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Flood Tide

<h3> CHAPTER XVIII </h3> <h3> THE PROGRESS OF ANOTHER ROMANCE </h3> The ecstasy that came to Robert Morton with his new-found happiness swept before it the clouds that had overcast his sky, until his horizon was almost as radiant as it had been on the day of his arrival at Wilton. Janoah Eldridge came no more to the Spence cottage; Snelling had vanished; the Galbraiths were occupied with their own affairs; and the barrier between Bob and Willie began slowly to wear away. The little old man was of far too believing and charitable a nature to hold out long against his own optimism; moreover, he detested strife and was much more willing to endure a wrong than to harbor ill feeling; hence he was only too ready to reconstruct Janoah's venomous story into terms of his native blind faith. He did not, to be sure, understand, and for days and nights he puzzled ceaselessly over the problem events presented; but as no light was forthcoming, his zest in the enigma cooled until the mystery took on the unfathomable quality of various other mysteries he had wrestled with and finally shelved as unanswerable. There was the invention to finish, and so eager was he to see it completed that to this interest every other thought was subordinated. Therefore, although misgivings assailed him, they gradually receded into his subconsciousness, leaving behind them much of the good will he had formerly cherished toward Robert Morton. The olive branch Willie tacitly extended Bob seized with avidity. Had not the world suddenly become too perfect to be marred by discord? Why, in the exuberance of his joy he would have forgiven anybody anything! He did own to bruised feelings, but time is a great healer of both mental and of physical pain, and the hurts he had received soon dimmed into scars that carried with them no acute sensation. His mind was too much occupied with Delight Hathaway and the wonder of their love for him to think to any great extent of himself. The romance still remained a secret between them, for so vehement had been the turmoil into which Zenas Henry had been thrown by the tidings of the girl's past history that it seemed unwise to follow blow with blow and acquaint him just at present with the news of the lovers' engagement. Moreover, there was Cynthia Galbraith to consider. Robert Morton was too chivalrous to be brutal to any woman, much less an old friend like Cynthia. Hence he and Delight moved in a dream, the full beauty of which they alone sensed. Their secret was all the more delicious for being a secret, and with all life before them they agreed they could afford to wait. Nevertheless concealment was at variance with the character of either, and although they derived a certain exhilaration from their clandestine happiness they longed for the time when their path should lie entirely in the open, when Zenas Henry's consent should be obtained, and their betrothal acknowledged before all the world. Until such a moment came an irksome deception colored their love and left them in constant danger of discovery. Indeed, had the observer been keen enough to interpret psychic phenomena, there was betrayal in the soft light of Delight's eyes and in the grave tenderness of her face; and as for Bob, he felt his great good-fortune must be emblazoned on every feature of his countenance. In point of fact, no such condition prevailed. The girl returned to her home and took her place there, bringing with her her customary buoyancy of spirit; and if her light-heartedness was more exaggerated than was her wont, those who loved her attributed it to her joy at being once more beneath her own roof-tree. Zenas Henry and the three captains fluttered about her as if her absence had been one of years rather than of days; and even Abbie, less demonstrative than the others, showed by a quiet satisfaction her deep contentment at having the girl back again. Of course Robert Morton let no great length of time elapse before he climbed the hill and invaded the Brewster home. As Celestina's nephew and Willie's guest he had credentials enough to assure him of a welcome, and for an interval these sufficed to give him an enviable entr�e; but after a few calls, his winning personality secured for him a place of his own. He inspected Captain Phineas Taylor's broken compass and set it right; he discussed rheumatism and its woes with Captain Benjamin Todd; he lent an attentive ear to the nautical adventures of Captain Jonas Baker. Abbie, who was a systematic housekeeper, approved of his habit of wiping his feet before he entered the door and the careful fashion he had of replacing any chair he moved; most men, she averred, were so thoughtless and untidy. But it was with Zenas Henry that the young man won his greatest triumph, the two immediately coming into harmony on the common ground of motor-boating. Most of the male visitors who dropped in at the white cottage came only to see Delight, but here was one who came to call on the entire family. How charming it was! They liked him one and all; how could they help it? And soon, so eagerly did they anticipate his coming, any lapse in his visits caused keen disappointment. "I kinder thought that Morton feller might be round this