A 515817
JOSEPH C; LINCOLN











STORM GIRL


By JOSEPH C. LINCOLN
STORM GIRL
» GREAT-AUNT LAVINIA
i STORM SIGNALS
, THE PEEL TRAIT
• HEAD TIDE
« BLOWING CLEAR
v SILAS BRADFORD'S BOY
. THE ARISTOCRATIC MISS BREWSTER
. THE BIG MOGUL
, QUEEN JUDSON
« RUGGED WATER
• DOCTOR NYE
. FAIR HARBOR
« GALUSHA THE MAGNIFICENT
» THE PORTYGEE
• "SHAVINGS"
• MARY-'GUSTA
• CAP'N DAN'S DAUGHTER
» THE RISE OF ROSCOE PAINE
v THE POSTMASTER
■ THE WOMAN HATERS
- KEZIAH COFFIN
• CY WHITTAKER'S PLACE
• CAP'N ERI
. EXTRICATING OBADIAH
- THANKFUL'S INHERITANCE
MR. PRATT
• MR. PRATT'S PATIENTS
KENT KNOWLES: "QUAHAUG"
- CAP'N WARREN'S WARDS
4 THE DEPOT MASTER
OUR VILLAGE
» PARTNERS OF THE TIDE
- THE OLD HOME HOUSE
CAPE COD BALLADS
THE MANAGERS


STORM GIRL
By
JOSEPH C. LINCOLN

D. APPLETON-CENTURY COMPANY
INCORPORATED
NEW YORK LONDON
x937


Copyright, 1937, by
D. APPLETON-CENTURY COMPANY, INC.
All rights reserved. This book, or parts
thereof, must not be reproduced in any
form without permission of the publisher.
COPYRIGHT, 1937, BY HEARST MAGAZINES, INC.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


STORM GIRL





CHAPTER I
DESIRE COLEMAN was waiting for
Simeon Coleman to come home. There
was nothing very unusual about that, De-
sire was accustomed to it. She was systematic
and punctual and Simeon was anything but
either. During the winter months when she and
he were alone in the house at East Trumet, her
rising hour was always half-past six. In the sum-
mer months, when the bedrooms were all occu-
pied and, as Simeon said, "You couldn't stretch
out a leg without trippin' up a boarder," she was
downstairs by six. From November until the
middle of June she prepared and cooked the
meals herself and they were always ready at
regular hours. During the boarding season,
when Emma Bassett did the cooking and Lottie
Cahoon waited on table, they were just as
promptly regular—Desire saw to that. The
family washing was done on Monday, the iron-
ing on Tuesday, the bread and cookies were
baked on Saturday. And on Friday evening


4 STORM GIRL
Desire went to prayer-meeting and on Sunday
morning she went to church. She was that kind
of woman.
But Simeon was distinctly not that kind of
man. She was a Knowles before she married
Laban Coleman and Simeon was Laban's
younger brother. During Laban's lifetime
Desire and her husband occupied the rambling
gray-shingled house at East Trumet, close to the
beach, and took summer boarders. Laban died
when Desire was forty-eight—she was fifty-two
now—and Desire and her niece, Emily Blan-
chard, the only child of Mercy, Desire's sister,
lived together. Mercy had died when Emily was
born and Seth Blanchard, the girl's father, was
killed by lightning while raking quahaugs in the
bay during a thunderstorm. The other qua-
haugers had rowed ashore when the storm
threatened, but Seth refused to move. "All you
fellows are lookin' for is a chance to quit work,"
Seth called after them. "I ain't sugar nor salt
and water won't melt me." So he stayed on and
the lightning hit the end of his thirty-foot qua-
haug rake and passed through his body. They
found him dead in the bottom of his dory when
they rowed out an hour later.


STORM GIRL 5
Then Emily, who was thirteen, came to live
with her Aunt Desire. When she was seventeen
she went to Boston to study bookkeeping and
stenography at a "business school." After seven
months of this she, through a girl friend, ob-
tained a position in the Gloucester branch office
of a Boston firm dealing in marine chandlery,
boat outfittings and supplies. She had been home
but once since she left the business school, al-
though she and her aunt corresponded with some
regularity.
Simeon—Emily called him "Uncle Sim"—
had spent the larger part of his life codfishing on
the Newfoundland Banks. He ran away from
home when he was sixteen and, up to the time of
his brother's death, his relatives and fellow
townspeople saw or heard little of him. What
they did hear was not greatly to his credit. One
year some masculine Trumet citizen had met
him on Atlantic Avenue in Boston. Simeon had
promptly invited the citizen in to have a drink
and seemed to have no difficulty in locating the
drinkables in spite of the fact that this was dur-
ing the prohibition period. Someone else had
met him in Gloucester and reported that he,
Simeon, was a kind of "rough-lookin' ticket"


6
STORM GIRL
but that he seemed to have money in his pocket
and few cares on his mind. Once—and this was
the crowning ignominy which caused Desire to
blush with shame when she attended prayer-
meeting that week—his name was among those
listed in a dispatch to the Herald from a Cana-
dian port as having been arrested after a free-
for-all fight in a Nova Scotia port between the
crews of a Yankee schooner and a French-Cana-
dian mackerel boat. He was regarded as the
black sheep of the Coleman family and so when,
the year of Emily's leaving to attend the business
school, he walked in at his sister-in-law's door
and hailed her with a boisterous bellow, the wel-
come accorded him was not too hearty. Old Mrs.
Chapin, who was spending that summer at East
Trumet because her doctor had ordered her to
"rest her nerves," shot from her rocking-chair as
if some one had kicked it violently from beneath.
"I give you my word, my dear," Mrs. Chapin
confided to a bosom friend, Miss Caroline Sea-
bury, the retired school-teacher, "when I heard
that dreadful howl I thought I should faint dead
away and when I saw that awful rough-looking
creature standing in the doorway I devoutly
wished I had."


STORM GIRL J
But Simeon was quite unconscious of the ef-
fect his appearance produced. He walked into
the Coleman House as if he owned it and greeted
his sister-in-law and her niece as if he had been
away only a few hours instead of years. That
evening, when the three were alone, he casually
informed his relatives that he was through with
seafaring for good and all, that he had come back
to Trumet to live the rest of his life, and that it
was his intention to stay right there at the Cole-
man House.
"You need a man around this place," declared
Sim. "Hadn't been here half an hour afore I
could see that. All right, I'm the man.... Oh,
now, now, Dizzy^ don't look so scared. I ain't
plannin' to live on you free gratis for nawthin'.
I'll pay my way. Got a little cash put by in the
locker, more'n you and the rest of Trumet figger
I have, I'll bet. I'll pay for my board and keep
and, if things go the way I hope they will,
I'll do consider'ble more'n that. I've got some
notions about this shebang. Yes, indeed I
have!"
Desire, whose nerves were in almost as badly
shaken state as Mrs. Chapin's, gasped a protest.
"For mercy sakes, Sim Coleman," she sput-


8
STORM GIRL
tered, "don't call me that name. If you do I'll—
I'll—"
"Eh? What name? Oh, Dizzy? Ha, ha!
What's the matter with it? Used to call you
Dizzy when you was a girl, didn't I? Course I
did. Ain't started to put on airs, I hope, have
you? ... All right, all right; I'll call you Desire
if you say so; anyhow I will when there's any out-
siders around. My trunk and the rest of my dun-
nage'll be down on to-morrow noon's train—or,
if they ain't, I'll know the reason why."
That was the manner of his coming and he
had remained ever since. At first Desire and
Emily and the boarders had regarded him with
distaste and nervous dread, but they got used to
him and his ways as time went on. He was rough
and loud spoken and blunt, but his remarks and
dry comments made them laugh in spite of them-
selves and among the male boarders he became a
real favorite. He purchased a second-hand
motor-boat in the village and, during the sum-
mer months, he took out fishing parties. His pas-
sengers returned from these parties chuckling.
"He can tell a story as well as any one I ever
heard," declared one. "It ain't so much the yarn
itself as the way he tells it. He's led a tough life,


STORM GIRL g
according to his account, but he's picked up a lot
of fun along the way."
Even the old ladies, like Mrs. Chapin, toler-
ated him. "A genuine 'character'" was their
classification of Mr. Simeon Coleman.
Desire found him a very real help in the man-
agement of the Coleman House, especially after
Emily, who liked him and of whom he was very
fond, went away. His boast about cash in the
locker was proven to be more than a boast. He
not only paid board regularly, but he insisted on
certain small improvements being made inside
the house and about it and usually paid for them
with his own money. He had become almost a
partner in the business. Desire admitted that she
didn't know what she should do without him.
"Although there's times when he does try me
almost to death," she added with a sigh. "He
loves to torment me and I never know what he'll
do or say next. Just as liable as not to swear in
front of the minister and when I scold him for it
he looks innocent and says 'Why not? Didn't use
no words that parson don't use every Sunday, did
I?' What can you do with a man like that? And
when he takes a notion to go on one of them
Boston trips of his I don't draw a free breath


io STORM GIRL
till he's back again. He calls those trips vaca-
tions, but I call 'em sprees, and I'll bet that's
almost what they are, too. And meal times don't
mean anything to him. I'm always waitin' for
him, with the vittles on the back of the stove."
She was waiting for him now on the gloomy
evening of this gloomy March day. She glanced
at the clock on the mantel and saw that it was
twenty minutes to seven. He knew that a quarter
past six was supper time. There was a storm
coming up, too, and he knew that she was always
nervous about storms. And why shouldn't she be?
There was that prophecy about her family—or
about Emily, which was the same thing—and
hadn't it worked out true, almost every single
bit of it, so far? Emily had been born during a
storm; and Mercy, Emily's mother, had died
during a storm; and Seth, Emily's father, had
been killed by a storm. Peleg Myrick had said
the spirits told him that Emily was a storm child
and that every important happening in her life
would have a storm connected with it. Of course,
old Peleg had been a little queer in the head and
folks used to make fun of him, but, all the same,
he had prophesied right in—in—oh, lots of


STORM GIRL
ii
things. Simeon could "ha, ha" all he wanted to,
but just the same—
She went to the window, lifted the shade and
looked out. Black as black, the night was. The
only lights in sight those in the windows of the
Trumet life-saving station a mile away. The
rising wind was whimpering and whining about
the gables, and the surf along the beach and on
the outer shoals was roaring ominously. She
dropped the shade and turned back with a sigh.
The electric lamp over the table was ablaze but
she crossed to the mantel and turned on the pair
above it. Thank goodness they had electricity
down at East Trumet nowadays. It wasn't as
it used to be when she and Laban first lived
there.
"Oh dear, why didn't Simeon come?"
And then she heard him open and close the
kitchen door. A moment later he entered the
dining-room.
"Hello, old girl!" he hailed, cheerfully. "Sup-
per ready? Hope so; my appetite's got an edge
on it like a guttin' knife. Couldn't have you keep-
in' me waitin' tonight."
His sister-in-law was a dependable Dr. Wat-
son, she could always be counted upon to be


12
STORM GIRL
surprised in the right place. She stared at him,
sputtering like a damp candle.
"Keepin' you waitin'!" she gasped. "My soul
and body! And here I've had the table set for a
full half hour. You know it, too. Of all the pro-
vokin'— Where on earth have you been?"
He had shed his oilskin and heavy jacket and
had stepped back into the kitchen to wash his
hands at the tin basin in the sink. There was a
bathroom in the Coleman House, but, when they
were alone, Sim invariably washed in the
kitchen. "Habit's habit, Dizzy," was his expla-
nation. "Bathrooms are scarce up on the Banks.
Put off washin' long as you can and then head for
the nighest bucket, that's the rule aboard a
schooner."
"Where have you been, I ask you?" she re-
peated.
He replied between splashes and splutterings.
"Oh, over to the life station. They're all stirred
up over there."
"Stirred up? What about? Oh, my land, it
ain't the storm, is it? I do hope it ain't goin' to be
too bad."
He came back to the dining-room and sat
down at his place at the table.


STORM GIRL 13
"Storm? What storm? This ain't nawthin' but
a good sailin' breeze, just enough to keep the
flies off. No, no, it ain't the weather that's riled
'em up. Bill Ellis has made up his mind, at last,
to quit the service and all hands are wonderin'
who'll have his job as cap'n, that's all. Ed Olson
is Number One man, and he'd have it in the
natural run of things, but—well, I don't know.
Ed's pretty well along and they're app'intin'
young men lately."
"Well, well! Cap'n Ellis has been cap'n of
Trumet station for ever so many years. I'll be
sorry to see him go. And Mr. Olson ain't what
you'd call young, that's a fact. There's young
men over there, though."
"Um-hm, but there ain't ary one with much
experience. The service folks may app'int some-
body from another station. They've been known
to do that."
"Who, do you suppose?"
"Give it up. That's what all hands are guessin'.
Sam Bailey, at Wapatomac, would be all right,
and there's that young Brewster at Orham. He's
Number One there now and he got into the
papers a whole lot when he handled that
wrecked three-master last winter. His cap'n was


14 STORM GIRL
laid up sick, you remember, and Brewster was in
charge of everything and did a fine job. The
Coast Guard folks might decide to promote
him."
"Brewster.... Let me see.... Why, I remem-
ber now. Ain't his first name Chester? Came
from here in Trumet in the beginnin', didn't
he?"
"Yup. 'Chet' everybody called him when he
was a young-one. His ma was widow of Elnathan
Brewster and they lived on the Pond Road at
West Trumet seventeen or eighteen years ago.
Moved away afterwards. Seems to me I heard
she was dead.... West Trumet," reflectively.
"My, my, how I used to know that place. There
was a girl over there. Now what was her name?
Lettie—Lettie Crull—um-hm, that was it. Some
of the boys used to go over to see her. Ho, ho!"
with a reminiscent head shake. "Lettie Crull!
Yes—yes."
Desire straightened in her chair. "Everybody
knows that Crull tribe," she announced tartly.
"We won't talk about them."
"Now, now, Dizzy," gravely. "You ain't
chuckin' any asparagus at Lettie, are you? Why,
as I recollect, Lettie was a real popular girl."


STORM GIRL 15
"Humph! Popular, I shouldn't wonder!
Simeon, what are we goin' to do for a cook this
comin' summer? Emma Bassett can't come this
year and what to do without her I can't think.
She's been with us every summer since Laban's
time and what I'll do without her I don't like to
think. She was consider'ble more than a good
cook, she was a wonderful help with the man-
aging I'm gettin' old and seems sometimes as if
managin' and plannin' for this big house chock-
full of boarders is more than I can stand."
Sim's answer was prompt. "You hadn't ought
to stand it," he declared. "Emmie ought to be
here to help. She's a born manager if ever I see
one. What you ever let her traipse off up to Bos-
ton to waste her time keepin' somebody else's
books for 'em is more'n I can see—yes, or ever
could."
"Why, how you talk, Simeon! I didn't let her
go any more than you did. She wanted to go.
Emily's an ambitious girl and, naturally, she
didn't want to spend her life in a place like
East Trumet. She wanted to get on in the world
and I don't blame her."
"Get on!" scornfully. "And how far has she
got? Workin' in a little one-horse shop down to


STORM GIRL 17
"My age! Anybody'd think I was Mrs.
Methuselah, to hear you. Oh, do be still."
"Aye, aye, skipper. But I can't let you find
fault with me because I ain't married. Besides,
how do you know I ain't? I've been around con-
sider'ble in my time. How do you know there
ain't a Mrs. Sim Coleman up in—er—Green-
land or somewheres cryin' her eyes out this
minute? And another one in—er—Novy Scoshy,
say. And three or four more scattered 'round
hither and yon? I might be a reg'lar—what's his-
name?—Brigham Young and forgot to mention
it, you can't tell."
"I shouldn't be so dreadful surprised if you
was, far's that goes. / don't know where you've
been or what you've been up to all those years."
"No, no-o. That's right, so you don't; but
think of the fun you have guessin'. There, there,
old lady, I ain't ever married, you can bet on
that. I've seen too many sailors get married and
be sorry for it afterwards to take a chance on my
own account. Ho, hoi Why, I remember one
time up in—"
He paused and passed his cup for a refilling.
Desire poured the tea and, as he did not finish
his sentence, offered a reminder.


18 STORM GIRL
"Well, what?" she asked. "Up in where?"
He sighed. "Never mind, never mind. We
won't fetch that up, it's too sorrowful. I cry
every time I think of it—that is, I do when I
ain't laughin'. There, there, we'll forget it. Don't
press me, don't press me, as old Cap'n Reilly
used to say when he was reachin' for the whiskey
bottle. Who started this marryin' foolishness,
anyway?"
"Nobody but you. You was talkin' about
Emily and you said—"
"Yes—yes. Of course. What I said was that
Emmie ought to be down here this summer help-
in' you instead of wastin' her time up in
Gloucester."
Desire drew a long breath. "Well," she ad-
mitted, "I own up I'd give most anything to have
her here, but I sha'n't be the one to coax her."
"Humph! Heard from Emmie lately, have
you?"
"I had a letter about three weeks ago, that's
the last one."
"Didn't say she was comin' home, did she?
No, she wouldn't. Three weeks ago would be a
whole lot too early."
She gazed at him. There was suspicion in her


STORM GIRL 19
look. "Now what do you mean by that, Sim
Coleman?" she demanded. "Have you—"
He interrupted her by rising from the table.
"Now where did I put that newspaper?" he
soliloquized. "I stopped up to the village and
got one, I know I did. Oh yes, here 'tis. Don't
bother me now, Dizzy—plain Desire, I should
say—I've got to improve my mind."
She declared that goodness knew it needed
improving and began to clear away the supper
dishes. He planted himself in the rocker and
unfolded the Boston Herald.
It was but a few minutes later when they
heard the purr of an automobile in the yard.
The wind had risen steadily and now the rain
was beating against the windows. Desire, in the
kitchen, heard the sound first.
"What in the world's that?" she called.
"Sounds like a car, don't it? It is a car and it's
stoppin' here. Who on earth—at this time of
night? And this kind of night!"
Simeon looked up from his paper. "Somebody
from the life station, maybe," he suggested.
"Can't think of anybody else."
Voices sounded on the walk leading to the side
door of the Coleman House, a masculine voice


STORM GIRL
21
mie? You've brought a trunk? Why, that
means—"
Emily smiled. "It means I'm going to stay—
if you really want me," she said.
"Want you! Don't talk silly. But stay—how
long?"
"Why, for always, perhaps. At any rate, for a
long time."
"Oh! Why, that's wonderful! But I don't
understand. I thought—"
Simeon interrupted. "There, there, Dizzy,"
he broke in. "Don't worry about not understand-
in' that yet awhile. What you'd ought to under-
stand right now is that this girl probably ain't
had anything to eat since noontime. You 'tend
to that end of the line and me and Henry will
wrastle in the dunnage."
But Desire was still in a daze of bewilder-
ment. Even the reference to her niece's need of
food could not shake her out of it for the mo-
ment.
"But I don't understand," she repeated. "I—
I just don't. You're comin' here to stay—for—
for good? How can you? There's that nice book-
keepin' job you've got in Gloucester."
Emily shook her head. "There isn't any job


22
STORM GIRL
in Gloucester, Aunt Desire," she said quietly.
"That is all over and done with."
"Eh? But— Well, I will say you're comin1
now is just like an answer to prayer. Only—"
"Only nothin'!" crowed Simeon. "No 'only'
in it. She came because she got my letter tellin'
her you needed her. That's right, ain't it, Em-
mie?"
"Why, yes, partly right, Uncle Sim."
"Course 'tis. If anybody prayed you down here
I was the one. Desire, don't you ever preach to
me again that the prayers of the wicked don't
count. See what this one hauled aboard....
Come on, Henry. Look alive! You and me are
goin' to stretch our muscles. Where's that trunk
I've heard talk about?"


CHAPTER II
EMILY went up to her room early that eve-
ning. It was the same room she had occu-
pied before she went away to the business school,
the same which had been hers since she came to
the Coleman House after her father's death.
When her aunt opened its door and turned on the
light, the girl looked about her and drew a long
breath.
"Oh, it looks so good," she declared. "It's
home. And I never realized until lately how
good and—and comforting—home was. Oh, I'm
so glad to be here."
Desire looked at her. "I know," she said.
"You've said that half a dozen times since you
got here. Simeon and I love to hear you say it, of
course, only—"
"Only what, Aunt Desire?"
"Why, nothin' maybe, only— There isn't any-
thing wrong, is there, Emmie? I mean nothin's
happened to—to make you feel bad or anything
like that?"
»3


24 STORM GIRL
The girl's answer was prompt enough, pos-
sibly almost too prompt. And she did not look at
her aunt when she gave it.
"Wrong? Oh, no. No, of course not. Why?"
quickly. "You haven't—I mean you have no rea-
son for thinking there is, have you?"
"Not a mite, except that you look so sort of
pale and—well, worried, seemed to me."
"Do I? I suppose I am rather tired. I've had
a long train ride, you know."
"That's so. Well, good night, dearie. I hope
you sleep well and will feel all freshened up by
mornin'. Good night."
But she was far from satisfied. Emily did look
pale—yes, she did. And, in spite of her denial,
her aunt was strongly suspicious that she was
troubled about something. Desire mentioned her
suspicions to Sim when she reentered the living-
room.
"Simeon," she declared, solemnly, "that girl
acts awful queer to me. And did you look at her?
Her face, I mean?"
"Eh? Look at her face? What would I be
lookin' at—her feet? Her face is all right; best-
lookin' face I've seen in these parts since I got
back to 'em. What's the matter with it?"


STORM GIRL 25
"It looks so much older than it did when she
went away."
"Well, 'tis older, ain't it? So's yours and mine,
far's that goes. Course I own up, Dizzy, that
yours don't show it. When you get rigged up for
Sunday, with all your store hair on, and the like
of that, why—"
"Oh, stop tryin' to be funny! I tell you, Sim
Coleman, there's somethin' wrong with Emmie.
She don't look right and she don't act right. She's
got somethin' on her mind."
"Oh, rubbish! 'Tain't on her mind, it's on her
stomach. She ate two of them biscuits of yours
for supper and if a man fell overboard after tak-
in' a cargo of them biscuits aboard he'd never
come up no three times. No sir, he'd go to the
bottom and stay there."
"Be still! I never made better biscuits than
those and you know it. Simeon, what does all this
mean, anyhow? Her comin' back here this way,
without writin' us a word? Givin' up her nice
place there in Gloucester and everything?"
"Means that I wrote her you needed her and
she came. Sensible thing for her to do."
"Well, I suppose likely there's no use talkin'
to you about it. You make fun of everything;


STORM GIRL 27
how. And, mark you this, Simeon Coleman: Em-
mie was born while a storm was goin' on, her
mother died durin' a storm, her father was killed
by a storm, and—"
"And it's stormed every once in a while since.
My, my, that's mirac'lous, when you come to
think of it!"
Desire snorted in disgust and marched from
the room. Her brother-in-law chuckled, picked
up the Boston paper and, after extinguishing the
lights, departed to his own sleeping quarters.
The wind whined and whistled, the surf growled
and roared and the rain thrashed upon the
shingles and dripped from the overflowing
gutters.
Emily Blanchard, alone in her room, did not
go to bed immediately. She had told her aunt and
uncle that she was tired and that was true. She
had expressed her delight at being home once
more and goodness knew that was the truth. She
had explained, in answer to their questions, that
she had lost her position as bookkeeper with the
Gloucester branch of the Boston marine out-
fitting firm, the members of that firm having de-
cided to employ a man instead of a girl for the


28 STORM GIRL
work. All that was true, too, but it was only a
part of the truth. There was much, so much, that
she had not told them, that she devoutly hoped
she might never be forced to tell, to them or any
one else. The month just past had been for her a
horror, a nightmare. And—that was not the least
dreadful part of it—the nightmare was not yet
over. At any time, soon perhaps, but eventually
almost surely, she might be dragged back into
it again, see his name in the papers, and her own,
be summoned into court, be held up to shame and
ridicule, be exposed as—if not the aider and
abettor of a mean rogue, a criminal—certainly
as his victim and catspaw. Mr. Bradley had said
as much to her, during that last humiliating
interview when he notified her of her dismissal.
"You may be innocent, so far as actual share
in the crookedness is concerned," he said. "My
partner and I are inclined to think you are, at
least we are giving you the benefit of the doubt;
but we can't help feeling that, if you are, you
are altogether too unsuspecting and—er—well,
gullible, to be of much use in a business office. I
am sorry for you, but we can't afford to take any
more chances."


