Keziah Coffin

J >> Joseph C. Lincoln >> Keziah Coffin


"I hope--" he began again. She interrupted him.

"No," she said confusedly, "you didn't frighten me. I was a little
startled when I saw you there behind me. It seemed so odd, because I was
just thinking--No, I wasn't frightened. What is there to be frightened
of--in Trumet?"

He had extended his hand, but partially withdrew it, not sure how even
such a perfunctory act of friendliness might be received. She saved him
embarrassment by frankly offering her own.

"Not much, that's a fact," he said, in answer to her question. He
would have liked to ask what she had been thinking that made his sudden
appearance seem so odd.

"You came to see the sunset, I suppose?" she said hurriedly, as if to
head off a question. "So did I. It is a beautiful evening for a walk,
isn't it?"

She had said precisely the same thing on that other evening, when they
stood in the middle of "Hammond's Turn-off" in the driving rain. He
remembered it, and so, evidently, did she, for she colored slightly and
smiled.

"I mean it this time," she said. "I'm glad you didn't get cold from your
wetting the other day."

"Oh! I wasn't very wet. You wouldn't let me lend you the umbrella, so I
had that to protect me on the way home."

"Not then; I meant the other morning when Nat--Cap'n Hammond--met you
out on the flats. He said you were wading the main channel and it was
over your boots."

"Over my boots! Is that all he said? Over my head would be the plain
truth. To cross it I should have had to swim and, if what I've heard
since is true, I doubt if I could swim that channel. Captain Hammond
helped me out of a bad scrape."

"Oh, no! I guess not. He said you were cruising without a pilot and he
towed you into port; that's the way he expressed it."

"It was worse than that, a good deal worse. It might have been my last
cruise. I'm pretty certain that I owe the captain my life."

She looked at him uncomprehendingly.

"Your life?" she repeated.

"I believe it. That part of the channel I proposed swimming was exactly
where two men have been drowned, so people say. I'm not a very strong
swimmer, and they were. So, you see."

Grace cried out in astonishment.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. Then pointing toward the bay, she asked: "Out
there, by the end of that leader, was it?"

"Yes, that was it."

She drew a long breath. Then, after a moment:

"And Nat spoke as if it was all a joke," she said.

"No doubt he did. From what I hear of your brother, he generally refers
to his own plucky, capable actions as jokes. Other people call them
something else."

She did not answer, but continued to gaze at the half-submerged
"leader," with the pine bough tied at its landward end to mark the edge
of deep water, and the tide foaming through its lath gratings.

"Your brother--" went on the minister.

"He isn't my brother," she interrupted absently. "I wish he was."

She sighed as she uttered the last sentence.

"No, of course he isn't your real brother; I forgot. But he must seem
like one."

"Yes," rather doubtfully.

"You must be proud of him."

"I am." There was nothing doubtful this time.

"Well, he saved me from drowning. I'm almost certain of that."

"I'm so glad."

She seemed to mean it. He looked at her.

"Thank you," he said drily. "I'm rather glad myself."

"Oh! I didn't mean it exactly that way. Of course I'm glad you weren't
drowned, but I'm especially glad that--that one of our family saved you.
Now you won't believe that Come-Outers are all bad."

"I never believed it."

She shook her head.

"Oh, yes, you did," she affirmed stubbornly. "You've heard nothing good
of us since you came here. Don't tell fibs, Mr. Ellery."

"But I assure you--"

"Nonsense! Does--well, does Cap'n Daniels, or his daughter, say anything
good of us? Be honest, do they?"

"I hardly think--that is, I shouldn't call their opinions unprejudiced.
And, Miss Van Horne, perhaps the prejudice isn't all on one side. What
did your uncle say about Cap'n Nat's meeting me the other day?"

