IN WHICH TRUMET TALKS OF CAPTAIN NAT
Summer was over, autumn came, passed, and it was winter--John Ellery's
first winter in Trumet. Fish weirs were taken up, the bay filled with
ice, the packet ceased to run, and the village settled down to hibernate
until spring. The stage came through on its regular trips, except when
snow or slush rendered the roads impassable, but passengers were very
few. Occasionally there were northeast gales, with shrieking winds,
driving gusts of sleet and hail and a surf along the ocean side that
bellowed and roared and tore the sandy beach into new shapes, washing
away shoals and building others, blocking the mouth of the little inlet
where the fish boats anchored and opening a new channel a hundred yards
farther down. Twice there were wrecks, one of a fishing schooner, the
crew of which were fortunate enough to escape by taking to the dories,
and another, a British bark, which struck on the farthest bar and
was beaten to pieces by the great waves, while the townspeople stood
helplessly watching from the shore, for launching a boat in that surf
was impossible.
The minister was one of those who watched. News of the disaster had been
brought to the village by the lightkeeper's assistant, and Ellery and
most of the able-bodied men in town had tramped the three miles to the
beach, facing the screaming wind and the cutting blasts of flying sand.
As they came over the dunes there were times when they had to dig their
heels into the ground and bend forward to stand against the freezing
gale. And, as they drew nearer, the thunder of the mighty surf grew ever
louder, until they saw the white clouds of spray leap high above the
crazily tossing, flapping bunches of beach grass that topped the last
knoll.
Three masts and a broken bowsprit sticking slantwise up from a whirl of
creamy white, that was all they could see of the bark, at first glance.
But occasionally, as the breakers drew back for another cruel blow, they
caught glimpses of the tilted deck, smashed bare of houses and rail.
“Those black things on the masts?” asked Ellery, bending to scream the
question into the ear of Gaius Winslow, his companion. “Are they--it
can't be possible that they're--”
“Yup,” shrieked Gaius in reply, “they're men. Crew lashed in the
riggin'. Poor fellers! it'll soon be over for 'em. And they're most
likely frozen stiff a'ready and won't sense drownin', that's a comfort.”
“Men!” repeated the minister in horror. “Men! Great God! and are we
to stand by here and see them die without lifting a hand? Why, it's
barbarous! It's--”
Winslow seized his arm and pointed.
“Look!” he shouted. “Look at them! How much good would our liftin' hands
do against them?”
Ellery looked. The undertow, that second, was sucking the beach dry,
sucking with such force that gravel and small stones pattered down the
slope in showers. And behind it a wave, its ragged top raveled by the
wind into white streamers, was piling up, up, up, sheer and green and
mighty, curling over now and descending with a hammer blow that shook
the land beneath their feet. And back of it reared another, and
another, and another, an eighth of a mile of whirling, surging, terrific
breakers, with a yelling hurricane whipping them on.
It was soon over, as Gaius had said it would be. A mighty leap of spray,
a section of hull broken off and tossed into view for an instant, then
two of the masts went down. The other followed almost at once. Then
the watchers, most of them, went back to the village, saying little or
nothing and dispersing silently to their homes.
During the next fortnight John Ellery conducted six funeral services,
brief prayers beside the graves of unknown men from that wreck. The
bodies, as they were washed ashore, were put into plain coffins paid
for by the board of selectmen, and buried in the corner of the Regular
cemetery beside other waifs thrown up by the sea in other years. It was
a sad experience for him, but it was an experience and tended to make
him forget his own sorrow just a little. Or, if not to forget, at least
to think of and sympathize more keenly with the sorrows of others.
Somewhere, in England or Ireland or scattered over the wide world, there
were women and children waiting for these men, waiting anxiously for
news of their safe arrival in port, praying for them. When he mentioned
this thought to the townspeople they nodded philosophically and said
yes, they “presumed likely.” As Captain Zeb put it, “Most sailors are
fools enough to get married, prob'ly this lot wa'n't any exception.” It
was no new thought to him or to any other dweller in that region. It was
almost a fixed certainty that, if you went to sea long enough, you
were bound to be wrecked sometime or other. The chances were that, with
ordinary luck and good management, you would escape with your life.
Luck, good or bad, was the risk of the trade; good management was
expected, as a matter of course.
