CHAPTER VI
A GAME OF CARDS
Should Miss Gossaway have been sitting at her lookout some weeks afterMartha's interview with Captain Nat Holt, and should she have watchedthe movements of Doctor John's gig as it rounded into the open gate ofCobden Manor, she must have decided that something out of the commonwas either happening or about to happen inside Yardley's hospitabledoors. Not only was the sorrel trotting at her best, the doctorflapping the lines along her brown back, his body swaying from side toside with the motion of the light vehicle, but as he passed her househe was also consulting the contents of a small envelope which he hadtaken from his pocket.
"Please come early," it read. "I have something important to talk overwith you."
A note of this character signed with so adorable a name as "JaneCobden" was so rare in the doctor's experience that he had at oncegiven up his round of morning visits and, springing into his waitinggig, had started to answer it in person.
He was alive with expectancy. What could she want with him except totalk over some subject that they had left unfinished? As he hurried onthere came into his mind half a dozen matters, any one of which itwould have been a delight to revive. He knew from the way she wordedthe note that nothing had occurred since he had seen her--within theweek, in fact--to cause her either annoyance or suffering. No; it wasonly to continue one of their confidential talks, which were the joy ofhis life.
Jane was waiting for him in the morning-room. Her face lighted up as heentered and took her hand, and immediately relaxed again into anexpression of anxiety.
All his eagerness vanished. He saw with a sinking of the heart, evenbefore she had time to speak, that something outside of his ownaffairs, or hers, had caused her to write the note.
"I came at once," he said, keeping her hand in his. "You look troubled;what has happened?"
"Nothing yet," she answered, leading him to the sofa, "It is aboutLucy. She wants to go away for the winter."
"Where to?" he asked. He had placed a cushion at her back and hadsettled himself beside her.
"To Trenton, to visit her friend Miss Collins and study music. She saysWarehold bores her."
"And you don't want her to go?"
"No; I don't fancy Miss Collins, and I am afraid she has too strong aninfluence over Lucy. Her personality grates on me; she is soboisterous, and she laughs so loud; and the views she holds areunaccountable to me in so young a girl. She seems to have had no hometraining whatever. Why Lucy likes her, and why she should have selectedher as an intimate friend, has always puzzled me." She spoke with herusual frankness and with that directness which always characterized herin matters of this kind. "I had no one else to talk to and am verymiserable about it all. You don't mind my sending for you, do you?"
"Mind! Why do you ask such a question? I am never so happy as when I amserving you."
That she should send for him at all was happiness. Not sickness thistime, nor some question of investment, nor the repair of the barn orgate or out-buildings--but Lucy, who lay nearest her heart! That waseven better than he had expected.
"Tell me all about it, so I can get it right," he continued in astraightforward tone--the tone of the physician, not the lover. She hadrelied on him, and he intended to give her the best counsel of which hewas capable. The lover could wait.
"Well, she received a letter a week ago from Miss Collins, saying shehad come to Trenton for the winter and had taken some rooms in a housebelonging to her aunt, who would live with her. She wants to be withinreach of the same music-teacher who taught the girls at Miss Parkham'sschool. She says if Lucy will come it will reduce the expenses and theycan both have the benefit of the tuition. At first Lucy did not want togo at all, now she insists, and, strange to say, Martha encourages her."
"Martha wants her to leave?" he asked in surprise.
"She says so."
The doctor's face assumed a puzzled expression. He could account forLucy's wanting the freedom and novelty of the change, but that Marthashould be willing to part with her bairn for the winter mystified him.He knew nothing of the flirtation, of course, and its effect on the oldnurse, and could not, therefore, understand Martha's delight in Lucy'sand Bart's separation.
"You will be very lonely," he said, and a certain tender tone developedin his voice.
