IN WHICH THE MINISTER RECEIVES A LETTER
John Ellery was uneasy. Physically he was very much better, so much
better that he was permitted to sit up a while each day. But mentally he
was disturbed and excited, exactly the condition which the doctor said
he must not be in. Keziah and Grace had gone away and left him, and he
could not understand why.
Mrs. Higgins, Ike's mother, was at the shanty and she did her best to
soothe and quiet him. She was a kind soul and capable, in her way, but
she could not answer his questions satisfactorily.
“Where are they?” he demanded. “Why did they go? Has anything happened?
When are they coming back?”
“I can't tell you just when, Mr. Ellery,” replied Mrs. Higgins. “Grace
had to go home for a--a day or so and Keziah had things to attend to at
the parsonage. Don't you fret yourself about them.”
“I'm not fretting, but it does seem strange. I could understand why one
should go, perhaps, but not both. Didn't Gra--Miss Van Horne tell you
why she went?”
“Well, now, Mr. Ellery, don't let's worry about Gracie. She's a good
girl with lots of common sense and--”
“I know that. But that doesn't answer me. Why did she go?”
“Keziah hadn't been to the parsonage sence that day when you was fust
took sick, and I expect likely she felt that she'd ought to--”
“Please, Mrs. Higgins, tell me the truth. I'm not asking about Mrs.
Coffin. Didn't Miss Van Horne tell you her reason for leaving?”
“No, she didn't.”
“But you know the reason? You're keeping something from me. Did she say
when she would come back?”
“No, not exactly, but, of course--”
“I know you're keeping something from me. What has happened?”
“Happened? Land sakes! does anything ever happen in Trumet?”
“I think a good many things have happened lately. And the longer you
keep the truth from me the more I shall suspect.”
“Mr. Ellery, you set still in that chair, or, when the doctor comes,
he'll put you to bed. I've got some cookin' to do and I can't set here
gossipin' no longer. You behave yourself and stop frettin'. I'm skipper
here now--er--for a while, anyhow--and you've got to take orders from
me. There! now I cal'late you're scared, ain't you?”
He did not seem greatly frightened, nor in awe of his new skipper.
Instead, he was evidently preparing to ask more questions. Mrs. Higgins
hurriedly fled to the living room and closed the door behind her.
The minister heard her rattling pans and dishes at a great rate. The
noise made him nervous and he wished she might be more quiet. He moved
to the chair nearest the window and looked out over the dunes and the
wide stretch of tumbling blue sea. The surf was rolling up the shore,
the mackerel gulls were swooping and dipping along the strand, the beach
grass was waving in the wind. A solitary fish boat was beating out past
the spar buoy. She was almost over the spot when the San Jose had first
anchored.
The view was a familiar one. He had seen it in all weathers, during a
storm, at morning when the sun was rising, at evening when the moon
came up to tip the watery ridges with frosted silver. He had liked
it, tolerated it, hated it, and then, after she came, loved it. He had
thought it the most beautiful scene in all the world and one never to be
forgotten. The dingy old building, with its bare wooden walls, had been
first a horror, then a prison, and at last a palace of contentment. With
the two women, one a second mother to him, and the other dearest of
all on earth, he could have lived there forever. But now the old prison
feeling was coming back. He was tired of the view and of the mean little
room. He felt lonely and deserted and despairing.
His nerves were still weak and it was easy, in his childish condition,
to become despondent. He went over the whole situation and felt more and
more sure that his hopes had been false ones and that he had builded a
fool's paradise. After all, he remembered, she had given him no promise;
she had found him ill and delirious and had brought him there. She had
been kind and thoughtful and gracious, but that she would be to anyone,
it was her nature. And he had been content, weak as he was, to have her
near him, where he would see her and hear her speak. Her mere presence
was so wonderful that he had been satisfied with that and had not asked
for more. And now she had gone. Mrs. Higgins had said “for a day or
two,” but that was indefinite, and she had not said she would return
when those two days had passed. He was better now, almost well. Would
she come back to him? After all, conditions in the village had not
changed. He was still pastor of the Regular church and she was a
Come-Outer. The man she had promised to marry was dead--yes. But the
other conditions were the same. And Mrs. Higgins had refused to tell
him the whole truth; he was certain of that. She had run away when he
questioned her.
