THREE FISHERS WENT SAILING
The fog shut down again the next day, for the uncertain wind veered
around again to the southeast, and for several days the weather was
capricious. At last it seemed to settle and was warm, sunny and
agreeable. In spite of what Gwen called "Ethel's wiles" Cephas Mitchell
discreetly divided his time between the two girls, and none could
say which he preferred, though by certain signs Gwen was convinced
that she was first favorite. Kenneth Hilary she had not seen again
except casually. The more she realized the depth of her interest in
him, the more indifference she had tried to show, and prided herself
upon returning his formal lifting of his cap with as formal a nod.
She wondered if things must go on this way indefinitely, and, as time
passed, felt more and more helpless to alter conditions, while more
and more eager to do so. The precious days were drifting by, the seat
of happy memories under a branchy tree on the edge of Sheldon Woods,
had become a sort of altar for the worship of lost hours, and she
often went there alone, but never, by any accident, permitted Cephas
to select it as a resting place when they strolled in that direction.
It seemed that the more unattainable the more valuable grew that lover
whom she had so rudely thrust aside. Perhaps one reason for this was
that closer acquaintance with Mr. Mitchell commended him less than
ever to her taste, and there were days when a walk with him seemed
intolerable. At other times, when Ethel made one of the party, the
spirit of rivalry gave zest to the occasion, and Gwen was ready to
exercise her own powers of attraction. At such times the talk was light
and flippant, indeed, it seldom rose to anything more serious than the
summer's experiences, the gossipy tales about the island. There was a
good deal of chaffing and much laughter. Cephas enjoyed what the two
girls called "kidding," and set little value upon any but trifling
subjects.
The way to Sheldon Woods was full of surprises to the uninitiated. The
path led from the main road past an old well, on through the orchard
belonging to the "Grange." Beyond the orchard one must know well in
which direction to go, for the path could scarcely be distinguished
amid the thick growth of underbrush, weeds and saplings. Once on it
one must be impressed by its wild beauty, and could imagine himself
far from habitations. Here the sea was not in sight, only dense masses
of growing things, strange vivid-colored fungi, thickets of brakes,
the softest and greenest of mosses, a jungle of brambles. At last one
came to a stone wall and stepped out upon an open field which appeared
unexpectedly. It was here that Gwen and Mr. Mitchell saw Kenneth at
work one day.
"There is your friend, Mr. Hilary," said Mr. Mitchell to his companion,
as he waved a signalling hand. "Shall we go over and see what he is
doing?"
"No, no," returned Gwen hastily. "He hates to be disturbed when he is
sketching. I think we'd better go on." And without turning aside they
followed the path across the field, and disappeared in the grove of
tall pines beyond. Gwen wondered whether they were watched by the man
apparently so absorbed in his work, but she did not once look back.
Once within the deep woods it was necessary to be sure of bearings, but
Gwen knew the way thoroughly, and presently they entered an enclosure
surrounded by encircling pines, which were so closely ranked about
them that daylight scarcely penetrated the spot. The ground was soft
to the tread by reason of its thick carpet of pine-needles, and soft,
waving curtains of gray moss depending from the trees, helped to shut
out the light.
"This seems almost a holy place," said Gwen softly. "We call it the
Cathedral, and I have never seen a finer."
"It is a solemn sort of place," agreed Mr. Mitchell. "Let's get out of
it. I say, Miss Whitridge, when you go abroad you will see the real
thing, though I must say I never took much stock in cathedrals, even
over there."
Gwen moved on. "I didn't mean to compare them to this," she said with a
short laugh.
Emerging from the dense woods the sea lay before them, and from the
high bluff it was easy to appreciate the nearness of neighboring
islands.
"Now, where shall we sit?" said Mr. Mitchell. "That seems rather a
jolly place over there under that tree with the low branches."
"No, not there," returned Gwen hastily. "I know a fine place a little
further on. We are to read awhile and then go around to the other side
to see the sunset. I am glad it is clear again, although I did enjoy
the fog that first day. However, a week of it gets rather tiresome.
One has such a very limited horizon and no perspective to speak of.
Sometimes life seems like that, as if a fog had shut down suddenly and
cut off all your perspective, doesn't it?"
"Eh? Oh, yes. I don't know much about perspective and things. You'll
have to talk that artist talk to our friend Hilary back there. I know
when I like a picture, but when it comes to stuff like perspective and
atmosphere I'm not in it."
"But you do like music, opera, for example," said Gwen, feeling around
for a mental point of contact.
"Certainly I like opera. It's awfully jolly to see all the ladies in
their pretty clothes and to go around to the different boxes between
acts."
"But the music."
