CHAPTER XIX
THE BREAKING OF THE DAWN
September weather on Barnegat beach! Fine gowns and fine hats on thewide piazzas of Beach Haven! Too cool for bathing, but not too cool tosit on the sand and throw pebbles and loll under kindly umbrellas; airfresh and bracing, with a touch of June in it; skies full ofmares'-tails--slips of a painter's brush dragged flat across the filmof blue; sea gone to rest; not a ripple, no long break of the surf,only a gentle lift and fall like the breathing of a sleeping child.
Uncle Isaac shook his head when he swept his eye round at all thisloveliness; then he turned on his heel and took a look at the aneroidfastened to the wall of the sitting-room of the Life-Saving Station.The arrow showed a steady shrinkage. The barometer had fallen sixpoints.
"What do ye think, Captain Holt?" asked the old surfman.
"I ain't thinkin', Polhemus; can't tell nothin' 'bout the weather thismonth till the moon changes; may go on this way for a week or two, orit may let loose and come out to the sou'-east I've seen these dog-dayslast till October."
Again Uncle Isaac shook his head, and this time kept his peace; nowthat his superior officer had spoken he had no further opinion toexpress.
Sam Green dropped his feet to the floor, swung himself over to thebarometer, gazed at it for a moment, passed out of the door, swept hiseye around, and resumed his seat--tilted back against the wall. Whathis opinion might be was not for publication--not in the captain'shearing.
Captain Holt now consulted the glass, picked up his cap bearing theinsignia of his rank, and went out through the kitchen to the land sideof the house. The sky and sea--feathery clouds and still, oilyflatness--did not interest him this September morning. It was therolling dune that caught his eye, and the straggly path that threadedits way along the marshes and around and beyond the clump of scrubpines and bushes until it was lost in the haze that hid the village.This land inspection had been going on for a month, and always when Todwas returning from the post-office with the morning mail. The men hadnoticed it, but no one had given vent to his thoughts.
Tod, of course, knew the cause of the captain's impatience, but no oneof the others did, not even Archie; time enough for that when theSwede's story was proved true. If the fellow had lied that was an endto it; if he had told the truth Bart would answer, and the mystery becleared up. This same silence had been maintained toward Jane and thedoctor; better not raise hopes he could not verify--certainly not inJane's breast.
Not that he had much hope himself; he dared not hope. Hope meant a propto his old age; hope meant joy to Jane, who would welcome the prodigal;hope meant relief to the doctor, who could then claim his own; hopemeant redemption for Lucy, a clean name for Archie, and honor tohimself and his only son.
No wonder, then, that he watched for an answer to his letter withfeverish impatience. His own missive had been blunt and to the point,asking the direct question: "Are you alive or dead, and if alive, whydid you fool me with that lie about your dying of fever in a hospitaland keep me waiting all these years?" Anything more would have beensuperfluous in the captain's judgment--certainly until he received somemore definite information as to whether the man was his son.
Half a dozen times this lovely September morning the captain hadstrolled leisurely out of the back door and had mounted the low hillockfor a better view. Suddenly a light flashed in his face, followed by alook in his eyes that they had not known for weeks--not since the Swedeleft. The light came when his glance fell upon Tod's lithe figureswinging along the road; the look kindled when he saw Tod stop and wavehis hand triumphantly over his head.
The letter had arrived!
With a movement as quick as that of a horse touched by a whip, hestarted across the sand to meet the surfman.
"Guess we got it all right this time, captain," cried Tod. "It's gotthe Nassau postmark, anyhow. There warn't nothin' else in the box butthe newspapers," and he handed the package to his chief.
The two walked to the house and entered the captain's office. Tod hungback, but the captain laid his hand on his shoulder.
"Come in with me, Fogarty. Shut the door. I'll send these papers in tothe men soon's I open this."
Tod obeyed mechanically. There was a tone in the captain's voice thatwas new to him. It sounded as if he were reluctant to be left alonewith the letter.
"Now hand me them spectacles."
Tod reached over and laid the glasses in his chief's hand. The captainsettled himself deliberately in his revolving chair, adjusted hisspectacles, and slit the envelope with his thumb-nail. Out came a sheetof foolscap closely written on both sides. This he read to the end,turning the page as carefully as if it had been a set of officialinstructions, his face growing paler and paler, his mouth tight shut.Tod stood beside him watching the lights and shadows playing across hisface. The letter was as follows:
"Nassau, No. 4 Calle Valenzuela,
"Aug. 29, 18--.