evenin'," Captain Phineas would yawn in a dispirited tone, when twilight had deepened and the familiar figure failed to make its appearance above the crest of the hill. "Ain't it Tuesday? He most always comes Tuesdays." "Tuesdays, Thursdays, an' Saturdays you can pretty mortal sure bank on him," Captain Benjamin would reply. "If he's comin' to-night, he better be heavin' into sight, for it's damp an' I'll have to be turnin' in soon." "Mebbe he was delayed by somethin'," suggested Captain Jonas. "We'll not give him up fur a spell longer. He told me he'd fetch me some tobacco, an' he always does as he promises." Zenas Henry smoked in silence. "I sorter wish he would appear," he presently put in, between puffs at his pipe. "There was somethin' I wanted to ask him about that durn motor-boat." "You don't mean to say that boat's out of order again, do you, Zenas Henry?" questioned Abbie. "No, oh, no! 'Tain't out of order exactly. But the pesky propeller is kickin' up worse'n ordinary. It's awful taxin' on the patience. I'd give a man everything I possess if he'd think up some plan to rid me of that eel grass." "Why don't you set Willie on the job?" asked Captain Benjamin. "Ain't I told Willie over an' over again about it?" Zenas Henry replied, turning with exasperation on the speaker. "Ain't I hinted to him plain as day—thrown the bait to him times without number? An' ain't he just swum round the hook an' gone off without so much as nibblin' it? The thing don't interest him, it's easy enough to see that. He don't like motor-boats an' ain't got no sympathy with 'em, an' he don't give a hang if they do come to grief. In fact, I think he rather relishes hearin' they're snagged. I gave up expectin' any help from him long ago." With a frown he resumed his smoking. "Where's Delight?" Captain Phineas asked, scenting his friend's mood and veering tactfully to a less irritating topic. "That's so! Where is the child?" rejoined Captain Jonas. "She was round here fussin' with them roses a minute ago." "That ain't her over toward the pine grove, is it?" queried Captain Benjamin. "I thought I saw somethin' pink a-movin' among the trees." "Yes, that's her an' Bob Morton with her, sure's you're alive!" Captain Phineas ejaculated with pleasure. "You'll get your tobacco now, Jonas, an' Zenas Henry can ask him about the boat." "Can you see has he got a bundle?" piped the short-sighted Captain Jonas anxiously. "Yep!" "Then he ain't forgot the tobacco," was the contented comment. "He don't generally forget. He's a mighty likely youngster, that boy!" "An' friendly too, ain't he?" put in Captain Benjamin. "There's nothin' he wouldn't do for you." "He's the nicest chap ever I see!" Captain Phineas echoed. "Don't you think so, Zenas Henry?" The answer was some time in coming, and when it did it was deliberate and was weighted with telling impressiveness: "There's few young fry can boast Bob Morton's common sense," he said. "His headpiece is on frontside-to, an' the brains inside it are tickin' strong an' steady." Abbie failed to join in the laugh that followed this announcement. Either she did not catch the remark, or she was too deeply engrossed with her own thoughts to heed it. Her eyes were fixed wistfully on the two figures that were approaching,—the girl exquisite with youth and happiness and the man who leaned protectingly over her. Yet whatever the reveries that clouded her pensive face, she kept them to herself, and if a shadow of dread mingled with her scrutiny no one noticed it. Perhaps it was only Willie Spence who actually guessed the great secret,—Willie, who having been starved for romance of his own, was all the quicker to hear the heart-throbs of others. It chanced that just now he was deeply involved in several amorous affairs and because of them was experiencing no small degree of worry. The tangle between Bob, Delight, and Cynthia Galbraith kept him in a state of constant speculation and disquietude; then Bart Coffin and Minnie were perilously near a rupture because of another rejuvenation of the time-honored black satin; and although weeks had passed, Jack Nickerson had not yet mustered up nerve enough to offer his heart and hand to Sarah Libbie Lewis. "Next you know, both you an' Sarah Libbie will be under the sod," Willie had tauntingly called after the lagging swain, as he passed the house one afternoon on his way from the village. "What on earth you're waitin' for is mor'n I can see." The discomfited coast guard hung his head sheepishly. "It's all right for you to talk, Willie Spence," he replied over his shoulder. "You ain't got the speakin' to do. It's I that's got to ask her." Then as he sped out of sight, he added as an afterthought: "By the way, Bart an' Minnie Coffin have come to a split at last over that 'ere dress. After gettin' it fixed, an' promisin' him 'twas fur the last time, she's ripped it all up again 'cause she's seen some picter in a book she liked better. Bart's that mad he's took his sea chest in the wheelbarrow an' set out for his mother's. I met him goin' just now." "Bless my soul!" gasped Willie in consternation. "How far had he got?" "He was about quarter way to the Junction," was the response. "He sung out he was headed where he'd be sure of gettin' three meals a day, an' where somebody'd pay some attention to him." "H—m!" Willie reflected, scratching his thin locks. "Sorter looks as if it was time I took a hand, don't it?" "I figger if anybody's goin' to interfere, now's the minute. Bart's got his sails set an' is clearin' port fur good an' all this time, no mistake. 