He rose from the chair and started toward the living room. He would not
be put off again. He would be answered. His hand was on the latch of the
door when that door was opened. Dr. Parker came in.
The doctor was smiling broadly. His ruddy face was actually beaming. He
held out his hand, seized the minister's, and shook it.
“Good morning, Mr. Ellery,” he said. “It's a glorious day. Yes, sir, a
bully day. Hey? isn't it?”
Ellery's answer was a question.
“Doctor,” he said, “why have Mrs. Coffin and--and Miss Van Horne gone?
Has anything happened? I know something has, and you must tell me what.
Don't try to put me off or give me evasive answers. I want to know why
they have gone.”
Parker looked at him keenly. “Humph!” he grunted. “I'll have to get
into Mrs. Higgins's wig. I told her not to let you worry, and you have
worried. You're all of a shake.”
“Never mind that. I asked you a question.”
“I know you did. Now, Mr. Ellery, I'm disappointed in you. I thought you
were a sensible man who would take care of his health, now that he'd got
the most of it back again. I've got news for you--good news--but I'm not
sure that I shall tell it to you.”
“Good news! Dr. Parker, if you've got news for me that is good, for
Heaven's sake tell it. I've been imagining everything bad that could
possibly happen. Tell me, quick. My health can stand that.”
“Ye-es, yes, I guess it can. They say joy doesn't kill, and that's one
of the few medical proverbs made by unmedical men that are true. You
come with me and sit down in that chair. Yes, you will. Sit down.”
He led his patient back to the chair by the window and forced him into
it.
“There!” he said. “Now, Mr. Ellery, if you think you are a man, a
sensible man, who won't go to pieces like a ten-year-old youngster,
I'll--I'll let you sit here for a while.”
“Doctor?”
“You sit still. No, I'm not going to tell you anything. You sit where
you are and maybe the news'll come to you. If you move it won't. Going
to obey orders? Good! I'll see you by and by, Mr. Ellery.”
He walked out of the room. It seemed to Ellery that he sat in that chair
for ten thousand years before the door again opened. And then--
--“Grace!” he cried. “O Grace! you--you've come back.”
She was blushing red, her face was radiant with quiet happiness, but her
eyes were moist. She crossed the room, bent over and kissed him on the
forehead.
“Yes, John,” she said; “I've come back. Yes, dear, I've come back to--to
you.”
Outside the shanty, on the side farthest from the light and its group
of buildings, the doctor and Captain Nat Hammond were talking with Mrs.
Higgins. The latter was wildly excited and bubbling with joy.
“It's splendid!” she exclaimed. “It's almost too fine to believe. Now
we'll keep our minister, won't we?”
“I don't see why not,” observed the doctor, with quiet satisfaction.
“Zeb and I had the Daniels crowd licked to a shoestring and now they'll
stay licked. The parish committee is three to one for Mr. Ellery and the
congregation more than that. Keep him? You bet we'll keep him! And
I'll dance at his wedding--that is, unless he's got religious scruples
against it.”
Mrs. Higgins turned to Captain Nat.
“It's kind of hard for you, Nat,” she said. “But it's awful noble and
self-sacrificin' and everybody'll say so. Of course there wouldn't be
much satisfaction in havin' a wife you knew cared more for another man.
But still it's awful noble of you to give her up.”
The captain looked at the doctor and laughed quietly.
“Don't let my nobility weigh on your mind, Mrs. Higgins,” he said. “I'd
made up my mind to do this very thing afore ever I got back to Trumet.
That is, if Gracie was willin'. And when I found she was not only
willin' but joyful, I--well, I decided to offer up the sacrifice right
off.”
“You did? You DID? Why, how you talk! I never heard of such a thing in
my born days.”
