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The Tides of Barnegat

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




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and how after a moment she had slowly withdrawn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.

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