ON HASKINS' ISLAND
"It is getting too lonely for three women to be down here on this point
by themselves," remarked Miss Elliott one morning after a three days'
storm during which they had scarcely set foot out of doors. "Lizzie
is becoming discontented and yearns for city streets. Moreover, the
supplies are not what they were, and she thinks our daily bill of fare
unworthy of her powers. To be sure we are perfectly safe, for Mr.
Williams comes prowling around before daybreak to see that we haven't
been blown off the rocks over night, and Kenneth spends most of his
time here, keeping his eye on us, as it were, or on you I should say,"
for it had been evident long before this how matters stood between the
young people, and Gwen had confessed that there was an understanding
between them. Once satisfied that Kenneth's character was all that she
could approve, Miss Elliott offered no objections. "I hate to take you
back to the city," she went on. "You look like a different girl, but I
should like you to have a still longer holiday."
"I am a different girl," returned Gwen. "I am a very happy one. What
a wonderful summer it has been. To be sure it will be a little hard
to get into the traces again, but I feel quite equal to it, and the
waiting for Kenneth doesn't seem hard when I am to see him before
spring."
"I hope you will not have to wait all your life, dear child," said her
aunt wistfully. "I should like to see you in a home of your own before
I am called away."
Gwen felt that the last remark did not refer to a summons to another
world. Had not Aunt Cam waited long and faithfully and might she not
any day set sail for the land of her youthful labors?
"I wish," Miss Elliott went on, "that one of you had a little fortune
of your own so you could marry while you are young."
"We don't need a big fortune, that is true," said Gwen. "We only
require just enough to keep the pot boiling. When Kenneth is sure of
that I shall be ready to share the 'olla podrida' with him, whatever
olla podrida may be. I must ask Daddy Lu. By the way, Aunt Cam, he
seems to be quite familiar with Spanish. I imagine he has been either
to Spain or to some Spanish speaking country."
"Very possibly. He is an enigma, Gwen. Once or twice I have fancied I
could solve the mystery of his early life, but now I realize that it
is only one of those strong resemblances which are evident sometimes
in persons distantly connected. At first I was very much upset by it,
but I have gradually come to believe that he simply looks like some one
else."
"I've felt, myself, as if his were a familiar face," returned Gwen.
"Well, no matter whom he looks like, he always appears like a
gentleman. Even in his old fisherman's clothes he is never anything
but neat and tidy. He is a dear, and I shall hate to part from him. We
have been trying to persuade him, Kenneth and I, to come away with us,
but he will not do it. He says as we shall be in different cities, he
couldn't be with us both, though he confesses he is trying to work out
a plan which will bring us all together. I hope he will. I have become
so used to seeing his dear old face around that I shall miss it. I hate
to think of leaving him here. I know he will be lonely."
"After all these years? Surely he has become accustomed to the place
and the people."
"Oh, but consider; this summer is the first time that he has made
advances to anyone who came from the outside world. He has lived with
his books. I fancy they will seem somewhat unresponsive now."
The day was bright and clear, though the wind still whistled through
the pines and made a doleful clamor around the corners of the house.
The open fire was now a necessity instead of merely a luxury, and the
kitchen stove sent out a comforting heat all day. The nights were cold
indeed, and more than once the dwellers at Wits' End had resorted to
hot bricks in order to remove the chill from the beds when they crept
between the sheets.
"Yes, it is time we were going," said Gwen as she and Kenneth started
for a last walk to Sheldon woods. "We cannot stay till the snow flies,
although I'd like to see the islands all a beautiful white like frosted
cakes sitting on the blue platter of the ocean. Aunt Cam is fairly
frozen out, and says it is getting to be next door to impossible to
find anything we like to eat. I suppose we could order stores from
Portland, but we really ought to be back, so next week finger-plays and
cardboard patterns for me, while for you?"
"A plunge into study, life classes, models, talks with my fellow
artists, and a hunt for a cheap studio."
