After days of fog Stanley Heath, a stranger whose power-boat runs
aground on the treacherous Cape Cod shoals, stumbles into the Homestead
and into the life of Marcia Howe, a young widow with whom half the men
in the village are already in love. Out of his clothing falls a leather
case crammed with gems and the enigma of this puzzling possession
provides the pivot around which the story revolves. Marcia's blind,
intuitive belief in the man's innocence brings its own reward. The
hamlets of Wilton and Belleport, already so well known to Miss Bassett's
readers, are again the setting of this new novel. A sparkling love story
of Cape Cod.
Shifting Sands
Other Books by
SARA WARE BASSETT
The Harbor Road
The Green Dolphin
Bayberry Lane
Twin Lights
SHIFTING SANDS
SARA WARE BASSETT
THE PENN PUBLISHING
COMPANY · PHILADELPHIA
COPYRIGHT 1933 BY THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
Shifting Sands
Manufactured in the United States of America
_Our lives are like the ever shifting sands
Which ocean currents whirl in the ebb and flow
Of their unresisting tides_
Chapter I
_The Widder_ lived on the spit of sand jutting out into Crocker's Cove.
Just why she should have been singled out by this significant sobriquet
was a subtle psychological problem. There were other women in Belleport
and in Wilton, too, who had lost husbands. Maria Eldridge was a widow
and so was Susan Ann Beals. Indeed death had claimed the head of many
a household in the community, for to follow the sea was a treacherous
business.
Nevertheless, despite the various homes in which solitary women reigned,
none of their owners was designated by the appellation allotted to
Marcia Howe.
Moreover, there seemed in the name the hamlet had elected to bestow upon
her a ring of satisfaction, even of rejoicing, rather than the note of
condolence commonly echoing in the term. Persons rolled it on their
tongues as if flaunting it triumphantly on the breeze.
"Marcia ought never to have married Jason Howe, anyway," asserted Abbie
Brewster when one day she reminiscently gossiped with her friend,
Rebecca Gill. "She was head an' shoulders above him. Whatever coaxed her
into it I never could understand. She could have had her pick of half a
dozen husbands. Why take up with a rollin' stone like him?"
"She was nothin' but a slip of a thing when she married. Mebbe she had
the notion she could reform him," Rebecca suggested.
"Mebbe," agreed Abbie. "Still, young as she was, she might 'a' known
she couldn't. Ten years ago he was the same, unsteady, drinkin' idler
he proved himself to be up to the last minute of his life. He hadn't
changed a hair. Such men seldom do, unless they set out to; an' Jason
Howe never set out to do, or be, anything. He was too selfish an' too
lazy. Grit an' determination was qualities left out of him. Well,
he's gone, an' Marcia's well rid of him. For 'most three years now,
she's been her own mistress an' the feelin' that she is must be highly
enjoyable."
"Poor Marcia," sighed Rebecca.
"Poor Marcia?" Abbie repeated. "Lucky Marcia, I say. 'Most likely she'd
say so herself was she to speak the truth. She never would, though.
Since the day she married, she's been close-mouthed as an oyster. What
she thought of Jason, or didn't think of him, she's certainly kept to
herself. Nobody in this village has ever heard her bewail her lot. She
made her bargain an' poor as 'twas she stuck to it."
"S'pose she'll always go on livin' there on that deserted strip of
sand?" speculated Rebecca. "Why, it's 'most an island. In fact, it is an
island at high tide."
"So 'tis. An' Zenas Henry says it's gettin' to be more an' more so every
minute," Abbie replied. "The tide runs through that channel swift as
a race horse an' each day it cuts a wider path 'twixt Marcia an' the
shore. Before long, she's goin' to be as completely cut off from the
mainland at low water as at high."
"It must be a terrible lonely place."