"When it isn't too heavy. I like a ripping good singer who gives you a
high note that makes you nearly jump out of your seat. It's exciting
to hear how high she will go, and some of the airs run in my head for
hours, that one that Caruso sings for example." He began to whistle "La
donna é mobile."
Gwen gave a deep sigh. "And how about the Wagner operas?"
"Can't stand them. I went to hear Lohengrin once, and came out before
the last act. I leave out Aida now, too. The good old-timers suit me,
old Trovatore and Martha, and some of the new ones aren't bad, the ones
with catchy music."
"You didn't like Aida?" Gwen fairly groaned.
"Bored me to death. Could hardly sit through it. I wouldn't have,
only the ladies I was with appeared to like it, so I stayed on their
account."
Gwen made no comment but opened the book she had brought, a copy
of Kipling. She had considered his masculine taste in making the
selection. "Now I'll read you my favorite 'Bell Buoy' right here where
we can get the sound of one. 'White Horses' is really my favorite, but
it is not in this volume. I'll read first and then you can pick out
something to read to me."
She opened the book and proceeded to read. Her listener sat with hands
behind his head and Gwen hoped he was impressed, for she read well.
"What do you think of it?" she asked as she closed the book.
"Well, I can't make out exactly what he's driving at. I'm not a great
one for poetry. Once in a while you come across some rattling good
thing like 'Hans Breitmann's Party,' something that makes you laugh. I
don't mind that sort of poetry."
Gwen slipped the book behind her. "What do you like to read, Mr.
Mitchell?"
"Oh, I don't have much time to do more than run through the newspapers,
or a magazine sometimes when I'm on a train."
"But I thought all Bostonians were very intellectual." There was
disappointment in Gwen's tones at discovery of his especial taste in
literature. She had thought he might declare himself for history, at
least.
"Well, I suppose a good many Boston folks are intellectual. I don't
profess to be. Life's too short to spend over books. I enjoy this free
life," he stretched out his arms bared to the shoulders, "and I like
tennis and golf and that sort of thing, for exercise. I enjoy a nice
light opera with a lot of pretty girls in the chorus, or a good play,
not too tragic a one. I'm pretty fond of a horse and a boat. I shall
have a yacht up here next year, I think."
"A yacht would be lovely," said Gwen brightening. "You could go
cruising all around among the islands."
"Yes, and up the coast to Bar Harbor. Yes, a yacht would be jolly good
fun."
"Shall you be glad to get back to the city, or do you feel as if you
would like to stay up here forever living the free life?" queried Gwen.
"Not forever. Nobody would care to do that who'd ever lived in a city,
unless it were some queer freak like Mr. Williams."
"Don't call him a freak." Gwen spoke with some asperity.
"Well, he's an oddity, at least. I can't make him out. To be sure I
don't know him very well, but it strikes me as queer that a man should
want to live on this island. It's all very well for a summer holiday,
but in winter, no, thank you. Yes, I shall be glad to get back, to see
the fellows at the club, and to put on a different sort of rig from
this. It won't be bad to see the inside of a theatre, either, and go to
a first-class dinner, or a German."
Gwen smiled. She did not despise these things herself. "One looks at
life very differently in the city, doesn't one?" she remarked.
"Yes, there's the fun of it. When I do a thing I want to do it
thoroughly. When I'm at home I do as my neighbors do; when I am here I
try to follow the example of those around me."
"Sensible man! So we will not read any more. Come, let's go around to
the other side, and see what it looks like. We'd better not go back
through the woods, for after the sun goes down it gets pretty dark and
spooky in there, so we will go back by the road."
"You're not afraid? Not when I'm with you?" He spoke tenderly, and more
than ever Gwen declared for the road.
"Not afraid," she said, "but it takes longer, and I don't want to miss
my supper, nor do I want you to miss yours."
"A good substantial reason," returned Mr. Mitchell approvingly. "I hope
it will be a pleasant day to-morrow." He looked at the sky. "Are you a
good weather prophet, Miss Whitridge?"
"Not very, though I should say it would be warm. To-day is warmer than
any we have had for a long time. Any special reason to be curious about
the weather, Mr. Mitchell?"
"I promised Miss Fuller I'd row her over to Jagged Island. It's an
engagement of long standing, you know, and the time is getting short."
"I remember you promised long ago. Shall you go fishing?"
"Perhaps we shall try our hands at it."
"Cap'n Ben says that the steamboats and launches are beginning to
scarcen the mackerel and that they are not so plentiful this year as
usual."
"Scarcen is a good word."
"So I think. I shall adopt it from henceforth. Cap'n 'Lias Hooper's
vessel, the Mary Lizzie, sails to-morrow," remarked Gwen casually, "so
yours will not be the only fishing expedition that goes out."
