 15 A revelation. The morning of the pilgrimage to Belport was a hectic one in the gray cottage on the bluff. Before breakfast Celestina began preparations, appearing in the kitchen without trace of invalidism and helping delight hurry the housework of the day, that the precious hours might be spent in re-trimming the hat of black straw, which already had done duty four seasons. Ain't it too vexatious, complained the irritated convalescent, that I don't wear out nothing? This hat now, it's as good as the day it was bought, despite my haven't had it so long. I can't in conscience throw it away and get another, much as I'd like to. The trimming was on the front the first summer, don't you remember? Then we tried it on behind a year, and there was two seasons I wore it trimmed on the side. What are we going to do with it now, delight? I've blacked it up and can see no way for it this time, but to turn it round hindsight before. What do you think? The amateur milliner shook her head. I've a plan, she smiled mysteriously. Don't you worry, Aunt Tini. Oh, I shan't worry, child, if you take it in hand. I know that when you get through with it, it's going to look as if it had come straight out of Miss Gate's store over at the junction. It does beat all what a knack you have for such things. You could make your fortune be in a milliner. I suppose you wouldn't want to face it with red, would you? Willie likes red, and there's a scrap of silk in the trunk under the eaves that could be stretched into a fason with some peason. I'm afraid you wouldn't like red, Aunt Tini, the girl replied gently. Maybe I wouldn't, was the prompt answer. Well, do it as you think best. You never put me into anything yet that weren't becoming, and I reckon I can risk leaving it to you. Wouldn't you rather I helped you clear up the kitchen before I began hat trimming? Mercy, no! Don't waste precious time sweeping up and washing dishes. I can do that. Like as not, it'll take some of the stiffness out of me. Besides, the work in the millinery ain't the worst ahead of us. There's Willie to get ready. To coax him out of that shop and into his Sunday suit is going to take some maneuvering. I know, because I have to do it once in a while when there's a funeral or something. It's like pulling teeth. There's times when I wish all his jumpers was burned to ashes. And as for his hair, he rumples it up on end till there's no making it stay down smooth and spread round like other folks. Oh, we mustn't try to dress Willie up too much, protested delight. I like him best just as he is. Maybe you do, the elder woman grumbled. But the Galbraiths ain't going to feel that way. Why, what do you suppose they'd think if Willie was to come prancing over there for a dish of tea looking as he does at home? They'd be scandalized. Besides, ain't you and me going to be dressed up? Ain't I got my new hat? Not yet, was the mischievous retort. But I'm going to have. No, sir, if I begin indulging Willie by letting him go all wild to this party in his old clothes, the next time there's a funeral there'll be no rain in him in. He'll hold it up forever more that he went to the Galbraiths in his jumper. I know him better than you do. I suppose so. And I'm firmer with him, too, went on, Celestina. You'd have him clean spoiled. I ain't sure, but you've spoiled him already past all help during these last ten days. Did you hear him at breakfast asking me to open his egg? He knows perfectly well I never take off the shell. All I ever do for him is to put in the butter, pepper, and salt. And I only do that because he's squizzling so to get out in that shop that he ain't a notion whether there's fixings on his egg or not. Let him get one of these ideas on his mind, and it's a wonder he don't eat the egg, shells and all. Poor dear, the girl's face softened. You pet him too much, said Celestina, accusingly. Don't you pet Willie a little yourself, Aunt Tini? Teased delight. You know you do. Everybody does. We can't help it. People just love him and like to see him happy. I know it, the woman admitted. Why, there's folks in Wilton, I could name them right now, who would run their legs off for Willie. Look at Bob and this Mr. Snellen sweating in that shop like beavers over something that ain't ever going to do him an ounce of good. Maybe ain't ever going to do anybody no good. There's something in him that sort of compels people to stand on their heads for him like that. I often try to figure out just what it is, she mused. Then, in a brisker tone, she asked, How's the hat coming? Beautifully. That's good. Hurry it right along, for I'm planning to have dinner at twelve and get it out of the way. But the car isn't coming for us until three o'clock. Too'll take us that time to wash up the dishes and rig Willie up. Not three hours. You don't know him. We'll have our hands full to head him away from that thing he's making. All I pray is no new scheme catches him while he's dressin', for it'll be all day with the party if it does. Fortunately, no such misadventure befell. Willie was corralled, his protests smothered, and he was led placidly away by Bob to emerge after an interval resigned as a lamb for the slaughter. Even the homespun suit could not wholly banish his native charm, for after it was once on, he forgot its existence, and wore it with an ease almost too oblivious to suit Celestina. Not so she. On the contrary, she issued from her chamber conscious of every article of finery adorning her plump person. She settled, unsettled, resettled her hat a dozen times, and tried no less than a score of locations for her large cameo pin. Her freshly washed, light gloves had unfortunately shrunk in the drying, and refused to go on at the fingertips, and from each digit projected a sharply defined glove end which kept her busy pushing and pulling most of the afternoon. So occupied was delight with tying Willie's cravat and rearranging the spray of flowers on Celestina's bonnet that she had not a moment to consider her own toilet, which was hastily made after everything else was done. Yet, as Robert Morton looked at her, he thought that nothing could have graced her more completely than did her simple gown of muslin. There was in the frock a demurinous, almost quaker-like, which, as a foil for her beauty, breathed the very essence of coquetry. What lover could have failed to feel proud of such a treasure? Nevertheless, Bob had his qualms about the prospective visit. He was not concerned for Willie or Celestina. They were what they were, and any one of discrimination would recognize their worth. Nor did he entertain fears for delight or the galbraiths. All of them could be relied upon to meet the situation with ease and dignity. But Cynthia, what would be her attitude? Of late, when she had come over in the car with Mr. Snelling, she had maintained a distant politeness which would have been amusing had it not been ominous. He wondered how she would conduct herself today, not alone toward him, but toward the girl whom she could not but regard as her rival. How much did she guess, he speculated, of the romance that was taking place in the rose-covered cottage in the bluff? And if she had guessed nothing might not Snelling, leaping at conclusions, have gone back to Bellport there to spread idle gossip of the love-story? What would Howard Snelling know of the delicate situation, twixt himself and Mr. Galbraith's daughter? And even though no rumors of the affair reached Cynthia at all, Robert Morton was old enough to sense the hazard of introducing one woman to another. Well, the risk must be taken. There was no escape from it now. Even as these disquieting imaginings chased themselves through his mind, the car stopped before the door, and Roger Galbraith, who had come to meet the guests, entered at the gate. No courtesy that would add to their comfort had been omitted. There were rugs and extra wraps, and a drive along the shore-road had been planned as an added pleasure. Willie, his back actually turned on his beloved workshop, was in the seventh heaven. What you sitting on the peaked edge of the seat for, Celestina? He asked when once they were in the automobile. The thing ain't