CHAPTER XVII
IN WHICH EBENEZER CAPEN IS SURPRISED
Before sunset that afternoon the San Jose was anchored behind the point by the inlet. The fishing boats changed moorings and moved farther up, for not a single one of their owners would trust himself within a hundred yards of the stricken brigantine. As soon as the anchors were dropped, the volunteer crew was over side and away, each of its members to receive a scolding from his family for taking such a risk and to have his garments sulphur-smoked or buried. Charlie Burgess, whose wife was something of a Tartar, observed ruefully that he “didn't take no comfort 'round home nowadays; between the smell of brimstone and the jawin's 'twas the hereafter ahead of time.”
The largest of the beach shanties, one which stood by itself a quarter of a mile from the light, was hurriedly prepared for use as a pesthouse and the sick sailor was carried there on an improvised stretcher. Dr. Parker and Ellery lifted him from his berth and, assisted by old Ebenezer Capen, got him up to the deck and lowered him into the dory. Ebenezer rowed the trio to the beach and the rest of the journey was comparatively easy.
The shanty had three rooms, one of which was given up to the patient, one used as a living room, and, in the third, Capen and the minister were to sleep. Mattresses were procured, kind-hearted and sympathizing townspeople donated cast-off tables and chairs, and the building was made as comfortable as it could be, under the circumstances. Sign boards, warning strangers to keep away, were erected, and in addition to them, the Trumet selectmen ordered ropes stretched across the lane on both sides of the shanty. But ropes and signs were superfluous. Trumet in general was in a blue funk and had no desire to approach within a mile of the locality. Even the driver of the grocery cart, when he left the day's supply of provisions, pushed the packages under the ropes, yelled a hurried “Here you be!” and, whipping up his horse, departed at a rattling gallop.
The village sat up nights to discuss the affair and every day brought a new sensation. The survivors of the San Jose's crew, a wretched, panic-stricken quartette of mulattos and Portuguese, were apprehended on the outskirts of Denboro, the town below Trumet on the bay side, and were promptly sequestered and fumigated, pending shipment to the hospital at Boston. Their story was short but grewsome. The brigantine was not a Turks Islands boat, but a coaster from Jamaica. She had sailed with a small cargo for Savannah. Two days out and the smallpox made its appearance on board. The sufferer, a negro foremast hand, died. Then another sailor was seized and also died. The skipper, who was the owner, was the next victim, and the vessel was in a state of demoralization which the mate, an Englishman named Bradford, could not overcome. Then followed days and nights of calm and terrible heat, of pestilence and all but mutiny. The mate himself died. There was no one left who understood navigation. At last came a southeast gale and the San Jose drove before it. Fair weather found her abreast the Cape. The survivors ran her in after dark, anchored, and reached shore in the longboat. The sick man whom they had left in the forecastle was a new hand who had shipped at Kingston. His name was Murphy, they believed. They had left him because he was sure to die, like the others, and, besides, they knew some one would see the distress signals and investigate. That was all, yes. Santa Maria! was it not enough?
This tale was a delicious tidbit for Didama and the “daily advertisers,” but, after all, it was a mere side dish compared to Mr. Ellery's astonishing behavior. That he, the minister of the Regular church, should risk his life, risk dying of the smallpox, to help a stranger and a common sailor, was incomprehensible. Didama, at least, could not understand it, and said so. “My soul and body!” she exclaimed, with uplifted hands. “I wouldn't go nigh my own grandfather if he had the smallpox, let alone settin' up with a strange critter that I didn't know from Adam's cat. And a minister doin' it! He ought to consider the congregation, if he done nothin' else. Ain't we more important than a common water rat that, even when he's dyin', swears, so I hear tell, like a ship's poll parrot? I never heard of such foolishness. It beats ME!”
It “beat” a good many who, like the Widow Rogers, could not understand self-sacrifice. But there were more, and they the majority of Trumet's intelligent people, who understood and appreciated. Dr. Parker, a man with a reputation for dangerously liberal views concerning religious matters and an infrequent attendant at church, was enthusiastic and prodigal of praise.
“By George!” vowed the doctor. “That's MY kind of Christianity. That's the kind of parson I can tie to. I'm for John Ellery after this, first, last, and all the time. And if he don't get the smallpox and die, and if he does live to preach in the Regular church, you'll see me in one of the front pews every Sunday. That's what I think of him. Everybody else ran away and I don't blame 'em much. But he stayed. Yes, sir, by George! he stayed. 'Somebody had to do it,' says he. I take off my hat to that young fellow.”
Captain Zeb Mayo went about cheering for his parson. Mrs. Mayo cooked delicacies to be pushed under the ropes for the minister's consumption. The parish committee, at a special session, voted an increase of salary and ordered a weekly service of prayer for the safe delivery of their young leader from danger. Even Captain Elkanah did not try to oppose the general opinion; “although I cannot but feel,” he said, “that Mr. Ellery's course was rash and that he should have considered us and our interest in his welfare before—”
“Dum it all!” roared Captain Zeb, jumping to his feet and interrupting, “he didn't consider himself, did he? and ain't he as important TO himself as you, Elkanah Daniels, or anybody else in this meetin' house? Bah! don't let's have no more talk like that or I'll say somethin' that won't be fit to put in the minutes.”
Even at Come-Outers' meeting, when Ezekiel Bassett hinted at a “just punishment fallin' on the head of the leader of the Pharisees,” Thoph Black rose and defended Ellery.
Keziah Coffin was, perhaps, the one person most disturbed by her parson's heroism. She would have gone to the shanty immediately had not Dr. Parker prevented. Even as it was, she did go as far as the ropes, but there she was warded off by Ebenezer until Ellery came running out and bade her come no nearer.
“But you shan't stay here, Mr. Ellery,” vowed Keziah. “Or, if you do, I'll stay, too. I ain't afraid of smallpox.”
“I am,” confessed the minister, “and I'm not going to let anyone I care for expose themselves to it unnecessarily. If you try to come in here I shall”—he smiled—“well, Capen and I will put you off the premises by force. There!”