“Nor I neither, not exactly. But there!” with a wink at Parker, “you see
I've been off amongst all them Kanaka women and how do you know but I've
fell in love?”
“Nat HAMMOND!”
“Oh, well, I--What is it, Grace?”
She was standing in the doorway and beckoning to him. Her cheeks were
crimson, the breeze was tossing her hair about her forehead, and she
made a picture that even the practical, unromantic doctor appreciated.
“By George, Nat!” he muttered, “you've got more courage than I have. If
'twas my job to give her up to somebody else I'd think twice, I'll bet.”
The captain went to meet her.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nat,” she whispered, “will you come in? He wants to see you.”
John Ellery was still seated in the chair by the window, but he no
longer looked like an invalid. There was no worry or care in his
countenance now, merely a wondrous joy and serene happiness.
He held out his hands and the captain shook them heartily.
“Mr. Ellery,” he said, “as they used to say at the circus, 'Here we are
again.' And you and I have been doing all kinds of circus acrobatics
since we shook last, hey? I'm glad you're pretty nigh out of the sick
bay--and the doctor says you are.”
“Captain,” began Ellery. Hammond interrupted him.
“Hold on!” he said. “Belay right there. If you and I are to cruise in
the same family--and that's what I hear is likely to happen--I
cal'late we'll heave overboard the cap'ns and Misters. My name's
'Nathaniel'--'Nat' for short.”
“All right. And mine is 'John.' Captain--Nat, I mean--how can I ever
thank you?”
“Thank me? What do you want to thank me for? I only handed over
somethin' that wasn't mine in the first place and belonged to you all
along. I didn't know it, that was the only trouble.”
“But your promise to your father. I feel--”
“You needn't. I told dad that it was just as Grace said. She says she's
got a better man, or words to that effect. And--I don't know how you
feel about such things, John--but I b'lieve there's a broader outlook up
aloft than there is down here and that dad would want me to do just what
I have done. Don't worry about me. I'm doin' the right thing and I
know it. And don't pity me, neither. I made up my mind not to marry
Grace--unless, of course, she was set on it--months ago. I'm tickled to
death to know she's goin' to have as good a man as you are. She'll tell
you so. Grace! Hello! she's gone.”
“Yes. I told her I wanted to talk with you alone, for a few minutes.
Nat, Grace tells me that Aunt Keziah was the one who--”
“She was. She met me at the Cohasset Narrows depot. I was settin' in the
car, lookin' out of the window at the sand and sniffin' the Cape air. By
the everlastin'! there ain't any air or sand like 'em anywheres else.
I feel as if I never wanted to see a palm tree again as long as I live.
I'd swap the whole of the South Pacific for one Trumet sandhill with a
huckleberry bush on it. Well, as I started to say, I was settin' there
lookin' out of the window when somebody tapped me on the shoulder. I
looked up and 'twas her.
“You could have blown me over with a fan. By the jumpin' Moses, you
could! You see, I'd been thinkin' about her--that is, I was--”
He hesitated, turned red, coughed, and went on.
“I was surprised enough to see her, I tell you. Way up there at the
Narrows! I couldn't have said a word, anyway, and she never gave me a
chance. 'Nat,' she says, 'don't talk now. Come with me, quick, afore the
train starts.'
“Still I didn't say anything, nothin' sane anyhow. 'Keziah!' I managed
to stutter. 'KEZIAH!'
“'Come!' says she. 'Hurry! I want you to get off here. I've come here on
purpose to meet you. I must talk with you; it's important. You can go
to Trumet on the next train, to-night. But now I must talk with you. I
MUST. Won't you please come, Nat?'
“Well, I went. The engine bell was beginnin' to ring and we had to move
lively, I tell you. I swung her off the step just as the car begun to
move. After the smoke had faded away around the next bend I realized
that my hat had faded away along with it. Yes, sir! I'd left it on the
seat. Ha! ha! ha!”
He laughed uproariously. Ellery laughed in sympathy.
