CHAPTER XVI
THE BEGINNING OF THE EBB
Spring has come and gone. The lilacs and crocuses, the tulips andbuttercups, have bloomed and faded; the lawn has had its sprinkling ofdandelions, and the duff of their blossoms has drifted past thehemlocks and over the tree-tops. The grass has had its first cutting;the roses have burst their buds and hang in clusters over the arbors;warm winds blow in from the sea laden with perfumes from beach andsalt-marsh; the skies are steely blue and the cloud puffs drift lazily.It is summer-time--the season of joy and gladness, the season ofout-of-doors.
All the windows at Yardley are open; the porch has donned anawning--its first--colored white and green, shading big rocking-chairsand straw tables resting on Turkish rugs. Lucy had wondered why in allthe years that Jane had lived alone at Yardley she had never oncethought of the possibilities of this porch. Jane had agreed with her,and so, under Lucy's direction, the awnings had been put up and theother comforts inaugurated. Beneath its shade Lucy sits and reads orembroiders or answers her constantly increasing correspondence.
The porch serves too as a reception-room, the vines being thick and theoccupants completely hidden from view. Here Lucy often spreads a smalltable, especially when Max Feilding drives over in his London drag fromBeach Haven on Barnegat beach. On these occasions, if the weather iswarm, she refreshes him with delicate sandwiches and some of her latefather's rare Scotch whiskey (shelved in the cellar for thirty years)or with the more common brands of cognac served in the old familydecanters.
Of late Max had become a constant visitor. His own ancestors had madehonorable records in the preceding century, and were friends of theearlier Cobdens during the Revolution. This, together with the factthat he had visited Yardley when Lucy was a girl--on his first returnfrom Paris, in fact--and that the acquaintance had been kept up whilehe was a student abroad, was reason enough for his coming with suchfrequency.
His drag, moreover, as it whirled into Yardley's gate, gave a certainair of eclat to the Manor House that it had not known since the days ofthe old colonel. Nothing was lacking that money and taste couldfurnish. The grays were high-steppers and smooth as satin, the polishedchains rattled and clanked about the pole; the body was red and thewheels yellow, the lap-robe blue, with a monogram; and the diminutiveboy studded with silver buttons bearing the crest of the Feildingfamily was as smart as the tailor could make him.
And the owner himself, in his whity-brown driving-coat with big pearlbuttons, yellow gloves, and gray hat, looked every inch the person tohold the ribbons. Altogether it was a most fashionable equipage, ownedand driven by a most fashionable man.
As for the older residents of Warehold, they had only words of praisefor the turnout. Uncle Ephraim declared that it was a "Jim Dandy,"which not only showed his taste, but which also proved how much broaderthat good-natured cynic had become in later years. Billy Tatham gazedat it with staring eyes as it trundled down the highway and turned intothe gate, and at once determined to paint two of his hacks brightyellow and give each driver a lap-robe with the letter "T" worked inhigh relief.
The inmates of Yardley were not quite so enthusiastic. Martha was gladthat her bairn was having such a good time, and she would often standon the porch with little Ellen's hand in hers and wave to Max and Lucyas they dashed down the garden road and out through the gate, the tigerbehind; but Jane, with that quick instinct which some women possess,recognized something in Feilding's manner which she could not put intowords, and so held her peace. She had nothing against Max, but she didnot like him. Although he was most considerate of her feelings andalways deferred to her, she felt that any opposition on her part totheir outings would have made no difference to either one of them. Heasked her permission, of course, and she recognized the courtesy, butnothing that he ever did or said overcame her dislike of him.
Doctor John's personal attitude and bearing toward Feilding was anenigma not only to Jane, but to others who saw it. He invariablygreeted him, whenever they met, with marked, almost impressivecordiality, but it never passed a certain limit of reserve; a certaindignity of manner which Max had recognized the first day he shook handswith him. It recalled to Feilding some of his earlier days, when he wasa student in Paris. There had been a supper in Max's room that ended atdaylight--no worse in its features than dozens of others in theQuartier--to which an intimate friend of the doctor's had been invited,and upon which, as Max heard afterward, the doctor had commented ratherseverely.
Max realized, therefore, but too well that the distinguishedphysician--known now over half the State--understood him, and hishabits, and his kind as thoroughly as he did his own ease ofinstruments. He realized, too, that there was nothing about his presentappearance or surroundings or daily life that could lead so thoughtfula man of the world as Dr. John Cavendish, of Barnegat, to conclude thathe had changed in any way for the better.
And yet this young gentleman could never have been accused of burninghis candle at both ends. He had no flagrant vices really--none whoseposters were pasted on the victim's face. Neither cards nor any otherform of play interested him, nor did the wine tempt him when it wasred--or of any other color, for that matter, nor did he haunt thedressing-rooms of chorus girls and favorites of the hour. His innaterefinement and good taste prevented any such uses of his spare time.His weakness--for it could hardly be called a vice--was narrowed downto one infirmity, and one only: this was his inability to be happywithout the exclusive society of some one woman.
Who the woman might be depended very largely on whom he might be thrownwith. In the first ten years of his majority--his days of poverty whena student--it had been some girl in exile, like himself. During thelast ten years--since his father's death and his inheritance--it hadbeen a loose end picked out of the great floating drift--that socialflotsam and jetsam which eddies in and out of the casinos of Nice andMonte Carlo, flows into Aix and Trouville in summer and back again toRome and Cairo in winter--a discontented wife perhaps; or an unmarriedwoman of thirty-five or forty, with means enough to live where shepleased; or it might be some self-exiled Russian countess orEnglish-woman of quality who had a month off, and who meant to make themost of it. All most respectable people, of course, without a breath ofscandal attaching to their names--Max was too careful for that--and yeteach and every one on the lookout for precisely the type of man thatMax represented: one never happy or even contented when outside theradius of a waving fan or away from the flutter of a silken skirt.
It was in one of these resorts of the idle, a couple of years before,while Lucy's husband and little Ellen were home in Geneva, that Max hadmet her, and where he had renewed the acquaintance of theirchildhood--an acquaintance which soon ripened into the closestfriendship.
Hence his London drag and appointments; hence the yacht and afour-in-hand--then a great novelty--all of which he had promised hershould she decide to join him at home. Hence, too, his luxuriouslyfitted-up bachelor quarters in Philadelphia, and his own comfortableapartments in his late father's house, where his sister Sue lived; andhence, too, his cosey rooms in the best corner of the Beach Havenhotel, with a view overlooking Barnegat Light and the sea.
None of these things indicated in the smallest degree that this noblegentleman contemplated finally settling down in a mansion commensuratewith his large means, where he and the pretty widow could enjoy theirmarried life together; nothing was further from his mind--nothing couldbe--he loved his freedom too much. What he wanted, and what he intendedto have, was her undivided companionship--at least for the summer; acompanionship without any of the uncomfortable complications whichwould have arisen had he selected an unmarried woman or the wife ofsome friend to share his leisure and wealth.
The woman he picked out for the coming season suited him exactly. Shewas blonde, with eyes, mouth, teeth, and figure to his liking (he hadbecome critical in forty odd years--twenty passed as an expert);dressed in perfect taste, and wore her clothes to perfection; had aContinental training that made her mistress of every situation,re
ceiving with equal ease and graciousness anybody, from a postman to aprince, sending them away charmed and delighted; possessed money enoughof her own not to be too much of a drag upon him; and--best of all (andthis was most important to the heir of Walnut Hill)--had the best bloodof the State circling in her veins. Whether this intimacy might driftinto something closer, compelling him to take a reef in his sails,never troubled him. It was not the first time that he had steered hiscraft between the Scylla of matrimony and the Charybdis of scandal, andhe had not the slightest doubt of his being able to do it again.
As for Lucy, she had many plans in view. One was to get all the funpossible out of the situation; another was to provide for her future.How this was to be accomplished she had not yet determined. Her planswere laid, but some of them she knew from past experience might goastray. On one point she had made up her mind--not to be in a hurry. Infurtherance of these schemes she had for some days--some months, infact--been making preparations for an important move. She knew that itsbare announcement would come as a surprise to Jane and Martha and,perhaps, as a shock, but that did not shake her purpose. Shefurthermore expected more or less opposition when they fully graspedher meaning. This she intended to overcome. Neither Jane nor Martha,she said to herself, could be angry with her for long, and a few kissesand an additional flow of good-humor would soon set them to laughingagain.
To guard against the possibility of a too prolonged interview withJane, ending, perhaps, in a disagreeable scene--one beyond hercontrol--she had selected a sunny summer morning for the stage settingof her little comedy and an hour when Feilding was expected to call forher in his drag. She and Max were to make a joint inspection that dayof his new apartment at Beach Haven, into which he had just moved, aswell as the stable containing the three extra vehicles and equineimpedimenta, which were to add to their combined comfort and enjoyment.
Lucy had been walking in the garden looking at the rose-beds, her armabout her sister's slender waist, her ears open to the sound of everypassing vehicle--Max was expected at any moment--when she began herlines.
"You won't mind, Jane, dear, will you, if I get together a few thingsand move over to Beach Haven for a while?" she remarked simply, just asshe might have done had she asked permission to go upstairs to take anap. "I think we should all encourage a new enterprise like the hotel,especially old families like ours. And then the sea air always does meso much good. Nothing like Trouville air, my dear husband used to tellme, when I came back in the autumn. You don't mind, do you?"
"For how long, Lucy?" asked Jane, with a tone of disappointment in hervoice, as she placed her foot on the top step of the porch.
"Oh, I can't tell. Depends very much on how I like it." As she spokeshe drew up an easy-chair for Jane and settled herself in another. Thenshe added carelessly: "Oh, perhaps a month--perhaps two."
"Two months!" exclaimed Jane in astonishment, dropping into her seat."Why, what do you want to leave Yardley for? O Lucy, don't--pleasedon't go!"
"But you can come over, and I can come here," rejoined Lucy in acoaxing tone.
"Yes; but I don't want to come over. I want you at home. And it's solovely here. I have never seen the garden look so beautiful; and youhave your own room, and this little porch is so cosey. The hotel is anew building, and the doctor says a very damp one, with everythingfreshly plastered. He won't let any of his patients go there for someweeks, he tells me. Why should you want to go? I really couldn't thinkof it, dear. I'd miss you dreadfully."
"You dear old sister," answered Lucy, laying her parasol on the smalltable beside her, "you are so old-fashioned. Habit, if nothing else,would make me go. I have hardly passed a summer in Paris or Genevasince I left you; and you know how delightful my visits to Biarritzused to be years ago. Since my marriage I have never stayed in any oneplace so long as this. I must have the sea air."
"But the salt water is right here, Lucy, within a short walk of ourgate, and the air is the same." Jane's face wore a troubled look, andthere was an anxious, almost frightened tone in her voice.
"No, it is not exactly the same," Lucy answered positively, as if shehad made a life-long study of climate; "and if it were, the life isvery different. I love Warehold, of course; but you must admit that itis half-asleep all the time. The hotel will be some change; there willbe new people and something to see from the piazzas. And I need it,dear. I get tired of one thing all the time--I always have."
"But you will be just as lonely there." Jane in her astonishment waslike a blind man feeling about for a protecting wall.
"No; Max and his sister will be at Beach Haven, and lots of others Iknow. No, I won't be lonely," and an amused expression twinkled in hereyes.
Jane sat quite still. Some of Captain Holt's blunt, outspokencriticisms floated through her brain.
"Have you any reason for wanting to leave here?" she asked, raising hereyes and looking straight at Lucy.
"No, certainly not. How foolish, dear, to ask me! I'm never so happy aswhen I am with you."
"Well, why then should you want to give up your home and all thecomforts you need--your flowers, garden, and everything you love, andthis porch, which you have just made so charming, to go to a damp,half-completed hotel, without a shrub about it--only a stretch ofdesolate sand with the tide going in and out?" There was a tone ofsuspicion in Jane's voice that Lucy had never heard from her sister'slips--never, in all her life.
"Oh, because I love the tides, if nothing else," she answered with asentimental note in her voice. "Every six hours they bring me a newmessage. I could spend whole mornings watching the tides come and go.During my long exile you don't know how I dreamed every night of thedear tides of Barnegat. If you had been away from all you love as manyyears as I have, you would understand how I could revel in the sound ofthe old breakers."
For some moments Jane did not answer. She knew from the tones of Lucy'svoice and from the way she spoke that she did not mean it. She hadheard her talk that way to some of the villagers when she wanted toimpress them, but she had never spoken in the same way to her.
"You have some other reason, Lucy. Is it Max?" she asked in a strainedtone.
Lucy colored. She had not given her sister credit for so keen aninsight into the situation. Jane's mind was evidently working in a newdirection. She determined to face the suspicion squarely; the truthunder some conditions is better than a lie.
"Yes," she replied, with an assumed humility and with a tone as if shehad been detected in a fault and wanted to make a clean breast of it."Yes--now that you have guessed it--it IS Max."
"Don't you think it would be better to see him here instead of at thehotel?" exclaimed Jane, her eyes still boring into Lucy's.
"Perhaps"--the answer came in a helpless way--"but that won't do muchgood. I want to keep my promise to him if I can."
"What was your promise?" Jane's eyes lost their searching look for aninstant, but the tone of suspicion still vibrated.
Lucy hesitated and began playing with the trimming on her dress.
"Well, to tell you the truth, dear, a few days ago in a burst ofgenerosity I got myself into something of a scrape. Max wants hissister Sue to spend the summer with him, and I very foolishly promisedto chaperon her. She is delighted over the prospect, for she must havesomebody, and I haven't the heart to disappoint her. Max has been sokind to me that I hate now to tell him I can't go. That's all, dear. Idon't like to speak of obligations of this sort, and so at first I onlytold you half the truth."
"You should always keep your promise, dear," Jane answered thoughtfullyand with a certain relieved tone. (Sue was nearly thirty, but that didnot occur to Jane.) "But this time I wish you had not promised. I amsorry, too, for little Ellen. She will miss her little garden andeverything she loves here; and then again, Archie will miss her, and sowill Captain Holt and Martha. You know as well as I do that a hotel isno place for a child."
"I am glad to hear you say so. That's why I shall not take her withme." As she spoke she shot an inquiring glance from the
corner of hereyes at the anxious face of her sister. These last lines just beforethe curtain fell were the ones she had dreaded most.
Jane half rose from her seat. Her deep eyes were wide open, gazing inastonishment at Lucy. For an instant she felt as if her heart hadstopped beating.
"And you--you--are not going to take Ellen with you!" she gasped.
"No, of course not." She saw her sister's agitation, but she did notintend to notice it. Besides, her expectant ear had caught the sound ofMax's drag as it whirled through the gate. "I always left her with hergrandmother when she was much younger than she is now. She is veryhappy here and I wouldn't be so cruel as to take her away from all herpleasures. Then she loves old people. See how fond she is of theCaptain and Martha! No, you are right. I wouldn't think of taking heraway."
Jane was standing now, her eyes blazing, her lips quivering.
"You mean, Lucy, that you would leave your child here and spend twomonths away from her?"
The wheels were crunching the gravel within a rod of the porch. Max hadalready lifted his hat.
"But, sister, you don't understand--" The drag stopped and Max, withuncovered head, sprang out and extended his hand to Jane.
Before he could offer his salutations Lucy's joyous tones rang out.
"Just in the nick of time, Max," she cried. "I've just been telling mydear sister that I'm going to move over to Beach Haven to-morrow, bagand baggage, and she is delighted at the news. Isn't it just like her?"
The Tides of Barnegat Page 16
