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Flood Tide

<h3> CHAPTER XII </h3> <h3> ROBERT MORTON MAKES A RESOLVE </h3> Robert Morton returned from Belleport in a mood bordering on ecstasy, his path now clear before him. He would woo Delight Hathaway and win her, and with a strong mutual love and hope they would set forth in life together. He had, to be sure, no capital but his youth, his strength, and his education, but he did not shrink from hard work and felt certain that he would be able not only to keep want in abeyance but place happiness within the reach of the woman he loved. Until Madam Lee, with her keen-visioned knowledge of human nature, had ranged in perspective all the tangled circumstances that had so insidiously woven themselves about him, he had been unable to see his way. The fetters that held him were so delicate and intangible that with an exaggerated sense of honor he had magnified them into bonds of steel, never daring to believe that they might be snapped and leave no scar. But now the facts stood lucidly forth. There was no actual engagement between himself and Cynthia, nor had there ever been any talk of one. He simply had been thrown constantly into her society and had drifted, at first thoughtlessly and afterward indifferently, until there had been created not only in the mind of the girl but also in the minds of all her family a tacit expectation that ultimately their permanent union would be consummated. From the Galbraiths' point of view such a marriage would have been a very gratifying one, for although Robert Morton was without money, in his sterling character and his potentalities for success they had every faith. A span of years of intimacy had tested his worth, and had this not been the case his friendship with Roger had proved the tough fiber of his manliness. Of all their son's college acquaintances there was none who had been welcomed into the Galbraith home with the cordiality that had greeted Robert Morton. At first they had received him graciously for their boy's sake, but later this initial sufferance had been supplanted by an affectionate regard existing purely because of his own merits. They had loaded him with favors, pressed their hospitality upon him, and but for a certain pride and independence that restrained them would have smoothed his financial difficulties with the same lavishness they had those of their son. Many a time Mr. Galbraith, unable to endure the sight of Bob's rigid self-denial, had delicately hinted at assistance, only to have the offer as delicately declined. It hurt and piqued the financier to be so firmly kept at a distance and be obliged to witness privations which a small gift of money might have alleviated; moreover he liked his own way and did not enjoy being balked in it by a schoolboy. Yet beneath his irritation he paid tribute to the self-respecting determination that had prompted the rebuff. The world in which he moved held few men of such ideals. Rather he had repeatedly been courted by the grafter, the promoter, the social climber, each beneath a thinly disguised friendship working for his own selfish ends. But here at last was the novel phenomena of one who scorned pelf, who would not even allow his gratitude to be bought. The sight was refreshing. It rejuvenated the New Yorker's jaded belief in human nature. Forced to withdraw his bounty, he had sat back and watched while the academic career of the two young men wore on and at its close had seen the roads of the classmates divide, his own boy entering the law school, while Robert Morton, whose mind had always been of scientific trend, enrolled at Technology, there to take up post-graduate work in naval architecture. The choice of this subject reflected largely the capitalist's influence, for his own great fortune had been amassed in an extensive shipbuilding enterprise in which he saw the opportunity of placing advantageously a young man of Robert Morton's exceptional ability. The promised position was a variety of favor that Bob, proud though he was, saw no reason for declining. The opening, to be sure, would be his as a consequence of Mr. Galbraith's kindness, but the retention of the position would rest on his personal worth and hard work, a very satisfactory condition to one who demanded that he remain captain of his soul. Hence he had deliberately trained for the post and it was understood that the following October he would assume it. It was a flattering beginning for a novice, the salary guaranteed being generous and the chances for advancement alluring. Nor did the great man who had founded the business conceal from the ambitious neophyte that later he might be called upon to fill