Produced by Duncan Harrod. HTML version by Al Haines.
The Tides Of Barnegat
by
F. Hopkinson Smith
CONTENTS
I THE DOCTOR'S GIG
II SPRING BLOSSOMS
III LITTLE TOD FOGARTY
IV ANN GOSSAWAY'S RED CLOAK
V CAPTAIN NAT'S DECISION
VI A GAME OF CARDS
VII THE EYES OF AN OLD PORTRAIT
VIII AN ARRIVAL
IX THE SPREAD OF FIRE
X A LATE VISITOR
XI MORTON COBDEN'S DAUGHTER
XII A LETTER FROM PARIS
XIII SCOOTSY'S EPITHET
XIV HIGH WATER AT YARDLEY
XV A PACKAGE OF LETTERS
XVI THE BEGINNING OF THE EBB
XVII BREAKERS AHEAD
XVIII THE SWEDE'S STORY
XIX THE BREAKING OF THE DAWN
XX THE UNDERTOW
XXI THE MAN IN THE SLOUCH HAT
XXII THE CLAW OF THE SEA-PUSS
THE TIDES OF BARNEGAT
CHAPTER I
THE DOCTOR'S GIG
One lovely spring morning--and this story begins on a spring morning
some fifty years or more ago--a joy of a morning that made one glad to
be alive, when the radiant sunshine had turned the ribbon of a road
that ran from Warehold village to Barnegat Light and the sea to satin,
the wide marshes to velvet, and the belts of stunted pines to bands of
purple--on this spring morning, then, Martha Sands, the Cobdens' nurse,
was out with her dog Meg. She had taken the little beast to the inner
beach for a bath--a custom of hers when the weather was fine and the
water not too cold--and was returning to Warehold by way of the road,
when, calling the dog to her side, she stopped to feast her eyes on the
picture unrolled at her feet.
To the left of where she stood curved the coast, glistening like a
scimitar, and the strip of yellow beach which divided the narrow bay
from the open sea; to the right, thrust out into the sheen of silver,
lay the spit of sand narrowing the inlet, its edges scalloped with lace
foam, its extreme point dominated by the grim tower of Barnegat Light;
aloft, high into the blue, soared the gulls, flashing like jewels as
they lifted their breasts to the sun, while away and beyond the sails
of the fishing-boats, gray or silver in their shifting tacks, crawled
over the wrinkled sea.
The glory of the landscape fixed in her mind, Martha gathered her shawl
about her shoulders, tightened the strings of her white cap, smoothed
out her apron, and with the remark to Meg that he'd "never see nothin'
so beautiful nor so restful," resumed her walk.
They were inseparable, these two, and had been ever since the day she
had picked him up outside the tavern, half starved and with a sore
patch on his back where some kitchen-maid had scalded him. Somehow the
poor outcast brought home to her a sad page in her own history, when
she herself was homeless and miserable, and no hand was stretched out
to her. So she had coddled and fondled him, gaining his confidence day
by day and talking to him by the hour of whatever was uppermost in her
mind.
Few friendships presented stronger contrasts: She stout and
motherly-looking--too stout for any waistline--with kindly blue eyes,
smooth gray hair--gray, not white--her round, rosy face, framed in a
cotton cap, aglow with the freshness of the morning--a comforting,
coddling-up kind of woman of fifty, with a low, crooning voice, gentle
fingers, and soft, restful hollows about her shoulders and bosom for
the heads of tired babies; Meg thin, rickety, and sneak-eyed, with a
broken tail that hung at an angle, and but one ear (a black-and-tan had
ruined the other)--a sandy-colored, rough-haired, good-for-nothing cur
of multifarious lineage, who was either crouching at her feet or in
full cry for some hole in a fence or rift in a wood-pile where he could
flatten out and sulk in safety.
Martha continued her talk to Meg. While she had been studying the
landscape he had taken the opportunity to wallow in whatever came
first, and his wet hair was bristling with sand and matted with burrs.
"Come here, Meg--you measly rascal!" she cried, stamping her foot.
"Come here, I tell ye!"
