CHAPTER X
A LATE VISITOR
These rumors never reached the doctor. No scandalmonger ever dared talkgossip to him. When he first began to practise among the people ofWarehold, and some garrulous old dame would seek to enrich his visit bytittle-tattle about her neighbors, she had never tried it a secondtime. Doctor John of Barnegat either received the news in silence oranswered it with some pleasantry; even Ann Gossaway held her peacewhenever the doctor had to be called in to prescribe for heroversensitive throat.
He was aware that Jane had laid herself open to criticism in bringinghome a child about which she had made no explanation, but he neverspoke of it nor allowed anyone to say so to him. He would have beenmuch happier, of course, if she had given him her confidence in this asshe had in many other matters affecting her life; but he accepted hersilence as part of her whole attitude toward him. Knowing her as hedid, he was convinced that her sole incentive was one of lovingkindness, both for the child and for the poor mother whose sin or whosepoverty she was concealing. In this connection, he remembered how inone of her letters to Martha she had told of the numberless waifs shehad seen and how her heart ached for them; especially in the hospitalswhich she had visited and among the students. He recalled that hehimself had had many similar experiences in his Paris days, in which awoman like Jane Cobden would have been a veritable angel of mercy.
Mrs. Cavendish's ears were more easily approached by the gossips ofWarehold and vicinity; then, again she was always curious over theinmates of the Cobden house, and any little scraps of news, reliable ornot, about either Jane or her absent sister were eagerly listened to.Finding it impossible to restrain herself any longer, she had seizedthe opportunity one evening when she and her son were sitting togetherin the salon, a rare occurrence for the doctor, and only possible whenhis patients were on the mend.
"I'm sorry Jane Cobden was so foolish as to bring home that baby," shebegan.
"Why?" said the doctor, without lifting his eyes from the book he wasreading.
"Oh, she lays herself open to criticism. It is, of course, but one ofher eccentricities, but she owes something to her position and birthand should not invite unnecessary comment."
"Who criticises her?" asked the doctor, his eyes still on the pages.
"Oh, you can't tell; everybody is talking about it. Some of the gossipis outrageous, some I could not even repeat."
"I have no doubt of it," answered the doctor quietly. "All small placeslike Warehold and Barnegat need topics of conversation, and Miss Janefor the moment is furnishing one of them. They utilize you, dearmother, and me, and everybody else in the same way. But that is noreason why we should lend our ears or our tongues to spread andencourage it."
"I quite agree with you, my son, and I told the person who told me howfoolish and silly it was, but they will talk, no matter what you say tothem."
"What do they say?" asked the doctor, laying down his book and risingfrom his chair.
"Oh, all sorts of things. One rumor is that Captain Holt's son, Barton,the one that quarrelled with his father and who went to sea, could tellsomething of the child, if he could be found."
The doctor laughed. "He can be found," he answered. "I saw his fatheronly last week, and he told me Bart was in Brazil. That is somethousand of miles from Paris, but a little thing like that in geographydoesn't seem to make much difference to some of our good people. Why doyou listen to such nonsense?" he added as he kissed her tenderly and,with a pat on her cheek, left the room for his study. His mother's talkhad made but little impression upon him. Gossip of this kind was alwayscurrent when waifs like Archie formed the topic; but it hurt nobody, hesaid to himself--nobody like Jane.
Sitting under his study lamp looking up some complicated case, hisbooks about him, Jane's sad face came before him. "Has she not hadtrouble enough," he said to himself, "parted from Lucy and with herunsettled money affairs, without having to face these gnats whose stingshe cannot ward off?" With this came the thought of his ownhelplessness to comfort her. He had taken her at her word that nightbefore she left for Paris, when she had refused to give him her promiseand had told him to wait, and he was still ready to come at her call;loving her, watching ever her, absorbed in every detail of her dailylife, and eager to grant her slightest wish, and yet he could not butsee that she had, since her return, surrounded herself with a barrierwhich he could neither understand nor break down whenever he touched ontheir personal relations.
Had he loved her less he would, in justice to himself, have faced allher opposition and demanded an answer--Yes or No--as to whether shewould yield to his wishes. But his generous nature forbade any suchstand and his reverence for her precluded any such mental attitude.
Lifting his eyes from his books and gazing dreamily into the spacebefore him, he recalled, with a certain sinking of the heart, aconversation which had taken place between Jane and himself a few daysafter her arrival--an interview which had made a deep impression uponhim. The two, in the absence of Martha--she had left the room for amoment--were standing beside the crib watching the child's breathing.Seizing the opportunity, one he had watched for, he had told her howmuch he had missed her during the two years, and how much happier hislife was now that he could touch her hand and listen to her voice. Shehad evaded his meaning, making answer that his pleasure, was nothingcompared to her own when she thought how safe the baby would be in hishands; adding quickly that she could never thank him enough forremaining in Barnegat and not leaving her helpless and without a"physician." The tone with which she pronounced the word had hurt him.He thought he detected a slight inflection, as if she were making adistinction between his skill as an expert and his love as a man, buthe was not sure.
