AN ARRIVAL
With the departure of Jane and Lucy the old homestead took on that
desolate, abandoned look which comes to most homes when all the life
and joyousness have gone from them. Weeds grew in the roadway between
the lilacs, dandelions flaunted themselves over the grass-plots; the
shutters of the porch side of the house were closed, and the main gate
always thrown wide day and night in ungoverned welcome, was seldom
opened except to a few intimate friends of the old nurse.
At first Pastor Dellenbaugh had been considerate enough to mount the
long path to inquire for news of the travelers and to see how Martha
was getting along, but after the receipt of the earlier letters from
Jane telling of their safe arrival and their sojourn in a little
village but a short distance out of Paris, convenient to the great
city, even his visits ceased. Captain Holt never darkened the door; nor
did he ever willingly stop to talk to Martha when he met her on the
road. She felt the slight, and avoided him when she could. This
resulted in their seldom speaking to each other, and then only in the
most casual way. She fancied he might think she wanted news of Bart,
and so gave him no opportunity to discuss him or his whereabouts; but
she was mistaken. The captain never mentioned his name to friend or
stranger. To him the boy was dead for all time. Nor had anyone of his
companions heard from him since that stormy night on the beach.
Doctor John's struggle had lasted for months, but he had come through
it chastened and determined. For the first few days he went about his
work as one in a dream, his mind on the woman he loved, his hand
mechanically doing its duty. Jane had so woven herself into his life
that her sudden departure had been like the upwrenching of a plant,
tearing out the fibres twisted about his heart, cutting off all his
sustenance and strength. The inconsistencies of her conduct especially
troubled him. If she loved him--and she had told him that she did, and
with their cheeks touching--how could she leave him in order to indulge
a mere whim of her sister's? And if she loved him well enough to tell
him so, why had she refused to plight him her troth? Such a course was
unnatural, and out of his own and everyone else's experience. Women who
loved men with a great, strong, healthy love, the love he could give
her, and the love he knew she could give him, never permitted such
trifles to come between them and their life's happiness. What, he asked
himself a thousand times, had brought this change?
As the months went by these doubts and speculations one by one passed
out of his mind, and only the image of the woman he adored, with all
her qualities--loyalty to her trust, tenderness over Lucy and
unquestioned love for himself--rose clear. No, he would believe in her
to the end! She was still all he had in life. If she would not be his
wife she should be his friend. That happiness was worth all else to him
in the world. His was not to criticise, but to help. Help as SHE wanted
it; preserving her standard of personal honor, her devotion to her
ideals, her loyalty, her blind obedience to her trust.
Mrs. Cavendish had seen the change in her son's demeanor and had
watched him closely through his varying moods, but though she divined
their cause she had not sought to probe his secret.
His greatest comfort was in his visits to Martha. He always dropped in
to see her when he made his rounds in the neighborhood; sometimes every
day, sometimes once a week, depending on his patients and their
condition--visits which were always prolonged when a letter came from
either of the girls, for at first Lucy wrote to the old nurse as often
as did Jane. Apart from this the doctor loved the patient caretaker,
both for her loyalty and for her gentleness. And she loved him in
return; clinging to him as an older woman clings to a strong man,
following his advice (he never gave orders) to the minutest detail when
something in the management or care of house or grounds exceeded her
grasp. Consulting him, too, and this at Jane's special
request--regarding any financial complications which needed prompt
attention, and which, but for his services, might have required Jane's
immediate return to disentangle. She loved, too, to talk of Lucy and of
Miss Jane's goodness to her bairn, saying she had been both a sister
and a mother to her, to which the doctor would invariably add some
tribute of his own which only bound the friendship the closer.
His main relief, however, lay in his work, and in this he became each
day more engrossed. He seemed never to be out of his gig unless at the
bedside of some patient. So long and wearing had the routes
become--often beyond Barnegat and as far as Westfield--that the sorrel
gave out, and he was obliged to add another horse to his stable. His
patients saw the weary look in his eyes--as of one who had often looked
on sorrow--and thought it was the hard work and anxiety over them that
had caused it. But the old nurse knew better.
"His heart's breakin' for love of her," she would say to Meg, looking
down into his sleepy eyes--she cuddled him more than ever these
days--"and I don't wonder. God knows how it'll all end."
