A TALE THAT IS TOLD
"They have all gone?" Luther Williams fixed his eyes on the woman by
his side.
"Yes, all gone."
"The old Bible is for Phosie. I want my little girl to have some other
things, though her grandmother gave it to me."
Miss Elliott leaned over eagerly. "You are--"
"I am your brother-in-law, Camilla. You have thought so more than once."
"You are Lewis Whitridge! Yes, yes, I have thought so, but I put the
idea away, for it seemed beyond reason when there seemed little doubt
of his having been dead for years. Lew, poor, dear, noble Lew! If I had
known--"
"Not noble, Camilla. I was a wretched man fleeing from the law."
"Yes, but I know why you fled. It was to save my father, who was the
guiltier of the two, for he enticed you, a younger man, into sharing
his speculations. I know it all."
"He told?"
"No. I think he wanted to at the last, but he could not speak. I found
some old letters, Lew, written after you had gone. They told the tale."
"They should have been destroyed. Does she know? My little girl?"
"No, I could not--I could not bring myself to tell her of her
grandfather's share in the matter."
"I am glad of that. It would have done no good. She knows nothing then?"
"Nothing, except that her father gave his life for another."
"But I did not even do that."
"You sacrificed it for my father's good name, and leaving that out of
the question, you have given it now. You tried to save John Bender."
"But my effort had no effect upon his safety. It was sheer good luck
that saved him, and I did not try to save a drowning sailor, as you
supposed. I slipped over the side of the vessel as she lay off the
Mexican coast. I was always a fair swimmer, and I had no trouble
getting to shore where I lay in hiding till the vessel got away. No
one discovered--I changed my name, learned the language, and was
soon earning my living. I managed to save a little and at the end of
a year I yearned for my own country. I didn't want to venture so near
home that I would be tempted to try to get a glimpse of those I had
parted from forever. I would be no possible Enoch Arden to Lillian.
I remembered hearing my father mention this lonely little island, a
primitive enough spot then, and it seemed just the place for me. I took
a vessel to Portland, a sailing vessel, came down here, where it seemed
well to stay. No one has ever known."
"Why did you do it, Lew? Why did you not come back when the deficit was
made good, and the matter was hushed up? My father was able to keep it
out of the papers, and his influence with the directors of the bank
saved the situation, so far as you were concerned, for you were his
son-in-law, remember, and no one dreamed that he was the guiltier of
the two. Your letters with the instructions about the checks were the
ones I found, the last ever received from you."
"There was a little property belonging to me which came from my mother.
I had almost forgotten about it. I went West to see about it and found
it more valuable than I supposed. I sold it and sent your father the
proceeds to pay back the amount I had persuaded myself I had borrowed
from the bank. There was a little more than enough to cover my share."
"And the rest my father was able to pay before he died. And we
thought--the world thought it was all your debt, yet how paltry your
share was compared to his," said Miss Elliott bitterly.
"It does not matter now."
"It has mattered for years. Why did you stay away from Lillian and the
child after all had been made right?"
"You forget that in the eyes of the world I was still responsible for
the entire amount. Besides, there was another reason. I should have
stayed away, anyhow, for Lillian's sake. I didn't know about the child.
I heard from your father only in answer to those letters, that was
just before I left for Mexico. His chief concern was the matter of the
money. He did not mention Lillian. I asked him not to. I couldn't bear
it, so I never knew that my little girl was born. After I had made
restitution it seemed to me that there was nothing left for me to do
but to cut loose from everything that should remind me of the old days.
I would burn my ships behind me. I wonder why your father kept my
letters, Camilla."
Miss Elliott gave a quick sob. "They were his punishment, Lew. He never
recovered from the shock of your supposed death. I think he kept the
letters as a sort of penance, to remind him of what you had done for
him, and I think he meant us to discover them. He had not the courage,
after you had disappeared absolutely, to tell the truth, and to lose
the reputation he had always gloried in, but at the last he tried, I am
convinced now. He died a poor man for he paid back all he owed--and we
thought it was for you--oh, Lew!"
