CAPTAIN CY'S “PICTURE”
“Wonder where Phoebe went to,” remarked Mr. Tidditt, a little later. “I
thought I saw her with Heman and Georgianna on the front steps when we
drove up.”
“She was there,” affirmed the housekeeper. “She'd been helpin' me trim
up the rooms here. What do you think of 'em, Cap'n Cyrus? Ain't they
pretty?”
The sitting room and dining room were gay with evergreens and
old-fashioned flowers. Our living room windows in the winter time are
usually filled with carefully tended potted plants, and the neighbors
had loaned their geraniums and fuchsias and heliotrope and begonias to
brighten the Whittaker house for its owner's return. Captain Cy, who
was sitting in the rocker, with Bos'n on his knee, looked about him.
Now that the first burst of excitement was over, he seemed grave and
preoccupied.
“They look mighty pretty, Georgianna,” he said. “Fine enough. But what
was that you just said? Did--”
“Yup,” interrupted Miss Taylor, who had scarcely ceased talking since
breakfast that morning. “Yes, 'twas teacher that helped fix 'em. Not
that I wouldn't have got along without her, but I had more to do than a
little, cleanin' and scrubbin' up. So Phoebe she come in, and--Oh! yes,
as I was sayin', she was out front with me, but the minute your carriage
drove up with that lovely span--AIN'T that a fine span! I cal'late
they're--”
“What become of teacher?” broke in Bailey.
“Why, she run off somewheres. I didn't see where she went to; I was too
busy hollerin' at Cap'n Whittaker and noticin' that span. I bet you they
made Angie Phinney's eyes stick out. I guess she realizes that we in
this house are some punkins now. If I don't lord it over her when I run
acrost her these days, then I miss my guess. I--”
“Belay!” ordered Captain Cy, his gravity more pronounced than ever. “How
does it happen that you--See here, Georgianna, did you tell Ph--er--Miss
Dawes what I told you to tell her when I went away?”
“Why, yes, I told her. I hated to, dreadful, but I done it. She was
awful set back at fust, but I guess she asked Mr. Tidditt--Where you
goin', Mr. Tidditt?”
The town clerk, his face red, was on his way to the door.
“Asked Ase?” repeated the captain. “Ase, come here! Did you tell her
anything?”
Asaph was very much embarrassed.
“Well,” he stammered, “I didn't mean to, Cy, but she got to askin' me
questions, and somehow or nother I did tell her about our confab, yours
and mine. I told her that I knew folks was talkin', and I felt 'twas
my duty to tell you so. That's why I done it, and I told her you
said--well, you know what you said yourself, Cy.”
Captain Cy was evidently much disturbed. He put Bos'n down, and rose to
his feet.
“Well,” he asked sharply, “what did she say?”
“Oh! she was white and still for a minute or two. Then she kind of
stamped her foot and went off and left me. But next time she met me she
was nice as pie. She's been pretty frosty to Angie and the rest of
'em, but she's been always nice to Bailey and me. Why, when I asked her
pardon, she said not at all, she was very glad to know the truth; it
helped her to understand things. And you could see she meant it, too.
She--”
“So she has been comin' here ever since. And the gossip has been goin'
on, I s'pose. Well, by the big dipper, it'll stop now! I'll see to
that.”
The Board of Strategy and the housekeeper were amazed.
“Gossip!” repeated Bailey. “Well, I guess there ain't nothin' said
against her now--not in THIS town, there ain't! Why, all hands can't
praise her enough for her smartness in findin' out about that Thomas. If
it wan't for her, he'd be botherin' you yet, Cy. You know it. What are
you talkin' about?”
Captain Cy passed his hand over his forehead.
“Bos'n,” he said slowly, “you run and help Georgianna in the kitchen
a spell. She's got her dinner to look out for, I guess likely.
Georgianna,” to the housekeeper, who looked anything but eager, “you
better see to your dinner right off, and take Emmie with you.”
Miss Taylor reluctantly departed, leading Bos'n by the hand. The child
was loath to leave her uncle, but he told her he wouldn't give a cent
for his first dinner at home if she didn't help in preparing it. So she
went out happy.
