Emily obeyed orders as far as turning up the wick was concerned, and she did her best to talk. It was hard work; both she and her cousin found themselves breaking off a sentence in the middle to listen and draw closer together as the wild gusts whistled about the windows and the water poured from the sashes and gurgled upon the sills. Occasionally Thankful went to the door to look down the dark hall in the direction of Mr. Cobb's room, or to unlock Georgie's door and peer in to make sure that the boy was safe and sleeping.
From the third of these excursions Mrs. Barnes returned with a bit of reassuring news.
“I went almost there this time,” she whispered. “My conscience has been tormenting me to think of—of Solomon's bein' alone in there with—with THAT, and I almost made up my mind to sing out and ask if he was all right. But I didn't have to, thank goodness. His light's still lit and I heard him movin' around, so he ain't been scared clean to death, at any rate. For the rest of it I don't care so much; a good hard scarin' may do him good. He needs one. If ever a stingy old reprobate needed to have a warnin' from the hereafter that man does.”
“Did you hear anything—anything else?” whispered Emily, fearfully.
“No, I didn't, and I didn't wait for fear I MIGHT hear it. Did I lock the door when I came in? Emily, I guess you think I'm the silliest old coward that ever was. I am—and I know it. Tomorrow we'll both be brave enough, and we'll both KNOW there ain't any spirits here, or anywhere else this side of the grave; but tonight—well, tonight's different. . . . Ouch! what was that? There, there! don't mind my jumpin'. I feel as if I'd been stuffed with springs, like a sofa. Did you ever know a night as long as this? Won't mornin' EVER come?”
At five o'clock, while it was still pitch dark, Thankful announced her intention of going downstairs. “Might as well be in the kitchen as up here,” she said, “and I can keep busy till Imogene comes down. And, besides, we'd better be puttin' Georgie's stockin' and his presents in the livin'-room. The poor little shaver's got to have his Christmas, even though his Santa Claus did turn out to be a walkin' rag-bag.”
Emily started. “Why, it is Christmas, isn't it!” she exclaimed. “Between returned brothers and,” with a little shiver, “ghosts, I forgot entirely.”
She kissed her cousin's cheek.
“A merry Christmas, Aunt Thankful,” she said.
Thankful returned the kiss. “Same to you, dearie, and many of 'em,” she replied. “Well, here's another Christmas day come to me. A year ago I didn't think I'd be here. I wonder where I'll be next Christmas. Will I have a home of my own or will what I've thought was my home belong to Sol Cobb or Holliday Kendrick?”
“Hush, Auntie, hush! Your home won't be taken from you. It would be too mean, too dreadful! God won't permit such a thing.”
“I sartin' hope he won't, but it seems sometimes as if he permitted some mighty mean things, 'cordin' to our way of lookin' at 'em. That light's still burnin',” she added, peering out into the hall. “Well, I suppose I ought to pity Solomon, but I don't when I think how he's treated me. If the ghost—or whatever 'tis in there—weeded out the rest of his whiskers for him I don't know's I'd care. 'Twould serve him right, I guess.”
They rehung Georgie's stocking—bulging and knobby it was now—and arranged his more bulky presents beneath it on the floor. Then Thankful went into the kitchen and Emily accompanied her. The morning broke, pale and gray. The wind had subsided and it no longer rained. With the returning daylight Emily's courage began to revive.
“I can't understand,” she said, “how you and I could have been so childish last night. We should have insisted on calling to Mr. Cobb and then we should have found out what it was that frightened him and us. I mean to go over every inch of those two rooms before dinner time.”
Thankful nodded. “I'll do it with you,” she said. “But I've been over 'em so many times that I'm pretty skeptical. The time to go over 'em is in the night when that—that snorin' is goin' on. A ghost that snores ought, by rights, to be one that's asleep, and a sound-asleep ghost ought to be easy to locate. Oh, yes! I can make fun NOW. I told you I was as brave as a lion—in the daytime.”
It was easy to talk now, and they drifted into a discussion of many things. Thankful retold the story of her struggle to keep the High Cliff House afloat, told it all, her hopes, her fears and her discouragements. They spoke of Captain Bangs, of his advice and help and friendship. Emily brought the captain into the conversation and kept him there. Thankful said little concerning him, and of the one surprising, intimate interview between Captain Obed and herself she said not a word. She it was who first mentioned John Kendrick's name. Emily was at first disinclined to speak of the young lawyer, but, little by little, as her cousin hinted and questioned, she said more and more. Thankful learned what she wished to learn, and it was what she had suspected. She learned something else, too, something which concerned another citizen of East Wellmouth.
“I knew it!” she cried. “I didn't believe 'twas so, and I as much as told Cap'n Obed 'twasn't this very day—no, yesterday, I mean. When a body don't go to bed at all the days kind of run into one another.”
“What did you know?” asked Emily. “What were you and Captain Obed talking of that concerned me?”
“Nothin', nothin', dear. It didn't concern you one bit, and 'twasn't important. . . . Hi hum!” rising and looking out of the window. “It's gettin' brighter fast now. Looks as if we might have a pleasant Christmas, after all. Wonder how poor Jedediah'll feel when he wakes up. I hope he slept warm anyhow. I piled on comforters and quilts enough to smother him.”
Her attempt at changing the subject was successful. Emily's next question concerned Jedediah.
“What are you goin' to do with him, Auntie?” she asked. “He must stay here, mustn't he?”
“Course he must. I'll never trust him out of my sight again. He ain't competent to take care of himself and so I'll have to take care of him. Well,” with a sigh, “it'll only be natural, that's all. I've been used to takin' care of somebody all my days. I wonder how 'twould seem to have somebody take care of me for a change? Not that there's liable to be anybody doin' it,” she added hastily.
“Jedediah might be useful to work about the place here,” said Emily. “You will always need a hired man, you know.”
“Yes, but I don't need two, and I couldn't discharge Kenelm on Imogene's account. What that girl ever got engaged to that old image for is more'n I can make out or ever shall.”