"Never mind. I am glad of what I did for him, though I am afraid he
suffered more than I, after all."
"Poor father, poor father! Yes, I am sure he did. You knew my mother,
Lew, and how dependent a nature hers was. She knew nothing of business
matters and could scarcely be induced to look at one of father's papers
after his death. That is why your letters lay so long unknown."
"It was all for the best--all--all, for Lillian did not love me. She
cared for some one else, as you know, but your father liked me. He
admired my fearless ventures in which I was for awhile successful, as
he was, too. He had befriended my father when they were lads together,
and my father was in danger of going wrong, so I felt I could repay
by shielding my father's friend and mine. When discovery was sure to
come, as we thought, I said to Mr. Elliott, 'You're not to appear in
this. Why should we both suffer? It will kill your wife, and bring the
greatest trouble to mine.' You know how they both adored him, Camilla,
how they thought him the very pattern of a man. You know how he was
honored and looked up to by everyone. Why implicate him when his would
be the greater fall? As for me, Lillian, who had married me for money,
would not tolerate me when I should be stripped of both money and
character. She had already told me that she never loved me. Was it not
better that I, who had lost all I cared for, should spare the others?
'The greatest good to the greatest number,' that was how it was. There
might be a hue and cry for a little while, but the bank would not
allow its depositors to suffer, and I could slip out of sight and be
forgotten, while Lillian, in time, would perhaps marry some one who
could make her happy, the man whom she really cared for. But she did
not marry again?"
"No. Her early lover married just after Gwen was born, and I do not
think she cared then, for she had her baby to comfort her. She was all
in all to Lillian during the six years she lived. Oh Lew, it was hard
for you, hard all around."
"Yes, it was hard--then--but it is all over now, and at the last I
have had a great joy, and at the end there is peace. Poor little
light-hearted Lillian, she had her sorrows, too. I felt so sure she
would marry again, but I could not bear to have my belief made a
certainty, and it was only when Gwen told me of her mother that I knew
that the thing I dreaded had not happened after all. It must have been
hard for you, Camilla, to have them all taken within so few years."
"Yes, though I had been so much from home that Lillian and I were
almost strangers. Gwen has been a great comfort and happiness to me.
She is much like you, Lew, in spirit, though more like her mother in
appearance."
"God was good to let me have my little girl for a short time, and I
thank you, Camilla, for all you have done for her. She must never know.
There would have to be too many explanations, and it is better she
should believe as she does, that she lost her father long ago. It would
be a new grief to her to have the story told her now. You will not let
her know that her father left a smirched character behind when he left
his home."
"Don't, Lew. Dear brother, you long ago made restitution, and have paid
a hard penalty for your folly."
"Yes, I have paid; that is a comfort. It doesn't excuse my past
misdeeds, the borrowing a little more, a little more, hoping in the end
to realize so much that it would be easy to pay back. It doesn't excuse
that, but that I have lived to be honored and respected means much."
A spasm of pain passed over his face. "I am afraid you are tired, you
are suffering," said Miss Elliott anxiously.
"A little maybe, but it will soon be over. Another swallow of the
medicine maybe will be best."
She gave it to him and he lay quite still for a few minutes, then he
turned his eyes upon her wistfully. "You promise she shall not know,
Camilla."
"I promise she shall never think ill of her father. Before they are
married I shall tell Kenneth the story of your love and sacrifice, and
if any knowledge of that cloudy past should ever come to Gwen, I shall
say to Kenneth that he must let her know the truth, so she will know
how truly noble her father was. That is only justice, Lew. It is what
my father would wish I am sure. I will consent to all else, to allowing
the cloud to rest entirely upon you, so far as the world is concerned,
but if there is ever a shadow of doubt in Gwen's mind it must be
cleared so far as possible. You allow that I am right, Lew. It would be
my father's wish, poor, proud, mistaken father!" The tears fell upon
the hand she held.
"There, Camilla, there! It is past and gone. It may be he and I will
meet in another world where we can straighten it all out."
