COMINGS AND GOINGS
OUT towards the cranberry bogs went the Towncrier. No halting step this
time, no weary droop of shoulders. It would have taken a swift-footed
boy to keep pace with him on this errand. He was carrying the news to
Belle. What he expected her to say he did not stop to ask himself, nor
did he notice in the tumultuous joy which kept his old heart pounding at
unwonted speed, that she turned white with the suddenness of his
telling, and then a wave of color surged over her face.
Her only answer was to lead him into the room where the old net-mender
lay helpless, turning appealing eyes to her as she entered, with the
look in them that one sees in the eyes of a grateful dumb animal. His
gaze did not reach as far as the Towncrier, who halted on the threshold
until Belle joined him there. She led him outside.
"You see for yourself how it is," was all she said. "Do as you think
best about it."
Out on the road again the Towncrier stood hesitating, uncertain which
course to take. Twice he started in the direction of home, then retraced
his steps again to stand considering. Finally he straightened up with a
determined air and started briskly down the road which led to the center
of the town. Straight to the bank he went, asking for Mr. Gates, and a
moment later was admitted into the president's private office.
"And what can I do for you, Uncle Dan'l?" was the cordial greeting.
The old man dropped heavily into the chair set out for him. He was out
of breath from his rapid going.
"You can do me one of the biggest favors I ever asked of anybody if you
only will. Do you remember a sealed envelope I brought in here the first
of the summer and asked you to keep for me till I called for it?"
"Yes, do you want it now?"
"I'm going to show you what's in it."
He had such an air of suppressed excitement as he said it and his
breathing was so labored, that Mr. Gates wondered what could have
happened to affect him so. When he came back from the vault he carried
the envelope which had been left in his charge earlier in the summer.
Uncle Darcy tore it open with fingers that trembled in their eagerness.
"What I'm about to show you is for your eyes alone," he said. He took
out a crumpled sheet of paper which had once been torn in two and pasted
together again in clumsy fashion. It was the paper which had been
wadded up in the rifle, which Belle had seized with hysterical fury,
torn in two and flung from her.
"There! Read that!" he commanded.
Mr. Gates knew everybody in town. He had been one of the leading
citizens who had subscribed to the monument in Emmett Potter's honor. He
could scarcely believe the evidence of his own eyes as he read the
confession thrust into his hands, and he had never been more surprised
at any tale ever told him than the one Uncle Darcy related now of the
way it had been found, and his promise to Belle Triplett.
"I'm not going to make it public while old Potter hangs on," he said in
conclusion. "I'll wait till he's past feeling the hurts of earth. But
Mr. Gates, I've had word that my Danny's coming home. I can't let the
boy come back to dark looks and cold shoulders turned on him everywhere.
I thought if you'd just start the word around that he's all right--that
somebody else confessed to what he's accused of--that you'd seen the
proof with your own eyes and could vouch for his being all right--if
_you'd_ just give him a welcoming hand and show you believed in him it
would make all the difference in the world in Danny's home-coming. You
needn't mention any names," he pleaded. "I know it'll make a lot of talk
and surmising, but that won't hurt anybody. If you could just do
that----"
When the old man walked out of the president's office he carried his
head as high as if he had been given a kingdom. He had been given what
was worth more to him, the hearty handclasp of a man whose "word was as
good as a bond," and the promise that Dan should be welcomed back to the
town by great and small, as far as was in his power to make that welcome
cordial and widespread.
* * * * *
Dan did not wait in Washington while Doctor Huntingdon made his report.
He came on alone, and having missed the boat, took the railroad journey
down the Cape. In the early September twilight he stepped off the car,
feeling as if he were in a strange dream. But when he turned into one of
the back streets leading to his home, it was all so familiar and
unchanged that he had the stranger feeling of never having been away. It
was the past ten years that seemed a dream.
He had not realized how he loved the old town or the depth of his
longing for it, until he saw it now, restored to him. Even the familiar,
savory smells floating out from various supper tables as he passed
along, gave him keen enjoyment. Some of them had been unknown all the
time of his wanderings in foreign lands. The voices, the type of
features, the dress of the people he passed, the veriest trifles which
he never noticed when he lived among them, thrilled him now with a
sense of having come back to his own.
Half a dozen fishermen passed him, their boots clumping heavily. He
recognized two of them if not as individuals, as members of families he
had known, from their resemblance to the older ones. Then he turned his
head aside as he reached the last man. He was not ready to be recognized
himself, yet. He wanted to go home first, and this man at the end was
Peter Winn. He had sailed in his boat many a time.
A cold fog was settling over the Court when he turned into it. As
silently as the fog itself he stole through the sand and in at the gate.
The front door was shut and the yellow blind pulled down over the
window, but the lamp behind it sent out a glow, reaching dimly through
the fog. He crept up close to it to listen for the sound of voices, and
suddenly two blended shadows were thrown on the blind. The old man was
helping his wife up from her rocking chair and supporting her with a
careful arm as he guided her across to the table. His voice rang out
cheerfully to the waiting listener.