Keziah smiled, too, in spite of herself. “Maybe you'd have your hands full,” she said. “O John, what in the world made you do this thing? It's dreadful. I shan't sleep a wink, thinkin' of you. I just must come here and help.”
“No, you mustn't. You can come as far as the—the dead line once in a while, if Captain Mayo will drive you over, but that's all. I'm all right. Don't worry about me. I'm feeling tiptop and I'm not going to be sick. Now go home and make me some of that—some of those puddings of yours. We can use them to advantage, can't we, Capen?”
“Bet yer!” replied Ebenezer with enthusiasm. Keziah, after more expostulation, went back to the parsonage, where the puddings were made and seasoned with tears and fervent prayers. She wrote to Grace and told her the news of the San Jose, but she said nothing of the minister's part in it. “Poor thing!” sighed Keziah, “she's bearin' enough already. Her back ain't as strong as mine, maybe, and mine's most crackin'. Well, let it crack for good and all; I don't know but that's the easiest way out.”
The sick sailor grew no better. Days and nights passed and he raved and moaned or lay in a stupor. Ebenezer acted as day nurse while Ellery slept, and, at night, the minister, being younger, went on watch. The doctor came frequently, but said there was no hope. A question of time only, and a short time, he said.
Capen occupied his mind with speculations concerning the patient.
“Do you know, parson,” he said, “seem's if I'd seen the feller somewheres afore. 'Course I never have, but when I used to go whalin' v'yages I cruised from one end of creation to t'other, pretty nigh, and I MIGHT have met him. However, his own folks wouldn't know him now, would they? so I cal'late I'm just gettin' foolish in my old age. Said his name's Murphy, them ha'f-breeds did, didn't they? I know better'n that.”
“How do you know?” asked Ellery, idly listening.
“'Cause when he's floppin' round on the bed, out of his head, he sings out all kinds of stuff. A good deal of it's plain cussin', but there's times when he talks respectable and once I heard him say 'darn' and another time 'I cal'late.' Now no Irishman says THAT. That's Yankee, that is.”
“Well, he ought to know his own name.”
“Prob'ly he does—or used to—but 'most likely he don't want nobody else to know it. That's why he said 'twas Murphy and, bein' as he DID say it, I know 'tain't it. See my argument, don't you, Mr. Ellery?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“Um—hm! Why, land sakes, names don't mean nothin' with seafarin' men. I've seen the time when I had more names—Humph! Looks kind of squally off to the east'ard, don't it?”
That night the sick man was much worse. His ravings were incessant. The minister, sitting in his chair in the living room, by the cook stove, could hear the steady stream of shouts, oaths, and muttered fragments of dialogue with imaginary persons. Sympathy for the sufferer he felt, of course, and yet he, as well as Dr. Parker and old Capen, had heard enough to realize that the world would be none the worse for losing this particular specimen of humanity. The fellow had undoubtedly lived a hard life, among the roughest of companions afloat and ashore. Even Ebenezer, who by his own confession, was far from being a saint, exclaimed disgustedly at the close of a day's watching by the sick bed: “Phew! I feel's if I'd been visiting state's prison. Let me set out doors a spell and listen to the surf. It's clean, anyhow, and that critter's talk makes me want to give my brains a bath.”
The wooden clock, loaned by Mrs. Parker, the doctor's wife, ticked steadily, although a half hour slow. Ellery, glancing at it to see if the time had come for giving medicine, suddenly noticed how loud its ticking sounded. Wondering at this, he was aware there was no other sound in the house. He rose and looked in at the door of the adjoining room. The patient had ceased to rave and was lying quiet on the bed.
The minister tiptoed over to look at him. And, as he did so, the man opened his eyes.
“Halloo!” he said faintly. “Who are you?”
Ellery, startled, made no answer.
“Who are you?” demanded the man again. Then, with an oath, he repeated the question, adding: “What place is this? This ain't the fo'castle. Where am I?”
“You're ashore. You've been sick. Don't try to move.”
“Sick? Humph! Sick? 'Course I been sick. Don't I know it? The d—n cowards run off and left me; blast their eyes! I'll fix 'em for it one of these days, you hear—”
“Sshh!”
“Hush up yourself. Where am I?”
“You're ashore. On Cape Cod. At Trumet.”
“Trumet! TRUMET!”
He was struggling to raise himself on his elbow. Ellery was obliged to use force to hold him down.
“Hush! hush!” pleaded the minister, “you mustn't try to—”
“Trumet! I ain't. You're lyin'. Trumet! Good God! Who brought me here? Did she—Is she—”
He struggled again. Then his strength and his reason left him simultaneously and the delirium returned. He began to shout a name, a name that caused Ellery to stand upright and step back from the bed, scarcely believing his ears.
All the rest of that night the man on the bed raved and muttered, but of people and places and happenings which he had not mentioned before. And the minister, listening intently to every word, caught himself wondering if he also was not losing his mind.
When the morning came, Ebenezer Capen was awakened by a shake to find John Ellery standing over him.
“Capen,” whispered the minister, “Capen, get up. I must talk with you.”
Ebenezer was indignant.
“Judas priest!” he exclaimed; “why don't you scare a feller to death, comin' and yankin' him out of bed by the back hair?” Then, being more wide awake, he added: “What's the row? Worse, is he? He ain't—”
“No. But I've got to talk with you. You used to be a whaler, I know. Were you acquainted in New Bedford?”
“Sartin. Was a time when I could have located every stick in it, pretty nigh, by the smell, if you'd set me down side of 'em blindfold.”
“Did you ever know anyone named—” He finished the sentence.
“Sure and sartin, I did. Why?”
“Did you know him well?”
“Well's I wanted to. Pretty decent feller one time, but a fast goer, and went downhill like a young one's sled, when he got started. His folks had money, that was the trouble with him. Why, 'course I knew him! He married—”
“I know. Now, listen.”
Ellery went on talking rapidly and with great earnestness. Ebenezer listened, at first silently, then breaking in with ejaculations and grunts of astonishment. He sat up on the edge of the bed.
