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Title: The Stolen Singer


Author: Martha Idell Fletcher Bellinger



Release Date: January 11, 2006  [eBook #17495]

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 tęte-ŕ-tęte 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 _ŕ 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, day by day, Aleck hedged Mélanie about with his love.  Was she
thoughtful?  He let her take, as she would, his thoughts, the best he
could give from his mature experience.  Was she gay?  He liked that
even better, and delighted to cap her gaiety with his own queer,
whimsical drolleries.  Whatever her mood, he would not let her get far
from him in spirit.  It was not in her heart to keep him from her; but
Aleck achieved the supermundane feat of making his influence felt most
keenly when she was alone.  She dwelt upon him in her thoughts more
intensely than she herself knew; and that intenseness was only the
reflection of his own thought for her.

They had been sailing a little more than a week, changing the low,
placid Connecticut fields for the rougher northern shores, going
sometimes farther out to sea, but delighting most in the sweet,
pine-fringed coast of Maine.  There were no more large cities to visit,
only small villages where fishermen gathered after their week's haul or
where slow, primitive boat-building was still carried on.  Most of the
inhabitants of the coast country appeared to be farmers as well as
fishermen, even where the soil was least promising.  The aspect of the
shores was that of a limited but fairly prosperous agricultural
community.  Under the shadow of the hills were staid little homes, or
fresh-painted smart cottages.  Sometimes a bold rock-bank formed the
shore for miles and miles, and the hills would vanish for a space.
Here and there were headlands formed by mighty boulders, against which
the waves endlessly dashed and as endlessly foamed back into the sea.

Such a headland loomed up on their starboard one evening when the sun
was low; and as the plumes of spray from the incoming waves rose high
in the air a rainbow formed itself in the fleeting mist.  It was a
fairy picture, repeating itself two or three times, no more.

"That's my symbol of hope," said Aleck quite impersonally, to anybody
who chose to hear.

Mr. Chamberlain turned to Aleck with his ready courtesy.  "Not the only
one you have received, I hope, on this charming voyage."

Madame Reynier was ready with her pleasant word.  "Aren't we all
symbols for you--if not of hope, then of your success as a host?  We've
lost our aches and our pains, our nerves and our troubles; all gone
overboard from the _Sea Gull_."

"You're all tremendously good to me, I know that," said Aleck, his slow
words coming with great sincerity.

Mélanie kept silence, but she remembered the rainbow.

The headland was the landward end of a small island, one part of which
was thickly wooded.  A large unused house stood in a clearing,
evidently once a rather pretentious summer residence, though now there
were many signs of delapidation.  The pier on the beach had been almost
entirely beaten down by storms, and a small, flimsy slip had taken its
place, running far down into the water.  A thin line of smoke rose from
the chimney of one of the outbuildings; and while they looked and
listened the raucous cry of a peacock came to them over the still
water.  Presently Chamberlain suggested:

"I feel it in my bones that there'll be lobsters over there to be had
for the asking.  I heard your man say he wanted lobsters, Van; and I
believe I'll row over there and see.  I'm feeling uncommonly fit and
need some exercise."

"All right, I'll go too," said Aleck.

"I'll bet a bouquet that I beat you rowing over--Miss Reynier to
furnish the bouquet!" was Chamberlain's next proposition.  "Do you
agree to that, my lady?"

"And pray, where should I get a bouquet?"

"Oh, the next time we get on land.  And we won't put up with any old
bouquet of juniper bushes and rocks, either.  We want a good,
old-fashioned round bouquet of garden posies, with mignonette round the
edge and a rose in the middle; a sure-enough token of esteem--that kind
of thing, you know.  Is it a bargain, Miss Reynier?"

"Very well, it is a bargain," agreed Mélanie; "but I shall choose
bachelors' buttons!"

So they took the tender and got off, with a great show of exactness as
to time and strictness of rules.  Madame Reynier was to hold the watch,
and Aleck was to wave a white handkerchief the minute they touched
sand.  Mr. Chamberlain was to give a like signal when they started
back.  The yacht slowed down, and held her place as nearly as possible.

Chamberlain pulled a great oar, and was, in fact, far superior to Aleck
in point of skill; but his stroke was not well adapted to the choppy
waves inshore.  He had learned it on the sleepy Cam, where the long,
gliding blade counts best.  The men stayed ashore a long time,
disappearing entirely beyond the clump of trees that screened the
outbuildings.  When they reappeared, an old man was with them,
following them down to the boat.  Then the white handkerchief appeared,
and the boat started on its return.

Aleck profited by Chamberlain's work, and made the boat leap forward by
a shorter, almost jerky stroke.  He came back easily with five minutes
to spare.

"Good work!" said Mr. Chamberlain.  "You have me beaten, and you'll get
the bachelors' buttons; but you had the tide with you."

"Nonsense!  I had the lobsters extra!" asserted Aleck.

"Well, if you had been born an Englishman, we'd make an oarsman out of
you yet!"

"Huh!" said Aleck.

But they had news to tell the ladies, and while they were having their
dinner their thoughts were turned to another matter.  The island, it
appeared, had for some years been abandoned by its owner, and its only
inhabitant was a gray and grizzly old man, known to the region as the
hermit.  His fancy was to keep a light burning always by night in the
landward window of his cabin, so as to warn sailors off the dangerous
headland.  There was no lighthouse in the vicinity, and by a kindly
consent the people on the neighboring islands and on the mainland
opposite encouraged his benevolent delusion, if delusion it might be
called.  They contrived to send him provisions at least once a week;
and they had supplied him with a flag which, it was understood, he
would fly in case he was in actual need.  So, alone with his cow and
his fowls, the old hermit spent his days, winter and summer, tending
his lamp when the dark came on.

Aleck and Mr. Chamberlain had picked up some of this information at the
last port which the _Sea Gull_ made; but what was of new and real
interest to them now was the story which the old man told them of a
castaway on the island a few days before.

"All hands had abandoned the yacht just before she went down, it
appears.  The owner was robbed by his own men and marooned on the
hermit's island--that's the gist of it," said Aleck.

"The hermit said the man wouldn't eat off his table," went on Mr.
Chamberlain; "but asked him for raw eggs and ate them outdoors.  Said
that except when he asked for eggs he never spoke without cursing.  At
least, the hermit couldn't understand what he said, so he thought it
was cursing.  And while the old man was talking," added Chamberlain
resentfully, "that blooming peacock squawked like a demon."

"The yacht that went down, according to the man, was the _Jeanne
D'Arc_," said Aleck, who had been grave enough between all their
light-hearted talk.  "I didn't tell you, Chamberlain, that my cousin,
my old chum, went off quite unexpectedly on a boat called the _Jeanne
D'Arc_.  Where he went or what for, I don't know.  Of course, it may
have been another _Jeanne D'Arc_; it probably was.  But it troubles me."

Mélanie was instantly aroused.  "Oh, I had an uncanny feeling when you
first mentioned the _Jeanne D'Arc_!" she cried.  "But could you not
find out more?  What became of the man that was marooned?"

"He got off the island a day or two ago," said Aleck.  "The people that
brought provisions to the old man took him to the mainland, to
Charlesport."

"The beggar left without so much as thanking the old man for his eggs,"
added Chamberlain.

"We'll put into Charlesport to-night, if you don't mind," said Aleck.
"If I can find the man that was marooned, I may be able to learn
something about Jim, if he really was on the yacht.  You can all go
ashore, if you like.  There's a big summer hotel near by, and it's a
lovely country."

"We'll stay wherever it's most convenient for you to have us," said
Mélanie, looking at Aleck; for once, with more than a friendly interest
in her eyes.

"And perhaps I can help you, Van; two heads, you know," said
Chamberlain.

Aleck, troubled as he was, could not help being grateful to his
friends.  So the _Sea Gull_, turned suddenly from her holiday mood,
headed into the harbor of Charlesport.

The village still rang, if so staid a community could be said to ring,
with reports of the event of the week before.  Doctor Thayer had been
sphinx-like, and Little Simon had been imaginative and voluble; and it
would have been difficult to say which had teased the popular curiosity
the more.  Aleck found a tale ready for his ears about the launch and
its three passengers, with many conflicting details.  Some said that a
great singer had been wrecked off Ram's Head, others that it was the
captain and mate of the _Jeanne D'Arc_, others that it was a daughter
of old Parson Thayer's sweetheart and two sailors that came ashore.
Little or nothing was known about the island castaway.  Aleck followed
the only clue he could find, thinking to get at least some inkling of
the truth.




CHAPTER XIII

ALECK SEES A GHOST

Little Simon drove leisurely up the long, rugged hill over which Agatha
and James had so recently traveled, and drew rein in the shade at a
distance of a long city block from his destination.  He pointed with
his whip while he addressed Aleck, his sole passenger.

"Yonder's the old red house, Mister.  The parson, he hated to have his
trees gnawed, and Major here's a great horse for gnawing the bark offer
trees.  So I never go no nearer the house than this."

"All right, Simon; you wait for me here."

Aleck walked slowly along the country road, enjoying the fragrant
fields, the quiet beauty of the place.  It was still early in the day,
for he had lost no time in following the clues gathered from the
village as to the survivors of the _Jeanne D'Arc_.  The air was fresh
and clean, with a tang of the distant salt marshes.

A long row of hemlocks and Norway spruce bordered the road, and, with
the aid of a stone wall, shut off from the highway a prosperous-looking
vegetable garden.  Farther along, a flower garden glowed in the
fantastic coloring which gardens acquire when planted for the love of
flowers rather than for definite artistic effects.  Farther still, two
lilac bushes stood sentinel on either side of a gateway; and behind, a
deep green lawn lay under the light, dappled shade of tall trees.  It
was a lawn that spoke of many years of care; and in the middle of its
velvet green, under the branches of two sheltering elms, stood the old
red house.  It looked comfortable and secure, in its homely simplicity;
something to depend on in the otherwise mutable scenes of life.  Aleck
felt an instantaneous liking for it, and was glad that his errand, sad
as it might possibly be, had yet led him thither.

Long French windows in the lower part of the house opened upon the
piazza, and from the second story ruffled white curtains fluttered to
the breeze.  As the shield-shaped knocker clanged dully to Aleck's
stroke, a large, melancholy hound came slowly round the corner of the
house, approached the visitor with tentative wags of the tail, and
after sniffing mildly, lay down on the cool grass.  It wasn't a house
to be hurried, that was plain.  After a wait of five or ten minutes
Aleck was about to knock again, when a face appeared at one of the
side-lights of the door.  Presently the door itself opened a few
inches, and elderly spinsterhood, wrapped in severe inquiry, looked out
at him.

"Can I see the lady, or either of the gentlemen, who recently arrived
here from the yacht, the _Jeanne D'Arc_?"

Aleck's voice and manner were friendly enough to disarm suspicion
itself; Sallie Kingsbury looked at him for a full second.

"Come in."

Aleck followed her into the wide, dim hall, and waited while she pulled
down the shade of the sidelight which she had lifted for observation.
Then she opened a door on the right and said:

"Set down in the parlor while I go and take my salt risin's away from
the stove.  I ain't had time to call my soul my own since the folks
came, what with callers at all times of the day."

Sallie's voice was not as inhospitable as her words.  She was mildly
hurt and grieved, rather than offended.  She disappeared and presently
came back with a white apron on in place of the colored gingham she had
worn before; but it is doubtful if Aleck noticed this tribute to his
sex.  Sallie looked withered and pinched, but more by nature and
disposition than by age.  She stood with arms akimbo near the
center-table, regarding Aleck with inquisitiveness not unmixed with
liking.

"You can set down, sir," she said politely, "but I don't know as you
can see any of the folks.  The man, he's up-stairs sick, clean out of
his head; and the young man, he's nursing him.  Can't leave him alone a
minute, or he'd be up and getting out the window, f'rall I know."

Aleck listened sympathetically.  "A sad case!  And what is the name, if
I may ask, of the young man who is so ill?"

"Lor', I don't know," said Sallie.  "The new mistress, her name's
Redmond; some kin of Parson Thayer's, and she's got this house and a
lot of money.  The lawyer was here yesterday and got the will all fixed
up.  She's a singer, too--one of those opery singers down below, she
is."

