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.”
Mr. Abner Stone, of Stone & Barker, marine outfitters and ship chandlers, with a place of business on Commercial Street in Boston, and a bank account which commanded respect throughout the city, was feeling rather irritable and out of sorts. Poor relations are always a nuisance. They are forever expecting something, either money—in Mr. Stone's case this particular expectation was usually fruitless—or employment or influence or something. Mr. Stone was rich, he had become so by his own ability and unaided effort. He was sure of that—often mentioned it, with more or less modesty, in the speeches which he delivered to his Sunday-school class and at the dinners of various societies to which he belonged. He was a self-made man and was conscious that he had done a good job.
Therefore, being self-made, he saw no particular reason why he should aid in the making of others. If people were poor they ought to get over it. Poverty was a disease and he was no doctor. He had been poor once himself, and no one had helped him. “I helped myself,” he was wont to say, with pride. Some of his rivals in business, repeating this remark, smiled and added that he had been “helping himself” ever since.
Mr. Stone had “washed his hands” of his cousin, Keziah Coffin, or thought he had. After her brother Solomon died she had written to him, asking him to find her a position of some kind in Boston. “I don't want money, I don't want charity,” wrote Keziah. “What I want is work. Can you get it for me, Abner? I write to you because father used to tell of what you said to him about gratitude and how you would never rest until you had done something in return for what he did for you.”
Captain Ben Hall's kindness was the one thing Mr. Stone forgot when he said no one had ever helped him. He disliked to be reminded of it. It was a long while ago and the captain was dead. However, being reminded, he had called upon a friend in the tailoring line and had obtained for Keziah the place of sewing woman. She decided to become housekeeper at the Trumet parsonage and so notified him. Then he washed his hands of her.
But now he was compelled to soil them again. Keziah had appeared at his office, without warning, and demanded that he find her a position. “Demanded” was the proper word. Certainly she had not begged. She seemed to feel that her demand was right and proper, and his acceding to it the least he could do.
“What a fine place you've got here, Abner!” she said, inspecting the office and the store. “I declare it's finer than the one you had when you first went into business, afore you failed. I wish father could have lived to see it. He'd have realized that his judgment was good, even though his investment wasn't.”
Captain Hall had invested largely in that first business, the one which failed. Mr. Stone changed the subject. Later in the day he again sought his friend, the tailor, and Keziah was installed in the loft of the latter's Washington Street shop, beside the other women and girls who sewed and sewed from seven in the morning until six at night. Mr. Stone had left her there and come away, feeling that an unpleasant matter was disposed of. He had made some inquiries as to where she intended staying, even added a half-hearted invitation to dinner that evening at his home. But she declined.
“No, thank you, Abner,” she said, “I'm goin' to find a boardin' place and I'd just as soon nobody knew where I was stayin', for the present. And there's one thing I want to ask you: don't tell a soul I am here. Not a soul. If anyone should come askin' for me, don't give 'em any satisfaction. I'll tell you why some day, perhaps. I can't now.”
This was what troubled Mr. Stone as he sat in his office. Why should this woman wish to have her whereabouts kept a secret? There was a reason for this, of course. Was it a respectable reason, or the other kind? If the latter, his own name might be associated with the scandal. He wished, for the fiftieth time, that there were no poor relations.
A boy came into the office. “There is some one here to see you, Mr. Stone,” he said.
“Who is it?”
“I don't know, sir. Looks like a seafaring man, a sea captain, I should say—but he won't give his name. Says it's important and nobody but you'll do.”
“Humph! All right. Tell him to wait. I'll be out in a minute.”
Sea captains and ship owners were Stone & Barker's best customers. The senior partner emerged from the office with a smile on his face.
“Ah!” he said, extending his hand. “Glad to see you, Captain—er—”
“Hammond,” replied the visitor. “Same to you, Mr. Stone.”
“Fine weather for this time of year.”
“Fine enough, Mr. Stone.”
“Well, Captain Hammond, what can we do for you? Going to sail soon?”
“Not right away. Just made port, less'n a week ago. Home looks good to me, for a spell, anyhow.”
“So? Yes, I have no doubt. Let me see—where is your home, captain? I should remember, of course, but—”
“Don't know why you should. This is my first trip in your latitude, I guess. My home's at Trumet.”