Mr. Pepper made no more calls at the parsonage, and when the minister
met him, at church or elsewhere, seemed anxious to avoid an interview.
“Well, Abishai,” asked Ellery, on one of these occasions, “how are you
getting on at home? Has your sister locked you up again?”
“No, sir, she ain't,” replied Kyan. “Laviny, she's sort of diff'rent
lately. She ain't nigh so--so down on a feller as she used to be. I can
get out once in a while by myself nowadays, when she wants to write a
letter or somethin'.”
“Oh, she's writing letters, is she?”
“Um--hm. Writes one about every once in a week. I don't know who they're
to, nuther, but I have my suspicions. You see, we've got a cousin out
West--out Pennsylvany way--and he ain't very well and has got a turrible
lot of money. I'm sort of surmisin' that Laviny's writin' to him. We're
about his only relations that's left alive and--and so--”
“I see.” The minister smiled.
“Yup. Laviny's a pretty good navigator, fur's keepin' an eye to wind'ard
is concerned. She was awful down on Phineas--that's his name--'cause he
married a Philadelphy woman, but he's a widower man now, so I s'pose she
feels better toward him. She's talkin' of goin' up to Sandwich pretty
soon.”
“She IS? Alone?”
“So she says.”
“To leave you here? Why! well, I'm surprised.”
“Godfreys mighty! so be I. But she says she b'lieves she needs a change
and there's church conference up there, you know, and she figgers that
she ain't been to conference she don't know when. I s'pose you'll go,
won't you, Mr. Ellery?”
“Probably.”
“Um--hm. I kind of wisht I was goin' myself. 'Twill be kind of lonesome
round home without her.”
Considering that that variety of lonesomeness had been Abishai's dream
of paradise for years, Ellery thought his change of heart a good joke
and told Keziah of it when he returned to the parsonage. The housekeeper
was greatly surprised.
“Well! well! well!” she exclaimed. “Miracles'll never cease. I don't
wonder so much at Laviny wantin' to go to conference, but her darin' to
go and leave Kyan at home is past belief. Why, every time she's had
a cold her one fear was that she'd die and leave 'Bish behind to be
kidnaped by some woman. Kyan himself was sick once, and the story was
that his sister set side of the bed night and day and read him over and
over again that chapter in the Bible that says there's no marryin' or
givin' in marriage in heaven. Dr. Parker told me that he didn't believe
'Bish got ha'f the comfort out of that passage that she did. And now
she's goin' to Sandwich and leave him. I can't think it's true.”
But it was true, and Lavinia got herself elected a delegate and went, in
company with Captain Elkanah, Mrs. Mayo, and others, to the conference.
She was a faithful attendant at the meetings and seemed to be having
a very good time. She introduced the minister to one Caleb Pratt, a
resident of Sandwich, whom she said she had known ever since she was a
girl.
“Mr. Pratt's a cousin to Thankful Payne over to home,” volunteered
Lavinia. “You know Thankful, Mr. Ellery.”
Ellery did know Mrs. Payne and said so. Mr. Pratt, who was dressed in a
new suit of black which appeared to hurt him, imparted the information
that he'd heard tell consider'ble of Mr. Ellery.
“I enjoyed your sermon to-night fust--rate,” he added solemnly.
“Fust--rate, sir--yes.”
“Did you, indeed? I'm glad.”
“Yes, sir. You used words in that sermon that I never heard afore in my
life. 'Twas grand.”
Lavinia confided to her pastor that Mr. Pratt made the best shoes in
Ostable County. He could fit ANY kind of feet, she declared, and the
minister ought to try him sometime. She added that he had money in the
bank.
The Reverend John rode home in the stage beside Miss Annabel, not from
choice, but because the young lady's father insisted upon it. Miss
Daniels gushed and enthused as she always did. As they drove by the
Corners the minister, who had been replying absently to Annabel's
questions, suddenly stopped short in the middle of a sentence. His
companion, leaning forward to look out of the window, saw Grace Van
Horne entering the store. For an instant Annabel's face wore a very
unpleasant expression. Then she smiled and said, in her sweetest manner:
“Why, there's the tavern girl! I haven't seen her for sometime. How old
she looks! I suppose her uncle's death has aged her. Well, she'll
be married soon, just as soon as Cap'n Nat gets back. They perfectly
worship each other, those two. They say she writes him the longest
letters. Hannah Poundberry told me. Hannah's a queer creature and
common, but devoted to the Hammonds, Mr. Ellery. However, you're not
interested in Come-Outers, are you? Ha, ha!”
