VII
The battering of blows on the door came down to them while they struggled up the sand, more boatloads racing after them; but when they reached the field, they saw the little mob still outside, swarming like hornets round the doorstep. Something had checked them: there was a surge of conflict, but no advance. As the townsmen ran up the slope, two figures rolled down past them,—the dark Indian face of Sebattis, who was trying to bite a white man's ear,—both growling and punching in a drunken dog-fight entirely beside the point of the main quarrel. Some of the less eager among the sheriff's men stopped to separate them, but Archer and the others swept on. Already a few of the gang scattered from the door in flight, running unsteadily round the house and up through the vegetable garden. One man fell blindly through the beanpoles, with loud
oaths and breakage. Those who stood their ground had their backs turned, and were apparently absorbed in something before them.
While he raced, Archer saw what it was. Before the broken panels of the door old Lehane and Peter stood in a clinch so desperate that the rest had fallen back to watch them. Even in the heat of running Archer could see the wrench of muscles under the blue jersey of the one and the coat, green with age, that covered the broad back of the other. Peter, with both hands aloft, gripped Lehane's wrist so that a pistol pointed skyward; but round his own throat a great, fat hand was murderously at work. Both bodies, the lithe and the bulky, were strained to the last fibre.
"Old fool!" grunted Peter. His eyes were almost shut against the sun, the blue veins showed like a Biblical seal on his forehead. "Quit it!" A sudden ripple of tense motion ran through his body from boot-heel to wrist. There was a sound like a stick snapping.
"Ah!" bellowed the big man. The pistol fell. Archer and the others breasted the bright surge of flowers in the garden, and ran upon them all in a victorious scuffle. It was more than two to one, and with old Lehane surrounded, the fight was laughably simple.
Archer found himself shoving off an over-zealous deck-hand who would have Kellum. The old man sat against the red stone wall, his little knees drawn up with a comical air of comfort, but a red stream from his cheekbone trickling into his yellow-stained beard.
"He hit me a proper hard poke," he was muttering, dazed but philosophic. "It could n't 'a' come square on, though."
Helen appeared from somewhere with towels, a basin, and a bottle. Her brown eyes sought Archer's for one bright instant, and then she was at work over Kellum, deftly and sensibly. The old man looked up at her like a dirty, bearded child.
"Ye done well, Hugh," said the deep voice of Peter. The two big men grinned at each other like schoolboys. Peter was breathing short, and wore round his throat the red stripes from the old man's fingers. "To speak plain, ye done better 'n I thought ye could. 'T was an awful resk."
"I have n't done so much as you," replied Archer. He meant far more than this, for new and strange thoughts had been swarming in his mind through all this tumult. "Nothing like, Peter."
Both men had stopped smiling.
"It was both of us,—both fer the same thing, anyway," the fisherman said. "’T was a narrer squeak," he added, with forced cheerfulness. "We had n't ought ter complain, 'cept fer the boy." He turned away slowly, and walked a little distance down the field, where Archer did not follow him. In the mean time Helen had disappeared.
Farther down the slope old Lehane was raving in the midst of a group. "Leggo, damn ye, my arm 's broke,—no need o' grabbin' that way. That's the feller, up there,—the red-headed one in the overhalls; he done fer Beaky, I tell ye."
"That 'll all come out at the inquest," Sheriff Moriarty called down to him. "Take him over to town and get his arm set," he ordered, and came stalking upward to engage in conversation with Mr. Powell. The scholar had now ventured out, pale and bewildered, into the sunlit flower garden; and over the tangle of sweet peas Archer could see him shaking hands timidly with the sheriff, like a mild curate receiving congratulations on a discourse. The sheriff was introducing several other men.
"Mr. Powell," he said briskly, "I want you to know my brothers, Mr. John Moriarty, and Mr. Michael, and Mr. Florence Moriarty; he's a lawyer, sir, and may be able to help you about this matter of the squatting; and Mr. Hugh Moriarty, that I think you've dealt with in groceries; and Mr. Ferris, my half-brother, sir."
The pale little man shook hands very precisely, all round. "I am glad to meet you, sir," he repeated, without an inkling of what this intrusion from the great world was all about. "Ah, Mr. Ferris,—non omnis Moriarty," he chirped, and in spite of the blank looks from the group of kinsmen, was visibly pleased with his joke.
Archer turned to Kellum. The old captain was not much hurt; in fact, after Helen's ministration he seemed almost neat, and looked up with sage and weatherbeaten resignation. They fell into the friendly talk of allies, in which Archer caught, by the light of many a homely phrase, glimpses of how Peter had played for time, played with craft and force, delaying, desperately delaying, the drunken crew in the harbor. Yes, it all strengthened what he himself had been thinking.
"He's a good lad. Blue Peter," said the old man, stanching his cut with gingerly dabs of Helen's handkerchief. "We call him that for a joke. He's a good lad, the only one o' the lot, an' he 'll be goin' away now, he tells me. He seems dretful cut up about the boy. Well, they 'll most all be goin' in a month, fer the winter. It's only a summer camp,—'cep' fer a few of us, the devil's orts, that has to stay all the year round."
