ON THE DECK OF THE DOMHEGAN
There was an air of suppressed gaiety and subdued exultation in Ethel
Fuller's manner when she met Gwen that evening at Cottage Hall where
a concert was going on. She was rather splendidly attired for the
occasion, and swept in alone. Mr. Mitchell arrived later with his
mother and two of the Misses Gray. Gwen made a place by her side for
Ethel. The music had not begun, for one of the singers was rushing
around trying to find an accompanist, the one expected having failed
him at the last moment.
"Did you have a dreadful time of it?" asked Gwen sympathetically as
Ethel seated herself. "Weren't you awfully scared when the storm came
up?"
"Not exactly scared," returned Ethel, "though it was rather frightful.
We took refuge in an out-building and didn't get wet at all."
"What would you have done if the storm had continued?"
"I'm sure I don't know. Fortunately that problem didn't have to be
faced."
"It was a gorgeous storm. I fairly revelled in it," said Gwen, "or I
should have if I hadn't been worried."
"About us?"
"Yes, and about all who were out on the water. Didn't you think it was
a splendid sight?"
"I am afraid I didn't think much about that part of it. We couldn't see
very well from where we were."
"Where were you?"
"In a barn, sitting on a sawhorse."
"And you weren't scared?"
Ethel smiled, a sort of retrospective smile which suggested pleasure
rather than fright. "Here comes Jack Lansdale with Flossy Fay,"
she said. "I didn't know she had brains enough to grapple with his
accompaniments, but perhaps she is equal to them. Why didn't he get
Miss Caroline Drake?"
"Probably because Flossy was the more available. She looks as pleased
as Punch. Now they're going to begin."
Jack Lansdale had a fresh, unspoiled baritone voice of pleasant
quality. He was quite a shining light among a not inconsiderable
number of musical people. A genial, robust, dark-haired young man was
Jack, who was as much at home in sailing a yacht as in guiding a dance,
and who was as ready to go off for a tramp with a boon companion as
to sit on the rocks in the moonlight and pay compliments to a pretty
girl, consequently, as he was good-looking as well as athletic he was
in much demand. To his credit be it said that he was most accommodating
and seldom refused to sing when an accompanist could be found, but this
was holiday time and even the most enthusiastic musician could not be
expected always to be ready for a day's sailing, to play accompaniments
or dance music, therefore it was sometimes rather difficult to find
one willing to be pressed into service. Flossy Fay, however, had
assiduously charged herself to learn his accompaniments, and had made
such diligent use of her hour at the piano in the hall that she felt
herself equipped to play the part of understudy when occasion should
offer. This evening it had arrived, and her triumph was complete, for
what more delightfully intimate than to follow a voice dependent upon
her skill in accompanying?
After Jack's first songs, came a violin solo, then there were more
songs. At the last moment, the missing pianist, Tom Belden, rushed in
ready to supersede Flossy at the piano, but she clung to her rights,
and the sturdy Tom retired to the back of the hall, to appear later to
help out with the dances.
One swift glance at a seat near the door showed Gwen that Kenneth was
in the audience, but he had disappeared by the time the chairs were
pushed back and the dancing had begun. As usual Mr. Mitchell divided
himself between Gwen and Ethel, though Gwen remembered afterward that
to her share had fallen fewer dances than usual, and that Mr. Mitchell
and Ethel had sat out more than one dance on the porch. These little
informal affairs always closed early and ten o'clock saw the lanterns
bobbing in various directions as the dancers wended their way home
over uneven paths. Usually a party of them tarried for awhile at the
ice-cream saloon, where delectable ices were to be had, and where the
sweets were highly approved. It was a cosy little place, the "saloon"
proper being divided from the small shop by portieres of antique
make and design, these being nothing more nor less than hand-woven
blue-and-white counterpanes, heirlooms in the family of Timson. This
evening, however, Gwen did not join the other young people at the
favorite resort but jogged along with the Misses Gray. There was a
trip to Portland to be undertaken the next day, and she must be up and
off betimes in order to get through the day's shopping which had become
a necessity.
It was not an unpleasant duty to seek the tidy bright little city,
which always had the air of being freshly washed and dressed, for one
generally found some pleasant neighbor to chat with on the way, and
even the slow-going steamboat, winding in and out among the islands of
Casco Bay, was not a bad place to rest in after a day's rushing about
from shop to shop. If the weather were good there was no more charming
series of views than those in which fair islands, rippling water, and
distant wooded shores found a place. Sails made rosy by the setting
sun, golden gleams along sandy beaches, sun-touched rocks, and emerald
sea gave such color as delighted most of those who sought these favored
shores, and Gwen's was the most ardently nature-loving soul among them.
