The Stolen Singer
by Martha Idell Fletcher Bellinger · English · Gutenberg #17495 · 439,360 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Stolen Singer
Author: Martha Idell Fletcher Bellinger
Illustrator: Arthur William Brown
Release date: January 11, 2006 [eBook #17495]
Most recently updated: December 13, 2020
Language: English
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THE STOLEN SINGER
by
MARTHA BELLINGER
With Illustrations by Arthur William Brown
[Frontispiece: Miss Redmond detected a passage of glances between them.]
Indianapolis
The Bobbs-Merrill Company
Publishers
Copyright 1911
The Bobbs-Merrill Company
TO
MY HUSBAND
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I TWILIGHT IN THE PARK
II HAMBLETON OF LYNN
III MIDSUMMER MADNESS
IV MR. VAN CAMP MAKES A CALL
V MELANIE'S DREAMS
VI ON BOARD THE JEANNE D'ARC
VII THE ROPE LADDER
VIII ON THE BREAST OF THE SEA
IX THE CAMP ON THE BEACH
X THE HEART OF YOUTH
XI THE HOME PORT
XII SEEING THE RAINBOW
XIII ALECK SEES A GHOST
XIV SUSAN STODDARD'S PRAYER
XV ECHOES FROM THE CITY
XVI A FIGHTING CHANCE
XVII THE TURN OF THE TIDE
XVIII THE SPIRIT OF THE ANCIENT WOOD
XIX MR. CHAMBERLAIN, SLEUTH
XX MONSIEUR CHATELARD TAKES THE WHEEL
XXI JIMMY REDIVIVUS
XXII A MAN OF NO PRINCIPLE
XXIII JIMMY MUFFS THE BALL
XXIV AFTER YOU, MONSIEUR!
EPILOGUE
ILLUSTRATIONS
Miss Redmond detected a passage of glances between them . . . . . .
(Frontispiece)
"That depends upon whether you are going to marry me."
"It _does_ make one feel queer, you know."
She stood over him looking down tenderly.
"You shall not turn me down like this."
THE STOLEN SINGER
CHAPTER I
TWILIGHT IN THE PARK
"You may wait, Renaud."
The voice was firm, but the lady herself hesitated as she stepped from
the tonneau. There was no answer. Holding the flapping ends of her
veil away from her face, she turned and looked fairly at the driver of
the machine.
He seemed a businesslike, capable man, though certain minor details of
his chauffeur's rig were a bit unusual, and now that he had been
obliged, by some discomfort, to remove his goggles, his face appeared
pleasant and quite untanned. His passenger noted these things,
remarking: "Oh, it isn't Renaud!"
"No, Mademoiselle; Renaud hadn't showed up at the office when you
telephoned, so they put me on in his place."
"Ah, I see." Accent seemed to imply, however, that she was not quite
pleased. "The manager sent you. And your name is--?"
"My name--rather odd name--Hand."
The face half hidden behind the veil remained impassive. A moment's
hesitation, and then the lady turned away with a short, "You will wait?"
"As mademoiselle wishes. Or shall I perhaps follow slowly along the
drive?"
"No, wait here. I shall return--soon."
The young woman walked away, erect, well-poised, lifting skirts
skilfully as she paused a moment at the top of the stone steps leading
down into the tiny park. The driver of the machine, free from
observation, allowed a perplexed look to occupy his countenance. "What
the devil is to pay if she doesn't return--_soon_!"
The avenue lifts a camel's hump toward the sky in the space of fifteen
blocks, and on the top, secure as the howdah of a chieftain, stands the
noble portico of the old college. To the westward, as every one knows,
lie the river and the more pretentious park; on the east an abrupt
descent offers space for a small grassy playground for children, who
may be seen, during the sunny hours of the day, romping over the slope.
As the gaze of the woman swept over the charming little pleasance, and
beyond, over the miles of sign-boards, roofs, chimneys, and
intersecting streets, the serious look disappeared from her face.
Summer haze and distance shed a gentle beauty over what she knew to be
a clamoring city--New York. Angles were softened, noises subdued,
sensational scenes lost in the dimmed perspective. To a chance
observer, the prospect would have been deeply suggestive; in the woman
it stirred many memories. She put back her veil; her face glowed; a
long sigh escaped her lips. Slowly she walked down the steps, along
the sloping path to a turn, where she sank down on a bench. A rosy,
tired child, rather the worse for mud-pies, and hanging reluctantly at
the hand of its nonchalant nurse, brought a bit of the woman's emotion
to the surface. She smiled radiantly at the lagging infant.
The face revealed by the uplifted veil was of a type to accompany the
youthful but womanly figure and the spirited tread. Beautiful she
would be counted, without doubt, by many an observer; those who loved
her would call her beautiful without stint. But more appealing than
her beauty was the fine spirit--a strong, free spirit, loving honesty
and courage--which glowed like a flame behind her beauty. Best of all,
perhaps, was a touch of quaintness, a slightly comic twist to her lips,
an imperceptible alertness of manner, which revealed to the initiated
that she had a sense of humor in excellent running order.
It was evident that the little excursion was of the nature of a
pilgrimage. The idle hour, the bit of holiday, became a memorial, as
recollection brought back to her the days of childhood spent down
yonder, a few squares away, in this very city. They seemed bright in
retrospect, like the pleasant paths of a quiet garden, but they had
ended abruptly, and had been followed by years of activity and colorful
experience in another country. Through it all what anticipations had
been lodged in her return to Home! Something there would complete the
story--the story with its secret ecstasies and aspirations--the story
of the ardent springs of youth.
Withdrawing her gaze from the scene below, though with apparent
reluctance, she took from the pocket of her coat an opened envelope
which she regarded a moment with thoughtfulness, before drawing forth
the enclosures. There were two letters, one of which was brief and
written in bad script on a single sheet of paper bearing a legal head.
It was dated at Charlesport, Maine, and stated that the writer, in
conformity with the last wish of his friend and client, Hercules
Thayer, was ready to transfer certain deeds and papers to the late Mr.
Thayer's designated heir, Agatha Redmond; also that the writer
requested an interview at Miss Redmond's earliest convenience.
Holding the half-opened sheets in her hand, the lady closed her eyes
and sat motionless, as if in the grasp of an absorbing thought. With
the disappearing child, the signs of life on the hillside had
diminished. The traffic of the street passed far below, the sharp
click-click of a pedestrian now and then sounded above, but no one
passed her way. The hum of the city made a blurred wash of sound, like
the varying yet steady wash of the sea. As she opened her eyes again,
she saw that the twilight had perceptibly deepened. Far away, lights
began to flash out in the city, as if a million fireflies, by twos and
threes and dozens, were waking to their nocturnal revelry.
On the hill the light was still good, and the lady turned again to her
reading. The other letter was written on single sheets of thin paper
in an old-fashioned, beautiful hand. Wherever a double-s occurred, the
first was written long, in the style of sixty years ago; and the whole
letter was as easily legible as print. Across the top was written: "To
Agatha Redmond, daughter of my ward and dear friend, Agatha Shaw
Redmond"; and below that, in the lawyer's choppy handwriting, was a
date of nearly a year previous. As Agatha Redmond read the second
letter, a smile, half of sadness, half of pleasure, overspread her
countenance. It ran as follows:
"ILION, MAINE.
"MY DEAR AGATHA:
"I take my pen in hand to address you, the daughter of the dearest
friend of my life, for the first time in the twenty-odd years of your
existence. Once as a child you saw me, and you have doubtless heard my
name from your mother's people from time to time; but I can scarcely
hope that any knowledge of my private life has come to you. It will be
easy, then, for you to pardon an old man for giving you, in this
fashion, the confidence he has never been able to bestow in the flesh.
"When you read this epistle, my dear Agatha, I shall have stepped into
that next mystery, which is Death. Indeed, the duty which I am now
discharging serves as partial preparation for that very event. This
duty is to make you heir to my house and estate and to certain
accessory funds which will enable you to keep up the place.
"You may regard this act, possibly, as the idiosyncrasy of an
unbalanced mind; it is certain that some of my kinsfolk will do so.
But while I have been able to bear up under _their_ greater or less
displeasure for many years, I find myself shrinking before the
possibility of dying absolutely unknown and forgotten by you. Your
mother, Agatha Shaw, of blessed memory now for many years, was my ward
and pupil after the death of your grandfather. I think I may say
without undue self-congratulation that few women of their time have
enjoyed as sound a scheme of education as your mother. She had a
knowledge of mathematics, could construe both in Latin and Greek, and
had acquired a fair mastery of the historic civilization of the Greeks,
Egyptians and ancient Babylonians. While these attainments would
naturally be insufficient for a man's work in life, yet for a woman
they were of an exceptional order.
"Sufficient to say that in your mother's character these noteworthy
abilities were supplemented by gracious, womanly arts; and when she
arrived at maturity, I offered her the honor of marriage.
"It is painful for me to recall the scene and the consequences of your
mother's refusal of my hand, even after these years of philosophical
reflection. It were idle for a man of parts to allow a mere preference
in regard to his domestic situation to influence his course of action
in any essential matter, and I have never permitted my career to be
shaped by such details. But from that time, however, the course of my
life was changed. From the impassioned orator and preacher I was
transformed into the man of books and the study, and since then I have
lived far from the larger concourses of men. My weekly sermon, for
twenty years, has been the essence of my weekly toil in establishing
the authenticity, first, of the entire second gospel, and second, of
the ten doubtful verses in the fifteenth chapter. My work is now
accomplished--for all time, I believe.
"From the inception of what I considered my life mission, I made the
resolve to bequeath to Agatha Shaw whatever manuscripts or other
material of value my work should lead me to accumulate, together with
this house, in which I have spent all the later years of my life. You
are Agatha Shaw's only child, therefore to me a foster-child.
"Another reason, four years ago, led me to confirm my former testament.
From time to time I have informed myself concerning your movements and
fortunes. The work you have chosen, my dear Agatha, I can but believe
to be fraught with unusual dangers to a young woman. Therefore I hope
that this home, modest as it is, may tempt you to an early retirement
from the stage, and lead you to a more private and womanly career.
This I make only as a request, not as a condition. I bid you farewell,
and give you my blessing.
"Faithfully yours,
"HERCULES THAYER."
Agatha Redmond folded the thin sheets carefully. There was a mist in
her gaze as she looked off toward the distant city lights.
"Dear old gentleman! His whole love-story, and my mother's, too,
perhaps!" Her quickened memory recalled childish impressions of a
visit to a large country house and of a solemn old man--he seemed
incredibly ancient to her--and of feeling that in some way she and her
mother were in a special relationship to the house. It was called "the
old red house," and was full of fascinating things. The ancient man
had bidden her go about and play as if it were her home, and then had
called her to him and laid open a book, leading her mind to regard its
mysteries. Greek! It seemed to her as if she had begun it there and
then. Later the mother became the teacher. She was nursed, as it
were, within sight of the windy plains of Troy and to the sound of the
Homeric hymns--and all by reason of this ancient scholar.
There was a vivid picture in her mind, gathered at some later visit, of
a soft hillside, a small white church standing under its balm-of-gilead
tree, and herself sitting by a stone in the old churchyard, listening
to the strains of a hymn which floated out from the high, narrow
windows. She remembered how, from without, she had joined in the hymn,
singing with all her small might; and suddenly the association brought
back to her a more recent event and a more beautiful strain of music.
Half in reverie, half in conscious pleasure in the exercise of a facile
organ, she began to sing:
"Free of my pain, free of my burden of sorrow,
At last I shall see thee--"
The song floated in a zone of silence that lay above the deep-murmuring
city. The voice was no more than the half-voice of a flute, sweet,
gentle, beguiling. It told, as so many songs tell, of little earthly
Love in the grasp of mighty Fate. Still she sang on, softly, as if
loving the entrancing melody.
Suddenly the song ceased, and the reminiscent smile gave place to an
expression of surprise, as the singer became conscious of a deeper
shadow falling directly in front of her. She glanced up quickly, and
found herself looking into the face of a man whose gimlet-like gaze was
directed upon herself.
Quickly as she rose, she could not turn into the path before the
gentleman, hat in hand, with a deep bow and clearly enunciated words,
arrested her impulse to flight.
"Pardon, Mademoiselle, I am a stranger in the city. I was directed
this way to Van Cortlandt Hall, but I find I am in error, intrigued--in
confusion. Would mademoiselle be so good as to direct me?"
The tones had a foreign accent. There was something, also, in their
bland impertinence which put Miss Redmond on her guard. He was a
good-sized, blond person, carefully dressed, and at least appeared like
a gentleman.
Miss Redmond looked into the smooth, neat countenance, upon which no
record either of experience or of thought was engraved, and decided
fleetingly that he was lying. She judged him capable of picking up
acquaintances on the street, but thought that more originality might be
expected of him.
Suddenly she wished that she had returned sooner to her car, for though
she was of an adventurous nature, her bravery was not of the physical
order; and she disliked to have the appearance of unconventionality.
After the first minute she was not so much afraid as annoyed. Her
voice became frigid, though her dignity was somewhat damaged by the
fact that she bungled in giving the desired information.
"I think monsieur will find Van Cortlandt Hall in the College grounds
two blocks south--no, north--of the gateway yonder, at the upper end of
this walk."
"Ah, mademoiselle is but too kind!" He bowed deeply again, hat still
in hand. "I thank you profoundly. And may I say, also, that this
wonderful picture--" here he spread eloquent hands toward the
half-quiescent city whose thousand eyes glimmered over the lower
distance--"this panorama of occidental life, makes a peculiar appeal to
the imagination?"
The springs of emotion, touched potently as they had been by the
surging recollections of the last half-hour, were faintly stirred again
in Miss Redmond's heart by the stranger's grandiloquent words.
Unconsciously her features relaxed, though she did not reply.
"Again I pray mademoiselle to pardon me, but only a moment past I heard
the song--the song that might be the sigh of all the daughters of
Italy. Ah, Mademoiselle, it is wonderful! But here in this so fresh
country, this youthful, boisterous, too prosperous country, that song
is like--like--like Arabian spices in a kitchen. Is it not so?"
Miss Redmond was moving up the steps toward the entrance, hesitating
between the desire to snub her interlocutor and to avoid the appearance
of fright. The man, meanwhile, moved easily beside her, courteously
distant, discourteously insistent in his prattle. But the motor-car
was now not far away.
The stranger looked appealingly at her, seemingly sure of a humorous
answering look to his pleasantry. It was not wholly denied. She
yielded to a touch of amusement with a cool smile, and hastened her
steps. The man kept pace without effort. Luckily, the car stood only
a few feet away, with Renaud, or rather Hand, at the curb, holding open
the door. A vague bow and a lifting of the hat, and apparently the
stranger went the other way. She felt a foolish relief, and at the
same instant noted with surprise that the cover of her car had been
raised.
"Why did you raise the top?"
"It appeared to me, Mademoiselle, that it was likely to rain."
"Put it down again. It will not rain," Miss Redmond was saying, when,
from sidelong eyes, she saw that the stranger had not turned in the
other direction, after all, but was almost in her tracks, as though he
were stalking game. With foot on the step she said sharply, but in a
low voice, "To the Plaza quickly," then immediately added, with a
characteristic practical turn: "But don't get yourself arrested for
speeding."
"No, Mademoiselle, with this car I can make--" Even as the chauffeur
replied, Miss Redmond's sharpened senses detected a passage of glances
between him and the stranger, now close behind her.
She sprang into the tonneau and seized the door, but not before the man
had caught at it with a stronger hold, and stepped in close after her.
The chauffeur was in his seat, the car was moving slowly, now faster
and faster. Suddenly the bland countenance slid very near her own,
while firm hands against her shoulders crowded her into the farther
corner of the tonneau.
"O Renaud--Hand!" she cried, but the driver made no sign. "Help,
help!" she shrieked, but the cry was instantly choked into a feeble
protest. A mass of something, pressed to her mouth and nostrils,
incited her to superhuman efforts. She struggled frantically, fumbled
at the door, tore at the curtain, and succeeded in getting her head for
an instant at the opening, while she clutched her assailant and held
him helpless. But only for a moment. The firm large hands quickly
overpowered even the strength induced by frenzy, and in another minute
she was lying unresisting on the soft cushions of the tonneau.
The car careened through the streets, the figure of the unresponsive
Hand mocked her cries for help, the neat hard face of the stranger
continued to bend over her. Then everything swam in a maelstrom of
duller and duller sense, the world grew darker and fainter, till
finally it was lost in silence.
CHAPTER II
HAMBLETON OF LYNN
The Hambletons of Lynn had not distinguished themselves, in late
generations at least, by remarkable deeds, though their deportment was
such as to imply that they could if they would. They frankly regarded
themselves as the elect of earth, if not of Heaven, always, however, with
a becoming modesty. Since 1636 the family had pieced out its existence
in the New World, tenaciously clinging to many of its old-country habits.
It had kept the _b_ in the family name, for instance; it had kept the
name itself out of trade, and it had indulged its love of country life at
the expense of more than one Hambleton fortune.
A daughter-in-law was once reported as saying that it would have been a
good thing if some Hambleton had embarked in trade, since in that case
they might have been saved from devoting themselves exclusively to an
illustration of polite poverty. She was never forgiven, and died without
being reconciled to the family. As to the spelling of the name, the
family claimed ancestral authority as far back as King Fergus the First.
Mrs. Van Camp, a relative by marriage--a woman considered by the best
Hambletons as far too frank and worldly-minded--informed the family that
King Fergus was as much a myth as Dido, and innocently brought forth
printed facts to corroborate her statement. One of the ladies Hambleton
crushed Mrs. Van Camp by stating, in a tone of deep personal conviction,
with her cap awry, "So much the worse for Dido!"
A salient strength persisted in the Hambletons--a strength which retained
its character in spite of cross-currents. The Hambleton tone and the
Hambleton ideas retained their family color, and became, whether worthily
or not, a part of the Hambleton pride. More than one son had lost his
health or entire fortune, which was apt not to be large, in attempts to
carry on a country place. "A Hambleton trait!" they chuckled, with as
much satisfaction as they considered it good form to exhibit. In Lynn,
where family pride did not bring in large returns, this phrase became
almost synonymous with genteel foolishness.
The Van Camp fortune, which came near but never actually into the family,
was generally understood to have been made in shoes, though in reality it
was drugs.
"People say 'shoes' the minute they hear the word Lynn, and I'm tired of
explaining," Mrs. Van Camp put it. She was third in line from the
successful druggist, and could afford, if anybody could, to be
supercilious toward trade. But she wasn't, even after twenty years of
somewhat restless submission to the Hambleton yoke. And it was she who,
during her last visit to the family stronghold, held up before the young
James the advantages of a commercial career.
"You're a nice boy, Jimsy, and I can't see you turned into a poor lawyer.
You're not hard-headed enough to be a good one. As for being a minister,
well--no. Go into business, dear boy, something substantial, and you'll
live to thank your stars."
Jimsy received this advice at the time with small enthusiasm, and a
reservation of criticism that was a credit to his manners, at least. But
the time came when he leaned on it.
Her own child, however, Mrs. Van Camp encouraged to a profession from the
first. "Aleck isn't smart enough for business, but he may do something
as a student," was Mrs. Van Camp's somewhat trying explanation; and Aleck
did do something as a student. Extremely impatient with any exhibition
of laziness, the mother demanded a good accounting of her son's time.
Aleck and Jim, who were born in the same year, ran more or less side by
side until the end of college. They struggled together in sports and in
arguments, "rushed" the same girl in turn or simultaneously, and spent
their long vacations cruising up and down the Maine coast in a
thirty-foot sail-boat. Once they made a more ambitious journey all the
way to Yarmouth and the Bay of Fundy in a good-sized fishing-smack.
But when college was done, their ways separated. Mrs. Van Camp, in the
prime of her unusual faculties, died, having decorated the Hambleton
'scutcheon like a gay cockade stuck airily up into the breeze. She had
no part nor lot in the family pride, but understood it, perhaps, better
than the Hambletons themselves. Her crime was that she played with it.
Aleck, a full-fledged biologist, went to the Little Hebrides to work out
his fresh and salad theory concerning the nerve system of the clam.
James, third son of John and Edith Hambleton of Lynn, had his eyes
thoroughly opened in the three months after Commencement by a
consideration of the family situation. It seemed to him that from
babyhood he had been burningly conscious of the pinching and skimping
necessary to maintain the family pride. The two older brothers were
exempt from the scorching process, the eldest being the family darling
and the second a genius. Neither one could rationally be expected, "just
at present," to take up the family accounts and make the income square up
with even a decently generous outgo. And there were the girls yet to be
educated. Jim had no special talent to bless himself with, either in art
or science. He was inordinately fond of the sea, but that did not help
him in choosing a career. He had good taste in books and some little
skill in music. He was, indeed, thrall to the human voice, especially to
the low voice in woman, and he was that best of all critics, a good
listener. His greatest riches, as well as his greatest charm, lay in a
spirit of invincible youth; but he was no genius, no one perceived that
more clearly than himself.
So he remembered Clara Van Camp's advice, wrote the whole story to Aleck,
and cast about for the one successful business chance in the four
thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine bad ones--as the statistics have it.