"That's it, Mother! That's it! Just one more step now. Why, you're doing
fine! I knew the word of Danny's coming home would put you on your feet
again. The lad'll be here soon, thank God! Maybe before another
nightfall."
A moment later and the lamp-light threw another shadow on the yellow
blind, plain as a photograph. It was well that the fog drew a white veil
between it and the street, for it was a picture of joy too sacred for
curious eyes to see.
_Danny had come home!_
* * * * *
It was the tenth of September. The town looked strangely deserted with
nearly all the summer people gone. The railroad wharf was the only place
where there was the usual bustle and crowd, and that was because the
_Dorothy Bradford_ was gathering up its passengers for the last trip of
the season.
Richard was to be one of them, and a most unwilling one. Not that he was
sorry to be going back to school. He had missed Binney and the gang, and
could hardly wait to begin swapping experiences with them. But he was
leaving Captain Kidd behind. Dogs were not allowed in the apartment
house to which his father and Aunt Letty intended moving the next week.
There had been a sorry morning in the garage when the news was broken to
him. He crept up into the machine and lay down on the back seat, and
cried and cried with his arms around Captain Kidd's neck. The faithful
little tongue reached out now and then to lap away his master's tears,
and once he lifted his paw and clawed at the little striped shirt waist
as if trying to convey some mute comfort.
"You're just the same as folks!" sobbed Richard, hugging the shaggy
head, laid lovingly on his breast. "And it's _cruel_ of 'em to make me
give you away."
Several days had passed since that unhappy morning, however, and Richard
did not feel quite so desolate over the separation now. For one thing it
had not been necessary to give up all claim on Captain Kidd to insure
him a good home. Georgina had gladly accepted the offer of half of him,
and had coaxed even Tippy into according him a reluctant welcome.
The passengers already on deck watched with interest the group near the
gang-plank. Richard was putting the clever little terrier through his
whole list of tricks.
"It's the last time, old fellow," he said imploringly when the dog
hesitated over one of them. "Go on and do it for me this once. Maybe
I'll never see you again till I'm grown up and you're too old to
remember me."
"That's what you said about Dan's coming home," remarked Georgina from
under the shade of her pink parasol. That parasol and the pink dress and
the rose-like glow on the happy little face was attracting even more
admiration from the passengers than Captain Kidd's tricks. Barbara,
standing beside her, cool and dainty in a white dress and pale green
sweater and green parasol, made almost as much of a picture.
"You talked that way about never expecting to see Danny till you were
grown," continued Georgina, "and it turned out that you not only saw
him, but were with him long enough to hear some of his adventures. It
would be the same way about your coming back here if you'd just keep
hoping hard enough."
"Come Dicky," called Mr. Moreland from the upper deck. "They're about to
take in the gang-plank. Don't get left."
Maybe it was just as well that there was no time for good-byes. Maybe it
was more than the little fellow could have managed manfully. As it was
his voice sounded suspiciously near breaking as he called back over his
shoulder, almost gruffly:
"Well you--you be as good to my half of him as you are to yours."
A moment or two later, leaning over the railing of the upper deck he
could see Captain Kidd struggling and whining to follow him. But Barby
held tightly to the chain fastened to his collar, and Georgina, her
precious pink parasol cast aside, knelt on the wharf beside the
quivering, eager little body to clasp her arms about it and pour out a
flood of comforting endearments.
Wider and wider grew the stretch of water between the boat and the
wharf. Richard kept on waving until he could no longer distinguish the
little group on the end of the pier. But he knew they would be there
until the last curl of smoke from the steamer disappeared around Long
Point.
"Here," said the friendly voice of a woman standing next to him. She had
been one of the interested witnesses of the parting. She thrust an
opera-glass into his hands. For one more long satisfying moment he had
another glimpse of the little group, still faithfully waving, still
watching. How very, very far away they were!
Suddenly the glass grew so blurry and queer it was no more good, and he
handed it back to the woman. At that moment he would have given all the
pirate gold that was ever on land or sea, were it his to give, to be
back on that pier with the three of them, able to claim that old seaport
town as his home for ever and always. And then the one thing that it had
taught him came to his help. With his head up, he looked back to the
distant shore where the Pilgrim monument reared itself like a watchful
giant, and said hopefully, under his breath:
"Well, _some day_!"
* * * * *
Georgina, waking earlier than usual that September morning, looked up
and read the verse on the calendar opposite her bed, which she had read
every morning since the month came in.
"_Like ships my days sail swift to port,
I know not if this be
The one to bear a cargo rare
Of happiness to me._"
"But I _do_ know this time," she thought exultingly, sitting up in bed
to look out the window and see what kind of weather the dawn had
brought. This was the day her father was coming home. He was coming from
Boston on a battleship, and she and Barby were going out to meet him as
soon as it was sighted in the harbor.
