The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Tides of Barnegat, by F. Hopkinson Smith
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Title: The Tides of Barnegat
Author: F. Hopkinson Smith
Posting Date: August 1, 2009 [EBook #4398]
Release Date: August, 2003
First Posted: January 26, 2002
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TIDES OF BARNEGAT ***
Produced by Duncan Harrod. HTML version by Al Haines.
The Tides Of Barnegat
by
F. Hopkinson Smith
CONTENTS
I THE DOCTOR'S GIG
II SPRING BLOSSOMS
III LITTLE TOD FOGARTY
IV ANN GOSSAWAY'S RED CLOAK
V CAPTAIN NAT'S DECISION
VI A GAME OF CARDS
VII THE EYES OF AN OLD PORTRAIT
VIII AN ARRIVAL
IX THE SPREAD OF FIRE
X A LATE VISITOR
XI MORTON COBDEN'S DAUGHTER
XII A LETTER FROM PARIS
XIII SCOOTSY'S EPITHET
XIV HIGH WATER AT YARDLEY
XV A PACKAGE OF LETTERS
XVI THE BEGINNING OF THE EBB
XVII BREAKERS AHEAD
XVIII THE SWEDE'S STORY
XIX THE BREAKING OF THE DAWN
XX THE UNDERTOW
XXI THE MAN IN THE SLOUCH HAT
XXII THE CLAW OF THE SEA-PUSS
THE TIDES OF BARNEGAT
CHAPTER I
THE DOCTOR'S GIG
One lovely spring morning--and this story begins on a spring morning
some fifty years or more ago--a joy of a morning that made one glad to
be alive, when the radiant sunshine had turned the ribbon of a road
that ran from Warehold village to Barnegat Light and the sea to satin,
the wide marshes to velvet, and the belts of stunted pines to bands of
purple--on this spring morning, then, Martha Sands, the Cobdens' nurse,
was out with her dog Meg. She had taken the little beast to the inner
beach for a bath--a custom of hers when the weather was fine and the
water not too cold--and was returning to Warehold by way of the road,
when, calling the dog to her side, she stopped to feast her eyes on the
picture unrolled at her feet.
To the left of where she stood curved the coast, glistening like a
scimitar, and the strip of yellow beach which divided the narrow bay
from the open sea; to the right, thrust out into the sheen of silver,
lay the spit of sand narrowing the inlet, its edges scalloped with lace
foam, its extreme point dominated by the grim tower of Barnegat Light;
aloft, high into the blue, soared the gulls, flashing like jewels as
they lifted their breasts to the sun, while away and beyond the sails
of the fishing-boats, gray or silver in their shifting tacks, crawled
over the wrinkled sea.
The glory of the landscape fixed in her mind, Martha gathered her shawl
about her shoulders, tightened the strings of her white cap, smoothed
out her apron, and with the remark to Meg that he'd "never see nothin'
so beautiful nor so restful," resumed her walk.
They were inseparable, these two, and had been ever since the day she
had picked him up outside the tavern, half starved and with a sore
patch on his back where some kitchen-maid had scalded him. Somehow the
poor outcast brought home to her a sad page in her own history, when
she herself was homeless and miserable, and no hand was stretched out
to her. So she had coddled and fondled him, gaining his confidence day
by day and talking to him by the hour of whatever was uppermost in her
mind.
Few friendships presented stronger contrasts: She stout and
motherly-looking--too stout for any waistline--with kindly blue eyes,
smooth gray hair--gray, not white--her round, rosy face, framed in a
cotton cap, aglow with the freshness of the morning--a comforting,
coddling-up kind of woman of fifty, with a low, crooning voice, gentle
fingers, and soft, restful hollows about her shoulders and bosom for
the heads of tired babies; Meg thin, rickety, and sneak-eyed, with a
broken tail that hung at an angle, and but one ear (a black-and-tan had
ruined the other)--a sandy-colored, rough-haired, good-for-nothing cur
of multifarious lineage, who was either crouching at her feet or in
full cry for some hole in a fence or rift in a wood-pile where he could
flatten out and sulk in safety.
Martha continued her talk to Meg. While she had been studying the
landscape he had taken the opportunity to wallow in whatever came
first, and his wet hair was bristling with sand and matted with burrs.
"Come here, Meg--you measly rascal!" she cried, stamping her foot.
"Come here, I tell ye!"
The dog crouched close to the ground, waited until Martha was near
enough to lay her hand upon him, and then, with a backward spring,
darted under a bush in full blossom.
"Look at ye now!" she shouted in a commanding tone. "'Tain't no use o'
my washin' ye. Ye're full o' thistles and jest as dirty as when I
throwed ye in the water. Come out o' that, I tell ye! Now, Meg,
darlin'"--this came in a coaxing tone--"come out like a good dog--sure
I'm not goin' in them brambles to hunt ye!"
A clatter of hoofs rang out on the morning air. A two-wheeled gig drawn
by a well-groomed sorrel horse and followed by a brown-haired Irish
setter was approaching. In it sat a man of thirty, dressed in a long,
mouse-colored surtout with a wide cape falling to the shoulders. On his
head was a soft gray hat and about his neck a white scarf showing above
the lapels of his coat. He had thin, shapely legs, a flat waist, and
square shoulders, above which rose a clean-shaven face of singular
sweetness and refinement.
At the sound of the wheels the tattered cur poked his head from between
the blossoms, twisted his one ear to catch the sound, and with a
side-spring bounded up the road toward the setter.
"Well, I declare, if it ain't Dr. John Cavendish and Rex!" Martha
exclaimed, raising both hands in welcome as the horse stopped beside
her. "Good-mornin' to ye, Doctor John. I thought it was you, but the
sun blinded me, and I couldn't see. And ye never saw a better nor a
brighter mornin'. These spring days is all blossoms, and they ought to
be. Where ye goin', anyway, that ye're in such a hurry? Ain't nobody
sick up to Cap'n Holt's, be there?" she added, a shade of anxiety
crossing her face.
"No, Martha; it's the dressmaker," answered the doctor, tightening the
reins on the restless sorrel as he spoke. The voice was low and kindly
and had a ring of sincerity through it.
"What dressmaker?"
"Why, Miss Gossaway!" His hand was extended now--that fine, delicately
wrought, sympathetic hand that had soothed so many aching heads.
"You've said it," laughed Martha, leaning over the wheel so as to press
his fingers in her warm palm. "There ain't no doubt 'bout that skinny
fright being 'Miss,' and there ain't no doubt 'bout her stayin' so. Ann
Gossaway she is, and Ann Gossaway she'll die. Is she took bad?" she
continued, a merry, questioning look lighting up her kindly face, her
lips pursed knowingly.
"No, only a sore throat" the doctor replied, loosening his coat.
"Throat!" she rejoined, with a wry look on her face. "Too bad 'twarn't
her tongue. If ye could snip off a bit o' that some day it would help
folks considerable 'round here."
The doctor laughed in answer, dropped the lines over the dashboard and
leaned forward in his seat, the sun lighting up his clean-cut face.
Busy as he was--and there were few busier men in town, as every
hitching-post along the main street of Warehold village from Billy
Tatham's, the driver of the country stage, to Captain Holt's, could
prove--he always had time for a word with the old nurse.
"And where have YOU been, Mistress Martha?" he asked, with a smile,
dropping his whip into the socket, a sure sign that he had a few more
minutes to give her.
"Oh, down to the beach to git some o' the dirt off Meg. Look at
him--did ye ever see such a rapscallion! Every time I throw him in he's
into the sand ag'in wallowin' before I kin git to him."
The doctor bent his head, and for an instant watched the two dogs: Meg
circling about Rex, all four legs taut, his head jerking from side to
side in his eagerness to be agreeable to his roadside acquaintance; the
agate-eyed setter returning Meg's attentions with the stony gaze of a
club swell ignoring a shabby relative. The doctor smiled thoughtfully.
There was nothing he loved to study so much as dogs--they had a
peculiar humor of their own, he often said, more enjoyable sometimes
than that of men--then he turned to Martha again.
"And why are you away from home this morning of all others?" he asked.
"I thought Miss Lucy was expected from school to-day?"
"And so she is, God bless her! And that's why I'm here. I was that
restless I couldn't keep still, and so I says to Miss Jane, 'I'm goin'
to the beach with Meg and watch the ships go by; that's the only thing
that'll quiet my nerves. They're never in a hurry with everybody
punchin' and haulin' them.' Not that there's anybody doin' that to me,
'cept like it is to-day when I'm waitin' for my blessed baby to come
back to me. Two years, doctor--two whole years since I had my arms
round her. Wouldn't ye think I'd be nigh crazy?"
"She's too big for your arms now, Martha," laughed the doctor,
gathering up his reins. "She's a woman--seventeen, isn't she?"
"Seventeen and three months, come the fourteenth of next July. But
she's not a woman to me, and she never will be. She's my wee bairn that
I took from her mother's dyin' arms and nursed at my own breast, and
she'll be that wee bairn to me as long as I live. Ye'll be up to see
her, won't ye, doctor?"
"Yes, to-night. How's Miss Jane?" As he made the inquiry his eyes
kindled and a slight color suffused his cheeks.
"She'll be better for seein' ye," the nurse answered with a knowing
look. Then in a louder and more positive tone, "Oh, ye needn't stare so
with them big brown eyes o' yourn. Ye can't fool old Martha, none o'
you young people kin. Ye think I go round with my eyelids sewed up.
Miss Jane knows what she wants--she's proud, and so are you; I never
knew a Cobden nor a Cavendish that warn't. I haven't a word to
say--it'll be a good match when it comes off. Where's that Meg?
Good-by, doctor. I won't keep ye a minute longer from MISS Gossaway.
I'm sorry it ain't her tongue, but if it's only her throat she may get
over it. Go 'long, Meg!"
Dr. Cavendish laughed one of his quiet laughs--a laugh that wrinkled
the lines about his eyes, with only a low gurgle in his throat for
accompaniment, picked up his whip, lifted his hat in mock courtesy to
the old nurse, and calling to Rex, who, bored by Meg's attentions, had
at last retreated under the gig, chirruped to his horse, and drove on.
Martha watched the doctor and Rex until they were out of sight, walked
on to the top of the low hill, and finding a seat by the roadside--her
breath came short these warm spring days--sat down to rest, the dog
stretched out in her lap. The little outcast had come to her the day
Lucy left Warehold for school, and the old nurse had always regarded
him with a certain superstitious feeling, persuading herself that
nothing would happen to her bairn as long as this miserable dog was
well cared for.
"Ye heard what Doctor John said about her bein' a woman, Meg?" she
crooned, when she had caught her breath. "And she with her petticoats
up to her knees! That's all he knows about her. Ye'd know better than
that, Meg, wouldn't ye--if ye'd seen her grow up like he's done? But
grown up or not, Meg"--here she lifted the dog's nose to get a clearer
view of his sleepy eyes--"she's my blessed baby and she's comin' home
this very day, Meg, darlin'; d'ye hear that, ye little ruffian? And
she's not goin' away ag'in, never, never. There'll be nobody drivin'
round in a gig lookin' after her--nor nobody else as long as I kin help
it. Now git up and come along; I'm that restless I can't sit still,"
and sliding the dog from her lap, she again resumed her walk toward
Warehold.
Soon the village loomed in sight, and later on the open gateway of
"Yardley," the old Cobden Manor, with its two high brick posts topped
with white balls and shaded by two tall hemlocks, through which could
be seen a level path leading to an old colonial house with portico,
white pillars supporting a balcony, and a sloping roof with huge
chimneys and dormer windows.
Martha quickened her steps, and halting at the gate-posts, paused for a
moment with her eyes up the road. It was yet an hour of the time of her
bairn's arrival by the country stage, but her impatience was such that
she could not enter the path without this backward glance. Meg, who had
followed behind his mistress at a snail's pace, also came to a halt
and, as was his custom, picked out a soft spot in the road and sat down
on his haunches.
Suddenly the dog sprang up with a quick yelp and darted inside the
gate. The next instant a young girl in white, with a wide hat shading
her joyous face, jumped from behind one of the big hemlocks and with a
cry pinioned Martha's arms to her side.
"Oh, you dear old thing, you! where have you been? Didn't you know I
was coming by the early stage?" she exclaimed in a half-querulous tone.
The old nurse disengaged one of her arms from the tight clasp of the
girl, reached up her hand until she found the soft cheek, patted it
gently for an instant as a blind person might have done, and then
reassured, hid her face on Lucy's shoulder and burst into tears. The
joy of the surprise had almost stopped her breath.
"No, baby, no," she murmured. "No, darlin', I didn't. I was on the
beach with Meg. No, no--Oh, let me cry, darlin'. To think I've got you
at last. I wouldn't have gone away, darlin', but they told me you
wouldn't be here till dinner-time. Oh, darlin', is it you? And it's all
true, isn't it? and ye've come back to me for good? Hug me close. Oh,
my baby bairn, my little one! Oh, you precious!" and she nestled the
girl's head on her bosom, smoothing her cheek as she crooned on, the
tears running down her cheeks.
Before the girl could reply there came a voice calling from the house:
"Isn't she fine, Martha?" A woman above the middle height, young and of
slender figure, dressed in a simple gray gown and without her hat, was
stepping from the front porch to meet them.
"Too fine, Miss Jane, for her old Martha," the nurse called back. "I've
got to love her all over again. Oh, but I'm that happy I could burst
meself with joy! Give me hold of your hand, darlin'--I'm afraid I'll
lose ye ag'in if ye get out of reach of me."
The two strolled slowly up the path to meet Jane, Martha patting the
girl's arm and laying her cheek against it as she walked. Meg had
ceased barking and was now sniffing at Lucy's skirts, his bent tail
wagging slowly, his sneaky eyes looking up into Lucy's face.
"Will he bite, Martha?" she asked, shrinking to one side. She had an
aversion to anything physically imperfect, no matter how lovable it
might be to others. This tattered example struck her as particularly
objectionable.
"No, darlin'--nothin' 'cept his food," and Martha laughed.
"What a horrid little beast!" Lucy said half aloud to herself, clinging
all the closer to the nurse. "This isn't the dog sister Jane wrote me
about, is it? She said you loved him dearly--you don't, do you?"
"Yes, that's the same dog. You don't like him, do you, darlin'?"
"No, I think he's awful," retorted Lucy in a positive tone.
"It's all I had to pet since you went away," Martha answered
apologetically.
"Well, now I'm home, give him away, please. Go away, you dreadful dog!"
she cried, stamping her foot as Meg, now reassured, tried to jump upon
her.
The dog fell back, and crouching close to Martha's side raised his eyes
appealingly, his ear and tail dragging.
Jane now joined them. She had stopped to pick some blossoms for the
house.
"Why, Lucy, what's poor Meg done?" she asked, as she stooped over and
stroked the crestfallen beast's head. "Poor old doggie--we all love
you, don't we?"
"Well, just please love him all to yourselves, then," retorted Lucy
with a toss of her head. "I wouldn't touch him with a pair of tongs. I
never saw anything so ugly. Get away, you little brute!"
"Oh, Lucy, dear, don't talk so," replied the older sister in a pitying
tone. "He was half starved when Martha found him and brought him
home--and look at his poor back--"
"No, thank you; I don't want to look at his poor back, nor his poor
tail, nor anything else poor about him. And you will send him away,
won't you, like a dear good old Martha?" she added, patting Martha's
shoulder in a coaxing way. Then encircling Jane's waist with her arm,
the two sisters sauntered slowly back to the house.
Martha followed behind with Meg.
Somehow, and for the first time where Lucy was concerned, she felt a
tightening of her heart-strings, all the more painful because it had
followed so closely upon the joy of their meeting. What had come over
her bairn, she said to herself with a sigh, that she should talk so to
Meg--to anything that her old nurse loved, for that matter? Jane
interrupted her reveries.
"Did you give Meg a bath, Martha?" she asked over her shoulder. She had
seen the look of disappointment in the old nurse's face and, knowing
the cause, tried to lighten the effect.
"Yes--half water and half sand. Doctor John came along with Rex shinin'
like a new muff, and I was ashamed to let him see Meg. He's comin' up
to see you to-night, Lucy, darlin'," and she bent forward and tapped
the girl's shoulder to accentuate the importance of the information.
Lucy cut her eye in a roguish way and twisted her pretty head around
until she could look into Jane's eyes.
"Who do you think he's coming to see, sister?"
"Why, you, you little goose. They're all coming--Uncle Ephraim has sent
over every day to find out when you would be home, and Bart Holt was
here early this morning, and will be back to-night."
"What does Bart Holt look like?"--she had stopped in her walk to pluck
a spray of lilac blossoms. "I haven't seen him for years; I hear he's
another one of your beaux," she added, tucking the flowers into Jane's
belt. "There, sister, that's just your color; that's what that gray
dress needs. Tell me, what's Bart like?"
"A little like Captain Nat, his father," answered Jane, ignoring Lucy's
last inference, "not so stout and--"
"What's he doing?"
"Nothin', darlin', that's any good," broke in Martha from behind the
two. "He's sailin' a boat when he ain't playin' cards or scarin'
everybody down to the beach with his gun, or shyin' things at Meg."
"Don't you mind anything Martha says, Lucy," interrupted Jane in a
defensive tone. "He's got a great many very good qualities; he has no
mother and the captain has never looked after him. It's a great wonder
that he is not worse than he is."
She knew Martha had spoken the truth, but she still hoped that her
influence might help him, and then again, she never liked to hear even
her acquaintances criticised.
"Playing cards! That all?" exclaimed Lucy, arching her eyebrows; her
sister's excuses for the delinquent evidently made no impression on
her. "I don't think playing cards is very bad; and I don't blame him
for throwing anything he could lay his hands on at this little wretch
of Martha's. We all played cards up in our rooms at school. Miss Sarah
never knew anything about it--she thought we were in bed, and it was
just lovely to fool her. And what does the immaculate Dr. John
Cavendish look like? Has he changed any?" she added with a laugh.
"No," answered Jane simply.
"Does he come often?" She had turned her head now and was looking from
under her lids at Martha. "Just as he used to and sit around, or has
he--" Here she lifted her eyebrows in inquiry, and a laugh bubbled out
from between her lips.
"Yes, that's just what he does do," cried Martha in a triumphant tone;
"every minute he kin git. And he can't come too often to suit me. I
jest love him, and I'm not the only one, neither, darlin'," she added
with a nod of her head toward Jane.
"And Barton Holt as well?" persisted Lucy. "Why, sister, I didn't
suppose there would be a man for me to look at when I came home, and
you've got two already! Which one are you going to take?" Here her rosy
face was drawn into solemn lines.
Jane colored. "You've got to be a great tease, Lucy," she answered as
she leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "I'm not in the back of
the doctor's head, nor he in mine--he's too busy nursing the sick--and
Bart's a boy!"
"Why, he's twenty-five years old, isn't he?" exclaimed Lucy in some
surprise.
"Twenty-five years young, dearie--there's a difference, you know.
That's why I do what I can to help him. If he'd had the right
influences in his life and could be thrown a little more with nice
women it would help make him a better man. Be very good to him, please,
even if you do find him a little rough."
They had mounted the steps of the porch and were now entering the wide
colonial hall--a bare white hall, with a staircase protected by
spindling mahogany banisters and a handrail. Jane passed into the
library and seated herself at her desk. Lucy ran on upstairs, followed
by Martha to help unpack her boxes and trunks.
When they reached the room in which Martha had nursed her for so many
years--the little crib still occupied one corner--the old woman took
the wide hat from the girl's head and looked long and searchingly into
her eyes.
"Let me look at ye, my baby," she said, as she pushed Lucy's hair back
from her forehead; "same blue eyes, darlin', same pretty mouth I kissed
so often, same little dimples ye had when ye lay in my arms, but ye've
changed--how I can't tell. Somehow, the face is different."
Her hands now swept over the full rounded shoulders and plump arms of
the beautiful girl, and over the full hips.
"The doctor's right, child," she said with a sigh, stepping back a pace
and looking her over critically; "my baby's gone--you've filled out to
be a woman."
CHAPTER II
SPRING BLOSSOMS
For days the neighbors in and about the village of Warehold had been
looking forward to Lucy's home-coming as one of the important epochs in
the history of the Manor House, quite as they would have done had Lucy
been a boy and the expected function one given in honor of the youthful
heir's majority. Most of them had known the father and mother of these
girls, and all of them loved Jane, the gentle mistress of the home--a
type of woman eminently qualified to maintain its prestige.
It had been a great house in its day. Built in early Revolutionary
times by Archibald Cobden, who had thrown up his office under the Crown
and openly espoused the cause of the colonists, it had often been the
scene of many of the festivities and social events following the
conclusion of peace and for many years thereafter: the rooms were still
pointed out in which Washington and Lafayette had slept, as well as the
small alcove where the dashing Bart de Klyn passed the night whenever
he drove over in his coach with outriders from Bow Hill to Barnegat and
the sea.
With the death of Colonel Creighton Cobden, who held a commission in
the War of 1812, all this magnificence of living had changed, and when
Morton Cobden, the father of Jane and Lucy, inherited the estate, but
little was left except the Manor House, greatly out of repair, and some
invested property which brought in but a modest income. On his
death-bed Morton Cobden's last words were a prayer to Jane, then
eighteen, that she would watch over and protect her younger sister, a
fair-haired child of eight, taking his own and her dead mother's place,
a trust which had so dominated Jane's life that it had become the
greater part of her religion.
Since then she had been the one strong hand in the home, looking after
its affairs, managing their income, and watching over every step of her
sister's girlhood and womanhood. Two years before she had placed Lucy
in one of the fashionable boarding-schools of Philadelphia, there to
study "music and French," and to perfect herself in that "grace of
manner and charm of conversation," which the two maiden ladies who
presided over its fortunes claimed in their modest advertisements they
were so competent to teach. Part of the curriculum was an enforced
absence from home of two years, during which time none of her own
people were to visit her except in case of emergency.
To-night, the once famous house shone with something of its old-time
color. The candles were lighted in the big bronze candelabra--the ones
which came from Paris; the best glass and china and all the old plate
were brought out and placed on the sideboard and serving-tables; a wood
fire was started (the nights were yet cold), its cheery blaze lighting
up the brass fender and andirons before which many of Colonel Cobden's
cronies had toasted their shins as they sipped their toddies in the old
days; easy-chairs and hair-cloth sofas were drawn from the walls; the
big lamps lighted, and many minor details perfected for the comfort of
the expected guests.
Jane entered the drawing-room in advance of Lucy and was busying
herself putting the final touches to the apartment,--arranging the
sprays of blossoms over the clock and under the portrait of Morton
Cobden, which looked calmly down on the room from its place on the
walls, when the door opened softly and Martha--the old nurse had for
years been treated as a member of the family--stepped in, bowing and
curtsying as would an old woman in a play, the skirt of her new black
silk gown that Ann Gossaway had made for her held out between her plump
fingers, her mob-cap with its long lace strings bobbing with every
gesture. With her rosy cheeks, silver-rimmed spectacles, self-satisfied
smile, and big puffy sleeves, she looked as if she might have stepped
out of one of the old frames lining the walls.
"What do ye think of me, Miss Jane? I'm proud as a peacock--that I am!"
she cried, twisting herself about. "Do ye know, I never thought that
skinny dressmaker could do half as well. Is it long enough?" and she
craned her head in the attempt to see the edge of the skirt.
"Fits you beautifully, Martha. You look fine," answered Jane in all
sincerity, as she made a survey of the costume. "How does Lucy like it?"
"The darlin' don't like it at all; she says I look like a pall-bearer,
and ye ought to hear her laughin' at the cap. Is there anything the
matter with it? The pastor's wife's got one, anyhow, and she's a year
younger'n me."
"Don't mind her, Martha--she laughs at everything; and how good it is
to hear her! She never saw you look so well," replied Jane, as she
moved a jar from a table and placed it on the mantel to hold the
blossoms she had picked in the garden. "What's she doing upstairs so
long?"
"Prinkin'--and lookin' that beautiful ye wouldn't know her. But the
width and the thickness of her"--here the wrinkled fingers measured the
increase with a half circle in the air--"and the way she's plumped
out--not in one place, but all over--well, I tell ye, ye'd be
astonished! She knows it, too, bless her heart! I don't blame her. Let
her git all the comfort she kin when she's young--that's the time for
laughin'--the cryin' always comes later."
No part of Martha's rhapsody over Lucy described Jane. Not in her best
moments could she have been called beautiful--not even to-night when
Lucy's home-coming had given a glow to her cheeks and a lustre to her
eyes that nothing else had done for months. Her slender figure, almost
angular in its contour with its closely drawn lines about the hips and
back; her spare throat and neck, straight arms, thin wrists and
hands--transparent hands, though exquisitely wrought, as were those of
all her race--all so expressive of high breeding and refinement,
carried with them none of the illusions of beauty. The mould of the
head, moreover, even when softened by her smooth chestnut hair, worn
close to her ears and caught up in a coil behind, was too severe for
accepted standards, while her features wonderfully sympathetic as they
were, lacked the finer modeling demanded in perfect types of female
loveliness, the eyebrows being almost straight, the cheeks sunken, with
little shadows under the cheek-bones, and the lips narrow and often
drawn.
And yet with all these discrepancies and, to some minds, blemishes
there was a light in her deep gray eyes, a melody in her voice, a charm
in her manner, a sureness of her being exactly the sort of woman one
hoped she would be, a quick responsiveness to any confidence, all so
captivating and so satisfying that 'those who knew her forgot her
slight physical shortcomings and carried away only the remembrance of
one so much out of the common and of so distinguished a personality
that she became ever after the standard by which they judged all good
women.
There were times, too--especially whenever Lucy entered the room or her
name was mentioned--that there shone through Jane's eyes a certain
instantaneous kindling of the spirit which would irradiate her whole
being as a candle does a lantern--a light betokening not only
uncontrollable tenderness but unspeakable pride, dimmed now and then
when some word or act of her charge brought her face to face with the
weight of the responsibility resting upon her--a responsibility far
outweighing that which most mothers would have felt. This so dominated
Jane's every motion that it often robbed her of the full enjoyment of
the companionship of a sister so young and so beautiful.
If Jane, to quote Doctor John, looked like a lily swaying on a slender
stem, Lucy, when she bounded into the room to-night, was a full-blown
rose tossed by a summer breeze. She came in with throat and neck bare;
a woman all curves and dimples, her skin as pink as a shell; plump as a
baby, and as fair, and yet with the form of a wood-nymph; dressed in a
clinging, soft gown, the sleeves caught up at the shoulders revealing
her beautiful arms, a spray of blossoms on her bosom, her blue eyes
dancing with health, looking twenty rather than seventeen; glad of her
freedom, glad of her home and Jane and Martha, and of the lights and
blossoms and the glint on silver and glass, and of all that made life
breathable and livable.
"Oh, but isn't it just too lovely to be at home!" she cried as she
skipped about. "No lights out at nine, no prayers, no getting up at six
o'clock and turning your mattress and washing in a sloppy little
washroom. Oh, I'm so happy! I can't realize it's all true." As she
spoke she raised herself on her toes so that she could see her face in
the mirror over the mantel. "Why, do you know, sister," she rattled on,
her eyes studying her own face, "that Miss Sarah used to make us learn
a page of dictionary if we talked after the silence bell!"
"You must know the whole book by heart, then, dearie," replied Jane
with a smile, as she bent over a table and pushed back some books to
make room for a bowl of arbutus she held in her hand.
"Ah, but she didn't catch us very often. We used to stuff up the cracks
in the doors so she couldn't hear us talk and smother our heads in the
pillows. Jonesy, the English teacher, was the worst." She was still
looking in the glass, her fingers busy with the spray of blossoms on
her bosom. "She always wore felt slippers and crept around like a cat.
She'd tell on anybody. We had a play one night in my room after lights
were out, and Maria Collins was Claude Melnotte and I was Pauline.
Maria had a mustache blackened on her lips with a piece of burnt cork
and I was all fixed up in a dressing-gown and sash. We never heard
Jonesy till she put her hand on the knob; then we blew out the candle
and popped into bed. She smelled the candle-wick and leaned over and
kissed Maria good-night, and the black all came off on her lips, and
next day we got three pages apiece--the mean old thing! How do I look,
Martha? Is my hair all right?" Here she turned her head for the old
woman's inspection.
"Beautiful, darlin'. There won't one o' them know ye; they'll think
ye're a real livin' princess stepped out of a picture-book." Martha had
not taken her eyes from Lucy since she entered the room.
"See my little beau-catchers," she laughed, twisting her head so that
Martha could see the tiny Spanish curls she had flattened against her
temples. "They are for Bart Holt, and I'm going to cut sister out. Do
you think he'll remember me?" she prattled on, arching her neck.
"It won't make any difference if he don't," Martha retorted in a
positive tone. "But Cap'n Nat will, and so will the doctor and Uncle
Ephraim and--who's that comin' this early?" and the old nurse paused
and listened to a heavy step on the porch. "It must be the cap'n
himself; there ain't nobody but him's got a tread like that; ye'd think
he was trampin' the deck o' one of his ships."
The door of the drawing-room opened and a bluff, hearty, round-faced
man of fifty, his iron-gray hair standing straight up on his head like
a shoe-brush, dressed in a short pea-jacket surmounted by a low sailor
collar and loose necktie, stepped cheerily into the room.
"Ah, Miss Jane!" Somehow all the neighbors, even the most intimate,
remembered to prefix "Miss" when speaking to Jane. "So you've got this
fly-away back again? Where are ye? By jingo! let me look at you. Why!
why! why! Did you ever! What have you been doing to yourself, lassie,
that you should shed your shell like a bug and come out with wings like
a butterfly? Why you're the prettiest thing I've seen since I got home
from my last voyage."
He had Lucy by both bands now, and was turning her about as if she had
been one of Ann Gossaway's models.
"Have I changed, Captain Holt?"
"No--not a mite. You've got a new suit of flesh and blood on your
bones, that's all. And it's the best in the locker. Well! Well! WELL!"
He was still twisting her around. "She does ye proud, Martha," he
called to the old nurse, who was just leaving the room to take charge
of the pantry, now that the guests had begun to arrive. "And so ye're
home for good and all, lassie?"
"Yes--isn't it lovely?"
"Lovely? That's no name for it. You'll be settin' the young fellers
crazy 'bout here before they're a week older. Here come two of 'em now."
Lucy turned her head quickly, just as the doctor and Barton Holt
reached the door of the drawing-room. The elder of the two, Doctor
John, greeted Jane as if she had been a duchess, bowing low as he
approached her, his eyes drinking in her every movement; then, after a
few words, remembering the occasion as being one in honor of Lucy, he
walked slowly toward the young girl.
"Why, Lucy, it's so delightful to get you back!" he cried, shaking her
hand warmly. "And you are looking so well. Poor Martha has been on pins
and needles waiting for you. I told her just how it would be--that
she'd lose her little girl--and she has," and he glanced at her
admiringly. "What did she say when she saw you?"
"Oh, the silly old thing began to cry, just as they all do. Have you
seen her dog?"
The answer jarred on the doctor, although he excused her in his heart
on the ground of her youth and her desire to appear at ease in talking
to him.
"Do you mean Meg?" he asked, scanning her face the closer.
"I don't know what she calls him--but he's the ugliest little beast I
ever saw."
"Yes--but so amusing. I never get tired of watching him. What is left
of him is the funniest thing alive. He's better than he looks, though.
He and Rex have great times together."
"I wish you would take him, then. I told Martha this morning that he
mustn't poke his nose into my room, and he won't. He's a perfect
fright."
"But the dear old woman loves him," he protested with a tender tone in
his voice, his eyes fixed on Lucy.
He had looked into the faces of too many young girls in his
professional career not to know something of what lay at the bottom of
their natures. What he saw now came as a distinct surprise.
"I don't care if she does," she retorted; "no, I don't," and she knit
her brow and shook her pretty head as she laughed.
While they stood talking Bart Holt, who had lingered at the threshold,
his eyes searching for the fair arrival, was advancing toward the
centre of the room. Suddenly he stood still, his gaze fixed on the
vision of the girl in the clinging dress, with the blossoms resting on
her breast. The curve of her back, the round of the hip; the way her
moulded shoulders rose above the lace of her bodice; the bare, full
arms tapering to the wrists;--the color, the movement, the grace of it
all had taken away his breath. With only a side nod of recognition
toward Jane, he walked straight to Lucy and with an "Excuse me,"
elbowed the doctor out of the way in his eagerness to reach the girl's
side. The doctor smiled at the young man's impetuosity, bent his head
to Lucy, and turned to where Jane was standing awaiting the arrival of
her other guests.
The young man extended his hand. "I'm Bart Holt," he exclaimed; "you
haven't forgotten me, Miss Lucy, have you? We used to play together.
Mighty glad to see you--been expecting you for a week."
Lucy colored slightly and arched her head in a coquettish way. His
frankness pleased her; so did the look of unfeigned admiration in his
eyes.
"Why, of course I haven't forgotten you, Mr. Holt. It was so nice of
you to come," and she gave him the tips of her fingers--her own eyes
meanwhile, in one comprehensive glance, taking in his round head with
its closely cropped curls, searching brown eyes, wavering mouth, broad
shoulders, and shapely body, down to his small, well-turned feet. The
young fellow lacked the polish and well-bred grace of the doctor, just
as he lacked his well-cut clothes and distinguished manners, but there
was a sort of easy effrontery and familiar air about him that some of
his women admirers encouraged and others shrank from. Strange to say,
this had appealed to Lucy before he had spoken a word.
"And you've come home for good now, haven't you?" His eyes were still
drinking in the beauty of the girl, his mind neither on his questions
nor her answers.
"Yes, forever and ever," she replied, with a laugh that showed her
white teeth.
"Did you like it at school?" It was her lips now that held his
attention and the little curves under her dimpled chin. He thought he
had never seen so pretty a mouth and chin.
"Not always; but we used to have lots of fun," answered the girl,
studying him in return--the way his cravat was tied and the part of his
hair. She thought he had well-shaped ears and that his nose and
eyebrows looked like a picture she had in her room upstairs.
"Come and tell me about it. Let's sit down here," he continued as he
drew her to a sofa and stood waiting until she took her seat.
"Well, I will for a moment, until they begin to come in," she answered,
her face all smiles. She liked the way he behaved towards her--not
asking her permission, but taking the responsibility and by his manner
compelling a sort of obedience. "But I can't stay," she added. "Sister
won't like it if I'm not with her to shake hands with everybody."
"Oh, she won't mind me; I'm a great friend of Miss Jane's. Please go
on; what kind of fun did you have? I like to hear about girls' scrapes.
We had plenty of them at college, but I couldn't tell you half of
them." He had settled himself beside her now, his appropriating eyes
still taking in her beauty.
"Oh, all kinds," she replied as she bent her head and glanced at the
blossoms on her breast to be assured of their protective covering.
"But I shouldn't think you could have much fun with the teachers
watching you every minute," said Bart, moving nearer to her and turning
his body so he could look squarely into her eyes.
"Yes, but they didn't find out half that was going on." Then she added
coyly, "I don't know whether you can keep a secret--do you tell
everything you hear?"
"Never tell anything."
"How do I know?"
"I'll swear it." In proof he held up one hand and closed both eyes in
mock reverence as if he were taking an oath. He was getting more
interested now in her talk; up to this time her beauty had dazzled him.
"Never! So help me--" he mumbled impressively.
"Well, one day we were walking out to the park--Now you're sure you
won't tell sister, she's so easily shocked?" The tone was the same, but
the inflection was shaded to closer intimacy.
Again Bart cast up his eyes.
"And all the girls were in a string with Miss Griggs, the Latin
teacher, in front, and we all went in a cake shop and got a big piece
of gingerbread apiece. We were all eating away hard as we could when we
saw Miss Sarah coming. Every girl let her cake go, and when Miss Sarah
got to us the whole ten pieces were scattered along the sidewalk."
Bart looked disappointed over the mild character of the scrape. From
what he had seen of her he had supposed her adventures would be
seasoned with a certain spice of deviltry.
"I wouldn't have done that, I'd have hidden it in my pocket," he
replied, sliding down on the sofa until his head rested on the cushion
next her own.
"We tried, but she was too close. Poor old Griggsey got a dreadful
scolding. She wasn't like Miss Jones--she wouldn't tell on the girls."
"And did they let any of the fellows come to see you?" Bart asked.
"No; only brothers and cousins once in a long while. Maria Collins
tried to pass one of her beaux, Max Feilding, off as a cousin, but Miss
Sarah went down to see him and poor Maria had to stay upstairs."
"I'd have got in," said Bart with some emphasis, rousing himself from
his position and twisting his body so he could again look squarely in
her face. This escapade was more to his liking.
"How?" asked Lucy in a tone that showed she not only quite believed it,
but rather liked him the better for saying so.
"Oh I don't know. I'd have cooked up some story." He was leaning over
now, toying with the lace that clung to Lucy's arms. "Did you ever have
any one of your own friends treated in that way?"
Jane's voice cut short her answer. She had seen the two completely
absorbed in each other, to the exclusion of the other guests who were
now coming in, and wanted Lucy beside her.
The young girl waved her fan gayly in answer, rose to her feet, turned
her head close to Bart's, pointed to the incoming guests, whispered
something in his ear that made him laugh, listened while he whispered
to her in return, and in obedience to the summons crossed the room to
meet a group of the neighbors, among them old Judge Woolworthy, in a
snuff-colored coat, high black stock, and bald head, and his bustling
little wife. Bart's last whisper to Lucy was in explanation of the
little wife's manner--who now, all bows and smiles, was shaking hands
with everybody about her.
Then came Uncle Ephraim Tipple, and close beside him walked his spouse,
Ann, in a camel's-hair shawl and poke-bonnet, the two preceded by Uncle
Ephraim's stentorian laugh, which had been heard before their feet had
touched the porch outside. Mrs. Cromartin now bustled in, accompanied
by her two daughters--slim, awkward girls, both dressed alike in high
waists and short frocks; and after them the Bunsbys, father, mother,
and son--all smiles, the last a painfully thin young lawyer, in a low
collar and a shock of whitey-brown hair, "looking like a patent
window-mop resting against a wall," so Lucy described him afterward to
Martha when she was putting her to bed; and finally the Colfords and
Bronsons, young and old, together with Pastor Dellenbaugh, the
white-haired clergyman who preached in the only church in Warehold.
When Lucy had performed her duty and the several greetings were over,
and Uncle Ephraim had shaken the hand of the young hostess in true
pump-handle fashion, the old man roaring with laughter all the time, as
if it were the funniest thing in the world to find her alive; and the
good clergyman in his mildest and most impressive manner had said she
grew more and more like her mother every day--which was a flight of
imagination on the part of the dear man, for she didn't resemble her in
the least; and the two thin girls had remarked that it must be so
"perfectly blissful" to get home; and the young lawyer had complimented
her on her wonderful, almost life-like resemblance to her grand-father,
whose portrait hung in the court-house--and which was nearer the
truth--to all of which the young girl replied in her most gracious
tones, thanking them for their kindness in coming to see her and for
welcoming her so cordially--the whole of Lucy's mind once more reverted
to Bart.
Indeed, the several lobes of her brain had been working in opposition
for the past hour. While one-half of her mind was concocting polite
speeches for her guests the other was absorbed in the fear that Bart
would either get tired of waiting for her return and leave the sofa, or
that some other girl friend of his would claim him and her delightful
talk be at an end.
To the young girl fresh from school Bart represented the only thing in
the room that was entirely alive. The others talked platitudes and
themselves. He had encouraged her to talk of HERSELF and of the things
she liked. He had, too, about him an assurance and dominating
personality which, although it made her a little afraid of him, only
added to his attractiveness.
While she stood wondering how many times the white-haired young lawyer
would tell her it was so nice to have her back, she felt a slight
pressure on her arm and turned to face Bart.
"You are wanted, please, Miss Lucy; may I offer you my arm? Excuse me,
Bunsby--I'll give her to you again in a minute."
Lucy slipped her arm into Bart's, and asked simply, "What for?"
"To finish our talk, of course. Do you suppose I'm going to let that
tow-head monopolize you?" he answered, pressing her arm closer to his
side with his own.
Lucy laughed and tapped Bart with her fan in rebuke, and then there
followed a bit of coquetry in which the young girl declared that he was
"too mean for anything, and that she'd never seen anybody so conceited,
and if he only knew, she might really prefer the 'tow head' to his
own;" to which Bart answered that his only excuse was that he was so
lonely he was nearly dead, and that he had only come to save his
life--the whole affair culminating in his conducting her back to the
sofa with a great flourish and again seating himself beside her.
"I've been watching you," he began when he had made her comfortable
with a small cushion behind her shoulders and another for her pretty
feet. "You don't act a bit like Miss Jane." As he spoke he leaned
forward and flicked an imaginary something from her bare wrist with
that air which always characterized his early approaches to most women.
"Why?" Lucy asked, pleased at his attentions and thanking him with a
more direct look.
"Oh, I don't know. You're more jolly, I think. I don't like girls who
turn out to be solemn after you know them a while; I was afraid you
might. You know it's a long time since I saw you."
"Why, then, sister can't be solemn, for everybody says you and she are
great friends," she replied with a light laugh, readjusting the lace of
her bodice.
"So we are; nobody about here I think as much of as I do of your
sister. She's been mighty good to me. But you know what I mean: I mean
those don't-touch-me kind of girls who are always thinking you mean a
lot of things when you're only trying to be nice and friendly to them.
I like to be a brother to a girl and to go sailing with her, and
fishing, and not have her bother me about her feet getting a little bit
wet, and not scream bloody murder when the boat gives a lurch. That's
the kind of girl that's worth having."
"And you don't find them?" laughed Lucy, looking at him out of the
corners of her eyes.
"Well, not many. Do you mind little things like that?"
As he spoke his eyes wandered over her bare shoulders until they rested
on the blossoms, the sort of roaming, critical eyes that often cause a
woman to wonder whether some part of her toilet has not been carelessly
put together. Then he added, with a sudden lowering of his voice:
"That's a nice posy you've got. Who sent it?" and he bent his head as
if to smell the cluster on her bosom.
Lucy drew back and a slight flush suffused her cheek; his audacity
frightened her. She was fond of admiration, but this way of expressing
it was new to her. The young man caught the movement and recovered
himself. He had ventured on a thin spot, as was his custom, and the
sound of the cracking ice had warned him in time.
"Oh, I see, they're apple blossoms," he added carelessly as he
straightened up. "We've got a lot in our orchard. You like flowers, I
see." The even tone and perfect self-possession of the young man
reassured her.
"Oh, I adore them; don't you?" Lucy answered in a relieved, almost
apologetic voice. She was sorry she had misjudged him. She liked him
rather the better now for her mistake.
"Well, that depends. Apple blossoms never looked pretty to me before;
but then it makes a good deal of difference where they are," answered
Bart with a low chuckle.
Jane had been watching the two and had noticed. Bart's position and
manner. His easy familiarity of pose offended her. Instinctively she
glanced about the room, wondering if any of her guests had seen it.
That Lucy did not resent it surprised her. She supposed her sister's
recent training would have made her a little more fastidious.
"Come, Lucy," she called gently, moving toward her, "bring Bart over
here and join the other girls."
"All right, Miss Jane, we'll be there in a minute," Bart answered in
Lucy's stead. Then he bent his head and said in a low voice:
"Won't you give me half those blossoms?"
"No; it would spoil the bunch."
"Please--"
"No, not a single one. You wouldn't care for them, anyway."
"Yes, I would." Here he stretched out his hand and touched the blossoms
on her neck.
Lucy ducked her head in merry glee, sprang up, and with a triumphant
curtsy and a "No, you don't, sir--not this time," joined her sister,
followed by art.
The guests were now separated into big and little groups. Uncle Ephraim
and the judge were hob-nobbing around the fireplace, listening to Uncle
Ephraim's stories and joining in the laughter which every now and then
filled the room. Captain Nat was deep in a discussion with Doctor John
over some seafaring matter, and Jane and Mrs. Benson were discussing a
local charity with Pastor Dellenbaugh.
The younger people being left to themselves soon began to pair off, the
white-haired young lawyer disappearing with the older Miss Cromartin
and Bart soon following with Lucy:--the outer porch and the long walk
down the garden path among the trees, despite the chilliness of the
night, seemed to be the only place in which they could be comfortable.
During a lull in the discussion of Captain Nat's maritime news and
while Mrs. Benson was talking to the pastor, Doctor John seized the
opportunity to seat himself again by Jane.
"Don't you think Lucy improved?" she asked, motioning the doctor to a
place beside her.
"She's much more beautiful than I thought she would be," he answered in
a hesitating way, looking toward Lucy, and seating himself in his
favorite attitude, hands in his lap, one leg crossed over the other and
hanging straight beside its fellow; only a man like the doctor, of more
than usual repose and of a certain elegance of form, Jane always said,
could sit this way any length of time and be comfortable and
unconscious of his posture. Then he added slowly, and as if he had
given the subject some consideration, "You won't keep her long, I'm
afraid."
"Oh, don't say that," Jane cried with a nervous start. "I don't know
what I would do if she should marry."
"That don't sound like you, Miss Jane. You would be the first to deny
yourself. You are too good to do otherwise." He spoke with a slight
quiver in his voice, and yet with an emphasis that showed he believed
it.
"No; it is you who are good to think so," she replied in a softer tone,
bending her head as she spoke, her eyes intent on her fan. "And now
tell me," she added quickly, raising her eyes to his as if to bar any
further tribute he might be on the point of paying to her--"I hear your
mother takes greatly to heart your having refused the hospital
appointment."
"Yes, I'm afraid she does. Mother has a good many new-fashioned notions
nowadays." He laughed--a mellow, genial laugh; more in the spirit of
apology than of criticism.
"And you don't want to go?" she asked, her eyes fixed on his.
"Want to go? No, why should I? There would be nobody to look after the
people here if I went away. You don't want me to leave, do you?" he
added suddenly in an anxious tone.
"Nobody does, doctor," she replied, parrying the question, her face
flushing with pleasure.
Here Martha entered the room hurriedly and bending over Jane's
shoulder, whispered something in her ear. The doctor straightened
himself and leaned back out of hearing.
"Well, but I don't think she will take cold," Jane whispered in return,
looking up into Martha's face. "Has she anything around her?"
"Yes, your big red cloak; but the child's head is bare and there's
mighty little on her neck, and she ought to come in. The wind's begun
to blow and it's gettin' cold."
"Where is she?" Jane continued, her face showing her surprise at
Martha's statement.
"Out by the gate with that dare-devil. He don't care who he gives cold.
I told her she'd get her death, but she won't mind me."
"Why, Martha, how can you talk so!" Jane retorted, with a disapproving
frown. Then raising her voice so that the doctor could be brought into
the conversation, she added in her natural tone, "Whom did you say she
was with?"
"Bart Holt," cried Martha aloud, nodding to the doctor as if to get his
assistance in saving her bairn from possible danger.
Jane colored slightly and turned to Doctor John.
"You go please, doctor, and bring them all in, or you may have some new
patients on your hands."
The doctor looked from one to the other in doubt as to the cause of his
selection, but Jane's face showed none of the anxiety in Martha's.
"Yes, certainly," he answered simply; "but I'll get myself into a
hornet's nest. These young people don't like to be told what's good for
them," he added with a laugh, rising from his seat. "And after that
you'll permit me to slip away without telling anybody, won't you? My
last minute has come," and he glanced at his watch.
"Going so soon? Why, I wanted you to stay for supper. It will be ready
in a few minutes." Her voice had lost its buoyancy now. She never
wanted him to go. She never let him know it, but it pained her all the
same.
"I would like to, but I cannot." All his heart was in his eyes as he
spoke.
"Someone ill?" she asked.
"Yes, Fogarty's child. The little fellow may develop croup before
morning. I saw him to-day, and his pulse was not right, he's a sturdy
little chap with a thick neck, and that kind always suffers most. If
he's worse Fogarty is to send word to my office," he added, holding out
his hand in parting.
"Can I help?" Jane asked, retaining the doctor's hand in hers as if to
get the answer.
"No, I'll watch him closely. Good-night," and with a smile he bent his
head and withdrew.
Martha followed the doctor to the outer door, and then grumbling her
satisfaction went back to the pantry to direct the servants in
arranging upon the small table in the supper-room the simple
refreshments which always characterized the Cobdens' entertainments.
Soon the girls and their beaux came trooping in to join their elders on
the way to the supper-room. Lucy hung back until the last (she had not
liked the doctor's interference), Jane's long red cloak draped from her
shoulders, the hood hanging down her back, her cheeks radiant, her
beautiful blond hair ruffled with the night wind, an aureole of gold
framing her face. Bart followed close behind, a pleased, almost
triumphant smile playing about his lips.
He had carried his point. The cluster of blossoms which had rested upon
Lucy's bosom was pinned to the lapel of his coat.
CHAPTER III
LITTLE TOD FOGARTY
With the warmth of Jane's parting grasp lingering in his own Doctor
John untied the mare, sprang into his gig, and was soon clear of the
village and speeding along the causeway that stretched across the salt
marshes leading past his own home to the inner beach beyond. As he
drove slowly through his own gate, so as to make as little noise as
possible, the cottage, blanketed under its clinging vines, seemed in
the soft light of the low-lying moon to be fast asleep. Only one eye
was open; this was the window of his office, through which streamed the
glow of a lamp, its light falling on the gravel path and lilac bushes
beyond.
Rex gave a bark of welcome and raced beside the wheels.
"Keep still, old dog! Down, Rex! Been lonely, old fellow?"
The dog in answer leaped in the air as his master drew rein, and with
eager springs tried to reach his hands, barking all the while in short
and joyful yelps.
Doctor John threw the lines across the dash-board, jumped from the gig,
and pushing open the hall door--it was never locked--stepped quickly
into his office, and turning up the lamp, threw himself into a chair at
his desk. The sorrel made no attempt to go to the stable--both horse
and man were accustomed to delays--sometimes of long hours and
sometimes of whole nights.
The appointments and fittings of the office--old-fashioned and
practical as they were--reflected in a marked degree the aims and
tastes of the occupant. While low bookcases stood against the walls
surmounted by rows of test-tubes, mortars and pestles, cases of
instruments, and a line of bottles labelled with names of various
mixtures (in those days doctors were chemists as well as physicians),
there could also be found a bust of the young Augustus; one or two
lithographs of Heidelberg, where he had studied; and some line
engravings in black frames--one a view of Oxford with the Thames
wandering by, another a portrait of the Duke of Wellington, and still
another of Nell Gwynn. Scattered about the room were easy-chairs and
small tables piled high with books, a copy of Tacitus and an early
edition of Milton being among them, while under the wide, low window
stood a narrow bench crowded with flowering plants in earthen pots, the
remnants of the winter's bloom. There were also souvenirs of his
earlier student life--a life which few of his friends in Warehold,
except Jane Cobden, knew or cared anything about--including a pair of
crossed foils and two boxing-gloves; these last hung over a portrait of
Macaulay.
What the place lacked was the touch of a woman's hand in vase, flower,
or ornament--a touch that his mother, for reasons of her own, never
gave and which no other woman had yet dared suggest.
For an instant the doctor sat with his elbows on the desk in deep
thought, the light illuminating his calm, finely chiselled features and
hands--those thin, sure hands which could guide a knife within a hair's
breadth of instant death--and leaning forward, with an indrawn sigh
examined some letters lying under his eye. Then, as if suddenly
remembering, he glanced at the office slate, his face lighting up as he
found it bare of any entry except the date.
Rex had been watching his master with ears cocked, and was now on his
haunches, cuddling close, his nose resting on the doctor's knee. Doctor
John laid his hand on the dog's head and smoothing the long, silky
ears, said with a sigh of relief, as he settled himself in his chair:
"Little Tod must be better, Rex, and we are going to have a quiet
night."
The anxiety over his patients relieved, his thoughts reverted to Jane
and their talk. He remembered the tone of her voice and the quick way
in which she had warded off his tribute to her goodness; he recalled
her anxiety over Lucy; he looked again into the deep, trusting eyes
that gazed into his as she appealed to him for assistance; he caught
once more the poise of the head as she listened to his account of
little Tod Fogarty's illness and heard her quick offer to help, and
felt for the second time her instant tenderness and sympathy, never
withheld from the sick and suffering, and always so generous and
spontaneous.
A certain feeling of thankfulness welled up in his heart. Perhaps she
had at last begun to depend upon him--a dependence which, with a woman
such as Jane, must, he felt sure, eventually end in love.
With these thoughts filling his mind, he settled deeper in his chair.
These were the times in which he loved to think of her--when, with pipe
in mouth, he could sit alone by his fire and build castles in the
coals, every rosy mountain-top aglow with the love he bore her; with no
watchful mother's face trying to fathom his thoughts; only his faithful
dog stretched at his feet.
Picking up his brierwood, lying on a pile of books on his desk, and
within reach of his hand, he started to fill the bowl, when a scrap of
paper covered with a scrawl written in pencil came into view. He turned
it to the light and sprang to his feet.
"Tod worse," he said to himself. "I wonder how long this has been here."
The dog was now beside him looking up into the doctor's eyes. It was
not the first time that he had seen his master's face grow suddenly
serious as he had read the tell-tale slate or had opened some note
awaiting his arrival.
Doctor John lowered the lamp, stepped noiselessly to the foot of the
winding stairs that led to the sleeping rooms above--the dog close at
his heels, watching his every movement--and called gently:
"Mother! mother, dear!" He never left his office when she was at home
and awake without telling her where he was going.
No one answered.
"She is asleep. I will slip out without waking her. Stay where you are,
Rex--I will be back some time before daylight," and throwing his
night-cloak about his shoulders, he started for his gig.
The dog stopped with his paws resting on the outer edge of the top step
of the porch, the line he was not to pass, and looked wistfully after
the doctor. His loneliness was to continue, and his poor master to go
out into the night alone. His tail ceased to wag, only his eyes moved.
Once outside Doctor John patted the mare's neck as if in apology and
loosened the reins. "Come, old girl," he said; "I'm sorry, but it can't
be helped," and springing into the gig, he walked the mare clear of the
gravel beyond the gate, so as not to rouse his mother, touched her
lightly with the whip, and sent her spinning along the road on the way
to Fogarty's.
The route led toward the sea, branching off within the sight of the
cottage porch, past the low, conical ice-houses used by the fishermen
in which to cool their fish during the hot weather, along the
sand-dunes, and down a steep grade to the shore. The tide was making
flood, and the crawling surf spent itself in long shelving reaches of
foam. These so packed the sand that the wheels of the gig hardly made
an impression upon it. Along this smooth surface the mare trotted
briskly, her nimble feet wet with the farthest reaches of the incoming
wash.
As he approached the old House of Refuge, black in the moonlight and
looking twice its size in the stretch of the endless beach, he noticed
for the hundredth time how like a crouching woman it appeared, with its
hipped roof hunched up like a shoulder close propped against the dune
and its overhanging eaves but a draped hood shading its thoughtful
brow; an illusion which vanished when its square form, with its wide
door and long platform pointing to the sea, came into view.
More than once in its brief history the doctor had seen the volunteer
crew, aroused from their cabins along the shore by the boom of a gun
from some stranded vessel, throw wide its door and with a wild cheer
whirl the life-boat housed beneath its roof into the boiling surf, and
many a time had he helped to bring back to life the benumbed bodies
drawn from the merciless sea by their strong arms.
