FIDDLE AND I
The beautiful summer was over, and those in the cottage, which they had
named “Spindrift,” must bid farewell to the rocks and waves, to the
blueberry bushes and the sombre woods. The song sparrows had flown and
the wild ducks had come. Cap’n Belah’s apples were gathered in, and the
door of his house, which had stood wide open all summer, was now closed
against the searching winds.
The little steamboat was now making but one trip a day. The young man
who all summer had run a jitney, now had departed for larger fields, so
those who wished to reach the wharf must “foot it,” as Cap’n Belah said.
The sun had not been up very long when the party from “Spindrift”
cottage started down the road, Reed and Tom carrying bags and
suit-cases, and Beulah lumbering along in the rear, weighted down with
bundles. As most of the summer visitors had left, there were but few to
wave farewell as the little boat steamed off.
“But we’ll all come back next summer, won’t we?” said Mabel brightly as
they turned a point which hid the island from view.
“I shall if I have to swim,” responded Tom.
“And I, too, if I have to walk,” Reed avowed.
“And I, if I have to hire an aëroplane,” Ellen said laughing.
“We can count on you, can’t we, Miss Rindy?” Mabel asked.
“I make no rash promises,” was the answer. “Who knows where we all may
be another summer?”
This somewhat subdued the exuberance and confidence of the young people,
and they began to chatter and make plans for the day which they would
spend in Portland before taking the night train. The two young men had
arranged to go as far as New York with their friends, and Mabel had
decided to spend a few days there with her aunt. She tried to dissuade
Ellen from going on to Marshville with her cousin. “I don’t see why both
of you can’t stop off for a little while,” she urged.
“And what would we do with Beulah?”
“Make a bale of her and send her by freight,” suggested Reed; “ship her
as dry-goods, or, better still, as foodstuff, marked perishable.”
“Food-stuffed, you’d better say,” remarked Ellen, looking over toward
the corner where Beulah, having partaken of an insufficient breakfast,
was munching such left-overs as she had been able to stow away in a
capacious pocket.
Even Miss Rindy laughed, but agreed with Ellen that the problem of how
to dispose of Beulah in New York would be too intricate to be
considered. “If she adds much more to her weight, they will be charging
us double fare,” she remarked. “I think she must have gained twenty
pounds.”
So on they went to Marshville, Ellen expecting to join Mabel in New York
when the joint exhibition of pictures should take place. Reed was to
look after this, and Ellen knew he could be depended upon.
Therefore the next day saw them back at home, and soon everything was
going on as before, and the summer was remembered as a lovely dream.
Caro was the first to give them greeting. She came first thing in the
morning to give and receive news. Sally Cooper was engaged to a man from
Meadowville, but wasn’t going to be married for a year, as her family
thought she was too young. Clyde Fawcett was going with a girl from the
city; she was a niece of Mrs. Craig Hale, and had been visiting
Marshville. Frank Ives was just getting over typhoid fever, had been ill
all summer, as Ellen knew from Caro’s letters. Then Ellen told of her
good times, but not a word did she say of her windfall; that could wait,
or not be told at all. So they talked till Jeremy Todd came in and Caro
left. To Jeremy Ellen unburdened her heart, and learned from him that
he, too, had been remembered in the will of his old friend Peter
Barstow, and that an annuity of five hundred dollars was to be his.
After his death this was to be continued, under certain conditions, paid
to the person or persons named in a private letter left with the
testator’s lawyer.
“I can imagine that dear Don Pedro rather enjoyed creating a little
mystery,” remarked Ellen. “I am so glad, dear Music Master, that this
has come to you.”
“I am pleased, too,” asserted Mr. Todd. “Strange that it should win one
more respect from some quarters.”
Ellen wondered if he referred to his wife, and hoped he did. Anything
which increased her respect for her husband was not to be regretted.
Frank Ives, still very wan and pale, lost no time in coming to call. His
illness, which took him very near to the dark valley, had subdued him
and had taken away a certain over-confidence, so that Ellen liked him
better. There never had been anything snobbish about Frank, but he had
been a little too self-satisfied. If Ellen was kinder than before, it
was that her sympathies were aroused, and she made promises to ride and
walk with the lad, promises which sent him away in a happy mood.
Thus the autumn passed. Reed wrote often, reporting progress of his
affairs. Mr. Barstow’s studio was his until the lease was up in the
spring. Tom Clayton was sharing it with him. They were going over the
pictures and hoped to have the exhibition and sale some time in
December.
Mabel wrote sometimes from New York, sometimes from Baltimore. She said
less about her vocation and more about improving her mind. Ellen
wondered when she would settle down to anything stable. “She will be
steadfast enough once she really makes up her mind what she wants to
do,” Ellen said to Miss Rindy.