Sallie made this announcement as if she was relating a bewildering blow
of Providence for which she herself was not responsible.  Aleck, who
began to fear that he might be the recipient of more confidences than
decorum dictated, hastily proffered his next question.

"Can I see the lady, Miss Redmond?  Or is it Mrs. Redmond?"

Sallie gave a scornful, injured sniff.

"_Miss_ Redmond, sir, though she's old enough to be a Mrs.  I wouldn't
so much mind her coming in here and using the parson's china that I
always washed with my own hands if she was a Mrs.  But what can she, an
unmarried woman and an opery singer, know about Parson Thayer's ways
and keeping this house in order, when I've been with him going on
seventeen years and he took me outer the Home when I was no more than a
child?"

Aleck's heart would have been stone had he resisted this all but
passionate plea.

"You have been faithfulness itself, I am sure.  But do you think Miss
Redmond would see me, at least for a few minutes?"

Sallie recovered her dignity, which had been near a collapse in tears,
and assumed her official tone.  "I don't know as you can, and I don't
know _as_ you can.  She's sick, too; fell overboard somehow or other,
offer one of those pesky boats, and got neuralagy and I don't know what
all.  But I'll go and see how she's feeling."

"Stay, wait a minute," said Aleck, seized with a new thought.  "I'll
write a message to Miss Redmond and then she'll know just what I want.
If you'll be so good as to take it to her?"

"Why, certainly, of course I will," Said Sallie Kingsbury.  "Only you
needn't take all _that_ trouble.  I can tell her what you want myself."
Sallie was one of those persons who regard the pen as the weapon of
last resort, not to be used until necessity compels.  But Aleck
continued writing on a blank leaf of his note-book.  The message was
this:

"Can you give me any information concerning my cousin, James Hambleton,
who was thought to be aboard the _Jeanne D'Arc_?"

He tore the leaf out, extracted a card from his pocketbook, and handed
leaf and card to Sallie.  "Will you please give those to Miss Redmond?"

Sallie wiped her hands, which were perfectly clean, on her white apron,
took the card and bit of paper and departed, sniffing audibly.  When
she returned, it was to say, with a slightly more interested air, that
Miss Redmond wished to see him up-stairs.  She stood at the bottom of
the wide stairway and pointed to a corner of the upper floor.  "She's
in there--room on the right!" and so she stalked off to the kitchen.

Aleck Van Camp sought the region indicated by Sallie's gaunt finger
with some misgivings; but he was presently guided further by a clear
voice.

"Come in this way, Mr. Van Camp, if you please!"

The voice led him to an open door, before which he stood, looking into
a large, old-fashioned bedroom, from whose windows the white curtains
fluttered in the breeze.  Miss Redmond was propped up with pillows on a
horsehair-covered lounge, which stood along the foot of a monstrous
bed.  She was clothed in some sort of wool wrapper, and over her feet
was thrown a faded traveling rug.  By her side stood a chair on which
were writing materials, Aleck's note and card, and a half-written
letter.  Agatha sat up as she greeted Aleck.

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Van Camp.  Will you come in?  I ask your
pardon for not coming downstairs to see you, but I have been ill, and
am not strong yet."

She was about to motion Aleck to a chair, but stopped in the midst of
her speech, arrested by his expression.  Aleck stood rooted to the
door-sill, with a look of surprise on his face which amounted to actual
amazement.  Thus apparently startled out of himself, he regarded Agatha
earnestly.

"Will you come in?" Agatha repeated at last.

"Pardon me," he said finally in his precise drawl, "but I confess to
being startled.  You--you bear such an extraordinary resemblance to
some one I know, that I thought it must really be she, for a moment."

Agatha smiled faintly.  "You looked as if you had seen a ghost."

Aleck gazed at her again, a long, scrutinizing look.  "It _does_ make
one feel queer, you know."

[Illustration: "It _does_ make one feel queer, you know."]

"But now that you are assured that I'm not a ghost, will you sit down?
That chair by the window, please.  And I can't tell you how glad I am
to see you; for James Hambleton, your cousin, if he is your cousin, is
here in this house, and he is ill--very ill indeed."

Aleck's nonchalance had already disappeared, in the series of
surprises; but at Agatha's words a flush of pleasure and relief
overspread his face.  He strode quickly over toward Agatha's couch.

"Oh, I say--old Jim--I thought, I was afraid--"

Agatha was touched by the evidences of his emotion, and her voice
became very gentle.  "I fancy it is the same--James Hambleton of Lynn?"
Aleck nodded and she went on: "That's what he told me, the night we
were wrecked."

Agatha looked at Aleck, as if she would discover whether he were
trustworthy or not, before giving him more of her story.  Presently she
continued:

"He's a very brave, a very wonderful man.  He jumped overboard to save
me, after I fell from the ladder; and then they left us and we swam
ashore.  But long before we got there I fainted, and he brought me in,
all the way, though he was nearly dead of exhaustion himself.  He had
hemorrhage from overexertion, and afterward a chill.  And now there is
fever."

Agatha's voice was trembling.  Aleck watched her as she told her tale,
the flush of happiness and joy still lighting up his face.  As she
finished relating the meager facts which to her denoted so many
heart-throbs, a sob drowned her voice.  As Aleck followed the story,
his own eyes wavered.

"That's Jim, down to the ground.  Good old boy!" he said.

There was silence for a minute, then he heard Agatha's voice, grown
little and faint.  "If he should die--!"

Aleck, still standing by Agatha's couch, suddenly shook himself.
"Where is he?  Can I see him now?"

Agatha got up slowly and led the way down the hall, pointing to a door
that stood ajar.  It was evident that she was weak.

"I can't go in--I can't bear to see him so ill," she whispered; and as
Aleck looked at her before entering the sick-room, he saw that her eyes
were filled with tears.

Agatha went back to her couch, feeling that the heavens had opened.
Here was a friend come to her from she knew not where, whose right it
was to assume responsibility for the sick man.  He was kind and good,
and he loved her rescuer with the boyish devotion of their school-days.
He would surely help; he would work with her to keep death away.
Whatever love and professional skill could do, should be done; there
had been no question as to that, of course, from the beginning.  But
here was some one who would double, yes, more than double her own
efforts; some one who was strong and well and capable.  Her heart was
thankful.

Before Aleck returned from the sick-room, Doctor Thayer's step sounded
on the stairs, followed by the mildly complaining voice of Sallie
Kingsbury.  Presently the two men were in a low-voiced conference in
the hall.  Agatha waited while they talked, feeling grateful afresh
that Doctor Thayer's grim professional wisdom was to be reinforced by
Mr. Van Camp's resources.  When the doctor entered Agatha's room, her
face had almost the natural flush of health.

"Ah, Miss Agatha Redmond"--the doctor continued frequently to address
her by her full name, half in affectionate deference and half with some
dry sense of humor peculiar to himself--"Miss Agatha Redmond, so you're
beginning to pick up!  A good thing, too; for I don't want two patients
in one house like the one out yonder.  He's a very sick man, Miss
Agatha."

"I know, Doctor.  I have seen him grow worse, hour by hour, ever since
we came.  What can be done?"

"He needs special nursing now, and your man in there will be worn out
presently."

"Oh, that can be managed.  Send to Portland, to Boston, or somewhere.
We can get a nurse here soon.  Do not spare any trouble.  Doctor.  I
can arrange--"

Doctor Thayer squared himself and paced slowly up and down Agatha's
room.  He did not reply at once, and when he did, it was with one of
his characteristic turns toward an apparently irrelevant topic.

"Have you seen Sister Susan?" he inquired, stopping by the side of
Agatha's couch and looking down on her with his shrewd gaze.  It was a
needless question, for he knew that Agatha had not seen Mrs. Stoddard.
She had been too weak and ill to see anybody.  Agatha shook her head.

"Well, Miss Agatha Redmond, Susan's the nurse we need for that young
gentleman over there.  It's constant care he must have now, day and
night; and if he gets well, it will be good nursing that does it.
There isn't a nurse in this country like Susan, when she once takes
hold of a case.  That Mr. Hand in there is all right, but he can't sit
up much longer night and day, as he has been doing.  And he isn't a
woman.  Don't know why it is, but the Lord seems bent on throwing sick
men into women's hands--as if they weren't more than a match for us
when we're well!"

Agatha's humorous smile rewarded the doctor's grim comments, if that
was what he wanted.

"No, Doctor," she said, with a fleeting touch of her old lightness,
"we're never a match for you.  We may entertain you or nurse you or
feed you, or possibly once in a century or two inspire you; but we're
never a match for you."

"For which Heaven be praised!" ejaculated the doctor fervently.

Agatha watched him as he fumbled nervously about the room or clasped
his hands behind him under his long coat-tails.  The greenish-black
frock-coat hung untidily upon him, and his white fringe of hair was
anything but smooth.  She perceived that something other than medical
problems troubled him.

"Would your sister--would Mrs. Stoddard--be willing to come here to
take care of Mr. Hambleton?" she ventured.

"Ask me _that_," snapped the doctor, "when no man on earth could tell
whether she'll come or not.  She says she won't.  She's hurt and she's
outraged; or at least she thinks she is.  But if you could get her to
think that it was her duty to take care of that poor boy in there,
she'd come fast enough."

Agatha was puzzled.  She felt as if there were a dozen ways to turn and
only one way that would lead her aright; and she could not find the
clue to that one right way.  At last she attacked the doctor boldly.

"Tell me, Doctor Thayer," she said earnestly, "just what it is that
causes Mrs. Stoddard to feel hurt and outraged.  Is it simply because I
have inherited the money and the house?  She can not possibly know
anything about me personally."

The old doctor thrust his under jaw out more belligerently than ever,
while turning his answer over in his mind.  He took two lengths of the
room before stopping again by Agatha's side and looking down on her.

"She says it isn't the money, but that it's the slight Hercules put
upon her for leaving the place, our old home, out of the family.
That's one thing; but that isn't the worst.  Susan's orthodox, you
know, very orthodox; and she has a prejudice against your
profession--serving Satan, she calls it.  She thinks that's what
actresses and opera singers do, though how she knows anything about it,
I don't see."  The grim smile shone in the doctor's eyes even while he
looked, half anxiously, to see how Agatha was taking his explanation of
Mrs. Stoddard's attitude.  Agatha meditated a moment.

"If it's merely a prejudice in the abstract against my being an opera
singer, I think she will overcome that.  Besides, Mr. Hambleton is
neither an actor nor an opera singer; he isn't 'serving Satan.'"

"Well--" the doctor hesitated, and then went on hastily with a great
show of irritation, "Susan's a little set in her views.  She
disapproves of the way you came here; says you shouldn't have been out
in a boat with two men, and that it's a judgment for sin, your being
drowned, or next door to it.  I'm only saying this, my dear Miss
Agatha, to explain to you why Susan--"

But Agatha was enlightened at last, and roused sufficiently to cause
two red spots, brighter than they had ever been in health, to burn on
her cheeks.  She sat up very straight, facing Doctor Thayer's worried
gaze, and interrupted him in tones ringing with anger.

"Do you mean to tell me, Doctor Thayer, that your sister, the sister of
my mother's lifelong friend, sits in her house and imagines scandalous
stories about me, when she knows nothing at all about the facts or
about me?  That she thinks I was out in a boat alone with two men?
That she is mean enough to condemn me without knowing the first thing
about this awful accident?  Oh, I have no words!"  And Agatha covered
her burning face with her hands, unable, by mere speech, to express her
outraged feelings.  Doctor Thayer edged uneasily about Agatha's couch,
with a manner resembling that of a whipped dog.

"Why, my dear Miss Agatha, Susan will come round in time.  She's not so
bad, really.  She'll come round in time, only just now we haven't any
time to spare.  Don't feel so badly; Susan is too set in her views--"

"'Set!'" cried Agatha.  "She's a horrid, un-Christian woman!"

"Oh, no," remonstrated the doctor.  "Susan's all right, when you once
get used to her.  She's a trifle old-fashioned in her views--"

But Agatha was not listening to the doctor's feeble justification of
Susan.  She was thinking hard.