the niche left vacant by Roger's flight into professional life. Such was the nicety with which Robert Morton had been dovetailed into the Galbraith plans, his welcome in every direction assured him. And now here he stood confronted by the probable overthrow of the whole delicately balanced structure. If he did not marry Cynthia and selected instead another bride, he risked forfeiting the regard of those who had become dear to him, imperilling his friendship with Roger, and sacrificing the brilliant and gratifying future for which he had so patiently labored. Never again, he knew beyond a question, would such an opportunity come within his grasp. He would be obliged to start out unheralded and painfully fight his way to recognition. That recognition would be his he did not doubt, for he never yet had failed in that to which he had set his hand. But, alas, the weary years before he would be able to make a hurrying universe sense that he was alive! He knew what struggle meant when stripped of its illusions, for had he not toiled for his education in the sweat of his brow? The triumph of the achievement had been sweet, but for the moment the courage to resume the weary, up-hill plodding deserted him. Why, it would be years before he could marry a girl who was accustomed to even as few luxuries as was Delight Hathaway! And suppose a miracle happened and Mr. Galbraith was large-minded enough still to hold out to him the former offer? Should he wish to accept it? Would it not be almost charity? No, if he refused Cynthia's hand—and that was what, in bald terms, it would amount to—he must decline the other favor as well and be independent of the Galbraiths for good and all. Otherwise his position would be unendurable. It was an odious situation, the one in which he found himself. Only a cad cast a woman's heart back at her feet. The unchivalrousness of the act grated upon every fiber of his sensitively attuned, high-minded nature. Yet, as Madam Lee had reminded him, would he not be doing Cynthia a greater injustice if he married her without love. Friendship and brotherly affection were all he could honestly bestow, and although these he gave with all sincerity, as he now examined his heart in the light of the revelations real love had brought, he realized that beyond their confines existed a realm into which Cynthia Galbraith, fair though she was, had never set foot. No woman had crossed that magic threshold until now, when her presence stirred all the blended emotions of his manhood. Humility, tenderness, reverence possessed him; self descended from its throne of egoism and yielded its scepter to another; the hot blood of the primitive, untamed Viking raced in his veins. Soul, mind, heart, body were all awakened. He was a dolt who confused genuine passion with the milder preferences of callow youth. Delight Hathaway was his mate, created for him before the hills in order stood. It was as inevitable that they should come together as that the river should sweep out to meet the sea, or the lily open to the kiss of the sunlight. All that this woman was in purity, in graciousness of heart, in brilliancy of intellect he loved, adored, approved; all that she was in physical beauty he reverenced and coveted. Her lot had been strangely cast and the scope of it limited to a very narrow vista. Oh, for success to place at her feet the riches of the earth! With such a goal to lure one on what was toil! Faugh! He laughed aloud at the word. Madam Lee, with her unerring intuition, had probed his heart and read his destiny aright. His future lay not with this pampered daughter of a great house whose selfishness he had repeatedly excused and refused to recognize; nor would he purchase worldly prosperity at the price of his soul. Casting aside the easier way, he would follow the rough path that mounted upward to the star of his desire. Before the waning of another moon both of these women who had come into his world should know his intentions and have the opportunity to accept or reject that which he had to offer them. He hoped Cynthia would understand and forgive; he was fond of Cynthia. And he hoped, prayed, implored Heaven that Delight Hathaway would not turn a deaf ear to his entreaties, for without the prize on which his hopes were set life's race would not be worth the running. Well, he would not allow the thought of failure any place in his mind. Victory should be his—it would be, must be! See how all the world smiled on the vow he registered. The sky had never stretched more cloudlessly above his head; the air had never been sweeter, the dancing ripples of the bay gladder in their golden scintillations. The whole universe throbbed with youth