The Tides of Barnegat | Page 4

a morning that made one glad to
be alive, when the radiant sunshine had turned the ribbon of a road that
ran from Warehold village to Barnegat Light and the sea to satin, the
wide marshes to velvet, and the belts of stunted pines to bands of
purple--on this spring morning, then, Martha Sands, the Cobdens' nurse,
was out with her dog Meg. She had taken the little beast to the inner
beach for a bath--a custom of hers when the weather was fine and the
water not too cold--and was returning to Warehold by way of the road,
when, calling the dog to her side, she stopped to feast her eyes on the
picture unrolled at her feet.
To the left of where she stood curved the coast, glistening like a
scimitar, and the strip of yellow beach which divided the narrow bay
from the open sea; to the right, thrust out into the sheen of silver, lay
the spit of sand narrowing the inlet, its edges scalloped with lace foam,
its extreme point dominated by the grim tower of Barnegat Light; aloft,
high into the blue, soared the gulls, flashing like jewels as they lifted
their breasts to the sun, while away and beyond the sails of the
fishing-boats, gray or silver in their shifting tacks, crawled over the

wrinkled sea.
The glory of the landscape fixed in her mind, Martha gathered her
shawl about her shoulders, tightened the strings of her white cap,
smoothed out her apron, and with the remark to Meg that he'd "never
see nothin' so beautiful nor so restful," resumed her walk.
They were inseparable, these two, and had been ever since the day she
had picked him up outside the tavern, half starved and with a sore patch
on his back where some kitchen-maid had scalded him. Somehow the
poor outcast brought home to her a sad page in her own history, when
she herself was homeless and miserable, and no hand was stretched out
to her. So she had coddled and fondled him, gaining his confidence day
by day and talking to him by the hour of whatever was uppermost in
her mind.
Few friendships presented stronger contrasts: She stout and
motherly-looking--too stout for any waistline --with kindly blue eyes,
smooth gray hair-- gray, not white--her round, rosy face, framed in a
cotton cap, aglow with the freshness of the morning --a comforting,
coddling-up kind of woman of fifty, with a low, crooning voice, gentle
fingers, and soft, restful hollows about her shoulders and bosom for the
heads of tired babies; Meg thin, rickety, and sneak- eyed, with a broken
tail that hung at an angle, and but one ear (a black-and-tan had ruined
the other)-- a sandy-colored, rough-haired, good-for-nothing cur of
multifarious lineage, who was either crouching at her feet or in full cry
for some hole in a fence or rift in a wood-pile where he could flatten
out and sulk in safety.
Martha continued her talk to Meg. While she had been studying the
landscape he had taken the opportunity to wallow in whatever came
first, and his wet hair was bristling with sand and matted with burrs.
"Come here, Meg--you measly rascal!" she cried, stamping her foot.
"Come here, I tell ye!"
The dog crouched close to the ground, waited until Martha was near
enough to lay her hand upon him, and then, with a backward spring,

darted under a bush in full blossom.
"Look at ye now!" she shouted in a commanding tone. "'Tain't no use o'
my washin' ye. Ye're full o' thistles and jest as dirty as when I throwed
ye in the water. Come out o' that, I tell ye! Now, Meg, darlin'"--this
came in a coaxing tone--"come out like a good dog--sure I'm not goin'
in them brambles to hunt ye!"
A clatter of hoofs rang out on the morning air. A two-wheeled gig
drawn by a well-groomed sorrel horse and followed by a brown-haired
Irish setter was approaching. In it sat a man of thirty, dressed in a long,
mouse-colored surtout with a wide cape falling to the shoulders. On his
head was a soft gray hat and about his neck a white scarf showing
above the lapels of his coat. He had thin, shapely legs, a flat waist, and
square shoulders, above which rose a clean-shaven face of singular
sweetness and refinement.
At the sound of the wheels the tattered cur poked his head from
between the blossoms, twisted his one ear to catch the sound, and with
a side-spring bounded up the road toward the setter.
"Well, I declare, if it ain't Dr. John Cavendish and Rex!" Martha
exclaimed, raising both hands in welcome as the horse stopped beside
her. "Good- mornin' to ye, Doctor John. I thought it was you,