'Twas sure to come sooner or later." Their roads parted and Willie turned toward the town, while Jack Nickerson, with rolling gait, pursued his way to the beach where at the tip of a slender bar of sand jutting out into the ocean the low roofs of the life-saving station lay outlined against a somber sky. Great banks of leaden clouds sagging over the horizon had dulled the water to blackness, and a stiff gale was whistling inshore. Already the billows were mounting angrily into caps of snarling foam and dashing themselves on the sands with threatening echo. It promised to be a nasty night, and Jack remembered as he looked that he was on patrol duty. Yet although the muscles of his jaw tightened into grimness, it was not the prospective tramp along a lonely beach in the darkness and wind that caused the stern tensity of his countenance. Storms and their perils were all in the day's work, and he faced their possible catastrophes without a tremor. It would have been hard to find anywhere along the Massachusetts coast a braver man than Jack Nickerson. Not only was he ready to lead a crew of rescuers to succor the perishing, fearlessly directing the surfboat in its plunge through a seething tide, but many a time he had dashed bodily into the breakers, despite the hazard of a powerful undertow, and dragged some drowning creature to a place of safety. The fame of his many deeds of heroism had spread from one end of the Cape to the other, and as he was native-born the community never tired of relating his feats to any sojourner who strayed into the locality. Yet courageous as was Jack Nickerson, there was one thing he was afraid of and that was a woman. Not that he trembled in the presence of all women—no, indeed! He had brought far too many of them to land for that. Women as a class did not appall him in the least. He had seen them in the agony of terror, in the throes of despair, and undismayed had offered them sympathy and cheer. It was one woman only who disconcerted him, the woman who for years had routed him out of his habitual poise and left him as discomfited as a guilty schoolboy caught in raiding the jam-pot. Yes, he who inspired his associates with both respect and admiration was forced to acknowledge to himself that when face to face with Sarah Libbie Lewis he was nothing better than a faltering ten-year-old whose collar is too tight for him, and whose hands and feet are sizes too large. The paradox was too humiliating to be endured! Nevertheless, he had endured the ignominy of it for five-and-twenty years, and there seemed to be every prospect that he would continue to endure it. Periodically, it is true, he would rise in his wrath, resolving that another sun should not go down on his vacillation and timidity; nay, more, he would even stride forth to Sarah Libbie's home, vowing as he went that before he slept he would speak the decisive words that had for so long trembled on his tongue. Confronted by the lady of his choice, however, his courage, like that of the immortal Bob Acres, would ooze away, and after basking for a wretched interval in the glory of her smile, he would retrace his steps with the declaration still unuttered. As far back as Jack could remember, this woman had tyrannized over him and humbled his self-esteem. In childhood she had leveled with a blow the sand castles he built on the beach for her delight, and ever since she had contrived to raze to the ground his less tangible castles,—dream-castles where he saw her the mistress of his lonely fireside. Yet despite her exasperating capriciousness, Jack had never wavered in his allegiance, not a whit. Long ago he had made up his mind that Sarah Libbie was the one woman in the world for him, and he had never seen cause to alter that verdict. Nor did he entertain any doubt that Sarah Libbie's sentiments coincided with his own, even though she did cloak her preference beneath so many intricate and misleading devices of femininity. It was not fear of the thundering No that hindered Jack from proclaiming his affection; it was merely the physical impossibility of putting his heart into intelligible and coherent phraseology when Sarah Libbie's bewitching gaze was upon him. He could meet all comers in a political argument, could hold his own against the banter of the village gossips; he could even defy Willie and his counsel; but to address Sarah Libbie on a matter so tender and of such vital import was an ordeal so overwhelming that it caused his tongue to cleave to the roof of his mouth, and his pulse almost to cease to beat. Unlucky Jack! Many were the evenings he tramped the dunes, rehearsing in the darkness the momentous declaration that was to work a miracle in his solitary life. Like an actor committing his lines, he would repeat the words, hurling them upon the blackness of the night where, to the accompaniment of the booming surf, they echoed with a majesty and dignity astonishingly impressive. But in the light of day and Sarah