Not until Captain Kendrick entered the Minot kitchen late that afternoon
did he get the full and complete answer to his puzzle. Judah supplied
the missing details, supplied them with a rush, had evidently been
bursting with them for hours.
"My hoppin', creepin', jumpin' prophets, Cap'n Sears," he roared, before
his lodger could speak a word, "if I ain't got the dumdest news to tell
you now, then nobody ever had none!... You ain't heard it, Cap'n, have
you? _Don't_ tell me you've heard it already! Have you?"
Sears shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, Judah," he replied. "Have
I?"
"Hoppin' Henry! I _hope_ you ain't, 'cause I wanted to tell you myself.
It's about Elviry Snowden. Have you heard anything about her?"
"Why--well, what have _you_ heard?"
"Heard! They heard it fust over to the Harbor about a couple of hours
ago. Bradley, the Orham lawyer feller, he'd heard it and he come over to
see Elizabeth about somethin' or 'nother and he told it to all hands.
You know that aunt of Elviry's over to Ostable, the one that died last
week? Well all hands had cal'lated she was kind of on her beam
ends--poor, I mean. When her husband died, don't you recollect some
property they owned over to Harniss was goin' to be sold to auction? All
them iron images Elviry wanted to buy was part of 'em; don't you
remember?"
"Yes, I remember.
"Sartin sure you do. Well, so fur as that goes them images wan't sold
because the widow changed her mind about 'em and had 'em all carted
over to another little place she owned in Ostable, and set up in the
yard there. She's been livin' on this place in Ostable and everybody
figgered she didn't have much money else she'd stayed in the big house
in Harniss. But, by Henry, since she's died it's come out that she was
rich. Yes, sir, rich! She'd saved every cent, you see; never spent
nothin'. A reg'lar mouser, she was--miser, I mean. And who do you
suppose she's left it all to? Elviry, by the creepin'! Yes, sir, every
last cent to Elviry Snowden."
"_No!!_"
"Yes. Elviry's rich. 'Cordin' to Bradley's tell there's a lot of land
and a house and barn, and all them iron images, and--wait; let me tell
you--stocks, and things like that, and over ten thousand dollars cash in
the bank, by Henry! In _cash_, where Elviry can get right aholt of it if
she wants to. Much as thirty thousand, altogether, land and all. And....
What in tunket are you laughin' at?"
For Captain Kendrick had thrown himself into the rocking chair and was
shaking the pans on the stove with peal after peal of laughter.
It was so simple, so complete, and so wonderfully, gorgeously Egbertian.
A little matter of arithmetic, that was all. Merely the substitution of
twenty or thirty thousand dollars and a landed estate for five--no,
three--thousand dollars and a somewhat cramped future at the Fair
Harbor. The ladies in the case were incidental. When the choice was
offered him the businesslike Phillips hesitated not a moment. He was on
with the new love even before he was off with the old. And, in order to
avoid the unpleasantness which was sure to ensue when the old found it
out, he had arranged to be married at Denboro and to be far afield upon
his wedding tour before the news reached Bayport.
Everything was clear now. Elvira's windfall explained it all. It was her
money which had paid Captain Elkanah, and Sarah Macomber, and the livery
man, and no doubt many another of Egbert's little bills. It was her
money that was paying the honeymoon expenses. And, of course, it was
her sixteen hundred dollars which had just been handed to Sears Kendrick
in the parlor of the parsonage.
No wonder that, under the circumstances, Egbert had chosen to pay. It
must have been a nerve-racking session for him, that interview with the
captain. Each minute might bring his bride-to-be to the parsonage door,
and if she learned before marriage of Cordelia's bonds and the
Kent-Phillips stock speculation, not to mention the threatened arrest
and consequent scandal, why--well, Elvira was fatuously smitten, but the
chances were that the wedding would have been postponed, if nothing
worse. No wonder Egbert preferred parting with a portion of his
lady-love's fortune to the risk of parting with the lady herself--and
the remainder of it.
Sears did not tell Judah of the elopement. He did not feel like it,
then. His had been a tiring day and the strain upon his own nerves not
slight. He wanted to rest, he wanted to think, and he did not want to
talk. Judah spared him the trouble; he did talking enough for two.
