It was quite an undertaking to go from Cohasset Beach to Freeport, on the opposite side of Long Island. One had to take the steam train to Jamaica and change cars there; the connections were bad; it took the better part of two hours. But Alice had written her sister week after week begging her and Martin to spend a Sunday with them and finally a date had been set. It was the end of the Beardsleys’ stay at Freeport, and the visit could not be further postponed if the Devlins were to accomplish it at all. Jeannette was eager to go, but to Martin it meant the loss of his one day in the week of yachting. There were races every Sunday afternoon and since Martin had acquired his little A-boat, there was no joy in life for him equal to the pleasure of sailing it. But it held no joy for Jeannette; she resented the boat and everything connected with it; to her it only meant ninety dollars’ worth of extravagance and it took her husband away from her every week-end. He spent Saturday afternoons “tuning up,” as he described it, for the race on Sunday. She saw little of him on these days; he was always at the yacht club and would often be half-an-hour to an hour late for dinner. He never had had any sense of time.
So she had patiently urged the expedition to Freeport and had made him promise weeks in advance that this particular date should be dedicated to the visit.
The day was a glorious success. Martin was in his sweetest, merriest mood and no regret over his lost sport lingered in his heart. There was only a faint stirring of wind and little indication that it would freshen, as previous days had been marked by calm; he was consoled, therefore, in thinking that in all probability there would be no race that afternoon.
Alice, Roy, and the children met them at the Freeport Station. They were all going on a picnic over to the beach it was announced; a launch would take them to a sandy reef that was their own discovery; it left a little after eleven; they just had time.
The beach when they reached it was totally deserted. No one ever came there, Alice explained; it was a narrow, hummocky strip of sand, a mile or more in length with no habitation on it but a gray weather-beaten shack falling into ruins. A rickety one-board pier jutted out into the lagoon that separated this reef from the island shore and the launch stopped there a moment to let the little party disembark before it went chug-chugging on its way to Coral Beach farther along the coast, where a small tent colony was springing into being. The launch would return for them about five o’clock.
A sandy tramp of a few hundred yards over the dunes and sparse gray sea-scrub brought them to the lunching spot. Here, half covered over with drifting sand, was a long padlocked pine box. Roy produced a key and opened it. This was the cache, the Beardsleys explained; they and the children came here every Sunday and they kept a few things stowed away in the box. Nobody ever disturbed them. This was their own little sandy domain, and they referred to it always as San Salvador. The box disclosed a tall faded, beach umbrella which was immediately unfurled and planted upright in the sand; then there was a piece of clean canvas, some straw cushions, and an iron grill. The canvas was spread under the umbrella; Roy made Jeannette seat herself on one of the cushions, and he propped a board at an angle behind her so that she might lean back against it and be comfortable; then she was given Ralph to hold and to feed from his bottle. The others proceeded to busy themselves with preparations for lunch. Etta was quite able to look out for herself, Alice assured her sister, and the baby would be off in ten minutes.
An expedition for driftwood was inaugurated and presently a large pile of smoothly rounded bleached sticks, branches and blocks of wood was heaped near at hand. The lunch consisted of hot cocoa and chops which were to be grilled, and some round flat bakery buns to be split in half and toasted. In a few moments there was a brisk, snapping fire leaping up through the bars of the grill; a large saucepan and the milk appeared, the buns impaled on the points of sticks were set to toasting; at the last moment the chops were to be put on to broil.
A heavenly felicity stole over Jeannette as she sat in the shade of the umbrella, the baby in her arms, watching the scene. The Atlantic thundered in in great arcs of green water, foamed-crested, which crashed magnificently in round curling splathers of spray, and slid swiftly, smoothly, reachingly up the flat beach to slink back again upon themselves as if deriding these harmless, picnicking people were not the victims for which they sought. Seaweed littered the beach in long whip lashes and bulbous bottles, and seabirds picked their way about in it, and pecked at sand fleas; gulls soared in wide circles above their heads, squawking ugly cries, or skimmed the wave-tops hunting fish. Far out upon the bosom of the ocean a steamer left a long scarf of smoke against an azure sky. The salt air from the sea was scented with the fragrant odor of the beachwood fire.