STORM GIRL 29
It was his tone, as well as what he said, that
hurt. She had a moment of resentment.
"In plain words, if I'm not a thief you think
I am a fool," she said.
"Oh, I wouldn't say that exactly. You're very
young, just a girl—"
But that was what he meant. And she had been
a fool—oh, such a silly, weak, trusting fool. Be-
lieving implicitly, trusting unquestioningly,
blindly worshiping, adoring. And all the time
the object of her worship had been laughing in
his sleeve, using her for his own purposes, lying
to her, swearing he loved her and then going
away to that other woman.
She blushed from head to foot as she thought
of it.
And yet, on her part it had all come about so
simply and naturally and, until the beginning of
that dreadful month, she had been so blissfully
happy in her fool's paradise.
The work connected with her position as book-
keeper, typist and general office minder in the
Gloucester office had not been hard. The pay, of
course, was small but she had been glad to earn
something and to learn by experience. The office
itself was a single room in a block not far from


3o STORM GIRL
the water front. Her desk and that of the man-
ager were, except for a few chairs and a safe, its
only furniture. Bradley and Company carried
on a good-sized business, but their headquarters
were in Boston and the Gloucester branch was
little more than a station for the taking of orders
from the owners of the fishing fleets sailing from
that town.
The Gloucester manager was Edward
Coombes—practically every one who knew him
called him "Ed." Twenty-nine or thirty years
old, good looking, a smooth and persuasive
talker with a fund of stories and an easy laugh,
he was a favorite with the skippers and foremast
hands of the fishing schooners and through their
friendship he obtained many orders for the out-
fitting of their vessels between trips to the Banks.
For a few years before entering the employ of
Bradley and Company he had, himself, made
several Banks voyages—"for the fun of it," as he
explained—and the fishing crowd liked him be-
cause he treated them as comrades and was not
"stuck up."
Emily liked him, too—she could not help it.
He was an "easy boss," never finding fault, over-
looking small mistakes and, except occasionally


32 STORM GIRL
would have liked to capture her interest, but they
were not encouraged. She spent her evenings
in her room, reading or writing letters to Aunt
Desire and Uncle Simeon.
So, when Ed Coombes invited her to accom-
pany him to supper and the movies one evening,
happening to catch her in a particularly lonely
mood, she accepted. They had a pleasant evening
together. Other, and similar evenings, followed.
Sometimes they rode in Coombes' little car—a
recent acquisition. At the end of three or four
months she was, although she scarcely realized
it, head over heels in love with him. Realization
came, however, when, as they parted at the door
of the boarding-house, he kissed her good night.
She had had her share of mild high school flirta-
tions, she had been kissed by boys before, but
this—this was different. Different and, as she
vaguely sensed, somehow dangerous. He would
have lingered, but she summoned all her reso-
lution, struggled from his embrace and, without
a word, opened the door, closed it behind her
and hurried up to her room.
There, she threw herself upon the bed, and
burst into tears. Whether they were tears of in-
dignation or shame or joy she was not quite


STORM GIRL 33
sure; she did not attempt to analyze her feelings.
She was frightened, a little, and she knew she
should have been very angry, but—but she was
not. She was happy. And to be happy, under
the circumstances, was wicked. It must be. Ed
did not really care for her; how could he? He
was ten years older than she and he was her
employer; she must see him and be with him
every day. She was afraid, quite as much of her-
self as of him. Perhaps she ought to give up
her position at once. Aunt Desire, if she knew,
would insist on her doing so.
When morning came the question was still
unanswered. She went to the office as usual,
dreading to see him, but with her mind made up
on one point. There should be no more familiar-
ity. It would be Mr. Coombes and Miss
Blanchard from then on.
It was not, of course. Ed Coombes soon sensed
the situation. His first facetious reference to the
previous evening showed him how the land lay
and, being an experienced campaigner, he knew
when he had made a mistake. He did not apolo-
gize, he continued to be his good-natured,
slangy, genial self and, little by little the formal-


34 STORM GIRL
ity wore away and the old comradeship was re-
sumed. They began to spend their evenings
together, became more and more confidential
and intimate until, at the end of the first six
months of Emily's employ by Bradley and Com-
pany, there was an understanding between the
manager of the Gloucester branch and his pretty
bookkeeper.
It was not an engagement exactly but it
amounted to that. They were to be married. The
date of the marriage was indefinite, but they
were to wait until, as he expressed it, he made
himself a little more solid with the firm. Emily,
radiantly happy, was content to wait. She be-
lieved in him now, trusted him whole-heartedly,
and worshiped him as she might a god. The en-
gagement—or understanding—was to be kept a
secret for the present. Ed thought that best and
she, of course, thought so because he did. In her
letters to East Trumet she made no mention of
her love affair.
And then Came the crash. It came without
warning; at least, if there was one, Emily did not
recognize it as such. Coombes was away from the
office a good deal, soliciting orders and the like,
and of late she had been doing most of the office


STORM GIRL 35
work, attending to the correspondence, the
monthly bills and statements, without his assist-
ance or even advice. The accounts of the
Gloucester branch were never large although,
especially when the customer was himself the
owner of the vessel he commanded, the term of
credit given was often rather lengthy. One day,
on the first of the month, Ed being away on a
trip to the Boston headquarters, or so he said, she
sent out all the statements without consulting
him at all. When he returned, and learned that
she had done this, he seemed, so she thought, un-
accountably irritated. He had been nervous and
moody of late, but she accepted his explanation
that he was troubled about one or two large
orders which were hanging in the balance, as she
accepted all his statements to her, without doubt
or question.
"But I only did it to help you, Ed. You were
so busy and I certainly ought to know how by
this time."
"I know, I know, but—well, I wish you
hadn't. Some of these fellows are mighty sensi-
tive about being dunned and competition is too
keen for us to take risks."
"But I didn't dun them, Ed. I just sent a slip


STORM GIRL 37
and twenty cents and had owed it for more than
three months. Emily could not understand his
resentment.
"But it is just a regular statement, Captain
Kelly," she said. "We always send them out on
the first of the month."
"Don't send 'em when a bill's paid, do you? I
paid Ed Coombes myself three weeks ago, and I
paid him in cash. I've got his receipt some-
wheres."
"You did! Why, there is no entry on the books.
Mr. Coombes didn't tell me. Are you sure?"
"Sure? Think I have fifty dollars in my pocket
so often that I can't keep account of what I do
with it?"
"No—but—I suppose Mr. Coombes must
have forgotten. I'm awfully sorry, Captain
Kelly. I'll speak to him about it as soon as he
comes back."
"You'd better. Hard enough for a fellow to
pay his debts once these days, without bein'
asked to pay 'em again."
He stamped out of the office. Coombes re-
turned from Boston the following morning and
she called the matter to his attention. He seemed
taken aback, confused and oddly irritated. At


38 STORM GIRL
first he denied that the money had been paid him,
but when she told him that Captain Kelly
claimed to have a receipt he admitted that the
man might be right.
"Must have put it in my pocket-book with
my own cash," he said, "and didn't think of it
again. That's it, I guess."
"But it was more than fifty dollars," she re-
minded him. "How could you forget as much
as that?"
"Well, I did, that's all. Look here," turning
upon her savagely, "you don't think I kept it on
purpose, do you?"
"You know I don't, Ed. I only—"
"Well, never mind. You needn't fix it up on
the books, I'll attend to that myself. Better let
me look out for the bills and statements after
this. I'll try and keep 'em straight."
She was hurt and a trifle resentful, but she
made no protest. He was grumpy and silent dur-
ing the remainder of the day and, when she came
to the office the following morning, she found
that he had been there before her and had left
a note for her on her desk. It was brief, stating
merely that he had gone away on a short business
trip and that, if anything unexpected or urgent


40 STORM GIRL
ticularly? I am his assistant here. If it is any-
thing to do with the business, perhaps I can
help you."
He ignored the suggestion. "Think he'll be
back to-morrow?" he asked.
"I—I hardly think so."
"How about the next day?"
"I should think that more likely."
"Humph! So you are the girl that works for
him. How are things going here? Business all
right?"
"Why, yes. About as usual."
"I see. No trouble of any kind?"
"Trouble? I don't know what you mean?"
"Don't you? Sure of that?"
"Of course I am," indignantly. "Why should
there be any trouble?"
For the first time he smiled. It was only the
suspicion of a smile and it vanished as quickly as
it came.
"Shouldn't be, that's right," he agreed. Then,
after an instant's deliberation, he added, "Well,
I've got a job in Portland and now seems to be as
good a time to attend to it as any. Haven't got a
Boston and Maine time-table around, have
you?"


STORM GIRL 41
"No."
"I ought to have one myself somewhere." He
extracted a big pocket-book from his inside
pocket and opened it. It was crammed with
papers and business cards and some of them fell
upon the table and behind it on the floor. He
picked them up hurriedly.
"Humph!" he grunted. "Time-table seems to
be missing. I was afraid it would be. Well, I'll
go to Portland to-day and be back here day after
to-morrow. See Mr. Coombes then, I hope.
Good-by."
He was already at the door, but Emily called
after him. "If you will leave your name—" she
suggested.
"Never mind. Coombes doesn't know me."
He went out. Emily, surprised and vaguely
disturbed, looked after him. He was such a queer
little man. He had looked at her so keenly. And
what had he meant by asking if there had been
any trouble? Who was he, anyway?
She was passing the table when she noticed a
white oblong on the floor. She stooped and
picked it up. It was one of the cards the visitor
had dropped from his pocket-book. She turned
it over and read:


STORM GIRL
43
bill. You don't think Captain Kelly is going to stir
up trouble for us about that, do you? He did pay us,
of course, and he was very angry when he went away.
Sending that statement was a dreadful mistake, I
know, but you had not told me then that you had the
money. If you don't mind my saying so, dear, I think
we should both be more careful in the future. When
people pay you in cash try and remember to tell me
promptly and I will see that the books are fixed in
the right way. You and I may know but it is very
necessary that the firm shouldn't know. I am sure
there is no need for us to tell each other that, dear-
est. I am your partner now in everything, everything,
and—
She had reached the foot of the page and now
she continued the sentence at the top of a fresh
one.
—your interests and your chances of advancement
and promotion mean quite as much to me as they
can to you. That is why I can't bear to think that the
firm should find out that you ever make mistakes,
even in little things like that Kelly matter. Oh, Ed,
I sometimes wonder if you can quite realize how
much I want you to succeed in life as you deserve.
You belong to me now, you see, and that—
And so on, to the foot of that page and carry-
ing over to the top of the next, where she ended
another fervent sentence with:


44
STORM GIRL
—for better or for worse, as they say. I like that
line, don't you? There: I meant to write only a short
note when I began, but it has turned into a long let-
ter, after all. Now that I read it over I'm afraid you
will think it silly of me to worry about that Fields
man. But he is an accountant and a bill collector and
I didn't know who might have sent him.
After her signature she added a postscript.
Of course [she wrote] the card he dropped might
have been some one else's and not his at all. He may
have nothing to do with accounts or bills. Then all
my worry would have been silly, wouldn't it?
She received no reply to her letter, nor did
Coombes appear at the office the following day
or the next. On the third morning, however, Mr.
Fields, brisk and businesslike, walked in. He
looked at her and at the manager's closed roll-
top desk.
"Not back yet, eh?" he queried.
"No, sir. I expected—"
"Um-hm. So you said. Heard from him?"
"No. But—"
"All right, all right. Have to go ahead on my
own hook then, I guess. Well, young woman, I
do the auditing for Bradley and Company and
they've sent me down here to go over the books


STORM GIRL 45
and accounts of their branch here. I had rather
have had a talk with your Mr. Coombes before
I started in—he would have been handy in case
I wanted to ask questions—but he hasn't shown
up and I can't wait any longer. Here are my
credentials, if you want to see them Now, if
you'll turn everything over to me for a while,
I'll pitch in."
And "pitch in" he did, while Emily, nervous
and increasingly troubled, sat by the office win-
dow looking out and hoping for her lover's re-
turn. But Ed Coombes did not return. Nor did
he come the following day, although Mr. Brad-
ley, telephoned for by the auditor, came late that
afternoon. And the morning after that, Emily,
faced by both men, was told the—to her—in-
credible and dreadful truth.
Coombes was a thief. A petty thief, of course
—his stealings altogether amounted to little more
than a thousand dollars—but a thief neverthe-
less. The firm was inclined to be vindictive. He
had been a sort of pet of Bradley, upon whom
his good looks and plausible manner had im-
posed, as they had upon others.
"When I think what I did for that young
rascal and what I intended to do for him in the


46 STORM GIRL
future, I boil over," vowed Bradley. "The dirty
crook! I'll put him in jail, if I die for it. That
is, I will when I catch him."
That was the firm's principal trouble at the
moment. They had so far not been able to catch
him. He had disappeared. He had been seen in
the small hotel where he lodged on the evening
of the day when Emily had called his attention to
the Kelly statement, but he had not, apparently,
been seen by any one since. His description and
his photograph were in the hands of the
Gloucester police, but he, himself, was as yet out
of reach of those hands.
Those were days of horror and heartbreak for
Emily Blanchard. Again and again she was
questioned and cross-questioned, treated—or so
she felt—as if she, too, were a sharer in the dis-
honesty, a partner in the theft.
"You kept the books, didn't you? Then why
didn't you know, or at least suspect, what was
going on?"
She could only repeat, and repeat again, that
she had been but in partial charge of the books,
that Mr. Coombes was her employer and what
he told her to do she did unquestioningly. It was
true—oh, it was true, they must believe her.


STORM GIRL 47
They did, in the end—or pretended to do so—as
was proven by Mr. Bradley's words when he
dismissed her from the firm's employ. But she
had the feeling that they were not wholly con-
vinced even yet.
What she did not tell them, or any one else,
was that, in spite of it all, she still trusted and
believed in her lover. If he were dishonest it
was because he had been tempted beyond his
strength. No doubt he had not meant to really
steal; if money had actually been taken by him
he had meant only to borrow it. He would have
paid it back in time, she was sure of it. And she,
too, was partially to blame, perhaps. She should
not have permitted him to take her to dinner so
often and to dances and the movies. The little
presents he had given her were more than he
should have afforded on his salary, and she
should have realized that and refused to accept
them.
No, no; she trusted him yet, and would always
trust him in spite of everything. She loved him,
she would always love him, no matter what he
had done. If only he had confided in her, had
told her of his troubles, perhaps—she did not
quite see how, but perhaps—she might have been


48 STORM GIRL
able to help him, to prevent the worst of it, at
least. If she only knew where he was now, if
she could write him, tell him that her love and
loyalty were still as staunch as ever. Of his loy-
alty and love for her there was not the slightest
doubt in her mind.
And then that, the last of her illusions, was
shattered. As she sat, alone and miserable, in her
tiny room at the boarding-house, wondering
what she should do, longing to write to her aunt
and uncle in East Trumet for advice and com-
fort but dreading the confession and humiliation
which the writing would entail, the landlady en-
tered to announce a visitor. The landlady's man-
ner was anything but cordial, there was disap-
proval and offended dignity in her tone and
manner.
"This has always been a decent and respect-
able house," she snapped. "I've taken pride in
keeping it out of the papers except in the right
way, and it's always been so kept out up to the
last two, three weeks. I'm careful who I let
rooms to, but I can't be expected to know who my
boarders keep company with when they're off my
premises; that's a little too much to ask of me and
so I've said since this shameful stuff was made


STORM GIRL 49
public. But when it gets to the point where the
police come here, then—well!"
Emily gazed at her, aghast.
"Police?" she repeated.
"That's what I said. There's a policeman
down in the sitting-room now and he wants to
see you. Don't ask me why; that's his business—
and yours."
She flounced out. Emily, pale and frightened,
went slowly down to the stuffy sitting-room on
the first floor. A big, gray-haired man in uniform
rose from the plush-covered sofa as she entered.
During her ordeal of questioning at the office
she had met members of the Gloucester force,
but this man was a stranger.
"You're Emily Blanchard, Miss?" he asked.
His tone was kindly enough.
"Yes—yes, sir," she faltered.
"All right. I'm Lieutenant Hawley. I just ran
in a minute to have a little talk with you. Noth-
ing to be scared about."
He rose, looked out into the hall, and, closing
the door behind him, returned to the sofa.
"Now, let's see," he said, turning the pages of
a note-book which he had taken from his pocket.


STORM GIRL 51
name of that schooner Hendricks owns and runs?
The—er—Bluebell, ain't it?"
"No, the Blue Eyes. I am sure that is the name.
... Why?"
"All right. Blue Eyes it is. Now, let's see—
when did Coombes show up at the office the last
time?"
"Oh," wearily. "You must know when it was.
I've told them over and over again."
"You haven't told me, you know. The—er—
eighteenth, was it?"
"No. It was the seventeenth. He wasn't at the
office at all on the eighteenth, nor since."
"Um-hm. I was a little mixed, I guess. And it
was on the morning of the eighteenth that the
Blue Eyes sailed. Sailed for the Banks. Yes, yes."
He paused. She was looking at him in puzzled
wonderment, groping for his meaning. And sud-
denly she caught it, or thought she did. She
sprang from her chair, her hands clasped.
"Oh!" she cried. "Oh! You mean—you think
he sailed on that schooner? You—you think—"
"We-11," with a faint smile, "we think there's
a chance he might have. He went somewhere
mighty sudden. He didn't go in his Ford and,
so far as we can find out, he didn't go on the


52 STORM GIRL
train. And Bill Hendricks and he are chums, two
of a kind, as you might say. So he didn't let you
know he was going on the Blue Eyes, eh?"
"No. Oh, no!"
"Humph! You're dead sure? Now's as good a
time as any to tell the truth. It'll come out pretty
soon and so telling it won't hurt Coombes any.
Better come clean, hadn't you?"
She scarcely heard him. She was thinking, or
trying to think, what it meant. If Ed was on the
Blue Eyes the police would have the schooner
watched wherever she might touch, or when she
returned to Gloucester they would be awaiting
her—and him. He would be arrested, be tried,
perhaps be sent to prison. She sank back into the
chair and covered her face with her hands.
He leaned forward to look at her. "Anything
to tell me?" he persisted.
"No. Oh, no! I didn't know. I didn't even
know he was going away. I didn't know about—
about the money—anything. Oh, please believe
me! Please!"
Her hands were in her lap now, but the tears
were running down her cheeks. She fumbled for
her handkerchief. Lieutenant Hawley was a
kindly man. He had a daughter of about Emily's


STORM GIRL 53
age. He regarded her for an instant, then he
shook his head pityingly.
"I guess probably you're right," he observed.
"I guess he didn't tell you much of anything—
except what suited him to tell."
Once more she straightened in the chair. Her
wet eyes flashed.
"He told me everything," she cried. "He was
good—you don't believe it, but I know it. He
was! I am sure he didn't do the things you people
say he did. And, even if he did, I—I—"
She faltered, came near to breaking down. He
hesitated, then seemed to make up his mind.
"Look here, kid," he said. "All this is a darned
shame, as I look at it. You're straight, I'll bet on
it, and that Coombes guy was as crooked and
cheap as they make 'em. He sized you up for
green and innocent and he played you for a
sucker, that's all. You think he was doing the
square thing by you all the time this engagement
business was going on, don't you? Think he
didn't look at another woman all that time, I
suppose, eh?"
"I know he didn't," fiercely. "How dare you
say such things! I know."
"Oh no, you don't. You don't know anything.


54 STORM GIRL
I've just come from a talk with another woman
he'd been playing around with. He was running
with her all the time he was engaged to you.
She isn't your kind of a woman either; I'll say
she isn't. She went on trips with him, to Portland
and other places. Oh yes, she did, I've seen
photographs of 'em together, one of 'em taken
only a month ago."
"Oh! Oh, it isn't true! It's a lie."
"No lie about it. I've just come from a session
with her. She gave me the photographs herself.
She's got no use for him now; according to her
story he had a hundred dollars or so of her
money, going to invest it for her or something,
and he cleared out with it. Oh, she's got it in for
him good and plenty. She gave me some of his
letters to her. I've got 'em here with me. Want
to look at 'em?"
He took a packet of letters from his pocket,
selected two and, leaning forward, laid them in
her lap. She glanced down at them. The hand-
writing on the envelopes was only too familiar.
He was watching her keenly. From the packet
he took a photograph and laid it on the letters.
She looked down at it, looked again and shud-
dered. Letters and photograph fell to the floor.


STORM GIRL
55
He stooped, picked them up and restored them
to his pocket.
"Guess you don't need to read 'em," he ob-
served. "That photo ought to do the business'.
I'm sorry for you, kid. It's pretty tough medicine
but it ought to come close to working a cure.
You put that Coombes guy right out of your
head. You can take my word for it that he ain't
fit to be within smelling distance of a decent
girl. Jail is where he belongs and, after we put
him there, you forget him. I'm telling you this,
not because it's any of my business, but because,
as I say, I believe you're straight and I'm sorry
for you.... Well, I must be getting along. See
you later, maybe."
She did not answer. After he had gone she sat
motionless for some minutes; then she rose and
slowly climbed the stairs to her room. That eve-
ning she packed her bag and trunk. She did not
know where she was going, nor how—she knew
only that she must get away from that dreadful
place. Afterwards—but what did afterwards
matter?
The next morning came the letter from her
Uncle Simeon urging her to come to East Tru-
met because Desire needed her.


CHAPTER III
TO come down to breakfast next morning
was a dreaded ordeal for Emily Blanch-
ard. Tired as she was, both mentally and phys-
ically, the prospect of facing more questions
was almost unbearable. Aunt Desire, she knew,
was suspicious, guessed something was wrong
with her niece, and would not be satisfied until
she learned what that something was. That she
should not find out, from her at least, Emily was
determined. It would all come out some day, that
seemed inevitable, but postponement of that in-
evitable should be made as long as possible. She
simply could not, would not, talk about it now.
If she could only stop thinking about it! Well,
even that she must try to do.
So she pretended to be in high spirits when
she entered the dining-room, bade her aunt and
uncle a gay good-morning and announced that
it was perfectly wonderful to be at home again.
And wonderful it really was, she began to realize
that. The calm, the quiet, the natural homeliness
56


STORM GIRL 57
of it. Aunt Desire bustling about between the
cookstove and the table, Uncle Sim in his shirt-
sleeves, drinking his third cup of coffee. Snooks,
the plump cat, curled up on the cushion of the
rocking-chair, the familiar room and the sound
of pattering drops on the kitchen roof—for al-
though the wind had gone down, it was still rain-
ing—the grumble of the surf—all these were
just as they should be, all part of home and the
delicious peace and rest of home.
Sim, looking up at her over the rim of his
coffee cup, misread her thoughts.
"Kind of tame here, ain't it, Em, after all
that Gloucester wild life?" he inquired, with a
grin.
"Wild life?" she repeated, glancing at him
quickly. "Why, what do you mean, Uncle Sim?"
"Eh? Why, I mean all that goes on in a place
big as Gloucester. Electric cars and automobiles
and racket and folks goin' and comin' all the
time. Meetin' somebody you know every little
while and talkin' to 'em and goin' in with 'em to
have a couple of dr—" He pulled up sharply,
looked at his sister-in-law, and finished with,
"Oh, just some sort of stir, that's all. Well, it'll be
livelier down here in a couple of months, soon's


58 STORM GIRL
the boarders begin to come There, there,
Dizzy, don't get tittered up. I ain't figgerin' to
do anything desperate, not yet awhile."
Desire sniffed. "I wouldn't trust you," she de-
clared. "When you begin talkin' that way I know
what's in the back of your head. When he com-
mences to fidget," she added, turning to Emily,
"gets to growlin' about how dead and alive 'tis
down here, I can tell he's thinkin' about goin'
up to Boston or somewheres on one of his pre-
cious 'vacations,' as he calls 'em. Let's hope he'll
have decency enough not to start the very first
day you get here, Emmie."
Simeon was quite unperturbed. "No such no-
tion," he said. "Too glad to have the girl down
here without chasin' off and leavin' her. It's all
right, Em. Only I know how it's goin' to seem
after a spell of this lonesomeness and," with a
wink at his niece, "any time you feel like a
change you and me will just pack our satchels
and—"
The horrified Desire broke in here. "Well!
Well!" she sputtered. "Of all the brazen—!
Simeon Coleman, if you ain't ashamed of your-
self you ought to be."
"Why?" innocently. "All I'm talkin' about is


6o
STORM GIRL
the wicked, impudent thing. I—I— Oh, come
into the kitchen soon's you're done breakfast. I
only hope your morals won't be corrupted afore
then, that's all I can say."
She flounced out. Simeon chuckled. "She's a
great comfort on a dull mornin', Dizzy is," he
observed.
By the end of the first week in the Coleman
House Emily's sense of relief and ease of mind
was still as evident as ever. There were many
things to do, for, although the first boarder
would not arrive for months, the preparations
for the summer season were already under way.
New curtains and draperies for the dining-room
windows were to be made, and the materials se-
lected and ordered from sample. There were
trips up to town, a mile or two away, and, in
good weather she walked, or, if Aunt Desire ac-
companied her, they went in the battered Ford
which had been an old one before the girl left
East Trumet for her Boston studies and which
she knew how to drive.
No news came from Gloucester, no dreaded
note from the police informing her that the
Blue Eyes had been boarded in a Canadian port
and Ed Coombes apprehended. Each day she


STORM GIRL 61
scanned the columns of the Boston daily which
her Uncle Simeon brought from the post-office,
but never did her eyes encounter the item she so
feared to see. By the end of the first fortnight
she began to believe that Coombes had not been
aboard the schooner, after all. How he had es-
caped she could not imagine, nor did she care.
She could only pray fervently that she might
never see nor hear of him again. The idol she
had worshiped had been smashed and proven to
be made of mud and very dirty mud at that. She
had had her lesson and never, never, never would
she again trust a human being as she had so
blindly trusted this one. Men were all alike;
there was that girl in the class with her at the
business school. Never again—never.
And so on. She meant it, too. It should be re-
membered that she was very young.
Aunt Desire was increasingly uneasy in her
mind. Uncle Simeon's "fidgetiness" was becom-
ing more evident each day and Desire confided
to Emily that she knew the signs.
"He's gettin' ready to go on a vacation," she
told the girl. "He always acts this way when the
fit's strikin' in. He'll be clearin' out one of these


62
STORM GIRL
days and I shan't draw an easy breath till he gets
home again."
"But why, Aunt Desire?" queried Emily. "He
always does come home, doesn't he?"
"He always has, up to now. But I worry so
till he does. Up there to Boston, rampagin'
around Lord knows where and who with. Oh
dear, dear!"
"But it's just because, as he says, he gets
fidgety down here in this quiet place. He doesn't
do anything dreadful while he is away, I'm sure
he doesn't."
"I wish I was. He's good-hearted enough un-
derneath and he's been mighty generous and
kind to me, I will say. But he's lived a rough
life, your uncle has, and I'm scared of what he
might do when I ain't nigh to watch him."
"Don't you ever ask him what he does on those
Boston Vacations'?"
"Ask him!" indignantly. "Course I do. And
what does he tell me? One minute he says he
didn't do anything but kill a half a dozen police-
men and the next that he spent his time preachin'
temperance at the Sailors' Bethel. No more truth
in the one yarn than there is in the other. He
knows it torments me and that's why he does it."