He actually found it in shoes. Foot-ball muscle and grit went into the
job of putting a superior shoe on an inferior foot, if necessary--at
least on some foot. He got a chance to try his powers in the home branch
of a manufacturing house, and made good. When he came to fill a position
where there was opportunity to try new ideas, he tried them. He
inspected tanneries and stockyards, he got composite measurements of all
the feet in all the women's colleges in the year ninety-seven, he drilled
salesmen and opened a night school for the buttonhole-makers, he made a
scientific study of heels, and he invented an aristocratic arch and put
it on the market.
The family joked about his doings as the harmless experiments of a lively
boy, but presently they began to enjoy his income. Through it all they
were affectionate and kind, with the matter-of-course fondness which a
family gives to the member that takes the part of useful drudge. John,
the pet of the parents, married, and had his own eyes opened, it is to be
supposed. Donald, the genius, had just arrived, after a dozen years or
so, at the stage where he was mentioned now and then in the literary
journals. But Jim stuck to shoes and kept the family on a fair tide of
modest prosperity.
Once, in the years of Jim's apprenticeship to life, there came over him a
fit of soul-sickness that nearly proved his ruin.
"I can't stand this," he wrote Aleck Van Camp; "It's too hard and dry and
sordid for any man that's got a soul. It isn't the grind I mind, though
that is bad enough; it is the 'Commercial Idea' that eats into a man's
innards. He forgets there are things that money can't buy, and in his
heart he grows contemptuous of anything to be had 'without money and
without price.' He can't help it. If he is thinking of trade
nine-tenths of the time, his mind gets set that way. I'm ready any
minute to jump the fence, like father's old colt up on the farm. I'm not
a snob, but I recognize now that there was some reason for all our old
Hambleton ancestors being so finicky about trade.
"Do you remember how we used to talk, when we were kiddies, about keeping
our ideals? Well, I believe I'm bankrupt, Aleck, in my account with
ideals. I don't want to howl, and these remarks don't go with anybody
else, but I can say, to you, I want them back again."
Aleck did as a kiddie should do, writing much advice on long sheets of
paper, and illustrating his points richly, like a good Scotchman, with
scientific instances. A month or two later he contrived to have work to
do in Boston, so that he could go out to Lynn and look up Jimmy's case.
He even devised a cure by creating, in his mind, an office in the
biological world which was to be offered to James on the ground that
science needed just his abilities and training. But when Aleck arrived
in Lynn he found that Jim, in some fashion or other, had found a cure for
himself. He was deeper than ever in the business, and yet, in some
spiritual sense, he had found himself. He had captured his ideal again
and yoked it to duty--which is a great feat.
After twelve years of ferocious labor, with no vacations to speak of,
James's mind took a turn for the worse. Physically he was as sound as a
bell, though of a lath-like thinness; but an effervescing in his blood
lured his mind away from the study of lasts and accounts and Parisian
models and sent it careering, like Satan, up and down the earth.
Romance, which had been drugged during the transition from youth to
manhood, awoke and coaxed for its rights, and whispered temptingly in an
ear not yet dulled to its voice. Freedom, open spaces, laughter, the
fresh sweep of the wind, the high bucaneering piracy of life and
joy--these things beglamoured his senses.
So one day he locked his desk with a final click. The business was in
good shape. It is but justice to say that if it had not been, Romance
had dangled her luring wisp o' light in vain. Several of his new schemes
had worked out well, his subordinates were of one mind with him, trade
was flourishing. He felt he could afford a little spin.
Jimsy's radiating fancies focussed themselves, at last, on the vision of
a trig little sail-boat, "a jug of wine, a loaf of bread" in the cabin,
with possibly the book of verses underneath the bow, or more suitably, in
the shadow of the sail; and Aleck Van Camp and himself astir in the
rigging or plunging together from the gunwale for an early swim. "And
before I get off, I'll hear a singer that can sing," he declared.
He telegraphed Aleck, who was by this time running down the eyelid of the
squid, to meet him at his club in New York. Then he made short work with
the family. Experience had taught him that an attack from ambush was
most successful.
"Look here, Edith,"--this was at the breakfast-table the very morning of
his departure. Edith was sixteen, the tallest girl in the academy,
almost ready for college and reckoned quite a queen in her world--"You be
good and do my chores for me while I'm away, and I'll bring you home a
duke. Take care of mother's bronchitis, and keep the house straight.
I'm going on a cruise."
"All right, Jim"--Edith could always be counted on to catch the ball--"go
ahead and have a bully time and don't drown yourself. I'll drive the
team straight to water, mother and dad and the whole outfit, trust me!"
Considering the occasion and the correctness of the sentiments, Jim
forbore, for once, from making the daily suggestion that she chasten her
language. By the time the family appeared, Jim had laid out a rigid
course of action for Miss Edith, who rose to the occasion like a soldier.
"Mother'll miss you, of course, but Jack and Harold"--two of Edith's
admirers--"Jack and Harold can come around every day--stout arm to lean
upon, that sort of thing. You know mother can't be a bit jolly without
plenty of men about, and since Sue became engaged she really doesn't
count. The boys will think _they_ are running things, of course, but
they'll see my iron hand in the velvet glove--you can throw a blue chip
on that, Jimsy. And don't kiss me, Jim, for Dorothy Snell and I vowed,
when we wished each other's rings on--Oh, well, brothers don't count."
And so, amid the farewells of a tender, protesting family, he got off,
leaving Edith in the midst of one of her monologues.
There was a telegram in New York saying that Aleck Van Camp would join
him in three days, at the latest. Hambleton disliked the club and left
it, although his first intention had been to put up there. He picked out
a modest, up-town hotel, new to him, for no other reason than that it had
a pretty name, The Larue. Then he began to consider details.
The day after his arrival was occupied in making arrangements for his
boat. He put into this matter the same painstaking buoyancy that he had
put into a dull business for twelve years. He changed his plans half a
dozen times, and exceeded them wholly in the size and equipment of the
little vessel, and in the consequent expense; but he justified himself,
as men will, by a dozen good reasons. The trig little sail-boat turned
out to be a respectable yacht, steam, at that. She was called the _Sea
Gull_. Neat in the beam, stanch in the bows, rigged for coasting and
provided with a decent living outfit, she was "good enough for any
gentleman," in the opinion of the agent who rented her. Jim was half
ashamed at giving up the more robust scheme of sailing his own boat, with
Aleck; but some vague and expansive spirit moved him "to see," as he
said, "what it would be like to go as far and as fast as we please."
While they were about it, they would call on some cousins at Bar Harbor
and get good fun out of it.
The idea of his holiday grew as he played with it. As his spin took on a
more complicated character, his zest rose. He went forth on Sunday
feeling as if some vital change was impending. His little cruise loomed
up large, important, epochal. He laughed at himself and thought, with
his customary optimism, that a vacation was worth waiting twelve years
for, if waiting endowed it with such a flavor. Jim knew that Aleck would
relish the spin, too. Aleck's nature was that of a grind tempered with
sportiness. Jim sat down Sunday morning and wrote out the whole program
for Aleck's endorsement, sent the letter by special delivery and went out
to reconnoiter.
The era of Sunday orchestral concerts had begun, but that day, to Jim's
regret, the singer was not a contralto. "Dramatic Soprano" was on the
program; a new name, quite unknown to Jim. His interest in the soloist
waned, but the orchestra was enough. He thanked Heaven that he was past
the primitive stage of thinking any single voice more interesting than
the assemblage of instruments known as orchestra.
Hambleton found a place in the dim vastness of the hall, and sank into
his seat in a mood of vivid anticipation. The instruments twanged, the
audience gathered, and at last the music began. Its first effect was to
rouse Hambleton to a sharp attention to details--the director, the people
in the orchestra, the people in the boxes; and then he settled down,
thinking his thoughts. The past, the future, life and its meaning, love
and its power, the long, long thoughts of youth and ambition and desire
came flocking to his brain. The noble confluence of sound that is music
worked upon him its immemorial miracle; his heart softened, his
imagination glowed, his spirit stirred. Time was lost to him--and earth.
The orchestra ceased, but Hambleton did not heed the commotion about him.
The pause and the fresh beginning of the strings scarcely disturbed his
ecstatic reverie. A deep hush lay upon the vast assemblage, broken only
by the voices of the violins. And then, in the zone of silence that lay
over the listening people--silence that vibrated to the memory of the
strings--there rose a little song. To Hambleton, sitting absorbed, it
was as if the circuit which galvanized him into life had suddenly been
completed. He sat up. The singer's lips were slightly parted, and her
voice at first was no more than the half-voice of a flute, sweet, gentle,
beguiling. It was borne upward on the crest of the melody, fuller and
fuller, as on a flooding tide.
"Free of my pain, free of my burden of sorrow,
At last I shall see thee--"
There was freedom in the voice, and the sense of space, of wind on the
waters, of life and the love of life.
Jimsy was a soft-hearted fellow. He never knew what happened to him; but
after uncounted minutes he seemed to be choking, while the orchestra and
the people in boxes and the singer herself swam in a hazy distance. He
shook himself, called somebody he knew very well an idiot, and laughed
aloud in his joy; but his laugh did not matter, for it was drowned in the
roar of applause that reached the roof.
Jim did not applaud. He went outdoors to think about it; and after a
time he found, to his surprise, that he could recall not only the song,
but the singer, quite distinctly. It was a tall, womanly figure, and a
fair, bright face framed abundantly with dark hair, and the least little
humorous twitch to her lips. And her name was Agatha Redmond.
"Of course, she can sing; but it isn't like having the real
thing--'tisn't an alto," said Jimsy ungratefully and just from habit.
The day's experience filled his thoughts and quieted his restlessness.
He awaited Aleck with entire patience. Monday morning he spent in small
necessary business affairs, securing, among other things, several hundred
dollars, which he put in his money-belt. About the middle of the
afternoon he left his hotel, engaged a taxicab and started for Riverside.
The late summer day was fine, with the afternoon haze settling over river
and town. He watched the procession of carriages, the horse-back riders,
the people afoot, the children playing on the grass, with a feeling of
comradeship. Was he not also tasting freedom--a lord of the earth? His
gaze traveled out to the river, with the glimmer here and there of a
tug-boat, a little steamer, or the white sail of a pleasure craft. The
blood of some seagoing ancestor stirred in his veins, and he thrilled at
the thought of the days to come when his prow should be headed offshore.
The taxicab had its limitations, and Hambleton suddenly became impatient
of its monotonous slithering along the firm road. Telling the driver to
follow him, he descended and crossed to where Cathedral Parkway switches
off. He walked briskly, feeling the tonic of the sea air, and circled
the cathedral, where workmen were lounging away after their day's toil.
The unfinished edifice loomed up like a giant skeleton of some
prehistoric era, and through its mighty open arches and buttresses Jim
saw fleecy clouds scudding across the western sky, A stone saint, muffled
in burlap, had just been swung up into his windy niche, but had not yet
discarded his robes of the world. Hambleton was regarding the shapeless
figure with mild interest, wondering which saint of the calendar could
look so grotesque, when a sound drew his attention sharply to earth. It
was a small sound, but there was something strange about it. It was
startling as a flash in a summer sky.
Besides the workmen, there was no living thing in sight on the hillside
except his own taxicab, swinging slowly into the avenue at that moment,
and a covered motor-car getting up speed a square away. Even as the car
approached, Hambleton decided that the strange sound had proceeded from
its ambushed tonneau; and it was, surely, a human voice of distress. He
stepped forward to the curb. The car was upon him, then lumbered heavily
and swiftly past. But on the instant of its passing there appeared,
beneath the lifted curtain and quite near his own face, the face of the
singer of yesterday; and from pale, agonized lips, as if with, dying
breath, she cried, "Help, help!"
Hambleton knew her instantly, although the dark abundance of her hair was
almost lost beneath hat and flowing veil, and the bright, humorous
expression was blotted out by fear. He stood for a moment rooted to the
curb, watching the dark mass of the car as it swayed down the hill. Then
he beckoned sharply to his driver, met the taxicab half way, and pointed
to the disappearing machine.
"Quick! Can you overtake it?"
"I'd like nothing better than to run down one o' them Dook machines!"
said the driver.
CHAPTER III
MIDSUMMER MADNESS
The driver of the taxicab proved to be a sound sport.
Five minutes of luck, aided by nerve, brought the two machines somewhat
nearer together. The motor-car gained in the open spaces, the taxicab
caught up when it came to weaving its way in and out and dodging the
trolleys. At the frequent moments when he appeared to be losing the
car, Hambleton reflected that he had its number, which might lead to
something. At the Waldorf the car slowed up, and the cab came within a
few yards. Hambleton made up his mind at that instant that he had been
mistaken in his supposition of trouble threatening the lady, and looked
momently to see her step from the car into the custody of those
starched and lacquered menials who guard the portals of fashionable
hotels.
But it was not so. A signal was interchanged between the occupants of
the car and some watcher in the doorway, and the car sped on.
Hambleton, watching steadily, wondered!
"If she is being kidnapped, why doesn't she make somebody hear? Plenty
of chance. They couldn't have killed her--that isn't done."
And yet his heart smote him as he remembered the terror and distress
written on that countenance and the cry for help.
"Something was the matter," memory insisted. "There they go west; west
Tenth, Alexander Street, Tenth Avenue--"
The car lumbered on, the cab half a block, often more, in the rear,
through endless regions of small shops and offices huddled together
above narrow sidewalks, through narrow and winding streets paved with
cobblestones and jammed with cars and trucks, squeezing past curbs
where dirty children sat playing within a few inches of death-dealing
wheels. Hambleton wondered what kept them from being killed by
hundreds daily, but the wonder was immediately forgotten in a new
subject for thought. The cab had stopped, although several yards of
clear road lay ahead of it. The driver was climbing down. The
motor-car was nosing its way along nearly a block ahead. Hambleton
leaped out.
"Of course, we've broken down?" he mildly inquired. Deep in his heart
he was superstitiously thinking that he would let fate determine his
next move; if there were obstacles in the way of his further quest,
well and good; he would follow the Face no longer.
"If you'll wait just a minute--" the driver was saying, "until I get my
kit out--"
But Hambleton, looking ahead, saw that the car had disappeared, and his
mind suddenly veered.
"Not this time," he announced. "Here, the meter says four-twenty--you
take this, I'm off." He put a five-dollar bill into the hand of the
driver and started on an easy run toward the west.
He had caught sight of smoke-stacks and masts in the near distance,
telling him that the motor-car had almost, if not quite, reached the
river. Such a vehicle could not disappear and leave no trace; it ought
to be easy to find. Ahead of him flaring lights alternated with the
steady, piercing brilliance of the incandescents, and both struggled
against the lingering daylight.
A heavy policeman at the corner had seen the car. He pointed west into
the cavernous darkness of the wharves.
"If she ain't down at the Imperial docks she's gone plump into the
river, for that's the way she went," he insisted. The policeman had
the bearing of a major-general and the accent of the city of Cork.
Hambleton went on past the curving street-car tracks, dodged a loaded
dray emerging from the dock, and threaded his way under the shed. He
passed piles of trunks, and a couple of truckmen dumping assorted
freight from an ocean liner. No motor-car or veiled lady, nor sound of
anything like a woman's voice. Hambleton came out into the street
again, looked about for another probable avenue of escape for the car
and was at the point of bafflement, when the major-general pounded
slowly along his way.
"In there, my son, and no nice place either!" pointing to a smaller
entrance alongside the Imperial docks, almost concealed by swinging
signs. It was plainly a forbidden way, and at first sight appeared too
narrow for the passage of any vehicle whatsoever. But examination
showed that it was not too narrow; moreover, it opened on a level with
the street.
"If you really want her, she's in there, though what'll be to pay if
you go in there without a permit, I don't know. I'd hate to have to
arrest you."
"It might be the best thing for me if you did, but I'm going in. You
might wait here a minute. Captain, if you will."
"I will that; more especially as that car was a stunner for speed and I
already had my eye on her. I'd like to see you fish her out of that
hole."
But Hambleton was out of earshot and out of sight. An empty passage
smelling of bilge-water and pent-up gases opened suddenly on to the
larger dock. Damp flooring with wide cracks stretched off to the left;
on the right the solid planking terminated suddenly in huge piles,
against which the water, capped with scum and weeds, splashed fitfully.
The river bank, lined with docks, seemed lulled into temporary
quietness. Ferry-boats steamed at their labors farther up and down
the river, but the currents of travel left here and there a peaceful
quarter such as this.
Hambleton's gaze searched the dock and the river in a rapid survey.
The dock itself was dim and vast, with a few workmen looking like ants
in the distance. It offered nothing of encouragement; but on the
river, fifty yards away, and getting farther away every minute, was a
yacht's tender. The figures of the two rowers were quite distinct,
their oars making rhythmical flashes over the water, but it was
impossible to say exactly what freight, human or otherwise, it carried.
It was evident that there were people aboard, possibly several. Even
as Hambleton strained his eyes to see, the outlines of the rowboat
merged into the dimness. It was pointed like a gun toward a large
yacht lying at anchor farther out in the stream. The vessel swayed
prettily to the current, and slowly swung its dim light from the
masthead.
"They've got her--out in that boat," said Hambleton to himself,
feeling, while the words were on his lips, that he was drawing
conclusions unwarranted by the evidence. Thus he stood, one foot on
the slippery log siding of the dock, watching while the little drama
played itself out, so far as his present knowledge could go. His
judgment still hung in suspense, but his senses quickened themselves to
detect, if possible, what the outcome might be. He saw the tender
approach the boat, lie alongside; saw one sailor after another descend
the rope ladder, saw a limp, inert mass lifted from the rowboat and
carried up, as if it had been merchandise, to the deck of the yacht;
saw two men follow the limp bundle over the gunwale; and finally saw
the boat herself drawn up and placed in her davits. Hambleton's mind
at last slid to its conclusion, like a bolt into its socket.
"They're kidnapping her, without a doubt," he said slowly. For a
moment he was like one struck stupid. Slowly he turned to the dock,
looking up and down its orderly but unprepossessing clutter. Dim
lights shone here and there, and a few hands were at work at the
farther end. The dull silence, the unresponsive preoccupation of
whatever life was in sight, made it all seem as remote from him and
from this tragedy as from the stars.
In fact, it was impersonal and remote to such a degree that Hambleton's
practical mind, halted yet an instant, in doubt whether there were not
some plausible explanation. The thought came back to him suddenly that
the motor-car must be somewhere in the neighborhood if his conclusion
were correct.
On the instant his brain became active again. It did not take long, as
a matter of fact, to find the car; though when he stumbled on it,
turned about and neatly stowed away close beside the partitioning wall,
he gave a start. It was such a tangible evidence of what had
threatened to grow vague and unreal on his hands. He squeezed himself
into the narrow space between it and the wall, finally thrusting his
head under the curtains of the tonneau.
It was high and dry, empty as last year's cockleshell. Not a sign of
life, not a loose object of any kind except a filmy thing which
Hambleton found himself observing thoughtfully. At last he picked it
up--a long, mist-like veil. He spread it out, held it gingerly between
a thumb and finger of each hand, and continued to look at it
abstractedly. Part of it was clean and whole, dainty as only a bit of
woman's finery can be; but one end of it was torn and twisted and
stretched out of all semblance to itself. Moreover, it was dirty, as
if it had been ground under a muddy heel. It was, in its way, a
shrieking evidence of violence, of unrighteous struggle. Hambleton
folded the scarf carefully, with its edges together, and put it in his
pocket. Jimmy's actions from this time on had an incentive and a
spirit that had before been lacking. He noted again the number of the
car, and returned to the edge of the dock to observe the yacht. She
had steamed up river a little way for some reason known only to
herself, and was now turning very slowly. She was but faintly lighted,
and would pass for some pleasure craft just coming home. But Jim knew
better. He could, at last, put two and two together. He would follow
the Face--indeed, he could not help following it. In him had begun
that divine experience of youth--of youth essentially, whether it come
in early years or late--of being carried off his feet by a spirit not
himself. He ran like a young athlete down the dock to the nearest
workman, evolving schemes as he went.
The dock-hand apathetically trundled a small keg from one pile of
freight to another, wiped his hands on his trousers, took a dry pipe
out of his pocket, and looked vacantly up the river before he replied
to Hambleton's question.
"Queer name--_Jene Dark_ they call her."
It was like pulling teeth to get information out of him, but Jim
applied the forceps.
The yacht had been lying out in the river for two weeks or more,
possibly less; belonged to foreign parts; no one thereabouts knew who
its owner was; nor its captain; nor its purpose in the harbor of New
York. At last, quite gratuitously, the man volunteered a personal
opinion. "Slippery boat in a gale--wouldn't trust her."
Hambleton walked smartly back, taking a look both at the yacht and the
motor-car as he went. The yacht's nose pointed toward the Jersey
shore; the car was creeping out of the dock. As he overtook the
machine, he saw that it was in the hands of a mechanic in overalls and
jumper. In answer to Hambleton's question as, to the owner of the car,
the mechanic told him pleasantly to go to the devil, and for once the
sight of a coin failed to produce any perceptible effect. But the
major-general, waiting half a block away, was still in the humor of
giving fatherly advice. He welcomed Jim heartily. "That's a hole I
ain't got no use for. 'Ow'd you make out?"
