country, when they have a reason for it, still believe that Sunday comes
to an end, that the grocery boat left her pier with Captain Jabez,
Abner, Walkirk, and me on board. There was nothing at all exhilarating
in this expedition. I wanted to go rapidly, and I knew we should go
slowly. I had passed a dull day, waiting for the time to start, and, to
avoid thinking of the slow progress we should make, I soon turned in.
I woke very early, and went on deck. I do not know that I can remember a
more disagreeable morning. It was day, but the sun was not up; it was
not cloudy, but there was a filmy uncertainty about the sky that was
more unpleasant than the clouds. The air was cold, raw, and oppressive.
There was no one on deck but Abner, and he was at the wheel, which, on
account of the grocery store occupying so large a portion of the after
part of the vessel, was placed well forward. Only a jib and mainsail
were set, and as I came on deck these were fluttering and sagging, as
Abner carefully brought the vessel round. Now I saw that we were
floating slowly toward the end of a long pier, and that we were going to
land.
As I leaned over the side of the vessel, I did not wonder that Captain
Jabez thought Sanpritchit was not much of a place to do business in.
There were few houses, perhaps a dozen, scattered here and there along a
low shore, which rose, at one end of the place, into a little bluff,
behind which I saw a mast or two. On the pier was a solitary man, and he
was the only living being in sight. It was that dreary time before
breakfast, when everything that seems cheerless is more cheerless,
everything that is sad more sad, everything that is discouraging more
discouraging, and which right-minded persons who are able to do so spend
in bed.
Gradually the vessel approached the pier, and Abner, to whom I had not
yet spoken, for I did not feel in the least like talking, left the
wheel, and, as soon as he was near enough, threw a small line to the man
on the pier, who caught it, pulling ashore a cable with a loop in the
end, threw the latter over a post, and in a few minutes the grocery boat
was moored. The man came on board, and he and Abner went below.
It was too early to go on shore, for nothing could be done at that
bleak, unearthly hour; but I was in that state of nervous disquietude
when any change is a relief, and I stepped ashore. I was glad to put my
feet upon the pier. Now I felt that I was my own master. It was too soon
to go on board the yacht, but I could regulate my movements as I
pleased, and was very willing to be alone during the hour or two in
which I must remain inactive.
I walked over the loose and warped planks of the pier, the dull water
rippling and flopping about the timbers beneath me, inhaling that faint
smell of the quiet water and soaked logs, which is always a little
dispiriting to me even at less dispiriting hours. The crowing of one or
two cocks made me understand how dreadfully still everything was. The
stillness of the very early morning is quite different from that of the
night. During the latter people are asleep, and may be presumed to be
happy. In the former they are about to wake up and be miserable. That,
at least, was my notion, as I walked into the little village.
Not a creature did I see; not a sound did I hear except my own
footsteps. Presently I saw a cat run around the corner of a house, and
this was a relief. I walked on past a wide space, in which there were no
houses, when I came to a small, irregularly built white house, in front
of which hung a sign bearing the inscription "Central Hotel." If
anything could have made me more disgusted with the world than I then
was, it was this sign. If the name of this miserable little country
tavern had been anything suitable to itself and the place, if it had
been called The Plough and Harrow, The Gray Horse, or even The Blue
Devil, I think I should have been glad to see it. A village inn might
have been a point of interest to me, but Central Hotel in this mournful
settlement of small farmers and fishermen,--it was ridiculous!
However, the door of the house was open, and inside was a man sweeping
the sanded floor. When he saw me, he stopped his work and stared at me.
"Good-mornin'," he said. "Don't often see strangers here so airly. Did
ye come on the grocery boat? I saw her puttin' in. Do ye want a room?
Time for a good nap before breakfast."
I answered that I did not want a room, but the remark about breakfast
made me feel that I should like a cup of coffee, and perhaps I might get
it here. It might have been a more natural thing to go back to the boat
and ask Abner to make me the coffee, but I did not want to go back to
the boat. I did not want to wake Walkirk. I did not want to have him
with me on shore. I did not want to have him talk to me. My present
intention was to go to the yacht as soon as it was reasonable to suppose
that its passengers were awake, to see Mrs. Raynor, and say to her what
I had to say. I did not feel in the proper spirit for this; but, in the
spirit in which I found myself, the less I was trammeled by advice, by
suggestions of prudence, and all that sort of thing, the better it would
be for me. So I was very glad that my under-study was asleep on the
grocery boat, and hoped that he would remain in that condition until I
had had my talk with Sylvia's mother.
