A GAME OF CARDS
Should Miss Gossaway have been sitting at her lookout some weeks after
Martha's interview with Captain Nat Holt, and should she have watched
the movements of Doctor John's gig as it rounded into the open gate of
Cobden Manor, she must have decided that something out of the common
was either happening or about to happen inside Yardley's hospitable
doors. Not only was the sorrel trotting at her best, the doctor
flapping the lines along her brown back, his body swaying from side to
side with the motion of the light vehicle, but as he passed her house
he was also consulting the contents of a small envelope which he had
taken from his pocket.
"Please come early," it read. "I have something important to talk over
with you."
A note of this character signed with so adorable a name as "Jane
Cobden" was so rare in the doctor's experience that he had at once
given up his round of morning visits and, springing into his waiting
gig, had started to answer it in person.
He was alive with expectancy. What could she want with him except to
talk over some subject that they had left unfinished? As he hurried on
there came into his mind half a dozen matters, any one of which it
would have been a delight to revive. He knew from the way she worded
the note that nothing had occurred since he had seen her--within the
week, in fact--to cause her either annoyance or suffering. No; it was
only to continue one of their confidential talks, which were the joy of
his life.
Jane was waiting for him in the morning-room. Her face lighted up as he
entered and took her hand, and immediately relaxed again into an
expression of anxiety.
All his eagerness vanished. He saw with a sinking of the heart, even
before she had time to speak, that something outside of his own
affairs, or hers, had caused her to write the note.
"I came at once," he said, keeping her hand in his. "You look troubled;
what has happened?"
"Nothing yet," she answered, leading him to the sofa, "It is about
Lucy. She wants to go away for the winter."
"Where to?" he asked. He had placed a cushion at her back and had
settled himself beside her.
"To Trenton, to visit her friend Miss Collins and study music. She says
Warehold bores her."
"And you don't want her to go?"
"No; I don't fancy Miss Collins, and I am afraid she has too strong an
influence over Lucy. Her personality grates on me; she is so
boisterous, and she laughs so loud; and the views she holds are
unaccountable to me in so young a girl. She seems to have had no home
training whatever. Why Lucy likes her, and why she should have selected
her as an intimate friend, has always puzzled me." She spoke with her
usual frankness and with that directness which always characterized her
in matters of this kind. "I had no one else to talk to and am very
miserable about it all. You don't mind my sending for you, do you?"
"Mind! Why do you ask such a question? I am never so happy as when I am
serving you."
That she should send for him at all was happiness. Not sickness this
time, nor some question of investment, nor the repair of the barn or
gate or out-buildings--but Lucy, who lay nearest her heart! That was
even better than he had expected.
"Tell me all about it, so I can get it right," he continued in a
straightforward tone--the tone of the physician, not the lover. She had
relied on him, and he intended to give her the best counsel of which he
was capable. The lover could wait.
"Well, she received a letter a week ago from Miss Collins, saying she
had come to Trenton for the winter and had taken some rooms in a house
belonging to her aunt, who would live with her. She wants to be within
reach of the same music-teacher who taught the girls at Miss Parkham's
school. She says if Lucy will come it will reduce the expenses and they
can both have the benefit of the tuition. At first Lucy did not want to
go at all, now she insists, and, strange to say, Martha encourages her."
"Martha wants her to leave?" he asked in surprise.
"She says so."
The doctor's face assumed a puzzled expression. He could account for
Lucy's wanting the freedom and novelty of the change, but that Martha
should be willing to part with her bairn for the winter mystified him.
He knew nothing of the flirtation, of course, and its effect on the old
nurse, and could not, therefore, understand Martha's delight in Lucy's
and Bart's separation.
"You will be very lonely," he said, and a certain tender tone developed
in his voice.