and its dauntless supremacy. Something told him he would conquer and with a high heart he alighted at the door of the dear, familiar gray cottage. Willie came to meet him. "Well, son," said he, reaching forth his hands, "If I ain't glad to see you flitting home again! I've missed you like as if the two days was two weeks. I reckon your aunt has, too. Anyhow, she took to her bed quick as you was out of sight an' ain't been seen since." "Aunt Tiny ill!" "No, not sick exactly," explained Willie, as arm in arm they proceeded up the walk. "She's just struck of a heap with a lame shoulder such as she has sometimes. She can't move a peg, poor soul!" "Great Scott! That's hard luck! Then since you're short-handed, I shall be more bother than I'm worth round here. I'd better have stayed where I was. You won't want any extra people to look out for and feed now, I fancy." "Oh, law, I ain't doin' the cookin'!" grinned the little inventor, as if the bare notion of such a thing amused him vastly. "Why, I could no more cook a dish that was fit to eat than a mariner could run a pink tea. I'd die of starvation if the victuals was left to me. Let alone the cookin', we'd 'a' had to have help anyhow, 'cause Tiny's too miserable to do much for herself. So we've got in one of the neighbors." "It's a shame!" "Oh, we'll pull through alive," smiled Willie, cheerfully. "We've piloted our way through many a worse channel. This spell of Tiny's ain't nothin' she's goin' to die of, thank the Lord! She takes cold sudden sometimes, an' it always makes straight for that shoulder of hers, stiffenin' up every muscle in it. She'll admire to see you home again, I know. The sight of you will probably make her better right away. You can run up to her room now if you choose to. I'll be round in the shop when you want me." With a beaming countenance the old man turned away. Robert Morton opened the screen door diffidently, speculating as to whom he would confront in the kitchen; then he stopped, arrested on the doorsill. At the wooden table near the pantry window stood Delight Hathaway, her sleeves rolled to the elbow, and her slender figure enveloped in a voluminous gingham pinafore that covered her from chin to ankle and was tied in place at the back by a pert bow. She was sifting flour into a mammoth yellow bowl, and as she stirred the mixture the sweep of her round white arm brought a flood of color into her cheeks and wreathed her brow with tiny, damp ringlets. Bob held his breath, hungrily devouring her with his eyes, but a quick breeze brought the door to with a bang and the girl glanced over her shoulder. "All hail!" she cried, the dimple darting out of hiding with her smile. "You have a new cook, monsieur." "My word!" was all the young man could stammer. "Is it as bad as all that?" she laughed. "No—but—Great Hat—this is—is awful, you know." "What is awful?" returned she, turning to face him. "Why, having you come here and cook for us two men." "Oh, I'm always cooking for somebody," was the matter-of-fact retort. "Why not you?" "Well, it makes me feel like a—it doesn't seem right, somehow." "It's as right as possible. I rather like it," said she, darting him a roguish look, then bending over the bowl before her. "Well, you must let me help you, anyway. Can't I—I butter something?" "Butter something!" "Yes, things are always having to be buttered, aren't they—pans, and dishes, and cups—" he paused vaguely. Her laugh echoed like a chime of miniature bells. "I am sorry to say the pan is already buttered," replied she. "What other accomplishments have you?" "Oh, I can do anything I am told," came eagerly from Bob. "That's something, anyway. Then fetch me some flour, please." "Flour?" "It's in the barrel. No, that's the sugar bowl. The barrel under the shelf." "The barrel! To be sure. Barrel ahoy! How could I have mistaken its sylph-like form? How much flour do you want?" "Just a little." She passed the sieve to him and went to inspect the oven. Bob caught up the sifter, filled it to the brim, and came toward her, turning the handle as he approached. "I say, this is great, isn't it?" he observed, so intent on the mechanism of the device that he did not notice the track of whiteness which he was leaving behind him. "It is like winding up a victrola." Whistling a random strain from Faust he turned the handle faster. "Oh, Bob!" burst out Delight. "Look what you're doing." Obediently he looked but did not comprehend. Her slip of the tongue had banished every other idea from his mind. "Say it again, please." "What?" "Say Bob again as you did just now." "I—didn't know I did," faltered the girl. "I—I—forgot." "Forgot." He dropped the sifter into the bowl and his hand