Laura Lee Hope - "The Outdoor Girls at Wild Rose Lodge"

William Allen White - "The Martial Adventures of Henry and Me"

Frederick Philip Grove - "Over Prairie Trails"

W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson - "The Plays of W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson"

The Tides of Barnegat

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




"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."

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