I ask you not to go now. Wait a littlewhile, do. I left her asleep, worn out by what she's been through andunder the effects of the doctor's sleepin' medicine. He said she mustrest or he was afraid her brain would give out. For her sake, then,wait a little. Then, if you don't hear from her, maybe I can arrange ameetin' place where you can see her without anyone's knowin' it. I'lltry. But do wait a little while, for her sake, won't you?"
At last he was listening and hesitating.
"Won't you?" begged Keziah.
"Yes," he answered slowly. "I'll wait. I'll wait until noon, somehow,if I can. I'll try. But not a minute later. Not one. You don't know whatyou're asking, Mrs. Coffin."
"Yes, I do. I know well. And I thank you for her sake."
But he did not have to wait until noon. At six o'clock, through thedew-soaked grass of the yard, came the Higgins boy. For the first timein his short life he had been awake all night and he moved slowly.
The housekeeper opened the door. Ike held up an envelope, clutched in agrimy hand.
"It's for you, Mrs. Keziah," he said. "Gracie, she sent it. There ain'tno answer."
Keziah took the letter. "How is she? And how's Nat?" she asked.
"They're doin' pretty well, so ma says. Ma's there now and they've sentfor Hannah Poundberry. Gee!" he added, yawning, "I ain't slept a wink.Been on the jump, now I tell ye. Didn't none of them Come-Outers git in,not one. I sent 'em on the home tack abilin'. You ought to hear me giveold Zeke Bassett Hail Columby! Gosh! I was just ahopin' HE'D come."
Mrs. Coffin closed the door and tore open the envelope. Withinwas another addressed, in Grace's handwriting, to Mr. Ellery. Thehousekeeper entered the study, handed it to him and turned away.
The minister, who had been pacing the floor, seized the note eagerly.It was written in pencil and by a hand that had trembled much. Yet therewas no indecision in the written words.
"Dear John," wrote Grace. "I presume Aunt Keziah has told you of uncle'sdeath and of my promise to Nat. It is true. I am going to marry him. Iam sure this is right and for the best. Our friendship was a mistake andyou must not see me again. Please don't try.
"GRACE VAN HORNE."
Beneath was another paragraph.
"Don't worry about me. I shall be happy, I am sure. And I shall hopethat you may be. I shall pray for that."
The note fell to the floor with a rustle that sounded loud in thestillness. Then Keziah heard the minister's step. She turned. He wasmoving slowly across the room.
"John," she cried anxiously, "you poor boy!"
He answered without looking back.
"I'm--going--up--to--my--room," he said, a pause between each word. "Iwant to be alone awhile, Mrs. Coffin."
Wearily Keziah set about preparing breakfast. Not that she expected themeal would be eaten, but it gave her something to do and occupied hermind. The sun had risen and the light streamed in at the parsonagewindows. The breeze blew fresh and cool from the ocean. It was amagnificent morning.
She called to him that breakfast was ready, but he did not answer. Shecould eat nothing herself, and, when the table was cleared, preparedto do the week's washing, for Monday is always washday in Trumet. Nooncame, dinner time, but still he did not come down. At last Keziah couldstand it no longer. She determined to go to him. She climbed the steepstairs and rapped on the door of his room.
"Yes?" she heard him say.
"It's me," was the reply. "Mr. Ellery, can I come in? I know you wantto be alone, but I don't think you'd ought to be, too much. I'd like totalk with you a few minutes; may I?"
A moment passed before he told her to enter. He was sitting in a chairby the window, dressed just as he had been when she returned from thetavern. She looked sharply at his face as it was turned toward her. Hiseyes were dry and in them was an expression so hopeless and dreary thatthe tears started to her own.
"John," she said, "I couldn't bear to think of your facin' it alone uphere. I just had to come."
He smiled, and the smile was as hopeless as the look in his eyes.
"Face it?" he repeated. "Well, Mrs. Coffin, I must face it, I suppose.I've been facing it ever since--since I knew. And I find it no easier."
