CHAPTER XIX
IN WHICH A RECEPTION IS CALLED OFF
Far out on the Pacific coast there are two small islands, perhaps a hundred miles distant from one another. The first of these is uninhabited. On the other is a little colony of English-speaking people, half-breed descendants of native women and the survivors of a crew from a British vessel cast away there in the latter part of the eighteenth century.
On the first of these islands, the smaller one, the Sea Mist had been wrecked. Driven out of her course by a typhoon, she staggered through day after day and night after night of terrific wind and storm until, at last, there was promise of fair weather. Captain Nat, nearly worn out from anxiety, care, and the loss of sleep, had gone to his stateroom and the first mate was in charge. It was three o'clock, the wind still blowing and the darkness pitchy, when the forward lookout shrieked a warning, “Breakers under the lee!” Almost the next instant the ship was on a coral reef, full of water, and the seas breaking over her from stem to stern.
Morning came and showed a little patch of land, with palm trees and tropical vegetation waving in the gusts and green in the sunshine. Captain Nat ordered the boats to be lowered. Much as he hated the thought, he saw that the Sea Mist had made her last voyage and must be abandoned. He went to the cabin, collected papers and charts and prepared to leave. The ship's money, over ten thousand dollars in gold belonging to the owner and to be used in trade and speculation among the East Indies, he took with him. Then the difficult and dangerous passage through the opening in the reef was begun.
Only the captain's boat reached the shore. The mate's was caught by a huge breaker, dashed against the reef and sunk. Captain Nat, his second mate and five of his men were all that was left of the Sea Mist's company. And on that island they remained for nearly two weeks. Provisions they had brought ashore with them. Water they found by digging. Nat hid the gold at night, burying it on the beach below high-water mark.
Then, having made sure of his location by consulting the chart, he determined to attempt a voyage to the second island, where he knew the English colony to be. Provisions were getting short, and to remain longer where they were was to risk starvation and all its horrors. So, in the longboat, which was provided with a sail, they started. Charts and papers and the gold the skipper took with them. None of the crew knew of the existence of the money; it was a secret which the captain kept to himself.
A hundred miles they sailed in the longboat and, at last, the second island was sighted. They landed and found, to their consternation and surprise, that it, too, was uninhabited. The former residents had grown tired of their isolation and, a trading vessel having touched there, had seized the opportunity to depart for Tahiti. Their houses were empty, their cattle, sheep, goats, and fowl roamed wild in the woods, and the fruit was rotting on the trees. In its way the little island was an Eyeless Eden, flowing with milk and honey; but to Captain Nat, a conscientious skipper with responsibilities to his owners, it was a prison from which he determined to escape. Then, as if to make escape impossible, a sudden gale came up and the longboat was smashed by the surf.
“I guess that settles it,” ruefully observed the second mate, “another Cape Codder, from Hyannis. Cal'late we'll stay here for a spell now, hey, Cap'n.”
“For a spell, yes,” replied Nat. “We'll stay here until we get another craft to set sail in, and no longer.”
“Another craft? ANOTHER one? Where in time you goin' to get her?”
“Build her,” said Captain Nat cheerfully. Then, pointing to the row of empty houses and the little deserted church, he added, “There's timber and nails—yes, and cloth, such as 'tis. If I can't build a boat out of them I'll agree to eat the whole settlement.”
He did not have to eat it, for the boat was built. It took them six months to build her, and she was a curious-looking vessel when done, but, as the skipper said, “She may not be a clipper, but she'll sail anywhere, if you give her time enough.” He had been the guiding spirit of the whole enterprise, planning it, laying the keel, burning buildings, to obtain nails and iron, hewing trees for the largest beams, showing them how to spin ropes from cocoa-nut fiber, improvising sails from the longboat's canvas pieced out with blankets and odd bits of cloth from the abandoned houses. Even a strip of carpet from the church floor went into the making of those sails.
At last she was done, but Nat was not satisfied.
“I never commanded a ship where I couldn't h'ist Yankee colors,” he said, “and, by the everlastin'! I won't now. We've got to have a flag.”
So, from an old pair of blue overalls, a white cotton shirt, and the red hangings of the church pulpit, he made a flag and hoisted it to the truck of his queer command. They provisioned her, gave her a liberal supply of fresh water, and, one morning, she passed through the opening of the lagoon out to the deep blue of the Pacific. And, hidden in her captain's stateroom under the head of his bunk, was the ten thousand dollars in gold. For Nat had sworn to himself, by “the everlasting” and other oaths, to deliver that money to his New York owners safe and, necessary expenses deducted of course, untouched.
For seven weeks the crazy nondescript slopped across the ocean. Fair winds helped her and, at last, she entered the harbor of Nukahiva, over twelve hundred miles away. And there—“Hammond's luck,” the sailors called it—was a United States man-of-war lying at anchor, the first American vessel to touch at that little French settlement for five years. The boat they built was abandoned and the survivors of the Sea Mist were taken on board the man-of-war and carried to Tahiti.
From Tahiti Captain Nat took passage on a French bark for Honolulu. Here, after a month's wait, he found opportunity to leave for New York on an American ship, the Stars and Stripes. And finally, after being away from home for two years, he walked into the office of his New York owners, deposited their gold on a table, and cheerfully observed, “Well, here I am.”
That was the yarn which Trumet was to hear later on. It filled columns of the city papers at the time, and those interested may read it, in all its details, in a book written by an eminent author. The tale of a Cape Cod sea captain, plucky and resourceful and adequate, as Yankee sea captains were expected to be, and were, in those days.
But Trumet did not hear the yarn immediately. All that it heard and all that it knew was contained in Captain Nat's brief telegram. “Arrived to-day. Will be home Thursday.” That was all, but it was enough, for in that dispatch was explosive sufficient to blow to atoms the doctor's plans and Keziah's, the great scheme which was to bring happiness to John Ellery and Grace Van Horne.
Dr. Parker heard it, while on his way to Mrs. Prince's, and, neglecting that old lady for the once, he turned his horse and drove as fast as possible to the shanty on the beach. Fast as he drove, Captain Zebedee Mayo got there ahead of him. Captain Zeb was hitching his white and ancient steed to the post as the doctor hove in sight.