“Trumet?” Mr. Stone's tone changed.
“Yes. Trumet, down on the Cape. Ever been there? We think it's about as good a place as there is.”
“Hu-u-m! Trumet? Well, Captain Hammond, you wished to see me, I understand.”
“Yes. Fact is, Mr. Stone, I want to ask you where I can find Mrs. Keziah Coffin. She's a relation of yours, I b'lieve, and she's come to Boston lately. Only yesterday or the day afore. Can you tell me where she is?”
“Why do you wish to see her?”
“Oh, for reasons, personal ones. She's a friend of mine.”
“I see. No, captain, I can't tell you where she is. Good morning.”
Captain Nat was greatly disappointed.
“Hold on there, just a minute,” he begged. “This is important, you understand, Mr. Stone. I'm mighty anxious to find Kezi—Mrs. Coffin. We thought, some of her friends and I, that most likely you'd know where she was. Can't you give us any help at all? Hasn't she been here?”
“Good morning, Captain Hammond. You must excuse me, I'm busy.”
He went into the office and closed the door. Captain Nat rubbed his forehead desperately. He had been almost sure that Abner Stone would put him on Keziah's track. Grace had thought so, too. She remembered what the housekeeper had told concerning her Boston cousin and how the latter had found employment for her when she contemplated leaving Trumet, after her brother's death. Grace believed that Keziah would go to him at once.
Nat walked to the door and stood there, trying to think what to do next. A smart young person, wearing a conspicuous suit of clothes, aided and abetted by a vivid waistcoat and a pair of youthful but promising side whiskers, came briskly along the sidewalk and stopped in front of him.
“Well, sir?” observed this person, with cheerful condescension. “Anything I can do for you?”
Captain Nat turned his gaze upon the side whiskers and the waistcoat.
“Hey?” he queried.
“I say, is there anything I can do for you?”
The captain shook his head. “No-o,” he drawled dryly, “I'm afraid not, son. I admit that don't seem scarcely possible, but I am afraid it's so.”
“Looking for something in our line, was you?”
“Well, I don't know. What might be on your line—clothes?”
The bewhiskered one drew himself up. “I am connected with Stone & Barker,” he said sharply. “And, seeing you standing in our doorway, I thought possibly—”
“Yes, yes. Beg your pardon, I'm sure. No, I don't want to buy anything. I come to see Mr. Stone on a personal matter.”
“He's busy, I suppose.”
“So he says.”
The young man smiled with serene satisfaction. “I'm not surprised,” he observed complacently. “We ARE a busy house, Mr—er—”
“Hammond's my name. Are you Mr. Barker?”
“No-o, my name is Prince.”
“So? Silent partner in the firm, hey?”
“No-o, not exactly.” Mr. Prince was slightly embarrassed. “No, I am a—a salesman—at present. Was the matter you wished to see Mr. Stone about a very private one?”
“Middlin'.'”
“Well, I asked because Mr. Stone is a busy man and we like to save him all the—the—”
“Trouble you can, hey? That's nice of you, you must save him a lot, Mr—er—King, was it?”
“No, Prince.”
“Sure and sartin', Prince, of course. I knew 'twas connected with the royal family. Well, Mr. Prince, I'm afraid even you can't help me nor him out this time. I'm lookin' up a friend of mine, a widow lady from down the Cape. She's a relation of Mr. Stone's, and she's come to Boston durin' the last day or so. I thought likely he might know where she was, that's all. That would be a little out of your latitude, hey?”
“I don't know. Her name wasn't Coffin, was it?”
Captain Nat started. “It certainly was,” he answered eagerly. “How'd you know that?”
Mr. Prince's complacence was superb. “Oh,” he answered with condescension, “Mr. Stone trusts me with a good many of his personal affairs.”
“I should think likely he would. But about Mrs. Coffin? You was goin' to say?”
“She is with James Hallett & Co., the tailors, on Washington Street. Mr. Stone found a place for her there, I believe. I—er—er—superintended the carrying of her valise and—What?”
“Nothin', nothin'. Hum! Hallett & Co., tailors? What number Washin'ton Street did you say?”
Mr. Prince gave the number.
