The Tides of Barnegat

by Francis Hopkinson Smith

  CHAPTER XX

  THE UNDERTOW

  Within the month a second letter was handed to the captain by Tod, nowregularly installed as postman. It was in answer to one of CaptainHolt's which he had directed to the expected steamer and which had metthe exile on his arrival. It was dated "Amboy," began "My dear father,"and was signed "Your affectionate son, Barton."

  This conveyed the welcome intelligence--welcome to the father--that thewriter would be detained a few days in Amboy inspecting the newmachinery, after which he would take passage for Barnegat by the PollyWalters, Farguson's weekly packet. Then these lines followed: "It willbe the happiest day of my life when I can come into the inlet at hightide and see my home in the distance."

  Again the captain sought Jane.

  She was still at the hospital, nursing some shipwrecked men--three withinternal injuries--who had been brought in from Forked River Station,the crew having rescued them the week before. Two of the regularattendants were worn out with the constant nursing, and so Janecontinued her vigils.

  She had kept at her work--turning neither to the right nor to the left,doing her duty with the bravery and patience of a soldier on thefiring-line, knowing that any moment some stray bullet might end herusefulness. She would not dodge, nor would she cower; the danger was nogreater than others she had faced, and no precaution, she knew, couldsave her. Her lips were still sealed, and would be to the end; sometongue other than her own must betray her sister and her trust. In themeantime she would wait and bear bravely whatever was sent to her.

  Jane was alone when the captain entered, the doctor having left theroom to begin his morning inspection. She was in her gray-cottonnursing-dress, her head bound about with a white kerchief. The pathosof her face and the limp, tired movement of her figure would have beeninstantly apparent to a man less absorbed in his own affairs than thecaptain.

  "He'll be here to-morrow or next day!" he cried, as he advanced towhere she sat at her desk in the doctor's office, the same light in hiseyes and the same buoyant tone in his voice, his ruddy face aglow withhis walk from the station.

  "You have another letter then?" she said in a resigned tone, as if shehad expected it and was prepared to meet its consequences. In hersuffering she had even forgotten her customary welcome of him--forwhatever his attitude and however gruff he might be, she never forgotthe warm heart beneath.

  "Yes, from Amboy," panted the captain, out of breath with his quickwalk, dragging a chair beside Jane's desk as he spoke. "He got minewhen the steamer come in. He's goin' to take the packet so he kin bringhis things--got a lot o' them, he says. And he loves the old home,too--he says so--you kin read it for yourself." As he spoke heunbuttoned his jacket, and taking Bart's letter from its inside pocket,laid his finger on the paragraph and held it before her face.

  "Have you talked about it to anybody?" Jane asked calmly; she hardlyglanced at the letter.

  "Only to the men; but it's all over Barnegat. A thing like that'snothin' but a cask o' oil overboard and the bung out--runseverywhere--no use tryin' to stop it." He was in the chair now, hisarms on the edge of the desk.

  "But you've said nothing to anybody about Archie and Lucy, and whatBart intends to do when he comes, have you?" Jane inquired in somealarm.

  "Not a word, and won't till ye see him. She's more your sister than sheis his wife, and you got most to say 'bout Archie, and should. You beeneverything to him. When you've got through I'll take a hand, but notbefore." The captain always spoke the truth, and meant it; his wordsettled at once any anxieties she might have had on that score.

  "What have you decided to do?" She was not looking at him as she spoke;she was toying with a penholder that lay before her on the desk,apparently intent on its construction.

  "I'm goin' to meet him at Farguson's ship-yard when the Polly comesin," rejoined the captain in a positive tone, as if his mind had longsince been made up regarding details, and he was reciting them for herguidance--"and take him straight to my house, and then come for you.You kin have it out together. Only one thing, Miss Jane"--here hisvoice changed and something of his old quarter-deck manner showeditself in his face and gestures--"if he's laid his course and wants tokeep hold of the tiller I ain't goin' to block his way and he shallmake his harbor, don't make no difference who or what gits in thechannel. Ain't neither of us earned any extry pay for the way we've runthis thing. You've got Lucy ashore flounderin' 'round in the fog, and Ihad no business to send him off without grub or compass. If he wants tosteer now he'll STEER. I don't want you to make no mistake 'bout this,and you'll excuse me if I put it plain."