"Yes, dreadfully so, but I would not mind if I thought it was for her
good. But I don't think so. I may be wrong, and in the uncertainty I
wanted to talk it over with you. I get so desolate sometimes. I never
seemed to miss my father so much as now. Perhaps it is because Lucy's
babyhood and childhood are over and she is entering upon womanhood with
all the dangers it brings. And she frightens me so sometimes," she
continued after a slight pause. "She is different; more self-willed,
more self-centred. Besides, her touch has altered. She doesn't seem to
love me as she did--not in the same way."
"But she could never do anything else but love you," he interrupted
quickly, speaking for himself as well as Lucy, his voice vibrating
under his emotions. It was all he could do to keep his hands from her
own; her sending for him alone restrained him.
"I know that, but it is not in the old way. It used to be 'Sister,
darling, don't tire yourself,' or 'Sister, dear, let me go upstairs for
you,' or 'Cuddle close here, and let us talk it all out together.'
There is no more of that. She goes her own way, and when I chide her
laughs and leaves me alone until I make some new advance. Help me,
please, and with all the wisdom you can give me; I have no one else in
whom I can trust, no one who is big enough to know what should be done.
I might have talked to Mr. Dellenbaugh about it, but he is away."
"No; talk it all out to me," he said simply. "I so want to help
you"--his whole heart was going out to her in her distress.
"I know you feel sorry for me." She withdrew her hand gently so as not
to hurt him; she too did not want to be misunderstood--having sent for
him. "I know how sincere your friendship is for me, but put all that
aside. Don't let your sympathy for me cloud your judgment. What shall I
do with Lucy? Answer me as if you were her father and mine," and she
looked straight into his eyes.
The doctor tightened the muscles of his throat, closed his teeth, and
summoned all his resolution. If he could only tell her what was in his
heart how much easier it would all be! For some moments he sat
perfectly still, then he answered slowly--as her man of business would
have done:
"I should let her go."
"Why do you say so?"
"Because she will find out in that way sooner than in any other how to
appreciate you and her home. Living in two rooms and studying music
will not suit Lucy. When the novelty wears off she will long for her
home, and when she comes back it will be with a better appreciation of
its comforts. Let her go, and make her going as happy as you can."
And so Jane gave her consent--it is doubtful whether Lucy would have
waited for it once her mind was made up--and in a week she was off,
Doctor John taking her himself as far as the Junction, and seeing her
safe on the road to Trenton. Martha was evidently delighted at the
change, for the old nurse's face was wreathed in smiles that last
morning as they all stood out by the gate while Billy Tatham loaded
Lucy's trunks and boxes. Only once did a frown cross her face, and that
was when Lucy leaned over and whispering something in Bart's ear,
slipped a small scrap of paper between his fingers. Bart crunched it
tight and slid his hand carelessly into his pocket, but the gesture did
not deceive the nurse: it haunted her for days thereafter.
As the weeks flew by and the letters from Trenton told of the
happenings in Maria's home, it became more and more evident to Jane
that the doctor's advice had been the wisest and best. Lucy would often
devote a page or more of her letters to recalling the comforts of her
own room at Yardley, so different from what she was enduring at
Trenton, and longing for them to come again. Parts of these letters
Jane read to the doctor, and all of them to Martha, who received them
with varying comment. It became evident, too, that neither the
excitement of Bart's letters, nor the visits of the occasional school
friends who called upon them both, nor the pursuit of her new
accomplishment, had satisfied the girl.
Jane was not surprised, therefore, remembering the doctor's almost
prophetic words, to learn of the arrival of a letter from Lucy begging
Martha to come to her at once for a day or two. The letter was enclosed
in one to Bart and was handed to the nurse by that young man in person.
As he did so he remarked meaningly that Miss Lucy wanted Martha's visit
to be kept a secret from everybody but Miss Jane, "just as a surprise,"
but Martha answered in a positive tone that she had no secrets from
those who had a right to know them, and that he could write Lucy she
was coming next day, and that Jane and everybody else who might inquire
would know of it before she started.
She rather liked Bart's receiving the letter. As long as that young man
kept away from Trenton and confined himself to Warehold, where she
could keep her eyes on him, she was content.