“Thank you a lot,” said Captain Nat, with fervor. “Good-by, Mr. Prince. Hope the next time I come you'll be in the firm. Good day, sir.”
“Good day. Nothing else I can do? And you won't wait for Mr. Stone? Very good. Is there any message for him that you would like to leave?”
“Hey?” Nat had started to go, but now he paused and turned. There was a grim twinkle in his eye. “Message?” he repeated. “Why, ye-es, I don't know but there is. You just give Mr. Stone Cap'n Hammond's compliments and tell him I'm lookin' forward to interviewin' him some time. Just tell him that, will you?”
“I'll tell him. Glad to have met you, Captain Hammond.”
The captain nodded solemnly. “Say, Mr. King,” he said, “you ain't half so glad as I am.”
Mr. Prince strutted into the store.
“Who was that chap you were talking with?” asked a fellow-clerk.
“Oh, a hayseed who wanted to see the old man. Poor relation, I guess. I headed him off. Stone is always telling us that time is money, so I saved both of 'em for him. He ought to thank me. Wouldn't be surprised if I got the raise I've been asking for.”
Mr. Prince did not get the raise, nor the thanks. But he was surprised.
In the workshop of Hallett & Co., Keziah sat sewing busily. The window near her was closed, stuck fast, and through the dingy panes she could see only roofs and chimneys. The other women and girls near her chatted and laughed, but she was silent. She did not feel like talking, certainly not like laughing. The garment she was at work on was a coat, a wedding coat, so the foreman had told her, with a smile; therefore she must be very particular.
She wondered idly whose coat it might be and who its future wearer was to marry. This reminded her of the minister and Grace. They would be happy now, her talk with Nat had assured her of that, and they, too, would be married one of these days. But she would not attend the wedding. She wondered what John had said when he read her note. He and Grace would be sorry for her, of course; but there was nothing they could do to help. No one could help her, no one. Perhaps by this time the man she had run away from had reached Trumet and her secret was known. How Didama and the rest would spread the tale! How Captain Elkanah and Annabel would sneer and exult! They hated her because she was the minister's friend. And Nat, poor fellow, what would he do? Well, at least he would understand now.
The narrow stairway leading up to the workshop ended in a little boxed-in room where the finished garments were hung to await the final pressing. From behind the closed door of this room came the sound of voices, apparently in heated argument. One of these voices was that of Larry, the errand boy. Larry was speaking shrilly and with emphasis. The other voice was lower in key and the words were inaudible.
“No, sir, you can't,” declared Larry. “You can't, I tell you. The boss don't let nobody in there and—Hold on! Hold on!”
The other voice made a short but evidently earnest answer. Larry again expostulated. The workers looked up from their sewing. The door opened and Larry appeared, flushed and excited.
“Where's Mr. Upham?” he demanded. “Mr. Upham!”
Upham was the foreman of the workroom. At the moment he was downstairs in conversation with the head of the house. A half dozen gave this information.
“What's the matter? Who is it?” asked several.
“I don't know who 'tis. It's a man and he's crazy, I think. I told him he couldn't come in here, but he just keeps comin'. He wants to see somebody named Coffin and there ain't no Coffins here.”
Keziah bent lower over the wedding coat. Her hand shook and she dropped the needle.
“I told him we didn't keep coffins,” declared Larry. “This ain't no undertaker's. Where's Mr. Upham?”
Keziah's nearest neighbor leaned toward her.
“I guess it's somebody to see you,” she said. “Your name is Coffin, ain't it?”
“No, no. That is, it can't be anybody to see me. I don't want to see anybody. Tell him so, whoever it is. I can't see anybody. I—NAT!”
He stood in the doorway, beckoning to her.
“Keziah,” he said, “come here. I want you. I'll tell you why in a minute. Come!”
She hesitated. In a measure she was relieved, for she had feared the man at the door might be her husband. But she was greatly agitated and troubled. Everyone in the place was looking at her.
“Nat,” she said, trying to speak firmly, “I can't see you now. I'm very busy. Please go away.”
“Come!”
“I can't come. Go away. Please!”
“Keziah, I'm waitin'. And I'm goin' to wait if I stay here all night. Come!”