"Uncle Eben doesn't know. Nat didn't tell anyone but me. He doesn't
boast. And uncle would be glad he helped you. As I told you before, Mr.
Ellery, I'm not ashamed of my uncle. He has been so good to me that I
never can repay him, never! When my own father was drowned he took me
in, a little orphan that would probably have been sent to a home, and
no father could be kinder or more indulgent than he has been. Anything
I asked for I got, and at last I learned not to ask for too much. No
self-denial on his part was too great, if he could please me. When he
needed money most he said nothing to me, but insisted that I should be
educated. I didn't know until afterwards of the self-sacrifice my four
years at the Middleboro Academy meant to him."

The minister had listened eagerly to this defense of the man whom he had
been led to consider his arch enemy. It was given with spirit and the
girl's head was uplifted and her eyes flashed as she spoke. Ellery's
next remark was uttered without premeditation. Really, he was thinking
aloud.

"So you went away to school?" he mused. "That is why--"

"That is why I don't say 'never done nothin'' and 'be you' and
'hain't neither.' Yes, thank you, that's why. I don't wonder you were
surprised."

The young man blushed.

"You misunderstand me," he protested. "I didn't mean--"

"Oh! yes, you did. Not precisely that, perhaps, but pretty near it. I
suppose you expected me to speak like Josiah Badger or Kyan Pepper. I
try not to. And I try not to say 'immejitly,' too," she added, with a
mischievous twinkle.

Ellery recognized the "immejitly" quotation and laughed.

"I never heard but one person say that," he observed. "And he isn't a
Come-Outer."

"No, he isn't. Well, this lesson in English can't be very interesting
to you, Mr. Ellery, and I must go. But I'm very glad Nat helped you the
other day and that you realize the sort of man he is. And I'm glad I
have had the opportunity to tell you more about Uncle Eben. I owe him
so much that I ought to be glad--yes, glad and proud and happy, too, to
gratify his least wish. I must! I know I must, no matter how I--What
am I talking about? Yes, Mr. Ellery, I'm glad if I have helped you to
understand my uncle better and why I love and respect him. If you knew
him as I do, you would respect him, too. Good-by."

She was going, but the minister had something to say. He stepped forward
and walked beside her.

"Just a minute, please," he urged. "Miss Van Horne, I do understand. I
do respect your uncle. We have a mutual friend, you and I, and through
her I have come to understand many things."

Grace turned and looked at him.

"A mutual friend?" she repeated. "Oh! I know. Mrs. Coffin?"

"Yes; Mrs. Coffin. She's a good woman and a wise one."

"She's a dear! Do you like her, too?"

"Indeed, I do."

"Has she told you about me--about uncle, I mean?"

"Yes. Why, she told me--"

He began to enumerate some of the things Keziah had told concerning the
Hammond family. They were all good things, and he couldn't help seeing
that the recital pleased her. So he went on to tell how his housekeeper
had helped him, of her advice, of her many acts of kindness, of what
he owed to her. The girl listened eagerly, asking questions, nodding
confirmation, and, in her delight at hearing Keziah praised, quite
forgetting her previous eagerness to end the interview. And, as he
talked, he looked at her, at the red light on her hair, the shine of
her eyes, like phosphorus in the curl of a wave at night, at her long
lashes, and--

--"Yes," said Miss Van Horne, "you were saying--"

The minister awoke with a guilty start. He realized that his sentence
had broken off in the middle.

"Why! why--er--yes," he stammered. "I was saying that--that I don't know
what I should have done without Mrs. Coffin. She's a treasure. Frankly,
she is the only real friend I have found in Trumet."

"I know. I feel the same way about her. She means so much to me. I love
her more than anyone else in the world, except uncle, of course--and
Nat. I miss her very much since--since--"

"Since I came, you mean. I'm sorry. I wish--I hate to think I am the
cause which separates you two. It isn't my fault, as you know."

"Oh! I know that."

"Yes, and I object to having others choose my friends for me, people
who, because of a fanatical prejudice, stand in the way of--If it wasn't
for that, you might call and see Mrs. Coffin, just as you used to do."

Grace shook her head. They had moved on to the bend of the bluff, beyond
the fringe of pines, and were now standing at the very edge of the high
bank.

"If it wasn't for that, you would come," asserted the minister.

