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Left to Themselves

<h2>CHAPTER XV. STORM-STAYED.</h2></div> Files of newspapers, already yellowed, can give the reader, who cares for details of such events, long accounts of the famous gale that suddenly lashed the western Atlantic to a fury of destruction in the autumn of 188–. It swept the rocky coasts of New England with a power that recent tempests have seldom equaled. Fishing-smacks, merchant craft of stalwart build, and yachts, belated in their return home, were dashed by dozens on the reefs of the Middle and Eastern States, swallowed up by the terrific sea that ran at its highest for days together, or, like empty soap-boxes in surf, were driven to shore. The death-list of seamen and others, unfortunate enough to be at the gale’s mercy or mercilessness ran well up into the hundreds. Nor was that all. For scores of miles inland travel was interrupted by wash-outs and cavings-in, on highways and railroads. The telegraph and mail-service[219] were suspended in a dozen directions. Bridges were flooded or swept away as if by spring freshets. In the harbors and straits such tides swelled as made the oldest inhabitants of the villages along them shake in their shoes to hear measured and compared. For four days sheets of rain descended about Chantico with only brief pauses, and when the down-pouring from overhead lightened and at last ceased the wind and ocean were things to send dread into the spirits of even cool-headed skippers and spectators. With every thing in the way of communicating with their friends brought to a stand-still, paralyzed, Philip and Gerald waited on Chantico Island, in company with the Probascos, and watched the whirling and seething clouds and sea. Obed, however, was not able to be with them very often after the second morning. His rheumatism awoke when he did, and it kept the poor man much in his bed and in pain enough to put other dilemmas out of his sympathy. Mrs. Probasco nursed him; “ran” the house; sat for half hours with Touchtone and Gerald, chatting cheerfully and telling long stories of her and Obed’s[220] younger days, when they had lived on their parents’ farms, some miles back of Chantico. She kept a watchful eye on Gerald’s convalescence, and generally was like Cæsar in having “to do all things at one time,” and, like the mighty Julius, she did not complain of the situation. The resources of the farm-house, except for Mrs. Obed’s lively talk, were modest in such an emergency. One could not put his head out of the door except the wind nearly blew it off. But any thing must needs have been of a wonderfully distracting sort to beguile, for Philip Touchtone, at least, hours that he knew must be costing their friends great suspense or deep grief. There was a backgammon-board, with the legend “History of England” on the back, deceiving nobody. Gerald found amusement in another quite astonishing pastime, entitled, as to its large and gaudy label, “The Chequered Game of Life: A Moral and Instructive Amusement for Youth of Both Sexes. By a Friend to Them.” “I wonder if it is meant for us?” Gerald asked when he unearthed this ancient treasure. “I never heard of ‘youth of both sexes’[221] before. I thought people had to be either boys or girls.” Philip partly spent one morning in teaching the solemn cat sundry tricks (much against patient pussy’s will), which afternoon showed she had not given herself the slightest trouble to remember. With Gerald at his elbow, to add accuracy to his notes, he “wrote up” his diary, which had been abiding safely in his traveling-satchel. The partial changes of linen and the convenient odds and ends that their satchels contained were of truly unexpected value now that their trunk was in the bottom of the sea, with the rest of the Old Province’s baggage. Mrs. Probasco took the opportunity to put their limited clothing into thorough order. “Next time I come away on a short voyage I think I’ll pack all the things in my closet into a hand-bag!” Gerald exclaimed, ruefully, taking stock of their resources. “Or send the trunk by land?” laughed Touchtone, grimly. “I’m glad, though, that there was nothing of downright value in the trunk that we couldn’t replace. When we get to Knoxport we can get a wardrobe together directly there, or wherever Mr. Marcy and[222] your father advise. How lucky you didn’t put that daguerreotype of your mother in!