THE PROGRESS OF ANOTHER ROMANCE
The ecstasy that came to Robert Morton with his new-found happiness
swept before it the clouds that had overcast his sky, until his horizon
was almost as radiant as it had been on the day of his arrival at
Wilton. Janoah Eldridge came no more to the Spence cottage; Snelling
had vanished; the Galbraiths were occupied with their own affairs; and
the barrier between Bob and Willie began slowly to wear away. The
little old man was of far too believing and charitable a nature to hold
out long against his own optimism; moreover, he detested strife and was
much more willing to endure a wrong than to harbor ill feeling; hence
he was only too ready to reconstruct Janoah's venomous story into terms
of his native blind faith. He did not, to be sure, understand, and for
days and nights he puzzled ceaselessly over the problem events
presented; but as no light was forthcoming, his zest in the enigma
cooled until the mystery took on the unfathomable quality of various
other mysteries he had wrestled with and finally shelved as
unanswerable. There was the invention to finish, and so eager was he
to see it completed that to this interest every other thought was
subordinated. Therefore, although misgivings assailed him, they
gradually receded into his subconsciousness, leaving behind them much
of the good will he had formerly cherished toward Robert Morton.
The olive branch Willie tacitly extended Bob seized with avidity. Had
not the world suddenly become too perfect to be marred by discord?
Why, in the exuberance of his joy he would have forgiven anybody
anything! He did own to bruised feelings, but time is a great healer
of both mental and of physical pain, and the hurts he had received soon
dimmed into scars that carried with them no acute sensation. His mind
was too much occupied with Delight Hathaway and the wonder of their
love for him to think to any great extent of himself. The romance
still remained a secret between them, for so vehement had been the
turmoil into which Zenas Henry had been thrown by the tidings of the
girl's past history that it seemed unwise to follow blow with blow and
acquaint him just at present with the news of the lovers' engagement.
Moreover, there was Cynthia Galbraith to consider. Robert Morton was
too chivalrous to be brutal to any woman, much less an old friend like
Cynthia.
Hence he and Delight moved in a dream, the full beauty of which they
alone sensed. Their secret was all the more delicious for being a
secret, and with all life before them they agreed they could afford to
wait. Nevertheless concealment was at variance with the character of
either, and although they derived a certain exhilaration from their
clandestine happiness they longed for the time when their path should
lie entirely in the open, when Zenas Henry's consent should be
obtained, and their betrothal acknowledged before all the world. Until
such a moment came an irksome deception colored their love and left
them in constant danger of discovery. Indeed, had the observer been
keen enough to interpret psychic phenomena, there was betrayal in the
soft light of Delight's eyes and in the grave tenderness of her face;
and as for Bob, he felt his great good-fortune must be emblazoned on
every feature of his countenance.
In point of fact, no such condition prevailed. The girl returned to
her home and took her place there, bringing with her her customary
buoyancy of spirit; and if her light-heartedness was more exaggerated
than was her wont, those who loved her attributed it to her joy at
being once more beneath her own roof-tree. Zenas Henry and the three
captains fluttered about her as if her absence had been one of years
rather than of days; and even Abbie, less demonstrative than the
others, showed by a quiet satisfaction her deep contentment at having
the girl back again.
Of course Robert Morton let no great length of time elapse before he
climbed the hill and invaded the Brewster home. As Celestina's nephew
and Willie's guest he had credentials enough to assure him of a
welcome, and for an interval these sufficed to give him an enviable
entrée; but after a few calls, his winning personality secured for him
a place of his own. He inspected Captain Phineas Taylor's broken
compass and set it right; he discussed rheumatism and its woes with
Captain Benjamin Todd; he lent an attentive ear to the nautical
adventures of Captain Jonas Baker. Abbie, who was a systematic
housekeeper, approved of his habit of wiping his feet before he entered
the door and the careful fashion he had of replacing any chair he
moved; most men, she averred, were so thoughtless and untidy. But it
was with Zenas Henry that the young man won his greatest triumph, the
two immediately coming into harmony on the common ground of
motor-boating. Most of the male visitors who dropped in at the white
cottage came only to see Delight, but here was one who came to call on
the entire family. How charming it was! They liked him one and all;
how could they help it? And soon, so eagerly did they anticipate his
coming, any lapse in his visits caused keen disappointment.