STORM GIRL 63
Emily laughed and tried to comfort her, but
the attempt was not very successful.
And one morning Uncle Simeon was not on
hand at breakfast. Instead there was a note on
the kitchen table which read: "Gone to Church
sociable. Be back in Three days. Will take care
not to sprain my ankle. Sim."
Emily naturally expected her aunt to be
thrown into a nervous collapse by this epistle,
she had prophesied that she should be, but, to the
girl's surprise she was not. Instead she was
philosophical.
"It's like the measles," she explained. "When
you see 'em comin' on you're scared to death, but
after they have come there's nothin' to do but
wait till they're over. Three days, eh? Well, it
might be worse, I suppose; last time 'twas a
week."
"But will he really be back when he says he
will?"
"Um-hm. He always keeps his word that way.
If he doesn't this time I'll know somethin's hap-
pened and then I shall be in a conniption."
Nevertheless, the third day came and went
and there was still no sign of the vacationist.
Emily drove in the Ford to the station to meet


64 STORM GIRL
the evening train but no Uncle Simeon alighted
from it. Aunt Desire was beginning to show
symptoms of the threatened "conniption," but
her niece soothed her.
"He meant he would be away three days,
Auntie," she explained. "He will come on the
noon train to-morrow, I'm sure."


CHAPTER IV
iHE next morning was clear and crisp, a
| magnificent early spring day. After the
housework was done Emily went out for a walk.
She strolled along the beach. There was a light
northeasterly breeze, the surf was tumbling and
leaping joyously, shooting its frothy ripples over
the gleaming sand and leaving a fretted tracery
of seaweed when it retreated. A mile or so out at
sea the tangled channels between the dangerous
shoals were edged with spouting foam and be-
yond them was the deep blue of the ocean. The
gulls screamed and soared and swooped. It was
a morning to make the gloomiest forget his trou-
bles and Emily, to whom all this was a part of
the home scene she had known and loved as long
as she could remember, was nearer to forgetting
hers than at any time in weeks.
She walked briskly on, following the curve of
the shore. A sandy point stretched out into the
sea and, as she rounded it, the low, spreading
buildings of the life-saving station came into


66
STORM GIRL
view a mile or so farther on. Ever since leaving
the Coleman House she had been dimly aware of
the "putt-putt" of a motor-boat, but the boat it-
self had been hidden by the point. Now, as she
turned the dune at the end of the point, she saw it
plainly. A small craft, perhaps twenty-four feet
long, with a deck-house forward for the steers-
man to occupy in cold or wet weather. There
seemed to be but one man aboard and he was sit-
ting in the stern. Most of the Trumet fishing or
party boats were fitted with a wheel forward or
amidships and a tiller aft and could be handled
from either spot.
She idly watched the boat for a few minutes.
The man was fishing—trolling with a hand line
over the stern, she judged—and it seemed to her
that he was skirting the edges of the shoals rather
closely. In the village the previous day she had
heard one of the fishermen say that the pollock
were beginning to run early this year and that a
few had been caught. This man was "pollock-
ing" she guessed. Well, if he was a native he
must know his business and, if he was taking
chances amid the shoals he no doubt knew when
and where to take them. She watched the boat
skirt the frothing edge of the long inner shoal,


STORM GIRL 67
cross the narrow channel and veer to follow the
line of the one farther out. It made a pretty and
animated picture as it bounced and ducked over
the waves. She knew most of the Trumet fisher-
men and idly wondered which of them this
might be.
There was a little cove on the farther side of
the point, with a dory drawn up on the beach at
its inner end. The sand at the point edge of the
cove was soft and wet from the ebbing tide and
she turned inland behind the dunes. As she
emerged from behind them she came upon a man
standing on the top of the slope leading down
to the shore and gazing out to sea.
He was no one she knew. A stocky,
broad-shouldered young fellow, sun-tanned,
sandy-haired and blue-eyed, wearing a worn
double-breasted jacket and stained and wrinkled
gray trousers. A shapeless yachting cap was
pushed to the back of his head and on his feet
were canvas sneakers. He held a pair of marine
glasses, binoculars, in his hand.
He did not turn, so she judged that he had not
heard or seen her. As she was about to pass be-
hind him, however, he surprised her by speak-
ing.


68
STORM GIRL
"You don't know who that bird out there is,
do you?" he asked.
"Why—why, no, I don't."
At the sound of her voice he swung about,
looked, and then snatched off the battered cap.
"Beg your pardon," he said, with a broad
smile. "Didn't know I was talking to a stranger.
Heard somebody behind me and took it for
granted it was one of the crew from the station.
Must have thought I was pretty fresh, I'm
afraid."
"Oh no. That's all right."
"Sorry. You see—well, I'm a little bit worried
about that chap. The way he noses that craft of
his into those shoals gets on my nerves. Tide's
going out fast and it's breezing on every min-
ute. An on-shore wind, too. You don't know who
he is, you say?"
"No. Perhaps I might if he were nearer, but I
don't at this distance."
"Well, whoever he is, I— Eh? Now what's
the matter? His motor's stopped, hasn't it?"
It had. The barking "putt-putt" had ceased.
The young man raised the glasses to his eyes.
"Humph!" he muttered. "Is he having engine
trouble? If he has he had better anchor in a


STORM GIRL 69
hurry or he'll drift on that bar before very long.
I can't make him out. It is too early for a sum-
mer greenhorn and if he's from around here he
ought to know the ropes. Of course they are
watching him from the station, but it is a long
way from the station to where he is. He's all
hunched up in the stern and I can't make him
out."
He took the glasses from his eyes and extended
them toward Emily.
"Perhaps you wouldn't mind looking through
them," he suggested. "They are an old pair that
belonged to my father. Scratched a good deal,
but they aren't too bad. Maybe you might know
who he is."
He handed her the binoculars. She adjusted
them to her vision and peered at the distant boat.
It was well out beyond the farthest bar and was
tossing on the swells. The man in the stern was a
humped motionless heap, his hat pulled down
over his eyes. She could not recognize him. But
the boat—why—why-
She uttered an exclamation. "Oh!" she cried,
in incredulous amazement, "it is— But it can't
be! It is though. I can see the name on the stern.
It is the Sunrise. It is Uncle Sim's boat."


70 STORM GIRL
This disclosure of identity evidently meant
nothing to her companion.
"Uncle which?" he queried.
She was too excited to hear or heed. She was
still gazing through the glasses.
"It is the Sunrise" she declared. "But what
is she doing here? Uncle Sim is in Boston and—"
Just then the figure in the stern of the motor
boat stirred. His hat fell off. Emily's exclama-
tion this time was in the form of a stifled scream.
"Why, it is Uncle Sim!" she cried. "It is! Oh,
I don't understand. What is he doing here—and
out there—in a boat? And why does he keep so
still? Oh, I'm frightened I"
The young man took the glasses from her
hand. He looked through them for a full minute.
Then he seemed to make up his mind. Thrusting
the binoculars into his coat pocket he started
running toward the beach. She ran after him.
"What is it?" she called. "Please, what is it?
What are you going to do?"
He had reached the dory which she had no-
ticed drawn up on the beach at the inner end of
the little cove and was pushing it toward the
water. She caught his arm.
"What are you going to do?" she repeated.


STORM GIRL 71
"Is he in danger? Please answer me—why don't
you?"
He answered, but he did not stop pushing the
heavy dory.
"There's something wrong off there," he
panted. "That darned fool will be in the breakers
in ten minutes or so. I'm going off to him....
Here! What do you think you're doing?"
The dory was afloat now and she had splashed
in beside it and scrambled aboard. The thole-
pins were in place and the oars laid along the
thwarts.
"I'm going with you," she announced, impa-
tiently. "Come! Quick! Quick!"
His foot was lifted to the dory's rail, but he
held it poised.
"Going with me?" he repeated. "What for?"
"To help, of course."
"Huh! A grand help that will bel Get out."
"I sha'n't," fiercely. "Don't you understand?
That fool, as you call him, is my uncle. Do you
think I can sit on the beach and watch him
drown? Oh, stop arguing! Get in."
He did not reply, but he did get in. He settled
the oars between the thole-pins and began row-
ing with the short, powerful "dory stroke." They


72 STORM GIRL
traversed the length of the little cove. The first
incoming roller hoisted them to its crest. Emily,
crouching on the stern thwart, grasped the rail
beside her. As the boat slid down the watery
slope beyond she leaned forward.
"Oh, I hope we're in time," she gasped. "Poor
Uncle Sim! What shall I dol"
"Nothing," was the crisp reply. "You'll do
nothing except sit down. And," with additional
emphasis, "stay down."
"But—"
"Everything's all right, we'll get there. Here!
Didn't you hear me? Get back on that thwart
and don't get up until I tell you to."
In spite of her excitement and frantic anxiety
she might have retorted—what right had he to
order her about?—but just then the dory lurched
to port and swung upward on another great
wave, causing her to sink back on the thwart
with a promptness quite unintentional. He said
no more, nor did she. They were past the inner
line of surf now but beyond was the narrow
channel between the shoals. And, out there, over
those jumping ridges of foam, she could catch
glimpses of the motor-boat. Of Uncle Simeon
she could see nothing. He seemed to have


STORM GIRL 73
slumped still further down in the stern where he
had been sitting.
The dory moved rapidly through the channel.
The breakers roared on either side. Emily,
clutching the rail with a death grip, caught her
breath as a spatter of spray flew over them. The
young man swinging at the oars grinned at her
cheerfully. His cap had fallen off and his thick
sandy hair was blowing in the wind.
"Don't worry," he said. "Smooth enough out
here and everything's fine. Be alongside in a few
minutes now."
The prophecy was fulfilled. The minutes
seemed long ones to Emily, but at last the dory
shot alongside the larger craft and its pilot,
reaching up, grasped the rail of the latter with a
big, sunburned hand. He rose to his feet and
looked over that rail. Emily, gazing up at his
face, could wait no longer.
"What is it?" she gasped. "Oh, what is it?"
"Why—er—nothing, I hope. He's sprawled
out on the deck, either asleep or— No, no," as
she made a move to rise. "You sit where you
are." Then raising his voice, he hailed. "Hello,
there! What's the matter aboard here?"
A startled grunt came from the stern of the


74 STORM GIRL
motor boat. Then a voice, unmistakably the
voice of Simeon Coleman, made answer.
"Eh? What?... Who the devil are you?
Where'd you come from?" it demanded.
The young man's countenance expressed re-
lief, a good deal of relief. He laughed.
"He's all right," he said. "Sounds healthy,
anyhow." Then, evidently addressing the still in-
visible Mr. Coleman, "Come, come! Look alive!
Turn out there!"
Another grunt, followed by an enthusiastic
yawn, were the only responses. The young man
did not wait for more. Stooping, he picked up
the dory's anchor rope coiled in the bow and
made a loop of it fast to a cleat on the motor-
boat's rail. Then he climbed over that rail and
spoke to Emily.
"Sit still, Miss," he ordered. "I'll be back for
you in a minute. This fellow is either drunk or
crazy."
This remark had an effect. The response was
prompt enough this time. There was a sound as
of scrambling and Emily saw her uncle's lanky
form loom above the rail and heard his vigorous
protest.
"Eh?" he roared. "Drunk yourself! Who said


STORM GIRL 75
I was drunk? Can't a man take a nap aboard his
own boat a mile from shore in smooth water with
the engine shut off and the anchor down with-
out— Say, who are you shovin', Mr. Buttinski—
or whoever you be? ... Whatl Well, for thunder
sakes! Emmie/"
He stared down at her open-mouthed and she
stared up at him. He shook his head.
"Is it you or am I seein' things?" he de-
manded. She broke in with a question of her
own. "Are you sick, Uncle Sim?" she cried.
"Sick? What would I be sick about?"
"But your boat is drifting right on the shoals.
Can't you see?"
"Shoals? What do I care about shoals when
I'm anchored?" He paused to stare incredu-
lously at the lines of breakers, now not more than
a hundred yards distant. Then, with a yell, he
rushed toward the starting lever of the motor.
He was too late, however. The sandy-haired
young man was there before him. The engine
sneezed, coughed and began to turn over. The
young man ran to the tiller. Another moment and
the Sunrise was "putt-putting" steadily toward
deep water and safety.
"You might steer her now," suggested the


76 STORM GIRL
young man. "Now, Miss, if you'll come aboard
I'll fix it so we can tow the dory."
Simeon obediently took the wheel while
Emily was helped aboard. While the young man
was adjusting the rope in order that the dory
might tow safely astern she took the opportunity
to begin her cross-questioning.
"And now, Uncle Sim," she demanded, "per-
haps you'll tell me what all this means? Aunt
Desire and I took it for granted that you were
in Boston. Haven't you been there at all?"
Mr. Coleman seemed a trifle embarrassed.
"Oh, yes, I've been there," he replied. "Oh,
sartin, I was there."
"Of course," his niece continued, "we were
worried when you didn't come on last evening's
train. Aunt Desire said that was one thing she
could always depend on, your keeping your word
about coming home."
"Eh? Well, I kept it this time, didn't I?"
"Not exactly. You said you would come home
last night."
"So I did. Er—er—that is, I left there last
night. 'Twas kind of late, I give in, but I met
some of the old gang I used to know and—well,
I cal'late I must have sort of lost run of the


STORM GIRL 77
time. Anyhow, I missed the reg'lar train, so I—
er—well, I came down by the freight. That
hauls out about twelve, you know."
She gasped. "You came down on the freight
train!" she repeated.
"Um-hm. It wa'n't so bad, kind of bumpy,
that's all. Course I knew the brakeman and one
of the train hands so they let me come along.
Got in about six or so this mornin' That was
the main trouble," he added, reflectively.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, Dan Mullett, he's that brakeman I was
tellin' you about, he told me that the boys at the
wharf had told him the pollock was gettin'
thicker, so, long's 'twas so awful early, it struck
across my mind that I'd get aboard the Sunrise
here and take a run along out back of the beach,
see if I couldn't land one, you understand."
"But why didn't you come home first? You
could have gone out after breakfast just as well."
Uncle Simeon's expression was peculiar. His
mouth twisted as if the mention of food was not
appealing.
"Didn't seem to hanker for breakfast so tur-
rible much," he admitted. "Been—er—eatin'
pretty hearty the last day or so."


78 STORM GIRL
"I see. Well, you can explain that to Aunt
Desire. But why in the world did you go to
sleep and let your boat—"
"Now, now, now!" fretfully. "I told you and
—and him—" with a wave of the hand toward
the stern—"about that, didn't I? With the en-
gine shut off and the anchor overboard I ought
to have been all right, hadn't I? I'll say I had!
Nobody knows these waters any better'n I do.
You see," confidentially, "I didn't get much
sleep last night and I didn't get any night afore
that. So—but I don't understand about that an-
chor. 'Twas overboard, 'cause I put it there
myself. I'm sure of that."
His niece suspected that he was not quite so
sure about some other happenings. The mystery
of the anchor was explained when their com-
panion joined them at that moment.
"Your anchor rope had parted, Mr.—er—" he
began.
"Coleman's my name, Simeon Coleman.
Didn't Emmie tell you?"
The other two looked at each other. "We
haven't had time for introductions," she said.
"My name is Emily Blanchard."
"Oh yes, yes. I might have guessed. I have


8o STORM GIRL
up afore I fetched up on that bar, you can bet
your life on that. Much obliged to you just the
same, Cap'n Chet."
"Oh, that's all right Part of my job."
"Um-hm. Well, you was on the job, anyhow.
I don't understand about that anchor rope,
though; it hadn't ought to busted that way."
He insisted that the Sunrise be taken directly
into the cove by the point and anchored there.
"That's Sol Cahoon's dory you borrowed," he
added. "Sol always keeps her at the head of the
cove and she'd have to be put back sometime or
'nother. I'll leave my boat there and fetch her
'round into the harbor later on Eh? I just
thought of somethin'. I left a trollin' line
hangin' out astern when I turned in. Better get it
up afore it snags on bottom."
He turned the wheel over to Chester and hur-
ried aft. A moment later they heard him utter a
triumphant whoop.
"What do you know about that!" he bellowed,
pulling furiously at the line. "I've got a pollock
on here big's a horse Ah ha!" as the flapping
silver-sided fish was lifted over the stern. "Look
at the heft of him! What do you think of your
uncle now, Emmie? Takes a pretty smart man to


STORM GIRL
81
catch a critter like that when he's awake, to
say nothin' of doin' it in his sleep."
They parted on the beach at the inner end of
the cove. Emily again expressed her gratitude
to Brewster.
"Aren't you going to say anything more,
Uncle Sim?" she asked, impatiently. "He saved
your life; that's exactly what he did. Aunt De-
sire will want to thank you, too, Captain Brew-
ster; I know she will. I hope you will drop in
soon and give her the opportunity."
Simeon, who was admiringly inspecting his
big fish, turned toward his rescuer.
"Why, sure," he agreed. "You run in any
time, Cap'n Chet. Be neighborly, won't you?"
Chester Brewster looked at him, then he
looked at Emily.
"Yes, thank you, I will," he said, and obvi-
ously meant it.
He strode off in the direction of the life-sav-
ing station. Simeon and the girl walked toward
home, he carrying the pollock, his fingers
through its gills. Neither spoke for a time, then
Emily looked up at him.
"Honestly now, Uncle Simeon," she de-
manded, "aren't you ashamed of yourself?"


82
STORM GIRL
"Eh? What for?"
"You know what for as well as I do. What do
you think Aunt Desire will say when she
knows?"
Her uncle's grin was just a trifle sheepish.
"Depends on how much she does know," he
replied. "You tell her I've been fishin' and I'll
show her the fish. The rest of it—well, what's
the use of botherin' her about that? When you're
old as I be, Em, you'll come to realize that truth
is scarce in this world and there's no sense
wastin' more of it in one place than you have to."


CHAPTER V
DESIRE'S reception of her wayward
brother-in-law was not as trying an or-
deal for the latter as Emily—or, possibly, even
Simeon himself—expected. Emily judged that
her aunt was so relieved to have him back from
the wild whirl of the wicked city that she forgot
or forbore to question him too closely as to what
he had done while there. As a matter of fact he
did not afford her much opportunity to question.
He strutted about, exhibiting the big fish, boast-
ing of its weight and crowing over his shrewd-
ness in going fishing that morning instead of
coming straight home.
"There ain't many that would have thought of
it," he announced. "The average man would
have thought about breakfast first and fishin'
afterwards. 'No sir-ee,' says I to myself, 'the
time to catch pollock this early in the season is in
the mornin' just sun-up. I can eat one of Desire's
breakfasts any time in the week,' says I, 'but I
can't fetch her a twenty-pound pollock only
83


84 STORM GIRL
about once in so often.' Look at him! Proud of
the old man, are you, Dizzy? You ought to be."
Desire's pride, if she felt any, was well con-
cealed. She admitted that the fish was a large
one, but added that pollock wasn't good for
much anyhow, the cat was the only member of
the family that would eat more than a forkful of
it, she guessed. Simeon's feelings were hurt; he
said they were.
"Did you hear that, Em?" he asked. "Turnin'
up her nose at a fish like that! And in these days,
when there's millions of folks out of work and
cryin' for bread, let alone pollock. Besides, cats
don't eat with forks. You're gettin' mixed in
your language, Dizzy."
Desire gave it up, as she usually did. When
she and Emily were alone she explained why.
"There's no use keepin' at him," she confided.
"He'll tell what he wants to and when you ask
him to tell it again it will be somethin' different.
Long as he is here, and not in the hospital or in
jail, I ought to be satisfied, I suppose. Now he'll
behave himself for a while."
Simeon took the first opportunity to caution
Emily as to secrecy. "Haven't said anything to
her about my cruisin' by freight last night, have


STORM GIRL 85
you?" he queried. "That's right, don't. Nor
about my goin' to sleep off yonder in the boat.
Your Aunt Desire's a fine woman, but she don't
understand—er—some things."
That evening, when the three were in the sit-
ting-room, he looked up from his paper to ob-
serve: "Say, Desire, I'll have to own up that you
was part way right about that storm we had the
night Emmie came back here. 'Twasn't much of
a storm around these latitudes, but it must have
been bad enough up on the Banks. I run across a
fellow I knew from aboard one of the Banks
boats and he told me 'twas a terror up there.
Caught 'em kind of unawares, as you might say,
and blew 'em hither and yon. One poor chap was
lost overboard from this fellow's craft and half
a dozen more from the fleet generally. The
worst, though, was that Gloucester schooner; she
went down with all hands. Not a soul saved."
Desire sighed. "Dear, dear! How awful! No-
body you knew amongst 'em, was there, Sim-
eon?"
"Um-hm. Knew most of 'em at one time. Used
to know the skipper real well. Sailed with him
two or three trips. Ho, ho!" with a reminiscent


86
STORM GIRL
chuckle. "He was a live wire. Get him on shore
with the gang and havin' an evenin' out and he
was hard to hold. Ho, ho! I remember—"
He pulled up sharply, glanced at his sister-in-
law, winked at Emily—she was reading a public
library book and paying little attention to the
conversation—and added, "Well, he's gone, any-
how, poor fellow."
"What was his name?" asked Desire.
"Name? His name was Hendricks—Bill
Hendricks. Pigeon Cove man in the beginnin',
that's down on Cape Ann, you know. His
schooner was kind of an old tub, even when he
bought her. She used to be the Nellie Hope, but
he christened her the Blue Eyes. He.... Eh?
What? Did you say somethin', Em?"
Emily's book had slipped from her lap to the
floor and she was gazing at him. She was very
pale. Her aunt turned to look at her and then
rose to her feet.
"Why—why, Emmie!" she cried. "What ails
you? What is it?"
Emily shook her head. She tried to smile, but
it was a poor attempt.
"Nothing, nothing, Aunt Desire," she pro-
tested. "I'm all right, truly I am."