"And Lillian, too. She will know, perhaps. In that other world our
eyes must be opened to our earthly errors, and she will understand.
That other life must surely compensate if there is any merit in noble
sacrifice."
"I believe it will be all right. You will let them lay me there, over
on the island, where I have been able to hold up my head among men?"
"I, Lew? Why should I raise a finger to prevent the carrying out of any
wish of yours?"
"There is a little money. I have been a successful fisherman. I might
have left it to my good friends the Tibbetts, but Cap'n Ben is not a
poor man, and their wants are few. Good little Phosie, if I left it to
her it might make gossip--besides now there is my own flesh and blood.
So it must go to Gwen and the boy. Then they can marry and have enough.
If this had not happened I might have found another way, but this is
best, and I am content--more than content to die here where Luther
Williams lived." He paused and motioned to the glass standing near.
Miss Elliott gave him the medicine and he went on. "It may seem best to
say that I discovered her to be the nearest relative for whom I cared
at all. You can verify that, if necessary, and you can say that for
family reasons I did not correspond with any of my distant kin. I think
there will be no trouble. My lawyer in Portland will make everything
right." He closed his eyes as if having finished, but he opened them
presently. "You forgive me, Camilla?"
"Forgive you, Lew? It is I who should ask forgiveness for my people,
for Lillian, for my father."
"No, no, that is all over. I have not a bitter thought against anyone.
I have not been unhappy here. It has been peaceful, and at last--at
last, Camilla, you brought her. Think of that! My little girl. I never
dreamed of, or hoped for such happiness as I have had this summer
past. And she loves her Daddy Lu. God bless the darling child. Kenneth
is a good lad. I have taken pains to study him well. He will make her
happy. Thank you for bringing her to me, Camilla." His voice had sunk
into a whisper, and the last words were spoken with effort. His eyes
closed again, and seeing that he made no further attempt to speak, Miss
Elliott stole softly from the room to summon the others.
The autumn afternoon was closing. Royal colors blazed in the sunset
sky. The wind had died down, and only a gentle plash of waves was
heard. The bell-buoy, which all day long had sent forth its melancholy
note at short intervals, but once in a while pealed faintly now.
The doctor put his finger on the patient's pulse. "He is sinking fast,"
he said in a low tone to Cap'n Ben. "He cannot last long."
Luther Williams raised his drooping lids and let his gaze rest on Gwen
as he whispered a few words. She leaned over to hear. "Would you mind
kissing me good-by," she heard. She did not hesitate to respond and
he sighed contentedly. After a while he spoke again. "Phosie, where's
Phosie?" His hand groped for the Bible. "I want you to have it. You
have been good to me, Phosie, and sometimes--" The voice died away.
Miss Phosie knelt by the bed, clasping the Bible. The wandering hand
found her free one presently and held it. So he drifted peacefully into
a safe harbor just as Halfway Light sent its far-reaching beams over
the waters.
It was a solemn procession which moved up the cove on the day that
Luther Williams was laid away in the quiet burying-ground. Not a boat
but went out to meet that one which brought him back to the spot where
he had lived so long and so well. As Cap'n Ben's dory sailed ahead
bearing its honored and beloved burden, each craft fell into line, and
all moved slowly, slowly toward the island, the dories going first, the
little row-boats following after. Into the house that had been home to
him for so long, they bore Luther Williams. Not a window-plant anywhere
about but was robbed of bud and blossom to be carried to Cap'n Ben's
as a last offering to the man whom all his friends honored. Sorrowful
as Kenneth felt he could but realize the picturesqueness of this
fisherman's funeral cortege on the water, and it was scarcely less so
on shore when everyone, on foot, followed the sturdy pall-bearers down
the long road to the small enclosure, where under the October sky, and
within sound of the breakers rested the quiet sleepers who had made
their last port.