"I kinder thought that Morton feller might be round this evenin',"
Captain Phineas would yawn in a dispirited tone, when twilight had
deepened and the familiar figure failed to make its appearance above
the crest of the hill. "Ain't it Tuesday? He most always comes
Tuesdays."
"Tuesdays, Thursdays, an' Saturdays you can pretty mortal sure bank on
him," Captain Benjamin would reply. "If he's comin' to-night, he
better be heavin' into sight, for it's damp an' I'll have to be turnin'
in soon."
"Mebbe he was delayed by somethin'," suggested Captain Jonas. "We'll
not give him up fur a spell longer. He told me he'd fetch me some
tobacco, an' he always does as he promises."
Zenas Henry smoked in silence.
"I sorter wish he would appear," he presently put in, between puffs at
his pipe. "There was somethin' I wanted to ask him about that durn
motor-boat."
"You don't mean to say that boat's out of order again, do you, Zenas
Henry?" questioned Abbie.
"No, oh, no! 'Tain't out of order exactly. But the pesky propeller is
kickin' up worse'n ordinary. It's awful taxin' on the patience. I'd
give a man everything I possess if he'd think up some plan to rid me of
that eel grass."
"Why don't you set Willie on the job?" asked Captain Benjamin.
"Ain't I told Willie over an' over again about it?" Zenas Henry
replied, turning with exasperation on the speaker. "Ain't I hinted to
him plain as day--thrown the bait to him times without number? An'
ain't he just swum round the hook an' gone off without so much as
nibblin' it? The thing don't interest him, it's easy enough to see
that. He don't like motor-boats an' ain't got no sympathy with 'em,
an' he don't give a hang if they do come to grief. In fact, I think he
rather relishes hearin' they're snagged. I gave up expectin' any help
from him long ago."
With a frown he resumed his smoking.
"Where's Delight?" Captain Phineas asked, scenting his friend's mood
and veering tactfully to a less irritating topic.
"That's so! Where is the child?" rejoined Captain Jonas. "She was
round here fussin' with them roses a minute ago."
"That ain't her over toward the pine grove, is it?" queried Captain
Benjamin. "I thought I saw somethin' pink a-movin' among the trees."
"Yes, that's her an' Bob Morton with her, sure's you're alive!" Captain
Phineas ejaculated with pleasure. "You'll get your tobacco now, Jonas,
an' Zenas Henry can ask him about the boat."
"Can you see has he got a bundle?" piped the short-sighted Captain
Jonas anxiously.
"Yep!"
"Then he ain't forgot the tobacco," was the contented comment. "He
don't generally forget. He's a mighty likely youngster, that boy!"
"An' friendly too, ain't he?" put in Captain Benjamin. "There's
nothin' he wouldn't do for you."
"He's the nicest chap ever I see!" Captain Phineas echoed. "Don't you
think so, Zenas Henry?"
The answer was some time in coming, and when it did it was deliberate
and was weighted with telling impressiveness:
"There's few young fry can boast Bob Morton's common sense," he said.
"His headpiece is on frontside-to, an' the brains inside it are tickin'
strong an' steady."
Abbie failed to join in the laugh that followed this announcement.
Either she did not catch the remark, or she was too deeply engrossed
with her own thoughts to heed it. Her eyes were fixed wistfully on the
two figures that were approaching,--the girl exquisite with youth and
happiness and the man who leaned protectingly over her. Yet whatever
the reveries that clouded her pensive face, she kept them to herself,
and if a shadow of dread mingled with her scrutiny no one noticed it.