"Well enough, for all present purposes. Can you undertake to do a job
for me?"
"If it ain't nothing I'd have to arrest you for, I might consider it,"
he chuckled.
"I want you to go to the Laramie Club and tell Aleck Van Camp--got the
name?--that Hambleton has gone off on the _Jeanne D'Arc_ and may not be
back for some time; and he is to look after the _Sea Gull_."
"Hold on, young man; you're not going to do anything out of reason, as
one might say?"
"Oh, no, not at all; most reasonable thing in the world. You take this
money and be sure to get the message to Mr. Van Camp, will you? All
right. Now tell me where I can find a tug-boat or a steam launch,
quick."
"O'Leary, down at pier X--2--O has launches and everything else. All
right, my son, Aleck Van Camp, at the Laramie. But you be good and
don't drown yourself."
This last injunction, word for word in the manner of the pert Edith,
touched Jimmy's humor. He laughed ringingly. His spirit was like a
chime of bells on a week-day.
The hour which followed was one that James Hambleton found it difficult
to recall afterward, with any degree of coherence; but at the time his
movements were mathematically accurate, swift, effective. He got
aboard a little steam tug and followed the yacht down the river and
into the harbor. As she stood out into the roads and began to increase
her speed, he directed the captain of the tug to steam forward and make
as if to cross her bows. This would make the pilot of the yacht angry,
but he would be forced to slow down a trifle. Jim watched long enough
to see the success of his manoeuver, then went down into the cuddy
which served as a cabin, took off most of his clothes, and looked to
the fastenings of his money belt. Then he watched his chance, and when
the tug was pretty nearly in the path of the yacht, he crept to the
stern and dropped overboard.
CHAPTER IV
MR. VAN CAMP MAKES A CALL
Aleck Van Camp turned from the clerk's desk, rather relieved to find that
Hambleton had not yet made his appearance. Aleck had an errand on his
mind, and he reflected that Jim was apt to be impetuous and reluctant to
await another man's convenience; at least, Jim wouldn't perceive that
another man's convenience needed to be waited for; and Aleck had no mind
to announce this errand from the housetops. It was not a business that
pertained, directly, either to the _Sea Gull_ or to the coming cruise.
He made an uncommonly careful toilet, discarding two neckties before the
operation was finished. When all was done the cravat presented a stuffed
and warped appearance which was not at all satisfying, even to Aleck's
uncritical eye; but the tie was the last of his supply and was, perhaps,
slightly better than none at all.
Dinner at the club was usually a dull affair, and to Mr. Van Camp, on
this Monday night, it seemed more stupid than ever. The club had been
organized in the spirit of English clubs, with the unwritten by-law of
absolute and inviolable privacy for the individual. No wild or woolly
manners ever entered those decorous precincts. No slapping on the
shoulder, no hail-fellow greetings, no chance dinner companionship ever
dispelled the awful penumbra of privacy that surrounded even the humblest
member. A man's eating and drinking, his coming or going, his living or
dying, were matters only for club statistics, not for personal inquiry or
notice.
The result of this habitual attitude on the part of the members of the
club and its servants was an atmosphere in which a cataleptic fit would
scarcely warrant unofficial interference; much less would merely mawkish
or absent-minded behavior attract attention. That was the function of
the club--to provide sanctuary for personal whims and idiosyncrasies; of
course, always within the boundaries of the code.
On the evening in question Mr. Van Camp did not actually become silly,
but his manner lacked the poise and seriousness which sophisticated men
are wont to bring to the important event of the day. He was as near
being nervous as a Scotch-American Van Camp could be; and at the same
time he felt an unwonted flow of life and warmth in his cool veins. He
went so far as to make a remark to the waiter which he meant for an
affable joke, and then wanted to kick the fellow for taking it so
solemnly.
"You mind yourself, George, or they'll make you abbot of this monastery
yet!" said Aleck, as George helped him on with his evening coat.
"Yes, sir, thank you, sir," said George.
He left word at the office that in case any one called he was to be
informed that Mr. Van Camp would return to the club for the night; then,
in his silk hat and generally shining togs, he set forth to make a call.
He was no stranger to New York, and usually he took his cities as they
came, with a matter-of-fact nonchalance. He would be as much at home on
his second day in London as he had ever been in Lynn; or he would go from
a friend's week-end house-party, where the habits of a Sybarite were
forced on him, to a camp in the woods and pilot-bread fare, with an equal
smoothness of temper and enjoyment. Since luxury made no impression on
him, and hardship never blunted his own ideals of politeness or pleasure,
no one ever knew which life he preferred.
Choosing to walk the fifteen or twenty squares to the Archangel apartment
house, his destination, Van Camp looked about him, on this night of his
arrival, with slightly quickened perceptions. He cast a mildly
appreciative eye toward the picture disclosed here and there by the
glancing lights, the chiaroscuro of the intersecting streets, the
constantly changing vistas. For an unimpressionable man, he was rather
wrought upon. Nevertheless, he entered the charming apartment whither he
was bound with the detached and composed manner which society regards as
becoming. A maid with a foreign accent greeted him. Yes, Mademoiselle
Reynier was at home; Mr. Van Camp would find her in the drawing-room.
The stiff and unrelaxed manner with which Mr. Van Camp bowed to Miss
Reynier a moment later was not at all indicative of the fairly
respectable fever within his Scotch breast. Miss Reynier herself was
pretty enough to cause quickened pulses. She was of noble height,
evidently a woman of the world. She gave Mr. Van Camp her hand in a
greeting mingled of European daintiness and American frankness. Her
vitality and abounding interest in life were manifest.
"Ah, but you are very late. This is how you become smart all at once in
your New York atmosphere! But pray be seated; and here are cigarettes,
if you will. No? Very well; but tell me; has that amorphous
gill-slit--oh, no, the _branchial lamella_--has it behaved itself and
proved to be the avenue which shall lead you to fame?"
Mr. Van Camp stood silent through this flippant badinage, and calmly
waited until Miss Reynier had settled herself. Then he thoughtfully
turned the chair offered him so as to command a slightly better view of
the corner where she sat, leaning against the old-rose cushions.
Finally, taking his own time, he touched off her greeting with his
precise drawl.
"I'm not smart, as you call it, even in New York, though I try to be."
His eyes twinkled and his teeth gleamed in his wide smile. "If I were
smart, I'd pass by your error in scientific nomenclature, but really I
ought not to do it. If one can not be exact--"
"That's just what I say. If one can not be exact, why talk at all?"
Miss Reynier caught it up with high glee. She had a foreign accent, and
an occasional twist of words which proved her to be neither American nor
Englishwoman. "That's my principle," she insisted. "Leave other people
in undisturbed possession of their hobbies, especially in conversation,
and don't say anything if you can't say what you mean. But then, _you_
won't talk about your hobby; and if I have no one to inform me, how can I
be exact? But I'm the meekest person alive; I'm so ready to learn."
Mr. Van Camp surveyed first the bantering, alluring eyes, then turned his
gaze upon the soft luxuries about them.
"Are you ready to turn this bijou dream into a laboratory smelling of
alcohol and fish? Are you ready to spend hours wading in mudbanks after
specimens, or scratching in the sand under the broiling sun? Science
does not consult comfort."
Miss Reynier's expression of quizzical teasing changed to one of rather
thoughtful inquiry, as if she were estimating the man behind the
scientist. Van Camp was of the lean, angular type, like Jim Hambleton.
He was also very manly and wholesome, but even in his conventional
evening clothes there was something about him that was unconventional--a
protesting, untamed element of character that resisted all rules except
those prescribed by itself. He puzzled her now, as he had often puzzled
her before; but if she made fun of his hobbies, she had no mind to make
fun of the man himself. A cheerful, intelligent smile finally ended her
contemplating moment.
"Oh, no; no digging in the sand for me. I'll take what science I get in
another way--put up in predigested packages or bottled--any way but the
fishy way. But please don't give me up. You shed a good deal of light
on my mental darkness last winter in Egypt, and maybe I can improve still
more." She suddenly turned with friendly, confidential manner toward
Aleck, not waiting for replies to her remarks. "It's good to see you
again! And I like it here better than in Egypt, don't you? Don't you
think this apartment jolly?"
The shaded lamps made a pretty light over Miss Reynier's cream-colored
silk flounces, over the delicate lace on her waist, over her glossy dark
hair and spirited face. As Aleck contemplated that face, with its eager
yet modest and womanly gaze, and the noble outline of her figure, he
thought, with an unwonted flowering of imagination, that she was not
unlike the Diana of classic days. "A domestic Diana," he added in his
mind. "She may love the woods and freedom, but she will always return to
the hearth."
Aloud he said: "If you will permit me, Miss Reynier, I would like to
inform you at once of the immediate object of my visit here. You must be
well aware--" At this point Mr. Van Camp, who, true to his nature, was
looking squarely in the face of his companion, of necessity allowed
himself to be interrupted by Miss Reynier's lifted hand. She was looking
beyond her visitor through the drawing-room door.
"Mr. Chamberlain and Mr. Lloyd-Jones," announced the servant.
As Miss Reynier swept forward with outstretched hand to greet the
new-comers, Van Camp fixed his eyes on his hostess with a mingled
expression of masculine rage and submission. Whether he thought her too
cordial toward the other men or too cool toward himself, was not
apparent. Presently he, too, was shaking hands with the visitors, who
were evidently old friends of the house. Madame Reynier, the aunt of
mademoiselle, was summoned, and Van Camp was marooned on a sofa with
Lloyd-Jones, who was just in from the West. Aleck found himself
listening to an interminable talk about copper veins and silver veins, a
new kind of assaying instrument, and the good luck attendant upon the
opening of Lloyd-Jones' new mine, the Liza Lu.
Aleck was the essence of courtesy to everything except sham, and was able
to indicate a mild interest in Mr. Lloyd-Jones' mining affairs. It was
sufficient. Lloyd-Jones turned sidewise on his end of the sofa, spread
out plump, gesticulating hands, and poured upon him an eloquent torrent
of fact, speculation and high-spirited enthusiasm concerning Idaho in
general and the future of the Liza Lu in particular. More than that, by
and by his cheerful, half-impudent manner threatened to turn poetic.
"It's great, living in the open out there," he went on, by this time
including the whole company in his exordium. "You ride, or tramp, or dig
rock all day; and at night you lie down under the clear stars, thankful
for your blanket and your rock-bed and your camp-fire; and more than
thankful if there's a bit of running water near by. It's a great life!"
Miss Reynier listened to him with eyes that were alternately puzzled and
appreciative. It was a discourse that would have seemed to her much more
natural coming from Aleck Van Camp; but then, Mr. Van Camp really did the
thing--that sort of thing--and he rarely talked about it. It had
probably been Mr. Lloyd-Jones' first essay in the world out of reach of
his valet and a club cocktail; and he was consequently impressed with his
achievement. It was evident that Miss Reynier and the amateur miner were
on friendly terms, though Aleck had not seen or heard of him before. He
had hob-nobbed with Mr. Chamberlain in London and on more than one
scientific jaunt. The slightest flicker of jealous resentment gleamed in
Aleck's eyes, but his speech was as slow and precise as ever.
"I was just trying to convince Miss Reynier that outdoor life has its
peculiar joys," he said. "I was even now suggesting that she should dig,
though not for silver. Does Mr. Lloyd-Jones' lucre seem more alluring
than my little wriggly beasts, Miss Reynier?"
If Aleck meant this speech for a trap to force the young woman to
indicate a preference, the trick failed, as it deserved to fail. Miss
Reynier was able to play a waiting game.
"I couldn't endure either your mines or your mud-puddles. You are both
absurd, and I don't understand how you ever get recruits for your
hobbies. But come over and see this new engraving, Mr. Jones; it's an
old-fashioned picture of your beloved Rhine."
Aleck, thus liberated from Mr. Lloyd-Jones and his mines, made his way
across the room to Madame Reynier. The cunning of old Adam, was in his
eye, but otherwise he was the picture of deferential innocence.
Madame Reynier liked Aleck, with his inoffensive Americanisms and
unfailing kindliness; and with her friends she was frankness itself.
With two men on Miss Reynier's hands for entertainment, it seemed to
Aleck unlikely that either one could make any alarming progress.
Besides, he was glad of a tête-à-tête with the chaperone.
Madame Reynier was a tall, straight woman, elderly, dressed entirely in
black, with gaunt, aristocratic features and great directness of speech.
She had the fine kind of hauteur which forbids persons of this type ever
to speak of money, of disease, of scandal, or of too intimate
personalities; in Madame Reynier's case it also restrained her from every
sort of exaggerated speech. She spoke English with some difficulty and
preferred French.
Van Camp seated himself on a spindle-legged, gilt chair by Madame
Reynier's side, and begged to know how they were enduring the New York
climate, which had formerly proved intolerable to Madame Reynier. As he
seated himself she stretched out saving hands.
"I can endure the climate, thank you; but I can't endure to see your life
endangered on that silly chair, my dear Mr. Van Camp. There--thank you."
And when he was seated in a solid mahogany, he was rewarded with Madame
Reynier's confidential chat. They had returned to their New York
apartment in the midst of the summer season, she said, "for professional
advice." She and her niece liked the city and never minded the heat.
Mélanie, her aunt explained, had been enabled to see several old friends,
and, for her own part, she liked home at any time of the year better than
the most comfortable of hotels.
"This is quite like home," she added, "even though we are really exiles."
Aleck ventured to hope that the "professional advice" had not meant
serious trouble of any sort.
"A slight indisposition only."
"And are you much better now?" Aleck inquired solicitously.
"Oh, it wasn't I; it was Mélanie," Madame smiled. "I became my own
physician many years ago, and now I never see a doctor except when we ask
one to dine. But youth has no such advantage." Madame fairly beamed
with benevolence while explaining one of her pet idiosyncrasies. Before
Aleck could make any headway in gleaning information concerning her own
and Mélanie's movements, as he was shamelessly trying to do, Lloyd-Jones
had persuaded Miss Reynier to sing.
"Some of those quaint old things, please," he was saying; and Aleck
wondered if he never would hang himself with his own rope. But
Lloyd-Jones' cheerful voice went on:
"Some of those Hungarian things are jolly and funny, even though you
can't understand the words. Makes you want to dance or sing yourself."
Aleck groaned, but Mélanie began to sing, with Jones hovering around the
piano. By the time Mélanie had sung everybody's favorites, excluding
Aleck's, Mr. Chamberlain rose to depart. He was an Englishman, a
serious, heavy gentleman, very loyal to old friends and very slow in
making new ones. He made an engagement to dine with Aleck on the
following evening, and, as he went out, threw back to the remaining
gentlemen an offer of seats in his machine.
"I ought to go," said Jones; "but if Van Camp will stay, I will. That
is," he added with belated punctiliousness, "if the ladies will permit?"
"Thank you, Chamberlain, I'm walking," drawled Aleck; then turning to the
company with his cheerful grin he stated quite impersonally: "I was
thinking of staying long enough to put one question--er, a matter of some
little importance--to Miss Reynier. When she gives me the desired
information, I shall go."
"Me, too," chirped Mr. Lloyd-Jones. "I came expressly to talk over that
plan of building up friendly adjoining estates out in Idaho; sort of
private shooting and hunting park, you know. And I haven't had a minute
to say a word." Jones suddenly began to feel himself aggrieved. As the
door closed after Chamberlain, Mélanie motioned them back to their seats.
"It's not so very late," she said easily. "Come back and make yourselves
comfortable, and I'll listen to both of you," she said with a demure
little devil in her eye. "I haven't seen you for ages, and I don't know
when the good moment will come again." She included the two men in a
friendly smile, waved a hand toward the waiting chairs, and adjusted a
light shawl over the shoulders of Madame Reynier.
But Aleck by this time had the bit in his teeth and would not be coaxed.
His ordinarily cool eye rested wrathfully on the broad shoulders of Mr.
Lloyd-Jones, who was lighting a cigarette, and he turned abruptly to Miss
Reynier. His voice was as serious as if Parliament, at least, had been
hanging on his words.
"May I call to-morrow, Miss Reynier, at about twelve?"
"Oh, I say," put in Jones, "all of you come to luncheon with me at the
Little Gray Fox--will you? Capital place and all sorts of nice people.
Do come. About one."
Van Camp could have slain him.
"I think my proposition a prior one," he remarked with dogged precision;
"but, of course, Miss Reynier must decide." He recovered his temper
enough to add, quite pleasantly, considering the circumstances, "Unless
Madame Reynier will take my part?" turning to the older woman.
"Oh, no, not fair," shouted Jones. "Madame Reynier's always on my side.
Aren't you, Madame?"
Madame Reynier smiled inscrutably. "I'm always on the side of virtue in
distress," she said.
"That's me, then, isn't it? The way you're abusing me, Mademoiselle,
listening here to Van Camp all the evening!"
But Mélanie, tired, perhaps, of being patiently tactful, settled the
matter. "I can't go to luncheon with anybody, to-morrow," she protested.
"I've had a touch of that arch-enemy, indigestion, you see; and I can't
do anything but my prescribed exercises, nor drink anything but distilled
water--"
"Nor eat anything but food! We know," cried the irrepressible Jones.
"But the Little Gray Fox has a special diet for just such cases as yours.
Do come!"
"Heavens! Then I don't want to go there!" groaned Aleck.
Mélanie gave Jones her hand, half in thanks and half in farewell. "No,
thank you, not to-morrow, but sometime soon; perhaps Thursday. Will that
do?" she smiled. Then, as Jones was discontentedly lounging about the
door, she did a pretty thing. Turning from the door, she stood with face
averted from everybody except Van Camp, and for an instant her eyes met
his in a friendly, half-humorous but wholly non-committal glance. His
eyes held hers in a look that was like an embrace.
"I will see you soon," she said quietly.
Van Camp said good night to Jones at the corner, after they had walked
together in silence for half a block.
"Good night, Van Camp," said Jones; then he added cordially: "By the way,
I'm going back next week in my private car to watch the opening of the
Liza Lu, and I'd be mighty glad if you'd go along. Anything else to do?"
"Thanks--extremely; but I'm going on a cruise."
As Aleck entered the piously exclusive hall of the club his good nature
came to his aid. He wondered whether he hadn't scored something, after
all.
CHAPTER V.
MELANIE'S DREAMS
Midnight and the relaxation of slumber could subtract nothing from the
high-browed dignity of the club officials, and the message that was
waiting for Mr. Van Camp was delivered in the most correct manner.
"Mr. Hambleton sends word to Mr. Van Camp that he has gone away on the
_Jeanne D'Arc_. Mr. Hambleton may not be back for some time, and
requests Mr. Van Camp to look after the _Sea Gull_."
"Very well, thank you," replied Aleck, rather absent-mindedly. He was
unable to see, immediately, just what change in his own plans this
sudden turn of Jim's would cause; and he was for the moment too deeply
preoccupied with his own personal affairs to speculate much about it.
His thoughts went back to the events of the evening, recalled the
picture of his Diana and her teasing ways, and dwelt especially upon
the honest, friendly, wholly bewitching look that had flown to him at
the end of the evening. Absurd as his own attempt at a declaration had
been, he somehow felt that he himself was not absurd in Mélanie's eyes,
though he was far from certain whether she was inclined to marry him.
Aleck, on his part, had not come to his decision suddenly or
impulsively; nor, having arrived there, was he to be turned from it
easily. True as it was that he sincerely and affectionately desired
Mélanie Reynier for a wife, yet on the whole he was a very cool Romeo.
He was manly, but he was calculating; he was honorably disposed toward
matrimony, but he was not reborn with love. And so, in the sober
bedroom of the club, he quickly fell into the good sleep induced by
fatigue and healthy nerves.
Morning brought counsel and a disposition to renew operations. A note
was despatched to his Diana by a private messenger, and the boy was
bidden to wait for an answer. It came presently:
"Come at twelve, if you wish.
"MELANIE REYNIER."
Aleck smiled with satisfaction. Here was a wise venture going through
happily, he hoped. He was pleased that she had named the very hour he
had asked for the night before. That was like her good, frank way of
meeting a situation, and it augured well for the unknown emergencies of
their future life. He had little patience with timidity and
traditional coyness in women, and great admiration for an open and
fearless spirit. Mélanie's note almost set his heart thumping.
But not quite; and no one understood the cool nature of that organ
better than Mélanie herself. The ladies in the apartment at the
Archangel had lingered at their breakfast, the austerity of which had
been mitigated by a center decoration of orchids and fern,
fresh-touched with dew; or so Madame Reynier had described them to
Mélanie, as she brought them to her with the card of Mr. Lloyd-Jones.
Miss Reynier smiled faintly, admired the blossoms and turned away.
The ladies usually spoke French with each other, though occasionally
Madame Reynier dropped into the harsher speech of her native country.