The dog crouched close to the ground, waited until Martha was near
enough to lay her hand upon him, and then, with a backward spring,
darted under a bush in full blossom.
"Look at ye now!" she shouted in a commanding tone. "'Tain't no use o'
my washin' ye. Ye're full o' thistles and jest as dirty as when I
throwed ye in the water. Come out o' that, I tell ye! Now, Meg,
darlin'"--this came in a coaxing tone--"come out like a good dog--sure
I'm not goin' in them brambles to hunt ye!"
A clatter of hoofs rang out on the morning air. A two-wheeled gig drawn
by a well-groomed sorrel horse and followed by a brown-haired Irish
setter was approaching. In it sat a man of thirty, dressed in a long,
mouse-colored surtout with a wide cape falling to the shoulders. On his
head was a soft gray hat and about his neck a white scarf showing above
the lapels of his coat. He had thin, shapely legs, a flat waist, and
square shoulders, above which rose a clean-shaven face of singular
sweetness and refinement.
At the sound of the wheels the tattered cur poked his head from between
the blossoms, twisted his one ear to catch the sound, and with a
side-spring bounded up the road toward the setter.
"Well, I declare, if it ain't Dr. John Cavendish and Rex!" Martha
exclaimed, raising both hands in welcome as the horse stopped beside
her. "Good-mornin' to ye, Doctor John. I thought it was you, but the
sun blinded me, and I couldn't see. And ye never saw a better nor a
brighter mornin'. These spring days is all blossoms, and they ought to
be. Where ye goin', anyway, that ye're in such a hurry? Ain't nobody
sick up to Cap'n Holt's, be there?" she added, a shade of anxiety
crossing her face.
"No, Martha; it's the dressmaker," answered the doctor, tightening the
reins on the restless sorrel as he spoke. The voice was low and kindly
and had a ring of sincerity through it.
"What dressmaker?"
"Why, Miss Gossaway!" His hand was extended now--that fine, delicately
wrought, sympathetic hand that had soothed so many aching heads.
"You've said it," laughed Martha, leaning over the wheel so as to press
his fingers in her warm palm. "There ain't no doubt 'bout that skinny
fright being 'Miss,' and there ain't no doubt 'bout her stayin' so. Ann
Gossaway she is, and Ann Gossaway she'll die. Is she took bad?" she
continued, a merry, questioning look lighting up her kindly face, her
lips pursed knowingly.
"No, only a sore throat" the doctor replied, loosening his coat.
"Throat!" she rejoined, with a wry look on her face. "Too bad 'twarn't
her tongue. If ye could snip off a bit o' that some day it would help
folks considerable 'round here."
The doctor laughed in answer, dropped the lines over the dashboard and
leaned forward in his seat, the sun lighting up his clean-cut face.
Busy as he was--and there were few busier men in town, as every
hitching-post along the main street of Warehold village from Billy
Tatham's, the driver of the country stage, to Captain Holt's, could
prove--he always had time for a word with the old nurse.
"And where have YOU been, Mistress Martha?" he asked, with a smile,
dropping his whip into the socket, a sure sign that he had a few more
minutes to give her.
"Oh, down to the beach to git some o' the dirt off Meg. Look at
him--did ye ever see such a rapscallion! Every time I throw him in he's
into the sand ag'in wallowin' before I kin git to him."
The doctor bent his head, and for an instant watched the two dogs: Meg
circling about Rex, all four legs taut, his head jerking from side to
side in his eagerness to be agreeable to his roadside acquaintance; the
agate-eyed setter returning Meg's attentions with the stony gaze of a
club swell ignoring a shabby relative. The doctor smiled thoughtfully.
There was nothing he loved to study so much as dogs--they had a
peculiar humor of their own, he often said, more enjoyable sometimes
than that of men--then he turned to Martha again.
"And why are you away from home this morning of all others?" he asked.
"I thought Miss Lucy was expected from school to-day?"