Perhaps it was only Willie Spence who actually guessed the great
secret,--Willie, who having been starved for romance of his own, was
all the quicker to hear the heart-throbs of others. It chanced that
just now he was deeply involved in several amorous affairs and because
of them was experiencing no small degree of worry. The tangle between
Bob, Delight, and Cynthia Galbraith kept him in a state of constant
speculation and disquietude; then Bart Coffin and Minnie were
perilously near a rupture because of another rejuvenation of the
time-honored black satin; and although weeks had passed, Jack Nickerson
had not yet mustered up nerve enough to offer his heart and hand to
Sarah Libbie Lewis.
"Next you know, both you an' Sarah Libbie will be under the sod,"
Willie had tauntingly called after the lagging swain, as he passed the
house one afternoon on his way from the village. "What on earth you're
waitin' for is mor'n I can see."
The discomfited coast guard hung his head sheepishly.
"It's all right for you to talk, Willie Spence," he replied over his
shoulder. "You ain't got the speakin' to do. It's I that's got to ask
her."
Then as he sped out of sight, he added as an afterthought:
"By the way, Bart an' Minnie Coffin have come to a split at last over
that 'ere dress. After gettin' it fixed, an' promisin' him 'twas fur
the last time, she's ripped it all up again 'cause she's seen some
picter in a book she liked better. Bart's that mad he's took his sea
chest in the wheelbarrow an' set out for his mother's. I met him goin'
just now."
"Bless my soul!" gasped Willie in consternation. "How far had he got?"
"He was about quarter way to the Junction," was the response. "He sung
out he was headed where he'd be sure of gettin' three meals a day, an'
where somebody'd pay some attention to him."
"H--m!" Willie reflected, scratching his thin locks. "Sorter looks as
if it was time I took a hand, don't it?"
"I figger if anybody's goin' to interfere, now's the minute. Bart's
got his sails set an' is clearin' port fur good an' all this time, no
mistake. 'Twas sure to come sooner or later."
Their roads parted and Willie turned toward the town, while Jack
Nickerson, with rolling gait, pursued his way to the beach where at the
tip of a slender bar of sand jutting out into the ocean the low roofs
of the life-saving station lay outlined against a somber sky. Great
banks of leaden clouds sagging over the horizon had dulled the water to
blackness, and a stiff gale was whistling inshore. Already the billows
were mounting angrily into caps of snarling foam and dashing themselves
on the sands with threatening echo. It promised to be a nasty night,
and Jack remembered as he looked that he was on patrol duty. Yet
although the muscles of his jaw tightened into grimness, it was not the
prospective tramp along a lonely beach in the darkness and wind that
caused the stern tensity of his countenance. Storms and their perils
were all in the day's work, and he faced their possible catastrophes
without a tremor. It would have been hard to find anywhere along the
Massachusetts coast a braver man than Jack Nickerson. Not only was he
ready to lead a crew of rescuers to succor the perishing, fearlessly
directing the surfboat in its plunge through a seething tide, but many
a time he had dashed bodily into the breakers, despite the hazard of a
powerful undertow, and dragged some drowning creature to a place of
safety. The fame of his many deeds of heroism had spread from one end
of the Cape to the other, and as he was native-born the community never
tired of relating his feats to any sojourner who strayed into the
locality.
Yet courageous as was Jack Nickerson, there was one thing he was afraid
of and that was a woman. Not that he trembled in the presence of all
women--no, indeed! He had brought far too many of them to land for
that. Women as a class did not appall him in the least. He had seen
them in the agony of terror, in the throes of despair, and undismayed
had offered them sympathy and cheer. It was one woman only who
disconcerted him, the woman who for years had routed him out of his
habitual poise and left him as discomfited as a guilty schoolboy caught
in raiding the jam-pot.