I put my request to the man and he smiled. "Ye can't get no coffee," he
said, "until breakfast time, and that's pretty nigh two hours off. There
is people in the place that have breakfast earlier than we do, but we
keep boarders, ye know. We've only got Captain Fluke now, but generally
have more; and ye couldn't ask a man like Captain Fluke to git up to his
breakfast before half past seven. Then ye don't want yer baggage sent
fur? Perhaps ye've come ter see friends, an' it's a little airly ter
drop in on 'em? Come in, any way, and take a seat."
I accepted the invitation. Sitting indoors might possibly be less dreary
than walking out-of-doors.
"Now I tell ye what ye ought to do," continued the man. "Ye ought to
take a nip of whiskey with some bitters in it. It's always kinder damp
airly in the mornin', and ye must feel it more, bein' in a strange
place. I've always thought a strange place was damper, airly in the
mornin', than a place ye're used ter; and there's nothin' like whiskey
with a little bitters to get out dampness."
I declined to partake of any Central Hotel whiskey, adding that the one
refreshment I now needed was a cup of coffee.
"But there's no fire in the kitchen," said he, "and there won't be for
ever so long. That's how whiskey comes in so handy; don't have to have
no fire. Ye jes' pour it out and drink it, and there's the end of it."
"Not always," I remarked.
"Ye're right there," said he, with a smile. "A good deal depends on how
much ye pour." He turned away, but stopped suddenly. "Look here," said
he; "if ye say so, I'll make ye a cup of coffee. I've got an alcohol
lamp up there that I can boil water with in no time. I'm out of alcohol,
but, if you'll pay for it, I'll fill the lamp with whiskey; that'll burn
just as well."
I willingly agreed to his proposition, and the man immediately
disappeared into the back part of the house.
I sat and looked about the little bar-room, in which there was
absolutely nothing of the quaint interest which one associates with a
country inn. It was a bare, cold, hard, sandy, dirty room; its air
tainted with the stale odors of whiskey, sugar, and wood still wet from
its morning mopping. In less than fifteen minutes the man placed before
me a cup of coffee and some soda biscuit. The coffee was not very good,
but it was hot, and when I had finished it I felt like another man.
"There now," cried the bar-keeper, looking at me with great
satisfaction, "don't that take the dampness out of ye? I tell ye there's
no such stiffener in the airly mornin' as whiskey; and if ye don't use
it in one way, ye can in another."
Truly the world seemed warmer and more cheerful; the sun was brighter.
Perhaps now it was not too early to go on board the yacht. At any rate,
I would go near where she lay, and judge for myself. I made inquiries of
the innkeeper in regard to Mrs. Raynor's yacht.
"Yacht!" he said. "There's no yacht here."
"You must be mistaken!" I cried. "A yacht belonging to Mrs. Raynor
sailed for Sanpritchit on Saturday, and it was not to leave here until
this morning."
"Sanpritchit!" he exclaimed. "This is not Sanpritchit."
"What do you mean?" I asked in amazement. "That boat was bound direct
for Sanpritchit."
"Captain Jabe's boat?" said the man. "Yes, and so she is. She sails fur
Sanpritchit every Monday mornin', and generally stops here when she's
got any freight ter leave fur the store, though I never knowed her ter
come so airly in the mornin'."
"My conscience!" I exclaimed. "I must get on board of her."
"Aboard of her!" said he. "She's been gone more 'n half an hour. She
don't often stop here more 'n ten minutes, if she's got the tide with
her, which she had this mornin', strong."
XXXV.
MONEY MAKES THE MARE GO.
I rushed out of the Central Hotel, and looked over the water, but I
could see nothing of the grocery boat: she had disappeared beyond the
bluff, behind which I had stupidly taken it for granted Mrs. Raynor's
yacht was lying.
"Oh, she's clean gone," said the bar-keeper, who had joined me, "an'
she's not likely to come back ag'in' wind an' tide. They must have
thought you was asleep in your berth."
This was undoubtedly the truth, for there was no reason to suppose that
any one on the boat knew I had gone on shore.
"Where can I get a boat to follow them?" I cried.