She obeyed then. She could not have a scene there, before all those strangers. She stepped past him into the little room. He followed and closed the door.
“Nat,” she said, turning to him, “why did you come? How could you be so cruel? I—”
He interrupted her, but not with words. The next moment his arms were about her and she was pressed tight against the breast of his blue jacket.
“Keziah,” he whispered, “I've come to take you home. Home for good. No, stay where you are and I'll tell you all about it. Praise be to God! we're off the rocks at last. All that's left is to tow you into port, and, by the everlastin', that's what I'm here for!”
When Upham came up the stairs after his long interview with “the boss,” he found the door at the top closed. When he rattled the latch that door was opened by a stranger.
“Are you Mr. Hallett?” asked Captain Nat briskly.
“No, I'm not. Mr. Hallett is in his office on the first floor. But what—”
“On the main deck, hey? Well, all right; we won't trouble him. You'll do just as well; I judge you're one of the mates of this craft. You tell Mr. Hallett that this lady here has decided not to cruise with him any longer. No fault to find, you understand, but she's got a better berth. She's goin' to ship along with me. Ain't that so, Keziah?”
Keziah, pale, trembling, scarcely realizing the situation even yet, did not speak. But Captain Nat Hammond seemed to find his answer in her silence. A few minutes later, her arm in his, they descended the gloomy, dusty stairs, and emerged into the sunshine together.
That afternoon Mr. Abner Stone again “washed his hands” of his poor relation—this time, as he indignantly declared, “for good and all.”
Time has wrought many changes in Trumet. The packet long since ceased to ply between the village and Boston, the stage has been superseded by the locomotive, the old “square-riggers,” commanded by Cape Cod men, no longer sail the seas. Along the main road the houses have changed hands. Didama Rogers peers no more from her parlor window; that parlor is now profaned by the frivolous and irreverent summer boarder. But the old residents love to talk of the days that are gone and if you happen to catch Mr. Isaac Higgins, now postmaster and a dignified member of the board of selectmen, in a reminiscent mood he will very likely tell you of the meeting of the parish committee called by its chairman, Elkanah Daniels, to oust the Rev. John Ellery from the pulpit of the Regular church.
“I'll never forget,” says Mr. Higgins, “that parish committee meetin' if I live a thousand year. I, and two or three other young shavers, was hid in the little room off the vestry—the room where they kept the dishes they used for church suppers—and we heard the whole business. Of course nobody knew that Nat was goin' to marry Keziah then, but they did know that he wa'n't goin' to marry Grace Van Horne, and had given her up to the minister of his own accord. So Daniels's guns was spiked and he didn't stand no chance at all. However, you'd never have guessed it to look at him. He marched into that meetin' and up to the platform as stiff and dignified as if he'd swallered a peck of starch. He called the meetin' to order—'twas a full one, for all hands and the cook was there—and then got up to speak.
“He opened fire right off. He raked John Ellery fore and aft. The parson, he said, had disgraced the society and his sacred profession and should be hove overboard immediate. 'Twas an open secret, he said. Everybody knew how he, minister of a Reg'lar church, had been carryin' on with a Come-Outer girl, meetin' her unbeknownst to anyone, and so on. As he got warmed up on this subject he got more bitter and, though he didn't come out open and say slanderous things, his hints was as nigh that as a pig's snout is to his squeal. Even through the crack of the dish-closet door I could see the bristles risin' on the back of Cap'n Zeb Mayo's neck.
“At last Cap'n Zeb couldn't stand it no longer.
“'Belay there!' he sings out, jumpin' to his feet. 'I want to ask you one question, Elkanah Daniels: Are you tryin' to say somethin' against Grace Van Horne's character?'
“Well, that was a sort of sticker, in a way, and I cal'late Daniels realized it. He 'hum-ha'd' and barked a little and then give in that he couldn't swear the Van Horne person's character wa'n't all right, but—”
“'Couldn't swear!' snorts Zeb. 'You better not try to, not when the minister or Nat's around. Aw, belay! you want us to fire John Ellery out of this society—the best minister it ever had or ever will have—because he had the sense to get sweet on a good clean girl and the spunk to ask her to marry him. And you're down on her because she's been brought up in a Come-Outer family—at least, that's the reason you give out, though some of us have suspicions 'tain't the real one. Why! she risked what she thought was smallpox to keep him from dyin' that night she picked him up, ravin' distracted, in the middle of the lighthouse lane, and if he hadn't married her after that I, for one, would have been willin' to vote to give him his walkin' papers, Come-Outer she may have been, but, by time, she's got religion that's good enough for me and I'll be proud to see her the wife of my minister. Don't let's have no more chin music. We know what you want and what you called this meetin' for; now let's vote on it.'
