CHAPTER VII

THE EYES OF AN OLD PORTRAIT

Before another Sunday night had arrived Warehold village was alive with two important pieces of news.

The first was the disappearance of Bart Holt.

Captain Nat, so the story ran, had caught him carousing in the House of Refuge on Sunday night with some of his boon companions, and after a stormy interview in which the boy pleaded for forgiveness, had driven him out into the night.  Bart had left town the next morning at daylight and had shipped as a common sailor on board a British bark bound for Brazil.  No one had seen him go—­not even his companions of the night before.

The second announcement was more startling.

The Cobden girls were going to Paris.  Lucy Cobden had developed an extraordinary talent for music during her short stay in Trenton with her friend Maria Collins, and Miss Jane, with her customary unselfishness and devotion to her younger sister, had decided to go with her.  They might be gone two years or five—­it depended on Lucy’s success.  Martha would remain at Yardley and take care of the old home.

Bart’s banishment coming first served as a target for the fire of the gossip some days before Jane’s decision had reached the ears of the villagers.

“I always knew he would come to no good end,” Miss Gossaway called out to a passer-by from her eyrie; “and there’s more like him if their fathers would look after ’em.  Guess sea’s the best place for him.”

Billy Tatham, the stage-driver, did not altogether agree with the extremist.

“You hearn tell, I s’pose, of how Captain Nat handled his boy t’other night, didn’t ye?” he remarked to the passenger next to him on the front seat.  “It might be the way they did things ’board the Black Ball Line, but ‘tain’t human and decent, an’ I told Cap’n Nat so to-day.  Shut his door in his face an’ told him he’d kill him if he tried to come in, and all because he ketched him playin’ cards on Sunday down on the beach.  Bart warn’t no worse than the others he run with, but ye can’t tell what these old sea-dogs will do when they git riled.  I guess it was the rum more’n the cards.  Them fellers used to drink a power o’ rum in that shanty.  I’ve seen ’em staggerin’ home many a Monday mornin’ when I got down early to open up for my team.  It’s the rum that riled the cap’n, I guess.  He wouldn’t stand it aboard ship and used to put his men in irons, I’ve hearn tell, when they come aboard drunk.  What gits me is that the cap’n didn’t know them fellers met there every night they could git away, week-days as well as Sundays.  Everybody ’round here knew it ’cept him and the light-keeper, and he’s so durned lazy he never once dropped on to ’em.  He’d git bounced if the Gov’ment found out he was lettin’ a gang run the House o’ Refuge whenever they felt like it.  Fogarty, the fisherman’s, got the key, or oughter have it, but the light-keeper’s responsible, so I hearn tell.  Git-up, Billy,” and the talk drifted into other channels.