To Jane Martha said: "Oh, bless the darlin'! She can't do a day longer
without her Martha. I'll go in the mornin'. It's a little pettin' she
wants--that's all."
So the old nurse bade Meg good-by, pinned her big gray shawl about her,
tied on her bonnet, took a little basket with some delicacies and a pot
of jelly, and like a true Mother Hubbard, started off, while Jane,
having persuaded herself that perhaps "the surprise" was meant for her,
and that she might be welcoming two exiles instead of one the following
night, began to put Lucy's room in order and to lay out the many pretty
things she loved, especially the new dressing-gown she had made for
her, lined with blue silk--her favorite color.
All that day and evening, and far into the next afternoon, Jane went
about the house with the refrain of an old song welling up into her
heart--one that had been stifled for months. The thought of the
round-about way in which Lucy had sent for Martha did not dull its
melody. That ruse, she knew, came from the foolish pride of youth, the
pride that could not meet defeat. Underneath it she detected, with a
thrill, the love of home; this, after all, was what her sister could
not do without. It was not Bart this time. That affair, as she had
predicted and had repeatedly told Martha, had worn itself out and had
been replaced by her love of music. She had simply come to herself once
more and would again be her old-time sister and her child. Then,
too--and this sent another wave of delight tingling through her--it had
all been the doctor's doing! But for his advice she would never have
let Lucy go.
Half a dozen times, although the November afternoon was raw and chilly,
with the wind fresh from the sea and the sky dull, she was out on the
front porch without shawl or hat, looking down the path, covered now
with dead leaves, and scanning closely every team that passed the gate,
only to return again to her place by the fire, more impatient than ever.
Meg's quick ear first caught the grating of the wheels. Jane followed
him with a cry of joyous expectation, and flew to the door to meet the
stage, which for some reason--why, she could not tell--had stopped for
a moment outside the gate, dropping only one passenger, and that one
the nurse.
"And Lucy did not come, Martha!" Jane exclaimed, with almost a sob in
her voice. She had reached her side now, followed by Meg, who was
springing straight at the nurse in the joy of his welcome.
The old woman glanced back at the stage, as if afraid of being
overheard, and muttered under her breath:
"No, she couldn't come."
"Oh, I am so disappointed! Why not?"
Martha did not answer. She seemed to have lost her breath. Jane put her
arm about her and led her up the path. Once she stumbled, her step was
so unsteady, and she would have fallen but for Jane's assistance.
The two had now reached the hand-railing of the porch. Here Martha's
trembling foot began to feel about for the step. Jane caught her in her
arms.
"You're ill, Martha!" she cried in alarm. "Give me the bag. What's the
matter?"
Again Martha did not answer.
"Tell me what it is."
"Upstairs! Upstairs!" Martha gasped in reply. "Quick!"
"What has happened?"
"Not here; upstairs."
They climbed the staircase together, Jane half carrying the fainting
woman, her mind in a whirl.
"Where were you taken ill? Why did you try to come home? Why didn't
Lucy come with you?"
They had reached the door of Jane's bedroom now, Martha clinging to her
arm.
Once inside, the nurse leaned panting against the door, put her bands
to her face as if she would shut out some dreadful spectre, and sank
slowly to the floor.
"It is not me," she moaned, wringing her hands, "not me--not--"
"Who?"
"Oh, I can't say it!"
"Lucy?"
"Yes"
"Not ill?"
"No; worse!"
"Oh, Martha! Not dead?"
"O God, I wish she were!"
An hour passed--an hour of agony, of humiliation and despair.
Again the door opened and Jane stepped out--slowly, as if in pain, her
lips tight drawn, her face ghastly white, the thin cheeks sunken into
deeper hollows, the eyes burning. Only the mouth preserved its lines,
but firmer, more rigid, more severe, as if tightened by the strength of
some great resolve. In her hand she held a letter.
