CHAPTER XXIII

THE CHRISTMAS GALE

This was Christmas week. There was the threat of a serious gale in the air and sky and on the sea. There had already been a scale of snow upon the ground, but rain had ensued and that promise of a white Christmas had proved abortive.

The Christmas entertainment committee, of which Miss Sue Ambrose was the very active chairman, had made most of its preparations for the celebration in spite of the unexplained defection of Eliphalet Truitt. Indeed, the ex-steward had been "acting offish" for so long that he ceased to be a general topic of conversation save on one particular point which, when mentioned, always brought smiles to the faces of his neighbors--for they loved Life Truitt, no matter what his mood.

'Liphalet had almost shut himself up in his little box of a house during the last few days. He shunned his fellow men--even Cap'n Jonah with whom he had been friendly until recently--like any hermit. And here it was the morning of the day before Christmas.

He scuffled out into his close kitchen, redolent of countless messes of fried fish and potatoes, and set the lamp with its smoky chimney on the deal board table before shaking the stove grate and opening all the drafts for "full steam ahead."

It was a cold morning. The long promised gale out of the northeast was driving the snow and sleet against the window with a "whish! whish!" like the sound of fretful waves along the sands. Even through his thick blue yarn socks which he had knitted himself the ex-steward felt the cold seep in under the door, the latch of which rattled to the ghostly hand of the gale.

He turned up the wick of the lamp and sat down with a sigh to slice potatoes for frying. It was plain by the woebegone expression on 'Liphalet's face that his heart was not in this usually grateful matutinal occupation.

Suddenly returning the knife and half a soggy boiled potato to the table, he shrugged his feet into a pair of canvas shoes and, rising, went to the rear door. He held it half open against the insistence of the wind, staring off across the flatlands toward the sea from under the sharp of one hand.

The snow squalls, driven in from the far-flung sea-line, burst like bomb-shells along the shore, then swept inland in clouds of fine snow-spray which stung like nettles even 'Liphalet's weather-burned cheek.

Between these drifting sheets of sleet he dimly saw outlined the houses of the neighbors on either side of the Shell Road and dotting the open fields. Each was pricked out at this hour by the smoke of early kindled kitchen fires, sucked out of the chimneys in fantastic forms by the boisterous wind.

"It's goin' to be a humdinger," muttered 'Liphalet. "Last over to-morrow, like enough, an' sp'ile everything. Ha! Sue an' them other foolish folks that's been wishing for a white Christmas will get their wish, I don't dispute. Ha!"

With this second snort of disgust he shut the gale out again. The draft caused by the closing door sucked the flame of the lamp up through the chimney and it went out with a "plop." The steel gray light of the winter's dawn filtered in at the window, and, with the firelight, furnished the kitchen a partial illumination.

'Liphalet settled himself again in the low rocking chair and picked up the knife and the potato. "Ha! Sue an' the rest on 'em will get all the white Christmas they want," he repeated. "Christmas--_bah_!"

The emphasis with which he thus expressed his spleen startled Bo'sun from his nest in the wood-box behind the stove, and he came forth yawning and stretching to rub a morning's greeting against his master's shin. But even the friendliness of the cat did not temper the man's unaccustomed mood.

The water began to hiss and bubble in the kettle. 'Liphalet reached for the coffee-pot in which the ground coffee had been soaking in a cup of cold water over night, and filled it from the boiling kettle. The aroma permeated all the kitchen atmosphere immediately--an odor to tempt the appetite of any hungry man.

But there was something not normal about 'Liphalet Truitt on this morning. That keen edge to his appetite--a never-failing zest at mealtime which had been his for nearly half a century--failed him now. He dumped the handful of sliced potatoes into the pan where the pork was sizzling, set it forward, and returned to his chair.

The kitchen was as compact and handy as his stateroom had always been at sea, and from the rack overhead he reached down his battered flute. Bo'sun fled--back arched and tail swollen to twice its natural size--when 'Liphalet extracted from the instrument those introductory mournful sounds which were always the prelude to his rendition of any of his loved sea-ditties--even to "Fisher's Hornpipe." Music was the single topic on which Bo'sun and 'Liphalet Truitt did not agree.