"Yes, dreadfully so, but I would not mind if I thought it was for hergood. But I don't think so. I may be wrong, and in the uncertainty Iwanted to talk it over with you. I get so desolate sometimes. I neverseemed to miss my father so much as now. Perhaps it is because Lucy'sbabyhood and childhood are over and she is entering upon womanhood withall the dangers it brings. And she frightens me so sometimes," shecontinued after a slight pause. "She is different; more self-willed,more self-centred. Besides, her touch has altered. She doesn't seem tolove me as she did--not in the same way."
"But she could never do anything else but love you," he interruptedquickly, speaking for himself as well as Lucy, his voice vibratingunder his emotions. It was all he could do to keep his hands from herown; her sending for him alone restrained him.
"I know that, but it is not in the old way. It used to be 'Sister,darling, don't tire yourself,' or 'Sister, dear, let me go upstairs foryou,' or 'Cuddle close here, and let us talk it all out together.'There is no more of that. She goes her own way, and when I chide herlaughs and leaves me alone until I make some new advance. Help me,please, and with all the wisdom you can give me; I have no one else inwhom I can trust, no one who is big enough to know what should be done.I might have talked to Mr. Dellenbaugh about it, but he is away."
"No; talk it all out to me," he said simply. "I so want to helpyou"--his whole heart was going out to her in her distress.
"I know you feel sorry for me." She withdrew her hand gently so as notto hurt him; she too did not want to be misunderstood--having sent forhim. "I know how sincere your friendship is for me, but put all thataside. Don't let your sympathy for me cloud your judgment. What shall Ido with Lucy? Answer me as if you were her father and mine," and shelooked straight into his eyes.
The doctor tightened the muscles of his throat, closed his teeth, andsummoned all his resolution. If he could only tell her what was in hisheart how much easier it would all be! For some moments he satperfectly still, then he answered slowly--as her man of business wouldhave done:
"I should let her go."
"Why do you say so?"
"Because she will find out in that way sooner than in any other how toappreciate you and her home. Living in two rooms and studying musicwill not suit Lucy. When the novelty wears off she will long for herhome, and when she comes back it will be with a better appreciation ofits comforts. Let her go, and make her going as happy as you can."
And so Jane gave her consent--it is doubtful whether Lucy would havewaited for it once her mind was made up--and in a week she was off,Doctor John taking her himself as far as the Junction, and seeing hersafe on the road to Trenton. Martha was evidently delighted at thechange, for the old nurse's face was wreathed in smiles that lastmorning as they all stood out by the gate while Billy Tatham loadedLucy's trunks and boxes. Only once did a frown cross her face, and thatwas when Lucy leaned over and whispering something in Bart's ear,slipped a small scrap of paper between his fingers. Bart crunched ittight and slid his hand carelessly into his pocket, but the gesture didnot deceive the nurse: it haunted her for days thereafter.
As the weeks flew by and the letters from Trenton told of thehappenings in Maria's home, it became more and more evident to Janethat the doctor's advice had been the wisest and best. Lucy would oftendevote a page or more of her letters to recalling the comforts of herown room at Yardley, so different from what she was enduring atTrenton, and longing for them to come again. Parts of these lettersJane read to the doctor, and all of them to Martha, who received themwith varying comment. It became evident, too, that neither theexcitement of Bart's letters, nor the visits of the occasional schoolfriends who called upon them both, nor the pursuit of her newacc
omplishment, had satisfied the girl.
Jane was not surprised, therefore, remembering the doctor's almostprophetic words, to learn of the arrival of a letter from Lucy beggingMartha to come to her at once for a day or two. The letter was enclosedin one to Bart and was handed to the nurse by that young man in person.As he did so he remarked meaningly that Miss Lucy wanted Martha's visitto be kept a secret from everybody but Miss Jane, "just as a surprise,"but Martha answered in a positive tone that she had no secrets fromthose who had a right to know them, and that he could write Lucy shewas coming next day, and that Jane and everybody else who might inquirewould know of it before she started.
She rather liked Bart's receiving the letter. As long as that young mankept away from Trenton and confined himself to Warehold, where shecould keep her eyes on him, she was content.