She had that quivery, excited feeling which sometimes seizes travelers
as they near the journey's end, as if she herself were a little ship,
putting into a long-wished-for port. Well, it would be like that in a
way, she thought, to have her father's arms folded around her, to come
at last into the strange, sweet intimacy she had longed for ever since
she first saw Peggy Burrell and the Captain.
And it was reaching another long-desired port to have Barby's happiness
so complete. As for Uncle Darcy he said himself that he couldn't be
gladder walking the shining streets of heaven, than he was going along
that old board-walk with Danny beside him, and everybody so friendly and
so pleased to see him.
Georgina still called him Danny in her thoughts, but it had been
somewhat a shock the first time she saw him, to find that he was a grown
man with a grave, mature face, instead of the boy which Uncle Darcy's
way of speaking of him had led her to expect. He had already been up to
the house to tell them the many things they were eager to know about
the months he had spent with Doctor Huntingdon and their long trip home
together. And listening, Georgina realized how very deep was the respect
and admiration of this younger man for her father and his work, and
everything he said made her more eager to see and know him.
Uncle Darcy and Dan were with them when they put out in the motor boat
to meet the battleship. It was almost sunset when they started, and the
man at the wheel drove so fast they felt the keen whip of the wind as
they cut through the waves. They were glad to button their coats, even
up to their chins. Uncle Darcy and Dan talked all the way over, but
Georgina sat with her hand tightly locked in her mother's, sharing her
tense expectancy, never saying a word.
Then at last the little boat stopped alongside the big one. There were a
few moments of delay before Georgina looked up and saw her father coming
down to them. He was just as his photograph had pictured him, tall,
erect, commanding, and strangely enough her first view of him was with
his face turned to one side. Then it was hidden from her as he gathered
Barby into his arms and held her close.
Georgina, watching that meeting with wistful, anxious eyes, felt her
last little doubt of him vanish, and when he turned to her with his
stern lips curved into the smile she had hoped for, and with
outstretched arms, she sprang into them and threw her arms around his
neck with such a welcoming clasp that his eyes filled with tears.
Then, remembering certain little letters which he had re-read many times
on his homeward voyage, he held her off to look into her eyes and
whisper with a tender smile which made the teasing question a joy to
her:
"Which is it now? 'Dear Sir' or 'Dad-o'-my-heart?'"
The impetuous pressure of her soft little cheek against his face was
answer eloquent enough.
As they neared the shore a bell tolled out over the water. It was the
bell of Saint Peter, patron saint of the fisher-folk and all those who
dwell by the sea. Then Long Point lighthouse flashed a welcome, and the
red lamp of Wood End blinked in answer. On the other side Highland Light
sent its great, unfailing glare out over the Atlantic, and the old
Towncrier, looking up, saw the first stars shining overhead.
Alongshore the home lights began to burn. One shone out in Fishburn
Court where Aunt Elspeth sat waiting. One threw its gleam over the edge
of the cranberry bog from the window where Belle kept faithful
vigil--where she would continue to keep it until "the call" came to
release the watcher as well as the stricken old soul whose peace she
guarded. And up in the big gray house by the break-water, where Tippy
was keeping supper hot, a supper fit to set before a king, lights
blazed from every window.
Pondering on what all these lights stood for, the old man moved away
from the others, and took his place near the prow. His heart was too
full just now to talk as they were doing. Presently he felt a touch on
his arm. Georgina had laid her hand on it with the understanding touch
of perfect comradeship. They were his own words she was repeating to
him, but they bore the added weight of her own experience now.
"It _pays_ to keep Hope at the prow, Uncle Darcy."
"Aye, lass," he answered tremulously, "it does."
"And we're coming into port with all flags flying!"
"_That_ we are!"
She stood in silent gladness after that, the rest of the way, her curls
flying back in the wind made by the swift motion of the boat, the white
spray dashing up till she could taste the salt of it on her lips; a
little figure of Hope herself, but of Hope riding triumphantly into the
port of its fulfillment. It was for them all--those words of the old
psalm on which the rainbow had rested, and which the angel voice had
sung--"_Into their desired haven._"
THE END
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
Page 12, "somthing" changed to "something" (if it were something)
Page 23, "Portugese" changed to "Portuguese" (A Portuguese woman on one)
Page 33, "far" changed to "for" (gladly for an hour's)
Page 33, "Portugese" changed to "Portuguese" (with two little
Portuguese)
Page 214, "make" changed to "made" (picture made Georgina)
Page 223, "loose" changed to "lose" (to lose track of)
Page 229, "disappont" changed to "disappoint" (shade of disappointment)
Page 263, "spotches" changed to "splotches" (brown splotches on her)
Page 283, "way" changed to "day" (spend the day at the Gray)
Page 289, "stiffle" changed to "stifle" (tried to stifle them)
End of Project Gutenberg's Georgina of the Rainbows, by Annie Fellows Johnston