She glanced over the assemblage of those who had congregated upon the
upper deck, but seeing no vacant place upon the side she preferred,
she went down stairs. The little cabin was full of shoppers with
baskets and bundles, women with babies, travellers with bags, but
she had no desire to stay cooped up within, so she stepped out upon
the little narrow deck usually unfrequented by passengers. There were
but three occupying chairs here; one was a stalwart man surrounded by
huge parcels, another was a portly woman who had settled herself in the
midst of a collection of bundles, boxes and bags. Between these two,
and quite aloof, sat Kenneth Hilary. A vacant stool was between him and
the portly woman. Gwen's mind was quickly made up. She climbed over a
huge coil of rope in her way, circumnavigated, as well as she could,
the collection of bundles, boxes and bags, possessed herself of the
vacant stool and sat down, planting her own bag firmly in front of her.
Then turning around she said demurely, "Good evening, Mr. Hilary."
[Illustration: "GOOD EVENING, MR. HILARY."]
He looked around quickly. There was no escape. The ponderous man had
hedged himself in securely at one end, the stout woman's array of goods
formed a barrier at the other, and even supposing he were to brave the
dangers that Gwen had done, he must incommode the girl herself and
show himself distinctly rude. There was nothing to do but accept the
situation. "Good evening," he said and then silence fell.
Gwen turned her head slightly that her eyes might rest on the man's
goodly length of limb, the shapely hands, the rather rugged but wholly
attractive face under the yachting cap. The brilliant eyes were
turned away. If only she could see into their clear brown depths and
bring again that intense expression she had beheld more than once. In
spite of the discouragement which met her first efforts she felt the
opportunity to be as golden as the light which glorified land and sea,
and she took her courage in both hands. It was now or never. "I haven't
seen you for such a long, long time," she said a little tremulously.
"At least I haven't had a chat with you. Did you get some good sketches
that foggy day when I met you on the road?"
"Fairly good ones," was the none too responsive answer.
"I'd love to see them."
No reply, only a tightening of the lips.
"Dear me," thought Gwen, "it is going to be harder than I imagined. I
shall have to go to greater lengths. I am not to be met half way at
all. It seems perfectly dreadful," she began again, "to think of all
the lovely things you may have been doing, and that I have not seen one
of them."
"You are very good to speak so flatteringly of my poor efforts."
"Ice," thought Gwen, "snow-balls similarly, and all the frozen things
combined. I shall have to take another tack. I saw you at the Hall last
night. Why didn't you stay to the dance?"
"I was tired."
"Nothing doing in that direction," Gwen told herself in girlish
vernacular. "Well, there are two good hours before us. I shall have
to thaw him out in some way. Suppose, just suppose it should be my
last chance in life to meet him undisturbed." She ventured again. "The
summer is almost over. Shall you be sorry to leave the island, Mr.
Hilary?"
"For most reasons, no. I have made pretty good use of its possibilities
for one season."
"A little better. I'll follow this up," Gwen decided, then aloud, "It
has so many possibilities I don't think they can be used up in one
season. Shall you come back next summer?"
"I doubt it, though it's rather too far ahead to make plans."
"But your plans--Fools rush in,"--Gwen quoted to herself--"I am
interested in them. You were to decide something very important. Have
you had any more light on the subject?"
"I have decided to keep on working and studying. Some day I may be an
artist."
"Oh, I am so glad," broke out so spontaneously that the young man's
rigid expression softened a little. "Then," the girl continued, "what
about the holes in the family fortunes? You don't have to--darn them?"
She laughed a little.
Kenneth's face clouded again. The reference brought up too sweet a
memory of those first days of their acquaintance. "Fortunately for me,"
he returned coldly, "the fortunes of my family have improved," and Gwen
felt repulsed.
"I am not asking from idle curiosity," there was a little quiver in
her voice, "but because I am deeply interested." Then impulsively,
"Aren't you ever going to forgive me, Mr. Hilary? I was horrid, I was
vilely cruel that--that evening. I have been sorry ever since that I
was such a beast." Having gone thus far she continued rapidly, "I have
missed you dreadfully. It seemed such a lingering punishment when day
after day I caught glimpses of you out sketching, and knew you were
doing things I was dying to see, little bits that I loved off there
in Sheldon woods, beautiful, mysterious effects on the bay, and those
wonderful opalescent colorings of certain evenings. Don't you think I
have been punished long enough? Can't we be friends again?" She spoke
wistfully, almost as if there were tears in her eyes.
"Do you really feel that way about it?" asked Kenneth, nervously
twisting the cord which held a small package he carried.