“Rubbish!” he cried at last, “why, 'tain't possible! The feller's dead as Methusalem's grandmarm. I remember how it happened and—”
“It wasn't true. That much I know. I KNOW, I tell you.”
He went on to explain why he knew. Capen's astonishment grew.
“Judas priest!” he exclaimed again. “That would explain why I thought I'd seen—There! heave ahead. I've got to see. But it's a mistake. I don't believe it.”
The pair entered the sick room. The sailor lay in a stupor. His breathing was rapid, but faint. Capen bent over him and gently moved the bandage on his face. For a full minute he gazed steadily. Then he stood erect, drew a big red hand across his forehead, and moved slowly back to the living room.
“Well?” asked Ellery eagerly.
Ebenezer sat down in the rocker. “Judas priest!” he said for the third time. “Don't talk to ME! When it comes my time they'll have to prove I'm dead. I won't believe it till they do. Ju-das PRIEST!”
“Then you recognize him?”
The old man nodded solemnly.
“Yup,” he said, “it's him. Mr. Ellery, what are you goin' to do about it?”
“I don't know. I don't know. I must go somewhere by myself and think. I don't know WHAT to do.”
The minister declined to wait for breakfast. He said he was not hungry. Leaving Ebenezer to put on the coffeepot and take up his duties as day nurse, Ellery walked off along the beach. The “dead line” prevented his going very far, but he sat down in the lee of a high dune and thought until his head ached. What should he do? What was best for him to do?
He heard the rattle of the doctor's chaise and the voices of Ebenezer and Parker in conversation. He did not move, but remained where he was, thinking, thinking. By and by he heard Capen calling his name.
“Mr. Ellery!” shouted Ebenezer. “Mr. Ellery, where be you?”
“Here!” replied the minister.
The old man came scrambling over the sand. He was panting and much excited.
“Mr. Ellery!” he cried, “Mr. Ellery! it's settled for us—one part of it, anyhow. He's slipped his cable.”
“What?” The minister sprang up.
“Yup. He must have died just a little while after you left and after I gave him his medicine. I thought he looked kind of queer then. And when the doctor came we went in together and he was dead. Yes, sir, dead.”
“Dead!”
“Um—hm. No doubt of it; it's for good this time. Mr. Ellery, what shall we do? Shall I tell Dr. Parker?”
Ellery considered for a moment. “No,” he said slowly. “No, Capen, don't tell anyone. I can't see why they need ever know that he hasn't been dead for years, as they supposed. Promise me to keep it a secret. I'll tell—her—myself, later on. Now promise me; I trust you.”
“Land sakes, yes! I'll promise, if you want me to. I'm a widower man, so there'll be nobody to coax it out of me. I guess you're right, cal'late you be. What folks don't know they can't lie about, can they? and that's good for your business—meanin' nothin' disreverent. I'll promise, Mr. Ellery; I'll swear to it. Now come on back to the shanty. The doctor wants you.”
The next day the body of “Murphy,” foremast hand on the San Jose, was buried in the corner of the Regular graveyard, near those who were drowned in the wreck of that winter. There was no funeral, of course. The minister said a prayer at the shanty, and that was all. Ebenezer drove the wagon which was used as hearse for the occasion, and filled in the grave himself. So great was the fear of the terrible smallpox that the sexton would not perform even that service for its victim.
Capen remained at the shanty another week. Then, as the minister showed no symptoms of having contracted the disease and insisted that he needed no companion, Ebenezer departed to take up his fishing once more. The old man was provided with a new suit of clothes, those he had worn being burned, and having been, to his huge disgust, fumigated until, as he said, he couldn't smell himself without thinking of a match box, went away. The room which the dead sailor had occupied was emptied and sealed tight. The San Jose was to stay at her anchorage a while longer. Then, when all danger was past, she was to be towed to Boston and sold at auction for the benefit of the heirs of her dead skipper and owner.
Ellery himself was most urgent in the decision that he should not go back to the parsonage and his church just yet. Better to wait until he was sure, he said, and Dr. Parker agreed. “I'd be willing to bet that you are all right,” declared the latter, “but I know Trumet, and if I SHOULD let you go and you did develop even the tail end of a case of varioloid—well, 'twould be the everlasting climax for you and me in this county.”
Staying alone was not unpleasant, in a way. The “dead line” still remained, of course, and callers did not attempt to pass it, but they came more frequently and held lengthy conversations at a respectful distance. Ellery did his own cooking, what little there was to do, but so many good things were pushed under the ropes that he was in a fair way to develop weight and indigestion. Captain Zeb Mayo drove down at least twice a week and usually brought Mrs. Coffin with him. From them and from the doctor the prisoner learned the village news. Once Captain Elkanah and Annabel came, and the young lady's gushing praise of the minister's “heroism” made its recipient almost sorry he had ever heard of the San Jose.
Dr. Parker told him of Grace Van Horne's return to the village. She had come back, so the doctor said, the day before, and was to live at the tavern for a while, at least. Yes, he guessed even she had given up hope of Captain Nat now.
“And say,” went on Parker, “how are you feeling?”
“Pretty well, thank you,” replied the minister. “I seem to be rather tired and good for nothing. More so than I was during the worst of it.”
“No wonder. A chap can't go through what you did and not feel some reaction. I expected that. Don't get cold, that's all. But what I want to know is whether you think I could leave you for a couple of days? The Ostable County Medical Society meets at Hyannis to-morrow and I had promised myself to take it in this year. But I don't want to leave you, if you need me.”
Ellery insisted that he did not need anyone, was getting along finely, and would not hear of his friend's missing the medical society's meeting. So the physician went.
“Good-by,” he called as he drove off. “I guess your term is pretty nearly over. I shall let you out of jail inside of four or five days, if you behave yourself.”
This should have been cheering news, but, somehow, John Ellery did not feel cheerful that afternoon. The tired feeling he had spoken of so lightly was worse than he had described it, and he was despondent, for no particular reason. That night he slept miserably and awoke with a chill to find a cold, pouring rain beating against the windows of the shanty.