"John, what are you goin' to do?"
He shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "Go away somewhere, firstof all, I guess. Go somewhere and--and try to live it down. I can't, ofcourse, but I must try."
"Go away? Leave Trumet and your church and your congregation?"
"Did you suppose I could stay here?"
"I hoped you would."
"And see the same people and the same places? And do the same things?See--see HER! Did you"--he moved impatiently--"did you expect me toattend the wedding?"
She put out her hand. "I know it'll be hard," she said, "stayin' here, Imean. But your duty to others--"
"Don't you think we've heard enough about duty to others? How about myduty to myself?"
"I guess that's the last thing we ought to think about in the world, ifwe do try to be fair and square. Your church thinks a heap of you, John.They build on you. You've done more in the little while you've been herethan Mr. Langley did in his last fifteen years. We've grown and we'redoin' good--doin' it, not talkin' it in prayer meetin'. The parishcommittee likes you and the poor folks in the society love you. Old Mrs.Prince was tellin' me, only a little spell ago, that she didn't know howshe'd have pulled through this dreadful time if 'twa'n't for you. Andthere's lots of others. Are you goin' to leave them? And what reasonwill you give for leavin'?"
He shook his head. "I don't know," he answered. "I may not give any. ButI shall go."
"I don't believe you will. I don't believe you're that kind. I'vewatched you pretty sharp since you and I have been livin' together and Ihave more faith in you than that comes to. You haven't acted to me likea coward and I don't think you'll run away."
"Mrs. Coffin, it is so easy for you to talk. Perhaps if I were in yourplace I should be giving good advice about duty and not running away andso on. But suppose you were in mine."
"Well, suppose I was."
"Suppose--Oh, but there! it's past supposing."
"I don't know's 'tis. My life hasn't been all sunshine and fair winds,by no means."
"That's true. I beg your pardon. You have had troubles and, from whatI hear, you've borne them bravely. But you haven't had to face anythinglike this."
"Haven't I? Well, what is it you're asked to face? Disappointment? I'vefaced that. Sorrow and heartbreak? I've faced them."
"You've never been asked to sit quietly by and see the one you love morethan all the world marry some one else."
"How do you know I ain't? How do you know I ain't doin' just that now?"
"Mrs. Coffin!"
"John Ellery, you listen to me. You think I'm a homely old woman,probably, set in my ways as an eight-day clock. I guess I look like itand act like it. But I ain't so awful old--on the edge of forty, that'sall. And when I was your age I wa'n't so awful homely, either. I hadfellers aplenty hangin' round and I could have married any one of adozen. This ain't boastin'; land knows I'm fur from that. I was broughtup in this town and even when I was a girl at school there was only oneboy I cared two straws about. He and I went to picnics together andto parties and everywhere. Folks used to laugh and say we was keepin'comp'ny, even then.
"Well, when I was eighteen, after father died, I went up to New Bedfordto work in a store there. Wanted to earn my own way. And this youngfeller I'm tellin' you about went away to sea, but every time he comehome from a voyage he come to see me and things went on that way till wewas promised to each other. The engagement wa'n't announced, but 'twasso, just the same. We'd have been married in another year. And then wequarreled.
"'Twas a fool quarrel, same as that kind gen'rally are. As much my faultas his and as much his as mine, I cal'late. Anyhow, we was both proud,or thought we was, and neither would give in. And he says to me, 'You'llbe sorry after I'm gone. You'll wish me back then.' And says I, BEIN' afool, 'I guess not. There's other fish in the sea.' H
e sailed and I didwish him back, but I wouldn't write fust and neither would he. And thencome another man."
She paused, hesitated, and then continued.
"Never mind about the other man. He was handsome then, in a way, and hehad money to spend, and he liked me. He wanted me to marry him. If--ifthe other, the one that went away, had written I never would havethought of such a thing, but he didn't write. And, my pride bein' hurt,and all, I finally said yes to the second chap. My folks did all theycould to stop it; they told me he was dissipated, they said he had a badname, they told me twa'n't a fit match. And his people, havin' money,was just as set against his takin' a poor girl. Both sides said ruinwould come of it. But I married him.
