MORTON COBDEN'S DAUGHTER
The cold wind from the sea freighted with the raw mist churned by the
breakers cut sharply against Doctor John's cheeks as he sprang into his
gig and dashed out of his gate toward Yardley. Under the shadow of the
sombre pines, along the ribbon of a road, dull gray in the light of the
stars, and out on the broader highway leading to Warehold, the sharp
click of the mare's hoofs striking the hard road echoed through the
night. The neighbors recognized the tread and the speed, and Uncle
Ephraim threw up a window to know whether it was a case of life or
death, an accident, or both; but the doctor only nodded and sped on. It
WAS life and death--life for the woman he loved, death for all who
traduced her. The strange news that had dropped from the captain's lips
did not affect him except as would the ending of any young life;
neither was there any bitterness in his heart against the dead boy who
had wrecked Lucy's career and brought Jane humiliation and despair. All
he thought of was the injustice of Jane's sufferings. Added to this was
an overpowering desire to reach her side before her misery should
continue another moment; to fold her in his arms, stand between her and
the world; help her to grapple with the horror which was slowly
crushing out her life. That it was past her hour for retiring, and that
there might be no one to answer his summons, made no difference to him.
He must see her at all hazards before he closed his eyes.
As he whirled into the open gates of Yardley and peered from under the
hood of the gig at the outlines of the old house, looming dimly through
the avenue of bushes, he saw that the occupants were asleep; no lights
shone from the upper windows and none burned in the hall below. This
discovery checked to some extent the impetus with which he had flung
himself into the night, his whole being absorbed and dominated by one
idea. The cool wind, too, had begun to tell upon his nerves. He drew
rein on the mare and stopped. For the first time since the captain's
story had reached his ears his reason began to work. He was never an
impetuous man; always a thoughtful and methodical one, and always
overparticular in respecting the courtesies of life. He began suddenly
to realize that this midnight visit was at variance with every act of
his life. Then his better judgment became aroused. Was it right for him
to wake Jane and disturb the house at this hour, causing her, perhaps,
a sleepless night, or should he wait until the morning, when he could
break the news to her in a more gentle and less sensational way?
While he sat thus wondering, undetermined whether to drive lightly out
of the gate again or to push forward in the hope that someone would be
awake, his mind unconsciously reverted to the figure of Jane making her
way with weary steps down the gangplank of the steamer, the two years
of her suffering deep cut into every line of her face. He recalled the
shock her appearance had given him, and his perplexity over the cause.
He remembered her refusal to give him her promise, her begging him to
wait, her unaccountable moods since her return.
Then Lucy's face came before him, her whole career, in fact (in a
flash, as a drowning man's life is pictured), from the first night
after her return from school until he had bade her good-by to take the
train for Trenton. Little scraps of talk sounded in his ears, and
certain expressions about the corners of her eyes revealed themselves
to his memory. He thought of her selfishness, of her love of pleasure,
of her disregard of Jane's wishes, of her recklessness.
Everything was clear now.
"What a fool I have been!" he said to himself. "What a fool--FOOL! I
ought to have known!"
Next the magnitude of the atonement, and the cruelty and cowardice of
the woman who had put her sister into so false a position swept over
him. Then there arose, like the dawning of a light, the grand figure of
the woman he loved, standing clear of all entanglements, a Madonna
among the saints, more precious than ever in the radiance of her own
sacrifice.
With this last vision his mind was made up. No, he would not wait a
moment. Once this terrible secret out of the way, Jane would regain her
old self and they two fight the world together.
As he loosened the reins over the sorrel a light suddenly flashed from
one of the upper windows disappeared for a moment, and reappeared again
at one of the smaller openings near the front steps. He drew rein
again. Someone was moving about--who he did not know; perhaps Jane,
perhaps one of the servants. Tying the lines to the dashboard, he
sprang from the gig, tethered the mare to one of the lilac bushes, and
walked briskly toward the house. As he neared the steps the door was
opened and Martha's voice rang clear:
"Meg, you rascal, come in, or shall I let ye stay out and freeze?"