“Three or four sung out 'Question' and 'Vote.' But Elkanah held up his hand.
“'Gentlemen,' says he, 'before I ask for the vote I want to say just one word. I've worshiped in this meetin' house ever sence I was a child. I was christened in it; my father worshiped here afore me; I've presided over the meetin's of this body for years. But I tell you now that if you vote to keep that rascally hypocrite in your pulpit I shall resign from the committee and from the society. It'll be like cuttin' off my right hand, but I shall do it. Are you ready for the vote? Those in favor of retaining the present minister of this parish will rise. Those opposed will remain seated.'
“Every man on the floor stood up. Daniels himself was the only one that stayed settin' down.
“'It is a vote,' says he, white as a sheet, and his voice trembling. 'Gentlemen, I bid you good day.'
“He took up his hat and cane, give one look around the vestry, as if he was sayin' good-by to it, and marched down the aisle as straight and starchy as he'd come into it. Only, when he reached the door, he put up one hand as if he was steadyin' himself. There was precious few in that vestry that liked Elkanah Daniels, but I'm bettin' high there wa'n't a one who didn't feel sorry for him then.
“'Twas quiet as could be for a minute or so after he'd gone. Then Cap'n Zeb draws a big breath and flings up his hand.
“'Shipmates,' says he, 'this is the Almighty's house and we've got to do it quiet, but I propose three whisperin' cheers for the Rev. John Ellery and the lady that's goin' to be his wife.'
“So they give 'em—hearty, too, if they was whispered—and that's all there is to that meetin' worth tellin' about.”
Captain Daniels and his daughter moved to Boston that summer. They never came back to Trumet to live. Annabel remained single until after her father's death; then she married a man very much younger and poorer than she was. It was remarked by acquaintances of the couple that the difference in age became less and less apparent as their married life continued.
“Humph!” observed Captain Zeb, summing up the situation, “he started about ten year astern, but he'll beat her on the run into the cemetery, now you mark my words. Annabel's temper's cal'lated to keep any average chap drivin' on that course, bows under. There's a three-reef breeze blowin' off her tongue, day and night.”
On a Sunday morning, a few weeks after the committee meeting, the Regular church was crowded. John Ellery was to preach his first sermon since the San Jose came ashore. Every member of the congregation was present. Even Mrs. Prince, feeble but garrulous, was there. Gaius Winslow, having delivered his brood of children at the church door, made a special trip in his carryall to fetch the old lady. Captain Zebedee and Mrs. Mayo beamed from their pew. Dr Parker and his wife smiled at them across the aisle. Didama Rogers's new bonnet was a work of art and her neck threatened to twist itself off as she turned to see each one who came in.
Lavinia Pepper sailed to the front. She was dressed in a new black alpaca which rustled so very much like silk that nearsighted people might have been deceived by it. With her was a man, apparently suffering from strangulation because of the height and tightness of his collar. “It's Caleb Pratt, from Sandwich,” whispered Didama. “Thankful Payne's relation, you know. Have you heard what folks are sayin'? I guess it's true, because—Look at Kyan! you'd think he was goin' to his own funeral.”
Abishai's expression was not cheerful, certainly. He followed Mr. Pratt and his sister to the Pepper pew and subsided sadly in the corner next the wall. Occasionally he was observed to wipe his forehead and once—it was during the prayer—he groaned audibly. Lavinia's dig in the ribs prevented his repeating the sound, but, judging by his looks, he continued to groan in spirit.
There was a stir at the door. All heads swung in that direction—all but Mr. Pepper's, that is. The minister and Grace were coming up the aisle and behind them came Captain Nat Hammond and Keziah Coffin. Nat was smiling and self-possessed. Never before in his life had he entered the Regular meeting house as a worshiper, but he seemed to be bearing the ordeal bravely. It was Grace's first visit to the church, also, and she was plainly embarrassed. To be stared at by eighty-odd pairs of eyes, and to catch whispered comments from the starers' tongues, is likely to embarrass one.