"It makes life seem very complicated after this lovely simplicity,
doesn't it? We are so free here, and it is so delightful to be able
to wear your old clothes all the time. Now I shall have to wrestle
with the problem of a winter outfit, and of how to make the best
appearance on the least outlay. I can manage very well, though," she
added quickly. "I'm not wild about clothes, and yet I don't believe I
ever look really dowdy. Did I look dowdy that first time you saw me, so
long, so long ago?"
"You never looked anything but adorably lovely," returned Kenneth with
enthusiasm.
She lifted a protesting hand. "None of that."
"I thought you the most graceful girl I ever saw," Kenneth went on. "I
remember thinking I'd like to make a study of you as you sat there."
"Where? That first time, was it?"
"Yes, at Madge McAllister's tea, where I had gone with my sister. You
were sitting on a divan in one of your unconsciously picturesque poses.
You wore a big black hat and some sort of pale yellow thing around your
neck. Your dress was a pastel green, I remember. It was a charming
study in color, and I would like to have painted you then and there."
"You never said so."
"I didn't dare then. I hoped to see you again and I had a sense of
being defrauded when you suddenly disappeared and I couldn't find you,
though I went through all the rooms. I remember that day when I met you
on the train going to Annapolis; I thought it such a streak of good
luck and meant to follow it up, but when I got back to the city you had
left."
"And if you hadn't come up here, perhaps our ways would have parted."
"No, they would not. I should have hunted you out this winter when I
went to Washington."
"And we should not yet have been more than mere acquaintances."
"Are you glad it is otherwise, sweet Gwen?"
"Please don't."
"I can't help it. The parting hour is so near. It makes me wild to
think of it. How can I keep back what I so long to say? I love you,
love you, love you, Gwen. Let me tell you here in these woods where we
have had so many happy times. You needn't say anything in return, my
darling girl, though I am a selfish beast, and long to have you." He
caught her hand and kissed the blue-veined wrist where it showed white
between her glove and the dark of her jacket.
[Illustration: HE CAUGHT HER HAND AND KISSED THE BLUE-VEINED WRIST.]
"Oh, Kenneth!" expostulated Gwen. "You mustn't, you know you mustn't."
"I'll behave," he said, pulling himself up, "but it's awfully hard,
when you're all the world to me, and I am going to lose you so soon."
"You're not going to lose me--ever."
"Darling!" he murmured. "There, I'll not say it again, and I'll not
touch even your little finger, if you say I mustn't. See that boat off
there. It looks like Daddy Lu's."
"Where?" Gwen looked off toward the nearest island to their right. The
ocean lay to their left, but from the blue waters of the bay more than
one island rose to view. "I am sure it is Daddy Lu's boat," declared
Gwen after a few minutes' steady outlook. "I wonder what he has been
doing at Haskins' Island."
"He told me he was going there to-day to take something to the old
fellow who lives on the island as sort of caretaker. You know there
are only two or three summer cottages, and when their owners leave,
this old man is about the only person remaining. Daddy Lu told me he
goes over once in a while to see that all is well with John Bender, I
believe they call him."
"The one who is in the boat is not Daddy Lu," said Gwen. "See, he is
rowing as fast as he can pull. He is making straight for this island."
"Probably he is using the boat to make the trip in, and has left Daddy
Lu behind till he gets back."
"Why should he do that? I don't understand it," said Gwen. "Let us go
back and see."
"My dear Gwen, you look as if you thought something was wrong."
"I am afraid there is."
"But why? It seems to me a very natural thing that Bender should use
the boat to come over in."
"He never does come over. He always goes to the Neck for his supplies.
Cap'n Ben told me so. Come, please come."
She was so evidently anxious that Kenneth said not another word of
dissent, but led the shortest way back and before long they had arrived
at Cap'n Ben's door. Two or three men were standing outside talking
excitedly. Gwen went up to one of them. "What is the matter, Ned?" she
asked, for it was Ned Symington whom she questioned.
"Bad news, Miss Gwen," he replied, shaking his head. "Mr. Williams--"
"Not dead"--cried Gwen, clutching his arm, "Please don't say he is
dead."
"No, but badly hurt."
Cap'n Ben at this moment came dashing by in his buggy, urging his old
horse to its utmost speed. He was on his way to the end of the island,
from which point he would be quickly rowed across to the next, and
would bring back the physician who lived there, for Fielding's did not
boast of a doctor among its winter residents.