Martha lay on the bed, her face to the wall, her head still in her
palms. She had ceased sobbing and was quite still, as if exhausted.
Jane leaned over the banisters, called to one of the servants, and
dropping the letter to the floor below, said:
"Take that to Captain Holt's. When he comes bring him upstairs here
into my sitting-room."
Before the servant could reply there came a knock at the front door.
Jane knew its sound--it was Doctor John's. Leaning far over, grasping
the top rail of the banisters to steady herself, she said to the
servant in a low, restrained voice:
"If that is Dr. Cavendish, please say to him that Martha is just home
from Trenton, greatly fatigued, and I beg him to excuse me. When the
doctor has driven away, you can take the letter."
She kept her grasp on the hand-rail until she heard the tones of his
voice through the open hall door and caught the note of sorrow that
tinged them.
"Oh, I'm so sorry! Poor Martha!" she heard him say. "She is getting too
old to go about alone. Please tell Miss Jane she must not hesitate to
send for me if I can be of the slightest service." Then she re-entered
the room where Martha lay and closed the door.
Another and louder knock now broke the stillness of the chamber and
checked the sobs of the nurse; Captain Holt had met Jane's servant as
he was passing the gate. He stopped for an instant in the hall, slipped
off his coat, and walked straight upstairs, humming a tune as he came.
Jane heard his firm tread, opened the door of their room, and she and
Martha crossed the hall to a smaller apartment where Jane always
attended to the business affairs of the house. The captain's face was
wreathed in a broad smile as he extended his hand to Jane in welcome.
"It's lucky ye caught me, Miss Jane. I was just goin' out, and in a
minute I'd been gone for the night. Hello, Mother Martha! I thought
you'd gone to Trenton."
The two women made no reply to his cheery salutation, except to motion
him to a seat. Then Jane closed the door and turned the key in the lock.
When the captain emerged from the chamber he stepped out alone. His
color was gone, his eyes flashing, his jaw tight set. About his mouth
there hovered a savage, almost brutal look, the look of a bulldog who
bares his teeth before he tears and strangles--a look his men knew when
someone of them purposely disobeyed his orders. For a moment he stood
as if dazed. All he remembered clearly was the white, drawn face of a
woman gazing at him with staring, tear-drenched eyes, the slow dropping
of words that blistered as they fell, and the figure of the nurse
wringing her hands and moaning: "Oh, I told ye so! I told ye so! Why
didn't ye listen?" With it came the pain of some sudden blow that
deadened his brain and stilled his heart.
With a strong effort, like one throwing off a stupor, he raised his
head, braced his shoulders, and strode firmly along the corridor and
down the stairs on his way to the front door. Catching up his coat, he
threw it about him, pulled his hat on, with a jerk, slamming the front
door, plunged along through the dry leaves that covered the path, and
so on out to the main road. Once beyond the gate he hesitated, looked
up and down, turned to the right and then to the left, as if in doubt,
and lunged forward in the direction of the tavern.
It was Sunday night, and the lounging room was full. One of the inmates
rose and offered him a chair--he was much respected in the village,
especially among the rougher class, some of whom had sailed with
him--but he only waved his hand in thanks.
"I don't want to sit down; I'm looking for Bart. Has he been here?" The
sound came as if from between closed teeth.
"Not as I know of, cap'n," answered the landlord; "not since sundown,
nohow."
"Do any of you know where he is?" The look in the captain's eyes and
the sharp, cutting tones of his voice began to be noticed.
"Do ye want him bad?" asked a man tilted back in a chair against the
wall.
"Yes."
"Well, I kin tell ye where to find him,"
"Where?"
"Down on the beach in the Refuge shanty. He and the boys have a deck
there Sunday nights. Been at it all fall--thought ye knowed it."
Out into the night again, and without a word of thanks, down the road
and across the causeway to the hard beach, drenched with the ceaseless
thrash of the rising sea. He followed no path, picked out no road.