On this morning she did this, telling Mélanie, for the tenth time in as
many days, that in her opinion they ought to be going home. Madame
considered this her duty, and felt no real responsibility after the
statement was made. Nevertheless, she was glad to find Mélanie
disposed to discuss the matter a little further.
"Do you wish to go home, Auntie, or is it that you think I ought to go?"
"I don't wish to go without you, child, you know that; and I am very
comfortable here. But his Highness, your cousin, is very impatient; I
see that in every letter from Krolvetz. You offended him deeply by
putting off your marriage to Count Lorenzo, and every day now deepens
his indignation against you. I don't like to discuss these things,
Mélanie, but I suspect that your action deprives him of a very
necessary revenue; and I understand, better than you do, to what
lengths your cousin is capable of going when he is displeased. You
are, by the law of your country, his ward until you marry. Would it
not be better to submit to him in friendship, rather than to incur his
enmity? After all, he is your next of kin, the head of your family,
and a very powerful man. If we are going home at all, we ought to go
now."
"But suppose we should decide not to go home at all?"
"You will have to go some time, dear child. You are all alone, except
for me, and in the nature of things you can't have me always. Now that
you are young, you think it an easy thing to break away from the ties
of blood and birth; but believe me, it isn't easy. You, with your
nature, could never do it. The call of the land is strong, and the
time will come when you will long to go home, long to go back to the
land where your father led his soldiers, and where your mother was
admired and loved."
Madame Reynier paused and watched her niece, who, with eyes cast down,
was toying with her spoon. Suddenly a crimson flush rose and spread
over Mélanie's cheeks and forehead and neck, and when she looked up
into Madame Reynier's face, she was gazing through unshed tears. She
rose quickly, came round to the older woman's chair and kissed her
cheek affectionately.
"Dear Auntie, you are very good to me, and patient, too. It's all
true, I suppose; but the prospect of home and Count Lorenzo
together--ah, well!" she smiled reassuringly and again caressed Madame
Reynier's gaunt old face. "I'll think it all over, Auntie dear."
Madame Reynier followed Mélanie into her sitting-room, bringing the
precious orchids in her two hands, fearful lest the fragile vase should
fall. Mélanie regarded them a moment, and then said she thought they
would do better in the drawing-room.
"I sometimes think the little garden pink quite as pretty as an orchid."
"They aren't so much in Mr. Lloyd-Jones' style as these," replied
Madame Reynier. She had a faculty of commenting pleasantly without the
least hint of criticism. This remark delighted Mélanie.
"No; I should never picture Mr. Lloyd-Jones as a garden pink. But
then, Auntie, you remember how eloquent he was about the hills and the
stars. That speech did not at all indicate a hothouse nature."
"Nevertheless, I think his sentiments have been cultivated, like his
orchids."
"Not a bad achievement," said Mélanie.
There was an interval of silence, while the younger woman stood looking
out of the window and Madame Reynier cut the leaves of a French
journal. She did not read, however, and presently she broke the
silence. "I don't remember that Mr. Van Camp ever sent orchids to you."
"Mr. Van Camp never gave me any kind of flower. He thinks flowers are
the most intimate of all gifts, and should only be exchanged between
sweethearts. At least, I heard him expound some such theory years ago,
when we first knew him."
Madame smiled--a significant smile, if any one had been looking.
Nothing further was said until Mélanie unexpectedly shot straight to
the mark with:
"How do you think he would do, Auntie, in place of Count Lorenzo?"
Madame Reynier showed no surprise. "He is a sterling man; but your
cousin would never consent to it."
"And if I should not consult my cousin?"
"My dear Mélanie, that would entail many embarrassing consequences; and
embarrassments are worse than crimes."
Mélanie could laugh at that, and did. "I've already answered a note
from Mr. Van Camp this morning; Auntie. No, don't worry," she
playfully answered a sudden anxious look that came upon her aunt's
countenance, "I've not said 'yes' to him. But he's coming to see me at
twelve. If I don't give him a chance to say what he has to say, he'll
take one anywhere. He's capable of proposing on the street-cars.
Besides, I have something also to say to him."
"Well, my dear, you know best; certainly I think you know best," was
Madame Reynier's last word.
Mr. Van Camp arrived on the stroke of twelve, an expression of
happiness on his lean, quizzical face.
"I'm supposed to be starting on a cruise," he told Mélanie, "but luck
is with me. My cousin hasn't turned up--or rather he turned up only to
disappear instantly. Otherwise he would have dragged me off to catch
the first ebb-tide, with me hanging back like an anchor-chain."
"Is your cousin, then, such a tyrant?"
"Oh, yes; he's a masterful man, is Jimmy."
"And how did he 'disappear instantly?' It sounds mysterious."
"It is mysterious, but Jim can take care of himself; at least, I hope
he can. The message said he had sailed on the _Jeanne D'Arc_, whatever
that is, and that I was to look after our hired yacht, the _Sea Gull_."
Mélanie looked up, startled. "The _Jeanne D'Arc_, was it?" she cried.
"Are you sure? But, of course--there must be many boats by that name,
are there not? But did he say nothing more--where he was going, and
why he changed his plans?"
"No, not a word more than that. Why? Do you know of a boat named the
_Jeanne D'Arc_?"
"Yes, very well; but it can not matter. It must be another vessel,
surely. Meanwhile, what are you going to do without your companion?"
Aleck rose from the slender gilt chair where, as usual, he had perched
himself, walked to the window and thrust his hands into his pockets for
a contemplative moment, then he turned and came to a stand squarely
before Mélanie, looking down on her with his quizzical, honest eyes.
"That depends, Mélanie," he said slowly, "upon whether you are going to
marry me or not."
[Illustration: "That depends upon whether you are going to marry me."]
For a second or two Mélanie's eyes refused to lift; but Aleck's
firm-planted figure, his steady gaze, above all, his dominating will,
forced her to look up. There he was, smiling, strong, big, kindly.
Mélanie started to smile, but for the second time that morning her eyes
unexpectedly filled with tears.
"I can't talk to you towering over me like that," she said at last
softly, her smile winning against the tears.
Aleck did not move. "I don't want you to 'talk to' me about it; all I
want is for you to say 'yes.'"
"But I'm not going to say 'yes;' at least, I don't think I am. Do sit
down."
Aleck started straight for the gilt chair.
"Oh, no; not that! You are four times too big for that chair.
Besides, it's quite valuable; it's a Louis Quinze."
Aleck indulged in a vicious kick at the ridiculous thing, picked up an
enormous leather-bottomed chair made apparently of lead, and placed it
jauntily almost beside Miss Reynier's chair, but facing the other way.
"This is much better, thank you," he said. "Now tell me why you think
you are not going to say 'yes' to me."
Mélanie's mood of softness had not left her; but sitting there, face to
face with this man, face to face with his seriousness, his masculine
will and strength, she felt that she had something yet to struggle for,
some deep personal right to be acknowledged. It was with a dignity, an
aloofness, that was quite real, yet very sweet, that she met this
American lover. He had her hand in his firm grasp, but he was waiting
for her to speak. He was giving her the hearing that was, in his
opinion, her right.
"In the first place," Mélanie began, "you ought to know more about
me--who I am, and all that sort of thing. I am, in one sense, not at
all what I seem to be; and that, in the case of marriage, is a
dangerous thing."
"It is an important thing, at least. But I do know who you are; I knew
long ago. Since you never referred to the matter, of course I never
did. You are the Princess Auguste Stephanie of Krolvetz, cousin of the
present Duke Stephen, called King of Krolvetz. You are even in line
for the throne, though there are two or three lives between. You have
incurred the displeasure of Duke Stephen and are practically an exile
from your country."
"A voluntary exile," Mélanie corrected.
"Voluntary only in the sense that you prefer exile to absolute
submission to the duke. There is no alternative, if you return."
Mélanie was silent. Aleck lifted the hand which he held, touched it
gently with his lips and laid it back beside its fellow on Mélanie's
lap. Then he rose and lifted both hands before her, half in fun and
half in earnestness, as if he were a courtier doing reverence to his
queen.
"See, your Highness, how ready I am to do you homage! Only smile on
the most devoted of your servants."
Mélanie could not resist his gentle gaiety. It was as if they were two
children playing at a story. Aleck, in such a mood as this, was as
much fun as a dancing bear, and in five minutes more he had won peals
of laughter from Mélanie. It was what he wanted--to brighten her
spirits. So presently he came back to the big chair, though he did not
again take her hand.
"I knew you were titled and important, Mélanie, and at first I thought
that sealed my case entirely. But you seemed to forget your state,
seemed not to care so very much about it; and perhaps that made me
think it was possible for us both to forget it, or at least to ignore
it. I haven't a gold throne to give you; but you're the only woman
I've ever wanted to marry, and I wasn't going to give up the chance
until you said so."
"Do you know also that if I marry out of my rank and without the
consent of Duke Stephen, I shall forfeit all my fortune?"
"'Cut off without a cent!'" Aleck laughed, but presently paused,
embarrassed for the first time since he had begun his plea. "I, you
know, haven't millions, but there's a decent income, even for two. And
then I can always go to work and earn something," he smiled at her,
"giving information to a thirsty world about the gill-slit, as you call
it. It would be fun, earning money for you; I'd like to do it."
Mélanie smiled back at him, but left her chair and wandered uneasily
about the room, as if turning a difficult matter over in her mind.
Aleck stood by, watching. Presently she returned to her chair, pushed
him gently back into his seat and dropped down beside him. Before she
spoke, she touched her fingers lightly, almost lovingly, along the blue
veins of his big hand lying on the arm of the chair. The hand turned,
like a magnet spring, and imprisoned hers.
"No, dear friend, not yet," said Mélanie, drawing away her hand, yet
not very quickly after all. "There is much yet to say to you, and I
have been wondering how to say it, but I shall do it now. Like the
heroes in the novels," she smiled again, "I am going to tell you the
story of my life."
"Good!" said Aleck. "All ready for chapter one. But your maid wants
you at the door."
"Go away, Sophie," said Mélanie. "Serve luncheon to Madame Reynier
alone. I shall wait; and you'll have to wait, too, poor man!" She
looked scrutinizingly at Aleck. "Or are you, perhaps, hungry? I'm not
going to talk to a hungry man," she announced.
"Not a bite till I've heard chapter thirty-nine!" said Aleck.
In a moment she became serious again.
"I have lived in England and here in America," she began, "long enough
to understand that the differences between your people and mine are
more than the differences of language and climate; they are ingrained
in our habits of thought, our education, our judgments of life and of
people. My childhood and youth were wholly different from yours, or
from what an American girl's could be; and yet I think I understand
your American women, though I suppose I am not in the least like them.
"But I, on the other hand, have seen the dark side of life, and
particularly of marriage. When I was a child I was more important in
my own country than I am now, since it seemed then that my father would
succeed to the throne. I was brought up to feel that I was not a
woman, but a pawn in the game of politics. When I had been out of the
convent for a year or more, I loved a youth, and was loved in return,
but our marriage was laughed at, put aside, declared impossible,
because he was of a rank inferior to my own. My lover disappeared, I
know not where or how. Then affairs changed. My father died, and it
transpired that I had been officially betrothed since childhood to Duke
Stephen's brother, the Count Lorenzo. The duke was my guardian, and
there was no one else to whom I could appeal; but the very week set for
the wedding I faced the duke and declared I would never marry the
count. His Highness raged and stormed, but I told him a few things I
knew about his brother, and I made him see that I was in earnest. The
next day I left Krolvetz, and the duke gave out that I was ill and had
gone to a health resort; that the wedding was postponed. I went to
France and hid myself with my aunt, took one of my own middle names and
her surname, and have been known for some time, as you know, as Mélanie
Reynier."
"I know you wish to tell me all these things, Mélanie, but I do not
want you to recall painful matters of the past now," said Aleck gently.
"You shall tell me of them at another time."
The color brightened in Mélanie's face, her eyes glowed.
"No, not another time; you must understand now, especially because all
this preface leads me to what I really want to say to you. It is this:
I do not now care for the man I loved at nineteen, nor for any of the
other men of my country who have been pleased to honor me with their
regard. But ever since those early days I have had a dream of a
home--a place different from Duke Stephen's home, different from the
homes of many people of my rank. My dream has a husband in it who is a
companion, a friend, my equal in love, my superior in strength."
Mélanie's eyes lifted to meet Aleck's, and they were full of an almost
tragic passion; but it was a passion for comprehension and love, not
primarily for the man sitting before her. She added simply: "And for
my dream I'd give all the wealth, all the love, I have."
The room was very still. Aleck Van Camp sat quiet and grave, his
forehead resting on his hand. He looked up, finally, at Mélanie, who
was beside him, pale and quite worn.
"Poor child! You needed me more than I thought!" was what he said.
But Mélanie had not quite finished. "No, that is not enough, that I
should need you. You must also need me, want what I alone can give
you, match my love with yours. And this, I think, you do not do. You
calculate, you remain cool, you plan your life like a campaign, and I
am part of your equipment. You are a thousand times better than Count
Lorenzo, but I think your principles of reasoning are the same. You do
not love me enough, and that is why I can not say yes."
Aleck had taken this last blow standing. He walked slowly around and
stood before Mélanie, much as he had stood before her when he first
asked her to marry him; and this time, as he looked down on her
fairness, there was infinite gentleness and patience and love in his
eyes. He bent over, lifted Mélanie's two hands, and drew her bodily
out of her seat. She was impassive. Her quick alertness, her
vitality, her passionate seriousness, had slipped away. Aleck put his
arms around her very tenderly, and kissed her lips; not a lover's kiss
exactly, and yet nothing else. Then he looked into her face.
"I shall not do this again, Mélanie dear, till you give me leave. But
I have no mind to let you go, either. You and Madame Reynier are going
on a cruise with me; will you? Get your maid to pack your grip. It
will be better for you than the 'professional advice' which you came to
New York for."
Aleck stopped suddenly, his practical sense coming to the surface.
"Heavens! You haven't had any lunch, and it's all times of the day!"
He rang the bell, begged the maid to fetch bread and butter and tea and
to ask Madame Reynier to come to the drawing-room. When she appeared,
he met her with a grave, but in no wise a cowed, spirit.
"Madame Reynier, your niece refuses, for the present, to consider
herself engaged to me; I, however, am unequivocally betrothed to her.
And I shall be endlessly grateful if you and Miss Reynier will be my
guests on the _Sea Gull_ for as long a time as you find it diverting.
We shall cruise along the coast and put into harbor at night, if it
seems best; and I'll try to make you comfortable. Will you come?"
Madame Reynier was willing if Mélanie was; and Mélanie had no strength,
if she had the will, to combat Aleck's masterful ways. It was soon
settled. Aleck swung off down the street, re-reading Jim's letter,
intent only on the _Sea Gull_ and the preparations for his guests. But
at the back of his mind he was thinking, "Poor girl! She needs me more
than I thought!"
CHAPTER VI
ON BOARD THE JEANNE D'ARC
If hard usage and obstacles could cure a knight-errant of his
sentiment, then Jimmy Hambleton had been free of his passion for the
Face. His plunge overboard had been followed by a joyous swim, a lusty
call to the yacht for "Help," and a growing amazement when he realized
that it was the yacht's intention to pass him by. He had swum
valiantly, determined to get picked up by that particular craft, when
suddenly his strength failed. He remembered thinking that it was all
up with him, and then he lost consciousness.
When he awoke he was on a hard bunk in a dim place, and a sailor was
jerking him about. His throat burned with a fiery liquid. Then he
felt the plunging and rising of the boat, and came to life sufficiently
to utter the stereotyped words, "Where am I?"
In Jim's case the question did not imply the confused groping back to
sense that it usually indicates, but rather an actual desire to know
whether or not he was on board the _Jeanne D'Arc_. Plainly his wits
had not been badly shattered by his experience overboard. But the
sailor who was attending him with such ministrations as he understood,
answered him with a sample of French which Jim had never met with in
his school-books, and he was not enlightened for some hours.
It turned out, indeed, to be the _Jeanne D'Arc_, as Jim proved for
himself the next day, and he was lying in the seamen's quarters in the
fo'cas'le. By morning he felt much better, hungry, and prepared in his
mind for striking a bargain with one of the sailors for clothes. He
could make out their lingo soon, he guessed, and then he would get a
suit of clothes and fare on deck. Suddenly he grasped his waist,
struck with an unpleasant thought; his money-belt was gone! He was
wearing a sailor's blue flannel shirt and nothing else. He turned over
on his hard bunk, thinking that he would have to wait a while before
making his entrance on the public stage of the _Jeanne D'Arc_.
And wait he did. Not a rag of clothing was in sight, and no cajolery
or promise of reward could persuade the ship's men into supplying his
need. He received consignments of food; short rations they would be,
he judged, for an able-bodied seaman. But inactivity and confinement
to the fo'cas'le soon worked havoc with his physique, so that appetite,
and even desire of life itself, temporarily disappeared in the gloom of
seasickness.
In spite of difficulties, Jim tried to find out something about the
boat. The seamen were none too friendly; but by patching up his almost
forgotten French and by signs, he learned something. His sudden
failure of strength in the water had been due to a blow from a floating
spar, as a bruise on his forehead testified; "the old man," whom Jim
supposed to be the captain, was a hard master; Monsieur Chatelard was
owner, or at least temporary proprietor, of the yacht; and the present
voyage was an unlucky one by all the signs and omens known to the
seamen's horoscope.
The sullenness of the men was apparent, and was not caused by the
enforced presence of a stranger among them. In fact, their bad temper
became so conspicuous that Jim began to believe that it might have
something to do with the mysterious actions of the man on shore. He
pondered the situation deeply; he evolved many foolish schemes to
compass his own enlightenment, and dismissed them one by one. He
grimly reflected that a man without clothes can scarcely be a hero,
whatever his spirit. Not since the days of Olympus was there any
record of man or god being received into any society whatever without
his sartorial shell, thought Jimmy. But in spite of his discomfort, he
was glad he was there. The intuition that had led him since that
memorable Sunday afternoon was strong within him still, and he never
questioned its authority. He believed his turn would come, even though
he were a prisoner in the fo'cas'le of the _Jeanne D'Arc_.
As the violence of his sickness passed, Jim began to cast about for
some means of helping himself. Gradually he was able to dive into the
forgotten shallows of his French learning. By much wrinkling of brows
he evolved a sentence, though he had to wait some hours before there
was a favorable chance to put it to use. At last his time came, with
the arrival of his former friend, the sailor.
"Oo avay-voo cashay mon money-belt?" he inquired with much confidence,
and with pure Yankee accent.
The sailor answered with a shrug and a spreading of empty hands.
"Pas de money-belt, pas de pantalon, pas de tous! Dam queer
Amayricain!"
Jim was not convinced of the sailor's innocence, but perceived that he
must give him the benefit of the doubt. As the sailor intimated, Jim,
himself, was open to suspicion, and couldn't afford to be too zealous
in calumniating others. He fell to thinking again, and attacked the
next Frenchman that came into the fo'cas'le with the following:
"Kond j'aytay malade don ma tate, kee a pree mon money-belt?"
It was the ship's cook this time, and he turned and stared at Jimmy as
though he had seen a ghost. When he found tongue he uttered a volume
of opinion and abuse which Jimmy knew by instinct was not fit to be
translated, and then he fled up the ladder.
On the fourth day, toward evening, James had a visitor. All day the
yacht had been pitching and rolling, and by afternoon she was laboring
in the violence of a storm and was listing badly.
James was a fearless seaman, but it crossed his mind more than once
that if he were captain, and if there were a port within reach, he
would put into it before midnight. But he could tell nothing of the
ship's course. He turned the subject over in his mind as he lay on his
bunk in that peculiar state half-way between sickness and health, when
the body is relaxed by a purely accidental illness and the mind is
abnormally alert. He wished intensely for a bath, a shave, and a fair
complement of clothes. He longed also to go up the hatchway for a
breath of air, and was considering the possibility of doing this later,
with a blanket and darkness for a shield, when he became conscious of a
pair of neatly trousered legs descending the ladder. It was quite a
different performance from the catlike climbing up and down of the
sailors.
Jimmy watched in the dim light until the whole figure was complete,
fantastically supplying, in his imagination, the coat, the shirt, the
collar and the tie to go with the trousers--all the things which he
himself lacked. Was there also a hat? Jimmy couldn't make out, and so
he asked.
"Have you got on a hat?"
A frigid voice answered, "I beg your pardon!"
"I said, are you wearing a hat? I couldn't see, you know."
"Monsieur takes the liberty of being impertinent."
"Oh, excuse me--I beg your pardon. But it's so beastly hot and dark in
here, you know, and I've never been seasick before."
"No? Monsieur is fortunate." The visitor advanced a little, drew from
a recess a shoe-blacking outfit, pulled over it one of the stiff
blankets from a neighboring bunk, and sat down rather cautiously.
Little by little James made out more of the look of the man. He was
large and rather blond, well-dressed, clean-shaven. He spoke English
easily, but with a foreign accent.
"I wish to inquire to what unfortunate circumstances we are indebted
for your company on board the _Jeanne D'Arc_." The voice was cool, and
sharp as a meat-ax.
