CHAPTER XI
MORTON COBDEN'S DAUGHTER
The cold wind from the sea freighted with the raw mist churned by thebreakers cut sharply against Doctor John's cheeks as he sprang into hisgig and dashed out of his gate toward Yardley. Under the shadow of thesombre pines, along the ribbon of a road, dull gray in the light of thestars, and out on the broader highway leading to Warehold, the sharpclick of the mare's hoofs striking the hard road echoed through thenight. The neighbors recognized the tread and the speed, and UncleEphraim threw up a window to know whether it was a case of life ordeath, an accident, or both; but the doctor only nodded and sped on. ItWAS life and death--life for the woman he loved, death for all whotraduced her. The strange news that had dropped from the captain's lipsdid not affect him except as would the ending of any young life;neither was there any bitterness in his heart against the dead boy whohad wrecked Lucy's career and brought Jane humiliation and despair. Allhe thought of was the injustice of Jane's sufferings. Added to this wasan overpowering desire to reach her side before her misery shouldcontinue another moment; to fold her in his arms, stand between her andthe world; help her to grapple with the horror which was slowlycrushing out her life. That it was past her hour for retiring, and thatthere might be no one to answer his summons, made no difference to him.He must see her at all hazards before he closed his eyes.
As he whirled into the open gates of Yardley and peered from under thehood of the gig at the outlines of the old house, looming dimly throughthe avenue of bushes, he saw that the occupants were asleep; no lightsshone from the upper windows and none burned in the hall below. Thisdiscovery checked to some extent the impetus with which he had flunghimself into the night, his whole being absorbed and dominated by oneidea. The cool wind, too, had begun to tell upon his nerves. He drewrein on the mare and stopped. For the first time since the captain'sstory had reached his ears his reason began to work. He was never animpetuous man; always a thoughtful and methodical one, and alwaysoverparticular in respecting the courtesies of life. He began suddenlyto realize that this midnight visit was at variance with every act ofhis life. Then his better judgment became aroused. Was it right for himto wake Jane and disturb the house at this hour, causing her, perhaps,a sleepless night, or should he wait until the morning, when he couldbreak the news to her in a more gentle and less sensational way?
While he sat thus wondering, undetermined whether to drive lightly outof the gate again or to push forward in the hope that someone would beawake, his mind unconsciously reverted to the figure of Jane making herway with weary steps down the gangplank of the steamer, the two yearsof her suffering deep cut into every line of her face. He recalled theshock her appearance had given him, and his perplexity over the cause.He remembered her refusal to give him her promise, her begging him towait, her unaccountable moods since her return.
Then Lucy's face came before him, her whole career, in fact (in aflash, as a drowning man's life is pictured), from the first nightafter her return from school until he had bade her good-by to take thetrain for Trenton. Little scraps of talk sounded in his ears, andcertain expressions about the corners of her eyes revealed themselvesto his memory. He thought of her selfishness, of her love of pleasure,of her disregard of Jane's wishes, of her recklessness.
Everything was clear now.
"What a fool I have been!" he said to himself. "What a fool--FOOL! Iought to have known!"
Next the magnitude of the atonement, and the cruelty and cowardice ofthe woman who had put her sister into so false a position swept overhim. Then there arose, like the dawning of a light, the grand figure ofthe woman he loved, standing clear of all entanglements, a Madonnaamong the saints, more precious than ever in the radiance of her ownsacrifice.
With this last vision his mind was made up. No, he would not wait amoment. Once this terrible secret out of the way, Jane would regain herold self and they two fight the world together.
As he loosened the reins over the sorrel a light suddenly flashed fromone of the upper windows disappeared for a moment, and reappeared againat one of the smaller openings near the front steps. He drew reinagain. Someone was moving about--who he did not know; perhaps Jane,perhaps one of the servants. Tying the lines to the dashboard, hesprang from the gig, tethered the mare to one of the lilac bushes, andwalked briskly toward the house. As he neared the steps the door wasopened and Martha's voice rang clear:
"Meg, you rascal, come in, or shall I let ye stay out and freeze?"