88
STORM GIRL
and they was too busy to pay attention to any-
body else. When they did the Blue Eyes wasn't
to be seen. They got over to where she had been,
but all they found was some wreckage, trawl tubs
and loose stuff floatin', that's all. Not a man,
livin' or dead. Bill Hendricks was a great hand
to carry sail and they figure the squall capsized
the Blue Eyes and she went to the bottom like
a flat-iron.... Say, you are sick, ain't you,
Emmie?"
"No, no. Truly I'm not. I'm just—well, I
guess it is indigestion. I shall be all right in a lit-
tle while. Perhaps if you and Aunt Desire don't
mind, I'll go to my room now. Please don't come,
Auntie. It's nothing, nothing at all."
"It's that everlastin' pollock, that's what 'tis.
What on earth you ever fetched it home for,
Simeon Coleman, the land knows. Or why I ever
cooked it--—or part of it—I don't know, either.
If we ain't poisoned 'twill be a mercy."
"Here!" Simeon broke in indignantly. "That
was as fine a pollock as ever I bit into. Poisoned!
With that fish? Dizzy, you've been to too many
church sociables; nothin' but frosted cake's good
enough for you these days. Poisoned! Why, I've
seen the time when I'd given a hundred dollars


STORM GIRL 89
—if I could have borrowed it—for a piece of
pollock same as I had on my plate to-night."
Desire retorted that her own father used to say
that pollock was not fit to eat. Emily took ad-
vantage of the argument to slip out of the room.
Her aunt called after her to ask if there was not
something she could do, bring some soda or Ja-
maica ginger or something, but these offers were
declined. Above all things Emily wished to be
alone just then. To talk was almost an impos-
sibility and to be where others were talking and
to have them look at her quite as bad.
The Blue Eyes. The Gloucester schooner
owned by Captain Bill Hendricks. Lost with all
hands. Not a soul saved. Ed Coombes was on
board that schooner, Lieutenant Hawley had told
her so. If this were true—and apparently it was
true, for Uncle Sim had spoken with an eye-
witness of the disaster—then—then Ed Coombes
had been drowned with the others. He was dead,
gone from her life forever.
For hours she sat there in her room, in the
dark—for she had been too perturbed even to
light the lamp—trying to realize the truth and
what it meant to her. Her feelings were oddly


go STORM GIRL
mixed. There were tears, of course. The mem-
ories of the wonderful time, not so long ago al-
though it seemed long, when she had been so
happy, so sure of him, looking forward to the
future, planning—all these came back to her.
But with them, overshadowing them, pushing
them aside, came the realization that this was the
last of it—the end. No more apprehension when
Uncle Simeon brought home the mail, no more
fear of a summons to the witness box, no more
shuddering dread of more publicity, more
shame, more humiliation and disgrace. It was
over—over and done with. And—it seemed al-
most wicked to say so, but it was true—it was
best for them both. So much better for her and—
yes, better for him.
There still remained a slight doubt, a question
whether, after all, the story Simeon had heard of
the completeness of the catastrophe was abso-
lutely true, but that doubt was dispelled a few
days later. A letter in a plain envelope bearing
the Gloucester postmark came to her. She
opened it with something of the old fear. What
now?
It was from Lieutenant Hawley, the police
official who had interviewed her at the Glouces-


9a
STORM GIRL
sized you up to be. Forget him and forget him in a
hurry. All this is none of my business and I know it,
but I have a daughter about your age and you re-
minded me of her when I met you.
P. J. H.
So it was the end. She tore the note into little
pieces and burned them in the stove. In doing so
she felt as if she were burning pages of her life.
And now there was a new page to be turned, but
there should be the name of no man written upon
it. No indeed! Nor on other pages which might
follow.


CHAPTER VI
CHESTER BREWSTER kept his promise.
He dropped in at the Coleman House on
an evening early in the following week. The
summer was almost upon them, so, except for
drills and service routine, his duties at the station
were light. He made a favorable impression.
His reputation had preceded him, for since his
appointment as station captain, there had been
much comment and discussion among the coast-
guardsmen and practically everything said was
to his credit. Of course there was a little jeal-
ousy; Olson, the Number One man, who felt
that the promotion should have come to him,
was, so Simeon heard, a trifle "sore-headed," but
he had little sympathy.
"The heft of 'em think he's the right fellow
for the job," Uncle Sim reported. "This is a busy
station through the winter months and the boys
figure it's the place for a young man. Ellis was
gettin' on and, for the last year or so, he's been
kind of shy of takin' too big risks. Olson is pretty
93


94 STORM GIRL
nigh retirin' age, too. This Brewster boy now,
he's right up and comin'. Won't stand for any
slackness, great for order and neatness and
discipline and the like of that; but he don't seem
to play favorites and is fair to all hands, so they
say."
"How do you know so much about it,
Simeon?" Desire asked.
"Oh, I've stopped in at the station a couple of
times lately."
Emily was pretty certain of the reason
prompting the "stopping in." Brewster, during
his first call, said not a word concerning the
rescue of her uncle from the Sunrise. Simeon
did not refer to it so she, too, kept a discreet
silence. After the caller had gone Desire ex-
pressed unqualified approval.
"He seems like a real nice young man," she
said. "Don't you think so, Emmie?"
"Yes, Aunt Desire."
"Um-hm. So kind of quiet and modest. Some
would have been pretty uppish and braggy if
they'd have been made cap'n of a Coast-Guard
ever at his age, but he wasn't—not a mite. Nice
manners, too. And I think he's real nice-lookin',
don't you, Emmie?"


STORM GIRL 95
"Why—I'm afraid I didn't notice, particu-
larly."
"Maybe not. But he noticed you. He hardly
took his eyes off you while he was here."
Uncle Simeon put in a word. "Pretty fine-
lookin' crowd in this house there was to-night,
that is a fact," he observed. "Three out of the
four, anyhow."
Desire sniffed. "Meanin' Cap'n Brewster and
Emmie—and you, I presume likely. Talk about
braggin'! And with nothin' to brag about!"
Simeon groaned. "Now, Dizzy," he protested,
"you know I wouldn't brag about my own looks.
Twouldn't be becomin', no matter how much ex-
cuse there might be for it. When I spoke about
the handsome three here to-night I was referrin'
to Cap'n Chet and Emmie and you. Especially
you."
"Oh, you ridiculous thing! Emmie, let's you
and me go along to bed and leave him to his
ravin's."
Brewster called again a few evenings later.
Before leaving he asked Emily if she would like
to visit the station the following day.
"No novelty to you, of course," he added. "But
if you care to come I shall be glad to show you
s


96 STORM GIRL
around the station. We have our boat drill in
the afternoon."
Emily had seen many life-boat drills, but she
could not graciously refuse. "I shall be glad to
come, if Aunt Desire can spare me. Or, better
still, if she could come with me. Can you,
Auntie?"
"Why, I don't know, maybe I could. I haven't
been to the station for ever and ever so long."
So they went and spent some pleasant hours
watching the drill and being personally con-
ducted in and about the station and boat sheds.
Desire invited Brewster to come over to the
Coleman House for supper on Saturday eve-
ning. He accepted this invitation without demur
or apology. "Thank you. I'll be on hand," he
said, and that was all.
"I don't know as I quite expected him to say
yes so quick," commented Desire as they were
walking home. "Sounds as if he really wanted
to come, didn't it? I wonder why. Probably the
prospect of a home meal sounds good to him,
after life-savin' vittles. Now what shall we have
for supper, I wonder."
Simeon, who had joined the party after the
drill was over, offered a suggestion.


STORM GIRL 97
"Maybe I could catch another pollock," he
observed, solemnly.
His sister-in-law's reception of this happy
thought was not encouraging.
June came. The Coleman House was hum-
ming with preparations for the arrival of the
first batch of boarders. The two waitresses, girls
from Trumet, and the cook, a Wellmouth ma-
tron, made their appearance on the tenth of the
month. Simeon scrubbed and painted the Sun-
rise getting it ready for fishing parties. On the
fifteenth a few guests were delivered by bus or
by the Ford at the door. They were elderly peo-
ple, and acquaintances, who had spent many sea-
sons under that roof. Emily knew them all, liked
them and they liked her. "But I can hardly be-
lieve, my dear," was the comment made with
slight variations, by almost every one of the
feminine contingent, "that it has been only one
year—or is it two?—since I saw you. You look
and seem so much older, so much more womanly,
if I may say so. Not that it isn't becoming to you,
dear me no. You are almost too good-looking.
Ha, ha! I'm afraid we shall have some—er—
heartburnings when the young men begin to
come. Well, it will give us older ones something


STORM GIRL 99
sprinkling of brown or black or auburn heads
amid the gray about the tables at meal time.
There were stenographers and school-teachers
down on annual vacations and young fellows
from business houses and offices. There was a
dance in the sitting-room every Saturday night,
a phonograph furnishing the music, bathing,
picnics and sailing parties daily; and movies in
the village or beach suppers and marshmallow
toasts in the evenings. The summer cottages were
all open and occupied and there were cocktail
parties and teas almost every week-day after-
noon.
Emily was finding it difficult to adhere to her
resolution to avoid all social gaiety. She could
not avoid all of it, of course. She danced some-
times and occasionally went to the movies with
the young groups or was a guest at a beach party.
She even accepted several of the cocktail party
invitations, although, when the trays were passed,
she was always one of the few who took the
glasses of tomato or fruit juice. She was not a
prude nor a total abstainer from principle. It was
merely that the only cocktails she had ever
drunk had been in Ed Coombes' company and at
his invitation and anything which reminded her


STORM GIRL
101
"Tut, tut, tut! Uncle Sim, that is the oldest
excuse in this world."
"Is it? Well, it wears well, anyhow Say!
Don't you spill any of all this to your Aunt
Dizzy. She wouldn't understand."


CHAPTER VII
THERE might have been flirtations
enough. The majority of young mas-
culine boarders at the Coleman House were not
unaware of Emily Blanchard's good looks. A
dozen would have trotted at her heels if she
had given them the slightest encouragement. One
of the first questions asked an acquaintance by a
youthful new arrival of the male sex was: "Who
is that girl over there by the desk? Boy, she's a
knock-out if I ever saw onel Who is she?"
And the reply, after imparting the desired in-
formation, usually continued with: "But there's
no use your trying to lay your manly head on her
bosom. Not on your life. We've all tried it and
there's just nothing doing."
"Huh! Why not? She doesn't look hard-boiled
or stand-offish. Looks like a nice, pretty country
girl, I'd say."
"She is—just that. So what?"
"Why—I don't know. What's the matter with
her? Beautiful but dumb, eh?"
I03


STORM GIRL 103
"Not a darned bit dumb. Just doesn't want to
play, I guess. All right, pitch in and find out for
yourself. You'll learn."
The new arrival almost invariably pitched in
—and learned. Emily was always pleasant and
agreeable. She danced on Saturday evenings, but
never more than once or twice with the same
partner. When she attended the beach picnics
she was always busy helping to distribute the
eatables or preparing the coffee. After the lunch
or supper was served she remained by the fire,
with the older members of the party, instead of
wandering, as most of the girls her age did,
along the beach with a male escort. Invitations
to strolls on the shore to watch the moonlight on
the breakers were always pleasantly but firmly
refused. One by one the would-be Romeos gave
it up and turned elsewhere for feminine com-
panionship.
"The Blanchard girl is all right, so far as
looks go, but for a fellow on a two weeks' vaca-
tion she is a waste of time." This was the general
opinion.
There was one young man, however, who re-
fused to give up. Not that he had ever been par-
ticularly active in the social liveliness of the


STORM GIRL 105
the subject of much tart comment. Miss Betty
Schwartz, who was a partner in a hair-dressing
establishment on Boylston Street in Boston and
who prided herself upon her wit and general
sophistication, declared that he was one of those
dikes which was not worth a dam. His nick-
name, behind his back, was "Dyksie."
"I had him all alone out on the porch the
other evening," confided Miss Schwartz, "and
I asked him what we've all been dying to know,
why in the world he ever picked out a place like
this to spend his vacation in. If I were he and
had all the money in creation you bet your life
I wouldn't be hanging around a cheap dump like
this. And what do you suppose he said? Said he
came here to study the proletariat. What on
earth the proletariat is I didn't know and don't
now, but I wasn't going to show my ignorance
by asking him."
"What did you say?" inquired the young
female whom she was honoring with her confi-
dence.
"Said I thought it was a wicked shame for
anybody to have to study when they were sup-
posed to be on vacation. He just looked high hat
at me through his spectacles and drawled, 'Oh—


106 STORM GIRL
er—do you think so?' And didn't that put me in
my place. I don't care how rich he is, I call him
a plain nut."
It was soon noticed, however, and commented
upon by Betty Schwartz and others, that the high
hat Mr. Dykes was more and more likely to be
found in the vicinity of Emily Blanchard. He
read a great deal, usually in books the mere titles
of which Miss Schwartz declared gave her a
headache, and he spent much time wandering in
solitary reflection along the shore or pacing up
and down the porch. But the end of those
wanderings and pacings often came when he
reached the desk when Emily was at work or at
the chair next to that in which she was sitting.
Not that his conversation on these occasions was
ever lengthy or in the least frivolous. A casual
reference to the weather was his nearest ap-
proach to frivolity and, for the most part, he
appeared to be shrouded in a sort of superior
gloom. Emily once ventured to ask him the title
of a volume he had in his hand. He sighed.
"Merely a novel," he replied. "I read one oc-
casionally, for recreation. This one is—er—but
no doubt you have read it."
He handed her the book.


STORM GIRL 107
"Oh," she said. "Yes, I have read it. I liked it
very much. Don't you?"
He smiled faintly. "It is amusing, in a way.
But quite unreal. The man writes of life as he
would like it to be, not as it actually is. Have
you read Frozen Souls?"
Emily had read a little of Frozen Souls. Old
Mrs. Chapin had been presented with a copy and
had handed it over to Emily with the request
that, when the girl had finished with it, it be
burned or thrown away. "Whatever you do,"
she added, "don't return it to me. I never want
to see it again. I want to forget it, if possible."
A half dozen chapters were enough, so far as
Emily was concerned. She told Mr. Dykes so.
"I thought it was dreadful. Everything and
everybody in it was so wretched and miserable
and—oh, hopeless."
"Hopeless, yes—but true. After all, life is
pretty hopeless, isn't it?"
He spoke as one having had vast and disil-
lusioning experience. Emily turned to look at
him. She was not sure whether or not he was
serious, but apparently he was, impressively so.
She refused to be impressed.
"Why, no," she declared, laughing, "of course


108 STORM GIRL
it isn't, not all of it, anyway. If it were like that
book it would be, but—well, it just isn't."
His nod was condescending. "I imagine," he
observed, "that you are like so many. Your own
life has so far been—er—comfortable and—"
She broke in. "How do you know whether it
has been comfortable or not?" she demanded, al-
most sharply.
"Why—er—why, I don't, of course. I merely
took it for granted."
"You shouldn't take things for granted
But there, I mustn't talk to you like that. And I
must get to work again."
She rose to go, but he detained her.
"Just a minute," he urged. "I find all this very
interesting. And I didn't mean to be personal.
When I said life was hopeless I meant for the
great majority."
"And who are the great majority?"
"Why—er—" rather vaguely, "they are the—
er—the great majority. Those who do not belong
to the pampered classes. The hordes of people
we see about us every day. The proletariat, if you
like."
"I don't know whether I like or not. I'm not
quite sure what the proletariat is. If it means


STORM GIRL 109
just the everyday, common people, why I am
one of them and so is almost every one I know
down here. And we don't go about whining and
complaining and hating, like the people in that
Frozen Souls book. I should hope we didn't.
Now, honestly, Mr. Dykes—it isn't my business,
but I just must say it—you don't belong to the—
what is it—proletariat. Of course you don't. If
what I hear is true you are about as much—well,
pampered—as any one I can imagine. There!
Now I have offended you, I know."
But he seemed not in the least offended. He
even smiled. "I don't mind your saying it," he
said. "It is the truth and truth is what we should
face. Miss Blanchard, I hope you and I may
have many of these talks together. I should like
you to understand my position. I want to ex-
plain."
She laughed. "Well, all right," she answered,
"but I can't let you do it now. I have a lot of
things to do just at present."
She did not know exactly what to make of
him. He seemed convinced that the world was a
dreadful place, but, apparently, he was not try-
ing to do anything to make it better. He was de-
pressed and gloomy but, unless her judgment


STORM GIRL in
would find some of them thinking for themselves
there—yes, and talking for themselves, too."
That was immaterial. They were not thinking
or talking as a mass. They did not seem to real-
ize that they were downtrodden. If they com-
bined, got together, and asserted themselves they
could—why, they could make the world over.
Emily asked him how it should be made over
and his answer seemed to her rather vague. He
quoted liberally from his readings, spoke largely
of class revolutions and of the proletariat, but so
far as any definite plan for reconstruction was
concerned he was, she thought, foggy and indefi-
nite. He told her a good deal about himself. His
parents were wealthy; she gathered that he had
always had every material thing he desired and
that the college he was now attending was the
second he had patronized in three years. What
was he going to do after he graduated? He was
not sure. His father, of course, expected him to
go in with him as a partner in the wholesale drug
manufacturing firm, but he abhorred the idea.
His mother? Well, she didn't seem to care; any-
thing that pleased him would suit her, he sup-
posed.


iia STORM GIRL
Desire considered him queer, but kind of nice,
after all. "I don't know why, but I can't help
feelin' sort of sorry for him. He does act so un-
happy, as you might say. Why he should be the
land knows, with all the money he's got, or is
goin' to have."
Uncle Simeon's estimate was more concrete
and much more emphatically expressed.
"He made me take him out on a fishin' cruise
t'other day," he said, "and I give you my word
he didn't care no more about catchin' fish than
I do about goin' to sewin'-circle. Set there, he did,
with his line hangin' slack and his chin goin',
pumpin' questions at me about whether or not
the longshore gang around here was what he
called 'class conscious.' I told him some of 'em,
accordin' to my figurin', had never got out of the
primer class, but that didn't seem to satisfy him,
'specially. He didn't act to me as if he was
havin' a very good time, seemed to be pretty
down in the mouth about nothin' in particular
and everything in general."
Emily nodded. "I know," she agreed. "He is
always like that. The summer fellows here say
that Dyksie is a 'parlor pink,' whatever that may
be."


STORM GIRL 113
"Huh! He's the bluest pink / ever see. Wanted
to know if I thought Pete Silver, that lazy, good-
for-nothin' Portygee that's supposed to tend the
gasoline pump down at the wharf, brooded over
his wrongs. I says to him, I says, 'The only thing
that bird broods over is his meals. He can brood
a dinner hour into an hour and a half easier than
anybody else in the county.' Bah! Don't waste
your time feelin' sorry for Dyksie, Dizzy. He's
lived too rich all his life and it's given him
dyspepsy in the brains. If I could have him along
with me on a cod boat for a couple of weeks
I'd undertake to cure him. Do him more good
than them half dozen colleges he's been to. Goin'
around pityin' folks that don't want to be pitied
and would punch his nose for him if they knew
he was doin' it. Say, Emmie, he seems to have
taken quite a shine to you; why don't you marry
him? He needs somebody with sense to shake
the foolishness out of him."
Emily laughed. "No, thank you," she said.
"Besides, I haven't noticed any symptoms of his
thinking of asking me."
Aunt Desire, the incurable romantic, shook
her head. "Well, I don't know," she observed.
"He does seem to like you a lot. Rich men have


114 STORM GIRL
married poor girls before now. Stranger things
than that have happened."
"But not many," was her niece's rejoinder. She
did not speak of her resolve never to marry any
one. That was as unshakable as ever.


CHAPTER Fill
CAPTAIN CHET BREWSTER'S calls
were, now that the summer season at the
Coleman House was at its height, not as frequent
as they had been in June. He did call occasion-
ally, but more often Emily was likely to en-
counter him during her early morning brisk
walks along the beach, her "constitutionals," as
she called them. Those encounters never ap-
peared to be the result of premeditated planning
on his part, as they certainly were not on hers.
He was out for a before breakfast stroll and so
was she. Having met, they walked and chatted
together, that was all.
She asked him questions concerning affairs at
the Coast-Guard station and he informed her of
the daily happenings. It was dull enough there
during the summer, he said, just the daily round
of drill and patrol and disciplining watchful-
ness. He had a good crew, so far as he could
make out in his short acquaintance with them,
and they seemed to like him. "More or less of a


n6 . STORM GIRL
picnic now," he added. "No active duty and
nothing to try out any of us. If everything runs
as smooth when the fall and winter weather hits
us I should be satisfied."
As they became better acquainted she asked
him how he came to be in the service.
"Oh, it just happened," he said. "I like salt
water, like to be on it and around it. Then I like
the responsibility of it, handling men, everything
like that. I couldn't be tied to a desk, it would
drive me crazy. Oh, I don't mean to make it my
life work—no, indeed. I don't know just what
that will be, but I have some pretty good friends
connected with the shipping and steamboat busi-
ness in Boston and New York. They know what
sort of a job I might be fitted for and that I
would like. Some of these days the right thing
may come my way, but just now I'm having a
good time here."
He was alone in the world. An only child with
both of his parents dead. He told her a good deal
about his boyhood and she, in turn, told him of
her life as a little girl with Aunt Desire and of
Uncle Sim's unexpected return to the Coleman
House. He chuckled at the mention of Simeon's
name.


STORM GIRL 117
"I like him," he declared. "He's a tough old
boy, lived a rough life, I guess, and enjoyed it,
too, but he's full of good solid common-sense and
has a way of talking that keeps me laughing. I
can't see how he fits in over there at your aunt's
boarding-house, though."
Emily smiled. "Oh, he doesn't," she said. "But
he is a good deal of a favorite, just the same. He
shocks the old ladies and that gives them some-
thing to talk about. Between ourselves, I think
they like to be shocked once in a while, and
would be disappointed if he didn't say and do
the things he does. Most of the men like him a
lot and those that don't are the ones he doesn't
like. He delights to tease poor Aunt Desire, but
she adores him, really. As for me—well, I'm
sure he would do anything on earth I asked
him to."
The Brewster comment on this came as a sur-
prise. It was so different from his usual quiet
reserve.
"Well, who wouldn't?" he said. It was more
of an assertion than a question and there was
something in his tone which caused her to turn
and look at him. He was walking on, his hands


STORM GIRL
131
"I knew you usually went out alone at this time
and I made up my mind to be on hand. I—I had
to talk with you, you see."
"Oh." She did not see, of course. Nor did he
go on to explain immediately. A little later,
however, when they had reached a sheltered spot
between the dunes out of sight from the Coleman
House and the life-saving station, he asked her
if she would mind waiting. "I mean," he
faltered nervously, "I mean—well, can't we sit
down—er—on that thing or—er—somewhere? I
have a good deal to say and it is very important."
The thing he. indicated was a piece of timber,
the sea-beaten and sun-bleached stern-post of a
long-since wrecked schooner, half buried in the
sand. She hesitated. "Why, all right," she agreed,
not too heartily. "I suppose we can for a minute
or two. I can't be long, Aunt Desire will be
needing me."
They seated themselves on the fragment of
wreckage. He looked at her, opened his mouth
to speak, closed it again and fidgeted with his
spectacles.
"Well?" she asked. "What is all this that is
so important?"
He looked at her through the spectacles, drew


122
STORM GIRL
a long breath and then replied. "It is you," he
blurted. "You—and me. You see, I—well, I have
just had a telegram from my father. He wants me
to come home. Mother is not very well and
Father thinks she might be more contented if I
were around. So I suppose I must go. I don't
want to; I have been very happy here."
"I'm glad of that. I know Aunt Desire will be
glad, too. She likes to hear that people have been
happy in her house."
He nodded. "She is all right. She is a good
woman, of her kind. A little too satisfied with
her station in life, perhaps. A little too—well,
unresentful of injustices and things like that,
but—"
"Nonsense! What injustices?"
"Why, social injustices. Why should she have
to wait upon others and make herself uncomfort-
able in order that they may be so comfortable?
Why should she have to superintend their meals
and—and cater to their petty wants?"
"How perfectly ridiculous! She does it be-
cause that is the way she makes her living. They
pay to be made comfortable, don't they?"
"Yes, but the whole idea is wrong Oh,
well, I didn't mean to talk about her. I am not


STORM GIRL 123
interested in her—except in a general way....
Yes, I have been happy here—really happy. And
that is rather strange, you know."
If he had smiled she would have accepted
this statement as a joke, for it certainly sounded
like one to her. But, apparently, he was in deadly
earnest.
"What is strange about it?" she asked. "I
should say you had every reason to be happy."
"But I haven't. Or, if I have, I'm not going to
let it influence me. What right have I to be
happy when so many millions and millions of
people are wretched?"
She gave it up. He was off on another one of
his "social justice" tirades and she was not in the
mood to listen to it.
"I really must go back to the house," she said,
and made a move to rise. But he caught her
arm.
"No, no: you can't go," he said. "You've got
to stay, for a little while, anyhow. You've got to.
This may be my last chance to say—what I'm go-
ing to say and—and you must listen to it. Emily,
I—I think I could be happy—yes, in spite of
everything and everybody, if you were with me
—er—always."


