CHAPTER XIV
HIGH WATER AT YARDLEY
Ten years have passed away.
The sturdy little fellow in knee-trousers is a lad of seventeen, bigand strong for his age; Tod is three years older, and the two are stillinseparable. The brave commander of the pirate ship is now afull-fledged fisherman and his father's main dependence. Archie isagain his chief henchman, and the two spend many a morning in Tod'sboat when the blue-fish are running. Old Fogarty does not mind it; herather likes it, and Mother Fogarty is always happier when the two aretogether.
"If one of 'em gits overboard," she said one day to her husband,"t'other kin save him."
"Save him! Well, I guess!" he replied. "Salt water skims off Archiesame's if he was a white bellied gull; can't drown him no more'n youkin a can buoy."
The boy has never forgotten Scootsy's epithet, although he has neverspoken of it to his mother--no one knows her now by any other name. Shethought the episode had passed out of his mind, but she did not knoweverything that lay in the boy's heart. He and Tod had discussed ittime and again, and had wondered over his own name and that of hisnameless father, as boys wonder, but they had come to no conclusion. Noone in the village could tell them, for no one ever knew. He had askedthe doctor, but had only received a curious answer.
"What difference does it make, son, when you have such a mother? Youhave brought her only honor, and the world loves her the better becauseof you. Let it rest until she tells you; it will only hurt her heart ifyou ask her now."
The doctor had already planned out the boy's future; he was to be sentto Philadelphia to study medicine when his schooling was over, and wasthen to come into his office and later on succeed to his practice.
Captain Holt would have none of it.
"He don't want to saw off no legs," the bluff old man had blurted outwhen he heard of it. "He wants to git ready to take a ship 'round CapeHorn. If I had my way I'd send him some'er's where he could learnnavigation, and that's in the fo'c's'le of a merchantman. Give him ayear or two before the mast. I made that mistake with Bart--he loafedround here too long and when he did git a chance he was too old."
Report had it that the captain was going to leave the lad his money,and had therefore a right to speak; but no one knew. He wascloser-mouthed than ever, though not so gruff and ugly as he used tobe; Archie had softened him, they said, taking the place of that boy ofhis he "druv out to die a good many years ago."
Jane's mind wavered. Neither profession suited her. She would sacrificeanything she had for the boy provided they left him with her.Philadelphia was miles away, and she would see him but seldom. The seashe shrank from and dreaded. She had crossed it twice, and both timeswith an aching heart. She feared, too, its treachery and cruelty. Thewaves that curled and died on Barnegat beach--messengers from acrossthe sea--brought only tidings fraught with suffering.
Archie had no preferences--none yet. His future was too far off totrouble him much. Nor did anything else worry him.
One warm September day Archie turned into Yardley gate, his so'westerstill on his head framing his handsome, rosy face; his loose jacketopen at the throat, the tarpaulins over his arm. He had been outsidethe inlet with Tod--since daybreak, in fact--fishing for bass andweakfish.
Jane had been waiting for him for hours. She held an open letter in herhand, and her face was happier, Archie thought as he approached her,than he had seen it for months.
There are times in all lives when suddenly and without warning, thosewho have been growing quietly by our side impress their new developmentupon us. We look at them in full assurance that the timid glance of thechild will be returned, and are astounded to find instead the calm gazeof the man; or we stretch out our hand to help the faltering step andtouch a muscle that could lead a host. Such changes are like thebreaking of the dawn; so gradual has been their coming that the fullsun of maturity is up and away flooding the world with beauty and lightbefore we can recall the degrees by which it rose.
Jane realized this--and for the first time--as she looked at Archieswinging through the gate, waving his hat as he strode toward her. Shesaw that the sailor had begun to assert itself. He walked with an easyswing, his broad shoulders--almost as broad as the captain's and twiceas hard--thrown back, his head up, his blue eyes and white teethlaughing out of a face brown and ruddy with the sun and wind, histhroat and neck bare except for the silk handkerchief--one ofTod's--wound loosely about it; a man really, strong and tough, withhard sinews and capable thighs, back, and wrists--the kind of sailormanthat could wear tarpaulins or broadcloth at his pleasure and never loseplace in either station.