"Well, for the first year 'twa'n't so bad. Not happiness exactly, butnot misery either. That come later. His people was well off and he'dnever worked much of any. He did for a little while after we wasmarried, but not for long. Then he begun to drink and carry on and losthis place. Pretty soon he begun to neglect me and at last went off tosea afore the mast. We was poor as poverty, but I could have stood that;I did stand it. I took in sewin' and kept up an appearance, somehow.Never told a soul. His folks come patronizin' around and offered memoney, so's I needn't disgrace them. I sent 'em rightabout in a hurry.Once in a while he'd come home, get tipsy and abuse me. Still I saidnothin'. Thank God, there was no children; that's the one thing I'vebeen thankful for.
"You can't keep such things quiet always. People are bound to find out.They come to me and said, 'Why don't you leave him?' but I wouldn't.I could have divorced him easy enough, there was reasons plenty, but Iwouldn't do that. Then word came that he was dead, drowned off in theEast Indies somewheres. I come back here to keep house for Sol, mybrother, and I kept house for him till he died and they offered me thisplace here at the parsonage. There! that's my story, part of it, more'nI ever told a livin' soul afore, except Sol."
She ceased speaking. The minister, who had sat silent by the window,apathetically listening or trying to listen, turned his head.
"I apologize, Mrs. Coffin," he said dully, "you have had trials, hardones. But--"
"But they ain't as hard as yours, you think? Well, I haven't quitefinished yet. After word come of my husband's death, the other man comeand wanted me to marry him. And I wanted to--oh, how I wanted to! Icared as much for him as I ever did; more, I guess. But I wouldn't--Iwouldn't, though it wrung my heart out to say no. I give him up--why?'cause I thought I had a duty laid on me."
Ellery sighed. "I can see but one duty," he said. "That is the dutygiven us by God, to marry the one we love."
Keziah's agitation, which had grown as she told her story, suddenlyflashed into flame.
"Is that as fur as you can see?" she asked fiercely. "It's an easy duty,then--or looks easy now. I've got a harder one; it's to stand by thepromise I gave and the man I married."
He looked at her as if he thought she had lost her wits.
"The man you married?" he replied. "Why, the man you married is dead."
"No, he ain't. You remember the letter you saw me readin' that nightwhen you come back from Come-Outers' meetin'? Well, that letter was fromhim. He's alive."
For the first time during the interview the minister rose to his feet,shocked out of his despair and apathy by this astounding revelation.
"Alive?" he repeated. "Your husband ALIVE? Why, Mrs. Coffin, this is--"
She waved him to silence. "Don't stop me now," she said. "I've told somuch; let me tell the rest. Yes, he's alive. Alive and knockin' roundthe world somewheres. Every little while he writes me for money and, ifI have any, I send it to him. Why? Why 'cause I'm a coward, after all,I guess, and I'm scared he'll do what he says he will and come back.Perhaps you think I'm a fool to put up with it; that's what most folkswould say if they knew it. They'd tell me I ought to divorce him. Well,I can't, I CAN'T. I walked into the mess blindfold; I married him inspite of warnin's and everything. I took him for better or for worse,and now that he's turned out worse, I must take my medicine. I can'tlive with him--that I can't do--but while HE lives I'll stay his wifeand give him what money I can spare. That's the duty I told you was laidon me, and it's a hard one, but I don't run away from it."
John Ellery was silent. What could he say? Keziah went on.
"I don't run away from it," she exclaimed, "and you mustn't run awayfrom yours. Your church depends on you, they trust you. Are you goin'to show 'em their trust was misplaced? The girl you wanted is to marryanother man, that's true, and it's mighty hard. But she'll marry a goodman, and, by and by, she'll be happy."
"Happy!" he said scornfully.
