ON THE TRAIL
There was but a single idea in Sheila Macklin's mind when she left
those three people in the kitchen and mounted to her room. Indeed,
there was scarcely left to the sadly distracted girl another sane
thought.
She must leave the house before she could be further questioned. She
hoped that she had said enough to exonerate Tunis. If she said more,
it might be to raise some doubt in the minds of Cap'n Ira and
Prudence as to Tunis' ignorance of her true reputation. She must
escape any cross-examination--on that or any other topic.
She believed that the captain of the _Seamew_ possessed sufficient
caution to keep secret the particulars of their first meeting until
he had heard from the old people the few false details she had left
in their minds. She had done all she could to make Tunis' reputation
secure in the eyes of those who must know any particulars of his
connection with her. She had kept her vow to the dead woman whom the
young shipmaster had, throughout his life, so revered--his mother.
She did not light her bedroom lamp until she knew by the sounds from
below that the family had retired for the night. Then, stepping
softly, she went over her small possessions and made a bundle of
those which she had brought with her when she came from Boston. The
articles of apparel purchased with money given her by the Balls she
left in the closet or in the bureau drawers.
This done, she did not lie down on the bed, but sat by the north
window staring out into the starlit dark. There was no lamp to watch
in the window of Latham's Folly to-night. Tunis was far away. Had
she been prepared for this unexpected catastrophe, she would have
been far, far away from Wreckers' Head before Tunis returned.
As it chanced, she possessed very little money--scarcely more than
enough to take her to Paulmouth. There she would be no better off
than she was at Big Wreck Cove. Sheila was not, in truth, quite
accountable for her actions at this time. To get away from the Ball
house was her only really clear thought. What followed must fall as
fate directed.
At the first faint gleam of dawn in the sky, and as the distant
stars paled and disappeared, the girl crept down the stairs with
her bundle, her shoes in her hand, and went out by the kitchen door.
She heard only the deep breathing of the old captain from across the
sitting room and now and then the sobbing breath of Prudence, like
the breathing of a hurt child that has fallen asleep in pain and
half wakes to a realization of it.
As she turned to close the outer door softly behind her, the girl's
heart throbbed in response to the old woman's sorrow. While she sat
on the bench to lace her shoes the cat, old Tabby, came rubbing and
purring about her skirts. Muffled, as though from a great distance,
a rooster vented a questioning crow as though he doubted that it was
yet time to announce the birth of another day.
She went to the barn to feed Queenie for the last time. That
outraged old creature displayed her surprised countenance at the
opening above her manger and blew sonorously through her nostrils.
Perhaps the gray mare remembered how she had been aroused at a
similar hour once before, and by Cap'n Ira himself. That experience
must have been keen in the Queen of Sheba's memory if she had any
memory at all.
But the troubled girl gave the mare less attention than usual,
throwing down some fodder and pouring a measure of corn into the
manger. The mare turned to that with appetite. Corn came not amiss
to Queenie, no matter at what hour it was vouchsafed her. Her sound
old teeth did not stop crunching the kernels as Sheila went out of
the barn.
From the shed she secured an ax and a spade, as well as a basket.
In spite of her condition of mind she knew exactly what she wanted
to do--and she did it. Had she thought out her intention for
months she could have gone about the matter no more directly and
practically. Yet, had one stopped Sheila and asked her what she
was about--exactly what her intentions were--the query would have
found her unprepared with an answer.
Both her physical and mental condition precluded Sheila from going
far from the Ball homestead. What she had been through during these
past few days had drained out of her physical vigor as well as all
intellectual freshness.
When Cap'n Ira Ball had led the feebly protesting Queen of Sheba
across these empty fields to her intended sacrifice, the two had
made no more dreary picture against the dim dawn than did Sheila
now. She carried the bundle she had made slung over one shoulder by
a length of rope. The spade, ax, and basket balanced her figure on
the other side; she bent forward as she walked and, from a distance,
Prudence herself would have looked no older or more decrepit than
did the girl now leaving the Ball premises.
She did not follow the same course that the captain and Queenie had
followed on that memorable occasion, but took a path that led to a
cart track to the beach behind John-Ed Williams' house. Nobody was
astir anywhere on Wreckers' Head but herself.
In an hour she arrived at the objective point toward which she had
been headed from the first. Why and how she had thought of this
refuge it would be hard to tell. Least of all could Sheila have
explained her reason for coming here. It was in her mind, it was
away from all other human habitations, and she did not think anybody
would have the right to drive her from it.
The cabin formerly occupied by Hosea Westcott was well above the
tide, was, or could be made, perfectly dry, was roughly, if not
comfortably furnished, and offered the girl a shelter in which she
thought she would be safe.
To one who had spent such weary months in a narrow room in a Hanover
Street lodging house, going in and out with speech with scarcely any
one save the person to whom she paid her weekly dole of rent, there
could be no loneliness in a place like this, where the surf soughed
continually in one's ear, a hundred feathered forms flashed by in an
hour, sails dotted the dimpling sea, and the strand itself was
spread thick with many varieties of nature's wonders.
