CHAPTER V
CAPTAIN NAT'S DECISION
When Martha, with Meg at her heels, passed Ann Gossaway's cottage thenext morning on her way to the post-office--her daily custom--thedressmaker, who was sitting in the window, one eye on her needle andthe other on the street, craned her head clear of the calico curtainframing the sash and beckoned to her.
This perch of Ann Gossaway's was the eyrie from which she swept thevillage street, bordered with a double row of wide-spreading elms andfringed with sloping grassy banks spaced at short intervals byhitching-posts and horse-blocks. Her own cottage stood somewhat nearerthe flagged street path than the others, and as the garden fences werelow and her lookout flanked by two windows, one on each end of hercorner, she could not only note what went on about the fronts of herneighbors' houses, but much of what took place in their back yards.From this angle, too, she could see quite easily, and without more thantwisting her attenuated neck, the whole village street from theCromartins' gate to the spire of the village church, as well aseverything that passed up and down the shadow-flecked road: whichchild, for instance, was late for school, and how often, and what itwore and whether its clothes were new or inherited from an eldersister; who came to the Bronsons' next door, and how long they stayed,and whether they brought anything with them or carried anything away;the peddler with his pack; the gunner on his way to the marshes, histwo dogs following at his heels in a leash; Dr. John Cavendish's gig,and whether it was about to stop at Uncle Ephraim Tipple's or keep on,as usual, and whirl into the open gate of Cobden Manor; Billy Tatham'spassenger list, as the ricketty stage passed with the side curtains up,and the number of trunks and bags, and the size of them, all indicativeof where they were bound and for how long; details of village life--noone of which concerned her in the least--being matters of profoundinterest to Miss Gossaway.
These several discoveries she shared daily with a faded old mother whosat huddled up in a rocking-chair by the stove, winter and summer,whether it had any fire in it or not.
Uncle Ephraim Tipple, in his outspoken way, always referred to thesetwo gossips as the "spiders." "When the thin one has sucked the lifeout of you," he would say with a laugh, "she passes you on to her oldmother, who sits doubled up inside the web, and when she gets donemunching there isn't anything left but your hide and bones."
It was but one of Uncle Ephraim's jokes. The mother was only a forlorn,half-alive old woman who dozed in her chair by the hour--the relict ofa fisherman who had gone to sea in his yawl some twenty years beforeand who had never come back. The daughter, with the courage of youth,had then stepped into the gap and had alone made the fight for bread.Gradually, as the years went by the roses in her cheeks--never toofresh at any time--had begun to fade, her face and figure to shrink,and her brow to tighten. At last, embittered by her responsibilitiesand disappointments, she had lost faith in human kind and had become ashrew. Since then her tongue had swept on as relentlessly as a scythe,sparing neither flower nor noxious weed, a movement which it was wise,sometimes, to check.
When, therefore, Martha, with Meg now bounding before her, caught sightof Ann Gossaway's beckoning hand thrust out of the low window of hercottage--the spider-web referred to by Uncle Ephraim--she halted in herwalk, lingered a moment as if undecided, expressed her opinion of thedressmaker to Meg in an undertone, and swinging open the gate with itsball and chain, made her way over the grass-plot and stood outside thewindow, level with the sill.
"Well, it ain't none of my business, of course, Martha Sands," MissGossaway began, "and that's just what I said to mother when I comehome, but if I was some folks I'd see my company in my parlor, long asI had one, 'stead of hidin' down behind the House o' Refuge. I said tomother soon's I got in, 'I'm goin' to tell Martha Sands fust minute Isee her. She ain't got no idee how them girls of hers is carryin' on orshe'd stop it.' That's what I said, didn't I, mother?"
Martha caught an inarticulate sound escaping from a figure muffled in ablanket shawl, but nothing else followed.
"I thought fust it was you when I heard that draggle-tail dog of yoursbarkin', but it was only Miss Jane and Bart Holt."
"Down on the beach! When?" asked Martha. She had not understood a wordof Miss Gossaway's outburst.
"Why, yesterday afternoon, of course--didn't I tell ye so? I'd beendown to Fogarty's; it's my week. Miss Jane and Bart didn't seeme--didn't want to. Might a' been a pair of scissors, they was thatclose together."
"Miss Jane warn't on the beach yesterday afternoon," said Martha in apositive tone, still in the dark.
"She warn't, warn't she? Well, I guess I know Miss Jane Cobden. She andBart was hunched up that close you couldn't get a bodkin 'tween 'em.She had that red cloak around her and the hood up ever her head. Notknow her, and she within ten feet o' me? Well, I guess I got my eyesleft, ain't I?"
Martha stood stunned. She knew now who it was. She had taken the redcloak from Lucy's shoulders the evening before. Then a cold chill creptover her as she remembered the lie Lucy had told--"not a soul on thebeach but Meg and the sandsnipe." For an instant she stood withoutanswering. But for the window-sill on which her hand rested she wouldhave betrayed her emotion in the swaying of her body. She tried tocollect her thoughts. To deny Jane's identity too positively would onlymake the situation worse. If either one of the sisters were to becriticised Jane could stand it best.