—the one that is to be copied.” “Yes,” answered the boy, seriously; “it was lucky. Papa would have felt as badly as I if that had been lost. It’s the only one we like.” Touchtone could see that this prolonged separation of the boy from his father, in more than one sense, would bring them nearer to each other than they ever had been before. “And a precious good thing,” he soliloquized. “The best way to keep some fellows chums seems to have somebody give them both a sound shaking now and then. Perhaps this sort of thing for Gerald and Mr. Saxton amounts to that.” In spite of the resolute silence of Gerald, for the sake of his friend, on the great topic of his father’s or Mr. Marcy’s whereabouts and conclusions, Philip (who certainly did not try to introduce it) knew that most of the time Mr. Saxton was in Gerald’s mind. “Do you know what I think?” he said abruptly, once, looking up from the backgammon-board, after having thrown his dice and placed his men abstractedly during several turns. “I don’t believe that I’ve appreciated papa very[223] much, nor that he has appreciated me very much—till now.” Obed Probasco’s hobbling entrance for supper and a new study of the weather saved Touchtone’s answer to a statement that it struck him came peculiarly near to the truth, and to a very common state of matters between near relatives. They rambled over the old farm-house, the wind roaring and the rain dashing about the eaves and windows. Philip possesses to-day a substantial reminder of this exploring, in the shape of a bright copper warming-pan, one of two that had belonged to “Grandmother Probasco,” which now hangs in restored glory in a place far from that dusky nook it occupied for so many years. The discovery of a rat in the wainscot of the kitchen, within convenient range of the dresser where Mrs. Probasco was accustomed to stand her hot bread and pies, gave occupation to all the household, including Towzer (“You will call that dog Towzer when you know his real name’s Jock,” frequently remonstrated Mrs. Probasco) for a while the second afternoon. In the evening Obed took to telling tales of a certain uncle of his who had[224] been “a seafaring man of oncommon eddication,” and that chronicle whiled away the hours till bed-time, and sent them to bed sleepy into the bargain; the history recounted being of a mild and long-winded sort, and chiefly connected with the efforts of the nautical ancestor to induce “a widow that lived on Cape Ann” to exchange a little piece of ground she owned for a big fishing-smack that she didn’t want, a wedding being part of the proposed transaction. They became, by hearsay, quite familiar with the quaint Chantico people and their characters and ways. For, although Mr. and Mrs. Probasco were so aloof from the little port, several of their kith and kin lived thereabouts, and household supplies and queer chapters of gossip came thence to the island. Philip remembers in these after years, as one sometimes does things heard in a dream, the anecdotes and homely annals that he listened to (or rather half-listened to) during those days. Sometimes a curious name that happens to be read or mentioned will bring back the scenes of that week, and even the wearisome, hoarse noise of sea and storm from hour to hour. By mutual consent, all questions of how far[225] their detention from Chantico might affect their plans were pushed aside, unless Gerald was out of ear-shot. And, in any case, what could they determine? But it does not seldom occur in this conversational world that when every subject seems exhausted people hit upon one that is to turn out the most important. This experience of “talking against time,” as it might be called, with the friendly Probascos gave Touchtone an instance of the fact which he has always thought satisfactory enough. It was Gerald Saxton who, in the evening of the last day of the gale, unintentionally set the ball in motion by a careless remark. Obed happened to be out of the room for the sake of his efficacious bottle of “lineament.” They had been speaking of the island-farm—how fertile it was, how easily cultivated by Obed and by the extra help he employed at certain times of the year; of the commodious old dwelling that the couple had so long occupied that it was only at the days of rent-paying that they realized themselves still tenants