"And so she is, God bless her! And that's why I'm here. I was that
restless I couldn't keep still, and so I says to Miss Jane, 'I'm goin'
to the beach with Meg and watch the ships go by; that's the only thing
that'll quiet my nerves. They're never in a hurry with everybody
punchin' and haulin' them.' Not that there's anybody doin' that to me,
'cept like it is to-day when I'm waitin' for my blessed baby to come
back to me. Two years, doctor--two whole years since I had my arms
round her. Wouldn't ye think I'd be nigh crazy?"
"She's too big for your arms now, Martha," laughed the doctor,
gathering up his reins. "She's a woman--seventeen, isn't she?"
"Seventeen and three months, come the fourteenth of next July. But
she's not a woman to me, and she never will be. She's my wee bairn that
I took from her mother's dyin' arms and nursed at my own breast, and
she'll be that wee bairn to me as long as I live. Ye'll be up to see
her, won't ye, doctor?"
"Yes, to-night. How's Miss Jane?" As he made the inquiry his eyes
kindled and a slight color suffused his cheeks.
"She'll be better for seein' ye," the nurse answered with a knowing
look. Then in a louder and more positive tone, "Oh, ye needn't stare so
with them big brown eyes o' yourn. Ye can't fool old Martha, none o'
you young people kin. Ye think I go round with my eyelids sewed up.
Miss Jane knows what she wants--she's proud, and so are you; I never
knew a Cobden nor a Cavendish that warn't. I haven't a word to
say--it'll be a good match when it comes off. Where's that Meg?
Good-by, doctor. I won't keep ye a minute longer from MISS Gossaway.
I'm sorry it ain't her tongue, but if it's only her throat she may get
over it. Go 'long, Meg!"
Dr. Cavendish laughed one of his quiet laughs--a laugh that wrinkled
the lines about his eyes, with only a low gurgle in his throat for
accompaniment, picked up his whip, lifted his hat in mock courtesy to
the old nurse, and calling to Rex, who, bored by Meg's attentions, had
at last retreated under the gig, chirruped to his horse, and drove on.
Martha watched the doctor and Rex until they were out of sight, walked
on to the top of the low hill, and finding a seat by the roadside--her
breath came short these warm spring days--sat down to rest, the dog
stretched out in her lap. The little outcast had come to her the day
Lucy left Warehold for school, and the old nurse had always regarded
him with a certain superstitious feeling, persuading herself that
nothing would happen to her bairn as long as this miserable dog was
well cared for.
"Ye heard what Doctor John said about her bein' a woman, Meg?" she
crooned, when she had caught her breath. "And she with her petticoats
up to her knees! That's all he knows about her. Ye'd know better than
that, Meg, wouldn't ye--if ye'd seen her grow up like he's done? But
grown up or not, Meg"--here she lifted the dog's nose to get a clearer
view of his sleepy eyes--"she's my blessed baby and she's comin' home
this very day, Meg, darlin'; d'ye hear that, ye little ruffian? And
she's not goin' away ag'in, never, never. There'll be nobody drivin'
round in a gig lookin' after her--nor nobody else as long as I kin help
it. Now git up and come along; I'm that restless I can't sit still,"
and sliding the dog from her lap, she again resumed her walk toward
Warehold.
Soon the village loomed in sight, and later on the open gateway of
"Yardley," the old Cobden Manor, with its two high brick posts topped
with white balls and shaded by two tall hemlocks, through which could
be seen a level path leading to an old colonial house with portico,
white pillars supporting a balcony, and a sloping roof with huge
chimneys and dormer windows.
Martha quickened her steps, and halting at the gate-posts, paused for a
moment with her eyes up the road. It was yet an hour of the time of her
bairn's arrival by the country stage, but her impatience was such that
she could not enter the path without this backward glance. Meg, who had
followed behind his mistress at a snail's pace, also came to a halt
and, as was his custom, picked out a soft spot in the road and sat down
on his haunches.
Suddenly the dog sprang up with a quick yelp and darted inside the
gate. The next instant a young girl in white, with a wide hat shading
her joyous face, jumped from behind one of the big hemlocks and with a
cry pinioned Martha's arms to her side.
"Oh, you dear old thing, you! where have you been? Didn't you know I
was coming by the early stage?" she exclaimed in a half-querulous tone.