"Why, to your own kind-heartedness. I was a derelict and you took me
in--saved my life, in fact; for which I am profoundly grateful. And I
hope my presence here is not too great a burden?"
"I am obliged to say that your presence here is most unwelcome.
Moreover, I am aware that your previous actions are open to suspicion,
to express it mildly. You threw yourself off the tug; and as this as
not a pleasure yacht, but the vessel of a high official speeding on a
most important business matter, I said to the captain, 'Let him swim!
Or, if he wishes to die, why should we thwart him?' But the captain
referred to the 'etiquette of the line,' as he calls it, and picked you
up. So you have not me to thank for not being among the fishes this
minute."
Jimmy pulled his blanket about and sat up on his bunk. The sarcastic
voice stirred his bile, and suddenly there boomed in his memory a
woman's call for help. The hooded motor-car, the muffled cry of
terror, the inert figure being lifted over the side of the yacht--these
things crowded on his brain and fired him to a sudden, unreasoning
fury. He leaned over, looking sharply into the other's face.
"You damned scoundrel!" he said, choking with his anger. The blood
surged into his face and eyes; he was, for an instant, a primitive
savage. He could have laid violent hands on the other man and done him
to death, in the fashion of the half-gods who lived in the twilight of
history.
The visitor in the fo'cas'le exhibited a neat row of teeth and no
resentment whatever at Jim's remark, But a sharp glitter shot from his
eyes as he replied suavely:
"Monsieur has doubtless mistaken this ship, and probably its master
also, for some other less worthy adventurer on the sea. For that very
reason I have come to set you right. It may be that I have my quixotic
moments. At any rate, I have a fancy to give you a gentleman's chance.
Monsieur, I regret the necessity of being inhospitable, but I am forced
to say that you must quit the shelter of this yacht within twenty-four
hours."
The thin, sarcastic voice and clean-cut syllables fanned the flame of
Jimmy's rage. He felt impotent, moreover, which never serves as a
poultice to anger. But he got himself in hand, though imitation
courtesy was not much in his line. He tuned his big hearty voice to a
pitch with the Frenchman's nasal pipe, and clipped off his words in
mimicry.
"And to whom, pray, shall I have the honor to say farewell, at the
auspicious moment when I jump overboard?"
"Gently, you American, gently!" said the other. "My friends, and some
of my enemies, know me as Monsieur Chatelard." As he paused for an
impressive instant, Jim, grabbing his blanket, stood up in derision and
executed an elaborate bow in as foreign a manner as he could command.
Monsieur Chatelard politely waved him down and continued:
"But pray do not trouble to give me your card! I had rather say adieu
to Monsieur the Unknown, whose daring and temper I so much admire. But
I certainly misunderstood your violent remark a moment ago, did I not?
You can not possibly have any ground of quarrel with me."
"I thought you stole my money-belt."
Monsieur smiled and waved a deprecatory hand. "You have already
dismissed that idea, I am certain. A money-belt, between gentlemen!
Moreover, you should thank me for so much as recognizing the gentleman
in you, since you are without the customary trappings of our class."
"Oh, I don't know," said Jim. But Monsieur Chatelard was now
imperturbable. He continued blandly:
"Since you are fond of sea-baths, you will no doubt enjoy a
plunge--to-night possibly. As we have made rather slow progress, we
are really not so far from shore. Yes, on second thought, I would by
all means advise you to take your departure tonight. Swim back to
shore the way you came. In any case, your absence is desired. There
will be no room or provision or water for you on board the _Jeanne
D'Arc_ after to-night. Is my meaning clear?"
Jim was watching, as well as he could, the immobile, expressionless
face, and did not immediately note that Monsieur Chatelard had drawn a
small, shiny object from his hip pocket and was holding it carelessly
in his lap. As his gaze focussed on the revolver, however, he did the
one thing, perhaps, which at that moment could have put the Frenchman
off his guard. He threw his head back and laughed aloud.
But before his laugh had time to echo in the narrow fo'cas'le, Jim
leaped from his bunk upon his tormentor, like a cat upon a mouse,
seized his right hand in a paralyzing grip, and was himself thrown
violently to the floor. The struggle was brief, for the Frenchman was
no match for Jim in strength and scarcely superior to him in skill; but
it took one of Jim's old wrestling feints to get the better of his
opponent. He came out, in five seconds, with the pistol in his hand.
Monsieur Chatelard, a bit breathless, but not greatly discomposed,
peered out at him from the edge of the opposite bunk, where he sat
uncomfortably. His cynical voice capped the struggle like a streak of
pitch.
"Pray keep the weapon. You are welcome, though your methods are
somewhat surprising. Had I known them earlier, I might have offered
you my little toy."
"Oh, don't mention it," said Jimmy. "I thought you might not be used
to firearms, that's all."
The varnished surface of Monsieur Chatelard's countenance gave no
evidence of his having heard Jim's remark.
"Don't fancy that your abrupt movements, have deprived me of what
authority I may happen to possess on this vessel. My request as to
your future action still stands, unless you had rather one of my
faithful men should assist you in carrying out my purpose."
Hambleton stood with legs wide apart to keep his balance, regarding the
weapon in his hand, from which his gaze traveled to the man on the
bunk. When it came to dialogue, he was no match for this sarcastic
purveyor of words. He wondered whether Monsieur Chatelard was actually
as cool as he appeared. As he stood there, the _Jeanne D'Arc_ pitched
forward until it seemed that she could never right herself, then slowly
and laboriously she rode the waves again.
"You are a more picturesque villain than I thought," remarked James.
"You have all the tricks of the stage hero--secret passages, fancy
weapons, and--crowning glory--a fatal gift of gab!"
Monsieur Chatelard arose, making his way toward the hatch.
"Many thanks. I can not return the compliment in such a happy choice
of English," he scoffed, "but I can truthfully say that I have rarely
seen so striking and unique a figure as I now behold; certainly never
on the stage, to which you so politely refer."
But James was too deeply intent on his next move to be embarrassed by
his lack of clothes. Not in vain had his gorge risen almost at first
sight of this man. He stepped quickly in front of Monsieur Chatelard,
blocking his exit up the ladder, while the revolver in his hand looked
straight between the Frenchman's eyes.
Whatever Chatelard's crimes were, he was not a coward. He did not
flinch, but his eyes gleamed like cold steel as Jim cornered him.
"Now," said Jim, "I have my turn." Wrath burned in his heart.
"Captain Paquin! Antoine, Antoine!" called Chatelard. No one answered
the call of the master of the ship, but even as the two men measured
their force one against the other, they were arrested by a commotion
above. Voices were heard shouting, trampling feet were running back
and forth over the deck, and a moment later the ship's cook came
tumbling down the hatchway, screaming in terror. He glared unheeding
at the two men, and his teeth chattered. Fear had possession of him.
Jim lifted his revolver well out of reach, and backed off from
Chatelard. For the first time during the interview between the
American and the Frenchman, the two now faced each other as man to man,
with the mask of their suspicions, their vanities and their hate cast
aside.
"What is the matter? What is this fool saying?" Jim asked in loathing.
At last Monsieur Chatelard looked at Jim with eyes of fear. His face
became so pale and drawn that it resembled a sponge from which the last
drop of water had been pressed.
"He says the yacht is half full of water--that she is sinking," the
Frenchman said.
"Sinking!" echoed Jim, bearing down again, with lowered revolver, on
his enemy. "Well and good! You're going to be drowned, not shot,
after all! And now you shall speak, you scamp! Your game's up,
whatever happens. Get up and lead the way, quick, and show me in what
part of this infernal boat you are hiding Agatha Redmond."
Chatelard started toward the hatchway, followed sharply by Jim's
revolver, but at the foot of the ladder he turned his contemptuous,
sneering face toward Jim, with the remark:
"Your words are the words of a fool, you pig of an American! There is
no lady aboard this yacht, and I never so much as heard of your Agatha
Redmond. Otherwise, I'd be pleased to play Mercury to your Venus."
To Jim's ears, every syllable the Frenchman spoke was an insult, and
the last words rekindled the fire in his blood.
"You shall pay for that speech here and now!" he yelled; and,
discarding his revolver, he dealt the Frenchman a short-arm blow.
Chatelard, trying to dodge, tripped over the base of the ladder and
went down heavily on the floor of the fo'cas'le. He had apparently
lost consciousness.
As Jim saw his victim stretched on the floor, he turned away with
loathing. He picked up his revolver and went up the ladder. It was
already dark, and confusion reigned on deck. But through the clamor,
Jim made out something near the truth: the _Jeanne D'Arc_ was leaking
badly, and no time was to be lost if she, with her passengers and crew,
were to be saved.
CHAPTER VII
THE ROPE LADDER
The near prospect of a conclusive struggle for life is a sharp tonic to
the adventurous soul. The actual final summons to that Other Room is
met variously. There is Earthly Dignity, who answers even this last
tap at the door with a fitting and quotable rejoinder; there is
Deathbed Repentance, whose unction _in momento mortis_ is doubtless a
comfort to pious relatives; and there are Chivalry and Valor, twin
youths who go to the unknown banquet singing and bearing their garlands
of joy.
But with the chance of a fight for life, there is a sharp-sweet tang
that sends some spirits galloping to the contest. "Dauntless the
slughorn to his lips he set--" making ready for the last good run.
When Jim descended the hatchway after reconnoitering on deck, Chatelard
was gone. The ship's cook was rummaging in a sailor's kit that he had
drawn from a locker. Jim mentally considered the situation. The
seamen had no doubt exaggerated the calamity, but without question
there was serious trouble. Were the pumps working? How far were they
from shore? If hopelessly distant from shore, were they in the course
of passing steamers? Would any one look after Miss Redmond's safety?
Monsieur Chatelard had said that she was not on board, but James did
not believe it.
While these thoughts new through his mind, James had been absently
watching while the cook turned his treasures out upon his bunk, and
pawed them over with trembling hands. There were innumerable little
things, besides a stiff white shirt, a cheap shiny Bible, a stuffed
parrot and several wads of clothes. And among the mess Jim caught
sight of a piece of stitched canvas that looked familiar.
"Hi, you there! That's my money-belt!" he cried, and jumped forward to
claim his own. But in his movement he failed to calculate with the
waves. The yacht gave another of her deep-sea plunges, and Jimmy,
thrown against his bunk, saw the cook grab his kit and make for the
ladder. He regained his feet only in time to follow at arm's length up
the hatchway. At the top he threw himself down, like a baseball runner
making his base, after the seaman's legs; but instead of a foot, he
found himself clutching one of the wads of clothes that trailed after
the cook's bundle. He caught it firmly and kept it, but the ship's
cook and the rest of his booty disappeared like a rabbit into its
burrow.
Jim sat down at the top of the ladder and examined his haul. It was a
pair of woolen trousers, and they were of generous size. He spread
them out on the deck. Round him were unmistakable signs of
demoralization. The second officer was ordering the men to the pumps
in stern tones; the yacht was pitching wildly and growing darkness was
settling on the face of the turbulent waters. But in spite of it all,
Jimmy's spirit leaped forth in laughter as he thought of his brief,
frantic chase, and its result in this capture of the characteristic
vestiture of man.
"What's money for, anyway!" he laughed, as he got up and clothed
himself once more.
There followed hours of superhuman struggle to save the _Jeanne D'Arc_.
Her crew, sufficient in ordinary weather, was too small to cope with
the storm and the leaking ship. Ballast had to be shifted or flung
overboard. Repairs had to be attempted in the hold; the pumps had to
be worked incessantly, It transpired that the yacht had gone far out of
her course during the fog the night before, and had tried to turn
inshore, even before the leak was discovered. No one knew what waters
they were that lashed so furiously about the disabled craft. The storm
overhead had abated, but the rage of the sea was unquelled. Before
long the engine was stopped by the rising water, and then the hand
pumps were used. There was some hope that the leak had been discovered
and at least partly repaired. The captain thought that, if carefully
managed, the yacht might hold till daylight.
Jimmy joined the gang and worked like a Trojan, helping wherever a man
was needed, shifting ballast, untackling the boats, handling the pump.
It was at the pump that he found himself, some time during the night,
working endlessly, it seemed. Not once had he lost sight of the real
purpose of his presence on the yacht. If Agatha Redmond were aboard
the unlucky vessel--and he had moments of curious perplexity about
it--he was there to watch for her safety. He pictured her sitting
somewhere in the endangered vessel. She could not but be terrified at
her predicament. Whether shipwreck or abduction threatened her, she
must feel that she had indeed fallen into the hands of her enemies.
He worked his turn at the pump, then made up his mind to risk no
further delay, but to search the ship's cabins. She was in one of
them, he believed; frightened she must be, possibly ill. He had done
all that the furthest stretch of duty could demand in assistance to the
ship. He would find Agatha Redmond at any cost, if she were aboard the
_Jeanne D'Arc_. Again he thought to himself that he was glad he was
there. Whatever purpose her enemies had, he alone was on her side, he
alone could do something to save her.
It was now long past midnight, but not pitch dark either on deck or on
the sea. The electric lights had gone out long before, but lanterns
had been swung here and there from the deck fixtures. As Jimmy came
up, he thought the men were preparing to lower the boats, but when he
asked about it in his difficult French, the sailor shook his head.
There were more people about than he supposed the yacht carried:
several seamen, three or four other men, and a fat woman sitting
apathetically on a pile of rope. He went from group to group, and from
end to end of the yacht, looking for one woman's face and figure. He
saw Monsieur Chatelard, examining one of the boats. He ran down the
saloon stairway, determined to search the cabins before he gave up his
quest. One moment he prayed that the words of Chatelard might be true,
and that she had never been aboard the yacht; the next moment he prayed
he might find her behind the next closed door.
As James searched below deck, a house palatial disclosed itself, even
in the dim light of the little lanterns. Cabins roomy and comfortable,
furnishings of exquisite taste, all the paraphernalia of the cultured
and the rich were there. Some of the cabin doors were standing open,
and none was locked. Jimmy beat on them, called from room to room,
finding nothing. Every human occupant was gone. Sick at heart, he
again rushed on deck. Was he mistaken, after all? Or had they hidden
her in some secret part of the ship where he could not find her?
When Jimmy got back to the deck he saw that the groups had gathered on
the port side. Sharp orders were being given. He crowded to the
railing, straining his eyes to see, and found that they were
transferring the ship's company to the boats, A rope ladder swung from
the deck to a boat beneath, which bobbed like a cork beside, the big,
plunging yacht. Two people were in the boat, a sailor standing at the
bow, and a large muffled figure of a woman sitting in the stern. Jimmy
at once knew her to be the apathetic fat woman he had seen a few
minutes before on deck. His eye searched the company crowded about the
top of the rope ladder, and suddenly his heart leaped. There she was,
at the edge of the deck, waiting for the captain to give the word for
her to descend to the boat below. As Jimmy's eyes grew accustomed to
the darkness, he saw her more and more plainly: a pale face framed in a
dark hood, a tall, cloaked figure waiting calmly to obey the word from
the superior officer.
It was the third time Jimmy had seen her, but he felt as if he had
found one dearer than himself. His eyes dwelt on her. She was not
terrified; her nerves were not shaken. "I am ready," she said, turning
to the captain. It was the same fine, free voice, suggesting--Oh, what
did it not suggest! Never this dark, wild night of danger! Jimmy
thrilled to it again as he had thrilled to it once before. He waved
jubilant hands. "Agatha Redmond!" he called, across the space and
heads that divided them.
Whether she heard his call he did not know. At that moment the word
was given, and she turned an almost smiling face to the captain in
reply. She knelt to the deck and got footing on the slippery rope.
Men above held it and helped as best they could, while the sailor below
waited to receive her into the little boat. She was steady and quick
as a woman in such a perilous position could be. As she descended, the
rowboat, insecurely held to the _Jeanne D'Arc_, slid sternward a few
feet; and while she waited in midair for the boat to be brought up
again, the _Jeanne D'Arc_ gave a mighty plunge. The captain shouted
from the deck, a sailor yelled, then another; the dipping sea tossed
the yacht so that for an instant the boat below and the woman on the
ladder were hidden from Jim's view. He climbed over the rail and edged
along the narrow margin of the deck until he was a few feet nearer the
rope, his heart thumping with fear of calamity.
And even as the thought came, the thing happened. The wrenching of the
ropes, the insecurity of their fastenings, some blunder on the part of
the seamen--whatever it was, the rope loosened like a filament of
gauze, and, with its precious burden, dropped into the angry water.
Before a breath could be drawn, the black waves churned over her head.
As, for the second time, Jim saw disaster engulf the Vision that had
such power over him, he was seized by a cold numbness.
"Oh, you brutes!" he groaned aloud; but his groan had scarcely escaped
him when he heard loud altercation among the men, and in a moment the
nasal tones of Monsieur Chatelard commanding: "Never mind! Quick with
the boat on the other side!"
The seamen rushed to the opposite side, now impatient to make the
boats. In the fear that was growing momently upon the men, there was
no one to give a thought to the vanished woman. Jimmy clung to the
rail for a second, peering over the water. With a cry of gladness he
saw her pale face rise to the surface of the water several feet away
and toward the bow.
"Keep up a second! It's all right!" he shouted. Quick as thought he
snatched a life preserver from its place on the rail, and ran forward.
He called thrice, "Keep up, I'm coming!" then threw the cork swiftly
and accurately to the very spot where she floated. A second longer he
watched, to see if she gained it. It seemed that she did, and yet
something was wrong. She was not able to right herself immediately in
the water, but floundered helplessly. Jimmy knew that her clothes were
hampering her, or else that the rope ladder had entangled her feet.
He turned and got his balance on the narrow ledge, pointed his hands
high above his head, and took a good breath. Then he dove toward the
floating face. When he came to the surface she was there, not ten
strokes away. He swam to her, placed firm hands under her arms, and
steadied her while she cleared her feet from the entangling rope.
"Thank God!" he breathed. "I'll save you yet!"
CHAPTER VIII
ON THE BREAST OF THE SEA
"Can you keep afloat in this roughness?"
"I think so, now that I have the life preserver. But the rope scared
me for a minute. It got wound about my feet."
"I thought so. But we are drifting away from the boats, and should
swim back as fast as we can. Can you swim?"
"Yes; better when I get rid of this cloak. Which way is the yacht?
I've lost my bearings."
"Behind us over there. Put your hand on my shoulder and I'll take you
along until you get your breath. So!"
The girl obeyed implicitly, "as if she were a good, biddable child,"
thought Jim. There was none of the terrified clutching at a rescuer
which sometimes causes disaster to two instead of one. Miss Redmond
was badly shocked, it may be; but she was far from being in a panic.
"Now for the boat. Can you swim a little faster? They'll surely come
back to pick us up," said Jim, with an assumption of confidence that he
did not feel. They could hear voices from the yacht, and could follow,
partially, what was going on. Miss Redmond cast loose her cloak, put a
hand on Jim's shoulder, and together they swam nearer. "Ahoy!" shouted
Jim. "Give us a hand!" But the boat with the large woman in it had
put about to the other side of the yacht. "Ahoy! This way!" shouted
Jim. "Throw us a rope!" he cried; but if any of the seamen of the
_Jeanne D'Arc_ heard, they paid no heed.
"Come this way," said James to his companion. "We'll catch them on the
other side of the yacht."
"I can't swim much in all these clothes," said Agatha.
"Never mind, then. Hold on to the life preserver and to me, and we'll
make it all right." On the crests of the swelling waves they swam
round the dark bulk of the vessel, and heard plainly the clamor of the
men as they embarked in the small boats. Two of them seemed to be
fastened together, raft-like, on the starboard side of the yacht, and
were quickly filled with men. Prayers and curses were audible, with
the loose, wild inflexion of the man who is in the clutch of an
overmastering fear. As long as there had been work for them to do on
the ship, they had done it, though sullenly; they had even controlled
themselves until the attempt was made to place the two women in safety.
But after that their self-restraint vanished. The orders of the
officers were unheeded; the men leaped and scrambled and slid into the
boats, and in a minute more they had cut loose from the _Jeanne D'Arc_.
James dimly perceived that the boats were moving away from them into
the darkness. Then he called, and called again, redoubling his speed
in swimming; but only the beat of the oars came back to him over the
water. The heart in him stood still with an unacknowledged fear. Was
it possible they were absolutely leaving them behind? Surely there
were other boats. He raised his voice and called again and again. At
last one voice, careless and brutal, called back something in reply.
Jim turned questioning eyes to the girl beside him, whose pale face was
clearly discernible on the dark water.
"He says the boats are all full."
"Then we must hurry and make for the yacht. Where is she?"
The _Jeanne D'Arc_ had slipped away from them into the darkness.
"She was this way, I thought. Yes, I am sure," said Agatha, pointing
into the night. But though they swam that way, they did not come upon
her. They turned a little, and then turned again, and presently they
lost every sense of direction.
In all his life Jim was never again destined to go through so black an
hour as that which followed the abandonment of the _Jeanne D'Arc_. His
courage left him, and his spirit sank to that leaden, choking abyss
where light did not exist. Since the immediate object of saving the
ship, for which he had worked as hard as any other, had been given up,
the next in importance was to save the woman who, for some mysterious
reason, had been aboard. It was beyond his power of imagination to
suppose that any other motive of action could possibly prevail, even
among her enemies. That they should leave her to drown, while they
themselves fled to comparative safety in a boat, was more than he could
believe.