Stumbling along in the half-gloom of the twilight, he could make out
the heads of the sand-dunes, bearded with yellow grass blown flat
against their cheeks. Soon he reached the prow of the old wreck with
its shattered timbers and the water-holes left by the tide. These he
avoided, but the smaller objects he trampled upon and over as he strode
on, without caring where he stepped or how often he stumbled. Outlined
against the sand-hills, bleached white under the dull light, he looked
like some evil presence bent on mischief, so direct and forceful was
his unceasing, persistent stride.
When the House of Refuge loomed up against the gray froth of the surf
he stopped and drew breath. Bending forward, he scanned the beach
ahead, shading his eyes with his hand as he would have done on his own
ship in a fog. He could make out now some streaks of yellow light
showing through the cracks one above the other along the side of the
house and a dull patch of red. He knew what it meant. Bart and his
fellows were inside, and were using one of the ship lanterns to see by.
This settled in his mind, the captain strode on, but at a slower pace.
He had found his bearings, and would steer with caution.
Hugging the dunes closer, he approached the house from the rear. The
big door was shut and a bit of matting had been tacked over the one
window to deaden the light. This was why the patch of red was dull. He
stood now so near the outside planking that he could hear the laughter
and talk of those within. By this time the wind had risen to half a
gale and the moan on the outer bar could be heard in the intervals of
the pounding surf. The captain crept under the eaves of the roof and
listened. He wanted to be sure of Bart's voice before he acted.
At this instant a sudden gust of wind burst in the big door,
extinguishing the light of the lantern, and Bart's voice rang out:
"Stay where you are, boys! Don't touch the cards. I know the door, and
can fix it; it's only the bolt that's slipped."
As Bart passed out into the gloom the captain darted forward, seized
him with a grip of steel, dragged him clear of the door, and up the
sand-dunes out of hearing. Then he flung him loose and stood facing the
cowering boy.
"Now stand back and keep away from me, for I'm afraid I'll kill you!"
"What have I done?" cringed Bart, shielding his face with his elbow as
if to ward off a blow. The suddenness of the attack had stunned him.
"Don't ask me, you whelp, or I'll strangle you. Look at me! That's what
you been up to, is it?"
Bart straightened himself, and made some show of resistance. His breath
was coming back to him.
"I haven't done anything--and if I did--"
"You lie! Martha's back from Trenton and Lucy told her. You never
thought of me. You never thought of that sister of hers whose heart
you've broke, nor of the old woman who nursed her like a mother. You
thought of nobody but your stinkin' self. You're not a man! You're a
cur! a dog! Don't move! Keep away from me, I tell ye, or I may lose
hold of myself."
Bart was stretching out his hands now as if in supplication. He had
never seen his father like this--the sight frightened him.
"Father, will you listen--" he pleaded.
"I'll listen to nothin'--"
"Will you, please? It's not all my fault. She ought to have kept out of
my way--"
"Stop! Take that back! You'd blame HER, would ye--a child just out of
school, and as innocent as a baby? By God, you'll do right by her or
you'll never set foot inside my house again!"
Bart faced his father again.
"I want to tell you the whole story before you judge me. I want to--"
"You'll tell me nothin'! Will you act square with her?"
"I must tell you first. You wouldn't understand unless--"
"You won't? That's what you mean--you mean you WON'T! Damn ye!" The
captain raised his clenched fist, quivered for an instant as if
struggling against something beyond his control, dropped it slowly to
his side and whirling suddenly, strode back up the beach.
Bart staggered back against the planking, threw out his hand to keep
from falling, and watched his father's uncertain, stumbling figure
until he was swallowed up in the gloom. The words rang in his ears like
a knell. The realization of his position and what it meant, and might
mean, rushed over him. For an instant he leaned heavily against the
planking until he had caught his breath. Then, with quivering lips and
shaking legs, he walked slowly back into the house, shutting the big
door behind him.
"Boys," he said with a forced smile, "who do you think's been outside?
My father! Somebody told him, and he's just been giving me hell for
playing cards on Sunday."