“Now, then,” demanded the captain, “what's this about Phoebe and Thomas?
I want to know. Stop! Don't ask another question. Answer me first.”
So the Board of Strategy, by turns and in concert, told of the drive
to Trumet and the call on Debby Beasley. Asaph would have narrated the
story of the upset sulky, but Bailey shut him up in short order.
“Never mind that foolishness,” he snapped. “You see, Cy, Debby had just
been out to Arizona visitin' old Beasley's niece. And she'd fell in with
a woman out there whose husband had run off and left her. And Debby, she
read the advertisement about him in the Arizona paper, and it said he
had the spring halt in his off hind leg, or somethin' similar. Now,
Thomas, he had that, too, and there was other things that reminded
Phoebe of him. So she don't say nothin' to nobody, but she writes to
this woman askin' for more partic'lars and a photograph of the missin'
one. The partic'lars come, but the photograph didn't; the wife didn't
have none, I b'lieve. But there was enough to send Phoebe hotfoot to Mr.
Peabody. And Peabody he writes to his lawyer friend in Butte, Montana.
And the Butte man he--”
“Well, the long and short of it is,” cut in Tidditt, “that it looked
safe and sartin that Thomas HAD married the Arizona woman while his real
wife, Bos'n's ma, was livin', and had run off and left her same as he
did Mary. And the funny part of it is--”
“The funny part of it is,” declared Bangs, drowning his friend's voice
by raising his own, “that somebody out there, some scalawag friend of
this Thomas, must have got wind of what was up, and sent word to him.
'Cause, when they went to hunt for him in Boston, he'd gone, skipped,
cut stick. And they ain't seen him since. He was afraid of bein' took up
for bigamist, you see--for bein' a bigamy, I mean. Well, you know what
I'm tryin' to say. Anyhow, if it hadn't been for me and Phoebe--”
“YOU and Phoebe!” snorted Asaph. “You had a whole lot to do with it,
didn't you? You and Aunt Debby 'll do to go together. I understand she's
cruisin' round makin' proclamations that SHE was responsible for the
whole thing. No, sir-ree! it's Phoebe Dawes that the credit belongs to,
and this town ain't done nothin' but praise her since it come out. You
never see such a quick come-about in your life--unless 'twas Heman's.
But you knew all this afore, Whit. Peabody must have told you.”
Captain Cy had listened to his friends' story with a face expressive of
the most blank astonishment. As he learned of the trip to Trumet and
its results, his eyes and mouth opened, and he repeatedly rubbed his
forehead and muttered exclamations. Now, at the mention of his lawyer's
name, he seemed to awaken.
“Hold on!” he interrupted, waving his hand. “Hold on! By the big dipper!
this is--is--Where IS Peabody? I want to see him.”
“Here I am, captain,” said the attorney. He had been out to the barn to
superintend the stabling of the span, but for the past five minutes had
been standing, unnoticed by his client, on the threshold of the dining
room.
“See here,” demanded Captain Cy, “see here, Peabody; is this yarn true?
IS it, now? this about--about Phoebe and all?”
“Certainly it's true. I supposed you knew it. You didn't seem surprised
when I told you the case was settled.”
“Surprised? Why, no! I thought Heman had--Never mind that. Land of love!
SHE did it. She!”
He sat weakly down. The lawyer looked anxious.
“Mr. Tidditt,” he whispered, “I think perhaps he had better be left
alone for the present. He's just up from a sick bed, and this has been
a trying forenoon. Come in again this afternoon. I shall try to persuade
him to take a nap.”
The Board of Strategy, its curiosity unsatisfied, departed reluctantly.
When Mr. Peabody returned to the sitting room he found that naps were
far, indeed, from the captain's thoughts. The latter was pacing the
sitting-room floor.
“Where is she?” he demanded. “She was standin' on the steps with Heman.
Have you seen her since?”
His friend was troubled.
“Why, yes, I've seen her,” he said. “I have been talking with her. She
has gone away.”