Doctor John stepped upon the porch, the light of Martha's candlefalling on his face and figure.
"It's I, Martha, don't be frightened; it's late, I know, but I hopedMiss Jane would be up. Has she gone to bed?"
The old nurse started back. "Lord, how ye skeered me! I don't knowwhether she's asleep or not. She's upstairs with Archie, anyhow. I comeout after this rapscallion that makes me look him up every night. I'vetalked to him till I'm sore, and he's promised me a dozen times, andhere he is out ag'in. Here! Where are ye? In with ye, ye little beast!"The dog shrank past her and darted into the hall. "Now, then, doctor,come in out of the cold."
Doctor John stepped softly inside and stood in the flare of thecandle-light. He felt that he must give some reason for his appearanceat this late hour, even if he did not see Jane. It would be just aswell, therefore, to tell Martha of Bart's death at once, and not lether hear it, as she was sure to do, from someone on the street. Thenagain, he had kept few secrets from her where Jane was concerned; shehad helped him many times before, and her advice was always good. Heknew that she was familiar with every detail of the captain's story,but he did not propose to discuss Lucy's share in it with the oldnurse. That he would reserve for Jane's ears alone.
"Bring your candle into the sitting-room, Martha; I have something totell you," he said gravely, loosening the cape of his overcoat andlaying his hat on the hall table.
The nurse followed. The measured tones of the doctor's voice, so unlikehis cheery greetings, especially to her, unnerved her. This, inconnection with the suppressed excitement under which he seemed tolabor and the late hour of his visit, at once convinced her thatsomething serious had happened.
"Is there anything the matter?" she asked in a trembling voice.
"Yes."
"Is it about Lucy? There ain't nothin' gone wrong with her, doctordear, is there?"
"No, it is not about Lucy. It's about Barton Holt."
"Ye don't tell me! Is he come back?"
"No, nor never will. He's dead!
"That villain dead! How do you know?" Her face paled and her lipsquivered, but she gave no other sign of the shock the news had been toher.
"Captain Nat, his father, has just left my office. I promised I wouldtell Miss Jane to-night. He was too much broken up and too fearful ofits effect upon her to do it himself. I drove fast, but perhaps I'm toolate to see her."
"Well, ye could see her no doubt,--she could throw somethin' aroundher--but ye mustn't tell her THAT news. She's been downhearted all dayand is tired out. Bart's dead, is he?" she repeated with an effort atindifference. "Well, that's too bad. I s'pose the captain's feelin'putty bad over it. Where did he die?"
"He died in Rio Janeiro of yellow fever," said the doctor slowly,wondering at the self-control of the woman. Wondering, too, whether shewas glad or sorry over the event, her face and manner showing no indexto her feelings.
"And will he be brought home to be buried?" she asked with a quickglance at the doctor's face.
"No; they never bring them home with yellow fever."
"And is that all ye come to tell her?" She was scrutinizing DoctorJohn's face, her quick, nervous glances revealing both suspicion andfear.
"I had some other matters to talk about, but if she has retired,perhaps I had better come to-morrow," answered the doctor in undecidedtones, as he gazed abstractedly at the flickering candle.
The old woman hesitated. She saw that the doctor knew more than heintended to tell her. Her curiosity and her fear that some othercomplication h
ad arisen--one which he was holding back--got the betterof her judgment. If it was anything about her bairn, she could not waituntil the morning. She had forgotten Meg now.
"Well, maybe if ye break it to her easy-like she can stand it. I don'tsuppose she's gone to bed yet. Her door was open on a crack when I comedown, and she always shuts it 'fore she goes to sleep. I'll light acouple o' lamps so ye can see, and then I'll send her down to ye ifshe'll come. Wait here, doctor, dear."