Emily smiled. “I shouldn't worry about Imogene,” she said. “I think she knows perfectly well what she is about.”
“Maybe so, but if she does, then her kind of knowledge is different from mine. If I was goin' to marry anybody in that family 'twould be Hannah; she's the most man of the two.”
Imogene herself came down a few minutes later. She was much surprised to find her mistress and Miss Howes dressed and in the kitchen. Also she was very curious.
“Who's that man,” she asked; “the one in the next room to mine, up attic? Is he a new boarder? He must have come awful late. I heard you and him talkin' in the middle of the night. Who is he?”
When told the story of Jedediah's return she was greatly excited.
“Why, it's just like somethin' in a story!” she cried. “Long-lost folks are always comin' back in stories. And comin' Christmas Eve makes it all the better. Lordy—There, I ain't said that for weeks and weeks! Excuse me, Mrs. Thankful. I WON'T say it again. But—but what are we goin' to do with him? Is he goin' to stay here for good?”
Thankful answered that she supposed he was, he had no other place to stay.
“Is he rich? He ought to be. Folks in stories always come home rich after they've run off.”
“Well, this one didn't. He missed connections, somehow. Rich! No,” drily, “he ain't rich.”
“Well, what will he do? Will we have to take care of him—free, I mean? Excuse me for buttin' in, ma'am, but it does seem as if we had enough on our hands without takin' another free boarder.”
Thankful went into the dining-room. Emily, when the question was repeated to her, suggested that, possibly, Jedediah might work about the place, take care of the live-stock and of the garden, when there was one.
Imogene reflected. “Hum!” she mused. “We don't need two hired hands, that's a sure thing. You mean he'll take Kenelm's job?”
“That isn't settled, so you mustn't speak of it. I know my cousin will be very sorry to let Kenelm go, largely on your account, Imogene.”
“On my account?”
“Why, yes. You and he are engaged to be married and of course you like to have him here.”
Imogene burst out laughing. “Don't you worry about that, Miss Emily,” she said. “I shan't, and I don't think Kenelm will, either.”
Breakfast was ready at last and they were just sitting down to the table—it had been decided not to call Jedediah or Mr. Cobb—when Georgie appeared. The boy had crept downstairs, his small head filled with forebodings; but the sight of the knobby stocking and the heap of presents sent his fears flying and he burst into the room with a shriek of joy. One by one the packages were unwrapped and, with each unwrapping, the youngster's excitement rose.
“Gee!” he cried, as he sat in the middle of the heap of toys and brown paper and looked about him. “Gee! They're all here; everything I wanted—but that air-gun. I don't care, though. Maybe I'll get that next Christmas. Or maybe Cap'n Bangs'll give it to me, anyhow. He gives me most anything, if I tease for it.”
Thankful shook her head. “You see, Georgie,” she said, “it pays to be a good boy. If Santa had caught you hidin' under that sofa and watchin' for him last night you might not have got any of these nice things.”
Georgie did not answer immediately. When he did it was in a rather doubtful tone.
“There ain't any soot on 'em, anyhow,” he observed. “And they ain't wet, either.”
Imogene clapped her hand to her mouth and hurried from the room. “You can't fool that kid much,” she whispered to Emily afterward. “He's the smartest kid ever I saw. I'll keep out of his way for a while; I don't want to have to answer his questions.”
There were other presents besides those given to Georgie; presents for Emily from Thankful, and for Thankful from Emily, and for Imogene from both. There was nothing costly, of course, but no one cared for that.
As they were beginning breakfast Jedediah appeared. His garments, which had been drying by the kitchen stove all night and which Imogene had deposited in a heap at his bedroom door, were wrinkled, but his face shone from the vigorous application of soap and water and, as his sister said afterward, “You could see his complexion without diggin' for it, and that was somethin'.”
His manner was subdued and he was very, very polite and anxious to please, but his appetite was in good order. Introduced to Imogene he expressed himself as pleased to meet her. Georgie he greeted with some hesitation; evidently the memory of his midnight encounter with the boy embarrassed him. But Georgie, when he learned that the shabby person whom he was told to call “Uncle Jed” was, although only an imitation Santa Claus, a genuine gold-hunter and traveler who had seen real Esquimaux and polar bears, warmed to his new relative immediately.
When the meal was over Jedediah made what was, for him, an amazing suggestion.
“Now,” he said, “I cal'late I'd better be gettin' to work, hadn't I? What'll I do first, Thankful?”
Mrs. Barnes stared at him. “Work?” she repeated. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I want to be doin' somethin'—somethin' to help, you know. I don't cal'late to stay around here and loaf. No, SIR!”
Thankful drew a long breath. “All right, Jed,” she said. “You can go out in the barn and feed the horse if you want to. Kenelm—Mr. Parker—generally does it, but he probably won't be here for quite a spell yet. Go ahead. Imogene'll show you what to do. . . . But, say, hold on,” she added, with emphasis. “Don't you go off the premises, and if you see anybody comin', keep out of sight. I don't want anybody to see a brother of mine in THOSE clothes. Soon's ever I can I'll go up to the village and buy you somethin' to wear, if it's only an 'ilskin jacket and a pair of overalls. They'll cover up the rags, anyhow. As you are now, you look like one of Georgie's picture-puzzles partly put together.”
When the eager applicant for employment had gone, under Imogene's guidance, Emily spoke her mind.
“Auntie,” she said, “are you going to make him work—now; after what he's been through, and on Christmas day, too?”
Thankful was still staring after her brother.
“Sshh! sshh!” she commanded. “Don't speak to me for a minute; you may wake me up. Jedediah Cahoon ASKIN' to go to work! All the miracles in Scriptur' are nothin' to this.”
“But, Auntie, he did ask. And do you think he is strong enough?”
“Hush, Emily, hush! You don't know Jedediah. Strong enough! I'm the one that needs strength, if I'm goin' to have shocks like this one sprung on me.”
Emily said no more, but she noticed that her cousin was wearing the two-dollar ring, the wanderer's “farewell” gift, so she judged that brother Jed would not be worked beyond the bounds of moderation.