He could not eat and he could not keep warm, even with the cook-stove top red hot and a blanket over his shoulders. By noon the chill had gone and he was blazing with fever. Still the rain and the wind, and no visitors at the ropes, not even the light-keeper.
He lay down on his bed and tried to sleep, but though he dozed a bit, woke always with a start and either a chill or fever fit. His head began to ache violently. And then, in the lonesomeness and misery, fear began to take hold of him.
He remembered the symptoms the doctor had warned him against, headache, fever, and all the rest. He felt his wrists and arms and began to imagine that beneath the skin were the little bunches, like small shot, that were the certain indications. Then he remembered how that other man had looked, how he had died. Was he to look that way and die like that? And he was all alone, they had left him alone.
Night came. The rain had ceased and stars were shining clear. Inside the shanty the minister tossed on the bed, or staggered back and forth about the two rooms. He wondered what the time might be; then he did not care. He was alone. The smallpox had him in its grip. He was alone and he was going to die. Why didn't some one come? Where was Mrs. Coffin? And Grace? She was somewhere near him—Parker had said so—and he must see her before he died. He called her name over and over again.
The wind felt cold on his forehead. He stumbled amidst the beach grass. What was this thing across his path? A rope, apparently, but why should there be ropes in that house? There had never been any before. He climbed over it and it was a climb of hundreds of feet and the height made him giddy. That was a house, another house, not the one he had been living in. And there were lights all about. Perhaps one of them was the light at the parsonage. And a big bell was booming. That was his church bell and he would be late for the meeting.
Some one was speaking to him. He knew the voice. He had known it always and would know it forever. It was the voice he wanted to hear. “Grace!” he called. “Grace! I want you. Don't go! Don't go! Grace! oh, my dear! don't go!”
Then the voice had gone. No, it had not gone. It was still there and he heard it speaking to him, begging him to listen, pleading with him to go somewhere, go back, back to something or other. And there was an arm about his waist and some one was leading him, helping him. He broke down and cried childishly and some one cried with him.
Early the next morning, just as day was breaking, a buggy, the horse which drew it galloping, rocked and bumped down the lighthouse lane. Dr. Parker, his brows drawn together and his lips set with anxiety, was driving. He had been roused from sleep in the hotel at Hyannis by a boy with a telegram. “Come quick,” it read. “Mr. Ellery sick.” The sender was Noah Ellis, the lightkeeper. The doctor had hired a fast horse, ridden at top speed to Bayport, gotten a fresh horse there and hurried on. He stopped at his own house but a moment, merely to rouse his wife and ask her if there was any fresh news. But she had not even heard of the minister's seizure.
“My soul, Will!” she cried, “you don't think it's the smallpox, do you?”
“Lord knows! I'm afraid so,” groaned her husband. “WHAT made me leave him? I ought to have known better. If that boy dies, I'll never draw another easy breath.”
He rushed out, sprang into the buggy, and drove on. At the ropes, early as it was, he found a small group waiting and gazing at the shanty. The lightkeeper was there and two or three other men. They were talking earnestly.
“How is he, Noah?” demanded the doctor, jumping to the ground.
“I don't know, doc,” replied Ellis. “I ain't heard sence last night when I telegraphed you.”
“Haven't heard? What do you mean by that? Haven't you been with him?”
“No-o,” was the rather sheepish reply. “You see, I—I wanted to, but my wife's awful scart I'll catch it and—”
“The devil!” Dr. Parker swore impatiently. “Who is with him then? You haven't left him alone, have you?”
“No-o,” Noah hesitated once more. “No-o, he ain't alone. She's there.”
“She? Who? Keziah Coffin?”
“I don't cal'late Keziah's heard it yet. We was waitin' for you 'fore we said much to anybody. But she's there—the—the one that found him. You see, he was out of his head and wanderin' up the lane 'most to the main road and she'd been callin' on Keziah and when she come away from the parsonage she heard him hollerin' and goin' on and—”
“Who did?”
“Why”—the lightkeeper glanced at his companions—“why, doc, 'twas Grace Van Horne. And she fetched him back to the shanty and then come and got me to telegraph you.”
“Grace Van Horne! Grace Van—Do you mean to say she is there with him NOW?”
“Yes. She wouldn't leave him. She seemed 'most as crazy's he was. My wife and me, we—”
But Parker did not wait to hear the rest. He ran at full speed to the door of the shanty. Grace herself opened it.
“How is he?” demanded the doctor.
“I think he seems a little easier; at any rate, he's not delirious. He's in there. Oh, I'm so thankful you've come.”
“Is that the doctor?” called Ellery weakly from the next room. “Is it?”
“Yes,” replied Parker, throwing off his coat and hat. “Coming, Mr. Ellery.”
“For God's sake, doctor, send her away. Don't let her stay. Make her go. Make her GO! I've got the smallpox and if she stays she will die. Don't you understand? she MUST go.”
“Hush, John,” said Grace soothingly. “Hush, dear.”
Dr. Parker stopped short and looked at her. She returned the look, but without the slightest semblance of self-consciousness or embarrassment. She did not realize that she had said anything unusual, which must sound inexplicably strange to him. Her thoughts were centered in that adjoining room and she wondered why he delayed.
“Well?” she asked impatiently. “What is it? Why do you wait?”
The doctor did not answer. However, he waited no longer, but hurried in to his new patient.
CHAPTER XVIII
IN WHICH KEZIAH DECIDES TO FIGHT
The news was flying from house to house along the main road. Breakfasts were interrupted as some neighbor rushed in to tell the story which another neighbor had brought to him or her. Mr. Ellery was very sick and it was feared he had the smallpox, that was what Mrs. Parker, the doctor's wife, told those who lived near her. By the time the Corners heard of it the tale had grown until the minister was said to be dying. And when it reached Gaius Winslow's home at the upper end of the town he was reported dead. This was denied, upon investigation, but soon another rumor grew and spread; Grace Van Horne was with him, had taken him back to the shanty, and insisted upon staying there until the doctor came. Facing that dreadful disease and—It was wonderful—and queer.
