THE UNDERTOW
Within the month a second letter was handed to the captain by Tod, now
regularly installed as postman. It was in answer to one of Captain
Holt's which he had directed to the expected steamer and which had met
the exile on his arrival. It was dated "Amboy," began "My dear father,"
and was signed "Your affectionate son, Barton."
This conveyed the welcome intelligence--welcome to the father--that the
writer would be detained a few days in Amboy inspecting the new
machinery, after which he would take passage for Barnegat by the Polly
Walters, Farguson's weekly packet. Then these lines followed: "It will
be the happiest day of my life when I can come into the inlet at high
tide and see my home in the distance."
Again the captain sought Jane.
She was still at the hospital, nursing some shipwrecked men--three with
internal injuries--who had been brought in from Forked River Station,
the crew having rescued them the week before. Two of the regular
attendants were worn out with the constant nursing, and so Jane
continued her vigils.
She had kept at her work--turning neither to the right nor to the left,
doing her duty with the bravery and patience of a soldier on the
firing-line, knowing that any moment some stray bullet might end her
usefulness. She would not dodge, nor would she cower; the danger was no
greater than others she had faced, and no precaution, she knew, could
save her. Her lips were still sealed, and would be to the end; some
tongue other than her own must betray her sister and her trust. In the
meantime she would wait and bear bravely whatever was sent to her.
Jane was alone when the captain entered, the doctor having left the
room to begin his morning inspection. She was in her gray-cotton
nursing-dress, her head bound about with a white kerchief. The pathos
of her face and the limp, tired movement of her figure would have been
instantly apparent to a man less absorbed in his own affairs than the
captain.
"He'll be here to-morrow or next day!" he cried, as he advanced to
where she sat at her desk in the doctor's office, the same light in his
eyes and the same buoyant tone in his voice, his ruddy face aglow with
his walk from the station.
"You have another letter then?" she said in a resigned tone, as if she
had expected it and was prepared to meet its consequences. In her
suffering she had even forgotten her customary welcome of him--for
whatever his attitude and however gruff he might be, she never forgot
the warm heart beneath.
"Yes, from Amboy," panted the captain, out of breath with his quick
walk, dragging a chair beside Jane's desk as he spoke. "He got mine
when the steamer come in. He's goin' to take the packet so he kin bring
his things--got a lot o' them, he says. And he loves the old home,
too--he says so--you kin read it for yourself." As he spoke he
unbuttoned his jacket, and taking Bart's letter from its inside pocket,
laid his finger on the paragraph and held it before her face.
"Have you talked about it to anybody?" Jane asked calmly; she hardly
glanced at the letter.
"Only to the men; but it's all over Barnegat. A thing like that's
nothin' but a cask o' oil overboard and the bung out--runs
everywhere--no use tryin' to stop it." He was in the chair now, his
arms on the edge of the desk.
"But you've said nothing to anybody about Archie and Lucy, and what
Bart intends to do when he comes, have you?" Jane inquired in some
alarm.
"Not a word, and won't till ye see him. She's more your sister than she
is his wife, and you got most to say 'bout Archie, and should. You been
everything to him. When you've got through I'll take a hand, but not
before." The captain always spoke the truth, and meant it; his word
settled at once any anxieties she might have had on that score.
"What have you decided to do?" She was not looking at him as she spoke;
she was toying with a penholder that lay before her on the desk,
apparently intent on its construction.
"I'm goin' to meet him at Farguson's ship-yard when the Polly comes
in," rejoined the captain in a positive tone, as if his mind had long
since been made up regarding details, and he was reciting them for her
guidance--"and take him straight to my house, and then come for you.