“However, I wa'n't worryin' about hats, just then. All I wanted to do
was stand still, like a frozen image, and stare at her. You see, John,
I hadn't laid eyes on a friend, one of the real homemade kind, for more
days than I wanted to count; and here was one of 'em, one of the best,
passed out to me unexpected and ahead of time, like a surprise party
present. So I just pumped her hand up and down and stared. I didn't have
any exclusive mortgage on the starin' by no means, for the depot master
and a dozen or so loafers was lookin' at us with their mouths wide open.
“I guess she noticed it, for she says, 'Don't stay here, Nat. Come in
the waitin' room or somewheres where we can talk.'
“So into the waitin' room we went and come to anchor on the settee. Six
or eight of the loafers settled themselves handy to the door, so's they
could peek in occasionally. I remember I told one of them not to stretch
his neck that way 'cause he might never get it back into shape again and
in the gunnin' season that would be dangerous. 'Some nearsighted feller
might take you for a goose,' I says. Ho! ho!
“And then, John, we had our talk. Seems she left Trumet Wednesday
afternoon. Got the livery stable man to drive her as fur as Bayport,
hired another team there and come on to Sandwich. Stayed overnight there
and took the mornin' train which got to Cohasset Narrows just ahead of
the one I was comin' on. She'd been so afraid of bein' late, she said.
She must see me afore I got to Trumet.
“Well, she saw me and told me the whole yarn about you and Grace. She
tried to break it to me gently, so I wouldn't feel too bad. She knew it
would be a shock to me, she said. It was a shock, in a way, but as for
feelin' bad, I didn't. I think the world of Grace. I'd do anything she
wanted me to do; but most the way down on the train--yes, and long afore
that--I'd been dreadin' my comin' home on one account. I dreaded tellin'
her that, unless she was real set on it, she'd better not marry me.
“You see, John, I've thought a lot sence I've been away. Had
consider'ble time to do it in. And the more I thought the less that
promise to dad seemed right. I'd have bet my sou-wester Gracie never
cared for me in the way a girl ought to care for a chap she's goin' to
ship as pilot for the rest of her days. And, as for me--well, I--I had
my reasons for not wantin' to marry her.”
He paused again, sighed, started to speak, and then sat silent, looking
out of the window. Ellery laid a hand on his knee.
“Nat,” said the minister, “you saved my life once, do you remember that?
I do, if you don't.”
“Saved your life? What are you talkin' about? Oh! that time on the
flats? That wasn't savin' your life, 'twas savin' your clothes from
gettin' a wettin'.”
“No, it was more than that. And now I guess you've saved it again, you
and Grace between you. Yes, and Aunt Keziah. Bless her! to think of her
going way up there to meet you and help us!”
“Yes. 'Twas like her, wasn't it? She said she knew I'd hear the yarn
when I got to Trumet, but she wanted me to hear it just as it was, and
nobody but she and Grace and you knew the whole truth about it. So she
come. I'm glad she did; not that I shouldn't have done the same, whoever
told me, but--”
“Nat, I want to tell you something. Something that only one other person
knows. Grace doesn't know it yet. Neither does Aunt Keziah--the whole of
it. And if she knew I told you even a part I'm afraid she would, as she
would say, 'skin me alive.' But I owe her--and you--more than I could
repay if I lived a thousand years. So I'm going to tell and take the
consequences.”
The captain looked at him. “Well!” he exclaimed. “What's comin' now?
More secrets? Blessed if this ain't gettin' more excitin' than the South
Seas. I used to think excitement in Trumet was scurcer than cream in
poorhouse coffee, but I'll have to change my mind.”
“Nat, when--that morning after your father died and after you and Grace
had agreed to--to--”
“To do somethin' neither of us wanted to do? Yes, I know. Go ahead.”
“That morning Aunt Keziah came home to the parsonage and broke the
news to me. She did it as only she could do such a thing, kindly and
pityingly and--”
“Of course. That's Keziah.”
“Yes. Well, as you can imagine, I was almost crazy. I made a fool of
myself, I expect; refused to believe her, behaved disgracefully, and at
last, when I had to believe it, threatened to run away and leave my work
and Trumet forever, like a coward. She made me stay.”
