I knew the place where the lobster-pots were put out. A long row from Mattie’s wharf, over in one shallow pool of the bay behind the stone breakwater, where children played on the flats at low tide and the horseshoe-crabs held carnival. No cottages were near this spot, no fishermen’s houses stood up on the bank, for deep-pooled marshes stretched behind it and to one side and beyond the breakwater was nothing but sand and mosquitoes. The breakwater itself was too lonely a walk for any one but lovers, who have the nocturnal habits of the cat, but who do not patrol distant beaches to see the sunrise. And no other person would ever have been in shouting distance of the place where Mattie must have been drowned. I could see it all as it must have been. An early morning; fiery clouds veiling the rising sun, turning the whole bay to heliotrope and silver; fishing-vessels at anchor, their crews still asleep; sea-gulls flapping up lazily to roost again on pile tops, each one a gargoyle in the morning mist; and a little old woman rowing a heavy boat to her traps, standing to tug at the slippery line. An extra pull that drew her over the edge; a stagger to recover her balance as she floundered; a cry that no one heard on those desolate flats; a boat left rocking, half-full of water; and an old withered body, found when the tide went out, caught fast in the lobster-pots.
Mattie “Charles T. Smith”! Cast upon the mercy of these hard fisher-folk and in the end snatched back by the sea, which always claims its own! At least, and I was glad for it, she had been spared the ignominy of being turned out of her home by me or any of my kind. The manner of her going was like the way of her living—an accident of fate, a silence, and a mystery.
Jasper startled me, coming into the room in his bath-robe, asking for coffee. “Oh, let’s see the papers.”
I had forgotten the papers. I pushed them all toward him and went out to make fresh toast.
The letter lay there. I did not know whether to show it to him or not. For the first time in our married life I was afraid. I wanted so passionately to have him go away with me, to have a place in which to be together alone, a home, and yet at the same time I knew that he would have to choose it for himself or the project would be futile. I hated to be refused, and I would not force a decision. Had he risen on this morning of his great success thinking only of that little actress and what it would mean to her, or had he, after all, created this thing for our own future—for me?
“You’re burning it!” called Jasper.
I hurried in with the toast.
“What are you crying for?”
“I’m not.”
“You’re up too early. Nerves. You ought to take more rest.”