There were other houses like it up and down the coast. Some had
remained unused for years, desolate and forlorn, no unhappy ship having
foundered or struck the breakers within their reach; others had been in
constant use. The crews were gathered from the immediate neighborhood
by the custodian, who was the only man to receive pay from the
Government. If he lived near by he kept the key; if not, the nearest
fisherman held it. Fogarty, the father of the sick child, and whose
cabin was within gunshot of this house, kept the key this year. No
other protection was given these isolated houses and none was needed.
These black-hooded Sisters of the Coast, keeping their lonely vigils,
were as safe from beach-combers and sea-prowlers as their white-capped
namesakes would have been threading the lonely suburbs of some city.
The sound of the mare's feet on the oyster-shell path outside his cabin
brought Fogarty, a tall, thin, weather-beaten fisherman, to the door.
He was still wearing his hip-boots and sou'wester--he was just in from
the surf--and stood outside the low doorway with a lantern. Its light
streamed over the sand and made wavering patterns about the mare's feet.
"Thought ye'd never come, Doc," he whispered, as he threw the blanket
over the mare. "Wife's nigh crazy. Tod's fightin' for all he's worth,
but there ain't much breath left in him. I was off the inlet when it
come on."
The wife, a thick-set woman in a close-fitting cap, her arms bared to
the elbow, her petticoats above the tops of her shoes, met him inside
the door. She had been crying and her eyelids were still wet and her
cheeks swollen. The light of the ship's lantern fastened to the wall
fell upon a crib in the corner, on which lay the child, his short
curls, tangled with much tossing, smoothed back from his face. The
doctor's ears had caught the sound of the child's breathing before he
entered the room.
"When did this come on?" Doctor John asked, settling down beside the
crib upon a stool that the wife had brushed off with her apron.
"'Bout sundown, sir," she answered, her tear-soaked eyes fixed on
little Tod's face. Her teeth chattered as she spoke and her arms were
tight pressed against her sides, her fingers opening and shutting in
her agony. Now and then in her nervousness she would wipe her forehead
with the back of her wrist as if it were wet, or press her two fingers
deep into her swollen cheek.
Fogarty had followed close behind the doctor and now stood looking down
at the crib with fixed eyes, his thin lips close shut, his square jaw
sunk in the collar of his shirt. There were no dangers that the sea
could unfold which this silent surfman had not met and conquered, and
would again. Every fisherman on the coast knew Fogarty's pluck and
skill, and many of them owed their lives to him. To-night, before this
invisible power slowly closing about his child he was as powerless as a
skiff without oars caught in the swirl of a Barnegat tide.
"Why didn't you let me know sooner, Fogarty? You understood my
directions?" Doctor John asked in a surprised tone. "You shouldn't have
left him without letting me know." It was only when his orders were
disobeyed and life endangered that he spoke thus.
The fisherman turned his head and was about to reply when the wife
stepped in front of him.
"My husband got ketched in the inlet, sir," she said in an apologetic
tone, as if to excuse his absence. "The tide set ag'in him and he had
hard pullin' makin' the p'int. It cuts in turrible there, you know,
doctor. Tod seemed to be all right when he left him this mornin'. I had
husband's mate take the note I wrote ye. Mate said nobody was at home
and he laid it under your pipe. He thought ye'd sure find it there when
ye come in."
Doctor John was not listening to her explanations; he was leaning over
the rude crib, his ear to the child's breast. Regaining his position,
he smoothed the curls tenderly from the forehead of the little fellow,
who still lay with eyes closed, one stout brown hand and arm clear of
the coverlet, and stood watching his breathing. Every now and then a
spasm of pain would cross the child's face; the chubby hand would open
convulsively and a muffled cry escape him. Doctor John watched his
breathing for some minutes, laid his hand again on the child's
forehead, and rose from the stool.
"Start up that fire, Fogarty," he said in a crisp tone, turning up his
shirt-cuffs, slipping off his evening coat, and handing the garment to
the wife, who hung it mechanically over a chair, her eyes all the time
searching Doctor John's face for some gleam of hope.
"Now get a pan," he continued, "fill it with water and some corn-meal,
and get me some cotton cloth--half an apron, piece of an old petticoat,
anything, but be quick about it."
The woman, glad of something to do, hastened to obey. Somehow, the
tones of his voice had put new courage into her heart. Fogarty threw a
heap of driftwood on the smouldering fire and filled the kettle; the
dry splinters crackled into a blaze.
The noise aroused the child.
The doctor held up his finger for silence and again caressed the boy's
forehead. Fogarty, with a fresh look of alarm in his face, tiptoed back
of the crib and stood behind the restless sufferer. Under the doctor's
touch the child once more became quiet.
"Is he bad off?" the wife murmured when the doctor moved to the fire
and began stirring the mush she was preparing. "The other one went this
way; we can't lose him. You won't lose him, will ye, doctor, dear? I
don't want to live if this one goes. Please, doctor--"
The doctor looked into the wife's eyes, blurred with tears, and laid
his hand tenderly on her shoulder.
"Keep a good heart, wife," he said; "we'll pull him through. Tod is a
tough little chap with plenty of fight in him yet. I've seen them much
worse. It will soon be over; don't worry."
Mrs. Fogarty's eyes brightened and even the fisherman's grim face
relaxed. Silent men in grave crises suffer most; the habit of their
lives precludes the giving out of words that soothe and heal; when
others speak them, they sink into their thirsty souls like drops of
rain after a long drought. It was just such timely expressions as these
that helped Doctor John's patients most--often their only hope hung on
some word uttered with a buoyancy of spirit that for a moment stifled
all their anxieties.
The effect of the treatment began to tell upon the little sufferer--his
breathing became less difficult, the spasms less frequent. The doctor
whispered the change to the wife, sitting close at his elbow, his
impassive face brightening as he spoke; there was an oven chance now
for the boy's life.
The vigil continued.
No one moved except Fogarty, who would now and then tiptoe quickly to
the hearth, add a fresh log to the embers, and as quickly move back to
his position behind the child's crib. The rising and falling of the
blaze, keeping rhythm, as it were, to the hopes and fears of the group,
lighted up in turn each figure in the room. First the doctor sitting
with hands resting on his knees, his aquiline nose and brow clearly
outlined against the shadowy background in the gold chalk of the
dancing flames, his black evening clothes in strong contrast to the
high white of the coverlet, framing the child's face like a nimbus.
Next the bent body of the wife, her face in half-tones, her stout
shoulders in high relief, and behind, swallowed up in the gloom, out of
reach of the fire-. gleam, the straight, motionless form of the
fisherman, standing with folded arms, grim and silent, his unseen eyes
fixed on his child.
Far into the night, and until the gray dawn streaked the sky, this
vigil continued; the doctor, assisted by Fogarty and the wife, changing
the poultices, filling the child's lungs with hot steam by means of a
paper funnel, and encouraging the mother by his talk. At one time he
would tell her in half-whispered tones of a child who had recovered and
who had been much weaker than this one. Again he would turn to Fogarty
and talk of the sea, of the fishing outside the inlet, of the big
three-masted schooner which had been built by the men at Tom's River,
of the new light they thought of building at Barnegat to take the place
of the old one--anything to divert their minds and lessen their
anxieties, stopping only to note the sound of every cough the boy gave
or to change the treatment as the little sufferer struggled on fighting
for his life.
When the child dozed no one moved, no word was spoken. Then in the
silence there would come to their ears above the labored breathing of
the boy the long swinging tick of the clock, dull and ominous, as if
tolling the minutes of a passing life; the ceaseless crunch of the sea,
chewing its cud on the beach outside or the low moan of the outer bar
turning restlessly on its bed of sand.
Suddenly, and without warning, and out of an apparent sleep, the child
started up from his pillow with staring eyes and began beating the air
for breath.
The doctor leaned quickly forward, listened for a moment, his ear to
the boy's chest, and said in a quiet, restrained voice:
"Go into the other room, Mrs. Fogarty, and stay there till I call you."
The woman raised her eyes to his and obeyed mechanically. She was worn
out, mind and body, and had lost her power of resistance.
As the door shut upon her Doctor John sprang from the stool, caught the
lamp from the wall, handed it to Fogarty, and picking the child up from
the crib, laid it flat upon his knees.
He now slipped his hand into his pocket and took from it a leather case
filled with instruments.
"Hold the light, Fogarty," he said in a firm, decided tone, "and keep
your nerve. I thought he'd pull through without it, but he'll strangle
if I don't."
"What ye goin' to do--not cut him?" whispered the fisherman in a
trembling voice.
"Yes. It's his only chance. I've seen it coming on for the last
hour--no nonsense now. Steady, old fellow. It'll be over in a minute.
... There, my boy, that'll help you. Now, Fogarty, hand me that cloth.
... All right, little man; don't cry; it's all over. Now open the door
and let your wife in," and he laid the child back on the pillow.
When the doctor took the blanket from the sorrel tethered outside
Fogarty's cabin and turned his horse's head homeward the sails of the
fishing-boats lying in a string on the far horizon flashed silver in
the morning sun, His groom met him at the stable door, and without a
word led the mare into the barn.
The lamp in his study was still burning in yellow mockery of the rosy
dawn. He laid his case of instruments on the desk, hung his cloak and
hat to a peg in the closet, and ascended the staircase on the way to
his bedroom. As he passed his mother's open door she heard his step.
"Why, it's broad daylight, son," she called in a voice ending in a yawn.
"Yes, mother."
"Where have you been?"
"To see little Tod Fogarty," he answered simply.
"What's the matter with him?"
"Croup."
"Is he going to die?"
"No, not this time."
"Well, what did you stay out all night for?" The voice had now grown
stronger, with a petulant tone through it.
"Well, I could hardly help it. They are very simple people, and were so
badly frightened that they were helpless. It's the only child they have
left to them--the last one died of croup."
"Well, are you going to turn nurse for half the paupers in the county?
All children have croup, and they don't all die!" The petulant voice
had now developed into one of indignation.
"No, mother, but I couldn't take any risks. This little chap is worth
saving."
There came a pause, during which the tired man waited patiently.
"You were at the Cobdens'?"
"Yes; or I should have reached Fogarty's sooner."
"And Miss Jane detained you, of course."
"No, mother."
"Good-night, John."
"Say rather 'Good-day,' mother," he answered with a smile and continued
on to his room.
CHAPTER IV
ANN GOSSAWAY'S RED CLOAK
The merrymakings at Yardley continued for weeks, a new impetus and
flavor being lent them by the arrival of two of Lucy's friends--her
schoolmate and bosom companion, Maria Collins, of Trenton, and Maria's
devoted admirer, Max Feilding, of Walnut Hill, Philadelphia.
Jane, in her joy over Lucy's home-coming, and in her desire to meet her
sister's every wish, gladly welcomed the new arrivals, although Miss
Collins, strange to say, had not made a very good impression upon her.
Max she thought better of. He was a quiet, well-bred young fellow;
older than either Lucy or Maria, and having lived abroad a year, knew
something of the outside world. Moreover, their families had always
been intimate in the old days, his ancestral home being always open to
Jane's mother when a girl.
The arrival of these two strangers only added to the general gayety.
Picnics were planned to the woods back of Warehold to which the young
people of the town were invited, and in which Billy Tatham with his
team took a prominent part. Sailing and fishing parties outside of
Barnegat were gotten up; dances were held in the old parlor, and even
tableaux were arranged under Max's artistic guidance. In one of these
Maria wore a Spanish costume fashioned out of a white lace shawl
belonging to Jane's grand-mother draped over her head and shoulders,
and made the more bewitching by a red japonica fixed in her hair, and
Lucy appeared as a dairy-maid decked out in one of Martha's caps,
altered to fit her shapely head.
The village itself was greatly stirred.
"Have you seen them two fly-up-the-creeks?" Billy Tatham, the
stage-driver, asked of Uncle Ephraim Tipple as he was driving him down
to the boat-landing.
"No, what do they look like?"
"The He-one had on a two-inch hat with a green ribbon and wore a white
bob-tail coat that 'bout reached to the top o' his pants. Looks like he
lived on water-crackers and milk, his skin's that white. The She-one
had a set o' hoops on her big as a circus tent. Much as I could do to
git her in the 'bus--as it was, she come in sideways. And her trunk!
Well, it oughter been on wheels--one o' them travellin' houses. I
thought one spell I'd take the old plug out the shafts and hook on to
it and git it up that-a-way."
"Some of Lucy's chums, I guess," chuckled Uncle Ephraim. "Miss Jane
told me they were coming. How long are they going to stay?"
"Dunno. Till they git fed up and fattened, maybe. If they was mine I'd
have killin' time to-day."
Ann Gossaway and some of her cronies also gave free rein to their
tongues.
"Learned them tricks at a finishin' school, did they?" broke out the
dressmaker. (Lucy had been the only young woman in Warehold who had
ever enjoyed that privilege.) "Wearin' each other's hats, rollin' round
in the sand, and hollerin' so you could hear 'em clear to the
lighthouse. If I had my way I'd finish 'em, And that's where they'll
git if they don't mind, and quick, too!"
The Dellenbaughs, Cromartins, and Bunsbys, being of another class,
viewed the young couple's visit in a different light. "Mr. Feilding has
such nice hands and wears such lovely cravats," the younger Miss
Cromartin said, and "Miss Collins is too sweet for anything." Prim Mr.
Bunsby, having superior notions of life and deportment, only shook his
head. He looked for more dignity, he said; but then this Byronic young
man had not been invited to any of the outings.
In all these merrymakings and outings Lucy was the central figure. Her
beauty, her joyous nature, her freedom from affectation and
conventionality, her love of the out-of-doors, her pretty clothes and
the way she wore them, all added to her popularity. In the swing and
toss of her freedom, her true temperament developed. She was like a
summer rose, making everything and everybody glad about her, loving the
air she breathed as much for the color it put into her cheeks as for
the new bound it gave to her blood. Just as she loved the sunlight for
its warmth and the dip and swell of the sea for its thrill. So, too,
when the roses were a glory of bloom, not only would she revel in the
beauty of the blossoms, but intoxicated by their color and fragrance,
would bury her face in the wealth of their abundance, taking in great
draughts of their perfume, caressing them with her cheeks, drinking in
the honey of their petals.
This was also true of her voice--a rich, full, vibrating voice, that
dominated the room and thrilled the hearts of all who heard her. When
she sang she sang as a bird sings, as much to relieve its own
overcharged little body, full to bursting with the music in its soul,
as to gladden the surrounding woods with its melody--because, too, she
could not help it and because the notes lay nearest her bubbling heart
and could find their only outlet through the lips.
Bart was her constant companion. Under his instructions she had learned
to hold the tiller in sailing in and out of the inlet; to swim over
hand; to dive from a plank, no matter how high the jump; and to join in
all his outdoor sports. Lucy had been his constant inspiration in all
of this. She had surveyed the field that first night of their meeting
and had discovered that the young man's personality offered the only
material in Warehold available for her purpose. With him, or someone
like him--one who had leisure and freedom, one who was quick and strong
and skilful (and Bart was all of these)--the success of her summer
would be assured. Without him many of her plans could not be carried
out.
And her victory over him had been an easy one. Held first by the spell
of her beauty and controlled later by her tact and stronger will, the
young man's effrontery--almost impudence at times--had changed to a
certain respectful subservience, which showed itself in his constant
effort to please and amuse her. When they were not sailing they were
back in the orchard out of sight of the house, or were walking together
nobody knew where. Often Bart would call for her immediately after
breakfast, and the two would pack a lunch-basket and be gone all day,
Lucy arranging the details of the outing, and Bart entering into them
with a dash and an eagerness which, to a man of his temperament,
cemented the bond between them all the closer. Had they been two fabled
denizens of the wood--she a nymph and he a dryad--they could not have
been more closely linked with sky and earth.
As for Jane, she watched the increasing intimacy with alarm. She had
suddenly become aroused to the fact that Lucy's love affair with Bart
was going far beyond the limits of prudence. The son of Captain
Nathaniel Holt, late of the Black Ball Line of packets, would always be
welcome as a visitor at the home, the captain being an old and tried
friend of her father's; but neither Bart's education nor prospects,
nor, for that matter, his social position--a point which usually had
very little weight with Jane--could possibly entitle him to ask the
hand of the granddaughter of Archibald Cobden in marriage. She began to
regret that she had thrown them together. Her own ideas of reforming
him had never contemplated any such intimacy as now existed between the
young man and her sister. The side of his nature which he had always
shown her had been one of respectful attention to her wishes; so much
so that she had been greatly encouraged in her efforts to make
something more of him than even his best friends predicted could be
done; but she had never for one instant intended that her friendly
interest should go any further, nor could she have conceived of such an
issue.
And yet Jane did nothing to prevent the meetings and outings of the
young couple, even after Maria's and Max's departure.
When Martha, in her own ever-increasing anxiety, spoke of the growing
intimacy she looked grave, but she gave no indication of her own
thoughts. Her pride prevented her discussing the situation with the old
nurse and her love for Lucy from intervening in her pleasures.
"She has been cooped up at school so long, Martha, dear," she answered
in extenuation, "that I hate to interfere in anything she wants to do.
She is very happy; let her alone. I wish, though, she would return some
of the calls of these good people who have been so kind to her. Perhaps
she will if you speak to her. But don't worry about Bart; that will
wear itself out. All young girls must have their love-affairs."
Jane's voice had lacked the ring of true sincerity when she spoke about
"wearing itself out," and Martha had gone to her room more dissatisfied
than before. This feeling became all the more intense when, the next
day, from her window she watched Bart tying on Lucy's hat, puffing out
the big bow under her chin, smoothing her hair from the flying strings.
Lucy's eyes were dancing, her face turned toward Bart's, her pretty
lips near his own. There was a knot or a twist, or a collection of
knots and twists, or perhaps Bart's fingers bungled, for minutes passed
before the hat could be fastened to suit either of them. Martha's head
had all this time been thrust out of the easement, her gaze apparently
fixed on a birdcage hung from a hook near the shutter.
Bart caught her eye and whispered to Lucy that that "old spy-cat" was
watching them; whereupon Lucy faced about, waved her hand to the old
nurse, and turning quickly, raced up the orchard and out of sight,
followed by Bart carrying a shawl for them to sit upon.
After that Martha, unconsciously, perhaps, to herself, kept watch, so
far as she could, upon their movements, without, as she thought,
betraying herself: making excuses to go to the village when they two
went off together in that direction; traversing the orchard, ostensibly
looking for Meg when she knew all the time that the dog was sound
asleep in the woodshed; or yielding to a sudden desire to give the
rascal a bath whenever Lucy announced that she and Bart were going to
spend the morning down by the water.
As the weeks flew by and Lucy had shown no willingness to assume her
share of any of the responsibilities of the house,--any that interfered
with her personal enjoyment,--Jane became more and more restless and
unhappy. The older village people had shown her sister every attention,
she said to herself,--more than was her due, considering her
youth,--and yet Lucy had never crossed any one of their thresholds. She
again pleaded with the girl to remember her social duties and to pay
some regard to the neighbors who had called upon her and who had shown
her so much kindness; to which the happy-hearted sister had laughed
back in reply:
"What for, you dear sister? These old fossils don't want to see me, and
I'm sure I don't want to see them. Some of them give me the shivers,
they are so prim."
It was with glad surprise, therefore, that Jane heard Lucy say in
Martha's hearing one bright afternoon:
"Now, I'm going to begin, sister, and you won't have to scold me any
more. Everyone of these old tabbies I will take in a row: Mrs.
Cavendish first, and then the Cromartins, and the balance of the bunch
when I can reach them. I am going to Rose Cottage to see Mrs. Cavendish
this very afternoon."
The selection of Mrs. Cavendish as first on her list only increased
Jane's wonder. Rose Cottage lay some two miles from Warehold, near the
upper end of the beach, and few of their other friends lived near it.
Then again, Jane knew that Lucy had not liked the doctor's calling her
into the house the night of her arrival, and had heretofore made one
excuse after another when urged to call on his mother. Her delight,
therefore, over Lucy's sudden sense of duty was all the more keen.
"I'll go with you, darling," she answered, slipping her arm about
Lucy's waist, "and we'll take Meg for a walk."
So they started, Lucy in her prettiest frock and hat and Jane with her
big red cloak over her arm to protect the young girl from the breeze
from the sea, which in the early autumn was often cool, especially if
they should sit out on Mrs. Cavendish's piazza.
The doctor's mother met them on the porch. She had seen them enter the
garden gate, and had left her seat by the window, and was standing on
the top step to welcome them. Rex, as usual, in the doctor's absence,
did the honors of the office. He loved Jane, and always sprang straight
at her, his big paws resting on her shoulders. These courtesies,
however, he did not extend to Meg. The high-bred setter had no other
salutation for the clay-colored remnant than a lifting of his nose, a
tightening of his legs, and a smothered growl when Meg ventured too
near his lordship.
"Come up, my dear, and let me look at you," were Mrs. Cavendish's first
words of salutation to Lucy. "I hear you have quite turned the heads of
all the gallants in Warehold. John says you are very beautiful, and you
know the doctor is a good judge, is he not, Miss Jane?" she added,
holding out her hands to them both. "And he's quite right; you are just
like your dear mother, who was known as the Rose of Barnegat long
before you were born. Shall we sit here, or will you come into my
little salon for a cup of tea?" It was always a salon to Mrs.
Cavendish, never a "sitting-room."
"Oh, please let me sit here," Lucy answered, checking a rising smile at
the word, "the view is so lovely," and without further comment or any
reference to the compliments showered upon her, she took her seat upon
the top step and began to play with Rex, who had already offered to
make friends with her, his invariable habit with well-dressed people.
Jane meanwhile improved the occasion to ask the doctor's mother about
the hospital they were building near Barnegat, and whether she and one
or two of the other ladies at Warehold would not be useful as visitors,
and, perhaps, in case of emergency, as nurses.
While the talk was in progress Lucy sat smoothing Rex's silky ears,
listening to every word her hostess spoke, watching her gestures and
the expressions that crossed her face, and settling in her mind for all
time, after the manner of young girls, what sort of woman the doctor's
mother might be; any opinions she might have had two years before being
now outlawed by this advanced young woman in her present mature
judgment.
In that comprehensive glance, with the profound wisdom of her seventeen
summers to help her, she had come to the conclusion that Mrs. Cavendish
was a high-strung, nervous, fussy little woman of fifty, with an
outward show of good-will and an inward intention to rip everybody up
the back who opposed her; proud of her home, of her blood, and of her
son, and determined, if she could manage it, to break off his
attachment for Jane, no matter at what cost. This last Lucy caught from
a peculiar look in the little old woman's eyes and a slightly scornful
curve of the lower lip as she listened to Jane's talk about the
hospital, all of which was lost on "plain Jane Cobden," as the doctor's
mother invariably called her sister behind her back.
Then the young mind-reader turned her attention to the house and
grounds and the buildings lying above and before her, especially to the
way the matted vines hung to the porches and clambered over the roof
and dormers. Later on she listened to Mrs. Cavendish's description of
its age and ancestry: How it had come down to her from her grandfather,
whose large estate was near Trenton, where as a girl she had spent her
life; how in those days it was but a small villa to which old Nicholas
Erskine, her great-uncle, would bring his guests when the August days
made Trenton unbearable; and how in later years under the big trees
back of the house and over the lawn--"you can see them from where you
sit, my dear"--tea had been served to twenty or more of "the first
gentlemen and ladies of the land."
Jane had heard it all a dozen times before, and so had every other
visitor at Rose Cottage, but to Lucy it was only confirmation of her
latter-day opinion of her hostess. Nothing, however, could be more
gracious than the close attention which the young girl gave Mrs.
Cavendish's every word when the talk was again directed to her, bending
her pretty head and laughing at the right time--a courtesy which so
charmed the dear lady that she insisted on giving first Lucy, and then
Jane, a bunch of roses from her "own favorite bush" before the two
girls took their leave.
With these evidences of her delight made clear, Lucy pushed Rex from
her side--he had become presuming and had left the imprint of his dusty
paw upon her spotless frock--and with the remark that she had other
visits to pay, her only regret being that this one was so short, she
got up from her seat on the step, called Meg, and stood waiting for
Jane with some slight impatience in her manner.
Jane immediately rose from her chair. She had been greatly pleaded at
the impression Lucy had made. Her manner, her courtesy, her respect for
the older woman, her humoring her whims, show her to be the daughter of
a Cobden. As to her own place during the visit, she had never given it
a thought. She would always be willing to act as foil to her
accomplished, brilliant sister if by so doing she could make other
people love Lucy the more.
As they walked through the doctor's study, Mrs. Cavendish preceding
them, Jane lingered for a moment and gave a hurried glance about her.
There stood his chair and his lounge where he had thrown himself so
often when tired out. There, too, was the closet where he hung his coat
and hat, and the desk covered with books and papers. A certain feeling
of reverence not unmixed with curiosity took possession of her, as when
one enters a sanctuary in the absence of the priest. For an instant she
passed her hand gently over the leather back of the chair where his
head rested, smoothing it with her fingers. Then her eyes wandered over
the room, noting each appointment in detail. Suddenly a sense of
injustice rose in her mind as she thought that nothing of beauty had
ever been added to these plain surroundings; even the plants in the
boxes by the windows looked half faded. With a quick glance at the open
door she slipped a rose from the bunch in her hand, leaned over, and
with the feeling of a devotee laying an offering on the altar, placed
the flower hurried on the doctor's slate. Then she joined Mrs.
Cavendish.
Lucy walked slowly from the gate, her eyes every now and then turned to
the sea. When she and Jane had reached the cross-road that branched off
toward the beach--it ran within sight of Mrs. Cavendish's windows--Lucy
said:
"The afternoon is so lovely I'm not going to pay any more visits,
sister. Suppose I go to the beach and give Meg a bath. You won't mind,
will you? Come, Meg!"
"Oh, how happy you will make him!" cried Jane. "But you are not dressed
warm enough, dearie. You know how cool it gets toward evening. Here,
take my cloak. Perhaps I'd better go with you--"
"No, do you keep on home. I want to see if the little wretch will be
contented with me alone. Good-by," and without giving her sister time
to protest, she called to Meg, and with a wave of her hand, the red
cloak flying from her shoulders, ran toward the beach, Meg bounding
after her.
Jane waved back in answer, and kept her eyes on the graceful figure
skipping along the road, her head and shoulders in silhouette against
the blue sea, her white skirts brushing the yellow grass of the
sand-dune. All the mother-love in her heart welled up in her breast.
She was so proud of her, so much in love with her, so thankful for her!
All these foolish love affairs and girl fancies would soon be over and
Bart and the others like him out of Lucy's mind and heart. Why worry
about it? Some great strong soul would come by and by and take this
child in his arms and make a woman of her. Some strong soul--
She stopped short in her walk and her thoughts went back to the red
rose lying on the doctor's desk.
"Will he know?" she said to herself; "he loves flowers so, and I don't
believe anybody ever puts one on his desk. Poor fellow! how hard he
works and how good he is to everybody! Little Tod would have died but
for his tenderness." Then, with a prayer in her heart and a new light
in her eyes, she kept on her way.
Lucy, as she bounded along the edge of the bluff, Meg scurrying after
her, had never once lost sight of her sister's slender figure. When a
turn in the road shut her from view, she crouched down behind a
sand-dune, waited until she was sure Jane would not change her mind and
join her, and then folding the cloak over her arm, gathered up her
skirts and ran with all her speed along the wet sand to the House of
Refuge. As she reached its side, Bart Holt stepped out into the
afternoon light.
"I thought you'd never come, darling," he said, catching her in his
arms and kissing her.
"I couldn't help it, sweetheart. I told sister I was going to see Mrs.
Cavendish, and she was so delighted she said she would go, too."
"Where is she?" he interrupted, turning his head and looking anxiously
up the beach.
"Gone home. Oh, I fixed that. I was scared to death for a minute, but
you trust me when I want to get off."
"Why didn't you let her take that beast of a dog with her? We don't
want him," he rejoined, pointing to Meg, who had come to a sudden
standstill at the sight of Bart.
"Why, you silly! That's how I got away. She thought I was going to give
him a bath. How long have you been waiting, my precious?" Her hand was
on his shoulder now, her eyes raised to his.
"Oh, 'bout a year. It really seems like a year, Luce" (his pet name for
her), "when I'm waiting for you. I was sure something was up. Wait till
I open the door." The two turned toward the house.
"Why! can we get in? I thought Fogarty, the fisherman, had the key,"
she asked, with a tone of pleasant surprise in her voice.
"So he has," he laughed. "Got it now hanging up behind his clock. I
borrowed it yesterday and had one made just like it. I'm of age." This
came with a sly wink, followed by a low laugh of triumph.
Lucy smiled. She liked his daring; she liked, too, his resources. When
a thing was to be done, Bart always found the way to do it. She waited
until he had fitted the new bright key into the rusty lock, her hand in
his.
"Now, come inside," he cried, swinging wide the big doors. "Isn't it a
jolly place?" He slipped his arm about her and drew her to him. "See,
there's the stove with the kindling-wood all ready to light when
anything comes ashore, and up on that shelf are life-preservers; and
here's a table and some stools and a lantern--two of 'em; and there's
the big life-boat, all ready to push out. Good place to come Sundays
with some of the fellows, isn't it? Play all night here, and not a soul
would find you out," he chuckled as he pointed to the different things.
"You didn't think, now, I was going to have a cubby-hole like this to
hide you in where that old spot-cat Martha can't be watching us, did
you?" he added, drawing her toward him and again kissing her with a
sudden intensity.
Lucy slipped from his arms and began examining everything with the
greatest interest. She had never seen anything but the outside of the
house before and she always wondered what it contained, and as a child
had stood up on her toes and tried to peep in through the crack of the
big door. When she had looked the boat all over and felt the oars, and
wondered whether the fire could be lighted quick enough, and pictured
in her mind the half-drowned people huddled around it in their
sea-drenched clothes, she moved to the door. Bart wanted her to sit
down inside, but she refused.
"No, come outside and lie on the sand. Nobody comes along here," she
insisted. "Oh, see how beautiful the sea is! I love that green," and
drawing Jane's red cloak around her, she settled herself on the sand,
Bart throwing himself at her feet.
The sun was now nearing the horizon, and its golden rays fell across
their faces. Away off on the sky-line trailed the smoke of an incoming
steamer; nearer in idled a schooner bound in to Barnegat Inlet with
every sail set. At their feet the surf rose sleepily under the gentle
pressure of the incoming tide, its wavelets spreading themselves in
widening circles as if bent on kissing the feet of the radiant girl.
As they sat and talked, filled with the happiness of being alone, their
eyes now on the sea and now looking into each other's, Meg, who had
amused himself by barking at the swooping gulls, chasing the sand-snipe
and digging holes in the sand for imaginary muskrats, lifted his head
and gave a short yelp. Bart, annoyed by the sound, picked up a bit of
driftwood and hurled it at him, missing him by a few inches. The
narrowness of the escape silenced the dog and sent him to the rear with
drooping tail and ears.
Bart should have minded Meg's warning. A broad beach in the full glare
of the setting sun, even when protected by a House of Refuge, is a poor
place to be alone in.
A woman was passing along the edge of the bluffs, carrying a basket in
one hand and a green umbrella in the other; a tall, thin, angular
woman, with the eye of a ferret. It was Ann Gossaway's day for visiting
the sick, and she had just left Fogarty's cabin, where little Tod, with
his throat tied up in red flannel, had tried on her mitts and played
with her spectacles. Miss Gossaway had heard Meg's bark and had been
accorded a full view of Lucy's back covered by Jane's red cloak, with
Bart sitting beside her, their shoulders touching.
Lovers with their heads together interested the gossip no longer,
except as a topic to talk about. Such trifles had these many years
passed out of the dress-maker's life.
So Miss Gossaway, busy with her own thoughts, kept on her way unnoticed
by either Lucy or Bart.
When she reached the cross-road she met Doctor John driving in. He
tightened the reins on the sorrel and stopped.
"Lovely afternoon, Miss Gossaway. Where are you from--looking at the
sunset?"
"No, I ain't got no time for spoonin'. I might be if I was Miss Jane
and Bart Holt. Just see 'em a spell ago squattin' down behind the House
o' Refuge. She wouldn't look at me. I been to Fogarty's; she's on my
list this week, and it's my day for visitin', fust in two weeks. That
two-year-old of hers is all right ag'in after your sewing him up;
they'll never get over tellin' how you set up all night with him. You
ought to hear Mrs. Fogarty go on--'Oh, the goodness of him!'" and she
mimicked the good woman's dialect. "'If Tod'd been his own child he
couldn't a-done more for him.' That's the way she talks. I heard,
doctor, ye never left him till daylight. You're a wonder."
The doctor touched his hat and drove on.
Miss Gossaway's sharp, rasping voice and incisive manner of speaking
grated upon him. He liked neither her tone nor the way in which she
spoke of the mistress of Yardley. No one else dared as much. If Jane
was really on the beach and with Bart, she had some good purpose in her
mind. It may have been her day for visiting, and Bart, perhaps, had
accompanied her. But why had Miss Gossaway not met Miss Cobden at
Fogarty's, his being the only cabin that far down the beach? Then his
face brightened. Perhaps, after all, it was Lucy whom she had seen. He
had placed that same red cloak around her shoulders the night of the
reception at Yardley--and when she was with Bart, too.
Mrs. Cavendish was sitting by her window when the doctor entered his
own house. She rose, and putting down her book, advanced to meet him.
"You should have come earlier, John," she said with a laugh; "such a
charming girl and so pretty and gracious. Why, I was quite overcome.
She is very different from her sister. What do you think Miss Jane
wants to do now? Nurse in the new hospital when it is built! Pretty
position for a lady, isn't it?"
"Any position she would fill would gain by her presence," said the
doctor gravely. "Have they been gone long?" he asked, changing the
subject. He never discussed Jane Cobden with his mother if he could
help it.
"Oh, yes, some time. Lucy must have kept on home, for I saw Miss Jane
going toward the beach alone."
"Are you sure, mother?" There was a note of anxiety in his voice.
"Yes, certainly. She had that red cloak of hers with her and that
miserable little dog; that's how I know. She must be going to stay
late. You look tired, my son; have you had a hard day?" added she,
kissing him on the cheek.
"Yes, perhaps I am a little tired, but I'll be all right. Have you
looked at the slate lately? I'll go myself," and he turned and entered
his office.
On the slate lay the rose. He picked it up and held it to his nose in a
preoccupied way.
"One of mother's," he said listlessly, laying it back among his papers.
"She so seldom does that sort of thing. Funny that she should have
given it to me to-day; and after Miss Jane's visit, too." Then he shut
the office door, threw himself into his chair, and buried his face in
his hands. He was still there when his mother called him to supper.
When Lucy reached home it was nearly dark. She came alone, leaving Bart
at the entrance to the village. At her suggestion they had avoided the
main road and had crossed the marsh by the foot-path, the dog bounding
on ahead and springing at the nurse, who stood in the gate awaiting
Lucy's return.
"Why, he's as dry as a bone!" Martha cried, stroking Meg's rough hair
with her plump hand. "He didn't get much of a bath, did he?"
"No, I couldn't get him into the water. Every time I got my hand on him
he'd dart away again."
"Anybody on the beach, darlin'?"
"Not a soul except Meg and the sandsnipe."
CHAPTER V
CAPTAIN NAT'S DECISION
When Martha, with Meg at her heels, passed Ann Gossaway's cottage the
next morning on her way to the post-office--her daily custom--the
dressmaker, who was sitting in the window, one eye on her needle and
the other on the street, craned her head clear of the calico curtain
framing the sash and beckoned to her.
This perch of Ann Gossaway's was the eyrie from which she swept the
village street, bordered with a double row of wide-spreading elms and
fringed with sloping grassy banks spaced at short intervals by
hitching-posts and horse-blocks. Her own cottage stood somewhat nearer
the flagged street path than the others, and as the garden fences were
low and her lookout flanked by two windows, one on each end of her
corner, she could not only note what went on about the fronts of her
neighbors' houses, but much of what took place in their back yards.
From this angle, too, she could see quite easily, and without more than
twisting her attenuated neck, the whole village street from the
Cromartins' gate to the spire of the village church, as well as
everything that passed up and down the shadow-flecked road: which
child, for instance, was late for school, and how often, and what it
wore and whether its clothes were new or inherited from an elder
sister; who came to the Bronsons' next door, and how long they stayed,
and whether they brought anything with them or carried anything away;
the peddler with his pack; the gunner on his way to the marshes, his
two dogs following at his heels in a leash; Dr. John Cavendish's gig,
and whether it was about to stop at Uncle Ephraim Tipple's or keep on,
as usual, and whirl into the open gate of Cobden Manor; Billy Tatham's
passenger list, as the ricketty stage passed with the side curtains up,
and the number of trunks and bags, and the size of them, all indicative
of where they were bound and for how long; details of village life--no
one of which concerned her in the least--being matters of profound
interest to Miss Gossaway.
These several discoveries she shared daily with a faded old mother who
sat huddled up in a rocking-chair by the stove, winter and summer,
whether it had any fire in it or not.
Uncle Ephraim Tipple, in his outspoken way, always referred to these
two gossips as the "spiders." "When the thin one has sucked the life
out of you," he would say with a laugh, "she passes you on to her old
mother, who sits doubled up inside the web, and when she gets done
munching there isn't anything left but your hide and bones."
It was but one of Uncle Ephraim's jokes. The mother was only a forlorn,
half-alive old woman who dozed in her chair by the hour--the relict of
a fisherman who had gone to sea in his yawl some twenty years before
and who had never come back. The daughter, with the courage of youth,
had then stepped into the gap and had alone made the fight for bread.
Gradually, as the years went by the roses in her cheeks--never too
fresh at any time--had begun to fade, her face and figure to shrink,
and her brow to tighten. At last, embittered by her responsibilities
and disappointments, she had lost faith in human kind and had become a
shrew. Since then her tongue had swept on as relentlessly as a scythe,
sparing neither flower nor noxious weed, a movement which it was wise,
sometimes, to check.
When, therefore, Martha, with Meg now bounding before her, caught sight
of Ann Gossaway's beckoning hand thrust out of the low window of her
cottage--the spider-web referred to by Uncle Ephraim--she halted in her
walk, lingered a moment as if undecided, expressed her opinion of the
dressmaker to Meg in an undertone, and swinging open the gate with its
ball and chain, made her way over the grass-plot and stood outside the
window, level with the sill.
"Well, it ain't none of my business, of course, Martha Sands," Miss
Gossaway began, "and that's just what I said to mother when I come
home, but if I was some folks I'd see my company in my parlor, long as
I had one, 'stead of hidin' down behind the House o' Refuge. I said to
mother soon's I got in, 'I'm goin' to tell Martha Sands fust minute I
see her. She ain't got no idee how them girls of hers is carryin' on or
she'd stop it.' That's what I said, didn't I, mother?"
Martha caught an inarticulate sound escaping from a figure muffled in a
blanket shawl, but nothing else followed.
"I thought fust it was you when I heard that draggle-tail dog of yours
barkin', but it was only Miss Jane and Bart Holt."
"Down on the beach! When?" asked Martha. She had not understood a word
of Miss Gossaway's outburst.
"Why, yesterday afternoon, of course--didn't I tell ye so? I'd been
down to Fogarty's; it's my week. Miss Jane and Bart didn't see
me--didn't want to. Might a' been a pair of scissors, they was that
close together."
"Miss Jane warn't on the beach yesterday afternoon," said Martha in a
positive tone, still in the dark.
"She warn't, warn't she? Well, I guess I know Miss Jane Cobden. She and
Bart was hunched up that close you couldn't get a bodkin 'tween 'em.
She had that red cloak around her and the hood up ever her head. Not
know her, and she within ten feet o' me? Well, I guess I got my eyes
left, ain't I?"
Martha stood stunned. She knew now who it was. She had taken the red
cloak from Lucy's shoulders the evening before. Then a cold chill crept
over her as she remembered the lie Lucy had told--"not a soul on the
beach but Meg and the sandsnipe." For an instant she stood without
answering. But for the window-sill on which her hand rested she would
have betrayed her emotion in the swaying of her body. She tried to
collect her thoughts. To deny Jane's identity too positively would only
make the situation worse. If either one of the sisters were to be
criticised Jane could stand it best.
"You got sharp eyes and ears, Ann Gossaway, nobody will deny you them,
but still I don't think Miss Jane was on the beach yesterday."
"Don't think, don't you? Maybe you think I can't tell a cloak from a
bed blanket, never havin' made one, and maybe ye think I don't know my
own clo'es when I see 'em on folks. I made that red cloak for Miss Jane
two years ago, and I know every stitch in it. Don't you try and teach
Ann Gossaway how to cut and baste or you'll git worsted," and the
gossip looked over her spectacles at Martha and shook her side-curls in
a threatening way.
Miss Gossaway had no love for the old nurse. There had been a time when
Martha "weren't no better'n she oughter be, so everybody said," when
she came to the village, and the dressmaker never let a chance slip to
humiliate the old woman. Martha's open denunciation of the dressmaker's
vinegar tongue had only increased the outspoken dislike each had for
the other. She saw now, to her delight, that the incident which had
seemed to be only a bit of flotsam that had drifted to her shore and
which but from Martha's manner would have been forgotten by her the
next day, might be a fragment detached from some floating family wreck.
Before she could press the matter to an explanation Martha turned
abruptly on her heel, called Meg, and with the single remark, "Well, I
guess Miss Jane's of age," walked quickly across the grass-plot and out
of the gate, the ball and chain closing it behind her with a clang.
Once on the street Martha paused with her brain on fire. The lie which
Lucy had told frightened her. She knew why she had told it, and she
knew, too, what harm would come to her bairn if that kind of gossip got
abroad in the village. She was no longer the gentle, loving nurse with
the soft caressing hand, but a woman of purpose. The sudden terror
aroused in her heart had the effect of tightening her grip and bracing
her shoulders as if the better to withstand some expected shock.
She forgot Meg; forgot her errand to the post-office; forgot
everything, in fact, except the safety of the child she loved. That
Lucy had neglected and even avoided her of late, keeping out of her way
even when she was in the house, and that she had received only cool
indifference in place of loyal love, had greatly grieved her, but it
had not lessened the idolatry with which she worshipped her bairn.
Hours at a time she had spent puzzling her brain trying to account for
the change which had come over the girl during two short years of
school. She had until now laid this change to her youth, her love of
admiration, and had forgiven it. Now she understood it; it was that boy
Bart. He had a way with him. He had even ingratiated himself into Miss
Jane's confidence. And now this young girl had fallen a victim to his
wiles. That Lucy should lie to her, of all persons, and in so calm and
self-possessed a manner; and about Bart, of all men--sent a shudder
through her heart, that paled her cheek and tightened her lips. Once
before she had consulted Jane and had been rebuffed. Now she would
depend upon herself.
Retracing her steps and turning sharply to the right, she ordered Meg
home in a firm voice, watched the dog slink off and then walked
straight down a side road to Captain Nat Holt's house. That the captain
occupied a different station in life from herself did not deter her.
She felt at the moment that the honor of the Cobden name lay in her
keeping. The family had stood by her in her trouble; now she would
stand by them.
The captain sat on his front porch reading a newspaper. He was in his
shirt-sleeves and bareheaded, his straight hair standing straight out
like the bristles of a shoe-brush. Since the death of his wife a few
years before he had left the service, and now spent most of his days at
home, tending his garden and enjoying his savings. He was a man of
positive character and generally had his own way in everything. It was
therefore with some astonishment that he heard Martha say when she had
mounted the porch steps and pushed open the front door, her breath
almost gone in her hurried walk, "Come inside."
Captain Holt threw down his paper and rising hurriedly from his chair,
followed her into the sitting-room. The manner of the nurse surprised
him. He had known her for years, ever since his old friend, Lucy's
father, had died, and the tones of her voice, so different from her
usual deferential air, filled him with apprehension.
"Ain't nobody sick, is there, Martha?"
"No, but there will be. Are ye alone?"
"Yes."
"Then shut that door behind ye and sit down. I've got something to say."
The grizzled, weather-beaten man who had made twenty voyages around
Cape Horn, and who was known as a man of few words, and those always of
command, closed the door upon them, drew down the shade on the sunny
side of the room and faced her. He saw now that something of more than
usual importance absorbed her.
"Now, what is it?" he asked. His manner had by this time regained
something of the dictatorial tone he always showed those beneath him in
authority.
"It's about Bart. You've got to send him away." She had not moved from
her position in the middle of the room.
The captain changed color and his voice lost its sharpness.
"Bart! What's he done now?"
"He sneaks off with our Lucy every chance he gets. They were on the
beach yesterday hidin' behind the House o' Refuge with their heads
together. She had on Miss Jane's red cloak, and Ann Gossaway thought it
was Miss Jane, and I let it go at that."
The captain looked at Martha incredulously for a moment, and then broke
into a loud laugh as the absurdity of the whole thing burst upon him.
Then dropping back a step, he stood leaning against the old-fashioned
sideboard, his elbows behind him, his large frame thrust toward her.
"Well, what if they were--ain't she pretty enough?" he burst out. "I
told her she'd have 'em all crazy, and I hear Bart ain't done nothin'
but follow in her wake since he seen her launched."
Martha stepped closer to the captain and held her fist in his face.
"He's got to stop it. Do ye hear me?" she shouted. "If he don't
there'll be trouble, for you and him and everybody. It's me that's
crazy, not him."
"Stop it!" roared the captain, straightening up, the glasses on the
sideboard ringing with his sudden lurch. "My boy keep away from the
daughter of Morton Cobden, who was the best friend I ever had and to
whom I owe more than any man who ever lived! And this is what you
traipsed up here to tell me, is it, you mollycoddle?"
Again Martha edged nearer; her body bent forward, her eyes searching
his--so close that she could have touched his face with her knuckles.
"Hold your tongue and stop talkin' foolishness," she blazed out, the
courage of a tigress fighting for her young in her eyes, the same bold
ring in her voice. "I tell ye, Captain Holt, it's got to stop short
off, and NOW! I know men; have known 'em to my misery. I know when
they're honest and I know when they ain't, and so do you, if you would
open your eyes. Bart don't mean no good to my bairn. I see it in his
face. I see it in the way he touches her hand and ties on her bonnet.
I've watched him ever since the first night he laid eyes on her. He
ain't a man with a heart in him; he's a sneak with a lie in his mouth.
Why don't he come round like any of the others and say where he's goin'
and what he wants to do instead of peepin' round the gate-posts
watchin' for her and sendin' her notes on the sly, and makin' her lie
to me, her old nurse, who's done nothin' but love her? Doctor John
don't treat Miss Jane so--he loves her like a man ought to love a woman
and he ain't got nothin' to hide--and you didn't treat your wife so.
There's something here that tells me"--and she laid her hand on her
bosom--"tells me more'n I dare tell ye. I warn ye now ag'in. Send him
to sea--anywhere, before it is too late. She ain't got no mother; she
won't mind a word I say; Miss Jane is blind as a bat; out with him and
NOW!"
The captain straightened himself up, and with his clenched fist raised
above his head like a hammer about to strike, cried:
"If he harmed the daughter of Morton Cobden I'd kill him!" The words
jumped hot from his throat with a slight hissing sound, his eyes still
aflame.
"Well, then, stop it before it gets too late. I walk the floor nights
and I'm scared to death every hour I live." Then her voice broke.
"Please, captain, please," she added in a piteous tone. "Don't mind me
if I talk wild, my heart is breakin', and I can't hold in no longer,"
and she burst into a paroxysm of tears.
The captain leaned against the sideboard again and looked down upon the
floor as if in deep thought. Martha's tears did not move him. The tears
of few women did. He was only concerned in getting hold of some
positive facts upon which he could base his judgment.
"Come, now," he said in an authoritative voice, "let me get that chair
and set down and then I'll see what all this amounts to. Sounds like a
yarn of a horse-marine." As he spoke he crossed the room and, dragging
a rocking-chair from its place beside the wall, settled himself in it.
Martha found a seat upon the sofa and turned her tear-stained face
toward him.
"Now, what's these young people been doin' that makes ye so almighty
narvous?" he continued, lying back in his chair and looking at her from
under his bushy eyebrows, his fingers supporting his forehead.
"Everything. Goes out sailin' with her and goes driftin' past with his
head in her lap. Fogarty's man who brings fish to the house told me."
She had regained something of her old composure now.
"Anything else?" The captain's voice had a relieved, almost
condescending tone in it. He had taken his thumb and forefinger from
his eyebrow now and sat drumming with his stiffened knuckles on the arm
of the rocker.
"Yes, a heap more--ain't that enough along with the other things I've
told ye?" Martha's eyes were beginning to blaze again.
"No, that's just as it ought to be. Boys and girls will be boys and
girls the world over." The tone of the captain's voice indicated the
condition of his mind. He had at last arrived at a conclusion. Martha's
head was muddled because of her inordinate and unnatural love for the
child she had nursed. She had found a spookship in a fog bank, that was
all. Jealousy might be at the bottom of it or a certain nervous
fussiness. Whatever it was it was too trivial for him to waste his time
over.
The captain rose from his chair, crossed the sitting-room, and opened
the door leading to the porch, letting in the sunshine. Martha followed
close at his heels.
"You're runnin' on a wrong tack, old woman, and first thing ye know
ye'll be in the breakers," he said, with his hand on the knob. "Ease
off a little and don't be too hard on 'em. They'll make harbor all
right. You're makin' more fuss than a hen over one chicken. Miss Jane
knows what she's about. She's got a level head, and when she tells me
that my Bart ain't good enough to ship alongside the daughter of Morton
Cobden, I'll sign papers for him somewhere else, and not before. I'll
have to get you to excuse me now; I'm busy. Good-day," and picking up
his paper, he re-entered the house and closed the door upon her.
CHAPTER VI
A GAME OF CARDS
Should Miss Gossaway have been sitting at her lookout some weeks after
Martha's interview with Captain Nat Holt, and should she have watched
the movements of Doctor John's gig as it rounded into the open gate of
Cobden Manor, she must have decided that something out of the common
was either happening or about to happen inside Yardley's hospitable
doors. Not only was the sorrel trotting at her best, the doctor
flapping the lines along her brown back, his body swaying from side to
side with the motion of the light vehicle, but as he passed her house
he was also consulting the contents of a small envelope which he had
taken from his pocket.
"Please come early," it read. "I have something important to talk over
with you."
A note of this character signed with so adorable a name as "Jane
Cobden" was so rare in the doctor's experience that he had at once
given up his round of morning visits and, springing into his waiting
gig, had started to answer it in person.
He was alive with expectancy. What could she want with him except to
talk over some subject that they had left unfinished? As he hurried on
there came into his mind half a dozen matters, any one of which it
would have been a delight to revive. He knew from the way she worded
the note that nothing had occurred since he had seen her--within the
week, in fact--to cause her either annoyance or suffering. No; it was
only to continue one of their confidential talks, which were the joy of
his life.
Jane was waiting for him in the morning-room. Her face lighted up as he
entered and took her hand, and immediately relaxed again into an
expression of anxiety.
All his eagerness vanished. He saw with a sinking of the heart, even
before she had time to speak, that something outside of his own
affairs, or hers, had caused her to write the note.
"I came at once," he said, keeping her hand in his. "You look troubled;
what has happened?"
"Nothing yet," she answered, leading him to the sofa, "It is about
Lucy. She wants to go away for the winter."
"Where to?" he asked. He had placed a cushion at her back and had
settled himself beside her.
"To Trenton, to visit her friend Miss Collins and study music. She says
Warehold bores her."
"And you don't want her to go?"
"No; I don't fancy Miss Collins, and I am afraid she has too strong an
influence over Lucy. Her personality grates on me; she is so
boisterous, and she laughs so loud; and the views she holds are
unaccountable to me in so young a girl. She seems to have had no home
training whatever. Why Lucy likes her, and why she should have selected
her as an intimate friend, has always puzzled me." She spoke with her
usual frankness and with that directness which always characterized her
in matters of this kind. "I had no one else to talk to and am very
miserable about it all. You don't mind my sending for you, do you?"
"Mind! Why do you ask such a question? I am never so happy as when I am
serving you."
That she should send for him at all was happiness. Not sickness this
time, nor some question of investment, nor the repair of the barn or
gate or out-buildings--but Lucy, who lay nearest her heart! That was
even better than he had expected.
"Tell me all about it, so I can get it right," he continued in a
straightforward tone--the tone of the physician, not the lover. She had
relied on him, and he intended to give her the best counsel of which he
was capable. The lover could wait.
"Well, she received a letter a week ago from Miss Collins, saying she
had come to Trenton for the winter and had taken some rooms in a house
belonging to her aunt, who would live with her. She wants to be within
reach of the same music-teacher who taught the girls at Miss Parkham's
school. She says if Lucy will come it will reduce the expenses and they
can both have the benefit of the tuition. At first Lucy did not want to
go at all, now she insists, and, strange to say, Martha encourages her."
"Martha wants her to leave?" he asked in surprise.
"She says so."
The doctor's face assumed a puzzled expression. He could account for
Lucy's wanting the freedom and novelty of the change, but that Martha
should be willing to part with her bairn for the winter mystified him.
He knew nothing of the flirtation, of course, and its effect on the old
nurse, and could not, therefore, understand Martha's delight in Lucy's
and Bart's separation.
"You will be very lonely," he said, and a certain tender tone developed
in his voice.
"Yes, dreadfully so, but I would not mind if I thought it was for her
good. But I don't think so. I may be wrong, and in the uncertainty I
wanted to talk it over with you. I get so desolate sometimes. I never
seemed to miss my father so much as now. Perhaps it is because Lucy's
babyhood and childhood are over and she is entering upon womanhood with
all the dangers it brings. And she frightens me so sometimes," she
continued after a slight pause. "She is different; more self-willed,
more self-centred. Besides, her touch has altered. She doesn't seem to
love me as she did--not in the same way."
"But she could never do anything else but love you," he interrupted
quickly, speaking for himself as well as Lucy, his voice vibrating
under his emotions. It was all he could do to keep his hands from her
own; her sending for him alone restrained him.
"I know that, but it is not in the old way. It used to be 'Sister,
darling, don't tire yourself,' or 'Sister, dear, let me go upstairs for
you,' or 'Cuddle close here, and let us talk it all out together.'
There is no more of that. She goes her own way, and when I chide her
laughs and leaves me alone until I make some new advance. Help me,
please, and with all the wisdom you can give me; I have no one else in
whom I can trust, no one who is big enough to know what should be done.
I might have talked to Mr. Dellenbaugh about it, but he is away."
"No; talk it all out to me," he said simply. "I so want to help
you"--his whole heart was going out to her in her distress.
"I know you feel sorry for me." She withdrew her hand gently so as not
to hurt him; she too did not want to be misunderstood--having sent for
him. "I know how sincere your friendship is for me, but put all that
aside. Don't let your sympathy for me cloud your judgment. What shall I
do with Lucy? Answer me as if you were her father and mine," and she
looked straight into his eyes.
The doctor tightened the muscles of his throat, closed his teeth, and
summoned all his resolution. If he could only tell her what was in his
heart how much easier it would all be! For some moments he sat
perfectly still, then he answered slowly--as her man of business would
have done:
"I should let her go."
"Why do you say so?"
"Because she will find out in that way sooner than in any other how to
appreciate you and her home. Living in two rooms and studying music
will not suit Lucy. When the novelty wears off she will long for her
home, and when she comes back it will be with a better appreciation of
its comforts. Let her go, and make her going as happy as you can."