"Father: Your letter was not what I expected, although it is, perhaps,all I deserve. I am not going into that part of it, now I know thatLucy and my child are alive. What has been done in the past I can'tundo, and maybe I wouldn't if I could, for if I am worth anythingto-day it comes from what I have suffered; that's over now, and I won'trake it up, but I think you would have written me some word of kindnessif you had known what I have gone through since I left you. I don'tblame you for what you did--I don't blame anybody; all I want now is toget back home among the people who knew me when I was a boy, and tryand make up for the misery I have caused you and the Cobdens. I wouldhave done this before, but it has only been for the last two years thatI have had any money. I have got an interest in the mine now and amconsiderably ahead, and I can do what I have always determined to do ifI ever had the chance and means--come home to Lucy and the child; itmust be big now--and take them back with me to Bolivia, where I have agood home and where, in a few years, I shall be able to give themeverything they need. That's due to her and to the child, and it's dueto you; and if she'll come I'll do my best to make her happy while shelives. I heard about five years ago from a man who worked for a shorttime in Farguson's ship-yard how she was suffering, and what names thepeople called the child, and my one thought ever since has been to dothe decent thing by both. I couldn't then, for I was living in a hutback in the mountains a thousand miles from the coast, or tramping fromplace to place; so I kept still. He told me, too, how you felt towardme, and I didn't want to come and have bad blood between us, and so Istayed on. When Olssen Strom, my foreman, sailed for Perth Amboy, wherethey are making some machinery for the company, I thought I'd tryagain, so I sent him to find out. One thing in your letter is wrong. Inever went to the hospital with yellow fever; some of the men had itaboard ship, and I took one of them to the ward the night I ran away.The doctor at the hospital wanted my name, and I gave it, and this mayhave been how they thought it was me, but I did not intend to deceiveyou or anybody else, nor cover up any tracks. Yes, father, I'm cominghome. If you'll hold out your hand to me I'll take it gladly. I've hada hard time since I left you; you'd forgive me if you knew how hard ithas been. I haven't had anybody out here to care whether I lived ordied, and I would like to see how it feels. But if you don't I can'thelp it. My hope is that Lucy and the boy will feel differently. Thereis a steamer sailing from here next Wednesday; she goes direct toAmboy, and you may expect me on her. Your son,
"Barton."
"It's him, Tod," cried the captain, shaking the letter over his head;"it's him!" The tears stood in his eyes now, his voice trembled; hisiron nerve was giving way. "Alive, and comin' home! Be here next week!Keep the door shut, boy, till I pull myself together. Oh, my God, Tod,think of it! I haven't had a day's peace since I druv him out nigh onto twenty year ago. He hurt me here"--and he pointed to hisbreast--"where I couldn't forgive him. But it's all over now. He's cometo himself like a man, and he's square and honest, and he's goin' tostay home till everything is straightened out. O God! it can't be true!it CAN'T be true!"
He was sobbing now
, his face hidden by his wrist and the cuff of hiscoat, the big tears striking his pea-jacket and bounding off. It hadbeen many years since these springs had yielded a drop--not whenanybody could see. They must have scalded his rugged cheeks as moltenmetal scalds a sand-pit.
Tod stood amazed. The outburst was a revelation. He had known thecaptain ever since he could remember, but always as an austere,exacting man.
"I'm glad, captain," Tod said simply; "the men'll be glad, too. Shall Itell 'em?"
The captain raised his head.
"Wait a minute, son." His heart was very tender, all discipline wasforgotten now; and then he had known Tod from his boyhood. "I'll gomyself and tell 'em," and he drew his hand across his eyes as if to drythem. "Yes, tell 'em. Come, I'll go 'long with ye and tell 'em myself.I ain't 'shamed of the way I feel, and the men won't be 'shamedneither."
The sitting-room was full when he entered. Dinner had been announced byMorgan, who was cook that week, by shouting the glad tidings from hisplace beside the stove, and the men were sitting about in their chairs.Two fishermen who had come for their papers occupied seats against thewall.