"Yes, I suppose so. I should like to come. I miss my talks with Aunt
Keziah more than you can imagine--now especially. But, somehow, what we
want to do most seems to be what we mustn't, and what we don't like is
our duty."

She said this without looking at him, and the expression on her face was
the same sad, grave one he had noticed when he first saw her standing
alone by the pine.

"Why don't you come?" he persisted.

"I can't, of course. You know I can't."

"Why not? If my company is objectionable I can go away when you come. If
you dislike me I--"

"You know I don't dislike you personally."

"I'm awfully glad of that."

"But it's impossible. Uncle respects and is fond of Aunt Keziah, but he
wouldn't hear of my visiting the parsonage."

"But don't you think your uncle might be persuaded? I'm sure he
misunderstands me, just as I should him if it weren't for Mrs.
Coffin--and what you've said. Don't you think if I called on him and he
knew me better it might help matters? I'll do it gladly. I will!"

"No, no. He wouldn't listen. And think of your own congregation."

"Confound my congregation!"

"Why, Mr. Ellery!"

She looked at him in amazement; then her lips began to curl.

"Why, Mr. Ellery!" she repeated.

The minister turned very red and drew his hand across his forehead.

"I--I don't mean that exactly," he stammered. "But I'm not a child. I
have the right to exercise a man's discretion. My parish committee must
understand that. They shall! If I choose to see you--Look out!"

She was close to the overhanging edge of the bluff and the sod upon
which she stood was bending beneath her feet. He sprang forward, caught
her about the waist, and pulled her back. The sod broke and rattled down
the sandy slope. She would have had a slight tumble, nothing worse, had
she gone with it. There was no danger; and yet the minister was very
white as he released her.

She, too, was pale for a moment, and then crimson.

"Thank you," she gasped. "I--I must go. It is late. I didn't realize how
late it was. I--I must go."

He did not answer, though he tried to.

"I must go," she said hurriedly, speaking at random. "Good afternoon.
Good-by. I hope you will enjoy your walk."

"I have enjoyed it." His answer was unstudied but emphatic. She
recognized the emphasis.

"Will you come to see Mrs. Coffin?" he asked.

"No, no. You know I can't. Good-by. The sunset is beautiful, isn't it?"

"Beautiful, indeed."

"Yes. I--I think the sunsets from this point are the finest I have ever
seen. I come here every Sunday afternoon to see them."

This remark was given merely to cover embarrassment, but it had an
unexpected effect.

"You DO?" cried the minister. The next moment he was alone. Grace Van
Horne had vanished in the gloom of the pine thickets.

It was a strange John Ellery who walked slowly back along the path, one
that Keziah herself would not have recognized, to say nothing of
Captain Elkanah and the parish committee. The dignified parson, with
the dignified walk and calm, untroubled brow, was gone, and here was
an absent-minded young fellow who stumbled blindly along, tripping over
roots and dead limbs, and caring nothing, apparently, for the damage to
his Sunday boots and trousers which might result from the stumbles. He
saw nothing real, and heard nothing, not even the excited person who,
hidden behind the bayberry bush, hailed him as he passed. It was not
until this person rushed forth and seized him by the arm that he came
back to the unimportant affairs of this material earth.

"Why! Why, Mr. Pepper!" he gasped. "Are you here? What do you want?"

"Am I here?" panted Kyan. "Ain't I been here for the last twenty minutes
waitin' to get a chance at you? Ain't I been chasin' you from Dan
to Beersheby all this dummed--excuse me--afternoon? Oh, my godfreys
mighty!"

"Why, what's the matter?"

"Matter? Matter enough! It's all your fault. You got me into the mess,
now you git me out of it."

Usually, when Abishai addressed his clergyman, it was in a tone of
humble respect far different from his present frantic assault. The
Reverend John was astounded.

"What IS the trouble, Mr. Pepper?" he demanded. "Behave yourself, man.
What IS it?"