Little Ralph lay inertly in Jeannette’s arms sucking greedily at his bottle until the last of it had to be tilted up against his mouth. At this stage his eyelids began to drift shut and his head to hang heavily in the crook of her elbow. He was a cunning child, his aunt thought, critically studying him. He resembled his father with a closeness that was ludicrous: a small replica, with the same small mouth, the same whimsical smile and unruly, tawny hair. His skin was like satin,—delicately tinted,—and against its faint pinkness his long-fringed lashes lay like tiny feathery fans. His weight against her breast felt pleasant to her; he seemed so trusting, so certain of protection, as he lay sleeping thus, a scrap of humanity confident of the world’s love. A sudden tenderness came to the woman; she bent down and kissed the damp forehead at the edge of the child’s yellow hair.
The entrancing smell of crisply broiling meat and toasting bread assailed her.
“Uuum—m,” she said hungrily, and raising her head she observed Martin watching her. Puzzled a moment by the intentness of his gaze, her eyes widened inquiringly, but he only shook his head at her pleasantly and grinned. There was love in his look and it thrilled her as evidence of any affection from him never failed to do.
She gently laid the baby on the strip of canvas, arranged a rumpled little pillow beneath his head, spread a square of netting over him to keep flies from bothering him, weighing down its corners with a few beach pebbles, and joined the others about the fire, where presently they were all munching with gluttonous cries of delight. Never was there better food! Never was there anything so delicious! A bite of grilled chop and a bite of crisp buttery bun! Their appetites were on edge; they grunted in satisfying them. Another cup of hot cocoa, please,—and, yes,—another chop,—just one more,—but this must positively be the last!
As the fire died away, they lay back upon the sand, replete, heavy with food, bathed in pleasant warmth. Etta, stripped of all clothing but a diminutive under-shirt, played in the sand and squatted on her heels on the edge of the wave-rips, uttering gurgling cries of fright when her toes were wet. Drowsiness and bodily comfort wrapped the others’ senses; a feeling of openness,—sky, land and ocean,—beguiled them; the breakers pounded and swished musically up the beach; sea-birds lifted plaintive cries; the faint breeze was redolent of salt and kelp; the sun’s heat warm and caressing.
Jeannette awoke deliciously; Martin was bending over her; he had kissed her, and now he was smiling down at her.
“Come on,” he said, “we’re all going swimming.”
“Oh,” protested Jeannette, yawning, with a great stretch of limbs, “must we?”
“Oh, yes, Janny,” Alice urged, coming up, “we always go swimming; that’s the best part of the fun.”
“I didn’t bring a bathing suit,” objected Jeannette, sleepily.
“I’ve got an old one of mine for you and Roy borrowed a suit at the boarding-house for Martin.”
They dragged her to her feet and as she looked at the emerald waves curling toward her, they suddenly seemed inviting.
In a few moments they were into their bathing suits and ran down to the water together,—the four of them,—holding hands, laughing and shouting. The rushing tide swirled about their knees and leaped up against their thighs.
“Come on!” urged the men, dragging their wives into the frightening turmoil.
A wave engulfed them, quickening their breath, sending their hearts knocking against their throats with its cold sharpness.
“Oh-h-h!” screamed Jeannette, “isn’t it glorious?”
Martin caught her, lifted her high, as a comber crashed down upon them, burying him in white foam. The water fled past.
Jeannette caught him about the neck and they pressed their lips and wet faces together.
“Mart—Mart!” she cried. “It’s just like our honeymoon, isn’t it?”
He strained her to him, kissing her dripping hair and cheeks, his arms entwined about her, his face stretched wide with laughter and excitement.
“My God, Jan,” he said with almost a groan of feeling, “my God, I love you when you’re this way! You’re just wonderful!”
Her shining eyes were his answer, and he caught her to him again to kiss her fiercely.
A wave suddenly plunged over them. Jeannette felt herself wrenched from his embrace, felt him stumbling on the sand in the big effort he made to keep his footing. Even in that brief frightening moment, when she was totally submerged and they were being dragged apart, she was conscious of the great strength of the man, of arms suddenly taut as steel cables, of fingers and hands that gripped her like grappling hooks of iron and pitted their might against the might of the sea. The tumultuous plunge of water rushed headlong on its course, but Martin stood firm and pulled her to him.
They clung together once more, and laughing like children faced another menacing attack of the ocean.
