The Happy Venture/Chapter 2
CHAPTER II
HAVOC
THE town ran, in its lower part, to the grimy water-front, where there was ever a noise of the unloading of ships, the shouts of teamsters, and the clatter of dray-horses' big hoofs on bare cobblestones. Ken liked to walk there, even on such a dreary March day as this, when the horses splashed through puddles, and the funnels of the steamers dripped sootily black. He had left Felicia in the garden, investigating the first promise of green under the leaf-coverlet of the perennial bed. Kirk was with her, questing joyously down the brick path, and breathing the warm, wet smell of the waking earth.
Ken struck down to the docks; even before he reached the last dingy street he could see the tall masts of a sailing-ship rising above the warehouse roofs. It was with a quickened beat of the heart that he ran the last few steps, and saw her in all her quiet dignity—the Celestine, four-masted schooner. It was not often that sailing vessels came into this port. Most of the shipping consisted of tugs with their barges, high black freighters, rust-streaked; and casual tramp steamers battered by every wind from St. John's to Torres Straits. The Celestine was, herself, far from being a pleasure yacht. Her bluff bows were salt-rimed and her decks bleached and weather-bitten. But she towered above her steam-driven companions with such stalwart grace, such simple perfection, that Ken caught his breath, looking at her.
The gang-plank was out, for she lay warped in to one of the wharves, and Ken went aboard and leaned at the rail beside a square man in a black jersey, who chewed tobacco and squinted observantly at the dock. From this person, at first inclined to be taciturn, Ken learned that the Celestine was sailing the next night, bound for Rio de Janeiro, "and mebbe further." Rio de Janeiro! And here she lay quietly at the slimy wharf, beyond which the gray northern town rose in a smoky huddle of chimney-pots.
Behind Ken, some of the crew began hoisting the foresail to dry. He heard the rhythmic squeak of the halliards through the sheaves, and the scrape of the gaff going up.
"Go 'n lend 'em a hand, boy, since yer so gone on it," the jerseyed one recommended quite understandingly. So Ken went and hauled at a rope, and watched the great expanse of sodden gray canvas rise and shiver and straighten into a dark square against the sky. He imagined himself one of the crew of the Celestine, hoisting the foresail in a South American port.
"I'd love to roll to Rio
Some day before I'm old . . ."
The sail rose steadily to the unsung chorus. Ken was quite happy.
He walked all the way home—it was a long walk—with his head full of plans for a seafaring life, and his nostrils still filled with the strange, fascinating, composite smell of the docks.
Felicia met him at the gate. She looked quite done for, he thought, and she caught his sleeve.
"Where have you been?" she said, with a queer little excited hitch in her voice. "I've been almost wild, waiting for you. Mother's headache is horribly worse; she's gone to bed. A letter came this morning, I don't know what, but I think it has something to do with her being so ill. She simply cries and cries—a frightening sort of crying—and says, 'I can't—I can't!' and wants Father to tell her what to do."
They were in the hall by this time.
"Wants Father!" Ken said gravely. "Have you got the doctor, Phil?"
"Not yet; I wanted to ask you."
"Get him—quick."
Ken ran upstairs. Halfway, he tumbled over something crouched beside the banisters. It was Kirk, quite wretched. He caught Ken's ankle.
"Mother's crying," he said; "I can hear her. Oh, do something, Ken!"
"I'm going to," said his brother. "Don't sit here in the dark and make yourself miserable."
He recollected that the landing was no darker for Kirk than any other place, and added: "You're apt to be stepped on here—I nearly smashed you. Hop along and tell Maggie that I'm as hungry as an ostrich."
But however hungry Ken may have been as he trudged home from the docks, he was not so now. A cold terror seized him as he leaned above his mother, who could not, indeed, stop her tears, nor tell him more than that she could not bear it, she could not. Ken had never before felt quite so helpless. He wished, as much as she, that his father were there to tell them what to do—his tall, quiet father, who had always counseled so well. He breathed a great thankful sigh when the doctor came in, with Felicia, white faced, peeping beside his shoulder. Ken said, "I'm glad you'll take charge, sir," and slipped out.
He and Felicia stood in Kirk's room, silently, and after what seemed an eternity, the doctor came out, tapping the back of his hand with his glasses. He informed them, with professional lack of emotion, that their mother was suffering from a complete nervous breakdown, from which it might take her months to recover.
"Evidently," said he, "she has been anxious over something, previous to this, but some definite shock must have caused the final collapse."
He was a little man, and he spoke drily, with a maddening deliberation.
"There was a letter—this morning," Felicia said, faintly.
"It might be well to find the letter, in order to ascertain the exact nature of the shock," said the doctor.
Ken went to his mother's room and searched her desk. He came back presently with a legal envelop, and his face was blank and half uncomprehending. The doctor took the paper from him and skimmed the contents.
"Ah—hm. 'United Stock . . . the mine having practically run out . . . war causing further depreciation . . . regret to inform you, . . . hm, yes. My dear young people, it appears from this that your mother has lost a good deal of money—possibly all her money. I should advise your seeing her attorney at once. Undoubtedly he will be able to make a satisfactory adjustment."
He handed the paper back to Ken, who took it mechanically. Then, with the information that it would be necessary for their mother to go to a sanitorium to recuperate, and that he would send them a most capable nurse immediately, the doctor slipped out—a neat little figure, stepping along lightly on his toes.
"Can you think straight, Ken?" Felicia said, later, in the first breathing pause after the doctor's departure and the arrival of the brisk young woman who took possession of the entire house as soon as she stepped over the threshold.