The sun was setting in a mass of rolling clouds. The air soft and warm,
even as it blew over stretches of water, was of a more languorous
quality than usual. The waves stole in gently, lapping the stones with
a placid murmur. The cove was as smooth as glass, except where a boat,
manned by two rowers, left a brilliant line of ripples in its wake.
The floors of the great chasms indenting the shores, displayed long
ropes of maroon-colored kelp where the tide had gone out. The main
land, beginning at the Neck, stretched its curving fingers out into the
quiet sea as if it would clutch the islands beyond and draw them into
safe keeping against a time when great breakers should threaten them.
Gwen and her companion stood watching the sky till the sun disappeared
behind the piled-up clouds, which, showing golden edges, drifted off
towards the horizon, finally hiding the distant mountains from view.
Retracing their steps the man and maid went on down hill toward the
road, and further to where they must skirt Little Harbor. Just at this
point Gwen gave a quick glance toward a cottage close to the cove
shore, and on the porch caught sight of a man standing, with folded
arms, looking out upon the water. She gave a gentle sigh as she went
through the little gate on the opposite side of the way.
The next morning was balmy and still, only a slight breeze filled the
sails of Captain Hooker's fishing schooner which passed out of the
cove. Gwen standing on the rocks, watched it slipping slowly by. Some
one on the vessel blew a long blast upon a horn, and presently, further
on, a group of women gathered to watch the vessel out of sight, and
to wave farewell to those on board. In the group Gwen distinguished
Almira Green and Ora. She remembered that Manny was going out to the
Banks that day with the other fishermen. "Poor little Ora!" said the
girl to herself. "And poor Almira, too," she added. "I am glad to have
no lover who must follow the high seas." She watched the vessel grow
smaller and smaller, and presently her attention was attracted to a
smaller craft, a little row-boat moving steadily toward Jagged Island.
"I believe there are Ethel and Mr. Mitchell!" she exclaimed. "Joy go
with you, my dears! I am absolutely convinced that I could not stand
a man who preferred comic operas to 'Aida,' and who had no soul above
newspapers. You are quite welcome, Ethel dear. I hope you are prepared
with plenty of bait, and will land your beautiful gold fish." She made
a deep curtsey and laughed. "I am sure he is just about as bony and
unpalatable as any other gold fish would be to me," she said to herself.
She turned her eyes from the small boat to another which had just
rounded the point, and was making toward one of the inner islands.
She looked at it attentively for a moment, then sprang over the rocks
toward the cottage, coming out directly with a pair of field glasses.
"I thought so," she murmured. "Everybody is going out to-day, it
appears. I was sure that was Cap'n Ben's boat. I wonder if he is going
off sketching. He is all alone." The "he" could scarcely apply to Cap'n
Ben. "He is sailing off toward Pond Island. He isn't going there, I
know; I suppose to some point further on. That's the third boat to go
out from here this morning. Dear me! I wonder what I shall do to-day.
It seems a wee bit lonely on the island. Bother! there comes Miss
Henrietta, skipping over the rocks like a hart upon the mountains. I
can't pretend not to see her."
Miss Henrietta, the youngest of the Gray sisters, had arrived at that
uncertain period of life when she hesitated to associate with women
older than herself for fear she might be supposed of the same age.
She, therefore, sought the society of those much younger, hoping to
be accredited with a like youthfulness. Gwen usually tried to avoid
her, not because she did not enjoy older companions, but because, as
she said, Miss Henrietta was the kind who took in at one glance what
you had on, and criticized it afterward. She was always very ready
with suggestion. "You would think," said Gwen to her aunt, "that Miss
Henrietta had a copyright on all possible suggestions, she is so ready
to make them and acts as if you had infringed her rights if ever you
present one of your own to her." To each other Ethel and Gwen always
spoke of Miss Henrietta as "Household Hints." So just now, Gwen,
waiting for Miss Henrietta to come up, knew a suggestion would be
ready, and so it was.
"I just thought I'd run over and tell you," said the elder lady, "that
I find tennis shoes injurious, and I suggest that you don't wear them."
"I haven't found them so," returned Gwen.
"But you will," insisted Miss Henrietta.
"I'll wait till I do," said Gwen a little shortly, but with a smile.
"Were you coming to Wits' End, Miss Henrietta?"
"No, I saw you out here and I thought I'd join you. One tires of one's
elders constantly, don't you think?"
"I never tire of Aunt Cam," replied Gwen, "and we see more of one
another at Wits' End than we do in the city."
"Couldn't you find a prettier name for your cottage?" asked Miss
Henrietta. "Why not call it Rock Rest, or something like that?"
"We don't want to be commonplace, and Wits' End just suits us."