The flute on this morning, however,--never failing comforter as it had been during his many voyages--did not soothe the ex-steward's troubled breast. Its wail, mingling with the whine of the wind, might have been the cry of the banshee of the gale rattling at the door latch for sacrament.

"Drat the thing!" snarled 'Liphalet, flinging down the flute with exasperation. "Nothin' does go right, and ain't likely to go right again ever, I reckon." Then he added the phrase that seemed to be both the text and context of his jeremiad: "Christmas--_bah_!"

Suddenly he began wrinkling his nose like a hound on a cold scent.

"Somethin' burnin'?" he questioned audibly. "By Hannah, it's them 'taters!"

He rescued but a scorched remnant of the potatoes and dumped it with a grunt of disgust into Bo'sun's pan on the hearth; making a cold snack with coffee do for his own breakfast. It was easy, indeed, to see that 'Liphalet Truitt was by no means his normal self.

He had washed his plate, cup and saucer and rinsed out the coffee pot before he ventured into the partially sheltered porch again to view the snowy world. In stinging phalanx the sleet continued to march across the open fields. The hard ground was laced over with a thin scale of ice. The road was deserted; but he presumed the committee would by and by gather at the chapel to hang the Christmas greens and trim the tree with refurbished tinsel ornaments and newly strung ropes of pink and white popcorn.

He pulled the battered southwester over his ears and reached for the key to the chapel door. The women would come to a cold and cheerless audience room if did he not step across and light the fire.

Then, with the key in his hand, he stopped, suddenly venting another snort of disgust and derision. "Christmas--_bah_!" Then he hung up the key.

"If they want a fire for their foolishness, let 'em light it. If they want a feller to fetch and carry, let 'em find somebody else. If they want somebody to buy presents for and play jackanapes to a passel o' young 'uns let 'em find a new Santa Claus. I've quit! I'll show 'em!"

A stuttering blast like nothing so much as a foghorn with the croup next brought the ex-steward to his door and that before mid-forenoon. He knew the voice of Doctor Ambrose's automobile; and there the good physician was at the gate. The cranky mechanism of his car had developed symptoms which baffled any snap diagnosis.

"Can't stop to fool with her at present," the doctor said jerkily, as 'Liphalet reached the scene. "I'm due at Carey Payne's right now. His oldest has got pneumonia sure's you're a foot high, 'Liphalet. I've been over to Suz Montevedo's, beyond The Beaches. He's got a relapse of his inflammatory rheumatism. Can't lift hand nor foot, and nobody to do for him."

"Some o' these fool women that'll be playin' there in the church by an' by 'ud much better be doin' a neighborly turn for the Portugee," grumbled 'Liphalet.

"Sue's gone over," Doctor Ambrose said, jerking his black bag out from under the seat of the stalled car. "She's left Pearl Holden to boss the trimmin' of the chapel. Well----"

"She ain't gone to old Montevedo's shack alone?" demanded 'Liphalet. "In this mess o' weather? What in tarnation was you thinking of, Doc?"

The physician flashed him a grim look. "I'm thinking you are about as much out o' kilter as this car of mine. Didn't you just say the women ought to tend to 'Suz? Well, that's what one of them's doing. Your liver's out of order, I tell you, 'Liphalet----"

"You dumbhead!" roared 'Liphalet. "The gale 'ud blow a strong man off the surfman's path along the sand cliffs, let alone a frail woman. All you got in your mind is liver pills! Ha! I should think you'd have some sense."

"It seems I haven't," responded the doctor coolly. "I reckon Sue can take care of herself. She's been out o' leadin' strings some years now," and he started off through the driving sleet without waiting for 'Liphalet's rejoinder.

"Ha!" snorted the latter, trying to peer shoreward. "I dunno what's comin' over folks. All on 'em goin' plum crazy, I vum! Liver--ha!

"What's a woman want to start off along The Beaches on a day like this for? And ye'd think even Doc Ambrose 'ud have more sense than to let her."