  Jane put her hand to her head and looked out of the window toward thesea. All her life seemed to be narrowing to one small converging pathwhich grew smaller and smaller as she looked down its perspective.

  "I understand, captain," she sighed. All the fight was out of her; shewas like one limping across a battlefield, shield and spear gone, theroads unknown.

  The door opened and the doctor entered. His quick, sensitive eyeinstantly caught the look of despair on Jane's face and the air ofdetermination on the captain's. What had happened he did not know, butsomething to hurt Jane; of that he was positive. He stepped quicklypast the captain without accosting him, rested his hand on Jane'sshoulder, and said in a tender, pleading tone:

  "You are tired and worn out; get your cloak and hat and I'll drive youhome." Then he turned to the captain: "Miss Jane's been up for threenights. I hope you haven't been worrying her with anything you couldhave spared her from--at least until she got rested," and he frowned atthe captain.

  "No, I ain't and wouldn't. I been a-tellin' her of Bart's comin' home.That ain't nothin' to worry over--that's something to be glad of. Youheard about it, of course?"

  "Yes, Morgan told me. Twenty years will make a great difference inBart. It must have been a great surprise to you, captain."

  Both Jane and the captain tried to read the doctor's face, and bothfailed. Doctor John might have been commenting on the weather or someequally unimportant topic, so light and casual was his tone.

  He turned to Jane again.

  "Come, dear--please," he begged. It was only when he was anxious abouther physical condition or over some mental trouble that engrossed herthat he spoke thus. The words lay always on the tip of his tongue, buthe never let them fall unless someone was present to overhear.

  "You are wrong, John," she answered, bridling her shoulders as if toreassure him. "I am not tired--I have a little headache, that's all."With the words she pressed both hands to her temples and smoothed backher hair--a favorite gesture when her brain fluttered against her skulllike a caged pigeon. "I will go home, but not now--this afternoon,perhaps. Come for me then, please," she added, looking up into his facewith a grateful expression.

  The captain picked up his cap and rose from his seat. One of his dreamswas the marriage of these two. Episodes like this only showed him theclearer what lay in their hearts. The doctor's anxiety and Jane'sstruggle to bear her burdens outside of his touch and help onlyconfirmed the old sea-dog in his determination. When Bart had his way,he said to himself, all this would cease.

  "I'll be goin' along," he said, looking from one to the other andputting on his cap. "See you later, Miss Jane. Morgan's back ag'in towork, thanks to you, doctor. That was a pretty bad sprain he had--he'sall right now, though; went on practice yesterday. I'm glad ofit--equinox is comin' on and we can't spare a man, or half a one, thesedays. May be blowin' a livin' gale 'fore the week's out. Good-by, MissJane; good-by, doctor." And he shut the door behind him.

  With the closing of the door the sound of wheels was heard--a crisp,crunching sound--and then the stamping of horses' feet. Max Feilding'sdrag, drawn by the two grays and attended by the diminutive Bones, haddriven up and now stood beside the stone steps of the front door of thehospital. The coats of the horses shone like satin and every hub andplate glistened in the sunshine. On the seat, the reins in one prettygloved hand, a gold-mounted whip in the other, sat Lucy. She wasdressed in
her smartest driving toilette--a short yellow-gray jacketfastened with big pearl buttons and a hat bound about with the breastof a tropical bird. Her eyes were dancing, her cheeks like ripe peacheswith all the bloom belonging to them in evidence, and something more,and her mouth all curves and dimples.

