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The Tides of Barnegat

F >> F. Hopkinson Smith >> The Tides of Barnegat




"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!"

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