“Gone AWAY! Where? What do you mean? She ain't--ain't left Bayport?”
“No, no. What in the world should she leave Bayport for? She has gone
to her boarding house, I guess; at all events, she was headed in that
direction.”
“Why didn't she shake hands with me? What made her go off and not say a
word? Oh, well, I guess likely I know the why!” He sighed despondently.
“I told her never to come here again.”
“You did? What in the world--”
“Well, for what I thought was good reasons; all on her account they was.
And yet she did come back, and kept comin', even after Ase blabbed the
whole thing. However, I s'pose that was just to help Georgianna. Oh,
hum! I AM an old fool.”
The lawyer inspected him seriously.
“Well, captain,” he said slowly, “if it is any comfort for you to know
that your reason isn't the correct one for Miss Dawes's going away, I
can assure you on that point. I think she went because she was greatly
disappointed, and didn't wish to see you just now.”
“Disappointed? What do you mean?”
“Humph! I didn't mean to tell you yet, but I judge that I'd better. No
one knows it here but Miss Dawes and I, and probably no one but us three
need ever know it. You see, the fact is that the Arizona woman, Desire
Higgins, isn't Mrs. Thomas at all. He isn't her missing husband.”
“What?”
“Yes, it's so. Really, it was too much of a coincidence to be possible,
and yet it certainly did seem that it would prove true. This Higgins
woman was, apparently, so anxious to find her missing man that she was
ready to recognize almost any description; and the slight lameness and
the fact of his having been in Montana helped along. If we could have
gotten a photograph sooner, the question would have been settled. Only
last week, while I was in Boston, I got word from the detective agency
that a photo had been received. I went to see it immediately. There was
some resemblance, but not enough. Henry Thomas was never Mr. Higgins.”
“But--but--they say Thomas has skipped out.”
“Yes, he has. That's the queer part of it. At the place where he boarded
we learned that he got a letter from Arizona--trust the average landlady
to look at postmarks--that he seemed greatly agitated all that day, and
left that night. No one has seen him since. Why he went is a puzzle.
Where, we don't care. So long as he keeps out of our way, that's
enough.”
Captain Cy did not care, either. He surmised that Mr. Atkins might
probably explain the disappearance. And yet, oddly enough, this
explanation was not the true one. The Honorable Heman solemnly assured
the captain that he had not communicated with Emily's father. He
intended to do so, as a part of the compact agreed upon at the hotel,
but the man had fled. And the mystery is still unsolved. The supposition
is that there really was a wife somewhere in the West. Who or where she
was no Bayporter knows. Henry Thomas has never come back to explain.
“I told Miss Dawes of the photograph and what it proved,” went on
Peabody. “She was dreadfully disappointed. She could hardly speak when
she left me. I urged her to come in and see you, but she wouldn't.
Evidently she had set her heart on helping you and the child. It is too
bad, because, practically speaking, we owe everything to her. There
is little doubt that the inquiry set on foot by her scared the Thomas
fellow into flight. And she has worked night and day to aid us. She is
a very clever woman, Captain Whittaker, and a good one. You can't thank
her enough. Here! what are you about?”
Captain Cy strode past him into the dining room. The hat rack hung on
the wall by the side door. He snatched his cap from the peg, and was
struggling into his overcoat.
“Where are you going?” demanded the lawyer. “You mustn't attempt to walk
now. You need rest.”
“Rest! I'll rest by and by. Just now I've got business to attend to. Let
go of that pea-jacket.”
“But--”
“No buts about it. I'll see you later. So long.”
He threw open the door and hurried down the walk. The lawyer watched him
in amazement. Then a slow smile overspread his face.
“Captain,” he called. “Captain Whittaker.”
Captain Cy looked back over his shoulder. “What do you want?” he asked.
Mr. Peabody's face was now intensely solemn, but there was a twinkle in
his eye.
“I think she's at the boarding house,” he said demurely. “I'm pretty
certain you'll find her there.”