  When the doctor reached her side--he had heard the sound of the wheels,and looking through the window had caught sight of the drag--she hadrisen from her perch and was about to spring clear of the equipagewithout waiting for the helping hand of either Bones or himself. Shewas still a girl in her suppleness.

  "No, wait until I can give you my hand," he said, hurrying toward her.

  "No--I don't want your hand, Sir Esculapius. Get out of the way,please--I'm going to jump! There--wasn't that lovely?" And she landedbeside him. "Where's sister? I've been all the way to Yardley, andMartha tells me she has been here almost all the week. Oh, what adreadful, gloomy-looking place! How many people have you got hereanyhow, cooped up in this awful-- Why, it's like an almshouse," sheadded, looking about her. "Where did you say sister was?"

  "I'll go and call her," interpolated the doctor when he could get achance to speak.

  "No, you won't do anything of the kind; I'll go myself. You've had herall the week, and now it's my turn."

  Jane had by this time closed the lid of her desk, had moved out intothe hall, and now stood on the top step of the entrance awaiting Lucy'sascent. In her gray gown, simple head-dress, and resigned face, thewhole framed in the doorway with its connecting background of dullstone, she looked like one of Correggio's Madonnas illumining some oldcloister wall.

  "Oh, you dear, DEAR sister!" Lucy cried, running up the short steps tomeet her. "I'm so glad I've found you; I was afraid you were tying upsomebody's broken head or rocking a red-flannelled baby." With this sheput her arms around Jane's neck and kissed her rapturously.

  "Where can we talk? Oh, I've got such a lot of things to tell you! Youneedn't come, you dear, good doctor. Please take yourself off,sir--this way, and out the gate, and don't you dare come back until I'mgone."

  My Lady of Paris was very happy this morning; bubbling over withmerriment--a condition that set the doctor to thinking. Indeed, he hadbeen thinking most intently about my lady ever since he had heard ofBart's resurrection. He had also been thinking of Jane and Archie.These last thoughts tightened his throat; they had also kept him awakethe past few nights.

  The doctor bowed with one of his Sir Roger bows, lifted his hat firstto Jane in all dignity and reverence, and then to Lucy with aflourish--keeping up outwardly the gayety of the occasion and secondingher play of humor--walked to the shed where his horse was tied anddrove off. He knew these moods of Lucy's; knew they were generallyassumed and that they always concealed some purpose--one which neithera frown nor a cutting word nor an outbreak of temper would accomplish;but that fact rarely disturbed him. Then, again, he was never anythingbut courteous to her--always remembering Jane's sacrifice and her pridein her.

  "And now, you dear, let us go somewhere where we can be quiet," Lucycried, slipping her arm around Jane's slender waist and moving towardthe hall.

  With the entering of the bare room lined with bottles and cases ofinstruments her enthusiasm began to cool. Up to this time she had doneall the talking. Was Jane tired out nursing? she asked herself; or didshe still feel hurt over her refusal to take Ellen with her for thesummer? She had remembered for days afterward the expression on herface when she told of her plans for the summer and of her leaving Ellenat Yardley; but she knew this had all passed out of her sister's mind.This was confirmed by Jane's continued devotion to Ellen and her manykindnesses to the child. It was true that whenever she referred to herseparation from Ellen, which she never failed to do as a sort of probeto be assured of the condition of Jane's mind, there was no directreply--merely a changing of the topic, but this had only proved Jane'sdevotion in avoiding a subject which might give her beautiful sisterpain. What, then, was disturbing her to-day? she asked herself with aslight chill at her heart. Then she raised her head and assumed acertain defiant air. Better not notice anything Jane said or did; ifshe was tired she would get rested and if she was provoked with her shewould get pleased again. It was through her affections and herconscience that she could hold and mould her sister Jane--never throughopposition or fault-finding. Besides, the sun was too bright and theair too delicious, and she herself too blissfully happy to worry overanything. In time all these adverse moods would pass out of Jane'sheart as they had done a thousand times before.

