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 wharf1 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 lumbering2 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 avowed3.
“And I, if I have to hire an a?roplane,” 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 subdued4 the exuberance5 and confidence of the young people, and they began to chatter6 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 decided7 to spend a few days there with her aunt. She tried to dissuade8 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 foodstuff9, marked perishable10.”
“Food-stuffed, you’d better say,” remarked Ellen, looking over toward the corner where Beulah, having partaken of an insufficient11 breakfast, was munching12 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 joint13 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 annuity14 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 wan15 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 snobbish16 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 vocation17 and more about improving her mind. Ellen wondered when she would settle down to anything stable. “She will be steadfast18 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 compensated19 by the fact that she will bring out my frivolous20 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 fully21 another time. Ellen folded the letter with a sigh. “Poor Tom,” she said.
“Are you sure it is ‘poor Tom’?” asked Miss Rindy.
“I surmise22 so, but one can’t be sure. He certainly was devoted23 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 casually24. 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 prophesied25 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 pointed26 tragically27 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 awakened28 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 spoke29.
“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 palaver30, as you know, but I tell you, Ellen, that you have been the greatest comfort to me. Of course we’ve had our spats31; 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 harmoniously32 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 interfere33 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 deserted34 me?” asked Ellen dolorously35.
“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 nay36 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 auctioned37 off at the close, and certain ones, if not sold, would be withdrawn39, and offered later. Ellen watched eagerly for the reports, valuing the appreciation40 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 auction38 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 wares41, probably I might fall down on such transactions, but given the proper incentive42 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 determined43 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 wren44 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 contemplating45 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 gaudy46 blonde when I left; I don’t know who it will be when I get back.”
Ellen laughed. “He must be rather a fickle47 individual.”
“He might be called so in his present development, but I think he’d stick, given the proper lure48. 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 mischief49 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 fiddle50 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 astonishment51.
“Yes, I have, but you are entirely52 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 premium53 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 fervently54.
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, standing55 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.
The End
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1
wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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exuberance
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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decided
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dissuade
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foodstuff
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perishable
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| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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munching
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joint
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annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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snobbish
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vocation
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steadfast
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compensated
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frivolous
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fully
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surmise
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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casually
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prophesied
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pointed
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tragically
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awakened
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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palaver
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spats
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harmoniously
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interfere
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deserted
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dolorously
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nay
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auctioned
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auction
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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appreciation
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wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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wren
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| n.鹪鹩；英国皇家海军女子服务队成员 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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46
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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47
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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48
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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49
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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50
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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51
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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52
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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53
premium
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| n.加付款；赠品；adj.高级的；售价高的 | |
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54
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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55
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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