You kin have it out together. Only one thing, Miss Jane"--here his
voice changed and something of his old quarter-deck manner showed
itself in his face and gestures--"if he's laid his course and wants to
keep hold of the tiller I ain't goin' to block his way and he shall
make his harbor, don't make no difference who or what gits in the
channel. Ain't neither of us earned any extry pay for the way we've run
this thing. You've got Lucy ashore flounderin' 'round in the fog, and I
had no business to send him off without grub or compass. If he wants to
steer now he'll STEER. I don't want you to make no mistake 'bout this,
and you'll excuse me if I put it plain."
Jane put her hand to her head and looked out of the window toward the
sea. All her life seemed to be narrowing to one small converging path
which grew smaller and smaller as she looked down its perspective.
"I understand, captain," she sighed. All the fight was out of her; she
was like one limping across a battlefield, shield and spear gone, the
roads unknown.
The door opened and the doctor entered. His quick, sensitive eye
instantly caught the look of despair on Jane's face and the air of
determination on the captain's. What had happened he did not know, but
something to hurt Jane; of that he was positive. He stepped quickly
past the captain without accosting him, rested his hand on Jane's
shoulder, and said in a tender, pleading tone:
"You are tired and worn out; get your cloak and hat and I'll drive you
home." Then he turned to the captain: "Miss Jane's been up for three
nights. I hope you haven't been worrying her with anything you could
have spared her from--at least until she got rested," and he frowned at
the captain.
"No, I ain't and wouldn't. I been a-tellin' her of Bart's comin' home.
That ain't nothin' to worry over--that's something to be glad of. You
heard about it, of course?"
"Yes, Morgan told me. Twenty years will make a great difference in
Bart. It must have been a great surprise to you, captain."
Both Jane and the captain tried to read the doctor's face, and both
failed. Doctor John might have been commenting on the weather or some
equally unimportant topic, so light and casual was his tone.
He turned to Jane again.
"Come, dear--please," he begged. It was only when he was anxious about
her physical condition or over some mental trouble that engrossed her
that he spoke thus. The words lay always on the tip of his tongue, but
he never let them fall unless someone was present to overhear.
"You are wrong, John," she answered, bridling her shoulders as if to
reassure him. "I am not tired--I have a little headache, that's all."
With the words she pressed both hands to her temples and smoothed back
her hair--a favorite gesture when her brain fluttered against her skull
like a caged pigeon. "I will go home, but not now--this afternoon,
perhaps. Come for me then, please," she added, looking up into his face
with a grateful expression.
The captain picked up his cap and rose from his seat. One of his dreams
was the marriage of these two. Episodes like this only showed him the
clearer what lay in their hearts. The doctor's anxiety and Jane's
struggle to bear her burdens outside of his touch and help only
confirmed the old sea-dog in his determination. When Bart had his way,
he said to himself, all this would cease.
"I'll be goin' along," he said, looking from one to the other and
putting on his cap. "See you later, Miss Jane. Morgan's back ag'in to
work, thanks to you, doctor. That was a pretty bad sprain he had--he's
all right now, though; went on practice yesterday. I'm glad of
it--equinox is comin' on and we can't spare a man, or half a one, these
days. May be blowin' a livin' gale 'fore the week's out. Good-by, Miss
Jane; good-by, doctor." And he shut the door behind him.
With the closing of the door the sound of wheels was heard--a crisp,
crunching sound--and then the stamping of horses' feet. Max Feilding's
drag, drawn by the two grays and attended by the diminutive Bones, had
driven up and now stood beside the stone steps of the front door of the
hospital. The coats of the horses shone like satin and every hub and
plate glistened in the sunshine. On the seat, the reins in one pretty
gloved hand, a gold-mounted whip in the other, sat Lucy. She was
dressed in her smartest driving toilette--a short yellow-gray jacket
fastened with big pearl buttons and a hat bound about with the breast
of a tropical bird. Her eyes were dancing, her cheeks like ripe peaches
with all the bloom belonging to them in evidence, and something more,
and her mouth all curves and dimples.