Left alone in the dining-room—Georgie had returned to the living-room and his presents—the two women looked at each other. Neither had eaten a breakfast worth mentioning and the same thought was in the mind of each.
“Auntie,” whispered Emily, voicing that thought, “don't you think we ought to go up and—and see if he is—all right.”
Thankful nodded. “Yes,” she said, “I suppose we had. He's alive, I know that much, for I had Imogene knock on his door just now and he answered. But I guess maybe we'd better—”
She did not finish the sentence for at that moment the subject of the conversation entered the room. It was Solomon Cobb who entered, but, except for his clothes, he was a changed man. His truculent arrogance was gone, he came in slowly and almost as if he were walking in his sleep. His collar was unbuttoned, his hair had not been combed, and the face between the thin bunches of whiskers was white and drawn. He did not speak to either Emily or Thankful, but, dragging one foot after the other, crossed the room and sat down in a chair by the window.
Thankful spoke to him.
“Are you sick, Solomon?” she asked.
Mr. Cobb shook his head.
“Eh?” he grunted. “No, no, I ain't sick. I guess I ain't; I don't know.”
“Breakfast is all ready, Mr. Cobb,” suggested Emily.
Solomon turned a weary eye in her direction. He looked old, very old.
“Breakfast!” he repeated feebly. “Don't talk about breakfast to me! I'll never eat again in this world.”
Thankful pitied him; she could not help it.
“Oh, yes, you will,” she said, heartily. “Just try one of those clam fritters of Imogene's and you'll eat a whole lot. If you don't you'll be the first one.”
He shook his head. “Thankful,” he said, slowly, “I—I want to talk to you. I've got to talk to you—alone.”
“Alone! Why, Emily's just the same as one of the family. There's no secrets between us, Solomon.”
“I don't care. I wan't to talk to you. It's you I've got to talk to.”
Thankful would have protested once more, but Emily put a hand on her arm.
“I'll go into the living-room with Georgie, Auntie,” she whispered. “Yes, I shall.”
She went and closed the door behind her. Thankful sat down in a chair, wondering what was coming next. Solomon did not look at her, but, after a moment, he spoke.
“Thankful Cahoon,” he said, calling her by her maiden name. “I—I've been a bad man. I'm goin' to hell.”
Thankful jumped. “Mercy on us!” she cried. “What kind of talk—”
“I'm goin' to hell,” repeated Solomon. “When a man does the way I've done that's where he goes. I'm goin there and I'm goin' pretty soon. I've had my notice.”
Thankful stood up. She was convinced that her visitor had been driven crazy by his experience in the back bedroom.
“Now, now, now,” she faltered. “Don't talk so wicked, Solomon Cobb. You've been a church man for years, and a professor of religion. You told me so, yourself. How can you set there and say—”
Mr. Cobb waved his hand.
“Don't make no difference,” he moaned. “Or, if it does, it only makes it worse. I know where I'm goin', but—but I'll go with a clean manifest, anyhow. I'll tell you the whole thing. I promised the dead I would and I will. Thankful Cahoon, I've been a bad man to you. I swore my solemn oath as a Christian to one that was my best friend, and I broke it.
“Years ago I swore by all that was good and great I'd look out for you and see that you was comf'table and happy long's you lived. And instead of that, when I come here last night—LED here, I know now that I was—my mind was about made up to take your home away from you, if I could. Yes, sir, I was cal'latin' to foreclose on you and sell this place to Kendrick. I thought I was mighty smart and was doin' a good stroke of business. No mortal man could have made me think diff'rent; BUT AN IMMORTAL ONE DID!”
He groaned and wiped his forehead. Thankful did not speak; her surprise and curiosity were too great for speech.
“'Twas your Uncle Abner Barnes,” went on Solomon, “that was the makin' of me. I sailed fust mate for him fourteen year. And he always treated me fine, raised my wages right along, and the like of that. 'Twas him that put me in the way of investin' my money in them sugar stocks and the rest. He made me rich, or headed me that way. And when he lost all he had except this place here and was dyin' aboard the old schooner, he calls me to him and he says:
“'Sol,' he says, 'Sol, I've done consider'ble for you, and you've said you was grateful. Well, I'm goin' to ask a favor of you. I ain't got a cent of my own left, and my niece by marriage, Thankful Cahoon that was, that I love same as if she was my own child, may, sometime or other, be pretty hard put to it to get along. I want you to look after her. If ever the time comes that she needs money or help I want you to do for her what I'd do if I was here. If you don't,' he says, risin' on one elbow in the bunk, 'I'll come back and ha'nt you. Promise on your solemn oath.' And I promised. And you know how I've kept that promise. And last night he come back. Yes, sir, he come back!”
Still Thankful said nothing. He groaned again and went on:
“Last night,” he said, “up in that bedroom, I woke up and, as sure as I'm settin' here this minute, I heard Cap'n Abner Barnes snorin' just as he snored afore his death aboard the schooner, T. I. Smalley, in the stateroom next to mine. I knew it in a minute, but I got up and went all round my room and the empty one alongside. There was nothin' there, of course. Nothin' but the snorin'. And I got down on my knees and swore to set things right this very day. Give me a pen and ink and some paper.”
“Eh? What?”
“Give me a pen and some ink and paper. Don't sit there starin'! Hurry up! Can't you see I want to get this thing off my chest afore I die! And—and I—I wouldn't be surprised if I died any minute. Hurry UP!”
Thankful went into the living-room in search of the writing materials. Emily, who was sitting on the floor with Georgie and the presents, turned to ask a question.
“What is it, Auntie?” she whispered, eagerly. “Is it anything important?”
Her cousin made an excited gesture.
“I—I don't know,” she whispered in reply. “Either he's been driven looney by what happened last night, or else—or else somethin's goin' to happen that I don't dast to believe. Emily, you stand right here by the door. I may want you.”
“Where's that pen and things?” queried Solomon from the next room. “Ain't you ever comin'?”
When the writing materials were brought and placed upon the dining-room table he drew his chair to that table and scrawled a few lines.
