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THE TIDES OF BARNEGAT
THE TIDES OF BARNEGAT F. HOPKINSON SMITH CHAPTER I
THE DOCTOR'S GIG
One lovely spring morning--and this story begins
on a spring morning some fifty years or more ago--
a joy of a morning that made one glad to be alive
when the radiant sunshine had turned the ribbon
of a road that ran from Warehold village to Barnegat
Light and the sea to satin the wide marshes to
velvet and the belts of stunted pines to bands of
purple--on this spring morning then Martha Sands
the Cobdens' nurse was out with her dog Meg. She
had taken the little beast to the inner beach for a
bath--a custom of hers when the weather was fine
and the water not too cold--and was returning to
Warehold by way of the road when calling the dog
to her side she stopped to feast her eyes on the
picture unrolled at her feet.
To the left of where she stood curved the coast
glistening like a scimitar and the strip of yellow
beach which divided the narrow bay from the open
sea; to the right thrust out into the sheen of silver
lay the spit of sand narrowing the inlet its edges
scalloped with lace foam its extreme point dominated
by the grim tower of Barnegat Light; aloft
high into the blue soared the gulls flashing like
jewels as they lifted their breasts to the sun while
away and beyond the sails of the fishing-boats gray
or silver in their shifting tacks crawled over the
wrinkled sea.
The glory of the landscape fixed in her mind
Martha gathered her shawl about her shoulders
tightened the strings of her white cap smoothed out
her apron and with the remark to Meg that he'd
"never see nothin' so beautiful nor so restful"
resumed her walk.
They were inseparable these two and had been
ever since the day she had picked him up outside
the tavern half starved and with a sore patch on his
back where some kitchen-maid had scalded him.
Somehow the poor outcast brought home to her a sad
page in her own history when she herself was homeless
and miserable and no hand was stretched out
to her. So she had coddled and fondled him gaining
his confidence day by day and talking to him by the
hour of whatever was uppermost in her mind.
Few friendships presented stronger contrasts: She
stout and motherly-looking--too stout for any waistline
--with kindly blue eyes smooth gray hair--
gray not white--her round rosy face framed in a
cotton cap aglow with the freshness of the morning
--a comforting coddling-up kind of woman of fifty
with a low crooning voice gentle fingers and soft
restful hollows about her shoulders and bosom for the
heads of tired babies; Meg thin rickety and sneak-
eyed with a broken tail that hung at an angle and
but one ear (a black-and-tan had ruined the other)--
a sandy-colored rough-haired good-for-nothing cur
of multifarious lineage who was either crouching
at her feet or in full cry for some hole in a fence
or rift in a wood-pile where he could flatten out
and sulk in safety.
Martha continued her talk to Meg. While she
had been studying the landscape he had taken the
opportunity to wallow in whatever came first and
his wet hair was bristling with sand and matted with
burrs.
"Come here Meg--you measly rascal!" she cried
stamping her foot. "Come here I tell ye!"
The dog crouched close to the ground waited until
Martha was near enough to lay her hand upon him
and then with a backward spring darted under a
bush in full blossom.
"Look at ye now!" she shouted in a commanding
tone. "'Tain't no use o' my washin' ye. Ye're
full o' thistles and jest as dirty as when I throwed
ye in the water. Come out o' that I tell ye! Now
Meg darlin'"--this came in a coaxing tone--"come
out like a good dog--sure I'm not goin' in them
brambles to hunt ye!"
A clatter of hoofs rang out on the morning air.
A two-wheeled gig drawn by a well-groomed sorrel
horse and followed by a brown-haired Irish setter
was approaching. In it sat a man of thirty dressed
in a long mouse-colored surtout with a wide cape
falling to the shoulders. On his head was a soft gray
hat and about his neck a white scarf showing above
the lapels of his coat. He had thin shapely legs
a flat waist and square shoulders above which rose
a clean-shaven face of singular sweetness and refinement.
At the sound of the wheels the tattered cur poked
his head from between the blossoms twisted his one
ear to catch the sound and with a side-spring bounded
up the road toward the setter.
"Well I declare if it ain't Dr. John Cavendish
and Rex!" Martha exclaimed raising both hands
in welcome as the horse stopped beside her. "Good-
mornin' to ye Doctor John. I thought it was you
but the sun blinded me and I couldn't see. And
ye never saw a better nor a brighter mornin'. These
spring days is all blossoms and they ought to be.
Where ye goin' anyway that ye're in such a hurry?
Ain't nobody sick up to Cap'n Holt's be there?"
she added a shade of anxiety crossing her face.
"No Martha; it's the dressmaker" answered the
doctor tightening the reins on the restless sorrel as
he spoke. The voice was low and kindly and had a
ring of sincerity through it.
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