The lamps lighted and Martha gone, Doctor John looked about the room,his glance resting on the sofa where he had so often sat with her; onthe portrait of Morton Cobden, the captain's friend; on the work-basketfilled with needlework that Jane had left on a small table beside herchair, and upon the books her hands had touched. He thought he hadnever loved her so much as now. No one he had ever known or heard ofhad made so great a sacrifice. Not for herself this immolation, but fora sister who had betrayed her confidence and who had repaid a life'sdevotion with unforgivable humiliation and disgrace. This was the womanwhose heart he held. This was the woman he loved with every fibre ofhis being. But her sufferings were over now. He was ready to face theworld and its malignity beside her. Whatever sins her sister hadcommitted, and however soiled were Lucy's garments, Jane's robes wereas white as snow, he was glad he had yielded to the impulse and hadcome at once. The barrier between them once broken down and theterrible secret shared, her troubles would end.
The whispering of her skirts on the stairs announced her coming beforeshe entered the room. She had been sitting by Archie's crib and had notwaited to change her loose white gown, whose clinging folds accentuatedher frail, delicate form. Her hair had been caught up hastily and hungin a dark mass, concealing her small, pale ears and making her face allthe whiter by contrast.
"Something alarming has brought you at this hour," she said, with anote of anxiety in her voice, walking rapidly toward him. "What can Ido? Who is ill?"
Doctor John sprang forward, held out both hands, and holding tight toher own, drew her close to him.
"Has Martha told you?" he said tenderly.
"No; only that you wanted me. I came as soon as I could."
"It's about Barton Holt. His father has just left my office. I havevery sad news for you. The poor boy--"
Jane loosened her hands from his and drew back. The doctor paused inhis recital.
"Is he ill?" she inquired, a slight shiver running through her.
"Worse than ill! I'm afraid you'll never see him again."
"You mean that he is dead? Where?"
"Yes, dead, in Rio. The letter arrived this morning."
"And you came all the way up here to tell me this?" she asked, with aneffort to hide her astonishment. Her eyes dropped for a moment and hervoice trembled. Then she went on. "What does his father say?"
"I have just left him. He is greatly shaken. He would not tell youhimself, he said; he was afraid it might shock you too much, and askedme to come up. But it is not altogether that, Jane. I have heardsomething to-night that has driven me half out of my mind. That youshould suffer this way alone is torture to me. You cannot, you shallnot live another day as you have! Let me help!"
Instantly there flashed into her mind the story Martha had brought infrom the street. "He has heard it," she said to herself, "but he doesnot believe it, and he comes to comfort me. I cannot tell the truthwithout betraying Lucy."
She drew a step farther from him.
"You refer to what the people about us call a mystery--that poor littlechild upstairs?" she said slowly, all her self-control in her voice."You think it is a torture for me to care for this helpless baby? It isnot a torture; it is a joy--all the joy I have now." She stood lookingat him as she spoke with searching eyes, wondering with theever-questioning doubt of those denied love's full expression.
"But I know--"
"You know nothing--nothing but what I have told you; and what I havetold you is the truth. What I have not told you is mine to keep. Youlove me too well to probe it any further, I am sorry for the captain.He has an iron will and a rough exterior, but he has a warm heartunderneath. If you see him before I do give him my deepest sympathy.Now, my dear friend, I must go back to Archie; he is restless and needsme. Good-night," and she held out her hand and passed out of the room.
She was gone before he could stop her. He started forward as her handtouched the door, but she closed it quickly behind her, as if to leaveno doubt of her meaning. He saw that she had misunderstood him. He hadintended to talk to her of Archie's father, and of Lucy, and she hadsupposed he had only come to comfort her about the village gossip.
For some minutes he stood like one dazed. Then a feeling of unspeakablereverence stole over him. Not only was she determined to suffer aloneand in silence, but she would guard her sister's secret at the cost ofher own happiness. Inside that sacred precinct he knew he could neverenter; that wine-press she intended to tread alone.