124 STORM GIRL
"Always? What in the world—"
"Don't talk—yet. Just listen. Emily, I—I'm
not popular with people, I know. I've tried two
colleges so far and I'm no more popular at the
second one than I was at the first. I don't care
for that, though. The college fellows, most of
them, are just careless and frivolous and foot-
bally and girl-crazy and all that kind of rot. I'm
not, and I won't be. At home I could have any-
thing I wanted, but I don't want it. I—"
But she interrupted. "Perhaps that is the trou-
ble," she said. "If you couldn't have everything
you might be happy trying to get something
But, truly, Mr. Dykes, I mustn't stay any
longer."
His grip of her arm was still tight. He held
her fast. "You're not listening," he declared.
"This is serious, I tell you. When I came down
here— Well, what do you suppose I came to
Trumet for, anyway? If Mother had had her
way I would have been f rivoling around at some
fashionable resort, or abroad or somewhere. I
didn't want that, wasn't having any of it."
"How about your father?"
"Father doesn't understand me at all. When
I talk to him seriously about—well, about life


STORM GIRL 125
and all that—he just laughs. When I tell him I
simply won't go into business with him, turning
out pills and nostrums, the sort of thing he has
made his money doing, he says he wouldn't have
me at any price—yet. Tells me to run away and
play until he's ready for me.... But you aren't
interested in all that. I heard of the Coleman
House from one of the fellows—one of the few
serious-minded chaps I knew at college—and it
sounded good to me. I thought it would be sim-
ple here and I could be by myself and read and
—er—study the common people. I thought I
might be happy here. I wasn't though."
"I thought you just said you were."
"So I am—now; but I wasn't at first. I wanted
to study the proletariat and to get their point of
view at first hand. But, confound it, these peo-
ple down here, at the wharf and on the boats and
all, they don't seem to realize that they are the
proletariat. They seem to actually resent my ask-
ing them questions about themselves. Why, one
chap as much as told me to mind my own busi-
ness."
Emily could not help laughing.
"I'm not surprised," she said. "You see, I
know them pretty well."


126
STORM GIRL
He paid no attention. "It wasn't until I met
you," he went on, "that I began to be happy.
I never cared to be with a girl before, but you
were different. You were interested in what I
was interested in, you would let me talk to you
and—and read to you—and—oh, everything.
Then You do understand what I mean, don't
you? I mean that I—that I fell in love with you.
I guess that's it; it must be. Emily—"
She would have risen now, but his grip upon
her arm had shifted, his arm was about her waist
now, and she could not break away.
"Stopl" she ordered. "Don't be silly, Mr.
Dykes, please. Let me go."
"I can't let you go. I'm never going to let you
go. Emily, you will marry me, won't you? Say
you will."
"Marry you!" She could hardly believe her
ears. "Marry youl Why no, of course I won't."
"You won't? You must. You've got to. Don't
you see what it would mean? We would be to-
gether always. We could—"
"Oh, stop, stop! Of course I can't marry you."
"Why not? Don't you want to?"
"Why—well, no, since you put it that way, I


128
STORM GIRL
his mother. "Oh, do be sensible!" she snapped,
impatiently. "Now will you kindly let me go?"
"Just one minute, please, please/ Emily,
you're sure it isn't that Coast-Guard fellow? If
I thought a person like him came between us I
should never—"
And just then the "Coast-Guard fellow" did
come between them, figuratively if not literally.
There was the sound of a footstep on the dry sand
beyond the dune and then, around the wind-
sharpened ridge of that dune, strolled Captain
Chet Brewster, his hands in his jacket pockets,
his cap at the back of his head as usual, and a
pipe in his mouth. He stopped short, staring at
the intimate tableau in the hollow before him,
while the participants in the tableau stared back
at him.
For an instant no one spoke or moved. Then
Brewster, still without speaking, turned on his
heel and strode back the way he had come,
around the ridged crown of the dune and out of
sight.
"Oh !" exclaimed Mr. Bradford Dykes. Emily
said nothing. There was much she wanted to say,
but she could not trust herself to say it. She shook
herself free from the detaining arm—the sur-


STORM GIRL 129
prise and shock of Brewster's sudden appear-
ance had loosened its clutch materially—and
springing to her feet, walked rapidly away.
Dykes scrambled through the sand after her.
"Emily," he wailed. "Emily—dear—please
wait. I haven't finished. You must listen. I don't
believe you really understand what this means
to me. Let me explain. I didn't expect you to say
you would marry me now—at once. I just—
Please! Where are you going?"
Emily's reply was given over her shoulder.
Her cheeks were flaming.
"I'm going home," she declared.
"But, Emily Oh, this isn't the end. I won't
let it be. It can't be."
He was trotting along at her side. She stopped
and turned toward him.
"Mr. Dykes," she said, with exasperated em-
phasis, "you must understand this: I have told
you that I can't marry you, that I don't intend
to marry any one. And I don't want to hear an-
other word about it, now or ever. I am going
home and, if you must have plain speaking, I
would rather go alone."
The plain speaking had its effect. She left him


130 STORM GIRL
standing there, a picture of woe and offended
dignity. She did not see that picture, she did not
once turn her head until the door of the Coleman
House had closed behind her. She went up to her
own room and then, alone, looked at herself in
the mirror above the dresser. Her cheeks were
still red and her eyes were flashing. Then, even
as she looked, they filled with tears. She sat down
on the edge of the bed and cried.
Oh, it was too humiliating, all of it. Bad
enough to have that poor simpleton behave so
like an idiot. She had not encouraged him, good-
ness knew she hadn't. She had just tried to be
nice to him, because he seemed so lonely and
forlorn and without friends. She had forced her-
self to listen to his ridiculous ideas and theories,
the meaning of which he did not know himself,
just to—oh, out of kindness. And he had pre-
sumed—had dared to think—
That, of itself, was bad enough, but to have
Chester Brewster come upon them as he did, see
them together in that way, with his arm about
her waist— What must he have thought? What
must he be thinking now?
Not that what he thought or did not think
made any real difference to her. Why should it?


STORM GIRL 131
It did not, of course. But no one likes to be mis-
understood, to be made to look like a fool. And
it had to be he, of all the people in the world.
But that didn't make any difference either. Why
should it? Only—
And so on. At last she rose, filled the hand
basin from the pitcher and dashed the cold water
upon her face. Then she went down to report to
Aunt Desire. She saw Bradford Dykes come in
an hour or so later, but she kept carefully out of
his way and out of his sight all that day and that
evening.
And, the following morning, Uncle Simeon
informed her that he and the Ford had taken
"Dyksie," his trunks and his hand baggage to the
Trumet station and Simeon had seen them
aboard the morning train.
Then, unreasonably of course, she felt a little
conscience-stricken. Not because she had refused
the ridiculous offer of marriage, but because she
had done it in such an unfeeling way. She might
have been a little more sympathetic or—or
something. Well, she probably would have been
if Chester Brewster had not butted in. She al-
most hoped that she might never see him again,
either. But she would. How could she help it?


CHAPTER IX
THE sudden and unexpected departure of
Mr. Bradford Dykes created little or no
sensation at the Coleman House. A few half-
hearted questions were asked and Emily's guilty
conscience prompted her to surmise that at least
some of the whisperings and giggles she heard or
the glances cast at her when her back was sup-
posed to be turned might be inspired by the
coupling of her name with that of the missing
"DykSie." In fact, old Mrs. Chapin did go so
far as to wonder aloud, in the girl's presence,
what had happened to "that queer Dykes boy"
to send him away in such a hurry, but if the old
lady had hoped to surprise Emily into offering
some comment or explanation she must have
been disappointed. Uncle Sim had an explana-
tion, however, and did not hesitate to speak it.
"Well, now," he would say, "I tell you. Dyksie
he's most likely gone where them prolyterry
rats he's after are thicker. It's the off season for
133


134 STORM GIRL
'em down here, or he didn't use the right kind of
cheese or trap, or somethin'."
Emily took no more morning walks on the
beach. She told her Aunt Desire that there were
so many things to do that she couldn't spare the
time, but her real reason was that she did not
wish to run the risk of meeting Chet Brewster.
He dropped in at the Coleman House on two oc-
casions but, when he first came she happened to
have gone to the village and, the second time,
she caught a glimpse of him through the window
and hurried up to her room to remain there until
he had gone. The memory of his discovery of her
and Dyksie that day on the beach was still as
humiliating and irritating as ever. She remem-
bered only too well the position of the Dykes arm
and the adoringly idiotic simper on the Dykes
face. Captain Chet must have noticed both and
drawn his own conclusions. She would keep out
of his way as long as she could, but she could not,
of course, do it always. When they did meet,
however, if he dared refer to what he had seen,
or even hint at it, she would—oh, she would—
She was almost as angry with him as she was
with Bradford Dykes—or herself, for that mat-
ter.


STORM GIRL 135
The inevitable meeting took place a week or
so later. She had been up to the bank in the vil-
lage and, in spite of Desire's remonstrances and
pleadings that she take the car, had preferred to
obtain some much needed outdoor air and exer-
cise by walking. She was on her way back and on
the loneliest stretch of the road, which was
lonely for at least one and a half of its two miles,
when she heard the sound of a motor car ap-
proaching along the way she had traveled. She
stepped aside to let it pass, but it did not pass, it
stopped. She turned and saw two men in Coast-
Guard uniform on the seat. One was Olson, the
Number One man at the station, and the other
man was Brewster. It was he who spoke.
"Just in time for a lift," he hailed, cheerfully.
"Lots of room. Jump in."
Her reception of the invitation was not too
cordial. He did not seem in the least embar-
rassed, but she was, although she tried not to
show it. "No, thanks," she said, rather stiffly. "I
am walking for exercise."
"Oh. Well, that's all right. Don't mind a little
exercise myself. I'll walk the rest of the way with
you. Ed will take the car back. Go ahead, Ed;
I'll see you in a little while."


136 STORM GIRL
Before she could remonstrate he had sprung
from the car and the car was on its way. She was
furious. It would have been bad enough to meet
him at the boarding-house, where there were
other people about, but here—alone.... He had
better not presume on that. Indeed he hadn't!
And, somewhat to her surprise, he did not.
They walked along together, she walking very
fast and he keeping pace with an easy stride, and
chatting of village affairs or of happenings
alongshore in his own or other stations. Not once
did he mention having come upon her in Dykes's
company, not once did he mention the latter's
name. Yet he must have known that Dykes had
left the Coleman House, everybody knew it.
In fact, he was just as he had always been and
she tried to be as casually good-humored and
chatty. When he left her at the Coleman House
door he refused her perfunctory invitation to
enter, declaring he must be on his way. "I'll be
late for drill, if I don't hurry."
Here was the awkward situation she had been
dreading and was prepared to face and, now that
it had been faced, it had turned out to be not
awkward at all. She did not know whether she
should be grateful to him or resentful. He had


STORM GIRL 137
not spoken of what he had seen that day on the
beach—he had been enough of a gentleman for
that—but he must be thinking, and that she re-
sented. He had no business to think such things.
But he was a nice fellow—he certainly was. So
many in his place would have ventured a sly
joke, or even presumed to be fresh. Perhaps he
had not seen or noticed But of course he had.
At any rate, the ice was broken and, having
met him once, she need not fear meeting him
again. His calls at the boarding-house were not
frequent but they were fairly regular and al-
though Aunt Desire, the sentimentalist, took
pains to leave them together and also shoo Uncle
Sim out of the way, he never took advantage.
Plainly there was nothing of the philanderer
about him; some of her experiences with the
young male boarders—and also even with one or
two of the older ones—proved that. But he was
not a prig nor a solemn bore like—well, like
Bradford Dykes, for example. Dyksie's spec-
tacles were opaque as far as seeing a joke was
concerned. Chet Brewster could see a joke, joked
himself, and his hearty laugh was contagious. He
was a good fellow and he treated her as if she
were another of the same sort.


138 STORM GIRL
She found herself liking him better and bet-
ter, but this realization only strengthened her de-
termination not to permit herself to like him too
well. Her lesson had been learned once and for
all. Thank goodness she had a will of her own
and a share of the family common-sense. But—
she must be very careful. She must be on her
guard against the slightest symptom of anything
deeper than friendship on his part.
So far he had shown nothing of the sort and,
in consequence, her guard relaxed. She even re-
sumed her early morning habit of walking on the
beach and occasionally he joined her. And, dur-
ing one of these walks, the very thing she had al-
most ceased to fear happened, catching her un-
awares.
They had been strolling side by side and had
reached almost the exact spot where Mr. Dykes
had, as she always thought of it, made an idiot of
himself, when he suddenly broke a brief silence
on both their parts by asking a question.
"What do you hear from Mr. Dykes?" he
asked. "Where is he nowadays?"
She stopped and turned. "Hear from him?"
she repeated. "I don't hear from him; why
should I?"


i4o STORM GIRL
angrily, "am I telling you all this? It isn't your
affair—nor any one else's but mine."
"That's true enough," mildly. "I had no idea
of your telling me."
"But I had to tell you, didn't I? You saw him
with—with—well, you saw him. And, of course
you thought I was—I was—"
"Here, here! I didn't think a thing. It wasn't
my business, just as you said."
"Don't be so absurd! You did think. You must
have."
"If I thought anything it was that you and he
were—might be—"
"Well, we weren't and we're not. Now you
understand, I hope."
She started to walk on. He walked beside her.
"I wish you would let me get this straight,
Emily," he said. "So there is nothing between
you and Dykes?" He drew a long breath and
added. "I'm glad of that."
"If there was—and there isn't—I should still
say that—"
"That it was none of my business? In one way
it isn't. In another, though, I guess it is. So long
as there was a chance that you cared for another
fellow I was out of the running and ought to be.


142 STORM GIRL
"Nobody has. Nobody at all. Don't make me
say it again, please don't. And don't ask again if
there is any one else, for I've told you there isn't.
There is never going to be anybody."
"What? I don't—"
"Oh," desperately, "don't ask me what I
mean! Don't say anything more about it."
"Got to say a little more. Tell me this much.
Nobody has a chance, you say?"
"Yes. Oh, yes! That is just what I say."
"I see. But I have as much chance as any other
nobody?"
"Why—"
"All right. That's enough for me just now. I
can wait."
"But you mustn't wait. There is nothing to
wait for."
"Well," with a half smile, "I'll wait for the
nothing then. Don't see how you can stop my
doing that There, that's over and settled.
Now we can talk about pleasanter things—
pleasanter for you, I mean."
And, to her amazement, he changed the sub-
ject utterly. His next remark was as impersonal
and casual as if nothing of importance had hap-
pened between them. She did her best to be as


STORM GIRL 143
casual as he, but it was an effort. It was not until
they were entering the Coleman yard that he
referred to the other matter.
"Emmie," he said, earnestly, "I hope you
won't let what I said a while ago trouble you
any. You mustn't do that. You needn't be afraid
I'll keep on worrying you about it, because I
shan't. Oh yes, I'll be waiting and if you ever do
change your mind—"
"I shan't do that, Chet—ever."
"Well, then, we'll just go on as we were. Even
that means a whole lot to me. We can do that,
can't we?"
"Why—why, of course. If you want to. Oh,
Chet, I do like you. I think you are one of the
nicest fellows I ever knew, but—but I can't—"
"I know, I know. Hadn't any right, maybe, to
think you would, a girl like you. It will be all
right, though, for me to drop in once in a while,
as I've been doing, just to say hello to my neigh-
bors?"
"Certainly."
"Fine. See you to-morrow then, or the day after
anyhow. Good-by."


CHAPTER X
HE DID call three evenings later, chatted
with Aunt Desire and joked with Uncle
Sim just as he always had. And toward Emily
his manner was not in the least changed from
what it had been before they had their under-
standing. In a way she was glad of this, but in
another it troubled her. She had the uneasy feel-
ing that he, perhaps, had not given up hope en-
tirely, but was, as he had said, waiting. He
was, she believed, the kind of person who would
wait, and keep on waiting for a long, long time
if necessary. Possibly her refusal had not been
firm enough. She had tried to make it firm and
final—on reflection she could not see how she
could have made it any firmer—but neverthe-
less—
This seeing him every day, day after day, was
going to be hard. Hard for them both—she was
beginning to realize that. She did not love him—
of course she didn't. She had loved once and
what had happened to that love I And such a
»44


STORM GIRL 147
pay for it by and by. Never see an unseasonable
spell like this that didn't break up with a smash
and a big smash, too. When she comes stand by
for trouble."
On Saturday afternoon of that week Emily
walked to the village; she had a few errands to
do there. When she left the Coleman House the
sky had been blue and cloudless, but when she
came out of the bank, her last port of call, heavy
black clouds were rolling up out of the west and,
although it was as warm as ever, with scarcely a
breath of wind, there were faint mutterings of
distant thunder and the air was heavy and op-
pressive. She turned back into the bank again
and, asking permission to use the 'phone, called
up Aunt Desire and suggested that it might be
wise for Uncle Sim to come in the Ford and
bring her home before the storm broke. Simeon,
it appeared, was "out somewhere" but Desire
was sure he would be back "almost any minute."
"All right, Auntie," said Emily. "I'll start for
home and he and the car can meet me somewhere
on the way. That will save time."
She did not wait to hear her aunt's remon-
strances and orders to wait where she was, but
hurried out, along the main road for perhaps an


148 STORM GIRL
eighth of a mile, then turning into the road lead-
ing to the beach and the Coleman House. When
she left the bank there had been some indication
that the shower might, as so many summer
showers did, pass to the north and avoid Trumet,
but since then a breeze had sprung up and now
the clouds, outlying forerunners of the black
mass behind them, were flying overhead. The
flashes of lightning were brighter and more fre-
quent and the thunder no longer muttered, it
roared.
She walked rapidly, hoping always to see the
car and Uncle Sim coming in her direction
around the curves ahead, or to, at least, meet or
be overtaken by some other person in some sort
of a conveyance. None came, however, and, as
she reached a point about half way between the
village and her destination, the first scattered
drops of rain began to fall. They were huge
drops, it would take but a few of them, she
realized, to wet her to the skin. She looked about
for shelter.
A little way ahead on the left was a small
cranberry bog and, beside it at the edge of the
road, a weatherbeaten and battered shed used,
during the picking season which would soon


STORM GIRL 149
begin, for the temporary storage of crates. The
shed had a tiny projecting covered porch where
the berry screeners might stand when the sun
was hot. The shed, she knew, would be locked,
but the porch offered a measure of shelter. She
hurried toward it, the raindrops falling more
heavily and closer together every moment. By
the time she reached it the shower was on in
earnest.
But by no means the worst of it; this was only
the beginning. The sky grew blacker and
blacker. The last patch of sunlight along the
eastern horizon faded and was obscured. There
were shorter and shorter intervals between the
lightning flashes and the thunder peals. This sec-
tion of the New England coast is visited by com-
paratively few electrical storms—"tempests" the
natives call them—but occasionally it has one to
be remembered and talked about. This one
promised to establish a record for itself. Obvi-
ously it was the "breaking-up storm" Uncle
Simeon had declared was sure to come.
The rain was now falling as if shot from
gigantic hoses. It roared upon the narrow roof
of the shed porch. The boards of that roof were
not set closely together and from each crack a


150 STORM GIRL
miniature deluge descended. Emily, crouching,
moving from one drenched spot to another, was
cold and wet and miserable. Why in the world
had she been such a ninny as to start out on foot
from the bank? Why hadn't she waited in the
village until the storm was over or until Uncle
Sim came? She had almost a mind to go on; she
could not be much wetter than she was already.
If the rain had been the only deterrent she
might have done that very thing. If it had not
been for the lightning. She had never seen such
flashes; they were almost incessant, and the thun-
der was deafening. The wind, too, was blowing
in great gusts. The branches of the ancient sil-
ver-leaf poplar at the curve of the road were
twisting and thrashing. Her courage failed her.
The porch was a poor protection, but it was
something. It had been made by human hands,
there was a certain feeling of companionship
about it; whereas out there was nothing but
merciless, impersonal turmoil. She crouched
against the locked door, shivered and waited.
Would Uncle Sim start out at all in the car in
such a storm? For his sake she ought to hope
that he hadn't—but she devoutly hoped he had.
And then, through the murk, over the brow of


STORM GIRL 151
the little hill beyond the silver-leaf at the curve,
there shone a flash of light. It was not the glare
of the lightning, either, for, although it hopped
about, it remained, grew brighter, became a
glow against which the streams of rain showed
like slanting silver cords. It came from the lamps
of a car. It was Uncle Sim and the Ford—at last.
Bless his old heart, he was coming in spite of the
"tempest."
A moment later and the car itself appeared
above the hill top. The twin lights bobbed and
bounced as it jolted along the rutted road. Poor
old Uncle Sim! He must be almost as wet as she
was, if that were possible. She called his name
and waved her hand; not that he could hear or
see her, of course, but involuntarily. Oh, it was
such a joy to see somebody. To know that she was
no longer alone.
The car dipped into the hollow and rose again
rounding the curve by the silver-leaf. And then
the dark slate of the sky split wide open. A blaze
of white light showed her the top of the old tree
flying in fragments. Then a crash like the crack
of doom. And then—darkness—and, except for
the rush and roar of the rain and wind, silence.
For a moment she stood there, clinging to the


152 STORM GIRL
upright supporting the porch roof, dazed, weak
and trembling. Then, her senses returning, she
sprang from the platform and ran out into the
middle of the road.
"Uncle Sim!" she called. "Uncle Sim!" But
there was no reply. There, where the tree had
been, was a confused mass of tangled and splin-
tered wood, with a flicker of red flame at its cen-
ter. But the car—where was the car?
She ran. The road was a maze of puddles
through which she splashed unheeding. She
could see the car now. It was beyond the shat-
tered silver-leaf, lying on its side. A great
branch, a tangle of twigs with a few leaves still
clinging to them, was lying across it.
"Uncle Sim! Oh, Uncle Sim!" she cried,
frantically; but still there was no response. She
bent over the tangle, pulling the dripping twigs
aside, trying to peer down into the interior be-
hind the front seat. She could see but vaguely, it
was dark there, but—
And then came another lightning flash and she
saw. The man lying there in a huddled heap was,
not her uncle, but Chester Brewster.
As to just what happened during the next few
moments she is even yet uncertain. The fallen


STORM GIRL 153
branch was very heavy and she could not move
it—she could not, but she must—she must. Pull-
ing, pushing, lifting, panting, she labored. The
lightning flashed, the thunder boomed and the
rain poured, but she did not heed them. They
frightened her no longer, they did not matter.
The only thing that did matter was that he was
there, unconscious, hurt—perhaps dead. But—
he could not be dead. If he were— But he was
not. No, no! He must not be.
And, at last, the tree limb moved, began to
slide to one side, slid more rapidly and fell par-
tially away from the car. Chet was there, she
could see him plainly now. Very white and very
still. She bent over him, calling his name.
"Chet! Oh, Chet!" she pleaded.
His eyes opened. He looked up at her.
"Hello," he said, weakly. "Who— Why,
hello, Emily Eh? What's the matter?"
Her relief was almost overpowering. He was
alive. She choked back the sob in her throat.
"Don't move," she begged. "Don't try to move.
You mustn't. You've been hurt."
"Hurt! How?...What am I doing down
here? What has happened? Where did you come
from?"