"I wouldn't want to live there," shrugged the sociable Abbie. "But
there's folks that don't seem to mind solitude, an' Marcia Howe's one
of 'em. Mebbe, after the life she led with Jason, she kinder relishes
bein' alone. 'Twould be no marvel if she did. Furthermore, dynamite
couldn't blast her out of that old Daniels Homestead. Her father an'
her grandfather were born there, an' the house is the apple of her eye.
It is a fine old place if only it stood somewheres else. Of course,
when it was built the ocean hadn't et away the beach, an' instead of
bein' narrow, the Point was a wide, sightly piece of land. Who'd 'a'
foreseen the tides would wash 'round it 'til they'd whittled it down
to little more'n a sand bar, an' as good as detached it from the coast
altogether?"
"Who'd 'a' foreseen lots of pranks the sea's played? The Cape's a-swirl
with shiftin' sands. They drift out here, they pile up there. What's
terra firma today is swallered up tomorrow. Why, even Wilton Harbor's
fillin' in so fast that 'fore we know it there won't be a channel deep
enough to float a dory left us. We'll be land-locked."
"Well, say what you will against the sea an' the sand, they did a good
turn for Marcia all them years of her married life. At least they helped
her keep track of Jason. Once she got him on the Point with the tide
runnin' strong 'twixt him and the village, she'd padlock the skiff an'
there he'd be! She had him safe an' sound," Abbie chuckled.
"Yes," acquiesced Rebecca. "But the scheme worked both ways. Let Jason
walk over to town across the flats an' then let the tide rise an' there
he be, too! Without a boat there was no earthly way of his gettin' home.
Marcia might fidget 'til she was black in the face. He had the best of
excuses for loiterin' an' carousin' ashore."
"Well, he don't loiter and carouse here no longer. Marcia knows where he
is now," declared Abbie with spirit. "I reckon she's slept more durin'
these last three years than ever she slept in the ten that went before
'em. She certainly looks it. All her worries seem to have fallen away
from her, leavin' her lookin' like a girl of twenty. She's pretty as a
picture."
"She must be thirty-five if she's a day," Rebecca reflected.
"She ain't. She's scarce over thirty. I can tell you 'xactly when she
was born," disputed the other woman. "But thirty or even more, she don't
look her age."
"S'pose she'll marry again?" ventured Rebecca, leaning forward and
dropping her voice.
"Marry? There you go, 'Becca, romancin' as usual."
"I ain't romancin'. I was just wonderin'. An' I ain't the only person
in town askin' the question, neither," retorted Mrs. Gill with a
sniff. "There's scores of others. In fact, I figger the thought is the
uppermost one in the minds of 'most everybody."
Abbie laughed.
"Mebbe. In fact, I reckon 'tis," conceded she. "It's the thought that
come to everyone quick as Jason was buried. 'Course, 'twouldn't be
decent to own it--an' yet I don't know why. Folks 'round about here are
fond of Marcia an' feel she's been cheated out of what was her rightful
due. They want her to begin anew an' have what she'd oughter have had
years ago--a good husband an' half a dozen children. There's nothin' to
be ashamed of in a wish like that. I ain't denyin' there are certain
persons who are more self-seekin'. I ain't blind to the fact that once
Jason was under the sod, 'bout every widower in town sorter spruced up
an' began to take notice; an' before a week was out every bachelor had
bought a new necktie. Eben Snow told me so an' he'd oughter know bein'
the one that sells 'em."
"Abbie!"
"It's true. An' why, pray, shouldn't the men cast sheep's eyes at
Marcia? Can you blame 'em? She'd be one wife in a hundred could a body
win her. There ain't a thing she can't do from shinglin' a barn down to
trimmin' a hat. She's the match of any old salt at sailin' a boat an'
can pull an oar strong as the best of 'em. Along with that she can sew,
cook, an' mend; plow an' plant; paper a room. An' all the time, whatever
she's doin', she'd bewitch you with her smile an' her pretty ways. It's
a marvel to me how she's kept out of matrimony long's this with so many
men millerin' 'round her."
