are doing right," she said to herself, and she was even
gentler to her niece than was her wont.
Miss Phenie in her best blue-and-white sateen, trimmed with lace,
stepped about with the air of one unaccustomed to the performance of
menial duties. She retired to the garden after cutting the cake and
setting out the preserves. "I'll get some fresh flowers for the table,"
she said, as she sailed out. The ornamental was always her preference.
After supper Ora stole forth into the odorous night. The moon had not
yet risen, though the sea reflected an expectant brightness and the
afterglow still reddened the west. A light shone from the little hall
where the summer people gathered for various entertainments. Some one
was singing there, a song whose refrain was all of love. Ora crept up
to an open window and listened for a moment, then moved softly away
and was soon lost in the shadows of the mighty rocks which marked the
trysting place of herself and her young lover.
Meanwhile Luther Williams was taking his evening smoke as he sauntered
up the cove road toward the further point. Half way he met Kenneth
Hilary. "Going the other way to-night?" he said to the young man.
"Yes, for this has been a good day for me. I wish I could stop to tell
you. I will another time. Now I am bound for Wits' End. Miss Gwen is
giving a chafing-dish party to-night."
"And you are in a hurry, of course."
Kenneth turned back and said a little shamefacedly, "No-o,--that
is--well, you know Wits' End is a mighty good place for a fellow to be.
I sold a picture to-day."
"Good! and you want to tell your news before it gets stale. I see."
"She is so sweet and sympathetic, you know."
Luther Williams smiled. "She? Who? Of course you must mean Miss
Elliott."
Kenneth laughed in an embarrassed way. "Oh, I say," he began, then went
on more seriously. "I do feel encouraged and I suppose that makes me
hopeful. Mr. Williams, you and I have had some good talks, and I am
under no end of obligation to you for the things you have said and the
interest you have shown in me. Perhaps I am precipitate. Perhaps I am
not prudent, but you see things do look brighter, and I may succeed
sooner than I hoped. Besides, there is the other fellow--though I
suppose I am a conceited ass to dream that she might prefer me--would
you--do you think--you and she are such friends--I say--if you had a
daughter what would you think if an impecunious fellow like me told her
he loved her?"
"If I had a daughter," said Mr. Williams reflectively. "That is the
second time to-day that I have been asked to consider such a state of
affairs. I'll have to give the subject serious thought, I find, if I am
going to be appealed to twice daily. Suppose we leave the question for
the present, Mr. Hilary, and I'll consider it. Meanwhile I am keeping
you from your party, so I'll say good-night with the advice, go slow."
He spoke with mocking lightness, and Kenneth, feeling rather rebuffed,
went on his way.