gonna blow up or break down. Let your whole heft sink into the cushions and enjoy yourself. Tane off and you get the chance to go a-riding. His joy in the novel experience was as unalloyed and as transparent as a child's. My soul, he ejaculated as the vehicle turned at last into the broad airway. Ain't this a big place? Big's a hotel, and some to spare. Even after the introductions had been performed, and he had sunk into a wicker chair beside his host, with a great pillow behind him to keep him from being swallowed up and lost entirely, he abated not a witt of his gladness, admiring the flowers, the smoothly cut lawns, but he had a sense of a sense of a sense of a sense of admiring the flowers, the smoothly cut lawns, and the ocean view until he radiated good humor on all sides. But it was when the tea wagon was rolled out and placed before Madame Lee that his interest was not to be curbed. Ain't that cute now? he commented, his eyes following the unaccustomed sight with alertness. The fellow that got a hold of that idea found a good one. Trundles along like a little baby carriage, don't it? Nothing would satisfy him until he had examined every part of the invention, and Celestina trembled lest then and there his brain be stimulated to action, and he made a bolt for a home to complete without delay some sudden scheme the novelty had engendered. However no such calamity occurred. He drank his tea with satisfaction and was presently borne off by Mr. Galbraith to inspect a recently purchased barometer. After he had gone the company broke up into little groups. Mrs. Galbraith and Celestina betook themselves to a shaded corner there to exchange felicitations on Miss Morton's nephew. Roger, Cynthia, and Bob perched on the broad piazza rail and discussed the recent boat race. And Madame Lee was left alone with delight. Robert Morton looked in vain for Mr. Snelling, but he was nowhere to be seen, and presently he learned that that gentleman had taken one of the cars and gone for an afternoon spin to Sawyer's Falls. Whether his absence was a contributory cause or not, certain it was, for the time being at least, Cynthia lapsed into her customary friendly manner and quite outdid herself in graciousness. Bob relaxed his tension. The afternoon was moving on with more serenity than he had dared hope, and inwardly he began to congratulate himself on the success of it. To judge from appearance everyone was in the serenest frame of mind. Willie was beaming into his host's face, and both men were laughing immoderately. Celestina, from the snatches of conversation that reached him, was relating for Mrs. Galbraith's benefit the symptoms of her late illness, and Madame Lee was chatting with delight as with an old-time friend. Bob longed to join them, but prudence forbade his leaving Cynthia's side. Moreover, he suspected that Tetta Tett was of the old lady's arranging, and he dared not break in on it. If Madame Lee desired his presence, she was quite capable of commanding it by one of those characteristically imperious waves of her hand. But she did not summon him. Instead she sat with her keen little eyes fixed on the girl opposite, as if fascinated by her beauty. Once Bob heard her ask delight of the Brewsters, and caught fragments that indicated they were talking of the child's early life in the village. It was Celestina who at length broke in on the conversation. I guess we must be thinking of going, delight, don't you? We have a long ride back, you know. Delight, echoed Madame Lee, repeating the word with surprise. A queer name, ain't it? Celestina put in. So old-fashioned and uncommon. When the child first came here, folks couldn't believe but was a pet name her dad had given her. But the little thing insisted was what she was christened. Father said I was named for my mother and my grandmother, Delight Lee. There was a gasp from the stately old lady in the chair. With convulsive grasp she caught and held the girl's wrist. Your father was Ralph Hathaway? Yes, was the wondering reply. How did you know? No answer came. Mother! cried Mrs. Galbraith, coming swiftly to her side and bending over the form crumpled against the pillows. Her face, too, was pale, and even Mr. Galbraith looked startled. Don't take on so, mother! her daughter whispered. Control yourself if you can. There may be some mistake. It is unlikely that there is no mistake, came in a hollow voice from the woman huddled in the chair, who regarded Delight with frightened eyes. She is my daughter's child, sent by the mercy of heaven that I might make amends before I went down into the grave. Tent silence followed the assertion. Did your father never tell you anything, my dear, of his marriage? Went on Madam Lee in a tone that, although firmer, still trembled. No? Then I can tell you, I, who drove your mother from my house when she refused to wed a man she did not love, Delight's great eyes widened with wonder. Yes, went on the elder woman with impetuous haste. Look at me! I have grown older and wiser since those days. But I was proud when I was young and self-willed and determined to have my way. I had three daughters, Maeda, whom you see here, Delight and Muriel. We lived in Virginia and my children's beauty was the talk of the county. Maeda married Richard Galbraith, a descendant of one of our oldest families, and I rejoiced in the alliance. For Delight, my second daughter, I chose as husband the son of one of my oldest friends, a rich young landholder, who, although older than she, I knew would bring her name and fortune. But the girl, high-spirited like myself, but lacking my ambition, would have none of him. All unbeknown to any of us, she had fallen in love with Ralph Hathaway, a handsome, penniless adventurer from the West. There was nothing against the man save that he was young, headstrong, and had his way to make. But he balked me in my plans, and I hated him for it. In vain did I try to break off the match. It was useless. The pair loved one another devotedly, and refused to be separated. Madam Lee ceased speaking for an instant, then went on resolutely. When I say my daughter had all the Lee determination, you will guess the rest. She fled from home, and although I spared no money to trace her, I never saw or heard of her again. The next year, as if in judgment upon me, Muriel, my youngest child, died, and I had but one daughter remaining. It was then that, saddened and chastened by sorrow, I regretted my narrowness and injustice, and prayed to God for the chance to wipe out my cruelty. But my prayers went unanswered, and all these years forgiveness has been denied me. Now I am old, but God is merciful. He is not let me die with this weight upon my soul. She bowed her head on delight's shoulder and wept. He our mother, she whispered, when she was able to enunciate the words. My mother died in California when I was born. Then my father took to the sea and carried me with him. We sailed until I was ten years old, when his ship, I know, interrupted Madam Lee gently. She gave a long sigh. We must speak more of this later, murmured she. I am tired now. As she dropped back against the cushions, Celestina rose softly and motioned the others to follow her. But when delight attempted to slip away, the hand resting on hers tightened. You are not leaving me, pleaded the old lady, faintly. I will come back again, answered the girl in a soothing tone. When, to-morrow? If you wish it, Madam Lee, call me Grandmother, my child, said the woman, a smile rare in its peace and beauty breaking over her drawn countenance. The ride home from Bellport was a subdued one, bringing to an afternoon that had been rich in sunshine, a climax of shadow. The galbrathes were far too stunned by the startling revelations of the day to wish to prolong a meeting that had lapsed into awkwardness, and until they had had opportunity to readjust themselves, they were eager to be alone. Nor did their delicacy of perception fail to detect a similar craving in the minds of their guests. Therefore they did not press their visitors to remain and tactfully arranged that one of the servants, instead of Roger, should drive the Spences back over the Harbour Road. As the motor purred