During the summer and early fall, Sheila had become a splendid
oarswoman. In a skiff belonging to little John-Ed which was drawn up
on the sands not far from the cabin she had paddled out through the
narrow neck of the tiny cove's entrance and pulled bravely through
the surf and out upon the sea beyond. She had learned more than a
bit of sea lore, too, from Cap'n Ira and Tunis. And regarding the
edible shellfish to be found along the beaches, she was well
informed.
If an old man such as Hosea Westcott, feeble and spent, no doubt,
could pick up a living here, why could not she? Sheila did not fear
starvation. Indeed, she did not even look forward to such a
possibility. She did not fear work of any kind. With every salt
breath she drew, strength, like the tide itself, flowed into her
body. Although her mind remained in a partially stunned condition,
her muscles soon recovered their vigor.
Of course the girl's presence here in the abandoned cabin, her
taking up a hermit life on the shore, could not remain unknown to
the neighbors on Wreckers' Head for long. Yet at this season of the
year the men were all busy elsewhere and the women almost never came
down to the beaches. It is a remarkable fact that most longshore
women have little interest in the beauties or wonders to be found
along the beaches, even in the sea itself. Perhaps this is because
the latter is such a hard mistress to their menfolk.
Nevertheless, Sheila could not hide herself away from
everybody--not even on that first day. The Balls made no outcry when
they found that she had disappeared. And no near-port fishing craft
came by. But the smoke from the chimney of the cabin, when she had
swept and made comfortable its interior and built a fire of
driftwood in the rusty pot stove, attracted at least one sharp eye.
Down the bank, along with a small avalanche of sand and gravel,
plunged little John-Ed and his freckled face appeared at the
doorway.
"By the great jib boom!" he cried. "What you doing here? Playing
castaway?"
"Yes, John-Ed," said Sheila. "That is it exactly. I am a castaway."
He stared at her. She could not take this boy into her confidence.
But already little John-Ed was a henchman of hers, in spite of the
fact that Sheila often had made him work.
"I am going to stay here for a while," she told him. "But I would
rather nobody but you knew about it."
"By the great jib boom!" exploded the boy for a second time. "Not
even Cap'n Ira and Aunt Prudence?"
"Not even them," sighed the girl.
"I bet it's because you don't want to stay there while that other
girl is visitin' them. Ain't that it? She's a snippy thing!"
"You must not say so to anybody," urged Sheila. "It will not be
wrong for you to say nothing about my being here to your father and
mother. Do you understand?"
"I can keep a secret, all right," he assured her proudly.
"I believe you can. And do you think you could get off to go down to
the store for me this evening?"
"Going down anyway for mom," he assured her.
Sheila had a dollar and a little change besides. She had already
planned just what the dollar would buy in the way of necessaries.
There were cooking utensils in the cabin sufficient for her modest
needs. She gave little John-Ed the dollar and her list and warned
him to hide her purchases safely until the next morning and bring
them to her on his way to school.
"What you going to eat to-night?" he asked her bluntly.
"I dug some clams at low water and caught a big horseshoe crab."
"Cousin Phineas brought us more squeteague than we can eat. Mom told
me to cut one up for the hens. I'll bring it down to you in a
little. It's a fresh one."
In spite of her refusal, he did this, and brought along, too, a box
of sweet crackers which he had bought and hidden away in his bedroom
closet in preparation for some time when he might wake up in the
night and feel that he was on the verge of famine.
"Though I never did wake up in the night that I can remember, 'cept
that time I had the toothache," he observed.
And in this way Sheila began her hermit life in the fisherman's
cabin.
But Sheila was not without a practical design as to her future. In
her determination to accept no further aid from the Balls she had
crippled her finances. Back in the inland town where she had spent
her girlhood, and where Dr. Macklin had served the community so
long, there were those who, in disapproving Sheila's venture into
the city, at least had a sense of justice. Some of these critical
friends whom the young woman had shrunk from appealing to
heretofore, still owed for Dr. Macklin's services; and Sheila felt
that in this present tragic emergency she must attempt the
collection of these old debts.
She wrote letters praying that money might be sent her by express to
Paulmouth, but with the orders addressed under cover to "John-Ed
Williams, Jr." at the Big Wreck Cove post office. She explained her
design to her juvenile confidant and little John-Ed was made
immensely proud of such mark of her trust. She could have found no
more faithful adherent than the boy, and with him the secret of her
dwelling on the lonely shore and in her hermit-like state was safe.
But her presence there could not be hidden for long; of that she was
well aware. Little John-Ed, however, told nobody of her whereabouts
until the day Tunis Latham came back from Boston and learned that
the girl he loved had stolen away from her home in the Ball house.
Coming out of the rear door of the barn, fresh from the interview
with the old captain which had so shocked him, Tunis saw a small boy
astride the low stone fence that marked the rear boundary of the
Ball farm. The captain of the _Seamew_ was in no mood to bandy words
with little John-Ed Williams, but the sharp tooth of his troubled
thought fastened upon one indubitable fact: if there is anything odd
going on in a community, the small boy of that community knows all
about it--or, at least, as much about it as it is possible to know.