All the regulars at the perfect boarding house had, of course, attended
the reception at the Cy Whittaker place. None of them, with the
exception of the schoolmistress, had as yet returned. Dinner had been
forgotten in the excitement of the great day, and Keturah and Angeline
and Mrs. Tripp had stopped in at various dwellings along the main road,
to compare notes on the captain's appearance and the Atkins address.
Asaph and Bailey and Alpheus Smalley were at Simmons's.
Captain Cy knew better than to attempt his hurried trip by way of the
road. He had no desire to be held up and congratulated. He went across
lots, in the rear of barns and orchards, wading through drifts and
climbing fences as no sane convalescent should. But the captain at that
moment was suffering from the form of insanity known as the fixed idea.
She had done all this for him--for HIM. And his last message to her had
been an insult.
He approached the Bangs property by the stable lane. No one locks doors
in our village, and those of the perfect boarding house were unfastened.
He entered by way of the side porch, just as he had done when Gabe
Lumley's depot wagon first deposited him in that yard. But now he
entered on tiptoe. The dining room was empty. He peeped into the sitting
room. There, by the center table, sat Phoebe Dawes, her elbow on the arm
of her chair, and her head resting on her hand.
“Ahem! Phoebe!” said Captain Cy.
She started, turned, and saw him standing there. Her eyes were wet, and
there was a handkerchief in her lap.
“Phoebe,” said the captain anxiously, “have you been cryin'?”
She rose on the instant. A great wave of red swept over her face. The
handkerchief fell to the floor, and she stooped and picked it up.
“Crying?” she repeated confusedly. “Why, no, of course--of course not!
I--How do you do, Captain Whittaker? I'm--we're all very glad to see you
home again--and well.”
She extended her hand. Captain Cy reached forward to take it; then he
hesitated.
“I don't think I'd ought to let you shake hands with me, Phoebe,” he
said. “Not until I beg your pardon.”
“Beg my pardon? Why?”
He absently took the hand and held it.
“For the word I sent to you when I went away. 'Twas an awful thing to
say, but I meant it for your sake, you know. Honest, I did.”
She laughed nervously.
“Oh! that,” she said. “Well, I did think you were rather particular as
to your visitors. But Mr. Tidditt explained, and then--You needn't beg
my pardon. I appreciate your thoughtfulness. I knew you meant to be kind
to me.”
“That's what I did. But you didn't obey orders. You kept comin'. Now,
why--”
“Why? Did you suppose that _I_ cared for the malicious gossip of--such
people? I came because you were in trouble, and I hoped to help you.
And--and I thought I had helped, until a few minutes ago.”
Her lip quivered. That quiver went to the captain's heart.
“Helped?” he faltered. “Helped? Why, you've done so much that I can't
ever thank you. You've been the only real helper I've had in all this
miserable business. You've stood by me all through.”
“But it was all wrong. He isn't the man at all. Didn't Mr. Peabody tell
you?”
“Yes, yes, he told me. What difference does that make? Peabody be
hanged! He ain't in this. It's you and me--don't you see? What made you
do all this for me?”
She looked at the floor and not at him as she answered.
“Why, because I wanted to help you,” she said. “I've been alone in the
world ever since mother died, years ago. I've had few real friends. Your
friendship had come to mean a great deal to me. The splendid fight you
were making for that little girl proved what a man you were. And you
fought so bravely when almost everyone was against you, I couldn't help
wanting to do something for you. How could I? And now it has come to
nothing--my part of it. I'm so sorry.”
“It ain't, neither. It's come to everything. Phoebe, I didn't mean to
say very much more than to beg your pardon when I headed for here. But
I've got to--I've simply got to. This can't go on. I can't have you
keep comin' to see me--and Bos'n. I can't keep meetin' you every day. I
CAN'T.”
She looked up, as if to speak, but something, possibly the expression in
his face, caused her to look quickly down again. She did not answer.
“I can't do it,” continued the captain desperately. “'Tain't for what
folks might say. They wouldn't say much when I was around, I tell you.
It ain't that. It's because I can't bear to have you just a friend.
Either you must be more'n that, or--or I'll have to go somewheres else.