To Jane Martha said: "Oh, bless the darlin'! She can't do a day longerwithout her Martha. I'll go in the mornin'. It's a little pettin' shewants--that's all."
So the old nurse bade Meg good-by, pinned her big gray shawl about her,tied on her bonnet, took a little basket with some delicacies and a potof jelly, and like a true Mother Hubbard, started off, while Jane,having persuaded herself that perhaps "the surprise" was meant for her,and that she might be welcoming two exiles instead of one the followingnight, began to put Lucy's room in order and to lay out the many prettythings she loved, especially the new dressing-gown she had made forher, lined with blue silk--her favorite color.
All that day and evening, and far into the next afternoon, Jane wentabout the house with the refrain of an old song welling up into herheart--one that had been stifled for months. The thought of theround-about way in which Lucy had sent for Martha did not dull itsmelody. That ruse, she knew, came from the foolish pride of youth, thepride that could not meet defeat. Underneath it she detected, with athrill, the love of home; this, after all, was what her sister couldnot do without. It was not Bart this time. That affair, as she hadpredicted and had repeatedly told Martha, had worn itself out and hadbeen replaced by her love of music. She had simply come to herself oncemore and would again be her old-time sister and her child. Then,too--and this sent another wave of delight tingling through her--it hadall been the doctor's doing! But for his advice she would never havelet Lucy go.
Half a dozen times, although the November afternoon was raw and chilly,with the wind fresh from the sea and the sky dull, she was out on thefront porch without shawl or hat, looking down the path, covered nowwith dead leaves, and scanning closely every team that passed the gate,only to return again to her place by the fire, more impatient than ever.
Meg's quick ear first caught the grating of the wheels. Jane followedhim with a cry of joyous expectation, and flew to the door to meet thestage, which for some reason--why, she could not tell--had stopped fora moment outside the gate, dropping only one passenger, and that onethe nurse.
"And Lucy did not come, Martha!" Jane exclaimed, with almost a sob inher voice. She had reached her side now, followed by Meg, who wasspringing straight at the nurse in the joy of his welcome.
The old woman glanced back at the stage, as if afraid of beingoverheard, and muttered under her breath:
"No, she couldn't come."
"Oh, I am so disappointed! Why not?"
Martha did not answer. She seemed to have lost her breath. Jane put herarm about her and led her up the path. Once she stumbled, her step wasso unsteady, and she would have fallen but for Jane's assistance.
The two had now reached the hand-railing of the porch. Here Martha'strembling foot began to feel about for the step. Jane caught her in herarms.
"You're ill, Martha!" she cried in alarm. "Give me the bag. What's thematter?"
Again Martha did not answer.
"Tell me what it is."
"Upstairs! Upstairs!" Martha gasped in reply. "Quick!"
"What has happened?"
"Not here; upstairs."
They climbed the staircase together, Jane half carrying the faintingwoman, her mind in a whirl.
"Where were you taken ill? Why did you try to come home? Why didn'tLucy come with you?"
They had reached the door of Jane's bedroom now, Martha clinging to herarm.
Once inside, the nurse leaned panting against the door, put her bandsto her face as if she would shut out some dreadful spectre, and sankslowly to the floor.
"It is not me," she moaned, wringing her hands, "not me--not--"
"Who?"
"Oh, I can't say it!"
"Lucy?"
"Yes"
"Not ill?"
"No; worse!"
"Oh, Martha! Not dead?"
"O God, I wish she were!"
An hour passed--an hour of agony, of humiliation and despair.
Again the door opened and Jane stepped out--slowly, as if in pain, herlips tight drawn, her face ghastly white, the thin cheeks sunken intodeeper hollows, the eyes burning. Only the mouth preserved its lines,but firmer, more rigid, more severe, as if tightened by the strength ofsome great resolve. In her hand she held a letter.
Martha lay on the bed, her face to the wall, her head still in herpalms. She had ceased sobbing and was quite still, as if exhausted.