Yet the comments were all friendly.
“I declare!” whispered Mrs. Prince, “I never see her look so pretty afore. I knew she was the best lookin' girl in this town, but I never realized she was SUCH a beauty. Well, there's one thing sartin'—we've got the handsomest parson and parson's wife in THIS county, by about ten mile and four rows of apple trees. And there's the other bride that's goin' to be. I never see Keziah look so well, neither.”
Keziah did look well. Her parson had emerged triumphant from his battle with disease and adverse fate and was more than ever the idol of his congregation. He was to marry the girl of his choice—and hers. The housekeeper's ears were still ringing with the thanks of John and Grace. Both seemed to feel that to her, Keziah Coffin, more than anyone else, they owed their great joy. Some of the things they said she would never forget. And her own life, too, was freed forever of its burden, the secret which had hung over her for so many years. Only a very few knew that secret, and they would not disclose it. Toward the memory of the man buried in the stranger's lot at the cemetery she felt almost kindly now. While he lived she had feared and dreaded him, now she was beginning to forgive. For he had paid his debt with his life, and with her, beside her, was the other, the one whom she had loved, had given up, had mourned for, and who was now to be hers always. No wonder Keziah looked well. She was happy, and happiness is a wondrous beautifier.
The minister went up the stairs to the pulpit. He was still white and thin, but his eyes were bright and his voice clear. He gave out the opening hymn and the service began.
They said it was the finest sermon ever preached in that church, and perhaps it was. When it was over, before the benediction was pronounced, Ellery stepped out from behind the pulpit to the edge of the platform. He looked over the friendly faces upturned to his and, for an instant, it seemed that he could not trust himself to speak.
“My friends,” he said, “I cannot let you go without a personal word. I owe you so much, all of you, that nothing I can say will convey to you my feeling of gratitude and love for this congregation and this church. You have stood by me all through. You trusted me and believed in me. I came to Trumet a stranger. I have found here the truest friends a man could hope to find—yes, and more than friends. If I live, and while I live, I shall hope to prove by the best effort that is in me my realization of the great debt I owe you and my desire to repay it, even though the payment must, of necessity, be so inadequate. God bless you all—and thank you.”
“Wa'n't it lovely!” gushed Didama. “And when he said that about true friends he was lookin' straight at Gracie all the time.”
“Didn't seem to me so,” declared Gaius Winslow. “I thought he was lookin' at Cap'n Hammond.”
“Well, now, that's queer,” put in Mrs. Parker, the doctor's wife. “I would have sworn he was looking at Keziah Coffin.”
Captain Zebedee grinned. “I cal'late you're all right,” he observed. “I wouldn't wonder if he was lookin' at all of 'em.”
There was much hand shaking and congratulation and the church emptied slowly. Among the last to leave were the Peppers and Mr. Pratt. Lavinia took the minister aside.
“Mr. Ellery,” she simpered, “I've—that is, Caleb and me—will prob'ly want you to—That is, we want you to be the one—”
“Yes, Miss Pepper?”
“Oh, my sakes! you see—'Bishy dear, come here a minute, won't you?”
Kyan approached, the picture of desolation.
“What do you want?” he asked gruffly.
“Heavens to Betsy! Don't look so sour. A body'd think you was goin' to be hung, to look at you. 'Bishy, you tell Mr. Ellery all about it, there's a dear. He'll tell you, Mr. Ellery; and remember we count on you. Neither me nor Caleb wont have nobody else.”
She seized Mr. Pratt by the arm and led him hastily away. Kyan looked after them.
“Hung?” he muttered. “I wish, by godfreys mighty, I had the hangin' of SOME folks! I'd put a tighter collar on 'em than they've got now, I bet you!”
The minister's lips twitched. He knew what was coming. Hints of a surprising nature had been circulating about Trumet.
“What's the matter, Mr. Pepper?” he asked.
“Matter? Matter enough! You know what she's goin' to do? She's goin' to marry THAT!”