The captain walked to the corner of the table, stood behind his ownchair and rested the knuckles of one hand on the white oilcloth. Thelook on his face attracted every eye. Pausing for a moment, he turnedto Polhemus and spoke to him for the others:
"Isaac, I got a letter just now. Fogarty brought it over. You knew myboy Bart, didn't ye, the one that's been dead nigh on to twenty years?"
The old surfman nodded, his eyes still fastened on the captain. Thiscalling him "Isaac" was evidence that something personal and unusualwas coming. The men, too, leaned forward in attention; the story ofBart's disappearance and death had been discussed up and down the coastfor years.
"Well, he's alive," rejoined the captain with a triumphant tone in hisvoice, "and he'll be here in a week--comin' to Amboy on a steamer.There ain't no mistake about it; here's his letter."
The announcement was received in dead silence. To be surprised was notcharacteristic of these men, especially over a matter of this kind.Death was a part of their daily experience, and a resurrection neitherextraordinary nor uncommon. They were glad for the captain, if thecaptain was glad--and he, evidently was. But what did Bart's turning upat this late day mean? Had his money given out, or was he figuring toget something out of his father--something he couldn't get as long ashe remained dead?
The captain continued, his voice stronger and with a more positive ringin it:
"He's part owner in a mine now, and he's comin' home to see me and tostraighten out some things he's interested in." It was the first timein nearly twenty years that he had ever been able to speak of his sonwith pride.
A ripple of pleasure went through the room. If the prodigal wasbringing some money with him and was not to be a drag on the captain,that put a new aspect on the situation. In that case the father was tobe congratulated.
"Well, that's a comfort to you, captain," cried Uncle Isaac in a cheerytone. "A good son is a good thing. I never had one, dead or alive, butI'd 'a' loved him if I had had. I'm glad for you, Captain Nat, and Iknow the men are." (Polhemus's age and long friendship gave him thisprivilege. Then, of course, the occasion was not an official one.)
"Been at the mines, did ye say, captain?" remarked Green. Not that itwas of any interest to him; merely to show his appreciation of thecaptain's confidence. This could best be done by prolonging theconversation.
"Yes, up in the mountains of Brazil some'er's, I guess, though he don'tsay," answered the captain in a tone that showed that the subject wasstill open for discussion.
Mulligan now caught the friendly ball and tossed it back 'with:
"I knowed a feller once who was in Brazil--so he said. Purty hot downthere, ain't it, captain?"
"Yes; on the coast. I ain't never been back in the interior."
Tod kept silent. It was not his time to speak, nor would it be properfor him, nor necessary. His chief knew his opinion and sympathies andno word of his could add to their sincerity.
Archie was the only man in the room, except Uncle Isaac, who regardedthe announcement as personal to the captain. Boys without fathers andfathers without boys had been topics which had occupied his mind eversince he could remember. That this old man had found one of his ownwhom he loved and whom he wanted to get his arms around, was aninspiring thought to Archie.
"There's no one happier than I am, captain," he burst outenthusiastically. "I've often heard of your son, and of his going awayand of your giving him up for dead. I'm mighty glad for you," and hegrasped his chief's hand and shook it heartily.
As the lad's fingers closed around the rough hand of the captain afurtive look flashed from out Morgan's eyes. It was directed toParks--they were both Barnegat men--and was answered by that surfmanwith a slow-falling wink. Tod saw it, and his face flushed. Certainstories connected with Archie rose in his mind; some out of hischildhood, others since he had joined the crew.
The captain's eyes filled as he shook the boy's hand, but he made noreply to Archie's outburst. Pausing for a moment, as if willing tolisten to any further comments, and finding that no one else had anyword for him, he turned on his heel and reentered his office.
Once inside, he strode to the window and looked out on the dunes, hisbig hands hooked behind his back, his eyes fixed on vacancy.
"It won't be long, now, Archie, not long, my lad," he said in a lowvoice, speaking aloud to himself. "I kin say you're my grandson outloud when Bart comes, and nothin' kin or will stop me! And now I kintell Miss Jane."
Thrusting the letter into his inside pocket, he picked up his cap, andstrode across the dune in the direction of the new hospital.
Jane was in one of the wards when the captain sent word to her to cometo the visiting-room. She had been helping the doctor in an importantoperation. The building was but half way between the Station andWarehold, which made it easier for the captain to keep his eye on thesea should there be any change in the weather.