"Doctor Thayer," she urged, "do you want that woman to come here to
take care of Mr. Hambleton?  Isn't there any one else in this whole
countryside who can nurse a sick man?  Why, I can do it myself; or Mr.
Van Camp, his cousin, could do it.  Why should you want her, of all
people, when she feels so toward us?"

The moment his professional judgment came into question Doctor Thayer
slipped out from the cloud of embarrassment which had engulfed him in
his recent conversation, and assumed the authoritative voice that
Agatha had first heard.

"My dear Miss Agatha Redmond, that is foolish talk.  You are half sick,
even now; and it requires a strong person, with no nerves, to do what I
desire done.  Mr. Van Camp may be his cousin, but the chances are that
he wouldn't know a bromide from a blister; and good nurses don't grow
on bushes in Ilion, nor in Charlesport, either.  There isn't one to be
had, so far as I know, and we can't wait to send to Augusta or
Portland.  The next few days, especially the next twenty-four hours,
are critical."

Agatha listened intently, and a growing resolution shone in her eyes.

"Would Mrs. Stoddard come, if it were not for what you said--about me?"
she asked.

"The Lord only knows, but I think she would," replied the poor,
harassed doctor.  "She's always been a regular Dorcas in this
neighborhood."

"Dorcas!" cried Agatha, her anger again flaring up.  "I should say
Sapphira."

"Oh, now, Susan isn't so bad, when you once know her," urged the doctor.

Agatha got up and went to the window, trailing her traveling rug after
her.  "She shall come--I'll bring her.  And sometime she shall mend her
words about me--but that can wait.  If she will only help to save James
Hambleton's life now!  Where does she live?"  Suddenly, as she stood at
the window, she saw her opportunity.  "There's Little Simon down there
now under the trees; and his buggy must be somewhere near.  Will you
stay here, Doctor Thayer, with Mr. Hambleton, while I go to see your
sister?"

"Hadn't I better drive you over to see Susan myself?" feebly suggested
the doctor.

"No, I'll go alone."  There was anger, determination, gunpowder in
Agatha's voice.

"But mind you, don't offer her any money," the doctor warned, as he
watched her go down the hall and disappear for an instant in the
bedroom where James Hambleton lay.  She came out almost immediately and
without a word descended the wide stairway, opened the dining-room
door, and called softly to Sallie Kingsbury.

Doctor Thayer returned to the sick-room.  Ten minutes later he heard
the wheels of Little Simon's buggy rolling rapidly up the road in the
direction of Susan Stoddard's place.




CHAPTER XIV

SUSAN STODDARD'S PRAYER

There was a wide porch, spotlessly scrubbed, along the front of the
house, and two hydrangeas blooming gorgeously in tubs, one on either
side of the walk.  The house looked new and modern, shiny with paint
and furnished with all the conveniences offered by the relentless
progress of our day.

Little Simon had informed Agatha, during their short drive, that Deacon
Stoddard had achieved this "residence" shortly before his death; and
his tone implied that it was the pride of the town, its real treasure.
Even to Agatha's absorbed and preoccupied mind it presented a striking
contrast to the old red house, which had received her so graciously
into its spacious comfort.  She marveled that anything so fresh and
modish as the house before her could have come into being in the old
town.  It was next to a certainty that there was a model laundry with
set tubs beyond the kitchen, and equally sure that no old horsehair
lounge subtly invited the wearied traveler to rest.

A cool draft came through the screen door.  Within, it was cleaner than
anything Agatha had ever seen.  The stair-rail glistened, the polished
floors shone.  A neat bouquet of sweet peas stood exactly in the center
of a snow-white doily, which was exactly in the middle of a shiny,
round table.  The very door-mat was brand new; Agatha would never have
thought of wiping her shoes on it.

Agatha's ring was answered by a half-grown girl, who looked scared when
she saw a stranger at the door.  Agatha walked into the parlor, in
spite of the girl's hesitation In inviting her, and directed her to say
to Mrs. Stoddard that Miss Redmond, from the old red house, wished
particularly to see her.  The girl's face assumed an expression of
intelligent and ecstatic curiosity.

"Oh!" she breathed.  Then, "She's putting up plums, but she can come
out in a few minutes."  She could not go without lingering to look at
Agatha, her wide-eyed gaze taking note of her hair, her dress, her
hands, her face.  As Agatha became conscious of the ingenuous
inspection to which she was subjected, she smiled at the girl--one of
her old, radiant, friendly smiles.

"Run now, and tell Mrs. Stoddard, there's a good child!  And sometime
you must come to see me at the red house; will you?"

The girl's face lighted up as if the sun had come through a cloud.  She
smiled at Agatha in return, with a "Yes" under her breath.  Thus are
slaves made.

Left alone in the cool, dim parlor, so orderly and spotless, Agatha had
a presentiment of the prejudice of class and of religion against which
she was about to throw herself.  Susan Stoddard's fanaticism was not
merely that of an individual; it represented the stored-up strength of
hardy, conscience-driven generations.  The Stoddards might build
themselves houses with model laundries, but they did not thereby
transfer their real treasure from the incorruptible kingdom.  If they
were not ruled by aesthetic ideals, neither were they governed by
thoughts of worldly display.  This fragrant, clean room bespoke
character and family history.  Agatha found herself absently looking
down at a white wax cross, entwined with wax flowers, standing under a
glass on the center-table.  It was a strange piece of handicraft.  Its
whiteness was suggestive of death, not life, and the curving leaves and
petals, through which the vital sap once flowed, were beautiful no
longer, now that their day of tender freshness was so inappropriately
prolonged.  As Agatha, with mind aloof, wondered vaguely at the
laborious patience exhibited in the work, her eye caught sight of an
inscription molded in the wax pedestal: "Brother."  Her mind was
sharply brought back from the impersonal region of speculation.  What
she saw was not merely a sentimental, misguided attempt at art; it was
Susan Stoddard's memorial of her brother, Hercules Thayer--the man who
had so unexpectedly influenced Agatha's own life.  To Susan Stoddard
this wax cross was the symbol of the companionship of childhood, and of
all the sweet and bitter involved in the inexplicable bond of blood
relationship.  Agatha felt more kindly toward her because of this mute,
fantastic memorial.  She looked up almost with her characteristic
friendly smile as she heard slow, steady steps coming down the hall.

The eyes that returned Agatha's look were not smiling, though they did
not look unkind.  They gazed, without embarrassment, as without pride,
into Agatha's face, as if they would probe at once to the covered
springs of action.  Mrs. Stoddard was a thick-set woman, rather short,
looking toward sixty, with iron-gray hair parted in the middle and
drawn back in an old-fashioned, pretty way.

It was to the credit of Mrs. Stoddard's breeding that she took no
notice of Agatha's peculiar dress, unsuited as it was to any place but
the bedroom, even in the morning.  Mrs. Stoddard herself was neat as a
pin in a cotton gown made for utility, not beauty.  She stood for an
instant with her clear, untroubled gaze full upon Agatha, then drew
forward a chair from its mathematical position against the wall.  When
she spoke, her voice was a surprise, it was so low and deep, with a
resonance like that of the 'cello.  It was not the voice of a young
woman; it was, rather, a rare gift of age, telling how beautiful an old
woman's speech could be.  Moreover, it carried refinement of birth and
culture, a beauty of phrase and enunciation, which would have marked
her with distinction anywhere.

"How do you do, Miss Redmond?"

Agatha, standing by the table with the cross, made no movement toward
the chair.  She was not come face to face with Mrs. Stoddard for the
purpose of social visitation, but because, in the warfare of life, she
had been sent to the enemy with a message.  That, at least, was
Agatha's point of view.  Officially, she was come to plead with Mrs.
Stoddard; personally, she was hot and resentful at her unjust words.
Her reply to her hostess' greeting was brief and her attitude unbending.

"I have come to ask you, Mrs. Stoddard," Agatha began, though to her
chagrin, she found her voice was unsteady--"I have come personally to
ask you, Mrs. Stoddard, if you will help us in caring for our friend,
who is very ill.  Your brother, Doctor Thayer, wishes it.  It is a case
of life and death, maybe; and skilful nursing is difficult to find."

Agatha's hand, that rested on the table, was trembling by the time she
finished her speech; she was vividly conscious of the panic that had
come upon her nerves at a fresh realization of the wall of defense and
resistance which she was attempting to assail.  It spoke to her from
Mrs. Stoddard's calm, other-worldly eyes, from her serene, deep voice.

"No, Miss Redmond, that work is not for me."

"But please, Mrs. Stoddard, will you not reconsider your decision?  It
is not for myself I ask, but for another--one who is suffering."

Mrs. Stoddard's gaze went past Agatha and rested on the white cross
with the inscription, "Brother."  She slowly shook her head, saying
again, "No, that work is not for me.  The Lord does not call me there."

As the two women stood there, with the funeral cross between them, each
with her heart's burden of griefs, convictions and resentments, each
recoiled, sensitively, from the other's touch.  But life and the burden
life imposes were too strong.

"How can yon say, Mrs. Stoddard, 'that work is not for me,' when there
is suffering you can relieve, sickness that you can cure?  I am asking
a hard thing, I know; but we will help to make it as easy as possible
for you, and we are in great need."

"Should the servants of the Lord falter in doing His work?"  Mrs.
Stoddard's voice intoned reverently, while she looked at Agatha with
her sincere eyes.  "No.  He gives strength to perform His commands.
But sickness and sorrow and death are on every hand; to some it is
appointed for a moment's trial, to others it is the wages of sin.  We
can not alter the Lord's decrees."

Agatha stared at the rapt speaker with amazed eyes, and presently the
anger she had felt at Doctor Thayer's words rose again within her
breast, doubly strong.  The doctor had given but a feeble version of
the judgment; here was the real voice hurling anathema, as did the
prophets of old.  But even as she listened, she gathered all her force
to combat this sword of the spirit which had so suddenly risen against
her.

"You are a hard and unjust woman, to talk of the 'wages of sin.'  What
do you know of my life, or of him who is sick over at the red house?
Who are you, to sit in judgment upon us?"

"I am the humblest of His servants," replied Susan Stoddard, and there
was no shadow of hypocrisy in her tones.  She went on, almost
sorrowfully: "But we are sent to serve and obey.  'Keep ye separate and
apart from the children of this world,' is His commandment, and I have
no choice but to obey.  Besides," and she looked up fearlessly into
Agatha's face, "we _do_ know about you.  It is spoken of by all how you
follow a wicked and worldly profession.  You can't touch pitch and not
be defiled.  The temple must be purged and emptied of worldliness
before Christ can come in."

Agatha was baffled by the very simplicity and directness of Mrs.
Stoddard's words, even though she felt that her own texts might easily
be turned against her.  But she had no heart for argument, even if it
would lead her to verbal triumph over her companion.  Instinctively she
felt that not thus was Mrs. Stoddard to be won.

"Whatever you may think about me or about my profession, Mrs.
Stoddard," she said, "you must believe me when I say that Mr. Hambleton
is free from your censure, and worthy of your sincerest praise.  He is
not an opera singer--of that I am convinced--"

Susan Stoddard here interpolated a stern "Don't you know?"

"Listen, Mrs. Stoddard!" cried Agatha in desperation.  "When the yacht,
the _Jeanne D'Arc_, began to sink, there was panic and fear everywhere.
While I was climbing down into one of the smaller boats, the rope
broke, and I fell into the water.  I should have drowned, then and
there, if it had not been for this man; for all the rest of the ship's
load jumped into the boats and rowed away to save themselves.  He
helped me to come ashore, after I had become exhausted by swimming.  He
is ill and near to death, because he risked his life to save mine.  Is
not that a heaven-inspired act?"

Mrs. Stoddard's eyes glistened at Agatha's tale, which had at last got
behind the older woman's armor.  But her next attack took a form that
Agatha had not foreseen.  In her reverent voice, so suited to
exhortation, she demanded:

"And what will you do with your life, now that you have been saved by
the hand of God?  Will you dedicate it to Him, whose child you are?"

Agatha, chafing in her heart, paused a moment before she answered:

"My life has not been without its tests of faith and of conscience,
Mrs. Stoddard; and who of us does not wish, with the deepest yearning,
to know the right and to do it?"

