Five nights at the Five Pines

by Harriet A. Gaul

Behind the ledger sat a strange girl in a georgette waist, dressed to take tickets at a motion-picture window, who informed me firmly that “Mr. Alfred had gone to Boston.”

To Boston! It was then that I realized how dear Alf was to me.

I turned sadly into the dining-room and tried to eat the beef-hash. One could follow the developments of the hotel’s cuisine by lunching there daily. First the roast and then the stew, then the hash, and then the soup—just like home. And fresh clams every day,—unless they were the same clams! After lunch I loitered around the lobby for an hour, trying to pick out some one among the strangers who came in and out at infrequent intervals who would be likely to go back to the House of the Five Pines with me willingly, as a matter of course, without asking too many pertinent questions. I planned what I would say and what the man thus addressed would answer.

I would say, “There is a door at my house that is locked on the further side of a secret closet behind the bed that I want to open, and another one downstairs, in—” How absurd! If it were only one door it might not sound so preposterous.

I might begin: “My husband is in New York, and I want you to come up to my house and open a door of a secret room—” No, that was worse yet. To a beginning like that a man would only say, “Indeed?” and walk off; or he might reply, “Thanks awfully!”

There was no use in accosting any one. They all looked as if they would turn and run. If only some summer people were here—adventurous artists, or intrepid college boys, or those Herculean chauffeurs that haunt the soda-fountains while their grande dames take a siesta! But there was no one.

Finally I remembered the Winkle-Man, and hurried up there.

I was surprised to find outside that the wind had turned, the sun had gone, and a storm was coming up—a “hurricane,” as they call it on the cape. A fisherman knocked into me, hurrying down to the beach to drag his dory up beyond the rising. Outside of the point, where the lighthouse stood, one could see a procession of ships coming in, a whole line of them. I counted seven sweeping up the tip of the cape, like toys drawn by children along the nursery floor. They seemed to ride the sand rather than the sea, their sails appearing above that treacherous neck which lay between them and me. Their barometers must have registered this storm hours ago, for they were converging from all the far-off fishing-banks. The bay was black. Near shore the sailors were stripping their canvas, letting out their anchors, or tying up to the wharves. There was a bustle and a stir in the harbor like the confusion of a house whose occupants run wildly into one another while they slam the windows. I ought to go up to the House of the Five Pines and shut mine.

The tide was far out. Beyond the half-mile of yellow beach it beat a frothy, impatient tattoo upon the water-line. When it came in it would sweep up with a rush, covering the green seaweed and the little rills with white-capped waves, pounding far up against the breakwaters, setting the ships rocking and straining at their ropes, carrying away everything that it could pry loose. Now it was waiting, getting ready, lashing itself into a fury of anticipation. There was a feeling of suspense to the air itself, cold in an under-stratum that came across the sea, hot above where it hung over the torpid land. It seemed as if you could feel the wind on your face, but not a leaf stirred. People were hastening into their homes, even as the boats were scurrying into the harbor. No one wanted to be abroad when the storm struck.

The Winkle-Man’s loft was deserted. I saw him far out upon the flats, still picking up his winkles with his pronged fork, hurrying to get all he could before the tide covered them, knowing with the accuracy of an alarm-clock when that would be. Should I wait for him? He might not come back, for he did not live in this shack and where his home was I did not know. I stood wondering what to do, when suddenly down the street came a horse and wagon, the boy beating the beast to make it go even faster, although it was galloping up and down in the shafts and the stones were rattling out of the road. The dust flew into my face when they flashed by. Then, as quickly, the whole fantastic equipage stopped.