Libbie's presence, his sonorous philippic would dwindle away into a jargon of garbled phrases too disjointed and meaningless to carry weight with any woman, let alone the peerless Sarah Libbie Lewis. Thus for more than a quarter of a century Jack Nickerson had silently worshiped at the shrine of his divinity, and in the meantime the roses in Sarah Libbie's cheeks had grown fainter, and tendrils of silver had found their way into the soft curls that shadowed her brow. Still Jack could not speak the words that were on his lips. Of course the little woman could not do it for him, although she did venture by many a subtle device to aid him in his dilemma. She baked for him pies, cookies, and doughnuts of a delicious russet tint and sent them to the station, that their aroma might gently prod into action her lover's faintness of heart; these visible tokens of her devotion would disappear, however, leaving behind them only a tranquil sense of enjoyment; and as this lessened the fervor of her admirer's determination would evaporate. Then Sarah Libbie would resort to less ephemeral offerings,—scarves, wristers, mittens, patiently knitted from blue wool and representing such an endless number of stitches that Jack never viewed them without elation. And as if these proofs of her regard were not sufficient, every evening just at sundown she would light a lantern and flash a good-night to him across the waters that estranged them. It was a pretty custom that had had its beginning when the boy and girl had lived as neighbors on the deserted highway that followed the horseshoe curve of the Belleport shore. They had evolved a code whereby, with much labor it must be admitted, they were able to spell out messages that flickered their way through the night with the beauty of a firefly's revel; but when Jack had taken up work with the coast guard, this old-time substitute for speech had been abandoned, giving place to the briefer method of three nightly flashes. Neither toil nor illness, rain, snow or tempest had in all the years prevented Sarah Libbie from being at her post at twilight, there to watch for the gleam of Jack's lantern, whose rays she answered with the light from her own. Even when fogs obscured the Bar so that the distant headland was cut off from view, Sarah Libbie would go through the little ceremony and after it was over return to her knitting with a quiet gladness, although the presence of the other factor in the drama was a mere matter of conjecture. Thus the romance had drifted on, and Jack Nickerson now faced his fiftieth year and was no nearer bringing the love story to a culmination than he had been when as a boy in his teens he had gazed into Sarah Libbie's blue eyes and registered the vows he had never yet dared utter. Nevertheless lonely and disappointed as was Sarah Libbie, Jack was a thousand times more miserable. To-night, especially, as he tramped the coast in the teeth of the gale, he thought of Willie Spence's ridicule and one of his periodic moods of self-abasement came upon him. What a wretched cur he was! How lacking in nerve! Any woman, he muttered to himself, was better off without such a feeble-willed, spineless husband! The fierce winds and whirling sands that stung his cheeks and buffeted him seemed a merited castigation, a castigation that amounted to a penance. He welcomed their punishment. As he stumbled on through the pitch black of the night, he asked himself what he was going to do. Was he always to go on loving Sarah Libbie and letting her love him and never in manly fashion bring the affair to a climax? If he did not mean to make her his wife, had he the right to stand in the way and prevent her from marrying some one else? The baldness of the question brought him up with a turn, and as he paused breathlessly awaiting his own verdict, his eye was caught by the lantern dangling from his hand. He regarded it with slow wonder as if he had never seen it before. Why had he never thought until now of this method of communication? Not only was it simple and direct, but it also obviated the difficulty that had always been the stumbling-block in his path,—the necessity of confronting Sarah Libbie in the flesh. He grasped the inspiration with zeal. Fate was with him. His watch was up, and he was free to make his way back to the station, if he so willed, and put his remarkable scheme into execution. Away he sped through the howling tempest. As he flew up the steps of the lookout tower, he could detect the twinkling lights from his lady's home gemmed against the background of velvet darkness. Perhaps her fluttering little heart was uneasy about her lover, and she was peering out into the gale. However that may be, he had no difficulty in summoning her to the window when he raised his lantern. Then, with the talisman held high, he paused. What should he say? Of course he could send no lengthy message. Even a few words meant a laborious amount of spelling. Perhaps Will You Marry Me? was as simple and direct a way as he could put it. Firmly he gripped the lantern. Then, instead of the customary three flashes, he began the involved liftings, dippings, and circlings which in luminous waves were to spell out his destiny. Will You Marry— Ah, there was no need for him to go