and not owners. “You see,” said Mrs. Obed, holding up her[226] darning-needle to re-thread it (making a very wry face in the process), “we’d ’a’ bought the island long ago, Obed and me—though there’s a pretty steep price for it, disadvantages considered—but there’s incumbrances as to the title; an’, besides, when Gran’f’ther Probasco dies (that’s my gran’f’ther over to Peanut Point)—he’s feeble, very feeble—Obed an’ me’ll have to take his farm and live there. It’s a real sightly place, an’ the land’s splendid. But it’ll be a hard pull for us to leave the island after spendin’ so much of our lives here.” “I should think so,” assented Gerald. “I don’t see why that Mr. Jennison you speak of—the one who partly owns the old place still—don’t come over to take a look at it now and then, in the summers. I should think he would like to.” The face of the farmer’s wife changed. “Mr. Jennison isn’t the sort of man to care about that,” she replied. “He does come—sometimes. As it happens, husband kind o’ expected him this very month, on some errand he wrote about last July. There’s a hull roomful of his things up-stairs.” [227] “A roomful of his things!” ejaculated Philip, remembering the locked door. “Yes; when he was a young man an’ used to visit oftener, we got in the way of keepin’ a chamber up-stairs that wasn’t no use to the family of us, as a kind o’ store-room for him. There’s quite a good many old articles o’ furniture an’ trunks and papers. He says they aint o’ any use, though they belonged in the family. He asked us to let ’em stay till he settled somewhere. He aint settled yet.” “Doesn’t he live anywhere?” Mrs. Probasco gave a cough. “I guess you might best say he lives every-where. He’s a roving gentleman, by his own account.” “Then, I suppose, he’s generally in New York, and makes that his head-quarters,” suggested Gerald. “My father says people who live out of New York most of the time always say that. Is he a broker?” “I don’t know just what his business is,” returned Mrs. Probasco. Philip surmised that interesting facts as to Mr. Jennison lurked about. He decided not to interrupt Gerald’s thoughtless catechism. “Sometimes his[228] business seems to be one thing, and sometimes another,” the farmer’s wife concluded. “I’d like to see him.” “I don’t think you’d be specially taken with him,” dryly returned Mrs. Obed. “But he might happen here before you get off. He goes all over the country in long journeys. Sometimes Mr. Clagg—that’s the lawyer over to Chantico—don’t know his address for weeks.” “And he’s really the last of the Jennisons, you say? What a pity he don’t live in this old place himself, and keep it up, for the sake of the family.” Mrs. Probasco examined a stocking carefully. “Yes, it’s a pity. But I don’t much think he could. Mr. Jennison isn’t married, an’ he isn’t rich, you see, nor—” Just then Obed’s strong voice came from the door-way where he had been pausing. “Look here, Loreta,” he exclaimed, banteringly, “I should think you’d feel ashamed of yourself to sit there an’ try to pull the wool over their eyes! Where’s the use? I know you’ve a considerable loyal feelin’ to the Jennisons,[229] but you needn’t carry it so far. The fact is, boys,” he continued, sitting down in his arm-chair with some difficulty—“the fact is Loreta an’ I have come to the conclusion that our Mr. Winthrop Jennison’s grown to be a pretty shady and suspicious sort of character. His life an’ his business seem to be matters that honest folks needn’t inquire into too closely. There, Loreta!” “Now, Obed!” retorted Mrs. Probasco, in great annoyance, “you oughtn’t to say that! You don’t know, for certain, any more than I do.” “May be I don’t know so much. May be I know more—more even than I’ve let on, my dear! For one thing, I haven’t ever yet given you the particulars of what Clagg told me that last afternoon I went over to pay the rent an’ learn if Mr. Jennison’d come from Boston.” “Mr. Clagg? What did Mr. Clagg say, Obed?” asked the wife, her work and the boys forgotten in her sudden anxiety. Evidently the mysterious Mr. Jennison was a standing topic of debate between the pair. “How could you keep so still about it?” “Well, I’ll let you hear now,” Obed replied,[230] good-naturedly, with a wink at Philip, and in some enjoyment of the situation; “but wait. Before I do I’m going to tell the boys here what you know already. Then