When the doctor reached her side--he had heard the sound of the wheels,
and looking through the window had caught sight of the drag--she had
risen from her perch and was about to spring clear of the equipage
without waiting for the helping hand of either Bones or himself. She
was still a girl in her suppleness.
"No, wait until I can give you my hand," he said, hurrying toward her.
"No--I don't want your hand, Sir Esculapius. Get out of the way,
please--I'm going to jump! There--wasn't that lovely?" And she landed
beside him. "Where's sister? I've been all the way to Yardley, and
Martha tells me she has been here almost all the week. Oh, what a
dreadful, gloomy-looking place! How many people have you got here
anyhow, cooped up in this awful-- Why, it's like an almshouse," she
added, looking about her. "Where did you say sister was?"
"I'll go and call her," interpolated the doctor when he could get a
chance to speak.
"No, you won't do anything of the kind; I'll go myself. You've had her
all the week, and now it's my turn."
Jane had by this time closed the lid of her desk, had moved out into
the hall, and now stood on the top step of the entrance awaiting Lucy's
ascent. In her gray gown, simple head-dress, and resigned face, the
whole framed in the doorway with its connecting background of dull
stone, she looked like one of Correggio's Madonnas illumining some old
cloister wall.
"Oh, you dear, DEAR sister!" Lucy cried, running up the short steps to
meet her. "I'm so glad I've found you; I was afraid you were tying up
somebody's broken head or rocking a red-flannelled baby." With this she
put her arms around Jane's neck and kissed her rapturously.
"Where can we talk? Oh, I've got such a lot of things to tell you! You
needn't come, you dear, good doctor. Please take yourself off,
sir--this way, and out the gate, and don't you dare come back until I'm
gone."
My Lady of Paris was very happy this morning; bubbling over with
merriment--a condition that set the doctor to thinking. Indeed, he had
been thinking most intently about my lady ever since he had heard of
Bart's resurrection. He had also been thinking of Jane and Archie.
These last thoughts tightened his throat; they had also kept him awake
the past few nights.
The doctor bowed with one of his Sir Roger bows, lifted his hat first
to Jane in all dignity and reverence, and then to Lucy with a
flourish--keeping up outwardly the gayety of the occasion and seconding
her play of humor--walked to the shed where his horse was tied and
drove off. He knew these moods of Lucy's; knew they were generally
assumed and that they always concealed some purpose--one which neither
a frown nor a cutting word nor an outbreak of temper would accomplish;
but that fact rarely disturbed him. Then, again, he was never anything
but courteous to her--always remembering Jane's sacrifice and her pride
in her.
"And now, you dear, let us go somewhere where we can be quiet," Lucy
cried, slipping her arm around Jane's slender waist and moving toward
the hall.
With the entering of the bare room lined with bottles and cases of
instruments her enthusiasm began to cool. Up to this time she had done
all the talking. Was Jane tired out nursing? she asked herself; or did
she still feel hurt over her refusal to take Ellen with her for the
summer? She had remembered for days afterward the expression on her
face when she told of her plans for the summer and of her leaving Ellen
at Yardley; but she knew this had all passed out of her sister's mind.
This was confirmed by Jane's continued devotion to Ellen and her many
kindnesses to the child. It was true that whenever she referred to her
separation from Ellen, which she never failed to do as a sort of probe
to be assured of the condition of Jane's mind, there was no direct
reply--merely a changing of the topic, but this had only proved Jane's
devotion in avoiding a subject which might give her beautiful sister
pain. What, then, was disturbing her to-day? she asked herself with a
slight chill at her heart. Then she raised her head and assumed a
certain defiant air. Better not notice anything Jane said or did; if
she was tired she would get rested and if she was provoked with her she
would get pleased again. It was through her affections and her
conscience that she could hold and mould her sister Jane--never through
opposition or fault-finding. Besides, the sun was too bright and the
air too delicious, and she herself too blissfully happy to worry over
anything. In time all these adverse moods would pass out of Jane's
heart as they had done a thousand times before.