"I'm trying to," Ken replied, slowly. He began counting vaguely on his fingers. "It means Mother's got to go away to a nervous sanatorium place. It means we're poor. Phil, we may have to—I don't know what."
"What do they do with people who have no money?" Felicia asked dismally. "They send them to the poor-farm or something, don't they?"
"Don't talk utter bosh, Phil! As if I'd ever let you or Kirk go to the poor-farm!"
"Kirk!" Felicia murmured. "Suppose they took him away! They might, you know—the State, and send him to one of those institutions!"
"Oh, drop it!" snapped Ken. "We don't even know how much money it is Mother's lost. I don't suppose she had it all in this bally mine. Who is her attorney, anyway?"
"Mr. Dodge,—don't you remember? Nice, with a pink, face and bristly hair. He came here long ago about Daddy's business."
There was a swift rush of feet on the stairs, a pause in the hallway, and Kirk appeared at the door.
"I told Maggie," said he, "and supper's ready. And what's specially nice is the toast, because I made it myself—only Norah told me when it was done."
Ken and Felicia looked at one another, and wondered how much supper they could eat. Then Ken swung Kirk to his shoulder, and said:
"All right, old boy, we'll come and eat your toast."
"Is the crackly lady taking care of Mother?" Kirk asked over a piece of his famous toast, as they sat at supper.
"Yes," said Felicia. "Her name's Miss McClough. Why, did you meet her?"
"She said, 'Don't sit in people's way when you see they're in a hurry,'" said Kirk, somewhat grieved. "I didn't know she was coming. I don't think I like her much. Her dress creaks, and she smells like the drug-store."
"She can't help that," said Ken; "she's taking good care of Mother. And I told you the stairway was no place to sit, didn't I?"
"I've managed to find out something," Ken told Felicia, next day as he came downstairs. "Mother would talk about it, in spite of Miss McThing's protests, and I came away as soon as I could. She says there's a little Fidelity stock that brings enough to keep her in the rest-place, so she feels a little better about that. (By the way, she tried to say she would n't go, and I said she had to.) Then there's something else—Rocky Head Granite, I think—that will give us something to live on. We'll have to see Mr. Dodge as soon as we can; I'm all mixed up."
They did see Mr. Dodge, that afternoon. He was nice, as Felicia had said. He made her sit in his big revolving-chair, while he brought out a lot of papers and put on a pair of drooping gold eye-glasses to look at them. And the end of the afternoon found Ken and Felicia very much confused and a good deal more discouraged than before. It seemed that even the Rocky Head Granite was not a very sound investment, and that the staunch Fidelity was the only dependable source of income.
"And Mother must have that money, of course, for the rest-place," Felicia said.
"For Heaven's sake, don't tell her," Ken muttered.
His sister shot him one swift look of reproach and then turned to Mr. Dodge. She tried desperately to be very businesslike.
"What do you advise us to do, Mr. Dodge?" she said. "Send away the servants, of course."
"And Miss Bolton," Ken said; "she's an expensive lady."
"Yes, Miss Bolton. I'll teach Kirk—I can."
"How much is the rent of the house, Mr. Dodge, do you know?" Ken asked. Mr. Dodge did know, and told him. Ken whistled. "It sounds as though we'd have to move," he said.
"The lease ends April first," said the attorney.
"We could get a little tiny house somewhere," Felicia suggested. "Could n't you get quite a nice one for six hundred dollars a year?"
This sum represented, more or less, their entire income—minus the expenses of Hilltop Sanatorium.
"But what would you eat?" Mr. Dodge inquired gently.
"Oh, dear, that's true!" said Felicia. "And clothes! What do you think we better do?"
"You have no immediate relatives, as I remember?" Mr. Dodge mused.
"None but our great-aunt, Miss Pelham," Ken said, "and she lives in Los Angeles."
"She's very old, too," Phil said, "and lives in a tiny house. She's not at all well off; we should n't want to bother her. And there is Uncle Lewis."
"Oh, him!" said Ken, gloomily.
"It takes three months even to get an answer from a letter to him," Felicia explained. "He's in the Philippines, doing something to Ignorants.'
"Igorrotes, Phil," Ken muttered.
"He sounds unpromising," Mr. Dodge sighed. "And there are no friends who would be sufficiently interested in your problem to open either their doors or their pocket-books?"
"We don't know many people here," Felicia said. "Mother has n't gone out very much for several years."
Ken flushed. "And we'd rather people did n't open anything to us, anyhow," he said.
"Except, perhaps, their hearts," Mr. Dodge supplemented, "or their eyes, when they see your independent procedure!" He tapped his knee with his glasses. "My dear children, I suggest that you move to some other house—perhaps to some quaint little place in the country, which would be much less expensive than anything you could find in town. Your mother had best go away, as the doctor advises—she will be much better looked after, and of course she mustn't know what you do. I'll watch over this Rocky Head concern, and you may feel perfectly secure in the Fidelity. And don't hesitate to ask me anything you want to know, at any time."
He rose, pushing back his papers.
"Don't we owe you something for all this, sir?" Ken asked, rather red.
Mr. Dodge smiled. "One dollar, and other valuable considerations," he said.
Kenelm brought out his pocketbook, and carefully pulled a dollar bill from the four which it contained. He presented it to Mr. Dodge, and Felicia said:
"Thank you so very, very much!"
"You're very welcome," said the attorney, "and the best of luck to you all!"
When the glass door had closed behind the pair, Mr. Dodge sat down before his desk and wiped his glasses. He looked at the dollar bill, and then he said—quite out loud—
"Poor, poor dears!"