Ellery made some sort of an answer, but he could not have told what it
was. The sight of Grace had brought back all that he was trying so
hard to forget. Why couldn't one forget, when it was so painful--and so
useless--to remember?
Spring once more; then summer. And now people were again speaking of
Captain Nat Hammond. His ship was overdue, long overdue. Even in those
days, when there were no cables and the telegraph was still something of
a novelty, word of his arrival should have reached Trumet months before
this. But it had not come, and did not. Before the summer was over, the
wise heads of the retired skippers were shaking dubiously. Something had
happened to the Sea Mist, something serious.
As the weeks and months went by without news of the missing vessel,
this belief became almost a certainty. At the Come-Outer chapel, where
Ezekiel Bassett now presided, prayers were offered for the son of their
former leader. These prayers were not as fervent as they might have
been, for Grace's nonattendance at meetings was causing much comment
and a good deal of resentment. She came occasionally, but not often. “I
always said she was stuck-up and thought she was too good for the rest
of us,” remarked “Sukey B.” spitefully. “'And, between you and me, pa
says he thinks Nat Hammond would be one to uphold her in it. He wa'n't a
bit spirituous and never experienced religion. If anything HAS happened
to him, it's a punishment sent, that's what pa thinks.”
Those were gloomy days at the parsonage. Keziah said little concerning
the topic of which all the village was talking, and John Ellery
forebore to mention it. The housekeeper was as faithful as ever in the
performance of her household duties, but her smile had gone and she
was worn and anxious. The minister longed to express his sympathy, but
Keziah had not mentioned Nat's name for months, not since he, Ellery,
gave her the message intrusted to him by the captain before sailing. He
would have liked to ask about Grace, for he knew Mrs. Coffin visited the
Hammond home occasionally, but this, too, he hesitated to do. He heard
from others that the girl was bearing the suspense bravely, that she
refused to give up hope, and was winning the respect of all the thinking
class in Trumet by her courage and patience. Even the most bigoted of
the Regulars, Captain Daniels and his daughter excepted of course, had
come to speak highly of her. “She's a spunky girl,” declared Captain
Zeb, with emphasis. “There's nothing of the milk-sop and cry-baby about
her. She's fit to be a sailor's wife, and I only hope Nat's alive to
come back and marry her. He was a durn good feller, too--savin' your
presence, Mr. Ellery--and if he was forty times a Come-Outer I'd say the
same thing. I'm 'fraid he's gone, though, poor chap. As good a seaman
as he was would have fetched port afore this if he was atop of water.
As for Gracie, she's a brick, and a lady, every inch of her. My old
girl went down t'other day to call on her and that's the fust Come-Outer
she's been to see sence there was any. Why don't you go see her, too,
Mr. Ellery? 'Twould be a welcome change from Zeke Bassett and his tribe.
Go ahead! it would be the Almighty's own work and the society'd stand
back of you, all them that's wuth considerin', anyhow.”
This was surprising advice from a member of the Regular and was
indicative of the changed feeling in the community, but the minister, of
course, could not take it. He had plunged headlong into his church work,
hoping that it and time would dull the pain of his terrible shock and
disappointment. It had been dulled somewhat, but it was still there, and
every mention of her name revived it.
One afternoon Keziah came into his study, where he was laboring with his
next Sunday sermon, and sat down in the rocking-chair. She had been out
and still wore her bonnet and shawl.
“John,” she said, “I ask your pardon for disturbin' you. I know you're
busy.”
Ellery laid down his pen. “Never too busy to talk with you, Aunt
Keziah,” he observed. “What is it?”
“I wanted to ask if you knew Mrs. Prince was sick?”
“No. Is she? I'm awfully sorry. Nothing serious, I hope?”
“No, I guess not. Only she's got a cold and is kind of under the
weather. I thought p'r'aps you'd like to run up and see her. She thinks
the world and all of you, 'cause you was so good when she was distressed
about her son. Poor old thing! she's had a hard time of it.”