Yes, he who inspired his associates with both respect and admiration
was forced to acknowledge to himself that when face to face with Sarah
Libbie Lewis he was nothing better than a faltering ten-year-old whose
collar is too tight for him, and whose hands and feet are sizes too
large. The paradox was too humiliating to be endured! Nevertheless,
he had endured the ignominy of it for five-and-twenty years, and there
seemed to be every prospect that he would continue to endure it.
Periodically, it is true, he would rise in his wrath, resolving that
another sun should not go down on his vacillation and timidity; nay,
more, he would even stride forth to Sarah Libbie's home, vowing as he
went that before he slept he would speak the decisive words that had
for so long trembled on his tongue.
Confronted by the lady of his choice, however, his courage, like that
of the immortal Bob Acres, would ooze away, and after basking for a
wretched interval in the glory of her smile, he would retrace his steps
with the declaration still unuttered. As far back as Jack could
remember, this woman had tyrannized over him and humbled his
self-esteem. In childhood she had leveled with a blow the sand castles
he built on the beach for her delight, and ever since she had contrived
to raze to the ground his less tangible castles,--dream-castles where
he saw her the mistress of his lonely fireside. Yet despite her
exasperating capriciousness, Jack had never wavered in his allegiance,
not a whit. Long ago he had made up his mind that Sarah Libbie was the
one woman in the world for him, and he had never seen cause to alter
that verdict. Nor did he entertain any doubt that Sarah Libbie's
sentiments coincided with his own, even though she did cloak her
preference beneath so many intricate and misleading devices of
femininity. It was not fear of the thundering _No_ that hindered Jack
from proclaiming his affection; it was merely the physical
impossibility of putting his heart into intelligible and coherent
phraseology when Sarah Libbie's bewitching gaze was upon him. He could
meet all comers in a political argument, could hold his own against the
banter of the village gossips; he could even defy Willie and his
counsel; but to address Sarah Libbie on a matter so tender and of such
vital import was an ordeal so overwhelming that it caused his tongue to
cleave to the roof of his mouth, and his pulse almost to cease to beat.
Unlucky Jack!
Many were the evenings he tramped the dunes, rehearsing in the darkness
the momentous declaration that was to work a miracle in his solitary
life. Like an actor committing his lines, he would repeat the words,
hurling them upon the blackness of the night where, to the
accompaniment of the booming surf, they echoed with a majesty and
dignity astonishingly impressive. But in the light of day and Sarah
Libbie's presence, his sonorous philippic would dwindle away into a
jargon of garbled phrases too disjointed and meaningless to carry
weight with any woman, let alone the peerless Sarah Libbie Lewis.
Thus for more than a quarter of a century Jack Nickerson had silently
worshiped at the shrine of his divinity, and in the meantime the roses
in Sarah Libbie's cheeks had grown fainter, and tendrils of silver had
found their way into the soft curls that shadowed her brow. Still Jack
could not speak the words that were on his lips. Of course the little
woman could not do it for him, although she did venture by many a
subtle device to aid him in his dilemma. She baked for him pies,
cookies, and doughnuts of a delicious russet tint and sent them to the
station, that their aroma might gently prod into action her lover's
faintness of heart; these visible tokens of her devotion would
disappear, however, leaving behind them only a tranquil sense of
enjoyment; and as this lessened the fervor of her admirer's
determination would evaporate. Then Sarah Libbie would resort to less
ephemeral offerings,--scarves, wristers, mittens, patiently knitted
from blue wool and representing such an endless number of stitches that
Jack never viewed them without elation.