"Yes, happy. I know she'll be happy because I know she's doin' what'llbe best for her and because I know him that's to be her husband. I'veknown him all my life; he's that other one that--that--and I give him upto her; yes, I give him up to her, and try to do it cheerful, because Iknow it's best for him. Hard for YOU? Great Lord A'mighty! do you thinkit ain't hard for ME? I--I--"
She stopped short; then covering her face with her apron, she ran fromthe room. John Ellery heard her descending the stairs, sobbing as shewent.
All that afternoon he remained in his chair by the window. It was sixo'clock, supper time, when he entered the kitchen. Keziah, looking upfrom the ironing board, saw him. He was white and worn and grim, but heheld out his hand to her.
"Mrs. Coffin," he said, "I'm not going away. You've shown me whatdevotion to duty really means. I shall stay here and go on with mywork."
Her face lit up. "Will you?" she said. "I thought you would. I was sureyou was that kind."
CHAPTER XIV
IN WHICH THE SEA MIST SAILS
They buried Captain Eben in the little Come-Outer cemetery at the rearof the chapel. A bleak, wind-swept spot was that cemetery, bare of treesand with only a few graves and fewer headstones, for the Come-Outerswere a comparatively new sect and their graveyard was new inconsequence. The grave was dug in the yellow sand beside that of Mrs.Hammond, Nat's mother, and around it gathered the fifty or sixty friendswho had come to pay their last tribute to the old sailor and tavernkeeper.
The Come-Outers were there, all of them, and some members of the Regularsociety, Captain Zeb Mayo, Dr. Parker, Keziah Coffin, Mrs. Higgins, andIke. Mrs. Didama Rogers was there also, not as a mourner, but because,in her capacity as gatherer of gossip, she made it a point never tomiss a funeral. The Rev. Absalom Gott, Come-Outer exhorter at Wellmouth,preached the short sermon, and Ezekiel Bassett added a few remarks. Thena hymn was sung and it was over. The little company filed out of thecemetery, and Captain Eben Hammond was but a memory in Trumet.
Keziah lingered to speak a word with Grace. The girl, looking very whiteand worn, leaned on the arm of Captain Nat, whose big body acted asa buffer between her and over-sympathetic Come-Outers. Mrs. Coffinsilently held out both hands and Grace took them eagerly.
"Thank you for coming, Aunt Keziah," she said. "I was sure you would."
"Least I could do, deary," was the older woman's answer. "Your uncleand I was good friends once; we haven't seen each other so often oflate years, but that ain't changed my feelin's. Now you must go home andrest. Don't let any of these"--with a rather scornful glance at JosiahBadger and Ezekiel and the Reverend Absalom--"these Job's comfortersbother you. Nat, you see that they let her alone, won't you?"
Captain Nat nodded. He, too, looked very grave and worn. "I'll tend tothem," he said shortly. "Come, Grace," he added; "let's go."
But the girl hung back. "Just a minute, Nat," she said. "I--I--would youmind if I spoke to Aunt Keziah--alone? I only want to say a word."
Nat strode off to the cemetery gate, where Josiah Badger stood,brandishing a red cotton handkerchief as a not too-clean emblem ofmourning. Mr. Badger eagerly sprang forward, but ran into an impossiblebarrier in the form of the captain's outstretched arm. Josiah protestedand the captain replied. Grace leaned forward.
"Auntie," she whispered, "tell me: Did a letter--Did he--"
"Yes, it came. I gave it to him."
/>
"Did--did he tell you? Do you know?"
"Yes, I know, deary."
"Did he--is he--"
"He's well, deary. He'll be all right. I'll look out for him."
"You will, won't you? You won't let him do anything--"
"Not a thing. Don't worry. We've had a long talk and he's going tostay right here and go on with his work. And nobody else'll ever know,Gracie."
"How--O Aunt Keziah! how he must despise me."
"Despise you! For doin' what was your duty? Nonsense! He'll respect youfor it and come to understand 'twas best for both of you, by and by.Don't worry about him, Gracie. I tell you I'll look out for him."