"Can't say exactly," said the man. "We've got a big catboat, but she's
on the stocks gettin' a new stern post put in. You can see her mast
stickin' up over the bluff, there. I don't think there's any other
sailboat in the place jes' now, and Captain Fluke's havin' his fresh
painted. I told him it was a bad time o' the year to do it in; but he's
Captain Fluke, and that's all there's to say about it. There's rowboats;
but Sanpritchit's eight miles from here, and it's a putty long pull
there and back, and I don't know anybody here who'd care to take it. If
ye want to go to Sanpritchit, ye ought to go in a wagon. That's lots the
easiest way."
"Where can I get a horse and vehicle?" I asked quickly, so much enraged
with myself that I was glad to have some one to direct my movements.
"That's more 'n I know, jes' this minute," said the man; "but if ye'll
step inside and sit down, I'll go and ask 'em at the store what they can
do fur ye. If it ain't open yet, I'll know where ter find 'em. If
anybody comes along for a mornin' drink, jes' tell 'em to wait a minute,
and I'll be back."
In about fifteen or twenty minutes the bar-keeper returned, and
announced that I could not hire the horse at the store, for one of his
hind shoes was off, and they wanted to use him any way. He had asked two
or three other people, also, for the village was waking up by this time,
but none of them could let me have a horse.
"But I'll tell ye what ye can do," said the man, "if ye choose to wait
here a little while. The boss of this house went over to Stipbitts last
night to see his mother, and I expect him back putty soon, and I guess
he'll let ye have his hoss. Ye see the people about here ain't used to
hiring hosses, and we is. People as keeps hotels is expected to do it."
There was nothing for me to do but to wait for the return of the
landlord of Central Hotel; and for very nearly an hour I walked up and
down the main street of that wretched little hamlet, the name of which I
neither heard nor asked, cursing my own stupidity and the incapacity of
the waterside rustic.
When the "boss" arrived he was willing to let me have his mare and his
buckboard, and a boy to drive me; but the animal must be fed first, and
of course I would not start off without my breakfast. As I had to wait,
and the morning meal was almost ready, I partook of it; but the mare
gave a great deal more time to her breakfast than I gave to mine. I
hurried the preparations as much as I could, and shortly after eight
o'clock we started. My little expedition had the features of a useless
piece of trouble, but I had carefully considered the affair, and
concluded that I had a good chance of success. Almost any horse could
take me eight miles in an hour and a half, even with poor roads, and,
from what I knew of the industrial methods of this part of the country,
I did not believe that the necessary supplies would be put on the yacht
before half past nine: therefore, I did not allow myself to doubt that I
should reach Sanpritchit in time to see Mrs. Raynor.
The mare was a very deliberate traveler, and the boy who sat beside me
was an easily satisfied driver.
"We must go faster than this," said I, after we had reached what
appeared to be a highroad, "or I shall not get to Sanpritchit in time to
attend to my business there."
"Ye can't drive a hoss too fast when ye first set out," answered the
boy. "Ye'll hurt a hoss if ye do that. After a little while she'll warm
up, and then she'll go better. Oh, she can go if she's a mind ter. She's
a rattler when she really gets goin'."
"I don't want her to rattle," said I; "but what is her ordinary rate of
travel,--how many miles an hour, do you suppose?"
"Don't know as I ever counted," the boy said. "Some miles she goes
faster, and some miles she goes slower. A good deal depends on whether
it's uphill or downhill."
"Well," said I, taking out my watch, "we must keep her up to six miles
an hour, at least, and then we shall do the eight miles by half past
nine, with something to spare."
"Eight miles!" repeated the boy. "Eight miles to where?"
"Sanpritchit," replied I. "That's what they told me."
"Oh, that's by water," said the driver; "but this road's got to go
around the end of the bay, and after that 'way round the top of the big
marsh, and that makes it a good seventeen miles to Sanpritchit. Half
past nine! Why, the boss told me, if I didn't get there before twelve, I
must stop somewhere and water the mare and give her some oats. I've got
a bag of them back there."
I sat dumb. Of course, with this conveyance, and seventeen miles between
me and Sanpritchit, it was absurd to suppose that I could get there
before the yacht sailed. It was ridiculous to go an inch farther on such
a tedious and useless journey.
"Boy," I asked, "where is the nearest railroad station?"
"Stipbitts," said he.
"How far?"
"Five miles."
"Take me there," I said.