And so Jane gave her consent--it is doubtful whether Lucy would have
waited for it once her mind was made up--and in a week she was off,
Doctor John taking her himself as far as the Junction, and seeing her
safe on the road to Trenton. Martha was evidently delighted at the
change, for the old nurse's face was wreathed in smiles that last
morning as they all stood out by the gate while Billy Tatham loaded
Lucy's trunks and boxes. Only once did a frown cross her face, and that
was when Lucy leaned over and whispering something in Bart's ear,
slipped a small scrap of paper between his fingers. Bart crunched it
tight and slid his hand carelessly into his pocket, but the gesture did
not deceive the nurse: it haunted her for days thereafter.
As the weeks flew by and the letters from Trenton told of the
happenings in Maria's home, it became more and more evident to Jane
that the doctor's advice had been the wisest and best. Lucy would often
devote a page or more of her letters to recalling the comforts of her
own room at Yardley, so different from what she was enduring at
Trenton, and longing for them to come again. Parts of these letters
Jane read to the doctor, and all of them to Martha, who received them
with varying comment. It became evident, too, that neither the
excitement of Bart's letters, nor the visits of the occasional school
friends who called upon them both, nor the pursuit of her new
accomplishment, had satisfied the girl.
Jane was not surprised, therefore, remembering the doctor's almost
prophetic words, to learn of the arrival of a letter from Lucy begging
Martha to come to her at once for a day or two. The letter was enclosed
in one to Bart and was handed to the nurse by that young man in person.
As he did so he remarked meaningly that Miss Lucy wanted Martha's visit
to be kept a secret from everybody but Miss Jane, "just as a surprise,"
but Martha answered in a positive tone that she had no secrets from
those who had a right to know them, and that he could write Lucy she
was coming next day, and that Jane and everybody else who might inquire
would know of it before she started.
She rather liked Bart's receiving the letter. As long as that young man
kept away from Trenton and confined himself to Warehold, where she
could keep her eyes on him, she was content.
To Jane Martha said: "Oh, bless the darlin'! She can't do a day longer
without her Martha. I'll go in the mornin'. It's a little pettin' she
wants--that's all."
So the old nurse bade Meg good-by, pinned her big gray shawl about her,
tied on her bonnet, took a little basket with some delicacies and a pot
of jelly, and like a true Mother Hubbard, started off, while Jane,
having persuaded herself that perhaps "the surprise" was meant for her,
and that she might be welcoming two exiles instead of one the following
night, began to put Lucy's room in order and to lay out the many pretty
things she loved, especially the new dressing-gown she had made for
her, lined with blue silk--her favorite color.
All that day and evening, and far into the next afternoon, Jane went
about the house with the refrain of an old song welling up into her
heart--one that had been stifled for months. The thought of the
round-about way in which Lucy had sent for Martha did not dull its
melody. That ruse, she knew, came from the foolish pride of youth, the
pride that could not meet defeat. Underneath it she detected, with a
thrill, the love of home; this, after all, was what her sister could
not do without. It was not Bart this time. That affair, as she had
predicted and had repeatedly told Martha, had worn itself out and had
been replaced by her love of music. She had simply come to herself once
more and would again be her old-time sister and her child. Then,
too--and this sent another wave of delight tingling through her--it had
all been the doctor's doing! But for his advice she would never have
let Lucy go.
Half a dozen times, although the November afternoon was raw and chilly,
with the wind fresh from the sea and the sky dull, she was out on the
front porch without shawl or hat, looking down the path, covered now
with dead leaves, and scanning closely every team that passed the gate,
only to return again to her place by the fire, more impatient than ever.
Meg's quick ear first caught the grating of the wheels. Jane followed
him with a cry of joyous expectation, and flew to the door to meet the
stage, which for some reason--why, she could not tell--had stopped for
a moment outside the gate, dropping only one passenger, and that one
the nurse.
"And Lucy did not come, Martha!" Jane exclaimed, with almost a sob in
her voice. She had reached her side now, followed by Meg, who was
springing straight at the nurse in the joy of his welcome.
The old woman glanced back at the stage, as if afraid of being
overheard, and muttered under her breath:
"No, she couldn't come."
"Oh, I am so disappointed! Why not?"
Martha did not answer. She seemed to have lost her breath. Jane put her
arm about her and led her up the path. Once she stumbled, her step was
so unsteady, and she would have fallen but for Jane's assistance.
The two had now reached the hand-railing of the porch. Here Martha's
trembling foot began to feel about for the step. Jane caught her in her
arms.
"You're ill, Martha!" she cried in alarm. "Give me the bag. What's the
matter?"
Again Martha did not answer.
"Tell me what it is."
"Upstairs! Upstairs!" Martha gasped in reply. "Quick!"
"What has happened?"
"Not here; upstairs."
They climbed the staircase together, Jane half carrying the fainting
woman, her mind in a whirl.
"Where were you taken ill? Why did you try to come home? Why didn't
Lucy come with you?"
They had reached the door of Jane's bedroom now, Martha clinging to her
arm.
Once inside, the nurse leaned panting against the door, put her bands
to her face as if she would shut out some dreadful spectre, and sank
slowly to the floor.
"It is not me," she moaned, wringing her hands, "not me--not--"
"Who?"
"Oh, I can't say it!"
"Lucy?"
"Yes"
"Not ill?"
"No; worse!"
"Oh, Martha! Not dead?"
"O God, I wish she were!"
An hour passed--an hour of agony, of humiliation and despair.
Again the door opened and Jane stepped out--slowly, as if in pain, her
lips tight drawn, her face ghastly white, the thin cheeks sunken into
deeper hollows, the eyes burning. Only the mouth preserved its lines,
but firmer, more rigid, more severe, as if tightened by the strength of
some great resolve. In her hand she held a letter.
Martha lay on the bed, her face to the wall, her head still in her
palms. She had ceased sobbing and was quite still, as if exhausted.
Jane leaned over the banisters, called to one of the servants, and
dropping the letter to the floor below, said:
"Take that to Captain Holt's. When he comes bring him upstairs here
into my sitting-room."
Before the servant could reply there came a knock at the front door.
Jane knew its sound--it was Doctor John's. Leaning far over, grasping
the top rail of the banisters to steady herself, she said to the
servant in a low, restrained voice:
"If that is Dr. Cavendish, please say to him that Martha is just home
from Trenton, greatly fatigued, and I beg him to excuse me. When the
doctor has driven away, you can take the letter."
She kept her grasp on the hand-rail until she heard the tones of his
voice through the open hall door and caught the note of sorrow that
tinged them.
"Oh, I'm so sorry! Poor Martha!" she heard him say. "She is getting too
old to go about alone. Please tell Miss Jane she must not hesitate to
send for me if I can be of the slightest service." Then she re-entered
the room where Martha lay and closed the door.
Another and louder knock now broke the stillness of the chamber and
checked the sobs of the nurse; Captain Holt had met Jane's servant as
he was passing the gate. He stopped for an instant in the hall, slipped
off his coat, and walked straight upstairs, humming a tune as he came.
Jane heard his firm tread, opened the door of their room, and she and
Martha crossed the hall to a smaller apartment where Jane always
attended to the business affairs of the house. The captain's face was
wreathed in a broad smile as he extended his hand to Jane in welcome.
"It's lucky ye caught me, Miss Jane. I was just goin' out, and in a
minute I'd been gone for the night. Hello, Mother Martha! I thought
you'd gone to Trenton."
The two women made no reply to his cheery salutation, except to motion
him to a seat. Then Jane closed the door and turned the key in the lock.
When the captain emerged from the chamber he stepped out alone. His
color was gone, his eyes flashing, his jaw tight set. About his mouth
there hovered a savage, almost brutal look, the look of a bulldog who
bares his teeth before he tears and strangles--a look his men knew when
someone of them purposely disobeyed his orders. For a moment he stood
as if dazed. All he remembered clearly was the white, drawn face of a
woman gazing at him with staring, tear-drenched eyes, the slow dropping
of words that blistered as they fell, and the figure of the nurse
wringing her hands and moaning: "Oh, I told ye so! I told ye so! Why
didn't ye listen?" With it came the pain of some sudden blow that
deadened his brain and stilled his heart.
With a strong effort, like one throwing off a stupor, he raised his
head, braced his shoulders, and strode firmly along the corridor and
down the stairs on his way to the front door. Catching up his coat, he
threw it about him, pulled his hat on, with a jerk, slamming the front
door, plunged along through the dry leaves that covered the path, and
so on out to the main road. Once beyond the gate he hesitated, looked
up and down, turned to the right and then to the left, as if in doubt,
and lunged forward in the direction of the tavern.
It was Sunday night, and the lounging room was full. One of the inmates
rose and offered him a chair--he was much respected in the village,
especially among the rougher class, some of whom had sailed with
him--but he only waved his hand in thanks.
"I don't want to sit down; I'm looking for Bart. Has he been here?" The
sound came as if from between closed teeth.
"Not as I know of, cap'n," answered the landlord; "not since sundown,
nohow."
"Do any of you know where he is?" The look in the captain's eyes and
the sharp, cutting tones of his voice began to be noticed.
"Do ye want him bad?" asked a man tilted back in a chair against the
wall.
"Yes."
"Well, I kin tell ye where to find him,"
"Where?"
"Down on the beach in the Refuge shanty. He and the boys have a deck
there Sunday nights. Been at it all fall--thought ye knowed it."
Out into the night again, and without a word of thanks, down the road
and across the causeway to the hard beach, drenched with the ceaseless
thrash of the rising sea. He followed no path, picked out no road.
Stumbling along in the half-gloom of the twilight, he could make out
the heads of the sand-dunes, bearded with yellow grass blown flat
against their cheeks. Soon he reached the prow of the old wreck with
its shattered timbers and the water-holes left by the tide. These he
avoided, but the smaller objects he trampled upon and over as he strode
on, without caring where he stepped or how often he stumbled. Outlined
against the sand-hills, bleached white under the dull light, he looked
like some evil presence bent on mischief, so direct and forceful was
his unceasing, persistent stride.
When the House of Refuge loomed up against the gray froth of the surf
he stopped and drew breath. Bending forward, he scanned the beach
ahead, shading his eyes with his hand as he would have done on his own
ship in a fog. He could make out now some streaks of yellow light
showing through the cracks one above the other along the side of the
house and a dull patch of red. He knew what it meant. Bart and his
fellows were inside, and were using one of the ship lanterns to see by.
This settled in his mind, the captain strode on, but at a slower pace.
He had found his bearings, and would steer with caution.
Hugging the dunes closer, he approached the house from the rear. The
big door was shut and a bit of matting had been tacked over the one
window to deaden the light. This was why the patch of red was dull. He
stood now so near the outside planking that he could hear the laughter
and talk of those within. By this time the wind had risen to half a
gale and the moan on the outer bar could be heard in the intervals of
the pounding surf. The captain crept under the eaves of the roof and
listened. He wanted to be sure of Bart's voice before he acted.
At this instant a sudden gust of wind burst in the big door,
extinguishing the light of the lantern, and Bart's voice rang out:
"Stay where you are, boys! Don't touch the cards. I know the door, and
can fix it; it's only the bolt that's slipped."
As Bart passed out into the gloom the captain darted forward, seized
him with a grip of steel, dragged him clear of the door, and up the
sand-dunes out of hearing. Then he flung him loose and stood facing the
cowering boy.
"Now stand back and keep away from me, for I'm afraid I'll kill you!"
"What have I done?" cringed Bart, shielding his face with his elbow as
if to ward off a blow. The suddenness of the attack had stunned him.
"Don't ask me, you whelp, or I'll strangle you. Look at me! That's what
you been up to, is it?"
Bart straightened himself, and made some show of resistance. His breath
was coming back to him.
"I haven't done anything--and if I did--"
"You lie! Martha's back from Trenton and Lucy told her. You never
thought of me. You never thought of that sister of hers whose heart
you've broke, nor of the old woman who nursed her like a mother. You
thought of nobody but your stinkin' self. You're not a man! You're a
cur! a dog! Don't move! Keep away from me, I tell ye, or I may lose
hold of myself."
Bart was stretching out his hands now as if in supplication. He had
never seen his father like this--the sight frightened him.
"Father, will you listen--" he pleaded.
"I'll listen to nothin'--"
"Will you, please? It's not all my fault. She ought to have kept out of
my way--"
"Stop! Take that back! You'd blame HER, would ye--a child just out of
school, and as innocent as a baby? By God, you'll do right by her or
you'll never set foot inside my house again!"
Bart faced his father again.
"I want to tell you the whole story before you judge me. I want to--"
"You'll tell me nothin'! Will you act square with her?"
"I must tell you first. You wouldn't understand unless--"
"You won't? That's what you mean--you mean you WON'T! Damn ye!" The
captain raised his clenched fist, quivered for an instant as if
struggling against something beyond his control, dropped it slowly to
his side and whirling suddenly, strode back up the beach.
Bart staggered back against the planking, threw out his hand to keep
from falling, and watched his father's uncertain, stumbling figure
until he was swallowed up in the gloom. The words rang in his ears like
a knell. The realization of his position and what it meant, and might
mean, rushed over him. For an instant he leaned heavily against the
planking until he had caught his breath. Then, with quivering lips and
shaking legs, he walked slowly back into the house, shutting the big
door behind him.
"Boys," he said with a forced smile, "who do you think's been outside?
My father! Somebody told him, and he's just been giving me hell for
playing cards on Sunday."
CHAPTER VII
THE EYES OF AN OLD PORTRAIT
Before another Sunday night had arrived Warehold village was alive with
two important pieces of news.
The first was the disappearance of Bart Holt.
Captain Nat, so the story ran, had caught him carousing in the House of
Refuge on Sunday night with some of his boon companions, and after a
stormy interview in which the boy pleaded for forgiveness, had driven
him out into the night. Bart had left town the next morning at daylight
and had shipped as a common sailor on board a British bark bound for
Brazil. No one had seen him go--not even his companions of the night
before.
The second announcement was more startling.
The Cobden girls were going to Paris. Lucy Cobden had developed an
extraordinary talent for music during her short stay in Trenton with
her friend Maria Collins, and Miss Jane, with her customary
unselfishness and devotion to her younger sister, had decided to go
with her. They might be gone two years or five--it depended on Lucy's
success. Martha would remain at Yardley and take care of the old home.
Bart's banishment coming first served as a target for the fire of the
gossip some days before Jane's decision had reached the ears of the
villagers.
"I always knew he would come to no good end," Miss Gossaway called out
to a passer-by from her eyrie; "and there's more like him if their
fathers would look after 'em. Guess sea's the best place for him."
Billy Tatham, the stage-driver, did not altogether agree with the
extremist.
"You hearn tell, I s'pose, of how Captain Nat handled his boy t'other
night, didn't ye?" he remarked to the passenger next to him on the
front seat. "It might be the way they did things 'board the Black Ball
Line, but 'tain't human and decent, an' I told Cap'n Nat so to-day.
Shut his door in his face an' told him he'd kill him if he tried to
come in, and all because he ketched him playin' cards on Sunday down on
the beach. Bart warn't no worse than the others he run with, but ye
can't tell what these old sea-dogs will do when they git riled. I guess
it was the rum more'n the cards. Them fellers used to drink a power o'
rum in that shanty. I've seen 'em staggerin' home many a Monday mornin'
when I got down early to open up for my team. It's the rum that riled
the cap'n, I guess. He wouldn't stand it aboard ship and used to put
his men in irons, I've hearn tell, when they come aboard drunk. What
gits me is that the cap'n didn't know them fellers met there every
night they could git away, week-days as well as Sundays. Everybody
'round here knew it 'cept him and the light-keeper, and he's so durned
lazy he never once dropped on to 'em. He'd git bounced if the Gov'ment
found out he was lettin' a gang run the House o' Refuge whenever they
felt like it. Fogarty, the fisherman's, got the key, or oughter have
it, but the light-keeper's responsible, so I hearn tell. Git-up,
Billy," and the talk drifted into other channels.
The incident was soon forgotten. One young man more or less did not
make much difference in Warehold. As to Captain Nat, he was known to be
a scrupulously honest, exact man who knew no law outside of his duty.
He probably did it for the boy's good, although everybody agreed that
he could have accomplished his purpose in some more merciful way.
The other sensation--the departure of the two Cobden girls, and their
possible prolonged stay abroad--did not subside so easily. Not only did
the neighbors look upon the Manor House as the show-place of the
village, but the girls themselves were greatly beloved, Jane being
especially idolized from Warehold to Barnegat and the sea. To lose
Jane's presence among them was a positive calamity entailing a sorrow
that most of her neighbors could not bring themselves to face. No one
could take her place.
Pastor Dellenbaugh, when he heard the news, sank into his study chair
and threw up his hands as if to ward off some blow.
"Miss Jane going abroad!" he cried; "and you say nobody knows when she
will come back! I can't realize it! We might as well close the school;
no one else in the village can keep it together."
The Cromartins and the others all expressed similar opinions, the
younger ladies' sorrow being aggravated when they realized that with
Lucy away there would be no one to lead in their merrymakings.
Martha held her peace; she would stay at home, she told Mrs.
Dellenbaugh, and wait for their return and look after the place. Her
heart was broken with the loneliness that would come, she moaned, but
what was best for her bairn she was willing to bear. It didn't make
much difference either way; she wasn't long for this world.
The doctor's mother heard the news with ill-concealed satisfaction.
"A most extraordinary thing has occurred here, my dear," she said to
one of her Philadelphia friends who was visiting her--she was too
politic to talk openly to the neighbors. "You have, of course, met that
Miss Cobden who lives at Yardley--not the pretty one--the plain one.
Well, she is the most quixotic creature in the world. Only a few weeks
ago she wanted to become a nurse in the public hospital here, and now
she proposes to close her house and go abroad for nobody knows how
long, simply because her younger sister wants to study music, as if a
school-girl couldn't get all the instruction of that kind here that is
necessary. Really, I never heard of such a thing."
To Mrs. Benson, a neighbor, she said, behind her hand and in strict
confidence: "Miss Cobden is morbidly conscientious over trifles. A fine
woman, one of the very finest we have, but a little too strait-laced,
and, if I must say it, somewhat commonplace, especially for a woman of
her birth and education."
To herself she said: "Never while I live shall Jane Cobden marry my
John! She can never help any man's career. She has neither the worldly
knowledge, nor the personal presence, nor the money."
Jane gave but one answer to all inquiries--and there were many.
"Yes, I know the move is a sudden one," she would say, "but it is for
Lucy's good, and there is no one to go with her but me." No one saw
beneath the mask that hid her breaking heart. To them the drawn face
and the weary look in her eyes only showed her grief at leaving home
and those who loved her: to Mrs. Cavendish it seemed part of Jane's
peculiar temperament.
Nor could they watch her in the silence of the night tossing on her
bed, or closeted with Martha in her search for the initial steps that
had led to this horror. Had the Philadelphia school undermined her own
sisterly teachings or had her companions been at fault? Perhaps it was
due to the blood of some long-forgotten ancestor, which in the cycle of
years had cropped out in this generation, poisoning the fountain of her
youth. Bart, she realized, had played the villain and the ingrate, but
yet it was also true that Bart, and all his class, would have been
powerless before a woman of a different temperament. Who, then, had
undermined this citadel and given it over to plunder and disgrace? Then
with merciless exactness she searched her own heart. Had it been her
fault? What safeguard had she herself neglected? Wherein had she been
false to her trust and her promise to her dying father? What could she
have done to avert it? These ever-haunting, ever-recurring doubts
maddened her.
One thing she was determined upon, cost what it might--to protect her
sister's name. No daughter of Morton Cobden's should be pointed at in
scorn. For generations no stain of dishonor had tarnished the family
name. This must be preserved, no matter who suffered. In this she was
sustained by Martha, her only confidante.
Doctor John heard the news from Jane's lips before it was known to the
villagers. He had come to inquire after Martha.
She met him at the porch entrance, and led him into the drawing-room,
without a word of welcome. Then shutting the door, she motioned him to
a seat opposite her own on the sofa. The calm, determined way with
which this was done--so unusual in one so cordial--startled him. He
felt that something of momentous interest, and, judging from Jane's
face, of serious import, had happened. He invariably took his cue from
her face, and his own spirits always rose or fell as the light in her
eyes flashed or dimmed.
"Is there anything the matter?" he asked nervously. "Martha worse?"
"No, not that; Martha is around again--it is about Lucy and me." The
voice did not sound like Jane's.
The doctor looked at her intently, but he did not speak. Jane
continued, her face now deathly pale, her words coming slowly.
"You advised me some time ago about Lucy's going to Trenton, and I am
glad I followed it. You thought it would strengthen her love for us all
and teach her to love me the better. It has--so much so that hereafter
we will never be separated. I hope now you will also approve of what I
have just decided upon. Lucy is going abroad to live, and I am going
with her."
As the words fell from her lips her eyes crept up to his face, watching
the effect of her statement. It was a cold, almost brutal way of
putting it, she knew, but she dared not trust herself with anything
less formal.
For a moment he sat perfectly still, the color gone from his cheeks,
his eyes fixed on hers, a cold chill benumbing the roots of his hair.
The suddenness of the announcement seemed to have stunned him.
"For how long?" he asked in a halting voice.
"I don't know. Not less than two years; perhaps longer."
"TWO YEARS? Is Lucy ill?"
"No; she wants to study music, and she couldn't go alone."
"Have you made up your mind to this?" he asked, in a more positive
tone. His self-control was returning now.
"Yes."
Doctor John rose from his chair, paced the room slowly for a moment,
and crossing to the fireplace with his back to Jane, stood under her
father's portrait, his elbows on the mantel, his head in his hand.
interwoven with the pain which the announcement had given him was the
sharper sorrow of her neglect of him. In forming her plans she had
never once thought of her lifelong friend.
"Why did you not tell me something of this before?" The inquiry was not
addressed to Jane, but to the smouldering coals. "How have I ever
failed you? What has my daily life been but an open book for you to
read, and here you leave me for years, and never give me a thought."
Jane started in her seat.
"Forgive me, my dear friend!" she answered quickly in a voice full of
tenderness. "I did not mean to hurt you. It is not that I love all my
friends here the less--and you know how truly I appreciate your own
friendship--but only that I love my sister more; and my duty is with
her. I only decided last night. Don't turn your back on me. Come and
sit by me, and talk to me," she pleaded, holding out her hand. "I need
all your strength." As she spoke the tears started to her eyes and her
voice sank almost to a whisper.
The doctor lifted his head from his palm and walked quickly toward her.
The suffering in her voice had robbed him of all resentment.
"Forgive me, I did not mean it. Tell me," he said, in a sudden burst of
tenderness--all feeling about himself had dropped away--"why must you
go so soon? Why not wait until spring?" He had taken his seat beside
her now and sat looking into her eyes.
"Lucy wants to go at once," she replied, in a tone as if the matter did
not admit of any discussion.
"Yes, I know. That's just like her. What she wants she can never wait a
minute for, but she certainly would sacrifice some pleasure of her own
to please you. If she was determined to be a musician it would be
different, but it is only for her pleasure, and as an accomplishment."
He spoke earnestly and impersonally, as he always did when she
consulted him on any of her affairs, He was trying, too, to wipe from
her mind all remembrance of his impatience.
Jane kept her eyes on the carpet for a moment, and then said quietly,
and he thought in rather a hopeless tone:
"It is best we go at once."
The doctor looked at her searchingly--with the eye of a scientist, this
time, probing for a hidden meaning.
"Then there is something else you have not told me; someone is annoying
her, or there is someone with whom you are afraid she will fall in
love. Who is it? You know how I could help in a matter of that kind."
"No; there is no one."
Doctor John leaned back thoughtfully and tapped the arm of the sofa
with his fingers. He felt as if a door had been shut in his face.
"I don't understand it," he said slowly, and in a baffled tone. "I have
never known you to do a thing like this before. It is entirely unlike
you. There is some mystery you are keeping from me. Tell me, and let me
help."
"I can tell you nothing more. Can't you trust me to do my duty in my
own way?" She stole a look at him as she spoke and again lowered her
eyelids.
"And you are determined to go?" he asked in his former cross-examining
tone.
"Yes."
Again the doctor kept silence. Despite her assumed courage and
determined air, his experienced eye caught beneath it all the shrinking
helplessness of the woman.
"Then I, too, have reached a sudden resolve," he said in a manner
almost professional in its precision. "You cannot and shall not go
alone."
"Oh, but Lucy and I can get along together," she exclaimed with nervous
haste. "There is no one we could take but Martha, and she is too old.
Besides she must look after the house while we are away."
"No; Martha will not do. No woman will do. I know Paris and its life;
it is not the place for two women to live in alone, especially so
pretty and light-hearted a woman as Lucy."
"I am not afraid."
"No, but I am," he answered in a softened voice, "very much afraid." It
was no longer the physician who spoke, but the friend.
"Of what?"
"Of a dozen things you do not understand, and cannot until you
encounter them," he replied, smoothing her hand tenderly.
"Yes, but it cannot be helped. There is no one to go with us." This
came with some positiveness, yet with a note of impatience in her voice.
"Yes, there is," he answered gently.
"Who?" she asked slowly, withdrawing her hand from his caress, an
undefined fear rising in her mind.
"Me. I will go with you."
Jane looked at him with widening eyes. She knew now. She had caught his
meaning in the tones of his voice before he had expressed it, and had
tried to think of some way to ward off what she saw was coming, but she
was swept helplessly on.
"Let us go together, Jane," he burst out, drawing closer to her. All
reserve was gone. The words which had pressed so long for utterance
could no longer be held back. "I cannot live here alone without you.
You know it, and have always known it. I love you so--don't let us live
apart any more. If you must go, go as my wife."
A thrill of joy ran through her. Her lips quivered. She wanted to cry
out, to put her arms around his neck, to tell him everything in her
heart. Then came a quick, sharp pain that stifled every other thought.
For the first time the real bitterness of the situation confronted her.
This phase of it she had not counted upon.
She shrank back a little. "Don't ask me that!" she moaned in a tone
almost of pain. "I can stand anything now but that. Not now--not now!"
Her hand was still under his, her fingers lying limp, all the pathos of
her suffering in her face: determination to do her duty, horror over
the situation, and above them all her overwhelming love for him.
He put his arm about her shoulders and drew her to him.
"You love me, Jane, don't you?"
"Yes, more than all else in the world," she answered simply. "Too
well"--and her voice broke--"to have you give up your career for me or
mine."
"Then why should we live apart? I am willing to do as much for Lucy as
you would. Let me share the care and responsibility. You needn't,
perhaps, be gone more than a year, and then we will all come back
together, and I take up my work again. I need you, my beloved. Nothing
that I do seems of any use without you. You are my great, strong light,
and have always been since the first day I loved you. Let me help bear
these burdens. You have carried them so long alone."
His face lay against hers now, her hand still clasped tight in his. For
an instant she did not answer or move; then she straightened a little
and lifted her cheek from his.
"John," she said--it was the first time in all her life she had called
him thus--"you wouldn't love me if I should consent. You have work to
do here and I now have work to do on the other side. We cannot work
together; we must work apart. Your heart is speaking, and I love you
for it, but we must not think of it now. It may come right some
time--God only knows! My duty is plain--I must go with Lucy. Neither
you nor my dead father would love me if I did differently."
"I only know that I love you and that you love me and nothing else
should count," he pleaded impatiently. "Nothing else shall count. There
is nothing you could do would make me love you less. You are practical
and wise about all your plans. Why has this whim of Lucy's taken hold
of you as it has? And it is only a whim; Lucy will want something else
in six months. Oh, I cannot--cannot let you go. I'm so desolate without
you--my whole life is yours--everything I do is for you. O Jane, my
beloved, don't shut me out of your life! I will not let you go without
me!" His voice vibrated with a certain indignation, as if he had been
unjustly treated. She raised one hand and laid it on his forehead,
smoothing his brow as a mother would that of a child. The other still
lay in his.
"Don't, John," she moaned, in a half-piteous tone. "Don't! Don't talk
so! I can only bear comforting words to-day. I am too wretched--too
utterly broken and miserable. Please! please, John!"
He dropped her hand and leaning forward put both of his own to his
head. He knew how strong was her will and how futile would be his
efforts to change her mind unless her conscience agreed.
"I won't," he answered, as a strong man answers who is baffled. "I did
not mean to be impatient or exacting." Then he raised his head and
looked steadily into her eyes. "What would you have me do, then?"
"Wait."
"But you give me no promise."
"No, I cannot--not now. I am like one staggering along, following a dim
light that leads hither and thither, and which may any moment go out
and leave me in utter darkness."
"Then there is something you have not told me?"
"O John! Can't you trust me?"
"And yet you love me?"
"As my life, John."
When he had gone and she had closed the door upon him, she went back to
the sofa where the two had sat together, and with her hands clasped
tight above her head, sank down upon its cushions. The tears came like
rain now, bitter, blinding tears that she could not check.
"I have hurt him," she moaned. "He is so good, and strong, and helpful.
He never thinks of himself; it is always of me--me, who can do nothing.
The tears were in his eyes--I saw them. Oh, I've hurt him--hurt him!
And yet, dear God, thou knowest I could not help it."
Maddened with the pain of it all she sprang up, determined to go to him
and tell him everything. To throw herself into his arms and beg
forgiveness for her cruelty and crave the protection of his strength.
Then her gaze fell upon her father's portrait! The cold, steadfast eyes
were looking down upon her as if they could read her very soul. "No!
No!" she sobbed, putting her hands over her eyes as if to shut out some
spectre she had not the courage to face. "It must not be--it CANNOT
be," and she sank back exhausted.
When the paroxysm was over she rose to her feet, dried her eyes,
smoothed her hair with both hands, and then, with lips tight pressed
and faltering steps, walked upstairs to where Martha was getting Lucy's
things ready for the coming journey. Crossing the room, she stood with
her elbows on the mantel, her cheeks tight pressed between her palms,
her eyes on the embers. Martha moved from the open trunk and stood
behind her.
"It was Doctor John, wasn't it?" she asked in a broken voice that told
of her suffering.
"Yes," moaned Jane from between her hands.
"And ye told him about your goin'?"
"Yes, Martha." Her frame was shaking with her sobs.
"And about Lucy?"
"No, I could not."
Martha leaned forward and laid her hand on Jane's shoulder.
"Poor lassie!" she said, patting it softly. "Poor lassie! That was the
hardest part. He's big and strong and could 'a' comforted ye. My heart
aches for ye both!"
CHAPTER VIII
AN ARRIVAL
With the departure of Jane and Lucy the old homestead took on that
desolate, abandoned look which comes to most homes when all the life
and joyousness have gone from them. Weeds grew in the roadway between
the lilacs, dandelions flaunted themselves over the grass-plots; the
shutters of the porch side of the house were closed, and the main gate
always thrown wide day and night in ungoverned welcome, was seldom
opened except to a few intimate friends of the old nurse.
At first Pastor Dellenbaugh had been considerate enough to mount the
long path to inquire for news of the travelers and to see how Martha
was getting along, but after the receipt of the earlier letters from
Jane telling of their safe arrival and their sojourn in a little
village but a short distance out of Paris, convenient to the great
city, even his visits ceased. Captain Holt never darkened the door; nor
did he ever willingly stop to talk to Martha when he met her on the
road. She felt the slight, and avoided him when she could. This
resulted in their seldom speaking to each other, and then only in the
most casual way. She fancied he might think she wanted news of Bart,
and so gave him no opportunity to discuss him or his whereabouts; but
she was mistaken. The captain never mentioned his name to friend or
stranger. To him the boy was dead for all time. Nor had anyone of his
companions heard from him since that stormy night on the beach.
Doctor John's struggle had lasted for months, but he had come through
it chastened and determined. For the first few days he went about his
work as one in a dream, his mind on the woman he loved, his hand
mechanically doing its duty. Jane had so woven herself into his life
that her sudden departure had been like the upwrenching of a plant,
tearing out the fibres twisted about his heart, cutting off all his
sustenance and strength. The inconsistencies of her conduct especially
troubled him. If she loved him--and she had told him that she did, and
with their cheeks touching--how could she leave him in order to indulge
a mere whim of her sister's? And if she loved him well enough to tell
him so, why had she refused to plight him her troth? Such a course was
unnatural, and out of his own and everyone else's experience. Women who
loved men with a great, strong, healthy love, the love he could give
her, and the love he knew she could give him, never permitted such
trifles to come between them and their life's happiness. What, he asked
himself a thousand times, had brought this change?
As the months went by these doubts and speculations one by one passed
out of his mind, and only the image of the woman he adored, with all
her qualities--loyalty to her trust, tenderness over Lucy and
unquestioned love for himself--rose clear. No, he would believe in her
to the end! She was still all he had in life. If she would not be his
wife she should be his friend. That happiness was worth all else to him
in the world. His was not to criticise, but to help. Help as SHE wanted
it; preserving her standard of personal honor, her devotion to her
ideals, her loyalty, her blind obedience to her trust.
Mrs. Cavendish had seen the change in her son's demeanor and had
watched him closely through his varying moods, but though she divined
their cause she had not sought to probe his secret.
His greatest comfort was in his visits to Martha. He always dropped in
to see her when he made his rounds in the neighborhood; sometimes every
day, sometimes once a week, depending on his patients and their
condition--visits which were always prolonged when a letter came from
either of the girls, for at first Lucy wrote to the old nurse as often
as did Jane. Apart from this the doctor loved the patient caretaker,
both for her loyalty and for her gentleness. And she loved him in
return; clinging to him as an older woman clings to a strong man,
following his advice (he never gave orders) to the minutest detail when
something in the management or care of house or grounds exceeded her
grasp. Consulting him, too, and this at Jane's special
request--regarding any financial complications which needed prompt
attention, and which, but for his services, might have required Jane's
immediate return to disentangle. She loved, too, to talk of Lucy and of
Miss Jane's goodness to her bairn, saying she had been both a sister
and a mother to her, to which the doctor would invariably add some
tribute of his own which only bound the friendship the closer.
His main relief, however, lay in his work, and in this he became each
day more engrossed. He seemed never to be out of his gig unless at the
bedside of some patient. So long and wearing had the routes
become--often beyond Barnegat and as far as Westfield--that the sorrel
gave out, and he was obliged to add another horse to his stable. His
patients saw the weary look in his eyes--as of one who had often looked
on sorrow--and thought it was the hard work and anxiety over them that
had caused it. But the old nurse knew better.
"His heart's breakin' for love of her," she would say to Meg, looking
down into his sleepy eyes--she cuddled him more than ever these
days--"and I don't wonder. God knows how it'll all end."
Jane wrote to him but seldom; only half a dozen letters in all during
the first year of her absence among them one to tell him of their safe
arrival, another to thank him for his kindness to Martha, and a third
to acknowledge the receipt of a letter of introduction to a student
friend of his who was now a prominent physician in Paris, and who might
be useful in case either of them fell ill. He had written to his friend
at the same time, giving the address of the two girls, but the
physician had answered that he had called at the street and number, but
no one knew of them. The doctor reported this to Jane in his next
letter, asking her to write to his friend so that he might know of
their whereabouts should they need his services, for which Jane, in a
subsequent letter, thanked him, but made no mention of sending to his
friend should occasion require. These subsequent letters said very
little about their plans and carefully avoided all reference to their
daily life or to Lucy's advancement in her studies, and never once set
any time for their coming home. He wondered at her neglect of him, and
when no answer came to his continued letters, except at long intervals,
he could contain himself no longer, and laid the whole matter before
Martha.
"She means nothing, doctor, dear," she had answered, taking his hand
and looking up into his troubled face. "Her heart is all right; she's
goin' through deep waters, bein' away from everybody she loves--you
most of all. Don't worry; keep on lovin' her, ye'll never have cause to
repent it."
That same night Martha wrote to Jane, giving her every detail of the
interview, and in due course of time handed the doctor a letter in
which Jane wrote: "He MUST NOT stop writing to me; his letters are all
the comfort I have"--a line not intended for the doctor's eyes, but
which the good soul could not keep from him, so eager was she to
relieve his pain.
Jane's letter to him in answer to his own expressing his unhappiness
over her neglect was less direct, but none the less comforting to him.
"I am constantly moving about," the letter ran, "and have much to do
and cannot always answer your letters, so please do not expect them too
often. But I am always thinking of you and your kindness to dear
Martha. You do for me when you do for her."
After this it became a settled habit between them, he writing by the
weekly steamer, telling her every thought of his life, and she replying
at long intervals. In these no word of love was spoken on her side; nor
was any reference made to their last interview. But this fact did not
cool the warmth of his affection nor weaken his faith. She had told him
she loved him, and with her own lips. That was enough--enough from a
woman like Jane. He would lose faith when she denied it in the same
way. In the meantime she was his very breath and being.
One morning two years after Jane's departure, while the doctor and his
mother sat at breakfast, Mrs. Cavendish filling the tea-cups, the
spring sunshine lighting up the snow-white cloth and polished silver,
the mail arrived and two letters were laid at their respective plates,
one for the doctor and the other for his mother.
As Doctor John glanced at the handwriting his face flushed, and his
eyes danced with pleasure. With eager, trembling fingers he broke the
seal and ran his eyes hungrily over the contents. It had been his habit
to turn to the bottom of the last page before he read the preceding
ones, so that he might see the signature and note the final words of
affection or friendship, such as "Ever your friend," or "Affectionately
yours," or simply "Your friend," written above Jane's name. These were
to him the thermometric readings of the warmth of her heart.
Half way down the first page--before he had time to turn the leaf--he
caught his breath in an effort to smother a sudden outburst of joy.
Then with a supreme effort he regained his self-control and read the
letter to the end. (He rarely mentioned Jane's name to his mother, and
he did not want his delight over the contents of the letter to be made
the basis of comment.)
Mrs. Cavendish's outburst over the contents of her own envelope broke
the silence and relieved his tension.
"Oh, how fortunate!" she exclaimed. "Listen, John; now I really have
good news for you. You remember I told you that I met old Dr. Pencoyd
the last time I was in Philadelphia, and had a long talk with him. I
told him how you were buried here and how hard you worked and how
anxious I was that you should leave Barnegat, and he promised to write
to me, and he has. Here's his letter. He says he is getting too old to
continue his practice alone, that his assistant has fallen ill, and
that if you will come to him at once he will take you into partnership
and give you half his practice. I always knew something good would come
out of my last visit to Philadelphia. Aren't you delighted, my son?"
"Yes, perfectly overjoyed," answered the doctor, laughing. He was more
than delighted--brimming over with happiness, in fact--but not over his
mother's news; it was the letter held tight in his grasp that was
sending electric thrills through him. "A fine old fellow is Dr.
Pencoyd--known him for years," he continued; "I attended his lectures
before I went abroad. Lives in a musty old house on Chestnut Street,
stuffed full of family portraits and old mahogany furniture, and not a
comfortable chair or sofa in the place; wears yellow Nankeen
waist-coats, takes snuff, and carries a fob. Oh, yes, same old fellow.
Very kind of him, mother, but wouldn't you rather have the sunlight
dance in upon you as it does here and catch a glimpse of the sea
through the window than to look across at your neighbors' back walls
and white marble steps?" It was across that same sea that Jane was
coming, and the sunshine would come with her!
"Yes; but, John, surely you are not going to refuse this without
looking into it?" she argued, eyeing him through her gold-rimmed
glasses. "Go and see him, and then you can judge. It's his practice you
want, not his house."
"No; that's just what I don't want. I've got too much practice now.
Somehow I can't keep my people well. No, mother, dear, don't bother
your dear head over the old doctor and his wants. Write him that I am
most grateful, but that the fact is I need an assistant myself, and if
he will be good enough to send someone down here, I'll keep him busy
every hour of the day and night. Then, again," he continued, a more
serious tone in his voice, "I couldn't possibly leave here now, even if
I wished to, which I do not."
Mrs. Cavendish eyed him intently. She had expected just such a refusal
Nothing that she ever planned for his advancement did he agree to.
"Why not?" she asked, with some impatience.
"The new hospital is about finished, and I am going to take charge of
it."
"Do they pay you for it?" she continued, in an incisive tone.
"No, I don't think they will, nor can. It's not, that kind of a
hospital," answered the doctor gravely.
"And you will look after these people just as you do after Fogarty and
the Branscombs, and everybody else up and down the shore, and never
take a penny in pay!" she retorted with some indignation.
"I am afraid I will, mother. A disappointing son, am I not? But there's
no one to blame but yourself, old lady," and with a laugh he rose from
his seat, Jane's letter in his hand, and kissed his mother on the cheek.
"But, John, dear," she exclaimed in a pleading petulance as she looked
into his face, still holding on to the sleeve of his coat to detain him
the longer, "just think of this letter of Pencoyd's; nothing has ever
been offered you better than this. He has the very best people in
Philadelphia on his list, and you would get--"
The doctor slipped his hand under his mother's chin, as he would have
done to a child, and said with a twinkle in his eye--he was very happy
this morning:
"That's precisely my case--I've got the very best people in three
counties on my list. That's much better than the old doctor."
"Who are they, pray?" She was softening under her son's caress.
"Well, let me think. There's the distinguished Mr. Tatham, who attends
to the transportation of the cities of Warehold and Barnegat; and the
Right Honorable Mr. Tipple, and Mrs. and Miss Gossaway, renowned for
their toilets--"
Mrs. Cavendish bit her lip. When her son was in one of these moods it
was all she could do to keep her temper.
"And the wonderful Mrs. Malmsley, and--"
Mrs. Cavendish looked up. The name had an aristocratic sound, but it
was unknown to her.
"Who is she?"
"Why, don't you know the wonderful Mrs. Malmsley?" inquired the doctor,
with a quizzical smile.
"No, I never heard of her."
"Well, she's just moved into Warehold. Poor woman, she hasn't been out
of bed for years! She's the wife of the new butcher, and--"
"The butcher's wife?"
"The butcher's wife, my dear mother, a most delightful old person, who
has brought up three sons, and each one a credit to her."
Mrs. Cavendish let go her hold on the doctor's sleeve and settled back
in her chair.
"And you won't even write to Dr. Pencoyd?" she asked in a disheartened
way, as if she knew he would refuse.
"Oh, with pleasure, and thank him most kindly, but I couldn't leave
Barnegat; not now. Not at any time, so far as I can see."
"And I suppose when Jane Cobden comes home in a year or so she will
work with you in the hospital. She wanted to turn nurse the last time I
talked to her." This special arrow in her maternal quiver, poisoned
with her jealousy, was always ready.
"I hope so," he replied, with a smile that lighted up his whole face;
"only it will not be a year. Miss Jane will be here on the next
steamer."
Mrs. Cavendish put down her tea-cup and looked at her son in
astonishment. The doctor still kept his eyes on her face.
"Be here by the next steamer! How do you know?"
The doctor held up the letter.
"Lucy will remain," he added. "She is going to Germany to continue her
studies."
"And Jane is coming home alone?"
"No, she brings a little child with her, the son of a friend, she
writes. She asks that I arrange to have Martha meet them at the dock."
"Somebody, I suppose, she has picked up out of the streets. She is
always doing these wild, unpractical things. Whose child is it?"
"She doesn't say, but I quite agree with you that it was helpless, or
she wouldn't have protected it."
"Why don't Lucy come with her?"
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
"And I suppose you will go to the ship to meet her?"
The doctor drew himself up, clicked his heels together with the air of
an officer saluting his superior--really to hide his joy--and said with
mock gravity, his hand on his heart:
"I shall, most honorable mother, be the first to take her ladyship's
hand as she walks down the gangplank." Then he added, with a tone of
mild reproof in his voice: "What a funny, queer old mother you are!
Always worrying yourself over the unimportant and the impossible," and
stooping down, he kissed her again on the cheek and passed out of the
room on the way to his office.
"That woman always comes up at the wrong moment," Mrs. Cavendish said
to herself in a bitter tone. "I knew he had received some word from
her, I saw it in his face. He would have gone to Philadelphia but for
Jane Cobden."
CHAPTER IX
THE SPREAD OF FIRE
The doctor kept his word. His hand was the first that touched Jane's
when she came down the gangplank, Martha beside him, holding out her
arms for the child, cuddling it to her bosom, wrapping her shawl about
it as if to protect it from the gaze of the inquisitive.
"O doctor! it was so good of you!" were Jane's first words. It hurt her
to call him thus, but she wanted to establish the new relation clearly.
She had shouldered her cross and must bear its weight alone and in her
own way. "You don't know what it is to see a face from home! I am so
glad to get here. But you should not have left your people; I wrote
Martha and told her so. All I wanted you to do was to have her meet me
here. Thank you, dear friend, for coming."
She had not let go his hand, clinging to him as a timid woman in
crossing a narrow bridge spanning an abyss clings to the strong arm of
a man.
He helped her to the dock as tenderly as if she had been a child;
asking her if the voyage had been a rough one, whether she had been ill
in her berth, and whether she had taken care of the baby herself, and
why she had brought no nurse with her. She saw his meaning, but she did
not explain her weakness or offer any explanation of the cause of her
appearance or of the absence of a nurse. In a moment she changed the
subject, asking after his mother and his own work, and seemed
interested in what he told her about the neighbors.
When the joy of hearing her voice and of looking into her dear face
once more had passed, his skilled eyes probed the deeper. He noted with
a sinking at the heart the dark circles under the drooping lids, the
drawn, pallid skin and telltale furrows that had cut their way deep
into her cheeks. Her eyes, too, had lost their lustre, and her step
lacked the spring and vigor of her old self. The diagnosis alarmed him.
Even the mould of her face, so distinguished, and to him so beautiful,
had undergone a change; whether through illness, or because of some
mental anguish, he could not decide.
When he pressed his inquiries about Lucy she answered with a
half-stifled sigh that Lucy had decided to remain abroad for a year
longer; adding that it had been a great relief to her, and that at
first she had thought of remaining with her, but that their affairs, as
he knew, had become so involved at home that she feared their means of
living might be jeopardized if she did not return at once. The child,
however, would be a comfort to both Martha and herself until Lucy came.
Then she added in a constrained voice:
"Its mother would not, or could not care for it, and so I brought it
with me."
Once at home and the little waif safely tucked away in the crib that
had sheltered Lucy in the old days, the neighbors began to flock in;
Uncle Ephraim among the first.
"My, but I'm glad you're back!" he burst out. "Martha's been lonelier
than a cat in a garret, and down at our house we ain't much better. And
so that Bunch of Roses is going to stay over there, is she, and set
those Frenchies crazy?"
Pastor Dellenbaugh took both of Jane's hands into his own and looking
into her face, said:
"Ah, but we've missed you! There has been no standard, my dear Miss
Jane, since you've been gone. I have felt it, and so has everyone in
the church. It is good to have you once more with us."
Mrs. Cavendish could hardly conceal her satisfaction, although she was
careful what she said to her son. Her hope was that the care of the
child would so absorb Jane that John would regain his freedom and be no
longer subservient to Miss Cobden's whims.
"And so Lucy is to stay in Paris?" she said, with one of her sweetest
smiles. "She is so charming and innocent, that sweet sister of yours,
my dear Miss Jane, and so sympathetic. I quite lost my heart to her.
And to study music, too? A most noble accomplishment, my dear. My
grandmother, who was an Erskine, you know, played divinely on the harp,
and many of my ancestors, especially the Dagworthys, were accomplished
musicians. Your sister will look lovely bending over a harp. My
grandmother had her portrait painted that way by Peale, and it still
hangs in the old house in Trenton. And they tell me you have brought a
little angel with you to bring up and share your loneliness? How
pathetic, and how good of you!"
The village women--they came in groups--asked dozens of questions
before Jane had had even time to shake each one by the hand. Was Lucy
so in love with the life abroad that she would never come back? was she
just as pretty as ever? what kind of bonnets were being worn? etc., etc.
The child in Martha's arms was, of course, the object of special
attention. They all agreed that it was a healthy, hearty, and most
beautiful baby; just the kind of a child one would want to adopt if one
had any such extraordinary desires.
This talk continued until they had gained the highway, when they also
agreed--and this without a single dissenting voice--that in all the
village Jane Cobden was the only woman conscientious enough to want to
bring up somebody else's child, and a foreigner at that, when there
were any quantity of babies up and down the shore that could be had for
the asking. The little creature was, no doubt, helpless, and appealed
to Miss Jane's sympathies, but why bring it home at all? Were there not
places enough in France where it could be brought up? etc., etc. This
sort of gossip went on for days after Jane's return, each dropper-in at
tea-table or village gathering having some view of her own to express,
the women doing most of the talking.
The discussion thus begun by friends was soon taken up by the sewing
societies and church gatherings, one member in good standing remarking
loud enough to be heard by everybody:
"As for me, I ain't never surprised at nothin' Jane Cobden does. She's
queerer than Dick's hat-band, and allus was, and I've knowed her ever
since she used to toddle up to my house and I baked cookies for her.
I've seen her many a time feed the dog with what I give her, just
because she said he looked hungry, which there warn't a mite o' truth
in, for there ain't nothin' goes hungry round my place, and never was.
She's queer, I tell ye."
"Quite true, dear Mrs. Pokeberry," remarked Pastor Dellenbaugh in his
gentlest tone--he had heard the discussion as he was passing through
the room and had stopped to listen--"especially when mercy and kindness
is to be shown. Some poor little outcast, no doubt, with no one to take
care of it, and so this grand woman brings it home to nurse and
educate. I wish there were more Jane Cobdens in my parish. Many of you
talk good deeds, and justice, and Christian spirit; here is a woman who
puts them into practice."
This statement having been made during the dispersal of a Wednesday
night meeting, and in the hearing of half the congregation, furnished
the key to the mystery, and so for a time the child and its new-found
mother ceased to be an active subject of discussion.
Ann Gossaway, however, was not satisfied. The more she thought of the
pastor's explanation the more she resented it as an affront to her
intelligence.
"If folks wants to pick up stray babies," she shouted to her old mother
on her return home one night, "and bring 'em home to nuss, they oughter
label 'em with some sort o' pedigree, and not keep the village
a-guessin' as to who they is and where they come from. I don't believe
a word of this outcast yarn. Guess Miss Lucy is all right, and she
knows enough to stay away when all this tomfoolery's goin' on. She
doesn't want to come back to a child's nussery." To all of which her
mother nodded her head, keeping it going like a toy mandarin long after
the subject of discussion had been changed.
Little by little the scandal spread: by innuendoes; by the wise
shakings of empty heads; by nods and winks; by the piecing out of
incomplete tattle. For the spread of gossip is like the spread of fire:
First a smouldering heat--some friction of ill-feeling, perhaps, over a
secret sin that cannot be smothered, try as we may; next a hot,
blistering tongue of flame creeping stealthily; then a burst of
scorching candor and the roar that ends in ruin. Sometimes the victim
is saved by a dash of honest water--the outspoken word of some brave
friend. More often those who should stamp out the burning brand stand
idly by until the final collapse and then warm themselves at the blaze.
Here in Warehold it began with some whispered talk: Bart Holt had
disappeared; there was a woman in the case somewhere; Bart's exile had
not been entirely caused by his love of cards and drink. Reference was
also made to the fact that Jane had gone abroad but a short time AFTER
Bart's disappearance, and that knowing how fond she was of him, and how
she had tried to reform him, the probability was that she had met him
in Paris. Doubts having been expressed that no woman of Jane Cobden's
position would go to any such lengths to oblige so young a fellow as
Bart Holt, the details of their intimacy were passed from mouth to
mouth, and when this was again scouted, reference was made to Miss
Gossaway, who was supposed to know more than she was willing to tell.
The dressmaker denied all responsibility for the story, but admitted
that she had once seen them on the beach "settin' as close together as
they could git, with the red cloak she had made for Miss Jane wound
about 'em.
"'Twarn't none o' my business, and I told Martha so, and 'tain't none
o' my business now, but I'd rather die than tell a lie or scandalize
anybody, and so if ye ask me if I saw 'em I'll have to tell ye I did. I
don't believe, howsomever, that Miss Jane went away to oblige that
good-for-nothin' or that she's ever laid eyes on him since. Lucy is
what took her. She's one o' them flyaways. I see that when she was
home, and there warn't no peace up to the Cobdens' house till they'd
taken her somewheres where she could git all the runnin' round she
wanted. As for the baby, there ain't nobody knows where Miss Jane
picked that up, but there ain't no doubt but what she loves it same's
if it was her own child. She's named it Archie, after her grandfather,
anyhow. That's what Martha and she calls it. So they're not ashamed of
it."
When the fire had spent itself, only one spot remained unscorched: this
was the parentage of little Archie. That mystery still remained
unsolved. Those of her own class who knew Jane intimately admired her
kindness of heart and respected her silence; those who did not soon
forgot the boy's existence.
The tavern loungers, however, some of whom only knew the Cobden girls
by reputation, had theories of their own; theories which were
communicated to other loungers around other tavern stoves, most of whom
would not have known either of the ladies on the street. The fact that
both women belonged to a social stratum far above them gave additional
license to their tongues; they could never be called in question by
anybody who overheard, and were therefore safe to discuss the situation
at their will. Condensed into illogical shape, the story was that Jane
had met a foreigner who had deserted her, leaving her to care for the
child alone; that Lucy had refused to come back to Warehold, had taken
what money was coming to her, and, like a sensible woman, had stayed
away. That there was not the slightest foundation for this slander did
not lessen its acceptance by a certain class; many claimed that it
offered the only plausible solution to the mystery, and must,
therefore, be true.
It was not long before the echoes of these scandals reached Martha's
ears. The gossips dare not affront Miss Jane with their suspicions, but
Martha was different. If they could irritate her by speaking lightly of
her mistress, she might give out some information which would solve the
mystery.
One night a servant of one of the neighbors stopped Martha on the road
and sent her flying home; not angry, but terrified.
"They're beginnin' to talk," she broke out savagely, as she entered
Jane's room, her breath almost gone from her run to the house. "I
laughed at it and said they dare not one of 'em say it to your face or
mine, but they're beginnin' to talk."
"Is it about Barton Holt? have they heard anything from him?" asked
Jane. The fear of his return had always haunted her.
"No, and they won't. He'll never come back here ag'in. The captain
would kill him."
"It isn't about Lucy, then, is it?" cried Jane, her color going.
Martha shook her head in answer to save her breath.
"Who, then?" cried Jane, nervously. "Not Archie?"
"Yes, Archie and you."
"What do they say?" asked Jane, her voice fallen to a whisper.
"They say it's your child, and that ye're afraid to tell who the father
is."
Jane caught at the chair for support and then sank slowly into her seat.
"Who says so?" she gasped.
"Nobody that you or I know; some of the beach-combers and
hide-by-nights, I think, started it. Pokeberry's girl told me; her
brother works in the shipyard."
Jane sat looking at Martha with staring eyes.
"How dare they--"
"They dare do anything, and we can't answer back. That's what's goin'
to make it hard. It's nobody's business, but that don't satisfy 'em.
I've been through it meself; I know how mean they can be."
"They shall never know--not while I have life left in me," Jane
exclaimed firmly.
"Yes, but that won't keep 'em from lyin'."
The two sat still for some minutes, Martha gazing into vacancy, Jane
lying back in her chair, her eyes closed. One emotion after another
coursed through her with lightning rapidity--indignation at the charge,
horror at the thought that any of her friends might believe it,
followed by a shivering fear that her father's good name, for all her
care and suffering, might be smirched at last.
Suddenly there arose the tall image of Doctor John, with his frank,
tender face. What would he think of it, and how, if he questioned her,
could she answer him? Then there came to her that day of parting in
Paris. She remembered Lucy's willingness to give up the child forever,
and so cover up all traces of her sin, and her own immediate
determination to risk everything for her sister's sake. As this last
thought welled up in her mind and she recalled her father's dying
command, her brow relaxed. Come what might, she was doing her duty.
This was her solace and her strength.
"Cruel, cruel people!" she said to Martha, relaxing her hands. "How can
they be so wicked? But I am glad it is I who must take the brunt of it
all. If they would treat me so, who am innocent, what would they do to
my poor Lucy?"