“Somebody ought to witness this,” he cried, nervously. “Some disinterested person ought to witness this. Then 'twill hold in law. Where's that—that Howes girl? Oh, here you be! Here! you sign that as a witness.”
Emily, who had entered at the mention of her name, took the paper from his trembling fingers. She read what was written upon it.
“Why—why, Auntie!” she cried, excitedly. “Aunt Thankful, have you seen this? He—”
“Stop your talk!” shouted Solomon. “Can't you women do nothin' BUT talk? Sign your name alongside of mine as a witness.”
Emily took the pen and signed as directed. Mr. Cobb snatched the paper from her, glanced at it and then handed it to Thankful.
“There!” he cried. “That's done, anyhow. I've done so much. Now—now don't say a word to me for a spell. I—I'm all in; that's what I am, all in.”
Thankful did not say a word; she couldn't have said it at that moment. Upon the paper which she held in her hand was written a cancellation of the fifteen-hundred-dollar mortgage and a receipt in full for the loan itself, signed by Solomon Cobb.
Dimly and uncomprehendingly she heard Emily trying to thank their visitor. But thanks he would not listen to.
“No, no, no!” he shouted. “Go away and let me alone. I'm a wicked, condemned critter. Nobody's ever cared a durn for me, nobody but one, and I broke my word to him. Friendless I've lived since Abner went and friendless I'll die. Serve me right. I ain't got a livin' soul of my own blood in the world.”
But Thankful was in a measure herself again.
“Don't talk so, Solomon,” she cried. “You have got somebody of your own blood. I'm a relation of yours, even if 'tis a far-off relation. I—I don't know how to thank you for this. I—”
He interrupted again.
“Yes,” he wailed, “you're my relation. I know it. Think that makes it any better? Look how I've treated you. No, no; I'm goin' to die and go—”
“You're goin' to have breakfast, that's what you're goin' to have. And it shan't be warmed up fried clams either. Emily, you stay with him. I'm goin' to the kitchen.”
She fled to the kitchen, where, between fits of crying and laughing, which would have alarmed Imogene had she been there, she tried to prepare a breakfast which might tempt the repentant money-lender. Emily joined her after a short interval.
“He won't listen to anything,” said the young lady. “He has been frightened almost to death, that's certain. He is praying now. I came away and left him praying. Oh, Auntie, isn't it wonderful! Isn't it splendid!”
Thankful sighed. “It's so wonderful I can scarcely believe it,” she said. “To think of his givin' up money—givin' it away of his own accord! I said last night that Jedediah's comin' home was a miracle. This one beats that all to pieces. I don't know what to do about takin' that thousand from him,” she added. “I declare I don't. 'Course I shan't take it in the long run; I'll pay it back soon as ever I can. But should I pretend to take it now? That's what troubles me.”
“Of course you should. He is rich and he doesn't need it. What have you done with that receipt? Put it away somewhere and in a safe place. He is frightened; that—that something, whatever it was, last night—frightened him so that he will give away anything now. But, by and by, when his fright is over he may change his mind. Lock up that paper, Aunt Thankful. If you don't, I will.”
“But what was it that frightened him, Emily? I declare I'm gettin' afraid to stay in this house myself. What was it he heard—and we heard?”
“I don't know, but I mean to find out. I'm a sensible person this morning, not an idiot, and I intend to lay that ghost.”
When they went back into the dining-room they were surprised at what they saw. Solomon was still sitting by the window, but Georgie was sitting in a chair beside him, exhibiting the pictures in one of his Christmas books and apparently on the best of terms with his new acquaintance.
“I'm showin' him my 'Swiss Family Robinson,'” said the boy. “Here's where they built a house in a tree, Mr. Cobb. Emmie told me about their doin' it.”
Solomon groaned.
“You better take this child away from me,” he said. “He came to me of his own accord, but he hadn't ought to stay. A man like me ain't fit to have children around him.”
Thankful had an inspiration.
“It's a sign,” she cried, clapping her hands. “It's a sign sent to you, Solomon. It means you're forgiven. That's what it means. Now you eat your breakfast.”
He was eating, or trying to eat, when someone knocked at the door. Winnie S. Holt was standing on the step.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Barnes,” he hailed. “Ain't drowned out after the gale, be you? Judas priest! Our place is afloat. Dad says he cal'lates we'll have to build a raft to get to the henhouse on. Here; here's somethin' Mr. Kendrick sent to you. Wanted me to give it to you, yourself, and nobody else.”
The something was a long envelope with “Mrs. Barnes, Personal,” written upon it. Thankful read the inscription.
“From Mr. Kendrick?” she repeated. “Which Mr. Kendrick?”
“Mr. John, the young one. Mr. Holliday's comin', though. He telephoned from Bayport this mornin'. Came down on the cars far's there last night, but he didn't dast to come no further 'count of bein' afraid to drive from the Centre in the storm. He's hired an automobile and is comin' right over, he says. The message was for John Kendrick, but Dad took it. What's in the envelope, Mrs. Barnes?”
Thankful slowly tore the end from the envelope. Emily stood at her elbow.
“What can it be, Auntie?” she asked, fearfully.
“I don't know. I'm afraid to look. Oh, dear! It's somethin' bad, I know. Somethin' to do with that Holliday Kendrick; it must be or he wouldn't have come to East Wellmouth today. I—I—well, I must look, of course. Oh, Emily, and we thought this was goin' to be a merry Christmas, after all.”
The enclosure was a long, legal-looking document. Thankful unfolded it, read a few lines and then stopped reading.
“Why—why—” she stammered.
“What is it, Auntie?” pleaded Emily.
“It—I can't make out. I MUST be crazy, or—or somebody is. It looks like—Read it, Emily; read it out loud.”
Captain Obed Bangs rose at his usual hour that Christmas morning, and the hour was an early one. When he looked from his bedroom window the clouds were breaking and a glance at his barometer, hung on the wall just beside that window, showed the glass to be rising and confirmed the promise of a fair day. He dressed and came downstairs. Hannah Parker came down soon afterward. The captain wished her a merry Christmas.