"Cap'n Ben's going for the doctor," said Kenneth, who had been speaking
to one of the other men. "We can't do anything yet."
"Tell me about it." Gwen turned again to Ned.
"He went over to take some tobaccy to John Bender. They was on the
rawks together, John says, looking at some ducks off shore. John took
a crack at 'em, and the rawk he was standing on gave way. Soon as Mr.
Williams saw him go, he reached out and tried to haul him back, but
more rawks had got loose, and he went down, too, with the rawks on top
of him. Fortunate for John he'd kind of slid, and wasn't hurt any to
speak of, but Mr. Williams got the worst of it."
"Where is he now?"
"There still. John couldn't lug him by himself. Two or three of the
boys have gone back with John, but they'll wait till the doctor gets
there before they attempt to move him; it mightn't be safe to do it at
once."
Gwen turned to Kenneth, her eyes full of tears. "Isn't it dreadful,
dreadful?" she said. "Can't we do something?"
"I'm going right over with Ned and the rest," he told her. "I will come
back and tell you what the doctor says. He may not be so badly hurt as
it seems. A broken arm or leg may mean he must be laid up for awhile,
but I hope there is nothing worse to fear."
Gwen scanned his face earnestly. "You believe there is nothing worse to
fear?"
"We can't tell yet. Very likely there is not."
"You will come and tell me soon?"
"As soon as I possibly can."
"I'll wait here at Cap'n Ben's for you. Perhaps I can help Miss Phosie.
She may need me when they bring him home. You will come with him,
Kenneth. Give him my love and tell him I'm waiting here for him."
She watched the men go off, then entered the kitchen, which was empty.
She went on through the sitting-room and entry. Up stairs she heard
voices, and mounted the steps to find Miss Phosie and Miss Phenie in
Mr. Williams' room. "What can I do?" asked the girl standing in the
doorway.
Miss Phosie looked up, her face quivering with emotion. "You've heard?
We can't do anything but wait. Sister and I have his bed all ready, and
we've made up a fire. I wish there was something we could do."
"Did you see John Bender when he came over?"
"No, but father did. John wanted to hurry back with some of the men.
Thad Eaton's gone and Mil Stevens."
"Mil's a powerful man," remarked Miss Phenie. "He could lift him easier
than anybody else. There's nothing to do till they bring him back."
"If he can be brought back," said Miss Phosie wofully.
"Now, Phosie, don't you go a-borrowing trouble," said Miss Phenie with
a glance at the small mirror and a settling of her pompadour. "Very
likely he wasn't more'n stunned, and he'll be considerable shaken up,
likely, so he'll have to keep quiet a few days."
Gwen met Miss Phosie's eyes which were indeed full of trouble. "Did
they say he was very badly hurt?"
"John couldn't tell. He was afraid so. He managed to get the rocks off
him, but he couldn't move."
Gwen looked around the room, plainly furnished, and displaying few
luxuries. There was but one picture, a photograph of a mother and
child, taken from one of the modern Madonnas. On the high old-fashioned
mahogany bureau lay the worn Bible of which Miss Phosie had once
spoken. A pile of magazines and papers was on the table, and a row of
books on some shelves against the wall. Shakespeare, some of the old
Greek philosophers, Don Quixote in the original, a set of Thackeray
were among the books, Gwen noticed as she glanced at the titles.
"He is a great one for reading," remarked Miss Phosie, following the
girl's glance. "He has a lamp up here and reads long after we've gone
to bed, night after night."
"How do you know?" asked Miss Phenie a little sharply.
"I can see his light, from my window, shining out on the walk," said
Miss Phosie.
"Humph!" returned Miss Phenie. "Well, there's nothing more we can do up
here. We may as well go down and wait."
Gwen slipped her arm around Miss Phosie. "May I wait too?" she
whispered.