CHAPTER X
A LATE VISITOR
These rumors never reached the doctor. No scandalmonger ever dared talk
gossip to him. When he first began to practise among the people of
Warehold, and some garrulous old dame would seek to enrich his visit by
tittle-tattle about her neighbors, she had never tried it a second
time. Doctor John of Barnegat either received the news in silence or
answered it with some pleasantry; even Ann Gossaway held her peace
whenever the doctor had to be called in to prescribe for her
oversensitive throat.
He was aware that Jane had laid herself open to criticism in bringing
home a child about which she had made no explanation, but he never
spoke of it nor allowed anyone to say so to him. He would have been
much happier, of course, if she had given him her confidence in this as
she had in many other matters affecting her life; but he accepted her
silence as part of her whole attitude toward him. Knowing her as he
did, he was convinced that her sole incentive was one of loving
kindness, both for the child and for the poor mother whose sin or whose
poverty she was concealing. In this connection, he remembered how in
one of her letters to Martha she had told of the numberless waifs she
had seen and how her heart ached for them; especially in the hospitals
which she had visited and among the students. He recalled that he
himself had had many similar experiences in his Paris days, in which a
woman like Jane Cobden would have been a veritable angel of mercy.
Mrs. Cavendish's ears were more easily approached by the gossips of
Warehold and vicinity; then, again she was always curious over the
inmates of the Cobden house, and any little scraps of news, reliable or
not, about either Jane or her absent sister were eagerly listened to.
Finding it impossible to restrain herself any longer, she had seized
the opportunity one evening when she and her son were sitting together
in the salon, a rare occurrence for the doctor, and only possible when
his patients were on the mend.
"I'm sorry Jane Cobden was so foolish as to bring home that baby," she
began.
"Why?" said the doctor, without lifting his eyes from the book he was
reading.
"Oh, she lays herself open to criticism. It is, of course, but one of
her eccentricities, but she owes something to her position and birth
and should not invite unnecessary comment."
"Who criticises her?" asked the doctor, his eyes still on the pages.
"Oh, you can't tell; everybody is talking about it. Some of the gossip
is outrageous, some I could not even repeat."
"I have no doubt of it," answered the doctor quietly. "All small places
like Warehold and Barnegat need topics of conversation, and Miss Jane
for the moment is furnishing one of them. They utilize you, dear
mother, and me, and everybody else in the same way. But that is no
reason why we should lend our ears or our tongues to spread and
encourage it."
"I quite agree with you, my son, and I told the person who told me how
foolish and silly it was, but they will talk, no matter what you say to
them."
"What do they say?" asked the doctor, laying down his book and rising
from his chair.
"Oh, all sorts of things. One rumor is that Captain Holt's son, Barton,
the one that quarrelled with his father and who went to sea, could tell
something of the child, if he could be found."
The doctor laughed. "He can be found," he answered. "I saw his father
only last week, and he told me Bart was in Brazil. That is some
thousand of miles from Paris, but a little thing like that in geography
doesn't seem to make much difference to some of our good people. Why do
you listen to such nonsense?" he added as he kissed her tenderly and,
with a pat on her cheek, left the room for his study. His mother's talk
had made but little impression upon him. Gossip of this kind was always
current when waifs like Archie formed the topic; but it hurt nobody, he
said to himself--nobody like Jane.
Sitting under his study lamp looking up some complicated case, his
books about him, Jane's sad face came before him. "Has she not had
trouble enough," he said to himself, "parted from Lucy and with her
unsettled money affairs, without having to face these gnats whose sting
she cannot ward off?" With this came the thought of his own
helplessness to comfort her. He had taken her at her word that night
before she left for Paris, when she had refused to give him her promise
and had told him to wait, and he was still ready to come at her call;
loving her, watching ever her, absorbed in every detail of her daily
life, and eager to grant her slightest wish, and yet he could not but
see that she had, since her return, surrounded herself with a barrier
which he could neither understand nor break down whenever he touched on
their personal relations.
Had he loved her less he would, in justice to himself, have faced all
her opposition and demanded an answer--Yes or No--as to whether she
would yield to his wishes. But his generous nature forbade any such
stand and his reverence for her precluded any such mental attitude.
Lifting his eyes from his books and gazing dreamily into the space
before him, he recalled, with a certain sinking of the heart, a
conversation which had taken place between Jane and himself a few days
after her arrival--an interview which had made a deep impression upon
him. The two, in the absence of Martha--she had left the room for a
moment--were standing beside the crib watching the child's breathing.
Seizing the opportunity, one he had watched for, he had told her how
much he had missed her during the two years, and how much happier his
life was now that he could touch her hand and listen to her voice. She
had evaded his meaning, making answer that his pleasure, was nothing
compared to her own when she thought how safe the baby would be in his
hands; adding quickly that she could never thank him enough for
remaining in Barnegat and not leaving her helpless and without a
"physician." The tone with which she pronounced the word had hurt him.
He thought he detected a slight inflection, as if she were making a
distinction between his skill as an expert and his love as a man, but
he was not sure.
Still gazing into the shadows before him, his unread book in his hand,
he recalled a later occasion when she appeared rather to shrink from
him than to wish to be near him, speaking to him with downcast eyes and
without the frank look in her face which was always his welcome. On
this day she was more unstrung and more desolate than he had ever seen
her. At length, emboldened by his intense desire to help, and putting
aside every obstacle, he had taken her hand and had said with all his
heart in his voice:
"Jane, you once told me you loved me. Is it still true?"
He remembered how at first she had not answered, and how after a moment
she had slowly withdrawn her hand and had replied in a voice almost
inarticulate, so great was her emotion.
"Yes, John, and always will be, but it can never go beyond that--never,
never. Don't ask many more questions. Don't talk to me about it. Not
now, John--not now! Don't hate me! Let us be as we have always
been--please, John! You would not refuse me if you knew."
He had started forward to take her in his arms; to insist that now
every obstacle was removed she should give him at once the lawful right
to protect her, but she had shrunk back, the palms of her hands held
out as barriers, and before he could reason with her Martha had entered
with something for little Archie, and so the interview had come to an
end.
Then, still absorbed in his thoughts, his eyes suddenly brightened and
a certain joy trembled in his heart as he remembered that with all
these misgivings and doubts there were other times--and their sum was
in the ascendency--when she showed the same confidence in his judgement
and the same readiness to take his advice; when the old light would
once more flash in her eyes as she grasped his hand and the old sadness
again shadow her face when his visits came to an end. With this he must
be for a time content.
These and a hundred other thoughts raced through Doctor John's mind as
he sat to-night in his study chair, the lamplight falling on his open
books and thin, delicately modelled hands.
Once he rose from his seat and began pacing his study floor, his hands
behind his back, his mind on Jane, on her curious and incomprehensible
moods, trying to solve them as he walked, trusting and leaning upon him
one day and shrinking from him the next. Baffled for the hundredth time
in this mental search, he dropped again into his chair, and adjusting
the lamp, pulled his books toward him to devote his mind to their
contents. As the light flared up he caught the sound of a step upon the
gravel outside, and then a heavy tread upon the porch. An instant later
his knocker sounded. Doctor Cavendish gave a sigh--he had hoped to have
one night at home--and rose to open the door.
Captain Nat Holt stood outside.
His pea-jacket was buttoned close up under his chin, his hat drawn
tight down over his forehead. His weather-beaten face, as the light
fell upon it, looked cracked and drawn, with dark hollows under the
eyes, which the shadows from the lamplight deepened.
"It's late, I know, doctor," he said in a hoarse, strained voice; "ten
o'clock, maybe, but I got somethin' to talk to ye about," and he strode
into the room. "Alone, are ye?" he continued, as he loosened his coat
and laid his hat on the desk. "Where's the good mother? Home, is she?"
"Yes, she's inside," answered the doctor, pointing to the open door
leading to the salon and grasping the captain's brawny hand in welcome.
"Why? Do you want to see her?"
"No, I don't want to see her; don't want to see nobody but you. She
can't hear, can she? 'Scuse me--I'll close this door."
The doctor looked at him curiously. The captain seemed to be laboring
under a nervous strain, unusual in one so stolid and self-possessed.
The door closed, the captain moved back a cushion, dropped into a
corner of the sofa, and sat looking at the doctor, with legs apart, his
open palms resting on his knees.
"I got bad news, doctor--awful bad news for everybody," as he spoke he
reached into his pocket and produced a letter with a foreign postmark.
"You remember my son Bart, of course, don't ye, who left home some two
years ago?" he went on.
The doctor nodded.
"Well, he's dead."
"Your son Bart dead!" cried the doctor, repeating his name in the
surprise of the announcement. "How do you know?"
"This letter came by to-day's mail. It's from the consul at Rio. Bart
come in to see him dead broke and he helped him out. He'd run away from
the ship and was goin' up into the mines to work, so the consul wrote
me. He was in once after that and got a little money, and then he got
down with yellow fever and they took him to the hospital, and he died
in three days. There ain't no doubt about it. Here's a list of the dead
in the paper; you kin read his name plain as print."
Doctor John reached for the letter and newspaper clipping and turned
them toward the lamp. The envelope was stamped "Rio Janeiro" and the
letter bore the official heading of the consulate.
"That's dreadful, dreadful news, captain," said the doctor in
sympathetic tones. "Poor boy! it's too bad. Perhaps, however, there may
be some mistake, after all. Foreign hospital registers are not always
reliable," added the doctor in a hopeful tone.
"No, it's all true, or Benham wouldn't write me what he has. I've known
him for years. He knows me, too, and he don't go off half-cocked. I
wrote him to look after Bart and sent him some money and give him the
name of the ship, and he watched for her and sent for him all right. I
was pretty nigh crazy that night he left, and handled him, maybe,
rougher'n I ou'ter, but I couldn't help it. There's some things I can't
stand, and what he done was one of 'em. It all comes back to me now,
but I'd do it ag'in." As he spoke the rough, hard sailor leaned forward
and rested his chin on his hand. The news had evidently been a great
shock to him.
The doctor reached over and laid his hand on the captain's knee. "I'm
very, very sorry, captain, for you and for Bart; and the only son you
have, is it not?"
"Yes, and the only child we ever had. That makes it worse. Thank God,
his mother's dead! All this would have broken her heart." For a moment
the two men were silent, then the captain continued in a tone as if he
were talking to himself, his eyes on the lamp:
"But I couldn't have lived with him after that, and I told him so--not
till he acted fair and square, like a man. I hoped he would some day,
but that's over now."
"We're none of us bad all the way through, captain," reasoned the
doctor, "and don't you think of him in that way. He would have come to
himself some day and been a comfort to you. I didn't know him as well
as I might, and only as I met him at Yardley, but he must have had a
great many fine qualities or the Cobdens wouldn't have liked him. Miss
Jane used often to talk to me about him. She always believed in him.
She will be greatly distressed over this news."
"That's what brings me here. I want you to tell her, and not me. I'm
afraid it'll git out and she'll hear it, and then she'll be worse off
than she is now. Maybe it's best to say nothin' 'bout it to nobody and
let it go. There ain't no one but me to grieve for him, and they don't
send no bodies home, not from Rio, nor nowheres along that coast.
Maybe, too, it ain't the time to say it to her. I was up there last
week to see the baby, and she looked thinner and paler than I ever see
her. I didn't know what to do, so I says to myself, 'There's Doctor
John, he's at her house reg'lar and knows the ins and outs of her, and
I'll go and tell him 'bout it and ask his advice.' I'd rather cut my
hand off than hurt her, for if there's an angel on earth she's one. She
shakes so when I mention Bart's name and gits so flustered, that's why
I dar'n't tell her. Now he's dead there won't be nobody to do right by
Archie. I can't; I'm all muzzled up tight. She made me take an oath,
same as she has you, and I ain't goin' to break it any more'n you
would. The little feller'll have to git 'long best way he kin now."
Doctor John bent forward in his chair and looked at the captain
curiously. His words convey no meaning to him. For an instant he
thought that the shock of his son's death had unsettled the man's mind.
"Take an oath! What for?"
"'Bout Archie and herself."
"But I've taken no oath!"
"Well, perhaps it isn't your habit; it ain't some men's. I did."
"What about?"
It was the captain's turn now to look searchingly into his companion's
face. The doctor's back was toward the lamp, throwing his face into
shadow, but the captain could read its expression plainly.
"You mean to tell me, doctor, you don't know what's goin' on up at
Yardley? You do, of course, but you won't say--that's like you doctors!"
"Yes, everything. But what has your son Bart got to do with it?"
"Got to do with it! Ain't Jane Cobden motherin' his child?"
The doctor lunged forward in his seat, his eyes staring straight at the
captain. Had the old sailor struck him in the face he could not have
been more astounded.
"His child!" he cried savagely.
"Certainly! Whose else is it? You knew, didn't ye?"
The doctor settled back in his chair with the movement of an ox felled
by a sudden blow. With the appalling news there rang in his ears the
tones of his mother's voice retailing the gossip of the village. This,
then, was what she could not repeat.
After a moment he raised his head and asked in a low, firm voice:
"Did Bart go to Paris after he left here?"
"No, of course not! Went 'board the Corsair bound for Rio, and has been
there ever since. I told you that before. There weren't no necessity
for her to meet him in Paris."
The doctor sprang from his chair and with eyes biasing and fists
tightly clenched, stood over the captain.
"And you dare to sit there and tell me that Miss Jane Cobden is that
child's mother?"
The captain struggled to his feet, his open hands held up to the doctor
as if to ward off a blow.
"Miss Jane! No, by God! No! Are you crazy? Sit down, sit down, I tell
ye!"
"Who, then? Speak!"
"Lucy! That's what I drove Bart out for. Mort Cobden's daughter--Mort,
mind ye, that was a brother to me since I was a boy! Jane that that
child's mother! Yes, all the mother poor Archie's got! Ask Miss Jane,
she'll tell ye. Tell ye how she sits and eats her heart out to save her
sister that's too scared to come home. I want to cut my tongue out for
tellin' ye, but I thought ye knew. Martha told me you loved her and
that she loved you, and I thought she'd told ye. Jane Cobden crooked!
No more'n the angels are. Now, will you tell her Bart's dead, or shall
I?"
"I will tell her," answered the doctor firmly, "and to-night."
CHAPTER XI
MORTON COBDEN'S DAUGHTER
The cold wind from the sea freighted with the raw mist churned by the
breakers cut sharply against Doctor John's cheeks as he sprang into his
gig and dashed out of his gate toward Yardley. Under the shadow of the
sombre pines, along the ribbon of a road, dull gray in the light of the
stars, and out on the broader highway leading to Warehold, the sharp
click of the mare's hoofs striking the hard road echoed through the
night. The neighbors recognized the tread and the speed, and Uncle
Ephraim threw up a window to know whether it was a case of life or
death, an accident, or both; but the doctor only nodded and sped on. It
WAS life and death--life for the woman he loved, death for all who
traduced her. The strange news that had dropped from the captain's lips
did not affect him except as would the ending of any young life;
neither was there any bitterness in his heart against the dead boy who
had wrecked Lucy's career and brought Jane humiliation and despair. All
he thought of was the injustice of Jane's sufferings. Added to this was
an overpowering desire to reach her side before her misery should
continue another moment; to fold her in his arms, stand between her and
the world; help her to grapple with the horror which was slowly
crushing out her life. That it was past her hour for retiring, and that
there might be no one to answer his summons, made no difference to him.
He must see her at all hazards before he closed his eyes.
As he whirled into the open gates of Yardley and peered from under the
hood of the gig at the outlines of the old house, looming dimly through
the avenue of bushes, he saw that the occupants were asleep; no lights
shone from the upper windows and none burned in the hall below. This
discovery checked to some extent the impetus with which he had flung
himself into the night, his whole being absorbed and dominated by one
idea. The cool wind, too, had begun to tell upon his nerves. He drew
rein on the mare and stopped. For the first time since the captain's
story had reached his ears his reason began to work. He was never an
impetuous man; always a thoughtful and methodical one, and always
overparticular in respecting the courtesies of life. He began suddenly
to realize that this midnight visit was at variance with every act of
his life. Then his better judgment became aroused. Was it right for him
to wake Jane and disturb the house at this hour, causing her, perhaps,
a sleepless night, or should he wait until the morning, when he could
break the news to her in a more gentle and less sensational way?
While he sat thus wondering, undetermined whether to drive lightly out
of the gate again or to push forward in the hope that someone would be
awake, his mind unconsciously reverted to the figure of Jane making her
way with weary steps down the gangplank of the steamer, the two years
of her suffering deep cut into every line of her face. He recalled the
shock her appearance had given him, and his perplexity over the cause.
He remembered her refusal to give him her promise, her begging him to
wait, her unaccountable moods since her return.
Then Lucy's face came before him, her whole career, in fact (in a
flash, as a drowning man's life is pictured), from the first night
after her return from school until he had bade her good-by to take the
train for Trenton. Little scraps of talk sounded in his ears, and
certain expressions about the corners of her eyes revealed themselves
to his memory. He thought of her selfishness, of her love of pleasure,
of her disregard of Jane's wishes, of her recklessness.
Everything was clear now.
"What a fool I have been!" he said to himself. "What a fool--FOOL! I
ought to have known!"
Next the magnitude of the atonement, and the cruelty and cowardice of
the woman who had put her sister into so false a position swept over
him. Then there arose, like the dawning of a light, the grand figure of
the woman he loved, standing clear of all entanglements, a Madonna
among the saints, more precious than ever in the radiance of her own
sacrifice.
With this last vision his mind was made up. No, he would not wait a
moment. Once this terrible secret out of the way, Jane would regain her
old self and they two fight the world together.
As he loosened the reins over the sorrel a light suddenly flashed from
one of the upper windows disappeared for a moment, and reappeared again
at one of the smaller openings near the front steps. He drew rein
again. Someone was moving about--who he did not know; perhaps Jane,
perhaps one of the servants. Tying the lines to the dashboard, he
sprang from the gig, tethered the mare to one of the lilac bushes, and
walked briskly toward the house. As he neared the steps the door was
opened and Martha's voice rang clear:
"Meg, you rascal, come in, or shall I let ye stay out and freeze?"
Doctor John stepped upon the porch, the light of Martha's candle
falling on his face and figure.
"It's I, Martha, don't be frightened; it's late, I know, but I hoped
Miss Jane would be up. Has she gone to bed?"
The old nurse started back. "Lord, how ye skeered me! I don't know
whether she's asleep or not. She's upstairs with Archie, anyhow. I come
out after this rapscallion that makes me look him up every night. I've
talked to him till I'm sore, and he's promised me a dozen times, and
here he is out ag'in. Here! Where are ye? In with ye, ye little beast!"
The dog shrank past her and darted into the hall. "Now, then, doctor,
come in out of the cold."
Doctor John stepped softly inside and stood in the flare of the
candle-light. He felt that he must give some reason for his appearance
at this late hour, even if he did not see Jane. It would be just as
well, therefore, to tell Martha of Bart's death at once, and not let
her hear it, as she was sure to do, from someone on the street. Then
again, he had kept few secrets from her where Jane was concerned; she
had helped him many times before, and her advice was always good. He
knew that she was familiar with every detail of the captain's story,
but he did not propose to discuss Lucy's share in it with the old
nurse. That he would reserve for Jane's ears alone.
"Bring your candle into the sitting-room, Martha; I have something to
tell you," he said gravely, loosening the cape of his overcoat and
laying his hat on the hall table.
The nurse followed. The measured tones of the doctor's voice, so unlike
his cheery greetings, especially to her, unnerved her. This, in
connection with the suppressed excitement under which he seemed to
labor and the late hour of his visit, at once convinced her that
something serious had happened.
"Is there anything the matter?" she asked in a trembling voice.
"Yes."
"Is it about Lucy? There ain't nothin' gone wrong with her, doctor
dear, is there?"
"No, it is not about Lucy. It's about Barton Holt."
"Ye don't tell me! Is he come back?"
"No, nor never will. He's dead!
"That villain dead! How do you know?" Her face paled and her lips
quivered, but she gave no other sign of the shock the news had been to
her.
"Captain Nat, his father, has just left my office. I promised I would
tell Miss Jane to-night. He was too much broken up and too fearful of
its effect upon her to do it himself. I drove fast, but perhaps I'm too
late to see her."
"Well, ye could see her no doubt,--she could throw somethin' around
her--but ye mustn't tell her THAT news. She's been downhearted all day
and is tired out. Bart's dead, is he?" she repeated with an effort at
indifference. "Well, that's too bad. I s'pose the captain's feelin'
putty bad over it. Where did he die?"
"He died in Rio Janeiro of yellow fever," said the doctor slowly,
wondering at the self-control of the woman. Wondering, too, whether she
was glad or sorry over the event, her face and manner showing no index
to her feelings.
"And will he be brought home to be buried?" she asked with a quick
glance at the doctor's face.
"No; they never bring them home with yellow fever."
"And is that all ye come to tell her?" She was scrutinizing Doctor
John's face, her quick, nervous glances revealing both suspicion and
fear.
"I had some other matters to talk about, but if she has retired,
perhaps I had better come to-morrow," answered the doctor in undecided
tones, as he gazed abstractedly at the flickering candle.
The old woman hesitated. She saw that the doctor knew more than he
intended to tell her. Her curiosity and her fear that some other
complication had arisen--one which he was holding back--got the better
of her judgment. If it was anything about her bairn, she could not wait
until the morning. She had forgotten Meg now.
"Well, maybe if ye break it to her easy-like she can stand it. I don't
suppose she's gone to bed yet. Her door was open on a crack when I come
down, and she always shuts it 'fore she goes to sleep. I'll light a
couple o' lamps so ye can see, and then I'll send her down to ye if
she'll come. Wait here, doctor, dear."
The lamps lighted and Martha gone, Doctor John looked about the room,
his glance resting on the sofa where he had so often sat with her; on
the portrait of Morton Cobden, the captain's friend; on the work-basket
filled with needlework that Jane had left on a small table beside her
chair, and upon the books her hands had touched. He thought he had
never loved her so much as now. No one he had ever known or heard of
had made so great a sacrifice. Not for herself this immolation, but for
a sister who had betrayed her confidence and who had repaid a life's
devotion with unforgivable humiliation and disgrace. This was the woman
whose heart he held. This was the woman he loved with every fibre of
his being. But her sufferings were over now. He was ready to face the
world and its malignity beside her. Whatever sins her sister had
committed, and however soiled were Lucy's garments, Jane's robes were
as white as snow, he was glad he had yielded to the impulse and had
come at once. The barrier between them once broken down and the
terrible secret shared, her troubles would end.
The whispering of her skirts on the stairs announced her coming before
she entered the room. She had been sitting by Archie's crib and had not
waited to change her loose white gown, whose clinging folds accentuated
her frail, delicate form. Her hair had been caught up hastily and hung
in a dark mass, concealing her small, pale ears and making her face all
the whiter by contrast.
"Something alarming has brought you at this hour," she said, with a
note of anxiety in her voice, walking rapidly toward him. "What can I
do? Who is ill?"
Doctor John sprang forward, held out both hands, and holding tight to
her own, drew her close to him.
"Has Martha told you?" he said tenderly.
"No; only that you wanted me. I came as soon as I could."
"It's about Barton Holt. His father has just left my office. I have
very sad news for you. The poor boy--"
Jane loosened her hands from his and drew back. The doctor paused in
his recital.
"Is he ill?" she inquired, a slight shiver running through her.
"Worse than ill! I'm afraid you'll never see him again."
"You mean that he is dead? Where?"
"Yes, dead, in Rio. The letter arrived this morning."
"And you came all the way up here to tell me this?" she asked, with an
effort to hide her astonishment. Her eyes dropped for a moment and her
voice trembled. Then she went on. "What does his father say?"
"I have just left him. He is greatly shaken. He would not tell you
himself, he said; he was afraid it might shock you too much, and asked
me to come up. But it is not altogether that, Jane. I have heard
something to-night that has driven me half out of my mind. That you
should suffer this way alone is torture to me. You cannot, you shall
not live another day as you have! Let me help!"
Instantly there flashed into her mind the story Martha had brought in
from the street. "He has heard it," she said to herself, "but he does
not believe it, and he comes to comfort me. I cannot tell the truth
without betraying Lucy."
She drew a step farther from him.
"You refer to what the people about us call a mystery--that poor little
child upstairs?" she said slowly, all her self-control in her voice.
"You think it is a torture for me to care for this helpless baby? It is
not a torture; it is a joy--all the joy I have now." She stood looking
at him as she spoke with searching eyes, wondering with the
ever-questioning doubt of those denied love's full expression.
"But I know--"
"You know nothing--nothing but what I have told you; and what I have
told you is the truth. What I have not told you is mine to keep. You
love me too well to probe it any further, I am sorry for the captain.
He has an iron will and a rough exterior, but he has a warm heart
underneath. If you see him before I do give him my deepest sympathy.
Now, my dear friend, I must go back to Archie; he is restless and needs
me. Good-night," and she held out her hand and passed out of the room.
She was gone before he could stop her. He started forward as her hand
touched the door, but she closed it quickly behind her, as if to leave
no doubt of her meaning. He saw that she had misunderstood him. He had
intended to talk to her of Archie's father, and of Lucy, and she had
supposed he had only come to comfort her about the village gossip.
For some minutes he stood like one dazed. Then a feeling of unspeakable
reverence stole over him. Not only was she determined to suffer alone
and in silence, but she would guard her sister's secret at the cost of
her own happiness. Inside that sacred precinct he knew he could never
enter; that wine-press she intended to tread alone.
Then a sudden indignation, followed by a contempt of his own weakness
took possession of him. Being the older and stronger nature, he should
have compelled her to listen. The physician as well as the friend
should have asserted himself. No woman could be well balanced who would
push away the hand of a man held out to save her from ruin and misery.
He would send Martha for her again and insist upon her listening to him.
He started for the door and stopped irresolute. A new light broke in
upon his heart. It was not against himself and her own happiness that
she had taken this stand, but to save her father's and her sister's
name. He knew how strong was her devotion to her duty, how blind her
love for Lucy, how sacred she held the trust given to her by her dead
father. No; she was neither obstinate nor quixotic. Hers was the work
of a martyr, not a fanatic. No one he had ever known or heard of had
borne so great a cross or made so noble a sacrifice. It was like the
deed of some grand old saint, the light of whose glory had shone down
the ages. He was wrong, cruelly wrong. The only thing left for him to
do was to wait. For what he could not tell. Perhaps God in his mercy
would one day find the way.
Martha's kindly voice as she opened the door awoke him from his revery.
"Did she take it bad?" she asked.
"No," he replied aimlessly, without thinking of what he said. "She sent
a message to the captain. I'll go now. No, please don't bring a light
to the door. The mare's only a short way down the road."
When the old nurse had shut the front door after him she put out the
lamps and ascended the stairs. The other servants were in bed. Jane's
door was partly open. Martha pushed it gently with her hand and stepped
in. Jane had thrown herself at full length on the bed and lay with her
face buried in her hands. She was talking to herself and had not
noticed Martha's footsteps.
"O God! what have I done that this should be sent to me?" Martha heard
her say between her sobs. "You would be big enough, my beloved, to bear
it all for my sake; to take the stain and wear it; but I cannot hurt
you--not you, not you, my great, strong, sweet soul. Your heart aches
for me and you would give me all you have, but I could not bear your
name without telling you. You would forgive me, but I could never
forgive myself. No, no, you shall stand unstained if God will give me
strength!"
Martha walked softly to the bed and bent over Jane's prostrate body.
"It's me, dear. What did he say to break your heart?"
Jane slipped her arm about the old nurse's neck, drawing her closer,
and without lifting her own head from the pillow talked on.
"Nothing, nothing. He came to comfort me, not to hurt me."
"Do ye think it's all true 'bout Bart?" Martha whispered.
Jane raised her body from the bed and rested her head on Martha's
shoulder.
"Yes, it's all true about Bart," she answered in a stronger and more
composed tone. "I have been expecting it. Poor boy, he had nothing to
live for, and his conscience must have given him no rest."
"Did the captain tell him about--" and Martha pointed toward the bed of
the sleeping child. She could never bring herself to mention Lucy's
name when speaking either of Bart or Archie.
Jane sat erect, brushed the tears from her eyes, smoothed her hair back
from her temples, and said with something of her customary poise:
"No, I don't think so. The captain gave me his word, and he will not
break it. Then, again, he will never discredit his own son. The doctor
doesn't know, and there will be nobody to tell him. That's not what he
came to tell me. It was about the stories you heard last week and which
have only just reached his ears. That's all. He wanted to protect me
from their annoyance, but I would not listen to him. There is trouble
enough without bringing him into it. Now go to bed, Martha."
As she spoke Jane regained her feet, and crossing the room, settled
into a chair by the boy's crib. Long after Martha had closed her own
door for the night Jane sat watching the sleeping child. One plump pink
hand lay outside the cover; the other little crumpled rose-leaf was
tucked under the cheek, the face half-hidden in a tangle of glossy
curls, now spun-gold in the light of the shaded lamp.
"Poor little waif," she sighed, "poor little motherless, fatherless
waif! Why didn't you stay in heaven? This world has no place for you."
Then she rose wearily, picked up the light, carried it across the room
to her desk, propped a book in front of it so that its rays would not
fall upon the sleeping child, opened her portfolio, and sat down to
write.
When she had finished and had sealed her letter it was long past
midnight. It was addressed to Lucy in Dresden, and contained a full
account of all the doctor had told her of Bart's death.
CHAPTER XII
A LETTER FROM PARIS
For the first year Jane watched Archie's growth and development with
the care of a self-appointed nurse temporarily doing her duty by her
charge. Later on, as the fact became burned into her mind that Lucy
would never willingly return to Warehold, she clung to him with that
absorbing love and devotion which an unmarried woman often lavishes
upon a child not her own. In his innocent eyes she saw the fulfilment
of her promise to her father. He would grow to be a man of courage and
strength, the stain upon his birth forgotten, doing honor to himself,
to her, and to the name he bore. In him, too, she sought refuge from
that other sorrow which was often greater than she could bear--the loss
of the closer companionship of Doctor John--a companionship which only
a wife's place could gain for her. The true mother-love--the love which
she had denied herself, a love which had been poured out upon Lucy
since her father's death--found its outlet, therefore, in little Archie.
Under Martha's watchful care the helpless infant grew to be a big,
roly-poly boy, never out of her arms when she could avoid it. At five
he had lost his golden curls and short skirts and strutted about in
knee-trousers. At seven he had begun to roam the streets, picking up
his acquaintances wherever he found them.
Chief among them was Tod Fogarty, the son of the fisherman, now a boy
of ten, big for his age and bubbling over with health and merriment,
and whose life Doctor John had saved when he was a baby. Tod had
brought a basket of fish to Yardley, and sneaking Meg, who was then
alive--he died the year after--had helped himself to part of the
contents, and the skirmish over its recovery had resulted in a
friendship which was to last the boys all their lives. The doctor
believed in Tod, and always spoke of his pluck and of his love for his
mother, qualities which Jane admired--but then technical class
distinctions never troubled Jane--every honest body was Jane's friend,
just as every honest body was Doctor John's.
The doctor loved Archie with the love of an older brother; not
altogether because he was Jane's ward, but for the boy's own
qualities--for his courage, for his laugh--particularly for his
buoyancy. Often, as he looked into the lad's eyes brimming with fun, he
would wish that he himself had been born with the same kind of
temperament. Then again the boy satisfied to a certain extent the
longing in his heart for home, wife, and child--a void which he knew
now would never be filled. Fate had decreed that he and the woman he
loved should live apart--with this he must be content. Not that his
disappointments had soured him; only that this ever-present sorrow had
added to the cares of his life, and in later years had taken much of
the spring and joyousness out of him. This drew him all the closer to
Archie, and the lad soon became his constant companion; sitting beside
him in his gig, waiting for him at the doors of the fishermen's huts,
or in the cabins of the poor on the outskirts of Barnegat and Warehold.
"There goes Doctor John of Barnegat and his curly-head," the neighbors
would say; "when ye see one ye see t'other."
Newcomers in Barnegat and Warehold thought Archie was his son, and
would talk to the doctor about him:
"Fine lad you got, doctor--don't look a bit like you, but maybe he will
when he gets his growth." At which the doctor would laugh and pat the
boy's head.
During all these years Lucy's letters came but seldom. When they did
arrive, most of them were filled with elaborate excuses for her
prolonged stay. The money, she wrote, which Jane had sent her from time
to time was ample for her needs; she was making many valuable friends,
and she could not see how she could return until the following
spring--a spring which never came. In no one of them had she ever
answered Jane's letter about Bart's death, except to acknowledge its
receipt. Nor, strange to say, had she ever expressed any love for
Archie. Jane's letters were always filled with the child's doings; his
illnesses and recoveries; but whenever Lucy mentioned his name, which
was seldom, she invariably referred to him as "your little ward" or
"your baby," evidently intending to wipe that part of her life
completely out. Neither did she make any comment on the child's
christening--a ceremony which took place in the church, Pastor
Dellenbaugh officiating--except to write that perhaps one name was as
good as another, and that she hoped he would not disgrace it when he
grew up.
These things, however, made but little impression on Jane. She never
lost faith in her sister, and never gave up hope that one day they
would all three be reunited; how or where she could not tell or
foresee, but in some way by which Lucy would know and love her son for
himself alone, and the two live together ever after--his parentage
always a secret. When Lucy once looked into her boy's face she was
convinced she would love and cling to him. This was her constant prayer.
All these hopes were dashed to the ground by the receipt of a letter
from Lucy with a Geneva postmark. She had not written for months, and
Jane broke the seal with a murmur of delight, Martha leaning forward,
eager to hear the first word from her bairn. As she read Jane's face
grew suddenly pale.
"What is it?" Martha asked in a trembling voice.
For some minutes Jane sat staring into space, her hand pressed to her
side. She looked like one who had received a death message. Then,
without a word, she handed the letter to Martha.
The old woman adjusted her glasses, read the missive to the end without
comment, and laid it back on Jane's lap. The writing covered but part
of the page, and announced Lucy's coming marriage with a Frenchman: "A
man of distinction; some years older than myself, and of ample means.
He fell in love with me at Aix."
There are certain crises in life with conclusions so evident that no
spoken word can add to their clearness. There is no need of comment;
neither is there room for doubt. The bare facts stand naked. No
sophistry can dull their outlines nor soften the insistence of their
high lights; nor can any reasoning explain away the results that will
follow. Both women, without the exchange of a word, knew instantly that
the consummation of this marriage meant the loss of Lucy forever. Now
she would never come back, and Archie would be motherless for life.
They foresaw, too, that all their yearning to clasp Lucy once more in
their arms would go unsatisfied. In this marriage she had found a way
to slip as easily from out the ties that bound her to Yardley as she
would from an old dress.
Martha rose from her chair, read the letter again to the end, and
without opening her lips left the room. Jane kept her seat, her head
resting on her hand, the letter once more in her lap. The revulsion of
feeling had paralyzed her judgment, and for a time had benumbed her
emotions. All she saw was Archie's eyes looking into hers as he waited
for an answer to that question he would one day ask and which now she
knew she could never give.
Then there rose before her, like some disembodied spirit from a
long-covered grave, the spectre of the past. An icy chill crept over
her. Would Lucy begin this new life with the same deceit with which she
had begun the old? And if she did, would this Frenchman forgive her
when he learned the facts? If he never learned them--and this was most
to be dreaded--what would Lucy's misery be all her life if she still
kept the secret close? Then with a pathos all the more intense because
of her ignorance of the true situation--she fighting on alone,
unconscious that the man she loved not only knew every pulsation of her
aching heart, but would be as willing as herself to guard its secret,
she cried:
"Yes, at any cost she must be saved from this living death! I know what
it is to sit beside the man I love, the man whose arm is ready to
sustain me, whose heart is bursting for love of me, and yet be always
held apart by a spectre which I dare not face."
With this came the resolve to prevent the marriage at all hazards, even
to leaving Yardley and taking the first steamer to Europe, that she
might plead with Lucy in person.
While she sat searching her brain for some way out of the threatened
calamity, the rapid rumbling of the doctor's gig was heard on the
gravel road outside her open window. She knew from the speed with which
he drove that something out of the common had happened. The gig stopped
and the doctor's voice rang out:
"Come as quick as you can, Jane, please. I've got a bad case some miles
out of Warehold, and I need you; it's a compound fracture, and I want
you to help with the chloroform."
All her indecision vanished and all her doubts were swept away as she
caught the tones of his voice. Who else in the wide world understood
her as he did, and who but he should guide her now? Had he ever failed
her? When was his hand withheld or his lips silent? How long would her
pride shut out his sympathy? If he could help in the smaller things of
life why not trust him in this larger sorrow?--one that threatened to
overwhelm her, she whose heart ached for tenderness and wise counsel.
Perhaps she could lean upon him without betraying her trust. After all,
the question of Archie's birth--the one secret between them--need not
come up. It was Lucy's future happiness which was at stake. This must
be made safe at any cost short of exposure.
"Better put a few things in a bag," Doctor John continued. "It may be a
case of hours or days--I can't tell till I see him. The boy fell from
the roof of the stable and is pretty badly hurt; both legs are broken,
I hear; the right one in two places."
She was upstairs in a moment, into her nursing dress, always hanging
ready in case the doctor called for her, and down again, standing
beside the gig, her bag in her hand, before he had time to turn his
horse and arrange the seat and robes for her comfort.
"Who is it?" she asked hurriedly, resting her hand in his as he helped
her into the seat and took the one beside her, Martha and Archie
assisting with her bag and big driving cloak.
"Burton's boy. His father was coming for me and met me on the road. I
have everything with me, so we will not lose any time. Good-by, my
boy," he called to Archie. "One day I'll make a doctor of you, and then
I won't have to take your dear mother from you so often. Good-by,
Martha. You want to take care of that cough, old lady, or I shall have
to send up some of those plasters you love so."
They were off and rattling down the path between the lilacs before
either Archie or the old woman could answer. To hearts like Jane's and
the doctor's, a suffering body, no matter how far away, was a sinking
ship in the clutch of the breakers. Until the lifeboat reached her side
everything was forgotten.
The doctor adjusted the robe over Jane's lap and settled himself in his
seat. They had often driven thus together, and Jane's happiest hours
had been spent close to his side, both intent on the same errand of
mercy, and BOTH WORKING TOGETHER. That was the joy of it!
They talked of the wounded boy and of the needed treatment and what
part each should take in the operation; of some new cases in the
hospital and the remedies suggested for their comfort; of Archie's life
on the beach and how ruddy and handsome he was growing, and of his
tender, loving nature; and of the thousand and one other things that
two people who know every pulsation of each other's hearts are apt to
discuss--of everything, in fact, but the letter in her pocket. "It is a
serious case," she said to herself--"this to which we are hurrying--and
nothing must disturb the sureness of his sensitive hand."
Now and then, as he spoke, the two would turn their heads and look into
each other's eyes.
When a man's face lacks the lines and modellings that stand for beauty
the woman who loves him is apt to omit in her eager glance every
feature but his eyes. His eyes are the open doors to his soul; in these
she finds her ideals, and in these she revels. But with Jane every
feature was a joy--the way the smoothly cut hair was trimmed about his
white temples; the small, well-turned ears lying flat to his head; the
lines of his eyebrows; the wide, sensitive nostrils and the gleam of
the even teeth flashing from between well-drawn, mobile lips; the
white, smooth, polished skin. Not all faces could boast this beauty;
but then not all souls shone as clearly as did Doctor John's through
the thin veil of his face.
And she was equally young and beautiful to him. Her figure was still
that of her youth; her face had not changed--he still caught the smile
of the girl he loved. Often, when they had been driving along the
coast, the salt wind in their faces, and he had looked at her suddenly,
a thrill of delight had swept through him as he noted how rosy were her
cheeks and how ruddy the wrists above the gloves, hiding the dear hands
he loved so well, the tapering fingers tipped with delicate pink nails.
He could, if he sought them, find many telltale wrinkles about the
corners of the mouth and under the eyelids (he knew and loved them
all), showing where the acid of anxiety had bitten deep into the plate
on which the record of her life was being daily etched, but her
beautiful gray eyes still shone with the same true, kindly light, and
always flashed the brighter when they looked into his own. No, she was
ever young and ever beautiful to him!
To-day, however, there was a strange tremor in her voice and an
anxious, troubled expression in her face--one that he had not seen for
years. Nor had she once looked into his eyes in the old way.
"Something worries you, Jane," he said, his voice echoing his thoughts.
"Tell me about it."
"No--not now--it is nothing," she answered quickly.
"Yes, tell me. Don't keep any troubles from me. I have nothing else to
do in life but smooth them out. Come, what is it?"
"Wait until we get through with Burton's boy. He may be hurt worse than
you think."
The doctor slackened the reins until they rested on the dashboard, and
with a quick movement turned half around and looked searchingly into
Jane's eyes.
"It is serious, then. What has happened?"
"Only a letter from Lucy."
"Is she coming home?"
"No, she is going to be married."
The doctor gave a low whistle. Instantly Archie's laughing eyes looked
into his; then came the thought of the nameless grave of his father.
"Well, upon my soul! You don't say so! Who to, pray?"
"To a Frenchman." Jane's eyes were upon his, reading the effect of her
news. His tone of surprise left an uncomfortable feeling behind it.
"How long has she known him?" he continued, tightening the reins again
and chirruping to the mare..
"She does not say--not long, I should think."
"What sort of a Frenchman is he? I've known several kinds in my
life--so have you, no doubt," and a quiet smile overspread his face.
"Come, Bess! Hurry up, old girl."
"A gentleman, I should think, from what she writes. He is much older
than Lucy, and she says very well off."
"Then you didn't meet him on the other side?"
"And never heard of him before?"
"Not until I received this letter."
The doctor reached for his whip and flecked off a fly that had settled
on the mare's neck.
"Lucy is about twenty-seven, is she not?"
"Yes, some eight years younger than I am. Why do you ask, John?"
"Because it is always a restless age for a woman. She has lost the
protecting ignorance of youth and she has not yet gained enough of the
experience of age to steady her. Marriage often comes as a
balance-weight. She is coming home to be married, isn't she?"
"No; they are to be married in Geneva at his mother's."
"I think that part of it is a mistake," he said in a decided tone.
"There is no reason why she should not be married here; she owes that
to you and to herself." Then he added in a gentler tone, "And this
worries you?"
"More than I can tell you, John." There was a note in her voice that
vibrated through him. He knew now how seriously the situation affected
her.
"But why, Jane? If Lucy is happier in it we should do what we can to
help her."
"Yes, but not in this way. This will make her all the more miserable. I
don't want this marriage; I want her to come home and live with me and
Archie. She makes me promises every year to come, and now it is over
six years since I left her and she has always put me off. This marriage
means that she will never come. I want her here, John. It is not right
for her to live as she does. Please think as I do!"
The doctor patted Jane's hand--it was the only mark of affection he
ever allowed himself--not in a caressing way, but more as a father
would pat the hand of a nervous child.
"Well, let us go over it from the beginning. Maybe I don't know all the
facts. Have you the letter with you?"
She handed it to him. He passed the reins to her and read it carefully
to the end.
"Have you answered it yet?"
"No, I wanted to talk to you about it. What do you think now?"
"I can't see that it will make any difference. She is not a woman to
live alone. I have always been surprised that she waited so long. You
are wrong, Jane, about this. It is best for everybody and everything
that Lucy should be married."
"John, dear," she said in a half-pleading tone--there were some times
when this last word slipped out--"I don't want this marriage at all. I
am so wretched about it that I feel like taking the first steamer and
bringing her home with me. She will forget all about him when she is
here; and it is only her loneliness that makes her want to marry. I
don't want her married; I want her to love me and Martha
and--Archie--and she will if she sees him."
"Is that better than loving a man who loves her?" The words dropped
from his lips before he could recall them--forced out, as it were, by
the pressure of his heart.
Jane caught her breath and the color rose in her cheeks. She knew he
did not mean her, and yet she saw he spoke from his heart. Doctor
John's face, however, gave no sign of his thoughts.
"But, John, I don't know that she does love him. She doesn't say
so--she says HE loves her. And if she did, we cannot all follow our own
hearts."
"Why not?" he replied calmly, looking straight ahead of him: at the
bend in the road, at the crows flying in the air, at the leaden sky
between the rows of pines. If she wanted to give him her confidence he
was ready now with heart and arms wide open. Perhaps his hour had come
at last.
"Because--because," she faltered, "our duty comes in. That is holier
than love." Then her voice rose and steadied itself--"Lucy's duty is to
come home."
He understood. The gate was still shut; the wall still confronted him.
He could not and would not scale it. She had risked her own
happiness--even her reputation--to keep this skeleton hidden, the
secret inviolate. Only in the late years had she begun to recover from
the strain. She had stood the brunt and borne the sufferings of
another's sin without complaint, without reward, giving up everything
in life in consecration to her trust. He, of all men, could not tear
the mask away, nor could he stoop by the more subtle paths of
friendship, love, or duty to seek to look behind it--not without her
own free and willing hand to guide him. There was nothing else in all
her life that she had not told him. Every thought was his, every
resolve, every joy. She would entrust him with this if it was hers to
give. Until she did his lips would be sealed. As to Lucy, it could make
no difference. Bart lying in a foreign grave would never trouble her
again, and Archie would only be a stumbling-block in her career. She
would never love the boy, come what might. If this Frenchman filled her
ideal, it was best for her to end her days across the water--best
certainly for Jane, to whom she had only brought unhappiness.
For some moments he busied himself with the reins, loosening them from
where they were caught in the harness; then he bent his head and said
slowly, and with the tone of the physician in consultation:
"Your protest will do no good, Jane, and your trip abroad will only be
a waste of time and money. If Lucy has not changed, and this letter
shows that she has not, she will laugh at your objections and end by
doing as she pleases. She has always been a law unto herself, and this
new move of hers is part of her life-plan. Take my advice: stay where
you are; write her a loving, sweet letter and tell her how happy you
hope she will be, and send her your congratulations. She will not
listen to your objections, and your opposition might lose you her love."
Before dark they were both on their way back to Yardley. Burton's boy
had not been hurt as badly as his father thought; but one leg was
broken, and this was soon in splints, and without Jane's assistance.
Before they had reached her door her mind was made up.
The doctor's words, as they always did, had gone down deep into her
mind, and all thoughts of going abroad, or of even protesting against
Lucy's marriage, were given up. Only the spectre remained. That the
doctor knew nothing of, and that she must meet alone.
Martha took Jane's answer to the post-office herself. She had talked
its contents over with the old nurse, and the two had put their hearts
into every line.
"Tell him everything," Jane wrote. "Don't begin a new life with an old
lie. With me it is different. I saved you, my sister, because I loved
you, and because I could not bear that your sweet girlhood should be
marred. I shall live my life out in this duty. It came to me, and I
could not put it from me, and would not now if I could, but I know the
tyranny of a secret you cannot share with the man who loves you. I
know, too, the cruelty of it all. For years I have answered kindly
meant inquiry with discourteous silence, bearing insinuations, calumny,
insults--and all because I cannot speak. Don't, I beseech you, begin
your new life in this slavery. But whatever the outcome, take him into
your confidence. Better have him leave you now than after you are
married. Remember, too, that if by this declaration you should lose his
love you will at least gain his respect. Perhaps, if his heart is
tender and he feels for the suffering and wronged, you may keep both.
Forgive me, dear, but I have only your happiness at heart, and I love
you too dearly not to warn you against any danger which would threaten
you. Martha agrees with me in the above, and knows you will do right by
him."
When Lucy's answer arrived weeks afterward--after her marriage, in
fact--Jane read it with a clutching at her throat she had not known
since that fatal afternoon when Martha returned from Trenton.
"You dear, foolish sister," Lucy's letter began, "what should I tell
him for? He loves me devotedly and we are very happy together, and I am
not going to cause him any pain by bringing any disagreeable thing into
his life. People don't do those wild, old-fashioned things over here.
And then, again, there is no possibility of his finding out. Maria
agrees with me thoroughly, and says in her funny way that men nowadays
know too much already." Then followed an account of her wedding.
This letter Jane did not read to the doctor--no part of it, in fact.
She did not even mention its receipt, except to say that the wedding
had taken place in Geneva, where the Frenchman's mother lived, it being
impossible, Lucy said, for her to come home, and that Maria Collins,
who was staying with her, had been the only one of her old friends at
the ceremony. Neither did she read it all to Martha. The old nurse was
growing more feeble every year and she did not wish her blind faith in
her bairn disturbed.
For many days she kept the letter locked in her desk, not having the
courage to take it out again and read it. Then she sent for Captain
Holt, the only one, beside Martha, with whom she could discuss the
matter. She knew his strong, honest nature, and his blunt, outspoken
way of giving vent to his mind, and she hoped that his knowledge of
life might help to comfort her.
"Married to one o' them furriners, is she?" the captain blurted out;
"and goin' to keep right on livin' the lie she's lived ever since she
left ye? You'll excuse me, Miss Jane,--you've been a mother, and a
sister and everything to her, and you're nearer the angels than anybody
I know. That's what I think when I look at you and Archie. I say it
behind your back and I say it now to your face, for it's true. As to
Lucy, I may be mistaken, and I may not. I don't want to condemn nothin'
'less I'm on the survey and kin look the craft over; that's why I'm
partic'lar. Maybe Bart was right in sayin' it warn't all his fault,
whelp as he was to say it, and maybe he warn't. It ain't up before me
and I ain't passin' on it,--but one thing is certain, when a ship's
made as many voyages as Lucy has and ain't been home for repairs nigh
on to seven years--ain't it?" and he looked at Jane for
confirmation--"she gits foul and sometimes a little mite
worm-eaten--especially her bilge timbers, unless they're
copper-fastened or pretty good stuff. I've been thinkin' for some time
that you ain't got Lucy straight, and this last kick-up of hers makes
me sure of it. Some timber is growed right and some timber is growed
crooked; and when it's growed crooked it gits leaky, and no 'mount o'
tar and pitch kin stop it. Every twist the ship gives it opens the
seams, and the pumps is goin' all the time. When your timber is growed
right you kin all go to sleep and not a drop o' water'll git in. Your
sister Lucy ain't growed right. Maybe she kin help it and maybe she
can't, but she'll leak every time there comes a twist. See if she
don't."
But Jane never lost faith nor wavered in her trust. With the old-time
love strong upon her she continued to make excuses for this
thoughtless, irresponsible woman, so easily influenced. "It is Maria
Collins who has written the letter, and not Lucy," she kept saying to
herself. "Maria has been her bad angel from her girlhood, and still
dominates her. The poor child's sufferings have hardened her heart and
destroyed for a time her sense of right and wrong--that is all."
With this thought uppermost in her mind she took the letter from her
desk, and stirring the smouldering embers, laid it upon the coals. The
sheet blazed and fell into ashes.
"No one will ever know," she said with a sigh.
CHAPTER XIII
SCOOTSY'S EPITHET
Lying on Barnegat Beach, within sight of the House of Refuge and
Fogarty's cabin, was the hull of a sloop which had been whirled in one
night in a southeaster, with not a soul on board, riding the breakers
like a duck, and landing high and dry out of the hungry clutch of the
surf-dogs. She was light at the time and without ballast, and lay
stranded upright on her keel. All attempts by the beach-combers to
float her had proved futile; they had stripped her of her standing
rigging and everything else of value, and had then abandoned her. Only
the evenly balanced hull was left, its bottom timbers broken and its
bent keelson buried in the sand. This hulk little Tod Fogarty, aged
ten, had taken possession of; particularly the after-part of the hold,
over which he had placed a trusty henchman armed with a cutlass made
from the hoop of a fish barrel. The henchman--aged seven--wore
knee-trousers and a cap and answered to the name of Archie. The refuge
itself bore the title of "The Bandit's Home."
This new hulk had taken the place of the old schooner which had served
Captain Holt as a landmark on that eventful night when he strode
Barnegat Beach in search of Bart, and which by the action of the
ever-changing tides, had gradually settled until now only a hillock
marked its grave--a fate which sooner or later would overtake this
newly landed sloop itself.
These Barnegat tides are the sponges that wipe clean the slate of the
beach. Each day a new record is made and each day it is wiped out:
records from passing ships, an empty crate, broken spar or useless
barrel grounded now and then by the tide in its flow as it moves up and
down the sand at the will of the waters. Records, too, of many
footprints,--the lagging steps of happy lovers; the dimpled feet of
joyous children; the tread of tramp, coast-guard or fisherman--all
scoured clean when the merciful tide makes ebb.
Other records are strewn along the beach; these the tide alone cannot
efface--the bow of some hapless schooner it may be, wrenched from its
hull, and sent whirling shoreward; the shattered mast and crosstrees of
a stranded ship beaten to death in the breakers; or some battered
capstan carried in the white teeth of the surf-dogs and dropped beyond
the froth-line. To these with the help of the south wind, the tides
extend their mercy, burying them deep with successive blankets of sand,
hiding their bruised bodies, covering their nakedness and the marks of
their sufferings. All through the restful summer and late autumn these
battered derelicts lie buried, while above their graves the children
play and watch the ships go by, or stretch themselves at length, their
eyes on the circling gulls.
With the coming of the autumn all this is changed. The cruel north wind
now wakes, and with a loud roar joins hands with the savage easter; the
startled surf falls upon the beach like a scourge. Under their double
lash the outer bar cowers and sinks; the frightened sand flees hither
and thither. Soon the frenzied breakers throw themselves headlong,
tearing with teeth and claws, burrowing deep into the hidden graves.
Now the forgotten wrecks, like long-buried sins, rise and stand naked,
showing every scar and stain. This is the work of the sea-puss--the
revolving maniac born of close-wed wind and tide; a beast so terrible
that in a single night, with its auger-like snout, it bites huge inlets
out of farm lands--mouthfuls deep enough for ships to sail where but
yesterday the corn grew.
In the hull of this newly stranded sloop, then--sitting high and dry,
out of the reach of the summer surf,--Tod and Archie spent every hour
of the day they could call their own; sallying forth on various
piratical excursions, coming back laden with driftwood for a bonfire,
or hugging some bottle, which was always opened with trembling, eager
fingers in the inmost recesses of the Home, in the hope that some
tidings of a lost ship might be found inside; or with their pockets
crammed with clam-shells and other sea spoils with which to decorate
the inside timbers of what was left of the former captain's cabin.
Jane had protested at first, but the doctor had looked the hull over,
and found that there was nothing wide enough, nor deep enough, nor
sharp enough to do them harm, and so she was content. Then again, the
boys were both strong for their age, and looked it, Tod easily passing
for a lad of twelve or fourteen, and Archie for a boy of ten. The one
danger discovered by the doctor lay in its height, the only way of
boarding the stranded craft being by means of a hand-over-hand climb up
the rusty chains of the bowsprit, a difficult and trousers-tearing
operation. This was obviated by Tod's father, who made a ladder for the
boys out of a pair of old oars, which the two pirates pulled up after
them whenever an enemy hove in sight. When friends approached it was
let down with more than elaborate ceremony, the guests being escorted
by Archie and welcomed on board by Tod.
Once Captain Holt's short, sturdy body was descried in the offing
tramping the sand-dunes on his way to Fogarty's, and a signal
flag--part of Mother Fogarty's flannel petticoat, and blood-red, as
befitted the desperate nature of the craft over which it floated, was
at once set in his honor. The captain put his helm hard down and came
up into the wind and alongside the hulk.
"Well! well! well!" he cried in his best quarterdeck voice--"what are
you stowaways doin' here?" and he climbed the ladder and swung himself
over the battered rail.
Archie took his hand and led him into the most sacred recesses of the
den, explaining to him his plans for defence, his armament of barrel
hoops, and his ammunition of shells and pebbles, Tod standing silently
by and a little abashed, as was natural in one of his station; at which
the captain laughed more loudly than before, catching Archie in his
arms, rubbing his curly head with his big, hard hand, and telling him
he was a chip of the old block, every inch of him--none of which did
either Archie or Tod understand. Before he climbed down the ladder he
announced with a solemn smile that he thought the craft was well
protected so far as collisions on foggy nights were concerned, but he
doubted if their arms were sufficient and that he had better leave them
his big sea knife which had been twice around Cape Horn, and which
might be useful in lopping off arms and legs whenever the cutthroats
got too impudent and aggressive; whereupon Archie threw his arms around
his grizzled neck and said he was a "bully commodore," and that if he
would come and live with them aboard the hulk they would obey his
orders to a man.
Archie leaned over the rotten rail and saw the old salt stop a little
way from the hulk and stand looking at them for some minutes and then
wave his hand, at which the boys waved back, but the lad did not see
the tears that lingered for an instant on the captain's eyelids, and
which the sea-breeze caught away; nor did he hear the words, as the
captain resumed his walk: "He's all I've got left, and yet he don't
know it and I can't tell him. Ain't it hell?"
Neither did they notice that he never once raised his eyes toward the
House of Refuge as he passed its side. A new door and a new roof had
been added, but in other respects it was to him the same grewsome,
lonely hut as on that last night when he had denounced his son outside
its swinging door.
Often the boys made neighborly visits to friendly tribes and settlers.
Fogarty was one of these, and Doctor Cavendish was another. The
doctor's country was a place of buttered bread and preserves and a romp
with Rex, who was almost as feeble as Meg had been in his last days.
But Fogarty's cabin was a mine of never-ending delight. In addition to
the quaint low house of clapboards and old ship-timber, with its
sloping roof and little toy windows, so unlike his own at Yardley, and
smoked ceilings, there was a scrap heap piled up and scattered over the
yard which in itself was a veritable treasure-house. Here were rusty
chains and wooden figure-heads of broken-nosed, blind maidens and
tailless dolphins. Here were twisted iron rods, fish-baskets, broken
lobster-pots, rotting seines and tangled, useless nets--some used as
coverings for coops of restless chickens--old worn-out rope, tangled
rigging--everything that a fisherman who had spent his life on Barnegat
beach could pull from the surf or find stranded on the sand.
Besides all these priceless treasures, there was an old boat lying
afloat in a small lagoon back of the house, one of those seepage pools
common to the coast--a boat which Fogarty had patched with a bit of
sail-cloth, and for which he had made two pairs of oars, one for each
of the "crew," as he called the lads, and which Archie learned to
handle with such dexterity that the old fisherman declared he would
make a first-class boatman when he grew up, and would "shame the whole
bunch of 'em."
But these two valiant buccaneers were not to remain in undisturbed
possession of the Bandit's Home with its bewildering fittings and
enchanting possibilities--not for long. The secret of the uses to which
the stranded craft bad been put, and the attendant fun which Commodore
Tod and his dauntless henchman, Archibald Cobden, Esquire, were daily
getting out of its battered timbers, had already become public
property. The youth of Barnegat--the very young youth, ranging from
nine to twelve, and all boys--received the news at first with hilarious
joy. This feeling soon gave way to unsuppressed indignation, followed
by an active bitterness, when they realized in solemn conclave--the
meeting was held in an open lot on Saturday morning--that the capture
of the craft had been accomplished, not by dwellers under Barnegat
Light, to whom every piece of sea-drift from a tomato-can to a
full-rigged ship rightfully belonged, but by a couple of aliens, one of
whom wore knee-pants and a white collar,--a distinction in dress highly
obnoxious to these lords of the soil.
All these denizens of Barnegat had at one time or another climbed up
the sloop's chains and peered down the hatchway to the sand covering
the keelson, and most of them had used it as a shelter behind which, in
swimming-time, they had put on or peeled off such mutilated rags as
covered their nakedness, but no one of them had yet conceived the idea
of turning it into a Bandit's Home. That touch of the ideal, that
gilding of the commonplace, had been reserved for the brain of the
curly-haired boy who, with dancing eyes, his sturdy little legs resting
on Tod's shoulder, had peered over the battered rail, and who, with a
burst of enthusiasm, had shouted: "Oh, cracky! isn't it nice, Tod! It's
got a place we can fix up for a robbers' den; and we'll be bandits and
have a flag. Oh, come up here! You never saw anything so fine," etc.,
etc.
When, therefore, Scootsy Mulligan, aged nine, son of a ship-caulker who
worked in Martin Farguson's ship-yard, and Sandy Plummer, eldest of
three, and their mother a widow--plain washing and ironing, two doors
from the cake-shop--heard that that French "spad," Arch Cobden what
lived up to Yardley, and that red-headed Irish cub, Tod Fogarty--Tod's
hair had turned very red--had pre-empted the Black Tub, as the wreck
was irreverently called, claiming it as their very own, "and-a-sayin'
they wuz pirates and bloody Turks and sich," these two quarrelsome town
rats organized a posse in lower Barnegat for its recapture.
Archie was sweeping the horizon from his perch on the "poop-deck" when
his eagle eye detected a strange group of what appeared to be human
beings advancing toward the wreck from the direction of Barnegat
village. One, evidently a chief, was in the lead, the others following
bunched together. All were gesticulating wildly. The trusty henchman
immediately gave warning to Tod, who was at work in the lower hold
arranging a bundle of bean-poles which had drifted inshore the night
before--part of the deck-load, doubtless, of some passing vessel.
"Ay, ay, sir!" cried the henchman with a hoist of his knee-pants, as a
prelude to his announcement.
"Ay, ay, yerself!" rumbled back the reply. "What's up?" The commodore
had not read as deeply in pirate lore as had Archie, and was not,
therefore, so ready with its lingo.
"Band of savages, sir, approaching down the beach."
"Where away?" thundered back the commodore, his authority now asserting
itself in the tones of his voice.
"On the starboard bow, sir--six or seven of 'em."
"Armed or peaceable?"
"Armed, sir. Scootsy Mulligan is leadin' 'em."
"Scootsy Mulligan! Crickety! he's come to make trouble," shouted back
Tod, climbing the ladder in a hurry--it was used as a means of descent
into the shallow hold when not needed outside. "Where are they? Oh,
yes! I see 'em--lot of 'em, ain't they? Saturday, and they ain't no
school. Say, Arch, what are we goin' to do?" The terminal vowels
softening his henchman's name were omitted in grave situations; so was
the pirate lingo.
"Do!" retorted Archie, his eyes snapping. "Why, we'll fight 'em; that's
what we are pirates for. Fight 'em to the death. Hurray! They're not
coming aboard--no sir-ee! You go down, Toddy [the same free use of
terminals], and get two of the biggest bean-poles and I'll run up the
death flag. We've got stones and shells enough. Hurry--big ones, mind
you!"
The attacking party, their leader ahead, had now reached the low sand
heap marking the grave of the former wreck, but a dozen yards away--the
sand had entombed it the year before.
"You fellers think yer durned smart, don't ye?" yelled Mr. William
Mulligan, surnamed "Scootsy" from his pronounced fleetness of foot.
"We're goin' to run ye out o' that Tub. 'Tain't yourn, it's ourn--ain't
it, fellers?"
A shout went up in answer from the group on the hillock.
"You can come as friends, but not as enemies," cried Archie
grandiloquently. "The man who sets foot on this ship without permission
dies like a dog. We sail under the blood-red flag!" and Archie struck
an attitude and pointed to the fragment of mother Fogarty's own nailed
to a lath and hanging limp over the rail.
"Hi! hi! hi!" yelled the gang in reply. "Oh, ain't he a beauty! Look at
de cotton waddin' on his head!" (Archie's cropped curls.) "Say, sissy,
does yer mother know ye're out? Throw that ladder down; we're comin' up
there--don't make no diff'rence whether we got yer permish or not--and
we'll knock the stuffin' out o' ye if ye put up any job on us. H'ist
out that ladder!"
"Death and no quarter!" shouted back Archie, opening the big blade of
Captain Holt's pocket knife and grasping it firmly in his wee hand.
"We'll defend this ship with the last drop of our blood!"
"Ye will, will ye!" retorted Scootsy. "Come on, fellers--go for 'em!
I'll show 'em," and he dodged under the sloop's bow and sprang for the
overhanging chains.
Tod had now clambered up from the hold. Under his arm were two stout
hickory saplings. One he gave to Archie, the other he kept himself.
"Give them the shells first," commanded Archie, dodging a beach pebble;
"and when their hands come up over the rail let them have this," and he
waved the sapling over his head. "Run, Tod,--they're trying to climb up
behind. I'll take the bow. Avast there, ye lubbers!"
With this Archie dropped to his knees and crouched close to the heel of
the rotting bowsprit, out of the way of the flying missiles--each boy's
pockets were loaded--and looking cautiously over the side of the hulk,
waited until Scootsy's dirty fingers--he was climbing the chain hand
over hand, his feet resting on a boy below him--came into view.
"Off there, or I'll crack your fingers!"
"Crack and be--"
Bang! went Archie's hickory and down dropped the braggart, his oath
lost in his cries.
"He smashed me fist! He smashed me fist! Oh! Oh!" whined Scootsy,
hopping about with the pain, sucking the injured hand and shaking its
mate at Archie, who was still brandishing the sapling and yelling
himself hoarse in his excitement.
The attacking party now drew off to the hillock for a council of war.
Only their heads could be seen--their bodies lay hidden in the long
grass of the dune.
Archie and Tod were now dancing about the deck in a delirium of
delight--calling out in true piratical terms, "We die, but we never
surrender!" Tod now and then falling into his native vernacular to the
effect that he'd "knock the liver and lights out o' the hull gang," an
expression the meaning of which was wholly lost on Archie, he never
having cleaned a fish in his life.
Here a boy in his shirt-sleeves straightened up in the yellow grass and
looked seaward. Then Sandy Plummer gave a yell and ran to the beach,
rolling up what was left of his trousers legs, stopping now and then to
untie first one shoe and then the other. Two of the gang followed on a
run. When the three reached the water's edge they danced about like
Crusoe's savages, waving their arms and shouting. Sandy by this time
had stripped off his clothes and had dashed into the water. A long
plank from some lumber schooner was drifting up the beach in the gentle
swell of the tide. Sandy ran abreast of it for a time, sprang into the
surf, threw himself upon it flat like a frog, and then began paddling
shoreward. The other two now rushed into the water, grasping the near
end of the derelict, the whole party pushing and paddling until it was
hauled clean of the brine and landed high on the sand.
A triumphant yell here came from the water's edge, and the balance of
the gang--there were seven in all--rushed to the help of the dauntless
three.
Archie heaped a pile of pebbles within reach of his hand and waited the
attack. What the savages were going to do with the plank neither he nor
Tod could divine. The derelict was now dragged over the sand to the
hulk, Tod and Archie pelting its rescuers with stones and shells as
they came within short range.
"Up with her, fellers!" shouted Sandy, who, since Scootsy's unmanly
tears, had risen to first place. "Run it under the bowsprit--up with
her--there she goes! Altogether!"
Archie took his stand, his long sapling in his hand, and waited. He
thought first he would unseat the end of the plank, but it was too far
below him and then again he would be exposed to their volleys of
stones, and if he was hurt he might not get back on his craft. Tod, who
had resigned command in favor of his henchman after Archie's masterly
defence in the last fight, stood behind him. Thermopylae was a narrow
place, and so was the famous Bridge of Horatius. He and his faithful
Tod would now make the fight of their lives. Both of these close shaves
for immortality were closed books to Tod, but Archie knew every line of
their records, Doctor John having spent many an hour reading to him,
the boy curled up in his lap while Jane listened.
Sandy, emboldened by the discovery of the plank, made the first rush up
and was immediately knocked from his perch by Tod, whose pole swung
around his head like a flail. Then Scootsy tried it, crawling up,
protecting his head by ducking it under his elbows, holding meanwhile
by his hand. Tod's blows fell about his back, but the boy struggled on
until Archie reached over the gunwale, and with a twist of his wrist,
using all his strength, dropped the invader to the sand below.
The success of this mode of attack was made apparent, provided they
could stick to the plank. Five boys now climbed up. Archie belabored
the first one with the pole and Tod grappled with the second, trying to
throw him from the rail to the sand, some ten feet below, but the rat
close behind him, in spite of their efforts, reached forward, caught
the rail, and scrambled up to his mate's assistance. In another instant
both had leaped to the sloop's deck.
"Back! back! Run, Toddy!" screamed Archie, waving his arms. "Get on the
poop-deck; we can lick them there. Run!"
Tod darted back, and the two defenders clearing the intervening rotten
timbers with a bound, sprang upon the roof of the old cabin--Archie's
"poop."
With a whoop the savages followed, jumping over the holes in the
planking and avoiding the nails in the open beams.
In the melee Archie had lost his pole, and was now standing, hat off,
his blue eves flashing, all the blood of his overheated little body
blazing in his face. The tears of defeat were trembling under his
eyelids, He had been outnumbered, but he would die game. In his hand he
carried, unconsciously to himself, the big-bladed pocket knife the
captain had given him. He would as soon have used it on his mother as
upon one of his enemies, but the Barnegat invaders were ignorant of
that fact, knives being the last resort in their environment.
"Look out, Sandy!" yelled Scootsy to his leader, who was now sneaking
up to Archie with the movement of an Indian in ambush;--"he's drawed a
knife."
Sandy stopped and straightened himself within three feet of Archie. His
hand still smarted from the blow Archie had given it. The "spad" had
not stopped a second in that attack, and he might not in this; the next
thing he knew the knife might be between his ribs.
"Drawed a knife, hev ye!" he snarled. "Drawed a knife, jes' like a spad
that ye are! Ye oughter put yer hair in curl-papers!"
Archie looked at the harmless knife in his hand.
"I can fight you with my fists if you are bigger than me," he cried,
tossing the knife down the open hatchway into the sand below. "Hold my
coat, Tod," and he began stripping off his little jacket.
"I ain't fightin' no spads," sneered Sandy. He didn't want to fight
this one. "Yer can't skeer nobody. You'll draw a pistol next. Yer
better go home to yer mammy, if ye kin find her."
"He ain't got no mammy," snarled Scootsy. "He's a pick-up--me father
says so."
Archie sprang forward to avenge the insult, but before he could reach
Scootsy's side a yell arose from the bow of the hulk.
"Yi! yi! Run, fellers! Here comes old man Fogarty! he's right on top o'
ye! Not that side--this way. Yi! yi!"
The invaders turned and ran the length of the deck, scrambled over the
side and dropped one after the other to the sand below just as the
Fogarty head appeared at the bow. It was but a step and a spring for
him, and with a lurch he gained the deck of the wreck.
"By jiminy, boys, mother thought ye was all killed! Has them rats been
botherin' ye? Ye oughter broke the heads of 'em. Where did they get
that plank? Come 'shore, did it? Here, Tod, catch hold of it; I jes'
wanted a piece o' floorin' like that. Why, ye're all het up, Archie!
Come, son, come to dinner; ye'll git cooled off, and mother's got a
mess o' clams for ye. Never mind 'bout the ladder; I'll lift it down."
On the way over to the cabin, Fogarty and Tod carrying the plank and
Archie walking beside them, the fisherman gleaned from the boys the
details of the fight. Archie had recovered the captain's knife and it
was now in his hand.
"Called ye a 'pick-up' did he, the rat, and said ye didn't have no
mother. He's a liar! If ye ain't got a mother, and a good one, I don't
know who has. That's the way with them town-crabs, allus cussin'
somebody better'n themselves."
When Fogarty had tilted the big plank against the side of the cabin and
the boys had entered the kitchen in search of the mess of clams, the
fisherman winked to his wife, jerked his head meaningly over one
shoulder, and Mrs. Fogarty, in answer, followed him out to the woodshed.
"Them sneaks from Barnegat, Mulligan's and Farguson's boys, and the
rest of 'em, been lettin' out on Archie: callin' him names, sayin' he
ain't got no mother and he's one o' them pass-ins ye find on yer
doorstep in a basket. I laughed it off and he 'peared to forgit it, but
I thought he might ask ye, an' so I wanted to tip ye the wink."
"Well, ye needn't worry. I ain't goin' to tell him what I don't know,"
replied the wife, surprised that he should bring her all the way out to
the woodshed to tell her a thing like that.
"But ye DO know, don't ye?"
"All I know is what Uncle Ephraim told me four or five years ago, and
he's so flighty half the time and talks so much ye can't believe
one-half he says--something about Miss Jane comin' across Archie's
mother in a horsepital in Paris, or some'er's and promisin' her a-dyin'
that she'd look after the boy, and she has. She'd do that here if there
was women and babies up to Doctor John's horsepital 'stead o' men. It's
jes' like her," and Mrs. Fogarty, not to lose her steps, stooped over a
pile of wood and began gathering up an armful.
"Well, she ain't his mother, ye know," rejoined Fogarty, helping his
wife with the sticks. "That's what they slammed in his face to-day, and
he'll git it ag'in as he grows up. But he don't want to hear it from
us."
"And he won't. Miss Jane ain't no fool. She knows more about him than
anybody else, and when she gits ready to tell him she'll tell him.
Don't make no difference who his mother was--the one he's got now is
good enough for anybody. Tod would have been dead half a dozen times if
it hadn't been for her and Doctor John, and there ain't nobody knows it
better'n me. It's just like her to let Archie come here so much with
Tod; she knows I ain't goin' to let nothin' happen to him. And as for
mothers, Sam Fogarty," here Mrs. Fogarty lifted her free hand and shook
her finger in a positive way--"when Archie gits short of mothers he's
got one right here, don't make no difference what you or anybody else
says," and she tapped her broad bosom meaningly.
Contrary, however, to Fogarty's hopes and surmises, Archie had
forgotten neither Sandy's insult nor Scootsy's epithet. "He's a
pick-up" and "he ain't got no mammy" kept ringing in his ears as he
walked back up the beach to his home. He remembered having heard the
words once before when he was some years younger, but then it had come
from a passing neighbor and was not intended for him. This time it was
flung square in his face. Every now and then as he followed the trend
of the beach on his way home he would stop and look out over the sea,
watching the long threads of smoke being unwound from the spools of the
steamers and the sails of the fishing-boats as they caught the light of
the setting sun. The epithet worried him. It was something to be
ashamed of, he knew, or they would not have used it.
Jane, standing outside the gate-post, shading her eyes with her hand,
scanning the village road, caught sight of his sturdy little figure the
moment he turned the corner and ran to meet him.
"I got so worried--aren't you late, my son?" she asked, putting her arm
about him and kissing him tenderly.
"Yes, it's awful late. I ran all the way from the church when I saw the
clock. I didn't know it was past six. Oh, but we've had a bully day,
mother! And we've had a fight. Tod and I were pirates, and Scootsy
Mulligan tried to--"
Jane stopped the boy's joyous account with a cry of surprise. They were
now walking back to Yardley's gate, hugging the stone wall.
"A fight! Oh, my son!"
"Yes, a bully fight; only there were seven of them and only two of us.
That warn't fair, but Mr. Fogarty says they always fight like that. I
could have licked 'em if they come on one at a time, but they got a
plank and crawled up--"
"Crawled up where, my son?" asked Jane in astonishment. All this was an
unknown world to her. She had seen the wreck and had known, of course,
that the boys were making a playhouse of it, but this latter
development was news to her.
"Why, on the pirate ship, where we've got our Bandit's Home. Tod is
commodore and I'm first mate. Tod and I did all we could, but they
didn't fight fair, and Scootsy called me a 'pick-up' and said I hadn't
any mother. I asked Mr. Fogarty what he meant, but he wouldn't tell me.
What's a 'pick-up,' dearie?" and he lifted his face to Jane's, his
honest blue eyes searching her own.
Jane caught her hand to her side and leaned for a moment against the
stone wall. This was the question which for years she had expected him
to ask--one to which she had framed a hundred imaginary answers. When
as a baby he first began to talk she had determined to tell him she was
not his mother, and so get him gradually accustomed to the conditions
of his birth. But every day she loved him the more, and every day she
had put it off. To-day it was no easier. He was too young, she knew, to
take in its full meaning, even if she could muster up the courage to
tell him the half she was willing to tell him--that his mother was her
friend and on her sick-bed had entrusted her child to her care. She had
wanted to wait until he was old enough to understand, so that she
should not lose his love when he came to know the truth. There had
been, moreover, always this fear--would he love her for shielding his
mother, or would he hate Lucy when he came to know? She had once talked
it all over with Captain Holt, but she could never muster up the
courage to take his advice.
"Tell him," he had urged. "It'll save you a lot o' trouble in the end.
That'll let me out and I kin do for him as I want to. You've lived
under this cloud long enough--there ain't nobody can live a lie a whole
lifetime, Miss Jane. I'll take my share of the disgrace along of my
dead boy, and you ain't done nothin', God knows, to be ashamed of. Tell
him! It's grease to yer throat halyards and everything'll run smoother
afterward. Take my advice, Miss Jane."
All these things rushed through her mind as she stood leaning against
the stone wall, Archie's hand in hers, his big blue eyes still fixed on
her own.
"Who said that to you, my son?" she asked in assumed indifference, in
order to gain time in which to frame her answer and recover from the
shock.
"Scootsy Mulligan."
"Is he a nice boy?"
"No, he's a coward, or he wouldn't fight as he does."
"Then I wouldn't mind him, my boy," and she smoothed back the hair from
his forehead, her eyes avoiding the boy's steady gaze. It was only when
someone opened the door of the closet concealing this spectre that Jane
felt her knees give way and her heart turn sick within her. In all else
she was fearless and strong.
"Was he the boy who said you had no mother?"
"Yes. I gave him an awful whack when he came up the first time, and he
went heels over head."
"Well, you have got a mother, haven't you, darling?" she continued,
with a sigh of relief, now that Archie was not insistent.
"You bet I have!" cried the boy, throwing his arms around her.
"Then we won't either of us bother about those bad boys and what they
say," she answered, stooping over and kissing him.
And so for a time the remembrance of Scootsy's epithet faded out of the
boy's mind.
CHAPTER XIV
HIGH WATER AT YARDLEY
Ten years have passed away.
The sturdy little fellow in knee-trousers is a lad of seventeen, big
and strong for his age; Tod is three years older, and the two are still
inseparable. The brave commander of the pirate ship is now a
full-fledged fisherman and his father's main dependence. Archie is
again his chief henchman, and the two spend many a morning in Tod's
boat when the blue-fish are running. Old Fogarty does not mind it; he
rather likes it, and Mother Fogarty is always happier when the two are
together.
"If one of 'em gits overboard," she said one day to her husband,
"t'other kin save him."
"Save him! Well, I guess!" he replied. "Salt water skims off Archie
same's if he was a white bellied gull; can't drown him no more'n you
kin a can buoy."
The boy has never forgotten Scootsy's epithet, although he has never
spoken of it to his mother--no one knows her now by any other name. She
thought the episode had passed out of his mind, but she did not know
everything that lay in the boy's heart. He and Tod had discussed it
time and again, and had wondered over his own name and that of his
nameless father, as boys wonder, but they had come to no conclusion. No
one in the village could tell them, for no one ever knew. He had asked
the doctor, but had only received a curious answer.
"What difference does it make, son, when you have such a mother? You
have brought her only honor, and the world loves her the better because
of you. Let it rest until she tells you; it will only hurt her heart if
you ask her now."
The doctor had already planned out the boy's future; he was to be sent
to Philadelphia to study medicine when his schooling was over, and was
then to come into his office and later on succeed to his practice.
Captain Holt would have none of it.
"He don't want to saw off no legs," the bluff old man had blurted out
when he heard of it. "He wants to git ready to take a ship 'round Cape
Horn. If I had my way I'd send him some'er's where he could learn
navigation, and that's in the fo'c's'le of a merchantman. Give him a
year or two before the mast. I made that mistake with Bart--he loafed
round here too long and when he did git a chance he was too old."
Report had it that the captain was going to leave the lad his money,
and had therefore a right to speak; but no one knew. He was
closer-mouthed than ever, though not so gruff and ugly as he used to
be; Archie had softened him, they said, taking the place of that boy of
his he "druv out to die a good many years ago."
Jane's mind wavered. Neither profession suited her. She would sacrifice
anything she had for the boy provided they left him with her.
Philadelphia was miles away, and she would see him but seldom. The sea
she shrank from and dreaded. She had crossed it twice, and both times
with an aching heart. She feared, too, its treachery and cruelty. The
waves that curled and died on Barnegat beach--messengers from across
the sea--brought only tidings fraught with suffering.
Archie had no preferences--none yet. His future was too far off to
trouble him much. Nor did anything else worry him.
One warm September day Archie turned into Yardley gate, his so'wester
still on his head framing his handsome, rosy face; his loose jacket
open at the throat, the tarpaulins over his arm. He had been outside
the inlet with Tod--since daybreak, in fact--fishing for bass and
weakfish.
Jane had been waiting for him for hours. She held an open letter in her
hand, and her face was happier, Archie thought as he approached her,
than he had seen it for months.
There are times in all lives when suddenly and without warning, those
who have been growing quietly by our side impress their new development
upon us. We look at them in full assurance that the timid glance of the
child will be returned, and are astounded to find instead the calm gaze
of the man; or we stretch out our hand to help the faltering step and
touch a muscle that could lead a host. Such changes are like the
breaking of the dawn; so gradual has been their coming that the full
sun of maturity is up and away flooding the world with beauty and light
before we can recall the degrees by which it rose.
Jane realized this--and for the first time--as she looked at Archie
swinging through the gate, waving his hat as he strode toward her. She
saw that the sailor had begun to assert itself. He walked with an easy
swing, his broad shoulders--almost as broad as the captain's and twice
as hard--thrown back, his head up, his blue eyes and white teeth
laughing out of a face brown and ruddy with the sun and wind, his
throat and neck bare except for the silk handkerchief--one of
Tod's--wound loosely about it; a man really, strong and tough, with
hard sinews and capable thighs, back, and wrists--the kind of sailorman
that could wear tarpaulins or broadcloth at his pleasure and never lose
place in either station.
In this rude awakening Jane's heart-strings tightened. She became
suddenly conscious that the Cobden look had faded out of him; Lucy's
eyes and hair were his, and so was her rounded chin, with its dimple,
but there was nothing else about him that recalled either her own
father or any other Cobden she remembered. As he came near enough for
her to look into his eyes she began to wonder how he would impress
Lucy, what side of his nature would she love best--his courage and
strength or his tenderness?
The sound of his voice shouting her name recalled her to herself, and a
thrill of pride illumined her happy face like a burst of sunlight as he
tossed his tarpaulins on the grass and put his strong arms about her.
"Mother, dear! forty black bass, eleven weakfish, and half a barrel of
small fry--what do you think of that?"
"Splendid, Archie. Tod must be proud as a peacock. But look at this!"
and she held up the letter. "Who do you think it's from? Guess now,"
and she locked one arm through his, and the two strolled back to the
house.
"Guess now!" she repeated, holding the letter behind her back. The two
were often like lovers together.
"Let me see," he coaxed. "What kind of a stamp has it got?"
"Never you mind about the stamp."
"Uncle John--and it's about my going to Philadelphia."
Jane laughed. "Uncle John never saw it."
"Then it's from--Oh, you tell me, mother!"
"No--guess. Think of everybody you ever heard of. Those you have seen
and those you--"
"Oh, I know--Aunt Lucy."
"Yes, and she's coming home. Home, Archie, think of it, after all these
years!"
"Well, that's bully! She won't know me, will she? I never saw her, did
I?"
"Yes, when you were a little fellow." It was difficult to keep the
tremor out of her voice.
"Will she bring any dukes and high daddies with her?"
"No," laughed Jane, "only her little daughter Ellen, the sweetest
little girl you ever saw, she writes."
"How old is she?"
He had slipped his arm around his mother's waist now and the two were
"toeing it" up the path, he stopping every few feet to root a pebble
from its bed. The coming of the aunt was not a great event in his life.
"Just seven her last birthday."
"All right, she's big enough. We'll take her out and teach her to fish.
Hello, granny!" and the boy loosened his arm as he darted up the steps
toward Martha. "Got the finest mess of fish coming up here in a little
while you ever laid your eyes on," he shouted, catching the old nurse's
cap from her head and clapping it upon his own, roaring with laughter,
as he fled in the direction of the kitchen.
Jane joined in the merriment and, moving a chair from the hall, took
her seat on the porch to await the boy's return. She was too happy to
busy herself about the house or to think of any of her outside duties.
Doctor John would not be in until the afternoon, and so she would
occupy herself in thinking out plans to make her sister's home-coming a
joyous one.
As she looked down over the garden as far as the two big gate-posts
standing like grim sentinels beneath the wide branches of the hemlocks,
and saw how few changes had taken place in the old home since her girl
sister had left it, her heart thrilled with joy. Nothing really was
different; the same mass of tangled rose-vines climbed over the
porch--now quite to the top of the big roof, but still the same dear
old vines that Lucy had loved in her childhood; the same honeysuckle
hid the posts; the same box bordered the paths. The house was just as
she left it; her bedroom had really never been touched. What few
changes had taken place she would not miss. Meg would not run out to
meet her, and Rex was under a stone that the doctor had placed over his
grave; nor would Ann Gossaway peer out of her eyrie of a window and
follow her with her eyes as she drove by; her tongue was quiet at last,
and she and her old mother lay side by side in the graveyard. Doctor
John had exhausted his skill upon them both, and Martha, who had
forgiven her enemy, had sat by her bedside until the end, but nothing
had availed. Mrs. Cavendish was dead, of course, but she did not think
Lucy would care very much. She and Doctor John had nursed her for
months until the end came, and had then laid her away near the
apple-trees she was so fond of. But most of the faithful hearts who had
loved her were still beating, and all were ready with a hearty welcome.
Archie was the one thing new--new to Lucy. And yet she had no fear
either for him or for Lucy. When she saw him she would love him, and
when she had known him a week she would never be separated from him
again. The long absence could not have wiped out all remembrance of the
boy, nor would the new child crowd him from her heart.
When Doctor John sprang from his gig (the custom of his daily visits
had never been broken) she could hardly wait until he tied his
horse--poor Bess had long since given out--to tell him the joyful news.
He listened gravely, his face lighting up at her happiness. He was glad
for Jane and said so frankly, but the situation did not please him. He
at heart really dreaded the effect of Lucy's companionship on the woman
he loved. Although it had been years since he had seen her, he had
followed her career, especially since her marriage, with the greatest
interest and with the closest attention. He had never forgotten, nor
had he forgiven her long silence of two years after her marriage,
during which time she had never written Jane a line, nor had he ever
ceased to remember Jane's unhappiness over it. Jane had explained it
all to him on the ground that Lucy was offended because she had opposed
the marriage, but the doctor knew differently. Nor had he ceased to
remember the other letters which followed, and how true a story they
told of Lucy's daily life and ambitions. He could almost recall the
wording of one of them. "My husband is too ill," it had said, "to go
south with me, and so I will run down to Rome for a month or so, for I
really need the change." And a later one, written since his death, in
which she wrote of her winter in Paris and at Monte Carlo, and "how
good my mother-in-law is to take care of Ellen." This last letter to
her sister, just received--the one he then held in his hand, and which
gave Jane such joy, and which he was then reading as carefully as if it
had been a prescription--was to his analytical mind like all the rest
of its predecessors. One sentence sent a slight curl to his lips. "I
cannot stay away any longer from my precious sister," it said, "and am
coming back to the home I adore. I have no one to love me, now that my
dear husband is dead, but you and my darling Ellen."
The news of Lucy's expected return spread rapidly. Old Martha in her
joy was the mouthpiece. She gave the details out at church the Sunday
morning following the arrival of Lucy's letter. She was almost too ill
to venture out, but she made the effort, stopping the worshippers as
they came down the board walk; telling each one of the good news, the
tears streaming down her face. To the children and the younger
generation the announcement made but little difference; some of them
had never heard that Miss Jane had a sister, and others only that she
lived abroad. Their mothers knew, of course, and so did the older men,
and all were pleased over the news. Those of them who remembered the
happy, joyous girl with her merry eyes and ringing laugh were ready to
give her a hearty welcome; they felt complimented that the
distinguished lady--fifteen years' residence abroad and a rich husband
had gained her this position--should be willing to exchange the great
Paris for the simple life of Warehold. It touched their civic pride.
Great preparations were accordingly made. Billy Tatham's successor (his
son)--in his best open carriage--was drawn up at the station, and
Lucy's drive through the village with some of her numerous boxes
covered with foreign labels piled on the seat beside the young man--who
insisted on driving Lucy and the child himself--was more like the
arrival of a princess revisiting her estates than anything else. Martha
and Archie and Jane filled the carriage, with little Ellen on Archie's
lap, and more than one neighbor ran out of the house and waved to them
as they drove through the long village street and turned into the gate.
Archie threw his arms around Lucy when he saw her, and in his open,
impetuous way called her his "dear aunty," telling her how glad he was
that she had come to keep his good mother from getting so sad at times,
and adding that she and granny had not slept for days before she came,
so eager were they to see her. And Lucy kissed him in return, but with
a different throb at her heart. She felt a thrill when she saw how
handsome and strong he was, and for an instant there flashed through
her a feeling of pride that he was her own flesh and blood. Then there
had come a sudden revulsion, strangling every emotion but the one of
aversion--an aversion so overpowering that she turned suddenly and
catching Ellen in her arms kissed her with so lavish a display of
affection that those at the station who witnessed the episode had only
praise for the mother's devotion. Jane saw the kiss Lucy had given
Archie, and a cry of joy welled up in her heart, but she lost the
shadow that followed. My lady of Paris was too tactful for that.
Her old room was all ready. Jane, with Martha helping, had spent days
in its preparation. White dimity curtains starched stiff as a petticoat
had been hung at the windows; a new lace cover spread on the little
mahogany, brass-mounted dressing-table--her great grandmother's, in
fact--with its tiny swinging mirror and the two drawers (Martha
remembered when her bairn was just high enough to look into the
mirror), and pots of fresh flowers placed on the long table on which
her hooks used to rest. Two easy-chairs had also been brought up from
the sitting-room below, covered with new chintz and tied with blue
ribbons, and, more wonderful still, a candle-box had been covered with
cretonne and studded with brass tacks by the aid of Martha's stiff
fingers that her bairn might have a place in which to put her dainty
shoes and slippers.
When the trunks had been carried upstairs and Martha with her own hands
had opened my lady's gorgeous blue morocco dressing-case with its
bottles capped with gold and its brushes and fittings emblazoned with
cupids swinging in garlands of roses, the poor woman's astonishment
knew no bounds. The many scents and perfumes, the dainty boxes, big and
little, holding various powders--one a red paste which the old nurse
thought must be a salve, but about which, it is needless to say, she
was greatly mistaken--as well as a rabbit's foot smirched with rouge
(this she determined to wash at once), and a tiny box of court-plaster
cut in half moons. So many things, in fact, did the dear old nurse pull
from this wonderful bag that the modest little bureau could not hold
half of them, and the big table had to be brought up and swept of its
plants and belongings.
The various cosmetics and their uses were especial objects of comment.
"Did ye break one of the bottles, darlin'?" she asked, sniffing at a
peculiar perfume which seemed to permeate everything. "Some of 'em must
have smashed; it's awful strong everywhere--smell that"--and she held
out a bit of lace which she had taken from the case, a dressing-sacque
that Lucy had used on the steamer.
Lucy laughed. "And you don't like it? How funny, you dear old thing!
That was made specially for me; no one else in Paris has a drop."
And then the dresses! Particularly the one she was to wear the first
night--a dress flounced and furbelowed and of a creamy white (she still
wore mourning--delicate purples shading to white--the exact tone for a
husband six months dead). And the filmy dressing-gowns, and, more
wonderful than all, the puff of smoke she was to sleep in, held
together by a band of violet ribbon; to say nothing of the dainty
slippers bound about with swan's-down, and the marvellous hats, endless
silk stockings of mauve, white, and black, and long and short gloves.
In all her life Martha had never seen or heard of such things. The room
was filled with them and the two big closets crammed to overflowing,
and yet a dozen trunks were not yet unpacked, including the two small
boxes holding little Ellen's clothes.
The night was one long to be remembered. Everyone said the Manor House
had not been so gay for years. And they were all there--all her old
friends and many of Jane's new ones, who for years had looked on Lucy
as one too far above them in station to be spoken of except with bated
breath.
The intimates of the house came early. Doctor John first, with his
grave manner and low voice--so perfectly dressed and quiet: Lucy
thought she had never seen his equal in bearing and demeanor, nor one
so distinguished-looking--not in any circle in Europe; and Uncle
Ephraim, grown fat and gouty, leaning on a cane, but still hearty and
wholesome, and overjoyed to see her; and Pastor Dellenbaugh--his hair
was snow-white now--and his complacent and unruffled wife; and the
others, including Captain Holt, who came in late. It was almost a
repetition of that other home-coming years before, when they had
gathered to greet her, then a happy, joyous girl just out of school.
Lucy in their honor wore the dress that had so astonished Martha, and a
diamond-studded ornament which she took from her jewel-case and
fastened in her hair. The dress followed the wonderful curves of her
beautiful body in all its dimpled plumpness and the jewel set off to
perfection the fresh, oval face, laughing blue eyes--wet forget-me-nots
were the nearest their color--piquant, upturned nose and saucy mouth.
The color of the gown, too, harmonized both with the delicate pink of
her cheeks and with the tones of her rather too full throat showing
above the string of pearls that clasped it.
Jane wore a simple gray silk gown which followed closely the slender
and almost attenuated lines of her figure. This gown the doctor always
loved because, as he told her, it expressed so perfectly the simplicity
of her mind and life. Her only jewels were her deep, thoughtful eyes,
and these, to-night, were brilliant with joy over her sister's return.
As Jane moved about welcoming her guests the doctor, whose eyes rarely
left her face, became conscious that at no time in their lives had the
contrast between the two sisters been greater.
One, a butterfly of thirty-eight, living only in the glow of the
sunlight, radiant in plumage, alighting first on one flower and then on
another, but always on flowers, never on weeds; gathering such honey as
suited her taste; never resting where she might by any chance be
compelled to use her feet, but always poised in air; a woman, rich,
brilliant, and beautiful, and--here was the key-note of her
life--always, year in and year out, warmed by somebody's admiration,
whose she didn't much mind nor care, so that it gratified her pride and
relieved her of ennui. The other--and this one he loved with his whole
soul--a woman of forty-six, with a profound belief in her creeds;
quixotic sometimes in her standards, but always sincere; devoted to her
traditions, to her friends and to her duty; unselfish, tender-hearted,
and self-sacrificing; whose feet, though often tired and bleeding, had
always trodden the earth.
As Lucy greeted first one neighbor and then another, sometimes with one
hand, sometimes with two, offering her cheek now and then to some old
friend who had known her as a child, Jane's heart swelled with
something of the pride she used to have when Lucy was a girl. Her
beautiful sister, she saw, had lost none of the graciousness of her old
manner, nor of her tact in making her guests feel perfectly at home.
Jane noticed, too--and this was new to her--a certain well-bred
condescension, so delicately managed as never to be offensive--more the
air of a woman accustomed to many sorts and conditions of men and
women, and who chose to be agreeable as much to please herself as to
please her guests.
And yet with all this poise of manner and condescending graciousness,
there would now and then dart from Lucy's eyes a quick, searching
glance of inquiry, as she tried to read her guests' thoughts, followed
by a relieved look on her own face as she satisfied herself that no
whisper of her past had ever reached them. These glances Jane never
caught.
Doctor John was most cordial in his greeting and talked to her a long
time about some portions of Europe, particularly a certain cafe in
Dresden where he used to dine, and another in Paris frequented by the
beau monde. She answered him quite frankly, telling him of some of her
own experiences in both places, quite forgetting that she was giving
him glimpses of her own life while away--glimpses which she had kept
carefully concealed from Jane or Martha. She was conscious, however,
after he had left her of a certain uncomfortable feeling quivering
through her as his clear, steadfast eyes looked into hers, he listened,
and yet she thought she detected his brain working behind his steadfast
gaze. It was as if he was searching for some hidden disease. "He knows
something," she said to herself, when the doctor moved to let someone
else take his place. "How much I can't tell. I'll get it all out of
sister."
Blunt and bluff Captain Holt, white-whiskered and white-haired now, but
strong and hearty, gave her another and a different shock. What his
first words would be when they met and how she would avoid discussing
the subject uppermost in their minds if, in his rough way, he insisted
on talking about it, was one of the things that had worried her greatly
when she decided to come home, for there was never any doubt in her
mind as to his knowledge. But she misjudged the captain, as had a great
many others who never looked beneath the rugged bark covering his heart
of oak.
"I'm glad you've come at last," he said gravely, hardly touching her
hand in welcome, "you ought to have been here before. Jane's got a fine
lad of her own that she's bringin' up; when you know him ye'll like
him."
She did not look at him when she answered, but a certain feeling of
relief crept over her. She saw that the captain had buried the past and
intended never to revive it.
The stern look on his face only gave way when little Ellen came to him
of her own accord and climbing up into his lap said in her broken
English that she heard he was a great captain and that she wanted him
to tell her some stories like her good papa used to tell her. "He was
gray like you," she said, "and big," and she measured the size with her
plump little arms that showed out of her dainty French dress.
With Doctor John and Captain Holt out of the way Lucy's mind was at
rest. "Nobody else round about Yardley except these two knows," she
kept saying to herself with a bound of relief, "and for these I don't
care. The doctor is Jane's slave, and the captain is evidently wise
enough not to uncover skeletons locked up in his own closet."
These things settled in her mind, my lady gave herself up to whatever
enjoyment, compatible with her rapidly fading mourning, the simple
surroundings afforded, taking her cue from the conditions that
confronted her and ordering her conduct accordingly and along these
lines: Archie was her adopted nephew, the son of an old friend of
Jane's, and one whom she would love dearly, as, in fact, she would
anybody else whom Jane had brought up; she herself was a gracious widow
of large means recovering from a great sorrow; one who had given up the
delights of foreign courts to spend some time among her dear people who
had loved her as a child. Here for a time would she bring up and
educate her daughter.
"To be once more at home, and in dear old Warehold, too!" she had said
with upraised Madonna-like eyes and clasped hands to a group of women
who were hanging on every word that dropped from her pretty lips. "Do
you know what that is to me? There is hardly a day I have not longed
for it. Pray, forgive me if I do not come to see you as often as I
would, but I really hate to be an hour outside of the four walls of my
precious home."
CHAPTER XV
A PACKAGE OF LETTERS
Under the influence of the new arrival it was not at all strange that
many changes were wrought in the domestic life at Cobden Manor.
My lady was a sensuous creature, loving color and flowers and the
dainty appointments of life as much in the surroundings of her home as
in the adornment of her person, and it was not many weeks before the
old-fashioned sitting-room had been transformed into a French boudoir.
In this metamorphosis she had used but few pieces of new furniture--one
or two, perhaps, that she had picked up in the village, as well as some
bits of mahogany and brass that she loved--but had depended almost
entirely upon the rearrangement of the heirlooms of the family. With
the boudoir idea in view, she had pulled the old tables out from the
walls, drawn the big sofa up to the fire, spread a rug--one of her
own--before the mantel, hung new curtains at the windows and ruffled
their edges with lace, banked the sills with geraniums and begonias,
tilted a print or two beside the clock, scattered a few books and
magazines over the centre-table, on which she had placed a big,
generous lamp, under whose umbrella shade she could see to read as she
sat in her grandmother's rocking-chair--in fact, had, with that taste
inherent in some women--touched with a knowing hand the dead things
about her and made them live and mean something;--her talisman being an
unerring sense of what contributed to personal comfort. Heretofore
Doctor John had been compelled to drag a chair halfway across the room
in order to sit and chat with Jane, or had been obliged to share her
seat on the sofa, too far from the hearth on cold days to be
comfortable. Now he could either stand on the hearth-rug and talk to
her, seated in one corner of the pulled-up sofa, her work-basket on a
small table beside her, or he could drop into a big chair within reach
of her hand and still feel the glow of the fire. Jane smiled at the
changes and gave Lucy free rein to do as she pleased. Her own nature
had never required these nicer luxuries; she had been too busy, and in
these last years of her life too anxious, to think of them, and so the
room had been left as in the days of her father.
The effect of the rearrangement was not lost on the neighbors. They at
once noticed the sense of cosiness everywhere apparent, and in
consequence called twice as often, and it was not long before the
old-fashioned sitting-room became a stopping-place for everybody who
had half an hour to spare.
These attractions, with the aid of a generous hospitality, Lucy did her
best to maintain, partly because she loved excitement and partly
because she intended to win the good-will of her neighbors--those who
might be useful to her. The women succumbed at once. Not only were her
manners most gracious, but her jewels of various kinds, her gowns of
lace and frou-frou, her marvellous hats, her assortment of parasols,
her little personal belongings and niceties--gold scissors, thimbles,
even the violet ribbons that rippled through her transparent
underlaces--so different from those of any other woman they knew--were
a constant source of wonder and delight. To them she was a beautiful
Lady Bountiful who had fluttered down among them from heights above,
and whose departure, should it ever take place, would leave a gloom
behind that nothing could illumine.
To the men she was more reserved. Few of them ever got beyond a
handshake and a smile, and none of them ever reached the borders of
intimacy. Popularity in a country village could never, she knew, be
gained by a pretty woman without great discretion. She explained her
foresight to Jane by telling her that there was no man of her world in
Warehold but the doctor, and that she wouldn't think of setting her cap
for him as she would be gray-haired before he would have the courage to
propose. Then she kissed Jane in apology, and breaking out into a
rippling laugh that Martha heard upstairs, danced out of the room.
Little Ellen, too, had her innings; not only was she prettily dressed,
presenting the most joyous of pictures, as with golden curls flying
about her shoulders she flitted in and out of the rooms like a sprite,
but she was withal so polite in her greetings, dropping to everyone a
little French courtesy when she spoke, and all in her quaint, broken
dialect, that everybody fell in love with her at sight. None of the
other mothers had such a child, and few of them knew that such children
existed.
Jane watched the workings of Lucy's mind with many misgivings. She
loved her lightheartedness and the frank, open way with which she
greeted everybody who crossed their threshold. She loved, too, to see
her beautifully gowned and equipped and to hear the flattering comments
of the neighbors on her appearance and many charms; but every now and
then her ear caught an insincere note that sent a shiver through her.
She saw that the welcome Lucy gave them was not from her heart, but
from her lips; due to her training, no doubt, or perhaps to her
unhappiness, for Jane still mourned over the unhappy years of Lucy's
life--an unhappiness, had she known it, which had really ended with
Archie's safe adoption and Bart's death. Another cause of anxiety was
Lucy's restlessness. Every day she must have some new excitement--a
picnic with the young girls and young men, private theatricals in the
town hall, or excursions to Barnegat Beach, where they were building a
new summer hotel. Now and then she would pack her bag and slip off to
New York or Philadelphia for days at a time to stay with friends she
had met abroad, leaving Ellen with Jane and Martha. To the older sister
she seemed like some wild, untamable bird of brilliant plumage used to
long, soaring flights, perching first on one dizzy height and then
another, from which she could watch the world below.
The thing, however, which distressed Jane most was Lucy's attitude
towards Archie. She made every allowance for her first meeting at the
station, and knew that necessarily it must be more or less constrained,
but she had not expected the almost cold indifference with which she
had treated the boy ever since.
As the days went by and Lucy made no effort to attach Archie to her or
to interest herself either in his happiness or welfare, Jane became
more and more disturbed. She had prayed for this home-coming and had
set her heart on the home-building which was sure to follow, and now it
seemed farther off than ever. One thing troubled and puzzled her: while
Lucy was always kind to Archie indoors, kissing him with the others
when she came down to breakfast, she never, if she could help it,
allowed him to walk with her in the village, and she never on any
occasion took him with her when visiting the neighbors.
"Why not take Archie with you, dear?" Jane had said one morning to
Lucy, who had just announced her intention of spending a few days in
Philadelphia with Max Feilding's sister Sue, whom she had met abroad
when Max was studying in Dresden--Max was still a bachelor, and his
sister kept house for him. He was abroad at the time, but was expected
by every steamer.
"Archie isn't invited, you old goosie, and he would be as much out of
place in Max's house as Uncle Ephraim Tipple would be in Parliament."
"But they would be glad to see him if you took him. He is just the age
now when a boy gets impressions which last him through--"
"Yes, the gawky and stumble-over-things age! Piano-stools, rugs,
anything that comes in his way. And the impressions wouldn't do him a
bit of good. They might, in fact, do him harm," and she laughed merrily
and spread her fingers to the blaze. A laugh was often her best shield.
She had in her time dealt many a blow and then dodged behind a laugh to
prevent her opponent from striking back.
"But, Lucy, don't you want to do something to help him?" Jane asked in
a pleading tone.
"Yes, whatever I can, but he seems to me to be doing very well as he
is. Doctor John is devoted to him and the captain idolizes him. He's a
dear, sweet boy, of course, and does you credit, but he's not of my
world, Jane, dear, and I'd have to make him all over again before he
could fit into my atmosphere. Besides, he told me this morning that he
was going off for a week with some fisherman on the beach--some person
by the name of Fogarty, I think."
"Yes, a fine fellow; they have been friends from their boyhood." She
was not thinking of Fogarty, but of the tone of Lucy's voice when
speaking of her son.
"Yes--most estimable gentleman, no doubt, this Mr. Fogarty, but then,
dear, we don't invite that sort of people to dinner, do we?" and
another laugh rippled out.
"Yes, sometimes," answered Jane in all sincerity. "Not Fogarty, because
he would be uncomfortable if he came, but many of the others just as
humble. We really have very few of any other kind. I like them all.
Many of them love me dearly."
"Not at all strange; nobody can help loving you," and she patted Jane's
shoulder with her jewelled fingers.
"But you like them, too, don't you? You treat them as if you did."
Lucy lifted her fluted petticoat, rested her slippered foot on the
fender, glanced down at the embroidered silk stocking covering her
ankle, and said in a graver tone:
"I like all kinds of people--in their proper place. This is my home,
and it is wise to get along with one's neighbors. Besides, they all
have tongues in their heads like the rest of the human race, and it is
just as well to have them wag for you as against you."
Jane paused for a moment, her eyes watching the blazing logs, and asked
with almost a sigh:
"You don't mean, dear, that you never intend to help Archie, do you?"
"Never is a long word, Jane. Wait till he grows up and I see what he
makes of himself. He is now nothing but a great animal, well built as a
young bull, and about as awkward."
Jane's eyes flashed and her shoulders straightened. The knife had a
double edge to its blade.
"He is your own flesh and blood, Lucy," she said with a ring of
indignation in her voice. "You don't treat Ellen so; why should you
Archie?"
Lucy took her foot from the fender, dropped her skirts, and looked at
Jane curiously. From underneath the half-closed lids of her eyes there
flashed a quick glance of hate--a look that always came into Lucy's
eyes whenever Jane connected her name with Archie's.
"Let us understand each other, sister," she said icily. "I don't
dislike the boy. When he gets into trouble I'll help him in any way I
can, but please remember he's not my boy--he's yours. You took him from
me with that understanding and I have never asked him back. He can't
love two mothers. You say he has been your comfort all these years.
Why, then, do you want to unsettle his mind?"
Jane lifted her head and looked at Lucy with searching eyes--looked as
a man looks when someone he must not strike has flung a glove in his
face.
"Do you really love anything, Lucy?" she asked in a lower voice, her
eyes still fastened on her sister's.
"Yes, Ellen and you."
"Did you love her father?" she continued in the same direct tone.
"Y-e-s, a little-- He was the dearest old man in the world and did his
best to please me; and then he was never very well. But why talk about
him, dear?"
"And you never gave him anything in return for all his devotion?" Jane
continued in the same cross-examining voice and with the same incisive
tone.
"Yes, my companionship--whenever I could. About what you give Doctor
John," and she looked at Jane with a sly inquiry as she laughed gently
to herself.
Jane bit her lips and her face flushed scarlet. The cowardly thrust had
not wounded her own heart. It had only uncovered the love of the man
who lay enshrined in its depths. A sudden sense of the injustice done
him arose in her mind and then her own helplessness in it all.
"I would give him everything I have, if I could," she answered simply,
all her insistency gone, the tears starting to her eyes.
Lucy threw her arms about her sister and held her cheek to her own.
"Dear, I was only in fun; please forgive me. Everything is so solemn to
you. Now kiss me and tell me you love me."
That night when Captain Holt came in to play with the little "Pond
Lily," as he called Ellen, Jane told him of her conversation with Lucy,
not as a reflection on her sister, but because she thought he ought to
know how she felt toward Archie. The kiss had wiped out the tears, but
the repudiation of Archie still rankled in her breast.
The captain listened patiently to the end. Then he said with a pause
between each word:
"She's sailin' without her port and starboard lights, Miss Jane. One o'
these nights with the tide settin' she'll run up ag'in somethin' solid
in a fog, and then--God help her! If Bart had lived he might have come
home and done the decent thing, and then we could git her into port
some'er's for repairs, but that's over now. She better keep her lights
trimmed. Tell her so for me."
What this "decent thing" was he never said--perhaps he had but a vague
idea himself. Bart had injured Lucy and should have made reparation,
but in what way except by marriage--he, perhaps, never formulated in
his own mind.
Jane winced under the captain's outburst, but she held her peace. She
knew how outspoken he was and how unsparing of those who differed from
him and she laid part of his denunciation to this cause.
Some weeks after this conversation the captain started for Yardley to
see Jane on a matter of business, and incidentally to have a romp with
the Pond Lily. It was astonishing how devoted the old sea-dog was to
the child, and how she loved him in return. "My big bear," she used to
call him, tugging away at his gray whiskers. On his way he stopped at
the post-office for his mail. It was mid-winter and the roads were
partly blocked with snow, making walking difficult except for sturdy
souls like Captain Nat.
"Here, Cap'n Holt, yer jest the man I been a-waitin' for," cried Miss
Tucher, the postmistress, from behind the sliding window. "If you ain't
goin' up to the Cobdens, ye kin, can't ye? Here's a lot o' letters jest
come that I know they're expectin'. Miss Lucy's" (many of the village
people still called her Miss Lucy, not being able to pronounce her dead
husband's name) "come in yesterday and seems as if she couldn't wait.
This storm made everything late and the mail got in after she left.
There ain't nobody comin' out to-day and here's a pile of 'em--furrin'
most of 'em. I'd take 'em myself if the snow warn't so deep. Don't
mind, do ye? I'd hate to have her disapp'inted, for she's jes' 's sweet
as they make 'em."
"Don't mind it a mite, Susan Tucher," cried the captain. "Goin' there,
anyhow. Got some business with Miss Jane. Lord, what a wad o' them!"
"That ain't half what she gits sometimes," replied the postmistress,
"and most of 'em has seals and crests stamped on 'em. Some o' them
furrin lords, I guess, she met over there."
These letters the captain held in his hand when he pushed open the door
of the sitting-room and stood before the inmates in his rough
pea-jacket, his ruddy face crimson with the cold, his half-moon
whiskers all the whiter by contrast.
"Good-mornin' to the hull o' ye!" he shouted. "Cold as blue blazes
outside, I tell ye, but ye look snug enough in here. Hello, little Pond
Lily! why ain't you out on your sled? Put two more roses in your cheeks
if there was room for 'em. There, ma'am," and he nodded to Lucy and
handed her the letters, "that's 'bout all the mail that come this
mornin'. There warn't nothin' else much in the bag. Susan Tucher asked
me to bring 'em up to you count of the weather and 'count o' your being
in such an all-fired hurry to read 'em."
Little Ellen was in his arms before this speech was finished and
everybody else on their feet shaking hands with the old salt, except
poor, deaf old Martha, who called out, "Good-mornin', Captain Holt," in
a strong, clear voice, and in rather a positive way, but who kept her
seat by the fire and continued her knitting; and complacent Mrs.
Dellenbaugh, the pastor's wife, who, by reason of her position, never
got up for anybody.
The captain advanced to the fire, Ellen still in his arms, shook hands
with Mrs. Dellenbaugh and extended three fingers, rough as lobster's
claws and as red, to the old nurse. Of late years he never met Martha
without feeling that he owed her an apology for the way he had treated
her the day she begged him to send Bart away. So he always tried to
make it up to her, although he had never told her why.
"Hope you're better, Martha? Heard ye was under the weather; was that
so? Ye look spry 'nough now," he shouted in his best quarter-deck voice.
"Yes, but it warn't much. Doctor John fixed me up," Martha replied
coldly. She had no positive animosity toward the captain--not since he
had shown some interest in Archie--but she could never make a friend of
him.
During this greeting Lucy, who had regained her chair, sat with the
letters unopened in her lap. None of the eagerness Miss Tucher had
indicated was apparent. She seemed more intent on arranging the folds
of her morning-gown accentuating the graceful outlines of her
well-rounded figure. She had glanced through the package hastily, and
had found the one she wanted and knew that it was there warm under her
touch--the others did not interest her.
"What a big mail, dear," remarked Jane, drawing up a chair. "Aren't you
going to open it?" The captain had found a seat by the window and the
child was telling him everything she had done since she last saw him.
"Oh, yes, in a minute," replied Lucy. "There's plenty of time." With
this she picked up the bunch of letters, ran her eye through the
collection, and then, with the greatest deliberation, broke one seal
after another, tossing the contents on the table. Some she merely
glanced at, searching for the signatures and ignoring the contents;
others she read through to the end. One was from Dresden, from a
student she had known there the year before. This was sealed with a
wafer and bore the address of the cafe where he took his meals. Another
was stamped with a crest and emitted a slight perfume; a third was
enlivened by a monogram in gold and began: "Ma chere amie," in a bold
round hand. The one under her hand she did not open, but slipped into
the pocket of her dress. The others she tore into bits and threw upon
the blazing logs.
"I guess if them fellers knew how short a time it would take ye to
heave their cargo overboard," blurted out the captain, "they'd thought
a spell 'fore they mailed their manifests."
Lucy laughed good-naturedly and Jane watched the blaze roar up the wide
chimney. The captain settled back in his chair and was about to
continue his "sea yarn," as he called it, to little Ellen, when he
suddenly loosened the child from his arms, and leaning forward in his
seat toward where Jane sat, broke out with:
"God bless me! I believe I'm wool-gathering. I clean forgot what I come
for. It is you, Miss Jane, I come to see, not this little curly head
that'll git me ashore yet with her cunnin' ways. They're goin' to build
a new life-saving station down Barnegat way. That Dutch brig that come
ashore last fall in that so'easter and all them men drownded could have
been saved if we'd had somethin' to help 'em with. We did all we could,
but that house of Refuge ain't half rigged and most o' the time ye got
to break the door open to git at what there is if ye're in a hurry,
which you allus is. They ought to have a station with everything 'bout
as it ought to be and a crew on hand all the time; then, when somethin'
comes ashore you're right there on top of it. That one down to Squam is
just what's wanted here."
"Will it be near the new summer hotel?" asked Lucy carelessly, just as
a matter of information, and without raising her eyes from the rings on
her beautiful hands.
"'Bout half a mile from the front porch, ma'am"--he preferred calling
her so--"from what I hear. 'Tain't located exactly yet, but some'er's
along there. I was down with the Gov'ment agent yesterday."
"Who will take charge of it, captain?" inquired Jane, reaching over her
basket in search of her scissors.
"Well, that's what I come up for. They're talkin' about me," and the
captain put his hands behind Ellen's head and cracked his big knuckles
close to her ear, the child laughing with delight as she listened.
The announcement was received with some surprise. Jane, seeing Martha's
inquiring face, as if she wanted to hear, repeated the captain's words
to her in a loud voice. Martha laid down her knitting and looked at the
captain over her spectacles.
"Why, would you take it, captain?" Jane asked in some astonishment,
turning to him again.
"Don't know but I would. Ain't no better job for a man than savin'
lives. I've helped kill a good many; 'bout time now I come 'bout on
another tack. I'm doin' nothin'--haven't been for years. If I could get
the right kind of a crew 'round me--men I could depend on--I think I
could make it go."
"If you couldn't nobody could, captain," said Jane in a positive way.
"Have you picked out your crew?"
"Yes, three or four of 'em. Isaac Polhemus and Tom Morgan--Tom sailed
with me on my last voyage--and maybe Tod."
"Archie's Tod?" asked Jane, replacing her scissors and searching for a
spool of cotton.
"Archie's Tod," repeated the captain, nodding his head, his big hand
stroking Ellen's flossy curls. "That's what brought me up. I want Tod,
and he won't go without Archie. Will ye give him to me?"
"My Archie!" cried Jane, dropping her work and staring straight at the
captain.
"Your Archie, Miss Jane, if that's the way you put it," and he stole a
look at Lucy. She was conscious of his glance, but she did not return
it; she merely continued listening as she twirled one of the rings on
her finger.
"Well, but, captain, isn't it very dangerous work? Aren't the men often
drowned?" protested Jane.
"Anything's dangerous 'bout salt water that's worth the doin'. I've
stuck to the pumps seventy-two hours at a time, but I'm here to tell
the tale."
"Have you talked to Archie?"
"No, but Tod has. They've fixed it up betwixt 'em. The boy's dead set
to go."
"Well, but isn't he too young?"
"Young or old, he's tough as a marline-spike--A1, and copper fastened
throughout. There ain't a better boatman on the beach. Been that way
ever since he was a boy. Won't do him a bit of harm to lead that kind
of life for a year or two. If he was mine it wouldn't take me a minute
to tell what I'd do."
Jane leaned back in her chair, her eyes on the crackling logs, and
began patting the carpet with her foot. Lucy became engrossed in a book
that lay on the table beside her. She didn't intend to take any part in
the discussion. If Jane wanted Archie to serve as a common sailor that
was Jane's business. Then again, it was, perhaps, just as well for a
number of reasons to have him under the captain's care. He might become
so fond of the sea as to want to follow it all his life.
"What do you think about it, Lucy?" asked Jane.
"Oh, I don't know anything about it. I don't really. I've lived so long
away from here I don't know what the young men are doing for a living.
He's always been fond of the sea, has he not, Captain Holt?"
"Allus," said the captain doggedly; "it's in his blood." Her answer
nettled him. "You ain't got no objections, have you, ma'am?" he asked,
looking straight at Lucy.
Lucy's color came and went. His tone offended her, especially before
Mrs. Dellenbaugh, who, although she spoke but seldom in public had a
tongue of her own when she chose to use it. She was not accustomed to
being spoken to in so brusque a way. She understood perfectly well the
captain's covert meaning, but she did not intend either to let him see
it or to lose her temper.
"Oh, not the slightest," she answered with a light laugh. "I have no
doubt that it will be the making of him to be with you. Poor boy, he
certainly needs a father's care."
The captain winced in turn under the retort and his eyes flashed, but
he made no reply.
Little Ellen had slipped out of the captain's lap during the colloquy.
She had noticed the change in her friend's tone, and, with a child's
intuition, had seen that the harmony was in danger of being broken. She
stood by the captain's knee, not knowing whether to climb back again or
to resume her seat by the window. Lucy, noticing the child's
discomfort, called to her:
"Come here, Ellen, you will tire the captain."
The child crossed the room and stood by her mother while Lucy tried to
rearrange the glossy curls, tangled by too close contact with the
captain's broad shoulder. In the attempt Ellen lost her balance and
fell into her mother's lap.
"Oh, Ellen!" said her mother coldly; "stand up, dear. You are so
careless. See how you have mussed my gown. Now go over to the window
and play with your dolls."
The captain noted the incident and heard Lucy's reproof, but he made no
protest. Neither did he contradict the mother's statement that the
little girl had tired him. His mind was occupied with other things--the
tone of the mother's voice for one, and the shade of sadness that
passed over the child's face for another. From that moment he took a
positive dislike to her.
"Well, think it over, Miss Jane," he said, rising from his seat and
reaching for his hat. "Plenty of time 'bout Archie. Life-savin' house
won't be finished for the next two or three months; don't expect to git
into it till June. Wonder, little Pond Lily, if the weather's goin' to
be any warmer?" He slipped his hand under the child's chin and leaning
over her head peered out of the window. "Don't look like it, does it,
little one? Looks as if the snow would hold on. Hello! here comes the
doctor. I'll wait a bit--good for sore eyes to see him, and I don't git
a chance every day. Ask him 'bout Archie, Miss Jane. He'll tell ye
whether the lad's too young."
There came a stamping of feet on the porch outside as Doctor John shook
the snow from his boots, and the next instant he stepped into the room
bringing with him all the freshness and sunshine of the outside world.
"Good-morning, good people," he cried, "every one of you! How very snug
and cosey you look here! Ah, captain, where have you been keeping
yourself? And Mrs. Dellenbaugh! This is indeed a pleasure. I have just
passed the dear doctor, and he is looking as young as he did ten years
ago. And my Lady Lucy! Down so early! Well, Mistress Martha, up again I
see; I told you you'd be all right in a day or two."
This running fire of greetings was made with a pause before each inmate
of the room--a hearty hand-shake for the bluff captain, the pressing of
Mrs. Dellenbaugh's limp fingers, a low bow to Lucy, and a pat on
Martha's plump shoulder.
Jane came last, as she always did. She had risen to greet him and was
now unwinding the white silk handkerchief wrapped about his throat and
helping him off with his fur tippet and gloves.
"Thank you, Jane. No, let me take it; it's rather wet," he added as he
started to lay the heavy overcoat over a chair. "Wait a minute. I've
some violets for you if they are not crushed in my pocket. They came
last night," and he handed her a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper.
This done, he took his customary place on the rug with his back to the
blazing logs and began unbuttoning his trim frock-coat, bringing to
view a double-breasted, cream-white waistcoat--he still dressed as a
man of thirty, and always in the fashion--as well as a fluffy scarf
which Jane had made for him with her own fingers.
"And what have I interrupted?" he asked, looking over the room. "One of
your sea yarns, captain?"--here he reached over and patted the child's
head, who had crept back to the captain's arms--"or some of my lady's
news from Paris? You tell me, Jane," he added, with a smile, opening
his thin, white, almost transparent fingers and holding them behind his
back to the fire, a favorite attitude.
"Ask the captain, John." She had regained her seat and was reaching out
for her work-basket, the violets now pinned in her bosom--her eyes had
long since thanked him.
"No, do YOU tell me," he insisted, moving aside the table with her
sewing materials and placing it nearer her chair.
"Well, but it's the captain who should speak," Jane replied, laughing,
as she looked up into his face, her eyes filled with his presence. "He
has startled us all with the most wonderful proposition. The Government
is going to build a life-saving station at Barnegat beach, and they
have offered him the position of keeper, and he says he will take it if
I will let Archie go with him as one of his crew."
Doctor John's face instantly assumed a graver look. These forked roads
confronting the career of a young life were important and not to be
lightly dismissed.
"Well, what did you tell him?" he asked, looking down at Jane in the
effort to read her thoughts.
"We are waiting for you to decide, John." The tone was the same she
would have used had the doctor been her own husband and the boy their
child.
Doctor John communed with himself for an instant. "Well, let us take a
vote," he replied with an air as if each and every one in the room was
interested in the decision. "We'll begin with Mistress Martha, and then
Mrs. Dellenbaugh, and then you, Jane, and last our lady from over the
sea. The captain has already sold his vote to his affections, and so
must be counted out."
"Yes, but don't count me in, please," exclaimed Lucy with a merry laugh
as she arose from her seat. "I don't know a thing about it. I've just
told the dear captain so. I'm going upstairs this very moment to write
some letters. Bonjour, Monsieur le Docteur; bonjour, Monsieur le
Capitaine and Madame Dellenbaugh," and with a wave of her hand and a
little dip of her head to each of the guests, she courtesied out of the
room.
When the door was closed behind her she stopped in the hall, threw a
glance at her face in the old-fashioned mirror, satisfied herself of
her skill in preserving its beautiful rabbit's-foot bloom and
freshness, gave her blonde hair one or two pats to keep it in place,
rearranged the film of white lace about her shapely throat, and
gathering up the mass of ruffled skirts that hid her pretty feet,
slowly ascended the staircase.
Once inside her room and while the vote was being taken downstairs that
decided Archie's fate she locked her door, dropped into a chair by the
fire, took the unopened letter from her pocket, and broke the seal.
"Don't scold, little woman," it read. "I would have written before, but
I've been awfully busy getting my place in order. It's all arranged
now, however, for the summer. The hotel will be opened in June, and I
have the best rooms in the house, the three on the corner overlooking
the sea. Sue says she will, perhaps, stay part of the summer with me.
Try and come up next week for the night. If not I'll bring Sue with me
and come to you for the day.
"Your own Max."
For some minutes she sat gazing into the fire, the letter in her hand.
"It's about time, Mr. Max Feilding," she said at last with a sigh of
relief as she rose from her seat and tucked the letter into her desk.
"You've had string enough, my fine fellow; now it's my turn. If I had
known you would have stayed behind in Paris all these months and kept
me waiting here I'd have seen you safe aboard the steamer. The hotel
opens in June, does it? Well, I can just about stand it here until
then; after that I'd go mad. This place bores me to death."
CHAPTER XVI
THE BEGINNING OF THE EBB
Spring has come and gone. The lilacs and crocuses, the tulips and
buttercups, have bloomed and faded; the lawn has had its sprinkling of
dandelions, and the duff of their blossoms has drifted past the
hemlocks and over the tree-tops. The grass has had its first cutting;
the roses have burst their buds and hang in clusters over the arbors;
warm winds blow in from the sea laden with perfumes from beach and
salt-marsh; the skies are steely blue and the cloud puffs drift lazily.
It is summer-time--the season of joy and gladness, the season of
out-of-doors.
All the windows at Yardley are open; the porch has donned an
awning--its first--colored white and green, shading big rocking-chairs
and straw tables resting on Turkish rugs. Lucy had wondered why in all
the years that Jane had lived alone at Yardley she had never once
thought of the possibilities of this porch. Jane had agreed with her,
and so, under Lucy's direction, the awnings had been put up and the
other comforts inaugurated. Beneath its shade Lucy sits and reads or
embroiders or answers her constantly increasing correspondence.
The porch serves too as a reception-room, the vines being thick and the
occupants completely hidden from view. Here Lucy often spreads a small
table, especially when Max Feilding drives over in his London drag from
Beach Haven on Barnegat beach. On these occasions, if the weather is
warm, she refreshes him with delicate sandwiches and some of her late
father's rare Scotch whiskey (shelved in the cellar for thirty years)
or with the more common brands of cognac served in the old family
decanters.
Of late Max had become a constant visitor. His own ancestors had made
honorable records in the preceding century, and were friends of the
earlier Cobdens during the Revolution. This, together with the fact
that he had visited Yardley when Lucy was a girl--on his first return
from Paris, in fact--and that the acquaintance had been kept up while
he was a student abroad, was reason enough for his coming with such
frequency.
His drag, moreover, as it whirled into Yardley's gate, gave a certain
air of eclat to the Manor House that it had not known since the days of
the old colonel. Nothing was lacking that money and taste could
furnish. The grays were high-steppers and smooth as satin, the polished
chains rattled and clanked about the pole; the body was red and the
wheels yellow, the lap-robe blue, with a monogram; and the diminutive
boy studded with silver buttons bearing the crest of the Feilding
family was as smart as the tailor could make him.
And the owner himself, in his whity-brown driving-coat with big pearl
buttons, yellow gloves, and gray hat, looked every inch the person to
hold the ribbons. Altogether it was a most fashionable equipage, owned
and driven by a most fashionable man.
As for the older residents of Warehold, they had only words of praise
for the turnout. Uncle Ephraim declared that it was a "Jim Dandy,"
which not only showed his taste, but which also proved how much broader
that good-natured cynic had become in later years. Billy Tatham gazed
at it with staring eyes as it trundled down the highway and turned into
the gate, and at once determined to paint two of his hacks bright
yellow and give each driver a lap-robe with the letter "T" worked in
high relief.
The inmates of Yardley were not quite so enthusiastic. Martha was glad
that her bairn was having such a good time, and she would often stand
on the porch with little Ellen's hand in hers and wave to Max and Lucy
as they dashed down the garden road and out through the gate, the tiger
behind; but Jane, with that quick instinct which some women possess,
recognized something in Feilding's manner which she could not put into
words, and so held her peace. She had nothing against Max, but she did
not like him. Although he was most considerate of her feelings and
always deferred to her, she felt that any opposition on her part to
their outings would have made no difference to either one of them. He
asked her permission, of course, and she recognized the courtesy, but
nothing that he ever did or said overcame her dislike of him.
Doctor John's personal attitude and bearing toward Feilding was an
enigma not only to Jane, but to others who saw it. He invariably
greeted him, whenever they met, with marked, almost impressive
cordiality, but it never passed a certain limit of reserve; a certain
dignity of manner which Max had recognized the first day he shook hands
with him. It recalled to Feilding some of his earlier days, when he was
a student in Paris. There had been a supper in Max's room that ended at
daylight--no worse in its features than dozens of others in the
Quartier--to which an intimate friend of the doctor's had been invited,
and upon which, as Max heard afterward, the doctor had commented rather
severely.
Max realized, therefore, but too well that the distinguished
physician--known now over half the State--understood him, and his
habits, and his kind as thoroughly as he did his own ease of
instruments. He realized, too, that there was nothing about his present
appearance or surroundings or daily life that could lead so thoughtful
a man of the world as Dr. John Cavendish, of Barnegat, to conclude that
he had changed in any way for the better.
And yet this young gentleman could never have been accused of burning
his candle at both ends. He had no flagrant vices really--none whose
posters were pasted on the victim's face. Neither cards nor any other
form of play interested him, nor did the wine tempt him when it was
red--or of any other color, for that matter, nor did he haunt the
dressing-rooms of chorus girls and favorites of the hour. His innate
refinement and good taste prevented any such uses of his spare time.
His weakness--for it could hardly be called a vice--was narrowed down
to one infirmity, and one only: this was his inability to be happy
without the exclusive society of some one woman.
Who the woman might be depended very largely on whom he might be thrown
with. In the first ten years of his majority--his days of poverty when
a student--it had been some girl in exile, like himself. During the
last ten years--since his father's death and his inheritance--it had
been a loose end picked out of the great floating drift--that social
flotsam and jetsam which eddies in and out of the casinos of Nice and
Monte Carlo, flows into Aix and Trouville in summer and back again to
Rome and Cairo in winter--a discontented wife perhaps; or an unmarried
woman of thirty-five or forty, with means enough to live where she
pleased; or it might be some self-exiled Russian countess or
English-woman of quality who had a month off, and who meant to make the
most of it. All most respectable people, of course, without a breath of
scandal attaching to their names--Max was too careful for that--and yet
each and every one on the lookout for precisely the type of man that
Max represented: one never happy or even contented when outside the
radius of a waving fan or away from the flutter of a silken skirt.
It was in one of these resorts of the idle, a couple of years before,
while Lucy's husband and little Ellen were home in Geneva, that Max had
met her, and where he had renewed the acquaintance of their
childhood--an acquaintance which soon ripened into the closest
friendship.
Hence his London drag and appointments; hence the yacht and a
four-in-hand--then a great novelty--all of which he had promised her
should she decide to join him at home. Hence, too, his luxuriously
fitted-up bachelor quarters in Philadelphia, and his own comfortable
apartments in his late father's house, where his sister Sue lived; and
hence, too, his cosey rooms in the best corner of the Beach Haven
hotel, with a view overlooking Barnegat Light and the sea.
None of these things indicated in the smallest degree that this noble
gentleman contemplated finally settling down in a mansion commensurate
with his large means, where he and the pretty widow could enjoy their
married life together; nothing was further from his mind--nothing could
be--he loved his freedom too much. What he wanted, and what he intended
to have, was her undivided companionship--at least for the summer; a
companionship without any of the uncomfortable complications which
would have arisen had he selected an unmarried woman or the wife of
some friend to share his leisure and wealth.
The woman he picked out for the coming season suited him exactly. She
was blonde, with eyes, mouth, teeth, and figure to his liking (he had
become critical in forty odd years--twenty passed as an expert);
dressed in perfect taste, and wore her clothes to perfection; had a
Continental training that made her mistress of every situation,
receiving with equal ease and graciousness anybody, from a postman to a
prince, sending them away charmed and delighted; possessed money enough
of her own not to be too much of a drag upon him; and--best of all (and
this was most important to the heir of Walnut Hill)--had the best blood
of the State circling in her veins. Whether this intimacy might drift
into something closer, compelling him to take a reef in his sails,
never troubled him. It was not the first time that he had steered his
craft between the Scylla of matrimony and the Charybdis of scandal, and
he had not the slightest doubt of his being able to do it again.
As for Lucy, she had many plans in view. One was to get all the fun
possible out of the situation; another was to provide for her future.
How this was to be accomplished she had not yet determined. Her plans
were laid, but some of them she knew from past experience might go
astray. On one point she had made up her mind--not to be in a hurry. In
furtherance of these schemes she had for some days--some months, in
fact--been making preparations for an important move. She knew that its
bare announcement would come as a surprise to Jane and Martha and,
perhaps, as a shock, but that did not shake her purpose. She
furthermore expected more or less opposition when they fully grasped
her meaning. This she intended to overcome. Neither Jane nor Martha,
she said to herself, could be angry with her for long, and a few kisses
and an additional flow of good-humor would soon set them to laughing
again.
To guard against the possibility of a too prolonged interview with
Jane, ending, perhaps, in a disagreeable scene--one beyond her
control--she had selected a sunny summer morning for the stage setting
of her little comedy and an hour when Feilding was expected to call for
her in his drag. She and Max were to make a joint inspection that day
of his new apartment at Beach Haven, into which he had just moved, as
well as the stable containing the three extra vehicles and equine
impedimenta, which were to add to their combined comfort and enjoyment.
Lucy had been walking in the garden looking at the rose-beds, her arm
about her sister's slender waist, her ears open to the sound of every
passing vehicle--Max was expected at any moment--when she began her
lines.
"You won't mind, Jane, dear, will you, if I get together a few things
and move over to Beach Haven for a while?" she remarked simply, just as
she might have done had she asked permission to go upstairs to take a
nap. "I think we should all encourage a new enterprise like the hotel,
especially old families like ours. And then the sea air always does me
so much good. Nothing like Trouville air, my dear husband used to tell
me, when I came back in the autumn. You don't mind, do you?"
"For how long, Lucy?" asked Jane, with a tone of disappointment in her
voice, as she placed her foot on the top step of the porch.
"Oh, I can't tell. Depends very much on how I like it." As she spoke
she drew up an easy-chair for Jane and settled herself in another. Then
she added carelessly: "Oh, perhaps a month--perhaps two."
"Two months!" exclaimed Jane in astonishment, dropping into her seat.
"Why, what do you want to leave Yardley for? O Lucy, don't--please
don't go!"
"But you can come over, and I can come here," rejoined Lucy in a
coaxing tone.
"Yes; but I don't want to come over. I want you at home. And it's so
lovely here. I have never seen the garden look so beautiful; and you
have your own room, and this little porch is so cosey. The hotel is a
new building, and the doctor says a very damp one, with everything
freshly plastered. He won't let any of his patients go there for some
weeks, he tells me. Why should you want to go? I really couldn't think
of it, dear. I'd miss you dreadfully."
"You dear old sister," answered Lucy, laying her parasol on the small
table beside her, "you are so old-fashioned. Habit, if nothing else,
would make me go. I have hardly passed a summer in Paris or Geneva
since I left you; and you know how delightful my visits to Biarritz
used to be years ago. Since my marriage I have never stayed in any one
place so long as this. I must have the sea air."
"But the salt water is right here, Lucy, within a short walk of our
gate, and the air is the same." Jane's face wore a troubled look, and
there was an anxious, almost frightened tone in her voice.
"No, it is not exactly the same," Lucy answered positively, as if she
had made a life-long study of climate; "and if it were, the life is
very different. I love Warehold, of course; but you must admit that it
is half-asleep all the time. The hotel will be some change; there will
be new people and something to see from the piazzas. And I need it,
dear. I get tired of one thing all the time--I always have."
"But you will be just as lonely there." Jane in her astonishment was
like a blind man feeling about for a protecting wall.
"No; Max and his sister will be at Beach Haven, and lots of others I
know. No, I won't be lonely," and an amused expression twinkled in her
eyes.
Jane sat quite still. Some of Captain Holt's blunt, outspoken
criticisms floated through her brain.
"Have you any reason for wanting to leave here?" she asked, raising her
eyes and looking straight at Lucy.
"No, certainly not. How foolish, dear, to ask me! I'm never so happy as
when I am with you."
"Well, why then should you want to give up your home and all the
comforts you need--your flowers, garden, and everything you love, and
this porch, which you have just made so charming, to go to a damp,
half-completed hotel, without a shrub about it--only a stretch of
desolate sand with the tide going in and out?" There was a tone of
suspicion in Jane's voice that Lucy had never heard from her sister's
lips--never, in all her life.
"Oh, because I love the tides, if nothing else," she answered with a
sentimental note in her voice. "Every six hours they bring me a new
message. I could spend whole mornings watching the tides come and go.
During my long exile you don't know how I dreamed every night of the
dear tides of Barnegat. If you had been away from all you love as many
years as I have, you would understand how I could revel in the sound of
the old breakers."
For some moments Jane did not answer. She knew from the tones of Lucy's
voice and from the way she spoke that she did not mean it. She had
heard her talk that way to some of the villagers when she wanted to
impress them, but she had never spoken in the same way to her.
"You have some other reason, Lucy. Is it Max?" she asked in a strained
tone.
Lucy colored. She had not given her sister credit for so keen an
insight into the situation. Jane's mind was evidently working in a new
direction. She determined to face the suspicion squarely; the truth
under some conditions is better than a lie.
"Yes," she replied, with an assumed humility and with a tone as if she
had been detected in a fault and wanted to make a clean breast of it.
"Yes--now that you have guessed it--it IS Max."
"Don't you think it would be better to see him here instead of at the
hotel?" exclaimed Jane, her eyes still boring into Lucy's.
"Perhaps"--the answer came in a helpless way--"but that won't do much
good. I want to keep my promise to him if I can."
"What was your promise?" Jane's eyes lost their searching look for an
instant, but the tone of suspicion still vibrated.
Lucy hesitated and began playing with the trimming on her dress.
"Well, to tell you the truth, dear, a few days ago in a burst of
generosity I got myself into something of a scrape. Max wants his
sister Sue to spend the summer with him, and I very foolishly promised
to chaperon her. She is delighted over the prospect, for she must have
somebody, and I haven't the heart to disappoint her. Max has been so
kind to me that I hate now to tell him I can't go. That's all, dear. I
don't like to speak of obligations of this sort, and so at first I only
told you half the truth."
"You should always keep your promise, dear," Jane answered thoughtfully
and with a certain relieved tone. (Sue was nearly thirty, but that did
not occur to Jane.) "But this time I wish you had not promised. I am
sorry, too, for little Ellen. She will miss her little garden and
everything she loves here; and then again, Archie will miss her, and so
will Captain Holt and Martha. You know as well as I do that a hotel is
no place for a child."
"I am glad to hear you say so. That's why I shall not take her with
me." As she spoke she shot an inquiring glance from the corner of her
eyes at the anxious face of her sister. These last lines just before
the curtain fell were the ones she had dreaded most.
Jane half rose from her seat. Her deep eyes were wide open, gazing in
astonishment at Lucy. For an instant she felt as if her heart had
stopped beating.
"And you--you--are not going to take Ellen with you!" she gasped.
"No, of course not." She saw her sister's agitation, but she did not
intend to notice it. Besides, her expectant ear had caught the sound of
Max's drag as it whirled through the gate. "I always left her with her
grandmother when she was much younger than she is now. She is very
happy here and I wouldn't be so cruel as to take her away from all her
pleasures. Then she loves old people. See how fond she is of the
Captain and Martha! No, you are right. I wouldn't think of taking her
away."
Jane was standing now, her eyes blazing, her lips quivering.
"You mean, Lucy, that you would leave your child here and spend two
months away from her?"
The wheels were crunching the gravel within a rod of the porch. Max had
already lifted his hat.
"But, sister, you don't understand--" The drag stopped and Max, with
uncovered head, sprang out and extended his hand to Jane.
Before he could offer his salutations Lucy's joyous tones rang out.
"Just in the nick of time, Max," she cried. "I've just been telling my
dear sister that I'm going to move over to Beach Haven to-morrow, bag
and baggage, and she is delighted at the news. Isn't it just like her?"
CHAPTER XVII
BREAKERS AHEAD
The summer-home of Max Feilding, Esq., of Walnut Hill, and of the
beautiful and accomplished widow of the dead Frenchman was located on a
levelled sand-dune in full view of the sea. Indeed, from beneath its
low-hooded porticos and piazzas nothing else could be seen except,
perhaps, the wide sky--gray, mottled, or intensely blue, as the weather
permitted--the stretch of white sand shaded from dry to wet and edged
with tufts of yellow grass; the circling gulls and the tall finger of
Barnegat Light pointing skyward. Nothing, really, but some scattering
buildings in silhouette against the glare of the blinding light--one
the old House of Refuge, a mile away to the north, and nearer by, the
new Life Saving Station (now complete) in charge of Captain Nat Holt
and his crew of trusty surfmen.
This view Lucy always enjoyed. She would sit for hours under her
awnings and watch the lazy boats crawling in and out of the inlet, or
the motionless steamers--motionless at that distance--slowly unwinding
their threads of smoke. The Station particularly interested her.
Somehow she felt a certain satisfaction in knowing that Archie was at
work and that he had at last found his level among his own people--not
that she wished him any harm; she only wanted him out of her way.
The hostelry itself was one of those low-roofed, shingle-sided and
shingle-covered buildings common in the earlier days along the Jersey
coast, and now supplanted by more modern and more costly structures. It
had grown from a farm-house and out-buildings to its present state with
the help of an architect and a jig-saw; the former utilizing what
remained of the house and its barns, and the latter transforming plain
pine into open work patterns with which to decorate its gable ends and
facade. When the flags were raised, the hanging baskets suspended in
each loop of the porches, and the merciless, omnipresent and
ever-insistent sand was swept from its wide piazzas and sun-warped
steps it gave out an air of gayety so plausible and enticing that many
otherwise sane and intelligent people at once closed their comfortable
homes and entered their names in its register.
The amusements of these habitues--if they could be called habitues,
this being their first summer--were as varied as their tastes. There
was a band which played mornings and afternoons in an unpainted pine
pagoda planted on a plot of slowly dying grass and decorated with more
hanging baskets and Chinese lanterns; there was bathing at eleven and
four; and there was croquet on the square of cement fenced about by
poles and clothes-lines at all hours. Besides all this there were
driving parties to the villages nearby; dancing parties at night with
the band in the large room playing away for dear life, with all the
guests except the very young and very old tucked away in twos in the
dark corners of the piazzas out of reach of the lights and the
inquisitive--in short, all the diversions known to such retreats, so
necessary for warding off ennui and thus inducing the inmates to stay
the full length of their commitments.
In its selection Max was guided by two considerations: it was near
Yardley--this would materially aid in Lucy's being able to join
him--and it was not fashionable and, therefore, not likely to be
overrun with either his own or Lucy's friends. The amusements did not
interest him; nor did they interest Lucy. Both had seen too much and
enjoyed too much on the other side of the water, at Nice, at Monte
Carlo, and Biarritz, to give the amusements a thought. What they wanted
was to be let alone; this would furnish all the excitement either of
them needed. This exclusiveness was greatly helped by the red and
yellow drag, with all its contiguous and connecting impedimenta, a
turnout which never ceased to occupy everybody's attention whenever the
small tiger stood by the heads of the satin-coated grays awaiting the
good pleasure of his master and his lady. Its possession not only
marked a social eminence too lofty for any ordinary habitue to climb to
unless helped up by the proffered hand of the owner, but it prevented
anyone of these would-be climbers from inviting either its owner or his
companion to join in other outings no matter how enjoyable. Such
amusements as they could offer were too simple and old-fashioned for
two distinguished persons who held the world in their slings and who
were whirling it around their heads with all their might. The result
was that their time was their own.
They filled it at their pleasure.
When the tide was out and the sand hard, they drove on the beach,
stopping at the new station, chatting with Captain Holt or Archie; or
they strolled north, always avoiding the House of Refuge--that locality
had too many unpleasant associations for Lucy, or they sat on the
dunes, moving back out of the wet as the tide reached them, tossing
pebbles in the hollows, or gathering tiny shells, which Lucy laid out
in rows of letters as she had done when a child. In the afternoon they
drove by way of Yardley to see how Ellen was getting on, or idled about
Warehold, making little purchases at the shops and chatting with the
village people, all of whom would come out to greet them. After dinner
they would generally betake themselves to Max's portico, opening out of
his rooms, or to Lucy's--they were at opposite ends of the long
corridor--where the two had their coffee while Max smoked.
The opinions freely expressed regarding their social and moral status,
and individual and combined relations, differed greatly in the several
localities in which they were wont to appear. In Warehold village they
were looked upon as two most charming and delightful people, rich,
handsome, and of proper age and lineage, who were exactly adapted to
each other and who would prove it before the year was out, with Pastor
Dellenbaugh officiating, assisted by some dignitary from Philadelphia.
At the hostelry many of the habitues had come to a far different
conclusion. Marriage was not in either of their heads, they maintained;
their intimacy was a purely platonic one, born of a friendship dating
back to childhood--they were cousins really--Max being the dearest and
most unselfish creature in the world, he having given up all his
pleasures elsewhere to devote himself to a most sweet and gracious lady
whose grief was still severe and who would really be quite alone in the
world were it not for her little daughter, now temporarily absent.
This summary of facts, none of which could be questioned, was
supplemented and enriched by another conclusive instalment from Mrs.
Walton Coates, of Chestnut Plains, who had met Lucy at Aix the year
before, and who therefore possessed certain rights not vouchsafed to
the other habitues of Beach Haven--an acquaintance which Lucy, for
various reasons, took pains to encourage--Mrs. C.'s social position
being beyond question, and her house and other appointments more than
valuable whenever Lucy should visit Philadelphia: besides, Mrs.
Coates's own and Lucy's apartments joined, and the connecting door of
the two sitting-rooms was often left open, a fact which established a
still closer intimacy. This instalment, given in a positive and rather
lofty way, made plain the fact that in her enforced exile the
distinguished lady not only deserved the thanks of every habitue of the
hotel, but of the whole country around, for selecting the new
establishment in which to pass the summer, instead of one of the more
fashionable resorts elsewhere.
This outburst of the society leader, uttered in the hearing of a
crowded piazza, had occurred after a conversation she had had with Lucy
concerning little Ellen.
"Tell me about your little daughter," Mrs. Coates had said. "You did
not leave her abroad, did you?"
"Oh, no, my dear Mrs. Coates! I am really here on my darling's
account," Lucy answered with a sigh. "My old home is only a short
distance from here. But the air does not agree with me there, and so I
came here to get a breath of the real sea. Ellen is with her aunt, my
dear sister Jane. I wanted to bring her, but really I hadn't the heart
to take her from them; they are so devoted to her. Max loves her
dearly. He drives me over there almost every day. I really do not know
how I could have borne all the sorrows I have had this year without
dear Max. He is like a brother to me, and SO thoughtful. You know we
have known each other since we were children. They tell such dreadful
stories, too, about him, but I have never seen that side of him, he's a
perfect saint to me."
From that time on Mrs. Coates was her loyal mouthpiece and devoted
friend. Being separated from one's child was one of the things she
could not brook; Lucy was an angel to stand it as she did. As for
Max--no other woman had ever so influenced him for good, nor did she
believe any other woman could.
At the end of the second week a small fly no larger than a pin's head
began to develop in the sunshine of their amber. It became visible to
the naked eye when Max suddenly resolved to leave his drag, his tiger,
his high-stepping grays, and his fair companion, and slip over to
Philadelphia--for a day or two, he explained. His lawyer needed him, he
said, and then again he wanted to see his sister Sue, who had run down
to Walnut Hill for the day. (Sue, it might as well be stated, had not
yet put in an appearance at Beach Haven, nor had she given any notice
of her near arrival; a fact which had not disturbed Lucy in the least
until she attempted to explain to Jane.)
"I've got to pull up, little woman, and get out for a few days," Max
had begun. "Morton's all snarled up, he writes me, over a mortgage, and
I must straighten it out. I'll leave Bones [the tiger] and everything
just as it is. Don't mind, do you?"
"Mind! Of course I do!" retorted Lucy. "When did you get this
marvellous idea into that wonderful brain of yours, Max? I intended to
go to Warehold myself to-morrow." She spoke with her usual good-humor,
but with a slight trace of surprise and disappointment in her tone.
"When I opened my mail this morning; but my going won't make any
difference about Warehold. Bones and the groom will take care of you."
Lucy leaned back in her chair and looked over the rail of the porch.
She had noticed lately a certain restraint in Max's manner which was
new to her. Whether he was beginning to get bored, or whether it was
only one of his moods, she could not decide--even with her acute
knowledge of similar symptoms. That some change, however, had come over
him she had not the slightest doubt. She never had any trouble in
lassoing her admirers. That came with a glance of her eye or a lift of
her pretty shoulders: nor for that matter in keeping possession of them
as long as her mood lasted.
"Whom do you want to see in Philadelphia, Max?" she asked, smiling
roguishly at him. She held him always by presenting her happiest and
most joyous side, whether she felt it or not.
"Sue and Morton--and you, you dear girl, if you'll come along."
"No; I'm not coming along. I'm too comfortable where I am. Is this
woman somebody you haven't told me of, Max?" she persisted, looking at
him from under half-closed lids.
"Your somebodies are always thin air, little girl; you know everything
I have ever done in my whole life," Max answered gravely. She had for
the last two weeks.
Lucy threw up her hands and laughed so loud and cheerily that an
habitue taking his morning constitutional on the boardwalk below turned
his head in their direction. The two were at breakfast under the
awnings of Lucy's portico, Bones standing out of range.
"You don't believe it?"
"Not one word of it, you fraud; nor do you. You've forgotten one-half
of all you've done and the other half you wouldn't dare tell any woman.
Come, give me her name. Anybody Sue knows?"
"Nobody that anybody knows, Honest John." Then he added as an
after-thought, "Are you sorry?" As he spoke he rose from his seat and
stood behind her chair looking down over her figure. She had her back
to him. He thought he had never seen her look so lovely. She was
wearing a light-blue morning-gown, her arms bare to the elbows, and a
wide Leghorn hat--the morning costume of all others he liked her best
in.
"No--don't think I am," she answered lightly. "Fact is I was getting
pretty tired of you. How long will you be gone?"
"Oh, I think till the end of the week--not longer." He reached over the
chair and was about to play with the tiny curls that lay under the coil
of her hair, when he checked himself and straightened up. One of those
sudden restraints which had so puzzled Lucy had seized him. She could
not see his face, but she knew from the tones of his voice that the
enthusiasm of the moment had cooled.
Lucy shifted her chair, lifted her head, and looked up into his eyes.
She was always entrancing from this point of view: the upturned
eyelashes, round of the cheeks, and the line of the throat and swelling
shoulders were like no other woman's he knew.
"I don't want you to go, Max," she said in the same coaxing tone of
voice that Ellen might have used in begging for sugar-plums. "Just let
the mortgage and old Morton and everybody else go. Stay here with me."
Max straightened up and threw out his chest and a determined look came
into his eyes. If he had had any doubts as to his departure Lucy's
pleading voice had now removed them.
"No, can't do it," he answered in mock positiveness. "Can't 'pon my
soul. Business is business. Got to see Morton right away; ought to have
seen him before." Then he added in a more serious tone, "Don't get
worried if I stay a day or two longer."
"Well, then, go, you great bear, you," and she rose to her feet and
shook out her skirts. "I wouldn't let you stay, no matter what you
said." She was not angry--she was only feeling about trying to put her
finger on the particular button that controlled Max's movements.
"Worried? Not a bit of it. Stay as long as you please."
There WAS a button, could she have found it. It was marked "Caution,"
and when pressed communicated to the heir of Walnut Hill the
intelligence that he was getting too fond of the pretty widow and that
his only safety lay in temporary flight. It was a favorite trick of
his. In the charting of his course he had often found two other rocks
beside Scylla and Charybdis in his way; one was boredom and the other
was love. When a woman began to bore him, or he found himself liking
her beyond the limit of his philosophy, he invariably found relief in
change of scene. Sometimes it was a sick aunt or a persistent lawyer or
an engagement nearly forgotten and which must be kept at all hazards.
He never, however, left his inamorata in either tears or anger.
"Now, don't be cross, dear," he cried, patting her shoulder with his
fingers. "You know I don't want to leave you. I shall be perfectly
wretched while I'm gone, but there's no help for it. Morton's such a
fussy old fellow--always wanting to do a lot of things that can,
perhaps, wait just as well as not. Hauled me down from Walnut Hill half
a dozen times once, and after all the fellow wouldn't sell. But this
time it's important and I must go. Bones," and he lifted his finger to
the boy, "tell John I want the light wagon. I'll take the 11.12 to
Philadelphia."
The tiger advanced ten steps and stood at attention, his finger at his
eyebrow. Lucy turned her face toward the boy. "No, Bones, you'll do
nothing of the kind. You tell John to harness the grays to the drag.
I'll go to the station with Mr. Feilding."
Max shrugged his shoulders. He liked Lucy for a good many things--one
was her independence, another was her determination to have her own
way. Then, again, she was never so pretty as when she was a trifle
angry; her color came and went so deliciously and her eyes snapped so
charmingly. Lucy saw the shrug and caught the satisfied look in his
face. She didn't want to offend him and yet she didn't intend that he
should go without a parting word from her--tender or otherwise, as
circumstances might require. She knew she had not found the button, and
in her doubt determined for the present to abandon the search.
"No, Bones, I've changed my mind," she called to the boy, who was now
half way down the piazza. "I don't think I will go. I'll stop here,
Max, and do just what you want me to do," she added in a softened
voice. "Come along," and she slipped her hand in his and the two walked
toward the door of his apartments.
When the light wagon and satin-skinned sorrel, with John on the seat
and Bones in full view, stopped at the sanded porch, Mrs. Coates and
Lucy formed part of the admiring group gathered about the turn-out. All
of Mr. Feilding's equipages brought a crowd of onlookers, no matter how
often they appeared--he had five with him at Beach Haven, including the
four-in-hand which he seldom used--but the grays and the light wagon,
by common consent, were considered the most "stylish" of them all, not
excepting the drag.
After Max had gathered the reins in his hands, had balanced the whip,
had settled himself comfortably and with a wave of his hand to Lucy had
driven off, Mrs. Coates slipped her arm through my lady's and the two
slowly sauntered to their rooms.
"Charming man, is he not?" Mrs. Coates ventured. "Such a pity he is not
married! You know I often wonder whom such men will marry. Some pretty
school-girl, perhaps, or prim woman of forty."
Lucy laughed.
"No," she answered, "you are wrong. The bread-and-butter miss would
never suit Max, and he's past the eye-glass and side-curl age. The next
phase, if he ever reaches it, will be somebody who will make him
do--not as he pleases, but as SHE pleases. A man like Max never cares
for a woman any length of time who humors his whims."
"Well, he certainly was most attentive to that pretty Miss Billeton.
You remember her father was lost overboard four years ago from his
yacht. Mr. Coates told me he met her only a day or so ago; she had come
down to look after the new ball-room they are adding to the old house.
You know her, don't you?"
"No--never heard of her. How old is she?" rejoined Lucy in a careless
tone.
"I should say twenty, maybe twenty-two--you can't always tell about
these girls; very pretty and very rich. I am quite sure I saw Mr.
Feilding driving with her just before he moved his horses down here,
and she looked prettier than ever. But then he has a new flame every
month, I hear."
"Where were they driving?" There was a slight tone of curiosity in
Lucy's voice. None of Max's love-affairs ever affected her, of course,
except as they made for his happiness; all undue interest, therefore,
was out of place, especially before Mrs. Coates.
"I don't remember. Along the River Road, perhaps--he generally drives
there when he has a pretty woman with him."
Lucy bit her lip. Some other friend, then, had been promised the drag
with the red body and yellow wheels! This was why he couldn't come to
Yardley when she wrote for him. She had found the button. It rang up
another woman.
The door between the connecting sitting-rooms was not opened that day,
nor that night, for that matter. Lucy pleaded a headache and wished to
be alone. She really wanted to look the field over and see where her
line of battle was weak. Not that she really cared--unless the girl
should upset her plans; not as Jane would have cared had Doctor John
been guilty of such infidelity. The eclipse was what hurt her. She had
held the centre of the stage with the lime-light full upon her all her
life, and she intended to retain it against Miss Billeton or Miss
Anybody else. She decided to let Max know at once, and in plain terms,
giving him to understand that she didn't intend to be made a fool of,
reminding him at the same time that there were plenty of others who
cared for her, or who would care for her if she should but raise her
little finger. She WOULD raise it, too, even if she packed her trunks
and started for Paris--and took him with her.
These thoughts rushed through her mind as she sat by the window and
looked out over the sea. The tide was making flood, and the
fishing-boats anchored in the inlet were pointing seaward. She could
see, too, the bathers below and the children digging in the sand. Now
and then a boat would head for the inlet, drop its sail, and swing
round motionless with the others. Then a speck would break away from
the anchored craft and with the movement of a water-spider land the
fishermen ashore.
None of these things interested her. She could not have told whether
the sun shone or whether the sky was fair or dull. Neither was she
lonely, nor did she miss Max. She was simply
angry--disgusted--disappointed at the situation; at herself, at the
woman who had come between them, at the threatened failure of her
plans. One moment she was building up a house of cards in which she
held all the trumps, and the next instant she had tumbled it to the
ground. One thing she was determined upon--not to take second place.
She would have all of him or none of him.
At the end of the third day Max returned. He had not seen Morton, nor
any of his clerks, nor anybody connected with his office. Neither had
he sent him any message or written him any letter. Morton might have
been dead and buried a century so far as Max or his affairs were
concerned. Nor had he laid his eyes on the beautiful Miss Billeton; nor
visited her house; nor written her any letters; nor inquired for her.
What he did do was to run out to Walnut Hill, have a word with his
manager, and slip back to town again and bury himself in his club. Most
of the time he read the magazines, some pages two or three times over.
Once he thought he would look up one or two of his women friends at
their homes--those who might still be in town--and then gave it up as
not being worth the trouble. At the end of the third day he started for
Barnegat. The air was bad in the city, he said to himself, and
everybody he met was uninteresting. He would go back, hitch up the
grays, and he and Lucy have a spin down the beach. Sea air always did
agree with him, and he was a fool to leave it.
Lucy met him at the station in answer to his telegram sent over from
Warehold. She was dressed in her very best: a double-breasted jacket
and straw turban, a gossamer veil wound about it. Her cheeks were like
two red peonies and her eyes bright as diamonds. She was perched up in
the driver's seat of the drag, and handled the reins and whip with the
skill of a turfman. This time Bones, the tiger, did not spring into his
perch as they whirled from the station in the direction of the beach.
His company was not wanted.
They talked of Max's trip, of the mortgage, and of Morton; of how hot
it was in town and how cool it was on her portico; of Mrs. Coates and
of pater-familias Coates, who held a mortgage on Beach Haven; of the
dance the night before--Max leading in the conversation and she
answering either in mono-syllables or not at all, until Max hazarded
the statement that he had been bored to death waiting for Morton, who
never put in an appearance, and that the only human being, male or
female, he had seen in town outside the members of the club, was Sue.
They had arrived off the Life-Saving Station now, and Archie had called
the captain to the door, and both stood looking at them, the boy waving
his hand and the captain following them with his eyes. Had either of
them caught the captain's remark they, perhaps, would have drawn rein
and asked for an explanation:
"Gay lookin' hose-carriage, ain't it? Looks as if they was runnin' to a
fire!"
But they didn't hear it; would not, probably have heard it, had the
captain shouted it in their ears. Lucy was intent on opening up a
subject which had lain dormant in her mind since the morning of Max's
departure, and the gentleman himself was trying to cipher out what new
"kink," as he expressed it to himself, had "got it into her head."
When they had passed the old House of Refuge Lucy drew rein and stopped
the drag where the widening circle of the incoming tide could bathe the
horses' feet. She was still uncertain as to how she would lead up to
the subject-matter without betraying her own jealousy or, more
important still, without losing her temper. This she rarely displayed,
no matter how goading the provocation. Nobody had any use for an
ill-tempered woman, not in her atmosphere; and no fly that she had ever
known had been caught by vinegar when seeking honey. There might be
vinegar-pots to be found in her larder, but they were kept behind
closed doors and sampled only when she was alone. As she sat looking
out to sea, Max's brain still at work on the problem of her unusual
mood, a schooner shifted her mainsail in the light breeze and set her
course for the inlet.
"That's the regular weekly packet," Max ventured. "She's making for
Farguson's ship-yard. She runs between Amboy and Barnegat--Captain
Ambrose Farguson sails her." At times like these any topic was good
enough to begin on.
"How do you know?" Lucy asked, looking at the incoming schooner from
under her half-closed lids. The voice came like the thin piping of a
flute preceding the orchestral crash, merely sounded so as to let
everybody know it was present.
"One of my carriages was shipped by her. I paid Captain Farguson the
freight just before I went away."
"What's her name?"--slight tremolo--only a note or two.
"The Polly Walters," droned Max, talking at random, mind neither on the
sloop nor her captain.
"Named after his wife?" The flute-like notes came more crisply.
"Yes, so he told me." Max had now ceased to give any attention to his
answers. He had about made up his mind that something serious was the
matter and that he would ask her and find out.
"Ought to be called the Max Feilding, from the way she tacks about.
She's changed her course three times since I've been watching her."
Max shot a glance athwart his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the
pretty lips thinned and straightened and the half-closed eyes and
wrinkled forehead. He was evidently the disturbing cause, but in what
way he could not for the life of him see. That she was angry to the
tips of her fingers was beyond question; the first time he had seen her
thus in all their acquaintance.
"Yes-that would fit her exactly," he answered with a smile and with a
certain soothing tone in his voice. "Every tack her captain makes
brings him the nearer to the woman he loves."
"Rather poetic, Max, but slightly farcical. Every tack you make lands
you in a different port--with a woman waiting in every one of them."
The first notes of the overture had now been struck.
"No one was waiting in Philadelphia for me except Sue, and I only met
her by accident," he said good-naturedly, and in a tone that showed he
would not quarrel, no matter what the provocation; "she came in to see
her doctor. Didn't stay an hour."
"Did you take her driving?" This came in a thin, piccolo tone-barely
enough room for it to escape through her lips. All the big drums and
heavy brass were now being moved up.
"No; had nothing to take her out in. Why do you ask? What has happened,
little--"
"Take anybody else?" she interrupted.
"No."
He spoke quite frankly and simply. At any other time she would have
believed him. She had always done so in matters of this kind, partly
because she didn't much care and partly because she made it a point
never to doubt the word of a man, either by suspicion or inference, who
was attentive to her. This time she did care, and she intended to tell
him so. All she dreaded was that the big horns and the tom-toms would
get away from her leadership and the hoped-for, correctly played
symphony end in an uproar.
"Max," she said, turning her head and lifting her finger at him with
the movement of a conductor's baton, "how can you lie to me like that?
You never went near your lawyer; you went to see Miss Billeton, and
you've spent every minute with her since you left me. Don't tell me you
didn't. I know everything you've done, and--" Bass drums, bass viols,
bassoons--everything--was loose now.
She had given up her child to be with him! Everything, in fact--all her
people at Yardley; her dear old nurse. She had lied to Jane about
chaperoning Sue--all to come down and keep him from being lonely. What
she wanted was a certain confidence in return. It made not the
slightest difference to her how many women he loved, or how many women
loved him; she didn't love him, and she never would; but unless she was
treated differently from a child and like the woman that she was, she
was going straight back to Yardley, and then back to Paris, etc., etc.
She knew, as she rushed on in a flood of abuse such as only a woman can
let loose when she is thoroughly jealous and entirely angry, that she
was destroying the work of months of plotting, and that he would be
lost to her forever, but she was powerless to check the torrent of her
invective. Only when her breath gave out did she stop.
Max had sat still through it all, his eyes expressing first
astonishment and then a certain snap of admiration, as he saw the color
rising and falling in her cheeks. It was not the only time in his
experience that he had had to face similar outbursts. It was the first
time, however, that he had not felt like striking back. Other women's
outbreaks had bored him and generally had ended his interest in
them--this one was more charming than ever. He liked, too, her American
pluck and savage independence. Jealous she certainly was, but there was
no whine about it; nor was there any flop at the close--floppy women he
detested--had always done so. Lucy struck straight out from her
shoulder and feared nothing.
As she raged on, the grays beating the water with their well-polished
hoofs, he continued to sit perfectly still, never moving a muscle of
his face nor changing his patient, tolerant expression. The best plan,
he knew, was to let all the steam out of the boiler and then gradually
rake the fires.
"My dear little woman,"' he began, "to tell you the truth, I never laid
eyes on Morton; didn't want to, in fact. All that was an excuse to get
away. I thought you wanted a rest, and I went away to let you have it.
Miss Billeton I haven't seen for three months, and couldn't if I would,
for she is engaged to her cousin and is now in Paris buying her wedding
clothes. I don't know who has been humbugging you, but they've done it
very badly. There is not one word of truth in what you've said from
beginning to end."
There is a certain ring in a truthful statement that overcomes all
doubts. Lucy felt this before Max had finished. She felt, too, with a
sudden thrill, that she still held him. Then there came the
instantaneous desire to wipe out all traces of the outburst and keep
his good-will.
"And you swear it?" she asked, her belief already asserting itself in
her tones, her voice falling to its old seductive pitch.
"On my honor as a man," he answered simply.
For a time she remained silent, her mind working behind her mask of
eyes and lips, the setting sun slanting across the beach and lighting
up her face and hair, the grays splashing the suds with their impatient
feet. Max kept his gaze upon her. He saw that the outbreak was over and
that she was a little ashamed of her tirade. He saw, too, man of the
world as he was, that she was casting about in her mind for some way in
which she could regain for herself her old position without too much
humiliation.
"Don't say another word, little woman," he said in his kindest tone.
"You didn't mean a word of it; you haven't been well lately, and I
oughtn't to have left you. Tighten up your reins; we'll drive on if you
don't mind."
That night after the moon had set and the lights had been turned out
along the boardwalk and the upper and lower porticos and all Beach
Haven had turned in for the night, and Lucy had gone to her apartments,
and Mr. and Mrs. Coates and the rest of them, single and double, were
asleep, Max, who had been pacing up and down his dressing-room, stopped
suddenly before his mirror, and lifting the shade from the lamp, made a
critical examination of his face.