they’ll understand the rest of my story better. You see, Mr. Touchtone,” he began, “Mr. Winthrop Jennison grew up without father or mother, an’ he was first sent to one boarding-school, then to another, by his uncle, for whom he was named—who owned this place till he died. Mr. Winthrop was a wild kind of a boy, from the first. I guess he wasn’t so downright bad, but he was wild, an’ easy led into bad scrapes. There was two or three we heard of, before his eddication an’ his law studies was done. Then his uncle, that was his guardian, died; an’ Mr. Winthrop was sent to Europe. He’d used to come here quite often in the summers before that. Wife an’ I thought a good deal o’ him, an’ wanted to keep up his interest in the place. But in France and Germany he altered a good deal, an’ spent most of his money, an’ when he got back to New York he hadn’t much. He couldn’t well sell this place, or he wouldn’t, so he always said. At any rate, that wouldn’t have been o’ much use. At last,[231] Mr. Clagg found out he gambled bad, an’ that he’d got into a set of men in the city that was shady enough to turn him into a real blackguard if he didn’t look out! Mr. Clagg talked a lot to him an’ straightened out his money-matters for him, and then he come away from New York and started into practicin’ law in Boston.” Touchtone listened with interest quite as much as Gerald, to whom this was an exciting sketch from real life, which, as later he would find, alas! has so many like it. But the next paragraph of Mr. Winthrop Jennison’s discreditable history made Philip’s attention suddenly sharp, and a flush of color came into his face. “We heard these things an’ lots more about him, better or worse, mostly worse. Wife and I wondered at ’em and was sorry. But whenever he come over here, no matter what he might be further inside, Mr. Winthrop was always a perfect gentleman, not a bit dissipated-lookin’, exceptin’ his bein’ generally very pale; and we rather liked his visits. He seemed pretty well tired out when he was here. He’d shut himself up in his room, or take a boat an’ go fishin’. Wife an’ I think he’s[232] stuck so to the place as a kind of a refuge an’ restin’-place for him when things don’t suit him. He’s a nice-lookin’, pleasant-spoken man, of, I dare say, forty, only he don’t look his age. Well, after he’d been in Boston a while he broke loose again with a hull set of his worst chums. The papers said there was a forgery he and they was all mixed up in together. And when he come here, the same summer that Mr. Clagg knew about, then we found out that he’d got as many as a half dozen names and two or three post-office addresses. “But there was worse to come. One afternoon, in September, he and some o’ the evilest-faced and best-dressed fellows I ever see come to the island from off a yacht. They all sat down there by the Point talkin’ and wranglin’ till sundown. Then Mr. Jennison went off with them in the boat, only comin’ up here a minute to say how-d’-do to Loreta here. Loreta was more afraid of him than glad to see him, for all the soft spot in her heart.” “I wasn’t afraid of him, Obed, but I wasn’t glad to see him,” protested Mrs. Probasco. “I was sure that no man could keep that kind o’ company and seem on such good terms[233] with ’em, and be any longer a credit to his stock.” “A credit to his stock!” mocked Obed. “That’s your usual mild way o’ puttin’ it. She’ll take the man’s part, more or less, till she dies, boys, mark my words! Well, the very week after he and his party landed here, that afternoon, there came a big noise about a robbery of a bank in New York, that all the papers was full of; an’ the parties that managed it planned the hull affair in a yacht they’d hired, an’ they’d expected to get off safe in it when the thing was over. ’Twas a little before your day, Mr. Philip—the Suburban Bank robbery at a place close to New York—” The Suburban Bank robbery! Touchtone caught his breath excitedly. Gerald nearly betrayed his friend by his unguarded look at Philip. But it was dark now, and the storm was boisterous. Obed pursued his tale, unobserving and quite forgetful of any names that he might have read long ago. “Mr. Clagg said that the description given durin’ the trial of those bank-scamps fitted some of Mr. Jennison’s friends ashore that day to a T. I’d taken some good looks at ’em from behind my[234] salt