its way along, there was little conversation. Even had not the shopper's presence acted as a restraint, none of the party would have had the heart to make perfunctory conversation. The tragedy of the moment had touched them too deeply. What a strange, wonderful unraveling of life's tangled skeins had come with a few fleeting hours. Each turned the drama over in his mind, trying to make a reality of it, and spin into the warp and woof of the tapestry time had already woven this thread of new colour. But so startling was it in hue that it refused to blend, standing out against the duller tones of the past with appalling distinctness. And never was it more irreconcilable than when the familiar confines of the little fishing hamlet by the sea were reached, and those who struggled to harmonise it saw it in contrast with this background of simplicity. Each silently reconstructed Delight's life, now linking it with its ancestry and its romantic beginnings. She had then sprung from aristocratic stock. Riches had been her right and culture her heritage. She had been the single flower of a passionate love, and the hot-headed young father to whom she had been bequeathed, when bereft of the woman he had adored, had taken her with him when he had sought the sea's balm to assuage his sorrow. She was all that remained of that tender, throbbing memory of his youth. Where he went she followed, all unconscious of peril, and with youth's God-given faith. And when the great moment came, and the supreme sacrifice was demanded, the man voluntarily severed the bonds that bound them, leaving her to life, while he himself went forth into the beyond. What must not that heroic soul have suffered when he cast his child into the ocean's arms, and upon the mercies of an unknown future? What blind trust led him? What unselfishness and courage lay in the choice he made? A smaller mind would have followed the easier path, and kept them united to the end, happy in the thought that in their death they were not divided, and that no years stretched ahead when she would be without his protection. Might he not be performing a kinder act to let her go down into the sea than to entrust her to the charity of strangers? He must have wrestled with all these problems and temptations as he stood lashed to the mast out there in the fateful storm. Ah, his confidence in a fatherhood more omniscient than his own had not been misplaced. Loving hands had borne his darling safely through the waves to a home where, in an atmosphere of devotion, the beauty that had been in her from the beginning had perfected in its maturity. Even the homely surroundings of the environment into which she drifted could not stifle her native fineness of soul. Bred up a fisherman's daughter, she had lived and moved among plain, kindly people whom she had learned to cherish and revere as if they were of her blood and to whom she had endeared herself to a corresponding degree. And now what was her future to be? Was she suddenly to be snatched back into her rightful sphere, the ties that linked her with the present snapped us under, and a new world with the myriad opportunities she had until now been denied, placed within her reach? That was the query that agitated the minds of the silent thinkers who sped along the harbour road. Sunset was gilding the water, kissing the sands into rosy warmth and casting glints of vermilion over the low buildings at the mouth of the bay, where windows flashed forth a flaming reflection of fire. The peace of approaching twilight brooded over the village. Little boats, like homing doves, came flying across the vast expanse of waves, their sails a splendour of copper in the fading light. With the hush of night the breeze died into stillness, until scarce a leaf of the weather-beaten poplar stirred. From the tangle of roses, sweet fern and babery that overgrew the fields, the note of a thrush rose clear on the quiet air. A whirling bevy of gulls circled the bar, left naked and opalescent by the receding tide. Peace was everywhere, divine peace, save in the breasts of those who gazed only to find a mockery in the surrounding tranquility. Robert Morton's face was stern in meditation. How was this mighty transformation in Delight's fortunes to affect the hopes he fostered? To wed the daughter of a humble fisherman was a different matter from offering a penniless future to the granddaughter of the stately Madame Lee. Even when the possibility of marriage with Cynthia had loomed in his path, his pride had rebelled at the financial inequality of the match. He did not wish to be patronized, to come empty-handed to a princess whose hands were full. The thought had been a galling one, and now, once again, he was in a similar position. Of course, Madame Lee and the Galbraiths would desire to make good the past. He knew them well enough for that. Delight would be elevated to the same plane with Cynthia, and he would be faced with the old irritating inferiority of fortune. Moreover, in her recently acquired station, the lady of his dreams might scorn such a humble suitor. Who could tell? Wealth worked great changes in individual sometimes, and at best human nature was a frail, assailable, and incalculable factor. Furthermore, the girl had never pledged him her love. There had been no spoken word between them. The vision that had made a utopia of his world had been, he reflected, of his own creating. He glanced at delight, but she did not meet his eye. Her gaze was vacantly following the rapidly shifting landscape. Although the glory from the sky shone on her face, the radiance that glowed there came only from without, and was the result of no inward exultation. Even the gray cottage had assumed a false splendor in the rosy twilight, and was lighted with the beauty not its own. When the car stopped, Willie clambered stiffly out, and he and Bob helped the women to a light. Then the motor rolled away, and they were alone. Well! burst out Celestina, her pent-up feeling taking vent. Did you ever know of such a to-do? I've been stifling to talk all the way home. Why, you're going to be rich delight. You'll be aunts and uncles and cousins with them galbrathes. Picture it. Likely they'll take you to New York with them, and to goodness knows where. The girl did not answer, but moved to Willie's side and slipped her hand into his, as if certain of his understanding and sympathy. You don't see much set up by your good luck, went on the breathless Celestinum. Delights kind of bowled over by surprise, teeny, Willie explained gently. It took all our breaths away, I guess. Tenderly he pressed the trembling fingers that clung to his. You ain't got to worry about it, dearie, whispered he in a caressing tone. No power can make you do anything you don't choose to, and what's more, nobody'll want to force you into what won't be for your happiness. I shall never leave Zenas Henry, Delights said with determination. And nobody'll urge you to, dear heart. Don't fret, child, don't fret. Tomorrow we'll straighten this snarl all out, until then you've got nothing to fear. Them as love you shall stay by. I give you my word on it. Hadn't I better go home to-night and tell them? The old inventor considered a moment. I don't believe I would, he answered at last. They ain't expecting you, and if you was to go looking so white and frightened as you do now, twit anger Zenas Henry and upset him all. Wait and see what happens tomorrow. It will be time enough then. You're tired, sweetheart. Stay here and rest to-night. What do you say, Bob? I think it would be much wiser. Course it would, knotted Willie. You stay right here, like as if nothing had happened, and think calmly about it a little while, child. You ain't got to decide a thing at present. Furthermore, there may not be anything for you to decide. We've no way of figuring what your-your relations mean to do. Just trust them a bit. They're Bob's friends, and I guess we can count on them to act as is fair and right. They are Bob's friends, aren't they? Repeated the girl, her face brightening as if the fact hitherto forgotten gave her confidence. And splendidly loyal friends, too, the young man put in eagerly. Then I will trust