“By mighty!” the captain exclaimed, with a sigh of relief, “I'm glad enough you've come, doctor. I hated to go in there alone. You've heard, of course.”
“Yes, I've heard.”
“Say, ain't it wonderful! I'm tickled all up one side and sorry all down t'other. Nat's a true-blue feller, and I'm glad enough that he ain't shark bait; but what about the minister and her? She's promised to Nat, you know, and—”
“I know. Don't I know! I've been going over the affair and trying to see a way out ever since I heard of the telegram. Tut! tut! I'm like you, mighty glad Hammond is safe, but it would have spared complications if he had stayed wherever he's been for a few months longer. We would have married those two in there by that time.”
“Sartin we would. But he didn't stay. Are you goin' to tell Mr. Ellery?”
“Certainly not. And I hope he hasn't been told. He's getting well fast now, but he mustn't be worried, or back he'll go again. We must see Mrs. Coffin. Keziah is our main hold. That woman has got more sense than all the rest of us put together.”
But it was Grace, not Keziah, who opened the shanty door in answer to their knock. She was pale and greeted them calmly, but it was evident that her calmness was the result of sheer will power.
“Won't you come in, doctor?” she asked. “Good afternoon, Captain Mayo.”
Dr. Parker entered the building, but Captain Zeb remained outside, stammering that he cal'lated he'd better stay where he could keep an eye on his horse. This was such a transparent excuse that it would have been funny at any other time. No one smiled now, however.
“Is—is Mrs. Coffin—er—Keziah aboard?” the captain asked.
“No, she isn't. She went to the parsonage a few hours ago. Mr. Ellis brought the mail and there was a letter in it for her. She said it was important and that she must go home to see about some things. She'll be back pretty soon, I suppose.”
The doctor whispered her name then and she went inside, closing the door after her. Captain Zebedee sat down on the step to ponder over the new and apparently insurmountable difficulty which had arisen. As he said afterwards, “The more I tried to get an observation, the thicker it got. Blamed if I could see anything but fog, but I could hear—I could hear Elkanah and his gang gigglin', ahead, astern and off both bows.”
Parker found his patient sleeping soundly and had not disturbed him. Returning to the living room he spoke to Grace.
“Humph!” he grunted, watching her from under his brows, “everything seems to be all right in there. He hasn't been excited or anything like that?”
“No.”
“That's good. He mustn't be. You understand that? He mustn't be told anything that will upset him. He's getting well fast and I want it to continue.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Hum! Er—have you heard—Has anyone been here?”
“Yes. I have heard. The telegram came and I answered it.”
“You did? Well, it's a miracle and we're all thankful, of course. Did you—er—er—”
“Doctor, I must go home. I mustn't stay here any longer.”
“Why not?”
“You know why not. I must be at home when he comes. You must get some one to take my place. Aunt Keziah will stay, of course, and perhaps Mrs. Higgins would come, or Hannah Poundberry. She—”
“Not if I know it. I'd as soon have a hay-cutter running in here as Hannah's tongue. I could stop a hay-cutter when it got too noisy. Well, if you must go, you must, I suppose. But stay through tomorrow, at any rate. Nat won't get here until Thursday, and I may be able to find another nurse by that time. And what I shall say to him,” motioning toward the other room, “I don't know.”
“Must you say anything? Just say that I have been called away for a few days on—on some business. Don't tell him. Don't tell him the truth, doctor, now. He is too weak and I am afraid—”
She stopped and turned away. The doctor watched her pityingly.
“Cheer up,” he said. “At any rate, this is only for a little while. When the captain knows, if he's the man I take him for, he'll—”
She whirled like a flash. “You're not going to tell him?” she cried. “No, no! You mustn't. You must promise me you won't. Promise.”
“Somebody'll tell him. Telling things is Trumet's specialty.”
“Then you must stop it. No one must tell him—no one except me. I shall tell him, of course. He must hear it from me and not from anyone else. He would think I was disloyal and ungrateful—and I am! I have been! But I was—I COULDN'T help it. You know, doctor, you know—”
“Yes, yes, I know. Well, I'll promise, but it will all come out right, you see. You mustn't think I—we—have been interfering in your affairs, Grace. But we've all come to think a whole lot of that parson of ours and what he wanted we wanted him to have, that's all.”
“I know. Thank you very much for all your kindness, and for your promise.”
He would have liked to say much more, but he could not, under the circumstances. He stammered a good-by and, with a question concerning Mrs. Coffin's whereabouts, went out to join Captain Zeb.
“Well?” queried the latter anxiously. “How is it? What's up? What's the next tack?”
“We'll go to the parsonage,” was the gloomy answer. “If anybody can see a glimmer in this cussed muddle Keziah Coffin can.”
Keziah was on her knees in her room, beside a trunk, the same trunk she had been packing the day of the minister's arrival in Trumet. She was working frantically, sorting garments from a pile, rejecting some and keeping others. She heard voices on the walk below and went down to admit the callers.
“What's the matter, Keziah?” asked Dr. Parker sharply, after a look at her face. “You look as if you'd been through the war. Humph! I suppose you've heard the news?”
Keziah brushed back the hair from her forehead. “Yes,” she answered slowly. “I've heard it.”
“Well, it's great news, and if it wasn't for—if things weren't as they are, I'd be crowing hallelujahs this minute. Trumet has got a good man safe and sound again, and the Lord knows it needs all of that kind it can get.”
“Yes.”
“Yes. But there's the other matter. I've been to see Grace. She didn't say so, but it was easy enough to see; the man she promised to marry and thought was dead, is alive. She's a girl of her word—she promised him and she promised her dying uncle—and she'll marry him. And then what will become of John Ellery? He'll go downhill so fast that a ship's anchor wouldn't hold him. If he doesn't die I'll have to send him away somewhere, and the Regular church will lose the minister we've fought so hard for.”
“Yes,” concurred Zebedee, “and them blasted Danielses'll run the shebang and the rest of us'll have to sing small, I tell you.”