"I feel just that way, and it's been growing worse and worse. You would
pass me by every time. You have taken such pains to avoid me. You never
came to the dances, and refused all invitations to affairs where you
knew you would be liable to meet me. So you see I had every reason to
feel that I had sinned beyond hope of forgiveness. But, when I saw,"
she glanced at the barriers at each end of the deck, "when I saw that
you couldn't very well get away without jumping overboard I made up my
mind to risk my life by climbing over that mountain of shopping," she
nodded toward the portly woman, "in order to tell you that I am sorry
for what I said. It was fairly brutal."
There was no answer, but the nervous twisting of the cord ceased, and
the hands gripped the package as if they would crush it.
"Please, Mr. Painter-man, forgive a meek maiden, and put her out of her
suffering."
He turned suddenly. "Miss Whitridge, do you think I haven't suffered,
too?"
"I am sorry, oh, so sorry. Don't let's suffer any more, please."
"How can I help it when you are going to marry that--"
"Jar-fly? But suppose I have decided that I don't care for jar-flies
in my collection, even when they have gold wings, ruby eyes and are
powdered with diamond dust? Suppose the jar-fly has flown to another
flower and that I saw him go with joyous satisfaction?"
"Is that absolute truth?"
"Absolute. Yesterday the jar-fly and the butterfly, like the owl and
the pussy cat, 'went to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat,' and if they
didn't reach 'the land where the bone-tree grows,' they did get caught
in the storm on Jagged Island. The result I foresee, for if they are
not actually engaged they must be close to it, judging from certain
looks and remarks of last night, while I am ready waiting with my
blessing, which I assure you will be of the heartiest kind." She turned
a smiling face upon her companion. "Please remove the instruments of
torture. I have made my confession."
"Thank you for it. Consider the instruments of torture, as you are
pleased to call them, sunk in the depths of the sea."
"Thanks. I think I notice a volume of steam issuing from the spot
where they sank. Now we are friends, aren't we? And you are going to
tell me about the family fortunes. You are going to let me see all your
sketches, every single one, and you are never going to pass me on the
road without stopping to say some nice friendly thing. You promise all
this?"
"All of it."
"Family fortunes first, for, of course, the other things have to wait.
What has happened?"
"My mother has entered a second time into the matrimonial state. Her
husband has ample means, so the family fortunes don't even have to be
patched. When they get ragged they can be thrown away."
"How perfectly lovely. That is the last solution we should have dreamed
of, isn't it?"
His heart leaped at that use of the first person plural. "I certainly
didn't expect it," he said.
"And you don't feel sorry? Not a bit?"
"Not at all. I am very glad if my mother is happy. He isn't exactly the
kind of man I should have selected as a veritable parent, but since my
mother is satisfied I have nothing to say."
"What is he?"
"A wealthy brewer, or pork-packer or something of the kind."
"You have met him?"
"Yes. He is large, florid and expansive in manner."
"You didn't go to the wedding?"
"I wasn't asked. They stepped off quietly, were married and sailed for
Europe at once."
Gwen pondered over the information. "Before then what was happening to
you? Had you decided to stick to your palette and brushes?" she asked
presently.
"No. I had decided to do the other thing."
"Absolutely?"
"Absolutely."
"How miserable you must have been with a desk and counting house
ever before your eyes. You were all alone, too, for your sister and
the children were away. You poor boy!" Her voice was tender as she
remembered that she had added to his unhappiness. "It is perfectly
lovely," she went on, "to think that you don't have to sacrifice
yourself."
"I shall be a poor man for a great many years, I am afraid," he said
soberly.
"What of it? You are young, and it is worth everything to be able to
follow the occupation you love best. 'The best use of your best powers'
is how some one defines happiness, so you will be happy. Perhaps the
new papa will send you abroad to study."
"Do you think I would go under such circumstances?" returned the young
man fiercely.
"Proudy! Well, maybe he'll buy all your pictures. You couldn't refuse,
not to one of the family, who isn't a--jar-fly."
Kenneth laughed a little. It was so delightful to respond to her gay
spirits, to be able to feel in sympathy with her sly allusions. They
were back again on the old footing. He laughed again. "No, he isn't
that, but I don't believe he will want to buy my pictures, in spite of
there not being the same reason for refusing to sell as when you--"
"When I acted like a cold-blooded jellyfish." She blushed when she
remembered the exact cause of that refusal to sell, but she was happy,
absurdly so. The blood was coursing wildly through her veins. She had
triumphed and not only did she glory in her victory, but she felt that
the vanquished hugged his chains. "That fatal picture," she sighed.
"Did you paint another like it?"
"Not exactly, though much the same."
"And have you sold it?"