“The trouble is that she has no set duty,” Miss Rindy answered. “She is
the sort of girl who should marry and have something to tie to. I wish
she would. Does she ever mention Tom Clayton? He is the man for her.”
“She mentions him once in a while, calls him a dear old thing. I
sometimes wonder if she would mention him more, or less, if she were
really interested in him.”
“It’s just like a woman to take that sly way of covering her tracks and
keep you guessing,” Miss Rindy asserted.
But Mabel did not keep them guessing very long, for before the first of
the year Ellen received a letter which said: “Rejoice with me! I have
found my vocation and its name is David Harland. Are you surprised,
dear? I can assure you that I am. How such a wise, steady, unworldly
being could be attracted to a girl brought up in such an atmosphere as I
have been is a mystery to me. David is professor of botany and is going
to South America next year, it being his Sabbatical year. He is some
years older than I am, but we are very congenial, and I am as happy as
the day is long. We shall be married just before we sail in June. Of
course Gran thinks I am a first-class idiot because I did not choose a
social star, but she is somewhat compensated by the fact that she will
bring out my frivolous little cousin next winter, and will have the joy
of directing her costumes and witnessing her conquests. Tell Miss Rindy
she is the daughter of a prophet. How could she have foreseen that I was
to fly so far away?”
Then followed loving messages, and promises to write more fully another
time. Ellen folded the letter with a sigh. “Poor Tom,” she said.
“Are you sure it is ‘poor Tom’?” asked Miss Rindy.
“I surmise so, but one can’t be sure. He certainly was devoted last
summer, and I know Mabel liked him.”
“But not well enough to marry him. Well, she certainly has given us a
big surprise. Has she ever mentioned this man to you?”
“Once or twice very casually. I imagine she was quite bowled over early
in the game, but was not sure how he felt, and so didn’t want to reveal
her interest in him. I’m crazy to see him, aren’t you?”
“I’d like to, yes. I hope he is the right man for her.”
Ellen sighed again. “This puts an end to all our plans for next summer,”
she said.
“I warned you, my child, not to count on anything but changes.”
But what changes were in store for them no one could foresee, especially
Orinda Crump, who prophesied them. Ellen found her one day, just before
Christmas, sitting with her hands in her lap, looking aimlessly out of
the window.
“There wasn’t any mail, Cousin Rindy,” Ellen announced. “I looked in our
box on my way home from practising.”
“I brought it home,” Miss Rindy told her, “and I wish I had lost it, or
that the mail bag had burned up before it reached here or anything that
would have spared me from getting that letter.” She pointed tragically
to one which she had flung from her.
“Is it bad news?” asked Ellen anxiously.
“I don’t know whether it is bad or good; some might call it good news, I
suppose, but I’m not going; I’m not, so there.”
“Going where?” Ellen looked bewildered. “Do tell me what has happened.”
“You may as well know first as last. I have had a letter from my
brother. His wife is dead, leaving a daughter about twelve years old,
and Al asks me to go out and take charge of things, says he is in poor
health, has enough means to assure me a comfortable home,
sentimentalizes over our childhood days—a happy childhood I had, didn’t
I? After all these years pretends he has just awakened to the fact that
he might have been a less indifferent brother. Now when he needs me he
begins to see the light; just like him.”
“But you aren’t going, are you?” Ellen knelt down and took one of her
cousin’s hands, fondling it as she spoke.
“Oh, Ellen, I don’t know. I said I wouldn’t, but perhaps it’s my duty,
and I don’t believe I ever was one to shirk. It’s a hard question to
decide, a hard question.”
“Oh, Cousin Rindy, please don’t go. Just as things are getting easier
for us it would be too bad. What with my little windfall and what will
be realized from the sale of my father’s pictures we shall not have to
pinch and screw as we have done. I have been rejoicing that I could do
something toward lifting your burdens, and now——”
“Nonsense! as if you hadn’t lifted my burdens times without number. I’m
not one to palaver, as you know, but I tell you, Ellen, that you have
been the greatest comfort to me. Of course we’ve had our spats; and I’ve
been as much to blame in them as you, but take it by and large I don’t
believe two persons could live together more harmoniously than we have
done. How do I know what that child of Al’s is like? Spoiled, probably,
and hard to manage. With you I’ve had it all my own way, with no one to
interfere if I wanted to shake you or box your ears.”
“Oh, Cousin Rindy, you never did such things,” Ellen expostulated.
“Did I say I had? I only said I might have wanted to, which no doubt I
did sometimes. I repeat, there was no one to interfere, and in Al’s home
I should have to answer to him. Well, I’ll have to think it over. It
isn’t to be decided ‘hot off the bat,’ as my boys used to say.”
