"Do you wish to see me, madam?" he asked, crossing to a chair in which the woman sat wrapped in a long cloak, her face buried in her hands.

The woman turned her head towards him without raising her eyelids.

"And you don't know me any more, Mr. Sanford?"

"Betty! You here!" said Sanford, looking in astonishment at the crouching figure before him.

"I had to come, sir. The druggist at the corner showed me the house. I was a-waitin' outside in the street below, hopin' to see you come in.

Then I heard the music and knew you were home." The voice shook with every word. The young dimpled face was drawn and pale, the pretty curly hair in disorder about her forehead. She had the air of one who had been hunted and had just found shelter.

"Does Lacey know you are here?" asked Sanford, a dim suspicion rising in his mind.

Betty shivered slightly, as if the name had hurt her. "No, sir. I left him two nights ago. I got away while he was asleep. All I want now is a place for to-night, and then perhaps to-morrow I can get work."

"And you have no money?" asked Sanford.

Betty shook her head. "I had a little of my own, but it's all gone, and I'm so tired, and-the city frightens me so-when the night comes." The head dropped lower, the sobs choking her. After a little she went on, drying her eyes with her handkerchief, rolled tight in one hand; and resting her cheek on the bent fingers, "I didn't know n.o.body but you, Mr. Sanford. I can pay it back." The voice was scarcely audible.

Sanford stood looking down upon her bowed head. The tired eyelids were half closed, the tears glistening in the light of the overhanging lamp, the shadows of her black curls flecking her face. The cloak hung loosely about her, the curve of her pretty shoulders outlined in its folds. Then she lifted her head, and, looking Sanford in the eyes for the first time, said in a broken, halting voice, "Did you-did you-see-Caleb-Mr. Sanford?"

Sanford nodded slowly in answer. He was trying to make up his mind what he should do with a woman who had broken the heart of a man like Caleb. Through the closed door he heard the strains of Bock's 'cello, the notes vibrating plaintively. They belonged to some other world.

"Betty," he said, leaning over her, "how could you do it?"

The girl covered her face with her hands and shrank within her cloak.

Sanford went on, his sense of Caleb's wrongs overpowering him: "What could Lacey do for you? If you could once see Caleb's face you would never forgive yourself. No woman has a right to leave a man who was as good to her as your husband was to you. And now what has it all come to? You've ruined yourself, and broken his heart."

The girl trembled and bent her head, cowering under the pitiless words; then, in a half-dazed way, she rose from her seat, and, without looking at Sanford, said in a tired, hopeless voice, as if every word brought a pain, "I think I'll go, Mr. Sanford."

Sanford watched her silently as she drew her cloak about her and turned to the door. The pathos of the shrinking girlish figure overcame him. He began to wonder if there were something under it all that even Captain Joe did not know of. Then he remembered the tones of compa.s.sion in Mrs. Leroy's voice when her heart had gone out to this girl the morning before, as she said, "Poor child, her misery only begins now; it is a poor place for a tired foot."

For an instant he stood irresolute. "Wait," he said. "Wait a moment."

Betty stood still, without raising her head.

Sanford paused in deep thought, with averted eyes.

"Betty," he murmured at last in a softened voice, "you can't go out like this alone. I'll take you, child, where you will be safe for the night."

CHAPTER XI

CAPTAIN JOE'S TELEGRAM

The morning after Betty's visit to Sanford's apartments, Captain Joe was seen hurrying up the sh.o.r.e road at Keyport toward his cottage. His eyes shone with excitement, and his breath came in short, quick puffs.

He wore his rough working-clothes, and held a yellow envelope in his hand. When he reached the garden gate he swung it open with so mighty a jerk that the sound of the dangling ball and chain thumping against the palings brought Aunty Bell running to the porch.

"Sakes alive, Cap'n Joe!" she exclaimed, following him into the kitchen, "whatever's the matter? Ain't n.o.body hurted, is there?"

"There will be ef I don't git to New York purty quick. Mr. Sanford's got Betty, an' them Leroy folks is a-keepin' on her till I git there."

Aunty Bell sank into a chair, her hands twisted in her ap.r.o.n, the tears starting in her eyes.

"Who says so?"

"Telegram-come in the night," he answered, almost breathless, throwing the yellow envelope into her lap. "Git me a clean shirt quick as G.o.d'll let ye. I ain't got but ten minutes to catch that eight-ten train."

"But ye ain't a-goin' till ye see Caleb, be ye? He won't like it, maybe, if"-

"Don't ye stop there talkin', Aunty Bell. Do as I tell ye," he said, stripping off his suspenders and tugging at his blue flannel shirt. "I ain't a-goin' to stop for n.o.body nor nothin'. That little gal's fetched up hard jes' where I knowed she would, an' I won't have a minute's peace till I git my hands onto her. I ain't slep' a night since she left, an' you know it."

"How do ye know she'll come with ye?" asked Aunty Bell, as she gave him his shirt. Her hands were trembling.

"I ain't a-worritin'," he answered, thrusting his head and big chest into the stiff garment; fumbling, as he spoke, with his brown hands, for the b.u.t.tons. "Gimme that collar."