"She certainly's takin' her time. She don't 'pear to be in no hurry to
get a husband," smiled Rebecca.
"Why should she be? Her parents left her with money in the bank an' the
Homestead to boot, an' Marcia was smart enough not to let Jason make
ducks and drakes of her property. She dealt out to him what she thought
he better have an' held fast to the rest. As a result, she's uncommon
well-off."
"All men mightn't fancy havin' a wife hold the tiller, though."
Rebecca Gill pursed her lips.
"Any man Marcia Howe married would have to put up with it," Abbie
asserted, biting off a needleful of thread with a snap of her fine
white teeth. "Marcia's always been captain of the ship an' she always
will be."
Gathering up her mending, Rebecca rose.
"Well, I can't stay here settlin' Marcia's future," she laughed. "I've
got to be goin' home. Lemmy'll be wantin' his supper. He can't, though,
accuse me of fritterin' the afternoon away. I've darned every pair of
stockin's in this bag an' there was scores of 'em. You turn off such
things quicker when you're in good company."
A scuffling on the steps and the sound of men's voices interrupted the
words.
The kitchen door swung open and Zenas Henry's lanky form appeared on the
threshold. Behind him, like a foreshortened shadow, tagged his crony,
Lemuel Gill.
"Well, well, 'Becca, if here ain't Lemmy come to fetch you!" Abbie
cried. "'Fraid your wife had deserted you, Lemmy? She ain't. She was
just this minute settin' out for home."
"I warn't worryin' none," grinned Lemuel.
"What you two been doin'?" Abbie inquired of her husband.
"Oh, nothin' much," answered the big, loose-jointed fellow, shuffling
into the room. "We've been settin' out, drinkin' in the air."
The carelessness of the reply was a trifle overdone, and instantly
aroused the keen-eyed Abbie's suspicions.
She glanced into his face.
"Guess we're goin' to have rain," he ventured.
"I wouldn't wonder," rejoined Lemuel Gill.
Humming to prove he was entirely at his ease, Zenas Henry ambled to the
window and looked out.
"Where you been settin'?" demanded Abbie.
"Settin'? Oh, Lemmy an' me took sort of a little jaunt along the shore.
Grand day to be abroad. I never saw a finer. The sea's blue as a
corn-flower, an' the waves are rollin' in, an' rollin' in, an'--"
"They generally are," Abbie interrupted dryly. "Just where'd you
particularly notice 'em?"
Lemuel Gill stepped into the breach.
"'Twas this way," began he. "Zenas Henry an' me thought we'd take a
bit of a meander. We'd been to the postoffice an' was standin' in the
doorway when we spied Charlie Eldridge goin' by with a fish-pole--"
"Charlie Eldridge--the bank cashier?" Rebecca echoed. "But he ain't no
fisherman. What on earth was he doin' with a fish-pole?"
"That's what we wondered," said Lemuel.
"Charlie Eldridge with a fish-pole," repeated Abbie. "Mercy! Where do
you s'pose he was goin'?"
"I never in all my life knew of Charlie Eldridge goin' a-fishin',"
Rebecca rejoined. "Not that he ain't got a perfect right to fish if he
wants to outside bankin' hours. But--"
"But Charlie fishin'!" interrupted Abbie, cutting her friend short.
"Why, he'd no more dirty his lily-white hands puttin' a squirmin' worm
on a fish-hook than he'd cut off his head. In fact, I don't believe he'd
know how. You didn't, likely, see where he went."
"Wal--er--yes. We did."
Zenas Henry wheeled about.
Clearing his throat, he darted a glance at Lemuel.
"Havin' completed the business that took us to the store--" he began.
"Havin', in short, asked for the mail an' found there warn't none,"
laughed Abbie, mischievously.
Zenas Henry ignored the comment.
"We walked along in Charlie's wake," he continued.