“Did, hey?”
“Yes. She showed me it was my duty to face the music. When I whimpered
about my troubles she told me her own story. Then I learned what trouble
was and what pluck was, too. She told me about her marriage and--excuse
me for speaking of what isn't my business; yet it is mine, in a way--she
told me about you.”
Captain Hammond did not answer. His good natured face clouded and he
shifted in his chair.
“She told me of you, Nat, all about you--and herself. And she told me
something else, which explains why she felt she must send you away, why
she thought your marriage to Grace would be a good thing.”
“I know. She told you that that darn scamp Anse Coffin was alive.”
The minister started violently. He gasped in surprise.
“You knew it? You KNEW it?” he stammered.
“I know it now. Have known it for over a year. My findin' it out was one
of the special Providences that's been helpin' along this last voyage of
mine. My second mate was a Hyannis man, name of Cahoon. One day, on
that pesky island, when we was eatin' dinner together, he says to me,
'Cap'n,' he says, 'you're from Trumet, ain't you?' I owned up. 'Know
anybody named Coffin there?' says he. I owned up to that, too. 'Well,'
he says, 'I met her husband last trip I was in the Glory of the Wave.'
I stared at him. 'Met his ghost, you mean,' I says. 'He's been dead
for years, and a good thing, too. Fell overboard and, not bein' used to
water, it killed him.'
“But he wouldn't have it so. 'I used to know Anse Coffin in New
Bedford,' he says. 'Knew him well's I know you. And when we was in port
at Havre I dropped in at a gin mill down by the water front and he come
up and touched me on the arm. I thought same as you, that he was dead,
but he wa'n't. He was three sheets in the wind and a reg'lar dock rat to
look at, but 'twas him sure enough. We had a long talk. He said he was
comin' back to Trumet some day. Had a wife there, he said. I told him,
sarcastic, that she'd be glad to see him. He laughed and said maybe not,
but that she knew he was alive and sent him money when he was hard up.
Wanted me to promise not to tell any Cape folks that I'd seen him, and I
ain't till now.'
“Well, you can imagine how I felt when Cahoon spun me that yarn. First
I wouldn't b'lieve it and then I did. It explained things, just as you
say, John. I could see now why Keziah gave me my walkin' papers. I could
see how she'd been sacrificin' her life for that scum.”
“Yes. She wouldn't divorce him. She said she had taken him for better or
worse, and must stand by him. I tried to show her she was wrong, but it
was no use. She did say she would never live with him again.”
“I should say not. LIVE with him! By the everlastin'! if he ever comes
within reach of my hands then--there's times when good honest murder is
justifiable and righteous, and it'll be done. It'll be done, you hear
me!”
He looked as if he meant it. Ellery asked another question.
“Did you tell her--Aunt Keziah--when you met her at the Narrows?” he
asked.
“No. But I shall tell her when I see her again. She shan't spoil her
life--a woman like that! by the Lord! WHAT a woman!--for any such crazy
notion. I swore it when I heard the story and I've sworn it every day
since. That's what settled my mind about Grace. Keziah Coffin belongs
to me. She always has belonged to me, even though my own pig-headedness
lost her in the old days.”
“She cares for you, Nat. I know that. She as much as told me so.”
“Thank you, John. Thank you. Well, I can wait now. I can wait, for
I've got something sure to wait for. I tell you, Ellery, I ain't a
church-goin' man--not as dad was, anyway--but I truly believe that this
thing is goin' to come out right. God won't let that cussed rascal live
much longer. He won't! I know it. But if he does, if he lives a thousand
years, I'll take her from him.”
He was pacing the floor now, his face set like granite. Ellery rose, his
own face beaming. Here was his chance. At last he could pay to this man
and Keziah a part of the debt he owed.
Nat stopped in his stride. “Well!” he exclaimed. “I almost forgot, after
all. Keziah sent a note to you. I've got it in my pocket. She gave it to
me when she left me at Cohasset.”