Doctor John stepped upon the porch, the light of Martha's candle
falling on his face and figure.
"It's I, Martha, don't be frightened; it's late, I know, but I hoped
Miss Jane would be up. Has she gone to bed?"
The old nurse started back. "Lord, how ye skeered me! I don't know
whether she's asleep or not. She's upstairs with Archie, anyhow. I come
out after this rapscallion that makes me look him up every night. I've
talked to him till I'm sore, and he's promised me a dozen times, and
here he is out ag'in. Here! Where are ye? In with ye, ye little beast!"
The dog shrank past her and darted into the hall. "Now, then, doctor,
come in out of the cold."
Doctor John stepped softly inside and stood in the flare of the
candle-light. He felt that he must give some reason for his appearance
at this late hour, even if he did not see Jane. It would be just as
well, therefore, to tell Martha of Bart's death at once, and not let
her hear it, as she was sure to do, from someone on the street. Then
again, he had kept few secrets from her where Jane was concerned; she
had helped him many times before, and her advice was always good. He
knew that she was familiar with every detail of the captain's story,
but he did not propose to discuss Lucy's share in it with the old
nurse. That he would reserve for Jane's ears alone.
"Bring your candle into the sitting-room, Martha; I have something to
tell you," he said gravely, loosening the cape of his overcoat and
laying his hat on the hall table.
The nurse followed. The measured tones of the doctor's voice, so unlike
his cheery greetings, especially to her, unnerved her. This, in
connection with the suppressed excitement under which he seemed to
labor and the late hour of his visit, at once convinced her that
something serious had happened.
"Is there anything the matter?" she asked in a trembling voice.
"Yes."
"Is it about Lucy? There ain't nothin' gone wrong with her, doctor
dear, is there?"
"No, it is not about Lucy. It's about Barton Holt."
"Ye don't tell me! Is he come back?"
"No, nor never will. He's dead!
"That villain dead! How do you know?" Her face paled and her lips
quivered, but she gave no other sign of the shock the news had been to
her.
"Captain Nat, his father, has just left my office. I promised I would
tell Miss Jane to-night. He was too much broken up and too fearful of
its effect upon her to do it himself. I drove fast, but perhaps I'm too
late to see her."
"Well, ye could see her no doubt,--she could throw somethin' around
her--but ye mustn't tell her THAT news. She's been downhearted all day
and is tired out. Bart's dead, is he?" she repeated with an effort at
indifference. "Well, that's too bad. I s'pose the captain's feelin'
putty bad over it. Where did he die?"
"He died in Rio Janeiro of yellow fever," said the doctor slowly,
wondering at the self-control of the woman. Wondering, too, whether she
was glad or sorry over the event, her face and manner showing no index
to her feelings.
"And will he be brought home to be buried?" she asked with a quick
glance at the doctor's face.
"No; they never bring them home with yellow fever."
"And is that all ye come to tell her?" She was scrutinizing Doctor
John's face, her quick, nervous glances revealing both suspicion and
fear.
"I had some other matters to talk about, but if she has retired,
perhaps I had better come to-morrow," answered the doctor in undecided
tones, as he gazed abstractedly at the flickering candle.
The old woman hesitated. She saw that the doctor knew more than he
intended to tell her. Her curiosity and her fear that some other
complication had arisen--one which he was holding back--got the better
of her judgment. If it was anything about her bairn, she could not wait
until the morning. She had forgotten Meg now.
"Well, maybe if ye break it to her easy-like she can stand it. I don't
suppose she's gone to bed yet. Her door was open on a crack when I come
down, and she always shuts it 'fore she goes to sleep. I'll light a
couple o' lamps so ye can see, and then I'll send her down to ye if
she'll come. Wait here, doctor, dear."