  "Oh, you dear, precious thing!" Lucy began again, all these mattershaving been reviewed, settled, and dismissed from her mind in the timeit took her to cross the room. "I'm so sorry for you when I think ofyou shut up here with these dreadful people; but I know you wouldn't behappy anywhere else," she laughed in a meaning way. (The bringing in ofthe doctor even by implication was always a good move.) "And Marthalooks so desolate. Dear, you really ought to be more with her; but formy darling Ellen I don't know what Martha would do. I miss the childso, and yet I couldn't bear to take her from the dear old woman."

  Jane made no answer. Lucy had found a chair now and had laid hergloves, parasol, and handkerchief on another beside her. Jane hadresumed her seat; her slender neck and sloping shoulders and sparelymodelled head with its simply dressed hair--she had removed thekerchief--in silhouette against the white light of the window.

  "What is it all about, Lucy?" she asked in a grave tone after a slightpause in Lucy's talk.

  "I have a great secret to tell you--one you mustn't breathe until Igive you leave."

  She was leaning back in her chair now, her eyes trying to read Jane'sthoughts. Her bare hands were resting in her lap, the jewels flashingfrom her fingers; about her dainty mouth there hovered, like abutterfly, a triumphant smile; whether this would alight and spread itswings into radiant laughter, or disappear, frightened by a gatheringfrown, depended on what would drop from her sister's lips.

  Jane looked up. The strong light from the window threw her head intoshadow; only the slight fluff of her hair glistened in the light. Thismade an aureole which framed the Madonna's face.

  "Well, Lucy, what is it?" she asked again simply.

  "Max is going to be married."

  "When?" rejoined Jane in the same quiet tone. Her mind was not on Maxor on anything connected with him. It was on the shadow slowly settlingupon all she loved.

  "In December," replied Lucy, a note of triumph in her voice, her smilebroadening.

  "Who to?"

  "Me."

  With the single word a light ripple escaped from her lips.

  Jane straightened herself in her chair. A sudden faintness passed overher--as if she had received a blow in the chest, stopping her breath.

  "You mean--you mean--that you have promised to marry Max Feilding!" shegasped.

  "That's exactly what I do mean."

  The butterfly smile about Lucy's mouth had vanished. That straighteningof the lips and slow contraction of the brow which Jane knew so wellwas taking its place. Then she added nervously, unclasping her handsand picking up her gloves:

  "Aren't you pleased?"

  "I don't know," answered Jane, gazing about the room with a dazed look,as if seeking for a succor she could not find. "I must think. And soyou have promised to marry Max!" she repeated, as if to herself. "Andin December." For a brief moment she paused, her eyes again downcast;then she raised her voice quickly and in a more positive tone asked,"And what do you mean to do with Ellen?"

  "That's what I want to talk to you about, you dear thing." Lucy hadcome prepared to ignore any unfavorable criticisms Jane might make andto give her only sisterly affection in return. "I want to give her toyou for a few months more," she added blandly, "and then we will takeher abroad with us and send her to school either in Paris or Geneva,where her grandmother can be near her. In a year or two she will cometo us in Paris."

  Jane made no answer.

  Lucy moved uncomfortably in her chair. She had never, in all her l
ife,seen her sister in any such mood. She was not so much astonished overher lack of enthusiasm regarding the engagement; that she hadexpected--at least for the first few days, until she could win her overto her own view. It was the deadly poise--the icy reserve thatdisturbed her. This was new.

  "Lucy!" Again Jane stopped and looked out of the window. "You rememberthe letter I wrote you some years ago, in which I begged you to tellEllen's father about Archie and Barton Holt?"

  Lucy's eyes flashed.

  "Yes, and you remember my answer, don't you?" she answered sharply."What a fool I would have been, dear, to have followed your advice!"

  Jane went straight on without heeding the interruption or noticingLucy's changed tone.

  "Do you intend to tell Max?"