haystacks. Well, after that, wife, here, she kind o’ give up about Mr. Jennison. You felt terrible bad, didn’t you?” “Yes, I did,” Loreta assented, soberly, “though we couldn’t never make up our minds that he was actually any nearer mixed up in the thing. You’d ought to say that,” she added. “You’ve said it for me,” Obed returned. “That’s enough.” His regret and shame at such disgrace to the blood of the Jennisons was as strong as his wife’s, slightly as he expressed it. He continued his story rapidly: “Well, the very week the bank was broken into he arrived here one mornin’ suddenly, an’ he stayed here a couple o’ days. We remembered that later, in the trial; an’ from here he went off to Canada. Next thing Mr. Clagg knew he’d given up all his law business, whatever it amounted to, an’ was doing something, or nothing, in New York again. We scarcely saw him after that. He’s come less and less often, as wife may have told you—once a year, once in two years. He was last over here in the spring. An’ now I come to[235] what Clagg was a-letting on to me the other day, Loreta.” “I hope, I hope, Obed, that it’s nothing worse than what’s come already?” interrupted Mrs. Probasco. In spite of any new and unexpected interest in Obed’s account of the black sheep of the Jennison line, Philip felt a touch of sympathy for her kindly grief. “No, it aint so bad. Yet, it’s a trifle wuss, in one way,” Obed answered, philosophically. “There’s more ways o’ earnin’ a dishonest livin’ than there is for an honest one, I sometimes think. But give me, please, a square an’ fair villain! Clagg says that last year there was a bad case, a most amazin’ one, of blackmail in New York. Do you know what that is, wife? These boys do, I reckon. Well, this was a special, scandalous thing, so Mr. Clagg thinks; an attempt on the part of a couple of rascals to put a family secret into all the newspapers unless the two old ladies they threatened would pay ’em well on to twenty-five thousand dollars to keep quiet. They didn’t succeed. The police took the matter up. The rogues were frightened an’ got out of[236] town as quick as they could, and they haint been heard of since. Clagg says he knows to a certainty that Winthrop Jennison was one of ’em! So that’s his last piece of wickedness, and he’s sunk low enough for that!” “Clagg may be wrong,” replied Mrs. Probasco, sadly. “Clagg isn’t often wrong, and this time he’s certain of what he believes,” replied Probasco, solemnly. “Now you can understand why I feel less than I ever did before like shuttin’ that rascal out from under this roof, whether his grandfathers owned it or not. Now you know why, as I told Mr. Clagg, I’d like him to take away himself an’ every belongin’ he’s got under it. I’m through with him. A blackguard and coward, besides all the rest of his wickedness! If he does turn up here in the course of the next few days or weeks I sha’n’t tell him just that; but I’m going to remind him that this island’s mine, if I pay my rent, an’ henceforth he can stay away. What do you think about that, Loreta?” “I—I reckon you’re about right, Obed,” responded Loreta, meekly. Apparently she realized there was no use a-wasting interest in so worthless and unsafe a direction. [237] “A great story, isn’t it, Mr. Philip?” Probasco demanded, as his wife rose to set supper on, but stood looking out of the window sadly. “Yes—yes—a pretty bad one,” assented Touchtone. He was about to add in as cool and indifferent a tone as he could command, “I wish you could just describe this Mr. Jennison a little more closely for me. Is he light or dark?” He cut short the question unuttered. Gerald was present. But, lo and behold! Mrs. Loreta nearly spoiled his generous precaution. She turned from the window abruptly. “I’ve got a photograph of Mr. Jennison. Would you care to see it?” “A photograph!” replied Gerald, “yes; ever so much! I’d be glad to see what such a bad man looks like.” “Like a very good-looking man,” returned Mrs. Probasco from behind the supper-table. “I’ll get it just as soon as I pour this milk out.” The light shone on Philip’s face. Gerald was looking at the cat rubbing herself against Towzer. Philip quickly shook his head at Mrs. Probasco and laid his finger on his lips. She[238] nodded, surprised, but obedient. Smash on the floor fell the large yellow bowl she carried. Obed and Gerald and Philip started. Gerald ran