"You got sharp eyes and ears, Ann Gossaway, nobody will deny you them,but still I don't think Miss Jane was on the beach yesterday."
"Don't think, don't you? Maybe you think I can't tell a cloak from abed blanket, never havin' made one, and maybe ye think I don't know myown clo'es when I see 'em on folks. I made that red cloak for Miss Janetwo years ago, and I know every stitch in it. Don't you try and teachAnn Gossaway how to cut and baste or you'll git worsted," and thegossip looked over her spectacles at Martha and shook her side-curls ina threatening way.
Miss Gossaway had no love for the old nurse. There had been a time whenMartha "weren't no better'n she oughter be, so everybody said," whenshe came to the village, and the dressmaker never let a chance slip tohumiliate the old woman. Martha's open denunciation of the dressmaker'svinegar tongue had only increased the outspoken dislike each had forthe other. She saw now, to her delight, that the incident which hadseemed to be only a bit of flotsam that had drifted to her shore andwhich but from Martha's manner would have been forgotten by her thenext day, might be a fragment detached from some floating family wreck.Before she could press the matter to an explanation Martha turnedabruptly on her heel, called Meg, and with the single remark, "Well, Iguess Miss Jane's of age," walked quickly across the grass-plot and outof the gate, the ball and chain closing it behind her with a clang.
Once on the street Martha paused with her brain on fire. The lie whichLucy had told frightened her. She knew why she had told it, and sheknew, too, what harm would come to her bairn if that kind of gossip gotabroad in the village. She was no longer the gentle, loving nurse withthe soft caressing hand, but a woman of purpose. The sudden terroraroused in her heart had the effect of tightening her grip and bracingher shoulders as if the better to withstand some expected shock.
She forgot Meg; forgot her errand to the post-office; forgoteverything, in fact, except the safety of the child she loved. ThatLucy had neglected and even avoided her of late, keeping out of her wayeven when she was in the house, and that she had received only coolindifference in place of loyal love, had greatly grieved her, but ithad not lessened the idolatry with which she worshipped her bairn.Hours at a time she had spent puzzling her brain trying to account forthe change which had come over the girl during two short years ofschool. She had until now laid this change to her youth, her love ofadmiration, and had forgiven it. Now she understood it; it was that boyBart. He had a way with him. He had even ingratiated himself into MissJane's confidence. And now this young girl had fallen a victim to hiswiles. That Lucy should lie to her, of all persons, and in so calm andself-possessed a manner; and about Bart, of all men--sent a
shudderthrough her heart, that paled her cheek and tightened her lips. Oncebefore she had consulted Jane and had been rebuffed. Now she woulddepend upon herself.
Retracing her steps and turning sharply to the right, she ordered Meghome in a firm voice, watched the dog slink off and then walkedstraight down a side road to Captain Nat Holt's house. That the captainoccupied a different station in life from herself did not deter her.She felt at the moment that the honor of the Cobden name lay in herkeeping. The family had stood by her in her trouble; now she wouldstand by them.
The captain sat on his front porch reading a newspaper. He was in hisshirt-sleeves and bareheaded, his straight hair standing straight outlike the bristles of a shoe-brush. Since the death of his wife a fewyears before he had left the service, and now spent most of his days athome, tending his garden and enjoying his savings. He was a man ofpositive character and generally had his own way in everything. It wastherefore with some astonishment that he heard Martha say when she hadmounted the porch steps and pushed open the front door, her breathalmost gone in her hurried walk, "Come inside."
Captain Holt threw down his paper and rising hurriedly from his chair,followed her into the sitting-room. The manner of the nurse surprisedhim. He had known her for years, ever since his old friend, Lucy'sfather, had died, and the tones of her voice, so different from herusual deferential air, filled him with apprehension.
"Ain't nobody sick, is there, Martha?"
"No, but there will be. Are ye alone?"
"Yes."
"Then shut that door behind ye and sit down. I've got something to say."
The grizzled, weather-beaten man who had made twenty voyages aroundCape Horn, and who was known as a man of few words, and those always ofcommand, closed the door upon them, drew down the shade on the sunnyside of the room and faced her. He saw now that something of more thanusual importance absorbed her.
"Now, what is it?" he asked. His manner had by this time regainedsomething of the dictatorial tone he always showed those beneath him inauthority.
"It's about Bart. You've got to send him away." She had not moved fromher position in the middle of the room.
The captain changed color and his voice lost its sharpness.
"Bart! What's he done now?"
"He sneaks off with our Lucy every chance he gets. They were on thebeach yesterday hidin' behind the House o' Refuge with their headstogether. She had on Miss Jane's red cloak, and Ann Gossaway thought itwas Miss Jane, and I let it go at that."
The captain looked at Martha incredulously for a moment, and then brokeinto a loud laugh as the absurdity of the whole thing burst upon him.Then dropping back a step, he stood leaning against the old-fashionedsideboard, his elbows behind him, his large frame thrust toward her.