The last word was emphasized by a furious gesticulation toward the back of the gentleman from Sandwich.
“Who? Mr. Pratt? Is your sister to marry him? Indeed! I congratulate them both—and you.”
“Me? What in tunket—I ask your pardon, Mr. Ellery, for talkin' so in the meetin' house—but what are you congratulatin' me for?”
“Why, because your sister is to have a good husband; at least people speak highly of him.”
“Ugh!”
“And because—well, Mr. Pepper, you have been quite confidential with me; we have shared secrets, you know; and I thought possibly the new arrangement might make it a bit more pleasant for you.”
“Pleasant? How?”
“I suppose Mr. Pratt will take his bride home to Sandwich, and you, being here alone, will be more free.”
“Free?” Kyan repeated the word wrathfully. “Free! I'll be about as free as a settin' hen under a barrel, I will. Is a feller free when he's got two pickin' at him instead of one? I thought I was goin' to have a little peace and comfort; I thought that same as you, Mr. Ellery. I've had my suspicions as to her and him for some time. That day when I cal'lated I'd locked her up and come back to find she'd gone buggy ridin', I thought 'twas queer. When she went to conference and left me alone I smelt a rat. When she took to letter writin' the smell got stronger; until the last few weeks I've been sartin of the game she was up to. And I never complained, no sir! Some brothers would have ripped up the eternal foundations afore they'd have let their sister break up their home and desert 'em for a stiff-necked, bald-headed old shoe peddler like—”
“Hush! hush! Mr. Pepper. You forget—”
“No, I don't forget, nuther. Mr. Ellery, you don't know it all. When Laviny come to me and told me what she was goin' to do, was I obstinate? Did I stand on my rights as head of the family and tell her she couldn't do it? No, sir-ee, I didn't! I was resigned. I says to her, 'Laviny,' I says, 'I won't say that I shan't be turrible lonesome without you. I won't say that I ain't sort of shocked and grieved at our partin' after all these years. But what's my personal feelin's when I compare 'em with your happiness? Nothin', nothin' at all!' I says. 'Bless you, Laviny,' says I. 'When you goin' to go away?' And what do you s'pose she says to me? Why, that she wa'n't goin' away at all. That—that Pratt thing has sold out his shoe store up to Sandwich and is comin' here to live. Comin' to live at our HOUSE, mind you, with her and with ME! ''Twill be so nice for you, 'Bishy dear,' she says, 'to have a man in the house to keep you comp'ny and look out for you when I ain't round.' Godfreys mighty!”
This portion of Kyan's disclosure was surprising, if the announcement of his sister's engagement was not.
“Mr. Pratt is coming to Trumet?” the minister repeated. “What for? What is he going to do here?”
“Keep shoe store, I s'pose likely. Laviny says there's a good openin' for one in this town. I told her the best openin' I could think of for him was the well and I hoped to the nation he'd fall into it. Then she went for me like a dogfish after a herrin' and I never had a taste of vittles till I'd took it all back and said I was glad he was goin' to live with us. Free! Don't talk to me about freedom! Godfreys mighty!”
Ellery smothered his desire to laugh and expressed sympathy. Abishai listened in sullen silence.
“Well,” he said, turning to go, “I ain't goin' to stand it, if I can help it. I've been doin' some thinkin' on my own account and there's two ways of gettin' even. That Caleb critter is marryin' into our family 'cause he knows I'm well off. I'll cheat him, by godfreys! I'll will every cent of my fifteen hundred dollars to the poor or the heathen or somethin'. I will, sure's taxes.”
The minister was obliged to laugh, then.
“I wouldn't do that,” he said. “From what I hear, Mr. Pratt is worth several times fifteen hundred.”
“I know it; but he's so dum mean that 'twould break his heart to see even ten cents gettin' away from him. However, that ain't my only plan. He and Laviny ain't got any mortgage on the marryin' business. Other folks can do it as well as them. What do you think of Hannah Poundberry?”
“What do I think of her? What do you mean?”
“Never mind what I mean. Just you keep that in your head, Mr. Ellery. You remember that I asked you, as man to man, 'What do you think of Hannah Poundberry?'—Yes, yes, Laviny, I'm a-comin'. They want me to ask you to marry 'em,” he added. “I s'pose you'll have to. But say, Mr. Ellery, when you do, just tell Pratt that your usual price for the job is ten dollars. That'll spile his honeymoon for him, or I miss my guess.”