After supper George Kent came hurrying into the yard. Sears had expected
him and, when he came, led him into the "spare stateroom" and closed the
door. Then, without any preliminaries, he took the sixteen hundred
dollars from his wallet and gave them to him.
"There's your money, George," he said.
Kent could not believe it. He had come here, in the last stages of
despair. This was practically his final day of grace. The afternoon mail
had brought him another letter from his brother-in-law, making immediate
demand and threatening drastic action within the week. He had come,
haggard, nervous and trembling, ready to proclaim again his intention of
self-destruction.
He sat there, staring at the money in his hand, saying nothing. His face
was as white as the clean towels on the captain's washstand. Kendrick,
leaning forward, laid a hand on his knee.
"Brace up, George," he ordered, sharply. "Don't let go of the wheel."
Kent slowly lifted his gaze from the roll of bills to his friend's face.
"You--you _got_ it!" he faltered.
"_I_ got it--all of it. There's the whole sixteen hundred there. Count
it."
"But--but, oh, my God! I--I----"
"Sshh! Steady as she is, George. Count your money. Put it on the table
here by the lamp."
He took the bills from Kent's shaking fingers, arranged them on the
table and, at last, coaxed or drove the young man into beginning to
count them. Of course it was Kendrick himself who really counted; his
companion did little but pick up the bank notes and drop them again.
Suddenly, in the midst of the performance, he stopped, put his hands to
his face and burst into hysterical sobs.
Sears let him cry for a time, merely stepping across to make sure that
the bedroom door was tightly closed, and then standing above him with
his hands on the bowed shoulders. After a little the sobs ceased. A
moment later and George raised his head.
"Oh!" he exclaimed. "What a--a kid I am!"
Sears, who had been thinking pretty nearly that very thing, patted the
shoulder beneath his hand.
"All right, George," he said. "Bein' a kid is no crime. In fact, it has
some advantages."
"But--but, you see--I--I have been through purgatory this week, I----"
"I know. But you're all through and out now."
"Yes, I--I am. By George, I am, aren't I!... And you did it for me.
_You_ did!"
"Never mind that. I enjoyed doin' it. Yes," with a slight smile, "I had
a pretty good time, take it by and large."
"And you got the--the whole of it! The whole!"
"Yes."
"But I can't understand.... Did--Cap'n Kendrick, did you borrow it for
me?"
"No. I talked things over with your--er--side-partner and he decided to
give it back."
"To give it back! Mr. Phillips did, you mean? But he wouldn't give it to
me. I begged him to. I should have been satisfied with half of it--my
sister's half. Indeed I should! But he said he couldn't give it to me,
he didn't have it to give. And--and you got him to give me the whole!
Cap'n Kendrick, I--I can't understand."
"You don't have to. There's your sixteen hundred. Now take it, and
before you turn in this night you get ready to send your brother-in-law
his half, and the papers that go with it, on the first mail. That's all
I ask of you, George."
"I'll have it in the post office as soon as it opens to-morrow morning.
You bet I will!"
"That's what I want to be able to bet. You send a money-order, that's
safest. And--well, yes, George, you might show me the receipt."
"I'll show it to you. You can keep it for me, if you want to."
"Seein' it will do. And one thing more: you promise me now, on your word
of honor, not to take any more of those stock market fliers for--well,
for ten years, anyhow."
Kent promised; he would have promised anything. His color had come back,
his spirits were now as high as they had been low, and he was striding
up and down the room like a mad thing.
"But how did you get it for me?" he kept demanding. The captain bade him
stop.
"Never mind how I got it," he declared. "I got it, and you've got it,
and you'll have to be satisfied with that. Don't ask me again, George."
"I won't, but--but I can't understand Mr. Phillips giving it back. He
didn't have to, you know. Say, I think it was mighty generous of him,
after all. Don't you?"
Sears's lip twitched. "It looks as if somebody was generous," he
observed. "Now run along, George, and fix up that letter to your
brother-in-law."
"I'm going to. I'm going now. But, Cap'n Kendrick, I don't know what to
say to you. I--why, great Scott, I can't begin to tell you how I feel
about what you've done! I'd cut off my head for you; honest I would."
"Cuttin' off your own head would be consider'ble of a job. Better keep
your head on, George.... And use it once in a while."