The lamps lighted and Martha gone, Doctor John looked about the room,
his glance resting on the sofa where he had so often sat with her; on
the portrait of Morton Cobden, the captain's friend; on the work-basket
filled with needlework that Jane had left on a small table beside her
chair, and upon the books her hands had touched. He thought he had
never loved her so much as now. No one he had ever known or heard of
had made so great a sacrifice. Not for herself this immolation, but for
a sister who had betrayed her confidence and who had repaid a life's
devotion with unforgivable humiliation and disgrace. This was the woman
whose heart he held. This was the woman he loved with every fibre of
his being. But her sufferings were over now. He was ready to face the
world and its malignity beside her. Whatever sins her sister had
committed, and however soiled were Lucy's garments, Jane's robes were
as white as snow, he was glad he had yielded to the impulse and had
come at once. The barrier between them once broken down and the
terrible secret shared, her troubles would end.
The whispering of her skirts on the stairs announced her coming before
she entered the room. She had been sitting by Archie's crib and had not
waited to change her loose white gown, whose clinging folds accentuated
her frail, delicate form. Her hair had been caught up hastily and hung
in a dark mass, concealing her small, pale ears and making her face all
the whiter by contrast.
"Something alarming has brought you at this hour," she said, with a
note of anxiety in her voice, walking rapidly toward him. "What can I
do? Who is ill?"
Doctor John sprang forward, held out both hands, and holding tight to
her own, drew her close to him.
"Has Martha told you?" he said tenderly.
"No; only that you wanted me. I came as soon as I could."
"It's about Barton Holt. His father has just left my office. I have
very sad news for you. The poor boy--"
Jane loosened her hands from his and drew back. The doctor paused in
his recital.
"Is he ill?" she inquired, a slight shiver running through her.
"Worse than ill! I'm afraid you'll never see him again."
"You mean that he is dead? Where?"
"Yes, dead, in Rio. The letter arrived this morning."
"And you came all the way up here to tell me this?" she asked, with an
effort to hide her astonishment. Her eyes dropped for a moment and her
voice trembled. Then she went on. "What does his father say?"
"I have just left him. He is greatly shaken. He would not tell you
himself, he said; he was afraid it might shock you too much, and asked
me to come up. But it is not altogether that, Jane. I have heard
something to-night that has driven me half out of my mind. That you
should suffer this way alone is torture to me. You cannot, you shall
not live another day as you have! Let me help!"
Instantly there flashed into her mind the story Martha had brought in
from the street. "He has heard it," she said to herself, "but he does
not believe it, and he comes to comfort me. I cannot tell the truth
without betraying Lucy."
She drew a step farther from him.
"You refer to what the people about us call a mystery--that poor little
child upstairs?" she said slowly, all her self-control in her voice.
"You think it is a torture for me to care for this helpless baby? It is
not a torture; it is a joy--all the joy I have now." She stood looking
at him as she spoke with searching eyes, wondering with the
ever-questioning doubt of those denied love's full expression.
"But I know--"
"You know nothing--nothing but what I have told you; and what I have
told you is the truth. What I have not told you is mine to keep. You
love me too well to probe it any further, I am sorry for the captain.
He has an iron will and a rough exterior, but he has a warm heart
underneath. If you see him before I do give him my deepest sympathy.
Now, my dear friend, I must go back to Archie; he is restless and needs
me. Good-night," and she held out her hand and passed out of the room.
She was gone before he could stop her. He started forward as her hand
touched the door, but she closed it quickly behind her, as if to leave
no doubt of her meaning. He saw that she had misunderstood him. He had
intended to talk to her of Archie's father, and of Lucy, and she had
supposed he had only come to comfort her about the village gossip.
For some minutes he stood like one dazed. Then a feeling of unspeakable
reverence stole over him. Not only was she determined to suffer alone
and in silence, but she would guard her sister's secret at the cost of
her own happiness. Inside that sacred precinct he knew he could never
enter; that wine-press she intended to tread alone.
Then a sudden indignation, followed by a contempt of his own weakness
took possession of him. Being the older and stronger nature, he should
have compelled her to listen. The physician as well as the friend
should have asserted himself. No woman could be well balanced who would
push away the hand of a man held out to save her from ruin and misery.
