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Title: The Tides of Barnegat
Author: F. Hopkinson Smith
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This etext was produced by Duncan Harrod.
Title: The Tides Of Barnegat
Author: F. Hopkinson Smith
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 langhin'
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, embitterred
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 COBDENS 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 BEGINING 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."
CHLPTER 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
End of Project Gutenberg's The Tides of Barnegat, by F. Hopkinson Smith