on! Sarah Libbie had waited too long for those magic words to doubt their purport. Nor did she hesitate for an answer. In an instant she caught up the unique avowal, and across the turbulent waters signalled to her beloved the three mystic letters that should make her his forever. With the faint, blinking flashes, the weight of years fell away from Jack Nickerson. No longer was he a trembling, tongue-tied captive, scorning himself for his want of will. He was a free man, the affianced husband of the most wonderful creature in the world. In his exultation he raised his lantern aloft and swung it round and round with the abandon of a boy who tosses his cap in the air. Then he bounded down the iron staircase like a child let out of school, dashing round their spiral windings with reckless velocity. The deed was done! Sarah Libbie was his! It might have been half an hour later, as he sat smoking in blissful meditation in the living room of the station, that the door was wrenched open and Willie Spence burst into the room. Every hair on the old inventor's head was upright with anxiety, and he puffed breathlessly: "What's ashore? I saw your signal an' knew straight off somethin' terrible was up, for you've never called for help from the town before. I've raised all the folks I could get a-holt of an' Bob Morton's gone to get more. They'll be here on the double quick!" The boast was no idle one. Even as he spoke there was a tramping, a rush of feet, and a babel of confused, frightened voices, and into the room flocked the dwellers of the hamlet,—men, women, and children, all with wind-tossed hair and strained, terrified faces. "What is it?" "What's the matter?" "Where's the wreck?" As they stood there tragic in the dim light, there was a stir near the door and Sarah Libbie Lewis pushed her way through the crowd. She had stopped only to toss a black shawl over her head and in contrast to its sable folds her cheeks and lips were ashen. "They told me there was a wreck," she cried, rushing to Jack's side and seizing his arm wildly. "Oh, you won't go—you won't go and leave me now, Jack—not so soon—not after to-night!" Already sobs were choking the words and her hands were clinging to his. With the supreme defiance of a man prepared to defend his dearest possession against the universe, Jack Nickerson circled her in his embrace and faced the throng. No longer was he the shrinking, timorous supplicant. Victorious love had set her crown upon his brows, bestowing dignity upon his years and glory upon his manhood. His explanation came fearlessly to his lips. "There ain't no wreck," he said quietly. "All the same I'm glad you saw my lantern an' came, 'cause I've got somethin' to tell you all. Me an' Sarah Libbie are goin' to get married." For a moment there was an incredulous hush. Then Willie Spence came to the rescue. "Well, I will say, Jack," he drawled, "you had a pretty good nerve to get us out on a night like this to tell us that! You might at least have waited 'til mornin'. Still, I reckon if I'd been nigh on to a quarter of a century gettin' my spunk together to ask a woman to marry me an' had finally done it, I'd a-wanted somebody to know it." The words were not unkindly spoken and Jack joined in the general laugh. Nothing mattered to him now. Oblivious to the spectators, he was bending down over the woman he loved and murmuring: "I love you, Sarah Libbie. I've always loved you." The little old inventor watched the radiant pair a moment then motioned to the villagers to slip away. But Bartley Coffin could not be restrained from lagging behind and whispering confidentially in Jack's ear: "If you want to be truly happy, mate, an' live clear of a life of pesterin', don't you never buy Sarah Libbie a satin dress! Minnie an' I have made it up, thanks to Willie Spence, but 'twas a tussle. I'd come to the jumpin'-off place." The statement was but too true. Willie had indeed intervened and averted a tragedy, but the feat had demanded ruthless measures, and he had trudged home from the Coffins with the bone of contention clutched rigidly beneath his arm. That night Celestina heard muffled sounds in the workshop. "Oh, my land!" she murmured. "If Willie ain't hitched again! I did hope nothin' new would come to him 'til he got rested up from this other idee." But Willie's inspiration was not of the inventive type. Instead the little old man was standing before the stove, kindling a fire, and into its crackling blaze he was bundling the last remnants of Minnie Coffin's far-famed black satin. The light played on his face which was set in grim earnestness. "It seems a wicked shame," he observed in a whisper, as he viewed the funeral pyre, "but it's the only way. Long's that dress remained on earth there'd be no peace for Bart nor his wife either. It had to go." The flames danced higher, flashing in and out of the trimmings of jet and charring the beads to dullness. In the morning only a heap of gray ashes marked the flight of Minnie Coffin's social ambitions. "Requiescat in pace!" murmured Willie as with lips firm with Puritan stoicism he passed by the stove. There he added gently: "Poor Minnie! Poor foolish Minnie!" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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