"I guess it will be better if he does despise me. And hate me, too. Hecan't despise and hate me more than I do myself. But it IS right--whatI'm doing; and the other was wrong and wicked. Auntie, you'll come andsee me, won't you? I shall be so lonesome."
"Yes, yes; I'll come. Perhaps not right away. There's reasons why I'dbetter not come right away. But, by and by, after it's all settled andyou and Nat"--she hesitated for an instant in spite of herself--"afteryou and Nat are married I'll come."
"Don't talk about that NOW. Please don't."
"All right, I won't. You be a good, brave girl and look out for Nat;that's your duty and I'm sure you'll do it. And I'll do my best forJohn."
"Do you call him John?"
"Yup. We had a sort of--of adoptin' ceremony the other mornin' andI--Well, you see, I've got to have somebody to call by their front nameand he's about all I've got left."
"O Aunt Keziah! if I could be one half as patient and brave and sweet asyou are--"
"Sssh! here comes Nat. Be kind to him. He's sufferin', too; maybe more'nyou imagine. Here she is, Nat. Take her back home and be good to her."
The broad-shouldered skipper led his charge out of the gate and downthe "Turn-off." Josiah Badger looked after them disgustedly. As Keziahapproached, he turned to her.
"I swan to man!" he exclaimed, in offended indignation, "if I ain'tlosin' my respect for that Nat Hammond. He's the f-f-fuf-for'ardestcritter ever I see. I was just agoin' to hail Gracie and ask her whatshe thought about my leadin' some of the meetin's now her uncle has beencalled aloft. I wanted to ask her about it fust, afore Zeke Bassettgot ahead of me, but that Nat wouldn't let me. Told me she mustn't beb-b-b-bothered about little things now. LITTLE things! Now, what do youthink of that, Mrs. Coffin? And I spoke to Lot Taylor, one of our owns-s-sas-sassiety, and asked what he thought of it, and he said for me togo home set d-d-down and let my h-h-h-hah-hair grow. Of all--"
"I tell you what you do, Josiah," broke in the voice of Captain ZebMayo, "you go home or somewhere else and set down and have it cut.That'll take pretty nigh as long, and'll keep it from wearin' out yourcoat collar. Keziah, I've been waitin' for you. Get in my shay and I'lldrive you back to the parsonage."
Mrs. Coffin accepted the invitation and a seat in the chaise besideCaptain Zeb. The captain spoke of the dead Come-Outer and of his respectfor him in spite of the difference in creed. He also spoke of the Rev.John Ellery and of the affection he had come to feel for the young man.
"I like that young feller, Keziah," he said. "Like him for a lot ofreasons, same as the boy liked the hash. For one thing, his religionain't all starch and no sugar. He's good-hearted and kind and--andhuman. He seems to get just as much satisfaction out of the promise ofheaven as he does out of the sartainty of t'other port. He ain't all thetime bangin' the bulkhead and sniffin' brimstone, like parsons I haveseen. Sulphur's all right for a spring medicine, maybe, but when Junecomes I like to remember that God made roses. Elkanah, he comes to me awhile ago and he says, 'Zebedee,' he says, 'don't you think Mr. Ellery'ssermons might be more orthodox?' 'Yes,' says I, 'they might be, but whata mercy 'tis they ain't.' He, he, he! I kind of like to poke Elkanah inthe shirt front once in a while, just to hear it crackle. Say, Keziah,you don't think the minister and Annabel are--"
"No," was the emphatic interruption; "I know they ain't; he ain't,anyway."
"Good! Them Danielses cal'late they own the most of this town already;if they owned the minister they'd swell up so the rest of us would haveto go aloft or overboard; we'd be crowded off the decks, sure."
"No one owns him. Haven't you found that out?"
"Yup, I cal'late I have and I glory in his spunk."
"I'm glad to hear you say so. Of course Cap'n Elkanah is boss of theparish committee and--"
"What? No, he ain't nuther. He's head of it, but his vote counts justone and no more. What makes you say that?"