"Knowledge comes from the Lord," came Mrs. Stoddard's words, like an
antiphonal response in the litany.

"My way has been different from yours; and It is a way that would be
difficult for you to understand, possibly.  But you shall not condemn
me without reason."

"Are you going to marry that man you have been living with these many
days?" was the next stern inquiry.

A stinging blush--a blush of anger and outraged pride as much as of
modesty--surged up over Agatha's face.  She was silent a moment, and in
that moment learned what it was to control anger.

"I have not been 'living with' this man, in any sense of the term, Mrs.
Stoddard.  I will say this once for all to you, though I never would,
in any other conceivable situation, reply to such a question and such
an implication.  You have no right to say or think such things."

"Wickedness must be rebuked of the Lord," intoned Mrs. Stoddard.

"Are you His mouthpiece?" said Agatha scornfully.  But she was rebuked
for her scorn by Mrs. Stoddard's look.  Her eyes rested on Agatha's
face with pleading and patience, as if she were a world-mother,
agonizing for the salvation of her children.

"It is His command to pluck the brand from the burning," said Susan
Stoddard.  "Ungodly example is a sin, and earthly love often a snare
for youthful feet."

As Agatha listened to Mrs. Stoddard's strange plea, the instinct within
her which, from the first moment of the interview, had recoiled from
this fanatical but intensely spiritual woman, found its way, as it
were, into the light.  Such was the power of her sincerity, that, in
spite of the extraordinary character of the interview, Agatha's heart
throbbed with a new comprehension which was almost love.  She stepped
closer to Susan Stoddard, her tall figure overtopping the other's
sturdy one, and took one of her strong, work-hardened hands.

"Mrs. Stoddard, this man has never spoken a word of love to me.  But if
I ever marry, it will be a man like him--a plain, high-hearted
gentleman.  There!  You have a woman's secret.  And now come with me,
and help us to save a life.  You can not, you must not, refuse me now."

The subtle changes of the mind are hard to trace and are often obscure
even to the eye of science; but every day those changes make or mar our
joy.  Susan Stoddard looked for a long minute up into the vivid face
bending over hers, while her spirit, even as Agatha's had done, pierced
the hedge which separated them, and comprehended something of the
goodness in the other's soul.  Finally she laid her other hand over
Agatha's, enclosing it in a strong clasp.  Then, with a certain
pathetic pride in her submission, she said:

"I have been wrong, Agatha; I will come."  Agatha's grateful eyes dwelt
on hers, but the strain of the interview was beginning to count.  She
sank down in the chair that Mrs. Stoddard had offered at the beginning
of their meeting, and covered her eyes with one hand.  The elder woman
kept the other.

"We will not go to our task alone," she said, "we will ask God's help.
The prayer of faith shall heal the sick."  Then falling to her knees by
Agatha's side, with rapt, lifted face and closed eyes, she made her
confession and her petition to the Lord.  Her ringing voice intoned the
phrases of the Bible as if they had been music and bore the burden of
her deepest soul.  She said she had been sinful in imputing
unrighteousness to others, and that she had been blinded by her own
wilfulness.  She prayed for the stranger within her gates, for the sick
man over yonder, and implored God's blessing on the work of her hands;
and praise should be to the Lord.  Amen.

"And now, Angie," she said practically, as she rose to her feet,
addressing the girl who instantly appeared from around the doorway, "go
and tell Little Simon to drive up to the horse-block.  Agatha, you go
home and rest, and I'll get hitched up and be over there almost as soon
as you are.  Angie will help me get the ice-bag and all the other
things, in case you might not have them handy.  Come, Agatha!"

But they paused yet a moment, stopping as if by a common instinct to
look at the white cross.  Susan Stoddard gazed down on it with a grief
in her eyes that was the more heartbreaking because it was
inarticulate.  Agatha remembered the doctor's words, and understood
something of the friction that could exist between this evangelistic
sister and the finer, more intellectual brother.

"I've never been inside the old red house since he died," said Mrs.
Stoddard.

"I'm sorry!" cried Agatha.  "It is hard for you to come there, I know."

"He maketh the rough places plain," chanted Susan Stoddard.  "Hercules
was a good brother and a good man!"

Agatha laid her arm about the older woman's shoulder, and thus was led
out to Little Simon's buggy.  Susan helped her in, and Agatha leaned
back, with closed eyes, indifferent to the beauty of early afternoon on
a cool summer's day.  Little Simon let her ride in quiet, but landed
her in the dust on the opposite side of the road from the lilac bushes.

"Those trees!" said Doctor Thayer's voice, as he came out to meet her.
"How did you make out with Susan?"

"She's coming," said Agatha.  "Is your patient any better?"

"I don't think he's any worse," answered the doctor dubiously, "but I'm
glad Susan's coming.  I'd be glad to know how you got round her."

Agatha paused a moment before replying, "I wrestled with her."

The doctor smiled grimly,  "I've known the wrestling to come out the
other way."

"I can believe that!" said Agatha.

"Well, it's fairly to your credit!"  And perhaps this was as near
praise as his New England speech ever came.




CHAPTER XV

ECHOES FROM THE CITY

Sallie Kingsbury, unused to psychological analysis, could not have
explained why Mr. Hand was so objectionable to her.  He was no relative
of the family, she had discovered that; and, accustomed as she was to
the old-fashioned gentility of a thrifty New England town, instinct
told her that he could not possibly be one of its varied products.  He
might have come from anywhere; he talked so little that he was
suspicious on that ground alone; and when he did speak, there was no
accent at all that Sallie could lay hold of.  Useful as he was just now
in taking care of that poor young man up-stairs, he nevertheless
inspired in her breast a most unholy irritation.  Her attitude was that
of a housemaid pursuing the cat with the broom.

Mr. Hand was not greatly troubled by Sallie's tendency to sweep him out
of the way, but whenever he took any notice of her he was more than a
match for her.  On the afternoon following Agatha's visit to Mrs.
Stoddard, he appeared to show some slight objection to being treated
like the cat.  He ate his luncheon in the kitchen--a large, delightful
room--while Aleck Van Camp stayed with James.  Hand was stirring broth
over the stove, now and then giving a sharp eye to Sallie's preparation
of her new mistress' luncheon.

"You haven't put any salt or pepper on mademoiselle's tray, Sallie,"
said he, as the maid was about to start up-stairs.

"_Miss_ Sallie, I should prefer, Mr. Hand," she requested in a mournful
tone of resignation.  "And Miss Redmond don't take any pepper on her
aigs; I watched her yesterday."

"Well, she may want some to-day, just the same," insisted Mr. Hand in a
lordly manner, putting a thin silver boat, filled with salt, and a
cheap pink glass pepper-shaker side by side on the tray.  Sallie
brushed Hand away in disgust.

"That doesn't go with the best silver salt-cellar; that's the kitchen
pepper.  And, you can say _Miss_ Sallie, if you please."

"No, just Sallie, if _you_ please!  I've taken a great fancy to you,
Sallie, and I don't like to be so formal," argued Hand.  "Besides, I
like your name; and I'll carry the tray to the top of the stairs for
you, if you'll be good."

"I wouldn't trouble you for the world, Mr. Hand," she tossed back.
"You'd stumble and break Parson Thayer's best china that I've washed
for seventeen years and only broke the handle of one cup.  She wouldn't
drink her coffee this morning outer the second-best cups; went to the
buttery before breakfast and picked out wunner the best set, and poured
herself a cup.  She said it was inspiring, but I call it wasteful--and
me with extra work all day!"

Sallie disappeared, leaving a dribbling trail of good-natured complaint
behind her.  Mr. Hand continued making broth--at which he was as expert
as he was at the lever or the launch engine.  He strained and seasoned,
and regarded two floating islands of oily substance with disapproval.
While he was working Sallie joined him again at the stove, her
important and injured manner all to the front.

"Says she'll take another aig," she explained.  "Only took one
yesterday, and then I had two all cooked."

"What did I tell you?" jeered Hand.

"You didn't tell me anything about aigs, not that I recollect," Sallie
replied tartly.

"Well, the principle's the same," asserted Hand.  After a moment his
countenance assumed a crafty and jocose expression, which would have
put even Sallie on her guard if she had looked up in time to see it.
"You won't have so much extra work when mademoiselle's maid arrives,"
he said slyly.  "_She'll_ wait on mademoiselle and attend to her tray
when she wants one, and you won't have to do anything for mademoiselle
at all."

Sallie became slowly transfixed in a spread-eagle attitude, with the
half of a thin white egg-shell held up in each hand.

"A maid!  When's she coming?"

"Ought to be here now, she's had time enough.  But women never can get
round without wasting a lot of time."  Sallie's glance must have
brought him to his senses, for he added hastily, "City women, I mean."

"Hm!  She won't touch Parson Thayer's china--not if I know myself!"
Sallie disappeared with Miss Redmond's second egg.  When she returned,
she delivered a message to the effect that Miss Redmond wished to see
Mr. Hand when he had finished his luncheon.  He was off instantly,
calling, "Watch that broth, Sallie!"

It was a different Hand, however, who entered Miss Redmond's room a
moment later.  His half impudent manner changed to distant respect,
tinged with a sort of personal adoration.  Agatha felt it, though it
was too intangible to be taken notice of, either for rebuke or reward.
Agatha was sitting in a rocking-chair by the window, sipping her tea
out of the best tea-cup, her tray on a stand in front of her.  She
looked excited and flushed, but her eyes were tired.

"Can I do anything for you, Mademoiselle?" Hand inquired courteously.

"Yes, please," answered Agatha, and paused a moment, as if to recall
her thoughts in order.  Hand was very presentable, in negligée shirt
which Sallie must have washed while he was asleep.  He was one of those
people who look best in their working or sporting clothes, ruddy, clean
and strong.  He would have dwindled absolutely into the commonplace in
Sunday clothes, if he was ever so rash as to have any.

"I wish to talk with you a little," said Agatha.  "We haven't had much
opportunity of talking, so far; and perhaps it is time that we
understand each other a little better."

"As mademoiselle wishes," conceded Hand.

"In the first place," Agatha went on, "I must tell you that Mrs.
Stoddard is coming to help nurse Mr. Hambleton.  You have been very
good to stay with us so long; and if you will stay on, I shall be glad.
But Doctor Thayer thinks you should have help, and so do I.  Especially
for the next few days."

"That is entirely agreeable to me, Mademoiselle."

"Will you tell me what--what remuneration you were receiving as
chauffeur?"

"Pardon me, but that is unnecessary, Mademoiselle.  If you will allow
me to stay here, either taking care of Mr. Hambleton or in any outdoor
work, for a week or as long as you may need me, I shall consider myself
repaid."

Agatha was silent while she buttered a last bit of toast.  Hand's
reticence and evident secretiveness were baffling.  She had no
intention of letting the point of wages go by in the way Hand
indicated, but after deliberation she dropped it for the moment, in
order to take up another matter.

"I was wondering," she began again, "how you happened to escape from
the _Jeanne D'Arc_ alone in a rowboat, and what your connection with
Monsieur Chatelard was.  Will you tell me?"

A perfectly vacant look came into Hand's face.  He might have been deaf
and dumb.

At last Agatha began again.  "I am grateful, exceedingly grateful, Mr.
Hand, for all that you have done for us since this catastrophe, but I
can't have any mystery about people.  That is absurd.  Did you leave
the _Jeanne D'Arc_ when the others did--when I fell into the water?"

This time Hand consented to answer.  "No, Mademoiselle; I did not know
you had fallen into the water until I brought you ashore in the
morning."

"Then how did you get off?"

"Well, it was rather queer.  The men were all tired out working at the
pumps, and Monsieur Chatelard ordered a seaman named Bazinet and me to
relieve two of them.  He said he would call us when the boats were
lowered, as the yacht was then getting pretty shaky.  Bazinet and I
worked a long time; and when finally we got on deck, thinking the
_Jeanne D'Arc_ was nearly done for, the boats had put off.  We heard
some one shouting, and Bazinet got frightened and jumped for the boat.
He thought they'd wait for him.  It was too dark for me to see whether
he made it or not.  I stayed on the yacht for some time, not knowing
anything better to do--"  Hand allowed himself a faint smile--"and at
last, after a hunt, I found that extra boat, stowed away aft.  It was
very small, and it leaked; probably that was why they did not think of
using it.  But it was better than nothing.  I found some putty and a
tin bucket, and got food and a lot of other things, though the boat
filled so fast that I had to throw most everything out.  But I got
ashore, as you know.  I didn't even wait to see the last of the _Jeanne
D'Arc_."