“I will go. I ought to go, of course. I'm glad you reminded me of it.”
“Yes. I told her you hadn't meant to neglect her, but you'd been busy
fussin' with the fair and the like of that.”
“That was all. I'll go right away. Have you been there to-day?”
“No. I just heard that she was ailin' from Didama Rogers. Didama said
she was all but dyin', so I knew she prob'ly had a little cold, or
somethin'. If she was really very bad, Di would have had her buried by
this time, so's to be sure her news was ahead of anybody else's. I ain't
been up there, but I met her t'other mornin'.”
“Didama?”
“No; Mrs. Prince. She'd come down to see Grace.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. The old lady's been awful kind and sympathizin' since--since
this new trouble. It reminds her of the loss of her own boy, I presume
likely, and so she feels for Grace. John, what do they say around town
about--about HIM?”
“Captain Hammond?”
“Yes.”
The minister hesitated. Keziah did not wait for him to answer.
“I see,” she said slowly. “Do they all feel that way?”
“Why, if you mean that they've all given up hope, I should hardly say
that. Captain Mayo and Captain Daniels were speaking of it in my hearing
the other day and they agreed that there was still a chance.”
“A pretty slim one, though, they cal'lated, didn't they?”
“Well, they were--were doubtful, of course. There was the possibility
that he had been wrecked somewhere and hadn't been picked up. They cited
several such cases. The South Pacific is full of islands where vessels
seldom touch, and he and his crew may be on one of these.”
“Yes. They might, but I'm afraid not. Ah, hum!”
She rose and was turning away. Ellery rose also and laid his hand on her
arm.
“Aunt Keziah,” he said, “I'm very sorry. I respected Captain Hammond, in
spite of--of--in spite of everything. I've tried to realize that he was
not to blame. He was a good man and I haven't forgotten that he saved my
life that morning on the flats. And I'm so sorry for YOU.”
She did not look at him.
“John,” she answered, with a sigh, “sometimes I think you'd better get
another housekeeper.”
“What? Are you going to leave me? YOU?”
“Oh, 'twouldn't be because I wanted to. But it seems almost as if there
was a kind of fate hangin' over me and that,” she smiled faintly, “as if
'twas sort of catchin', as you might say. Everybody I ever cared for has
had somethin' happen to 'em. My brother died; my--the man I married went
to the dogs; then you and Grace had to be miserable and I had to help
make you so; I sent Nat away and he blamed me and--”
“No, no. He didn't blame you. He sent you word that he didn't.”
“Yes, but he did, all the same. He must have. I should if I'd been in
his place. And now he's dead, and won't ever understand--on this earth,
anyhow. I guess I'd better clear out and leave you afore I spoil your
life.”
“Aunt Keziah, you're my anchor to windward, as they say down here. If
I lost you, goodness knows where I should drift. Don't you ever talk of
leaving me again.”
“Thank you, John. I'm glad you want me to stay. I won't leave yet
awhile; never--unless I have to.”
“Why should you ever have to?”
“Well, I don't know. Yes, I do know, too. John, I had another letter
t'other day.”
“You did? From--from that man?”
“Yup, from--” For a moment it seemed as if she were about to pronounce
her husband's name, something she had never done in his presence; but if
she thought of it, she changed her mind.
“From him,” she said. “He wanted money, of course; he always does. But
that wa'n't the worst. The letter was from England, and in it he wrote
that he was gettin' sick of knockin' around and guessed he'd be for
comin' to the States pretty soon and huntin' me up. Said what was the
use of havin' an able-bodied wife if she couldn't give her husband a
home.”
“The scoundrel!”
“Yes, I know what he is, maybe full as well as you do. That's why I
spoke of leavin' you. If that man comes to Trumet, I'll go, sure as
death.”
“No, no. Aunt Keziah, you must free yourself from him. No power on earth
can compel you to longer support such a--”
“None on earth, no. But it's my punishment and I've got to put up with
it. I married him with my eyes wide open, done it to spite the--the
other, as much as anything, and I must bear the burden. But I tell you
this, John: if he comes here, to this town, where I've been respected
and considered a decent woman, if he comes here, I go--somewhere,
anywhere that'll be out of the sight of them that know me. And wherever
I go he shan't be with me. THAT I won't stand! I'd rather die, and I
hope I do. Don't talk to me any more now--don't! I can't stand it.”