"Captain Kellum," asked Archer suddenly, "what would you do if you had your choice, instead of staying here?"
The little old sailor wagged his yellow beard sadly. "’T ain't no use talkin' so. But by the powers," he ejaculated, "if I had the money, I'd buy back the Regina. Lyons 'ud sell 'er; he wants a bigger bo't. Some fools 'll tell ye a centreboard schooner's no good," he cried, warming with enthusiasm. "But she,—I had 'er fourteen year, an' 'ud hev' 'er yit but fer bad luck,—why, she'd go like—like a horse! The' ain't much left fer ye, my boy, when ye come to my age, p'r'aps. But I'd ask nothin' better than jes' to come up on deck again on a winter mornin' and see where the vessel's lyin'."
"If I buy her," said Archer, "will you take her and pay me a quarter of what she brings you in two years? She's yours on those terms."
The old man's eyes peered at him, hard and bright at this cruel joke.
"Where'd ye git the money?" he retorted.
"I 've got enough for that," replied Archer, laughing. "What do you say? I 'll get Moriarty to telegraph Lyons to-day, when he goes over. You say he 'll sell. You can go aboard the first of the week."
Captain Kellum was astonished at this magic.
"Why," he faltered, "if ye mean it— 'T ain't a fair bargain to you, but if ye mean it"—His old face looked very queer and puzzled.
Helen was coming from the house.
"I mean it. Think it over," said Archer, as he moved away to meet her. By tacit assent they walked together apart from the groups of men, past the house, between the rows of frost-bitten vegetables. Her hair shone once more with bronze gleams in the sunshine. He felt infinitely glad to be with her again, as if he had come back to her after a long time and from a far country,—indeed, from the dark limbo of the farthest country, where time is unknown. She was good to look upon; he loved her with all his heart; yet what should have been happiness was overpowered with sorrow and self-reproach.
"Tell me," she asked in her quiet voice, "what is it all about? I'm in the dark. You look so funny in those dirty things, and barefoot. What does it all mean—Hugh?"
He answered her smile at this first use of his name. Then very seriously he explained it all,—the fight in the dark, what he had done by water that morning, what Peter had done by land; everything save what his promise to Peter forbade him to tell. Her clear brown face was alight and alive with the swift-changing emotions. When he had ended this story of rough deeds, she was deeply moved and silent; but he knew she had acquitted him of his worst responsibility.
"But why," she asked in a puzzled way, "why did that old man think it started about me? What have I"—
She had gone so straight to the point that he was both amused and dismayed.
"You must n't ask me that now, Helen," he answered. "I 've promised not to tell it all"—
"Not to me?" she asked, disappointed.
"Just that," he assented soberly. "Not to you." In the long silence he stooped and plucked at the withered tops of potatoes. "Oh, Helen!" he broke out at last. "It's that that worries me and makes me ashamed,—the promise, and a great deal more that I 've been thinking all the way over, through it all. I'm ashamed. I came here," he hurried on breathlessly, "I came here and stole it from you, all at once, as if I'd been the only man in the world,—or the best,—without giving you a chance, even, to know what the others were like—Oh, I'm ashamed!" he cried. "It was like a cad,—it was n't fair to you, dear."
Her face had turned pale in the sunlight.
"Are you sorry?" she asked, with a cold voice that was not her own, and that did not conceal her distress and fear.
"No," he cried eagerly. "It's the happiest and truest thing in my life. Oh, don't you see why? It's just because it is n't fair to you. I wanted you to know that there were better fellows, off the island—and on it. Here goes my word!" he exclaimed in dismay. "I can't keep it. You said, the other time, that you never used to feel alone,—that there was a kind of—of presence, you said, among the trees and places. Well, there was." And he told her all that Peter had said that morning. "There, I 've broken my promise to him. But it's best. He's given up everything, thought, and care, and work, and his little brother, and I just came along and stole it. Why, Helen, you grew up in a kind of garden,—an enchanted garden you might have played it was,—and this man built and kept the walls round it, walls you could n't see. And what am I before a man like that? Just look, without any make-believe. We have n't even talked things over as we were going to this morning. But see. I 've run away from everything—just drifted along—never thought much—took chances—only had good luck. Don't you see?"
She surveyed him oddly. In her eyes was a shine as of transfiguration, but he could not understand it.
"You 're very young about some things," she said. "Younger than I—years. Did n't you see, up there—can't you remember—that our one look—and what it meant? Did n't you see that it settled it all? I know there are other men, and noble and good—the world full of them—not getting their deserts—deserts much bigger than a girl like me. I know that. But what of it? This Peter, oh, I'm sorry for him, and grateful, and he must be wonderfully good. But—don't you see?" she begged helplessly. "I can't explain—but if you don't—if you have the least doubt—then we 've made a mistake"— Her eyes shone pitifully and her lip trembled.