And as if these proofs of her regard were not sufficient, every evening
just at sundown she would light a lantern and flash a good-night to him
across the waters that estranged them. It was a pretty custom that had
had its beginning when the boy and girl had lived as neighbors on the
deserted highway that followed the horseshoe curve of the Belleport
shore. They had evolved a code whereby, with much labor it must be
admitted, they were able to spell out messages that flickered their way
through the night with the beauty of a firefly's revel; but when Jack
had taken up work with the coast guard, this old-time substitute for
speech had been abandoned, giving place to the briefer method of three
nightly flashes. Neither toil nor illness, rain, snow or tempest had
in all the years prevented Sarah Libbie from being at her post at
twilight, there to watch for the gleam of Jack's lantern, whose rays
she answered with the light from her own. Even when fogs obscured the
Bar so that the distant headland was cut off from view, Sarah Libbie
would go through the little ceremony and after it was over return to
her knitting with a quiet gladness, although the presence of the other
factor in the drama was a mere matter of conjecture.
Thus the romance had drifted on, and Jack Nickerson now faced his
fiftieth year and was no nearer bringing the love story to a
culmination than he had been when as a boy in his teens he had gazed
into Sarah Libbie's blue eyes and registered the vows he had never yet
dared utter. Nevertheless lonely and disappointed as was Sarah Libbie,
Jack was a thousand times more miserable. To-night, especially, as he
tramped the coast in the teeth of the gale, he thought of Willie
Spence's ridicule and one of his periodic moods of self-abasement came
upon him. What a wretched cur he was! How lacking in nerve! Any
woman, he muttered to himself, was better off without such a
feeble-willed, spineless husband!
The fierce winds and whirling sands that stung his cheeks and buffeted
him seemed a merited castigation, a castigation that amounted to a
penance. He welcomed their punishment. As he stumbled on through the
pitch black of the night, he asked himself what he was going to do.
Was he always to go on loving Sarah Libbie and letting her love him and
never in manly fashion bring the affair to a climax? If he did not
mean to make her his wife, had he the right to stand in the way and
prevent her from marrying some one else? The baldness of the question
brought him up with a turn, and as he paused breathlessly awaiting his
own verdict, his eye was caught by the lantern dangling from his hand.
He regarded it with slow wonder as if he had never seen it before. Why
had he never thought until now of this method of communication? Not
only was it simple and direct, but it also obviated the difficulty that
had always been the stumbling-block in his path,--the necessity of
confronting Sarah Libbie in the flesh. He grasped the inspiration with
zeal. Fate was with him. His watch was up, and he was free to make
his way back to the station, if he so willed, and put his remarkable
scheme into execution.
Away he sped through the howling tempest.
As he flew up the steps of the lookout tower, he could detect the
twinkling lights from his lady's home gemmed against the background of
velvet darkness. Perhaps her fluttering little heart was uneasy about
her lover, and she was peering out into the gale. However that may be,
he had no difficulty in summoning her to the window when he raised his
lantern. Then, with the talisman held high, he paused. What should he
say? Of course he could send no lengthy message. Even a few words
meant a laborious amount of spelling. Perhaps _Will You Marry Me?_ was
as simple and direct a way as he could put it. Firmly he gripped the
lantern. Then, instead of the customary three flashes, he began the
involved liftings, dippings, and circlings which in luminous waves were
to spell out his destiny.
_Will You Marry_--
Ah, there was no need for him to go on! Sarah Libbie had waited too
long for those magic words to doubt their purport. Nor did she
hesitate for an answer. In an instant she caught up the unique avowal,
and across the turbulent waters signalled to her beloved the three
mystic letters that should make her his forever. With the faint,
blinking flashes, the weight of years fell away from Jack Nickerson.
No longer was he a trembling, tongue-tied captive, scorning himself for
his want of will. He was a free man, the affianced husband of the most
wonderful creature in the world. In his exultation he raised his
lantern aloft and swung it round and round with the abandon of a boy
who tosses his cap in the air. Then he bounded down the iron staircase
like a child let out of school, dashing round their spiral windings
with reckless velocity.
The deed was done! Sarah Libbie was his!