Agatha's eyes shone.  Hand's story was perfectly simple and plausible.
But the other question was even more important.  She hesitated before
repeating it, however, and rewarded Hand's unusual frankness with a
grateful look.

"That was a night of experience for us all," she said, with a little
sigh at the memory of it.

"But tell me--"  Agatha looked up squarely at Hand, only to encounter
his deaf and dumb expression.

"If you will excuse me, Mademoiselle," said Hand deferentially, "I
think Mr. Hambleton's broth is burning."

"Ah, well, very well!" said Agatha.  And in spite of herself she smiled.

Hand found Mrs. Stoddard installed in James Hambleton's room.  Doctor
Thayer and Aleck had gone, both leaving word that they would return
before night.  Mrs. Stoddard had smoothed James's bed, folded down the
sheet with exactness, noted her brother's directions for treatment, and
sat reading her Bible by the window.  Mr. Hand stood for a moment,
silently regarding first the patient, then his nurse.

"By the grace of God, he will pull through, I firmly believe!"
ejaculated Mrs. Stoddard.

As the first words came in that resonant deep voice, Hand thought that
the new nurse was swearing, though presently he changed his mind.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied with unwonted meekness.  Then, "I'll sleep an
hour or two, if that is agreeable to you, ma'am."

"Perfectly!" heartily responded Mrs. Stoddard, and Mr. Hand disappeared
like the mist before the sun.

It was to be an afternoon of excitement, after all, though Agatha
thought that she would apply herself to the straightening out of much
necessary business.  But after an hour's work over letters at Parson
Thayer's desk, there occurred an ebullition below which could be
nothing less than the arrival of Lizzie, Agatha's maid, with sundry
articles of luggage.  She was a small-minded but efficient city girl,
clever enough to keep her job by making herself useful, and
sophisticated to the point of indecency.  No woman ought ever to have
known so much as Lizzie knew.  Agatha was to hear how she had been
relieved by the telegram several days before, how she had nearly killed
herself packing in such haste, how she thought she was traveling to the
ends of the earth, coming thus to a region she had never heard of
before.

Big Simon, who had been instructed to watch for Lizzie and bring her
and her baggage out, presently arrived with the trunks, having sent the
maid on ahead in the buggy with his son.  Big Simon positively declined
to carry the two trunks to the second floor, saying he thought they'd
like it just as well, or better, if he left them in the hall
down-stairs.  Lizzie was angrily hesitating whether to argue with him
or use the persuasion of one of her mistress' silver coins, when Agatha
interfered, and saved her from making the mistake of her life.  It is
doubtful if she could have lived in Ilion after having been guilty of
tipping one of its foremost citizens.  And even if she had, she would
not have got the trunks taken up-stairs.

The prospect of discarding Sallie Kingsbury's makeshifts and wearing a
dress which belonged to her had more comfort in it than Agatha had ever
believed possible; and the reality was even better.  She made a toilet,
for the first time in many days, with her accustomed accessories,
dressed herself in a white wool gown, and felt better.

"Are these the relatives you were visiting, Miss Redmond?" inquired
Lizzie, eaten up with curiosity, which was her mortal weakness.

Agatha paused, struck with the form of the maid's question; but,
knowing her liking for items of news, she answered cautiously:

"Not relatives exactly.  The Thayers were old friends of my mother."

Lizzie shook out a skirt and hung it in the wardrobe in the far corner
of the room.  She was bursting to know everything about Miss Redmond's
sudden journey, but knew better than to appear anxious.

"The message at the hotel was so indefinite that I didn't know at all
what I should do.  After the excitement quieted down a little, I went
out to visit my cousin Hattie, in the Bronx."

"What sort of excitement?"

"Oh, newspaper men, and the manager, and Herr Weimar, of the orchestra,
and a lot of other people who came, wanting to see you immediately.
They seemed to think I was hiding you somewhere."

Agatha smiled.  She could imagine Lizzie in her new-fledged importance,
talking to all those people.

"You spoke of a message--" ventured Agatha.

"Yes; the one you sent the day you left, Miss Redmond.  The hotel clerk
said you had suddenly left town on a visit to a sick relative."

"Oh, yes."

Lizzie's quick scent was already on the trail of a mystery, but Agatha
was in no mood just then to give her any version of the events of that
Monday afternoon.

"Was there any other message, Miss Redmond?  Some word for me, which
the clerk forgot to deliver?"

"No, nothing else."

"Mr. Straker came Tuesday morning with some contracts for you to sign.
He said that you had an appointment with him, and he was nearly crazy
when he found you had gone away without leaving your address."

Agatha smiled more and more broadly, to Lizzie's disgust, but she could
not help it.  "I don't doubt he was disturbed.  Did he come again?"

"Come again, Miss Redmond!"  Lizzie hung a blue silk coat over its
hanger, held it carefully up to the light, and turned toward her
mistress with the mien of a person who isn't to be bamboozled.  "He
came twice every day to see if I had any word from you; and when I went
to Cousin Hattie's he called me up on the 'phone every morning and
evening.  Most unreasonable, Mr. Straker was.  He said there wasn't a
singer in town he could get to fill your engagements, and he was losing
a hundred dollars a day.  He's very much put out, Miss Redmond."

"Well, I was, too," said Agatha, but somehow her tone failed to satisfy
the maid.  To Agatha the thought of the dictatorial manager fluttering
about New York in quest of a vanished singer--well, the picture had its
humorous side.  It had its serious side, too, for Agatha, of course,
but for the moment she put off thinking about that.  Lizzie, however,
had borne the brunt of Mr. Straker's vexation, and, in that lumber-box
she called her mind, she regarded the matter solely as her personal cue
to come more prominently upon the stage.

"Then your accompanist came every morning, as you had directed, Miss
Redmond; and Madame Florio sent word a dozen times about those new
gowns."  Lizzie, with the memory of her sudden importance, almost took
up the role of baffled innocence.  "I declare, Miss Redmond, I didn't
know what to do or say to those people.  The whole thing seemed so
irregular, with you not leaving any word of explanation with me."

"That is true, Lizzie; it was irregular, and certainly very
inconvenient.  And it is serious enough, so far as breaking my
engagements is concerned.  But the circumstances were very unusual
and--pressing.  Some one else gave the message at the hotel, and, as
you know, I had no time even to get a satchel."

"That's what I said when the reporters came--that you were so worried
over your sick relative that you did not wait for anything."

Agatha groaned.  "Did--did the papers have much to say about my leaving
town?"

"They had columns, Miss Redmond, and some of them had your picture on
the front page with an announcement of your elopement.  But Mr. Straker
contradicted that; he told them he had heard from you, and that you
were at the bedside of a dying relative.  Besides that, Miss Redmond,
the difficulty in getting up an elopement story was the lack of a
probable man.  Your manager and your accompanist were both found and
interviewed, and there wasn't anybody else in New York except me who
knew you.  Your discretion, Miss Redmond, has always been remarkable."

Agatha was suddenly tired of Lizzie.

"Very well, Lizzie, that will do.  You may go and get your own things
unpacked.  We shan't return to New York for several days yet."

"You've heard from Mr. Straker, of course, Miss Redmond?"

"No, but I have written to him, explaining everything.  Why?"

"Oh, nothing; only when I sent him word that I had heard from you, he
said at first that he was coming here with me.  Some business prevented
him, but he must have telegraphed."

"Maybe he has; but it takes some time, evidently, for a hidden person
to be discovered in Ilion."

As soon as the words were off her lips, Agatha realized that she had
made a slip.  One has to look sharp when talking to a sophisticated
maid.

"But were you hiding, Miss Redmond?" Lizzie artlessly inquired.

"Oh, no, Lizzie; don't be silly.  The telegram probably went wrong;
telegrams often do."

"Not when Mr. Straker sends them," proffered Lizzie.  "But if his
telegrams have gone wrong, you may count on his coming down here
himself.  He is much worried over the rehearsals, which begin early in
the month, he said.  And he got the full directions you sent me for
coming here; he would have them."

Agatha knew her manager's pertinacity when once on the track of an
object.  Moreover, the humor of the situation passed from her mind,
leaving only a vivid impression of the trouble and worry which were
sure to follow such a serious breaking up of well established plans.
She was rarely capricious, even under vexation, but she yielded to a
caprice at this moment, and one, moreover, that was very unjust toward
her much-tried manager.  The thought of that man bursting in upon her
in the home that had been the fastidious Hercules Thayer's, in the
midst of her anxiety and sorrow over James Hambleton, was intolerable.

"If Mr. Straker should by any chance follow me here, you must tell him
that I can not see him," she said, and departed, leaving Lizzie wrapped
in righteous indignation.

"Well, I never!" she exclaimed, after her mistress had disappeared.
"Can't see him, after coming all this way!  And into a country like
this, too, where there's only one bath-tub, and you fill that from a
pump in the yard!"




CHAPTER XVI

A FIGHTING CHANCE

The dining-room of the old red house was cool, and fragrant from the
blossoming heliotrope bed below its window.  The twilight, which is
long in eastern Maine, shed a soft glow over the old mahogany and
silver, and an equally soft and becoming radiance over the two women
seated at the table.  After a sonorous blessing, uttered by Mrs.
Stoddard in tones full of unction, she and Agatha ate supper in a
sympathetic silence.  It was a meal upon which Sallie Kingsbury
expended her best powers as cook, with no mean results; but nobody took
much notice of it, after all.  Mrs. Stoddard poured her tea into her
saucer, drinking and eating absent-mindedly.  Her face lighted with
something very like a smile whenever she caught Agatha's eyes, but to
her talk was not necessary.  Sallie hovered around the door, even
though Lizzie had condescended to put on a white apron and serve.  But
Agatha sent the city maid away, bidding her wait on the people in the
sick-room instead.

Mr. Hand had been left with the patient and had acquiesced in the plan
to stay on duty until midnight, when Mrs. Stoddard was to be called.
Agatha had spent an hour with James, helping Mrs. Stoddard, or watching
the patient while the nurse made many necessary trips to the kitchen.
The sight of James's woeful plight drove every thought from her mind.
Engagements and managers lost their reality, and became shadow memories
beside the vividness of his desperate need.  He had no knowledge of
her, or of any efforts to secure his comfort.  He talked incessantly,
sometimes in a soft, unintelligible murmur, sometimes in loud and
emphatic tones.  His eyes were brilliant but wandering, his movements
were abrupt or violent, heedless or feeble, as the moment decreed.  He
talked about the dingy, nasty fo'cas'le, the absurdity of his not being
able to get around, the fine outfit of the _Sea Gull_, the chill of the
water.  He sometimes swore softly, almost apologetically, and he
uttered most unchristian sentiments toward some person whom he
described as wearing extremely neat and dandified clothes.

After the first five minutes Agatha paid no heed to his words, and
could bear to stay in the room only when she was able to do something
to soothe or comfort him.  She was not wholly unfamiliar with illness
and the trouble that comes in its train, but the sight of James, with
his unrecognizing eyes and his wits astray, a superb engine gone wild,
brought a sharp and hitherto unknown pain to her throat.  She stood
over his bed, holding his hands when he would reach frenziedly into the
air after some object of his feverish desire; she coaxed him back to
his pillow when he fancied he must run to catch something that was
escaping him.  It took nerve and strength to care for him; unceasing
vigilance and ingenuity were required in circumventing his erratic
movements.

And through it all there was something about his clean, honest mind and
person that stirred only affectionate pity.  He was a child, taking a
child's liberties.  Mrs. Stoddard brooded over him already, as a mother
over her dearest son; Mr. Hand had turned gentle as a woman and gave
the service of love, not of the eye.  His skill in managing almost
rivaled Mrs. Stoddard's.  James accepted Hand's ministrations as a
matter of course, became more docile under his treatment, and watched
for him when he disappeared.  Indeed, the whole household was taxed for
James; and Agatha, deeply distressed as she was, throbbed with
gratitude that she could help care for him, if only for an hour.