"Oh, nuthin'. Only I thought maybe, long as Elkanah was feelin' that Mr.Ellery wa'n't orthodox enough, he might be goin' to make a change."
"He might? HE might! Say, Keziah Coffin, there was Mayos in this townand in this church afore the fust Daniels ever washed ashore; andthey'll be here when the last one blows up with his own importance. I'mon that parish committee--you understand?--and I've sailed ships andhandled crews. I ain't so old nor feeble but what I can swing a belayin'pin. Boss! I'll have you to know that no livin' man bosses me."
"All right! I didn't mean to stir you up, Zebedee. But from things Cap'nDaniels has said I gathered that he was runnin' the committee. And, asI'm a friend of Mr. Ellery, it--"
"Friend! Well, so'm I, ain't I? If you ever hear of Daniels tryin' anytricks against the minister, you send for me, that's all. I'LL show him.Boss! Humph!"
The wily Keziah alighted at the parsonage gate with the feeling that shehad sown seed in fertile ground. She was quite aware of Captain Zeb'sjealousy of the great Daniels. And the time might come when her parsonneeded an influential friend on the committee and in the Regularsociety.
The news of the engagement between Captain Nat Hammond and Grace VanHorne, told by Dr. Parker to one or two of his patients, spread throughTrumet like measles through a family of small children. Didama Rogerslearned it, so did Lavinia Pepper, and after that it might as wellhave been printed on the walls for all to read. It was talked over andgossiped about in every household from the lighthouse keeper's family tothat of George Washington Cash, who lived in the one-room hovel in thewoods near the Wellmouth line, and was a person of distinction, in hisway, being the sole negro in the county. And whenever it was discussedit was considered a fine thing for both parties concerned. Almosteveryone said it was precisely what they expected.
Annabel Daniels and her father had not expected it. They were, however,greatly pleased. In their discussion, which lasted far into the night,Captain Elkanah expressed the opinion that the unexpected denouement wasthe result of his interview with Eben. He had told the old Come-Outerwhat would happen to his ward if she persisted in her impudent andaudacious plot to entrap a Regular clergyman. She, being discovered, hadyielded, perforce, and had accepted Nat as the next best catch.
Annabel was not satisfied with this explanation. Of course, she said,she did not pretend to believe Grace's statement that she had found heruncle unconscious. No doubt the pair had had an interview and all that.But she believed the minister himself had come to his senses and haddismissed the brazen creature. She did not blame Mr. Ellery so much. Hewas a young man, with a kind heart, and no doubt the "Van Horneperson" had worked upon his sympathies and had taken advantage of hisinexperience of feminine wiles.
"I think, pa," she said, "that it's our duty, yours and mine, to treathim just as we always have. He doesn't know that we know, and we willkeep the secret. And, as Christians, we should forget and forgive. We'llinvite him here as we always have, keep him under our good influence,and be very kind to him, poor innocent. As for Captain Hammond, I'msorry for him, knowing the kind of wife he is going to have, but nodoubt Come-Outers are not particular."
Kyan Pepper was another whom the news of the engagement surprisedgreatly. When Lavinia told him of it, at the dinner table, he droppedthe knife he was holding and the greasy section of fish-ball balancedupon it.
"'Bishy," said Miss Pepper, "what do you s'pose has happened down to theHammond tavern?"
&nb
sp; "Oh, I know that," was the reply. "I heard that long ago; Cap'n Eben'sdead."
"'Course he's dead; and I knew you knew it. Land sakes! don't be such aninny. Why, I told you myself."
"Well, I didn't know but you'd forgot. Anybody's li'ble to forget whothey've told things to. Why, I've forgot more things--"
"Yes, there ain't no doubt about that. I've told you a million times,if I have once, to tuck your napkin round your neck when you've gotyour Sunday clothes on. And there you be this minute without a sign of anapkin."
"Why, Laviny! I MUST have it round my neck. I know I--"
"Don't
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