Still gazing into the shadows before him, his unread book in his hand,he recalled a later occasion when she appeared rather to shrink fromhim than to wish to be near him, speaking to him with downcast eyes andwithout the frank look in her face which was always his welcome. Onthis day she was more unstrung and more desolate than he had ever seenher. At length, emboldened by his intense desire to help, and puttingaside every obstacle, he had taken her hand and had said with all hisheart in his voice:
"Jane, you once told me you loved me. Is it still true?"
He remembered how at first she had not answered, and how after a momentshe had slowly withdrawn her hand and had replied in a voice almostinarticulate, so great was her emotion.
"Yes, John, and always will be, but it can never go beyond that--never,never. Don't ask many more questions. Don't talk to me about it. Notnow, John--not now! Don't hate me! Let us be as we have alwaysbeen--please, John! You would not refuse me if you knew."
He had started forward to take her in his arms; to insist that nowevery obstacle was removed she should give him at once the lawful rightto protect her, but she had shrunk back, the palms of her hands heldout as barriers, and before he could reason with her Martha had enteredwith something for little Archie, and so the interview had come to anend.
Then, still absorbed in his thoughts, his eyes suddenly brightened anda certain joy trembled in his heart as he remembered that with allthese misgivings and doubts there were other times--and their sum wasin the ascendency--when she showed the same confidence in his judgementand the same readiness to take his advice; when the old light wouldonce more flash in her eyes as she grasped his hand and the old sadnessagain shadow her face when his visits came to an end. With this he mustbe for a time content.
These and a hundred other thoughts raced through Doctor John's mind ashe sat to-night in his study chair, the lamplight falling on his openbooks and thin, delicately modelled hands.
Once he rose from his seat and began pacing his study floor, his handsbehind his back, his mind on Jane, on her curious and incomprehensiblemoods, trying to solve them as he walked, trusting and leaning upon himone day and shrinking from him the next. Baffled for the hundredth timein this mental search, he dropped again into his chair, and adjustingthe lamp, pulled his books toward him to devo
te his mind to theircontents. As the light flared up he caught the sound of a step upon thegravel outside, and then a heavy tread upon the porch. An instant laterhis knocker sounded. Doctor Cavendish gave a sigh--he had hoped to haveone night at home--and rose to open the door.
Captain Nat Holt stood outside.
His pea-jacket was buttoned close up under his chin, his hat drawntight down over his forehead. His weather-beaten face, as the lightfell upon it, looked cracked and drawn, with dark hollows under theeyes, which the shadows from the lamplight deepened.
"It's late, I know, doctor," he said in a hoarse, strained voice; "teno'clock, maybe, but I got somethin' to talk to ye about," and he strodeinto the room. "Alone, are ye?" he continued, as he loosened his coatand laid his hat on the desk. "Where's the good mother? Home, is she?"
"Yes, she's inside," answered the doctor, pointing to the open doorleading to the salon and grasping the captain's brawny hand in welcome."Why? Do you want to see her?"
"No, I don't want to see her; don't want to see nobody but you. Shecan't hear, can she? 'Scuse me--I'll close this door."
The doctor looked at him curiously. The captain seemed to be laboringunder a nervous strain, unusual in one so stolid and self-possessed.
The door closed, the captain moved back a cushion, dropped into acorner of the sofa, and sat looking at the doctor, with legs apart, hisopen palms resting on his knees.
"I got bad news, doctor--awful bad news for everybody," as he spoke hereached into his pocket and produced a letter with a foreign postmark.
"You remember my son Bart, of course, don't ye, who left home some twoyears ago?" he went on.
The doctor nodded.
"Well, he's dead."
"Your son Bart dead!" cried the doctor, repeating his name in thesurprise of the announcement. "How do you know?"
"This letter came by to-day's mail. It's from the consul at Rio. Bartcome in to see him dead broke and he helped him out. He'd run away fromthe ship and was goin' up into the mines to work, so the consul wroteme. He was in once after that and got a little money, and then he gotdown with yellow fever and they took him to the hospital, and he diedin three days. There ain't no doubt about it. Here's a list of the deadin the paper; you kin read his name plain as print."
Doctor John reached for the letter and newspaper clipping and turnedthem toward the lamp. The envelope was stamped "Rio Janeiro" and theletter bore the official heading of the consulate.
"That's dreadful, dreadful news, captain," said the doctor insympathetic tones. "Poor boy! it's too bad. Perhaps, however, there maybe some mistake, after all. Foreign hospital registers are not alwaysreliable," added the doctor in a hopeful tone.