"Surely they do not mean it; they must return, for you, at least."
The girl beside him knew better, but she was conscious of the
paralyzing despair in her companion's heart, and made a show of being
cheerful.
"When they find they are safe they may think of us," she said. "But
the men were already crazed with fear, even before the leak was
discovered. One of their mates on the voyage over was a
fortune-teller, and he prophesied danger to them all on their next
trip. After they had come into port, the fortune-teller himself died.
And who can blame them for their fear? They are all superstitious; and
as no one ever regarded their fears, now they have no regard for
anybody's feelings but their own."
"But we are in the middle of the Atlantic, no one knows where. We may
drift for days--we may starve--the Lord only knows what will happen to
us!"
Agatha, who had been floating, swam a little nearer and laid her hand
on Jim's shoulder, until he looked into her face. It was full of
strength and brightness.
"'The sea is His also,'" she quoted gently. "Besides, we may get
picked up," she went on. "I'm very well off, for my part, as you see.
Can swim or rest floating, thanks to this blessed cork thing, and not
at all hurt by the fall from the rope. But I must get rid of my shoes
and some of my clothes, if I have to swim."
It is awkward to kick off one's shoes and divest oneself of unnecessary
clothing in the water, and Agatha laughed at herself as she did it.
"Not exactly a bathing suit, but this one black skirt will have to do.
The others must go. It was my skirts that caused the mischief with the
rope at first. And I was scared!"
"You had a right to be." Jim helped her keep afloat, and presently he
saw that, freed from the entanglement of so many clothes, she was as
much at home in the water as he. Suddenly she turned to him, caught by
some recollection that almost eluded her.
"I don't think we are anywhere near the middle of the Atlantic," she
said thoughtfully. James was silent, eating the bitter bread of
despair, in spite of the woman's brave wish to comfort him. They were
swimming slowly as they talked, still hoping to reach the yacht. They
rose on the breast of the waves, paused now and then till a quieter
moment came, and always kept near each other in the pale blue darkness.
"Old Sophie said something--that some one had tampered with the wheel,
I think. At any rate, she said we'd never get far from shore with this
crew."
James considered the case. "But even suppose we are within a mile or
two, say, of the shore, could you ever swim two miles in this heavy
sea?"
"It is growing calmer every minute. See, I can do very well, even
swimming alone. It must be near morning, too, and that's always, a
good thing." There was the shadow of a laugh in her voice.
"Morning? That depends," growled Jim. He was being soothed in spite
of himself, and in spite of the direfulness of their situation. But
bad as the situation was, and would be in any case, he could not deny
the proposition that morning and daylight would make it better.
"But aren't you tired already? You must be." James turned closer to
her, trying to read her face. "It was a long night of anxiety, even
before we left the boat. Weren't you frightened?"
"Yes, of course; but I've been getting used to frights of late, if one
_can_ get used to them." Again there was the laugh in her voice, under
all its seriousness, even when she added: "I'm not sure that this isn't
safer than being on board the _Jeanne D'Arc_, after all!"
It was characteristic of James that he forebore to take advantage of
the opening this speech offered. The possible reason of her abduction,
her treatment on board the yacht, her relation to Monsieur
Chatelard--it was all a mystery, but he could not, at that moment, seek
to solve it. Her remark remained unanswered for a little time; at last
he said: "Then the _Jeanne D'Arc_ must have been pretty bad."
"It was," she said simply.
Jim wondered whether she knew more about the crime of which she was the
victim than he knew, or if she had discovered aught concerning it while
she was a prisoner on the yacht. Granting that her person was so
valuable that a man of Monsieur Chatelard's caliber would commit a
crime to get possession of it, why should he have abandoned her when
there was plainly some chance of safety in the boats? He could not
conceive of Monsieur Chatelard's risking his neck in an affair of
gallantry; cupidity alone would account for his part in the drama.
James went over and over the situation, as far as he understood it, but
he did none of his thinking aloud. It flashed on his mind that Miss
Redmond must already have separated him, in her thoughts, from the
other people on the yacht; though perhaps her trust was instinctive,
arising from her own need of help. How could she know that he had
risked his neck twice, now, to follow the Vision?
Swimming slowly, with Agatha's hand at times on his shoulder, James
turned his mind sharply to a consideration of their present position.
They had been alternately swimming and floating, hoping to come upon
the yacht. The darkness of the night was penetrable, so that they
could see a fairly large circle of water about them, but there was no
shadow of the _Jeanne D'Arc_. Save for the running surge of the
waters, all was silence. The pale forerunners of dawn had appeared.
Their swim after the boats of the _Jeanne D'Arc_ had warmed their
blood, so that for a while they were not conscious of the chill of the
water. But as the minutes lengthened, one by one, fatigue and cold
numbed their bodies. It was a test of endurance for a strong man; as
for the girl, Jim wondered at her strength and courage. She swam
superbly, with unhurried, steady strokes. If she grew chatteringly
cold, she would start into a vigorous swim, shoulder to shoulder with
James. If she lost her breath with the hard exercise, she would take
his hand, "so as not to lose you," she would say, and rest on the
breast of the waves. The wind dropped and the sea grew quiet, so that
they were no more cruelly buffeted, but rocked up and down on its
heaving bosom.
Once, while they were "resting" on the water, Agatha broke a long
silence with, "I wonder--" but did not at once say what she wondered
at. Jim said nothing, but she knew he was waiting and listening.
"Suppose this should be the Great Gateway," she said at last, very
slowly, but quite cheerfully and naturally. "I am wondering what there
is beyond."
"I've often wondered, too," said Jim.
"I've sometimes thought, and I've said it, too, that I was crazy to
die, just to see what happens," Agatha went on, laughing a little at
her own memories. "But I find I'm not at all eager for it, now, when
it would be so easy to go under and not come up again. Are you?"
"No, I've never felt eager to die; least of all, now."
Agatha was silent a while.
"What do you think death means? Shall we be we to-morrow, say,
provided we can't keep afloat?" she asked by and by.
"Why, yes, I think so," said Jim. "I don't know why or how, but I
guess we go on somewhere; and I rather think our best moments here--our
moments of happiness or heroism, if we ever have any--are going to be
the regular thing." Jim laughed a little, partly at his own lame
ending, and partly because he felt Agatha's hand closing more tightly
over his. He didn't want her to get blue just yet, after her brave
fight.
But Agatha wasn't blue. She answered thoughtfully: "That isn't a bad
idea," and then cheerfully turned to a consideration of the
possibilities of a rescue at dawn.
James had evolved a plan to wait till enough light came to enable them
to reach the _Jeanne D'Arc_, if she was still afloat; then to climb
aboard and hunt for provisions and life preservers or something to use
for a raft. If he could do this, then they would be in a somewhat
better plight, at least for a time. He prayed that the _Jeanne D'Arc_
might still be alive.
The two talked little, leaving silences between them full of wonder.
The details of life, the ordinary personalities, were blotted out.
Without explanation or speech of any kind, they understood each other.
They were not, in this hour, members of a complex and artificial
society; they were not even man and woman; they were two souls stripped
of everything but the need for fortitude and sweetness.
At last came the dawn. Slowly the blue curtain of night lifted,
lifted, until it became the blue curtain of sky, endlessly far away and
far above. A twinkling star looked down on the cup of ocean, glimmered
a moment and was gone. The light strengthened. A pearly, iridescent
quiver came upon the waters, repeating itself wave after wave, and
heralded the coming of the Lord Sun over the great murmuring sea. As
the light grew, they could see a constantly widening circle of ocean,
of which they were the center. As they rose and fell with the waves,
the horizon fell and rose to their vision, dim and undefined. Hand in
hand they floated in vaporous silver.
"The day has come at last, thank God!" breathed James.
"Yes, thank God!" answered the girl.
"Are you very cold?"
"The sun will soon warm us."
"Where did you learn to swim?"
"In England, mostly at the Isle of Wight, but I'm not half such a
dolphin as you are."
"Oh, well, boys have to swim, you know, and I was a boy once," Jim
answered awkwardly. Presently he asked, and his voice was full of awe:
"Have you ever seen the dawn--a dawn like this--before?"
"Never one like this," she whispered.
When daylight came, they found they had not traveled far from the scene
of the night's disaster; or, if they had, the _Jeanne D'Arc_ had
drifted with them. She was still afloat, and just as the sun rose they
saw her, apparently not far away, tossing rudderless to the waves.
There was no sign of the ship's boats.
At the renewed miracle of light, and at sight of the yacht, Jimmy's
hopes were reborn. His spirit bathed in the wonder of the day and was
made strong again. The night with its horrors of struggle and its
darkness was past, forgotten in the flush of hope that came with the
light.
Together they struck out toward the yacht, fresh with new courage. Now
that he could see plainly, Jim swam always a little behind Agatha,
keeping a watchful eye. She still took the water gallantly, nose and
closed mouth just topping the wave, like a spaniel. An occasional
side-stroke would bring her face level to the water, with a backward
smile for her companion. He gloried in her spirit, even while he
feared for her strength.
It was a longer pull to the yacht than they had counted upon, a heavy
tax on their powers of endurance. Jim came up to find Agatha floating
on her back and put his hand under her shoulders, steadying her easily.
"Now you can really rest," he said.
"I've looked toward the horizon so long, I thought I'd look up, way up,
for a change," she said cheerfully. "That's where the skylarks go,
when they want to sing--straight up into heaven!"
"Doesn't it make you want to sing?"
She showed no surprise at the question.
"Yes, it does, almost. But just as I thought of the skylarks, I
remembered something else; something that kept haunting me in the
darkness all night--
"'Master in song, good-by, good-by,
Down to the dim sea-line--'
I thought something or somebody was surely lost down in 'the dim
sea-line' last night."
"Who can tell? But I had a better thought than yours: Ulysses, like
us, swimming over the 'wine-dark sea'! Do you remember it? 'Then two
days and two nights on the resistless waves he drifted; many a time his
heart faced death.'"
"That's not a bit better thought than mine; but I like it. And I know
what follows, too. 'But when the fair-haired dawn brought the third
day, then the wind ceased; there came a breathless calm; and close at
hand he spied the coast, as he cast a keen glance forward, upborne on a
great wave.' That's it, isn't it?"
"I don't know, but I hope it is. 'The wine-dark sea' and the
'rosy-fingered dawn' are all I remember; though I'm glad you know what
comes next. It's a good omen. But look at the yacht; she's acting
strange!"
As the girl turned to her stroke, their attention was caught and held
by the convulsions of the _Jeanne D'Arc_. There was a grim fascination
in the sight.
It was obvious that she was sinking. While they had been resting, her
hull had sunk toward the water-line, her graceful bulk and delicate
masts showing strange against ocean and sky. Now she suddenly tipped
down at her stern; her bow was thrown up out of the water for an
instant, only to be drawn down again, slowly but irresistibly, as if
she were pulled by a giant's unseen hand. With a sudden last lurch she
disappeared entirely, and only widening circles fleetingly marked the
place of her going.
The two in the water watched with fascinated eyes, filled with awe.
When it was all over Agatha turned to her companion with a long-drawn
breath. Jim looked as one looks whose last hope has failed.
"I could never have let you go aboard, anyway!" He loved her anew for
that speech, but knew not how to meet her eyes.
"Well, Ulysses lost his raft, too!" he managed to say.
"He saw the sunrise, too, just as we have seen it; and he saw a distant
island, 'that seemed a shield laid on the misty sea.' Let's look hard
now, each time the wave lifts us. Perhaps we also shall see an island."
"We must swim harder; you are chilled through."
"Oh, no," she laughed. "I shivered at the thought of what a fright I
must look. I always did hate to get my hair wet."
"You look all right to me."
They were able to laugh, and so kept up heart. They tried to calculate
the direction the yacht had taken when she left port, and where the
land might lie; and when they had argued about it, they set out to swim
a certain way. In their hearts each felt that any calculation was
futile, but they pretended to be in earnest. They could not see far,
but they created for themselves a goal and worked toward it, which is
of itself a happiness.
So they watched and waited, ages long. Hope came to them again
presently. James, treading water, thrust up his head and scented the
air.
"I smell the salt marsh, which means land!" He sniffed again. "Yes,
decidedly!"
A moment later it was there, before their vision--that "shield laid on
the misty sea" which was the land. Only it was not like a shield, but
a rocky spit of coast land, with fir trees farther back. James made
for the nearest point, though his heart shrank to see how far away it
was. Fatigue and anxiety were taking their toll of his vigor. Neither
one had breath to spare even for exultation that the land was in sight.
Little by little Agatha grew more quiet, though not less brave. It
took all her strength to fight the water--that mighty element which
indifferently supports or engulfs the human atom. If she feared, she
made no sign. Bravely she kept her heart, and carefully she saved her
strength, swimming slowly, resting often, and wasting no breath in talk.
But more and more frequently her eyes rested wistfully on James, mutely
asking him for help. He watched her minute by minute, often begging
her to let him help her.
"Oh, no, not yet; I can go on nicely, if I just rest a little.
There--thank you."
Once she looked at him with such pain in her eyes that he silently took
her hands, placed them on his shoulder and carried her along with his
stronger stroke. She was reassured by his strength, and presently she
slipped away from him, smiling confidently again as she swam alongside.
"I'm all right now; but I suddenly thought, what if anything should
happen to you, and I be left alone! Or what if I should get panicky
and clutch you and drag you down, the way people do sometimes!"
"But I shan't leave you alone, and you're not going to do that!"
Agatha smiled, but could only say, "I hope not!"
She forged ahead a little, and presently had another moment of fright
on looking round and finding that Jim had disappeared. He had suddenly
dived, without giving her warning. He came up a second later, puffing
and spitting the bitter brine; but his face was radiant.
"Rocks and seaweed!" he cried. "The land is near. Come; I can swim
and take you, too, easily. And now I know certainly just which way to
go. Come, come!"
Agatha heard it all, but this time she was unable to utter a word. Jim
saw her stiff lips move in an effort to smile or speak, but he heard no
voice.
"Keep up, keep up, dear girl!" he cried. "We'll soon be there. Try,
_try_ to keep up! Don't lose for a moment the thought that you are
near land, that you are almost there. We _are_ safe, you _can_ go
on--only a few moments more!"
Poor Agatha strove as Jim bade her, gallantly, hearing his voice as
through a thickening wall; but she had already done her best, and more.
She struggled for a few half-conscious moments; then suddenly her arms
grew limp, her eyes closed, and her weight came upon Jim as that of a
dead person. Then he set his teeth and nerved himself to make the
effort of his life.
It is no easy thing to strain forward, swimming the high seas, bearing
above the surface a load which on land would make a strong man stagger.
One must watch one's burden, to guard against mishap; one must save
breath and muscle, and keep an eye for direction, all in a struggle
against a hostile element.
The goal still seemed incredibly far, farther than his strength could
go. Yet he swam on, fighting against the heartbreaking thought that
his companion had perhaps gone "down to the dim sea-line" in very
truth. She had been so brave, so strong. She had buoyed up his
courage when it had been fainting; she had fought splendidly against
the last terrible inertia of exhaustion.
"Courage!" he told himself. "We must make the land!" But it took a
stupendous effort. His strokes became unequal, some of them feeble and
ineffective; his muscles ached with the strain; now and then a strange
whirring and dizziness in his head caused him to wonder dimly whether
he were above or below water. He could no longer swim with closed
lips, but constantly threw his head back with the gasp that marks the
spent runner.
Holding Agatha Redmond in front of him, with her head well above the
water and her body partly supported by the life preserver, he swam
sometimes with one hand, sometimes only with his legs. He dared not
stop now, lest he be too late in reaching land or wholly unable to
regather his force. The dizziness increased, and a sharp pain in his
eyeballs recurred again and again. He could no longer see the land; it
seemed to him that it was blood, not brine, that spurted from nose and
mouth; but still he swam on, holding the woman safe. He made a
gigantic effort to shout, though he could scarcely hear his own voice.
Then he fixed his mind solely on his swimming, counting one stroke
after another, like a man who is coaxing sleep.
How long he swam thus, he did not know; but after many strokes he was
conscious of a sense of happiness that, after all, it wasn't necessary
to reach land or to struggle any more. Rest and respite from
excruciating effort were to be had for the taking--why had he withstood
them so long? The sea rocked him, the surge filled his ears, his limbs
relaxed their tension. Then it was that a strong hand grasped him, and
a second later the same hand dealt him a violent blow on the face.
He had to begin the intolerable exertion of swimming again, but he no
longer had a burden to hold safe; there was no burden in sight.
Half-consciously he felt the earth once more beneath his feet, but he
could not stand. He fell face forward into the water again at his
first attempt; and again the strong hand pulled him up and half-carried
him over some slimy rocks. It was an endless journey before the strong
hand would let him sit or lie down, but at last he was allowed to drop.
He vaguely felt the warmth of the sun drying his skin while the sea
hummed in his ears; he felt distinctly the sharp pain between his eyes,
and a parching thirst. He groped around in a delirious search for
water, which he did not find; he pressed his head and limbs against the
earth in an exquisite relief from pain; and at last his bruised feet,
his aching bones and head constrained him to a lethargy that ended in
sleep.
CHAPTER IX
THE CAMP ON THE BEACH
Sunset of the day that had dawned so strangely and wonderfully for
those two wayfarers of earth, James and Agatha, fell on a little camp
near the spit of coast-land toward which they had struggled. The point
lifted itself abruptly into a rocky bank which curved in and out,
yielding to the besieging waves. Just here had been formed a little
sandy cove partly protected by the beetling cliff. At the top was
verdure in abundance. Vines hung down over the face of the wall,
coarse grasses and underbrush grew to its very edge, and sharp-pointed
fir trees etched themselves against the clear blue of the sky. Below,
the white sand formed a sickle-shaped beach, bordered by the rocky
wall, with its sharp point dipping far out to sea. High up on the sand
a small rowboat was beached. There was no path visible up from the
shingle, but it was evident that the ascent would be easy enough.
Nevertheless, the campers did not attempt it. Instead, they had made a
fire of driftwood on the sand out of reach of the highest tide. Near
the fire they had spread fir boughs, and on this fragrant couch James
was lying. He was all unconscious, apparently, of the primitive nature
of his surroundings, the sweetness of his balsam bed, and the watchful
care of his two nurses.
Jim was in a bad way, if one could trust the remarks of his male nurse,
who spoke to an invisible companion as he gathered chips and other bits
of wood from the beach. He was a young, businesslike fellow with a
clean, wholesome face, dressed only in gauze shirt, trousers, and boots
without stockings; this lack, of course, was not immediately apparent.
The tide had just turned after the ebb, and he went far down over the
wet sand, sometimes climbing over the rocks farther along the shore
until he was out of sight of the camp.
Returning from one of these excursions, which had been a bit longer
than he intended, he looked anxiously toward the fire before depositing
his armful of driftwood. The blaze had died down, but a good bed of
coals remained; and upon this the young man expertly built up a new
fire. It crackled and blazed into life, throwing a ruddy glow over the
shingle, the rocks behind, and the figure lying on the balsam couch.
James's face was waxen in its paleness, save for two fiery spots on his
cheeks; and as he lay he stirred constantly in a feverish unrest. His
bare feet were nearest the fire; his blue woollen trousers and shirt
were only partly visible, being somewhat covered by a man's tweed coat.
The fire lighted up, also, the figure of Agatha Redmond. She was
kneeling at the farther end of Jim's couch, laying a white cloth, which
had been wet, over his temples. Her long dark hair was hanging just as
it had dried, except that it was tied together low in the back with a
string of slippery seaweed. Her neck was bare, her feet also; her
loose blouse had lost all semblance of a made-to-order garment, but it
still covered her; while a petticoat that had once been black satin
hung in stiff, salt-dried creases from her waist to a little below her
knees. She had the well-set head and good shoulders, with deep chest,
which make any garb becoming; her face was bonny, even now, clouded as
it was with anxiety and fatigue. She greeted the young man eagerly on
his return.
"If you could only find a little more fresh water, I am sure it would
help. The milk was good, only he would take so little. I think I
shall have to let you go this evening to hunt for the farm-house."
"Yes, Mademoiselle," the young man replied. He had wanted to go
earlier in the day, but the man was too ill and the woman too exhausted
to be left alone. He went on speaking slowly, after a pause. "I can
find the farm-house, I am sure, only it may take a little time.
Following the cattle would have been the quickest way; but I can find
the cowpath soon, even as it is. If you wouldn't be uneasy with me
gone, Mademoiselle!"
"Oh, no, we shall be all right now, till you can get back!" As she
spoke, Agatha's eyes rested questioningly on the youth who, ever since
she had revived from her faint of exhaustion, had teased her memory.