“Left you? Why! didn't she come back with you on the night train?”
“No. That's funny, too, and I don't understand it yet. We was together
all the afternoon. 'I was feelin' so good at seein' her that I took her
under my wing and we cruised all over that town together. Got dinner at
the tavern and she went with me to buy myself a new hat, and all that.
At first she didn't seem to want to, but then, after I'd coaxed a while,
she did. She was lookin' pretty sad and worn out, when I first met her,
I thought; but she seemed to get over it and we had a fine time. It
reminded me of the days when I used to get home from a voyage and we
were together. Then, when 'twas time for the night train we went down to
the depot. She gave me this note and told me to hand it to you to-day.
“'Good-by, Nat,' she says. 'We've had a nice day, haven't we?'
“'We have, for a fact,' I says. 'But what are you sayin' good-by for?'
“'Because I'm not goin' to Trumet with you,' says she. 'I'm goin' to the
city. I've got some business to see to there. Good-by.'
“I was set back, with all my canvas flappin'. I told her I'd go to
Boston with her and we'd come home to Trumet together to-morrow,
that's to-day. But she said no. I must come here and ease your mind and
Grace's. I must do it. So at last I agreed to, sayin' I'd see her in a
little while. She went on the up train and I took the down one. Hired
a team in Sandwich and another in Bayport and got to the tavern about
eleven. That's the yarn. And here's your note. Maybe it tells where
she's gone and why.”
The minister took the note and tore open the envelope. Within was a
single sheet of paper. He read a few lines, stopped, and uttered an
exclamation.
“What's the matter?” asked the captain.
Ellery did not answer. He read the note through and then, without a
word, handed it to his friend.
The note was as follows:
“DEAR JOHN:
“I am going away, as I told you I would if he came. He is coming.
Tuesday I got a letter from him. It was written at Kingston, Jamaica,
almost three months ago. I can't think why I haven't got it sooner, but
suppose it was given to some one to mail and forgotten. In it he said
he was tired of going to sea and was coming home to me. I had money,
he said, and we could get along. He had shipped aboard a brig bound
for Savannah, and from there he was going to try for a berth on a
Boston-bound vessel. So I am going away and not coming back. I could not
stand the disgrace and I could not see him. You and Grace won't need me
any more now. Don't worry about me. I can always earn a living while I
have my strength. Please don't worry. If he comes tell him I have gone
you do not know where. That will be true, for you don't. I hope you will
be very happy. I do hope so. Oh, John, you don't know how I hate to do
this, but I must. Don't tell Nat. He would do something terrible to him
if he came, and Nat knew. Just say I have been called away and may be
back some time. Perhaps I may. Love to you all. Good-by.
“Yours truly,
“KEZIAH COFFIN.”
The captain stared at the note. Then he threw it to the floor and
started for the door. The minister sprang from his chair and called to
him.
“Nat,” he cried. “Nat! Stop! where are you going?”
Hammond turned.
“Goin'?” he growled. “Goin'? I'm goin' to find her, first of all. Then
I'm comin' back to wait for him.”
“But you won't have to wait. He'll never come. He's dead.”
“Dead? DEAD? By the everlastin'! this has been too much for you, I ought
to have known it. I'll send the doctor here right off. I can't stay
myself. I've got to go. But--”
“Listen! listen to me! Ansel Coffin is dead, I tell you. I know it. I
know all about it. That was what I wanted to see you about. Did Keziah
tell you of the San Jose and the sailor who died of smallpox in this
very building? In that room there?”
“Yes. John, you--”
“I'm not raving. It's the truth. That sailor was Ansel Coffin. I watched
with him and one night, the night before he died, he spoke Keziah's
name. He spoke of New Bedford and of Trumet and of her, over and over
again. I was sure who he was then, but I called in Ebenezer Capen, who
used to know Coffin in New Bedford. And he recognized him. Nat, as sure
as you and I are here this minute, Ansel Coffin, Aunt Keziah's husband,
is buried in the Trumet cemetery.”