"You--you made me do it," gurgled Kyan. "Yes, sir, 'twas you put me up
to it. When you was at our house t'other day, after Laviny locked me up,
you told me the way to get square was to lock her up, too. And I done
it! Yes, sir, I done it when she got back from meetin' this noon. I
run off and left her locked in. And--and"--he wailed, wringing his
hands--"I--I ain't dast to go home sence. WHAT'll I do?"


CHAPTER IX

IN WHICH MISS DANIELS DETERMINES TO FIND OUT


The hysterical Mr. Pepper doubtless expected his clergyman to be almost
as much upset as he was by the news of his action. But John Ellery was
provokingly calm. As a matter of fact he scarcely grasped the purport of
the little man's disjointed story. He had been wandering in dreamland,
his head among the clouds, and the explosion of Keziah's bomb disturbed,
but did not clear the air.

"What will you do?" he repeated. "Why--er--I don't know, I'm sure."

Kyan was staggered.

"You don't know?" he shouted. "YOU don't? Then who does, for the land
sakes? Didn't you tell me to lock her up? Didn't I do it 'CAUSE you told
me? Didn't--didn't--"

He seemed to be on the verge of apoplexy. Also he had raised his
voice to a yell. The minister seized him by the arm and shook him into
silence.

"Hush! hush!" he commanded. "Wait a minute. Let me understand this
thing. Some one is locked up, you say. Who is it? Where--"

"WHO is it? Ain't I tellin' you. It's Laviny. She went into that spare
room where I was t'other day and I slammed the spring lock to on her.
Then I grabbed the key and run. That was afore three this afternoon; now
it's 'most night and I ain't dast to go home. What'll she say when I
let her out? I got to let her out, ain't I? She can't starve to death in
there, can she? And YOU told me to do it! YOU did! Oh--"

The apoplectic attack was once more imminent.

"Stop it, Mr. Pepper," ordered Ellery. "I don't remember telling you
to lock your sister up, though--Why, yes, I may have said something or
other, as a joke, but I didn't expect you would seriously consider doing
such a thing. Ha, ha! This is the most idiotic piece of business that I
ever--"

"Be you laughin'?" demanded the shocked Abishai. "LAUGHIN'? Why, my
godfreys mighty! Idiotic? Well, who's the idiot? 'Tain't me! I'D never
have thought of such a fool trick. But you said--"

"Hush! Let me think. Have you told anybody?"

"TOLD anybody! I guess NOT. And nobody'll never know if they wait for me
to tell 'em."

"Well, then, I don't see why you can't go home and--hum--I don't like
to advise your telling a lie, but you might let her infer that it was an
accident. OR, if you really mean to be your own master, you can tell her
you did it purposely and will do it again if she ever tries the trick on
you."

"I tell her that! I tell her! O Mr. Ellery, DON'T talk so. You don't
know Laviny; she ain't like most women. If I should tell her that
she'd--I don't know's she wouldn't take and horsewhip me. Or commit
suicide. She's said she would afore now if--if--"

"Nonsense! She won't do that, you needn't worry." He burst into another
laugh, but checked himself, as he saw the look of absolute distress on
poor Kyan's face.

"Never mind, Mr. Pepper," he said. "We'll think of some plan to smooth
matters over. I'll go home with you now and we'll let her out together."

"Will you, Mr. Ellery? Will you, honest? Say, by godfreys mighty, I'd
get down on my knees and thank you this minute if--if I wa'n't in such a
hurry. Come right on; come quick!"

It was a silent procession of two that wended its way out of the pines
and across the fields, by the brook and the pond, where the evening
mists were rising and the frogs chanting their good-night song,
through the gathering twilight shades, across the main road and up the
lighthouse lane. Kyan, his mind filled with fearful forebodings, was
busily trying to think of a reasonable excuse for the "accidental"
imprisonment of his sister. John Ellery was thinking, also, but his
thoughts were not of the Peppers.

The little house was dark and still as they approached it. No welcoming
light in the dining-room windows, no open door, no shrill voice
demanding to know where the wandering brother had been "all this
everlastin' time." Even the hens had gone to roost. Abishai groaned.