Jane leaned over the banisters, called to one of the servants, anddropping the letter to the floor below, said:
"Take that to Captain Holt's. When he comes bring him upstairs hereinto my sitting-room."
Before the servant could reply there came a knock at the front door.Jane knew its sound--it was Doctor John's. Leaning far over, graspingthe top rail of the banisters to steady herself, she said to theservant in a low, restrained voice:
"If that is Dr. Cavendish, please say to him that Martha is just homefrom Trenton, greatly fatigued, and I beg him to excuse me. When thedoctor has driven away, you can take the letter."
She kept her grasp on the hand-rail until she heard the tones of hisvoice through the open hall door and caught the note of sorrow thattinged them.
"Oh, I'm so sorry! Poor Martha!" she heard him say. "She is getting tooold to go about alone. Please tell Miss Jane she must not hesitate tosend for me if I can be of the slightest service." Then she re-enteredthe room where Martha lay and closed the door.
Another and louder knock now broke the stillness of the chamber andchecked the sobs of the nurse; Captain Holt had met Jane's servant ashe was passing the gate. He stopped for an instant in the hall, slippedoff his coat, and walked straight upstairs, humming a tune as he came.Jane heard his firm tread, opened the door of their room, and she andMartha crossed the hall to a smaller apartment where Jane alwaysattended to the business affairs of the house. The captain's face waswreathed in a broad smile as he extended his hand to Jane in welcome.
"It's lucky ye caught me, Miss Jane. I was just goin' out, and in aminute I'd been gone for the night. Hello, Mother Martha! I thoughtyou'd gone to Trenton."
The two women made no reply to his cheery salutation, except to motionhim to a seat. Then Jane closed the door and turned the key in the lock.
When the captain emerged from the chamber he stepped out alone. Hiscolor was gone, his eyes flashing, his jaw tight set. About his mouththere hovered a savage, almost brutal look, the look of a bulldog whobares his teeth before he tears and strangles--a look his men knew whensomeone of them purposely disobeyed his orders. For a moment he stoodas if dazed. All he remembered clearly was the white, drawn face of awoman gazing at him with staring, tear-drenched eyes, the slow droppingof words that blistered as they fell, and the figure of the nursewringing her hands and moaning: "Oh, I told ye so! I told ye so! Whydidn't ye listen?" With it came the pain of some sudden blow thatdeadened his brain and stilled his heart.
With a strong effort, like one throwing off a stupor, he raised hishead, braced his shoulders, and strode firmly along the corridor anddown the stairs on his way to the front door. Catching up his coat, hethrew it about him, pulled his hat on, with a jerk, slamming the frontdoor, plunged along through the dry leaves that covered the path, andso o
n out to the main road. Once beyond the gate he hesitated, lookedup and down, turned to the right and then to the left, as if in doubt,and lunged forward in the direction of the tavern.
It was Sunday night, and the lounging room was full. One of the inmatesrose and offered him a chair--he was much respected in the village,especially among the rougher class, some of whom had sailed withhim--but he only waved his hand in thanks.
"I don't want to sit down; I'm looking for Bart. Has he been here?" Thesound came as if from between closed teeth.
"Not as I know of, cap'n," answered the landlord; "not since sundown,nohow."
"Do any of you know where he is?" The look in the captain's eyes andthe sharp, cutting tones of his voice began to be noticed.
"Do ye want him bad?" asked a man tilted back in a chair against thewall.
"Yes."
"Well, I kin tell ye where to find him,"
"Where?"
"Down on the beach in the Refuge shanty. He and the boys have a deckthere Sunday nights. Been at it all fall--thought ye knowed it."