“So we've come to you, Keziah,” went on the doctor. “Do you see any salvation?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You do? Where?”
“In Nat Hammond. If he knows Grace doesn't want to marry him, do you suppose he'll hold her to her promise?”
“I don't know. I'm not so sure. Men don't give up girls like that so easy. I wouldn't—by George, I wouldn't! And she won't tell him the whole truth, I'm afraid. She'll pretend to be glad—hang it! she IS glad—to have him home again and—”
“Of course she's glad. Ain't we all glad and happy and thankful? We ought to be. But”—she hesitated—“doctor, you leave this to me. So far as John and Grace are concerned you needn't worry. I'll take it on myself to see that they have each other, as the Almighty meant 'em to. Leave it to me. Just leave it to me. I KNOW I can do it.”
She would not say more, nor tell on what grounds she based her optimism. She would go back to the shanty that evening, she said, and stay until the following afternoon. Grace would undoubtedly go to the old tavern to prepare for the homecoming. Let Mrs. Higgins take her place as nurse.
“I shall have to leave, myself,” she added, “for a little while; so perhaps you'd better try to get somebody else to help the Higgins woman. Don't ask me any questions, please don't, and be sure not to say a word to anybody—most of all to Grace. Just do as I tell you and leave it to me. And don't come and see me again until after—after he comes home. Good-by, doctor. Good-by, Cap'n Zeb.”
She shook hands with each of them, a rather unusual proceeding as they thought of it afterwards. Then they went away and left her.
“Humph!” mused Parker, as they came out at the gate. “Humph! She seems sure, doesn't she. And yet she doesn't act like herself. Did you notice that?”
“Yup. I noticed it. But I expect Nat's droppin' out of the clouds shook her up, same as it done the rest of us. Well, never mind. She's a bully good, capable woman and what she says she'll do she gen'rally does. I'm bettin' on her. By time! I feel better.”
Captain Elkanah Daniels and his friends were feeling better also, and they were busy. Trumet had a new hero now. On Wednesday the Boston papers printed excerpts from Captain Hammond's story, and these brief preliminary accounts aroused the admiration of every citizen. It was proposed to give him a reception. Elkanah was the moving spirit in the preparations. Captain Nat, so they learned by telegraphing, would arrive on the noon train Thursday. His was not to be a prosaic progress by stage all the way from Sandwich. A special carriage, drawn by the Daniels span and escorted by other vehicles, was to meet the coach at Bayport and bring him to Trumet in triumphant procession. All this was to be a surprise, of course.
Wednesday afternoon the Daniels following was cheered by the tidings that Grace Van Horne had left the beach and was at her old home, the Hammond tavern. And Mrs. Poundberry reported her busy as a bee “gettin' things ready.” This was encouraging and indicated that the minister had been thrown over, as he deserved to be, and that Nat would find his fiancee waiting and ready to fulfill her contract. “Reg'lar whirligig, that girl,” sniffed Didama Rogers. “If she can't have one man she'll take the next, and then switch back soon's the wind changes. However, most likely she never was engaged to Mr. Ellery, anyhow. He's been out of his head and might have said some fool things that let Dr. Parker and the rest b'lieve he was in love with her. As for pickin' of him up and totin' him back to the shanty that night, that wa'n't nothin' but common humanity. She couldn't let him die in the middle of the lighthouse lane, could she?”
Thursday was a perfect day, and the reception committee was on hand and waiting in front of the Bayport post office. The special carriage, the span brushed and curried until their coats glistened in the sunshine, was drawn up beside the platform. The horses had little flags fastened to their bridles, and there were other and larger flags on each side of the dashboard. Captain Daniels, imposing in his Sunday raiment, high-collared coat, stock, silk hat and gold-headed cane, sat stiffly erect on the seat in the rear. The other carriages were alongside, among them Captain Zebedee Mayo's ancient chaise, the white horse sound asleep between the shafts. Captain Zeb had not been invited to join the escort, but had joined it without an invitation.
“I guess likely I'd better be on hand,” the captain confided to Dr. Parker. “Maybe I can stop Elkanah from talkin' too much about—well, about what we don't want him to talk about, and besides, I'm just as anxious to give Nat a welcome home as the next feller. He's a brick and we're all proud of him. By mighty! I'd like to have seen that craft he built out of cocoanuts and churches—I would so.”
Kyan Pepper was there also, not yet fully recovered from the surprise which Lavinia's gracious permission had given him. Abishai had been leaning disconsolately over his front gate early that morning when Noah Ellis, the lightkeeper, jogged down the lane.
“'Mornin', 'Bish,” hailed Noah, pulling up his horse. “What's the matter? You look bluer'n a spiled mack'rel. What's the row? Breakfast disagree with you?”
“Naw,” replied Kyan shortly. “Where you bound, all rigged up in your shore duds?”
“Bound to Bayport, to see Nat Hammond land,” was the cheerful answer. “I ain't had a day off I don't know when, and I thought I'd take one. Be great doin's over there, they tell me. Elkanah's goin' to make a speech and there's eighteen teams of folks goin'.”
“I know it. I wisht I was goin', too, but I never have no fun. Have to stay to home and work and slave over them consarned tax papers. Sometimes I wish there wa'n't no taxes.”
“Humph! I've wished that, myself, more'n once. Why don't you go, if you want to? Climb right aboard here with me. Plenty of room.”
“Hey? You mean that? By godfreys mighty! I'd like to.”
“Sartin, I mean it. Come ahead.”
Mr. Pepper sadly shook his head. “I guess likely I'd better not,” he sighed. “Laviny might not like to have me leave her.”
“Oh, fiddlesticks! she won't mind. I'll take care of you. It's perfectly safe. There ain't goin' to be no women around. Haw! haw! haw!”
He was still laughing at his own joke when through the slats of the closed blinds shading the Pepper house parlor a shrill voice was heard speaking.
“Go ahead, 'Bishy dear,” called Lavinia. “Go ahead and go. A change of air'll do you good.”
Kyan whirled and clutched at the gate.