"You know what this means to me, Cap'n Kendrick. To my future and--and
maybe some one else's future, too. Why, _now_ I can go--I can say----
Oh, great Scott!"
Kendrick opened the bedroom door. "Come now, George," he said. "Good
night--and good luck."
Kent would have said more, much more, even though Judah Cahoon was
sitting, with ears and mouth open, in the kitchen. But the captain would
not let him linger or speak. He helped him on with his coat and hat,
and, with a slap on the back, literally pushed him out into the yard.
Then he turned on his heel and striding again through the kitchen
reentered the spare stateroom and closed the door behind him. Judah
shouted something about its being "not much more'n two bells"--meaning
nine o'clock--but he received no answer.
Judah did not retire until nearly eleven that night, but when, at last,
he did go to his own room, there was a light still shining under the
door of the spare stateroom and he could hear the captain's footsteps
moving back and forth, back and forth, within. For two hours he had so
heard them. Obviously the "old man" was pacing the deck, a pretty sure
sign of rough weather present or expected. Mr. Cahoon was troubled, also
disappointed. He would have liked to talk interminably concerning the
sensational news of Miss Snowden's inheritance; he had not begun to
exhaust the possibilities of that subject. Then, too, he was very
anxious to learn where Captain Sears had been all day, and why. He tried
in various ways to secure attention. But when, after singing eight
verses of the most doleful ditty in his repertoire, he was not ordered
to "shut up," was in fact ignored altogether, he quit disgusted. But, as
he closed the door of his own bedchamber, he could still hear the
regular footfalls in the spare stateroom.
Had he listened for another hour or more he would have heard them. Sears
Kendrick was tramping back and forth, his hands jammed in his pockets,
and upon his spirit the blackest and deepest and densest of clouds. It
was the reaction, of course. He was tired physically, but more tired
mentally. All day long he had been under a sharp strain, now he was
experiencing the let-down. But there was more than that. His campaign
against Egbert Phillips had kept him interested. Now the fight was over
and, although superficially he was the victor, in reality it was a
question which side had won. He had saved George Kent's money and his
good name. And Cordelia Berry's future was safe, too, although her two
thousand dollars might be, and probably were, lost. But, after all, his
was a poor sort of victory. Egbert was, doubtless, congratulating
himself and chuckling over the outcome of the battle; with thirty
thousand dollars and ease and comfort for the rest of his life, he could
afford to chuckle. Kent's happiness was sure. He could go to Elizabeth
now with clean hands and youth and hope. Perhaps he had gone to her
already. That very evening he and she might be together once more.
And for the man who had made this possible, what remained? Where were
those silly hopes with which, at one time, he had deluded himself? He
had dared to dream romance. Where was that romance now? Face to face
with reality, what was to be _his_ future? More days and weeks and years
of puttering with the penny-paring finances of a home for old women?
He dressed next morning with a mind made up. He had dallied and
deliberated and wished long enough. Now he _knew_. His stay in Bayport
was practically ended. Give him a little time and luck enough to find a
competent manager for the Fair Harbor, one with whom he believed Judge
Knowles would have been satisfied, and he was through for good. He must
play fair with the judge and then--then for the shipping offices of
Boston or New York and a berth at sea. His health was almost normal;
his battered limbs were nearly as sound as ever. He could handle a ship
and he could handle men. His fights and sacrifices for others were
finished, over and done with. Now he would fight for himself.
His breakfast appetite was poor. Judah, aghast at the sight of his
untouched plate, demanded to know if he was sick. The answer to the
question was illuminating.
"No," snapped the captain, "I'm not sick.... Yes, I am, too. I'm sick to
death of this town and this place and this landlubber's job. Judah, are
you goin' to spend the rest of your days playin' hired boy for Ogden
Minot? Or are you comin' to sea again with me? Because to sea is where
I'm goin'--and mighty quick."
Judah's mouth opened. "Hoppin' Henry!" he gasped. "Why, Cap'n Sears----"
"You don't _like_ this job, do you? Hadn't you rather have your own
galley on board a decent ship? Are you a sea-man--or a washwoman? Don't
you want to ship with me again?"
"_Want_ to! Cap'n Sears, you know I'd rather go to sea along with you
than--than be King of Rooshy. But you ain't fit to go to sea yet."