Miss Parker shook her head; she seemed to be in a pessimistic mood.
“I'm much obliged to you, Cap'n Bangs,” she said, “and I'm sure I wish you the same. But I don't know; don't seem as if I was liable to have many more merry Christmases in this life. No, merry Christmases ain't for me. I'm a second fiddle nowadays and I cal'late that's what I'm foreordinated to be from now on.”
The captain didn't understand.
“Second fiddle,” he repeated. “What have you got to do with fiddlin', for goodness' sakes?”
“Nothin', of course. I don't mean a real fiddle. I mean I shan't never be my own mistress any more. I've been layin' awake thinkin' about it and shiverin', 'twas so damp and chilly up in my room. There's a loose shingle right over a knot hole that's abreast a crack in my bedroom wall, and it lets in the dampness like a sieve. I've asked Kenelm to fix it MORE times; but no, all he cares to do is look out for himself and that inmate. If SHE had a loose shingle he'd fix it quick enough. All I could do this mornin' was lay to bed there and shiver and pull up the quilt and think and think. It kept comin' over me more and more.”
“The quilt, you mean? That's what you wanted it to do, wasn't it?”
“Not the quilt. The thought of the lonesome old age that's comin' to me when Kenelm's married. I've had him to look after for so long. I've been my own boss, as they say.”
She might have added, “And Kenelm's, too,” but Captain Obed added it for her, in his mind. He laughed.
“That's all right, Hannah,” he observed, by way of consolation. “Kenelm ain't married yet. When he is you can help his wife look out for him. Either that or get married. Why don't you get married, Hannah?”
“Humph! Don't be silly, Obed Bangs.”
“That ain't silliness, that's sense. All you need to do is just h'ist the signal, 'Consort wanted,' and you'd have one alongside in no time. There's Caleb Hammond, for instance; he's a widower and—eh! look out!”
Miss Parker had dropped the plate she was just putting down upon the table. Fortunately it fell only a few inches and did not break.
“What do you mean by that?” she demanded sharply.
“I meant the plate. Little more and you'd have sent it to glory.”
“Never you mind the plate. I can look out for my own crockery. 'Twas cracked anyhow. And I guess you're cracked, too,” she added. “Talkin' about my—my marryin' Caleb Hammond. What put that in your head?”
“I don't know. I just—”
“Well, don't be silly. When I marry Caleb Hammond,” she added with emphasis, “'twill be after THIS.”
“So I cal'lated. I didn't think you'd married him afore this. There now, you missed a chance, Hannah. You and he ought to have got married that time when you went away together.”
Miss Parker turned pale. “When we went—away—TOGETHER!” she faltered. “WHAT are you talkin' about?”
“When you went over to the Cattle Show that time.”
“Is that what you meant?”
“Sartin. What are you glarin' at me that way for? You ain't been away together any other time, have you? No, Hannah, that was your chance. You and Caleb might have been married in the balloon, like the couples we read about in the papers. Ho! ho! Think of the advertisin' you'd have had! 'A high church weddin'.' 'Bride and groom up in the air.' Can't you see those headlines?”
Hannah appeared more relieved than annoyed.
“Humph!” she sniffed. “Well, I should say YOU was up in the air, Obed Bangs. What's the matter with you this mornin'? Has the rain soaked into your head? It seems to be softenin' up pretty fast. If you're so set on somebody gettin' married why don't you get married yourself? You've been what the minister calls 'unattackted' all your life.”
The minister had said “unattached,” but Captain Obed did not offer to correct the quotation. He joked no more and, during breakfast, was silent and absent-minded.
After breakfast he went out for a walk. The storm had gullied the hills and flooded the hollows. There were pools of water everywhere, shining cold and steely in the winter sunshine. The captain remembered the low ground in which the barn and outbuildings upon the “Cap'n Abner place” stood, and judged that he and Kenelm might have to do some rescue work among the poultry later on. He went back to the house to suggest that work to Mr. Parker himself.
Kenelm and his sister were evidently in the midst of a dispute. The former was seated at the breakfast table and Hannah was standing by the kitchen door looking at him.
“Goin' off to work Christmas Day!” she said, as the captain entered. “I should think you might stay home with me THAT day, if no other. 'Tain't the work you're so anxious to get to. It's that precious inmate of yours.”
Kenelm's answer was as surprising as it was emphatic.
“Darn the inmate!” he shouted. “I wish to thunder I'd never seen her!”
Captain Obed whistled. Miss Parker staggered, but she recovered promptly.
“Oh,” she said, “that's how you feel, is it? Well, if I felt that way toward anybody I don't think I'd be plannin' to marry 'em.”
“Ugh! What's the use of talkin' rubbish? I've GOT to marry her, ain't I? She's got that paper I was fool enough to sign. Oh, let me alone, Hannah! I won't go over there till I have to. I'd ruther stay to home enough sight.”
Hannah put her arms about his neck. “There, there, Kenelm, dearie,” she said soothingly, “you eat your breakfast like a nice brother. I'LL be good to you, if nobody else ain't. And I didn't have to sign any paper afore I'd do it either.”
Kenelm grunted ungraciously.
“'Twas your fault, anyhow,” he muttered. “If you hadn't bossed me and driven me into workin' for Thankful Barnes 'twouldn't have happened. I wouldn't have thought of gettin' engaged to be married.”
“Never mind, dearie. You ain't married yet. Perhaps you won't be. And, anyhow, you know I'LL never boss you any more.”
Kenelm looked at her. There was an odd expression in his eyes.
“You bet you won't!” he said, slowly. “I'll see to that.”
“Why, Kenelm, what do you mean?”
“I don't mean nothin'—maybe. Give me some more coffee.”
Captain Obed decided that the present was not the time to suggest a trip to the High Cliff House. He went out again, to walk along the path and think over what he had just heard. It was interesting, as showing the attitude of one of the contracting parties toward the “engagement,” the announcement of which had been such a staggering finish to the “big day” of the County Fair.