154 STORM GIRL
"Oh, I don't know. Don't talk; you mustn't
talk."
"Why not?" He was trying to rise. "I'm all
right. Seem to be jammed in here somehow, but
I can get out; give me time."
In spite of her protestations and pleadings he
struggled to his knees. "Whew!" he panted. "So
far so good. A little dizzy, that's all.... What
was it, anyway?"
"The—the lightning. The tree was struck and
—and—"
He looked at the shattered and splintered tree
trunk, at the branch still hiding a part of the car.
"Hum!" he observed. "Struck by lightning.
Well," with an attempt at a smile, "I've had a
good many things happen to me, but this is a new
one.... No, no, don't worry. I'm all right now."
Although she still protested he clambered,
rather unsteadily, from the wreckage and stood
erect.
"Looks as if the Trumet station was perma-
nently short one second-hand car," he went on,
with a shake of the head. "No great loss, but—"
And then, as if suddenly becoming aware of the
conditions surrounding them, he turned toward
her.


156
STORM GIRL
The storm was, at last, passing over. The
lightning flashes were not as vivid and the in-
terval between flash and thunder clap longer. It
was still raining, but neither of the pair noticed
it. Just how long they stood there, his arm about
her and his voice murmuring disjointed ecstasies
in her ear does not matter. She was the first to
come back to reality.
"Oh," she gasped. "I—I am so wet."
The sentence he had begun broke off in the
middle. He caught his breath and emerged from
paradise to a condition far different.
"Wet?" he repeated, dazedly. "Eh? Heavens
and earth! I should think you might be. What is
the matter with me? I—I forgot—I guess I for-
got everything except—except— Oh, I'm a self-
ish hog!"
"No, you're not. It is as much my fault as
yours. I forgot, too."
That was the signal for another period of for-
getfulness, a brief one, however. When it was
over he said: "Well, I must get you somewhere.
Hello! there's that shed over yonder. I suppose
it is locked but we might stand on the porch."
She laughed. "That was where I was standing
when I saw the car. I thought it must be our


STORM GIRL 157
Ford and Uncle Simeon. I had telephoned Aunt
Desire asking to have him come for me."
"Yes, I know. Sim was out and your aunt
'phoned the station to ask if he was there. He
wasn't and, when she told me you were walking
down, I took the station car and came along.
Shall we go to the shed and wait until the rain
stops?"
"Why? It isn't raining much now and we can't
get any wetter than we are. I had rather walk
than stand still. It isn't so very far."
So, along the flooded road, between puddles
and broken branches, they walked together. Chet
talked a great deal, but Emily's replies were few
and fewer. At last he asked her what she was
thinking about.
She looked up at him. She was very grave.
"I have been thinking," she said, "that this—
all this—between us, I mean—is wrong."
"Wrong! I should say it was just about ever-
lastingly right. What's wrong about it?"
"Oh, I don't know. But it is wrong, it must
be."
"Why? You must know how I feel about you.
And I'm beginning to actually believe you feel
something like it about me. You do, don't you?"


158 STORM GIRL
She hesitated. "Yes," she said, after a moment.
"Oh, yes, I do. I tried to make myself believe
that I didn't and, at any rate, I meant for you
never to know it. But now you do know it, so
what can I say?"
"Nothing—except to say it over again. Look
here, dear, you aren't sorry I know it, are you?"
Another instant's hesitation. Then, almost de-
fiantly, "No, I'm glad. After all, why shouldn't
I be happy—really happy?"
"You should—and you're going to be. I'll see
to that."
As they came in sight of the Coleman House
Emily suddenly laughed aloud.
"What is the joke?" Chet asked her.
"I was thinking of what Aunt Desire will be
sure to say when I tell her about you and me.
It was the storm that brought us together. She
will be more certain than ever that old Peleg
Myrick was right when he called me the storm
girl. She will know he was a good prophet, won't
she? And how she will crow over Uncle Sim."


CHAPTER XI
HAT, of course, was precisely what De-
sire did say and do when she heard the
news. She did not hear it immediately, however.
Emily and Chet had several long consultations
before the former could make up her mind to
speak definitely to her aunt and uncle on the
subject.
"I don't see how I can marry you, Chet," she
said, when they met the day after the tempest.
"I've been thinking about it almost all night, it
seems to me, and—"
He interrupted. "So have I, so far as that
goes," he declared. "And, if you want to know,
I don't see how you can, either, considering what
you are and what I am. But," with a broad smile,
"so long as you are going to I'm satisfied."
"That isn't what I meant and you know it. I
meant I didn't see how I could marry and leave
Aunt Desire without any one to help her. She
has come to depend on me so much. She is get-
ting old and she needs me."


STORM GIRL 163
things it's best not to know," he agreed, with a
solemn shake of the head. "Let sleepin' dogs lie;
that's a good motto. A secret sorrow is an awful
thing. Some of the fellows I've sailed with had
half a dozen secret sorrows. I never had as
many as that, Dizzy."
Emily's worry concerning leaving her aunt
and the Coleman House to get on by themselves
proved unnecessary. That contingency, too, had
been foreseen, discussed and provided for,
Simeon explained.
"Desire and I have talked that over quite con-
sider'ble," he said. "She's gettin' old—there,
there, Dizzy, older is what I mean—and it's
harder work for her to run this boardin'-house
than it used to be. Even if you were goin' to stay
here always, Em, it would be more and more of
a care. She's got a little laid by and I—well,
there's no reason for the Standard Oil to be
jealous of me, but I ain't dead broke. This place
here, property and prospects, is worth somethin'.
Far as that goes there have been two or three
parties hintin' 'round that they might like to buy
us out. Oh, I know, Dizzy; you haven't made up
your mind to sell right off or anything like it, but
it's comfortin' to know you could sell if you


164 STORM GIRL
should ever want to. Now, Emily, this was the
conclusion your aunt and I had come to in case—
well, in case you did decide to sign on with Chet
and give him the privilege of payin' your bills
for the rest of his life."
He went on to say that he and his sister-in-law
had decided to close the Coleman House about
the first of the year and occupy furnished rooms
in the village during the winter months. Desire's
housekeeping duties would then be light and she
would be near the church and sewing-circle. "As
for me," he went on, "it'll be handier for me,
too. Nigher the depot in case I take a notion to
get aboard the cars and head for Boston on a lit-
tle vacation, you understand. Of course," he
added solemnly, "I never planned out that part
of it all by myself; 'twas Dizzy's notion, that
was. Real thoughtful of her, I call it."
Before her aunt could recover from the
shocked indignation caused by this brazen inven-
tion Emily asked them what was to happen when
spring came. "You will have to open the Cole-
man House then."
"And we'll hire somebody to help; that is,
providin' we haven't sold out in the meantime.
Don't you worry about Dizzy and me, Em; we'll


STORM GIRL 165
look out for ourselves. You'll have enough to do
plannin' for your weddin'."
"Wedding! Why Chet and I may not be mar-
ried for ever so long."
"Why not? What are you waiting for?"
And that was the question Chet himself asked.
Why should they wait? It was evident that
Uncle Simeon and Aunt Desire expected them
to marry soon, had planned for it and were not
only reconciled to the marriage, but heartily in
favor of it. So why should it be deferred?
"Unless," he added, "you had rather wait
until I have something better to offer you than a
four-room flat in Trumet and a husband who
will have to be on duty at the life-saving station
the biggest part of every day and night, through
the winter months at least. Goodness knows I
shan't blame you if that doesn't sound attractive,
but I am hoping it may not last much longer. I
had an encouraging letter this morning from
those Boston friends of mine. They seem to think
that I may get a chance with them pretty soon.
If you had rather put off our marrying until that
chance comes I shall understand. That is up to
you, dear."


166
STORM GIRL
The "four-room flat" sounded alluring, rather
than otherwise, to Emily. The hoped for busi-
ness opportunity in Boston was pleasant to dream
about and anticipate, but so far it was but a
dream and might never be more than that. As for
being the wife of a Coast-Guard captain—why,
her own father had been a Trumet native, earn-
ing his living alongshore. She loved the sea and
her experience of urban life had been—the lat-
ter part of it certainly—a horror. She would
have been quite content to live in Trumet always.
She had found happiness there and at the time
when she was certain she should never know real
happiness again.
"Oh, Chet," she said, impulsively, "I don't
care. Whatever you think best for you will be
best for me, I am sure of it."
"Then you will marry me—soon?"
"Yes. To-morrow, if you wish."
She did not mean that, of course, and he knew
it. There were others besides themselves to con-
sider. Chester Brewster's parents were both dead
and he had no near relatives. But, on her side,
were Desire and Simeon and she must think of
them. Desire, particularly, had very definite
ideas. She was all for a wedding at the Coleman


STORM GIRL 167
House, with half the town's population invited
and flowers and presents and—oh, everything.
"I was married private," she confided, "and
all my life long I've had a cravin' to manage a
real fine weddin'. Do let me have my way,
Emmie. We can hire somebody to play music—
real music I mean, not just a piano. And—"
But Simeon had been watching his niece and
her expression was enlightening.
"Here, here! Lay to, Dizzy!" he broke in. "If
you're goin' to hire a band you might as well
have a parade up the main road and a clown in
a pony cart. Emmie's figgerin' to get married,
not to sign on with a circus. Stop flyin' around in
the clouds. Furl your wings and come down and
light amongst us common folks, do."
It took a long, long time to convince Aunt De-
sire that her niece's preference for a private
ceremony was even thinkable. But Emily was
firm and Chester, when called into consultation,
was equally so. Uncle Sim was wholly against an
elaborate wedding.
"Last one of them things I went to," he said,
reminiscently, "was up to Novy Scoshy. Course I
don't seem to recollect much of what happened


STORM GIRL
after the eatin' and—er—the rest of it started in.
That part's pretty average foggy, but—"
Desire interrupted to observe that she was not
surprised to hear it. Her brother-in-law paid no
attention.
"But I do remember how the marriage turned
out," he continued. "We was back on the
schooner when the news come. Seems that the
couple hadn't much more'n got home from their
weddin' trip when the husband skipped out with
all his wife's jewelry and what money she had
besides. Far as I know he ain't been heard of
since. Now you wouldn't want Em's marriage to
turn out that way, would you, Dizzy?"
The idea of the "grand wedding" was, with
reluctance on Desire's part, abandoned and a
simple ceremony in the Coleman House parlor
decided upon. Mr. Blake, minister of the Tru-
met Congregational Church, was to officiate and
there were to be but few invited guests. Emily
was firm on that point.
"We'll send out no formal invitations," she
said. "I am not going to have a crowd here, with
all the work that will mean for you, Auntie. If
you want to ask a few friends you may, but they
must be people we all know very well indeed.


STORM GIRL 169
No fuss and feathers, mind. It will be lots nicer
that way."
The date selected was the fifth of December
and the time four o'clock in the afternoon. Then
came weeks of preparation. There were gowns
to be made and Miss Naomi Dunn, the Trumet
dressmaker, was called into service and became a
daily boarder at the Coleman House. Conversa-
tion at the table centered about matters entirely
out of Simeon's experience or comprehension.
"I vow, I don't know whether I'm eatin'
flounder or flounces," he complained, wearily.
"Or whether they're fried or fringed. Time din-
ner's over I feel as if my mouth was full of
bastin' threads. I was brought up to chew my
vittles, but you women folks seem to sew yours.
Say, Dizzy, why not fetch my meals to me on the
back steps, same as you do the cat's? Then the
two dumb animals in this family could eat to-
gether in comfort."
They were wonderful weeks for Emily. The
memory of the days of heartbreak and humilia-
tion in Gloucester was fading. Even at night,
when alone in her room, it came no more to
trouble her. There were no more nightmares,
with Ed Coombes and Mr. Bradley and Police


170 STORM GIRL
Lieutenant Hawley sneering or incriminating or
cross-questioning. What had happened only such
a short time ago seemed now so far away, so un-
real, as if it had happened to some one else, not
to her. She no longer thought of her former lover
with a shudder of repulsion. Had he lived she
would have hated him, but, being dead he and
all his wickedness and falseness and hypocritical
meanness she could put from her mind and for-
get—yes, really forget. For she was happy now,
unbelievably happy.
On one point only did her conscience trouble
her. She had never told her aunt and uncle of the
Gloucester affair, nor had she yet told Chet
Brewster. She meant to tell him; she would tell
him, of course. Night after night she fell asleep,
her mind made up to tell him the very next day,
but when that day came the telling was again
postponed. She need not be afraid; there was
nothing which, so far as she was concerned, need
make her fear the consequences of confession.
Chet would understand. He would not love her
less because, at one time, she had believed her-
self in love with another man. But the telling
would be so hard. Even to think of it was hor-
rible; to speak of it—to him—would be worse.


STORM GIRL 171
It would be like digging up some dreadful
buried thing.
And suppose he did not understand? Did not
believe—?
Oh, but he would—he would! And she must
tell him. And so, one evening, she did. Begging
him to please not interrupt, not to say a word
until she had finished, she hurried through the
recital. How she had thought herself in love
with Ed Coombes, how she had become engaged
to him, of his stealing the firm's money, of his
falsity and meanness, of that other and dreadful
woman. He was holding her close when she
began and when she finished, the tears running
down her cheeks and moistening the breast of
his uniform jacket, she realized, with a thrill,
that he was still holding her close—yes, even
closer.
"I—I can't explain it," she sobbed. "I don't
understand it now, I must have been crazy....
He was horrid, Chet, dear. He lied to me; he
had been lying and deceiving me all along. Even
when— But there is no use pretending. I did
love him—or thought I did—and I did promise
to marry him. It seems a million years ago and
as if it had happened to another girl. But it


STORM GIRL 173
to marry. Going to be an independent bachelor
all my life. And now look at me. Forgive you,
my dear? What is there to forgive? All you must
do is forget and I am going to help you do that."
So it was over. Nothing to worry about any
more. Oh, he was splendid—splendid. And she
was such a lucky girl.
The morning of December fourth, the day be-
fore the great day, dawned clear and unseason-
ably warm. Desire and Emily trimmed the Cole-
man House parlor with evergreen, fir boughs
and wild cranberry vines. There were flowers, a
good many of them. Uncle Sim, heedless of De-
sire's cautions against being too extravagant, sent
to the Wapatomac greenhouses for roses and
carnations. The guests, perhaps a dozen alto-
gether and all close friends of the family, had
been chosen and invited. The bridal gown, a
simple one, was ready and pronounced by Miss
Dunn, its creator, "just too elegant for any-
thing." Chet had arranged with his superiors in
the service for a ten-day leave of absence,
"weather permitting," and the bridal pair were
to go to Boston for those ten days. While the
captain was away Olson, the Number One man,
was to be left in charge of the station.


STORM GIRL 175
of our no'theasters do. We'll hope so, anyway."
But he was troubled, that was plain. Desire
drew a long breath.
"Oh, dear!" she faltered. "A no'theaster to-
morrow would be awful. Your weddin' day,
Emmie! I've been prayin' for the nice weather to
stay just a little longer. Oh, why did that Myrick
man have to pick you to prophesy about?"
Uncle Sim grinned. "Maybe you haven't
heard about it, Chet," he observed, "but old
Peleg Myrick is responsible for all the bad
weather we've had in these latitudes for the last
nineteen years. If he'd only happened to be good-
natured the day Emmie was born we'd have had
folks cruisin' here to spend the winters same as
they go to Florida. But no, he was grouchy—
extra dry spell down where he lived, probably—
and he took out his spite on the first baby that
came along. If I'd only been ashore in those
days I'd have seen to it that he was primed up
and comf'table; just me and a gallon jug would
have made all the difference in the world. Then
Emmie would have had plain sailin' and every
cloudy day wouldn't start Dizzy here groanin'
like a cart axle that needs greasin'. Just the lack
of me and a jug, that's all. Too bad, too bad I"


176 STORM GIRL
Two of his hearers laughed, but Desire's dis-
tress was too real to tolerate joking. "Oh, how
can you make fun when it's workin' out all the
time!" she expostulated. "You know, well as I
do, that Emily was born in a storm; her father
was killed by a storm; it was stormin' when she
went away to the city; it was stormin' when she
came back; Chester here was almost killed in a
storm. And now, when she's goin' to be married!
It's all comin' true. It's all workin' out. First her
mother, then her father, then—"
Simeon could stand no more. "Sshh, sshh!" he
commanded. "Dizzy, for heaven's sakes don't
speak that same piece all over again. Set it to
music and sing it, for a change. Maybe to-mor-
row will be the finest day we've had for a
month."
But there was little conviction in his tone. He
knew better and Desire knew that he knew. And
Emily, who had inherited or acquired a certain
amount of 'longshore weather wisdom, was al-
most certain that her marriage day would be a
wet one. She was sorry, of course, but her regret
was not deep nor serious. A northeast storm was
not the background she would have picked for
her wedding, but, after all, how little that really


STORM GIRL 177
mattered. She loved Chester Brewster and he
loved her, and within twenty-four hours she
would be his wife. The most wicked northeaster
that raged could not blow away the wonder of
that realization.
But when, a short time afterward, Chet rose
and announced that he must be getting back to
the station, the serious expression upon his face
brought a trifle of anxiety to hers. She went to the
door with him and, as they stood alone together
in the dimly lighted hall, she asked him why he
seemed so troubled.
His answer was gravely given. "I am troubled,
Em," he said. "If this storm turns out to be as
bad as I'm afraid it may be that Boston trip of
ours will have to be called off, of course. I
couldn't leave the station in charge of another
man under such conditions, even as good a man
as Ed Olson. You understand that, dear?"
She nodded. "Certainly I understand. Of
course you couldn't. Even if you wanted to I
shouldn't let you. And we can go some other
time."
"Yes, and we will. But that isn't the worst of
it. If the gale is very bad to-morrow I shan't feel
right to leave the station at all. I must stay there


STORM GIRL 179
stride away into the gusty, wet darkness. Then
she turned back to the living-room and the light.
She was disappointed, bitterly disappointed, but
with that feeling were others, strange ones. She
had shared her uncle's skepticism concerning
the Myrick "prophecy," had laughed at it as he
did. But now, to-night, she was almost inclined
to believe. Storms had accompanied so many im-
portant happenings in her life, just as Aunt De-
sire said. And this one was only beginning. What
might happen before it was over? Suppose that
Chet—
Oh, but she must not think such things. She
would not


CHAPTER XII
LL that night the gale increased in force.
y \ Emily woke again and again from a
troubled sleep to feel her bed trembling beneath
her, to hear the windows rattling and the wind
screaming and bellowing about the eaves. When
the dark morning came she looked out into a
gray tumult of driving rain and sleet, to catch
glimpses of the pines bending and threshing on
the knoll by the road, to see twigs and wisps of
dead beach grass and seaweed fly past, and to
hear the surf booming and thundering like a
never-ceasing cannonade.
She came down to the dining-room and there
a woebegone Aunt Desire met her with the news
that Captain Chet had sent a man over from the
station to say that, just at dawn and during a
momentary cessation of the sleet and rain, the
lookout in the tower had sighted a small steamer,
with distress signals hoisted, opposite the Horse-
foot Shoal.
"They haven't been able to sight her since, so


STORM GIRL 181
the man said, but Cap'n Brewster is worried and
they are all standin' by. Chester is goin' to let us
know soon as he knows any more himself, but he
said to tell you that he was afraid things would
have to be as he told you last night they might
be. That don't mean what I'm scared it does
mean, does it, Emmie? Oh, dear, dear. I hope
not."
Emily put an arm about her aunt's shoulder.
"It means that your niece won't be married
to-day, Auntie," she said. "We must make up our
minds to that. I knew it as soon as I looked out of
my window. It is a terrible storm and Chet will
have to be on duty every minute.... There,
there," with a comforting pat, "you mustn't cry.
It is too bad, but it can't be helped. And, after
all, it means just postponement for a day or two."
"I know, I know, but a put-off weddin' is so
unlucky. Oh, that everlastin' Peleg Myrick! As
if he hadn't made trouble enough already with-
out this. Well, I mustn't take on this way, espe-
cially as you're so brave, child. And it might be
worse. Just suppose you or Chester were aboard
that steamer out yonder."
Emily did not answer. She was thinking that,
very likely, Chet and his crew might be on their


182
STORM GIRL
way to that steamer at any moment. A terrific
blast of sleet and wind-driven sand beat against
the dining-room windows and she shuddered.
She remembered the story she had heard so
often, of the great gale of the early nineteen hun-
dreds, when all but one of the Orham life-saving
crew had lost their lives in an attempted rescue.
Chet might, even now, be clinging to the steering
oar of the life-boat, riding those tremendous
waves, fighting that biting wind, trying to thread
his way between those wicked shoals.
"Oh, Aunt Desire," she cried impetuously,
"we mustn't talk about it—nor think about it, if
that is possible. We must do something, even if it
is only to wash dishes. Come, come!"
This was effectual, in one way. Desire came
back to everyday realities. "Wash dishes!" she
repeated. "Why, we haven't so much as had
breakfast yet. A cup of coffee will do us both
good. I guess Simeon will need three or four
cups when he gets back. He's gone over to the
station to see Chester. I tried to stop him, but he
would go. Said it took more than a hatful of
wind to keep him below decks. A hatful—my
soul!"
Nearly an hour elapsed before Uncle Sim re-


STORM GIRL 183
turned. He was wet and chilled and blown
about.
"Whew!" he panted, struggling out of his oil-
skins. "Some puff of wind, this is! Nice day you
picked out for her to get married, Dizzy. Yes,
yes! There was somethin' white flappin' along
the beach down yonder just now. Couldn't see it
plain and it might have been a piece of tarpaulin
blown off the henhouse roof, but I had a notion
'twas Peleg Myrick's ghost. Seems to me I could
hear it laughin'. Maybe I was mistaken, but if
I had smelled rum I'd have known I was right."
He reported nothing new at the Coast-Guard
station as yet, although Captain Brewster and his
crew were still standing by, ready to launch the
boat at a moment's notice.
"Chet told me to tell you, Em," he added,
"that—that—oh, blast it all, 'twas common-sense
of course, but I hated to hear him say it—that,
considerin' how things was he was afraid—"
Emily interrupted. "I know, I know, Uncle
Sim," she broke in. "There will be no marrying
to-day. Aunt Desire and I made up our minds to
that a long time ago. Now you must eat your
breakfast."


