CAPTAIN JOE’S TELEGRAM
The morning after Betty’s visit to Sanford’s apartments, Captain Joe
was seen hurrying up the shore road at Keyport toward his cottage. His
eyes shone with excitement, and his breath came in short, quick puffs.
He wore his rough working-clothes, and held a yellow envelope in his
hand. When he reached the garden gate he swung it open with so mighty
a jerk that the sound of the dangling ball and chain thumping against
the palings brought Aunty Bell running to the porch.
“Sakes alive, Cap’n Joe!” she exclaimed, following him into the
kitchen, “whatever’s the matter? Ain’t nobody hurted, is there?”
“There will be ef I don’t git to New York purty quick. Mr. Sanford’s
got Betty, an’ them Leroy folks is a-keepin’ on her till I git there.”
Aunty Bell sank into a chair, her hands twisted in her apron, the
tears starting in her eyes.
“Who says so?”
“Telegram—come in the night,” he answered, almost breathless,
throwing the yellow envelope into her lap. “Git me a clean shirt quick
as God’ll let ye. I ain’t got but ten minutes to catch that eight-ten
train.”
“But ye ain’t a-goin’ till ye see Caleb, be ye? He won’t like it,
maybe, if”—
“Don’t ye stop there talkin’, Aunty Bell. Do as I tell ye,” he said,
stripping off his suspenders and tugging at his blue flannel shirt. “I
ain’t a-goin’ to stop for nobody nor nothin’. That little gal’s
fetched up hard jes’ where I knowed she would, an’ I won’t have a
minute’s peace till I git my hands onto her. I ain’t slep’ a night
since she left, an’ you know it.”
“How do ye know she’ll come with ye?” asked Aunty Bell, as she gave
him his shirt. Her hands were trembling.
“I ain’t a-worritin’,” he answered, thrusting his head and big chest
into the stiff garment; fumbling, as he spoke, with his brown hands,
for the buttons. “Gimme that collar.”
“Well, I’m kind’er wonderin’ if ye hadn’t better let Caleb know. I
don’t know what Caleb’ll say”—
“I ain’t a-carin’ what Caleb says. I’ll stop that leak when I git to
't.” He held his breath for a moment and clutched the porcelain button
with his big fingers, trying to screw it into his collar, as if it had
been a nut on a bolt. “Here, catch hold o’ this button; it’s so plaguy
tight. No,—I don’t want no toothbrush, nor nothin’. I wouldn’t ’er
come home at all, but I was so gormed up, an’ she’s along with them
Leroy folks Mr. Sanford knows. My—my”—he continued, forcing his
great arms through the tight sleeves of his Sunday coat with a humping
motion of his back, and starting toward the door. “Jes’ to think o’
Betty wanderin’ ’bout them streets at night!”
“Why, ye ain’t got no cravat on, Cap’n Joe!” called Aunty Bell,
running after him, tie in hand, to the porch.
“Here, give it to me!” he cried, snatching it and cramming it into his
pocket. “I’ll fix it on the train.” In another moment he was halfway
down the plank walk, waving his hand, shouting back over his shoulder,
“Send word to Cap’n Bob to load them other big stone an’ git ’em to
the Ledge to-day; the wind’s goin’ to haul to the south’ard. I’ll be
back ’bout eight o’clock to-night.”
Aunty Bell looked after his hurrying figure until the trees shut it
from view; then, gasping with excitement, angry with herself for
having asked so little, she reëntered the kitchen and again dropped
into a chair.
Betty’s flight had been a sore blow to the bustling little wife. She
had been the last to believe that Betty had really deserted Caleb for
Lacey, even after Captain Joe had told her how the mate of the
Greenport boat had seen them board the New York train together.
As for the captain, he had gone about his work with his mind filled
with varying emotions: sympathy for Caleb, sorrow and mortification
over Betty’s fall, and bitter, intense, dangerous hatred of Lacey.
These were each in turn, as they assailed her, consumed by a never
ending hunger to get the child home again, that she might begin the
undoing of her fatal step. To him she was still the little girl he
used to meet on the road, with her hair in a tangle about her head,
her books under her arm. As he had never fully realized, even when she
married Caleb, that anything had increased her responsibilities, or
that she could be anything but the child she looked,—so he could not
now escape the conviction that somehow or other “she’d been hoodooed,”
as he expressed it, and that when she came to herself her very soul
would cry out in bitter agony.
Every day since her flight he had been early and late at the telegraph
office, and had directed Bert Simmons, the letter-carrier on the shore
road, to hunt him up wherever he might be,—on the dock or aboard his
boat,—should a letter come bearing his name. The telegram, therefore,
was not a surprise. That Sanford should have found her was what he
could not understand.
Aunty Bell, with the big secret weighing at her heart, busied herself
about the house, so as to make the hours pass quickly. She was more
conservative and less impulsive in many things than the captain; that
is, she was apt to consider the opinions of her neighbors, and shape
her course accordingly, unless stopped by one of her husband’s
outbursts and won over to his way of thinking. The captain knew no law
but his own emotions, and his innate sense of right and wrong
sustained by his indomitable will and courage. If the other folks
didn’t like it, the other folks had to get out of the way; he went
straight on.