He had seen them struggling in the sea, and had swum out to her aid,
she knew; and after leaving her lying on a slimy, seaweed-covered rock,
he had gone out again and brought in her companion in a far worse
condition than herself. The young man, also, was a survivor of the
_Jeanne D'Arc_, having come from the disabled craft in the tiny rowboat
that was now on the beach. More than this she did not know, yet
something jogged her memory every now and then--something that would
not shape itself definitely. Indeed, she had been too much engrossed
in the serious condition of her companion and the work necessary to
make the camp, to spend any thought on unimportant speculations.
But now, as she listened to the youth's respectful tones, it suddenly
came back to her. She looked at him with awe-struck eyes.
"Oh, now I know! You are the new chauffeur; 'queer name, Hand!' Yes,
I remember--I remember."
"What you say is true, Mademoiselle."
He stood before her, a stubbornly submissive look on his face, as a
servant might stand before his betrayed master. It was as if he had
been waiting for that moment, waiting for her anger to fall on him.
But Agatha was speechless at her growing wonder at the trick fate had
played them. Her steady gaze, serious and earnest now, without a hint
of the laughter that usually came so easily, dwelt on the young man's
eyes for a moment, then she turned away as if she were giving up a
puzzling question. She looked at James, whose stubbly-bearded face was
now quiet against its green pillow, as if seeking a solution there; but
she had to fall back, at last, on the youth.
"Do you know who this man is?" she asked irrelevantly.
"No, Mademoiselle. He was picked up in New York harbor, the night we
weighed anchor. I have not seen him since until to-day."
"'The night we weighed anchor!' What night was that?"
"Last Monday, Mademoiselle; at about six bells."
"And what day is to-day?"
"Saturday, Mademoiselle; and past four bells now."
"Monday--Saturday!" Agatha looked abstractedly down on Jimmy asleep,
while upon her mind crowded the memories of that week. This man who
had dragged her and her rescuer from the water, who had made fire and a
bed for them, who had got milk for their sustenance, had been almost
the last person her conscious eyes had seen in that half-hour of terror
on the hillside. Her next memory, after an untold interval, was the
rocking of the ship, an old woman who treated her obsequiously, a man
who was her servile attendant and yet her jailer--but then, suddenly,
as she knelt there, mind and body refused their service. She crumpled
down on the soft sand, burying her head in her arms.
Hand came nearer and bent awkwardly over her, as if to coax her
confidence.
"It's all right now, Mademoiselle. Whatever you think of me, you can
trust me to do my best for you now."
"Oh, I'm not afraid of you now," Agatha moaned in a muffled voice.
"Only I'm so puzzled by it all--and so tired!"
"'Twas a fearful strain, Mademoiselle. But I can make you a bed here,
so you can sleep."
Agatha shook her head. "I can sleep on the sand, just as well."
"I think, Mademoiselle, I'd better be going above and look for help
from the village, as soon as I've supplied the fire. I'll leave these
few matches, too, in case you need them."
"Yes, you'd better go, Hand; and wait a minute, until I think it out."
Agatha sat up and pressed her palm to her forehead, straining to put
her mind upon the problem at hand. "Go for a doctor first, Hand; then,
if you can, get some food--bread and meat; and, for pity's sake, a
cloak or long coat of some kind. Then find out where we are, what the
nearest town is, and if a telegraph station is near. And stay; have
you any money?"
"A little, Mademoiselle; between nine and ten dollars."
"That is good; it will serve for a little while. Please spend it for
me; I will pay you. As soon as we can get to a telegraph station I can
get more. Get the things, as I have said; and then arrange, if you
can, for a carriage and another man, besides yourself and the doctor,
to come down as near this point as possible. You two can carry
him"--she looked wistfully at James--"to the carriage, wherever it is
able to meet us. But you will need to spend money to get all these
things; especially if you get them to-night, as I hope you may."
"I will try, Mademoiselle." The ex-chauffeur stood hesitating,
however. At last, "I hate to leave you here alone, with only a sick
man, and night coming on," he said.
"You need not be afraid for me," replied Agatha coldly. Her nerves had
given way, now that the need for active exertion was past, and were
almost at the breaking point. It came back to her again, moreover, how
this man and another had made her a prisoner in the motor-car, and at
the moment she felt foolish in trusting to him for further help. It
came into her mind that he was only seeking an excuse to run away, in
fear of being arrested later. A second time she looked up into his
eyes with her serious, questioning gaze.
"I don't know why you were in the plot to do as you did--last Monday
afternoon," she said slowly; "but whatever it was, it was unworthy of
you. You are not by nature a criminal and a stealer of women, I know.
And you have been kind and brave to-day; I shall never forget that. Do
you really mean now to stay by me?"
Hand's gaze was no less earnest than her own; and though he flinched at
"criminal," his eyes met hers steadily.
"As long as I can help you, Mademoiselle, I will do so."
At his words, spoken with sincerity, Agatha's spirit, tired and
overwrought as it was, rose for an instant to its old-time buoyancy.
She smiled at him.
"You mean it?" she asked. "Honest true, cross your heart?"
Hand's businesslike features relaxed a little. "Honest true, cross my
heart!" he repeated.
"All right," said Agatha, almost cheerfully. "And now you must go,
before it gets any darker. Don't try to return in the night, at the
risk of losing your way. But come as soon as you can after daylight;
and remember, I trust to you! Good-by."
Hand already, earlier in the day, had made a path for himself up the
steep bank through the underbrush, and now Agatha went with him to the
edge of the thicket. She watched and listened until the faint rustling
of his footsteps ceased, then turned back to the camp on the beach.
She went to the fire and stirred up its coals once more before
returning to James. He was sleeping, but his flushed face and
unnatural breathing were signs of ill. Now and then he moved
restlessly, or seemed to try to speak, but no coherent words came. She
sat down to watch by him.
After Agatha and James had been brought ashore by the capable Mr. Hand,
it had needed only time to bring Agatha back to consciousness. Both
she and James had practically fainted from exhaustion, and James had
been nearly drowned, at the last minute. Agatha had been left on the
rocks to come to herself as she would, while Hand had rubbed and
pummeled and shaken James until the blood flowed again. It had flowed
too freely, indeed, at some time during his ordeal; and tiny trickles
of blood showed on his lips. Agatha, dazed and aching, was trying to
crawl up to the sand when Hand came back to her, running lightly over
the slippery rocks. They had come in on the flowing tide, which had
aided them greatly; and now Hand helped her the short distance to the
cove and mercifully let her lie, while he went back to his work for
James.
Later he had got a little bucket, used for bailing out the rowboat, and
dashed hurriedly into the thicket above after some tinkling cowbells.
Though she was too tired to question him, Agatha supposed he had tied
one of the cows to a tree, since he returned three or four times to
fill the pail. What a wonderful life-giver the milk was! She had
drunk her fill and had tried to feed it to James, who at first tasted
eagerly, but had, on the whole, taken very little. He was only partly
awake, but he shivered and weakly murmured that he was cold. Agatha
quickly grew stronger; and she and Hand set to work to prepare the fire
and the bed. Almost while they were at this labor, the sun had gone
down.
Sitting by Jim's couch, Agatha grew sleepy and cold, but there were no
more coverings. Hand's coat was over Jim, and as Agatha herself felt
the cold more keenly she tucked it closer about him. Alone as she was
now, in solitude with this man who had saved her from the waters, with
darkness and the night again coming on, her spirit shrank; not so much
from fear, as from that premonition of the future which now and then
assails the human heart.
As she knelt by Jim's side, covering his feet with the coat and heaping
the fir boughs over him, she paused to look at his unconscious face.
She knew now that he did not belong to the crew of the _Jeanne D'Arc_;
but of his outward circumstances she knew nothing more. Thirty she
guessed him to be, thereby coming within four years of the truth. His
short mustache concealed his mouth, and his eyes were closed. It was
almost like looking at the mask of a face. The rough beard of a week's
growth made a deep shadow over the lower part of his face; and yet,
behind the mask, she thought she could see some token of the real man,
not without his attributes of divinity. In the ordeal of the night
before he had shown the highest order of patience, endurance and
courage, together with a sweetness of temper that was itself lovable.
But beyond this, what sort of man was he? Agatha could not tell. She
had seen many men of many types, and perhaps she recognized James as
belonging to a type; but if so, it was the type that stands for the
best of New England stock. In the centuries back it may have brought
forth fanatics and extremists; at times it may have built up its narrow
walls of prejudice and pride; but at the core it was sound and manly,
and responsive to the call of the spirit.
Something of all this passed through Agatha's mind, as she tried to
read Jim's face; then, as he stirred uneasily and tried to throw off
the light boughs that she had spread over him, she got up and went to
the edge of the water to moisten afresh the bandage for his forehead.
Involuntarily she shuddered at sight of the dark water, though the
lapping waves, pushing up farther and farther with the incoming tide,
were gentle enough to soothe a child.
She hurried back to Jim's couch and laid the cooling compress across
his forehead. The balsam boughs about them breathed their fragrance on
the night air, and the pleasant gloom rested their tired eyes.
Gradually he quieted down again; his restlessness ceased. The long
twilight deepened into darkness, or rather into that thin luminous blue
shade which is the darkness of starlit summer nights. The sea washed
the beach with its murmuring caress; somewhere in the thicket above a
night-bird called.
In a cranny of the rocks Agatha hollowed out the sand, still warm
beneath the surface here where the sun had lain on it through long
summer days, and made for herself a bed and coverlet and pillow all at
once. With the sand piled around and over her, she could not really
suffer; and she was mortally tired.
She looked up toward the clear stars, Vega and the jeweled cross almost
in the zenith, and ruddy Antares in the body of the shining Scorpion.
They were watching her, she thought, to-night in her peace as they had
watched her last night in her struggle, and as they would watch after
all her days and nights were done. And then she thought no more.
Sleep, blessed gift, descended upon her.
CHAPTER X
THE HEART OF YOUTH
"Agatha Redmond, can you hear me?"
She caught the voice faintly, as if it were a child's cry.
"I'm right here, yes; only wait just a second." She could not
instantly free herself from her sandy coverings, but she was wide awake
almost at the first words James had spoken. Faint as the voice had
been, she recognized the natural tones, the strongest he had uttered
since coming out of the water.
The night had grown cold and dark, and at first she was a trifle
bewildered. She was also stiff and sore, almost beyond bearing. She
had to creep along the sand to where Jim lay. The fire had burned
wholly out, and the sand felt damp as she crawled over it. When she
came near, she reached out her hand and laid it on Jim's forehead. He
was shivering with cold.
"You poor man! And I sleeping while I ought to be taking care of you!
I'll make the fire and get some milk; there is still a little left."
As she tried to make her aching bones lift her to her feet, she became
aware that the man was fumbling at his coverings and trying to say
something.
She bent down to hear his words, which were incredibly faint.
"I don't want any fire or any milk. I only wanted to know if you were
there," he said diffidently, as if ashamed of his childishness.
She leaned over him, speaking gently and touching his head softly with
her firm, cool hands.
"You're a little better now, aren't you, after your sleep? Don't you
feel a little stronger?"
"Yes, I'm better, lots better," he whispered. "I must have been
sleeping for ages. When I woke up I thought I had a beastly chill or
something; but I'm all right now; only suddenly I felt as if I must
know if you were there, and if it _was_ you."
He smiled at his own words, and Agatha was reassured.
"I think you'll be still better for a little milk," she said, and crept
away to get the pail, which had been hidden on a shelf of rock. When
she came back with it, James tried manfully to sit up; but Agatha
slipped an arm under his neck, in skilful nurse fashion, and held the
bucket while he drank, almost greedily. As he sank back on his bed he
whispered: "You are very good to take care of me."
"Oh, no; I'm only too glad! And now I'm going to build up the fire
again; your hands are quite cold."
"No, don't go," he pleaded. "Please stay here; I'm not cold any more.
And you must go to sleep again. I ought not to have wakened you; and,
really, I didn't mean to."
"Yes, you ought. I've had lots of sleep; I don't want any more."
"It's dark, but it's better than it was that other night, isn't it?"
said James.
"Much better," answered Agatha.
James visibly gathered strength from the milk, and presently he took
some more. Agatha watched, and when he had finished, patted him
approvingly on the hand, "Good boy! You've done very well," she cried.
"I was so thirsty, I thought the whole earth had run dry. Will you
think me very ungrateful if I say now I wish it had been water?"
"Oh, no; I wish so, too. But Mr. Hand could only get us a little bit
from a spring, for there isn't any other pail."
It was some time before Jim made out to inquire, "Who's Mr. Hand?"
"He's the man that helped us--out of the water--when we became
exhausted."
Agatha hesitated to speak of the night's experience, uncertain how far
Jim's memory carried him, and not knowing how a sick man, in his
weakness, might be affected. Still, now that he seemed almost himself
again, save for the chill, she ventured to refer to the event, speaking
in a matter-of-fact way, as if such endurance tests were the most
natural events in the world. James' speech was quite coherent and
distinct, but very slow, as if the effort to speak came from the depths
of a profound fatigue.
"Hand--that's a good name for him. I thought it was the hand of God,
which plucked me, like David, or Jonah, or some such person, out of the
seething billows. But I didn't think of there being a man behind."
Then, after a long silence, "Where is he?"
"He's gone off to find somebody to help us get away from here: a
carriage or wagon of some sort, and some food and clothes."
Something caused Jim to ejaculate, though quite feebly, "You poor
thing!" And then he asked, very slowly, "Where is 'here'?"
"I don't know; and Mr. Hand doesn't know."
"And we've lost our tags," laughed Jim faintly.
Agatha couldn't resist the laugh, though the weakness in Jim's voice
was almost enough to make her weep as well.
"Yes, we've lost our tags, more's the pity. Mr. Hand thinks we're
either on the coast of Maine, of on an island somewhere near the coast.
I myself think it must at least be Nova Scotia, or possibly
Newfoundland. But Hand will find out and be back soon, and then we'll
get away from here and go to some place where we'll all be comfortable."
Agatha stole away, and with much difficulty succeeded in kindling the
fire again. She tended it until a good steady heat spread over the
rocks, and then returned to James. She curled up, half sitting, half
lying, against the rocks.
Clouds had risen during the recent hours, and it was much darker than
the night before had been. The ocean, washing its million pebbles up
on the little beach, moaned and complained incessantly. In the long
intervals between their talk, Agatha's head would fall, her eyes would
close, and she would almost sleep; but an undercurrent of anxiety
concerning her companion kept her always at the edge of consciousness.
James himself appeared to have no desire to sleep. He was trying to
piece together, in his mind, his conscious and unconscious memories.
At last he said:
"I guess I haven't been much good--for a while--have I?"
Agatha considered before replying. "You were quite exhausted, I think;
and we feared you might be ill."
"And Handy Andy got my job?" She laughed outright at this, as much for
the feeling of reassurance it gave her as for the jest itself.
"Handy Andy certainly _had_ a job, with us two on his hands!" she
laughed.
"I bet he did!" cried James, with more vigor than he had shown before.
"He's a great man; I'm for him! When's he coming back?"
"Early in the morning, I hope," said Agatha, swallowing her misgivings.
"That's good," said James. "I think I'll be about and good for
something myself by that time."
There was another long pause, so long that Agatha thought James must
have gone to sleep again. He thought likewise of her, it appeared; for
when he next spoke it was in a careful whisper:
"Are you still awake, Agatha Redmond?"
"Yes, indeed; quite. Do you want anything?"
"Yes, a number of things. First, are you quite recovered from the
trouble--that night's awful trouble?" He seemed to be wholly lost as
to time. "Did you come off without any serious injury? Do you look
like yourself, strong and rosy-cheeked again?"
Agatha replied heartily to this, and her answer appeared to satisfy
James for the moment. "Though," she added, "here in the dark, who can
tell whether I have rosy cheeks or not?"
"True!" sighed James, but his sigh was not an unhappy one. Presently
he began once more: "I want to know, too, if you weren't surprised that
I knew your name?"
"Well, yes, a little, when I had time to think about it. How _did_ you
know it?"
James laughed. "I meant to keep it a secret, always; but I guess I'll
tell, after all--just you. I got it from the program, that Sunday, you
know."
"Ah, yes, I understand." She didn't quite understand, at first; for
there had been other Sundays and other songs. But she could not weary
him now with questions.
As they lay there the slow, monotonous susurrus of the sea made a deep
accompaniment to their words. It was near, and yet immeasurably far,
filling the universe with its soft but insistent sound and echoes of
sound. At the back of her mind, Agatha heard it always, low,
threatening, and strong; but on the surface of her thoughts, she was
trying to decide what she ought to do. She was thinking whether she
might question her companion a little concerning himself, when he
answered her, in part, of his own accord.
"You couldn't know who I am, of course: James Hambleton, of Lynn. Jim,
Jimmy, Jimsy, Bud--I'm called most anything. But I wanted to tell
you--in fact, that's what I waked up expressly for--I wanted to tell
you--"
He paused so long, that Agatha leaned over, trying to see his face.
The violence of the chill had passed. His eyes were wide open, his
face alarmingly pale. She felt a sudden qualm of pain, lest illness
and exhaustion had wrought havoc in his frame deeper than she knew.
But as she bent over him, his features lighted up with his rare
smile--an expression full of happiness and peace. He lifted a hand,
feebly, and she took it in both her own. She felt that thus, hand in
hand, they were nearer; that thus she could better be of help to him.
"I wanted to tell you," he began again, "that whatever happens, I'm
glad I did it."
"Did what, dear friend?" questioned Agatha, thinking in her heart that
the fever had set his wits to wandering.
"Glad I followed the Face and the Voice," he answered feebly. Agatha
watched him closely, torn with anxiety. She couldn't bear to see him
suffer--this man who had so suddenly become a friend, who had been so
brave and unselfish for her sake, who had been so cheerful throughout
their night of trouble.
"I told old Aleck," James went on, "that I'd have to jump the fence;
but that was ages ago. I've been harnessed down so long, that I
thought I'd gone to sleep, sure enough." Agatha thought certainly that
now he was delirious, but she had no heart to stop his gentle
earnestness. He went on: "But you woke me up. And I wouldn't have
missed this last run, not for anything. 'Twas a great night, that
night on the water, with you; and whatever happens, I shall always
think _that_ worth living for; yes, well worth living for."
James's voice died away into incoherence and at last into silence.
Agatha, holding his hands in hers, watched him as he sank away from her
into some realm whither she could not follow. Either his hour of
sanity and calmness had passed, and fever had taken hold upon his
system; or fatigue, mental and physical, had overpowered him once more.
Presently she dropped his hand gently, looked to the coverings of his
couch, and settled herself down again to rest.
But no more sleep came to her eyes that night. She thought over all
that James had said, remembering his words vividly. Then her thoughts
went back over the years, recalling she knew not what irrelevant
matters from the past. Perhaps by some underlying law of association,
there came to her mind, also, the words of the song she had sung on the
Sunday which James had referred to--
"Free of my pain, free of my burden of sorrow,
At last I shall see thee--"
What ages it was since she had sung that song! And this man, this
James Hambleton, it appeared, had heard her sing it; and somehow, by
fate, he had been tossed into the same adventure with herself.
Unconsciously, Agatha's generous heart began to swell with pride in
James's strength and courage, with gratitude for his goodness to her,
and with an almost motherly pity for his present plight. She would
admit no more than that; but that, she thought, bound her to him by
ties that would never break. He would always be different to her, by
reason of that night and what she chose to term his splendid heroism.
She had seen him in his hour of strength, that hour when the overman
makes half-gods out of mortals. It was the heart of youth, plus the
endurance of the man, that had saved them both. It had been a call to
action, dauntlessly answered, and he himself had avowed that the
struggle, the effort, even the final pain, were "worth living for!"
Thinking of his white face and feeble voice, she prayed that the high
gods might not regard them worth dying for.
CHAPTER XI
THE HOME PORT
The darkness of the night slowly lifted, revealing only a gray, leaden
sky. There was no dawn such as had gladdened their hearts the morning
before, no fresh awakening of the day. Instead, the coldness and gloom
of the night seemed but to creep a little farther away, leaving its
shadow over the world. A drizzling rain began to fall, and the
wanderers on the beach were destined to a new draft of misery. Only
Agatha watched, however; James gave no sign of caring, or even of
knowing, whether the sun shone or hid its face.
He had slept fitfully since their hour of wakefulness together in the
night, and several times he had shown signs of extreme restlessness.
At these periods he would talk incoherently, Agatha being able to catch
only a word now and then. Once he endeavored to get up, bent,
apparently, upon performing some fancied duty far away. Agatha soothed
him, talked to him as a mother talks to a sick child, cajoled and
commanded him; and though he was restless and voluble, yet he obeyed
her readily enough.
As the rain began to descend, Agatha bethought herself earnestly as to
what could be done. She first persuaded James to drink a little more
of the milk, and afterward took what was left herself--less than half a
cupful. Then she set the bucket out to catch the rain. She felt
keenly the need of food and water; and now that there was no one to
heed her movements, she found it difficult to keep up the show of
courage. She still trusted in Hand; but even at best he might yet be
several hours in returning; and cold and hunger can reduce even the
stoutest heart. If Hand did not return--but there was no answer to
that _if_. She believed he would come.