around the table to see what the calamity amounted to. “’Taint of the least consequence,” she said; “not a bit. I aint often so unhandy. Just hand me that broom there, an’ we’ll get the pieces together.” Philip gave her a grateful and amused look at her clever device, and, passing near her, said, “Don’t talk any more about that story. Don’t let him see the picture! I’ll explain later.” Mrs. Probasco not only heeded his words, but found a chance to put them into Obed’s ear. Obed looked at Touchtone curiously, as he took the hurried hint. “Odd!” he thought to himself. “Dare say he don’t like the little boy to get such a story clearer in his mind. It aint such a pleasant one.” Supper passed off, the Jennison topic avoided. They had an ever-ready substitute for it in the weather. The storm was at last ceasing. The rain was less, the wind shifting. Next morning might be fairly clear. Obed’s rheumatism,[239] however, made it unlikely that they could leave so soon. The farmer was as anxious as they, generous-hearted fellow! but no risks must be run. They were too many miles from the coast. The morning would decide for them. Gerald was disappointed of the photograph after supper. Mrs. Probasco absented herself some time from the room to try and lay her hands on it, “wherever she’d put it last,” but returned without it. Philip thanked her again by an expressive look. She was a discreet woman. Gerald was decoyed away to bed. He was wakeful and tried to engage Philip in a murmured discussion of Obed’s story, and the possibility of there being any thing of private importance to Touchtone in it. But that Touchtone could not at once determine this he soon perceived; and inferring that not much could be properly expected of it the boy ceased talking and fell asleep. Philip walked into the other room. He was a good deal more excited than he seemed. “May I see that photograph you spoke of now, Mrs. Probasco?” he asked. “I’ve had[240] a very special reason for keeping it from Gerald. I’m so much obliged to you both for helping me.” Mrs. Probasco opened the book in which she had slipped it. “There it is. He left it in the house by accident, last spring.” She eyed Philip sharply. He bent over it in the candle-light. It was an imperial photograph from a leading New York studio. It is probable that there never was taken a more unmistakable and perfectly satisfactory likeness of the calm, handsome countenance of—Mr. “John A. Belmont.” Philip was prepared for this certainty. But what was best to be done? Gerald and he, storm-stayed and sheltered under the roof of their enemy and persecutor—liable to be found there by him! They must indeed hurry from this house at the earliest instant. If only Philip had not been so reserved with Mr. and Mrs. Probasco as to the strange and dramatic interference of Belmont in their plans. If he had but given them so much as a hint at the adventure, then there would not now be so much to disclose and explain! Nevertheless, he felt[241] sure he had acted prudently. Many courses occurred to him as he looked at the photograph with his host and hostess on either side of him. “Have you ever seen him, Mr. Touchtone, down to New York, do you think?” asked Obed, certainly little expecting an affirmative reply. Philip laid down the picture and turned to the couple, resolved. “Yes, I have. I began to think so when you were finishing your story, and that’s why I wanted it broken off and this picture kept back. I am sorry to say it, but that man there is an enemy of mine and of Gerald Saxton, or, perhaps, of Gerald’s father. He has given us, unexpectedly, a great deal of trouble since Gerald and I left the Ossokosee. He would be glad, I am sure, to do more if he possibly gets the chance. We met him first as a Mr. Hilliard; and last, he told me to call him Mr. John A. Belmont, of New York. I—I—am a good deal afraid of him.” Obed and Loreta Probasco stared at Touchtone, and then at each other, in astonishment too deep for more than the shortest of their favorite exclamations. “I can tell you the whole story presently.