184 STORM GIRL
During the forenoon there was no let-up in
the storm. The wind blew harder than ever and
the rain and sleet continued. They decided to
send no word to the minister or the guests. Uncle
Sim expressed the idea in his own way when he
said: "Course we won't tell 'em the marryin' is
off. If they haven't got sense enough to figger
that out for themselves on a day like this we
don't want 'em here, and the crazy asylum is
'way up in Taunton. No, Dizzy, I shan't tele-
phone 'em either, and for a couple of good rea-
sons. One is that the wires are all blown down
and the other—well, I don't seem to recollect it
now, but maybe it'll come to me by and by."
When Emily or his sister-in-law expressed
anxiety concerning the steamer which had been
sighted he pooh-poohed the idea that she might
be in serious trouble.
"She was pretty well out in deep water when
they saw her," he declared. "Nine chances to one
she'll fetch through all right. The Coast-Guard
folks will do their best to keep watch on her, you
can bet on that. Eh? Danger for them? Chet and
his crew, you mean? Rubbish! Why, they
wouldn't think any more of puttin' out in a little
breeze like this than I would of takin' a drink of


STORM GIRL
187
"That steamer is hard and fast on the Horse-
foot," he said. "Smashin' to pieces every minute.
Won't be much left of her by mornin'. Chet and
the crew went off to her in the boat about two.
Just got back when I left. She's the Sovereign
from St. John, one of them little jackleg freight
and passenger boats bound into Boston. Had five
or six passengers aboard her, besides crew and
officers. Chet saved every one of 'em, not a soul
lost. Darned good job, I call it."
Desire cried out that that was splendid and she
was so thankful. Emily's first question was con-
cerning Chester. Simeon's reply was, or so she
imagined, almost too carefully casual.
"Chet?" he repeated. "Oh, he's all right. Kind
of knocked out and used up, that's all. They had
a tough time gettin' in through the shoals in that
sea, with the boat packed to the gunwale.
They've put him to bed and are cal'latin' to make
him stay there for a little spell. He sent you his
love, Em, and said tell you he was fine and was
awful sorry about the weddin' havin' to be put
off No, no, no," hastily, "course you can't go
over and see him—not now, anyhow. You'll have
enough to do right here in this house. The station
is overrun with men, most of 'em half drowned


STORM GIRL 189
undressed, tucked in and on the way to being
comfortable.
"Kind of short of nightgowns we was, Dizzy,"
he confided. "I rummaged out all I had, which
was two, but we was short one, so we borrowed
a spare one of yours. Little mite scant over all
'twas, but 'twas broad enough in the beam and
the fancy edgin' on it was awful pretty and be-
comin'."
Desire turned a horrified face. "You never
did, Simeon Coleman!" she cried. "I don't be-
lieve a word of it. If you did—"
"Sshh, shh! Come to think of it, we didn't. We
was considerin' it though, wasn't we, Lem?" ad-
dressing a grinning Coast-Guardsman who had
come down stairs with him.
The life-savers left for the station immedi-
ately, resisting Desire's appeal to stay and have a
cup of coffee. Dry clothes and rest were what
they needed most and they hastened to obtain
them. Simeon informed his sister-in-law and
niece as to the identity of their lodgers.
"One of 'em's a fo'mast hand," he said, "and
one worked in the engine room. We put them
two together in the double room at the end of the
hall and the other—he was a steward or some-


190 STORM GIRL
thin'—in the little single room next alongside.
He was the fellow with the towel tied 'round his
head. Got a crack from a loose tackle when the
steamer hit the shoal, I understand. No, no, it
didn't amount to nothin'. I could hear the
swearin' comin' from under the towel when he
was gettin' his clothes off. A man's healthy
enough when he can cuss like that."
The electric light in that portion of the house
unused by the family during the winter months
had been shut off and it would take some time to
turn it on again. Desire and Emily had located,
filled and trimmed two kerosene hand-lamps and
these had been left, one on a table at the farther
end of the upper hall and the other in the room
occupied by the two sailors.
"But the other—the steward one!" exclaimed
Desire. "Simeon Coleman, you don't mean to tell
me you left that poor shipwrecked soul all alone
in the dark? With his poor hurt head and all!"
"I left his head with him, if that's what you
mean. He'll be all right for a spell. Couldn't see
much out from under that towel, anyhow. Must
be some more lamps aboard here somewheres."
Emily found a third lamp, after a search, and,
when it was made ready, took it upstairs to the


STORM GIRL 191
single room. She knocked on the door, heard a
grumbled order to come in and entered the room.
The man in the bed did not speak to her. She
crossed the room and placed the lamp on the
small stand by the bed's head.
"There!" she said. "That will be more cheer-
ful for you, at any rate. The hot coffee will be
here in another minute. And something to eat,
too, when you are ready for it."
She was busy adjusting the lamp, which
smoked a little, and so did not look at the man in
the bed. She had caught a momentary glimpse of
him as she came in, but had seen little but a sec-
tion of very dirty cloth above a dirty and un-
shaven chin. Now, as she spoke, she heard a
rustle of movement. She turned to look down,
the lamplight shining full upon her face.
Then a voice said, with slow emphasis, "Well,
I'll—be—damned! ... Hello, Em!"
She gasped and staggered back with a stifled
scream. The soiled towel had been pushed up-
ward and there beneath it, wearing a cynical
grin, was the face which had once been so dear
to her and so familiar, but which she had of late
seen only in troubled dreams. The face of her
former lover, Edward Coombes.


192 STORM GIRL
Edward Coombes, who was—whom she had
believed drowned when the schooner Blue Eyes
foundered on the Newfoundland Banks in the
great March storm.


CHAPTER XIII
FOR a time, how long a time she never
knew, Emily stood motionless, staring at
the man who lay there staring back at her. Then
he spoke again.
"Well, this is one for the book!" he said
slowly. "I'll say it is!... It is really you, Em,
isn't it?"
She made no reply. He answered his own
question. "Sure it is!" he declared; "it is you, all
right. Couldn't be two sets of eyes like that in the
world.... Well, I will be damned!"
Still she was silent. He grinned and the grin
became a chuckle.
"What do you know about this!" he went on.
"What was the name of that book that used to be
on the shelf in the sitting-room closet when I was
a kid? Cast Up by the Sea, that was it. Well, if
this— Here!" sharply. "Em! Where are you
going? Come back here!"
She did not answer, nor did she turn. She hur-
ried from the room and the door closed behind
m


194 STORM GIRL
her. She was not aware that she had closed it;
she was not clearly aware of what she was doing
or where she was going. Even when she was
alone in the dark, hall, with the lamp burning on
the table at its farther end, she stumbled blindly
on, with no destination in her mind. She was con-
scious only that she must go somewhere, any-
where, to escape from—from that room and
what it held.
At the head of the stairs she paused. Sanity
was returning, a little of it. She must not go
down to the living-room now. Her aunt and
uncle were there and she could not meet them.
They would talk a great deal—Aunt Desire in
particular, for she was very much excited—and
they would expect her to talk with them. She
could not talk to any one. One look at her face
and they would know something had happened.
They would ask questions. She must have time
to think, or try to think.
It was to her own room in the other corridor
that she turned instinctively. The electric lights
there had not been disconnected, as they had
been in what Desire called the "boarders' wing,"
but she did not turn them on. Instead she sat
there in the dark, struggling to think con-


STORM GIRL 195
nectedly, trying to realize that this amazing, in-
credible thing had actually happened. The Blue
Eyes had gone down with all hands; Uncle Sim
had met and talked with a man who had seen it
happen. And Ed Coombes had escaped from
Gloucester and the police by sailing in the Blue
Eyes; Lieutenant Hawley had written that. And
Hawley had written, too, that Ed Coombes was
dead and she need worry about him no longer.
But he was not dead. He was in that very house
now, in the room she had just left. She must be
crazy! It couldn't be true.
Yet it was. And now what should she do? How
thankful she was that she had told Chet of this
man and how devoutly she wished she had told
Aunt Desire and Uncle Simeon. They would
have to be told now and it was she who must tell
them. The telling could not be put off because, if
it were, they would hear the story from Coombes
and what kind of story he might tell she shud-
dered to imagine. He was what he was, capable
of any meanness. She must be careful not to let
him know of her engagement to Chet. He, him-
self, cared for her no longer, that his feeling for
her had never been a decent honorable love she
had realized long ago; but he might be malicious


ig6 STORM GIRL
and spiteful. He might try to misrepresent, to
make trouble. Chet would not believe what he
said, but he must not be permitted to say it.
After all—she was thinking more coolly now
—why should she fear Ed Coombes? He was a
thief, a fugitive from justice, a criminal wanted
by the police. He had far more to fear from their
meeting and mutual recognition than she had.
At the worst he could make only temporary trou-
ble for her, whereas her exposure of his identity
might send him to jail.
She thought and thought, weighing one pos-
sibility against the other, and finally decided that
the first thing she must do was go back to that
room and put the situation before him, let him
see it just as it was. Warn him to say nothing to
any one of his having known her before. That
would be the easier way. It did not alter her de-
termination to tell her aunt and uncle everything
—oh, if she had only done it before!—but the
telling could be done after he had gone. And she,
too, would keep silent until then. He could go
away in safety and not under arrest. Some one
else, not she, must be responsible for his being
sent to prison, if that eventuality came. It was
not alone the dread of renewed publicity and


STORM GIRL 197
consequent shame which influenced her here. It
was—she was not quite sure what. She despised
him, detested him—there should be no mis-
understanding on his part of her feelings toward
him—but she could not be the one to betray him.
The fact that her silence might be interpreted as
the compounding of a felony did not cross her
mind—she had never heard the phrase—but it
would have made little difference if she had.
There were some things which, right or wrong,
she could not do.
She rose from her chair, turned on the light,
filled the hand basin with cold water from the
pitcher, bathed her flushed face and, a moment
later, went out into the corridor and on into the
"boarders' wing." And, just as she was approach-
ing the door of the room which she was forcing
herself to enter, that door opened and Aunt De-
sire came out into the hall.
That end of the hall was dark, a fact for which
Emily was thankful just then. In spite of the
cold water she was conscious that her face was a
telltale even yet. The sight of her aunt coming
from that room was alarming, too. Desire must
have been talking with Coombes. What had he
told her?


i98 STORM GIRL
But Desire's manner was reassuring and what
she said even more so.
"Oh, there you are, Em!" she exclaimed. "I
told Simeon I couldn't think what had become of
you. I didn't know but you were still lookin' after
that poor soul in yonder, though why you should
be so long about it I couldn't see. He said you
had been there, but had gone."
"I went to my room, Aunt Desire."
"Oh, did you? Well, all right, Simeon was
seein' to the other two and I've been in with this
one—the steward one, or whatever he is. We've
had a real nice talk. He told me his name. It's
Cowan, or McGowan, or somethin' like that, and
his folks live out West—in Iowa, seems to me
'twas. He is so grateful to us, Emmie. 'Twas real
touchin' to hear him try to thank us for takin'
him in and bein' so good to him. Course I said
there was nothin' to thank us for; the little we'd
done was little enough. He asked a lot of ques-
tions. He was so interested when I told him
about you and Cap'n Chet, how your weddin'
had to be put off and all."
Emily caught her breath. "You told him
that?" she gasped.


STORM GIRL 199
"Yes. Why not? 'Twasn't a secret, as I know
of."
"No. No, of course it wasn't. I—I only
thought he might not be interested just now."
"But he was. Asked all about Chet and about
you and about Simeon and me. He seemed to
feel real bad about the marriage havin' to be
postponed. Said he guessed you wasn't expectin'
him to be delivered as an extra weddin' present.
Afraid you might not appreciate the surprise, he
said. He is real bright, says such funny things. A
great hand to joke, I shouldn't wonder, when he's
himself. He made me laugh, I know that."
Emily said nothing. Her aunt did not wait for
any comment.
"One thing I liked about him 'special," she
went on. "Most sailors are so careless about
money and all like that; you know how 'tis with
your Uncle Sim, Emmy. Well, this Mr.
McGowan isn't that way, not a mite. And cool-
headed, too. Almost the very first question he
asked me was about the outside clothes he was
wearin' when they fetched him ashore. I told
him they was hangin' up by the kitchen stove,
dryin' out. He asked me if I would mind lookin'
in the inside pocket of the old leather vest that


STORM GIRL 205
He sank slowly back upon the pillow. The
grin faded from his face.
"Is that so!" he sneered. "Is that so! Say, have
you forgotten—"
"I haven't forgotten anything. I only wish I
could."
"Huh! And that's sweet, too! Loathe me, eh?
Do you suppose I don't know why? Gone high
hat all of a sudden. Got yourself engaged to this
life-saving guy, or whatever he is. I hear you
were going to marry him to-day if the weather
hadn't gone sour. And now I've turned up, just in
time to be star guest at the wedding. That's a
joke! Ha!"
She did not speak. He leaned forward: "Look
here," he demanded, as if the suspicion had just
occurred to him; "you haven't been talking, have
you? You haven't told any of the gang around
here who I am?"
"No."
"You're sure? You beat it out of this room an
hour or so ago, so you've had time enough. You
haven't told your Willie boy or any one that you
used to know me or where you knew me?"
"No. That is, I haven't told any one that you
are the one I used to know."


ao6 STORM GIRL
He regarded her keenly. Then he nodded, as
if satisfied. "No," he said, "I guess you probably
haven't. You certainly didn't tell the old girl
who was in here just now. I gave her a long song
and dance about my name being McGowan and
my home state Iowa and she swallowed it all
and asked for more. She is that aunt you used to
talk about so much, isn't she? The one you lived
with after your father died?"
"Yes."
"Um-hm, I figured that she must be. She told
me a lot about you and what had been going on
in this neighborhood. Say, you haven't wasted
much time. Less than a year since you and I were
sweeties and now you've gone all soft on another
man. Quick work, Kitten, I give you credit for
it. And nobody can appreciate that sort of thing
better than I can. I'm a fairly quick worker my-
self; you ought to know that."
The flush which his sneer had brought to her
face deepened. How dare he speak to her like
this! He thought—he must think she was afraid
of him. It was time that idea was put out of his
mind, once and for all.
"I have told nobody who you are," she said,


208 STORM GIRL
snort, "do you suppose I can't see what you're
trying to put over? You haven't told this rube
uncle and aunt of yours about me and for a very
good reason. The same reason that's kept you
from giving me away to your boy friend, prob-
ably. You don't want any cops coming here after
me, you bet you don't! They might take you
along at the same time. Do you get that?"
His tone was menacing enough, but it had no
effect upon her. He was trying to frighten her,
that was all. She shrugged.
"Don't be ridiculous," she said wearily.
"Ridiculous, eh? You listen to me. I took old
Bradley's money, sure I did. I wish now I'd
taken more; if I had I might have had enough
to get me somewhere away from this end of the
country. I took it—yes. But who helped me cover
up the job? Who was in on it with me? Think a
minute. I'm afraid you don't realize just where
you stand, sweetheart."
"I stand? Oh, you are—"
"Wait a minute, I'm talking now. You figure,
I suppose, that your skirts are all nice and clean
by this time. I was the goat and when they started
chasing after me they forgot that you might be in


210 STORM GIRL
was what they paid you for. Oh no, if I did the
stealing you helped me cover it up. That's all
I've got to swear to and the lawyers and the
judge will do the rest.... And you bet I will
swear!... What do you think now about sending
for the police? Little risky, isn't it?"
She was very pale. Her fingers slid from the
doorknob. He laughed, triumphantly.
"Why—why, how can you!" she gasped. "I
was working under you. You know I called your
attention to—"
"Hush! How do you know what I knew—or
may know when the time comes to do any swear-
ing about what happened? Suppose I swear that
you were in with me in the whole business?
That you helped me spend the plunder, know-
ing all the time where it came from? That we
had fixed the whole scheme up together?"
"I shall say it is a lie. It is a lie, all of it! I
told Mr. Bradley and the rest just what hap-
pened. I kept nothing back. They believed me,
too. They did—they did."
"Sure they did—then. But I hadn't had my
chance to talk. You won't have any proof. There
weren't any witnesses. It will be my word against


STORM GIRL
211
yours, and mine will be some word, believe me.
And there's one other little matter I guess you've
forgotten. How about that letter?"
"Letter?"
"Letter is what I said. You wrote me a letter
that day after old Bradley turned leery and sent
that blasted auditor down. I was away—good
luck for me that was—but this auditor guy
dropped his business card and you sent the card
to me at Newburyport and a letter with it. I've
kept that letter ever since. Sweet of me, Kitten,
wasn't it? The last letter you ever wrote me,
think of that. I wear it next my heart—or next
my spare shirt, anyhow. Ha, ha!"
She made no reply, struggling to remember
what she had written. So far as she could recall,
nothing, nothing except to tell him of the audi-
tor's visit and—
He laughed again, "Yes, Kitten," he went on,
"I've hung on to that letter ever since, partly for
your sweet sake, as the fellow said, and partly
for mine. I kept it because I thought maybe—if
you and I ever did meet again—it might be
handy, might even be worth a dollar or two per-
haps. I never thought we'd meet this way, but
we have, and now I shouldn't wonder if the price


214 STORM GIRL
"But I didn't mean—! I only meant that I
would try to—to correct your mistakes. I didn't
know you had stolen the money. You know I
didn't."
"But will those lawyers and jury people know?
I'm afraid not, Kitten, I'm afraid not. And
there's more to come. Keep your ears open. How
about this?"
"'You and I may know, but it is very neces-
sary that the firm shouldn't know; I am sure
there is no need for us to tell each other that,
dearest. I am your partner now in everything,
everything, and—'"
He paused, grinned maliciously and observed:
"See, don't you, Kitten? Partners in everything
we were. You own up to it right here. No need
for me to read any more, is there? Heard enough,
eh? I'd say you had!"
But she was remembering more clearly. "No,"
she cried, in fierce protest, "No, I haven't heard
enough. There was more—ever so much more.
I explained what I meant—I know I did. I said
that I was so very anxious for you to keep the
firm's confidence; that your interests and chances
of advancement meant happiness to both of us,
and that that was why I couldn't bear to think


STORM GIRL 215
they might find out you ever made even little
mistakes as you did—or," scornfully, "as I was
fool enough to believe then you had done—
about Captain Kelly's bill. Go on, why don't
you? Read that. It makes what I said before
sound quite different. Oh yes, it does! Read it
and see for yourself.... Why are you shaking
your head? I suppose you had forgotten that part
—or hoped I had. Let me see that letter."
She bent forward to seize it, but he held it out
of her reach. "No, no, no, Kitten," he sneered.
"This is Papa's letter and he'll hold it tight,
thank you. But what's all this about 'firm's con-
fidence' and 'promotion and advancement' and
'little mistakes' and all that? Nothing like that
here. The page I've been reading"—he referred
to it—"ends with 'partners in everything, every-
thing and—' That's how it ends; and the next
one begins with 'for better or for worse, as they
say.' There's a little after that, but it doesn't
amount to much. And then comes your own
pretty little signature.... See?"
He held the page where she could see but not
touch it. She caught her breath. There was more
—she knew there was. She had not imagined—


STORM GIRL 217
don't you think you'd better decide to listen to
the rest of my proposition and be reasonable?
Sit down, that's the girl."
Mechanically she obeyed. Her brain was
whirling. It was not so much that she feared for
herself. He meant it, he was quite capable of
swearing to any lie or any combination of lies.
She remembered, she had never forgotten it, Mr.
Bradley's final statement to her. "You may be
innocent. My partner and I are inclined to think
you are, at least we are giving you the benefit of
the doubt. But... if you are—"
That "if" was there, the doubt was there, even
then. Now, with this man declaring under oath
that she had been his willing accomplice, and
with her letter to back his assertions, the last
vestige of doubt would be dispelled. And what
might happen to her after that, who could tell?
Yet even this prospect she could face, if it were
to be faced alone. But she was not alone. There
were Uncle Simeon and Aunt Desire to consider
—and Chet. They would not believe her guilty,
she knew that. But they would have to share her
shame and public exposure. Their names would
be in the city papers, and the county weeklies.
They would have to endure gossip and whisper-


218
STORM GIRL
ings and back-bitings. And if worse came to
worst and she—
No, no, no! It must not be. There must be
some way out. But where—and how?
"What shall I do?" she moaned aloud.
Coombes heard her and laughed. "Getting
hold of you, eh?" he queried. "I thought it
might.... There, there, Kitten, take it easy.
There's only one thing to do and that's do noth-
ing. You just keep your mouth shut about me and
I'll keep mine shut about you. Nobody around
here except you knows who I am and so long as
they don't know everything's O.K. You won't
have to worry and I shan't. Only—well, you
know what the 'only' is. As my school-teacher
used to say, 'Don't let me have to speak of it
again.' Eh? Ha, ha!"
She was silent, her fingers twisting and un-
twisting in her lap. Then she asked one more
question.
"What are you going to do after you leave
here?"
He shook his head. "Haven't had time to think
that out yet," he said. "Our bumping together
unexpected like this was so sudden that I haven't
quite got my bearings. You run along now and


STORM GIRL 219
come back again by and by. Run in before you
go to bed to see how the poor patient is bearing
up. I'll have some sort of course set by then
Don't forget, that's all."


322
STORM GIRL
man in a day or two. My heart is broken; but
my appetite seems to be all right, I don't know
why."
She paid no attention. "What have you de-
cided to do?" she demanded.
He smiled. "Well," he replied with delibera-
tion, "I have decided not to decide anything defi-
nite just yet. I'm a sick man, you know. I may
not look very sick to you, sweetie, but when your
auntie happens in you'd be surprised how sick I
can look and act. This place is a kind of board-
ing-house, she tells me. So far as my acquaint-
ance with it goes it seems to be a good one. The
beds are comfortable and the food pretty fair.
Maybe I won't go anywhere for a while. May
stay right here for a fortnight or so—or until
after the wedding, at any rate.... Oh, don't look
like that! I wouldn't miss your wedding for
anything. I may not go to it, this poor heart of
mine might not be able to stand the strain, but I
shall be there in spirit. And won't that be nice."
He chuckled. He seemed to be enjoying him-
self. Emily was trying to comprehend, to grasp
the intention behind all this sarcastic chatter.
"You—you mean you are not going—to-
morrow?" she faltered.


STORM GIRL 223
"Not to-morrow—no. Next week? Not likely.
Next month? Well, we'll see. My board and
lodging? I'm not well enough to worry about
such things. I'll leave them to you, dearie. You
can't be entirely broke if you are planning to
marry, or, if you are, your aunt and uncle will
probably trust you. After you are married, you
will have a husband to pay the family expenses
and I'm almost one of the family, don't you
think? Or I might be, for a little while. How
does the idea strike you, Kitten?"
She rose, her fists clenched. "You shan't stay,"
she vowed. "No matter what happens to me you
shan't do that."
"Think not? And, if not, why not? Going to
tell Captain Chester? Think he will want to
marry a girl who can be proved to be a thief?
Or that he will enjoy having his wife jailed? I
don't!... Oh, don't be a fool, Em. I don't intend
to hang on here forever, but I may do it for a
few weeks. This is an out of the way place and
it ought to be a safe hideout for me until I make
up my mind what the next move shall be. When
that is settled all I'll ask of you is enough cash
to get me five or six hundred miles from here,
and to keep me going for a while. Until then—


224 STORM GIRL
well, you'll have to see that I'm taken care of and
no questions asked. And that's for your own sake
and your family's sake and your pet little boy's
sake, quite as much as for mine. Don't let that
fact slip your mind for a minute.... Humph!
I guess you won't. You don't look as if you
would."
All that night Emily walked the floor of her
room. And at daybreak—a gray, damp, wind-
blown daybreak—her determination was fixed,
on one point at least. She must see Chet at once.
She must tell him that their marriage would
have to be postponed again. This time not for
merely a day or two, but for an indefinite period,
how long she could not say. And if he asked why
—as he would ask and keep on asking—she
would give him no reason other than that it was
her wish. He would not understand. How could
he? He would speculate, surmise, imagine all
sorts of dreadful things.
Even so, even if his trust in her were shaken,
that would be better than the alternative. He was
making a name for himself in the Coast-Guard
service, the summons he was expecting from the
Boston shipping firm might come at any time.
Nothing, certainly no public disgrace for which


CHAPTER XV
iHE gale was slowly losing its force. The
I surf still flung its green and white
combers far up the beach and the black hulk of
the wrecked Sovereign was being hammered to
pieces upon the sands of the Horsefoot Shoal.
The shore was festooned with great wreaths of
seaweed, with planks and bits of rope and spars
and tackle-blocks tangled among them. The
clouds were tattered gray rags flapping across the
sky; but, low in the west a crimson glow was
spreading, its upper edge striped with fire, as
the sun sank. Fair weather to-morrow, that was
the 'longshore prophecy.
Desire, alone in the Coleman House kitchen,
glanced at the clock. Almost five. Simeon should
have returned before this. It was three when he
left to walk over to the life-saving station and
he had promised to be gone but a half-hour or
so. Dear, dear! He certainly was a provoking
man, no idea of time.
Desire was tired. There had been so many


STORM GIRL 227
things to do that day. People calling to talk about
the wreck, a reporter from the county weekly
dropping in to ask questions and to request per-
mission to interview the castaways in the
"boarders' wing"—Doctor Hallett was there at
the time, thank goodness, and he had put his foot
down so far as that was concerned—the extra
cooking, Emily's headache, and all the rest of it.
Emily's headache was nothing to worry about.
The poor girl was worn out, physically and
nervously, and no wonder. She was not feeling
too well when she came down to breakfast—
Desire had noticed that and commented upon it
—but she had insisted on walking to the Coast-
Guard station to see Captain Chet Brewster. It
was almost noon when she returned and then she
had looked pale and tired. Would not eat a single
mouthful and went right up to her room. Said
her head was aching and, if her aunt could spare
her, she was going to lie down. She had been
lying down all the afternoon. Desire had been up
several times to knock at the door and ask if a
little hot tea and toast might not be acceptable,
but the offers were declined. Emily said she felt
better, but thought she would remain where she
was for a while longer.


230 STORM GIRL
plied without pausing. "And high time I did,
too."
"But you can't, Simeon. She doesn't feel like
talkin', I know she doesn't."
"Maybe not, but I do."
"But, Simeon—! Oh dear, what is the matter!
You act so funny Simeon!"
"Sshh! No, no; you stay right where you are.
And don't come up if you don't hear from me for
an hour. I may be hoarse by that time and Em
may be deaf, but neither of us'll be dead, so don't
fret and don't butt in. This is important."
He climbed the stairs and Desire heard him
knock on the door of her niece's room. An instant
later she heard it open and close. She returned to
the kitchen and her duties there very much trou-
bled in her mind. Simeon had looked so solemn
and had spoken so sharply. Why should he want
to talk with Emily? What was it that was im-
portant?
Emily was sitting in the chair by her bedroom
window when her uncle knocked. She asked who
was there, but she did not bid the knocker enter.
He did enter, nevertheless, and, after closing the
door carefully behind him, sat down on the edge
of the bed.