them, she said. It ain't as if they were strangers. How Robert Morton longed to go to her, to tell her in her sweet dependence how eager he was for the day when no friend of his should be a stranger to her, when their lives would be so closely intertwined that every interest, every hope, every thought of his should be hers also. Perhaps the unuttered wish that trembled on his lips was reflected in his eyes. For after looking up at him, she suddenly dropped her lashes and, turning away, followed teeny into the house. I've cautioned Celestina not to go talking to her any more just now, announced the little old man when she had gone. Your aunt's an awful good woman, no better lives. But there's times like today when things don't strike her as they do me in delight. She's so fond of the girl that her first thought would be for the money and all that. But that would be the last consideration in the world, in delight's mind. She's awful loyal and affectionate. Things go deep with her, and she sets a heap of store by the folks she cares for. Why, Zenas Henry is like her own father. Since she was a wee tot, she ain't no no other. While this old lady, her grandmother, what is she? Why, she don't mean nothing, not a thing. They walked on toward the shop door, each occupied with his own reveries, then suddenly Willie roused himself. Why, if here ain't Genoa, he exclaimed. What you doing, Jan? Was you after something? I reckon you found the place pretty well deserted and were wondering what had become of us all. I warn't doin' no wanderin', Willie Spence, the man replied. I knowed where'd you'd gone, because I saw you ridin' away like a sheep bein' led to the Sacrifice. Like a what? Repeated the inventor with a grin. An innocent lamb or a rat in a trap, Genoa said with solemn emphasis. What are you drivin' at, anyhow? questioned Willie. You didn't suspect nothin'? Suspect anything? No, of course not. Why? You hadn't a suspicion the whole thing was a decoy? What whole thing? The trip and all. Willie studied his friend's face in puzzled silence. Whatever are you tryin' to say? demanded he at last. Genoa swept his hand dramatically round the shop. You've been betrayed, Willie, he announced with tragic intensity. Betrayed by them as you thought was your friends and who you've trusted. I warned you, but you wouldn't listen, and now the thing I told you would happen has happened. Triumphant pleasure gleaned in the sinister smile. They tricked you into leavin', went on the malicious voice, and then they came here and stole what was yours. Your invention! I caught them doin' it. I hid outside and overheard them tell how they'd been waitin' days for the chance when everybody should be gone. Twas that snelling, and another like him, a draftsman. They laughed and said that now the old man was out of the way they could do as they pleased. Then they took all the measurements of your invention, made some sketches, and took its picture. Willie listened, open-mouthed. You must be crazy, Genoa, he slowly observed. I ain't crazy, Genoa replied, with stinging sharpness. The whole thing was just as I say. It was part of a plot that Snellen and Galbraith have been playin' all along, and either they've used this young fella here, he motioned toward Robert Morton, as a tool or else he's in it with him. Bob started forward, but Willie's hand was on his arm. Gently, son, he murmured. Then, addressing Genoa, he asked. And what earthly use could Mr. Galbraith have for— "'Cause he sees money in it,' was the prompt response. A thrill of uneasiness passed through Robert Morton's frame. Had not those very words been spoken both by the capitalist and Howard Snellen? They had uttered them as a laughing prediction, but might they not have rated them as true? With sudden chagrin, he looked from Willie to Genoa, and from Genoa back to Willie again. "'I've been inquirin' up this Galbraith,' went on Genoa. It appears he's a big New York ship-builder. That's what he is, and Snellen is one of his headmen.' If the mischief-maker derived pleasure from dealing out the fruit of his investigations, he certainly reaped it now. For he was rewarded by seeing an electrical shock stiffen Willie's figure. "'It ain't true,' cried the little inventor. "'It ain't true, is it, Bob?' Robert Morton's eyes fell before his piercing scrutiny. "'Yes,' was his reluctant answer. "'You knew it all along?' "'Yes.' "'And Snellen?' "'He is in Mr. Galbraith's employ. "'Yes.' "'And you let him come here?' began the old man, bewildered. "'You let him come here to steal Willie's idea,' interrupted Genoa, wheeling on Bob. "'You helped him to come, after he's taken you into his home and all. "'I didn't know what they meant to do,' Robert Morton stammered. "'I just thought they were going to lend us a hand at working up the thing.' "'A likely story,' sniffed Genoa, with scorn. "'No, sirie, you came here as a tool. You were paid for it. I'll bet a hat.' "'You lie.' "'Prove it,' was the taunting response. "'I—I can't prove it,' confessed the young man wretchedly. "'But Willie knows that what you accuse me of isn't so.' "'With face alight with hope,' he turned toward the old man at his elbow. "'But no denial came from the expected source. Willie had sunk down on a pile of boards and buried his face in his hands. "'And I thought they were my friends,' they heard him moan. Robert Morton hesitated, then bent over the bowed figure. And as he did so, Genoa, casting one last look of gloating delight at the ruin he had wrought, slipped softly from the room. As he went out he heard a broken murmur from the inventor. "'I'll—I'll not believe it,' asserted he feebly. But despite the brave words the seed of suspicion had taken root, and Robert Morton knew that Willie's confidence in him had been shaken. Still the little old man clung with dogged persistence to his sanguine declaration. "'I'll not believe it.' End of Chapter 16. Recording by Roger Maline. Chapter 17 of Flood Tide— This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline. Flood Tide by Sarah Ware Bassett. Chapter 17 A grim hand intervenes. The next morning saw a grave change in the household on the bluff. Delight, with violet-circled eyes and cheeks whose rose tints had faded to pallor, listened with dread for the sound of the Galbraith's motor. What the day would bring forth she feared to speculate. Willie and Bob also showed traces of a sleepless night. Although they had guarded from the others the happenings of the previous evening, between them loomed a barrier of mutual amazement and reproach. Beneath his attempted optimism Willie was wounded and indignant that he should have been deceived by those in whose kindness he had believed so wholeheartedly. He fought the facts with loyalty, obstinately trusting that some satisfactory explanation would be forthcoming, but he did not understand, and the dumb question that spoke in his eyes hurt Robert Morton more than any formulated reproach could have done. It was human, the young man owned, that the inventor should resent having been tricked. He himself, throughout the weary watches of the night, had twisted and turned Genoa's damning testimony, struggling to explain it away by some simple and harmless interpretation. Yet he was compelled to admit that the facts pointed in but one direction. And if he was baffled in his search for a way out, how much more so must Willie be? Why, he would be almost superhuman if he did not surrender his faith before such convincing evidence. To the grief he experienced at forfitting the little old man's trust, Robert Morton was also compelled to add the bitterness of discovering that those whose friendship was dearest to him had betrayed it, and used him as a stool pigeon, and a contemptible plot that he would have scorned to further had he been cognizant of it. He wondered, as he turned restlessly in his pillow, whether it was Mr. Galbraith with whom the duplicity originated, or whether the conspiracy of yesterday was one of Snelling's hatching. Was it not possible the employee desired the invention for his own profit? That, to be sure, would be calamity enough, but it would at least clear Mr. Galbraith of theft and reinstate him in