"Helen, you know I could n't," he said, frightened at the thought. "You know that. Why, when I was in the whirlpool, and it on my back—this Death your father spins words about—pressing me down, what do you suppose I thought? Just that I could n't die then, because the drink from your spring,—our poor little foolish game, lasting through it all, right to the end of everything, down there in the dark. Oh, just believe that! I can't explain, either, half of it."
The color of reassurance came back to her cheeks.
"Look," he said, pointing before them. They had come to the end of the shriveled rows, where a lane went by to the pastures on the northern headland. "This will help. See, this puddle of water here, where your cow's been drinking. It's full of her hoof-marks, and shallow, and dirty, and everything. Now stand over here."
Moving away, they leaned forward together and looked. The light so caught the little surface that the water was deep as the sky, and the clouds and the blue air were in it.
"There, you see. That's my life, before you, and since. I don't know how else"—
The girl was the first to speak again.
"I can't tell you so well," she said. "But the long winter evenings with the snow against the panes,—and the summer nights and no one to talk to,—there 'll be no more of those." Then she changed, happily mocking his sober face. "Parables in puddles,—and a preacher in blue overalls." They both laughed.
"I know," he confessed. "But I 've been through something that's made me preach these things to myself. And two persons I met this morning, one on the island, and one in the water.— Let's not talk about it. But I'm not going to let things go to waste any longer, or run away. Old Kellum's happy; there's a beginning, and there are lots of chances. You 're at the bottom of it all. If we could only do something for Peter"—
Helen looked thoughtfully down toward the house and the cove.
"Poor fellow," she said at last. "I'm glad you told me. I must talk with him, though it will be very hard for us both. Let's go back now; and good-by, for a while, dear. Oh, you 'll tell my father soon, won't you? It's best not to keep the truth hidden. Good-by. You 've no more doubts?"
"Not one!" he answered earnestly. "I wish I could do it for you—this"—
"No," she said. "You did your part this morning. There are other hard things that only a woman can do."
From the little flower garden, all crushed and torn with the recent scuffle, they saw the men moving away, part climbing the hill toward the harbor, part returning to the beach. At the edge of the slope toward the cove, Peter, alone in the field, stood looking toward the mainland. Helen walked slowly down toward him.
Archer pattered indoors barefoot, and at the desk in the dark corner of the library began a letter.
- "Powell's Island, Wednesday.
"To Captain Berry,
Barkentine Elizabeth Fanning.
"My dear Sir:
"An accident involving the death of two persons"—
Her father's commonplace book lay open before him. As he cast about for the right words, his eye lighted on a recent addition in the scholar's neat manuscript:—
"Schopenhauer: Metaphysics of Love.—This ablest of modern thinkers has said very wisely: 'And yet, amid all this turmoil we see a pair of lovers exchanging longing glances,—but why so secretly, timidly, and furtively? Because these lovers are traitors secretly striving to perpetuate all this misery and turmoil that otherwise would come to a timely end.'"
"Hm!"—he pondered. "It seems her father may not need so much information as we supposed. She fails as an actress," he thought with joy. Then he took the liberty of closing the book and putting it away in the scholar's drawer, where Helen should not see the odious words. He sat thinking. "Old Lehane was not the worst person she must be saved from," he concluded.
Through the battered door she entered, her face streaked with tears. She went swiftly to the foot of the stairs, then turned, fled to him, and for an instant stood with her hands on his shoulders and her tousled head pressed against him.
"Oh, Hugh," she whispered. "He is a good man. And so were you to tell me. The little boy is to be—we agreed—up there by Arthur's cross. It's little enough, is n't it? He is a good man."
She hurried from him and up the stairs. When her door had closed, Archer turned to the window, and stood looking out.
"I could punch the face of that ablest modern thinker," he said to himself. "For he's a liar. Peter is worth a thousand of him."
Out on the pitch of the slope, the tall figure, black against the shining channel, stood looking off at the mainland.
"But sometimes," said Archer to himself, "we build our happiness at the expense of others"—
A footstep grated lightly on the stone, and the scholar entered, looking fatigued.
"Ah, Mr. Archer," he said kindly, "you two young men have done very well by us, it seems, in some mysterious way."
"Not I, sir," said Archer. "I only brought this trouble on you. I'm sorry to give you all such a bad morning."
But his host's mind was already off the subject.
"I went down thinking to comfort that old fisherman about his son," he explained. "But I found it quite impossible, he is so violent in his grief. That was a fine saying of Solon's," he mused, "an heroic reply to the news of his son's death, 'I knew that I had begotten a mortal being.' Or was it Anaxagoras, as some say, or Xenophon? But that is the pathos of the past; the truth of matters becomes obscured."
He looked very worn and white as he sank into the big armchair.
"He's been through a good deal to-day—for him," thought the young man. "We'll let it wait till to-morrow. I'd better go down for my clothes before the tide gets them."
"Obscured or lost," added Mr. Powell. "And the future holds only one certainty"—