Winnie S. came whistling up the path from the village.
“Hi, Cap'n Bangs!” he shouted. “I was just goin' to stop at Hannah's to tell you somethin'.”
“You was, eh?”
“Yup. Then I was goin' on to the High Cliff. I've got somethin' to take to Mrs. Thankful. What do you suppose 'tis?”
He exhibited the long envelope.
“John Kendrick sent it to her,” he said. “I don't know what's in it. And he wants you to come to his office right off, Cap'n Obed. That's what I was goin' to tell you. He says not to wait till afternoon, same as he said, but to come now. It's important, he says.”
John was seated at the desk in his office when the captain opened the door. He bowed gravely.
“Take off your hat and coat, Captain,” he said. “Sit down. I'm glad you got my message and came early. I am expecting the other party at any moment.”
Captain Obed was puzzled.
“The other party?” he repeated. “What other party?”
“My—er—well, we'll call him my client. He is on his way here and I may need you—as a witness.”
“Witness? What to?”
“You will see. Now, Captain, if you'll excuse me, I have some papers to arrange. Make yourself as comfortable as you can. I'm sure you won't have to wait long.”
Fifteen minutes later the rasping, arrogant “honk” of a motor horn came from the road outside. Heavy, important steps sounded upon the office platform. The door opened and in came Mr. E. Holliday Kendnick.
Captain Obed had known of the great man's expected arrival, but he had not expected it so early in the day. E. Holliday wore a luxurious fur-lined coat and looked as prosperous and important as ever, but also—so it seemed to the captain—he looked disturbed and puzzled and angry.
The captain rose to his feet and said, “Good morning,” but except for a nod of recognition, his greeting was unanswered. Mr. Kendrick slammed the door behind him, stalked across the office, took a letter from his pocket and threw it down upon his attorney's desk.
“What's the meaning of that?” he demanded.
John was perfectly calm. “Sit down, Mr. Kendrick,” he said.
“No, I won't sit down. What the devil do you mean by sending me that thing? You expected me, didn't you? You got my wire saying I was coming.”
“Yes, I got it. Sit down. I have a good deal to say and it may take some time. Throw off your coat.”
E. Holliday threw the fur coat open, but he did not remove it. He jerked a chair forward and seated himself upon it.
“Now what does that thing mean?” he demanded, pointing to the envelope he had tossed on the desk.
John picked up the envelope and opened it. A letter and a bank check fell out.
“I will explain,” he said quietly. “Mr. Kendrick, you know Captain Obed Bangs, I think. Oh, it is all right. The captain is here at my request. I asked him to be here. I wanted a reliable witness and he is reliable. This,” he went on, taking up the letter, “is a note I wrote you, Mr. Kendrick. It states that I am resigning my position as your attorney. And this,” picking up the other paper, “is my check for five hundred dollars, the amount of your retainer, which I am returning to you. . . . You understand this so far, Captain?”
E. Holliday did not wait to hear whether the captain understood or not. His big face flamed red.
“But what the devil?” he demanded.
John held up his hand.
“One moment, please,” he said. “Captain Bangs, I want to explain a few things. As you know, I have been acting as Mr. Kendrick's attorney in the matter of the property occupied by Mrs. Barnes. He wished me to find a means of forcing her to sell that property to him. Now, when a person owning property does not wish to sell, that person cannot be forced into giving up the property unless it is discovered that the property doesn't belong to that particular person. That's plain, isn't it?”
He was speaking to Captain Obed, and the captain answered.
“But it does belong to her,” he declared. “Her Uncle Abner Barnes willed it to her. Course it belongs to her!”
“I know. But sometimes there are such things as flaws in a title. That is to say, somewhere and at some time there has been a transfer of that property that was illegal. In such a case the property belongs to the previous holder, no matter in how many instances it has changed hands since. In the present case it was perfectly plain that Mrs. Barnes thought she owned that land, having inherited it from her uncle. Therefore she could not be forced to sell unless it was discovered that there was a flaw in the title—that she did not own it legally at all. I told my client—Mr. Kendrick, here—that, and he ordered me to have the title searched or to search it myself. I have spent a good deal of time at the recorder's office in Ostable doing that very thing. And I discovered that there was such a flaw; that Mrs. Barnes did not legally own that land upon which her house stands. And, as the land was not hers, the house was not hers either.”
Holliday Kendrick struck the desk a thump with his fist.
“Good!” he cried. “Good enough! I told 'em I generally got what I wanted! Now I'll get it this time. Kendrick—”
“Wait,” said John. “Captain Obed, you understand me so far?”
The captain's outraged feelings burst forth.
“I understand it's durn mean business!” he shouted. “I'm ashamed of you, John Kendrick!”
“All right! all right! The shame can wait. And I want YOU to wait, too—until I've finished. There was a flaw in that title, as I said. Captain Bangs, as you know, the house in which Mrs. Barnes is now living originally stood, not where it now stands, but upon land two or three hundred yards to the north, upon a portion of the property which afterward became the Colfax estate and which now belongs to Mr. Kendrick here. You know that?”
Captain Obed nodded. “Course I know it,” he said. “Cap'n Abner could have bought the house and the land it stood on, but he didn't want to. He liked the view better from where it stands now. So he bought the strip nigher this way and moved the old house over. But he DID buy it and he paid cash for it. I know he did, because—”
“All right. I know he bought it and all the particulars of the purchase perhaps better than you do. A good deal of my time of late has been given to investigating the history of that second strip of land. Captain Abner Barnes, Mrs. Barnes' uncle, bought the land upon which he contemplated moving, and later, did move the house, of Isaiah Holt, Darius Holt's father, then living. Mr. Holt bought of a man named David Snow, who, in turn, bought of—”
Holliday Kendrick interrupted. “Snow bought of me,” he growled. “Worse luck! I was a fool to sell, or so I think now; but it was years ago; I had no idea at that time of coming here to live; and shore land was of no value then, anyhow. The strip came to me as a part of my father's estate. I thought myself lucky to get anything for it. But what's all this ancient history got to do with it now? And what do you mean by sending me this letter and that check?”