“HEY?” he shouted in amazement.
“Are you deef? Or is Mr. Ellis laughin' so hard that you can't hear? What is it that's so funny, Mr. Ellis?”
The light-keeper shut off his laughter by a sudden and rather frightened gulp.
“Oh, nothin', nothin', Miss Pepper. Nice day, ain't it?”
“I guess so. I ain't had time to look at it yet. I have to work. I can't let my wife do it for me, like some folks, and take 'days off.' What was it you was laughin' at, Mr. Ellis?”
“Nothin', nothin' at all.”
“Hum! They used to tell me there was only one kind of person who laughed at nothin'. Well, 'Bish Pepper, what are you standin' there for? If you're goin', come right into the house and change your clothes this minute.”
Kyan obeyed. Shortly he reappeared, clothed like a lily of the field, one that had long since gone to seed. He clambered up beside Noah and they drove off.
“Jerushy!” exclaimed the lightkeeper. “This is kind of unexpected, ain't it? What's got into her to make her so accommodatin'?”
“Godfreys mighty!” was the dazed reply, “I don't know. This as fast as you can drive? Hurry up, afore she changes her mind.”
So it happened that Mr. Pepper was in Bayport with the rest, awaiting the stage which was bringing Trumet's latest celebrity from Sandwich.
“Here she comes!” shouted Ezra Simmons, the postmaster. “Right on time, too.”
Sure enough! A cloud of dust in the distance, rising on the spring wind, and the rattle of rapidly turning wheels. The reception committee prepared for action. Captain Elkanah descended from the carriage and moved in stately dignity to the front of the post-office platform.
“Hum—ha!” he barked, turning to his followers. “Be ready now. Give him a good cheer, when I say the word. Let it be hearty—hearty, yes.”
The stage, its four horses at a trot, swung up to the platform.
“Whoa!” roared the driver.
“Now!” ordered Elkanah. “One—two—Hurrah!”
“Hurrah!” shouted the committee, its uninvited guests and the accompanying crowd of Bayport men and boys which had gathered to assist in the welcome. “Hurrah!”
“Hooray!” yelled Kyan, a little behind, as usual.
A passenger or two peered from the coach window. The stage driver ironically touched his cap.
“Thank ye,” he said. “Thank ye very much. I've been hopin' for this for a long time, though I'd about given up expectin' it. I'm very much obliged. Won't somebody please ask me to make a speech?”
Captain Elkanah frowned his disapproval.
“We are cheering Cap'n Nathaniel Hammond of Trumet,” he explained haughtily. “We are here to meet him and escort him home.”
The driver sighed. “You don't say,” he said. “And I thought my merits had been recognized at last. And 'twas all for Cap'n Hammond? Dear! dear!”
He winked at Simmons, who wanted to laugh, but did not dare.
“Come! come!” said Captain Elkanah. “Where is he? Where's Cap'n Hammond?”
“Well, now, I'll tell ye; I don't know where he is.”
“You DON'T? Isn't he with you?”
“No, he ain't. And he didn't come on the train, nuther. He WAS on it. The conductor told me he see him and set along with him between stations as fur as Cohasset Narrows. But after that he never see hide nor hair of him. Oh, that's so! Here's the mail bag, Ezry.”
Captain Elkanah looked at the reception committee and it looked at him. Here was a most disconcerting setback for all the plans. The committee, after asking more, and fruitless questions, went into executive session.
Captain Zeb stepped beside the stage and put one foot on the wheel.
“Say, Thad,” he whispered, “is that all you know? Where did he go to?”
“Can't tell you, cap'n. The conductor says he see him afore they got to Cohasset Narrows and not after. Naturally, we s'pose he got off there. Pretty good joke on old Daniels, I call it. Serve him right, figgerin' to take a passenger away from me. He, he!”
“But you do know more, now don't you? Tell a feller—come! I don't like Elkanah any better'n you do.”
“Well,” the driver's voice dropped still lower. “Well,” he whispered, “I did hear this much, though don't you tell none of them: A chap I know was on the train and he said he see Cap'n Nat get off the cars at the Cohasset Narrows depot and there was a woman with him.”
“A woman? A WOMAN? What woman?”
“Blessed if I know! And he didn't nuther. So long! Git dap!”
The reception committee and its escort drove slowly back to Trumet. The Daniels following was disgusted and disappointed. Captain Elkanah had figured upon keeping Hammond under his own wing until he was safely deposited at the old tavern. Grace was there and Elkanah meant that these two should meet before any inkling of Ellery's story reached Nat's ears. Incidentally, he could drop a few damaging hints concerning the minister's character. To hurt Ellery all he could and prejudice Hammond against him—that was the plan, and now it was frustrated. The captain had not put in an appearance and no one knew where he was or when he would come home. Obviously, there was nothing to do except give up the reception and await further news from the missing man.
Some of those present wished to remain in Bayport until night. Another train was due in Sandwich and, possibly, Nat might come on that. They could telegraph and find out whether or not he did come, and if he did, could send a carriage for him. But this suggestion was overruled. The reception was off.
The homeward journey had some unpleasant incidents. Several Come-Outers had driven over. Nat belonged to them, so they felt—he was the son of their dead founder and leader—and they determined the Regulars should not have him all to themselves. They had come to bid him welcome on behalf of the worshipers at the chapel. Now they took advantage of the general disappointment to make sarcastic and would-be-humorous remarks loud enough for the majestic occupant of the decorated carriage to hear.
“Seems to me,” said Thoph Black, “that them flags ought to be ha'f mast. That craft's in distress.”
“S-sh-h!” counciled his companion, another Come-Outer. “Don't be irreverent. Look who's cruisin' under 'em. That's the King of Trumet. Let's you and me go ahead and fire salutes, Thoph.”
Captain Elkanah wrathfully ordered the flags to be removed from the horses' heads and from the dashboard.
As Noah Ellis and his passenger turned into the lighthouse lane another vehicle turned out of it.
“Who was that?” queried Kyan. “Looked like one of the livery stable horses to me.”