In this rude awakening Jane's heart-strings tightened. She becamesuddenly conscious that the Cobden look had faded out of him; Lucy'seyes and hair were his, and so was her rounded chin, with its dimple,but there was nothing else about him that recalled either her ownfather or any other Cobden she remembered. As he came near enough forher to look into his eyes she began to wonder how he would impressLucy, what side of his nature would she love best--his courage andstrength or his tenderness?
The sound of his voice shouting her name recalled her to herself, and athrill of pride illumined her happy face like a burst of sunlight as hetossed his tarpaulins on the grass and put his strong arms about her.
"Mother, dear! forty black bass, eleven weakfish, and half a barrel ofsmall fry--what do you think of that?"
"Splendid, Archie. Tod must be proud as a peacock. But look at this!"and she held up the letter. "Who do you think it's from? Guess now,"and she locked one arm through his, and the two strolled back to thehouse.
"Guess now!" she repeated, holding the letter behind her back. The twowere often like lovers together.
"Let me see," he coaxed. "What kind of a stamp has it got?"
"Never you mind about the stamp."
"Uncle John--and it's about my going to Philadelphia."
Jane laughed. "Uncle John never saw it."
"Then it's from--Oh, you tell me, mother!"
"No--guess. Think of everybody you ever heard of. Those you have seenand those you--"
"Oh, I know--Aunt Lucy."
"Yes, and she's coming home. Home, Archie, think of it, after all theseyears!"
"Well, that's bully! She won't know me, will she? I never saw her, didI?"
"Yes, when you were a little fellow." It was difficult to keep thetremor out of her voice.
"Will she bring any dukes and high daddies with her?"
"No," laughed Jane, "only her little daughter Ellen, the sweetestlittle girl you ever saw, she writes."
"How old is she?"
He had slipped his arm around his mother's waist now and the two were"toeing it" up the path, he stopping every few feet to root a pebblefrom its bed. The coming of the aunt was not a great event in his life.
"Just seven her last birthday."
"All right, she's big enough. We'll take her out and teach her to fish.Hello, granny!" and the boy loosened his arm as he darted up the stepstoward Martha. "Got the finest mess of fish coming up here in a littlewhile you ever laid your eyes on," he shouted, catching the old nurse'scap from her head and clapping it upon his own, roaring with laughter,as he fled in the direction of the kitchen.
Jane joined in the merriment and, moving a chair from the hall, tookher seat on the porch to await the boy's return. She was too happy tobusy herself about the house or to think of any of her outside duties.Doctor John would not be in until the afternoon, and so she wouldoccupy herself in thinking out plans to make her sister's home-coming ajoyous one.
As she looked down over the garden as far as the two big gate-postsstanding like grim sentinels beneath the wide branches of the hemlocks,and saw how few changes had taken place in the old home since her girlsister had left it, her heart thrilled with joy. Nothing really wasdifferent; the same mass of tangled rose-vines climbed over theporch--now quite to the top of the big roof, but still the same dearold vines that Lucy had loved in her childhood; the same honeysucklehid the posts;
the same box bordered the paths. The house was just asshe left it; her bedroom had really never been touched. What fewchanges had taken place she would not miss. Meg would not run out tomeet her, and Rex was under a stone that the doctor had placed over hisgrave; nor would Ann Gossaway peer out of her eyrie of a window andfollow her with her eyes as she drove by; her tongue was quiet at last,and she and her old mother lay side by side in the graveyard. DoctorJohn had exhausted his skill upon them both, and Martha, who hadforgiven her enemy, had sat by her bedside until the end, but nothinghad availed. Mrs. Cavendish was dead, of course, but she did not thinkLucy would care very much. She and Doctor John had nursed her formonths until the end came, and had then laid her away near theapple-trees she was so fond of. But most of the faithful hearts who hadloved her were still beating, and all were ready with a hearty welcome.
Archie was the one thing new--new to Lucy. And yet she had no feareither for him or for Lucy. When she saw him she would love him, andwhen she had known him a week she would never be separated from himagain. The long absence could not have wiped out all remembrance of theboy, nor would the new child crowd him from her heart.
When Doctor John sprang from his gig (the custom of his daily visitshad never been broken) she could hardly wait until he tied hishorse--poor Bess had long since given out--to tell him the joyful news.