At the Danielses' house the servant girl rushed into the dining room to serve the toast and the story at one swoop. Captain Elkanah's dignity deserted him for an instant and his egg spoon jingled to the floor. Annabel's face turned a dull red. Her eyes flashed sparks.
“Pa!” she cried, “I—I—if you don't do something now I'll never—”
Her father shook his head warningly. “Debby,” he said to the maid, “you needn't wait.”
Debby departed reluctantly. After the kitchen door had closed, Captain Elkanah said: “My dear, we mustn't be too hasty in this matter. Remember, Mr. Ellery is very sick. As for—for the Van Horne girl, we haven't heard the whole truth yet. She may not be there at all, or it may be just an accident—”
“Accident! Pa, you make me boil. Accident! Accidents like that don't happen. If you let her stay there, or if—Oh, to think of it! And we were calling him a hero and—and everything! Hero! he stayed there just so she might—”
“Hush! hush, child!”
“I shan't hush. Pa, are you going to let him disgrace himself with HER?”
“No, no. Probably there ain't any idea of his marrying her. If there is—”
“If there is you put him out of the church and out of this town. And as for HER—O-oh! And we've been having him here at dinner and—and I have—Oh, I shall die! I wish I WAS dead!”
Then followed hysterics and agony, greedily listened to by Debby, whose ear was at the crack of the door. Captain Elkanah soothed and pleaded and tried to pacify. It ended by his promising to investigate and, if necessary, take steps 'immejitly.'
Lavinia Pepper sprung the mine on her brother. Kyan was horrified. He had grown to be one of Ellery's most devoted worshipers.
“Smallpox!” he groaned. “The minister got the smallpox. Oh! that's turrible.”
“Ain't it?” observed his sister, also horrified, but rather relishing the horror. “And if it hadn't been for Gracie Van Horne—”
“WHAT?”
“What's the matter with you? I say, if Gracie Van Horne hadn't happened to meet him, wanderin' around, crazy as a coot, and toted him back—”
“Gracie—Van—Horne! Godfreys mighty! She—she met him? Where? Down to Peters's grove, was it?”
“Peters's grove! No. What on earth made you think 'twas there? She'd been visitin' Keziah Coffin at the parsonage, and when she come out on the main road she heard him aravin' down the lane. Must have passed right by this house and we never heard him. I never see such a dead man as you be when you're asleep. You don't SOUND dead, I'll say that for you, but nothin' wakes you up.”
“Why, Laviny! you never woke up yourself.”
“That's right, lay it onto me. I expected you would; it's just like you. But why in time did you think Grace met the minister way down to Peters's grove? That's the most loony notion ever I heard, even from you. What made you think of it?”
“Nothin', nothin'. I guess I WAS loony, maybe. Dear! dear! dear! have you heard how's he's gettin' on? Is he took bad?”
“I ain't heard nothin' yet, nobody has. But see here, 'Bish Pepper, you act funny to me. I want to know more about that Peters's grove notion. WHY did you say it?”
Kyan wriggled upon the rack and dodged and squirmed for the next twenty minutes. He tried his best to keep the fateful secret, but he admitted too much, or not enough, and his sister kept up the cross-examination. At the end of the session she was still unsatisfied, but she was on the scent and her brother knew it. He fled to the woodshed and there punctuated his morning task of kindling chopping with groans and awful forebodings.
One of the very first to hear of the minister's illness was Keziah Coffin. Mrs. Parker told her and Keziah started for the beach before the tale of Grace's part in the night's happenings reached the village. She did not wait for a conveyance, hardly waited to throw a shawl over her shoulders, but began to cover the three miles on foot. She had walked nearly two thirds of the distance when Captain Zeb Mayo overtook her and gave her a seat in his chaise.
They said little during the drive, the shock and anxiety forbidding conversation. At the ropes was the same group, larger now, and Dr. Parker's horse was hitched to one of the posts.
“You can't go in, Mrs. Coffin,” said Thoph Black. “The doctor give us his orders not to let nobody get by. I guess nobody wants to, but all the same—”
Keziah paid not the slightest attention to Mr. Black. She stooped beneath his arm, under the rope and was on her way to the shanty before they realized her intention. Captain Zeb roared a command for her to return, but she kept on. No one followed, not even the captain. Mrs. Mayo had strictly forbidden his passing the dead line.
Keziah opened the door and entered the little building. The living room was empty, but at the sound of her step some one came from the room adjoining. That some one was Grace.
“Aunt Keziah!” she cried. “What did you come here for? Why did you?”
“Gracie!” exclaimed the housekeeper. “You?—YOU?”
Dr. Parker appeared, holding up a hand for silence.
“Hush!” he cried. “He's quiet now and I think he will sleep. Don't talk here. Go outside, if you must talk—and I suppose you must.”
Grace led the way. Fortunately, the door was on the side not visible from the spot where Captain Zeb and the rest were standing. Keziah, bewildered and amazed at the girl's presence, followed dumbly.
“Now, auntie,” whispered Grace, turning to her, “you want to know how he is, of course. Well, I think he is better. The doctor thinks so, too. But why did you come here?”
“Why did I come? I? Why, because my place was here. I belonged here. For the love of mercy's sakes what are YOU doin' here? With HIM? And the smallpox!”
“Hush. I can't help it. I don't care. I don't care for anything any more. I'm glad I came. I'm glad I was the one to find him and help him. No matter what happens—to me—I'm glad. I never was so glad before. I love him, Aunt Keziah. I can say it to you, for you know it—you must know it. I LOVE him and he needed me and I came. He was calling my name when I found him. He might have died there, alone in the wet and cold, and I saved him. Think what that means to me.”
The girl was in a sort of frenzy of excitement and hysterical exaltation. All the night she had been calm and quiet, repressing her feelings, and tending the man she loved. Now, with some one to whom she could confide, she was calm no longer. Keziah answered her soothingly, questioning her from time to time, until, at last, she learned the whole story.