He turned away and moved sulkily toward his beckoning sister and her escort; but wheeled once more to add, in a mysterious whisper, “Don't you forget now, Mr. Ellery. Remember that question I put to you: 'What do you think of'—Yes, yes, La-viny, I hear you!—of you know who?'”
That evening, at the parsonage, Keziah was clearing the table and Captain Nat was helping her. A happy party of four had enjoyed the meal, John and Mrs. Coffin acting as hosts and Grace and the captain being the invited guests. Now the younger couple had gone over to the church, the bell of which was ringing for evening service.
“Hurry up, Keziah,” urged Nat. “If you and me don't get decks cleared pretty soon we'll be late for meetin', and I'd hate to do that, considerin' I'm such a brand-new disciple, as you might say. What do we do next, shorten sail? Like this, hey?”
He pulled the cloth from the table, sending the crumbs flying in all directions, and proceeded to fold it, after a fashion.
“There!” he exclaimed with satisfaction; “there she is, canvas furled and under bare poles. Now we can clear out, can't we? What's the matter?”
Keziah took the cloth from his hands and refolded it.
“Nat Hammond,” she said, laughing, “you may be a good sailor, but you're an awful poor housekeeper. Look at the mess you've made of that floor.”
Nat looked at the scattered crumbs and shook his head.
“By the everlastin'!” he observed, “I did make dirty weather on that tack, didn't I? Cal'late I ain't much of a housekeeper, same as you say. Maybe that's why I was so dreadful anxious to get a good one to cruise along with me. Well, I've got her. I'm satisfied.”
He walked to the back door of the kitchen, threw it open, and stood looking out.
“Keziah,” he said, “come here a minute.”
She came from the dining room and stood at his side. He put an arm about her.
“Look off there,” he said, pointing with his free hand. “See that?”
The sun was just setting and all the west was gorgeous with crimson and purple and yellow. The bay was spangled with fire, the high sand bluffs along the shore looked like broken golden ingots. The fields and swamps and salt meadows, rich in their spring glory of bud and new leaf, were tinged with the ruddy glow. The Trumet roofs were bathed in it, the old packet, asleep at her moorings by the breakwater, was silhouetted against the radiance. The church bell had ceased to ring and there was not a sound, except the low music of the distant surf.
“Look at it, Keziah,” urged Captain Nat.
“I'm lookin', Nat,” she answered. “It's beautiful.”
“Ain't it? I love it, you know that, and I never thought I should be anxious for the time to come when I must leave it. But I am. I want to go.”
They were to be married in another month. It would be a double wedding, for Grace and the minister were to be married at the same time. Then Nat and his wife were to go to New York, where a new ship, just out of the builders' hands, was to be ready for him. She was a fine one, this successor to the Sea Mist. She had been building for more than a year and when Captain Hammond returned, safe and sound, and with their money in his possession, the owners decided at once that he should command the addition to their fleet. She was to sail for Liverpool and Keziah was to be a passenger.
“I can't hardly wait to get to sea,” went on Nat. “Think of it! No more lonesome meals in the cabin, thinkin' about you and about home. No, sir! you and home'll be right aboard with me. Think of the fun we'll have in the foreign ports. London, and you and me goin' sightseein' through it! And Havre and Gibraltar and Marseilles and Genoa and—and—by and by, Calcutta and Hong Kong and Singapore. I've seen 'em all, of course, but you haven't. I tell you, Keziah, that time when I first saw a real hope of gettin' you, that time after I'd learned from John that that big trouble of yours was out of the way forever, on my way up to Boston in the cars I made myself a promise—I swore that if you did say yes to me I'd do my best to make the rest of your life as smooth and pleasant as the past so far had been rough. I ain't rich enough to give you what you deserve, nowhere near; but I'll work hard and do my best, my girl—you see.”
Keziah was looking out over the bay, her eyes brighter than the sunset. Now she turned to look up into his face.
“Rich!” she repeated, with a little catch in her voice. “Rich! there never was a woman in this world so rich as I am this minute. Or so happy, either.”
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg