Chapter 19

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_ CHAPTER XIX

Not until Captain Kendrick entered the Minot kitchen late that afternoon did he get the full and complete answer to his puzzle. Judah supplied the missing details, supplied them with a rush, had evidently been bursting with them for hours.

"My hoppin', creepin', jumpin' prophets, Cap'n Sears," he roared, before his lodger could speak a word, "if I ain't got the dumdest news to tell you now, then nobody ever had none!... You ain't heard it, Cap'n, have you? _Don't_ tell me you've heard it already! Have you?"

Sears shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, Judah," he replied. "Have I?"

"Hoppin' Henry! I _hope_ you ain't, 'cause I wanted to tell you myself. It's about Elviry Snowden. Have you heard anything about her?"

"Why--well, what have _you_ heard?"

"Heard! They heard it fust over to the Harbor about a couple of hours ago. Bradley, the Orham lawyer feller, he'd heard it and he come over to see Elizabeth about somethin' or 'nother and he told it to all hands. You know that aunt of Elviry's over to Ostable, the one that died last week? Well all hands had cal'lated she was kind of on her beam ends--poor, I mean. When her husband died, don't you recollect some property they owned over to Harniss was goin' to be sold to auction? All them iron images Elviry wanted to buy was part of 'em; don't you remember?"

"Yes, I remember.

"Sartin sure you do. Well, so fur as that goes them images wan't sold because the widow changed her mind about 'em and had 'em all carted over to another little place she owned in Ostable, and set up in the yard there. She's been livin' on this place in Ostable and everybody figgered she didn't have much money else she'd stayed in the big house in Harniss. But, by Henry, since she's died it's come out that she was rich. Yes, sir, rich! She'd saved every cent, you see; never spent nothin'. A reg'lar mouser, she was--miser, I mean. And who do you suppose she's left it all to? Elviry, by the creepin'! Yes, sir, every last cent to Elviry Snowden."

"_No!!_"

"Yes. Elviry's rich. 'Cordin' to Bradley's tell there's a lot of land and a house and barn, and all them iron images, and--wait; let me tell you--stocks, and things like that, and over ten thousand dollars cash in the bank, by Henry! In _cash_, where Elviry can get right aholt of it if she wants to. Much as thirty thousand, altogether, land and all. And.... What in tunket are you laughin' at?"

For Captain Kendrick had thrown himself into the rocking chair and was shaking the pans on the stove with peal after peal of laughter.

It was so simple, so complete, and so wonderfully, gorgeously Egbertian. A little matter of arithmetic, that was all. Merely the substitution of twenty or thirty thousand dollars and a landed estate for five--no, three--thousand dollars and a somewhat cramped future at the Fair Harbor. The ladies in the case were incidental. When the choice was offered him the businesslike Phillips hesitated not a moment. He was on with the new love even before he was off with the old. And, in order to avoid the unpleasantness which was sure to ensue when the old found it out, he had arranged to be married at Denboro and to be far afield upon his wedding tour before the news reached Bayport.

Everything was clear now. Elvira's windfall explained it all. It was her money which had paid Captain Elkanah, and Sarah Macomber, and the livery man, and no doubt many another of Egbert's little bills. It was her money that was paying the honeymoon expenses. And, of course, it was her sixteen hundred dollars which had just been handed to Sears Kendrick in the parlor of the parsonage.

No wonder that, under the circumstances, Egbert had chosen to pay. It must have been a nerve-racking session for him, that interview with the captain. Each minute might bring his bride-to-be to the parsonage door, and if she learned before marriage of Cordelia's bonds and the Kent-Phillips stock speculation, not to mention the threatened arrest and consequent scandal, why--well, Elvira was fatuously smitten, but the chances were that the wedding would have been postponed, if nothing worse. No wonder Egbert preferred parting with a portion of his lady-love's fortune to the risk of parting with the lady herself--and the remainder of it.

Sears did not tell Judah of the elopement. He did not feel like it, then. His had been a tiring day and the strain upon his own nerves not slight. He wanted to rest, he wanted to think, and he did not want to talk. Judah spared him the trouble; he did talking enough for two.

After supper George Kent came hurrying into the yard. Sears had expected him and, when he came, led him into the "spare stateroom" and closed the door. Then, without any preliminaries, he took the sixteen hundred dollars from his wallet and gave them to him.

"There's your money, George," he said.

Kent could not believe it. He had come here, in the last stages of despair. This was practically his final day of grace. The afternoon mail had brought him another letter from his brother-in-law, making immediate demand and threatening drastic action within the week. He had come, haggard, nervous and trembling, ready to proclaim again his intention of self-destruction.

He sat there, staring at the money in his hand, saying nothing. His face was as white as the clean towels on the captain's washstand. Kendrick, leaning forward, laid a hand on his knee.

"Brace up, George," he ordered, sharply. "Don't let go of the wheel."

Kent slowly lifted his gaze from the roll of bills to his friend's face.

"You--you _got_ it!" he faltered.

"_I_ got it--all of it. There's the whole sixteen hundred there. Count it."

"But--but, oh, my God! I--I----"

"Sshh! Steady as she is, George. Count your money. Put it on the table here by the lamp."

He took the bills from Kent's shaking fingers, arranged them on the table and, at last, coaxed or drove the young man into beginning to count them. Of course it was Kendrick himself who really counted; his companion did little but pick up the bank notes and drop them again. Suddenly, in the midst of the performance, he stopped, put his hands to his face and burst into hysterical sobs.

Sears let him cry for a time, merely stepping across to make sure that the bedroom door was tightly closed, and then standing above him with his hands on the bowed shoulders. After a little the sobs ceased. A moment later and George raised his head.

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "What a--a kid I am!"

Sears, who had been thinking pretty nearly that very thing, patted the shoulder beneath his hand.

"All right, George," he said. "Bein' a kid is no crime. In fact, it has some advantages."

"But--but, you see--I--I have been through purgatory this week, I----"

"I know. But you're all through and out now."

"Yes, I--I am. By George, I am, aren't I!... And you did it for me. _You_ did!"

"Never mind that. I enjoyed doin' it. Yes," with a slight smile, "I had a pretty good time, take it by and large."

"And you got the--the whole of it! The whole!"

"Yes."

"But I can't understand.... Did--Cap'n Kendrick, did you borrow it for me?"

"No. I talked things over with your--er--side-partner and he decided to give it back."

"To give it back! Mr. Phillips did, you mean? But he wouldn't give it to me. I begged him to. I should have been satisfied with half of it--my sister's half. Indeed I should! But he said he couldn't give it to me, he didn't have it to give. And--and you got him to give me the whole! Cap'n Kendrick, I--I can't understand."

"You don't have to. There's your sixteen hundred. Now take it, and before you turn in this night you get ready to send your brother-in-law his half, and the papers that go with it, on the first mail. That's all I ask of you, George."

"I'll have it in the post office as soon as it opens to-morrow morning. You bet I will!"

"That's what I want to be able to bet. You send a money-order, that's safest. And--well, yes, George, you might show me the receipt."

"I'll show it to you. You can keep it for me, if you want to."

"Seein' it will do. And one thing more: you promise me now, on your word of honor, not to take any more of those stock market fliers for--well, for ten years, anyhow."

Kent promised; he would have promised anything. His color had come back, his spirits were now as high as they had been low, and he was striding up and down the room like a mad thing.

"But how did you get it for me?" he kept demanding. The captain bade him stop.

"Never mind how I got it," he declared. "I got it, and you've got it, and you'll have to be satisfied with that. Don't ask me again, George."

"I won't, but--but I can't understand Mr. Phillips giving it back. He didn't have to, you know. Say, I think it was mighty generous of him, after all. Don't you?"

Sears's lip twitched. "It looks as if somebody was generous," he observed. "Now run along, George, and fix up that letter to your brother-in-law."

"I'm going to. I'm going now. But, Cap'n Kendrick, I don't know what to say to you. I--why, great Scott, I can't begin to tell you how I feel about what you've done! I'd cut off my head for you; honest I would."

"Cuttin' off your own head would be consider'ble of a job. Better keep your head on, George.... And use it once in a while."

"You know what this means to me, Cap'n Kendrick. To my future and--and maybe some one else's future, too. Why, _now_ I can go--I can say---- Oh, great Scott!"

Kendrick opened the bedroom door. "Come now, George," he said. "Good night--and good luck."

Kent would have said more, much more, even though Judah Cahoon was sitting, with ears and mouth open, in the kitchen. But the captain would not let him linger or speak. He helped him on with his coat and hat, and, with a slap on the back, literally pushed him out into the yard. Then he turned on his heel and striding again through the kitchen reentered the spare stateroom and closed the door behind him. Judah shouted something about its being "not much more'n two bells"--meaning nine o'clock--but he received no answer.

Judah did not retire until nearly eleven that night, but when, at last, he did go to his own room, there was a light still shining under the door of the spare stateroom and he could hear the captain's footsteps moving back and forth, back and forth, within. For two hours he had so heard them. Obviously the "old man" was pacing the deck, a pretty sure sign of rough weather present or expected. Mr. Cahoon was troubled, also disappointed. He would have liked to talk interminably concerning the sensational news of Miss Snowden's inheritance; he had not begun to exhaust the possibilities of that subject. Then, too, he was very anxious to learn where Captain Sears had been all day, and why. He tried in various ways to secure attention. But when, after singing eight verses of the most doleful ditty in his repertoire, he was not ordered to "shut up," was in fact ignored altogether, he quit disgusted. But, as he closed the door of his own bedchamber, he could still hear the regular footfalls in the spare stateroom.

Had he listened for another hour or more he would have heard them. Sears Kendrick was tramping back and forth, his hands jammed in his pockets, and upon his spirit the blackest and deepest and densest of clouds. It was the reaction, of course. He was tired physically, but more tired mentally. All day long he had been under a sharp strain, now he was experiencing the let-down. But there was more than that. His campaign against Egbert Phillips had kept him interested. Now the fight was over and, although superficially he was the victor, in reality it was a question which side had won. He had saved George Kent's money and his good name. And Cordelia Berry's future was safe, too, although her two thousand dollars might be, and probably were, lost. But, after all, his was a poor sort of victory. Egbert was, doubtless, congratulating himself and chuckling over the outcome of the battle; with thirty thousand dollars and ease and comfort for the rest of his life, he could afford to chuckle. Kent's happiness was sure. He could go to Elizabeth now with clean hands and youth and hope. Perhaps he had gone to her already. That very evening he and she might be together once more.

And for the man who had made this possible, what remained? Where were those silly hopes with which, at one time, he had deluded himself? He had dared to dream romance. Where was that romance now? Face to face with reality, what was to be _his_ future? More days and weeks and years of puttering with the penny-paring finances of a home for old women?

He dressed next morning with a mind made up. He had dallied and deliberated and wished long enough. Now he _knew_. His stay in Bayport was practically ended. Give him a little time and luck enough to find a competent manager for the Fair Harbor, one with whom he believed Judge Knowles would have been satisfied, and he was through for good. He must play fair with the judge and then--then for the shipping offices of Boston or New York and a berth at sea. His health was almost normal; his battered limbs were nearly as sound as ever. He could handle a ship and he could handle men. His fights and sacrifices for others were finished, over and done with. Now he would fight for himself.

His breakfast appetite was poor. Judah, aghast at the sight of his untouched plate, demanded to know if he was sick. The answer to the question was illuminating.

"No," snapped the captain, "I'm not sick.... Yes, I am, too. I'm sick to death of this town and this place and this landlubber's job. Judah, are you goin' to spend the rest of your days playin' hired boy for Ogden Minot? Or are you comin' to sea again with me? Because to sea is where I'm goin'--and mighty quick."

Judah's mouth opened. "Hoppin' Henry!" he gasped. "Why, Cap'n Sears----"

"You don't _like_ this job, do you? Hadn't you rather have your own galley on board a decent ship? Are you a sea-man--or a washwoman? Don't you want to ship with me again?"

"_Want_ to! Cap'n Sears, you know I'd rather go to sea along with you than--than be King of Rooshy. But you ain't fit to go to sea yet."

"Shut up! Don't you dare say that again. And stand by to pack your sea chest when I give the order.... No, I don't want to argue. I won't argue. Clear out!"

Mr. Cahoon, bewildered but obedient, cleared out. Not long afterward he drove away on the seat of the truck wagon to haul the Bangs wood, the task postponed from the previous day. Kendrick, left alone, lit a pipe and resumed his pacing up and down. Later on he took pen, ink and paper and seated himself at the table to write some letters to shipping merchants whose vessels he had commanded in the old days, the happy days before he gave up seafaring to become a poor imitation of a business man on shore.

He composed these letters with care. Two were completed and the third was under way, when some one knocked at the other door. He laid down his pen impatiently. He did not want to be interrupted. If the visitor was Kent he did not feel like listening to more thanks. If it was Esther Tidditt she could unload her cargo of gossip at some other port.

But the caller was neither George nor Esther. It was Elizabeth who entered the kitchen in answer to his command to "Come in." He rose to greet her. She looked pale--yes, and tired, but she smiled faintly as she bade him good morning.

"Cap'n Kendrick," she said, "are you very busy? I suppose you are, but--but if you are not too busy I should like to talk with you for a few minutes. May I?"

He nodded. "Of course," he said. "My business can wait a little longer; it has waited a good while, this particular business has. Sit down."

She took the rocker. He sat at the other side of the table, waiting for her to speak. It came to him, the thought that, the last time she had visited that kitchen, she had left it vowing never to speak to him again. Well, at least that was over; she no longer believed him a spy, and all the rest of it. There was, or should be, some comfort for him in knowing that.

Suddenly, just as she had done on the platform of the lawyer's office at Orham, she put out her hand.

"Don't!" she pleaded.

He started, confusedly. "Don't?" he stammered. "What?"

"Don't think of--of what you were thinking. If you knew--oh, Cap'n Kendrick, if you could only realize how wicked I feel. Even when I said those dreadful things to you I didn't mean them. And now---- Oh, _please_ forget them, if you can."

He drew a long breath. "I never saw any one like you," he declared. "How did you know what I was thinkin'? ... Of course I wasn't thinkin' it, but----"

She interrupted. "Of course you were, you mean," she said, with a faint smile. "It isn't hard to know what you think. You don't hide your thoughts very well, Cap'n Kendrick. They aren't the kind one needs to hide."

He stared at her in guilty amazement. "Good land!" he ejaculated, involuntarily. "Don't talk that way. What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that your thoughts are always straightforward and--well, honest, like yourself.... But we mustn't waste time. I don't know when we shall have another opportunity to be together like this, and there are some things I must say to you. Cap'n Kendrick, you know--you have heard the news?"

"News?... Oh, you mean about Elvira's inheritin' all that money?"

"That, of course. But that wasn't the news I meant. I mean about her eloping with--with that man."

Troubled even as Sears was at the sight of her evident distress, he could not but feel a thrill of satisfaction at the tone in which she referred to "that man." He nodded.

"I've heard it," he said. "I guess likely I was about the first Bayporter that did hear it. When did you hear?"

"A little while ago. He wrote--he wrote my mother a letter. It was at the post office this morning."

"He did? He _didn't_! The low-lived scamp!"

"Hush! Don't talk about him. Yes, he wrote her. _Such_ a letter! She showed it to me. So full of hypocrisy, and lies and--oh, can't you imagine what it was?"

Kendrick's right fist tapped the table gently. "I guess likely I can," he said, grimly. "Well, some of these days I may run afoul of Egbert again. When I do----" The fist closed a little tighter.

"You won't touch him. Promise me you won't. If you should, I---- Oh, dear! I think I should be afraid to touch your hands afterwards."

Sears smiled. "It might be safer to use my boot," he admitted. "Your mother--how is she?"

"Can't you imagine? I think--I hope it is her pride that is hurt more than anything. For some little time--well, ever since I found out that she was lending him money--I have done my best to make her see what he really is. But before that--oh, there is no use pretending, for you know--she was insane about him. And now, with the shock and the disillusionment and the shame, she is---- Oh, it is dreadful!"

"Do the--er--rest of 'em over there know it yet?"

"No, but they will very soon. And when they do! You know what some of them are, what they will say. We can't stay there, mother and I. We must go away--and we will."

She was crying, and if ever a man yearned for the role of comforter, Sears Kendrick was that man. He tried to say something, but he was afraid to trust his own tongue; it might run away with him. And before his attempt was at all coherent, she went on.

"Don't mind me," she said, hastily wiping her eyes. "I am nervous, and I have been through a bad hour, and--and I am acting foolishly, of course. I know that this is, in a way, the very best thing that could happen. This ends it, so far as mother is concerned. Oh, it might have been _so_ much worse! It looked as if it were going to be. Now she _knows_ what he is. I have known it, or been almost sure of it, for a long time. And you must have known it always, from the beginning. That is a part of what I came here for this morning. Please tell me how you knew and--and all about everything."

So he told her, beginning with what Judge Knowles had said concerning Lobelia's husband, and continuing on to the end. She listened intently.

"Yes," she said. "I see. I wish you could have told me at first. I think if I had known exactly how Judge Knowles felt I might not have been so foolish. But I should have known--I should have seen for myself. Of course I should. To think that I ever believed in such a creature, and trusted him, and permitted him to influence me against--against a friend like you. Oh, I must have been crazy!"

Kendrick shook his head. "No craziness about that," he declared. "I've seen some smooth articles in my time, seen 'em afloat and ashore, from one end of this world to the other, but of all the slick ones he was the slickest. It's a good thing the judge warned me before Egbert crossed my bows. If he hadn't--well, I don't know; _I_ might have been lendin' him my last dollar, and proud of the chance--you can't tell.... I'm sorry, though," he added, "that he got those bonds of your mother's. Borrowed 'em of her, you say?"

"Yes. He was going to make better investments for her, I believe he said. But that doesn't make any difference. She has no receipts or anything to show. And of course if she should try to get them again there would be dreadful gossip, all sorts of things said. No, the bonds are gone and ... But how did you know about the bonds, Cap'n Kendrick?"

Sears had momentarily forgotten. He had, during his story of his war with Phillips, carefully avoided mentioning Kent's trouble. He had told of chasing Egbert to Denboro, but the particular reason for the pursuit he had not told. He was taken aback and embarrassed.

"Why--why----" he stammered.

But she answered her own question. "Of course!" she cried. "I know how you knew. George said that--that that man had used some bonds as a part of their stock speculation. I didn't think then of mother's bonds. That is what he did with them. I see."

The captain looked at her. Kent had told her of the C. M. deal. That meant that he had seen her, that already he had gone to her, to confess, to beg her pardon, to ... He sighed. Well, he should be glad, of course. He must pretend to be very glad.

"So--so you've seen George?" he stammered.

She colored slightly. "Yes," she answered. "He came to see me last evening.... Cap'n Kendrick you should hear him speak of you. You saved him from disgrace--and worse, he says. It was a wonderful thing to do. But I think you must be in the habit of doing wonderful things for other people."

He shrugged his shoulders. "Nothin' very wonderful about it," he said. "George is a good boy. He hadn't bumped into any Egberts before, that's all. He'll be on the lookout for 'em now. I'm glad for him--and for you."

If she understood what he meant she did not show any embarrassment.

"I don't know that you need be so glad for me," she said. "Yet in a way I am glad. The problem is settled now, mother's and mine. She and I will go away."

"Go away? From the Fair Harbor?"

"Yes, and from Bayport. She has a little money left. Thanks to Judge Knowles, I have some of my own. She and I can live on the interest for a time, or until I can find a way to earn more."

"But--but--George?"

"I think George is going away, too. He spoke of Boston. But there is another thing I meant to say to you. I hate to leave you with the entire care of the Fair Harbor on your hands. I shall try and help you to find another matron before we go."

Sears rose from his chair. "That's all right," he said, "that part of it. We'll try and find another outside manager at the same time. You see, you and your mother aren't the only ones who are quittin' Bayport. I'm goin', too."

She turned to look at him. "_You_ are going?" she repeated, slowly. "Where?"

"I don't know exactly. To sea, I hope. I'm well again, or next door to it. I mean to command another ship, if such a thing's possible."

"But you are leaving the Fair Harbor. Why?"

He turned on her almost fiercely. "Why?" he cried. "Don't you know why? Because I'm a man--or I was one--and I want to be a man again. On shore, I'm--well, I'm a good deal of a failure, I guess; but on salt water I count for somethin'. I'm goin' to sea where I belong."

He strode to the window and stood there, looking out. He heard her rise, heard her step beside him. Then he felt her hand upon his.

"I'm glad for you," she said, simply. "Very, very glad. I wish I were a man and could go, too."

He did not look at her, he did not dare.

"It's a rough life," he said, "but I like it."

"I know.... So you will soon be really seeing again those things you told me about, the foreign cities and the people and those islands--and all the wonderful, wonderful places. And you won't have to fret about the grocery bills, or the mean little Fair Harbor gossip, or anything of the kind. You can just sail away and forget it all."

"I shan't forget it all. There's a lot I never want to forget."

There was an interval of silence here, an interval that, to the captain, seemed to last for ages. It must be broken, it must be or....

"I shall think of you and George often enough," he announced, briskly. "Yes, indeed. And--and if it isn't too soon--that is, if you don't mind my bein' the first one--I'd like to congratulate you and wish you a smooth passage and a long one."

She did not answer and he mustered courage to turn and look at her. She was looking at him and her expression was odd.

"A smooth passage?" she repeated. "Why, Cap'n Kendrick, I'm not going to sea. What do you mean?"

"I mean--well, I meant--er--oh, I was speakin' in parables, like a minister, you know. I was wishin' you and George a happy voyage through life, that's all."

"George! Why, I am going away with my mother. George isn't.... Why, Cap'n Kendrick, you don't think--you can't think that George and I are--are----"

"Eh? Aren't you? I thought----"

She shook her head. "I told you once," she said. "I mean it. I like George well enough--sometimes I like him better than at others. But--oh, why can't you believe me?"

He was staring at her with a gaze so intent, an expression so strange that she could not meet it. She turned away.

"Please don't say any more about it," she begged.

"But--but George is--he has counted on it. He told me----"

"Don't. I don't know what he told you. I hope nothing foolish. He and I understand each other. Last night, when he came, I told him ... There, I must go, Cap'n Kendrick. I have left mother alone too long already."

"Wait!" he shouted it. "You mean ... You aren't goin' to marry George Kent--_ever_?"

"Why, no, of course not!"

"Elizabeth--oh, my soul, I--I'm crazy, I guess--but--Elizabeth, could you---- No, you couldn't, I know.... But _am_ I crazy? Could you--do you--Elizabeth, if you ... _Stop_!"

She was on her way to the door.

He sprang after her, caught her hand.

"Elizabeth," he cried, the words tumbling over each other, "I'm thirty-eight years old. I'm a sailor, that's all. I'm not much of a man, as men go maybe, sort of a failure so far. But--with you to work for and live for, I--I guess I could be--I feel as if I could be almost anything. Could you give me that chance? Could you?"

She did not answer; did not even look at him. He dropped her hand.

"Of course not," he sighed. "Just craziness was what it was. Forgive me, my girl. And--forget it, if you can."

She did not speak. Slowly, and still without looking at him, she walked out of the kitchen. The outer door closed behind her. He put his hand to his eyes, breathed deeply, and returning to the chair by the table, sat heavily down.

"A failure," he groaned aloud. "Lord Almighty, _what_ a failure!"

He had not heard the door open, but he did hear her step, and felt her arms about his neck and her kiss upon his cheek.

"Don't, don't, don't!" she sobbed. "Oh, my dear, don't say that. Don't ever say it again. Oh, you mustn't."

And he did not. For the next half hour he said many other things, and so did she, and when at last she did go away, he stood in the doorway, looking after her, knowing himself to be not a failure, but the one real overwhelming success in all this gloriously successful world. _

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