Then, fussing and fuming, he buttoned tight the curtains and storm shield of the deserted car, and finally dragged a tarpaulin from his shed, and with difficulty pinned it securely over the entire car, blanketing the radiator so that it might not freeze. When the gale abated John-Ed Card or some other neighbor who owned a team of horses would come and drag the doctor's car home--a grateful service which none ever refused to perform for the busy physician.

'Liphalet retired to the kitchen and stoked the fire.

"Thank the good Lord," he said, "I can stay b'low 'stead of goin' aloft in this weather. Bein' neighborly and charitable is all right, I don't dispute. But charity begins to home. And by Hannah! that's where Sue Ambrose ought to be this minute."

He jumped up so suddenly at this thought that Bo'sun fled again, fearing some domestic catastrophe. His master paid him no heed. He could not sit content with the thought of Miss Sue facing this gale along the sand cliff beyond Tapp Point.

There the surfmen's beaten path on the edge of the high bank was often eaten into--bitten out in savage mouthfuls by the wolfish breakers. They would be running high, 'Liphalet knew, with this gale. Whenever he opened the door the drumming of the surf along The Beaches was audible--like an organ accompaniment to the storm.

He could see in his mind's eye the small figure in its gray cloak "beating up" against this sizzling tempest. It was getting worse hourly. At sea, with plenty of leeway, 'Liphalet would have considered this storm "just a snifter." With the sound planks of a seaworthy craft under one's feet a man need seldom fear the elements. But so many accidents are likely to happen ashore!

It was a long walk to the old shack of Suz Montevedo in any weather--half a mile beyond Tapp's Folly, as the ornate villa of the Salt Water Taffy King was disrespectfully called. The surfmen from the life saving station had no love for that path in an ugly blow like this, or on a dark night in any case. The snow, too, was blinding.

"By Hannah!" ejaculated the ex-steward finally, "I wouldn't call Doc Ambrose to cure my dog of fleas. He don't show right good sense--lettin' his sister traipse 'way over there alone. Ugh!" He was at the door again now. "'Tain't fittin' for a cat to be out."

Then he proceeded to button himself into a thick pilot coat, tucked his trousers into sea boots, buckled the strap of his southwester under his jaw, and plunged into the seething gale.

There was not a soul on the road to The Beaches. The storm was so blinding that he did not seek to cut across lots and so save steps; but kept on along the Shell Road, passing Cap'n Abe's store, which from without and on this particular occasion looked to be anything but the lively spot it usually was.

The summer residents had closed their homes and long since gone to other places. All, that is, save the younger Tapps, who occupied their new house on the Point summer and winter. 'Liphalet pressed on along the firm road of well tamped shell, past these dwellings of the wealthy, without hailing or being hailed by anybody.

Beyond the high wall and ornate gates of the Tapp estate, on the bare cliff, the full force of the wind-driven sleet struck him "square betwixt the eyes," as 'Liphalet expressed it.

He fairly had to crouch against this, turning a shoulder to the force of the wind. Here the outthrust of the land gave the storm a sweep across the brow of the cliff while the breakers, charging in from the open sea, flung themselves ravenously against the crumbling wall of sand and clay--an unstable barrier at best.

With such a sea as this on, the surfmen from the life-saving station could not patrol the beach itself, and their worn path along the verge of the fifty foot bank was the only footway to the Portuguese's shack.

'Liphalet hesitated. It did not seem as though any woman could successfully face such a gale. The prospect was one to make the strongest man turn back. He shielded his eyes with both hands cupped, and tried to pierce the snow and sleet with a vision long inured to penetrating thick weather.

There came a momentary lull in the gale. The sweeping snow parted like a curtain. It fled away over the cliff, and for a space he could see for some distance along the path.

Was that a snow wraith hovering there on the brow of the high bank? Or was it a human figure which, the next moment, was swallowed in the snow curtain?

'Liphalet, vastly disturbed by this uncertain specter in the storm, plunged into it himself again and pressed ahead.