Later as she lay prone upon the hot, hard sand, baking in the sun’s delicious heat, her hair spread out behind her on a towel to dry, she watched her husband with Etta in his arms again encountering the waves. The little girl’s arms were tight around his neck and she screamed with excitement whenever the water foamed and welled up about them. The child was not frightened; it was remarkable to observe the unusual confidence the little girl had in her uncle. A fine figure of a man, mused his wife; his limbs had the form of sculpture and his body, shining now with the glitter of wet bronze, showed every muscle rippling beneath the skin like writhing snakes. He was indeed a husband to be proud of, a husband any woman might envy her. She must never let his love for her grow less; he must always be in love with her, not merely have an affectionate regard for her as most men had for their wives. He was lying on the beach, now, and Etta was covering him with sand, screaming shrilly each time he stirred and cracked the mold she was patting into shape about him.
“You bad, Uncle Martin,” came the child’s piping voice; “you be a good man and lie still.”
He had the child on his back presently and on hands and knees crawled a hundred yards down the beach, sniffing at whatever came into his path and growling fiercely. Etta’s shrieks reached them above the roar of the surf. She had a stick now and was belaboring her steed vigorously.
“No, no, Etta, no—no!” called her mother. Martin waved a reassuring hand and pretended to suffer death. “It’s wonderful the way Martin has with children,” commented Alice; “they seem to take to him naturally.”
Everyone did, thought his wife affectionately. He was truly exceptional; children,—boys and girls,—men and women,—everybody felt his irresistible attraction.
A shrill tooting announced the arrival of the launch. There was a mad scramble; no one was dressed. Roy went off to tell the boat to wait while the others hurried into their clothes, gathered plates, forks and other accessories of the lunch into baskets, and flung umbrella, canvas, grill and cushions back into their keeping-place. Everyone was laughing helplessly when Roy came springing back to tell them to take their time as the old captain had admitted he was half-an-hour early.
Fifteen minutes later they clambered aboard the puffing motor-boat, and Martin and Jeannette found themselves sitting side by side in the stern. His hand found hers as it lay upon the seat between them and their fingers linked themselves together; their eyes shone as they looked at one another.
“Wonderful day, Jan.”
“Ah, wonderful indeed,” she answered.
It was late that night after they were in bed that Martin said to her:
“Jan, old girl, wouldn’t you like to have a baby? You looked so sweet to-day sitting there under the umbrella with little Ralph in your arms,—really you made a beautiful picture: mother and child, you know; I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind since.... I think it would be a lot of fun to have a kid.”
Jeannette was silent. She had often thought about having a child. Martin continued:
“Seems to me, Jan, you’d love a baby after it came. I know it’s a pretty tough experience, and you don’t want one so awfully badly, but Gee Christopher! I think a baby would be swell; one of our own, you know, one that belonged to us, that was ours,—and you would, too. I often look at Herbert Gibbs’ kid and wish to goodness he was mine. Herb’s always talking about him and I know damn well I’d be just as looney about a son of my own.... Now take Roy and Alice, for example: see what fun they get out of their children, and that Etta sure’s a heart-breaker! And she’s so jolly, too! Did you ever see a pluckier kid than that? You’d like a little daughter like her, wouldn’t you, Jan? I think a baby would be a lot of fun, don’t you?”
Still she said nothing and he asked his question again, giving her a little squeeze in the circle of his arm.
“I was just thinking about it,” she said vaguely. “It means a good deal for a woman.”
“That’s right, of course. I know it does,—but you wouldn’t be scared, would you, Jan?”
“Oh, no, that wouldn’t bother me—much,” she said slowly. “It’s the ties that bind one afterwards that I was thinking of.”
“Well-l, you want a baby some time, don’t you? You don’t want to grow old and be childless, do you?”
“No; certainly not.”
“Then what’s the good of waiting?”
“A baby’s an expense, and we’re terribly behind. I think we ought to be out of debt first, don’t you?”
“Yes-s,—I guess so.”
They went off to sleep at this point, but Martin brought the subject up again a few days later. During the interval, however, Jeannette had made up her mind: they were over five hundred dollars in debt and until that was cleaned up or at least very materially reduced, it would be very foolish indeed for them to consider having a child. If Martin wanted a baby, he must do his share in getting out of debt.
“But Jan, don’t you think that a baby would help us save? I mean if there was one in the house, I don’t believe you and I would want to gad so much.”
His wife eyed him with a twisted smile and an elevated brow.
“Oh—hell,” he said, disgustedly, and went to find a cigar.