"Shut up! Don't you dare say that again. And stand by to pack your sea
chest when I give the order.... No, I don't want to argue. I won't
argue. Clear out!"
Mr. Cahoon, bewildered but obedient, cleared out. Not long afterward he
drove away on the seat of the truck wagon to haul the Bangs wood, the
task postponed from the previous day. Kendrick, left alone, lit a pipe
and resumed his pacing up and down. Later on he took pen, ink and paper
and seated himself at the table to write some letters to shipping
merchants whose vessels he had commanded in the old days, the happy days
before he gave up seafaring to become a poor imitation of a business man
on shore.
He composed these letters with care. Two were completed and the third
was under way, when some one knocked at the other door. He laid down his
pen impatiently. He did not want to be interrupted. If the visitor was
Kent he did not feel like listening to more thanks. If it was Esther
Tidditt she could unload her cargo of gossip at some other port.
But the caller was neither George nor Esther. It was Elizabeth who
entered the kitchen in answer to his command to "Come in." He rose to
greet her. She looked pale--yes, and tired, but she smiled faintly as
she bade him good morning.
"Cap'n Kendrick," she said, "are you very busy? I suppose you are,
but--but if you are not too busy I should like to talk with you for a
few minutes. May I?"
He nodded. "Of course," he said. "My business can wait a little longer;
it has waited a good while, this particular business has. Sit down."
She took the rocker. He sat at the other side of the table, waiting for
her to speak. It came to him, the thought that, the last time she had
visited that kitchen, she had left it vowing never to speak to him
again. Well, at least that was over; she no longer believed him a spy,
and all the rest of it. There was, or should be, some comfort for him in
knowing that.
Suddenly, just as she had done on the platform of the lawyer's office at
Orham, she put out her hand.
"Don't!" she pleaded.
He started, confusedly. "Don't?" he stammered. "What?"
"Don't think of--of what you were thinking. If you knew--oh, Cap'n
Kendrick, if you could only realize how wicked I feel. Even when I said
those dreadful things to you I didn't mean them. And now---- Oh,
_please_ forget them, if you can."
He drew a long breath. "I never saw any one like you," he declared. "How
did you know what I was thinkin'? ... Of course I wasn't thinkin' it,
but----"
She interrupted. "Of course you were, you mean," she said, with a faint
smile. "It isn't hard to know what you think. You don't hide your
thoughts very well, Cap'n Kendrick. They aren't the kind one needs to
hide."
He stared at her in guilty amazement. "Good land!" he ejaculated,
involuntarily. "Don't talk that way. What do you mean by that?"
"I mean that your thoughts are always straightforward and--well, honest,
like yourself.... But we mustn't waste time. I don't know when we shall
have another opportunity to be together like this, and there are some
things I must say to you. Cap'n Kendrick, you know--you have heard the
news?"
"News?... Oh, you mean about Elvira's inheritin' all that money?"
"That, of course. But that wasn't the news I meant. I mean about her
eloping with--with that man."
Troubled even as Sears was at the sight of her evident distress, he
could not but feel a thrill of satisfaction at the tone in which she
referred to "that man." He nodded.
"I've heard it," he said. "I guess likely I was about the first
Bayporter that did hear it. When did you hear?"
"A little while ago. He wrote--he wrote my mother a letter. It was at
the post office this morning."
"He did? He _didn't_! The low-lived scamp!"
"Hush! Don't talk about him. Yes, he wrote her. _Such_ a letter! She
showed it to me. So full of hypocrisy, and lies and--oh, can't you
imagine what it was?"
Kendrick's right fist tapped the table gently. "I guess likely I can,"
he said, grimly. "Well, some of these days I may run afoul of Egbert
again. When I do----" The fist closed a little tighter.
"You won't touch him. Promise me you won't. If you should, I---- Oh,
dear! I think I should be afraid to touch your hands afterwards."
Sears smiled. "It might be safer to use my boot," he admitted. "Your
mother--how is she?"
"Can't you imagine? I think--I hope it is her pride that is hurt more
than anything. For some little time--well, ever since I found out that
she was lending him money--I have done my best to make her see what he
really is. But before that--oh, there is no use pretending, for you
know--she was insane about him. And now, with the shock and the
disillusionment and the shame, she is---- Oh, it is dreadful!"