  "I tell Max! My dear, good sister, are you crazy! What should I tellMax for? All that is dead and buried long ago! Why do you want to digup all these graves? Tell Max--that aristocrat! He's a dear, sweetfellow, but you don't know him. He'd sooner cut his hand off than marryme if he knew!"

  "I'm afraid you will have to--and this very day," rejoined Jane in acalm, measured tone.

  Lucy moved uneasily in her chair; her anxiety had given way to acertain ill-defined terror. Jane's voice frightened her.

  "Why?" she asked in a trembling voice.

  "Because Captain Holt or someone else will, if you don't."

  "What right has he or anybody else to meddle with my affairs?" Lucyretorted in an indignant tone.

  "Because he cannot help it. I intended to keep the news from you for atime, but from what you have just told me you had best hear it now.Barton Holt is alive. He has been in Brazil all these years, in themines. He has written to his father that he is coming home."

  All the color faded from Lucy's cheeks.

  "Bart! Alive! Coming home! When?"

  "He will be here day after to-morrow; he is at Amboy, and will come bythe weekly packet. What I can do I will. I have worked all my life tosave you, and I may yet, but it seems now as if I had reached the endof my rope."

  "Who said so? Where did you hear it? It CAN'T be true!"

  Jane shook her head. "I wish it was not true--but it is--every word ofit. I have read his letter."

  Lucy sank back in her chair, her cheeks livid, a cold perspirationmoistening her forehead. Little lines that Jane had never noticed beganto gather about the corners of her mouth; her eyes were wide open, witha strained, staring expression. What she saw was Max's eyes lookinginto her own, that same cold, cynical expression on his face she hadsometimes seen when speaking of other women he had known.

  "What's he coming for?" Her voice was thick and barely audible.

  "To claim his son."

  "He--says--he'll--claim--Archie--as--his--son!" she gasped. "I'd liketo see any man living dare to--"

  "But he can TRY, Lucy--no one can prevent that, and in the trying theworld will know."

  Lucy sprang from her seat and stood over her sister:

  "I'll deny it!" she cried in a shrill voice; "and face him down. Hecan't prove it! No one about here can!"

  "He may have proofs that you couldn't deny, and that I would not if Icould. Captain Holt knows everything, remember," Jane replied in hersame calm voice.

  "But nobody else does but you and Martha!" The thought gave her renewedhope--the only ray she saw.

  "True; but the captain is enough. His heart is set on Archie's namebeing cleared, and nothing that I can do or say will turn him from hispurpose. Do you know what he means to do?"

  "No," she replied faintly, more terror than curiosity in her voice.

  "He means that you shall marry Barton, and that Archie shall bebaptized as Archibald Holt. Barton will then take you both back toSouth America. A totally impossible plan, but--"

  "I marry Barton Holt! Why, I wouldn't marry him if he got down on hisknees. Why, I don't even remember what he looks like! Did you ever hearof such impudence! What is he to me?" The outburst carried with it acertain relief.

  "What he is to you is not the question. It is what YOU are to Archie!Your sin has been your refusal to acknowledge him. Now you are broughtface to face with the consequences. The world will forgive a woman allthe rest, but never for deserting her child, and that, my dear sister,IS PRECISELY WHAT YOU DID TO ARCHIE."

  Jane's gaze was riveted on Lucy. She had never dared to put this factclearly before--not even to herself. Now that she was confronted withthe calamity she had dreaded all these years, truth was the only thingthat would win. Everything now must be laid bare.

  Lucy lifted her terrified face, burst into tears, and reached out herhands to Jane.

  "Oh, sister,--sister!" she moaned. "What shall I do? Oh, if I had nevercome home! Can't you think of some way? You have always been sogood--Oh, please! please!"

  Jane drew Lucy toward her.

  "I will do all I can, dear. If I fail there is only one resource left.That is the truth, and all of it. Max can save you, and he will if heloves you. Tell, him everything!"