"Well, what if they were--ain't she pretty enough?" he burst out. "Itold her she'd have 'em all crazy, and I hear Bart ain't done nothin'but follow in her wake since he seen her launched."
Martha stepped closer to the captain and held her fist in his face.
"He's got to stop it. Do ye hear me?" she shouted. "If he don'tthere'll be trouble, for you and him and everybody. It's me that'scrazy, not him."
"Stop it!" roared the captain, straightening up, the glasses on thesideboard ringing with his sudden lurch. "My boy keep away from thedaughter of Morton Cobden, who was the best friend I ever had and towhom I owe more than any man who ever lived! And this is what youtraipsed up here to tell me, is it, you mollycoddle?"
Again Martha edged nearer; her body bent forward, her eyes searchinghis--so close that she could have touched his face with her knuckles.
"Hold your tongue and stop talkin' foolishness," she blazed out, thecourage of a tigress fighting for her young in her eyes, the same boldring in her voice. "I tell ye, Captain Holt, it's got to stop shortoff, and NOW! I know men; have known 'em to my misery. I know whenthey're honest and I know when they ain't, and so do you, if you wouldopen your eyes. Bart don't mean no good to my bairn. I see it in hisface. I see it in the way he touches her hand and ties on her bonnet.I've watched him ever since the first night he laid eyes on her. Heain't a man with a heart in him; he's a sneak with a lie in his mouth.Why don't he come round like any of the others and say where he's goin'and what he wants to do instead of peepin' round the gate-postswatchin' for her and sendin' her notes on the sly, and makin' her lieto me, her old nurse, who's done nothin' but love her? Doctor Johndon't treat Miss Jane so--he loves her like a man ought to love a womanand he ain't got nothin' to hide--and you didn't treat your wife so.There's something here that tells me"--and she laid her hand on herbosom--"tells me more'n I dare tell ye. I warn ye now ag'in. Send himto sea--anywhere, before it is too late. She ain't got no mother; shewon't mind a word I say; Miss Jane is blind as a bat; out with him andNOW!"
The captain straightened himself up, and with his clenched fist raisedabove his head like a hammer about to strike, cried:
"If he harmed the daughter of Morton Cobden I'd kill him!" The wordsjumped hot from his throat with a slight hissing sound, his eyes stillaflame.
"Well, then, stop it before it gets too late. I walk the floor nightsand I'm scared to death every hour I live." Then her voice broke."Please, captain, please," she added in a piteous tone. "Don't mind meif I talk wild, my heart is breakin', and I can't hold in no longer,"and she burst into a paroxysm of tears.
The captain leaned against the sideboard again and looked down upon thefloor as if in deep thought. Martha's tears did not move him. The tearsof few women did. He was only concerned in getting hold of somepositive facts upon which he could base his judgment.
"Come, now," he said in an authoritative voice, "let me get that chairand set down and then I'll see what all this amounts to. Sounds like ayarn of a horse-marine." As he spoke he crossed the room and, dragginga rocking-chair from its place beside the wall, settled himself in it.Martha found a seat upon the sofa and turned her tear-stained facetoward him.
"Now, what's these young people been doin' that makes ye so almightynarvous?" he continued, lying back in his chair and looking at her fromunder his bushy eyebrows, his fingers supporting his forehead.
"Everything. Goes out sailin' with her and goes driftin' past with hishead in her lap. Fogarty's man who brings fish to the house told me."She had regained something of her old composure now.
"Anything else?" The captain's voice had a relieved, almostcondescending tone in it. He had taken his thumb and forefinger fromhis eyebrow now and sat drumming with his stiffened knuckles on the armof the rocker.
"Yes, a heap more--ain't that enough along with the other things I'vetold ye?" Martha's eyes were beginning to blaze again.
"No, that's just as it ought to be. Boys and girls will be boys andgirls the world over." The tone of the captain's voice indicated thecondition of his mind. He had at last arrived at a conclusion. Martha'shead was muddled because of her inordinate and unnatural love for thechild she had nursed. She had found a spookship in a fog bank, that wasall. Jealousy might be at the bottom of it or a certain nervousfussiness. Whatever it was it was too trivial for him to waste his timeover.
The captain rose from his chair, crossed the sitting-room, and openedthe door leading to the porch, letting in the sunshine. Martha followedclose at his heels.
"You're runnin' on a wrong tack, old woman, and first thing ye knowye'll be in the breakers," he said, with his hand on the knob. "Easeoff a little and don't be too hard on 'em. They'll make harbor allright. You're makin' more fuss than a hen over one chicken. Miss Janeknows what she's about. She's got a level head, and when she tells methat my Bart ain't good enough to ship alongside the daughter of MortonCobden, I'll sign papers for him somewhere else, and not before. I'llhave to get you to excuse me now; I'm busy. Good-day," and picking uphis paper, he re-entered the house and closed the door upon her.