Jane listened to the captain's outburst covering the announcement thatBart was alive without a comment. Her face paled and her breathing cameshort, but she showed no signs of either joy or sorrow. She had facedtoo many surprises in her life to be startled at anything. Then again,Bart alive or dead could make no difference now in either her own orLucy's future.
The captain continued, his face brightening, his voice full of hope:
"And your troubles are all over now, Miss Jane; your name will becleared up, and so will Archie's, and the doctor'll git his own, andLucy kin look everybody in the face. See what Bart says," and he handedher the open letter.
Jane read it word by word to the end and handed it back to the captain.Once in the reading she had tightened her grasp on her chair as if tosteady herself, but she did not flinch; she even read some sentencestwice, so that she might be sure of their meaning.
In his eagerness the captain had not caught the expression of agonythat crossed her face as her mind, grasping the purport of the letter,began to measure the misery that would follow if Bart's plan wascarried out.
"I knew how ye'd feel," he went on, "and I've been huggin' myself eversince it come when I thought how happy ye'd be when I told ye; but Iain't so sure 'bout Lucy. What do you think? Will she do what Bartwants?"
"No," said Jane in a quiet, restrained voice; "she will not do it."
"Why?" said the captain in a surprised tone. He was not accustomed tobe thwarted in anything he had fixed his mind upon, and he saw fromJane's expression that her own was in opposition.
"Because I won't permit it."
The captain leaned forward and looked at Jane in astonishment.
"You won't permit it!"
"No, I won't permit it."
"Why?" The word came from the captain as if it had been shot from a gun.
"Because it would not be right." Her eyes were still fixed on thecaptain's.
"Well, ain't it right that he should make some amends for what he'sdone?" he r
etorted with increasing anger. "When he said he wouldn'tmarry her I druv him out; now he says he's sorry and wants to dosquarely by her and my hand's out to him. She ain't got nothin' in herlife that's doin' her any good. And that boy's got to be baptized rightand take his father's name, Archie Holt, out loud, so everybody kinhear."
Jane made no answer except to shake her head. Her eyes were still onthe captain's, but her mind was neither on him nor on what fell fromhis lips. She was again confronting that spectre which for years hadlain buried and which the man before her was exorcising back to life.
The captain sprang from his seat and stood before her; the words nowpoured from his lips in a torrent.
"And you'll git out from this death blanket you been sleepin' under,bearin' her sin; breakin' the doctor's heart and your own; and Archiekin hold his head up then and say he's got a father. You ain't heardhow the boys talk 'bout him behind his back. Tod Fogarty's stuck tohim, but who else is there 'round here? We all make mistakes; that'swhat half the folks that's livin' do. Everything's been a lie--nothin'but lies--for near twenty years. You've lived a lie motherin' this boyand breakin' your heart over the whitest man that ever stepped in shoeleather. Doctor John's lived a lie, tellin' folks he wanted to devotehimself to his hospital when he'd rather live in the sound o' yourvoice and die a pauper than run a college anywhere else. Lucy has liveda lie, and is livin' it yet--and LIKES IT, TOO, that's the worst of it.And I been muzzled all these years; mad one minute and wantin' to twisthis neck, and the next with my eyes runnin' tears that the only boy Igot was lyin' out among strangers. The only one that's honest is thelittle Pond Lily. She ain't got nothin' to hide and you see it in herface. Her father was square and her mother's with her and nothin' can'ttouch her and don't. Let's have this out. I'm tired of it--"
The captain was out of breath now, his emotions still controlling him,his astonishment at the unexpected opposition from the woman of allothers on whose assistance he most relied unabated.
Jane rose from her chair and stood facing him, a great light in hereyes:
"No! No! NO! A thousand times, no! You don't know Lucy; I do. What youwant done now should have been done when Archie was born. It was myfault. I couldn't see her suffer. I loved her too much. I thought tosave her, I didn't care how. It would have been better for her if shehad faced her sin then and taken the consequences; better for all ofus. I didn't think so then, and it has taken me years to find it out. Ibegan to be conscious of it first in her marriage, then when she kepton living her lie with her husband, and last when she deserted Ellenand went off to Beach Haven alone--that broke my heart, and my mistakerose up before me, and I KNEW!"