"Followed him?"
"Wal--somethin' of the sort. You might, I s'pose, call it follerin',"
Zenas Henry admitted shamefacedly. "Anyhow, Lemmy an' me trudged along
behind him at what we considered a suitable distance."
"Where'd he go?" Rebecca urged, her face alight with curiosity.
"Wal, Charlie swung along, kinder whistlin' to himself, an' ketchin' his
pole in the trees and brushes 'til he come to the fork of the road. Then
he made for the shore."
"So he was really goin' fishin'," mused Abbie, a suggestion of
disappointment in her voice.
"He certainly was. Oh, Charlie was goin' fishin' right 'nough. He was
aimed for deep water," grinned Zenas Henry.
"He wouldn't ketch no fish in Wilton Harbor," sniffed Rebecca
contemptuously. "Wouldn't you think he'd 'a' known that?"
"He warn't," observed Zenas Henry mildly, "figgerin' to. In fact,
'twarn't to Wilton Harbor he was goin'."
With a simultaneous start, both women looked up.
"No-siree. Bank cashier or not, Charlie warn't that much of a numskull.
He was primed to fish in more propitious waters."
"Zenas Henry, do stop beatin' round the bush an' say what you have to
say. If you're goin' to tell us where Charlie Eldridge went, out with
it. If not, stop talkin' about it," burst out his wife sharply.
"Ain't I tellin' you fast as I can? Why get so het up? If you must know
an' can't wait another minute, Charlie went fishin' in Crocker's Cove."
"Crocker's Cove!" cried two feminine voices.
Zenas Henry's only reply was a deliberate nod.
"Crocker's Cove?" gasped Abbie.
"Crocker's Cove?" echoed Rebecca.
"Crocker's Cove," nodded Zenas Henry.
"Mercy on us! Why--! Why, he--he must 'a' been goin'"--began Abbie.
"--to see _The Widder_," Rebecca interrupted, completing the sentence.
"I'd no notion he was tendin' up to her," Abbie said.
"Wal, he warn't 'xactly tendin' up to her--least-way, not today. Not
what you could really call tendin' up," contradicted Zenas Henry, a
twinkle in his eye. "Rather, I'd say 'twas t'other way round. Wouldn't
you, Lemmy? Wouldn't you say that instead 'twas she who tended up to
him?"
Sagaciously, Lemuel bowed.
The tapping of Abbie's foot precipitated the remainder of the story.
"You see," drawled on Zenas Henry, "no sooner had Charlie got into the
boat an' pulled out into the channel than he had the usual beginner's
luck an' hooked a stragglin' bluefish--one of the pert kind that ain't
fer bein' hauled in. Law! You'd oughter seen that critter pull! He 'most
had Charlie out of the boat.
"I shouted to him to hang on an' so did Lemmy. We couldn't help it. The
idiot had no more notion what to do than the man in the moon.
"In our excitement, we must 'a' bellered louder'n we meant to, 'cause
in no time _The Widder_ popped outer the house. She took one look at
Charlie strugglin' in the boat, raced down to the landin' an' put out to
him just about at the minute he was waverin' as to whether he'd chuck
pole, line, an' sinker overboard, or go overboard himself.
"Quicker'n scat she had the fish-pole, an' while we looked on, Charlie
dropped down kinder limp on the seat of the boat an' begun tyin' up his
hand in a spandy clean pocket handkerchief while _The Widder_ gaffed the
fish an' hauled it in."
"My soul!" exploded Abbie Brewster. "My soul an' body!"
"Later on," continued Zenas Henry, "Charlie overtook us. He'd stowed
away his fish-pole somewheres. Leastway, he didn't have it with him.
When Lemmy an' me asked him where his fish was, he looked blacker'n
thunder an' snapped out: 'Hang the fish!'
"Seein' he warn't in no mood for neighborly conversation, we left him
an' come along home."