I realized that when I was in Washin'ton and cruisin' to California and
back. I've either got to take Bos'n and go away for good, or--or--”
She would not help him. She would not speak.
“You see?” he groaned. “You see, Phoebe, what an old fool I am. I can't
ask you to marry me, me fifty-five, and rough from knockin' round the
world, and you, young and educated, and a lady. I ain't fool enough to
ask such a thing as that. And yet, I couldn't stay here and meet you
every day, and by and by see you marry somebody else. By the big dipper,
I couldn't do it! So that's why I can't shake hands with you to-day--nor
any more, except when I say good-by for keeps.”
Then she looked up. The color was still bright in her face, and her eyes
were moist, but she was smiling.
“Can't shake hands with me?” she said. “Please, what have you been doing
for the last five minutes?”
Captain Cy dropped her hand as if his own had been struck with
paralysis.
“Good land!” he stammered. “I didn't know I did it; honest truth, I
didn't.”
Phoebe's smile was still there, faint, but very sweet.
“Why did you stop?” she queried. “I didn't ask you to.”
“Why did I stop? Why, because I--I--I declare I'm ashamed--”
She took his hand and clasped it with both her own.
“I'm not,” she said bravely, her eyes brightening as the wonder and
incredulous joy grew in his. “I'm very proud. And very, very happy.”
There was to be a big supper at the Cy Whittaker place that night. It
was an impromptu affair, arranged on the spur of the moment by Captain
Cy, who, in spite of the lawyer's protests and anxiety concerning his
health, went serenely up and down the main road, inviting everybody he
met or could think of. The captain's face was as radiant as a spring
sunrise. His smile, as Asaph said, “pretty nigh cut the upper half
of his head off.” People who had other engagements, and would, under
ordinary circumstances, have refused the invitation, couldn't say no to
his hearty, “Can't come? Course you'll come! Man alive! I WANT you.”
“Invalid, is he?” observed Josiah Dimick, after receiving and accepting
his own invitation. “Well, I wish to thunder I could be took down with
the same kind of disease. I'd be willin' to linger along with it quite
a spell if it pumped me as full of joy as Whit seems to be. Don't give
laughin' gas to keep off pneumonia, do they? No? Well, I'd like to know
the name of his medicine, that's all.”
Supper was to be ready at six. Georgianna, assisted by Keturah Bangs,
Mrs. Sylvanus Cahoon, and other volunteers, was gloriously busy in the
kitchen. The table in the dining room reached from one end of the big
apartment to the other. Guests would begin to arrive shortly. Wily Mr.
Peabody, guessing that Captain Cy might prefer to be alone, had taken
the Board of Strategy out riding behind the span.
In the sitting room, around the baseburner stove, were three
persons--Captain Cy, Bos'n, and Phoebe. Miss Dawes had “come early,” at
the captain's urgent appeal. Now she was sitting in the rocker, at
one side of the stove, gazing dreamily at the ruddy light behind the
isinglass panes. She looked quietly, blissfully contented and happy.
At her feet, on the braided mat, sat Bos'n, playing with Lonesome, who
purred lazily. The little girl was happy, too, for was not her beloved
Uncle Cyrus at home again, with all danger of their separation ended
forevermore?
As for Captain Cy himself, the radiant expression was still on his face,
brighter than ever. He looked across at Phoebe, who smiled back at him.
Then he glanced down at Bos'n. And all at once he realized that this was
the fulfillment of his dream. Here was his “picture”; the sitting room
was now as he had always loved to think of it--as it used to be. He was
in his father's chair, Phoebe in the one his mother used to occupy, and
between them--just where he had sat so often when a boy--the child. The
Cy Whittaker place had again, and at last, come into its own.
He drew a long breath, and looked about the room; at the stove, the
lamp, the old, familiar furniture, at his grandfather's portrait over
the mantel. Then, in a flash of memory, his father's words came back to
him, and he said, laughing aloud from pure happiness:
“Bos'n, run down cellar and get me a pitcher of cider, won't
you?--there's a good feller.”