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Flood Tide

<h3> CHAPTER XVI </h3> <h3> ANOTHER BLOW DESCENDS </h3> The ride home from Belleport was a subdued one, bringing to an afternoon that had been rich in sunshine a climax of shadow. The Galbraiths were far too stunned by the startling revelations of the day to wish to prolong a meeting that had lapsed into awkwardness, and until they had had opportunity to readjust themselves they were eager to be alone; nor did their delicacy of perception fail to detect a similar craving in the minds of their guests. Therefore they did not press their visitors to remain and tactfully arranged that one of the servants instead of Roger should drive the Spences back over the Harbor Road. As the motor purred its way along, there was little conversation. Even had not the chauffeur's presence acted as a restraint, none of the party would have had the heart to make perfunctory conversation; the tragedy of the moment had touched them too deeply. What a strange, wonderful unraveling of life's tangled skeins had come with the few fleeting hours. Each turned the drama over in his mind, trying to make a reality of it and spin into the warp and woof of the tapestry time had already woven this thread of new color. But so startling was it in hue that it refused to blend, standing out against the duller tones of the past with appalling distinctness; and never was it more irreconcilable than when the familiar confines of the little fishing hamlet by the sea were reached and those who struggled to harmonize it saw it in contrast with this background of simplicity. Each silently reconstructed Delight's life, now linking it with its ancestry and its romantic beginnings. She had, then, sprung from aristocratic stock; riches had been her right, and culture her heritage. She had been the single flower of a passionate love, and the hot-headed young father to whom she had been bequeathed when bereft of the woman he had adored had taken her with him when he had sought the sea's balm to assuage his sorrow. She was all that remained of that tender, throbbing memory of his youth. Where he went she followed, all unconscious of peril and with youth's God-given faith; and when the great moment came and the supreme sacrifice was demanded, the man voluntarily severed the bonds that bound them, leaving her to life while he himself went forth into the Beyond. What must not that heroic soul have suffered when he cast his child into the ocean's arms and upon the mercies of an unknown future! What blind trust led him; what unselfishness and courage lay in the choice he made! A smaller mind would have followed the easier path and kept them united to the end, happy in the thought that in their death they were not divided, and that no years stretched ahead when she would be without his protection. Might he not be performing a kinder act to let her go down into the sea than to entrust her to the charity of strangers? He must have wrestled with all these problems and temptations as he stood lashed to the mast out there in the fateful storm. Ah, his confidence in a fatherhood more omniscient than his own had not been misplaced. Loving hands had borne his darling safely through the waves to a home where, in an atmosphere of devotion, the beauty that had been in her from the beginning had perfected in its maturity. Even the homely surroundings of the environment into which she drifted could not stifle her native fineness of soul. Bred up a fisherman's daughter she had lived and moved among plain, kindly people, whom she had learned to cherish and revere as if they were of her blood, and to whom she had endeared herself to a corresponding degree. And now what was her future to be? Was she suddenly to be snatched back into her rightful sphere, the ties that linked her with the present snapped asunder, and a new world with the myriad opportunities she had until now been denied placed within her reach? That was the query that agitated the minds of the silent thinkers who sped along the Harbor Road. Sunset was gilding the water, kissing the sands into rosy warmth and casting glints of vermilion over the low buildings at the mouth of the bay, where windows flashed forth a flaming reflection of fire. The peace of approaching twilight brooded over the village. Little boats, like homing doves, came flying across the vast expanse of waves, their sails a splendor of copper in the fading light. With the hush of night the breeze died into stillness until scarce a leaf of the weather-beaten poplars stirred. From the tangle of roses, sweet fern and bayberry that overgrew the fields the note of a thrush rose clear on the quiet air. A whirling bevy of gulls circled the bar, left naked and opalescent by the receding tide. Peace was everywhere, divine peace, save in the breasts of those who gazed only to find a mockery in the surrounding tranquillity. Robert Morton's face was stern in meditation. How was this mighty transformation in Delight's fortunes