Jane wrote to him but seldom; only half a dozen letters in all during
the first year of her absence among them one to tell him of their safe
arrival, another to thank him for his kindness to Martha, and a third
to acknowledge the receipt of a letter of introduction to a student
friend of his who was now a prominent physician in Paris, and who might
be useful in case either of them fell ill. He had written to his friend
at the same time, giving the address of the two girls, but the
physician had answered that he had called at the street and number, but
no one knew of them. The doctor reported this to Jane in his next
letter, asking her to write to his friend so that he might know of
their whereabouts should they need his services, for which Jane, in a
subsequent letter, thanked him, but made no mention of sending to his
friend should occasion require. These subsequent letters said very
little about their plans and carefully avoided all reference to their
daily life or to Lucy's advancement in her studies, and never once set
any time for their coming home. He wondered at her neglect of him, and
when no answer came to his continued letters, except at long intervals,
he could contain himself no longer, and laid the whole matter before
Martha.
"She means nothing, doctor, dear," she had answered, taking his hand
and looking up into his troubled face. "Her heart is all right; she's
goin' through deep waters, bein' away from everybody she loves--you
most of all. Don't worry; keep on lovin' her, ye'll never have cause to
repent it."
That same night Martha wrote to Jane, giving her every detail of the
interview, and in due course of time handed the doctor a letter in
which Jane wrote: "He MUST NOT stop writing to me; his letters are all
the comfort I have"--a line not intended for the doctor's eyes, but
which the good soul could not keep from him, so eager was she to
relieve his pain.
Jane's letter to him in answer to his own expressing his unhappiness
over her neglect was less direct, but none the less comforting to him.
"I am constantly moving about," the letter ran, "and have much to do
and cannot always answer your letters, so please do not expect them too
often. But I am always thinking of you and your kindness to dear
Martha. You do for me when you do for her."
After this it became a settled habit between them, he writing by the
weekly steamer, telling her every thought of his life, and she replying
at long intervals. In these no word of love was spoken on her side; nor
was any reference made to their last interview. But this fact did not
cool the warmth of his affection nor weaken his faith. She had told him
she loved him, and with her own lips. That was enough--enough from a
woman like Jane. He would lose faith when she denied it in the same
way. In the meantime she was his very breath and being.
One morning two years after Jane's departure, while the doctor and his
mother sat at breakfast, Mrs. Cavendish filling the tea-cups, the
spring sunshine lighting up the snow-white cloth and polished silver,
the mail arrived and two letters were laid at their respective plates,
one for the doctor and the other for his mother.
As Doctor John glanced at the handwriting his face flushed, and his
eyes danced with pleasure. With eager, trembling fingers he broke the
seal and ran his eyes hungrily over the contents. It had been his habit
to turn to the bottom of the last page before he read the preceding
ones, so that he might see the signature and note the final words of
affection or friendship, such as "Ever your friend," or "Affectionately
yours," or simply "Your friend," written above Jane's name. These were
to him the thermometric readings of the warmth of her heart.
Half way down the first page--before he had time to turn the leaf--he
caught his breath in an effort to smother a sudden outburst of joy.
Then with a supreme effort he regained his self-control and read the
letter to the end. (He rarely mentioned Jane's name to his mother, and
he did not want his delight over the contents of the letter to be made
the basis of comment.)
Mrs. Cavendish's outburst over the contents of her own envelope broke
the silence and relieved his tension.
"Oh, how fortunate!" she exclaimed. "Listen, John; now I really have
good news for you. You remember I told you that I met old Dr. Pencoyd
the last time I was in Philadelphia, and had a long talk with him. I
told him how you were buried here and how hard you worked and how
anxious I was that you should leave Barnegat, and he promised to write
to me, and he has. Here's his letter. He says he is getting too old to
continue his practice alone, that his assistant has fallen ill, and
that if you will come to him at once he will take you into partnership
and give you half his practice. I always knew something good would come
out of my last visit to Philadelphia. Aren't you delighted, my son?"
"Yes, perfectly overjoyed," answered the doctor, laughing. He was more
than delighted--brimming over with happiness, in fact--but not over his
mother's news; it was the letter held tight in his grasp that was
sending electric thrills through him. "A fine old fellow is Dr.
Pencoyd--known him for years," he continued; "I attended his lectures
before I went abroad. Lives in a musty old house on Chestnut Street,
stuffed full of family portraits and old mahogany furniture, and not a
comfortable chair or sofa in the place; wears yellow Nankeen
waist-coats, takes snuff, and carries a fob. Oh, yes, same old fellow.
Very kind of him, mother, but wouldn't you rather have the sunlight
dance in upon you as it does here and catch a glimpse of the sea
through the window than to look across at your neighbors' back walls
and white marble steps?" It was across that same sea that Jane was
coming, and the sunshine would come with her!
"Yes; but, John, surely you are not going to refuse this without
looking into it?" she argued, eyeing him through her gold-rimmed
glasses. "Go and see him, and then you can judge. It's his practice you
want, not his house."
"No; that's just what I don't want. I've got too much practice now.