"Oh, you dear, precious thing!" Lucy began again, all these matters
having been reviewed, settled, and dismissed from her mind in the time
it took her to cross the room. "I'm so sorry for you when I think of
you shut up here with these dreadful people; but I know you wouldn't be
happy anywhere else," she laughed in a meaning way. (The bringing in of
the doctor even by implication was always a good move.) "And Martha
looks so desolate. Dear, you really ought to be more with her; but for
my darling Ellen I don't know what Martha would do. I miss the child
so, and yet I couldn't bear to take her from the dear old woman."
Jane made no answer. Lucy had found a chair now and had laid her
gloves, parasol, and handkerchief on another beside her. Jane had
resumed her seat; her slender neck and sloping shoulders and sparely
modelled head with its simply dressed hair--she had removed the
kerchief--in silhouette against the white light of the window.
"What is it all about, Lucy?" she asked in a grave tone after a slight
pause in Lucy's talk.
"I have a great secret to tell you--one you mustn't breathe until I
give you leave."
She was leaning back in her chair now, her eyes trying to read Jane's
thoughts. Her bare hands were resting in her lap, the jewels flashing
from her fingers; about her dainty mouth there hovered, like a
butterfly, a triumphant smile; whether this would alight and spread its
wings into radiant laughter, or disappear, frightened by a gathering
frown, depended on what would drop from her sister's lips.
Jane looked up. The strong light from the window threw her head into
shadow; only the slight fluff of her hair glistened in the light. This
made an aureole which framed the Madonna's face.
"Well, Lucy, what is it?" she asked again simply.
"Max is going to be married."
"When?" rejoined Jane in the same quiet tone. Her mind was not on Max
or on anything connected with him. It was on the shadow slowly settling
upon all she loved.
"In December," replied Lucy, a note of triumph in her voice, her smile
broadening.
"Who to?"
"Me."
With the single word a light ripple escaped from her lips.
Jane straightened herself in her chair. A sudden faintness passed over
her--as if she had received a blow in the chest, stopping her breath.
"You mean--you mean--that you have promised to marry Max Feilding!" she
gasped.
"That's exactly what I do mean."
The butterfly smile about Lucy's mouth had vanished. That straightening
of the lips and slow contraction of the brow which Jane knew so well
was taking its place. Then she added nervously, unclasping her hands
and picking up her gloves:
"Aren't you pleased?"
"I don't know," answered Jane, gazing about the room with a dazed look,
as if seeking for a succor she could not find. "I must think. And so
you have promised to marry Max!" she repeated, as if to herself. "And
in December." For a brief moment she paused, her eyes again downcast;
then she raised her voice quickly and in a more positive tone asked,
"And what do you mean to do with Ellen?"
"That's what I want to talk to you about, you dear thing." Lucy had
come prepared to ignore any unfavorable criticisms Jane might make and
to give her only sisterly affection in return. "I want to give her to
you for a few months more," she added blandly, "and then we will take
her abroad with us and send her to school either in Paris or Geneva,
where her grandmother can be near her. In a year or two she will come
to us in Paris."
Jane made no answer.
Lucy moved uncomfortably in her chair. She had never, in all her life,
seen her sister in any such mood. She was not so much astonished over
her lack of enthusiasm regarding the engagement; that she had
expected--at least for the first few days, until she could win her over
to her own view. It was the deadly poise--the icy reserve that
disturbed her. This was new.
"Lucy!" Again Jane stopped and looked out of the window. "You remember
the letter I wrote you some years ago, in which I begged you to tell
Ellen's father about Archie and Barton Holt?"
Lucy's eyes flashed.
"Yes, and you remember my answer, don't you?" she answered sharply.
"What a fool I would have been, dear, to have followed your advice!"
Jane went straight on without heeding the interruption or noticing
Lucy's changed tone.
"Do you intend to tell Max?"