"No."
"Any others?"
"Two or three small ones."
"What are you going to do with that one?" she asked with sudden
audacity.
"Which one?"
"You know. The wave that threatened to wreck our friendship."
He did not answer for a moment, but sat gazing at her, at the joyous
curves of her sweet mouth, the flying tendrils of hair that curled
around her small ears, the tender expression of her clear eyes. "Will
you take it?" he asked suddenly. "I make no conditions--I have no
right. I have my way to make, you know, but if you will have the
picture--"
"As a sign and seal of our eternal friendship? Yes, I will take it
gladly, and thank you a thousand times. You are right. You have your
way to make, and you must not let anything stand in the way of that. No
man has the right to hamper his career in the beginning, and no woman,"
she added softly, "would allow him to, if she valued his success at
all. I do value yours, Mr. Hilary."
"I believe it, dear Gwen. Please let me call you that, and say Kenneth
to me."
"I agree, for we are friends, real, true, loyal friends aren't we?"
"We are that. At the very least I am your true friend. At the very
most--I cannot tell you what I am at the most. Some day I hope I may."
"Wait till that some day, and in the meantime you will tell me
everything else; you will see me often and life will be very sweet,
I hope. Are we so near home? Yes, ours is the next landing, and--oh
dear me, I hadn't noticed that our heavily burdened neighbors had gone
ashore. We are the only ones left on this deck. Did you think I was
very forward to make that venturesome journey over all that pile of
stuff in order to speak to you? I did it wilfully because I simply
could not have things going on so wofully."
"I not only forgive you, but I bless you for your heroism. Do you
forgive me for being so stand-offish?"
"You were horrid. I never saw such an iceberg."
"As I pretended to be. It was all pretence. I was a seething volcano
inside when you sat down."
"Oh, you nice boy to confess it. Are you going to walk home with me and
help me carry my bundles? You have such an insignificant little one
compared to mine."
"Only some little tubes of colors I went up on the noon boat to get. I
can put them in my pocket and I'll gladly carry all yours."
"I am willing to take my share of the burdens; I am young," returned
Gwen with a swift look that made the man's heart beat fast, for what
underlying promise was there not in her words, the more emphasized as
the blue eyes drooped softly and she turned shyly away under his ardent
gaze.
At last the steamer stopped at the lower wharf, and the two took the
path along a way odorous with sweet grass and bracken, then over the
long white road they travelled slowly, up the little incline, past
Cap'n Ben's house and through the stile to the pasture, talking merrily
of light things.
Just before reaching Cap'n Ben's they saw Ethel and Mr. Mitchell coming
home from the rocks. Gwen waved her umbrella and called out to them;
they answered cheerily and both went toward Almira Green's. Further on
they saw Luther Williams and stopped to speak to him. "Isn't it the
most wonderful evening?" said Gwen, her face aglow. "We've had the
loveliest of trips coming home on the boat."
"She's rather late to-night," said Mr. Williams.
"Is she?" returned Gwen innocently. "I thought the time unusually
short." Then she colored and laughed softly. "I shall see you
to-morrow, dear Daddy Lu," she whispered.
At the porch Kenneth lingered. "May I bring you the picture in the
morning?" he asked.
"Will you? I hope you will, for I shall not feel quite safe till you
do."
"How safe?"
"In my belief that we are friends again."
He bent his head, softly kissed her fingers and said, "Hereby I set my
seal of eternal devotion."
"To our friendship," added Gwen tremulously. She must not let him say
more, and he understood, though he kissed her fingers again, this time
with a swift eagerness which denied mere friendship, and then they
parted.
"Tired, little girl?" said her aunt as she came in. "I have kept your
supper hot. It has been a long day for you, I'm afraid."
"Not so very long," returned Gwen, "and you know I love the coming home
part. It was glorious on the water this evening."
"I must say you don't look particularly dejected," said Miss Elliott,
pouring out a cup of chocolate for her.
Gwen laughed, a low happy laugh. "Who could feel dejected on such an
evening?" she said.
"I didn't remark that it was anything very unusual."
"It was on the boat," replied the girl. She was restless for the next
hour and made the excuse of her early start that morning to account
for her eagerness to go to her room. "For to-morrow, to-morrow," she
whispered to herself, as she went up stairs. "And after that other
to-morrows. How glad I am to be alive." Before she drew her curtains
she looked out, and against the starlit sky, she saw a well-known
figure standing a little distance off, upon the rocks. When she had
blown out her candle she looked once more, and saw the man walk slowly
away. "The darling!" she murmured, "he has been watching my light. It
will be a long time to wait, but we are young, and oh dear God, I am so
thankful he has come back to me."