the young man's confidence. If only that could be the answer to the riddle, how thankful he would be. Well, until he could be brought face to face with the capitalist, it was futile to attempt to unravel the enigma. How he longed in his bewilderment for the sympathy and counsel of a fresh perspective. But on Tini's discretion he could place no reliance, and even had he been able to do so, everything within him shrank from the disloyalty of voicing evil against his friends until he had proof. Delight was also an impossible confidant because of her recently discovered relationship to the Galbraith family. To breathe the word which might, at this delicate juncture, prejudice her against her new relatives would be contemptible. No, there was nothing to be done but be patient and maintain in the meantime as close as semblance to a normal attitude as was possible. Fortunately, the silence that settled down upon the silvered cottage caused no surprise to any of its occupants. Having been warned not to chatter, Celestina observed a welcome quietness perfectly understood. Nor was it strange that in view of the shock Delight had received, she should be more thoughtful than usual. Nobody commented, either on Willy's abandonment of his inventing, or gave heed that he and Robert Morton spoke little together. How could the Galbraiths, Bob's best friends, be discussed in his presence? There was abundant explanation, therefore, why a strained atmosphere should prevail and pass unnoticed without either Celestina or Delight suspecting that its cause was other than the disclosures made by Madame Lee on the previous afternoon. Nevertheless, eager as was each of the household to have speculation satisfied, and the future with whatever it might contain unfold, there was a simultaneous start of apprehension when the Galbraiths' familiar red car stopped at the gate of the cottage. From it alighted neither Mr. Snelling nor any member of the family, but instead the chauffeur gravely delivered to Robert Morton a hastily scrawled note written in Mr. Galbraith's spreading hand. Marvelling a little that it was he to whom the communication should be addressed, the young man broke the seal of the letter. Madame Lee, he read, weary with excitement, had retired almost immediately after their departure, the maid attending her, having left her sleeping like a tired child. But when they had gone to arouse her in the morning, it had been only to find that she had passed quietly away in her sleep without struggle or suffering. Snelling had gone over to New York to make the necessary funeral arrangements, and the family were to follow the next day. There was nothing Bob could do, but if he and Delight wished to accompany them, Mrs. Galbraith would be glad to have them. Madame Lee had been devoted to Bob, and it was Delight's unchallenged right to share in the final obsequies to her grandmother. Odd, and in a low voice, Robert Morton read the communication aloud. I shall go, of course, he said, with a catch in his voice. Madame Lee was very dear to me. Had she been of my own people, I could not have cared for her more deeply. And I, what shall I do? questioned Delight. The appeal was to Bob and the sense of dependence vibrating in it, thrilled him with tender gladness. I suppose, he answered gently, it would make your grandmother happy to know you were there. Wouldn't it be a token of forgiveness? What do you think, Willie? the girl asked. I agree with Bob that you should go, my dear, the old man replied. Somehow it seems as if your grandmother would rest the sweeter for feeling you were nearby. And anyhow it's a mark of respect to the dead. You're bound to show that, no matter how you feel, I'm pretty sure that if you and your grandmother had had the chance to get better acquainted, you would have loved one another dearly. It was only that it all came too late for you to feel toward her the same as Bob does. Perhaps Delight returned with half-dazed seriousness, so it was decided the two young persons would go with the Galbraiths to New York, and the next day they joined the Bellport family and followed the body to the fine, stately old Southern woman to its finely resting place. There were no outside friends among the small group of mourners, and the two days of constant and intimate companionship drew them together with a closeness very vital in its results. Delight was received into the circle with a tact and affection that not only put her at her ease but won her heart. And Robert Morton, as Madame Lee's favorite, was as much a part of the family as if he had been born into it. For the time being the common grief banished from his mind every other thought, and once again he and his old-time friends met without a shadow of distrust between them. Even Cynthia was in her most appealing mood, casting all caprice and artificiality aside, and centering most of her attention on her newly acquired cousin. The silent benediction of peace, the present of the dead brought, brooded over them all, and it was with no perfunctory tenderness that Delight bent and gently kissed her grandmother's cold forehead. Then came the journey back to Bellpork, and as Mr. Galbraith, Roger, and Howard Snelling were all detained in New York, it was Bob who brought the party home. In the meantime no opportunity had presented itself for broaching to the financier the subject of Willie's invention. The interval during the funeral rites was too inopportune, and Robert Morton had lacked both the inclination and the courage to break in upon such an occasion with an affair so sordid and unpleasant. He had hoped that during the return to the Cape some chance for a talk with the capitalist would be afforded him. But now there was no help for it but to go back to Willie's expenses with the weight still heavy on his heart. Mr. Galbraith, he learned, would have to remain in the city two weeks or more, and an important business deal would keep Mr. Snelling at the Long Island plant indefinitely. Hence for the present there was not a possibility of clearing up the mystery. It was, however, significant that Snelling evidently considered his part of the work done, and if Genoa's accusations were founded on fact, as they appeared to be, it was not surprising that he seized upon the confusion of the present as a fortunate cover for his exit from Wilton. The more Robert Morton pondered on the train of events, the less willing he became to connect Mr. Galbraith with the perloining of Willie's idea. The financier had intended to do precisely what he had specified, lend a friendly hand to the old man's scheme. It was Snelling who had seen in the circumstance something too promising to let pass, and who, without his employers' knowledge, had made bold to secure the device for his personal profit. In the meanwhile, ignorant that Robert Morton was cognizant of his cupidity, he was as debonair as if he had nothing on his conscience. He made himself useful in every possible direction, and on parting from Bob at the train declared he should look forward with the greatest anticipation to their future business association together. How the young man longed to confront the nave with his crime? It seemed almost imperative that, before the mischief proceeded farther, steps should be taken to stop it. But what proofs had he to present? No, a middle course was the only thing possible, Bob decided. He must return to Willie's roof with the atmosphere unclear and finish the little that still remained to be done on the invention as if no shadow clouded his sky. He could not leave Willie in the lurch. Furthermore, it was out of the question for him to depart from Wilton until he had come to an understanding with Delight Hathaway. The intimacy of the past week, with its lights and shadows, had only served to render stronger the bonds that bound him to her. In every issue the network of strange events had developed her character and displayed facets of such unsuspected force and splendor that where beauty had at first fascinated it was now the soul behind it that called to him. Truly Madame Lee had, in this grandchild, a worthy descendant, and had brought an added joy to his heart to thus link