"Well, I'm kind'er wonderin' if ye hadn't better let Caleb know. I don't know what Caleb'll say"-

"I ain't a-carin' what Caleb says. I'll stop that leak when I git to 't." He held his breath for a moment and clutched the porcelain b.u.t.ton with his big fingers, trying to screw it into his collar, as if it had been a nut on a bolt. "Here, catch hold o' this b.u.t.ton; it's so plaguy tight. No,-I don't want no toothbrush, nor nothin'. I wouldn't 'er come home at all, but I was so gormed up, an' she's along with them Leroy folks Mr. Sanford knows. My-my"-he continued, forcing his great arms through the tight sleeves of his Sunday coat with a humping motion of his back, and starting toward the door. "Jes' to think o'

Betty wanderin' 'bout them streets at night!"

"Why, ye ain't got no cravat on, Cap'n Joe!" called Aunty Bell, running after him, tie in hand, to the porch.

"Here, give it to me!" he cried, s.n.a.t.c.hing it and cramming it into his pocket. "I'll fix it on the train." In another moment he was halfway down the plank walk, waving his hand, shouting back over his shoulder, "Send word to Cap'n Bob to load them other big stone an' git 'em to the Ledge to-day; the wind's goin' to haul to the south'ard. I'll be back 'bout eight o'clock to-night."

Aunty Bell looked after his hurrying figure until the trees shut it from view; then, gasping with excitement, angry with herself for having asked so little, she reentered the kitchen and again dropped into a chair.

Betty's flight had been a sore blow to the bustling little wife. She had been the last to believe that Betty had really deserted Caleb for Lacey, even after Captain Joe had told her how the mate of the Greenport boat had seen them board the New York train together.

As for the captain, he had gone about his work with his mind filled with varying emotions: sympathy for Caleb, sorrow and mortification over Betty's fall, and bitter, intense, dangerous hatred of Lacey.

These were each in turn, as they a.s.sailed her, consumed by a never ending hunger to get the child home again, that she might begin the undoing of her fatal step. To him she was still the little girl he used to meet on the road, with her hair in a tangle about her head, her books under her arm. As he had never fully realized, even when she married Caleb, that anything had increased her responsibilities, or that she could be anything but the child she looked,-so he could not now escape the conviction that somehow or other "she'd been hoodooed,"

as he expressed it, and that when she came to herself her very soul would cry out in bitter agony.

Every day since her flight he had been early and late at the telegraph office, and had directed Bert Simmons, the letter-carrier on the sh.o.r.e road, to hunt him up wherever he might be,-on the dock or aboard his boat,-should a letter come bearing his name. The telegram, therefore, was not a surprise. That Sanford should have found her was what he could not understand.

Aunty Bell, with the big secret weighing at her heart, busied herself about the house, so as to make the hours pa.s.s quickly. She was more conservative and less impulsive in many things than the captain; that is, she was apt to consider the opinions of her neighbors, and shape her course accordingly, unless stopped by one of her husband's outbursts and won over to his way of thinking. The captain knew no law but his own emotions, and his innate sense of right and wrong sustained by his indomitable will and courage. If the other folks didn't like it, the other folks had to get out of the way; he went straight on.

"Ain't n.o.body goin' to have nothin' to do with Betty, if she does git tired of Lacey an' wants to come home, poor child," Aunty Bell had said to Captain Joe only the night before, as they sat together at supper. "Them Nevins gals was sayin' yesterday they'd pa.s.s her on the road and wouldn't speak to her, not if they see her starvin', and was a-goin' on awful about it; and Mis' Taft said"-

The captain raised his head quickly. "Jane Bell,"-when the captain called Aunty Bell "Jane" the situation was serious,-"I ain't got nothin' to do with them Nevins gals, nor Mis' Taft, nor n.o.body else, and you ain't got nothin', neither. Ain't we hed this child runnin' in an' out here jes' like a kitten ever since we been here? Don't you know clean down in yer heart that there ain't no better gal ever lived 'n Betty? Ain't we all liable to go 'stray, and ain't we all of us so dirt mean that if we had our hatches off there ain't n.o.body who see our cargo would speak to us? Now don't let me hear no more about folks pa.s.sin' her by. I ain't a-goin' to pa.s.s her by, and you ain't, neither, if them Nevins gals and old Mother Taft and the whole kit and caboodle of 'em walks on t'other side."

She remembered the very sound of these words, as she rested for a moment, rocking to and fro, in the kitchen, after the captain had gone, her fat little feet swinging clear of the floor. She could even hear the tone of his voice, and could see the flashing of his eye. The remembrance gave her courage. She wanted some one to come in, that she might put on the captain's armor and fight for the child herself.

She had not long to wait. Mrs. Taft was already coming up the walk,-for dinner, perhaps. Carleton was walking beside her. They had met at the gate.

"I heard the captain had to go to New York, Aunty Bell, and so I thought maybe you'd be alone," said Mrs. Taft, taking off her bonnet.

"No news from the runaway, I suppose? Ain't it dreadful? She's the last girl in the world I would 'a' thought of doing a thing like that."