The old nurse disengaged one of her arms from the tight clasp of the
girl, reached up her hand until she found the soft cheek, patted it
gently for an instant as a blind person might have done, and then
reassured, hid her face on Lucy's shoulder and burst into tears. The
joy of the surprise had almost stopped her breath.
"No, baby, no," she murmured. "No, darlin', I didn't. I was on the
beach with Meg. No, no--Oh, let me cry, darlin'. To think I've got you
at last. I wouldn't have gone away, darlin', but they told me you
wouldn't be here till dinner-time. Oh, darlin', is it you? And it's all
true, isn't it? and ye've come back to me for good? Hug me close. Oh,
my baby bairn, my little one! Oh, you precious!" and she nestled the
girl's head on her bosom, smoothing her cheek as she crooned on, the
tears running down her cheeks.
Before the girl could reply there came a voice calling from the house:
"Isn't she fine, Martha?" A woman above the middle height, young and of
slender figure, dressed in a simple gray gown and without her hat, was
stepping from the front porch to meet them.
"Too fine, Miss Jane, for her old Martha," the nurse called back. "I've
got to love her all over again. Oh, but I'm that happy I could burst
meself with joy! Give me hold of your hand, darlin'--I'm afraid I'll
lose ye ag'in if ye get out of reach of me."
The two strolled slowly up the path to meet Jane, Martha patting the
girl's arm and laying her cheek against it as she walked. Meg had
ceased barking and was now sniffing at Lucy's skirts, his bent tail
wagging slowly, his sneaky eyes looking up into Lucy's face.
"Will he bite, Martha?" she asked, shrinking to one side. She had an
aversion to anything physically imperfect, no matter how lovable it
might be to others. This tattered example struck her as particularly
objectionable.
"No, darlin'--nothin' 'cept his food," and Martha laughed.
"What a horrid little beast!" Lucy said half aloud to herself, clinging
all the closer to the nurse. "This isn't the dog sister Jane wrote me
about, is it? She said you loved him dearly--you don't, do you?"
"Yes, that's the same dog. You don't like him, do you, darlin'?"
"No, I think he's awful," retorted Lucy in a positive tone.
"It's all I had to pet since you went away," Martha answered
apologetically.
"Well, now I'm home, give him away, please. Go away, you dreadful dog!"
she cried, stamping her foot as Meg, now reassured, tried to jump upon
her.
The dog fell back, and crouching close to Martha's side raised his eyes
appealingly, his ear and tail dragging.
Jane now joined them. She had stopped to pick some blossoms for the
house.
"Why, Lucy, what's poor Meg done?" she asked, as she stooped over and
stroked the crestfallen beast's head. "Poor old doggie--we all love
you, don't we?"
"Well, just please love him all to yourselves, then," retorted Lucy
with a toss of her head. "I wouldn't touch him with a pair of tongs. I
never saw anything so ugly. Get away, you little brute!"
"Oh, Lucy, dear, don't talk so," replied the older sister in a pitying
tone. "He was half starved when Martha found him and brought him
home--and look at his poor back--"
"No, thank you; I don't want to look at his poor back, nor his poor
tail, nor anything else poor about him. And you will send him away,
won't you, like a dear good old Martha?" she added, patting Martha's
shoulder in a coaxing way. Then encircling Jane's waist with her arm,
the two sisters sauntered slowly back to the house.
Martha followed behind with Meg.
Somehow, and for the first time where Lucy was concerned, she felt a
tightening of her heart-strings, all the more painful because it had
followed so closely upon the joy of their meeting. What had come over
her bairn, she said to herself with a sigh, that she should talk so to
Meg--to anything that her old nurse loved, for that matter? Jane
interrupted her reveries.
"Did you give Meg a bath, Martha?" she asked over her shoulder. She had
seen the look of disappointment in the old nurse's face and, knowing
the cause, tried to lighten the effect.
"Yes--half water and half sand. Doctor John came along with Rex shinin'
like a new muff, and I was ashamed to let him see Meg. He's comin' up
to see you to-night, Lucy, darlin'," and she bent forward and tapped
the girl's shoulder to accentuate the importance of the information.