"Oh, dear!" he wailed. "I'm scart to death. Where is she? You don't
cal'late she's done it, do ye?"

"Done it? Done what?"

"Done the suicidin'. She said she would if--O Laviny!"

"Hush! Be quiet. She's all right. She's in the room where you left her,
of course. She couldn't get out, could she? You've got the key. Come
in."

They entered the house. The dining room was dark and quiet. So was the
sitting room. The clock ticked, solemn and slow. Kyan clutched at his
companion's arm.

"I don't hear her," he whispered. "You don't s'pose she HAS done it?
Godfreys mighty!"

The gloom and mystery were having their effect, even on Mr. Ellery's
nerves. His answer also was given in a tense whisper, but with some
irritation.

"Hush!" he murmured. "Let go of my wrist. You've pinched it black and
blue. Which room did you leave her in? Show me at once."

Kyan's trembling knees managed to carry him to the little hall leading
from the sitting room toward the ell at the side of the house. This hall
was almost pitch black. The minister felt his guide's chin whisker brush
his ear as the following sentence was literally breathed into it:

"Here--here 'tis," panted Kyan. "Here's the door. I don't hear nothin',
do you? Listen!"

They listened. Not a sound, save the dismal tick of the clock in the
room they had left. Ellery knocked on the door.

"Miss Pepper," he said; "Miss Pepper, are you there?"

Kyan caught his breath. No answer.

"Miss Pepper," repeated the minister. "Miss Pepper!"

Silence, absolute. Abishai could stand it no longer. He groaned and
collapsed on his knees.

"She has!" he moaned. "She's done it and there ain't nothin' in there
but her remains. Oh, my soul!"

Ellery, now rather frightened himself, shook him violently.

"Be quiet, you idiot!" he commanded. "We must go in. Give me the key."

After repeated orders and accompanying shakings, Kyan produced a key.
The minister snatched it from his trembling fingers, felt for the
keyhole and threw the door open. The little room was almost as dark as
the hall and quite as still. There was a distinct smell of old clothes
and camphor.

"A match," demanded Ellery. "Quick!"

"I ain't got none," quavered Mr. Pepper. "They're all in the box in the
settin' room. Oh, my godfreys mighty! What'll I do? What undertaker'll I
have? Solon Tripp's the reg'lar one, but Laviny and he had a row and
she said she'd come back and ha'nt me if I ever let him touch her
rema--Where you goin'? DON'T LEAVE ME HERE!"

The minister was going after a match, and said so. In a moment he
returned with several. One of these he lit. The brimstone sputtered,
burned blue and fragrant, then burst into a yellow flame.

The little room was empty.

John Ellery drew a breath of relief. Then he laughed.

"Humph!" he exclaimed. "She's gone."

"GONE? Why, she ain't nuther! Where could she go?"

"I don't know, but she has gone--somewhere. At any rate, she's not
here."

Kyan rose to his feet. His alarm had changed to paralyzed astonishment.

"How could she go?" he repeated. "That window won't open more'n six
inches. Laviny ain't what you'd call fleshy, but she never could squeeze
through that in this world. And I locked the door, 'cause I heard the
click. I--I--I--do you b'lieve in spirits, Mr. Ellery?"

"Nonsense! Come into the sitting room, light a lamp, and let's talk it
over."

The lamp was found and lighted at last. Its radiance brightened the
dingy sitting room.

"Do you b'lieve in spirits?" repeated Kyan. "I've heard yarns about
folks bein' spirited away, but I never took much stock in 'em. And,"
he added with conviction, "'twould take a pretty husky spirit to handle
Laviny if she had her mad up. She--Hush! hear that!"

The sound of wheels was heard in the lane by the front gate. A vehicle
stopped. Then some one called a hurried good night. Mr. Pepper's fear
returned.

"It's her!" he cried. "She's been ahuntin' for me. NOW I'll get it!
You stand by me, Mr. Ellery. You got to. You said you would. But how on
earth did she get--"

The minister motioned him to silence.