Miss Phosie nodded assent, and leaving Miss Phenie to the occupancy
of the sitting-room, she led the way to the spare chamber from whose
windows one could see furthest. The two women spoke little as they
gazed out beyond the stretch of embrowned grass to the road. Once in
a while Gwen would say, "It takes a long time," and Miss Phosie would
sigh softly. She thought of how often she had seen a tall lean figure,
coming along the familiar way, energetic, erect. She remembered how the
grave face would light up with a smile if he chanced to see her at the
window, and of the pleasant, appreciative words that would follow his
entrance if, when he was late, she had kept a meal hot for him. How now
would be his home-coming? With feeble step, supported on either side
by his friends, or would they be obliged to bring him on an improvised
stretcher, a door taken from its hinges for the purpose? She shuddered
at this last suggestion, and turned her thoughts to the pleasant
reminiscences. Once or twice when he had been housed with a cold how
grateful he had been for her ministrations, and how she had rejoiced
in his dependence upon her. So would it be now. She could settle his
pillows, cook him dainties, bring him news of the neighbors, cheer
him with some droll joke of Mil Stevens. He could not be severely
hurt--at the worst a broken bone. She grew almost cheerful over the
prospect--but her heart sank as she espied some one hurrying up from
the cove.
Gwen sprang to her feet. "It's Kenneth," she cried. "He will tell us."
She ran to the door and was out upon the steps before Kenneth could
knock. "Well?" she cried.
"Come in," he said. He drew her inside, and folded her two hands in
his. "The doctor says he cannot be moved."
"Is he so badly hurt, so very badly?"
"Internally, the doctor fears. Don't cry, little girl. He does not
suffer very much--and--he will not suffer long."
"Oh, Kenneth!" Gwen sobbed out and buried her head on his breast. He
put his arm around her gently.
A pale face, with tightly compressed lips and agonized eyes, was
visible in the dimness of the entry. Kenneth held out a compassionate
hand to the woman who stood rigid and grief-stricken behind them. "He
sent a message to you, Miss Phosie. He said he would like to have you
with him at the last, and would you bring his Bible. He wants to see
you, too, Gwen, and Miss Elliott. We have taken him to John Bender's
house and made him as comfortable as we could. He is quite conscious
now."
Gwen lifted her head. "Will it be long?" she whispered.
"It is only a question of hours. He has a good constitution and has
lived a clean life, otherwise the end would be sooner."
Miss Phosie had slipped away. There was something to do. He wanted her.
She busied herself in getting together everything she thought might add
to the injured man's comfort while Gwen and Kenneth took the message to
Miss Elliott, and in an hour Ira Baldwin's motor-boat was speeding out
of the cove with its passengers, Kenneth, Cap'n Ben and the three women.
John Bender's house, hidden under the brow of the hill and sheltered
from the ocean's keen blasts, was but a short walk from the little
inlet which ran far up into the land.
The doctor was still within. He made way at the bedside for the
newcomers. "He has been asking for you, Miss Elliott, and your niece;
for you, too, Miss Phosie. I am glad you have come. He will be easier.
Here they are, Mr. Williams," he said, bending over the bed.
Luther Williams opened his eyes and smiled. One hand was quite
helpless; the other he stretched out to Gwen, who took it in her own
warm clasp. "This is good," he whispered. "Good. It is more than I ever
hoped for."
"What, dear Daddy Lu?"
"To have you all with me now,--when I am going. Phosie is there, good
sister Phosie."
"I am here, Mr. Williams," replied Miss Phosie with trembling lips.
"You brought the little Bible?"
"Yes."
"I want you to have it, Phosie, when they have seen it. And the
books--you won't care for the books--I'd like the boy to have
them--except the Shakespeare--it was my father's--my little girl must
have that. There are some other things. I have made my will. It will
keep the pot boiling--the pot boiling." He closed his eyes for a
moment, when he opened them. "Doctor!" he called.
"Yes, Mr. Williams."
"Give me something to make me strong for a little while. There are
things I must say--to you, Miss Elliott. Please give me the stuff,
doctor, and leave us alone."
The doctor poured a small quantity of medicine into a glass of water,
lifted the patient's head and gave him some of it. Then he beckoned to
the others, who followed him out--all but Miss Elliott, who sat by the
bed gently stroking the sufferer's hand.