Tunis could not have walked up to any adult person on Wreckers' Head
and asked the question which he put to little John-Ed on the spur of
the moment:
"Where is she?"
He did not have to utter Sheila's name. Indeed, he was doubtful by
what name it would be wise to call her. But he did not have to be
plainer with little John-Ed. He saw in the sly expression of the
boy's eyes that he knew whom he meant. But he shook his head.
"You know where she went," was the schooner captain's accusation.
"Where is she?"
"I--I can't tell you," stammered the boy. "I promised not."
A promise is a promise, especially to a small boy who scorns to
"snitch." Tunis thought a moment.
"Show me," he said, and his voice had in it that tone which made the
foremast hands jump to obey when a squall was coming.
The boy got promptly off the wall.
"All right," he said gruffly. "But don't you tell her I showed you,
Cap'n Tunis Latham."
"Trust me," agreed the captain of the _Seamew_, and followed after
little John-Ed with such tremendous strides that the latter had to
run to keep ahead of him.
Tunis was led to that point on the bluff from which a curl of smoke
from the cabin chimney could be seen. He halted almost in
horror--stricken to the heart when he understood.
"Alone?" he muttered.
"Yep," was the reply. "She's playing she's a castaway. Nobody but me
knows it."
Then, fearing he had said too much, John-Ed ran away.
Tunis descended the bluff by a perilous path--he would not delay to
go around by the cart track--and came in plain view of the cabin.
The door hinge had been repaired, and the door now swung freely. A
strip of cotton cloth had been tacked over the gaping window. There
was that neatness about the abandoned cabin which must always be
associated in his mind with Sheila Macklin, even had he not seen her
sitting pensively upon a driftwood timber by the door.
The ax had been doing good service, for there was a great
heap of wood cut into stove lengths. The fragrant odor of
something--chowder, perhaps--simmering on the stove, floated
through the open door.
It was the coarse sand crunching under his boots which aroused her.
She did not start at his approach, but raised her eyes languidly. He
wondered if she had expected him. She must have seen the _Seamew_
pass several hours earlier as they headed in toward the channel.
"My God, Sheila!" he exclaimed with bitterness, but without anger.
"You can't stay here."
"I must--for a while. No. Don't talk about it, please, Tunis." Her
gesture had a finality to it which silenced the objections rising to
his lips. "Nothing you can say will change my determination. And you
must not come here again."
"What will people say?" he gasped.
The violet eyes blazed suddenly while she surveyed him. This was not
the girl he had known before. At least, she was not the same as
when he had seen her last. Even at that previous interview her look
and manner had not so reminded him of the girl he had sat beside on
the bench on Boston Common.
She was alone again. The flower of her nature that had expanded
while she lived her all too brief and happy life with the Balls was
now withered. She was hopeless again; she had become once more the
Sheila Macklin that he had met under such wretched circumstances at
that past time. But in spite of her helplessness and her
wretchedness, there was something in the girl's expression which
convinced Tunis Latham before he again spoke that nothing he could
say would in any degree change her determination.
"That confounded girl never should have been allowed to come back to
the house up there," he cried almost wildly. "Why did Elder Minnett
want to interfere? It was not his business! No one need have known
the truth."
"Don't you see, Tunis, that just because it was the truth it was
sure to become known? At least, the main points in the whole matter
were sure to come out. But if you are careful, if you are wise,
nobody need know more of your share in the transaction than I have
told already."
"Cap'n Ira asked me if it was true. He told me what you said.
Sheila, you ruined your own reputation with the old folks to save
me. Girl--"
"Did I have any reputation to lose, Tunis?" she interrupted, yet
speaking softly. "I could not save myself. I have tried to save you.
Don't be ill-advised; don't be foolish. Say nothing, and it will all
blow over--for you."
"You think I'll accept such a sacrifice on your part?" he demanded
fiercely.
"I am making no sacrifice. Nothing I can do or say; nothing you can
do or say; nothing anybody can do or say; will change my situation.
We need not both be ruined in the eyes of the community. Soon I will
get away. They will forget me. It will all blow over. You need not
suffer."
"What do you think I am?" he cried again. "Am I the sort of a
fellow, you think, to shelter myself behind you?"
"Shelter your Aunt Lucretia. Shelter your business prospects.
Shelter the good name of your mother's son. You can do me absolutely
no good by telling any different story from the one I was forced to
tell. Let it be, Tunis."
She said it wearily. She dropped her eyes again, looking away from
him. But when he would have stepped nearer and caught her to him,
she leaped up and with look and tone warded him away.
"Don't touch me! Be at least so kind, Tunis. Make it no harder for
me than you can help."
"You are breaking my heart, Sheila!"
"Mine is already broken," she told him. "And I do not blame you,
Tunis. It is the punishment for my own sins. I attempted to escape
from my overwhelming troubles in a wrong way. I see it now. I know
it to be so. I must go somewhere else and build again--if I may. But
never again upon a foundation of trickery and deceit. Oh! Never!
Never!"
She stepped around the big block on which she had been sitting,
entered the cabin, and closed the door behind her. She left him
standing there hopeless, miserable, almost distraught by all the
entanglements of this tragedy that had come upon them.