Thus it was that the two women, eating their supper and looking out
over Hercules Thayer's pleasant garden, were silent.  Mrs. Stoddard was
thinking about the duties of the night, Agatha was swallowed up in the
miseries of the last hour.  Mrs. Stoddard was the first to rise.  She
was tipping off on her fingers a number of items which Agatha did not
catch, saying "Hm!" and "Yes!" to herself.  Despite her deep anxiety,
Mrs. Stoddard was in her element.  She had nothing less than genius in
nursing.  She was cheerful, quick in emergencies, steady under the
excitements of the sick-room, and faithful in small, as well as large,
matters.  Moreover, she excelled most doctors in her ability to
interpret changes and symptoms, and in her ingenuity in dealing with
them.  Her two days with James had given her an understanding of the
case, and she was ready with new devices for his relief.

Agatha finished her tea and joined Mrs. Stoddard as she stood looking
out into the twilight, seeing things not visible to the outward eye.

"Yes, that's it," she ended abruptly, thinking aloud; then including
Agatha without any change of tone, she went on: "I think we'd better
change our plans a little.  I'm going up-stairs now to stay while your
Mr. Hand goes over to the house for me.  There are several things I
want from home."

Agatha had no conception of having an opinion that was contrary to Mrs.
Stoddard's, so completely was she won by her tower-like strength.

"You know, Mrs. Stoddard," she said earnestly, "that I want to be told
at once, if--if there is any change."

"I know, child," the older woman replied, with a faraway look.  "We are
in the Lord's hands.  He taketh the young in their might, and He
healeth them that are nigh unto death.  We can only wait His will."

Agatha was the product of a different age and a different system of
thought.  But she was still young, and the pressure of the hour revived
in her some ghost of her Puritan ancestral faith, longing to become a
reality in her heart again, if only for this dire emergency.  She
turned, eager but painfully embarrassed, to Mrs. Stoddard, detaining
her by a touch on her arm.

"But you said, Mrs. Stoddard," she implored, "that the prayer of faith
shall heal the sick.  And I have been praying, too; I have tried to
summon my faith.  Do you believe that it counts--for good?"

Mrs. Stoddard's rapt gaze blessed Agatha.  Her faith and courage were
of the type that rise according to need.  She drew nearer to her
sanctuary, to the fountain of her faith, as her earthly peril waxed.
Her voice rang with confidence as she almost chanted: "No striving
toward God is ever lost, dear child.  He is with us in our sorrow, even
as in our joy."  Her strong hand closed over Agatha's for a moment, and
then her steady, slow steps sounded on the stairs.

Agatha went into the parlor, whose windows opened upon the piazza, and
from there wandered down the low steps to the lawn.  It was growing
dusk, a still, comfortable evening.  Over the lawn lay the
indescribable freshness of a region surrounded by many trees and acres
of grass.  Presently the old hound, Danny, came slowly from his kennel
in the back yard, and paced the grass beside Agatha, looking up often
with melancholy eyes into her face.  Here was a living relic of her
mother's dead friend, carrying in his countenance his sorrow for his
departed master.  Agatha longed to comfort him a little, convey to him
the thought that she would love him and try to understand his nature,
now that his rightful master was gone.  She talked softly to him,
calling him to her but not touching him.  Back and forth they paced,
the old dog following closer and closer to Agatha's heels.

Back of the house was a path leading diagonally across to the wall
which separated Parson Thayer's place from the meeting-house.  The dog
seemed intent on following this path.  Agatha humored him, climbed the
low stile and entered the churchyard.  As the hound leaped the stile
after her, he wagged his tail and appeared almost happy.  Agatha
remembered that Sallie had told her, on the day of her arrival, of the
dog, and how he was accustomed to walk every evening with his master.
Doubtless they sometimes walked here, among the silent company
assembled in the churchyard; and the minister's silent friend was now
having the peculiar satisfaction of doing again what he had once done
with his master.  Thus the little acre of the dead had its claim on
life, and its happiness for throbbing hearts.

Agatha called the old dog to her again.  This time he came near, rubbed
hard against her dress, and, when she sat down on a flat tombstone,
laid his head comfortably in her lap, wagging his tail in satisfaction.

Danny was a companion who did not obstruct thought, but encouraged it;
and as Agatha sat resting on the stone with Danny close by, in that
quiet yard full of the noiseless ghosts of the past, her thoughts went
back to James.  His unnatural eyes and restless spirit haunted her.
She thought of that other night on the water, full of heartbreaking
struggle as it was, as a happy night compared to the one which was yet
to come.  She recalled their foolish talk while they were on the beach,
and smiled sadly over it.  Her courage was at the ebb.  She felt that
the buoyancy of spirit that had sustained them both during the night of
struggle could never revisit the wasted and disorganized body lying in
Parson Thayer's house--her house.  A certain practical sense that was
strong in her rose and questioned whether she had done everything that
could be done for his welfare.  She thought so.  Had she not even
prayed, with all her concentration of mind and will?  She heard again
Susan Stoddard's deep voice: "No striving toward God is ever lost!"  In
spite of her unfaith, a sense of rest in a power larger than herself
came upon her unawares.  Danny, who had wandered away, came back and
sat down heavily on the edge of her skirt, close to her.  "Good Danny!"
she praised, petting him to his heart's content.

It was thus that Aleck Van Camp found them, as he came over the stile
from the house.  His tones were slower and more precise than ever, but
his face was drawn and marked with anxiety.  He had a careful thought
for Agatha, even in the face of his greater trouble.

"You have chosen a bad hour to wander about, Miss Redmond.  The evening
dews are heavy."

"Yes, I know; Danny and I were just going home.  Have you been into the
house?"

"Yes, I left Doctor Thayer there in consultation with the other
physician that came to-day.  They sent me off.  Old Jim--well, you know
as well as I do.  With your permission, I'm going to stay the night.
I'll bunk in the hall, or anywhere.  Don't think of a bed for me; I
don't want one."

"I'm glad you'll stay.  It seems, somehow, as if every one helps; that
is, every one who cares for him."

"Doctor Thayer thinks there will be a change tonight, though it is
difficult to tell.  Jim's family have my telegram by this time, and
they will get my letter to-morrow, probably.  Anyway, I shall wait
until morning before I send another message."

The tension of their thoughts was too sharp; they turned for relief to
the scene before them, stopping at the stile to look back at the
steepled white church, standing under its spreading balm-of-Gilead tree.

"It seems strange," said Agatha, "to think that I sat out there under
that big tree as a little girl.  Everything is so different now."

"Ilion, then, was once your home?"

"No, never my home, though it was once my mother's home.  I used to
visit here occasionally, years and years ago."

Aleck produced his quizzical grin.  "A gallant person would protest
that that is incredible."

"I wasn't angling for gallantry," Agatha replied wearily.  "I am
twenty-six, and I haven't been here certainly since I was eight years
old.  Eighteen years are a good many."

"To youth, yes," acquiesced Aleck.  "Which reminds me, by contrast, of
the hermit; he was so incredibly old.  It was he who unwittingly put me
on Jim's track.  He said that the owner or proprietor of the _Jeanne
D'Arc_ was dropped ashore on his island."

"Monsieur Chatelard?" cried Agatha.

"I don't know his name."

"If it was Monsieur Chatelard," Agatha paused, looking earnestly at
Aleck, "if it was he, it is the man who tricked me into his motor-car
in New York, drugged me and carried me aboard his yacht while I was
unconscious."

Aleck turned a sharp, though not unsympathetic, gaze upon Agatha.  "I
have told no one but Doctor Thayer, and he did not believe me.  But it
is quite true; the wreck saved me, probably, from something worse,
though I don't know what."

If there had been skepticism on Aleck's face for an instant it had
disappeared.  Instead, there was deep concern, as he considered the
case.

"Had you ever seen the man Chatelard before?"

"Never to my knowledge."

"Did he visit you on board the yacht?"

"Only once.  I was put into the charge of an old lady, a Frenchwoman,
Madame Sofie; evidently a trusted chaperon, or nurse, or something like
that.  When I came to myself in a very luxurious cabin in the yacht,
this old woman was talking to me in French--a strange medley that I
could make nothing of.  When I was better she questioned me about
everything, saying '_Mon Dieu!_' at every answer I made.  Then she left
me and was gone a long time; and when she came back, that man was with
her.  I learned afterward that he was called Monsieur Chatelard.  They
both looked at me, arguing fiercely in such a furious French that I
could not understand more than half they said.  They looked as if they
were appraising me, like an article for sale, but Madame Sofie held out
steadily, on some point, against Monsieur Chatelard, and finally it
appeared that she converted him to her own point of view.  He went away
very angry, and I did not see him again, except at a distance, until
the night of the wreck."

"Did you find out where they were going, or who was back of their
scheme?"

"No, nothing; or very little.  There was money involved.  I could tell
that.  But no names were mentioned, nor any places that I can remember.
You see, I was ill from the effects of the chloroform, and frightened,
too, I think."

"I don't wonder," said Aleck, wrinkling his homely face.  He remained
silent while he searched, mentally, for a clue.

"I found out, through my maid, who arrived today, that some one of the
kidnapping party had been clever enough to send a false message to the
hotel, explaining my sudden departure."

"I see, I see," said Aleck, going over the story in his mind.  And
presently, "Where does Hand come in?  And how did Jim happen to be
aboard the _Jeanne D'Arc_?"

"Hand was some sort of henchman to Monsieur Chatelard, I believe.  And
he told me that your cousin was picked up in New York harbor, swimming
for life, it appeared.  No one seemed to know any more."

Aleck stopped short, looked at Agatha, pursed his lips for a whistle
and remained silent.  They had arrived at the porch steps, and were
tacitly waiting for the doctors to descend and give them, if possible,
some encouragement for the coming night.  But the story of the _Jeanne
D'Arc_ had grown more complicated than Aleck had anticipated, and much
was yet to be explained.  Aleck was slow, as always, in thinking it
through, but he figured it out, finally, to a certain point, and
expressed himself thus: "That's the way with your steady fellows;
they're all the bigger fools when they do jump."

"Pardon me, I didn't catch--"

"Oh, nothing," said Aleck, half irritably.  "I only said Jim needed a
poke, like that heifer over in the next field."

Agatha understood the boyish irritation, cloaking the love of the man.
"You may be able to get more information about your cousin from Mr.
Hand," she said.  "He would be likely to know as much as anybody."

"Well, however it happened, he's here now!"

"Though if it had not been for his fearful struggle for me, he would
not have been so ill," said Agatha miserably.  Aleck, with one foot on
the low step of the piazza, stopped and turned squarely toward her.
His face was no less miserable than Agatha's, but behind his
wretchedness and anxiety was some masculine reserve of power, and a
longer view down the corridors of time.  He held her eye with a look of
great earnestness.

"I love old Jim, Miss Redmond.  We've been boys and men together, and
good fellows always.  But don't think that I'd regret his struggle for
you, as you call it, even if it should mean the worst.  He couldn't
have done otherwise, and I wouldn't have had him.  And if it's to be
a--a home run--why, then, Jim would like that far better than to die of
old age or liver complaint.  It's all right, Miss Redmond."

Aleck's slow words came with a double meaning to Agatha.  She heard,
through them, echoes of James Hambleton's boyhood; she saw a picture of
his straight and dauntless youth.  She held out to Aleck a hand that
trembled, but her face shone with gratitude.

Aleck took her hand respectfully, kindly, in his warm grasp.
"Besides," he said simply, "we won't give up.  He's got a fighting
chance yet."




CHAPTER XVII

THE TURN OF THE TIDE

Lights in a country house at night are often the signal of birth or
death, sometimes of both.  The old red house threw its beacon from
almost every window that night, and seemed mutely to defy the onslaught
of enveloping darkness, whether Plutonic or Stygian.  Time was when
Parson Thayer's library lamp burned nightly into the little hours, and
through the uncurtained windows the churchyard ghosts, had they
wandered that way, could have seen his long thin form, wrapped in a
paisley cloth dressing-gown, sitting in the glow.  He would have been
reading some old leather-bound volume, and would have remained for
hours almost as quiet and noiseless as the ghosts themselves.  Now he
had stepped across his threshold and joined them, and new spirits had
come to burn the light in the old red house.

Agatha, half-dressed, had slept, and woke feeling that the night must
be far advanced.  The house was very still, with no sound or echo of
the incoherent tones which, for now many days, had come from the room
down the hall.  She lit a candle, and the sputtering match seemed to
fill the house with noise.  Her clock indicated a little past midnight.
It was only twenty minutes since she had lain down, but she was wide
awake and refreshed.  While she was pinning up her hair in a big mass
on the top of her head, she heard in the hall slow, steady steps, firm
but not heavy, even as in daytime.  Susan Stoddard did not tiptoe.

Agatha was at the door before she could knock.

"You had better come for a few minutes," Mrs. Stoddard said.  The tones
were, in themselves, an adjuration to faith and fortitude.

"Yes, I will come," said Agatha.  They walked together down the dimly
lighted hall, each woman, in her own way, proving how strong and
efficient is the discipline of self-control.

In the sick-room a screen shaded the light from the bed, which had been
pulled out almost into the middle of the room.  Near the bed was a
table with bottles, glasses, a covered pitcher, and on the floor an
oxygen tank.  Doctor Thayer's massive figure was in the shadow close to
the bed, and Aleck Van Camp leaned over the curved footboard.  James
lay on his pillow, a ghost of a man, still as death itself.  As Agatha
grew accustomed to the light, she saw that his eyes were closed, the
lips under the ragged beard were drawn and slightly parted; his
forehead was the pallid forehead of death-in-life.  Neither the doctor
nor Aleck moved or turned their gaze from the bed as Agatha and Mrs.
Stoddard entered.  The air was still, and the profound silence without
was as a mighty reservoir for the silence within.

Agatha stood by the footboard beside Aleck, while Mrs. Stoddard,
getting a warm freestone from the invisible Mr. Hand in the hall,
placed it beneath the bedclothes.  Aleck Van Camp dropped his head,
covering his face with his hands.  Agatha, watching, by and by saw a
change come over the sick man's face.  She held her breath, it seemed,
for untold minutes, while Doctor Thayer reached his hand to the
patient's heart and leaned over to observe more closely his face.

"See!" she whispered to Aleck, touching his shoulder lightly, "he is
looking at us."  When Aleck looked up James was indeed looking at them
with large, serious, half-focussed eyes.  It was as if he were coming
back from another world where the laws of vision were different, and he
was only partially adjusted to the present conditions.  He moved his
hands feebly under the bedclothes, where they were being warmed by the
freestone, and then tried to moisten his lips.  Agatha took a glass of
water from the table, looked about for a napkin, but, seeing none, wet
the tips of her fingers and placed them gently over James's lips.  His
eyes followed her at first, but closed for an instant as she came near.
When they opened again, they looked more natural.  As he felt the
comfort of the water on his lips, his features relaxed, and a look of
recognition illumined his face.  His eyes moved from Agatha to Aleck,
who was now bending over him, and back to Agatha.  The look was a
salute, happy and peaceful.  Then his eyes closed again.

For an hour Agatha and Aleck kept their watch, almost fearing to
breathe.  Doctor Thayer worked, gave quiet orders, tested the
heartbeats, let no movement or symptom go unnoticed.  For a time James
kept even the doctor in doubt whether he was slipping into the Great
Unknown or into a deep and convalescent sleep.  By the end of the hour,
however, Jimsy had decided for natural sleep, urged thereto, perhaps,
by that unseen playwright who had decreed another time for the curtain;
or perhaps he was kept by Doctor Thayer's professional persuasions, in
defiance of the prompter's signal.  However the case, the heart slowly
but surely began to take up its job like an honest force-pump, the face
began to lose its death-like pallor, the breathing became more nearly
normal.  Doctor Thayer, with Mrs. Stoddard quiet and efficient at his
elbow, worked and tested and worked again, and finally sat moveless for
some minutes, watch in hand, counting the pulsations of James's heart.
At the end of the time he laid the hand carefully back under the
clothes, put his watch in his pocket, and finally got up and looked
around the room.

Mrs. Stoddard was pouring something into a measuring glass.  Agatha was
standing by the window, looking out into the blue night; and Aleck
could be seen through the half-open door, pacing up and down the hall.
Doctor Thayer turned to his sister.

"Give him his medicine on the half-hour, and then you go to bed.  That
man Hand will do now."  Then he went to the door and addressed Aleck.
"Well, Mr. Van Camp, unless something unexpected turns up, I think your
cousin will live to jump overboard again."

Offhand as the words were, there was unmistakable satisfaction,
happiness, even triumph in his voice, and he returned Aleck's
hand-clasp with a vise-like grip.  His masculinity ignored Agatha, or
pretended to; but she had followed him to the door.  As the old man
clasped hands with Aleck, he heard behind him a deep, "O Doctor!"  The
next instant Agatha's arms were around his neck, and the back of his
bald head was pressed against something that could only have been a
cheek.  Surprising as this was, the doctor did not stampede; but by the
time he had got clear of Aleck and had reached up his hand to find the
cheek, it was gone, and the arms, too.  Susan Stoddard somehow got
mixed up in the general _Te Deum_ in the hall, and for the first time,
now that the fight was over, allowed her feminine feelings--that is, a
few tears--to come to the surface.

Aleck, however, went to pieces, gone down in that species of mental
collapse by which deliberate, judicial men become reckless, and strong
men become weak.  He stepped softly back into the bedroom and leaned
again over the curved footboard, his face quite miserable.  He went
nearer, and held his ear down close to the bedclothes, to hear for
himself the regular beating of the heart.  Slowly he convinced himself
that the doctor's words might possibly be true, at least.  He turned to
Hand, who had come in and was adjusting the shades, and asked him: "Do
_you_ believe he's asleep?" in the tone of one who demands an oath.

"Oh, yes, sir; he's sleeping nicely, Mr. Van Camp.  I saw the change
the moment I came in."

Aleck still hesitated to leave, fearful, apparently, lest he might take
the blessed sleep away with him.  As he stood by the bed, a low but
distinct whistle sounded outside, then, after a moment's interval, was
repeated.  Aleck lifted his head at the first signal, took another look
at James and one at Hand, then light as a cat he darted from the room
and down the stairs, leaving the house through one of the tall windows
in the parlor.  Mr. Chamberlain was standing near the lilac bushes, his
big figure outlined dimly in the darkness.

"Shut up!" Aleck whispered fiercely, as he ran toward him.  "He's just
got to sleep, Chamberlain; gone to sleep, like a baby.  Don't make an
infernal racket!"

"Oh, I didn't know.  Didn't mean to make a racket," began Chamberlain,
when Aleck plumped into him and shook him by the shoulders.

"He's asleep--like a baby!" he reiterated.  And Chamberlain, wise
comrade, took Aleck by the arm and tramped him off over the hill to
settle his nerves.  They walked for an hour arm in arm over the road
that lay like a gray ribbon before them in the night, winding up
slantwise along the rugged country.

Dawn was awake on the hills a mile away, and by and by Aleck found
tongue to tell the story of the night, which was good for him.  He
talked fast and unevenly, and even extravagantly.  Chamberlain listened
and loved his friend in a sympathy that spoke for itself, though his
words were commonplace enough.  By the time they had circled the
five-mile road and were near the house again, Aleck was something like
himself, though still unusually excited.  Chamberlain mentioned
casually that Miss Reynier had been anxious about him, and that all his
friends at the big hotel had worried.  Finally, he, Chamberlain, had
set out for the old red house, thinking he could possibly be of
service; in any case glad to be near his friend.

"And, by the way," Chamberlain added; "you may be interested to hear
that accidentally I got on the track of that beggar who ate the
hermit's eggs.  Took a tramp this morning, and found him held up at a
kind of sailor's inn, waiting for money.  Grouchy old party; no wonder
his men shipped him."

Aleck at first took but feeble interest in Chamberlain's discoveries;
he was still far from being his precise, judicial self.  He let
Chamberlain talk on, scarcely noticing what he said, until suddenly the
identity of the man whom Chamberlain was describing came home to him.
Agatha's story flashed back in his memory.  He stopped short in his
tracks, halting his companion with a stretched-out forefinger.

"Look here, Chamberlain," he said, "I've been half loony and didn't
take in what you said.  If that's the owner or proprietor of the
_Jeanne D'Arc_--a man known as Monsieur Chatelard, French accent,
blond, above medium size, prominent white teeth--we want him right
away.  He kidnapped Miss Redmond in New York, and I shouldn't wonder if
he kidnapped old Jim and stole the yacht besides.  He's a bad one."

Mr. Chamberlain had the air of humoring a lunatic.  "Well, what's to be
done?  Is it a case for the law?  Is there any evidence to be had?"

"Law!  Evidence!" cried Aleck.  "I should think so.  You go to Big
Simon, Chamberlain, and find out who's sheriff, and we'll get a warrant
and run him down.  Heavens!  A man like that would sell his mother!"

Chamberlain looked frankly skeptical, and would not budge until Aleck
had related every circumstance that he knew about Agatha's involuntary
flight from New York.  He was all for going to the red house and
interviewing Agatha herself, but Aleck refused to let him do that.

"She's worn out and gone to bed; you can't see her.  But it's straight,
you take my word.  We must catch that scoundrel and bring him here for
identification--to be sure there's no mistake.  And if it is he, it'll
be hot enough for him."

Chamberlain doubted whether it was the same man, and put up objections
seriatim to each proposition of Aleck's, but finally accepted them all.
He made a point, however, of going on his quest alone.

"You go back to the red house and go to bed, and I'll round up Eggs.  I
think I know how the trick can be done."

Aleck was stubborn about accompanying Chamberlain, but the Englishman
plainly wouldn't have it.  He told Aleck he could do it better alone,
and led him by the arm back to the old red house, where the kitchen
door stood hospitably open.  Sallie was at work in her pantry.  The
kettle was singing on the stove, and the milk had already come from a
neighbor's dairy.

Sallie's temper may not have been ideal, but at least she was not of
those who are grouchy before breakfast.  She served Aleck and
Chamberlain in the kitchen with homely skill, giving them both a
wholesome and pleasant morning after their night of gloom.

"You can't do anything right all day if you start behindhand," she
replied when Aleck remarked upon her early rising.  "Besides, I was up
last night more than once, watching for Miss Redmond.  The young man's
sleeping nicely, she says."

She went cheerfully about her kitchen work, giving the men her best,
womanlike, and asking nothing in return, not even attention.  They took
her service gratefully, however, and there was enough of Eve in Sallie
to know it.

"By the way, Chamberlain," said Aleck, "we must get a telegram off to
the family in Lynn."  He wrote out the address and shoved it across
Sallie's red kitchen tablecloth.  "And tell them not to think of
coming!" adjured Aleck.  "We don't want any more of a swarry here than
we've got now."  Chamberlain undertook to send the message; and since
he had contracted to catch the criminal of the _Jeanne D'Arc_, he was
eager to be off on his hunt.

"Good-by, old man.  You go to bed and get a good sleep.  I'll stop at
the hotel and leave word for Miss Reynier.  And you stay here, so I'll
know where you are.  I may want to find you quick, if I land that
bloomin' beggar."

"Thanks," said Aleck weakly.  "I'll turn in for an hour or so, if
Sallie can find me a bed."

Mr. Chamberlain made several notes on an envelope which he pulled from
his pocket, gravely thanked Sallie for her breakfast and lifted his hat
to her when he departed.  Aleck dropped into a chair and was stupidly
staring at the stove when Sallie returned from a journey to the pump in
the yard.

"You'll like to take a little rest, Mr. Van Camp," she said, "and I
know just the place where you'll not hear a sound from anywhere--if you
don't mind there not being a carpet.  I'll go up right away and show
you the room before I knead out my bread."  So she conducted Aleck to a
big, clean attic under the rafters, remote and quiet.  He was
exhausted, not from lack of sleep--he had often borne many hours of
wakefulness and hard work without turning a hair--but from the jarring
of a live nerve throughout the night of anxiety.  The past, and the
relationships of youth and kindred were sacred to him, and his pain had
overshadowed, for the hour at least, even the newer claims of his love
for Mélanie Reynier.




