udience was dispersing. gull island, colored to a chromo brightness by the declining sun, had not showed so animated an aspect since the reception for the spanish ambassador last july. people in pale-tinted summer clothes were trailing across from the open-air theater and massing in a group as gay as a flower garden at the dock. some of them had gone into the house, taken the chance to have a look at it—when the driscolls were “in residence” you couldn’t so much as put your foot on the rocks round the shore. others lingered, having a farewell word with the actors, congratulating them—it was the right thing to do and they deserved it. the committee was very affable, shaking hands with mr. bassett the director and miss saunders the star, who, in her page’s dress [pg 35]with the paint still on her face, looked tired, poor girl, but was so sweet and unassuming.
it had been a complete success. the matrons who had organized it scanned the crowd converging toward the dock and smiled the comfortable smile of accomplishment. the summer home for tenement children could build its new wing and employ that man from boston who had such modern scientific methods. and the matrons, stiff in the back and unbecomingly flushed after sitting two hours in the sun on the stone seats of the theater, drew toward one another on the wharf and agreed that everything had gone off beautifully and the board should at once write to mr. driscoll and thank him for lending the island.
the fleet of boats, rocking gently on the narrow channel that separated gull island from the mainland, took on their freight and darted off. they started in groups then broke apart. speed boats that had come from points afar, whizzed away with a seething rush and a crumple of crystal foam at the bow. the launches skimmed, [pg 36]light-winged, the white flurry of their wakes like threads that stretched back to the island.
people turned and looked at it—sun-gilded in an encircling girdle of prussian blue sea. the rocks about its base, the headlands that rose above, were dyed to an orange red and against this brilliancy of primary colors the pines stood out darkly silhouetted. on the rise above the wharf the long brown structure of the house spread, rambling and irregular, built, it was said, to suggest an outgrowth of the rocky foundation. the watchers could see in the open place beyond the side balcony the actors standing motionless, spaced in a group. yes, having their photographs taken; there was the camera man who’d been taking pictures during the performance. and they craned their necks for a last look at the lovely scene and the picturesque assemblage of players.
part of the flotilla carried the hayworth villagers—all-year residents of the little town on the mainland. some of the more solid citizens were [pg 37]in the launch that old gabriel harvey owned, which had been used by the actors in their week’s stay. hayworth had gathered a great deal of information about these spectacular visitors, some from gabriel and some from sara pinkney who was mr. driscoll’s housekeeper, living in hayworth all winter and in summer reigning in the gull island kitchen. mr. driscoll had wired sara to go over and open up and take charge while they were there—spare nothing, those were his orders. and sara had done it, not wanting to, but apart from its being mr. driscoll’s wishes which she had followed for the last ten years, she had felt it her duty to keep an eye on the property. every day she came over to hayworth for supplies and had to appease the local curiosity, which she did grudgingly, feeling her power.
now at last the hayworth people had had a first-hand view of the actors—the whole company, dressed up and performing—and they fitted sara pinkney’s description to them. olivia, that was miss tracy, the one she said was so refined[pg 38] and pleasant-spoken. and the duke was alexander stokes. he was the feller that had come after the others because the first man took sick—wonderful the way he did it considering, didn’t miss a word. and the woman who stood round and “tended on” olivia was his wife. sara hadn’t said much about her. well, she wasn’t of much importance anyhow or she’d have had more acting to do. but that boy who was viola’s twin, he was miss tracy’s brother, and sara had said he and miss saunders didn’t get on well, she could see it though they didn’t say much. and here piped up the butcher’s wife who was more interested in the play than in personalities:
“i don’t see how olivia took him for the page she was in love with. he didn’t look like viola in the face. she was real pretty, but he’d a queer sly mug on him, that boy.”
“aw, you can’t be too particular. you don’t need to have it so real.”
“i guess she was meant to be blinded by love. and him dressed the same, hair and all, might lead her astray.”
[pg 39]
“i don’t see how you could have ’em look just alike unless they’d get an actress who had a real twin brother, and maybe you’d go the whole country over and not find that.”
“he ain’t like her no way,” growled old gabriel from the wheel, “i seen ’em both when they wasn’t acting and he’s an ugly pup, that one.”
then the boat grating on the hayworth wharf, gabriel urged them off. he hadn’t got through yet, got to go back for part of the company who were calculating to get the main line at spencer, and after that back again for the tracy boy. he muttered on as they climbed out, grumbling to himself, which nobody noticed as it had been his mode of expression for the last thirty years.
the swaying throng of boats emptied their cargoes and the thick-pressed crowd, moving to the end of the wharf, separated into streams and groups. farewells, last commending comments, rose on the limpid sea-scented air. everybody was a little tired. the villagers, dragging their feet, passed along the board walks to their vine-draped[pg 40] piazzas. they would find their kitchens hot and dull that night after two hours in the enchanted land of illyria. the waiting line of motors absorbed the summer visitors, wheeled off and purred away past the white cottages under the new england elms. the matrons sank gratefully upon the yielding cushions, rolling by the dusty buggies, the battered fords, the lines of bicycle riders, into the quiet serene country where the shadows were lying long and clear. yes, it had been a great success; from first to last there hadn’t been a hitch.