“'Twa'n't. 'Twas Thankful Payne's and that was her carriage, too. It's gettin' so dark I couldn't see who was drivin' it, but 'twas a man, anyhow.”
Kyan seemed to be pondering. “I wonder,” he said slowly, “I wonder if that cousin of hers from Sandwich is here visitin'. That Caleb Pratt, seems to me his name is.”
“Don't know. Why?”
“Nothin', nothin'. I just wondered, that was all. That might explain why she let me—”
“Hey?”
“Nothin'. Good night, Noah. I'm much obliged to you for takin' me over, even if there wa'n't no reception.”
Trumet spent that evening wondering what had become of Nat Hammond. Captain Zeb Mayo wondered most of all. Yet his wonderment was accompanied by vague suspicions of the truth. And, at eleven o'clock, when the village was in bed, a horse and buggy moved down the Turn-off and stopped before the Hammond gate. A man alighted from the buggy and walked briskly up to the side door. There he knocked and then whistled shrilly.
A window overhead was opened.
“Who is it?” asked a feminine voice.
“Don't be frightened, Gracie,” replied the man at the door. “It's me—Nat. I've come home again.”
CHAPTER XX
IN WHICH THE MINISTER RECEIVES A LETTER
John Ellery was uneasy. Physically he was very much better, so much better that he was permitted to sit up a while each day. But mentally he was disturbed and excited, exactly the condition which the doctor said he must not be in. Keziah and Grace had gone away and left him, and he could not understand why.
Mrs. Higgins, Ike's mother, was at the shanty and she did her best to soothe and quiet him. She was a kind soul and capable, in her way, but she could not answer his questions satisfactorily.
“Where are they?” he demanded. “Why did they go? Has anything happened? When are they coming back?”
“I can't tell you just when, Mr. Ellery,” replied Mrs. Higgins. “Grace had to go home for a—a day or so and Keziah had things to attend to at the parsonage. Don't you fret yourself about them.”
“I'm not fretting, but it does seem strange. I could understand why one should go, perhaps, but not both. Didn't Gra—Miss Van Horne tell you why she went?”
“Well, now, Mr. Ellery, don't let's worry about Gracie. She's a good girl with lots of common sense and—”
“I know that. But that doesn't answer me. Why did she go?”
“Keziah hadn't been to the parsonage sence that day when you was fust took sick, and I expect likely she felt that she'd ought to—”
“Please, Mrs. Higgins, tell me the truth. I'm not asking about Mrs. Coffin. Didn't Miss Van Horne tell you her reason for leaving?”
“No, she didn't.”
“But you know the reason? You're keeping something from me. Did she say when she would come back?”
“No, not exactly, but, of course—”
“I know you're keeping something from me. What has happened?”
“Happened? Land sakes! does anything ever happen in Trumet?”
“I think a good many things have happened lately. And the longer you keep the truth from me the more I shall suspect.”
“Mr. Ellery, you set still in that chair, or, when the doctor comes, he'll put you to bed. I've got some cookin' to do and I can't set here gossipin' no longer. You behave yourself and stop frettin'. I'm skipper here now—er—for a while, anyhow—and you've got to take orders from me. There! now I cal'late you're scared, ain't you?”
He did not seem greatly frightened, nor in awe of his new skipper. Instead, he was evidently preparing to ask more questions. Mrs. Higgins hurriedly fled to the living room and closed the door behind her.
The minister heard her rattling pans and dishes at a great rate. The noise made him nervous and he wished she might be more quiet. He moved to the chair nearest the window and looked out over the dunes and the wide stretch of tumbling blue sea. The surf was rolling up the shore, the mackerel gulls were swooping and dipping along the strand, the beach grass was waving in the wind. A solitary fish boat was beating out past the spar buoy. She was almost over the spot when the San Jose had first anchored.
The view was a familiar one. He had seen it in all weathers, during a storm, at morning when the sun was rising, at evening when the moon came up to tip the watery ridges with frosted silver. He had liked it, tolerated it, hated it, and then, after she came, loved it. He had thought it the most beautiful scene in all the world and one never to be forgotten. The dingy old building, with its bare wooden walls, had been first a horror, then a prison, and at last a palace of contentment. With the two women, one a second mother to him, and the other dearest of all on earth, he could have lived there forever. But now the old prison feeling was coming back. He was tired of the view and of the mean little room. He felt lonely and deserted and despairing.
His nerves were still weak and it was easy, in his childish condition, to become despondent. He went over the whole situation and felt more and more sure that his hopes had been false ones and that he had builded a fool's paradise. After all, he remembered, she had given him no promise; she had found him ill and delirious and had brought him there. She had been kind and thoughtful and gracious, but that she would be to anyone, it was her nature. And he had been content, weak as he was, to have her near him, where he would see her and hear her speak. Her mere presence was so wonderful that he had been satisfied with that and had not asked for more. And now she had gone. Mrs. Higgins had said “for a day or two,” but that was indefinite, and she had not said she would return when those two days had passed. He was better now, almost well. Would she come back to him? After all, conditions in the village had not changed. He was still pastor of the Regular church and she was a Come-Outer. The man she had promised to marry was dead—yes. But the other conditions were the same. And Mrs. Higgins had refused to tell him the whole truth; he was certain of that. She had run away when he questioned her.
He rose from the chair and started toward the living room. He would not be put off again. He would be answered. His hand was on the latch of the door when that door was opened. Dr. Parker came in.
The doctor was smiling broadly. His ruddy face was actually beaming. He held out his hand, seized the minister's, and shook it.
“Good morning, Mr. Ellery,” he said. “It's a glorious day. Yes, sir, a bully day. Hey? isn't it?”
Ellery's answer was a question.
“Doctor,” he said, “why have Mrs. Coffin and—and Miss Van Horne gone? Has anything happened? I know something has, and you must tell me what. Don't try to put me off or give me evasive answers. I want to know why they have gone.”
Parker looked at him keenly. “Humph!” he grunted. “I'll have to get into Mrs. Higgins's wig. I told her not to let you worry, and you have worried. You're all of a shake.”
“Never mind that. I asked you a question.”