"I'll stand by you," he whispered. "Don't speak. Leave it to me."

A step sounded on the back step. The dining-room door was hurriedly
thrown open.

"'Bishy," called Miss Pepper eagerly. "'Bish, where are you?"

"Here--here I be, Laviny," faltered Kyan.

His sister appeared on the threshold. She was dressed in her Sunday
best, flowered poke bonnet, mitts, imitation India shawl, rustling black
bombazine gown. She looked at Mr. Pepper then at the minister.

"O Mr. Ellery!" she exclaimed, "be you here?"

The Reverend John admitted his presence. Miss Pepper's demeanor
surprised him. She did not seem angry; indeed, she acted embarrassed and
confused, as if she, and not her brother, were the guilty party.

"I'm afraid I'm awful late, 'Bishy," she said. "Have you had your
supper?"

Kyan was too perturbed to venture a reply. The sword above his head was
quivering on its single hair and he was preparing to dodge the fall. But
it did not fall.

"You haven't had any supper, have you?" purred Miss Pepper pityingly.
"It's too bad. You poor thing! you must be awful hungry."

She moved across the room and kissed him. Abishai, who had prepared
himself for a different sort of greeting, clutched his chair with both
hands. He looked as if he might faint. The minister gazed open-mouthed.

"I'm awful sorry, Mr. Ellery," gushed Lavinia, removing the bonnet. "You
see, I was invited out to ride this afternoon and--and--I went."

She glanced at her brother, reddened--yes, almost blushed--and
continued.

"You know, 'Bishy," she said "Thankful Payne's cousin's home avisitin'
her. He come about that cousin's will--the other cousin that's just
died. He's a reel nice man--her live cousin is--keeps a shoe store up
to Sandwich, and I used to know him years ago. When I was over to
Thankful's t'other day, him and me had quite a talk. We got speakin' of
what nice drives there was around Trumet and--and--er--well, he asked me
if I wouldn't like to go to ride next Sunday afternoon--that's to-day.
And a ride bein' a good deal of a treat to me, I said I would. Thankful
was goin', too, but--er--er--she couldn't very well. So Caleb--that's
his name, you remember, 'Bishy--he come round with his horse and team
about ha'f past three and we started. But I'd no IDEE 'twas so late.
I--I--meant to tell you I was goin', 'Bish, but I forgot."

Kyan had listened to this recital, or explanation, or apology, with a
curious succession of expressions passing over his face. He swallowed
two or three times, but did not interrupt.

"I'm so sorry I kept you waitin' supper," gushed Lavinia. "I'll get you
a good one now. Oh, well, deary me! I must be gettin' absent-minded. I
ain't asked you where you've been all the afternoon."

Abishai's eyes turned beseechingly toward his promised backer. Ellery
could not resist that mute appeal.

"Your brother has been with me for some time, Miss Pepper," he
volunteered.

"Oh, has he? Ain't that nice! He couldn't have been in better comp'ny,
I'm sure. But oh, say, 'Bishy! I ain't told you how nigh I come to not
gettin' out at all. Just afore Mr. Payne come, I was in that spare room
and--you remember I put a spring lock on that door?"

It was here at last. The long-dreaded explosion was imminent. Kyan's
chin shook. He braced himself for the blow. The minister prepared to
come to the rescue.

"Yes," went on Lavinia. "I--I put a lock on that door so's I--I could
shut the room up when I wanted to. Well, when I was in there this
afternoon the wind blew the door shut and--Hey?"

"I--I never said nothin'," panted Kyan.

"Yes, it blew to, the lock clicked, and there I was. If I hadn't had the
other key in my pocket I don't know's I wouldn't have been in there yet.
That would have been a pretty mess, wouldn't it! He! he! he!"

She laughed shrilly. The minister looked at her, then at her brother,
and he, too, burst into a shout of laughter. Kyan did not laugh; yet his
grip upon the chair relaxed, and over his countenance was spreading a
look of relief, of hope and peace, like a clear sunrise after a stormy
night.