“Ain’t nobody goin’ to have nothin’ to do with Betty, if she does git
tired of Lacey an’ wants to come home, poor child,” Aunty Bell had
said to Captain Joe only the night before, as they sat together at
supper. “Them Nevins gals was sayin’ yesterday they’d pass her on the
road and wouldn’t speak to her, not if they see her starvin’, and was
a-goin’ on awful about it; and Mis’ Taft said”—
The captain raised his head quickly. “Jane Bell,”—when the captain
called Aunty Bell “Jane” the situation was serious,—“I ain’t got
nothin’ to do with them Nevins gals, nor Mis’ Taft, nor nobody else,
and you ain’t got nothin’, neither. Ain’t we hed this child runnin’ in
an’ out here jes’ like a kitten ever since we been here? Don’t you
know clean down in yer heart that there ain’t no better gal ever lived
'n Betty? Ain’t we all liable to go ’stray, and ain’t we all of us so
dirt mean that if we had our hatches off there ain’t nobody who see
our cargo would speak to us? Now don’t let me hear no more about folks
passin’ her by. I ain’t a-goin’ to pass her by, and you ain’t,
neither, if them Nevins gals and old Mother Taft and the whole kit and
caboodle of ’em walks on t’other side.”
She remembered the very sound of these words, as she rested for a
moment, rocking to and fro, in the kitchen, after the captain had
gone, her fat little feet swinging clear of the floor. She could even
hear the tone of his voice, and could see the flashing of his eye. The
remembrance gave her courage. She wanted some one to come in, that she
might put on the captain’s armor and fight for the child herself.
She had not long to wait. Mrs. Taft was already coming up the
walk,—for dinner, perhaps. Carleton was walking beside her. They had
met at the gate.
“I heard the captain had to go to New York, Aunty Bell, and so I
thought maybe you’d be alone,” said Mrs. Taft, taking off her bonnet.
“No news from the runaway, I suppose? Ain’t it dreadful? She’s the
last girl in the world I would ’a’ thought of doing a thing like
that.”
“We ain’t none of us perfect, Mis’ Taft. Take a chair, Mr. Carleton.
If we was, we could most of us stay here; there wouldn’t be no use o’
heaven.”
“But, Aunty Bell!” exclaimed the visitor, “you surely don’t
think—Why, it’s awful for Betty to go and do what she did”—
“I ain’t judgin’ nobody, Mis’ Taft. I ain’t a-blamin’ Betty, an’ I
ain’t a-blamin’ Caleb. I’m only thinkin’ of all the sufferin’ that
poor child’s got to go through now, an’ what a mean world this is for
her to have to live in.”
“Serves the old man right for marrying a girl young enough to be his
daughter,” said Carleton, with a laugh, tilting back his chair,—his
favorite attitude. “I made up my mind the first day I saw her that she
was a little larky. She’s been fooling West all summer,—anybody could
see that.” He had not forgiven the look in Caleb’s eye that afternoon
aboard the Screamer. “When ’s the captain coming home?”
Aunty Bell looked at the superintendent, her lips curling, as the
hard, dry laugh rang in her ears. She had never fancied him, and she
liked him less now than ever. Her first impulse was to give him a
piece of her mind,—an indigestible morsel when served hot. Then she
remembered that her husband was having some difficulty with him about
the acceptance of the concrete disk, and so her temper, chilled by
this more politic second thought, cooled down and stiffened into a
frigid determination not to invite him to dinner if she ate nothing
herself all day.
“Cap’n 'll be here in the mornin’,” she answered curtly. “Got any
message for him?”
“Yes. Tell him I was out to the Ledge yesterday with my transit, and
the concrete is too low by six inches near the southeast derrick. It’s
got to come up to grade before I can certify. I thought I’d come in
and tell him,—he wanted to know.”
The door opened, and the tall form of Captain Bob Brandt, the
Screamer’s skipper, entered.
“Excuse me, Mis’ Bell,” he said, removing his hat and bowing
good-humoredly to everybody. “I saw ye pass, Mr. Carleton, an’ I
wanted to tell ye that we’re ready now to h’ist sail fur the Ledge. We
got 'leven stone on. Caleb ain’t workin’ this week, an’ one o’ the
other divers’s a-goin’ to set ’em. Guess it’s all right; the worst is
all done. Will you go out with us, or trust me to git ’em right?”
“Well, where are you going to put ’em?” asked Carleton in his voice of
authority.
“Las’ time Caleb was down, sir, he said he wanted four more stone near
the boat-landin’, in about twelve foot o’ water, to finish that row;
then we kin begin another layer nex’ to ’em, if ye say so. S’pose you
know Cap’n Joe ain’t here?—gone to New York. Will you go with us?”
“No; you set ’em. I’ll come out in the tug in the morning and drop a
rod on ’em, and if they’re not right you’ll have to take 'em up again.
That concrete’s out of level, you know.”
“What concrete?”
“Why, the big circular disk,” snapped Carleton.