“But what would become of me if you deserted me?” asked Ellen
dolorously.
“There, Ellen, that’s just it. It’s been a question with me for some
time whether or not I was doing right to keep you here. You love that
artist life; you have good friends in the city. What do you say to
trying it out for a year while I try it out in Seattle? Then, if we make
up our minds that we don’t like it, we can come back here and settle
down for good and all. We’ll think it over before I say yea or nay to
this proposition.”
So the matter was left for the present, and Ellen went about her affairs
as usual. The tears would fill her eyes as she thought of putting the
continent between herself and her cousin, yet when the picture of city
life arose before her it held its charm.
Reed wrote from time to time. Just now he was absorbed in the exhibition
which was taking place at one of the galleries. A creditable number of
pictures had been sold; others would be auctioned off at the close, and
certain ones, if not sold, would be withdrawn, and offered later. Ellen
watched eagerly for the reports, valuing the appreciation shown as much
as the material returns.
A week passed in which Albert Crump’s proposition was discussed daily
from all points of view. Miss Rindy hesitated because she did not want
Ellen to go to the city alone. “I don’t see why you couldn’t go with
me,” she suggested at one time.
“Oh, but what would I do when I got there?” said Ellen.
“You could be a companion for Teresa.”
Ellen laughed. “She is twelve and I am nearly nineteen; I’m afraid we
wouldn’t have much in common, especially if she is spoiled. I don’t
believe you have spoiled me, Cousin Rindy.”
“I hope not, and I don’t mean to spoil her.”
“Mabel says that she and I are very unmodern and behind the times, but I
don’t think I am of the clinging-vine order, and I believe I could be as
independent as the next if I were thrown on my own resources.”
“Perhaps you could be; all the same I don’t like to think of you in the
city alone. If you could go to the Austins, or if that nice Mr. Barstow
were still living and could watch over you, I wouldn’t so much mind.”
“If that dear man were living, probably I wouldn’t have the means to go,
unless I found some sort of position. Don’t worry about me, Cousin
Rindy, if that’s all that keeps you from accepting.”
“To be sure it would be a great experience and give me a chance to see
that part of the country, and I don’t have to stay, even if Albert does
pay my fare, for I shall not promise to remain there for more than a
year. After that we shall see what happens.”
So at last the matter was settled, the proposition was accepted, and
Miss Rindy was to be gone a year. The Dove-Hales had some friends who
were eager to rent Miss Crump’s house, furnished, and there was much to
be done before the first of February, when the occupants decided to
leave.
Caro dissolved in tears when she heard the news. Jeremy heaved a sigh
and shook his head. “My little song bird is leaving her nest. I fear she
will not come back to it,” he said.
Then one day appeared Reed. “I just had to come,” he said as Ellen
greeted him at the door. “It’s all over but the shouting, and I knew you
would want to know. Besides,” he added after a short pause, “I just had
to see you; couldn’t stand it any longer. Why, it’s been nearly three
months, Cronette, and my patience is stretched to the breaking point.
Glad to see me?”
“Indeed I am,” Ellen assured him. “Well, how did it go?”
“Better than I expected. We sold more than half for fair prices. Those
at the auction didn’t bring what we could wish, but we still have a
number in reserve which I shall place from time to time at some of the
big galleries, so eventually we shall realize a pretty decent sum. Are
you satisfied, my dear co-heir?”
“Perfectly. I think you have managed excellently.”
“They say artists don’t usually have much business sense, but I really
believe I shall develop some. I don’t know how it would be if I had to
handle my own wares, probably I might fall down on such transactions,
but given the proper incentive I believe I could put it over.” He beamed
down upon her, and she gave him smile for smile, aware that it was good
to see his tall figure, to look into his clear, honest eyes, and was
surprised when a sudden desire to stroke his hair came over her. It was
queer that she felt so, and suddenly her eyes fell before his steady
gaze.
She moved her chair a little farther away from his, and for a short
space silence fell between them. Then Reed roused himself to say,
“What’s your news, Cronette? I’ve told you mine.”
Ellen wavered a moment before she determined to tell him. “Cousin Rindy
is going out to Seattle for a year, maybe longer, to be with her
brother. It has just been settled.”
“Great Scott! You don’t say so? And what’s to become of you? Don’t tell
me you are going, too.”
“No, I am not. Mabel wanted me to spend the winter with her, but she is
so absorbed in getting ready to be married,—I wrote you of that, you
know,—that I don’t think I would feel as if I fitted into the scheme of
things. I’d be like a little brown wren in a cage of birds of paradise.”