STORM GIRL 231
"What are you sittin' in the dark for?" he
queried. "Good for the complexion, or what?"
"Oh, I don't know. I like the dark, some-
times."
"Do you? I don't. My grandmother used to
6ay 'twas darker in the grave. She was always
cheerin' folks up with happy reminders like that.
Well, I ain't buried yet, so we'll have a little
light on the subject."
He rose and turned the switch. The room
sprang into brightness. He went back to the bed,
sat, crossed his legs and took his pipe from his
pocket.
"When there's light there's liable to be some
smoke," he observed. "Too bad you don't smoke,
Emily."
The answer he received surprised him
mightily.
"I do, sometimes," she said. "I never do here
at home. I am sure Aunt Desire wouldn't like to
have me."
He stared at her. Then he slapped his knee
and burst into a roar of laughter.
"Ho, ho!" he crowed. "No, I'll say you're
right, she wouldn't. She thinks tobacco is an in-
vention of the Evil One. I tell her it's surprisin'


232 STORM GIRL
how many comforts the old critter is responsible
for.... But maybe it isn't tobacco you're in the
habit of smokin'."
"I smoke a cigarette occasionally, or I used
to."
"Oh. Well, some folks do call them things
tobacco, I suppose, but it's a sloppy way of
speakin', 'cordin' to my notion.... Emmie."
"Yes, Uncle Simeon?"
"Emmie, can you hear me?"
"Why yes, of course I can."
"That helps some. If you'll turn your head
this way, you can see me, which will help more.
Thanks. Now, I can see your face, which helps
a whole lot.... Humph! Well, Em, what's it all
about?"
"About? I don't know what you mean, Uncle
Sim."
"I don't know what I mean, either—not yet;
but I'm goin' to afore I quit this room.... There,
there, don't waste time tellin' me there is nothin'
the matter, that everything is all right, and you
can't imagine why I thought 'twasn't. It was
knowin' there was a whole lot the matter that
fetched me from Chet Brewster straight to you.
And if I needed any proof it's in your face. You


STORM GIRL 235
set for the minister. What's happened in these
two or three days to make you change your
mind? You got nothin' in the mail; there hasn't
been any mail. No telegrams or telephones, be-
cause the wires are down. Nothin' like that. The
only thing that's out of the reg'lar run is the
no'theaster. It's been a stiff one, but you've seen
plenty just as bad and, accordin' to Dizzy's pet
prophet, you are liable to see more. If it wasn't
the gale itself, then maybe it was somethin' con-
nected up with it. How about the wreck?"
He paused. This was alarming. He must not
be permitted to continue along this line; it was
too close to the truth. She must head him off
somehow.
"Wreck?" she repeated, with elaborate care-
lessness. "Oh, the steamer, you mean?"
"That's the only wreck I've heard tell of in
this neighborhood lately. How about it?"
"Why—nothing. Wrecks aren't much greater
novelties to me than storms. I've lived on this
coast almost all my life."
"So you have, but every wreck is a little differ-
ent from every other one, 'cordin' to my experi-
ence. Now, Em, don't fidget and don't sit there
thinkin' how you can fool me. You can't, you


STORM GIRL 237
"please, please, don't ask me any more. If you
care anything about me at all—"
"There, there, my girl! If I didn't care any-
thing about you I shouldn't care a darn about
your bein' in trouble. It's because I care so
plaguy much about you that makes me pester
you the way I'm doin'. Now then, you tell me
what the trouble is and I'll get you out of it."
"You can't. Nobody can."
"I can. As I look back on it now it seems as
if I'd spent half my days gettin' folks out of
trouble and the other half gettin' myself out.
Lickin' trouble is my 'speecia/ity,' as the bills
outside the old Howard in Boston used to call it.
You tell your Uncle Sim the whole yarn and
leave the rest of it to him. He'll pull you out, I
tell you. Yes, and pull Chet out at the same time.
Come on now."
She hesitated. She was tempted. If he could
help her; but how could he?
His next speech forced her surrender.
"Course," he suggested, "if you'd rather, I'll
go in and talk to those shipwrecked fellows my-
self. And they'll talk back, I'll see that they do.
I rather think," he added, "that I'll begin with
that steward one. Desire tells me you've been


238 STORM GIRL
takin' more care of him than you have of the
others."
She sprang to her feet. "Oh no, no!" she cried.
"You mustn't do that. You mustn't! I'll tell you,
Uncle Sim; I'll tell you everything, I will! If I
had only told you and Aunt Desire before it
wouldn't be so hard. I should have. I am
ashamed. And you will be ashamed of me."
"Don't you believe it. I've got ashamed of my-
self so often that I've used up all the shame I
had in stock. Now you tell me and—understand
this—I won't tell anybody else—never, unless
you want me to. Sit down, girlie. That's right.
Now then, full steam ahead."
The telling was easier than she had expected.
Somehow it was a relief to tell everything, to
keep nothing back. There was but one interrup-
tion from without. Desire knocked at the door
to ask if her brother-in-law wasn't ever coming
down to supper. His reply was brief and em-
phatic.
"No," he shouted.
"But it's ready and waitin' for you, Simeon."
"Let it wait. Run along, Dizzy. I'll come
when I can."
"But when will that be, for mercy sakes?"


STORM GIRL 239
"How do I know? It won't be till the second
Wednesday of next week if you hang around
botherin'. Clear out and behave yourself....
There, that settled her, I guess. Go on, Em."
Emily continued. Only once did Simeon break
in on her confession. That once was when she
told him of the letter, of what she had really
written, of its meaning as she had written it, and
of what it seemed to mean with the additional
pages missing.
"Hold on!" he ordered. "Heave to! Let me
understand this. You're tellin' me that this
Coombes thief kept that letter you wrote to help
him, to show him you'd stick by him forever and
always—kept it all this time and hung on to it
—the part he could use, I mean just so's he could
scare you in case you and he ever run acrost each
other?"
"Yes, I suppose that is why he kept it. In fact
he said as much."
"Just so's he could bully and browbeat you
into not tellin' who he was and, if needful, work
you for money and free board and lodgin' be-
sides?"
"Yes. What other reason?"
"And do you think, if it came to a show-down,
f ■


24o STORM GIRL
he really would do his best to put you in jail,
just out of spite?"
"I'm afraid so. He doesn't care for me—of
course he never really cared—but he probably
hates Chet because—well, I don't know why, but
I think he does."
"Humph! The—"
The remainder of the sentence was a blister-
ing summary of the Coombes character, begin-
ning with a reflection upon that individual's
ancestry and ending with the eternal condemna-
tion of his soul.
Emily gasped. In spite of the desperate state
of her mind and the depression of her spirits she
was hesitating between shocked propriety and a
hysterical desire to laugh.
"Why, Uncle Sim!" she cried.
Simeon came back to earth. "Eh?" he ex-
claimed. "Good Lord, that's no way to talk, is
it! Good thing Desire didn't hear me. Sorry, Em.
I beg your pardon for callin' him that—and his
for not callin' him somethin' worse Humph!
... Sho!... Humph!"
At last, the long story, which began the year
before in Gloucester and of which the most re-
cent instalment had appeared the previous eve-


STORM GIRL 241
ning in the room of the "boarders' wing" of
the Coleman House, drew to its end. Emily
finished speaking. She did not look at her uncle,
but sat, her head bent, waiting for him to say—
she dreaded to think what. It sounded quite as
hopeless, now that it had been put into words,
as it had seemed each of the many, many times
she had reviewed it in her thoughts.
And, when Simeon did break the silence
it was but to utter another non-committal
"Humph!"
"I know," she said, wearily. "It is dreadful."
"Dreadful nothin'. How much of this have
you told Chet?"
"I told him about everything that happened
there in Gloucester, about my being engaged and
about the money being stolen and about—about
Ed's running away on the Blue Eyes, Captain
Hendricks's schooner, and about the Blue Eyes
going down with all hands. I thought—of course
I thought he was drowned with the rest. I
thought he was dead and—yes, I was almost glad,
Uncle Sim. It sounds wicked, I know, but—but
—well, it seemed so much better for him, better
than being caught and sent to prison. And then,
when I went into that room and heard him speak


STORM GIRL 245
two or three other little points we might add to
that arrangement of ours. You see, I—"
He paused, suddenly aware that there were
two callers instead of one. "Who is that with
you?" he demanded, sharply.
Simeon answered. "Oh, just one of the home
folks," he drawled. "Humph! Sittin' in the dark
must be gettin' fashionable in this house. Savin'
kerosene, I presume likely. Tut, tutl That was
real thoughtful of you, Mr.—er—McGowan, is
it?—but you mustn't put yourself out that way
on our account. We paid the grocery bill less
than six months ago, so our credit ought to be
good. To the devil with economy, let's light up."
Emily heard the scratch of a match and saw
her uncle's hand as he removed the chimney of
the lamp on the table. The wick caught. She saw
Coombes sitting there, without a coat but other-
wise fully dressed. He had shaved since she saw
him. She noticed that; noticed, too, that he was
staring at Uncle Simeon, staring as if what he
saw was unbelievable, incredible. She heard him
catch his breath.
And then Simeon, having adjusted the lamp
chimney to suit his fancy, turned and looked at
Coombes. And Simeon, too, stared—and stared.


246 STORM GIRL
Then the amazing thing happened. Uncle
Sim, who had bent forward to stare even more
intently, suddenly straightened and began to
laugh. Laughed loudly, uproariously, and kept
on laughing as if he would never stop.
"Oh my, oh my!" he crowed, the tears running
down his cheeks. "And I've heard 'em say that
all the miracles was in the Bible! If I'd had a
drink for a week I'd know 'twas time to sign the
pledge. I'm goin' to believe in Santa Claus.
Well, well, well! Ho, ho, ho!"
But Edward Coombes did not laugh. He
swore violently. Choked, sputtered, and swore
again.


248 STORM GIRL
there to laugh about, for heaven's sake! Oh, will
you stop and say something?"
Simeon turned. "Beg your pardon, Em," he
panted. "I forgot that you wasn't in on the joke.
Ho, ho! Oh, dear me!"
"Joke!"
"Um-hm. If you knew what a joke 'twas you'd
laugh too. There, there," hastily, "don't ask me
any more. Don't say a word. Let me think
Yes," whirling toward Coombes, "and that goes
for you. You keep still. Understand?"
He rubbed his chin and then seemed to make
up his mind. Crossing to her side, he put his arm
about her shoulders and pushed her gently out
into the corridor.
"Now I tell you what you do," he whispered.
"You go right back to your room and stay there
till I come for you. 'Twon't be very long. And,"
earnestly, "don't fret yourself sick while you're
waitin'. Your worries are just about over. Get
that into your head, they're just about over. Ho,
ho! Told you to leave everything to your Uncle
Sim, didn't I? You didn't realize what good ad-
vice that was. Well, to tell you the truth, neither
did I when I handed it out. Ho, ho!... Now you
trot along, like a good girl."


254 STORM GIRL
room. I had dried his clothes and ironed 'em and
left 'em in his closet. And they're gone, too; his
shoes and everything."
A sudden thought flashed to Emily's mind.
She uttered an exclamation.
"Oh!" she cried. "Do you suppose—I won-
der—"
She paused. Her aunt asked what she won-
dered.
"Nothing, nothing," hastily. "I can't think he
has really gone—for good, Aunt Desire."
And yet he had gone from his room and, ap-
parently, from the house. And, when he did not
return and they ascertained from the Coast-
Guard patrolman that he had not been seen
about the life-saving station, the surmise that he
might have left never to come back strengthened
to a belief.
"But why should he?" complained Desire.
"I'm sure nobody could be nicer to him than we
were and he was so nice and polite and grateful
himself. You don't think Simeon had anything to
do with his goin', do you? That they've gone to-
gether, I mean?"
Emily replied that she should not think so,
but, as she said it, she was conscious of evading


STORM GIRL 255
the truth. That her uncle and Ed Coombes had
gone away together she was beginning to believe
almost certain. Uncle Simeon had assured her
that her troubles were almost over. He had
spoken so confidently, had seemed so elated and
sure of himself. Had this menace been removed
forever for her life, from her future—hers and
Chet's? How and why she could not understand,
but if it had been! Her heart sang.
Desire, no part of whose anatomy was in a
singing mood, noticed her niece's excitement and
declared she was glad some folks could be chip-
per even if she were not.
"But you will be, Auntie. You are going to be.
When Uncle Sim comes back, I mean."
"Humph! When he comes back he won't be
chipper—for the first few minutes anyhow. You
wait till I lay eyes on that everlastin' uncle of
yours, that's all."
The doctor and the station car came about
nine-thirty and the remaining castaways, the sec-
ond engineer of the Sovereign and the foremast
hand, were taken away. The shipwrecked men
were grateful to their hostess. McGowan's un-
explained absence was as much a puzzle to them
as to Desire and the doctor.


256 STORM GIRL
"Where on earth has he gone?" demanded the
latter. "Only yesterday he seemed so weak and
shaken that I decided he must not be moved until
to-morrow at least. Suppose he has walked to
the depot? If he has it is because he is delirious.
Well, we can't wait. If he turns up later let me
know."
Mr. McGowan did not turn up and, just be-
fore noon, Emily, who had been waiting her op-
portunity, told her aunt she was going to the
life-saving station to see Chester. Desire sent
her love.
"Tell him to hurry up and get well and
strong," she said. "And I don't see why we can't
begin plannin' again for the weddin' pretty
soon."
Emily had not seen Chet since their trying
interview during which she had told him that
their marriage must be postponed indefinitely.
To her great disappointment—and quite as
much to his—she could see him but a minute or
two now. He was very much better, dressed and
in his room, but a representative of the Board of
Underwriters from Boston was with him and
they were discussing important matters con-
nected with the wreck of the Sovereign.


STORM GIRL 257
He came out into the hall and they whispered
together.
"I have been crazy to see you, Emily," he told
her. "I should have been over long before but
the doctor wouldn't let me out of doors. I hoped
you might come to see me, but of course—"
She interrupted. "I couldn't, Chet, dear, I
couldn't," she whispered. "There was something
—something dreadful—that made me afraid I
might never see you again. Or, at least, for a
long, long time. But now—"
"Now? Emily, you look so different, not at
all the way you did yesterday. You look as if—
as if—"
"As if I were happy again? I am, I am. Per-
haps I shouldn't be, perhaps I have no real rea-
son to be. If I have I don't know what it is. That
sounds silly, dear, doesn't it? Never mind, I am
happy and I believe we are both going to be.
And, Chet, I can tell you everything now. Why
I was so dreadfully afraid—oh, everything.
When can we be together—really together, so
that I may tell you?"
"I'll come over this evening."
"But do you think you should? Are you well
enough? Can you walk as far as that?"


260
STORM GIRL
twice and she saw his fists clench, but he did not
speak until she had finished.
"So you see, Chet," she explained, "I had to
do as he said. I had to, for your sake. It was of
you I was thinking all the time. He could have
had me arrested, they might have believed him,
and then your name would have been— Oh, you
see, don't you, dear? I couldn't have your chance
in life ruined just because I had been a fool—
such a fool."
He shook his head. "I see what I knew be-
fore," he declared, "and that is that you are a
whole lot too good for a fellow like me."
"Nonsense. You mustn't say that. I might have
got you into such disgrace and trouble. I thought
I had."
"So you figure that your uncle has taken away
this—this— I'd better be careful, I almost called
him what he is."
"Never mind. I'm sure it would have been
tame compared to what Uncle Simeon called
him the other night. And I almost said 'Amen.'
It was wicked, but I almost did."
"So you think Sim has taken him away. Got
rid of him somehow. But how could he? Why
should the blackguard be frightened of him any


STORM GIRL
261
more than the rest of us? He didn't know him.
Your Aunt Desire must have told Sim's name as
well as hers, and apparently he didn't recognize
it."
"No. And he had heard me speak of my Uncle
Simeon Coleman so many times there in
Gloucester. No, I don't understand that part at
all, but I am almost sure that Uncle Sim has
saved us somehow Oh, Chet," with a sudden
thrill of fear, "you think he has, don't you? You
don't think that—that creature will come back?"
His reply was given between his teeth. "I al-
most wish he might," he growled. "I'd have a
good time for a little while, anyhow. Em, dear,
if you had only come to me, I'd have twisted the
fellow's neck and enjoyed doing it."
"I knew that. That was why I didn't come to
you. And—Oh, what's that?"
A tap had sounded on the window pane.
Brewster ran to the window and lifted the shade.
"I can't see any one," he whispered, peering
out "But I heard—"
He stopped short, for just then he heard some-
thing else. The back door, the door leading from
the backyard to the kitchen, had opened. Cau-


STORM GIRL
tious steps sounded in the kitchen itself, in the
dining-room. A head, with a cap perched on one
side of it, peered around the jamb of the living-
room door.
"Hello," hailed Simeon Coleman cheerfully.
"Coast's clear, ain't it? Thought I didn't see
Dizzy anywhere 'round when I peeked in the
window. That's good. I don't feel up to
smoothin' her feathers, not to-night. Hello,
Chet! All taut and shipshape again, are you?
Fine enough."
They literally dragged him into the living-
room. He was dirty, his clothes were rumpled,
and he was obviously weary, but his grin was in
evidence and he seemed serenely satisfied with
the world.
"No, no," he protested. "I don't want any-
thing to eat and I don't want any hot tea, either.
Had a sandwich and a slab of pie up at Orham
on the way down. Had tea, too. Well, maybe
'twasn't tea, but I needed it, whatever 'twas.
You needn't tell Dizzy that part though. Whew!
I'm tired. Cruisin' to New Bedford in a car and
back again the same day, besides hustlin' every
minute while you're there, is some job for an old
bird like me. I'm ready to turn in. And," with an


264 STORM GIRL
"Here, here, girlie," he said, quickly. "Don't
look like that. I didn't mean to scare you. I don't
know where he is, that's a fact. But, when you
come to think of it, that kind of simplifies things,
don't it?"
Brewster was losing patience. "What are you
talking about?" he demanded. "Was this
Coombes fellow with you when you left here this
morning—or last night, or whenever you did
leave—or wasn't he?"
"Eh? Oh, sure, he was with me then. But he
ain't with me now. If he was I, bein' a law-
abidin' citizen—most of the time—would have
to turn him over to the police. They want him, I
know they want him, and so 'twould be my duty,
as that kind of citizen, to hand him to 'em. That
is, if I knew where he was. Not knowin' where
he is, I can't. Which makes it easier, as I said in
the first place."
He stated all this very gravely, but there was a
twinkle in his eye. Emily was too agitated to no-
tice the twinkle, but Chester Brewster noticed it.
"Come, come, Simeon," he urged. "Stop this
foolishness and behave yourself. Can't you see
Emmie is frightened half to death?"
"Is she? No need for her to be. Told her to
■


STORM GIRL 269
"Easy!" the two spoke in chorus.
"Yes, sartin Oh, I forgot to tell you what
we Clover Leafers heard happened a little while
after the weddin'. This Ellis skipped out, leavin'
his bride to go back to the home folks, but takin'
her rings and earrings and gold breastpin and
money along with him to remember her by. He
had takin' ways, that boy. Yes sir-ee!"
He reached into his pocket for his pipe and
tobacco box. He scratched a match and observed,
"Well, I guess that's about all, ain't it?"
"All!" Brewster sputtered. "All? Why, you
haven't begun. What did you do when you and
he recognized each other? I can't see that his
having been a thief before could have any effect
on his having been one later. Or changed his
mind so far as swearing lies against Emmie is
concerned. It wasn't as if there were any doubt
about his guilt in the Gloucester affair."
Simeon tossed the extinguished match in the
general direction of the stove.
"You don't know about Brother Gaston," he
said.
"Brother Gaston?" queried Emily.
"Brother which?" demanded Chet.
"Gaston's the name. Cut quite a figger in our


STORM GIRL
little chit-chat, Brother Gaston did—yes-sir!
Coombes and I settled down to have a real heart
to heart talk after you left us, Em, but it wasn't
till I fetched Brother Gaston into the argument
that he began to listen to reason. He listened to it
then. Yes, indeed! Seems to me we owe Brother
Gaston a risin' vote of thanks, or a tin speakin'
trumpet with his name on it, or somethin'."
Emily leaned forward. "Uncle Simeon," she
begged, "will you please be sensible? You haven't
told us anything important yet."
"What! If you think Gaston isn't important
it's because you never saw him. He's that Canada
girl's big brother. And when I say 'big' I mean
big. When I saw him at the Novy Scoshy wed-
din' he was six foot three and broad in the beam
as an old-fashioned catboat. And he was young at
the time and may have grown since. He used to
put in his spare time goin' 'round to fairs and
carnivals wrestlin' all comers and hoistin' mo-
lasses hogsheads with his teeth, that sort of thing.
And his sister, the one Slick married, was his
pet. When I was up to Boston last time I met a
Canadian fish hand I know and he told me he
run across Brother Gaston a month or so afore
and he'd had to stand and listen half an hour


274 STORM GIRL
neck. "Uncle Simeon," she breathed, "Chet and
I will never be able to pay you for this, even if
we live a thousand years."
Simeon rose from the rocker. "Now I am
goin' to turn in," he declared. "Oh, I almost for-
got; here's a paper I told that Coombes one I
thought he'd better sign. I'd keep it if I was you,
Emmie."
Emily and Chet read together what was writ-
ten upon the paper.
I hereby state, of my own free will, that Emily
Blanchard, bookkeeper at the Gloucester branch
office of Bradley and Co. had no part in and knew
nothing about the robbery of the firm's money. I
did it myself and she is innocent.
Signed: Edward Coombes
Witnessed by:
Simeon G. Coleman
"Slick wasn't real anxious to sign that after I
wrote it out for him," said Uncle Sim, "but
maybe he figgered that signin' was easier than
some other things that was liable to happen to
him if he didn't. Anyhow he signed—after a
spell. Good night."
He had turned to go, but now he turned back.


STORM GIRL 275
"My, my, how forgetful I'm gettin' these
days!" he observed, with a sigh. "Loss of mem-
ory is a sure sign you're growin' old, so they say.
Elkanah Ryder, who lived down on the back
road years ago, used to complain because he
couldn't remember, at breakfast time, whether
he'd et three flapjacks or four, so he said he al-
ways et one more to make sure. He was afraid, so
he used to say, that old age must be commencin'
to creep up on him. He was ninety-one when he
said it, so he may have been right.... Humph!
Now what set me to talkin' about him? ... Oh
yes, I remember."
He reached into the pocket from which he
had taken the statement signed by Coombes and,
after some fumbling, produced a crumpled en-
velope.
"Your letter's in there, Emmie," he an-
nounced. "I took pains to get that away from
him afore I made him write and sign the other
one Um-hm," reflectively, "I should say I
made a pretty clean job of Mr. Ellis Coombes
McGowan. And if he should have sailed aboard
that freight boat, after all—mind you I say if he
should, for of course I haven't the least notion
where he went after he run away from me—but


276 STORM GIRL
if he should I rather guess that cap'n friend of
mine would finish up any little polishin' I'd left
undone. You see I took the cap'n one side for a
couple of minutes and told him a little of the
kind of son-of-a-skunk Coombes was. Ha, ha! If
poor Coombsy had shipped on that freighter I'd
have been so sorry for him.... If I was you, Em,
I'd burn up that letter you wrote and hang on
to the other one. Well, good night once again.
'Night, Cher."
They heard him ascending the stairs. A little
while afterward—possibly more than a little—
Emily moved gently in the rocking-chair and
looked up into her lover's face. She did not have
to look far.
"Chet, dear," she said, "isn't this—all this—
the most astonishing thing you ever heard of?
For a year—yes, and until a little while ago—it
was tragedy for both of us. And now—why, it
has turned out to be not tragic at all. The end is
just—just funny—a farce."
Chet Brewster smiled. "I have an idea," he
said, "that Mr. Coombes may not be laughing."
The next afternoon, when Chet and Simeon
chanced to be alone together, Brewster men-