Somehow I can't keep my people well. No, mother, dear, don't bother
your dear head over the old doctor and his wants. Write him that I am
most grateful, but that the fact is I need an assistant myself, and if
he will be good enough to send someone down here, I'll keep him busy
every hour of the day and night. Then, again," he continued, a more
serious tone in his voice, "I couldn't possibly leave here now, even if
I wished to, which I do not."
Mrs. Cavendish eyed him intently. She had expected just such a refusal
Nothing that she ever planned for his advancement did he agree to.
"Why not?" she asked, with some impatience.
"The new hospital is about finished, and I am going to take charge of
it."
"Do they pay you for it?" she continued, in an incisive tone.
"No, I don't think they will, nor can. It's not, that kind of a
hospital," answered the doctor gravely.
"And you will look after these people just as you do after Fogarty and
the Branscombs, and everybody else up and down the shore, and never
take a penny in pay!" she retorted with some indignation.
"I am afraid I will, mother. A disappointing son, am I not? But there's
no one to blame but yourself, old lady," and with a laugh he rose from
his seat, Jane's letter in his hand, and kissed his mother on the cheek.
"But, John, dear," she exclaimed in a pleading petulance as she looked
into his face, still holding on to the sleeve of his coat to detain him
the longer, "just think of this letter of Pencoyd's; nothing has ever
been offered you better than this. He has the very best people in
Philadelphia on his list, and you would get--"
The doctor slipped his hand under his mother's chin, as he would have
done to a child, and said with a twinkle in his eye--he was very happy
this morning:
"That's precisely my case--I've got the very best people in three
counties on my list. That's much better than the old doctor."
"Who are they, pray?" She was softening under her son's caress.
"Well, let me think. There's the distinguished Mr. Tatham, who attends
to the transportation of the cities of Warehold and Barnegat; and the
Right Honorable Mr. Tipple, and Mrs. and Miss Gossaway, renowned for
their toilets--"
Mrs. Cavendish bit her lip. When her son was in one of these moods it
was all she could do to keep her temper.
"And the wonderful Mrs. Malmsley, and--"
Mrs. Cavendish looked up. The name had an aristocratic sound, but it
was unknown to her.
"Who is she?"
"Why, don't you know the wonderful Mrs. Malmsley?" inquired the doctor,
with a quizzical smile.
"No, I never heard of her."
"Well, she's just moved into Warehold. Poor woman, she hasn't been out
of bed for years! She's the wife of the new butcher, and--"
"The butcher's wife?"
"The butcher's wife, my dear mother, a most delightful old person, who
has brought up three sons, and each one a credit to her."
Mrs. Cavendish let go her hold on the doctor's sleeve and settled back
in her chair.
"And you won't even write to Dr. Pencoyd?" she asked in a disheartened
way, as if she knew he would refuse.
"Oh, with pleasure, and thank him most kindly, but I couldn't leave
Barnegat; not now. Not at any time, so far as I can see."
"And I suppose when Jane Cobden comes home in a year or so she will
work with you in the hospital. She wanted to turn nurse the last time I
talked to her." This special arrow in her maternal quiver, poisoned
with her jealousy, was always ready.
"I hope so," he replied, with a smile that lighted up his whole face;
"only it will not be a year. Miss Jane will be here on the next
steamer."
Mrs. Cavendish put down her tea-cup and looked at her son in
astonishment. The doctor still kept his eyes on her face.
"Be here by the next steamer! How do you know?"
The doctor held up the letter.
"Lucy will remain," he added. "She is going to Germany to continue her
studies."
"And Jane is coming home alone?"
"No, she brings a little child with her, the son of a friend, she
writes. She asks that I arrange to have Martha meet them at the dock."
"Somebody, I suppose, she has picked up out of the streets. She is
always doing these wild, unpractical things. Whose child is it?"
"She doesn't say, but I quite agree with you that it was helpless, or
she wouldn't have protected it."
"Why don't Lucy come with her?"
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
"And I suppose you will go to the ship to meet her?"
The doctor drew himself up, clicked his heels together with the air of
an officer saluting his superior--really to hide his joy--and said with
mock gravity, his hand on his heart:
"I shall, most honorable mother, be the first to take her ladyship's
hand as she walks down the gangplank." Then he added, with a tone of
mild reproof in his voice: "What a funny, queer old mother you are!
Always worrying yourself over the unimportant and the impossible," and
stooping down, he kissed her again on the cheek and passed out of the
room on the way to his office.
"That woman always comes up at the wrong moment," Mrs. Cavendish said
to herself in a bitter tone. "I knew he had received some word from
her, I saw it in his face. He would have gone to Philadelphia but for
Jane Cobden."