The captain stared at her in astonishment. He could hardly credit hisears.
"Yes, better, if she'd faced it. She would have lived here then undermy care, and she might have loved her child as I have done. Now she hasno tie, no care, no responsibility, no thought of anything but thepleasures of the moment. I have tried to save her, and I have onlyhelped to ruin her."
"Make her settle down, then, and face the music!" blurted out thecaptain, resuming his seat. "Bart warn't all bad; he was only young andfoolish. He'll take care of her. It ain't never too late to begin toturn honest. Bart wants to begin; make her begin, too. He's got moneynow to do it; and she kin live in South America same's she kin here.She's got no home anywhere. She don't like it here, and never did; youkin see that from the way she swings 'round from place to place. MAKEher face it, I tell ye. You been too easy with her all your life; pullher down now and keep her nose p'inted close to the compass."
"You do not know of what you talk," Jane answered, her eyes blazing."She hates the past; hates everything connected with it; hates the veryname of Barton Holt. Never once has she mentioned it since her return.She never loved Archie; she cared no more for him than a bird that hasdropped its young out of its nest. Besides, your plan is impossible.Marriage does not condone a sin. The power to rise and rectify thewrong lies in the woman. Lucy has not got it in her, and she never willhave it. Part of it is her fault; a large part of it is mine. She haslived this lie all these years, and I have only myself to blame. I havetaught her to live it. I began it when I carried her away from here; Ishould have kept her at home and had her face the consequences of hersin then. I ought to have laid Archie in her arms and kept him there. Iwas a coward and could not, and in my fear I destroyed the only thingthat could have saved her--the mother-love. Now she will run hercourse. She's her own mistress; no one can compel her to do anything."
The captain raised his clenched hand:
"Bart will, when he comes."
"How?"
"By claimin' the boy and shamin' her before the world, if she don't.She liked him well enough when he was a disgrace to himself and to me,without a dollar to his name. What ails him now, when he comes back andowns up like a man and wants to do the square thing, and has got moneyenough to see it through? She's nothin' but a THING, if she knew it,till this disgrace's wiped off'n her. By God, Miss Jane, I tell youthis has got to be put through just as Bart wants it, and quick!"
Jane stepped closer and laid her hand on the captain's arm. The look inher eyes, the low, incisive, fearless ring in her voice, overawed him.Her courage astounded him. This side of her character was a revelation.Under their influence he became silent and humbled--as a boisterousadvocate is humbled by the measured tones of a just judge.
"It is not my friend, Captain Nat, who is talking now. It is the fatherwho is speaking. Think for a moment. Who has borne the weight of this,you or I? You had a wayward son whom the people here think you droveout of your home for gambling on Sunday. No other taint attaches to himor to you. Dozens of other sons and fathers have done the same. Hereturns a reformed man and lives out his life in the home he left.
"I had a wayward sister who forgot her mother, me, her womanhood, andherself, and yet at whose door no suspicion of fault has been laid. Istepped in and took the brunt and still do. I did this for my father'sname and for my promise to him and for my love of her. To her child Ihave given my life. To him I am his mother and will always be--always,because I will stand by my fault. That is a redemption in itself, andthat is the only thing that saves me from remorse. You and I, outsideof his father and mother, are the only ones living that know of hisparentage. The world has long since forgotten the little theysuspected. Let it rest; no good could come--only suffering and misery.To stir it now would only open old wounds and, worst of all, it wouldmake a new one."
"In you?"
"No, worse than that. My heart is already scarred all over; no freshwound would hurt."
"In the doctor?"
"Yes and no. He has never asked the truth and I have never told him."
"Who, then?"
"In little Ellen. Let us keep that one flower untouched."
The captain rested his head in his hand, and for some minutes made noanswer. Ellen was the apple of his eye.
"But if Bart insists?"
"He won't insist when he sees Lucy. She is no more the woman that heloved and wronged than I am. He would not know her if he met heroutside this house."
"What shall I do?"
"Nothing. Let matters take their course. If he is the man you think heis he will never break the silence."
"And you will suffer on--and the doctor?"
Jane bowed her head and the tears sprang to her eyes.
"Yes, always; there is nothing else to do."
The Tides of Barnegat Page 19