“I know you did. Now, Mr. Ellery, I'm disappointed in you. I thought you were a sensible man who would take care of his health, now that he'd got the most of it back again. I've got news for you—good news—but I'm not sure that I shall tell it to you.”
“Good news! Dr. Parker, if you've got news for me that is good, for Heaven's sake tell it. I've been imagining everything bad that could possibly happen. Tell me, quick. My health can stand that.”
“Ye-es, yes, I guess it can. They say joy doesn't kill, and that's one of the few medical proverbs made by unmedical men that are true. You come with me and sit down in that chair. Yes, you will. Sit down.”
He led his patient back to the chair by the window and forced him into it.
“There!” he said. “Now, Mr. Ellery, if you think you are a man, a sensible man, who won't go to pieces like a ten-year-old youngster, I'll—I'll let you sit here for a while.”
“Doctor?”
“You sit still. No, I'm not going to tell you anything. You sit where you are and maybe the news'll come to you. If you move it won't. Going to obey orders? Good! I'll see you by and by, Mr. Ellery.”
He walked out of the room. It seemed to Ellery that he sat in that chair for ten thousand years before the door again opened. And then—
—“Grace!” he cried. “O Grace! you—you've come back.”
She was blushing red, her face was radiant with quiet happiness, but her eyes were moist. She crossed the room, bent over and kissed him on the forehead.
“Yes, John,” she said; “I've come back. Yes, dear, I've come back to—to you.”
Outside the shanty, on the side farthest from the light and its group of buildings, the doctor and Captain Nat Hammond were talking with Mrs. Higgins. The latter was wildly excited and bubbling with joy.
“It's splendid!” she exclaimed. “It's almost too fine to believe. Now we'll keep our minister, won't we?”
“I don't see why not,” observed the doctor, with quiet satisfaction. “Zeb and I had the Daniels crowd licked to a shoestring and now they'll stay licked. The parish committee is three to one for Mr. Ellery and the congregation more than that. Keep him? You bet we'll keep him! And I'll dance at his wedding—that is, unless he's got religious scruples against it.”
Mrs. Higgins turned to Captain Nat.
“It's kind of hard for you, Nat,” she said. “But it's awful noble and self-sacrificin' and everybody'll say so. Of course there wouldn't be much satisfaction in havin' a wife you knew cared more for another man. But still it's awful noble of you to give her up.”
The captain looked at the doctor and laughed quietly.
“Don't let my nobility weigh on your mind, Mrs. Higgins,” he said. “I'd made up my mind to do this very thing afore ever I got back to Trumet. That is, if Gracie was willin'. And when I found she was not only willin' but joyful, I—well, I decided to offer up the sacrifice right off.”
“You did? You DID? Why, how you talk! I never heard of such a thing in my born days.”
“Nor I neither, not exactly. But there!” with a wink at Parker, “you see I've been off amongst all them Kanaka women and how do you know but I've fell in love?”
“Nat HAMMOND!”
“Oh, well, I—What is it, Grace?”
She was standing in the doorway and beckoning to him. Her cheeks were crimson, the breeze was tossing her hair about her forehead, and she made a picture that even the practical, unromantic doctor appreciated.
“By George, Nat!” he muttered, “you've got more courage than I have. If 'twas my job to give her up to somebody else I'd think twice, I'll bet.”
The captain went to meet her.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nat,” she whispered, “will you come in? He wants to see you.”
John Ellery was still seated in the chair by the window, but he no longer looked like an invalid. There was no worry or care in his countenance now, merely a wondrous joy and serene happiness.
He held out his hands and the captain shook them heartily.
“Mr. Ellery,” he said, “as they used to say at the circus, 'Here we are again.' And you and I have been doing all kinds of circus acrobatics since we shook last, hey? I'm glad you're pretty nigh out of the sick bay—and the doctor says you are.”
“Captain,” began Ellery. Hammond interrupted him.
“Hold on!” he said. “Belay right there. If you and I are to cruise in the same family—and that's what I hear is likely to happen—I cal'late we'll heave overboard the cap'ns and Misters. My name's 'Nathaniel'—'Nat' for short.”
“All right. And mine is 'John.' Captain—Nat, I mean—how can I ever thank you?”
“Thank me? What do you want to thank me for? I only handed over somethin' that wasn't mine in the first place and belonged to you all along. I didn't know it, that was the only trouble.”
“But your promise to your father. I feel—”
“You needn't. I told dad that it was just as Grace said. She says she's got a better man, or words to that effect. And—I don't know how you feel about such things, John—but I b'lieve there's a broader outlook up aloft than there is down here and that dad would want me to do just what I have done. Don't worry about me. I'm doin' the right thing and I know it. And don't pity me, neither. I made up my mind not to marry Grace—unless, of course, she was set on it—months ago. I'm tickled to death to know she's goin' to have as good a man as you are. She'll tell you so. Grace! Hello! she's gone.”
“Yes. I told her I wanted to talk with you alone, for a few minutes. Nat, Grace tells me that Aunt Keziah was the one who—”
“She was. She met me at the Cohasset Narrows depot. I was settin' in the car, lookin' out of the window at the sand and sniffin' the Cape air. By the everlastin'! there ain't any air or sand like 'em anywheres else. I feel as if I never wanted to see a palm tree again as long as I live. I'd swap the whole of the South Pacific for one Trumet sandhill with a huckleberry bush on it. Well, as I started to say, I was settin' there lookin' out of the window when somebody tapped me on the shoulder. I looked up and 'twas her.
“You could have blown me over with a fan. By the jumpin' Moses, you could! You see, I'd been thinkin' about her—that is, I was—”
He hesitated, turned red, coughed, and went on.
“I was surprised enough to see her, I tell you. Way up there at the Narrows! I couldn't have said a word, anyway, and she never gave me a chance. 'Nat,' she says, 'don't talk now. Come with me, quick, afore the train starts.'
“Still I didn't say anything, nothin' sane anyhow. 'Keziah!' I managed to stutter. 'KEZIAH!'