"Do the--er--rest of 'em over there know it yet?"
"No, but they will very soon. And when they do! You know what some of
them are, what they will say. We can't stay there, mother and I. We must
go away--and we will."
She was crying, and if ever a man yearned for the role of comforter,
Sears Kendrick was that man. He tried to say something, but he was
afraid to trust his own tongue; it might run away with him. And before
his attempt was at all coherent, she went on.
"Don't mind me," she said, hastily wiping her eyes. "I am nervous, and I
have been through a bad hour, and--and I am acting foolishly, of course.
I know that this is, in a way, the very best thing that could happen.
This ends it, so far as mother is concerned. Oh, it might have been _so_
much worse! It looked as if it were going to be. Now she _knows_ what he
is. I have known it, or been almost sure of it, for a long time. And you
must have known it always, from the beginning. That is a part of what I
came here for this morning. Please tell me how you knew and--and all
about everything."
So he told her, beginning with what Judge Knowles had said concerning
Lobelia's husband, and continuing on to the end. She listened intently.
"Yes," she said. "I see. I wish you could have told me at first. I think
if I had known exactly how Judge Knowles felt I might not have been so
foolish. But I should have known--I should have seen for myself. Of
course I should. To think that I ever believed in such a creature, and
trusted him, and permitted him to influence me against--against a friend
like you. Oh, I must have been crazy!"
Kendrick shook his head. "No craziness about that," he declared. "I've
seen some smooth articles in my time, seen 'em afloat and ashore, from
one end of this world to the other, but of all the slick ones he was
the slickest. It's a good thing the judge warned me before Egbert
crossed my bows. If he hadn't--well, I don't know; _I_ might have been
lendin' him my last dollar, and proud of the chance--you can't tell....
I'm sorry, though," he added, "that he got those bonds of your mother's.
Borrowed 'em of her, you say?"
"Yes. He was going to make better investments for her, I believe he
said. But that doesn't make any difference. She has no receipts or
anything to show. And of course if she should try to get them again
there would be dreadful gossip, all sorts of things said. No, the bonds
are gone and ... But how did you know about the bonds, Cap'n Kendrick?"
Sears had momentarily forgotten. He had, during his story of his war
with Phillips, carefully avoided mentioning Kent's trouble. He had told
of chasing Egbert to Denboro, but the particular reason for the pursuit
he had not told. He was taken aback and embarrassed.
"Why--why----" he stammered.
But she answered her own question. "Of course!" she cried. "I know how
you knew. George said that--that that man had used some bonds as a part
of their stock speculation. I didn't think then of mother's bonds. That
is what he did with them. I see."
The captain looked at her. Kent had told her of the C. M. deal. That
meant that he had seen her, that already he had gone to her, to confess,
to beg her pardon, to ... He sighed. Well, he should be glad, of course.
He must pretend to be very glad.
"So--so you've seen George?" he stammered.
She colored slightly. "Yes," she answered. "He came to see me last
evening.... Cap'n Kendrick you should hear him speak of you. You saved
him from disgrace--and worse, he says. It was a wonderful thing to do.
But I think you must be in the habit of doing wonderful things for other
people."
He shrugged his shoulders. "Nothin' very wonderful about it," he said.
"George is a good boy. He hadn't bumped into any Egberts before, that's
all. He'll be on the lookout for 'em now. I'm glad for him--and for
you."
If she understood what he meant she did not show any embarrassment.
"I don't know that you need be so glad for me," she said. "Yet in a way
I am glad. The problem is settled now, mother's and mine. She and I will
go away."
"Go away? From the Fair Harbor?"
"Yes, and from Bayport. She has a little money left. Thanks to Judge
Knowles, I have some of my own. She and I can live on the interest for a
time, or until I can find a way to earn more."
"But--but--George?"
"I think George is going away, too. He spoke of Boston. But there is
another thing I meant to say to you. I hate to leave you with the entire
care of the Fair Harbor on your hands. I shall try and help you to find
another matron before we go."
Sears rose from his chair. "That's all right," he said, "that part of
it. We'll try and find another outside manager at the same time. You
see, you and your mother aren't the only ones who are quittin' Bayport.