The boy looked at me in surprise. "I can't do that. I was told to take
you to Sanpritchit: that's where I'm goin', and I'm goin' to bring back
a box belongin' to Captain Fluke. That's what I 'in goin' to do."
"I cannot get there in time," I said. "I didn't know it was so far. Take
me to Stipbitts, and I will give you a dollar; then you can go along and
attend to Captain Fluke's box. I have already paid for the drive to
Sanpritchit."
"Have you got as much as a dollar and a half about you?" asked the boy.
I replied that I had.
"All right," said he; "give me that, and I'll take you to Stipbitts."
The bargain was struck, I was taken to Stipbitts, and an hour afterward
I was on my way to my home at Arden.
There was one very satisfactory feature about this course of action: it
was plain and simple, and needed no planning. To attempt to follow the
yacht would be useless. To wait anywhere for Walkirk would be equally
so. He would be more apt to find me at my home than anywhere else. It
was his business to find me, and there was no doubt that he would do it.
I did not like to defer my intended interview with Mrs. Raynor, but it
could not be helped. And as for Sylvia, if she had resolved to return to
the House of Martha, the best place for me was the neighborhood of that
institution.
XXXVI.
IN THE SHADE OF THE OAK.
I found my home at Arden very empty and dreary. The servants did not
expect me, my grandmother had not returned, and the absence of Walkirk
added much to my dissatisfaction with the premises.
I was never a man who could sit down and wait for things to happen, and
I felt now that it was absolutely necessary that I should do something,
that I should talk to somebody; and accordingly, on the morning after my
arrival, I determined to walk over to the House of Martha and talk to
Mother Anastasia. For a man to consult with the Mother Superior of a
religious institution about his love affairs was certainly an uncommon
proceeding, with very prominent features of inappropriateness; but this
did not deter me, for, apart from the fact that there was no one else to
talk to, I considered that Mother Anastasia owed me some advice and
explanation, and without hesitation I went to ask for it.
When I reached the House of Martha, and made known my desire to speak to
the head of the institution, I was ushered into a room which was barer
and harder than I had supposed, from Walkirk's description of it. It did
not even contain the religious pictures or the crucifixes which would
have relieved the blankness of the walls in a Roman Catholic
establishment of the kind.
As I stood gazing about me, with a feeling of indignation that such a
place as this should ever have been the home of such a woman as Sylvia,
a door opened, and Mother Anastasia entered.
Her appearance shocked me. I had in my mind the figure of a woman with
whom I had talked,--a woman glowing with the warmth of a rich beauty,
draped in graceful folds of white, with a broad hat shadowing her face,
and a bunch of wild flowers in her belt. Here was a tall woman clothed
in solemn gray, her face pale, her eyes fixed upon the ground; but it
was Mother Anastasia; it was the woman who had talked to me of Sylvia,
who had promised to help me with Sylvia.
Still gazing on the floor, with her hands folded before her, she asked
me what I wished. At first I could not answer her. It seemed impossible
to open my heart to a woman such as this one. But if I said anything, I
must say it without hesitation, and so I began.
"Of course," I said, "I have come to see you about Sylvia Raynor. I am
in much trouble regarding her. You promised to aid me, and I have come
to ask for the fulfillment of that promise. My love for that girl grows
stronger day by day, hour by hour, and I have been thwarted, mystified,
and I may say deceived. I have come"--
"She of whom you speak," interrupted Mother Anastasia, "is not to be
discussed in that way. She has declared her intention to unite herself
permanently with our sisterhood, and to devote her life to our work. She
can have nothing more to do with you, nor you with her."
"That will not do at all," I said excitedly. "When I last saw you, you
did not talk like that, and the opinions you expressed at that time are
just as good now as they were then. I want to go over this matter with
you. There are things that I have a right to know."
A little frown appeared upon her brow. "This conversation must cease,"
she said; "the subjects you wish to discuss are forbidden to our
sisterhood. You must mention them no more."
I tried hard to restrain myself and speak quietly. "Madam"--said I.
"You must not call me 'madam,'" she broke in. "I am the Mother Superior
of this house."
"I understand that," I continued, "and I understand your feeling of
duty. But you have other duties besides those you owe to your
sisterhood. You made me a promise, which I accepted with an honest and
confiding heart. If you cannot do what you promised, you owe it to me to
explain why you cannot do it. I do not know what has happened to change
your views and her views, and, so far as I am concerned, the whole
world. You can set me right; you can explain everything to me."