“'Come!' says she. 'Hurry! I want you to get off here. I've come here on purpose to meet you. I must talk with you; it's important. You can go to Trumet on the next train, to-night. But now I must talk with you. I MUST. Won't you please come, Nat?'
“Well, I went. The engine bell was beginnin' to ring and we had to move lively, I tell you. I swung her off the step just as the car begun to move. After the smoke had faded away around the next bend I realized that my hat had faded away along with it. Yes, sir! I'd left it on the seat. Ha! ha! ha!”
He laughed uproariously. Ellery laughed in sympathy.
“However, I wa'n't worryin' about hats, just then. All I wanted to do was stand still, like a frozen image, and stare at her. You see, John, I hadn't laid eyes on a friend, one of the real homemade kind, for more days than I wanted to count; and here was one of 'em, one of the best, passed out to me unexpected and ahead of time, like a surprise party present. So I just pumped her hand up and down and stared. I didn't have any exclusive mortgage on the starin' by no means, for the depot master and a dozen or so loafers was lookin' at us with their mouths wide open.
“I guess she noticed it, for she says, 'Don't stay here, Nat. Come in the waitin' room or somewheres where we can talk.'
“So into the waitin' room we went and come to anchor on the settee. Six or eight of the loafers settled themselves handy to the door, so's they could peek in occasionally. I remember I told one of them not to stretch his neck that way 'cause he might never get it back into shape again and in the gunnin' season that would be dangerous. 'Some nearsighted feller might take you for a goose,' I says. Ho! ho!
“And then, John, we had our talk. Seems she left Trumet Wednesday afternoon. Got the livery stable man to drive her as fur as Bayport, hired another team there and come on to Sandwich. Stayed overnight there and took the mornin' train which got to Cohasset Narrows just ahead of the one I was comin' on. She'd been so afraid of bein' late, she said. She must see me afore I got to Trumet.
“Well, she saw me and told me the whole yarn about you and Grace. She tried to break it to me gently, so I wouldn't feel too bad. She knew it would be a shock to me, she said. It was a shock, in a way, but as for feelin' bad, I didn't. I think the world of Grace. I'd do anything she wanted me to do; but most the way down on the train—yes, and long afore that—I'd been dreadin' my comin' home on one account. I dreaded tellin' her that, unless she was real set on it, she'd better not marry me.
“You see, John, I've thought a lot sence I've been away. Had consider'ble time to do it in. And the more I thought the less that promise to dad seemed right. I'd have bet my sou-wester Gracie never cared for me in the way a girl ought to care for a chap she's goin' to ship as pilot for the rest of her days. And, as for me—well, I—I had my reasons for not wantin' to marry her.”
He paused again, sighed, started to speak, and then sat silent, looking out of the window. Ellery laid a hand on his knee.
“Nat,” said the minister, “you saved my life once, do you remember that? I do, if you don't.”
“Saved your life? What are you talkin' about? Oh! that time on the flats? That wasn't savin' your life, 'twas savin' your clothes from gettin' a wettin'.”
“No, it was more than that. And now I guess you've saved it again, you and Grace between you. Yes, and Aunt Keziah. Bless her! to think of her going way up there to meet you and help us!”
“Yes. 'Twas like her, wasn't it? She said she knew I'd hear the yarn when I got to Trumet, but she wanted me to hear it just as it was, and nobody but she and Grace and you knew the whole truth about it. So she come. I'm glad she did; not that I shouldn't have done the same, whoever told me, but—”
“Nat, I want to tell you something. Something that only one other person knows. Grace doesn't know it yet. Neither does Aunt Keziah—the whole of it. And if she knew I told you even a part I'm afraid she would, as she would say, 'skin me alive.' But I owe her—and you—more than I could repay if I lived a thousand years. So I'm going to tell and take the consequences.”
The captain looked at him. “Well!” he exclaimed. “What's comin' now? More secrets? Blessed if this ain't gettin' more excitin' than the South Seas. I used to think excitement in Trumet was scurcer than cream in poorhouse coffee, but I'll have to change my mind.”
“Nat, when—that morning after your father died and after you and Grace had agreed to—to—”
“To do somethin' neither of us wanted to do? Yes, I know. Go ahead.”
“That morning Aunt Keziah came home to the parsonage and broke the news to me. She did it as only she could do such a thing, kindly and pityingly and—”
“Of course. That's Keziah.”
“Yes. Well, as you can imagine, I was almost crazy. I made a fool of myself, I expect; refused to believe her, behaved disgracefully, and at last, when I had to believe it, threatened to run away and leave my work and Trumet forever, like a coward. She made me stay.”
“Did, hey?”
“Yes. She showed me it was my duty to face the music. When I whimpered about my troubles she told me her own story. Then I learned what trouble was and what pluck was, too. She told me about her marriage and—excuse me for speaking of what isn't my business; yet it is mine, in a way—she told me about you.”
Captain Hammond did not answer. His good natured face clouded and he shifted in his chair.
“She told me of you, Nat, all about you—and herself. And she told me something else, which explains why she felt she must send you away, why she thought your marriage to Grace would be a good thing.”
“I know. She told you that that darn scamp Anse Coffin was alive.”
The minister started violently. He gasped in surprise.
“You knew it? You KNEW it?” he stammered.
“I know it now. Have known it for over a year. My findin' it out was one of the special Providences that's been helpin' along this last voyage of mine. My second mate was a Hyannis man, name of Cahoon. One day, on that pesky island, when we was eatin' dinner together, he says to me, 'Cap'n,' he says, 'you're from Trumet, ain't you?' I owned up. 'Know anybody named Coffin there?' says he. I owned up to that, too. 'Well,' he says, 'I met her husband last trip I was in the Glory of the Wave.' I stared at him. 'Met his ghost, you mean,' I says. 'He's been dead for years, and a good thing, too. Fell overboard and, not bein' used to water, it killed him.'