"No, it's all true, or Benham wouldn't write me what he has. I've knownhim for years. He knows me, too, and he don't go off half-cocked. Iwrote him to look after Bart and sent him some money and give him thename of the ship, and he watched for her and sent for him all right. Iwas pretty nigh crazy that night he left, and handled him, maybe,rougher'n I ou'ter, but I couldn't help it. There's some things I can'tstand, and what he done was one of 'em. It all comes back to me now,but I'd do it ag'in." As he spoke the rough, hard sailor leaned forwardand rested his chin on his hand. The news had evidently been a greatshock to him.
The doctor reached over and laid his hand on the captain's knee. "I'mvery, very sorry, captain, for you and for Bart; and the only son youhave, is it not?"
"Yes, and the only child we ever had. That makes it worse. Thank God,his mother's dead! All this would have broken her heart." For a momentthe two men were silent, then the captain continued in a tone as if hewere talking to himself, his eyes on the lamp:
"But I couldn't have lived with him after that, and I told him so--nottill he acted fair and square, like a man. I hoped he would some day,but that's over now."
"We're none of us bad all the way through, captain," reasoned thedoctor, "and don't you think of him in that way. He would have come tohimself some day and been a comfort to you. I didn't know him as wellas I might, and only as I met him at Yardley, but he must have had agreat many fine qualities or the Cobdens wouldn't have liked him. MissJane used often to talk to me about him. She always believed in him.She will be greatly distressed over this news."
"That's what brings me here. I want you to tell her, and not me. I'mafraid it'll git out and she'll hear it, and then she'll be worse offthan she is now. Maybe it's best to say nothin' 'bout it to nobody andlet it go. There ain't no one but me to grieve for him, and they don'tsend no bodies home, not from Rio, nor nowheres along that coast.Maybe, too, it ain't the time to say it to her. I was up there lastweek to see the baby, and she looked thinner and paler than I ever seeher. I didn't know what to do, so I says to myself, 'There's DoctorJohn, he's at her house reg'lar and knows the ins and outs of her, andI'll go and tell him 'bout it and ask his advice.' I'd rather cut myhand off than hurt her, for if there's an angel on earth she's one. Sheshakes so when I mention Bart's name and gits so flustered, that's whyI dar'n't tell her. Now he's dead there won't be nobody to do right byArchie. I can't; I'm all muzzled up tight. She made me take an oath,same as she has you, and I ain't goin' to break it any more'n youwould. The little feller'll have to git 'long best way he kin now."
Doctor John bent forward in his chair and looked at the captaincuriously. His words convey no meaning to him. For an instant hethought that the shock of his son's death had unsettled the man's mind.
"Take an oath! What for?"
"'Bout Archie and herself."
"But I've taken no oath!"
"Well, perhaps it isn't your habit; it ain't some men's. I did."
"What about?"
It was the captain's turn now to look searchingly into his companion'sface. The doctor's back was toward the lamp, throwing his face intoshadow, but the captain could read its expression plainly.
"You mean to tell me, doctor, you don't know what's goin' on up atYardley? You do, of course, but you won't say--that's like you doctors!"
"Yes, everything. But what has your son Bart got to do with it?"
"Got to do with it! Ain't Jane Cobden motherin' his child?"
The doctor lunged forward in his seat, his eyes staring straight at thecaptain. Had the old sailor struck him in the face he could not havebeen more astounded.
"His child!" he cried savagely.
"Certainly! Whose else is it? You knew, didn't ye?"
The doctor settled back in his chair with the movement of an ox felledby a sudden blow. With the appalling news there rang in his ears thetones of his mother's voice retailing the gossip of the village. This,then, was what she could not repeat.
After a moment he raised his head and asked in a low, firm voice:
"Did Bart go to Paris after he left here?"
"No, of course not! Went 'board the Corsair bound for Rio, and has beenthere ever since. I told you that before. There weren't no necessityfor her to meet him in Paris."
The doctor sprang from his chair and with eyes biasing and fiststightly clenched, stood over the captain.
"And you dare to sit there and tell me that Miss Jane Cobden is thatchild's mother?"
The captain struggled to his feet, his open hands held up to the doctoras if to ward off a blow.
"Miss Jane! No, by God! No! Are you crazy? Sit down, sit down, I tellye!"
"Who, then? Speak!"
"Lucy! That's what I drove Bart out for. Mort Cobden's daughter--Mort,mind ye, that was a brother to me since I was a boy! Jane that thatchild's mother! Yes, all the mother poor Archie's got! Ask Miss Jane,she'll tell ye. Tell ye how she sits and eats her heart out to save hersister that's too scared to come home. I want to cut my tongue out fortellin' ye, but I thought ye knew. Martha told me you loved her andthat she loved you, and I thought she'd told ye. Jane Cobden crooked!No more'n the angels are. Now, will you tell her Bart's dead, or shallI?"
"I will tell her," answered the doctor firmly, "and to-night."
The Tides of Barnegat Page 10