This was only another excuse of Carleton’s for refusing to sign the
certificate. The engineer had postponed his visit, and so this fresh
obstruction was necessary to maintain his policy of delay.
“Not when I see it, sir, three days ago,” said Captain Brandt in
surprise. “It was dead low water, an’ the tide jest touched the edges
of the outer band all round even.”
“Well, I guess I know,” retorted the superintendent, flaring up. “I
was out there yesterday with a level, an’ walked all over it.”
“Must’er got yer feet wet, then, sir,” said the skipper, with a laugh,
as he turned toward the door. “The tide’s been from eight inches to a
foot higher ’n usual for three days past; it’s full-moon tides.”
During the talk Aunty Bell and Mrs. Taft had slipped into the
sitting-room, and the superintendent, finding himself alone, called to
the skipper, and joined him on the garden walk.
As the afternoon hours wore on, and no other callers came in,—Mrs.
Taft having gone,—Aunty Bell brought a big basket, filled with an
assortment of yarn stockings of varied stains and repairs, out to a
chair on the porch, and made believe to herself that she was putting
them in order for the captain when he should need a dry pair. Now and
then she would stop, her hand in the rough stocking, her needle
poised, her mind going back to the days when she first moved to
Keyport, and this curly-haired girl from the fishing-village a mile or
more away had won her heart. Since the death of that baby girl of long
ago, Betty, somehow, had filled day by day all the deep corners of the
sore heart, still aching from this earlier sorrow. When the girl’s
mother died, a few months after Betty’s marriage, Aunty Bell had
thrown a shawl over her head, and, going to Caleb’s cabin, had mounted
the stairs to Betty’s little room and shut the door. With infinite
tenderness she had drawn the girl’s head down on her own bosom, and
had poured out to her all the mother’s love she had in her own heart,
and had told her of that daughter of her dreams. Betty had not
forgotten it, and among all those she knew on the shore road she loved
Aunty Bell the best. There were few days in the week—particularly in
the summer, when Caleb was away—that she was not doing something for
Aunty Bell, her bright face and merry, ringing laugh filling the house
and the little woman’s life,—an infectious, bubbling, girlish laugh
that made it a delight to be with her.
But a fresh thought, like a draft from an open door, rushed into Aunty
Bell’s mind with a force that sent a shiver through her tender heart,
and chilled every kind impulse. Suppose Caleb should turn his back on
this girl wife of his. What then? Ought she to take her to her heart
and brave it out with the neighbors? What sort of an example was it to
other young women along the shore, Aunty Bell’s world? Could they,
too, run off with any young fellows they met, and then come home and
be forgiven? It was all very well for the captain,—he never stopped
to think about these things,—that was his way; but what was
_her_ duty in the matter? Would it not be better in the end for
Betty if she were made to realize her wrong-doing, and to suffer for
it?
These alternating memories and perplexities absorbed her as she sat on
the porch, the stockings in her lap, her mind first on one course of
action and then on another, until some tone of Betty’s voice, or the
movement of her hand, or the toss of her head came back, and with it
the one intense, overwhelming desire to help and comfort the child she
loved.
When it began to grow dark she lighted the lamp in the front room, and
made herself a cup of tea in the kitchen. Every few minutes she
glanced at the clock, her ears alert for the whistle of the incoming
train. Losing confidence even in the clock, she again took her seat on
the porch, her arms on the rail, her plump chin resting on her hands,
straining her eyes to see far down the road.
When the signaling whistle of the train was heard, the long-drawn
sound reverberating over the hills, she ran to the gate, and stood
there, her apron thrown over her head. Soon a carriage passed, filled
with summer visitors, their trunks piled in front, and drove on up the
road. Then a man carrying a bag hurried by with two women, their arms
full of bundles. After that the road was deserted. These appeared to
be all the passengers coming her way. As the minutes dragged, and no
sound of footsteps reached her ear, and no big burly figure with a
slender girl beside it loomed against the dim light of the fading sky,
her courage failed and her eyes began to grow moist. She saw it all
now: Betty dared not come home and face Caleb and the others!
Suddenly she heard her name called from inside the house, and again
from the kitchen door.
“Aunty Bell! Aunty Bell! where be ye?”
It was the captain’s voice: he must have left the train at the
drawbridge and crossed lots, coming in at the rear gate.
She hurried up the plank walk, and met him at the kitchen door. He was
leaning against the jamb. It was too dark to see his face. A dreadful
sense of some impending calamity overcame her.
“Where’s Betty?” she faltered, scarcely able to speak.
The captain pointed inside.
The little woman pushed past him into the darkening room. For a moment
she stood still, her eyes fixed on Betty’s slender, drooping figure
and bowed head, outlined against the panes of the low window.
“Betty!” she cried, running forward with outstretched arms.
The girl did not move.
“Betty—my child!” Aunty Bell cried again, taking the weeping woman in
her arms.
Then, with smothered kisses and halting, broken speech, these two—the
forgiving and the forgiven—sank to the floor.
Outside, on a bench by the door, sat the captain, rocking himself,
bringing his hands down on his knees, and with every seesaw repeating
in a low tone to himself, “She’s home. She’s home.”