“But he wouldn't have it so. 'I used to know Anse Coffin in New Bedford,' he says. 'Knew him well's I know you. And when we was in port at Havre I dropped in at a gin mill down by the water front and he come up and touched me on the arm. I thought same as you, that he was dead, but he wa'n't. He was three sheets in the wind and a reg'lar dock rat to look at, but 'twas him sure enough. We had a long talk. He said he was comin' back to Trumet some day. Had a wife there, he said. I told him, sarcastic, that she'd be glad to see him. He laughed and said maybe not, but that she knew he was alive and sent him money when he was hard up. Wanted me to promise not to tell any Cape folks that I'd seen him, and I ain't till now.'
“Well, you can imagine how I felt when Cahoon spun me that yarn. First I wouldn't b'lieve it and then I did. It explained things, just as you say, John. I could see now why Keziah gave me my walkin' papers. I could see how she'd been sacrificin' her life for that scum.”
“Yes. She wouldn't divorce him. She said she had taken him for better or worse, and must stand by him. I tried to show her she was wrong, but it was no use. She did say she would never live with him again.”
“I should say not. LIVE with him! By the everlastin'! if he ever comes within reach of my hands then—there's times when good honest murder is justifiable and righteous, and it'll be done. It'll be done, you hear me!”
He looked as if he meant it. Ellery asked another question.
“Did you tell her—Aunt Keziah—when you met her at the Narrows?” he asked.
“No. But I shall tell her when I see her again. She shan't spoil her life—a woman like that! by the Lord! WHAT a woman!—for any such crazy notion. I swore it when I heard the story and I've sworn it every day since. That's what settled my mind about Grace. Keziah Coffin belongs to me. She always has belonged to me, even though my own pig-headedness lost her in the old days.”
“She cares for you, Nat. I know that. She as much as told me so.”
“Thank you, John. Thank you. Well, I can wait now. I can wait, for I've got something sure to wait for. I tell you, Ellery, I ain't a church-goin' man—not as dad was, anyway—but I truly believe that this thing is goin' to come out right. God won't let that cussed rascal live much longer. He won't! I know it. But if he does, if he lives a thousand years, I'll take her from him.”
He was pacing the floor now, his face set like granite. Ellery rose, his own face beaming. Here was his chance. At last he could pay to this man and Keziah a part of the debt he owed.
Nat stopped in his stride. “Well!” he exclaimed. “I almost forgot, after all. Keziah sent a note to you. I've got it in my pocket. She gave it to me when she left me at Cohasset.”
“Left you? Why! didn't she come back with you on the night train?”
“No. That's funny, too, and I don't understand it yet. We was together all the afternoon. 'I was feelin' so good at seein' her that I took her under my wing and we cruised all over that town together. Got dinner at the tavern and she went with me to buy myself a new hat, and all that. At first she didn't seem to want to, but then, after I'd coaxed a while, she did. She was lookin' pretty sad and worn out, when I first met her, I thought; but she seemed to get over it and we had a fine time. It reminded me of the days when I used to get home from a voyage and we were together. Then, when 'twas time for the night train we went down to the depot. She gave me this note and told me to hand it to you to-day.
“'Good-by, Nat,' she says. 'We've had a nice day, haven't we?'
“'We have, for a fact,' I says. 'But what are you sayin' good-by for?'
“'Because I'm not goin' to Trumet with you,' says she. 'I'm goin' to the city. I've got some business to see to there. Good-by.'
“I was set back, with all my canvas flappin'. I told her I'd go to Boston with her and we'd come home to Trumet together to-morrow, that's to-day. But she said no. I must come here and ease your mind and Grace's. I must do it. So at last I agreed to, sayin' I'd see her in a little while. She went on the up train and I took the down one. Hired a team in Sandwich and another in Bayport and got to the tavern about eleven. That's the yarn. And here's your note. Maybe it tells where she's gone and why.”
The minister took the note and tore open the envelope. Within was a single sheet of paper. He read a few lines, stopped, and uttered an exclamation.
“What's the matter?” asked the captain.
Ellery did not answer. He read the note through and then, without a word, handed it to his friend.
The note was as follows:
“DEAR JOHN:
“I am going away, as I told you I would if he came. He is coming. Tuesday I got a letter from him. It was written at Kingston, Jamaica, almost three months ago. I can't think why I haven't got it sooner, but suppose it was given to some one to mail and forgotten. In it he said he was tired of going to sea and was coming home to me. I had money, he said, and we could get along. He had shipped aboard a brig bound for Savannah, and from there he was going to try for a berth on a Boston-bound vessel. So I am going away and not coming back. I could not stand the disgrace and I could not see him. You and Grace won't need me any more now. Don't worry about me. I can always earn a living while I have my strength. Please don't worry. If he comes tell him I have gone you do not know where. That will be true, for you don't. I hope you will be very happy. I do hope so. Oh, John, you don't know how I hate to do this, but I must. Don't tell Nat. He would do something terrible to him if he came, and Nat knew. Just say I have been called away and may be back some time. Perhaps I may. Love to you all. Good-by.
“Yours truly,
“KEZIAH COFFIN.”
The captain stared at the note. Then he threw it to the floor and started for the door. The minister sprang from his chair and called to him.
“Nat,” he cried. “Nat! Stop! where are you going?”
Hammond turned.
“Goin'?” he growled. “Goin'? I'm goin' to find her, first of all. Then I'm comin' back to wait for him.”
“But you won't have to wait. He'll never come. He's dead.”
“Dead? DEAD? By the everlastin'! this has been too much for you, I ought to have known it. I'll send the doctor here right off. I can't stay myself. I've got to go. But—”
“Listen! listen to me! Ansel Coffin is dead, I tell you. I know it. I know all about it. That was what I wanted to see you about. Did Keziah tell you of the San Jose and the sailor who died of smallpox in this very building? In that room there?”
“Yes. John, you—”
“I'm not raving. It's the truth. That sailor was Ansel Coffin. I watched with him and one night, the night before he died, he spoke Keziah's name. He spoke of New Bedford and of Trumet and of her, over and over again. I was sure who he was then, but I called in Ebenezer Capen, who used to know Coffin in New Bedford. And he recognized him. Nat, as sure as you and I are here this minute, Ansel Coffin, Aunt Keziah's husband, is buried in the Trumet cemetery.”