He listened gravely, his face lighting up at her happiness. He was gladfor Jane and said so frankly, but the situation did not please him. Heat heart really dreaded the effect of Lucy's companionship on the womanhe loved. Although it had been years since he had seen her, he hadfollowed her career, especially since her marriage, with the greatestinterest and with the closest attention. He had never forgotten, norhad he forgiven her long silence of two years after her marriage,during which time she had never written Jane a line, nor had he everceased to remember Jane's unhappiness over it. Jane had explained itall to him on the ground that Lucy was offended because she had opposedthe marriage, but the doctor knew differently. Nor had he ceased toremember the other letters which followed, and how true a story theytold of Lucy's daily life and ambitions. He could almost recall thewording of one of them. "My husband is too ill," it had said, "to gosouth with me, and so I will run down to Rome for a month or so, for Ireally need the change." And a later one, written since his death, inwhich she wrote of her winter in Paris and at Monte Carlo, and "howgood my mother-in-law is to take care of Ellen." This last letter toher sister, just received--the one he then held in his hand, and whichgave Jane such joy, and which he was then reading as carefully as if ithad been a prescription--was to his analytical mind like all the restof its predecessors. One sentence sent a slight curl to his lips. "Icannot stay away any longer from my precious sister," it said, "and amcoming back to the home I adore. I have no one to love me, now that mydear husband is dead, but you and my darling Ellen."
The news of Lucy's expected return spread rapidly. Old Martha in herjoy was the mouthpiece. She gave the details out at church the Sundaymorning following the arrival of Lucy's letter. She was almost too illto venture out, but she made the effort, stopping the worshippers asthey came down the board walk; telling each one of the good news, thetears streaming down her face. To the children and the youngergeneration the announcement made but little difference; some of themhad never heard that Miss Jane had a sister, and others only that shelived abroad. Their mothers knew, of course, and so did the older men,and all were pleased over the news. Those of them who remembered thehappy, joyous girl with her merry eyes and ringing laugh were ready togive her a hearty welcome; they felt complimented that thedistinguished lady--fifteen years' residence abroad and a rich husbandhad gained her this position--should be willing to exchange the greatParis for the simple life of Warehold. It touched their civic pride.
Great preparations were accordingly made. Billy Tatham's successor (hisson)--in his best open carriage--was drawn up at the station, andLucy's drive through the village with some of her numerous boxescovered with foreign labels piled on the seat beside the young man--whoinsisted on driving Lucy and the child himself--was more like thearrival of a princess revisiting her estates than anything else. Marthaand Archie and Jane filled the carriage, with little Ellen on Archie'slap, and more than one neighbor ran out of the house and waved to themas they drove through the long village street and turned into the gate.
Archie threw his arms around Lucy when he saw her, and in his open,impetuous way called her his "dear aunty," telling her how glad he wasthat she had come to keep his good mother from getting so sad at times,and adding that she and granny had not slept for days before she came,so eager were they to see her. And Lucy kissed him in return, but witha different throb at her heart. She felt a thrill when she saw howhandsome and strong he was, and for an instant there flashed throughher a feeling of pride that he was her own flesh and blood. Then therehad come a sudden revulsion, strangling every emotion but the one ofaversion--an aversion so overpowering that she turned suddenly andcatching Ellen in her arms kissed her with so lavish a display ofaffection that those at the station who witnessed the episode had onlypraise for the mother's devotion. Jane saw the kiss Lucy had givenArchie, and a cry of joy welled up in her heart, but she lost theshadow that followed. My lady of Paris was too tactful for that.
Her old room was all ready. Jane, with Martha helping, had spent daysin its preparation. White dimity curtains starched stiff as a petticoathad been hung at the windows; a new lace cover spread on the littlemahogany, brass-mounted dressing-table--her great grandmother's, infact--with its tiny swinging mirror and the two drawers (Martharemembered when her bairn was just high enough to look into themirror), and pots of fresh flowers placed on the long table on whichher hooks used to rest. Two easy-chairs had also been brought up fromthe sitting-room below, covered with new chintz and tied with blueribbons, and, more wonderful still, a candle-box had been covered withcretonne and studded with brass tacks by the aid of Martha's stifffingers that her bairn might have a place in which to put her daintyshoes and slippers.