to affect the hopes he fostered? To wed the daughter of a humble fisherman was a different matter from offering a penniless future to the grand-daughter of the stately Madam Lee. Even when the possibility of marriage with Cynthia had loomed in his path, his pride had rebelled at the financial inequality of the match. He did not wish to be patronized, to come empty-handed to a princess whose hands were full. The thought had been a galling one. And now once again he was in a similar position. Of course, Madam Lee and the Galbraiths would desire to make good the past; he knew them well enough for that. Delight would be elevated to the same plane with Cynthia, and he would be faced with the old irritating inferiority of fortune. Moreover, in her recently acquired station, the lady of his dreams might scorn such a humble suitor. Who could tell? Wealth worked great changes in individuals sometimes, and at best human nature was a frail, assailable, and incalculable factor. Furthermore the girl had never pledged him her love. There had been no spoken word between them. The vision that had made a Utopia of his world had been, he reflected, of his own creating. He glanced at Delight, but she did not meet his eye. Her gaze was vacantly following the rapidly shifting landscape. Although the glory from the sky shone on her face the radiance that glowed there came only from without and was the result of no inward exultation. Even the gray cottage had assumed a false splendor in the rosy twilight and was lighted with a beauty not its own. When the car stopped, Willie clambered stiffly out and he and Bob helped the women to alight. Then the motor rolled away and they were alone. "Well!" burst out Celestina, her pent-up feeling taking vent, "did you ever know of such a to-do? I've been stiflin' to talk all the way home! Why, you're goin' to be rich, Delight! You'll be aunts, an' uncles, an' cousins with them Galbraiths—picture it! Likely they'll take you to New York with 'em an' to goodness knows where!" The girl did not answer but moved to Willie's side and slipped her hand into his, as if certain of his understanding and sympathy. "You don't seem much set up by your good luck," went on the breathless Celestina. "Delight's kinder bowled over by surprise, Tiny," Willie explained gently. "It's took all our breaths away, I guess." Tenderly he pressed the trembling fingers that clung to his. "You ain't got to worry about it, dearie," whispered he in a caressing tone. "No power can make you do anything you don't choose to; an' what's more, nobody'll want to force you into what won't be for your happiness." "I shall never leave Zenas Henry," Delight said with determination. "An' nobody'll urge you to, dear heart. Don't fret, child, don't fret. To-morrow we'll straighten this snarl all out an' 'til then you've got nothin' to fear. Them as love you shall stay by, I give you my word on it." "Hadn't I better go home to-night and tell them?" The old inventor considered a moment. "I don't believe I would," he answered at last. "They ain't expectin' you, an' if you was to go lookin' so white an' frightened as you do now, 'twould anger Zenas Henry an' upset 'em all. Wait an' see what happens to-morrow. 'Twill be time enough then. You're tired, sweetheart. Stay here an' rest to-night. What do you say, Bob?" "I think it would be much wiser." "Course 'twould," nodded Willie. "You stay right here, like as if nothin' had happened, an' think calmly about it a little while, child. You ain't got to decide a thing at present; furthermore, there may not be anything for you to decide. We've no way of figgerin' what your—your—relations mean to do. Just trust 'em a bit. They're Bob's friends an' I guess we can count on 'em to act as is fair an' right." "They are Bob's friends, aren't they?" repeated the girl, her face brightening as if the fact, hitherto forgotten, gave her confidence. "And splendidly loyal friends too," the young man put in eagerly. "Then I will trust them," she said. "It isn't as if they were strangers." How Robert Morton longed to go to her, to tell her in her sweet dependence how eager he was for the day when no friend of his should be a stranger to her; when their lives would be so closely intertwined that every interest, every hope, every thought of his should be hers also. Perhaps the unuttered wish that trembled on his lips was reflected in his eyes, for after looking up at him she suddenly dropped her lashes and, turning away, followed Tiny into the house. "I've cautioned Celestina not to go talkin' to her any more just now," announced the little old man when she had gone. "Your aunt's an awful good woman; no better lives. But there's times like today when things don't strike her as they do me an' Delight. She's so fond of the girl that her first thought would be for the money an' all that; but that would be the last consideration in the world in Delight's mind. She's awful loyal an' affectionate. Things go deep with her, an' she sets a heap of store