He would send Martha for her again and insist upon her listening to him.
He started for the door and stopped irresolute. A new light broke in
upon his heart. It was not against himself and her own happiness that
she had taken this stand, but to save her father's and her sister's
name. He knew how strong was her devotion to her duty, how blind her
love for Lucy, how sacred she held the trust given to her by her dead
father. No; she was neither obstinate nor quixotic. Hers was the work
of a martyr, not a fanatic. No one he had ever known or heard of had
borne so great a cross or made so noble a sacrifice. It was like the
deed of some grand old saint, the light of whose glory had shone down
the ages. He was wrong, cruelly wrong. The only thing left for him to
do was to wait. For what he could not tell. Perhaps God in his mercy
would one day find the way.
Martha's kindly voice as she opened the door awoke him from his revery.
"Did she take it bad?" she asked.
"No," he replied aimlessly, without thinking of what he said. "She sent
a message to the captain. I'll go now. No, please don't bring a light
to the door. The mare's only a short way down the road."
When the old nurse had shut the front door after him she put out the
lamps and ascended the stairs. The other servants were in bed. Jane's
door was partly open. Martha pushed it gently with her hand and stepped
in. Jane had thrown herself at full length on the bed and lay with her
face buried in her hands. She was talking to herself and had not
noticed Martha's footsteps.
"O God! what have I done that this should be sent to me?" Martha heard
her say between her sobs. "You would be big enough, my beloved, to bear
it all for my sake; to take the stain and wear it; but I cannot hurt
you--not you, not you, my great, strong, sweet soul. Your heart aches
for me and you would give me all you have, but I could not bear your
name without telling you. You would forgive me, but I could never
forgive myself. No, no, you shall stand unstained if God will give me
strength!"
Martha walked softly to the bed and bent over Jane's prostrate body.
"It's me, dear. What did he say to break your heart?"
Jane slipped her arm about the old nurse's neck, drawing her closer,
and without lifting her own head from the pillow talked on.
"Nothing, nothing. He came to comfort me, not to hurt me."
"Do ye think it's all true 'bout Bart?" Martha whispered.
Jane raised her body from the bed and rested her head on Martha's
shoulder.
"Yes, it's all true about Bart," she answered in a stronger and more
composed tone. "I have been expecting it. Poor boy, he had nothing to
live for, and his conscience must have given him no rest."
"Did the captain tell him about--" and Martha pointed toward the bed of
the sleeping child. She could never bring herself to mention Lucy's
name when speaking either of Bart or Archie.
Jane sat erect, brushed the tears from her eyes, smoothed her hair back
from her temples, and said with something of her customary poise:
"No, I don't think so. The captain gave me his word, and he will not
break it. Then, again, he will never discredit his own son. The doctor
doesn't know, and there will be nobody to tell him. That's not what he
came to tell me. It was about the stories you heard last week and which
have only just reached his ears. That's all. He wanted to protect me
from their annoyance, but I would not listen to him. There is trouble
enough without bringing him into it. Now go to bed, Martha."
As she spoke Jane regained her feet, and crossing the room, settled
into a chair by the boy's crib. Long after Martha had closed her own
door for the night Jane sat watching the sleeping child. One plump pink
hand lay outside the cover; the other little crumpled rose-leaf was
tucked under the cheek, the face half-hidden in a tangle of glossy
curls, now spun-gold in the light of the shaded lamp.
"Poor little waif," she sighed, "poor little motherless, fatherless
waif! Why didn't you stay in heaven? This world has no place for you."
Then she rose wearily, picked up the light, carried it across the room
to her desk, propped a book in front of it so that its rays would not
fall upon the sleeping child, opened her portfolio, and sat down to
write.
When she had finished and had sealed her letter it was long past
midnight. It was addressed to Lucy in Dresden, and contained a full
account of all the doctor had told her of Bart's death.