The door opened softly and Dr. Parker came out.
“He's asleep,” he said. “And he's better, much better. And I'll tell you something else, if you won't make too much noise about it—he hasn't got the smallpox.”
The two women looked at him.
“Fact,” he said, with an emphatic nod. “Not a symptom of it. I'd have bet my best hat that he wasn't going to have it and I won't have to go bareheaded yet awhile. He is pretty close to brain fever, though, but I guess he'll dodge that this time, with care. On the whole, Keziah, I'm glad you came. This young lady,” with a movement of the head toward Grace, “has done her part. She really saved his life, if I'm not mistaken. Now, I think she can go away and leave him to you and me. I'll pretty nearly guarantee to have him up and out of this—this pesthole in a fortnight.”
Here was joyful tidings, the better for being so unexpected. Keziah leaned against the boards and drew a long breath. Grace said nothing, but, after a moment, she went into the house.
“That's a good thing, too,” commented Parker, watching her as she went. “I wanted to talk with you, Keziah Coffin, and right away. Now, then, there's something up, something that I don't know about, and I rather guess you do. Young women—even when they're her kind and that's as good a kind as there is—don't risk smallpox for any young man they pick up casually. They don't carry—I guess it was pretty nearly carrying—him home and put him to bed and care for him and cry over him and call him 'dear.' And he doesn't beg them to run away and let him die rather than to stay there and risk dying, too. No, not to any great extent. Now, Keziah, you and I are fairly good friends and we ought to know each other by this time. I see a light—a little one. Now, then, if you turn up the lamp, so that I can see the whole blaze, maybe I can help those two in yonder.”
Keziah considered. “All right, doctor,” she said, when she reached a decision, “all right; I'll tell you the whole thing, and you can see one of the reasons why my hair is gettin' grayer. This thing has reached the point now where there's no keepin' it quiet. Folk'll know—I s'pose they know already—that she's been here with him. They'll suspect a lot more and the truth is better than suspicion—that is, it can't be worse than the suspicions that come natural to a good many minds in this town. I am glad I can tell you, for I guess the time's come to step out in broad daylight and h'ist our colors. Now, you listen. Here 'tis, from beginnin' to end.”
She went on to tell all she knew of her parson's love story.
Dr. Parker listened.
“Hum!” he said thoughtfully, “I see. What made her change her mind so suddenly? You say, or you gather from what Mr. Ellery told you, that she had all but agreed to marry him. She cares for him, that's sure. Then, all at once, she throws him over and accepts Nat. Of course her uncle's sudden seizure was a shock and he wanted Nat to have her, but she isn't the kind of girl to be easily swayed. Why did she do it?”
“Well, doctor, that's kind of a puzzle to me. All I can think is that she come to realize what it might mean to him, the minister, if he married a Come-Outer. I think she done it for his sake, to save him, though what made her realize it all at once I don't know. There's the part we ain't heard.”
“I guess you're right. Something happened between the time she left Ellery and when you and I reached the tavern. But never mind that, that doesn't count now. Let's look at things as they are this minute. She's here and folks know it. As they do know it they'll begin to talk, and the more they talk the farther from the truth they'll get—most of 'em. Nat, poor chap, is dead, so her promise to him is canceled. Ellery will get well if he isn't troubled, and her being with him will help more than anything else. I can understand now why he broke down.”
“Yes, he ain't been himself since it happened.”
“Of course, and the last few weeks of worry and night work have helped to wreck his nerves. Well, as I see it, there's only one thing to do. If she leaves him he'll go to pieces again, so she mustn't leave. And she can't stay without an explanation. I say let's give the explanation; let's come right out with the announcement that they're engaged.”
“Whew! that'll stir things up.”
“You bet! But let it stir. I like that parson of yours; he's a trump. And I always liked her, although, generally speaking, I don't love Come-Outers. And I like her more than ever now, when she risked what she thought was smallpox to care for him. As I said, she saved his life, and she ought to have him. She SHALL have him.”
“But she's a Come-Outer and—there's the church.”
“Well, I know it. But he never was so popular as he is now. And she isn't by any means a steady-going Come-Outer. Why, Zeke Bassett and the rest have been finding fault with her and calling her a backslider. That'll help. Then you trust me to whoop up her heroism and the fact that without her he would have died. We can do it, Keziah. Come on! I've tackled a good many jobs, but matchmaking isn't one of 'em. Here goes to tackle that.”
Keziah was delighted; here was work after her own heart. But she still hesitated.
“Doctor,” she said, “you've forgot one thing, that's Gracie herself. Would she marry him now, knowing it may mean the loss of his ministry and all, any more than she would at first? I don't believe it.”
“That's your part, Keziah. You've got to show her she MUST marry him or he'll die; see? Call on me to back you up in any fairy yarn you spin. You prove to her it's her duty to marry him. You'll have to stay, here and help nurse, of course, and that's easy because his disease isn't contagious. You convince her and I'll take care of the congregation. He'll live to be minister here for the rest of his life, if he wants to, and she'll be a minister's wife and sit in the front pew. I'll guarantee the church if you'll guarantee the girl. Why, it's your duty! Come, now, what do you say?”
Keziah's hesitation was at an end. Her face lit up.
“I say good!” she cried. “And I'll be thankful to you all the rest of my life. But for the dear mercy sakes, don't say 'duty' to me again. Oh, doctor, if you only knew what it means to me to be fightin' at last for somethin' that ain't just duty, but what I really want! I do honestly believe we can win. Glory, hallelujah! And now I want to give you a piece of advice, your course for the first leg, as you might say: you see Cap'n Zebedee Mayo.”
“Humph! Cap'n Zeb is the first man I mean to see.”
Captain Zeb listened with his mouth and eyes and ears open. Mrs. Mayo was with him when the doctor called, and she, too, listened.
“Well!” exclaimed the captain, when the plea for support was ended. “Well, by the flukes of Jonah's whale! Talk about surprises! Old lady, what do you say?”