together the two beings he loved most deeply. Therefore he made the journey back to Wilton, bravely resolved to bear Jeno's taunts and Willie's silent reproaches, until the moment came when he could acquaint Mr. Galbraith with Snelling's perfidy to see the injustice righted. It was not an enviable position, the one in which he stood. He felt it to be only human that, in the face of this acid test, the old inventor's affection and allegiance toward him should waver, and that Jenoa would detect and rejoice in its unsteadyness. But as Bob relied upon, ultimately solving the conundrum, he felt he could endure a short interval of unmerited distrust. It was in delight and teeny who were unconscious of any faults known in his relation to the household that he placed his hopes for aid. Hence it was with no small degree of consternation that on reaching Wilton he learned that the girl had resolved now to return to her own home. I have been here over two weeks already, she said to Bob, and I really am needed by my own family. They miss me dreadfully when I am gone. Zenas Henry goes down like a plummet, Abby says. And then I have so much to tell them. Besides, now that Antini is well again, there is no use in my remaining. There is a great deal of use in it for me, asserted the young man moodily. Nonsense! You and Willie have your work, and in a day or two you will be so buried in it you won't know whether I am here or not. Delight! A warning echo in the word and a quick forward movement caused her to add hurriedly. And, and anyway, you can come up to our house and see me there. You will like the three captains and Abby. You simply can't help it. They are deers. And you will worship Zenas Henry. At least you will if he is— I mean, sometimes he doesn't—well, you know how older men feel when younger ones appear. He is very devoted to me, and he is always afraid. But I am sure he will understand, and that you and he will get on beautifully together, she concluded with scarlet cheeks. The clumsy explanation had a dubious ring and Bob frowned. You see, your being Aunt Tini's nephew will help some. He likes her very much. And, of course, any friend of Willie's and of mine, with every word, the formidable Zenas Henry increased informantableness. She saw the scowl deepened. You will come and see me, won't you? she pleaded timidly. I should be sorry if— Robert Morton caught the slender hand and held it firmly. I'll come, were there a thousand Zenas Henrys. That's nice, she answered with a nervous laugh. There won't be a thousand, though. There never can be but one as good and as dear as he is. Only, remember, you mustn't come right away. I shall have a great deal to tell them at home. And it won't be easy for Zenas Henry to face the fact that the Galbraiths have any claims on me. It has always been his pride that I had no relatives and belonged entirely to him. And I do, you know, she went on quickly. Nothing on earth shall take me from Zenas Henry. I worried a good deal lest Madame Leigh, lest my grandmother should insist that I spend part of my time with her. But that is all settled now. I can keep up my friendship with the Galbraith family by calls and short visits, and everything will go on as before. I don't want anything changed. The young man saw her draw in her chin proudly. Of course I have forgiven my grandmother, she went on, but I never can forget that she made my mother's life unhappy and that she was unkind to my father. So I never wish to accept any favors from any of them. But the Galbraiths are not to blame for the past, ventured Bob, his loyalty instantly in arms. No, but they are Leigh's. Your grandmother was sorry, bitterly sorry, urged the young man in a persuasive tone. It was probably her regret that caused her death. The girl nodded sadly. I know, she said. I realize she lived to regret what she had done. I am not blaming her, but for all that she can never mean to me what she might have meant. Rather, I shall always think of her as a handsome, stately old lady who was your friend and loved you. She turned to leave him, but he refused to let her go. Delight, he cried, drawing her closer. Will your grandmother be dearer to you because she loved me? Tell me, sweetheart, do I mean anything in your life? You are the only thing that matters in mind. He saw a radiance flash into her wonderful eyes, and in another instant her head was against his breast. It is only because of you, Bob, she whispered, clinging to him, that I can forgive the Leigh's at all. End of Chapter 17. Recording by Roger Moline. Chapter 18 of Floodtide. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Moline. Floodtide by Sarah Ware Bassett. Chapter 18. The Progress of Another Romance The ecstasy that came to Robert Morton with his newfound 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. Genoa 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 Genoa'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 formally 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 Xenus 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 lover's 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 Xenus 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 lightheartedness was more exaggerated than was her want, those who loved her attributed to her joy at being once more beneath her own roof-tree. Xenus Henry and the three captains fluttered about her as if her absence had been one of years rather than of days, and even Abbey, 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 suffice to give him an enviable entree. But after a few calls his winning personality secured for him a place of his own. He inspected Captain Phineus Taylor's broken compass and said 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. Abbey, 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 Xenus 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 kind of thought that Morton Feller might be round this evening. Captain Phineus 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, and Saturdays you can pretty mortal sure bank on them. Captain Benjamin would reply, if he's coming tonight he better be heaving into sight for it's damp and I'll have to be turning in soon. Maybe he was delayed by something, suggested Captain Jonas. We'll not give him up for a spell longer. He told me he'd fetch me some tobacco and he always does as he promises. Xenus Henry smoked in silence. I sort of wish he would appear, he presently put in between puffs at his pipe. There was something I wanted to ask him about that darn mortar-boat. You don't mean to say that boat's out of order again, do you, Xenus Henry? questioned Abbey. No, oh no, taint out of order exactly. But the pesky propeller is kicking up worse and ordinary. It's awful taxing 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 and over again about it? Xenus 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? And ain't he just swum around the hook and gone off without so much as nibbling it? The thing don't interest him, it's easy enough to see that. He don't like mortar-boats, and ain't got no sympathy with him. And he don't give a hang if they do come to grief. In fact, I think he rather relishes here in their snagged. I gave up expecting any help from him long ago. With a frown he resumed his smoking. Where's the light? Captain Phineas asked, senting his friends mood and veering tactfully to a less irritating topic. And so where is the child? rejoined Captain Jonas. She was round here fussing with them roses a minute ago. That ain't her over toward the pine grove, is it? queried Captain Benjamin. I thought I saw something pink and moving among the trees. Yes, that's her and Bob Morton with her. Sure you're alive. Captain Phineas ejaculated with pleasure. You'll get your tobacco now, Jonas, and Xenus Henry can ask him about the boat. Can you see, has he got a bundle? Piped the short-sided 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. And friendly too, ain't he? put in Captain Benjamin. There's nothing he wouldn't do for you. He's the nicest chap ever I see, Captain Phineas echoed. Don't you think so, Xenus 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 front side too, and