by the folks she cares for. Why, Zenas Henry is like her own father. Since she was a wee tot she ain't known no other. While this old lady, her grandmother—what is she? Why, she don't mean nothin'—not a thing!" They walked on toward the shop door, each occupied with his own reveries; then suddenly Willie roused himself. "Why, if here ain't Janoah!" he exclaimed. "What you doin', Jan? Was you after somethin'? I reckon you found the place pretty well deserted an' were wonderin' what had become of us all." "I warn't doin' no wonderin', Willie Spence," the man replied. "I knowed where you'd gone 'cause I saw you ridin' away like a sheep bein' led to the sacrifice." "Like a what?" repeated the inventor with a grin. "An innocent lamb, or a rat in a trap," Janoah said with solemn emphasis. "What are you drivin' at, anyhow?" questioned Willie. "You didn't suspect nothin'?" "Suspect anything? No, of course not. Why?" "You hadn't a suspicion the whole thing was a decoy?" "What whole thing?" "The trip an' all." Willie studied his friend's face in puzzled silence. "Whatever are you tryin' to say?" demanded he at last. Janoah swept his hand dramatically round the shop. "You've been betrayed, Willie!" he announced with tragic intensity. "Betrayed by them as you thought was your friends, an' who you've trusted. I warned you, but you wouldn't listen, an' now the thing I told you would happen has happened." Triumphant pleasure gleamed in the sinister smile. "They tricked you into leavin'," went on the malicious voice, "an' then they came here an' stole what was yours—your invention. I caught 'em doin' it. I hid outside an' overheard 'em tell how they'd been waitin' days for the chance when everybody should be gone. 'Twas that Snelling an' another like him, a draughtsman. They laughed an' said that now the old man was out of the way they could do as they pleased. Then they took all the measurements of your invention, made some sketches, an' took its picter." Willie listened, open-mouthed. "You must be crazy, Janoah," he slowly observed. "I ain't crazy," Janoah replied, with stinging sharpness. "The whole thing was just as I say. It was part of a plot that Snellin' an' Galbraith have been plannin' all along; an' either they've used this young feller here [he motioned toward Robert Morton] as a tool, or else he's in it with 'em." Bob started forward, but Willie's hand was on his arm. "Gently, son," he murmured. Then addressing Janoah he asked: "An' what earthly use could Mr. Galbraith have for—" "'Cause he sees money in it," was the prompt response. A thrill of uneasiness passed through Robert Morton's frame. Had not those very words been spoken both by the capitalist and Howard Snelling? They had uttered them as a laughing prediction, but might they not have rated them as true? With sudden chagrin he looked from Willie to Janoah and from Janoah back to Willie again. "I've been inquirin' up this Galbraith," went on Janoah. "It 'pears he's a big New York shipbuilder—that's what he is—an' Snellin' is one of his head men." If the mischief-maker derived pleasure from dealing out the fruit of his investigations he certainly reaped it now, for he was rewarded by seeing an electrical shock stiffen Willie's figure. "It ain't true!" cried the little inventor. "It ain't true! Is it, Bob?" Robert Morton's eyes fell before his piercing scrutiny. "Yes," was his reluctant answer. "You knew it all along?" "Yes." "An' Snellin'?" "He is in Mr. Galbraith's employ, yes." "An'—an'—you let 'em come here—" began the old man bewildered. "You let 'em come here to steal Willie's idee," interrupted Janoah, wheeling on Bob. "You helped 'em to come, after his takin' you into his home an' all!" "I didn't know what they meant to do," Robert Morton stammered. "I just thought they were going to lend us a hand at working up the thing." "A likely story!" sniffed Janoah with scorn. "No siree! You came here as a tool—you were paid for it, I'll bet a hat!" "You lie." "Prove it," was the taunting response. "I—I—can't prove it," confessed the young man wretchedly, "but Willie knows that what you accuse me of isn't so." With face alight with hope he turned toward the old man at his elbow; but no denial came from the expected source. Willie had sunk down on a pile of boards and buried his face in his hands. "An' I thought they were my friends," they heard him moan. Robert Morton hesitated, then bent over the bowed figure, and as he did so Janoah, casting one last look of gloating delight at the ruin he had wrought, slipped softly from the room. As he went out he heard a broken murmur from the inventor: "I'll—I'll—not—believe it," asserted he feebly. But despite the brave words, the seed of suspicion had taken root, and Robert Morton knew that Willie's confidence in him had been shaken. Still the little old man clung with dogged persistence to his sanguine declaration: "I'll not believe it!" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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