The frown disappeared, and her face seemed paler. "It is absolutely
impossible to discuss anything of the sort in this house. I must
insist"--
I did not permit her to finish her sentence. "Very well, then," I
exclaimed, "if you cannot talk to me here, talk to me somewhere else.
When you desire it, you go outside of these walls, and you speak freely
and fully. You have so spoken with me; and because you have done so, it
is absolutely necessary that you do it again. Your own heart, your
conscience, must tell you that after what you have said to me, and after
what I have said to you, it is unjust, to say no more, to leave me in
this state of cruel mystification; not to tell me why you have set aside
your promise to me, or even to tell me, when we talked together of
Sylvia, that we were then at the home of Sylvia's mother."
For the first time she looked at me, straight in my eyes, as a true
woman would naturally look at a man who was speaking strongly to her. I
think I made her forget, for a few moments at least, that she was a
Mother Superior. Then her eyes fell again, and she stood silent.
"Perhaps," she said presently, and speaking slowly, "I ought to explain
these things to you. It is a great mistake, as I now see, that I ever
said anything to you on the subject; but things were different then, and
I did not know that I was doing wrong. Still, if you rely on me to set
you right, you shall be set right. I see that this is quite as necessary
from other points of view as from your own. I cannot speak with you
to-day, but to-morrow, about this time, I shall be on the road to Maple
Ridge, where I am going to visit a sick woman."
"I shall join you on the road," I answered, and took my leave.
For the rest of the day I thought of little but the promised interview
on the morrow. To this I looked forward with the greatest interest, but
also with the greatest anxiety. I feared that Mother Anastasia would
prove to me that I must give up all thoughts of Sylvia. In fact, if
Sylvia had resolved to devote herself to the service of the House of
Martha,--and she had told me herself that she had so resolved,--I was
quite sure she would do so. Then what was there for Mother Anastasia to
say, or me to do? The case was settled. Sylvia Raynor must be nothing to
me.
I greatly wished for Walkirk. I knew he would encourage me, in spite of
the obvious blackness of the situation. It was impossible for me to
encourage myself. But, however black my fate might be, I longed to know
why it had been made black and all about it, and so waited with a savage
impatience for the morning and Mother Anastasia.
Immediately after breakfast, the next day, I was on the Maple Ridge
road, strolling from our village toward the top of a hill a mile or more
away, whence I could see the rest of the road, as it wound through the
lonely country, and at last lost itself in the woods. Back again to
Arden I came, and had covered the distance between the village and the
hilltop five times, when, turning and coming down the hill, I saw, far
away, the figure of a woman walking.
I knew it was Mother Anastasia, but I did not hasten to meet her. In
fact, I thought the further she was from the village, when our interview
took place, the more likely she would be to make it long enough to be
satisfactory. I came slowly down the hill, and, reaching a place where a
great oak-tree shaded the road, I waited.
She came on quickly, her gray dress appearing heavier and more sombre
against the sun-lighted grass and foliage than it had appeared in the
dreary room of the House of Martha. As she approached the tree I
advanced to meet her.
"You made me come too far," she said reproachfully, as soon as we were
near each other. "The lane which leads to the house I came to visit is a
quarter of a mile behind me."
"I am sorry," I replied, "that I have made you walk any farther than
necessary on such a warm morning, but I did not know that you intended
to turn from this road. Let us step into the shade of this tree; we can
talk more comfortably there."
She looked at the tree, but did not move. "What I have to say," she
remarked, "can be said here; it will not take long."
"You must not stand in the sun," I replied; "you are already heated.
Come into the shade," and, without waiting her answer, I walked toward
the tree; she followed me.
"Now, then," said I, "here is a great stone conveniently placed, upon
which we can sit and rest while we talk."
She fixed her large eyes upon me with a certain surprise. "Truly, you
have no regard for conventionalities. It is sufficiently out of the way
for a sister of the House of Martha to meet a gentleman in this manner,
but to sit with him under a tree would be ridiculously absurd, to say
the least of it."
"It does not strike me in that light," I said. "You are tired and warm,
and must sit down. You came here on my account, and I regard you, in a
manner, as a guest."
She smiled, and looked at the rock which I had pointed out. It was a
flat one, about three feet long, and it seemed as if it had been put
there on purpose to serve for a seat.