"Forty, and I look it!" he said, pinching his chin with his thumb and
forefinger, and turning his cheek so that the light would fall on the
few gray hairs about his temples. "That beggar Miggs said so yesterday
at the club. By gad, how pretty she was, and how her eyes snapped! I
didn't think it was in her!"
CHAPTER XVIII
THE SWEDE'S STORY
Captain Holt had selected his crew--picked surfmen, every one of
them--and the chief of the bureau had endorsed the list without comment
or inquiry. The captain's own appointment as keeper of the new
Life-Saving Station was due as much to his knowledge of men as to his
skill as a seaman, and so when his list was sent in--men he said he
could "vouch for"--it took but a moment for the chief to write
"Approved" across its face.
Isaac Polhemus came first: Sixty years of age, silent, gray, thick-set;
face scarred and seamed by many weathers, but fresh as a baby's; two
china-blue eyes--peep-holes through which you looked into his open
heart; shoulders hard and tough as cordwood hands a bunch of knots;
legs like snubbing-posts, body quick-moving; brain quick-thinking;
alert as a dog when on duty, calm as a sleepy cat beside a stove when
his time was his own. Sixty only in years, this man; forty in strength
and in skill, twenty in suppleness, and a one-year-old toddling infant
in all that made for guile. "Uncle Ike" some of the younger men once
called him, wondering behind their hands whether he was not too old and
believing all the time that he was. "Uncle Ike" they still called him,
but it was a title of affection and pride; affection for the man
underneath the blue woollen shirt, and pride because they were deemed
worthy to pull an oar beside him.
The change took place the winter before when he was serving at
Manasquan and when he pulled four men single-handed from out of a surf
that would have staggered the bravest. There was no life-boat within
reach and no hand to help. It was at night--a snowstorm raging and the
sea a corral of hungry beasts fighting the length of the beach. The
shipwrecked crew had left their schooner pounding on the outer bar, and
finding their cries drowned by the roar of the waters, had taken to
their boat. She came bow on, the sea-drenched sailors clinging to her
sides. Uncle Isaac Polhemus caught sight of her just as a savage
pursuing roller dived under her stern, lifted the frail shell on its
broad back, and whirled it bottom side up and stern foremost on to the
beach. Dashing into the suds, he jerked two of the crew to their feet
before they knew what had struck them; then sprang back for the others
clinging to the seats and slowly drowning in the smother. Twice he
plunged headlong after them, bracing himself against the backsuck, then
with the help of his steel-like grip all four were dragged clear of the
souse. Ever after it was "Uncle Isaac" or "that old hang-on," but
always with a lifting of the chin in pride.
Samuel Green came next: Forty-five, long, Lincoln-bodied, and bony;
coal-black hair, coal-black eyes, and charcoal-black mustache; neck
like a loop in standing rigging; arms long as cant-hooks, with the
steel grips for fingers; sluggish in movement and slow in action until
the supreme moment of danger tautened his nerves to breaking point;
then came an instantaneous spring, quick as the recoil of a parted
hawser. All his life a fisherman except the five years he spent in the
Arctic and the year he served at Squan; later he had helped in the
volunteer crew alongshore. Loving the service, he had sent word over to
Captain Holt that he'd like "to be put on," to which the captain had
sent back word by the same messenger "Tell him he IS put on." And he
WAS, as soon as the papers were returned from Washington. Captain Nat
had no record to look up or inquiries to make as to the character or
fitness of Sam Green. He was the man who the winter before had slipped
a rope about his body, plunged into the surf and swam out to the brig
Gorgus and brought back three out of the five men lashed to the
rigging, all too benumbed to make fast the shot-line fired across her
deck.
Charles Morgan's name followed in regular order, and then Parks--men
who had sailed with Captain Holt, and whose word and pluck he could
depend upon; and Mulligan from Barnegat, who could pull a boat with the
best of them; and last, and least in years, those two slim, tightly
knit, lithe young tiger-cats, Tod and Archie.
Captain Nat had overhauled each man and had inspected him as closely as
he would have done the timber for a new mast or the manila to make its
rigging. Here was a service that required cool heads, honest hearts,
and the highest technical skill, and the men under him must be sound to
the core. He intended to do his duty, and so should every man subject
to his orders. The Government had trusted him and he held himself
responsible. This would probably be his last duty, and it would be well
done. He was childless, sixty-five years old, and had been idle for
years. Now he would show his neighbors something of his skill and his
power to command. He did not need the pay; he needed the occupation and
the being in touch with the things about him. For the last fifteen or
more years he had nursed a sorrow and lived the life almost of a
recluse. It was time he threw it off.
During the first week of service, with his crew about him, he explained
to them in minute detail their several duties. Each day in the week
would have its special work: Monday would be beach drill, practising
with the firing gun and line and the safety car. Tuesday was boat
drill; running the boat on its wagon to the edge of the sea, unloading
it, and pushing it into the surf, each man in his place, oars poised,
the others springing in and taking their seats beside their mates. On
Wednesdays flag drills; practising with the international code of
signals, so as to communicate with stranded vessels. Thursdays, beach
apparatus again. Friday, resuscitation of drowning men. Saturday,
scrub-day; every man except himself and the cook (each man was cook in
turn for a week) on his knees with bucket and brush, and every floor,
chair, table, and window scoured clean. Sunday, a day of rest, except
for the beach patrol, which at night never ceased, and which by day
only ceased when the sky was clear of snow and fog.
This night patrol would be divided into watches of four hours each at
eight, twelve, and four. Two of the crew were to make the tramp of the
beach, separating opposite the Station, one going south two and a half
miles to meet the surfman from the next Station, and the other going
north to the inlet; exchanging their brass checks each with the other,
as a record of their faithfulness.
In addition to these brass checks each patrol would carry three Coston
signal cartridges in a water-proof box, and a holder into which they
were fitted, the handle having an igniter working on a spring to
explode the cartridge, which burned a red light. These
will-o'-the-wisps, flashed suddenly from out a desolate coast, have
sent a thrill of hope through the heart of many a man clinging to
frozen rigging or lashed to some piece of wreckage that the hungry
surf, lying in wait, would pounce upon and chew to shreds.
The men listened gravely to the captain's words and took up their
duties. Most of them knew them before, and no minute explanations were
necessary. Skilled men understand the value of discipline and prefer it
to any milder form of government. Archie was the only member who raised
his eyes in astonishment when the captain, looking his way, mentioned
the scrubbing and washing, each man to take his turn, but he made no
reply except to nudge Tod and say under his breath:
"Wouldn't you like to see Aunt Lucy's face when she comes some Saturday
morning? She'll be pleased, won't she?" As to the cooking, that did not
bother him; he and Tod had cooked many a meal on Fogarty's stove, and
mother Fogarty had always said Archie could beat her any day making
biscuit and doughnuts and frying ham.
Before the second week was out the Station had fallen into its regular
routine. The casual visitor during the sunny hours of the soft
September days when practice drill was over might see only a lonely
house built on the sand; and upon entering, a few men leaning back in
their chairs against the wall of the living-room reading the papers or
smoking their pipes, and perhaps a few others leisurely overhauling the
apparatus, making minor repairs, or polishing up some detail the
weather had dulled. At night, too, with the radiance of the moon making
a pathway of silver across the gentle swell of the sleepy surf, he
would doubtless wonder at their continued idle life as he watched the
two surfmen separate and begin their walk up and down the beach radiant
in the moonlight. But he would change his mind should he chance upon a
north-easterly gale, the sea a froth in which no boat could live, the
slant of a sou'wester the only protection against the cruel lash of the
wind. If this glimpse was not convincing, let him stand in the door of
their house in the stillness of a winter's night, and catch the shout
and rush of the crew tumbling from their bunks at the cry of "Wreck
ashore!" from the lips of some breathless patrol who had stumbled over
sand-dunes or plunged through snowdrifts up to his waist to give
warning. It will take less than a minute to swing wide the doors,
grapple the life-boat and apparatus and whirl them over the dunes to
the beach; and but a moment more to send a solid shot flying through
the air on its mission of mercy. And there is no time lost. Ten men
have been landed in forty-five minutes through or over a surf that
could be heard for miles; rescuers and rescued half dead. But no man
let go his grip nor did any heart quail. Their duty was in front of
them; that was what the Government paid for, and that was what they
would earn--every penny of it.
The Station house in order, the captain was ready for visitors--those
he wanted. Those he did not want--the riffraff of the ship-yard and the
loungers about the taverns--he told politely to stay away; and as the
land was Government property and his will supreme, he was obeyed.
Little Ellen had been the first guest, and by special invitation.
"All ready, Miss Jane, for you and the doctor and the Pond Lily; bring
her down any time. That's what kind o' makes it lonely lyin' shut up
with the men. We ain't got no flowers bloomin' 'round, and the sand
gits purty white and blank-lookin' sometimes. Bring her down, you and
the doctor; she's better'n a pot full o' daisies."
The doctor, thus commanded, brought her over in his gig, Jane, beside
him, holding the child in her lap. And Archie helped them out, lifting
his good mother in his arms clear of the wheel, skirts and all--the
crew standing about looking on. Some of them knew Jane and came in for
a hearty handshake, and all of them knew the doctor. There was hardly a
man among them whose cabin he had not visited--not once, but dozens of
times.
With her fair cheeks, golden curls, and spotless frock, the child,
among those big men, some in their long hip boots and rough reefing
jackets, looked like some fairy that had come in with the morning mist
and who might be off on the next breeze.
Archie had her hugged close to his breast and had started in to show
her the cot where he slept, the kitchen where he was to cook, and the
peg in the hall where he hung his sou'wester and tarpaulins--every
surfman had his peg, order being imperative with Captain Nat--when that
old sea-dog caught the child out of the young fellow's arms and placed
her feet on the sand.
"No, Cobden,"--that was another peculiarity of the captain's,--every
man went by his last name, and he had begun with Archie to show the men
he meant it. "No, that little posy is mine for to-day. Come along, you
rosebud; I'm goin' to show you the biggest boat you ever saw, and a gun
on wheels; and I've got a lot o' shells the men has been pickin' up for
ye. Oh, but you're goin' to have a beautiful time, lassie!"
The child looked up in the captain's face, and her wee hand tightened
around his rough stubs of fingers. Archie then turned to Jane and with
Tod's help the three made a tour of the house, the doctor following,
inspecting the captain's own room with its desk and papers, the kitchen
with all its appointments, the outhouse for wood and coal, the
staircase leading to the sleeping-rooms above, and at the very top the
small ladder leading to the cupola on the roof, where the lookout kept
watch on clear days for incoming steamers. On their return Mulligan
spread a white oil-cloth on the pine table and put out a china plate
filled with some cake that he had baked the night before, and which
Green supplemented by a pitcher of water from the cistern.
Each one did something to please her. Archie handed her the biggest
piece of cake on the dish, and Uncle Isaac left the room in a hurry and
stumbling upstairs went through his locker and hauled out the head of a
wooden doll which he had picked up on the beach in one of his day
patrols and which he had been keeping for one of his
grand-children--all blighted with the sun and scarred with salt water,
but still showing a full set of features, much to Ellen's delight; and
Sam Green told her of his own little girl, just her age, who lived up
in the village and whom he saw every two weeks, and whose hair was just
the color of hers. Meanwhile the doctor chatted with the men, and Jane,
with her arm locked in Archie's, so proud and so tender over him,
inspected each appointment and comfort of the house with
ever-increasing wonder.
And so, with the visit over, the gig was loaded up, and with Ellen
waving her hand to the men and kissing her finger-tips in true French
style to the captain and Archie, and the crew responding in a hearty
cheer, the party drove, past the old House of Refuge, and so on back to
Warehold and Yardley.
One August afternoon, some days after this visit, Tod stood in the door
of the Station looking out to sea. The glass had been falling all day
and a dog-day haze had settled down over the horizon. This, as the
afternoon advanced, had become so thick that the captain had ordered
out the patrols, and Archie and Green were already tramping the
beach--Green to the inlet and Archie to meet the surfmen of the station
below. Park, who was cook this week, had gone to the village for
supplies, and so the captain and Tod were alone in the house, the
others, with the exception of Morgan, who was at his home in the
village with a sprained ankle, being at work some distance away on a
crosshead over which the life-line was always fired in gun practice.
Suddenly Tod, who was leaning against the jamb of the door speculating
over what kind of weather the night would bring, and wondering whether
the worst of it would fall in his watch, jerked his neck out of his
woollen shirt and strained his eyes in the direction of the beach until
they rested upon the figure of a man slowly making his way over the
dunes. As he passed the old House of Refuge, some hundreds of yards
below, he stopped for a moment as if undecided on his course, looked
ahead again at the larger house of the Station, and then, as if
reassured, came stumbling on, his gait showing his want of experience
in avoiding the holes and tufts of grass cresting the dunes. His
movements were so awkward and his walk so unusual in that neighborhood
that Tod stepped out on the low porch of the Station to get a better
view of him.
From the man's dress, and from his manner of looking about him, as if
feeling his way, Tod concluded that he was a stranger and had tramped
the beach for the first time. At the sight of the surfman the man left
the dune, struck the boat path, and walked straight toward the porch.
"Kind o' foggy, ain't it?"
"Yes," replied Tod, scrutinizing the man's face and figure,
particularly his clothes, which were queerly cut and with a foreign air
about them. He saw, too, that he was strong and well built, and not
over thirty years of age.
"You work here?" continued the stranger, mounting the steps and coming
closer, his eyes taking in Tod, the porch, and the view of the
sitting-room through the open window.
"I do," answered Tod in the same tone, his eyes still on the man's face.
"Good job, is it?" he asked, unbuttoning his coat.
"I get enough to eat," answered Tod curtly, "and enough to do." He had
resumed his position against the jamb of the door and stood perfectly
impassive, without offering any courtesy of any kind. Strangers who
asked questions were never very welcome. Then, again, the inquiry about
his private life nettled him.
The man, without noticing the slight rebuff, looked about for a seat,
settled down on the top step of the porch, pulled his cap from his
head, and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of one hand.
Then he said slowly, as if to himself:
"I took the wrong road and got consid'able het up."
Tod watched him while he mopped his head with a red cotton
handkerchief, but made no reply. Curiosity is not the leading
characteristic of men who follow the sea.
"Is the head man around? His name's Holt, ain't it?" continued the
stranger, replacing his cap and stuffing his handkerchief into the
side-pocket of his coat.
As the words fell from his lips Tod's quick eye caught a sudden gleam
like that of a search-light flashed from beneath the heavy eyebrows of
the speaker.
"That's his name," answered Tod. "Want to see him? He's inside." The
surfman had not yet changed his position nor moved a muscle of his
body. Tiger cats are often like this.
Captain Holt's burly form stepped from the door. He had overheard the
conversation, and not recognizing the voice had come to find out what
the man wanted.
"You lookin' for me? I'm Captain Holt. What kin I do for ye?" asked the
captain in his quick, imperious way.
"That's what he said, sir," rejoined Tod, bringing himself to an erect
position in deference to his chief.
The stranger rose from his seat and took his cap from his head.
"I'm out o' work, sir, and want a job, and I thought you might take me
on."
Tod was now convinced that the stranger was a foreigner. No man of
Tod's class ever took his hat off to his superior officer. They had
other ways of showing their respect for his authority--instant
obedience, before and behind his back, for instance.
The captain's eyes absorbed the man from his thick shoes to his
perspiring hair.
"Norwegian, ain't ye?"
"No, sir; Swede."
"Not much difference. When did ye leave Sweden? You talk purty good."
"When I was a boy."
"What kin ye do?"
"I'm a good derrick man and been four years with a coaler."
"You want steady work, I suppose."
The stranger nodded.
"Well, I ain't got it. Gov'ment app'ints our men. This is a Life-Saving
Station."
The stranger stood twisting his cap. The first statement seemed to make
but little impression on him; the second aroused a keener interest.
"Yes, I know. Just new built, ain't it? and you just put in charge?
Captain Nathaniel Holt's your name--am I right?"
"Yes, you're just right." And the captain, dismissing the man and the
incident from his mind, turned on his heel, walked the length of the
narrow porch and stood scanning the sky and the blurred horizon line.
The twilight was now deepening and a red glow shimmered through the
settling fog.
"Fogarty!" cried the captain, beckoning over his shoulder with his head.
Tod stepped up and stood at attention; as quick in reply as if two
steel springs were fastened to his heels.
"Looks rather soapy, Fogarty. May come on thick. Better take a turn to
the inlet and see if that yawl is in order. We might have to cross it
to-night. We can't count on this weather. When you meet Green send him
back here. That shot-line wants overhaulin'." Here the captain
hesitated and looked intently at the stranger. "And here, you Swede,"
he called in a louder tone of command, "you go 'long and lend a hand,
and when you come back I'll have some supper for ye."
One of Tod's springs must have slid under the Swede's shoes. Either the
prospect of a meal or of having a companion to whom he could lend a
hand--nothing so desolate as a man out of work--a stranger at that--had
put new life into his hitherto lethargic body.
"This way," said Tod, striding out toward the surf.
The Swede hurried to his side and the two crossed the boat runway,
ploughed through the soft drift of the dune, and striking the hard, wet
sand of the beach, headed for the inlet. Tod having his high,
waterproof boots on, tramped along the edge of the incoming surf, the
half-circles of suds swashing past his feet and spreading themselves up
the slope. The sand was wet here and harder on that account, and the
walking better. The Swede took the inside course nearer the shore. Soon
Tod began to realize that the interest the captain had shown in the
unknown man and the brief order admitting him for a time to membership
in the crew placed the stranger on a different footing. He was, so to
speak, a comrade and, therefore, entitled to a little more courtesy.
This clear in his mind, he allowed his tongue more freedom; not that he
had any additional interest in the man--he only meant to be polite.
"What you been workin' at?" he asked, kicking an empty tin can that the
tide had rolled within his reach. Work is the universal topic; the
weather is too serious a subject to chatter about lightly.
"Last year or two?" asked the Swede, quickening his pace to keep up.
Tod's steel springs always kept their original temper while the
captain's orders were being executed and never lost their buoyancy
until these orders were entirely carried out.
"Yes," replied Tod.
"Been a-minin'; runnin' the ore derricks and the shaft h'isters. What
you been doin'?" And the man glanced at Tod from under his cap.
"Fishin'. See them poles out there? You kin just git sight o' them in
the smoke. Them's my father's. He's out there now, I guess, if he ain't
come in."
"You live 'round here?" The man's legs were shorter than Tod's, and he
was taking two steps to Tod's one.
"Yes, you passed the House o' Refuge, didn't ye, comin' up? I was
watchin' ye. Well, you saw that cabin with the fence 'round it?"
"Yes; the woman told me where I'd find the cap'n. You know her, I
s'pose?" asked the Swede.
"Yes, she's my mother, and that's my home. I was born there." Tod's
words were addressed to the perspective of the beach and to the way the
haze blurred the horizon; surfmen rarely see anything else when walking
on the beach, whether on or off duty.
"You know everybody 'round here, don't you?" remarked the Swede in a
casual tone. The same quick, inquiring glance shot out of the man's
eyes.
"Yes, guess so," answered Tod with another kick. Here the remains of an
old straw hat shared the fate of the can.
"You ever heard tell of a woman named Lucy Cobden, lives 'round here
somewheres?"
Tod came to a halt as suddenly as if he had run into a derelict.
"I don't know no WOMAN," he answered slowly, accentuating the last
word. "I know a LADY named Miss Jane Cobden. Why?" and he scrutinized
the man's face.
"One I mean's got a child--big now--must be fifteen or twenty years
old--girl, ain't it?"
"No, it's a boy. He's one of the crew here; his name's Archie Cobden.
Me and him's been brothers since we was babies. What do you know about
him?" Tod had resumed his walk, but at a slower pace.
"Nothin'; that's why I ask." The man had also become interested in the
flotsam of the beach, and had stopped to pick up a dam-shell which he
shied into the surf. Then he added slowly, and as if not to make a
point of the inquiry, "Is she alive?"
"Yes. Here this week. Lives up in Warehold in that big house with the
brick gate-posts."
The man walked on for some time in silence and then asked:
"You're sure the child is livin' and that the mother's name is Jane?"
"Sure? Don't I tell ye Cobden's in the crew and Miss Jane was here this
week! He's up the beach on patrol or you'd 'a' seen him when you fust
struck the Station."
The stranger quickened his steps. The information seemed to have put
new life into him again.
"Did you ever hear of a man named Bart Holt," he asked, "who used to be
'round here?" Neither man was looking at the other as they talked. The
conversation was merely to pass the time of day.
"Yes; he's the captain's son. Been dead for years. Died some'er's out
in Brazil, so I've heard my father say. Had fever or something."
The Swede walked on in silence for some minutes. Then he stopped, faced
Tod, took hold of the lapel of his coat, and said slowly, as he peered
into his eyes:
"He ain't dead, no more'n you and I be. I worked for him for two years.
He run the mines on a percentage. I got here last week, and he sent me
down to find out how the land lay. If the woman was dead I was to say
nothing and come back. If she was alive I was to tell the captain, his
father, where a letter could reach him. They had some bad blood 'twixt
'em, but he didn't tell me what it was about. He may come home here to
live, or he may go back to the mines; it's just how the old man takes
it. That's what I've got to say to him. How do you think he'll take it?"
For a moment Tod made no reply. He was trying to make up his mind what
part of the story was true and what part was skilfully put together to
provide, perhaps, additional suppers. The improbability of the whole
affair struck him with unusual force. Raising hopes of a long-lost son
in the breast of a father was an old dodge and often meant the raising
of money.
"Well, I can't say," Tod answered carelessly; he had his own opinion
now of the stranger. "You'll have to see the captain about that. If the
man's alive it's rather funny he ain't showed up all these years."
"Well, keep mum 'bout it, will ye, till I talk to him? Here comes one
o' your men."
Green's figure now loomed up out of the mist.
"Where away, Tod?" the approaching surfman cried when he joined the two.
"Captain wants me to look after the yawl," answered Tod.
"It's all right," cried Green; "I just left it. Went down a-purpose.
Who's yer friend?"
"A man the cap'n sent along to lend a hand. This is Sam Green," and he
turned to the Swede and nodded to his brother surfman.
The two shook hands. The stranger had not volunteered his name and Tod
had not asked for it. Names go for little among men who obey orders;
they serve merely as labels and are useful in a payroll, but they do
not add to the value of the owner or help his standing in any way.
"Shorty" or "Fatty" or "Big Mike" is all sufficient. What the man can
DO and how he does it, is more important.
"No use goin' to the inlet," continued Green. "I'll report to the
captain. Come along back. I tell ye it's gettin' thick," and he looked
out across the breakers, only the froth line showing in the dim
twilight.
The three turned and retraced their steps.
Tod quickened his pace and stepped into the house ahead of the others.
Not only did he intend to tell the captain of what he had heard, but he
intended to tell him at once.
Captain Holt was in his private room, sitting at his desk, busy over
his monthly report. A swinging kerosene lamp hanging from the ceiling
threw a light full on his ruddy face framed in a fringe of gray
whiskers. Tod stepped in and closed the door behind him.
"I didn't go to the inlet, sir. Green had thought of the yawl and had
looked after it; he'll report to you about it. I just heard a strange
yarn from that fellow you sent with me and I want to tell ye what it
is."
The captain laid down his pen, pushed his glasses from his eyes, and
looked squarely into Tod's face.
"He's been askin' 'bout Miss Jane Cobden and Archie, and says your son
Bart is alive and sent him down here to find out how the land lay. It's
a cock-and-bull story, but I give it to you just as I got it."
Once in the South Seas the captain awoke to look into the muzzle of a
double-barrelled shot-gun held in the hand of the leader of a mutiny.
The next instant the man was on the floor, the captain's fingers
twisted in his throat.
Tod's eyes were now the barrels of that gun. No cat-like spring
followed; only a cold, stony stare, as if he were awaking from a
concussion that had knocked the breath out of him.
"He says Bart's ALIVE!" he gasped. "Who? That feller I sent with ye?"
"Yes."
The captain's face grew livid and then flamed up, every vein standing
clear, his eyes blazing.
"He's a liar! A dirty liar! Bring him in!" Each word hissed from his
lips like an explosive.
Tod opened the door of the sitting-room and the Swede stepped in. The
captain whirled his chair suddenly and faced him. Anger, doubt, and the
flicker of a faint hope were crossing his face with the movement of
heat lightning.
"You know my son, you say?"
"I do." The answer was direct and the tone positive.
"What's his name?"
"Barton Holt. He signs it different, but that's his name."
"How old is he?" The pitch of the captain's voice had altered. He
intended to riddle the man's statement with a cross-fire of examination.
"'Bout forty, maybe forty-five. He never told
"What kind of eyes?"
"Brown, like yours."
"What kind of hair?"
"Curly. It's gray now; he had fever, and it turned."
"Where--when?" Hope and fear were now struggling for the mastery.
"Two years ago--when I first knew him; we were in hospital together."
"What's he been doin'?" The tone was softer. Hope seemed to be stronger
now.
"Mining out in Brazil."
The captain took his eyes from the face of the man and asked in
something of his natural tone of voice:
"Where is he now?"
The Swede put his hand in his inside pocket and took out a small
time-book tied around with a piece of faded tape. This he slowly
unwound, Tod's and the captain's eyes following every turn of his
fingers. Opening the book, he glanced over the leaves, found the one he
was looking for, tore it carefully from the book, and handed it to the
captain.
"That's his writing. If you want to see him send him a line to that
address. It'll reach him all right. If you don't want to see him he'll
go back with me to Rio. I don't want yer supper and I don't want yer
job. I done what I promised and that's all there is to it. Good-night,"
and he opened the door and disappeared in the darkness.
Captain Holt sat with his head on his chest looking at the floor in
front of him. The light of the banging lamp made dark shadows under his
eyebrows and under his chin whiskers. There was a firm set to his
clean-shaven lips, but the eyes burned with a gentle light; a certain
hope, positive now, seemed to be looming up in them.
Tod watched him for an instant, and said:
"What do ye think of it, cap'n?"
"I ain't made up my mind."
"Is he lyin'?"
"I don't know. Seems too good to be true. He's got some things right;
some things he ain't. Keep your mouth shut till I tell ye to open
it--to Cobden, mind ye, and everybody else. Better help Green overhaul
that line. That'll do, Fogarty."
Tod dipped his head--his sign of courteous assent--and backed out of
the room. The captain continued motionless, his eyes fixed on space.
Once he turned, picked up the paper, scrutinized the handwriting word
for word, and tossed it back on the desk. Then he rose from his seat
and began pacing the floor, stopping to gaze at a chart on the wall, at
the top of the stove, at the pendulum of the clock, surveying them
leisurely. Once he looked out of the window at the flare of light from
his swinging lamp, stencilled on the white sand and the gray line of
the dunes beyond. At each of these resting-places his face assumed a
different expression; hope, fear, and anger again swept across it as
his judgment struggled with his heart. In one of his turns up and down
the small room he laid his hand on a brick lying on the
window-sill--one that had been sent by the builders of the Station as a
sample. This he turned over carefully, examining the edges and color as
if he had seen it for the first time and had to pass judgment upon its
defects or merits. Laying it back in its place, he threw himself into
his chair again, exclaiming aloud, as if talking to someone:
"It ain't true. He'd wrote before if he were alive. He was wild and
keerless, but he never was dirt-mean, and he wouldn't a-treated me so
all these years. The Swede's a liar, I tell ye!"
Wheeling the chair around to face the desk, he picked up a pen, dipped
it into the ink, laid it back on the desk, picked it up again, opened a
drawer on his right, took from it a sheet of official paper, and wrote
a letter of five lines. This he enclosed in the envelope, directed to
the name on the slip of paper. Then he opened the door.
"Fogarty."
"Yes, cap'n."
"Take this to the village and drop it in the post yourself. The
weather's clearin', and you won't be wanted for a while," and he strode
out and joined his men.
CHAPTER XIX
THE BREAKING OF THE DAWN
September weather on Barnegat beach! Fine gowns and fine hats on the
wide piazzas of Beach Haven! Too cool for bathing, but not too cool to
sit on the sand and throw pebbles and loll under kindly umbrellas; air
fresh and bracing, with a touch of June in it; skies full of
mares'-tails--slips of a painter's brush dragged flat across the film
of blue; sea gone to rest; not a ripple, no long break of the surf,
only a gentle lift and fall like the breathing of a sleeping child.
Uncle Isaac shook his head when he swept his eye round at all this
loveliness; then he turned on his heel and took a look at the aneroid
fastened to the wall of the sitting-room of the Life-Saving Station.
The arrow showed a steady shrinkage. The barometer had fallen six
points.
"What do ye think, Captain Holt?" asked the old surfman.
"I ain't thinkin', Polhemus; can't tell nothin' 'bout the weather this
month till the moon changes; may go on this way for a week or two, or
it may let loose and come out to the sou'-east I've seen these dog-days
last till October."
Again Uncle Isaac shook his head, and this time kept his peace; now
that his superior officer had spoken he had no further opinion to
express.
Sam Green dropped his feet to the floor, swung himself over to the
barometer, gazed at it for a moment, passed out of the door, swept his
eye around, and resumed his seat--tilted back against the wall. What
his opinion might be was not for publication--not in the captain's
hearing.
Captain Holt now consulted the glass, picked up his cap bearing the
insignia of his rank, and went out through the kitchen to the land side
of the house. The sky and sea--feathery clouds and still, oily
flatness--did not interest him this September morning. It was the
rolling dune that caught his eye, and the straggly path that threaded
its way along the marshes and around and beyond the clump of scrub
pines and bushes until it was lost in the haze that hid the village.
This land inspection had been going on for a month, and always when Tod
was returning from the post-office with the morning mail. The men had
noticed it, but no one had given vent to his thoughts.
Tod, of course, knew the cause of the captain's impatience, but no one
of the others did, not even Archie; time enough for that when the
Swede's story was proved true. If the fellow had lied that was an end
to it; if he had told the truth Bart would answer, and the mystery be
cleared up. This same silence had been maintained toward Jane and the
doctor; better not raise hopes he could not verify--certainly not in
Jane's breast.
Not that he had much hope himself; he dared not hope. Hope meant a prop
to his old age; hope meant joy to Jane, who would welcome the prodigal;
hope meant relief to the doctor, who could then claim his own; hope
meant redemption for Lucy, a clean name for Archie, and honor to
himself and his only son.
No wonder, then, that he watched for an answer to his letter with
feverish impatience. His own missive had been blunt and to the point,
asking the direct question: "Are you alive or dead, and if alive, why
did you fool me with that lie about your dying of fever in a hospital
and keep me waiting all these years?" Anything more would have been
superfluous in the captain's judgment--certainly until he received some
more definite information as to whether the man was his son.
Half a dozen times this lovely September morning the captain had
strolled leisurely out of the back door and had mounted the low hillock
for a better view. Suddenly a light flashed in his face, followed by a
look in his eyes that they had not known for weeks--not since the Swede
left. The light came when his glance fell upon Tod's lithe figure
swinging along the road; the look kindled when he saw Tod stop and wave
his hand triumphantly over his head.
The letter had arrived!
With a movement as quick as that of a horse touched by a whip, he
started across the sand to meet the surfman.
"Guess we got it all right this time, captain," cried Tod. "It's got
the Nassau postmark, anyhow. There warn't nothin' else in the box but
the newspapers," and he handed the package to his chief.
The two walked to the house and entered the captain's office. Tod hung
back, but the captain laid his hand on his shoulder.
"Come in with me, Fogarty. Shut the door. I'll send these papers in to
the men soon's I open this."
Tod obeyed mechanically. There was a tone in the captain's voice that
was new to him. It sounded as if he were reluctant to be left alone
with the letter.
"Now hand me them spectacles."
Tod reached over and laid the glasses in his chief's hand. The captain
settled himself deliberately in his revolving chair, adjusted his
spectacles, and slit the envelope with his thumb-nail. Out came a sheet
of foolscap closely written on both sides. This he read to the end,
turning the page as carefully as if it had been a set of official
instructions, his face growing paler and paler, his mouth tight shut.
Tod stood beside him watching the lights and shadows playing across his
face. The letter was as follows:
"Nassau, No. 4 Calle Valenzuela,
"Aug. 29, 18--.
"Father: Your letter was not what I expected, although it is, perhaps,
all I deserve. I am not going into that part of it, now I know that
Lucy and my child are alive. What has been done in the past I can't
undo, and maybe I wouldn't if I could, for if I am worth anything
to-day it comes from what I have suffered; that's over now, and I won't
rake it up, but I think you would have written me some word of kindness
if you had known what I have gone through since I left you. I don't
blame you for what you did--I don't blame anybody; all I want now is to
get back home among the people who knew me when I was a boy, and try
and make up for the misery I have caused you and the Cobdens. I would
have done this before, but it has only been for the last two years that
I have had any money. I have got an interest in the mine now and am
considerably ahead, and I can do what I have always determined to do if
I ever had the chance and means--come home to Lucy and the child; it
must be big now--and take them back with me to Bolivia, where I have a
good home and where, in a few years, I shall be able to give them
everything they need. That's due to her and to the child, and it's due
to you; and if she'll come I'll do my best to make her happy while she
lives. I heard about five years ago from a man who worked for a short
time in Farguson's ship-yard how she was suffering, and what names the
people called the child, and my one thought ever since has been to do
the decent thing by both. I couldn't then, for I was living in a hut
back in the mountains a thousand miles from the coast, or tramping from
place to place; so I kept still. He told me, too, how you felt toward
me, and I didn't want to come and have bad blood between us, and so I
stayed on. When Olssen Strom, my foreman, sailed for Perth Amboy, where
they are making some machinery for the company, I thought I'd try
again, so I sent him to find out. One thing in your letter is wrong. I
never went to the hospital with yellow fever; some of the men had it
aboard ship, and I took one of them to the ward the night I ran away.
The doctor at the hospital wanted my name, and I gave it, and this may
have been how they thought it was me, but I did not intend to deceive
you or anybody else, nor cover up any tracks. Yes, father, I'm coming
home. If you'll hold out your hand to me I'll take it gladly. I've had
a hard time since I left you; you'd forgive me if you knew how hard it
has been. I haven't had anybody out here to care whether I lived or
died, and I would like to see how it feels. But if you don't I can't
help it. My hope is that Lucy and the boy will feel differently. There
is a steamer sailing from here next Wednesday; she goes direct to
Amboy, and you may expect me on her. Your son,
"Barton."
"It's him, Tod," cried the captain, shaking the letter over his head;
"it's him!" The tears stood in his eyes now, his voice trembled; his
iron nerve was giving way. "Alive, and comin' home! Be here next week!
Keep the door shut, boy, till I pull myself together. Oh, my God, Tod,
think of it! I haven't had a day's peace since I druv him out nigh on
to twenty year ago. He hurt me here"--and he pointed to his
breast--"where I couldn't forgive him. But it's all over now. He's come
to himself like a man, and he's square and honest, and he's goin' to
stay home till everything is straightened out. O God! it can't be true!
it CAN'T be true!"
He was sobbing now, his face hidden by his wrist and the cuff of his
coat, the big tears striking his pea-jacket and bounding off. It had
been many years since these springs had yielded a drop--not when
anybody could see. They must have scalded his rugged cheeks as molten
metal scalds a sand-pit.
Tod stood amazed. The outburst was a revelation. He had known the
captain ever since he could remember, but always as an austere,
exacting man.
"I'm glad, captain," Tod said simply; "the men'll be glad, too. Shall I
tell 'em?"
The captain raised his head.
"Wait a minute, son." His heart was very tender, all discipline was
forgotten now; and then he had known Tod from his boyhood. "I'll go
myself and tell 'em," and he drew his hand across his eyes as if to dry
them. "Yes, tell 'em. Come, I'll go 'long with ye and tell 'em myself.
I ain't 'shamed of the way I feel, and the men won't be 'shamed
neither."
The sitting-room was full when he entered. Dinner had been announced by
Morgan, who was cook that week, by shouting the glad tidings from his
place beside the stove, and the men were sitting about in their chairs.
Two fishermen who had come for their papers occupied seats against the
wall.
The captain walked to the corner of the table, stood behind his own
chair and rested the knuckles of one hand on the white oilcloth. The
look on his face attracted every eye. Pausing for a moment, he turned
to Polhemus and spoke to him for the others:
"Isaac, I got a letter just now. Fogarty brought it over. You knew my
boy Bart, didn't ye, the one that's been dead nigh on to twenty years?"
The old surfman nodded, his eyes still fastened on the captain. This
calling him "Isaac" was evidence that something personal and unusual
was coming. The men, too, leaned forward in attention; the story of
Bart's disappearance and death had been discussed up and down the coast
for years.
"Well, he's alive," rejoined the captain with a triumphant tone in his
voice, "and he'll be here in a week--comin' to Amboy on a steamer.
There ain't no mistake about it; here's his letter."
The announcement was received in dead silence. To be surprised was not
characteristic of these men, especially over a matter of this kind.
Death was a part of their daily experience, and a resurrection neither
extraordinary nor uncommon. They were glad for the captain, if the
captain was glad--and he, evidently was. But what did Bart's turning up
at this late day mean? Had his money given out, or was he figuring to
get something out of his father--something he couldn't get as long as
he remained dead?
The captain continued, his voice stronger and with a more positive ring
in it:
"He's part owner in a mine now, and he's comin' home to see me and to
straighten out some things he's interested in." It was the first time
in nearly twenty years that he had ever been able to speak of his son
with pride.
A ripple of pleasure went through the room. If the prodigal was
bringing some money with him and was not to be a drag on the captain,
that put a new aspect on the situation. In that case the father was to
be congratulated.
"Well, that's a comfort to you, captain," cried Uncle Isaac in a cheery
tone. "A good son is a good thing. I never had one, dead or alive, but
I'd 'a' loved him if I had had. I'm glad for you, Captain Nat, and I
know the men are." (Polhemus's age and long friendship gave him this
privilege. Then, of course, the occasion was not an official one.)
"Been at the mines, did ye say, captain?" remarked Green. Not that it
was of any interest to him; merely to show his appreciation of the
captain's confidence. This could best be done by prolonging the
conversation.
"Yes, up in the mountains of Brazil some'er's, I guess, though he don't
say," answered the captain in a tone that showed that the subject was
still open for discussion.
Mulligan now caught the friendly ball and tossed it back 'with:
"I knowed a feller once who was in Brazil--so he said. Purty hot down
there, ain't it, captain?"
"Yes; on the coast. I ain't never been back in the interior."
Tod kept silent. It was not his time to speak, nor would it be proper
for him, nor necessary. His chief knew his opinion and sympathies and
no word of his could add to their sincerity.
Archie was the only man in the room, except Uncle Isaac, who regarded
the announcement as personal to the captain. Boys without fathers and
fathers without boys had been topics which had occupied his mind ever
since he could remember. That this old man had found one of his own
whom he loved and whom he wanted to get his arms around, was an
inspiring thought to Archie.
"There's no one happier than I am, captain," he burst out
enthusiastically. "I've often heard of your son, and of his going away
and of your giving him up for dead. I'm mighty glad for you," and he
grasped his chief's hand and shook it heartily.
As the lad's fingers closed around the rough hand of the captain a
furtive look flashed from out Morgan's eyes. It was directed to
Parks--they were both Barnegat men--and was answered by that surfman
with a slow-falling wink. Tod saw it, and his face flushed. Certain
stories connected with Archie rose in his mind; some out of his
childhood, others since he had joined the crew.
The captain's eyes filled as he shook the boy's hand, but he made no
reply to Archie's outburst. Pausing for a moment, as if willing to
listen to any further comments, and finding that no one else had any
word for him, he turned on his heel and reentered his office.
Once inside, he strode to the window and looked out on the dunes, his
big hands hooked behind his back, his eyes fixed on vacancy.
"It won't be long, now, Archie, not long, my lad," he said in a low
voice, speaking aloud to himself. "I kin say you're my grandson out
loud when Bart comes, and nothin' kin or will stop me! And now I kin
tell Miss Jane."
Thrusting the letter into his inside pocket, he picked up his cap, and
strode across the dune in the direction of the new hospital.
Jane was in one of the wards when the captain sent word to her to come
to the visiting-room. She had been helping the doctor in an important
operation. The building was but half way between the Station and
Warehold, which made it easier for the captain to keep his eye on the
sea should there be any change in the weather.
Jane listened to the captain's outburst covering the announcement that
Bart was alive without a comment. Her face paled and her breathing came
short, but she showed no signs of either joy or sorrow. She had faced
too many surprises in her life to be startled at anything. Then again,
Bart alive or dead could make no difference now in either her own or
Lucy's future.
The captain continued, his face brightening, his voice full of hope:
"And your troubles are all over now, Miss Jane; your name will be
cleared up, and so will Archie's, and the doctor'll git his own, and
Lucy kin look everybody in the face. See what Bart says," and he handed
her the open letter.
Jane read it word by word to the end and handed it back to the captain.
Once in the reading she had tightened her grasp on her chair as if to
steady herself, but she did not flinch; she even read some sentences
twice, so that she might be sure of their meaning.
In his eagerness the captain had not caught the expression of agony
that crossed her face as her mind, grasping the purport of the letter,
began to measure the misery that would follow if Bart's plan was
carried out.
"I knew how ye'd feel," he went on, "and I've been huggin' myself ever
since it come when I thought how happy ye'd be when I told ye; but I
ain't so sure 'bout Lucy. What do you think? Will she do what Bart
wants?"
"No," said Jane in a quiet, restrained voice; "she will not do it."
"Why?" said the captain in a surprised tone. He was not accustomed to
be thwarted in anything he had fixed his mind upon, and he saw from
Jane's expression that her own was in opposition.
"Because I won't permit it."
The captain leaned forward and looked at Jane in astonishment.
"You won't permit it!"
"No, I won't permit it."
"Why?" The word came from the captain as if it had been shot from a gun.
"Because it would not be right." Her eyes were still fixed on the
captain's.
"Well, ain't it right that he should make some amends for what he's
done?" he retorted with increasing anger. "When he said he wouldn't
marry her I druv him out; now he says he's sorry and wants to do
squarely by her and my hand's out to him. She ain't got nothin' in her
life that's doin' her any good. And that boy's got to be baptized right
and take his father's name, Archie Holt, out loud, so everybody kin
hear."
Jane made no answer except to shake her head. Her eyes were still on
the captain's, but her mind was neither on him nor on what fell from
his lips. She was again confronting that spectre which for years had
lain buried and which the man before her was exorcising back to life.
The captain sprang from his seat and stood before her; the words now
poured from his lips in a torrent.
"And you'll git out from this death blanket you been sleepin' under,
bearin' her sin; breakin' the doctor's heart and your own; and Archie
kin hold his head up then and say he's got a father. You ain't heard
how the boys talk 'bout him behind his back. Tod Fogarty's stuck to
him, but who else is there 'round here? We all make mistakes; that's
what half the folks that's livin' do. Everything's been a lie--nothin'
but lies--for near twenty years. You've lived a lie motherin' this boy
and breakin' your heart over the whitest man that ever stepped in shoe
leather. Doctor John's lived a lie, tellin' folks he wanted to devote
himself to his hospital when he'd rather live in the sound o' your
voice and die a pauper than run a college anywhere else. Lucy has lived
a lie, and is livin' it yet--and LIKES IT, TOO, that's the worst of it.
And I been muzzled all these years; mad one minute and wantin' to twist
his neck, and the next with my eyes runnin' tears that the only boy I
got was lyin' out among strangers. The only one that's honest is the
little Pond Lily. She ain't got nothin' to hide and you see it in her
face. Her father was square and her mother's with her and nothin' can't
touch her and don't. Let's have this out. I'm tired of it--"
The captain was out of breath now, his emotions still controlling him,
his astonishment at the unexpected opposition from the woman of all
others on whose assistance he most relied unabated.
Jane rose from her chair and stood facing him, a great light in her
eyes:
"No! No! NO! A thousand times, no! You don't know Lucy; I do. What you
want done now should have been done when Archie was born. It was my
fault. I couldn't see her suffer. I loved her too much. I thought to
save her, I didn't care how. It would have been better for her if she
had faced her sin then and taken the consequences; better for all of
us. I didn't think so then, and it has taken me years to find it out. I
began to be conscious of it first in her marriage, then when she kept
on living her lie with her husband, and last when she deserted Ellen
and went off to Beach Haven alone--that broke my heart, and my mistake
rose up before me, and I KNEW!"
The captain stared at her in astonishment. He could hardly credit his
ears.
"Yes, better, if she'd faced it. She would have lived here then under
my care, and she might have loved her child as I have done. Now she has
no tie, no care, no responsibility, no thought of anything but the
pleasures of the moment. I have tried to save her, and I have only
helped to ruin her."
"Make her settle down, then, and face the music!" blurted out the
captain, resuming his seat. "Bart warn't all bad; he was only young and
foolish. He'll take care of her. It ain't never too late to begin to
turn honest. Bart wants to begin; make her begin, too. He's got money
now to do it; and she kin live in South America same's she kin here.
She's got no home anywhere. She don't like it here, and never did; you
kin see that from the way she swings 'round from place to place. MAKE
her face it, I tell ye. You been too easy with her all your life; pull
her down now and keep her nose p'inted close to the compass."
"You do not know of what you talk," Jane answered, her eyes blazing.
"She hates the past; hates everything connected with it; hates the very
name of Barton Holt. Never once has she mentioned it since her return.
She never loved Archie; she cared no more for him than a bird that has
dropped its young out of its nest. Besides, your plan is impossible.
Marriage does not condone a sin. The power to rise and rectify the
wrong lies in the woman. Lucy has not got it in her, and she never will
have it. Part of it is her fault; a large part of it is mine. She has
lived this lie all these years, and I have only myself to blame. I have
taught her to live it. I began it when I carried her away from here; I
should have kept her at home and had her face the consequences of her
sin then. I ought to have laid Archie in her arms and kept him there. I
was a coward and could not, and in my fear I destroyed the only thing
that could have saved her--the mother-love. Now she will run her
course. She's her own mistress; no one can compel her to do anything."
The captain raised his clenched hand:
"Bart will, when he comes."
"How?"
"By claimin' the boy and shamin' her before the world, if she don't.
She liked him well enough when he was a disgrace to himself and to me,
without a dollar to his name. What ails him now, when he comes back and
owns up like a man and wants to do the square thing, and has got money
enough to see it through? She's nothin' but a THING, if she knew it,
till this disgrace's wiped off'n her. By God, Miss Jane, I tell you
this has got to be put through just as Bart wants it, and quick!"
Jane stepped closer and laid her hand on the captain's arm. The look in
her eyes, the low, incisive, fearless ring in her voice, overawed him.
Her courage astounded him. This side of her character was a revelation.
Under their influence he became silent and humbled--as a boisterous
advocate is humbled by the measured tones of a just judge.
"It is not my friend, Captain Nat, who is talking now. It is the father
who is speaking. Think for a moment. Who has borne the weight of this,
you or I? You had a wayward son whom the people here think you drove
out of your home for gambling on Sunday. No other taint attaches to him
or to you. Dozens of other sons and fathers have done the same. He
returns a reformed man and lives out his life in the home he left.
"I had a wayward sister who forgot her mother, me, her womanhood, and
herself, and yet at whose door no suspicion of fault has been laid. I
stepped in and took the brunt and still do. I did this for my father's
name and for my promise to him and for my love of her. To her child I
have given my life. To him I am his mother and will always be--always,
because I will stand by my fault. That is a redemption in itself, and
that is the only thing that saves me from remorse. You and I, outside
of his father and mother, are the only ones living that know of his
parentage. The world has long since forgotten the little they
suspected. Let it rest; no good could come--only suffering and misery.
To stir it now would only open old wounds and, worst of all, it would
make a new one."
"In you?"
"No, worse than that. My heart is already scarred all over; no fresh
wound would hurt."
"In the doctor?"
"Yes and no. He has never asked the truth and I have never told him."
"Who, then?"
"In little Ellen. Let us keep that one flower untouched."
The captain rested his head in his hand, and for some minutes made no
answer. Ellen was the apple of his eye.
"But if Bart insists?"
"He won't insist when he sees Lucy. She is no more the woman that he
loved and wronged than I am. He would not know her if he met her
outside this house."
"What shall I do?"
"Nothing. Let matters take their course. If he is the man you think he
is he will never break the silence."
"And you will suffer on--and the doctor?"
Jane bowed her head and the tears sprang to her eyes.
"Yes, always; there is nothing else to do."
CHAPTER XX
THE UNDERTOW
Within the month a second letter was handed to the captain by Tod, now
regularly installed as postman. It was in answer to one of Captain
Holt's which he had directed to the expected steamer and which had met
the exile on his arrival. It was dated "Amboy," began "My dear father,"
and was signed "Your affectionate son, Barton."
This conveyed the welcome intelligence--welcome to the father--that the
writer would be detained a few days in Amboy inspecting the new
machinery, after which he would take passage for Barnegat by the Polly
Walters, Farguson's weekly packet. Then these lines followed: "It will
be the happiest day of my life when I can come into the inlet at high
tide and see my home in the distance."
Again the captain sought Jane.
She was still at the hospital, nursing some shipwrecked men--three with
internal injuries--who had been brought in from Forked River Station,
the crew having rescued them the week before. Two of the regular
attendants were worn out with the constant nursing, and so Jane
continued her vigils.
She had kept at her work--turning neither to the right nor to the left,
doing her duty with the bravery and patience of a soldier on the
firing-line, knowing that any moment some stray bullet might end her
usefulness. She would not dodge, nor would she cower; the danger was no
greater than others she had faced, and no precaution, she knew, could
save her. Her lips were still sealed, and would be to the end; some
tongue other than her own must betray her sister and her trust. In the
meantime she would wait and bear bravely whatever was sent to her.
Jane was alone when the captain entered, the doctor having left the
room to begin his morning inspection. She was in her gray-cotton
nursing-dress, her head bound about with a white kerchief. The pathos
of her face and the limp, tired movement of her figure would have been
instantly apparent to a man less absorbed in his own affairs than the
captain.
"He'll be here to-morrow or next day!" he cried, as he advanced to
where she sat at her desk in the doctor's office, the same light in his
eyes and the same buoyant tone in his voice, his ruddy face aglow with
his walk from the station.
"You have another letter then?" she said in a resigned tone, as if she
had expected it and was prepared to meet its consequences. In her
suffering she had even forgotten her customary welcome of him--for
whatever his attitude and however gruff he might be, she never forgot
the warm heart beneath.
"Yes, from Amboy," panted the captain, out of breath with his quick
walk, dragging a chair beside Jane's desk as he spoke. "He got mine
when the steamer come in. He's goin' to take the packet so he kin bring
his things--got a lot o' them, he says. And he loves the old home,
too--he says so--you kin read it for yourself." As he spoke he
unbuttoned his jacket, and taking Bart's letter from its inside pocket,
laid his finger on the paragraph and held it before her face.
"Have you talked about it to anybody?" Jane asked calmly; she hardly
glanced at the letter.
"Only to the men; but it's all over Barnegat. A thing like that's
nothin' but a cask o' oil overboard and the bung out--runs
everywhere--no use tryin' to stop it." He was in the chair now, his
arms on the edge of the desk.
"But you've said nothing to anybody about Archie and Lucy, and what
Bart intends to do when he comes, have you?" Jane inquired in some
alarm.
"Not a word, and won't till ye see him. She's more your sister than she
is his wife, and you got most to say 'bout Archie, and should. You been
everything to him. When you've got through I'll take a hand, but not
before." The captain always spoke the truth, and meant it; his word
settled at once any anxieties she might have had on that score.
"What have you decided to do?" She was not looking at him as she spoke;
she was toying with a penholder that lay before her on the desk,
apparently intent on its construction.
"I'm goin' to meet him at Farguson's ship-yard when the Polly comes
in," rejoined the captain in a positive tone, as if his mind had long
since been made up regarding details, and he was reciting them for her
guidance--"and take him straight to my house, and then come for you.
You kin have it out together. Only one thing, Miss Jane"--here his
voice changed and something of his old quarter-deck manner showed
itself in his face and gestures--"if he's laid his course and wants to
keep hold of the tiller I ain't goin' to block his way and he shall
make his harbor, don't make no difference who or what gits in the
channel. Ain't neither of us earned any extry pay for the way we've run
this thing. You've got Lucy ashore flounderin' 'round in the fog, and I
had no business to send him off without grub or compass. If he wants to
steer now he'll STEER. I don't want you to make no mistake 'bout this,
and you'll excuse me if I put it plain."
Jane put her hand to her head and looked out of the window toward the
sea. All her life seemed to be narrowing to one small converging path
which grew smaller and smaller as she looked down its perspective.
"I understand, captain," she sighed. All the fight was out of her; she
was like one limping across a battlefield, shield and spear gone, the
roads unknown.
The door opened and the doctor entered. His quick, sensitive eye
instantly caught the look of despair on Jane's face and the air of
determination on the captain's. What had happened he did not know, but
something to hurt Jane; of that he was positive. He stepped quickly
past the captain without accosting him, rested his hand on Jane's
shoulder, and said in a tender, pleading tone:
"You are tired and worn out; get your cloak and hat and I'll drive you
home." Then he turned to the captain: "Miss Jane's been up for three
nights. I hope you haven't been worrying her with anything you could
have spared her from--at least until she got rested," and he frowned at
the captain.
"No, I ain't and wouldn't. I been a-tellin' her of Bart's comin' home.
That ain't nothin' to worry over--that's something to be glad of. You
heard about it, of course?"
"Yes, Morgan told me. Twenty years will make a great difference in
Bart. It must have been a great surprise to you, captain."
Both Jane and the captain tried to read the doctor's face, and both
failed. Doctor John might have been commenting on the weather or some
equally unimportant topic, so light and casual was his tone.
He turned to Jane again.
"Come, dear--please," he begged. It was only when he was anxious about
her physical condition or over some mental trouble that engrossed her
that he spoke thus. The words lay always on the tip of his tongue, but
he never let them fall unless someone was present to overhear.
"You are wrong, John," she answered, bridling her shoulders as if to
reassure him. "I am not tired--I have a little headache, that's all."
With the words she pressed both hands to her temples and smoothed back
her hair--a favorite gesture when her brain fluttered against her skull
like a caged pigeon. "I will go home, but not now--this afternoon,
perhaps. Come for me then, please," she added, looking up into his face
with a grateful expression.
The captain picked up his cap and rose from his seat. One of his dreams
was the marriage of these two. Episodes like this only showed him the
clearer what lay in their hearts. The doctor's anxiety and Jane's
struggle to bear her burdens outside of his touch and help only
confirmed the old sea-dog in his determination. When Bart had his way,
he said to himself, all this would cease.
"I'll be goin' along," he said, looking from one to the other and
putting on his cap. "See you later, Miss Jane. Morgan's back ag'in to
work, thanks to you, doctor. That was a pretty bad sprain he had--he's
all right now, though; went on practice yesterday. I'm glad of
it--equinox is comin' on and we can't spare a man, or half a one, these
days. May be blowin' a livin' gale 'fore the week's out. Good-by, Miss
Jane; good-by, doctor." And he shut the door behind him.
With the closing of the door the sound of wheels was heard--a crisp,
crunching sound--and then the stamping of horses' feet. Max Feilding's
drag, drawn by the two grays and attended by the diminutive Bones, had
driven up and now stood beside the stone steps of the front door of the
hospital. The coats of the horses shone like satin and every hub and
plate glistened in the sunshine. On the seat, the reins in one pretty
gloved hand, a gold-mounted whip in the other, sat Lucy. She was
dressed in her smartest driving toilette--a short yellow-gray jacket
fastened with big pearl buttons and a hat bound about with the breast
of a tropical bird. Her eyes were dancing, her cheeks like ripe peaches
with all the bloom belonging to them in evidence, and something more,
and her mouth all curves and dimples.