It might have been half an hour later, as he sat smoking in blissful
meditation in the living room of the station, that the door was
wrenched open and Willie Spence burst into the room. Every hair on the
old inventor's head was upright with anxiety, and he puffed
breathlessly:
"What's ashore? I saw your signal an' knew straight off somethin'
terrible was up, for you've never called for help from the town before.
I've raised all the folks I could get a-holt of an' Bob Morton's gone
to get more. They'll be here on the double quick!"
The boast was no idle one. Even as he spoke there was a tramping, a
rush of feet, and a babel of confused, frightened voices, and into the
room flocked the dwellers of the hamlet,--men, women, and children, all
with wind-tossed hair and strained, terrified faces.
"What is it?"
"What's the matter?"
"Where's the wreck?"
As they stood there tragic in the dim light, there was a stir near the
door and Sarah Libbie Lewis pushed her way through the crowd.
She had stopped only to toss a black shawl over her head and in
contrast to its sable folds her cheeks and lips were ashen.
"They told me there was a wreck," she cried, rushing to Jack's side and
seizing his arm wildly. "Oh, you won't go--you won't go and leave me
now, Jack--not so soon--not after to-night!"
Already sobs were choking the words and her hands were clinging to his.
With the supreme defiance of a man prepared to defend his dearest
possession against the universe, Jack Nickerson circled her in his
embrace and faced the throng. No longer was he the shrinking, timorous
supplicant. Victorious love had set her crown upon his brows,
bestowing dignity upon his years and glory upon his manhood. His
explanation came fearlessly to his lips.
"There ain't no wreck," he said quietly. "All the same I'm glad you
saw my lantern an' came, 'cause I've got somethin' to tell you all. Me
an' Sarah Libbie are goin' to get married."
For a moment there was an incredulous hush. Then Willie Spence came to
the rescue.
"Well, I will say, Jack," he drawled, "you had a pretty good nerve to
get us out on a night like this to tell us that! You might at least
have waited 'til mornin'. Still, I reckon if I'd been nigh on to a
quarter of a century gettin' my spunk together to ask a woman to marry
me an' had finally done it, I'd a-wanted somebody to know it."
The words were not unkindly spoken and Jack joined in the general
laugh. Nothing mattered to him now. Oblivious to the spectators, he
was bending down over the woman he loved and murmuring:
"I love you, Sarah Libbie. I've always loved you."
The little old inventor watched the radiant pair a moment then motioned
to the villagers to slip away. But Bartley Coffin could not be
restrained from lagging behind and whispering confidentially in Jack's
ear:
"If you want to be truly happy, mate, an' live clear of a life of
pesterin', don't you never buy Sarah Libbie a satin dress! Minnie an'
I have made it up, thanks to Willie Spence, but 'twas a tussle. I'd
come to the jumpin'-off place."
The statement was but too true. Willie had indeed intervened and
averted a tragedy, but the feat had demanded ruthless measures, and he
had trudged home from the Coffins with the bone of contention clutched
rigidly beneath his arm.
That night Celestina heard muffled sounds in the workshop.
"Oh, my land!" she murmured. "If Willie ain't hitched again! I did
hope nothin' new would come to him 'til he got rested up from this
other idee."
But Willie's inspiration was not of the inventive type. Instead the
little old man was standing before the stove, kindling a fire, and into
its crackling blaze he was bundling the last remnants of Minnie
Coffin's far-famed black satin. The light played on his face which was
set in grim earnestness.
"It seems a wicked shame," he observed in a whisper, as he viewed the
funeral pyre, "but it's the only way. Long's that dress remained on
earth there'd be no peace for Bart nor his wife either. It had to go."
The flames danced higher, flashing in and out of the trimmings of jet
and charring the beads to dullness. In the morning only a heap of gray
ashes marked the flight of Minnie Coffin's social ambitions.
"_Requiescat in pace_!" murmured Willie as with lips firm with Puritan
stoicism he passed by the stove. There he added gently: "Poor Minnie!
Poor foolish Minnie!"