[242] You will see. Gerald has known but very little about it; I don’t intend he shall know much more. But, as to the main point, if Mr. Jennison should find us here, I don’t know what might happen. He must not find us. We are in a queer pickle, without any worse troubles. His landing here before we can get away, or his learning that Gerald and I have spent this time in the house with you, would make our fix far worse, I know. We must get to Chantico and Knoxport to-morrow, if the weather will let us even try it. And if this Mr. Belmont—Jennison, I mean—comes here before you hear from me, you must not let him know we were with you or in this neighborhood. After we once meet Gerald’s people it can’t make any difference. More still, after that, it may be, I’d like to have a chance to talk to him myself, bad as he is. But, for the present, he must not hear our names breathed.” “Well, this is sudden!” Obed ejaculated. “But—” “Hush,” exclaimed Mrs. Probasco, going softly to the hall. “I thought I heard Gerald speaking. No, he’s all right,” she returned, quickly. [243] “I was goin’ to say that wife an’ me had best know more about this right away, Mr. Touchtone,” said Obed, slowly. “It’s pretty queer. If we’re to do you any good, or, rather, not hurt your plans, you might post us a little further.” “Exactly,” Philip replied. “You shall know whatever I can tell you as quickly as I can tell it.” So, for two hours, while Gerald was in dreamland, the “posting” continued. Philip told his story, but not that part of his family history that was hard to narrate to new friends. He answered frankly the many questions that their sympathy prompted. Once clear in their minds, neither Obed nor Mrs. Probasco doubted the story’s truth. “You needn’t say more, to-night at least, Mr. Touchtone,” said Obed, at last; “we’ve heard enough—haint we, Loreta? Your story an’ mine run about as close as stories could—more’s the pity. The weather’s likely to be rough to-morrow, an’ my rheumatics may keep me from getting across till next day. I shall be terrible sorry if I’m not better. I wish I wasn’t alone. I’m pretty sure you’re fairly[244] safe from the chance of Jennison’s coming to the farm this week; but I aint fully sure.” “Well, if he does we can hide you both snug as a bug in a rug,” declared Mrs. Loreta, stoutly. “Precisely,” continued Obed. “Anyway, inside of forty-eight hours you’ll be in Knoxport an’ getting word to your friends—an’ from ’em, I hope. Make your mind easy.” “Yes, we’ll help you all we can to straighten every thing out right,” said his wife. “Nothing will happen to you here but we’ll know about it an’ be ready to go through it with you and that dear boy there that’s left in your charge. The good Lord bless him and you!” The conversation ended. Philip went to bed, but not to sleep for a good hour or so. He speculated and planned. The Probascos talked together in their room assiduously enough. The next day the sky was, to say the least, threatening, and the sea terrifically rough for small craft. Probasco’s rheumatism was worse—one shoulder quite crippled. Philip was not used to navigation of the kind called for. Another day’s delay seemed unwise and unendurable, though he gave up every thing at last.[245] But toward evening it was decided that the next morning, if the weather was even a trifle improved, he and Gerald should leave, with Obed’s help, or without, there being one or two obliging fishermen in Chantico who would bring back the cat-boat. Accordingly, the next morning saw the two embarking, alone. Obed could not budge. Philip promised to exercise every kind of care, and he would communicate with Obed, by way of Chantico, within a few days. They bid these true, if new, friends good-bye. Philip shook Obed’s rough hand as the farmer lay in bed suffering severely, and any thing but patient at so untimely a set-back. “I—I’d rather have lost a small fortune than that things should come this way,” he declared; “an’ I’ll be in as much of a fever as Loreta till we get word from you. I’m sure I wish you could stay a month.” A rough and not particularly direct passage brought them safely to Chantico about noon. It was a bright, cold day. A stage-coach ran to Knoxport. They had exactly time to catch this. By the middle of the afternoon they were trundling along the main business street[246] of Knoxport. They were set down at the door of the Kossuth House, the largest of the few inns the town possessed. “At last! Here at last, Gerald,” exclaimed Touchtone, in deep relief, as they hurried into the office. <hr class="chap" /> [247] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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