She hurried out of the room. Later, as the minister passed through the
dining room on his way to the door, she spoke to him again.
“John,” she said, “I didn't say what I meant to when I broke in on you
just now. I meant to tell you about Grace. I knew you'd like to know and
wouldn't ask. She's bearin' up well, poor girl. She thought the world of
Nat, even though she might not have loved him in the way that--”
“What's that? What are you saying, Aunt Keziah?”
“I mean--well, I mean that he'd always been like an own brother to her
and she cared a lot for him.”
“But you said she didn't love him.”
“Did I? That was a slip of the tongue, maybe. But she bears it well and
I don't think she gives up hope. I try not to, for her sake, and I try
not to show her how I feel.”
She sewed vigorously for a few moments. Then she said:
“She's goin' away, Gracie is.”
“Going away?”
“Yup. She's goin' to stay with a relation of the Hammonds over in
Connecticut for a spell. I coaxed her into it. Stayin' here at home
with all this suspense and with Hannah Poundberry's tongue droppin'
lamentations like kernels out of a corn sheller, is enough to kill a
healthy batch of kittens with nine lives apiece. She didn't want to go;
felt that she must stay here and wait for news; but I told her we'd get
news to her as soon as it come, and she's goin'.”
Ellery took his hat from the peg and opened the door. His foot was on
the step when Keziah spoke again.
“She--it don't mean nothin', John, except that she ain't so hard-hearted
as maybe you might think--she's asked me about you 'most every time I've
been there. She told me to take good care of you.”
The door closed. Keziah put down her sewing and listened as the
minister's step sounded on the walk. She rose, went to the window
and looked after him. She was wondering if she had made a mistake in
mentioning Grace's name. She had meant to cheer him with the thought
that he was not entirely forgotten, that he was, at least, pitied; but
perhaps it would have been better to have remained silent. Her gaze
shifted and she looked out over the bay, blue and white in the sun and
wind. When she was a girl the sea had been kind to her, it had brought
her father home safe, and those homecomings were her pleasantest
memories. But she now hated it. It was cruel and cold and wicked. It had
taken the man she loved and would have loved till she died, even though
he could never have been hers, and she had given him to another; it had
taken him, killed him cruelly, perhaps. And now it might be bringing to
her the one who was responsible for all her sorrow, the one she could
not think of without a shudder. She clung to the window sash and prayed
aloud.
“Lord! Lord!” she pleaded, “don't put any more on me now. I couldn't
stand it! I couldn't!”
Ellery, too, was thinking deeply as he walked up the main road on his
way to Mrs. Prince's. Keziah's words were repeating themselves over and
over in his brain. She had asked about him. She had not forgotten him
altogether. And what did the housekeeper mean by saying that she had
not loved Captain Hammond in the way that--Not that it could make any
difference. Nothing could give him back his happiness. But what did it
mean?
Mrs. Prince was very glad to see him. He found her in the big armchair
with the quilted back and the projecting “wings” at each side of her
head. She was wrapped in a “Rising Sun” quilt which was a patchwork
glory of red and crimson. A young girl, a neighbor, who was apparently
acting in the dual capacity of nurse and housekeeper, admitted him to
the old lady's presence.
“Well, well!” she exclaimed delightedly. “Then you ain't forgot me
altogether. I'm awful glad to see you. You'll excuse me for not gettin'
up; my back's got more pains in it than there is bones, a good sight.
Dr. Parker says it's nothin' serious, and all I had to do was set still
and take his medicine. I told him that either the aches or the medicine
made settin' still serious enough, and when your only amusement is
listenin' to Emeline Berry--she's the girl that's takin' care of
me--when your only fun is listenin' to Emeline drop your best dishes in
the kitchen sink, it's pretty nigh tragic. There! there! don't mind an
old woman, Mr. Ellery. Set down and let's talk. It's a comfort to be
able to say somethin' besides 'Don't, Emeline!' and 'Be sure you pick up
all the pieces!'”
Mrs. Prince's good spirits were of short duration. Her conversation soon
shifted to the loss of her son and she wept, using the corner of the
quilt to wipe away her tears. “Eddie” had been her idol and, as she
said, it was hard to believe what folks kept tellin' her, that it was
God's will, and therefore all for the best.