"'So shall they come to the haven where they would be,'" murmured
Miss Elliott as they walked away. "How much better to leave one that
you love, there in that peaceful place than to think of him still
buffetting with the storms of life, with the waves of trouble that
might wreck him utterly. He is spared much, dear child." She spoke to
Gwen who was sobbing softly, while the tears welled constantly to Miss
Elliott's own eyes.
"I know all that," replied the girl, "but when I think of him only a
few days ago, so alive and well, so full of our plans, so helpful and
kind to everyone, I cannot feel reconciled to his going."
"It is not you who will miss him most, my dear," said Miss Elliott;
"it is those who for twenty years have seen him go and come, who have
depended upon his unostentatious acts of kindness, his little deeds
of willing service, and among them all it is Miss Phosie who will
mourn longest, who will miss the ministering to his wants, who will
have to become used to the silence of his room, who can no more watch
for him at noon and at night. Yes, Gwen, he was but a new pleasure
in your life, and when you go back home you will not miss him from
your accustomed surroundings. Miss Phosie will have no one to take his
place. Her lot is the hardest."
Gwen wiped her eyes and took hold of her aunt's hand. "Do you think--"
she began.
Miss Elliott understood. "I think hers has been the devotion of years.
You did not see her when she made her last farewell and put her one
white rose into his hand. I did. At such times one sees to the depth
of a human heart. I tell you because I want you always to cherish and
love Miss Phosie as you would one who had been your own father's best
friend."
Gwen's tears again flowed. "Dear Miss Phosie," she said. "You may be
sure, Aunt Cam, that I shall always love her for what she did for Daddy
Lu."
They were walking on alone. Kenneth had lingered with Cap'n Ben's
family. "Aunt Cam," said Gwen after a while, "what was it Daddy Lu
wanted to talk to you about, that last time?"
"About a sad family misunderstanding which he has not liked to mention
to anyone," replied Miss Elliott quietly. She had been prepared for
this question. "He also wanted to say," she went on, "that he had
decided to leave his savings to you, or at least most of them, since
you seem to be the nearest relative for whom he entertained any
affection."
"Then he was really a relative."
"Yes, he had made investigations which gave him proof of that. Cap'n
Ben says the will was probably made but a few days ago. Mr. Williams
told him it was that which took him to Portland recently. He gave Cap'n
Ben the name of the lawyer who drew it up and who has it now in his
possession. Cap'n Ben is one of the executors I believe, while I am the
other."
"It seems almost as if he must have had a premonition," said Gwen
thoughtfully. "And to think he cared for me that much. Dear man!
there will never be his like again. It does not seem possible that we
had known him only this short time. I feel as if we had been friends
always."
"Evidently he had the warmest affection for you," said Miss Elliott
unsteadily, as she wiped her eyes.
"Shall we have to stay here longer, on account of the will?" asked Gwen
presently.
"Not here I think, but maybe for a few days in Portland, so we will
keep to our original plan of closing Wits' End next week."
Therefore when the boat left the wharf early the following Monday, it
bore away Miss Elliott, Gwen and Kenneth. The two latter stood together
watching first the houses then the last bit of Sheldon woods disappear
from view.
"Such an eventful summer it has been," said Gwen as they swung around
into the bay and lost sight of Fielding's Island.
"It has brought joy and sorrow to us both," returned Kenneth.
"In spite of the sorrow I hate to leave the dear island," said Gwen.
"Could anyone ever have supposed I should find not only you there,
Kenneth, but that I should have met a relative who learned to care
so much for me that he named me as principal legatee in his will. I
never dreamed that such a thing could ever come to me. Truly it is the
unexpected that has happened. Dear Daddy Lu, if only he could have
lived, and we all have been happy together. I shall never forget him,
never. Oh, Kenneth, here is where we used to turn to go to his retreat
as I called it. Everything reminds me of him--everything." Her eyes
filled.
"Don't grieve for him, dearest. He wanted you to be happy. It would
please him best to know he had helped to make you so."
"I can be happy after a while, perhaps, but not now--not yet. If we
could but be together--you and I as we have been this summer."
"But we are coming back," replied Kenneth--"and it will be together."