I'm goin', too."
She turned to look at him. "_You_ are going?" she repeated, slowly.
"Where?"
"I don't know exactly. To sea, I hope. I'm well again, or next door to
it. I mean to command another ship, if such a thing's possible."
"But you are leaving the Fair Harbor. Why?"
He turned on her almost fiercely. "Why?" he cried. "Don't you know why?
Because I'm a man--or I was one--and I want to be a man again. On shore,
I'm--well, I'm a good deal of a failure, I guess; but on salt water I
count for somethin'. I'm goin' to sea where I belong."
He strode to the window and stood there, looking out. He heard her rise,
heard her step beside him. Then he felt her hand upon his.
"I'm glad for you," she said, simply. "Very, very glad. I wish I were a
man and could go, too."
He did not look at her, he did not dare.
"It's a rough life," he said, "but I like it."
"I know.... So you will soon be really seeing again those things you
told me about, the foreign cities and the people and those islands--and
all the wonderful, wonderful places. And you won't have to fret about
the grocery bills, or the mean little Fair Harbor gossip, or anything of
the kind. You can just sail away and forget it all."
"I shan't forget it all. There's a lot I never want to forget."
There was an interval of silence here, an interval that, to the captain,
seemed to last for ages. It must be broken, it must be or....
"I shall think of you and George often enough," he announced, briskly.
"Yes, indeed. And--and if it isn't too soon--that is, if you don't mind
my bein' the first one--I'd like to congratulate you and wish you a
smooth passage and a long one."
She did not answer and he mustered courage to turn and look at her. She
was looking at him and her expression was odd.
"A smooth passage?" she repeated. "Why, Cap'n Kendrick, I'm not going to
sea. What do you mean?"
"I mean--well, I meant--er--oh, I was speakin' in parables, like a
minister, you know. I was wishin' you and George a happy voyage through
life, that's all."
"George! Why, I am going away with my mother. George isn't.... Why,
Cap'n Kendrick, you don't think--you can't think that George and I
are--are----"
"Eh? Aren't you? I thought----"
She shook her head. "I told you once," she said. "I mean it. I like
George well enough--sometimes I like him better than at others. But--oh,
why can't you believe me?"
He was staring at her with a gaze so intent, an expression so strange
that she could not meet it. She turned away.
"Please don't say any more about it," she begged.
"But--but George is--he has counted on it. He told me----"
"Don't. I don't know what he told you. I hope nothing foolish. He and I
understand each other. Last night, when he came, I told him ... There, I
must go, Cap'n Kendrick. I have left mother alone too long already."
"Wait!" he shouted it. "You mean ... You aren't goin' to marry George
Kent--_ever_?"
"Why, no, of course not!"
"Elizabeth--oh, my soul, I--I'm crazy, I guess--but--Elizabeth, could
you---- No, you couldn't, I know.... But _am_ I crazy? Could you--do
you--Elizabeth, if you ... _Stop_!"
She was on her way to the door.
He sprang after her, caught her hand.
"Elizabeth," he cried, the words tumbling over each other, "I'm
thirty-eight years old. I'm a sailor, that's all. I'm not much of a man,
as men go maybe, sort of a failure so far. But--with you to work for and
live for, I--I guess I could be--I feel as if I could be almost
anything. Could you give me that chance? Could you?"
She did not answer; did not even look at him. He dropped her hand.
"Of course not," he sighed. "Just craziness was what it was. Forgive me,
my girl. And--forget it, if you can."
She did not speak. Slowly, and still without looking at him, she walked
out of the kitchen. The outer door closed behind her. He put his hand to
his eyes, breathed deeply, and returning to the chair by the table, sat
heavily down.
"A failure," he groaned aloud. "Lord Almighty, _what_ a failure!"
He had not heard the door open, but he did hear her step, and felt her
arms about his neck and her kiss upon his cheek.
"Don't, don't, don't!" she sobbed. "Oh, my dear, don't say that. Don't
ever say it again. Oh, you mustn't."
And he did not. For the next half hour he said many other things, and
so did she, and when at last she did go away, he stood in the doorway,
looking after her, knowing himself to be not a failure, but the one real
overwhelming success in all this gloriously successful world.