“That's so easy to say,” she sobbed. “Maybe it is best for the Lord,
but how about me? I needed him more than they did up there, or I think I
did. O Mr. Ellery, I don't mean to be irreverent, but WHY was it all for
the best?”
Questions like this are hard to answer. The young minister tried, but
the answers were unsatisfactory, even to him.
“And there's Nat Hammond,” continued Mrs. Prince. “A fine man--no better
anywhere, even though his father was a Come-Outer--just goin' to
be married and all, now they say he's drowned--why? Why was that
necessary?”
Ellery could not reply. The old lady did not wait for him to do so. The
mention of Captain Nat's name reminded her of other things.
“Poor Gracie!” she said. “It's turrible hard on her. I went down to see
her two or three times afore I was took with this backache. She's an
awful nice girl. And pretty as a pink, too. Don't you think so? Hey?
don't you?”
“Yes.”
“Yes. I've been kind of expectin' she might get up to see me. Hannah
Poundberry told the Berrys that she said she was comin'. I don't care
about her bein' a Come-Outer. I ain't proud, Mr. Ellery. And there's
Come-Outers and COME-Outers. Proud! Lord 'a' mercy! what has an old
woman, next door to the poorhouse, got to be proud over? Yes, she told
Hannah she was comin', and the Berry folks thought it might be to-day.
So I've been watchin' for her. What! you ain't agoin', Mr. Ellery?”
“I think I must, Mrs. Prince.”
“Oh, don't! Do stay a spell longer. Gracie might come and I'd like
for you to meet her. She needs sympathy and comfort an awful lot, and
there's no tellin', you might convert her to bein' a Reg'lar. Oh, yes,
you might. You've got the most persuadin' way, everybody says so. And
you don't know her very well, do you? Land sakes alive! talk about
angels! I snum if she ain't comin' up the road this blessed minute.”
John Ellery had risen. Now he seized his hat and moved hastily toward
the door. Mrs. Prince called to him to remain, but he would not.
However, her good-bys delayed him for a minute, and before he reached
the yard gate Grace was opening it. They were face to face for the first
time since they had parted in the grove, so many months before.
She was thinner and paler, he saw that. And dressed very quietly in
black. She looked at him, as he stood before her in the path, and her
cheeks flushed and her eyes fell. He stepped aside and raised his hat.
She bowed gravely and murmured a “Good afternoon.” Then she passed on up
the path toward the door. He watched her for an instant and then stepped
quickly after her. The black gown and the tired look in her eyes touched
him to the heart. He could not let her go without a word.
She turned at the sound of his step behind her.
“Er--Miss Van Horne,” he stammered, “I merely wanted to tell you how
deeply I--we all feel for you in your trouble. I--I--I am so sorry.”
“Thank you,” she said simply, and after a moment's hesitation.
“I mean it sincerely. I--I did not know Captain Hammond very well, but
I respected and liked him the first time we met. I shall hope
that--that--it is not so serious as they fear.”
“Thank you,” she said again. “We are all hoping.”
“Yes. I--I--” It was dreadfully hard to get words together. “I have
heard so much of the captain from--”
“From Aunt Keziah? Yes, she was Nat's warmest friend.”
“I know. Er--Mrs. Coffin tells me you are going away. I hope you may
hear good news and soon. I shall think of you--of him--I want you to
understand that I shall.”
The door opened and Emeline Berry appeared on the threshold.
“Come right in, Grace,” she called. “Mrs. Prince wants you to. She's
ahollerin' for you to hurry up.”
“Good-by,” said the minister.
“Good-by. Thank you again. It was very kind of you to say this.”
“No, no. I mean it.”
“I know; that was why it was so kind. Good-by.”
She held out her hand and he took it. He knew that his was trembling,
but so, too, was hers. The hands fell apart. Grace entered the house and
John Ellery went out at the gate.
That night Keziah, in the sitting room, trying to read, but finding
it hard to keep her mind on the book, heard her parson pacing back and
forth over the straw-matted floor of his chamber. She looked at
the clock; it was nearly twelve. She shut the book and sighed. Her
well-meant words of consolation had been a mistake, after all. She
should not have spoken Grace Van Horne's name.