Out into the night again, and without a word of thanks, down the roadand across the causeway to the hard beach, drenched with the ceaselessthrash of the rising sea. He followed no path, picked out no road.Stumbling along in the half-gloom of the twilight, he could make outthe heads of the sand-dunes, bearded with yellow grass blown flatagainst their cheeks. Soon he reached the prow of the old wreck withits shattered timbers and the water-holes left by the tide. These heavoided, but the smaller objects he trampled upon and over as he strodeon, without caring where he stepped or how often he stumbled. Outlinedagainst the sand-hills, bleached white under the dull light, he lookedlike some evil presence bent on mischief, so direct and forceful washis unceasing, persistent stride.
When the House of Refuge loomed up against the gray froth of the surfhe stopped and drew breath. Bending forward, he scanned the beachahead, shading his eyes with his hand as he would have done on his ownship in a fog. He could make out now some streaks of yellow lightshowing through the cracks one above the other along the side of thehouse and a dull patch of red. He knew what it meant. Bart and hisfellows were inside, and were using one of the ship lanterns to see by.
This settled in his mind, the captain strode on, but at a slower pace.He had found his bearings, and would steer with caution.
Hugging the dunes closer, he approached the house from the rear. Thebig door was shut and a bit of matting had been tacked over the onewindow to deaden the light. This was why the patch of red was dull. Hestood now so near the outside planking that he could hear the laughterand talk of those within. By this time the wind had risen to half agale and the moan on the outer bar could be heard in the intervals ofthe pounding surf. The captain crept under the eaves of the roof andlistened. He wanted to be sure of Bart's voice before he acted.
At this instant a sudden gust of wind burst in the big door,extinguishing the light of the lantern, and Bart's voice rang out:
"Stay where you are, boys! Don't touch the cards. I know the door, andcan fix it; it's only the bolt that's slipped."
As Bart passed out into the gloom the captain darted forward, seizedhim with a grip of steel, dragged him clear of the door, and up thesand-dunes out of hearing. Then he flung him loose and stood facing thecowering boy.
"Now stand back and keep away from me, for I'm afraid I'll kill you!"
"What have I done?" cringed Bart, shielding his face with his elbow asif to ward off a blow. The suddenness of the attack had stunned him.
"Don't ask me, you whelp, or I'll strangle you. Look at me! That's whatyou been up to, is it?"
Bart straightened himself, and made some show of resistance. His breathwas coming back to him.
"I haven't done anything--and if I did--"
"You lie! Martha's back from Trenton and Lucy told her. You neverthought of me. You never thought of that sister of hers whose heartyou've broke, nor of the old woman who nursed her like a mother. Youthought of nobody but your stinkin' self. You're not a man! You're acur! a dog! Don't move! Keep away from me, I tell ye, or I may losehold of myself."
Bart was stretching out his hands now as if in supplication. He hadnever seen his father like this--the sight frightened him.
"Father, will you listen--" he pleaded.
"I'll listen to nothin'--"
"Will you, please? It's not all my fault. She ought to have kept out ofmy way--"
"Stop! Take that back! You'd blame HER, would ye--a child just out ofschool, and as innocent as a baby? By God, you'll do right by her oryou'll never set foot inside my house again!"
Bart faced his father again.
"I want to tell you the whole story before you judge me. I want to--"
"You'll tell me nothin'! Will you act square with her?"
"I must tell you first. You wouldn't understand unless--"
"You won't? That's what you mean--you mean you WON'T! Damn ye!" Thecaptain raised his clenched fist, quivered for an instant as ifstruggling against something beyond his control, dropped it slowly tohis side and whirling suddenly, strode back up the beach.
Bart staggered back against the planking, threw out his hand to keepfrom falling, and watched his father's uncertain, stumbling figureuntil he was swallowed up in the gloom. The words rang in his ears likea knell. The realization of his position and what it meant, and mightmean, rushed over him. For an instant he leaned heavily against theplanking until he had caught his breath. Then, with quivering lips andshaking legs, he walked slowly back into the house, shutting the bigdoor behind him.
"Boys," he said with a forced smile, "who do you think's been outside?My father! Somebody told him, and he's just been giving me hell forplaying cards on Sunday."