The soft rain cast a pall over the ocean, so that only a small patch of
sea was visible; and it flattened the waves until the blue-flashing,
white-capped sea of yesterday was now a smooth, gray surface, touched
here and there by a bit of frothy scum. Agatha looked out through the
deep curtain of mist, remembering the night, the _Jeanne D'Arc_, and
her recent peril. Most vividly of all she heard in her memory a voice
shouting, "Keep up! I'm coming, I'm coming!" Ah, what a welcome
coming that had been! Was he to die, now, here on her hands, after the
worst of their struggle was over? She turned quickly back to James,
vowing in her heart it should not be; she would save him if it lay in
human power to save.
Her hardest task was to move their camp up into the edge of the
brushwood, where they might have the shelter of the trees. There was a
place, near the handle of the sickle, where the rock-wall partly
disappeared, and the undergrowth from the cliff reached almost to the
beach. It was from here that Hand had begun his ascent; and here
Agatha chose a place under a clump of bayberry, where she could make
another bed for James. The ground there was still comparatively dry.
She coaxed James to his feet and helped him, with some difficulty, up
to the more sheltered spot. He was stronger, physically, now in his
delirium than he had been during his period of sanity in the night.
She made him sit down while she ran back to gather an armful of the fir
boughs to spread out for his bed; but she had scarcely started back for
the old camp before James got to his feet and staggered after her. She
met him just as she was returning, and had to drop her load, take her
patient by the arm, and guide him back to the new shelter. He went
peacefully enough, but leaned on her more and more heavily, until at
last his knees weakened under him and he fell. Agatha's heart smote
her.
They were near the bayberry bush, though entirely out from its
protection. As the drizzling rain settled down thicker and thicker
about them, Agatha tried again. Slowly she coaxed James to his knees,
and slowly, she helped him creep, as she had crept toward him in the
night, along between the stones and up into the sheltered corner under
the bayberry. It was only a little better than the open, and it had
taken such prodigies of strength to get there!
Agatha made a pillow for James's head and sat by him, looking earnestly
at his flushed face; and from her heart she sighed, "Ah, dear man, it
was too hard! It was too hard!"
It was a long and weary wait for help, though help of a most efficient
kind was on the way. Agatha had been looking and listening toward the
upper wood, whither Hand had disappeared. She had even called, from
time to time, on the chance that she could help to guide the assisting
party back to the cove. At last, as she listened for a reply to her
call, she heard another sound that set her wondering; it was the
p-p-peter-peter of a motor-boat. She looked out over the small expanse
of ocean that was visible to her, but could see nothing. Nevertheless
the boat was approaching, as its puffing proclaimed. It grew more and
more distinct, and presently a strong voice shouted "Ahoy! Are you
there?"
Three times the shout came. Agatha made a trumpet of her hands and
answered with a call on two notes, clear and strong. "All right!" came
back; and then, "Call again! We can't find you!" And so she called
again and again, though there were tears in her eyes and a lump in her
throat for very relief and joy. When her eyes cleared, she saw the
boat, and watched while it anchored well off the rocks; then two men
put ashore in a rowboat.
"And where are our patients?" came a deep, steady voice from the rocks.
"This way, sir. I think mademoiselle has moved the camp up under the
trees," was the reply, unmistakably the voice of Mr. Hand.
And there they found Agatha, kneeling by James and trying to coax him
to his feet. "Quick, they have come! You will be cared for now, you
will be well again!" she was saying. She saw Hand approach and heard
him say: "This way, Doctor Thayer. The gentleman is up here under the
trees," and then, for the first time in all the long ordeal, Agatha's
nerves broke and her throat filled with sobs. As the ex-chauffeur came
near, she reached a hand up to him, while with the other she covered
her weeping eyes in shame.
"Oh, I'm so glad you've come! I'm so glad you've come!" she tried to
say, but it was only a whisper through her sobs.
"I'm sorry I was gone so long," said Hand, touching her timidly on the
shoulder.
"Tell the doctor to take care of him," she begged in the faintest of
voices; and then she crept away, thinking to hide her nerves until she
should come to herself again. But Hand followed her to the niche in
the rocks where she fled, covered her with something big and warm, and
before she knew it he had made her drink a cup that was comforting and
good. Then he gave her food in little bits from a basket, and sweet
water out of a bottle. Agatha's soul revived within her, and her heart
became brave again, though she still felt as if she could never move
from her hard, damp resting-place among the rocks.
"You stay there, please, Mademoiselle," adjured Mr. Hand. "When we get
the boat ready, I'll come for you." Then, standing by her in his
submissive way, he added a thought of his own: "It's very hard,
Mademoiselle, to see you cry!"
"I'm not crying," shrieked Agatha, though her voice was muffled in her
arms.
"Very well, Mademoiselle," acquiesced the polite Hand, and departed.
Two men could not have been found who were better fitted for managing a
relief expedition than Hand and Doctor Thayer. Agatha found herself,
after an unknown period of time, sitting safe under the canvas awning
of the launch, protected by a generous cloak, comforted with food and
stimulant, and relieved of the pressing anxiety, that had filled the
last hours in the cove.
She had, in the end, been quite unable to help; but the immediate need
for her help was past. Doctor Thayer, coming with his satchel of
medicines, had at first given his whole attention to James, examining
him quickly and skilfully as he lay where Agatha had left him. Later
he came to Agatha with a few questions, which she answered clearly; but
James, left alone, immediately showed such a tendency to wander around,
following the hallucinations of his brain, that the doctor decided that
he must have a sedative before he could be taken away. The needle,
that friend of man in pain, was brought into use; and presently they
were able to leave the cove. Doctor Thayer and Mr. Hand carried James
to the rowboat, and the engineer, who had stayed in the launch, helped
them lift him into the larger boat. "No more walking at present for
this man!" said the doctor.
They were puffing briskly over the water, with the tiny rowboat from
the _Jeanne D'Arc_ and the boat belonging to the launch cutting a long
broken furrow behind them. Mr. Hand was minding the engine, while the
engineer and owner of the launch, Little Simon--so-called probably
because he was big--stood forward, handling the wheel. Jim was lying
on some blankets and oilskins on the floor of the boat, the doctor
sitting beside him on a cracker-box. Agatha, feeling useless and
powerless to help, sat on the narrow, uncomfortable seat at the side,
watching the movements of the doctor. She was unable to tell whether
doubt or hope prevailed in his rugged countenance.
At last she ventured her question; but before replying Doctor Thayer
looked up at her keenly, as if to judge how much of the truth she would
be able to bear.
"The hemorrhage was caused by the strain," he said at last, slowly.
"It is bad enough, with this fever. If his constitution is sound, he
may pull through."
Not very encouraging, but Agatha extracted the best from it. "Oh, I'm
so thankful!" she exclaimed. Doctor Thayer looked at her, a deep
interest showing in his grim old face. While she looked at James, he
studied her, as if some unusual characteristic claimed his attention,
but he made no comment.
Doctor Thayer was short in stature, massively built, with the head and
trunk of some ancient Vulcan. His heavy, large features had a rugged
nobility, like that of the mountains. His face was smooth-shaven,
ruddy-brown, and deeply marked with lines of care; but most salient of
all his features was the massively molded chin and jaw. His lips, too,
were thick and full, without giving the least impression of grossness;
and when he was thinking, he had a habit of thrusting his under jaw
slightly forward, which made him look much fiercer than he ever felt.
Thin white hair covered his temples and grew in a straggling fringe
around the back of his head, upon which he wore a broad-brimmed soft
black hat.
Doctor Thayer would have been noticeable, a man of distinction,
anywhere; and yet here he was, with his worn satchel and his
old-fashioned clothes, traveling year after year over the country-side
to the relief of farmers and fishermen. He knew his science, too. It
never occurred to him to doubt whether his sphere was large enough for
him.
"I haven't found out yet where we are, or to what place we are going.
Will you tell me, sir?" asked Agatha.
"You came ashore near Ram's Head, one of the worst reefs on the coast
of Maine; and we're heading now for Charlesport; that's over yonder,
beyond that next point," Doctor Thayer answered. After a moment he
added: "I know nothing about your misfortunes, but I assume that you
capsized in some pesky boat or other. When you get good and ready, you
can tell me all about it. In the meantime, what is your name, young
woman?"
The doctor turned his searching blue eyes toward Agatha again, a
courteous but eager inquiry underneath his brusque manner.
"It is a strange story, Doctor Thayer," said Agatha somewhat
reluctantly; "but some time you shall hear it. I must tell it to
somebody, for I need help. My name is Agatha Redmond, and I am from
New York; and this gentleman is James Hambleton of Lynn--so he told me.
He risked his life to save mine, after we had abandoned the ship."
"I don't doubt it," said Doctor Thayer gruffly. "Some blind dash into
the future is the privilege of youth. That's why it's all recklessness
and foolishness."
Agatha looked at him keenly, struck by some subtle irony in his voice.
"I think it is what you yourself would have done, sir," she said.
The doctor thrust out his chin in his disconcerting way, and gave not
the least smile; but his small blue eyes twinkled.
"My business is to see just where I'm going and to know exactly what
I'm doing," was the dry answer. He turned a watchful look toward
James, lying still there between them; then he knelt down, putting an
ear over the patient's heart.
"All right!" he assured her as he came up. "But we never know how
those organs are going to act." Satisfying himself further in regard
to James, he waited some time before he addressed Agatha again. Then
he said, very deliberately: "The ocean is a savage enemy. My brother
Hercules used to quote that old Greek philosopher who said, 'Praise the
sea, but keep on land.' And sometimes I think he was right."
Agatha's tired mind had been trying to form some plan for their future
movements. She was uneasily aware that she would soon have to decide
to do something; and, of course, she ought to get back to New York as
soon as possible. But she could not leave James Hambleton, her friend
and rescuer, nor did she wish to. She was pondering the question as
the doctor spoke; then suddenly, at his words, a curtain of memory
snapped up. "My brother Hercules" and "Charlesport!"
She leaned forward, looking earnestly into the doctor's face. "Oh,
tell me," she cried impulsively, "is it possible that you knew Hercules
Thayer? That he was your brother? And are we in the neighborhood of
Ilion?"
"Yes--yes--yes," assented the doctor, nodding to each of her questions
in turn; "and I thought it was you, Agatha Shaw's girl, from the first.
But you should have come down by land!" he dictated grimly.
"Oh, I didn't intend to come down at all," cried Agatha; "either by
land or water! At least not yet!"
Doctor Thayer's jaw shot out and his eyes shone, but not with humor
this time. He looked distinctly irritated. "But my dear Miss Agatha
Redmond, where _did_ you intend to go?"
Agatha couldn't, by any force of will, keep her voice from stammering,
as she answered: "I wasn't g-going anywhere! I was k-kidnapped!"
Doctor Thayer looked sternly at her, then reached toward his medicine
chest. "My dear young woman--" (Why is it that when a person is
particularly out of temper, he is constrained to say My _Dear_ So and
So?) "My dear young woman," said Doctor Thayer, "that's all right, but
you must take a few drops of this solution. And let me feel your
pulse."
"Indeed, Doctor, it is all so, just as I say," interrupted Agatha.
"I'm not feverish or out of my head, not the least bit. I can't tell
you the whole story now; I'm too tired--"
"Yes, that's so, my dear child!" said the doctor, but in such an
evident tone of yielding to a delirious person, that he nearly threw
her into a fever with anger. But on the whole, Agatha was too tired to
mind. He took her hand, felt of her pulse, and slowly shook his head;
but what he had to say, if he had anything, was necessarily postponed.
The launch was putting into the harbor of Charlesport.
Even on the dull day of their arrival, Charlesport was a pleasant
looking place, stretching up a steep hill beyond the ribbon of street
that bordered its harbor. Fish-houses and small docks stood out here
and there, and one larger dock marked the farthest point of land. A
great derrick stood by one wharf, with piles of granite block near by.
Little Simon was calling directions back to Hand at the engine as they
chugged past fishing smacks and mooring poles, past lobster-pot buoys
and a little bug-lighthouse, threading their way into the harbor and up
to the dock. Agatha appealed to the doctor with great earnestness.
"Surely, Doctor Thayer, it is a Providence that we came in just here,
where people will know me and will help me. I need shelter for a
little while, and care for my sick friend here. Where can we go?"
Doctor Thayer cast a judicial eye over the landscape, while he held his
hat up into the breeze. "It's going to clear; it'll be a fine
afternoon," said he. Then deliberately: "Why don't you go up to the
old red house? Sallie Kingsbury's there keeping it, just as she did
when Hercules was alive; waiting for you or the lawyer or somebody to
turn her out, I guess. And it's only five miles by the good road. You
couldn't go to any of these sailor shacks down here, and the big summer
hotel over yonder isn't any place for a sick man, let alone a lady
without her trunk."
Agatha looked in amazement at the doctor. "Go to the old red house--to
stay?"
"Why not? If you're Agatha Redmond, it's yours, isn't it? And I guess
nobody's going to dispute your being Agatha Shaw's daughter, looking as
you do. The house is big enough for all creation; and, besides,
they've been on pins and needles, waiting for you to come, or write, or
do something." The doctor gave a grim chuckle. "Hercules surprised
them all some, by his will. But they'll all be glad to see you, I
guess, unless it is Sister Susan. She was always pretty hard on
Hercules; and she didn't approve of the will--thought the house ought
to go to the Foundling Asylum."
Agatha looked as if she saw the gates of Eden opened to her. "But
could I really go there? Would it be all right? I've not even seen
the lawyer." There was no need of answers to her questions; she knew
already that the old red house would receive her, would be a refuge for
herself and for James, who needed a refuge so sorely.
The doctor was already making his plans. "I'll drive this man here,"
indicating James, "and he'll need some one to nurse him for a while,
too. You can go up in one of Simon Nash's wagons; and I'll get a nurse
up there as soon as I can."
The launch had tied up to the larger dock, and Hand and Little Simon
had been waiting some minutes while Agatha and the doctor conferred
together. Now, as Agatha hesitated, the businesslike Hand was at her
elbow. "I can help you, Mademoiselle, if you will let me. I have had
some experience with sick men." Agatha looked at him with grateful
eyes, only half realizing what it was he was offering. The doctor did
not wait, but immediately took the arrangement for granted. He began
giving orders in the tone of a man who knows just what he wants done,
and knows also that he will be obeyed.
"You stay here, Mr. Hand, and help with this gentleman; and Little
Simon, here, you go up to your father's livery stable and harness up,
quick as you can. Then drive up to my place and get the boy to bring
my buggy down here, with the white horse. Quick, you understand? Tell
them the doctor's waiting."
Agatha sat in the launch while the doctor's orders were carried out.
Little Simon was off getting the vehicles; Doctor Thayer had run up the
dock to the village street on some errand, saying he would be back by
the time the carriages were there; and Hand was walking up and down the
dock, keeping a watchful eye on the launch. James was lying in the
sheltered corner of the boat, ominously quiet. His eyes were closed,
and his face had grown ghastly in his illness. Tears came to Agatha's
eyes as she looked at him, seeing how much worse his condition was than
when he had talked with her, almost happily, in the night. She herself
felt miserably tired and ill; and as she waited, she had the sensation
one sometimes has in waiting for a train; that the waiting would go on
for ever, would never end.
The weather changed, as the doctor had prophesied, and the rain ceased.
Fresh gusts of wind from the sea blew clouds of fog and mist inland,
while the surface of the water turned from gray to green, from green to
blue. The wind, blowing against the receding tide, tossed the foam
back toward the land in fantastic plumes. Agatha, looking out over the
sea, which now began to sparkle in the light, longed in her heart to
take the return of the sunshine as an omen of good. It warmed and
cheered her, body and soul.
As her eyes turned from the sea to the village tossed up beyond its
highest tides, she searched, though in vain, for some spot which she
could identify with the memories of her childhood. She must have seen
Charlesport in some one of her numerous visits to Ilion as a child; but
though she recalled vividly many of her early experiences, they were in
no way suggestive of this tiny antiquarian village, or of the rocky
hillside stretching off toward the horizon. A narrow road wound
athwart the hill, leading into the country beyond. It was steep and
rugged, and finally it curved over the distant fields.
But the old red house was the talisman that brought back to her mind
the familiar picture. She wondered if it lay over the hill beyond that
rugged road. She closed her eyes and saw the green fields, the mighty
balm-of-gilead tree, the lilac bushes, and the dull red walls of the
house standing back from the village street, not far from the
white-steepled church. She could see it all, plainly. The thought
came to her suddenly that it was home. It was the first realization
she had of old Hercules Thayer's kindness. It was Home for her who had
else been homeless. She hugged the thought in thankfulness.
"Now, Miss Agatha Redmond, if you will come--"
The eternity had ended; and time, with its swift procession of hours
and days, had begun again.
CHAPTER XII
SEEING THE RAINBOW
A few days on a yacht, with a calm sea and sun-cool weather, may be
something like a century of bliss for a pair of lovers, if they happen
to have taken the lucky hour. The conventions of yacht life allow a
companionship from dawn till dark, if they choose to have it; there is
a limited amount of outside distraction; if the girl be an outdoor
lass, she looks all the sweeter for the wind rumpling her hair; and on
shipboard, if anywhere, mental resourcefulness and good temper achieve
their full reward.
Aleck had been more crafty than he knew when he carried Mélanie and
Madame Reynier off on the _Sea Gull_. Almost at the last moment Mr.
Chamberlain had joined them, Aleck's liking for the man and his
instinct of hospitality overcoming his desire for something as near as
possible to a solitude _à deux_ with Mélanie.
They could not have had a better companion. Mr. Chamberlain was
nothing less than perfect in his position as companion and guest. He
enjoyed Madame Reynier's grand duchess manners, and spared himself no
trouble to entertain both Madame Reynier and Mélanie. He was a hearty
admirer, if not a suitor, of the younger woman; but certain it was,
that, if he ever had entertained personal hopes in regard to her, he
buried them in the depths of his heart by the end of their first day on
the _Sea Gull_. He understood Aleck's position with regard to Mélanie
without being told, and instantly brought all his loyalty and courtesy
into his friend's service.
Madame Reynier had an interest in seeing the smaller towns and cities
of America; "something besides the show places," she said. So they
made visits ashore here and there, though not many. As they grew to
feel more at home on the yacht, the more reluctant they were to spend
their time on land. Why have dust and noise and elbowing people, when
they might be cutting through the blue waters with the wind fresh in
their faces? The weather was perfect; the thrall of the sea was upon
them.
The roses came into Mélanie's cheeks, and she forgot all about the
professional advice which she had been at such pains to procure in New
York. There was happiness in her eyes when she looked on her lover,
even though she had repulsed him. As for Mr. Chamberlain, he breathed
the very air of content. Madame Reynier, with her inscrutable grand
manner, confessed that she had never before been able precisely to
locate Boston, and now that she had seen it, she felt much better.
Even Aleck's lean bulk seemed to expand and flourish in the atmosphere
of happiness about him. His sudden venture was a success, beyond a
doubt. The party had many merry hours, many others full of a quiet
pleasure, none that were heavy or uneasy.
If Aleck's outer man prospered in this unexpected excursion, it can
only be said that his spiritual self flowered with a new and hitherto
unknown beauty. It was a late flowering, possibly--though what are
thirty-four years to Infinity?--but there was in it a richness and
delicacy which was its own distinction and won its own reward.
Mélanie's words, spoken in their long interview in the New York home,
had contained an element of truth. There was a poignant sincerity in
her saying, "You do not love me enough," which touched Aleck to the
center of his being. He was not niggardly by nature; and had he given
stintingly of his affection to this woman who was to him the best? His
whole nature shrank from such a role, even while he dimly perceived
that he had been guilty of acting it. If he had been small in his gift
of love, it was because he had been the dupe of his theories; he had
forsworn gallantry toward women, and had unwittingly cast aside warmth
of affection also.
But such a condition was, after all, more apparent than real. In his
heart Aleck knew that he did love Mélanie "enough," however much that
might be. He loved her enough to want, not only and not mainly, what
she could give to him; but he wanted the happiness of caring for her,
cherishing her, rewarding her faith with his own. She had not seen
that, and it was his problem to make her see it. There was only one
way. And so, in forgetting himself, forgetting his wants, his
comforts, his studies and his masculine will--herein was the blossoming
of Aleck's soul.
Mélanie instinctively felt the subtle change, and knew in her heart
that Aleck had won the day, though she still treated their engagement
as an open question. Aleck would read to her in his simple, unaffected
manner, sometimes with Madame Reynier and Mr. Chamberlain also for
audience, sometimes to her alone. And since they lived keenly and
loved, all books spoke to them of their life or their love. A line, a
phrase, a thought, would ring out of the record, and each would be glad
that the other had heard that thought; sometime they would talk it all
over. They learned to laugh at their own whimsical prejudices, and
then insisted on them all the harder; they learned, each from the
other, some bit of robust optimism, some happiness of vision, some
further reach of thought.
After they had read, they would play at quoits, struggling sternly
against each other; or Chamberlain would examine Mélanie in nautical
lore; or together, in the evening, they would trace the constellations
in the heavens. During their first week they were in the edge of a
storm for a night and a day; but they put into harbor where they were
comfortable and safe, and merry as larks through it all.
So, d
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