“I say go ahead, Zebedee. Go ahead! If Mr. Ellery wanted to marry Jezebel's sister, and I knew he really wanted to, I'd—I do believe I'd help him get her. And Grace Van Horne is a good girl. Go ahead.”
“Of course,” put in Parker, profiting by a hint of Mrs. Coffin's, “of course Daniels will fight tooth and nail against us. He'll be for discharging Ellery at once. And he really runs the parish committee.”
“He does, hey? Well, I cal'late he don't. Not if I'm on deck, he don't. All right, doctor, I'm with you. He, he, he!” he chuckled. “Say, doc, do you know I sort of love a good lively row. That's been the only trouble with our society sence Mr. Ellery took command of it—there ain't been any rows. He, he, he! Well, there'll be one now.”
There was, and it was lively enough to suit even Captain Zeb. Dr. Parker, on his calls that day, was assailed with a multitude of questions concerning Grace's presence at the shanty. He answered them cheerfully, dilating upon the girl's bravery, her good sense, and the fact that she had saved Mr. Ellery's life. Then he confided, as a strict secret, the fact that the two were engaged. Before his hearers had recovered from the shock of this explosion, he was justifying the engagement. Why shouldn't they marry if they wanted to? It was a free country. The girl wasn't a Come-Outer any longer, and, besides—and this carried weight in a good many households—what a black eye the marriage would be for that no-account crowd at the chapel.
Captain Zebedee, having shipped with the insurgents, worked for them from sunrise to sunset and after. Zeb was something of a politician and knew whom to “get at.” He sought his fellows on the parish committee and labored with them. Mrs. Mayo and the doctor's wife championed the cause at sewing circle. They were lively, those sewing meetings, and the fur flew. Didama Rogers and Lavinia Pepper were everywhere and ready to agree with whichever side seemed likely to win. Lavinia was so deeply interested that she forgot to catechise Abishai further about his untimely reference to Peters's grove. And Kyan, puzzled but thankful, kept silence.
It was by no means a one-sided struggle. Captain Elkanah, spurred on by the furious Annabel, marshaled his forces and proclaimed that Ellery, having disgraced the Regular Society, should no longer occupy its pulpit.
“If he does,” thundered Elkanah, “I shall never cross the threshold of that church. And I've worshiped there for fifty years. Hum—ha! I should like to know whose money has gone more liberal for that meeting house than mine! But not another cent—no, sir! not one—if that licentious young scamp continues to blaspheme there.”
He hinted concerning a good-sized contribution toward a parish house, something the society needed. If Ellery was discharged, the contribution would probably be made, not otherwise. And this was a point worth considering.
Daniels also wrote to his influential friends of the National Regular Society. But Captain Zebedee had forestalled him there and both letters were laid on the table to await further developments. As for the Come-Outers, they were wild with rage and Grace was formally read out of their communion.
“I wonder,” shrieked Ezekiel Bassett, in prayer meeting, “what the sperrit of the good and great man who used to lead us from this 'ere platform would say if he was here now? Hey? what would he say?”
Josiah Badger upreared his lanky person. “I dreamed about Cap'n Eben t'other n-nin-nun-night,” he stammered. “I see him just as—p-pup-pup-plain as you hear me n-n-now. And he says to me, he says, Josiah,' he says, 'I-I-I-I—'”
“Ki yi!” broke in Thoph Baker, from the shadow of the rear seat. Josiah turned to berate Thoph, who, being in disgrace because of his defense of Ellery, was reckless, and the communication from the dead leader of the Come-Outers was lost in the squabble which followed.
Meantime Keziah, installed as head nurse at the shanty, was having her troubles. The minister was getting better, slowly but surely getting better. The danger of brain fever was at an end, but he was very weak and must not be excited, so the doctor said. He knew nothing of the struggle for and against him which was splitting Trumet in twain, and care was taken that he should not know it. He was not allowed to talk, and, for the most part, was quite contented to be silent, watching Grace as she moved about the room. If he wondered why she was still with him, he said nothing, and the thought of what his congregation might say did not vex him in the least. She was there, he saw her every day, that was enough.
He had expressed a wish to talk with his housekeeper. “I've got something to tell you, Aunt Keziah,” he said weakly. “Some news for you and—and—”
“Cat's foot!” snapped Keziah briskly, “don't start in tellin' me news now. I've got my hands full as 'tis. News'll keep and you won't, if you talk another minute.”
“But this is important.”
“So are you, though you may not think so. If you don't believe it ask Grace.”
“Well,” the minister sighed. “Well, perhaps I won't tell it now. I'd rather wait until I feel stronger. You won t care, will you? It will be hard to tell and I—”
“No, no! Care? No. If it's bad news I don't want to hear it, and if it's good I can wait, I cal'late. You turn over and take a nap.”
She could manage him; it was with Grace that she had her struggle. John was safe now; he would be himself again before very long, and the girl had begun to think of his future and his reputation. She knew that gossip must be busy in the village, and, much as she wished to remain by his side, she decided that she should not do so. And then Keziah began to fulfill her agreement with Dr. Parker.
First, and bluntly, she told the girl that her leaving now was useless. The secret was out; it had been made public. Everyone knew she was in love with John and he with her. Their engagement was considered an established certainty. Grace was greatly agitated and very indignant.
“Who dared say so?” she demanded. “Who dared say we were engaged? It's not true. It's a wicked lie and—Who is responsible, Aunt Keziah?”
“Well, I suppose likely I am, much as anybody, deary.”
“You? You, Aunt Keziah?”
“Yup; me. You are in love with him; at any rate, you said so. And you're here with him, ain't you? If you two ain't engaged you ought to be.”
“Aunt Keziah, how can you speak so? Don't you realize—”
“Look here. Don't you want to marry him?”