When the trunks had been carried upstairs and Martha with her own handshad opened my lady's gorgeous blue morocco dressing-case with itsbottles capped with gold and its brushes and fittings emblazoned withcupids swinging in garlands of roses, the poor woman's astonishmentknew no bounds. The many scents and perfumes, the dainty boxes, big andlittle, holding various powders--one a red paste which the old nursethought must be a salve, but about which, it is needless to say, shewas greatly mistaken--as well as a rabbit's foot smirched with rouge(this she determined to wash at once), and a tiny box of court-plastercut in half moons. So many things, in fact, did the dear old nurse pullfrom this wonderful bag that the modest little bureau could not holdhalf of them, and the big table had to be brought up and swept of itsplants and belongings.
The various cosmetics and their uses were especial objects of comment.
"Did ye break one of the bottles, darlin'?" she asked, sniffing at apeculiar perfume which seemed to permeate everything. "Some of 'em musthave smashed; it's awful strong everywhere--smell that"--and she heldout a bit of lace which she had taken from the case, a dressing-sacquethat Lucy had used on the steamer.
Lucy laughed. "And you don't like it? How funny, you dear old thing!That was made specially for me; no one else in Paris has a drop."
And then the dresses! Particularly the one she was to wear the firstnight--a dress flounced and furbelowed and of a creamy white (she stillwore mourning--delicate purples shading to white--the exact tone for ahusband six months dead). And the filmy dressing-gowns, and, morewonderful than all, the puff of smoke she was to sleep in, heldtogether by a band of violet ribbon; to say nothing of the daintyslippers bound about with swan's-down, and the marvellous hats, endlesssilk stockings of mauve, white, and black, and long and short gloves.In all her life Martha had never seen or heard of such things. The roomwas filled with them and the two big closets crammed to overflowing,and yet a dozen trunks were not yet unpacked, including the two smallboxes hol
ding little Ellen's clothes.
The night was one long to be remembered. Everyone said the Manor Househad not been so gay for years. And they were all there--all her oldfriends and many of Jane's new ones, who for years had looked on Lucyas one too far above them in station to be spoken of except with batedbreath.
The intimates of the house came early. Doctor John first, with hisgrave manner and low voice--so perfectly dressed and quiet: Lucythought she had never seen his equal in bearing and demeanor, nor oneso distinguished-looking--not in any circle in Europe; and UncleEphraim, grown fat and gouty, leaning on a cane, but still hearty andwholesome, and overjoyed to see her; and Pastor Dellenbaugh--his hairwas snow-white now--and his complacent and unruffled wife; and theothers, including Captain Holt, who came in late. It was almost arepetition of that other home-coming years before, when they hadgathered to greet her, then a happy, joyous girl just out of school.
Lucy in their honor wore the dress that had so astonished Martha, and adiamond-studded ornament which she took from her jewel-case andfastened in her hair. The dress followed the wonderful curves of herbeautiful body in all its dimpled plumpness and the jewel set off toperfection the fresh, oval face, laughing blue eyes--wet forget-me-notswere the nearest their color--piquant, upturned nose and saucy mouth.The color of the gown, too, harmonized both with the delicate pink ofher cheeks and with the tones of her rather too full throat showingabove the string of pearls that clasped it.
Jane wore a simple gray silk gown which followed closely the slenderand almost attenuated lines of her figure. This gown the doctor alwaysloved because, as he told her, it expressed so perfectly the simplicityof her mind and life. Her only jewels were her deep, thoughtful eyes,and these, to-night, were brilliant with joy over her sister's return.
As Jane moved about welcoming her guests the doctor, whose eyes rarelyleft her face, became conscious that at no time in their lives had thecontrast between the two sisters been greater.
One, a butterfly of thirty-eight, living only in the glow of thesunlight, radiant in plumage, alighting first on one flower and then onanother, but always on flowers, never on weeds; gathering such honey assuited her taste; never resting where she might by any chance becompelled to use her feet, but always poised in air; a woman, rich,brilliant, and beautiful, and--here was the key-note of herlife--always, year in and year out, warmed by somebody's admiration,whose she didn't much mind nor care, so that it gratified her pride andrelieved her of ennui. The other--and this one he loved with his wholesoul--a woman of forty-six, with a profound belief in her creeds;quixotic sometimes in her standards, but always sincere; devoted to hertraditions, to her friends and to her duty; unselfish, tender-hearted,and self-sacrificing; whose feet, though often tired and bleeding, hadalways trodden the earth.