“I'll explain. I am trying to explain. The peculiar point comes in just here. You, Mr. Kendrick, never owned that land.”
E. Holliday bounced in his chair.
“Didn't own it!” he roared. “What nonsense are you talking? The land belonged to my father, Samuel Kendrick, and I inherited it from him.”
“No, you didn't.”
“I tell you I did. He left everything he had to me.”
“Yes, so he did. But he didn't own that land. He owned it at one time, probably he owned it when he made his will, but he didn't own it at the time of his death. Your father, Mr. Kendrick, was in financial straits at various times during his residence here in Orham and he borrowed a good deal of money. The most of these were loans, pure and simple, but one at least wasn't. At one time—needing money badly, I presume—he sold this strip of land. The purchaser thought it was worth nothing, no doubt, and never mentioned owning it—at least, until just before he died. He simply had the deed recorded and forgot it. Everyone else forgot it, too. But the heirs, or the heir, of that purchaser, I discovered, was the legal owner of that land.”
Captain Obed uttered an exclamation.
“Why, John Kendrick!” he shouted. “Do you mean—”
“Hush, Captain! Mr. Kendrick,” addressing the red-faced and furious gentleman at his left, “have I made myself clear so far? Do you follow me?”
“Follow you? I don't believe it! I—I—don't believe it! Who was he? Who did my father sell that land to?”
“He sold it to his brother, Bailey Kendrick, and Bailey Kendrick was my father. Under my father's will what little property he had came to me. If anything is sure in this world, it is that that land occupied by Mrs. Barnes belonged, legally, to me.”
Neither of his hearers spoke immediately. Then E. Holliday sprang to his feet.
“It belongs to you, does it!” he shouted. “It belongs to you? All right, so much the better. I can buy of you as well as anybody else. That's why you sent me back your retainer, was it? So you and I could trade man to man. All right! I don't believe it yet, but I'll listen to you. What's your proposition?”
John shook his head.
“No,” he said. “You're wrong there. I sent you the retainer because I wished to be absolutely free to do as I pleased with what was mine. I couldn't remain in your employ and act contrary to your interests—or, according to my way of thinking, I couldn't. As I saw it I did not own that land—morally, at least. So, having resigned my employment with you I—well, I gave the land to the person who, by all that is right and—and HONEST, should own it. I had the deed made out in her name and I sent it to her an hour ago.”
Captain Obed had guessed it. Now HE sprang from his chair.
“John Kendrick,” he shouted, in huge delight, “you gave that land to Thankful Barnes. The deed was in that big envelope Winnie S. Holt was takin' to her this very mornin'!”
The happenings of the next few minutes were noisy and profane. E. Holliday Kendrick was responsible for most of the noise and all of the profanity. He stormed up and down the office, calling his cousin every uncomplimentary name that occurred to him, vowing the whole story to be a lie, and that the land should be his anyway; threatening suit and personal vengeance. His last words, as he strode to the door, were:
“And—and you're the fellow, the poor relation, that I gave my business to just from kindness! All right! I haven't finished with you yet.”
John's answer was calm, but emphatic.
“Very well,” he said. “But this you must understand: I consider myself under no obligation whatever to you, Mr. Kendrick. In the very beginning of our business relationship you and I had a plain talk. I told you when I consented to act as your attorney that I did so purely as a matter of business and that philanthropy and kinship were to have no part in it. And when you first mentioned your intention of forcing Mrs. Barnes to give up her home I told you what I thought of that, too.”
East Wellmouth's wealthiest summer resident expressed an opinion.
“You're a fool!” he snarled. “A d—d impractical fool!”
The door slammed behind him. John laughed quietly.
“As a judge of character, Captain Bangs,” he observed, “my respected cousin should rank high.”
Captain Obed's first act after E. Holliday's departure was to rush over, seize the young man's hand with one of his own, and thump him enthusiastically upon the back with the other.
“I said it!” he crowed. “I knew it! I knew you was all right and square as a brick all the time, John Kendrick! NOW let me meet some of those folks that have been talkin' against you! You never did a better day's work in your life. HE'S down on you, but every decent man in Ostable County'll be for you through thick and thin after this. Hooray for our side! John, shake hands with me again.”
They shook, heartily. The captain was so excited and jubilant that he was incoherent. At last, however, he managed to recover sufficiently to ask a question.
“But how did you do it,” he demanded. “How did you get on the track of it? You must have had some suspicions.”
John smiled. His friend's joy evidently pleased him, but he, himself, was rather sober and not in the least triumphant.
“I did have a suspicion, Captain,” he said. “In fact, I had been told that I had a claim to a piece of land somewhere along the shore here in East Wellmouth. My father told me years ago, when he was in his last sickness. He said that he owned a strip of land here, but that it was probably worth little or nothing. When I came here I intended looking into the matter, but I did not do so. Where the original deed may be, I don't know even now. It may be among some of my father's papers, which are stored in New York. But the record of the transfers I found in Ostable; and that is sufficient. My claim may not be quite as impregnable as I gave my late client to understand, but it will be hard to upset. I am the only possible claimant and I have transferred my claim to Mrs. Barnes. The land belongs to her now; she can't be dispossessed.”
“But—but, John, why didn't you say so sooner? What made you let everyone think—what they did think?”
Before John could reply there came an interruption. The door opened and Thankful Barnes entered. She paid no attention to Captain Obed, but, walking straight to the desk, laid upon it the long envelope which Winnie S. had brought to her house that morning.
“Will you tell me,” she asked, sharply, “what that means?”
John rose. “Yes,” he said, “I will tell you, Mrs. Barnes. It is a rather long story. Sit down, please.”
Thankful sank into the chair he indicated. He took up the envelope.
“I will tell you, Mrs. Barnes,” he said, “why I sent you this deed. Don't go, Captain Bangs, you know already and I should like to have you stay. Here is the story, Mrs. Barnes.”
He told it briefly, without superfluous words, but so clearly that there could be no possibility of a misunderstanding. When he began Thankful's attitude was cold and unbelieving. When he finished she was white and trembling.