When the doctor reached her side--he had heard the sound of the wheels,
and looking through the window had caught sight of the drag--she had
risen from her perch and was about to spring clear of the equipage
without waiting for the helping hand of either Bones or himself. She
was still a girl in her suppleness.
"No, wait until I can give you my hand," he said, hurrying toward her.
"No--I don't want your hand, Sir Esculapius. Get out of the way,
please--I'm going to jump! There--wasn't that lovely?" And she landed
beside him. "Where's sister? I've been all the way to Yardley, and
Martha tells me she has been here almost all the week. Oh, what a
dreadful, gloomy-looking place! How many people have you got here
anyhow, cooped up in this awful-- Why, it's like an almshouse," she
added, looking about her. "Where did you say sister was?"
"I'll go and call her," interpolated the doctor when he could get a
chance to speak.
"No, you won't do anything of the kind; I'll go myself. You've had her
all the week, and now it's my turn."
Jane had by this time closed the lid of her desk, had moved out into
the hall, and now stood on the top step of the entrance awaiting Lucy's
ascent. In her gray gown, simple head-dress, and resigned face, the
whole framed in the doorway with its connecting background of dull
stone, she looked like one of Correggio's Madonnas illumining some old
cloister wall.
"Oh, you dear, DEAR sister!" Lucy cried, running up the short steps to
meet her. "I'm so glad I've found you; I was afraid you were tying up
somebody's broken head or rocking a red-flannelled baby." With this she
put her arms around Jane's neck and kissed her rapturously.
"Where can we talk? Oh, I've got such a lot of things to tell you! You
needn't come, you dear, good doctor. Please take yourself off,
sir--this way, and out the gate, and don't you dare come back until I'm
gone."
My Lady of Paris was very happy this morning; bubbling over with
merriment--a condition that set the doctor to thinking. Indeed, he had
been thinking most intently about my lady ever since he had heard of
Bart's resurrection. He had also been thinking of Jane and Archie.
These last thoughts tightened his throat; they had also kept him awake
the past few nights.
The doctor bowed with one of his Sir Roger bows, lifted his hat first
to Jane in all dignity and reverence, and then to Lucy with a
flourish--keeping up outwardly the gayety of the occasion and seconding
her play of humor--walked to the shed where his horse was tied and
drove off. He knew these moods of Lucy's; knew they were generally
assumed and that they always concealed some purpose--one which neither
a frown nor a cutting word nor an outbreak of temper would accomplish;
but that fact rarely disturbed him. Then, again, he was never anything
but courteous to her--always remembering Jane's sacrifice and her pride
in her.
"And now, you dear, let us go somewhere where we can be quiet," Lucy
cried, slipping her arm around Jane's slender waist and moving toward
the hall.
With the entering of the bare room lined with bottles and cases of
instruments her enthusiasm began to cool. Up to this time she had done
all the talking. Was Jane tired out nursing? she asked herself; or did
she still feel hurt over her refusal to take Ellen with her for the
summer? She had remembered for days afterward the expression on her
face when she told of her plans for the summer and of her leaving Ellen
at Yardley; but she knew this had all passed out of her sister's mind.
This was confirmed by Jane's continued devotion to Ellen and her many
kindnesses to the child. It was true that whenever she referred to her
separation from Ellen, which she never failed to do as a sort of probe
to be assured of the condition of Jane's mind, there was no direct
reply--merely a changing of the topic, but this had only proved Jane's
devotion in avoiding a subject which might give her beautiful sister
pain. What, then, was disturbing her to-day? she asked herself with a
slight chill at her heart. Then she raised her head and assumed a
certain defiant air. Better not notice anything Jane said or did; if
she was tired she would get rested and if she was provoked with her she
would get pleased again. It was through her affections and her
conscience that she could hold and mould her sister Jane--never through
opposition or fault-finding. Besides, the sun was too bright and the
air too delicious, and she herself too blissfully happy to worry over
anything. In time all these adverse moods would pass out of Jane's
heart as they had done a thousand times before.
"Oh, you dear, precious thing!" Lucy began again, all these matters
having been reviewed, settled, and dismissed from her mind in the time
it took her to cross the room. "I'm so sorry for you when I think of
you shut up here with these dreadful people; but I know you wouldn't be
happy anywhere else," she laughed in a meaning way. (The bringing in of
the doctor even by implication was always a good move.) "And Martha
looks so desolate. Dear, you really ought to be more with her; but for
my darling Ellen I don't know what Martha would do. I miss the child
so, and yet I couldn't bear to take her from the dear old woman."
Jane made no answer. Lucy had found a chair now and had laid her
gloves, parasol, and handkerchief on another beside her. Jane had
resumed her seat; her slender neck and sloping shoulders and sparely
modelled head with its simply dressed hair--she had removed the
kerchief--in silhouette against the white light of the window.
"What is it all about, Lucy?" she asked in a grave tone after a slight
pause in Lucy's talk.
"I have a great secret to tell you--one you mustn't breathe until I
give you leave."
She was leaning back in her chair now, her eyes trying to read Jane's
thoughts. Her bare hands were resting in her lap, the jewels flashing
from her fingers; about her dainty mouth there hovered, like a
butterfly, a triumphant smile; whether this would alight and spread its
wings into radiant laughter, or disappear, frightened by a gathering
frown, depended on what would drop from her sister's lips.
Jane looked up. The strong light from the window threw her head into
shadow; only the slight fluff of her hair glistened in the light. This
made an aureole which framed the Madonna's face.
"Well, Lucy, what is it?" she asked again simply.
"Max is going to be married."
"When?" rejoined Jane in the same quiet tone. Her mind was not on Max
or on anything connected with him. It was on the shadow slowly settling
upon all she loved.
"In December," replied Lucy, a note of triumph in her voice, her smile
broadening.
"Who to?"
"Me."
With the single word a light ripple escaped from her lips.
Jane straightened herself in her chair. A sudden faintness passed over
her--as if she had received a blow in the chest, stopping her breath.
"You mean--you mean--that you have promised to marry Max Feilding!" she
gasped.
"That's exactly what I do mean."
The butterfly smile about Lucy's mouth had vanished. That straightening
of the lips and slow contraction of the brow which Jane knew so well
was taking its place. Then she added nervously, unclasping her hands
and picking up her gloves:
"Aren't you pleased?"
"I don't know," answered Jane, gazing about the room with a dazed look,
as if seeking for a succor she could not find. "I must think. And so
you have promised to marry Max!" she repeated, as if to herself. "And
in December." For a brief moment she paused, her eyes again downcast;
then she raised her voice quickly and in a more positive tone asked,
"And what do you mean to do with Ellen?"
"That's what I want to talk to you about, you dear thing." Lucy had
come prepared to ignore any unfavorable criticisms Jane might make and
to give her only sisterly affection in return. "I want to give her to
you for a few months more," she added blandly, "and then we will take
her abroad with us and send her to school either in Paris or Geneva,
where her grandmother can be near her. In a year or two she will come
to us in Paris."
Jane made no answer.
Lucy moved uncomfortably in her chair. She had never, in all her life,
seen her sister in any such mood. She was not so much astonished over
her lack of enthusiasm regarding the engagement; that she had
expected--at least for the first few days, until she could win her over
to her own view. It was the deadly poise--the icy reserve that
disturbed her. This was new.
"Lucy!" Again Jane stopped and looked out of the window. "You remember
the letter I wrote you some years ago, in which I begged you to tell
Ellen's father about Archie and Barton Holt?"
Lucy's eyes flashed.
"Yes, and you remember my answer, don't you?" she answered sharply.
"What a fool I would have been, dear, to have followed your advice!"
Jane went straight on without heeding the interruption or noticing
Lucy's changed tone.
"Do you intend to tell Max?"
"I tell Max! My dear, good sister, are you crazy! What should I tell
Max for? All that is dead and buried long ago! Why do you want to dig
up all these graves? Tell Max--that aristocrat! He's a dear, sweet
fellow, but you don't know him. He'd sooner cut his hand off than marry
me if he knew!"
"I'm afraid you will have to--and this very day," rejoined Jane in a
calm, measured tone.
Lucy moved uneasily in her chair; her anxiety had given way to a
certain ill-defined terror. Jane's voice frightened her.
"Why?" she asked in a trembling voice.
"Because Captain Holt or someone else will, if you don't."
"What right has he or anybody else to meddle with my affairs?" Lucy
retorted in an indignant tone.
"Because he cannot help it. I intended to keep the news from you for a
time, but from what you have just told me you had best hear it now.
Barton Holt is alive. He has been in Brazil all these years, in the
mines. He has written to his father that he is coming home."
All the color faded from Lucy's cheeks.
"Bart! Alive! Coming home! When?"
"He will be here day after to-morrow; he is at Amboy, and will come by
the weekly packet. What I can do I will. I have worked all my life to
save you, and I may yet, but it seems now as if I had reached the end
of my rope."
"Who said so? Where did you hear it? It CAN'T be true!"
Jane shook her head. "I wish it was not true--but it is--every word of
it. I have read his letter."
Lucy sank back in her chair, her cheeks livid, a cold perspiration
moistening her forehead. Little lines that Jane had never noticed began
to gather about the corners of her mouth; her eyes were wide open, with
a strained, staring expression. What she saw was Max's eyes looking
into her own, that same cold, cynical expression on his face she had
sometimes seen when speaking of other women he had known.
"What's he coming for?" Her voice was thick and barely audible.
"To claim his son."
"He--says--he'll--claim--Archie--as--his--son!" she gasped. "I'd like
to see any man living dare to--"
"But he can TRY, Lucy--no one can prevent that, and in the trying the
world will know."
Lucy sprang from her seat and stood over her sister:
"I'll deny it!" she cried in a shrill voice; "and face him down. He
can't prove it! No one about here can!"
"He may have proofs that you couldn't deny, and that I would not if I
could. Captain Holt knows everything, remember," Jane replied in her
same calm voice.
"But nobody else does but you and Martha!" The thought gave her renewed
hope--the only ray she saw.
"True; but the captain is enough. His heart is set on Archie's name
being cleared, and nothing that I can do or say will turn him from his
purpose. Do you know what he means to do?"
"No," she replied faintly, more terror than curiosity in her voice.
"He means that you shall marry Barton, and that Archie shall be
baptized as Archibald Holt. Barton will then take you both back to
South America. A totally impossible plan, but--"
"I marry Barton Holt! Why, I wouldn't marry him if he got down on his
knees. Why, I don't even remember what he looks like! Did you ever hear
of such impudence! What is he to me?" The outburst carried with it a
certain relief.
"What he is to you is not the question. It is what YOU are to Archie!
Your sin has been your refusal to acknowledge him. Now you are brought
face to face with the consequences. The world will forgive a woman all
the rest, but never for deserting her child, and that, my dear sister,
IS PRECISELY WHAT YOU DID TO ARCHIE."
Jane's gaze was riveted on Lucy. She had never dared to put this fact
clearly before--not even to herself. Now that she was confronted with
the calamity she had dreaded all these years, truth was the only thing
that would win. Everything now must be laid bare.
Lucy lifted her terrified face, burst into tears, and reached out her
hands to Jane.
"Oh, sister,--sister!" she moaned. "What shall I do? Oh, if I had never
come home! Can't you think of some way? You have always been so
good--Oh, please! please!"
Jane drew Lucy toward her.
"I will do all I can, dear. If I fail there is only one resource left.
That is the truth, and all of it. Max can save you, and he will if he
loves you. Tell, him everything!"
CHAPTER XXI
THE MAN IN THE SLOUCH HAT
The wooden arrow on the top of the cupola of the Life-Saving Station
had had a busy night of it. With the going down of the sun the wind had
continued to blow east-southeast--its old course for weeks--and the
little sentinel, lulled into inaction, had fallen into a doze, its
feather end fixed on the glow of the twilight.
At midnight a rollicking breeze that piped from out the north caught
the sensitive vane napping, and before the dawn broke had quite tired
it out, shifting from point to point, now west, now east, now
nor'east-by-east, and now back to north again. By the time Morgan had
boiled his coffee and had cut his bacon into slivers ready for the
frying-pan the restless wind, as if ashamed of its caprices, had again
veered to the north-east, and then, as if determined ever after to lead
a better life, had pulled itself together and had at last settled down
to a steady blow from that quarter.
The needle of the aneroid fastened to the wall of the sitting-room, and
in reach of everybody's eye, had also made a night of it. In fact, it
had not had a moment's peace since Captain Holt reset its register the
day before. All its efforts for continued good weather had failed.
Slowly but surely the baffled and disheartened needle had sagged from
"Fair" to "Change," dropped back to "Storm," and before noon the next
day had about given up the fight and was in full flight for "Cyclones
and Tempests."
Uncle Isaac Polhemus, sitting at the table with one eye on his game of
dominoes (Green was his partner) and the other on the patch of sky
framed by the window, read the look of despair on the honest face of
the aneroid, and rising from his chair, a "double three" in his hand,
stepped to where the weather prophet hung.
"Sompin's comin' Sam," he said solemnly. "The old gal's got a bad
setback. Ain't none of us goin' to git a wink o' sleep to-night, or I
miss my guess. Wonder how the wind is." Here he moved to the door and
peered out. "Nor'-east and puffy, just as I thought. We're goin' to hev
some weather, Sam--ye hear?--some WEATHER!" With this he regained his
chair and joined the double three to the long tail of his successes.
Good weather or bad weather--peace or war--was all the same to Uncle
Isaac. What he wanted was the earliest news from the front.
Captain Holt took a look at the sky, the aneroid and the wind--not the
arrow; old sea-dogs know which way the wind blows without depending on
any such contrivance--the way the clouds drift, the trend of the
white-caps, the set of a distant sail, and on black, almost breathless
nights, by the feel of a wet finger held quickly in the air, the
coolest side determining the wind point.
On this morning the clouds attracted the captain's attention. They hung
low and drifted in long, straggling lines. Close to the horizon they
were ashy pale; being nearest the edge of the brimming sea, they had,
no doubt, seen something the higher and rosier-tinted clouds had
missed; something of the ruin that was going on farther down the round
of the sphere. These clouds the captain studied closely, especially a
prismatic sun-dog that glowed like a bit of rainbow snipped off by
wind-scissors, and one or two dirt spots sailing along by themselves.
During the captain's inspection Archie hove in sight, wiping his hands
with a wad of cotton waste. He and Parks had been swabbing out the
firing gun and putting the polished work of the cart apparatus in order.
"It's going to blow, captain, isn't it?" he called out. Blows were what
Archie was waiting for. So far the sea had been like a mill-pond,
except on one or two occasions, when, to the boy's great regret,
nothing came ashore.
"Looks like it. Glass's been goin' down and the wind has settled to the
nor'east. Some nasty dough-balls out there I don't like. See 'em goin'
over that three-master?"
Archie looked, nodded his head, and a certain thrill went through him.
The harder it blew the better it would suit Archie.
"Will the Polly be here to-night?" he added. "Your son's coming, isn't
he?"
"Yes; but you won't see him to-night, nor to-morrow, not till this is
over. You won't catch old Ambrose out in this weather" (Captain Ambrose
Farguson sailed the Polly). "He'll stick his nose in the basin
some'er's and hang on for a spell. I thought he'd try to make the
inlet, and I 'spected Bart here to-night till I saw the glass when I
got up. Ye can't fool Ambrose--he knows. Be two or three days now 'fore
Bart comes," he added, a look of disappointment shadowing his face.
Archie kept on to the house, and the captain, after another sweep
around, turned on his heel and reentered the sitting-room.
"Green!"
"Yes, captain." The surfman was on his feet in an instant, his ears
wide open.
"I wish you and Fogarty would look over those new Costons and see if
they're all right. And, Polhemus, perhaps you'd better overhaul them
cork jackets; some o' them straps seemed kind o' awkward on practice
yesterday--they ought to slip on easier; guess they're considerable
dried out and a little mite stiff."
Green nodded his head in respectful assent and left the room. Polhemus,
at the mention of his name, had dropped his chair legs to the floor; he
had finished his game of dominoes and had been tilted back against the
wall, awaiting the dinner-hour.
"It's goin' to blow a livin' gale o' wind, Polhemus," the captain
continued; "that's what it's goin' to do. Ye kin see it yerself. There
she comes now!"
As he spoke the windows on the sea side of the house rattled as if
shaken by the hand of a man and as quickly stopped.
"Them puffs are jest the tootin' of her horn--" this with a jerk of his
head toward the windows. "I tell ye, it looks ugly!"
Polhemus gained his feet and the two men stepped to the sash and peered
out. To them the sky was always an open book--each cloud a letter, each
mass a paragraph, the whole a warning.
"But I'm kind o' glad, Isaac." Again the captain forgot the surfman in
the friend. "As long as it's got to blow it might as well blow now and
be over. I'd kind o' set my heart on Bart's comin', but I guess I've
waited so long I kin wait a day or two more. I wrote him to come by
train, but he wrote back he had a lot o' plunder and he'd better put it
'board the Polly; and, besides, he said he kind o' wanted to sail into
the inlet like he used to when he was a boy. Then again, I couldn't
meet him; not with this weather comin' on. No--take it all in all, I'm
glad he ain't comin'."
"Well, I guess yer right, captain," answered uncle Isaac in an even
tone, as he left the room to overhaul the cork jackets. The occasion
was not one of absorbing interest to Isaac.
By the time the table was cleared and the kitchen once more in order
not only were the windows on the sea side of the house roughly shaken
by the rising gale, but the sand caught from the dunes was being
whirled against their panes. The tide, too, egged on by the storm, had
crept up the slope of the dunes, the spray drenching the grass-tufts.
At five o'clock the wind blew forty miles an hour at sundown it had
increased to fifty; at eight o'clock it bowled along at sixty. Morgan,
who had been to the village for supplies, reported that the tide was
over the dock at Barnegat and that the roof of the big bathing-house at
Beach Haven had been ripped off and landed on the piazza. He had had
all he could do to keep his feet and his basket while crossing the
marsh on his way back to the station. Then he added:
"There's a lot o' people there yit. That feller from Philadelphy who's
mashed on Cobden's aunt was swellin' around in a potato-bug suit o'
clothes as big as life." This last was given from behind his hand after
he had glanced around the room and found that Archie was absent.
At eight o'clock, when Parks and Archie left the Station to begin their
patrol, Parks was obliged to hold on to the rail of the porch to steady
himself, and Archie, being less sure of his feet, was blown against the
water-barrel before he could get his legs well under him. At the edge
of the surf the two separated for their four hours' patrol, Archie
breasting the gale on his way north, and Parks hurrying on, helped by
the wind, to the south.
At ten o'clock Parks returned. He had made his first round, and had
exchanged his brass check with the patrol at the next station. As he
mounted the sand-dune he quickened his steps, hurried to the Station,
opened the sitting-room door, found it empty, the men being in bed
upstairs awaiting their turns, and then strode on to the captain's
room, his sou'wester and tarpaulin drenched with spray and sand, his
hip-boots leaving watery tracks along the clean floor.
"Wreck ashore at No. 14, sir!" Parks called out in a voice hoarse with
fighting the wind.
The captain sprang from his cot--he was awake, his light still burning.
"Anybody drownded?"
"No, sir; got 'em all. Seven of 'em, so the patrol said. Come ashore
'bout supper-time."
"What is she?"
"A two-master from Virginia loaded with cord-wood. Surf's in bad shape,
sir; couldn't nothin' live in it afore; it's wuss now. Everything's a
bobble; turrible to see them sticks thrashin' 'round and slammin'
things."
"Didn't want no assistance, did they?"
"No, sir; they got the fust line 'round the foremast and come off in
less'n a hour; warn't none of 'em hurted."
"Is it any better outside?"
"No, sir; wuss. I ain't seen nothin' like it 'long the coast for years.
Good-night," and Parks took another hole in the belt holding his
tarpaulins together, opened the back door, walked to the edge of the
house, steadied himself against the clapboards, and boldly facing the
storm, continued his patrol.
The captain stretched himself again on his bed; he had tried to sleep,
but his brain was too active. As he lay listening to the roar of the
surf and the shrill wail of the wind, his thoughts would revert to Bart
and what his return meant; particularly to its effect on the fortunes
of the doctor, of Jane and of Lucy.
Jane's attitude continued to astound him. He had expected that Lucy
might not realize the advantages of his plan at first--not until she
had seen Bart and listened to what he had to say; but that Jane, after
the confession of her own weakness should still oppose him, was what he
could not under stand, he would keep his promise, however, to the very
letter. She should have free range to dissuade Bart from his purpose.
After that Bart should have his way. No other course was possible, and
no other course either honest or just.
Then he went over in his mind all that had happened to him since the
day he had driven Bart out into the night, and from that same House of
Refuge, too, which, strange to say, lay within sight of the Station. He
recalled his own and Bart's sufferings; his loneliness; the bitterness
of the terrible secret which had kept his mouth closed all these years,
depriving him of even the intimate companionship of his own grandson.
With this came an increased love for the boy; he again felt the warm
pressure of his hand and caught the look in his eyes the morning Archie
congratulated him so heartily on Bart's expected return, he had always
loved him; he would love him now a thousand times more when he could
put his hand on the boy's shoulder and tell him everything.
With the changing of the patrol, Tod and Polhemus taking the places of
Archie and Parks, he fell into a doze, waking with a sudden start some
hours later, springing from his bed, and as quickly turning up the lamp.
Still in his stocking feet and trousers--on nights like this the men
lie down in half their clothes--he walked to the window and peered out.
It was nearing daylight; the sky still black. The storm was at its
height; the roar of the surf incessant and the howl of the wind
deafening. Stepping into the sitting-room he glanced at the
aneroid--the needle had not advanced a point; then turning into the
hall, he mounted the steps to the lookout in the cupola, walked softly
past the door of the men's room so as not to waken the sleepers,
particularly Parks and Archie, whose cots were nearest the door--both
had had four hours of the gale and would have hours more if it
continued--and reaching the landing, pressed his face against the cool
pane and peered out.
Below him stretched a dull waste of sand hardly distinguishable in the
gloom until his eyes became accustomed to it, and beyond this the white
line of the surf, whiter than either sky or sand. This writhed and
twisted like a cobra in pain. To the north burned Barnegat Light, only
the star of its lamp visible. To the south stretched alternate bands of
sand, sky, and surf, their dividing lines lost in the night. Along this
beach, now stopping to get their breath, now slanting the brim of their
sou'westers to escape the slash of the sand and spray, strode Tod and
Polhemus, their eyes on and beyond the tumbling surf, their ears open
to every unusual sound, their Costons buttoned tight under their coats
to keep them from the wet.
Suddenly, while his eyes were searching the horizon line, now hardly
discernible in the gloom, a black mass rose from behind a cresting of
foam, see-sawed for an instant, clutched wildly at the sky, and dropped
out of sight behind a black wall of water. The next instant there
flashed on the beach below him, and to the left of the station, the red
flare of a Coston signal.
With the quickness of a cat Captain Holt sprang to the stairs shouting:
"A wreck, men, a wreck!" The next instant he had thrown aside the door
of the men's room. "Out every one of ye! Who's on the beach?" And he
looked over the cots to find the empty ones.
The men were on their feet before he had ceased speaking, Archie before
the captain's hand had left the knob of the door.
"Who's on the beach, I say?" he shouted again.
"Fogarty and Uncle Ike," someone answered.
"Polhemus! Good! All hands on the cart, men; boat can't live in that
surf. She lies to the north of us!" And he swung himself out of the
door and down the stairs.
"God help 'em, if they've got to come through that surf!" Parks said,
slinging on his coat. "The tide's just beginnin' to make flood, and all
that cord-wood'll come a-waltzin' back. Never see nothin' like it!"
The front door now burst in and another shout went ringing through the
house:
"Schooner in the breakers!"
It was Tod. He had rejoined Polhemus the moment before he flared his
light and had made a dash to rouse the men.
"I seen her, Fogarty, from the lookout," cried the captain, in answer,
grabbing his sou'wester; he was already in his hip-boots and tarpaulin.
"What is she?"
"Schooner, I guess, sir."
"Two or three masts?" asked the captain hurriedly, tightening the strap
of his sou'wester and slipping the leather thong under his gray
whiskers.
"Can't make out, sir; she come bow on. Uncle Ike see her fust." And he
sprang out after the men.
A double door thrown wide; a tangle of wild cats springing straight at
a broad-tired cart; a grappling of track-lines and handle-bars; a whirl
down the wooden incline, Tod following with the quickly lighted
lanterns; a dash along the runway, the sand cutting their cheeks like
grit from a whirling stone; over the dune, the men bracing the cart on
either side, and down the beach the crew swept in a rush to where
Polhemus stood waving his last Coston.
Here the cart stopped.
"Don't unload nothin'," shouted Polhemus. "She ain't fast; looks to me
as if she was draggin' her anchors."
Captain Holt canted the brim of his sou'wester, held his bent elbow
against his face to protect it from the cut of the wind, and looked in
the direction of the surfman's fingers. The vessel lay about a quarter
of a mile from the shore and nearer the House of Refuge than when the
captain had first seen her from the lookout. She was afloat and
drifting broadside on to the coast. Her masts were still standing and
she seemed able to take care of herself. Polhemus was right. Nothing
could be done till she grounded. In the meantime the crew must keep
abreast of her. Her fate, however, was but a question of time, for not
only had the wind veered to the southward--a-dead-on-shore wind--but
the set of the flood must eventually strand her.
At the track-lines again, every man in his place, Uncle Isaac with his
shoulder under the spokes of the wheels, the struggling crew keeping
the cart close to the edge of the dune, springing out of the way of the
boiling surf or sinking up to their waists into crevices of sluiceways
gullied out by the hungry sea. Once Archie lost his footing and would
have been sucked under by a comber had not Captain Holt grapped him by
the collar and landed him on his feet again. Now and then a roller more
vicious than the others would hurl a log of wood straight at the cart
with the velocity of a torpedo, and swoop back again, the log missing
its mark by a length.
When the dawn broke the schooner could be made out more clearly. Both
masts were still standing, their larger sails blown away. The bowsprit
was broken short off close to her chains. About this dragged the
remnants of a jib sail over which the sea soused and whitened. She was
drifting slowly and was now but a few hundred yards from the beach,
holding, doubtless, by her anchors. Over her deck the sea made a clean
breach.
Suddenly, and while the men still tugged at the track-ropes, keeping
abreast of her so as to be ready with the mortar and shot-line, the
ill-fated vessel swung bow on toward the beach, rose on a huge mountain
of water, and threw herself headlong. When the smother cleared her
foremast was overboard and her deck-house smashed. Around her hull the
waves gnashed and fought like white wolves, leaping high, flinging
themselves upon her. In the recoil Captain Holt's quick eye got a
glimpse of the crew; two were lashed to the rigging and one held the
tiller--a short, thickset man, wearing what appeared to be a slouch hat
tied over his ears by a white handkerchief.
With the grounding of the vessel a cheer went up from around the cart.
"Now for the mortar!"
"Up with it on the dune, men!" shouted the captain, his voice ringing
above the roar of the tempest.
The cart was forced up the slope--two men at the wheels, the others
straining ahead--the gun lifted out and set, Polhemus ramming the
charge home, Captain Holt sighting the piece; there came a belching
sound, a flash of dull light, and a solid shot carrying a line rose in
the air, made a curve like a flying rocket, and fell athwart the wreck
between her forestay and jib. A cheer went up from the men about the
gun. When this line was hauled in and the hawser attached to it made
fast high up on the mainmast and above the raging sea, and the car run
off to the wreck, the crew could be landed clear of the surf and the
slam of the cord-wood.
At the fall of the line the man in the slouch hat was seen to edge
himself forward in an attempt to catch it. The two men in the rigging
kept their hold. The men around the cart sprang for the hawser and
tally-blocks to rig the buoy, when a dull cry rose from the wreck. To
their horror they saw the mainmast waver, flutter for a moment, and sag
over the schooner's side. The last hope of using the life-car was gone!
Without the elevation of the mast and with nothing but the smashed hull
to make fast to, the shipwrecked men would be pounded into pulp in the
attempt to drag them through the boil of wreckage.
"Haul in, men!" cried the captain. "No use of another shot; we can't
drag 'em through that surf!"
"I'll take my chances," said Green, stepping forward. "Let me, cap'n. I
can handle 'em if they haul in the slack and make fast."
"No, you can't," said the captain calmly. "You couldn't get twenty feet
from shore. We got to wait till the tide cleans this wood out. It's
workin' right now. They kin stand it for a while. Certain death to
bring 'em through that smother--that stuff'd knock the brains out of
'em fast as they dropped into it. Signal to 'em to hang on, Parks."
An hour went by--an hour of agony to the men clinging to the grounded
schooner, and of impatience to the shore crew, who were powerless. The
only danger was of exhaustion to the shipwrecked men and the breaking
up of the schooner. If this occurred there was nothing left but a
plunge of rescuing men through the surf, the life of every man in his
hand.
The beach began filling up. The news of a shipwreck had spread with the
rapidity of a thunder-shower. One crowd, denser in spots where the
stronger men were breasting the wind, which was now happily on the
wane, were moving from the village along the beach, others were
stumbling on through the marshes. From the back country, along the road
leading from the hospital, rattled a gig, the horse doing his utmost.
In this were Doctor John and Jane. She had, contrary to his advice,
remained at the hospital. The doctor had been awakened by the shouts of
a fisherman, and had driven with all speed to the hospital to get his
remedies and instruments. Jane had insisted upon accompanying him,
although she had been up half the night with one of the sailors rescued
the week before by the crew of No. 14. The early morning air--it was
now seven o'clock--would do her good, she pleaded, and she might be of
use if any one of the poor fellows needed a woman's care.
Farther down toward Beach Haven the sand was dotted with wagons and
buggies; some filled with summer boarders anxious to see the crew at
work. One used as the depot omnibus contained Max Feilding, Lucy, and
half a dozen others. She had passed a sleepless night, and hearing the
cries of those hurrying by had thrown a heavy cloak around her and
opening wide the piazza door had caught sight of the doomed vessel
fighting for its life. Welcoming the incident as a relief from her own
maddening thoughts, she had joined Max, hoping that the excitement
might divert her mind from the horror that overshadowed her. Then, too,
she did not want to be separated a single moment from him. Since the
fatal hour when Jane had told her of Bart's expected return Max's face
had haunted her. As long as he continued to look into her eyes,
believing and trusting in her there was hope. He had noticed her
haggard look, but she had pleaded one of her headaches, and had kept up
her smiles, returning his caresses. Some way would be opened; some way
MUST be opened!
While waiting for the change of wind and tide predicted by Captain Holt
to clear away the deadly drift of the cord-wood so dangerous to the
imperilled men, the wreckage from the grounded schooner began to come
ashore--crates of vegetables, barrels of groceries, and boxes filled
with canned goods. Some of these were smashed into splinters by end-on
collisions with cord-wood; others had dodged the floatage and were
landed high on the beach.
During the enforced idleness Tod occupied himself in rolling away from
the back-suck of the surf the drift that came ashore. Being nearest a
stranded crate he dragged it clear and stood bending over it, reading
the inscription. With a start he beckoned to Parks, the nearest man to
him, tore the card from the wooden slat, and held it before the
surfman's face.
"What's this? Read! That's the Polly Walters out there, I tell ye, and
the captain's son's aboard! I've been suspicionin' it all the mornin'.
That's him with the slouch hat. I knowed he warn't no sailor from the
way he acted. Don't say nothin' till we're sure."
Parks lunged forward, dodged a stick of cord-wood that drove straight
at him like a battering-ram and, watching his chance, dragged a
floating keg from the smother, rolled it clear of the surf, canted it
on end, and took a similar card from its head. Then he shouted with all
his might:
"It's the Polly, men! It's the Polly--the Polly Walters! O God, ain't
that too bad! Captain Ambrose's drowned, or we'd a-seen him! That
feller in the slouch hat is Bart Holt! Gimme that line!" He was
stripping off his waterproofs now ready for a plunge into the sea.
With the awful words ringing in his ears Captain Holt made a spring
from the dune and came running toward Parks, who was now knotting the
shot-line about his waist.
"What do you say she is?" he shouted, as he flung himself to the edge
of the roaring surf and strained his eyes toward the wreck.
"The Polly--the Polly Walters!"
"My God! How do ye know? She ain't left Amboy, I tell ye!"
"She has! That's her--see them kerds! They come off that stuff behind
ye. Tod got one and I got t'other!" he held the bits of cardboard under
the rim of the captain's sou'wester.
Captain Holt snatched the cards from Parks's hand, read them at a
glance, and a dazed, horror-stricken expression crossed his face. Then
his eye fell upon Parks knotting the shot-line about his waist.
"Take that off! Parks, stay where ye are; don't ye move, I tell ye."
As the words dropped from the captain's lips a horrified shout went up
from the bystanders. The wreck, with a crunching sound, was being
lifted from the sand. She rose steadily, staggered for an instant and
dropped out of sight. She had broken amidships. With the recoil two
ragged bunches showed above the white wash of the water. On one
fragment--a splintered mast--crouched the man with the slouch hat; to
the other clung the two sailors. The next instant a great roller,
gathering strength as it came, threw itself full length on both
fragments and swept on. Only wreckage was left and one head.
With a cry to the men to stand by and catch the slack, the captain
ripped a line from the drum of the cart, dragged off his high boots,
knotted the bight around his waist, and started on a run for the surf.
Before his stockinged feet could reach the edge of the foam, Archie
seized him around the waist and held him with a grip of steel.
"You sha'n't do it, captain!" he cried, his eyes blazing. "Hold him,
men--I'll get him!" With the bound of a cat he landed in the middle of
the floatage, dived under the logs, rose on the boiling surf, worked
himself clear of the inshore wreckage, and struck out in the direction
of the man clinging to the shattered mast, and who was now nearing the
beach, whirled on by the inrushing seas.
Strong men held their breath, tears brimming their eyes. Captain Holt
stood irresolute, dazed for the moment by Archie's danger. The beach
women--Mrs. Fogarty among them--were wringing their hands. They knew
the risk better than the others.
Jane, at Archie's plunge, had run down to the edge of the surf and
stood with tight-clenched fingers, her gaze fixed on the lad's head as
he breasted the breakers--her face white as death, the tears streaming
down her cheeks. Fear for the boy she loved, pride in his pluck and
courage, agony over the result of the rescue, all swept through her as
she strained her eyes seaward.
Lucy, Max, and Mrs. Coates were huddled together under the lee of the
dune. Lucy's eyes were staring straight ahead of her; her teeth
chattering with fear and cold. She had heard the shouts of Parks and
the captain, and knew now whose life was at stake. There was no hope
left; Archie would win and pull him out alive, and her end would come.
The crowd watched the lad until his hand touched the mast, saw him pull
himself hand over hand along its slippery surface and reach out his
arms. Then a cheer went up from a hundred throats, and as instantly
died away in a moan of terror. Behind, towering over them like a huge
wall, came a wave of black water, solemn, merciless, uncrested, as if
bent on deadly revenge. Under its impact the shattered end of the mast
rose clear of the water, tossed about as if in agony, veered suddenly
with the movement of a derrick-boom, and with its living freight dashed
headlong into the swirl of cord-wood.
As it ploughed through the outer drift and reached the inner line of
wreckage, Tod, whose eyes had never left Archie since his leap into the
surf, made a running jump from the sand, landed on a tangle of drift,
and sprang straight at the section of the mast to which Archie clung.
The next instant the surf rolled clear, submerging the three men.
Another ringing order now rose above the roar of the waters, and a
chain of rescuing surfmen--the last resort--with Captain Nat at the
head dashed into the turmoil.
It was a hand-to-hand fight now with death. At the first onslaught of
the battery of wreckage Polhemus was knocked breathless by a blow in
the stomach and rescued by the bystanders just as a log was curling
over him. Green was hit by a surging crate, and Mulligan only saved
from the crush of the cord-wood by the quickness of a fisherman.
Morgan, watching his chance, sprang clear of a tangle of barrels and
cord-wood, dashed into the narrow gap of open water, and grappling Tod
as he whirled past, twisted his fingers in Archie's waistband. The
three were then pounced upon by a relay of fishermen led by Tod's
father and dragged from under the crunch and surge of the smother. Both
Tod and Morgan were unhurt and scrambled to their feet as soon as they
gained the hard sand, but Archie lay insensible where the men had
dropped him, his body limp, his feet crumpled under him.
All this time the man in the slouch hat was being swirled in the hell
of wreckage, the captain meanwhile holding to the human chain with one
hand and fighting with the other until he reached the half-drowned man
whose grip had now slipped from the crate to which he clung. As the two
were shot in toward the beach, Green, who had recovered his breath,
dodged the recoil, sprang straight for them, threw the captain a line,
which he caught, dashed back and dragged the two high up on the beach,
the captain's arm still tightly locked about the rescued man.
A dozen hands were held out to relieve the captain of his burden, but
he only waved them away.
"I'll take care of him!" he gasped in a voice almost gone from
buffeting the waves, as the body slipped from his arms to the wet sand.
"Git out of the way, all of you!"
Once on his feet, he stood for an instant to catch his breath, wrung
the grime from his ears with his stiff fingers, and then shaking the
water from his shoulders as a dog would after a plunge, he passed his
great arms once more under the bedraggled body of the unconscious man
and started up the dune toward the House of Refuge, the water dripping
from both their wet bodies. Only once did he pause, and then to shout:
"Green,--Mulligan! Go back, some o' ye, and git Archie. He's hurt bad.
Quick, now! And one o' ye bust in them doors. And-- Polhemus, pull some
coats off that crowd and a shawl or two from them women if they can
spare 'em, and find Doctor John, some o' ye! D'ye hear! DOCTOR JOHN!"
A dozen coats were stripped from as many backs, a shawl of Mrs.
Fogarty's handed to Polhemus, the doors burst in and Uncle Isaac
lunging in tumbled the garments on the floor. On these the captain laid
the body of the rescued man, the slouch hat still clinging to his head.
While this was being done another procession was approaching the house.
Tod and Parks were carrying Archie's unconscious form, the water
dripping from his clothing. Tod had his hands under the boy's armpits
and Parks carried his feet. Behind the three walked Jane, half
supported by the doctor.
"Dead!" she moaned. "Oh, no--no--no, John; it cannot be! Not my Archie!
my brave Archie!"
The captain heard the tramp of the men's feet on the board floor of the
runway outside and rose to his feet. He had been kneeling beside the
form of the rescued man. His face was knotted with the agony he had
passed through, his voice still thick and hoarse from battling with the
sea.
"What's that she says?" he cried, straining his ears to catch Jane's
words. "What's that! Archie dead! No! 'Tain't so, is it, doctor?"
Doctor John, his arm still supporting Jane, shook his head gravely and
pointed to his own forehead.
"It's all over, captain," he said in a broken voice. "Skull fractured."
"Hit with them logs! Archie! Oh, my God! And this man ain't much better
off--he ain't hardly breathin'. See for yerself, doctor. Here, Tod, lay
Archie on these coats. Move back that boat, men, to give 'em room, and
push them stools out of the way. Oh, Miss Jane, maybe it ain't true,
maybe he'll come round! I've seen 'em this way more'n a dozen times.
Here, doctor let's get these wet clo'es off 'em." He dropped between
the two limp, soggy bodies and began tearing open the shirt from the
man's chest. Jane, who had thrown herself in a passion of grief on the
water-soaked floor beside Archie, commenced wiping the dead boy's face
with her handkerchief, smoothing the short wet curls from his forehead
as she wept.
The man's shirt and collar loosened, Captain Holt pulled the slouch hat
from his head, wrenched the wet shoes loose, wrapped the cold feet in
the dry shawl, and began tucking the pile of coats closer about the
man's shoulders that he might rest the easier. For a moment he looked
intently at the pallid face smeared with ooze and grime, and limp body
that the doctor was working over, and then stepped to where Tod now
crouched beside his friend, the one he had loved all his life. The
young surfman's strong body was shaking with the sobs he could no
longer restrain.
"It's rough, Tod," said the captain, in a choking voice, which grew
clearer as he talked on. "Almighty rough on ye and on all of us. You
did what you could--ye risked yer life for him, and there ain't nobody
kin do more. I wouldn't send ye out again, but there's work to do. Them
two men of Cap'n Ambrose's is drowned, and they'll come ashore
some'er's near the inlet, and you and Parks better hunt 'em up. They
live up to Barnegat, ye know, and their folks'll be wantin' 'em." It
was strange how calm he was. His sense of duty was now controlling him.
Tod had raised himself to his feet when the captain had begun to speak
and stood with his wet sou'wester in his hand.
"Been like a brother to me," was all he said, as he brushed the tears
from his eyes and went to join Parks.
The captain watched Tod's retreating figure for a moment, and bending
again over Archie's corpse, stood gazing at the dead face, his hands
folded across his girth--as one does when watching a body being slowly
lowered into a grave.
"I loved ye, boy," Jane heard him say between her sobs. "I loved ye!
You knowed it, boy. I hoped to tell ye so out loud so everybody could
hear. Now they'll never know."
Straightening himself up, he walked firmly to the open door about which
the people pressed, held back by the line of surfmen headed by
Polhemus, and calmly surveyed the crowd. Close to the opening, trying
to press her way in to Jane, his eyes fell on Lucy. Behind her stood
Max Feilding.
"Friends," said the captain, in a low, restrained voice, every trace of
his grief and excitement gone, "I've got to ask ye to git considerable
way back and keep still. We got Doctor John here and Miss Jane, and
there ain't nothin' ye kin do. When there is I'll call ye. Polhemus,
you and Green see this order is obeyed."
Again he hesitated, then raising his eyes over the group nearest the
door, he beckoned to Lucy, pushed her in ahead of him, caught the
swinging doors in his hands, and shut them tight. This done, he again
dropped on his knees beside the doctor and the now breathing man.
CHAPTER XXII
THE CLAW OF THE SEA-PUSS
With the closing of the doors the murmur of the crowd, the dull glare
of the gray sky, and the thrash of the wind were shut out. The only
light in the House of Refuge now came from the two small windows, one
above the form of the suffering man and the other behind the dead body
of Archie. Jane's head was close to the boy's chest, her sobs coming
from between her hands, held before her face. The shock of Archie's
death had robbed her of all her strength. Lucy knelt beside her, her
shoulder resting against a pile of cordage. Every now and then she
would steal a furtive glance around the room--at the boat, at the
rafters overhead, at the stove with its pile of kindling--and a slight
shudder would pass through her. She had forgotten nothing of the past,
nor of the room in which she crouched. Every scar and stain stood out
as clear and naked as those on some long-buried wreck dug from shifting
sands by a change of tide.
A few feet away the doctor was stripping the wet clothes from the
rescued man and piling the dry coats over him to warm him back to life.
His emergency bag, handed in by Polhemus through the crack of the
closed doors, had been opened, a bottle selected, and some spoonfuls of
brandy forced down the sufferer's throat. He saw that the sea-water had
not harmed him; it was the cordwood and wreckage that had crushed the
breath out of him. In confirmation he pointed to a thin streak of blood
oozing from one ear. The captain nodded, and continued chafing the
man's hands--working with the skill of a surfman over the water-soaked
body. Once he remarked in a half-whisper--so low that Jane could not
hear him:
"I ain't sure yet, doctor. I thought it was Bart when I grabbed him
fust; but he looks kind o' different from what I expected to see him.
If it's him he'll know me when he comes to. I ain't changed so much
maybe. I'll rub his feet now," and he kept on with his work of
resuscitation.
Lucy's straining ears had caught the captain's words of doubt, but they
gave her no hope. She had recognized at the first glance the man of all
others in the world she feared most. His small ears, the way the hair
grew on the temples, the bend of the neck and slope from the chin to
the throat. No--she had no misgivings. These features had been part of
her life--had been constantly before her since the hour Jane had told
her of Bart's expected return. Her time had come; nothing could save
her. He would regain consciousness, just as the captain had said, and
would open those awful hollow eyes and would look at her, and then that
dreadful mouth, with its thin, ashen lips, would speak to her, and she
could deny nothing. Trusting to her luck--something which had never
failed her--she had continued in her determination to keep everything
from Max. Now it would all come as a shock to him, and when he asked
her if it was true she could only bow her head.
She dared not look at Archie--she could not. All her injustice to him
and to Jane; her abandonment of him when a baby; her neglect of him
since, her selfish life of pleasure; her triumph over Max--all came
into review, one picture after another, like the unrolling of a chart.
Even while her hand was on Jane's shoulder, and while comforting words
fell from her lips, her mind and eyes were fixed on the face of the man
whom the doctor was slowly bringing back to life.
Not that her sympathy was withheld from Archie and Jane. It was her
terror that dominated her--a terror that froze her blood and clogged
her veins and dulled every sensibility and emotion. She was like one
lowered into a grave beside a corpse upon which every moment the earth
would fall, entombing the living with the dead.
The man groaned and turned his head, as if in pain. A convulsive
movement of the lips and face followed, and then the eyes partly opened.
Lucy clutched at the coil of rope, staggered to her feet, and braced
herself for the shock. He would rise now, and begin staring about, and
then he would recognize her. The captain knew what was coming; he was
even now planning in his mind the details of the horrible plot of which
Jane had told her!
Captain Holt stooped closer and peered under the half-closed lids.
"Brown eyes," she heard him mutter to himself, "just 's the Swede told
me." She knew their color; they had looked into her own too often.
Doctor John felt about with his hand and drew a small package of
letters from inside the man's shirt. They were tied with a string and
soaked with salt water. This he handed to the captain.
The captain pulled them apart and examined them carefully.
"It's him," he said with a start, "it's Bart! It's all plain now.
Here's my letter," and he held it up. "See the printing at the
top--'Life-Saving Service'? And here's some more--they're all stuck
together. Wait! here's one--fine writing." Then his voice dropped so
that only the doctor could hear: "Ain't that signed 'Lucy'?
Yes--'Lucy'--and it's an old one."
The doctor waved the letters away and again laid his hand on the
sufferer's chest, keeping it close to his heart. The captain bent
nearer. Jane, who, crazed with grief, had been caressing Archie's cold
cheeks, lifted her head as if aware of the approach of some crisis, and
turned to where the doctor knelt beside the rescued man. Lucy leaned
forward with straining eyes and ears.
The stillness of death fell upon the small room. Outside could be heard
the pound and thrash of the surf and the moan of the gale; no human
voice--men and women were talking in whispers. One soul had gone to God
and another life hung by a thread.
The doctor raised his finger.
The man's face twitched convulsively, the lids opened wider, there came
a short, inward gasp, and the jaw dropped.
"He's dead," said the doctor, and rose to his feet. Then he took his
handkerchief from his pocket and laid it over the dead man's face.
As the words fell from his lips Lucy caught at the wall, and with an
almost hysterical cry of joy threw herself into Jane's arms.
The captain leaned back against the life-boat and for some moments his
eyes were fixed on the body of his dead son.
"I ain't never loved nothin' all my life, doctor," he said, his voice
choking, "that it didn't go that way."
Doctor John made no reply except with his eyes. Silence is ofttimes
more sympathetic than the spoken word. He was putting his remedies back
into his bag so that he might rejoin Jane. The captain continued:
"All I've got is gone now--the wife, Archie, and now Bart. I counted on
these two. Bad day's work, doctor--bad day's work." Then in a firm
tone, "I'll open the doors now and call in the men; we got to git these
two bodies up to the Station, and then we'll get 'em home somehow."
Instantly all Lucy's terror returned. An unaccountable, unreasoning
panic took possession of her. All her past again rose before her. She
feared the captain now more than she had Bart. Crazed over the loss of
his son he would blurt out everything. Max would hear and know--know
about Archie and Bart and all her life!
Springing to her feet, maddened with an undefinable terror, she caught
the captain's hand as he reached out for the fastenings of the door.
"Don't--don't tell them who he is! Promise me you won't tell them
anything! Say it's a stranger! You are not sure it's he--I heard you
say so!"
"Not say it's my own son! Why?" He was entirely unconscious of what was
in her mind.
Jane had risen to her feet at the note of agony in Lucy's voice and had
stepped to her side as if to protect her. The doctor stood listening in
amazement to Lucy's outbreak. He knew her reasons, and was appalled at
her rashness.
"No! Don't--DON'T!" Lucy was looking up into the captain's face now,
all her terror in her eyes.
"Why, I can't see what good that'll do!" For the moment he thought that
the excitement had turned her head. "Isaac Polhemus'll know him," he
continued, "soon's he sets his eyes on him. And even if I was mean
enough to do it, which I ain't, these letters would tell. They've got
to go to the Superintendent 'long with everything else found on bodies.
Your name's on some o' 'em and mine's on some others. We'll git 'em
ag'in, but not till Gov'ment see 'em."
These were the letters which had haunted her!
"Give them to me! They're mine!" she cried, seizing the captain's
fingers and trying to twist the letters from his grasp.
A frown gathered on the captain's brow and his voice had an ugly ring
in it:
"But I tell ye the Superintendent's got to have 'em for a while. That's
regulations, and that's what we carry out. They ain't goin' to be
lost--you'll git 'em ag'in."
"He sha'n't have them, I tell you!" Her voice rang now with something
of her old imperious tone. "Nobody shall have them. They're mine--not
yours--nor his. Give them--"
"And break my oath!" interrupted the captain. For the first time he
realized what her outburst meant and what inspired it.
"What difference does that make in a matter like this? Give them to me.
You dare not keep them," she cried, tightening her fingers in the
effort to wrench the letters from his hand. "Sister--doctor--speak to
him! Make him give them to me--I will have them!"
The captain brushed aside her hand as easily as a child would brush
aside a flower. His lips were tight shut, his eyes flashing.
"You want me to lie to the department?"
"YES!" She was beside herself now with fear and rage. "I don't care who
you lie to! You brute--you coward-- I want them! I will have them!"
Again she made a spring for the letters.
"See here, you she-devil. Look at me!"--the words came in cold, cutting
tones. "You're the only thing livin', or dead, that ever dared ask
Nathaniel Holt to do a thing like that. And you think I'd do it to
oblige ye? You're rotten as punk--that's what ye are! Rotten from yer
keel to yer top-gallant! and allus have been since I knowed ye!"
Jane started forward and faced the now enraged man.
"You must not, captain--you shall not speak to my sister that way!" she
commanded.
The doctor stopped between them: "You forget that she is a woman. I
forbid you to--"
"I will, I tell ye, doctor! It's true, and you know it." The captain's
voice now dominated the room.
"That's no reason why you should abuse her. You're too much of a man to
act as you do."
"It's because I'm a man that I do act this way. She's done nothin' but
bring trouble to this town ever since she landed in it from school nigh
twenty year ago. Druv out that dead boy of mine lyin' there, and made a
tramp of him; throwed Archie off on Miss Jane; lied to the man who
married her, and been livin' a lie ever since. And now she wants me to
break my oath! Damn her--"
The doctor laid his hand over the captain's mouth. "Stop! And I mean
it!" His own calm eyes were flashing now. "This is not the place for
talk of this kind. We are in the presence of death, and--"
The captain caught the doctor's wrist and held it like a vice.
"I won't stop. I'll have it out--I've lived all the lies I'm goin' to
live! I told you all this fifteen year ago when I thought Bart was
dead, and you wanted me to keep shut, and I did, and you did, too, and
you ain't never opened your mouth since. That's because you're a
man--all four square sides of ye. You didn't want to hurt Miss Jane,
and no more did I. That's why I passed Archie there in the street;
that's why I turned round and looked after him when I couldn't see
sometimes for the tears in my eyes; and all to save that THING there
that ain't worth savin'! By God, when I think of it I want to tear my
tongue out for keepin' still as long as I have!"
Lucy, who had shrunk back against the wall, now raised her head:
"Coward! Coward!" she muttered.
The captain turned and faced her, his eyes blazing, his rage
uncontrollable:
"Yes, you're a THING, I tell ye!--and I'll say it ag'in. I used to
think it was Bart's fault. Now I know it warn't. It was yours. You
tricked him, damn ye! Do ye hear? Ye tricked him with yer lies and yer
ways. Now they're over--there'll be no more lies--not while I live! I'm
goin' to strip ye to bare poles so's folks 'round here kin see. Git out
of my way--all of ye! Out, I tell ye!"
The doctor had stepped in front of the infuriated man, his back to the
closed door, his open palm upraised.
"I will not, and you shall not!" he cried. "What you are about do to is
ruin--for Lucy, for Jane, and for little Ellen. You cannot--you shall
not put such a stain upon that child. You love her, you--"
"Yes--too well to let that woman touch her ag'in if I kin help it!" The
fury of the merciless sea was in him now--the roar and pound of the
surf in his voice. "She'll be a curse to the child all her days; she'll
go back on her when she's a mind to just as she did on Archie. There
ain't a dog that runs the streets that would 'a' done that. She didn't
keer then, and she don't keer now, with him a-lyin' dead there. She
ain't looked at him once nor shed a tear. It's too late. All hell can't
stop me! Out of my way, I tell ye, doctor, or I'll hurt ye!"
With a wrench he swung back the doors and flung himself into the light.
"Come in, men! Isaac, Green--all of ye--and you over there! I got
something to say, and I don't want ye to miss a word of it! You, too,
Mr. Feilding, and that lady next ye--and everybody else that kin hear!
"That's my son, Barton Holt, lyin' there dead! The one I druv out o'
here nigh twenty year ago. It warn't for playin' cards, but on account
of a woman; and there she stands--Lucy Cobden! That dead boy beside him
is their child--my own grandson, Archie! Out of respect to the best
woman that ever lived, Miss Jane Cobden, I've kep' still. If anybody
ain't satisfied all they got to do is to look over these letters.
That's all!"
Lucy, with a wild, despairing look at Max, had sunk to the floor and
lay cowering beneath the lifeboat, her face hidden in the folds of her
cloak.
Jane had shrunk back behind one of the big folding doors and stood
concealed from the gaze of the astonished crowd, many of whom were
pressing into the entrance. Her head was on the doctor's shoulder, her
fingers had tight hold of his sleeve. Doctor John's arms were about her
frail figure, his lips close to her cheek.
"Don't, dear--don't," he said softly. "You have nothing to reproach
yourself with. Your life has been one long sacrifice."
"Oh, but Archie, John! Think of my boy being gone! Oh, I loved him so,
John!"
"You made a man of him, Jane. All he was he owed to you." He was
holding her to him--comforting her as a father would a child.
"And my poor Lucy," Jane moaned on, "and the awful, awful disgrace!"
Her face was still hidden in his shoulder, her frame shaking with the
agony of her grief, the words coming slowly, as if wrung one by one out
of her breaking heart.
"You did your duty, dear--all of it." His lips were close to her ear.
No one else heard.
"And you knew it all these years, John--and you did not tell me."
"It was your secret, dear; not mine."
"Yes, I know--but I have been so blind--so foolish. I have hurt you so
often, and you have been so true through it all. O John, please--please
forgive me! My heart has been so sore at times--I have suffered so!"
Then, with a quick lifting of her head, as if the thought alarmed her,
she asked in sudden haste:
"And you love me, John, just the same? Say you love me, John!"
He gathered her closer, and his lips touched her cheek:
"I never remember, my darling, when I did not love you. Have you ever
doubted me?"
"No, John, no! Never, never! Kiss me again, my beloved. You are all I
have in the world!"
THE END
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