“WANT to? Oh, please—How can you? I—”
“S-s-sh! There! there! I am a bull-headed old thing, for sure. But I'm like the dog that chased the rat across the shelf where they kept the best china, my intentions are good. Don't cry, deary. Let's get to the bottom of this thing, as the man said when he tumbled into the well. When I first knew that you and John were in love with each other, I felt dreadful. I knew your uncle and I knew Trumet. If you had married then, or let people know that you thought of it, 'twould have been the end, and ruin for John and you. But things are diff'rent now, a good deal diff'rent. John is worshiped pretty nigh, since his pluck with that smallpox man. He could go into church and dance a jig in the pulpit and nobody—or precious few, at least—would find fault. And you've stood by him. If it wa'n't for you he wouldn't be here to-day, and people know that. Dr. Parker and Captain Zebedee and Gaius Winslow and dozens more are fighting for him and for you. And the doctor says they are going to win. Do you want to spoil it all?”
“Aunt Keziah, that night before uncle died I was upstairs in my room and I heard uncle and Captain Elkanah Daniels talking.”
“Elkanah? Was he there at your house?”
“Yes. Somehow or other—I don't know how—he had learned about—about John and me. And he was furious. Aunt Keziah, I heard him say that unless I broke off with John he would drive him from the ministry and from Trumet and disgrace him forever. He said that if I really cared for him I would not ruin his life. That brought me to myself. I realized how wicked I had been and what I was doing. That was why I—I—”
“There! there! Tut! tut! tut! hum! Now I see. But, Gracie, you ain't goin' to ruin his life. No, nor Elkanah ain't goin' to do it, either. He can't, no matter how hard he tries. I've lived to see the day when there's a bigger man in the Reg'lar church than Elkanah Daniels, and I thank the good Lord for it.”
“I never should have come here. I know it. But he needed me. Aunt Keziah, he was sick and dying almost, and I couldn't leave him. I came, and now he will be ruined and disgraced.”
“He won't, I tell you; he won't. Listen to me. I ain't talkin' for my health. Listen!”
She argued and pleaded and coaxed, and, at last, when she began to think she had prevailed, Grace brought forward another objection. She had given her word to her uncle. How could she break that promise made to a dying man? She would feel like a traitor.
“Traitor to who?” demanded the housekeeper, losing patience. “Not to poor Nat, for he's gone. And don't you suppose that he and Eben understand things better now, where they are? Do you suppose that Nat wouldn't want you to be happy? I know he would, for I knew him.”
It was still unsettled when the long talk was over, but Grace agreed not to leave the minister at present. She would stay where she was until he was himself again, at least. Keziah was satisfied with the preliminary skirmish. She felt confident of winning the victory, and in the prospect of happiness for others, she was almost happy herself. Yet each time the mail was brought to the shanty she dreaded to look at it, and the sight of a stranger made her shake with fear. Ansel Coffin had threatened to come to Trumet. If he came, she had made up her mind what to do.
The parish committee was to meet. Captain Elkanah had announced his intention of moving that John Ellery be expelled from the Regular church. There was to be no compromise, no asking for a resignation; he must be discharged, thrown out in disgrace. The county papers were full of the squabble, but they merely reported the news and did not take sides. The fight was too even for that.
Captain Zeb chuckled. “It's all right, Keziah,” he said. “We know what's what and who's who. The Rev. Mr. Ellery can preach here for the next hundred year, if he lives that long and wants to, and he can marry whoever he darn pleases, besides. Elkanah's licked and he knows it. He ain't got enough backers to man a lobster dory. Let him holler; noise don't scare grown folks.”
One afternoon a few days before the date set for the meeting Elkanah and two or three of his henchmen were on the piazza of the Daniels home, discussing the situation. They were blue and downcast. Annabel was in the sitting room, shedding tears of humiliation and jealous rage on the haircloth sofa.
“Well,” observed her father, “there's one thing we can do. If the vote in committee goes against us, I shall insist on the calling of a congregational meeting. Hum—ha! Yes, I shall insist on that.”
“Won't be no good, cap'n,” sniffed Beriah Salters dolefully. “The biggest part of the congregation's for Ellery, and you know it. They're as sot on him as if he was the angel Gabriel. If you'd only told what you knew afore this smallpox business, we'd have been able to give him and his Come-Outer woman what b'longs to 'em. But not now.”
Captain Daniels shifted uneasily in his chair.
“Hum—ha!” he barked, to cover confusion. “Hum—ha! It seemed to me more—er—charitable to give the misguided young man another chance, and I did it. But—What's that?”
Some one was talking excitedly on the sidewalk beyond the lilac bushes at the border of the Daniels property. Voices answered. Didama Rogers darted out of her yard and past the house in the direction of the sounds. Salters rose and walked down to the gate.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Halloo! Ahoy there! You, Em'lous, what is it?”
Emulous Sparrow, the fish peddler, was seated in his cart, which was surrounded by men and women, neighbors of the Danielses. There was a perfect storm of questionings and ejaculations. Salters opened the gate and joined the group. A moment later he came running back, up the walk toward the piazza.
“Cap'n,” he shouted. “Cap'n Elkanah, here's news! What do you think? A telegram's just come from Nat Hammond. He's safe and sound in New York, and he'll be here day after to-morrow.”
They could not believe it and rushed out to hear more. Emulous, glowing with importance, affirmed that it was so. He had seen the telegram at the store. It was for Grace Van Horne and they were just going to send a boy over to the shanty with it.
“No details nor nothin',” he declared. “Just said 'Am all right. Arrived to-day. Will be in Trumet Thursday.' And 'twas signed 'Nathaniel Hammond.' There!”
“Well, by thunder!” exclaimed Salters. “If that don't beat all. I wonder what's happened to him? Two year gone and give up for dead, and now—What do you cal'late it means?”
Captain Elkanah seized him by the arm and led him out of the group. The old man's face was alight with savage joy and his voice shook with exultation.
“I'll tell you one thing it means,” he whispered. “It means the end of Ellery, so far as his marrying her is concerned. She gave her word to Hammond and she'll keep it. She's no liar, whatever else she is. He may be minister of the Regular church, though I'LL never set under him, but he'll never marry her, now.”