Then a sudden indignation, followed by a contempt of his own weaknesstook possession of him. Being the older and stronger nature, he shouldhave compelled her to listen. The physician as well as the friendshould have asserted himself. No woman could be well balanced who wouldpush away the hand of a man held out to save her from ruin and misery.He would send Martha for her again and insist upon her listening to him.
He started for the door and stopped irresolute. A new light broke inupon his heart. It was not against himself and her own happiness thatshe had taken this stand, but to save her father's and her sister'sname. He knew how strong was her devotion to her duty, how blind herlove for Lucy, how sacred she held the trust given to her by her deadfather. No; she was neither obstinate nor quixotic. Hers was the workof a martyr, not a fanatic. No one he had ever known or heard of hadborne so great a cross or made so noble a sacrifice. It was like thedeed of some grand old saint, the light of whose glory had shone downthe ages. He was wrong, cruelly wrong. The only thing left for him todo was to wait. For what he could not tell. Perhaps God in his mercywould one day find the way.
Martha's kindly voice as she opened the door awoke him from his revery.
"Did she take it bad?" she asked.
"No," he replied aimlessly, without thinking of what he said. "She senta message to the captain. I'll go now. No, please don't bring a lightto the door. The mare's only a short way down the road."
When the old nurse had shut the front door after him she put out thelamps and ascended the stairs. The other servants were in bed. Jane'sdoor was partly open. Martha pushed it gently with her hand and steppedin. Jane had thrown herself at full length on the bed and lay with herface buried in her hands. She was talking to herself and had notnoticed Martha's footsteps.
"O God! what have I done that this should be sent to me?" Martha heardher say between her sobs. "You would be big enough, my beloved, to bearit all for my sake; to take the stain and wear it; but I cannot hurtyou--not you, not you, my great, strong, sweet soul. Your heart achesfor me and you would give me all you have, but I could not bear yourname without telling you. You would forgive me, but I could neverforgive myself. No, no, you shall stand unstained if God will give mestrength!"
Martha walked softly to the bed and bent over Jane's prostrate body.
"It's me, dear. What did he say to break your heart?"
Jane slipped her arm about the old nurse's neck, drawing her closer,and without lifting her own head from the pillow talked on.
"Nothing, nothing. He came to comfort me, not to hurt me."
"Do ye think it's all true 'bout Bart?" Martha whispered.
Jane raised her body from the bed and rested her head on Martha'sshoulder.
"Yes, it's all true about Bart," she answered in a stronger and morecomposed tone. "I have been expecting it. Poor boy, he had nothing tolive for, and his conscience must have given him no rest."
"Did the captain tell him about--" and Martha pointed toward the bed ofthe sleeping child. She could never bring herself to mention Lucy'sname when speaking either of Bart or Archie.
"No, I don't think so. The captain gave me his word, and he will notbreak it. Then, again, he will never discredit his own son. The doctordoesn't know, and there will be nobody to tell him. That's not what hecame to tell me. It was about the stories you heard last week and whichhave only just reached his ears. That's all. He wanted to protect mefrom their annoyance, but I would not listen to him. There is troubleenough without bringing him into it. Now go to bed, Martha."
As she spoke Jane regained her feet, and crossing the room, settledinto a chair by the boy's crib. Long after Martha had closed her owndoor for the night Jane sat watching the sleeping child. One plump pinkhand lay outside the cover; the other little crumpled rose-leaf wastucked under the cheek, the face half-hidden in a tangle of glossycurls, now spun-gold in the light of the shaded lamp.
"Poor little waif," she sighed, "poor little motherless, fatherlesswaif! Why didn't you stay in heaven? This world has no place for you."
Then she rose wearily, picked up the light, carried it across the roomto her desk, propped a book in front of it so that its rays would notfall upon the sleeping child, opened her portfolio, and sat down towrite.
When she had finished and had sealed her letter it was long pastmidnight. It was addressed to Lucy in Dresden, and contained a fullaccount of all the doctor had told her of Bart's death.
The Tides of Barnegat Page 11