As Lucy greeted first one neighbor and then another, sometimes with onehand, sometimes with two, offering her cheek now and then to some oldfriend who had known her as a child, Jane's heart swelled withsomething of the pride she used to have when Lucy was a girl. Herbeautiful sister, she saw, had lost none of the graciousness of her oldmanner, nor of her tact in making her guests feel perfectly at home.Jane noticed, too--and this was new to her--a certain well-bredcondescension, so delicately managed as never to be offensive--more theair of a woman accustomed to many sorts and conditions of men andwomen, and who chose to be agreeable as much to please herself as toplease her guests.
And yet with all this poise of manner and condescending graciousness,there would now and then dart from Lucy's eyes a quick, searchingglance of inquiry, as she tried to read her guests' thoughts, followedby a relieved look on her own face as she satisfied herself that nowhisper of her past had ever reached them. These glances Jane nevercaught.
Doctor John was most cordial in his greeting and talked to her a longtime about some portions of Europe, particularly a certain cafe inDresden where he used to dine, and another in Paris frequented by thebeau monde. She answered him quite frankly, telling him of some of herown experiences in both places, quite forgetting that she was givinghim glimpses of her own life while away--glimpses which she had keptcarefully concealed from Jane or Martha. She was conscious, however,after he had left her of a certain uncomfortable feeling quiveringthrough her as his clear, steadfast eyes looked into hers, he listened,and yet she thought she detected his brain working behind his steadfastgaze. It was as if he was searching for some hidden disease. "He knowssomething," she said to herself, when the doctor moved to let someoneelse take his place. "How much I can't tell. I'll get it all out ofsister."
Blunt and bluff Captain Holt, white-whiskered and white-haired now, butstrong and hearty, gave her another and a different shock. What hisfirst words would be when they met and how she would avoid discussingthe subject uppermost in their minds if, in his rough way, he insistedon talking about it, was one of the things that had worried her greatlywhen she decided to come home, for there was never any doubt in hermind as to his knowledge. But she misjudged the captain, as had a greatmany others who never looked beneath the rugged bark covering his heartof oak.
"I'm glad you've come at last," he said gravely, hardly touching herhand in welcome, "you ought to have been here before. Jane's got a finelad of her own that she's bringin' up; when you know him ye'll likehim."
She did not look at him when she answered, but a certain feeling ofrelief crept over her. She saw that the captain had buried the past andintended never to revive it.
The stern look on his face only gave way when little Ellen came to himof her own accord and climbing up into his lap said in her brokenEnglish that she heard he was a great captain and that she wanted himto tell her some stories like her good papa used to tell her. "He wasgray like you," she said, "and big," and she measured the size with herplump little arms that showed out of her dainty French dress.
With Doctor John and Captain Holt out of the way Lucy's mind was atrest. "Nobody else round about Yardley except these two knows," shekept saying to herself with a bound of relief, "and for these I don'tcare. The doctor is Jane's slave, and the captain is evidently wiseenough not to uncover skeletons locked up in his own closet."
These things settled in her mind, my lady gave herself up to whateverenjoyment, compatible with her rapidly fading mourning, the simplesurroundings afforded, taking her cue from the conditions thatconfronted her and ordering her conduct accordingly and along theselines: Archie was her adopted nephew, the son of an old friend ofJane's, and one whom she would love dearly, as, in fact, she wouldanybody else whom Jane had brought up; she herself was a gracious widowof large means recovering from a great sorrow; one who had given up thedelights of foreign courts to spend some time among her dear people whohad loved her as a child. Here for a time would she bring up andeducate her daughter.
"To be once more at home, and in dear old Warehold, too!" she had saidwith upraised Madonna-like eyes and clasped hands to a group of womenwho were hanging on every word that dropped from her pretty lips. "Doyou know what that is to me? There is hardly a day I have not longedfor it. Pray, forgive me if I do not come to see you as often as Iwould, but I really hate to be an hour outside of the four walls of myprecious home."
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