"I see your friend Miss Fuller has gone off with our young man," said
Miss Henrietta, ignoring Gwen's reply. "She is quite a handsome girl.
What do you think of her character, Gwen? I wish some one would tell
her that a red jersey is not becoming."
"I think it is becoming." Gwen set aside the question.
"Oh, never, my dear, never. I don't see how you can think so. Then she
has such a fad for mushrooms; she is forever looking for them. How she
can like such things I cannot see.
"Dear me!" Gwen shook her head. "It is sad that one so young should
have such depraved tastes."
Miss Henrietta looked offended. "I see you are bound to disagree with
me," she said tartly. "By the way, why didn't you go to Jagged Island
with your friends?"
"Perhaps because I didn't want to, and perhaps for other reasons,"
returned Gwen noncommittally.
"Do you think it was quite the thing for them to go off alone in
that way? I am afraid your friend isn't very particular about the
proprieties."
"Why didn't you go, Miss Henrietta?"
"I had other things to do," said she bridling.
"For pity's sake go along and do them," rose to Gwen's lips, but she
said only, "I think we all have plenty to do up here, and that reminds
me I must finish a letter before I go for the mail. As Mr. Mitchell is
away to-day, perhaps you would like me to bring yours, too."
"Oh, if you will." The offer was smilingly accepted, and Gwen returned
to the cottage, leaving Miss Henrietta ready to swoop down upon the
Hardy girls who were coming along the rocks.
"What's the matter?" asked Miss Elliott as Gwen threw herself into a
chair. "You look as if some one had been rubbing you the wrong way."
"Some one has been. I met Miss Henrietta out on the rocks just now. She
is so picky and so ready to condemn fads and fancies in others when
she is full of them herself. She asked me why I wore tennis shoes; she
found fault with Ethel for wearing red, and for liking to hunt for
mushrooms. She asked me what I thought of Ethel's character, too. What
business is it of hers what I think?"
"She was probably trying to find out if Ethel would make a suitable
wife for your millionaire, Gwen," Miss Elliott said laughing.
"My millionaire? I could never marry a man who reads only newspapers,
who can't appreciate good music, and doesn't know a poor picture from a
fine one."
"If those are your only objections, they don't seem very weighty ones.
He probably reads only newspapers because he is too busy a man for
anything else, and as for the other things, it may be only a lack of
opportunity for studying the best. He may be a very fine man who would
make an estimable husband, and yet not be a connoisseur in art or
music."
"Oh, dear, why is it that the men who would make estimable husbands
must so often be unattractive? I am afraid it isn't lack of opportunity
that's the matter with Cephas. It lies deeper than that. But his
deficiencies will never bother Ethel, so she shall have him. I think
they will suit one another admirably. Are you disappointed, Aunt Cam,
that you must forego his nephewly embraces, and that he is not to call
you 'my dear aunt'?"
"Nonsense, Gwen, of course not. I don't care a rap for him in any
capacity."
"But you think he will suit Ethel. You don't exactly approve of Ethel,
I am afraid."
"Not altogether. I like her. She is very agreeable, and even brilliant,
sometimes. She seems to be a person who has many engaging charms but
few sterling qualities. She has not a spiritualizing effect upon one,
and I am afraid her standards are decidedly of a material order. I can
fancy her quite satisfied without the ennobling things of life."
"She has a sweet disposition, and she has beautiful theories," said
Gwen thoughtfully.
"But does she practise them?"
"Not when it is inconvenient. I am afraid she is rather a brilliant
butterfly, but she is vastly entertaining."
"What has become of your artist friend?" asked Miss Elliott suddenly.
Gwen immediately became very busy rearranging the pillow on the divan.
"Oh, he's around," she said with apparent indifference. "You know his
sister and the children have gone off for some weeks, so of course I
see nothing of them. I saw him yesterday out sketching. To-day he has
gone somewhere in a boat. Everyone has gone off in a boat. Ethel and
Mr. Mitchell are on their way to Jagged Island, Manny Green is off for
the Banks, and Mr. Hilary has gone up along to some unknown spot. I am
quite desolate without my playmates. I think I shall have to hunt up
Daddy Lu."
But Luther Williams had gone to his favorite haunt in Middle Bay, Gwen
discovered, for no one had seen him since morning. So the girl returned
to the house and busied herself with unimportant things till it was
time for the afternoon's mail. "I'll stop in to see Miss Phosie," she
said as she passed out, "so don't expect me right back, Aunt Cam." She
looked across to Jagged Island wondering if the two who had rowed over
that morning had yet returned. She looked toward the north to see if
Cap'n Ben's little boat were on its way back, but except for a motor
boat chugging along and some white sails far off there were no vessels
visible. So she turned toward the cove and was soon in Miss Phosie's
bright kitchen.