“Mrs. Barnes,” he said, in conclusion, “I'm a peculiar fellow, I'm afraid. I have rather—well, suppose we call them impractical ideas concerning the ethics of my profession, duty to a client, and that sort of thing. I have always been particular in taking a case, but when I have taken it I have tried to carry it through. I—as you know, I hesitated before accepting my cousin's retaining fee and the implied obligation. However, I did accept.”
He might have given his reasons for accepting but he did not. He went on.
“When this matter of your property came up,” he said, “I at first had no idea that the thing was serious. You owned the property, as I supposed, and that was sufficient. I had told my cousin that and meant to tell you. I meant to tell you a portion of what I have just told the captain here, but I—well, I didn't. Mr. Daniels' remarks irritated me and I—well, he put the case as a test of legal skill between himself and me, and—and I have my share of pride, I suppose. So I determined to beat him if I could. It was wrong, as I see it now, and I beg your pardon.”
Thankful put a hand to her forehead.
“But you did—beat him, didn't you?” she stammered. “You found I didn't own the land.”
“Yes. I found I owned it myself, legally. If I had found it belonged to anyone else, I—well, I scarcely know what I should have done. You see,” with a half smile, “I'm trying to be perfectly frank. Finding that I was the owner made it easy.”
She did not understand. “It made it easy,” she repeated slowly. “But you gave it to ME!”
He leaned forward. “Please don't misunderstand me,” he said earnestly. “As I see it, that land belonged to you by all that is right and fair. Legally, perhaps, it didn't, but legal honesty isn't always moral honesty. I've found that out even in my limited practice.”
Captain Obed tried to put in a word. “Don't you see, Thankful?” he said. “John knew you thought you owned the land and so—”
“Hush! Please don't. I—I don't see. Mr. Kendrick, you—you have prided yourself on bein' honest with your clients, and Mr. Holliday Kendrick WAS your client.”
John smiled. “I compromised there,” he answered. “I returned his money and resigned as his attorney before I sent you the deed. It was a compromise, I admit, but I had to choose between him and—well, my honor, if you like; although that sounds theatrical. I chose to be honest with myself—that's all. The land is yours, Mrs. Barnes.”
He handed her the envelope containing the deed. She took it and sat there turning it over and over in her fingers, not looking at it, but thinking, or trying to think.
“You give it to me,” she said. “It was yours and you give it to me. Why should you? Do—do you think I can TAKE it from you?”
“Certainly, you must take it.”
“But I can't! I can't!”
“Certainly you can. Why not?”
“Why NOT? After the things I've thought about you? And after the way I've treated you? And—and after Emily—”
“She didn't know either,” broke in Captain Obed. “She didn't understand. She—”
“That's enough, Captain,” interrupted John. “Mrs. Barnes, you mustn't misunderstand me again. Neither you nor—nor Miss Howes must misunderstand my motives. I give this to you because I honestly believe it belongs to you, not because I expect anything in return. I—I confess I did hesitate a little. I feared—I feared she—”
“He means Emily,” broke in the irrepressible captain. “You mean Emily, don't you, John?”
“Yes,” with some embarrassment. “Yes, I do mean Miss Howes. She and I had been—friends, and I feared she might misinterpret my reasons. It was not until yesterday afternoon, when I learned of the—of the engagement, that I felt certain neither you nor she could misunderstand. Then I felt perfectly free to send you the deed.”
Captain Obed, who had grasped his meaning, would have spoken, but Thankful spoke first. She, evidently, was quite at sea.
“The engagement?” she repeated. “What engagement?”
“Miss Howes' engagement to Mr. Daniels. They were congratulating him on his engagement yesterday at the station. I overheard the congratulations. I had not known of it before.”
At last Thankful understood. She looked at the speaker, then at Captain Obed, and the color rushed to her face.
“And even though Emily—Hush, Obed Bangs! you keep still—and even though you knew Emily was engaged to Heman Daniels, you could still give me and her—this?”
“Now, Mrs. Barnes, do you think—”
“Think! John Kendrick, I think I ought to get down on my knees and beg your pardon for what I've thought these last two months. But I'm thinkin' right now and you ain't. Heman Daniels ain't engaged to Emily Howes at all; he's engaged to that Bayport woman, the one he's been so attentive to for a year or more. Oh, it's true! Winnie S. told me so just now. The news had just come to town and he was full of it. Heman's over to Bayport spendin' Christmas with her this very minute.”
Even Captain Obed had not a word to say. He was looking at John Kendrick and John's face was white.
“And I'll tell you somethin' else,” went on Thankful, “somethin' that Emily herself told me last night. She might have been engaged to Heman Daniels; he asked her to be. But she wouldn't have him; she told him no.”
John stepped from behind the desk. “She—she told him no,” he repeated. “She . . . Why?”
Thankful laughed aloud. “That,” she cried, “I SHAN'T tell you. If you don't know yourself then I ain't the one to tell you.”
Obed was at her side. “That's enough,” he ordered, taking her by the arm. “That's enough, Thankful Barnes. You come right along with me and fetch that deed with you. This young feller here has got some thinkin' to do, I cal'late. His mind needs overhaulin'. You come with me.”
He led her out to the sidewalk and on until they reached the postoffice. Then, still grasping her arm, he led her into that building. The office was open for a few hours, even though the day was Christmas.
“Here!” he whispered, eagerly. “Stand here by the window where we can see whether he comes out or not.”
“But, Obed, what are you doin'?”
“Doin'! I'm waitin' to see whether that boy is a permanent fool or just a temporary one. Wait now; wait and watch.”
The wait was but momentary. The door of John Kendrick's office opened and John himself came out. He shut the door, but he did not wait to lock it. They saw him cross the road and stride off down the lane toward the shore.
Captain Obed laughed aloud.
“No,” he cried, exultantly, “'twas only temporary. He's got his senses now. Thankful, let's you and me go for a walk. We shan't be needed at the High Cliff House for a spell—and we won't be WANTED there, either.”