the brains inside it are ticking strong and steady. Abby 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 heartthrobs 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 enough nerve to offer his heart and hand to Sarah Libby Lewis. Next you know, both you and Sarah Libby 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 waiting for is more and I can see. The discomfited coastguard hung his head sheepishly. It's all right for you to talk, Willie Spence, he replied over his shoulder. You ain't got the speaking to do. It's eye that's got to ask her. Then as he sped out of sight he added as an afterthought. By the way Bart and Minnie Coffin have come to a split at last over that their dress. After getting it fixed, and promising them twas for the last time, she's ripped it all up again because she seemed some picture in a book she liked better. Bart's that mad he took his sea-chest in the wheel-barrow and set out for his mother's. I met him going just now. Bless my soul, gasped Willie in consternation. How far had he got? He was about a quarter away to the junction, was the response. He sung out, he was headed where he'd be sure of getting three meals a day and where somebody had paid some attention to him. Hmm, Willie reflected, scratching his thin locks. Sort of looks as if it was time I took a hand, don't it? I figure if anybody's going to interfere, now's the minute. Bart's got his sail set and is clear and port for good, and all this time no mistake. T'was sure to come sooner or later. Their roads parted, and Willie turned toward the town, while Jack Nickerson, with rolling-gate, pursued his way to the beach, where at the tip of a slender bar of sand, jetting 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 the lonely beach in the darkness and wind that caused the stern density 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 sucker the perishing, fearlessly directing the surf boats 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 discompeted 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 Libby Lewis, he was nothing better than a faltering ten-year-old whose collar is too tight for him and whose hands and feet or 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 son should not go down in his vacillation and timidity. Nay more he would even stride forth to Sarah Libby'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 the blow the sand castles he built on the beach for her delight, and ever since she had contrived to raise 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 wit. Long ago he had made up his mind that Sarah Libby 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 Libby's sentiments coincided with his own, even though she did not 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 Libby'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 Libby 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 the majesty and dignity, astonishingly impressive. But in the light of day and Sarah Libby'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 Libby Lewis. Thus for more than a quarter of a century Jack Nickerson had silently worshipped at the shrine of his divinity, and in the meantime the roses in Sarah Libby'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 donuts 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 admirers' determination would evaporate. Then Sarah Libby would resort to less ephemeral offerings, scarves, risters, 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 them 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 Belle Porte 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 Libby 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 Libby 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 Libby's blue eyes and registered the vows he had never yet dared utter. Nevertheless lonely and disappointed as was Sarah Libby, Jack was a thousand times more miserable. Tonight, 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 murdered 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 Libby 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 someone 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 Libby 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. A way 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 away 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 Libby 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 led out of school, dashing round their spiral windings with reckless velocity. The deed was done. Sarah Libby 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 a shore? I saw your signal and knew straight off something terrible was up. For you've never called for help from the town before. I've raised all the folks I could get a hold of, and 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 babble 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 rack? As they stood there tragic in the dim light, there was a stir near the door, and Sarah Libby 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 rack, 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 a 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 rack, he said quietly. All the same I'm glad you saw my lantern and came, because I've got something to tell you all. Me and Sarah Libby are going 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 till morning. Still, I reckon if I'd been nigh on to a quarter of a century getting my spunk together to ask a woman to marry me and had finally done it, I'd have 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 Libby. 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, and live clear of a life of pesterin, don't you never buy Sarah Libby a satin dress. Minnie and I have made it up, thanks to Willie Spence, but it was a tussle. I'd come to the jump-and-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 nothing new would come to him till he got rested up from this other idea. 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 as that dress remained on earth, it'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. Rekwioskot in Pake, murmured Willie, as with lips firm and puritan stoicism he passed by the stove. There he added gently, Poor Minnie, poor foolish Minnie. Floodtide by Sarah Ware Bassett CHAPTER XIX Willie, as pilot. The invention was finished. The last rivet was in place, the last screw secure, and before the fulfillment of his dream the little old man stood with glowing face. It was a gentle happy face with misty blue eyes that carried at the moment a serene contentment. I couldn't have done it but for you, Bob, he was saying. The idea was all well enough but wouldn't have been of no use without other brains to carry it out. So you must remember a big slice of the credit is yours. Robert Morton shook his head. Oh, the thing is yours, Willie, every bit yours, protested he. I only did some of the mechanical part and that any fool could do. The mechanical part, as you call it, is full as important as the notion, Willie persisted. I shall tell Zenas Henry it's our invention when I turn it over to him. The pronoun thrilled Bob with pleasure. It meant the sweeping aside of the last film of distrust and the restoration of the old man's former confidence and friendship. For days Willie had slowly been reaching the conviction that if fraud had been practiced, Teenie's nephew had been only an innocent party to it, the tool of more designing hands. How was the lad to know he was being so artfully made use of? And anyway, perhaps there may have been no conspiracy at all. Might not Genoa have been mistaken about snelling raiding the workshop? Why, a score of reasons might have brought him there. He might have left behind him something he needed. Or there might have been something he wanted to do. It was absurd to accuse him of a secret and deliberately planned visit. Willie was a simple single-minded soul, and now that Genoa and his malicious influence had been removed, he dropped comfortably back into a tranquility from which, when viewed in perspective, his former suspicions seemed both unjust and ridiculous. Suppose Mr. Galbraith did happen to be a boat-builder. Was he not Bob's friend and Delight's uncle, a gentleman of