“Humph! not much you would. Of course I remember what you said about
Miss Wickham’s engagement, and, if I didn’t, old Tom wouldn’t let me
forget.”
“Oh, Reed——”
“Cronine, please.”
“Cronine, then. Do you think Tom is very hard hit?”
“I think he was at first, but he is now in the convalescent stage, is
contemplating a mental change of scene, is shunting the picture of Miss
Mabel off the stage, and is substituting another.”
“Who is it?”
“It was a gaudy blonde when I left; I don’t know who it will be when I
get back.”
Ellen laughed. “He must be rather a fickle individual.”
“He might be called so in his present development, but I think he’d
stick, given the proper lure. I’m built on different lines; when I fall
I fall hard and stay right there forever and aye. There’s one thing,
Cronette, that I’ve been saving to tell you, and that is I have bought
the haunted house; got it for next to nothing, the owners were that glad
to get rid of it.”
“Oh, R—Cronine, you have really bought it?”
“Certain sure, the whole outfit,—studio, trees, garden, all the whole
thing, and I’m going to change the name of ‘haunted house.’”
“To what?”
“That depends upon you.”
“Upon me?”
Reed nodded. “I remember last summer that you said you would never leave
your cousin while she needed you. She will stop needing you if she goes
to her brother, and so what it’s been as hard as the mischief to keep
from saying I’m going to say. Don’t you think it would be nice if we
could always spend our summers up there on little Minor’s Island, you,
and fiddle and I? Then I could change the name to Happy House. I don’t
say that I hadn’t admired other girls before I saw you, but since that
first evening at Uncle Pete’s I knew there never would be any other girl
for me. I was bowled over then and there for keeps. Don’t you like me a
right smart lot, Cronette? Bless that darling little name that is all
ours, and that no one else uses. Cronette Marshall, how’s that for a
name?”
“Oh, Reed, you are so ridiculous,” answered Ellen, half laughing, half
crying.
He moved his chair closer and took her two hands. “Look me in the face,”
he said, “and tell me truthfully whether or not I saw something in those
lovely eyes of yours a while ago that makes me hope that you will agree
to the name of Happy House. You and fiddle and I together, think of it,
Cronette, and don’t you know it would please Uncle Pete?”
Ellen raised her eyes shyly, but what Reed saw there appeared to satisfy
him. And then came a flurry of opening the front door, and a crisp call
of “Ellen, come help me in with these things.”
Ellen dashed out; Reed followed. “I want to help, too,” he said.
Miss Rindy set down a netted bag full of her purchases. “Hello!” she
said. “What are you doing here?”
“Just passing by and thought I’d drop in,” answered he.
“Don’t palm off that sort of talk on me,” replied Miss Rindy. “Come on
in and give an account of yourself.”
“You won’t put me to bed, like that other time? It’s too cold to climb
out windows.”
“I noticed you didn’t stay put long. Come in and give an account of
yourself. Has Ellen told you our news?”
“Yes, and I’ve told her mine. Shall we tell her ours, Ellen?”
Ellen made no reply, but rushed out to the kitchen with the bag and
bundles. When she came back the two were sitting on the sofa, Reed’s arm
around Miss Rindy. She looked as if she had been crying, but at Ellen’s
entrance she sat up very straight and tried to look stern.
“You needn’t think you’ve stolen a march on me, miss,” she said. “I’ve
seen this coming for a long time.”
“Oh, have you?” exclaimed Ellen in astonishment.
“Yes, I have, but you are entirely too young, both of you, to think of
getting married; you not nineteen and he only twenty-three. You must
wait two or three years.”
“Three years!” Reed looked aghast. “No home, no friends, no Ellen. How
can you, Miss Rindy?”
“Well, we’ll say two.”
“We’ll wait till you get back from Seattle,” interposed Ellen.
“Are you putting a premium on a long stay?” asked Miss Rindy with a
swift smile. Then, very seriously: “You’ll take good care of her while I
am away, won’t you, Reed? The fact that you will be at hand to watch
over her makes me better satisfied to go.”
“You bet I’ll take care of her,” returned Reed fervently.
Thus was Miss Rindy’s prophecy fulfilled, for the summer saw far
separated those who had roamed Beatty’s Island together.
But one day two years later, Ellen, standing at the door of Happy House,
saw a group coming across the bridge. “Here they come! Here they come!
They caught the morning boat!” she cried.
The strains of a violin suddenly ceased, and Reed’s long legs brought
him to Ellen’s side before the travellers came up. Mabel and her husband
pressed forward, next came Miss Rindy with her fatherless little niece,
Teresa, and then—who but Jeremy Todd?
Ellen held out her hands. “Welcome to Happy House!” she cried.