closed firmly over the one that now rested on its yellow rim. "Oh, see what you've done!" cried she. "You have spilled all that flour into the cake." "No matter." His eyes were on hers. "But it does matter. Willie's cake will be spoiled." She tried vainly to draw away from the grip that imprisoned her. "Please let me go." He bent across the table until he could almost feel the blood beating in her cheeks. "Say it once more," he pleaded. Again her hand fluttered in his strong grasp. "Please!" "Please what?" persisted Robert Morton. "Please—please—Bob," she murmured. He was at the other side of the table now, but she was no longer there. Instead she stood at the screen door, shaking the flour from her apron. "Don't move!" she cried severely. "You've walked all through that flour and are tracking it about every step you take. Look at the pantry! I shall have to sweep it all up." "I'll do it," he answered with instant penitence. "No. You sit right down there in that chair and don't you stir. I will go and get the dustpan and brush." "I'm awfully sorry," called Bob, plunged into the depths of despair. "I didn't realize that when you turned the handle of the darn thing the stuff went through." "What did you think a flour-sifter was for?" asked she, dimpling. "I wasn't thinking of flour-sifters," declared he significantly. He saw her blush. "Mayn't I please get up?" "No. Not until your shoes are brushed off," she replied provokingly. "Let me take the brush then." "Don't you see I am using it?" "You could let me take it a second." "I have been taught to complete one task before I began another," was the tantalizing reply, as she went on with her sweeping. "The deuce!" "You must not swear in my presence," she commanded, attempting to conceal a smile. "Then stop dimpling that dimple." "Don't you like dimples?" inquired she demurely. "Now Billy Farwell thinks that my dimples—" "Hang Billy Farwell!" "How rude of you! Billy never consigns you to such a fate." She waited, then added, "All he ever says is 'Confound Morton.'" "I thought he had more spirit," was the ungrateful rejoinder. "Oh, he has spirit enough," she explained. "He would say much more if he were allowed." She saw Robert start forward. "Of course," she went on in an even tone, "I shouldn't permit him to abuse a friend of Willie's." "Oh, that's the reason you put the check on him, is it?" "Aren't you Willie's friend?" she questioned evasively. "Yes, but—" "You don't seem to appreciate your luck. Now I adore Willie and believe that any one who has his friendship is the most fortunate person in the world." He saw a grave and tender light creep into her wonderful eyes. "I'm not arguing about Willie," said he. "You know how much I care for him. But I can't think of him now. It's you I'm thinking of—you—you." She did not answer but bent her head lower over her sweeping. "I don't believe there is any flour on my shoes, any way," grumbled the culprit presently, stooping to examine his feet with the air of a guilty child. He thought he heard her laugh. "How much longer are you going to keep me in this infernal chair?" he fumed. "Bob!" called a voice from upstairs. "It's your aunt; she must have heard you come in." He sprang up only to come into collision with the dustpan full of flour which lay near his chair. A second more and the fruits of the sweeping drifted broadcast in a powdery cloud. "Delight! Dearest!" he cried, bending over the kneeling figure. "You must go upstairs and see your aunt—please!" she begged. "She will think it so strange." "All right, sweetheart. I'm coming, Aunt Tiny." When Willie entered a few moments later in search of his co-laborer, Delight was alone. He glanced questioningly about the room,—at the girl's flushed cheeks, the half-made cake, the snowy floor. "Bob—Mr. Morton spilled some flour," the young woman explained, evading his eye. The little old man made no response. He studied the burning face, the drooping lashes; he also looked meditatively at some footprints on the floor. They may not have been as startling in their significance as were the famous marks Crusoe discovered in the sand, but they were quite as illuminating. A trail of small ones led about the room and beside them, as if echoing to their light tread, was a series of larger ones. The inventor's gaze pursued them curiously to a spot before the stove where they became very much confused and afterward branched apart, the larger set trailing off toward the stairs, and the smaller moving back into the pantry. The detective stroked his chin for an interval. "U—m!" observed he thoughtfully. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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