honour who had money enough without stooping to secure more by treachery? And did it not follow that since Mr. Snelling was in his employ he must be a person of reputable character? A fig for Genoa, Spence's accusations. Willie blew a contemptuous whiff of smoke into the air. How had he ever dropped a being so base as to credit them for an instant? He was ashamed for having done so. Therefore wholeheartedly he gave his hand to Robert Morton, and if the act were a mute petition for forgiveness it was nonetheless sincere in its intent and was met with an equal spirit of goodwill. I suppose now that everything is complete there is no reason why we can't present the thing to Zenas Henry right away, is there, questioned Bob, who with hands thrust deep in his trousers' pockets, contemplated with satisfaction the product of their joint toil. Not the least in the world, Willie answered. If we was to keep it here a week there ain't nothing more we could do to it, and since you've tried it out over at Galbraiths we know it works. Oh, it works all right, laughed Bob. The eye of the little inventor softened and into them crept a glint of pensiveness. Yes, he repeated. We can deliver it up to Zenas Henry most any time now. He paused. Queer, ain't it? How kind of attached you get to anything you've fussed over so long? It gets to be almost a part of you. You'll think it funny, I guess, but do you know I'll be sort of sorry to see this thing going? It was the regret of the parent compelled to part from his child, and with an effort at comfort Robert Morton said cheerfully, Oh, you'll be having a new scheme before long. Maybe I will, will he answered, brightening. I never can tell when the sun rises in the morning what idea will catch me before night. Still, I somehow feel there'll be no idea like this one. You know, they say every artist creates one masterpiece. He smiled shyly. This, I reckon, is my masterpiece. It's a bully one anyhow, ejaculated Bob. Aren't you curious to hear what Zenas Henry will say when he sees it? I am sort of itching to, admitted Willie, in less meditative tone. Only last night I was thinking after I got to bed how would be the best way of giving it to him. I've sort of set my heart on spraying it on him as a surprise. What's your notion? I think that would be a fine plan, replied Bob, eager to humor the gentle-dreamer. If we could get him and the captains out of the way, it would be good sport simply to fasten the attachment to the boat and wait and see what happened. Wouldn't that be the beat-a-ree, chimed in Willie, excitedly? His face glowed, and he rubbed his hands with honest pleasure. Wouldn't it, though? We could manage it too, for Delight could arrange to get Zenas Henry and the three captains out of the way. She's an almighty good one at keeping a secret, as I reckon you found out already. He stole a sly glance at the young man at his elbow who flushed uncomfortably. Yes, he rambled on. Delight can shut her mouth on occasions like as if it was a scallop-shell. The only trouble is she ought to close her eyes, too, for they talk almost as well as her tongue does. Likely you've noticed that, he added innocently. I, uh— Far as that goes, your own eyes do something in the speaking line, affirmed Willie, bending to fleck a bit of dust from the appliance before them. What! Robert Morton exclaimed with alarm. The old inventor nodded gravely. Yes, continued he. Now I come to think of it. You've got among the most speaking eyes I ever see. They kind of ball things right out. What! What have they— stammered Bob, crumpling weakly down upon the rickety chair before the stove? Bald? Oh, a lot of things! Was the provokingly ambiguous retort? His companion eyed him narrowly. I'm—I'm in a horrible mess, Willie. He suddenly blurted out quite irrelevantly. I know it! Robert Morton gasped, then lapsed into stunned silence. Without going into any details or discussing any ladies we know, my advice would be to make a clean breast of the whole thing, the little old man announced, avoiding Robert Morton's eyes and blowing a ring of smoke from his pipe impersonally toward the low ceiling. Have it out with Zenas Henry and set yourself right with the Bellport folks. You don't want to do nothing undercover. No, I don't, rejoined the younger man quickly. The reason I didn't do so in the first place was because Zenas Henry was so upset when he heard about Madam Lee that we—I thought— He's calmed down now, ain't he? Yes, he seems to have accepted the facts, especially as the Galbraiths have not been near him and have let the whole matter drop. Of course that is only a temporary condition, however. Mr. Galbraith has been in New York attending two important matters ever since Madam Lee's death. What will be done when he returns, I do not know. But he will do something. You may be sure of that. That ain't no special business of yours or mine, is it, will he remark? All that concerns you is to let both those men know where you stand, Zenas Henry first, because he's been like a father to delight, and Mr. Galbraith afterwards, because— He hesitated for the fraction of a second. Because the Galbraiths are the girls' nearest of kin, and legally, I suppose, have a right. Yes, interrupted Robert Morton hastily. When you get things all squared up, we'll talk more about it, continued Willy. But till you do the affair ain't open and above board, and I don't want nothing to do with it. The top of the ocean is good enough for me. I never was much on swimming under water. He broke off abruptly to refill his pipe. Now about this motorboat, he went on crisply, veering to a less delicate subject. Suppose you fix it up with delight to keep Zenas Henry and the three captains away from the beach for a couple of days, so as to give us time to get her invention securely rigged to the seagull. She could find something for him to do up at the house for that long, couldn't she? I guess so. If she can't, Abby can, chuckled Willy with a grin. Abby Brewster's the most famous woman in the world for setting folks to work. She's made Zenas Henry clean over since his marriage. Why, I remember the time when you could know more of God him to do a day's work than you could have lined up the fish of the sea in a Sunday school. But with training, Zenas Henry now does his plowing, planting, and harvesting in something approaching alarm-clock fashion. Of course, he backslides if he ain't constantly held to it, but no one has passed it's a miracle what Abby's made of him. She ain't never wholly reformed his temper, though. There's plenty of cayenne in that still. I reckon if you was to amputate Zenas Henry's temper, you'd find you had took away the most interest in part of him. His listener smiled. Now you go ahead and arrange things with delight, Bob, continued Willy. An interview with her won't be no great hardship for you, will it? I thought not. And any fillin' in I can do, I'll do. Any fillin' in, he repeated significantly. You can count on me to plug any gaps that come anywheres. Remember that. It's bully of you, Willy, cried Bob, seizing his hand. Not a mite, protested the little man with a deprecating gesture. Now that I've got Bart Coffin and many livin' like turtledoves, and Jack Nickerson as good as married to Sarah Libby Lewis, two of my ships seem to have dropped anchor safe and sound. I reckon I shan't need to do no more pilotin' there. The little old inventor stopped a moment, then added, Sometimes I figure what I was put in the world for was to do pilot duty. You know there's folks that never own a ship on their own, but just spend their days towing other people's ships into port. They ain't so bad off, neither. He went on in a merrier tone. Cos there's a heap of joy in helpin' some other vessel to make a landin'. More moved by the words than he would have confessed, Robert Morton watched the bent figure move through the door and out into the sunshine. And afterward, banishing the seriousness of his mood, he climbed the hill to the white cottage, there to evolve with delight a plot that should hold the men of the Brewster household captive, long enough for William himself to attach to Zemus Henry's motorboat the new invention.