"I tell Max! My dear, good sister, are you crazy! What should I tell
Max for? All that is dead and buried long ago! Why do you want to dig
up all these graves? Tell Max--that aristocrat! He's a dear, sweet
fellow, but you don't know him. He'd sooner cut his hand off than marry
me if he knew!"
"I'm afraid you will have to--and this very day," rejoined Jane in a
calm, measured tone.
Lucy moved uneasily in her chair; her anxiety had given way to a
certain ill-defined terror. Jane's voice frightened her.
"Why?" she asked in a trembling voice.
"Because Captain Holt or someone else will, if you don't."
"What right has he or anybody else to meddle with my affairs?" Lucy
retorted in an indignant tone.
"Because he cannot help it. I intended to keep the news from you for a
time, but from what you have just told me you had best hear it now.
Barton Holt is alive. He has been in Brazil all these years, in the
mines. He has written to his father that he is coming home."
All the color faded from Lucy's cheeks.
"Bart! Alive! Coming home! When?"
"He will be here day after to-morrow; he is at Amboy, and will come by
the weekly packet. What I can do I will. I have worked all my life to
save you, and I may yet, but it seems now as if I had reached the end
of my rope."
"Who said so? Where did you hear it? It CAN'T be true!"
Jane shook her head. "I wish it was not true--but it is--every word of
it. I have read his letter."
Lucy sank back in her chair, her cheeks livid, a cold perspiration
moistening her forehead. Little lines that Jane had never noticed began
to gather about the corners of her mouth; her eyes were wide open, with
a strained, staring expression. What she saw was Max's eyes looking
into her own, that same cold, cynical expression on his face she had
sometimes seen when speaking of other women he had known.
"What's he coming for?" Her voice was thick and barely audible.
"To claim his son."
"He--says--he'll--claim--Archie--as--his--son!" she gasped. "I'd like
to see any man living dare to--"
"But he can TRY, Lucy--no one can prevent that, and in the trying the
world will know."
Lucy sprang from her seat and stood over her sister:
"I'll deny it!" she cried in a shrill voice; "and face him down. He
can't prove it! No one about here can!"
"He may have proofs that you couldn't deny, and that I would not if I
could. Captain Holt knows everything, remember," Jane replied in her
same calm voice.
"But nobody else does but you and Martha!" The thought gave her renewed
hope--the only ray she saw.
"True; but the captain is enough. His heart is set on Archie's name
being cleared, and nothing that I can do or say will turn him from his
purpose. Do you know what he means to do?"
"No," she replied faintly, more terror than curiosity in her voice.
"He means that you shall marry Barton, and that Archie shall be
baptized as Archibald Holt. Barton will then take you both back to
South America. A totally impossible plan, but--"
"I marry Barton Holt! Why, I wouldn't marry him if he got down on his
knees. Why, I don't even remember what he looks like! Did you ever hear
of such impudence! What is he to me?" The outburst carried with it a
certain relief.
"What he is to you is not the question. It is what YOU are to Archie!
Your sin has been your refusal to acknowledge him. Now you are brought
face to face with the consequences. The world will forgive a woman all
the rest, but never for deserting her child, and that, my dear sister,
IS PRECISELY WHAT YOU DID TO ARCHIE."
Jane's gaze was riveted on Lucy. She had never dared to put this fact
clearly before--not even to herself. Now that she was confronted with
the calamity she had dreaded all these years, truth was the only thing
that would win. Everything now must be laid bare.
Lucy lifted her terrified face, burst into tears, and reached out her
hands to Jane.
"Oh, sister,--sister!" she moaned. "What shall I do? Oh, if I had never
come home! Can't you think of some way? You have always been so
good--Oh, please! please!"
Jane drew Lucy toward her.
"I will do all I can, dear. If I fail there is only one resource left.
That is the truth, and all of it. Max can save you, and he will if he
loves you. Tell, him everything!"