Lucy cut her eye in a roguish way and twisted her pretty head around
until she could look into Jane's eyes.
"Who do you think he's coming to see, sister?"
"Why, you, you little goose. They're all coming--Uncle Ephraim has sent
over every day to find out when you would be home, and Bart Holt was
here early this morning, and will be back to-night."
"What does Bart Holt look like?"--she had stopped in her walk to pluck
a spray of lilac blossoms. "I haven't seen him for years; I hear he's
another one of your beaux," she added, tucking the flowers into Jane's
belt. "There, sister, that's just your color; that's what that gray
dress needs. Tell me, what's Bart like?"
"A little like Captain Nat, his father," answered Jane, ignoring Lucy's
last inference, "not so stout and--"
"What's he doing?"
"Nothin', darlin', that's any good," broke in Martha from behind the
two. "He's sailin' a boat when he ain't playin' cards or scarin'
everybody down to the beach with his gun, or shyin' things at Meg."
"Don't you mind anything Martha says, Lucy," interrupted Jane in a
defensive tone. "He's got a great many very good qualities; he has no
mother and the captain has never looked after him. It's a great wonder
that he is not worse than he is."
She knew Martha had spoken the truth, but she still hoped that her
influence might help him, and then again, she never liked to hear even
her acquaintances criticised.
"Playing cards! That all?" exclaimed Lucy, arching her eyebrows; her
sister's excuses for the delinquent evidently made no impression on
her. "I don't think playing cards is very bad; and I don't blame him
for throwing anything he could lay his hands on at this little wretch
of Martha's. We all played cards up in our rooms at school. Miss Sarah
never knew anything about it--she thought we were in bed, and it was
just lovely to fool her. And what does the immaculate Dr. John
Cavendish look like? Has he changed any?" she added with a laugh.
"No," answered Jane simply.
"Does he come often?" She had turned her head now and was looking from
under her lids at Martha. "Just as he used to and sit around, or has
he--" Here she lifted her eyebrows in inquiry, and a laugh bubbled out
from between her lips.
"Yes, that's just what he does do," cried Martha in a triumphant tone;
"every minute he kin git. And he can't come too often to suit me. I
jest love him, and I'm not the only one, neither, darlin'," she added
with a nod of her head toward Jane.
"And Barton Holt as well?" persisted Lucy. "Why, sister, I didn't
suppose there would be a man for me to look at when I came home, and
you've got two already! Which one are you going to take?" Here her rosy
face was drawn into solemn lines.
Jane colored. "You've got to be a great tease, Lucy," she answered as
she leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "I'm not in the back of
the doctor's head, nor he in mine--he's too busy nursing the sick--and
Bart's a boy!"
"Why, he's twenty-five years old, isn't he?" exclaimed Lucy in some
surprise.
"Twenty-five years young, dearie--there's a difference, you know.
That's why I do what I can to help him. If he'd had the right
influences in his life and could be thrown a little more with nice
women it would help make him a better man. Be very good to him, please,
even if you do find him a little rough."
They had mounted the steps of the porch and were now entering the wide
colonial hall--a bare white hall, with a staircase protected by
spindling mahogany banisters and a handrail. Jane passed into the
library and seated herself at her desk. Lucy ran on upstairs, followed
by Martha to help unpack her boxes and trunks.
When they reached the room in which Martha had nursed her for so many
years--the little crib still occupied one corner--the old woman took
the wide hat from the girl's head and looked long and searchingly into
her eyes.
"Let me look at ye, my baby," she said, as she pushed Lucy's hair back
from her forehead; "same blue eyes, darlin', same pretty mouth I kissed
so often, same little dimples ye had when ye lay in my arms, but ye've
changed--how I can't tell. Somehow, the face is different."
Her hands now swept over the full rounded shoulders and plump arms of
the beautiful girl, and over the full hips.
"The doctor's right, child," she said with a sigh, stepping back a pace
and looking her over critically; "my baby's gone--you've filled out to
be a woman."