CHAPTER XVIII

THE SPIRIT OF THE ANCIENT WOOD

Agatha's first thought on awakening late in the forenoon, was the
memory of Sallie Kingsbury coaxing her to bed and tucking her in, in
the purple light of the early morning.  She remembered the attention
with pleasure and gratitude, as another blessing added to the greater
one of James Hambleton's turn toward recovery.  Sallie's act was mute
testimony that Agatha was, in truth, heir to Hercules Thayer's estate,
spiritual and material.

She summoned Lizzie, and while she was dressing, laid out directions
for the day.  During her short stay in Ilion, Lizzie had been diligent
enough in gathering items of information, but nevertheless she had
remained oblivious of any impending crisis during the night.  Her
pompadour was marcelled as accurately as if she were expecting a
morning call from Mr. Straker.  No rustlings of the wings of the Angel
of Death had disturbed her sleep.  In fact, Lizzie would have winked
knowingly if his visit had been announced to her.  Her sophistication
had banished such superstitions.  She noticed, however, that Agatha's
candles had burned to their sockets, and inquired if Miss Redmond had
been wakeful.

"Mr. Hambleton was very ill.  Everybody in the house was up till near
morning," replied Agatha rather tartly.

"Oh, what a pity!  Could I have done anything?  I never heard a sound,"
cried Lizzie effusively.

"No, there was nothing you could have done," said Agatha.

"It's very bad for your voice, Miss Redmond, staying up all night,"
went on Lizzie solicitously.  "You're quite pale this morning.  And
with your western tour ahead of you!"

Agatha let these adjurations go unanswered.  It occurred to Lizzie that
possibly she had allied herself with a mistress who was foolish enough
to ruin her public career by private follies, such as worrying about
sick people.  Heaven, in Lizzie's eyes, was the glare of publicity; and
since she was unable to shine in it herself, she loved to be attached
to somebody who could.  Her fidelity was based on Agatha's celebrity as
a singer.  She would have preferred serving an actress who was all the
rage, but considered a popular singer, who paid liberally, as the next
best thing.

There was always enough common sense in Lizzie's remarks to make some
impression, even on a person capable of the folly of mourning at a
death bed.  Agatha's spirits, freshened by hope and the sleep of
health, rose to a buoyancy which was well able to deal with practical
questions.  She quickly formed a plan for the day, though she was wise
enough to withhold the scheme from the maid.

Agatha drank her coffee, ate sparingly of Sallie's toast, and, leaving
Lizzie with a piece of sewing to do, went first to James Hambleton's
room.  After ten minutes or so, she slowly descended the stairs and
went out the front way.  She circled the garden and came round to the
open kitchen door.  Sallie was kneeling before her oven, inspecting
bread.  Agatha, watched her while she tapped the bottom of the tin,
held her face down close to the loaf, and finally took the whole baking
out of the oven and tipped the tins on the table.

"That's the most delicious smell that ever was!" said Agatha.

Sallie jumped up and pulled her apron straight.

"Lor', Miss Redmond, how you scared me!  Couldn't you sleep any longer?"

"I didn't want to; I'm as good as new.  Tell me, Sallie, where all the
people are.  Mr. Hand is in Mr. Hambleton's room, I know, but where are
the others?"

"I guess they're all parceled round," said Sallie with symptoms of
sniffing.  "I don't wanter complain, Miss Redmond, but we ain't had any
such a houseful since Parson Thayer's last conference met here, and not
so many then; only three ministers and two wives, though, of course,
ministers make more work.  But I wouldn't say a word, Miss Redmond,
about the work, if it wasn't for that young woman that puts on such
airs coming and getting your tray.  I ain't used to that."

Sallie paused, like any good orator, while her main thesis gained
impressiveness from silence.  It was only too evident that her feelings
were hurt.

Agatha considered the matter, but before replying came farther into the
kitchen and touched the tip of a finger to one of Sallie's loaves,
lifting it to show its golden brown crust.

"You're an expert at bread, Sallie, I can see that," she said heartily.
"I shouldn't have got over my accident half so well if it hadn't been
for your good food and your care, and I want you to know that I
appreciate it."  She was reluctant to discuss the maid, but her cordial
liking for Sallie counseled frankness.  "Don't mind about Lizzie.  I
thought you had too much to do, and that she might just as well help
you, but if she bothers you, we won't have it.  And now tell me where
Mrs. Stoddard and the others are."

Sallie's symptoms indicated that she was about to be propitiated; but
she had yet a desire to make her position clear to Miss Redmond.  "It's
all right; only I've taken care of the china for seventeen years, and
it don't seem right to let her handle it.  And she told me herself that
anybody that had any respect for their hands wouldn't do kitchen work.
And if her hands are too good for kitchen work, I'm sure I don't want
her messing round here.  She left the tea on the stove till it
_boiled_, Miss Redmond, just yesterday."

Agatha smiled.  "I'm sure Lizzie doesn't know anything about cooking,
Sallie, and she shall not bother you any more."

Sallie turned a rather less melancholy face toward Agatha.  "It's been
fairly lonesome since the parson died.  I'm glad you've come to the red
house."  The words came from Sallie's lips gruffly and ungraciously,
but Agatha knew that they were sincere.  She knew better, however, than
to appear to notice them.  In a moment Sallie went on: "Mrs. Stoddard,
she's asleep in the front spare room.  Said for me to call her at
twelve."

"Poor woman!  She must be tired," said Agatha.

"Aunt Susan's a stout woman, Miss Redmond.  She didn't go to bed until
she'd had prayers beside the young man's bed, with Mr. Hand present.  I
had to wait with the coffee.  And I guess Mr. Hand ain't very much used
to our ways, for when Aunt Susan had made a prayer, Mr. Hand said,
'Yes, ma'am!' instead of Amen."

There was a mixture of disapprobation and grim humor which did not
escape Agatha.  She was again beguiled into a smile, though Sallie
remained grave as a tombstone.

"Mr. Hand will learn," said Agatha; and was about to add "Like the rest
of us," but thought better of it.  Sallie took up her tale.

"Mr. Van Camp and his friend came in just after I'd put you to bed,
Miss Redmond, and ate a bite of breakfast right offer that table; and
'twas a mercy I'd cleared all the kulch outer the attic, as I did last
week, for Mr. Van Camp he wanted a place to sleep; and he's up there
now.  Used to be a whole lot er the parson's books up there; but I put
them on a shelf in the spare room.  The other man went off toward the
village."

Agatha, looking about the pleasant kitchen, was tempted to linger.
Sallie's conversation yielded, to the discerning, something of the rich
essence of the past; and Agatha began to yearn for a better knowledge
of the recluse who had been her friend, unknown, through all the years.
But she remembered her industrious plans for the day and postponed her
talk with Sallie.

"I remember there used to be a grove, a stretch of wood, somewhere
beyond the church, Sallie.  Which way is it--along the path that goes
through the churchyard?"

"No, this way; right back er the yard.  Parson Thayer he used to walk
that way quite often."  Sallie went with Agatha to another stile beyond
the churchyard, and pointed over the pasture to a fringe of dark trees
along the farther border.  "Right there by that apple tree, the path
is.  But don't go far, Miss Redmond; the woods ain't healthy."

"All right, Sallie; thank you.  I'll not stay long."  She called Danny
and started out through the pasture, with the hound, sober and
dignified and happy, at her heels.

The wood was cool and dim, with an uneven wagon road winding in and out
between stumps.  Enormous sugar-maples reared their forms here and
there; occasionally a lithe birch lifted a tossing head; and, farther
within, pines shot their straight trunks, arrow-like, up to the canopy
above.

Farther along, the road widened into a little clearing, beyond which
the birch and maple trees gave place entirely to pines and hemlocks.
The underbrush disappeared, and a brown carpet of needles and cones
spread far under the shade.  The leafy rustle of the deciduous trees
ceased, and a majestic stillness, deeper than thought, pervaded the
place.  At the clearing just within this deeper wood Agatha paused, sat
down on a stone and took Danny's head in her lap.  The dog looked up
into her face with the wistful, melancholy gaze of his kind,
inarticulate yet eloquent.

The sun was nearly at zenith, and bright flecks of light lay here and
there over the brown earth.  As Agatha grew accustomed to the shade, it
seemed pleasant and not at all uncheerful--the gaiety of sunlight
subdued only to a softer tone.  The resolution which had brought her
thither returned.  She stood up under the dome of pines and began
softly to sing, trying her voice first in single tones, then a scale or
two, a trill.  At first her voice was not clear, but as she continued
it emerged from its sheath of huskiness clear and flutelike, and liquid
as the notes of the thrushes that inhabited the wood.  The pleasure of
the exercise grew, and presently, warbling her songs there in the
otherwise silent forest, Agatha became conscious of a strange
accompaniment.  Pausing a moment, she perceived that the grove was
vocal with tone long after her voice had ceased.  It was not exactly an
echo, but a slowly receding resonance, faint duplications and
multiplications of her voice, gently floating into the thickness of the
forest.

Charmed, like a child who discovers some curious phenomenon of nature,
Agatha tried her voice again and again, listening, between whiles, to
the ghostly tones reverberating among the pines.  She sang the slow
majestic "Lascia ch'io pianga," which has tested every singer's voice
since Händel wrote it; and then, curious, she tried the effect of the
aërial sounding-board with quick, brilliant runs up and down the full
range of the voice.  But the effect was more beautiful with something
melodious and somewhat slow; and there came to her mind an
old-fashioned song which, as a girl, she had often sung with her mother:

  "Oh! that we two were maying
  Down the stream of the soft spring breeze."

She sang the stanza through, softly, walking up and down among the
pines.  Danny, at first, walked up and down beside her gravely, and
then lay down in the middle of the path, keeping an eye on Agatha's
movements.  Her voice, pitched at its softest, now seemed to be
infinitely enlarged without being made louder.  It carried far in among
the trees, clear and soft as a wave-ripple.  Entranced, Agatha began
the second part of the song, just for the joy of singing:

  "Oh! that we two sat dreaming
  On the sward of some sheep-trimmed down--"

when suddenly, from the distance, another voice took up the strain.
Danny was instantly up and off to investigate, but presently came back
wagging and begging his mistress to follow him.

In spite of her surprise in hearing another voice complete the duet,
Agatha went on with the song, half singing, half humming.  It was a
woman's voice that joined hers, singing the part quite according to the
book:

  "With our limbs at rest on the quiet earth's breast
  And our souls at home with God!"

The pine canopy spread the voices, first one and then the other, until
the wood was like a vast cathedral filled with the softest music of the
organ pipes.

There was nobody in sight at first, but as Agatha followed the path,
she presently saw a white arm and skirt projecting from behind the
trunk of a tree.  Danny, wagging slowly, appeared to wish to make
friends, and before Agatha had time to wonder, the stranger emerged and
came toward her with outstretched hand.

"Ah, forgive me!  I hid and then startled you; but I was tempted by the
song.  And this forest temple--isn't it wonderful?"

Agatha looked at the stranger, suddenly wondering if she were not some
familiar but half-forgotten acquaintance of years agone.  She was a
beautiful dark woman, probably two or three years older than herself,
mature and self-poised as only a woman of the cosmopolitan world can
be.  It might be that compared to her Agatha was a bit crude and
unfinished, with the years of her full blossoming yet to come.  She had
no words at the moment, and the older woman, still holding Agatha's
hand, explained.

"I did not mean to steal in upon you; but as I came into the grove I
heard you singing Händel, and I couldn't resist listening.  Your voice,
it is wonderful!  Especially here!"  As she looked into Agatha's face,
her sincere eyes and voice gave the praise that no one can resist, the
tribute of one artist to another.

"This is, indeed, a beautiful hall.  I found it out just now by
accident, when I came up here to practice and see if I had any voice
left," said Agatha.  She paused, as it suddenly occurred to her that
the visitor might be James Hambleton's sister and that she was being
delinquent as a hostess.  "But come back to the house," she said.
"This is not a hospitable place, exactly, to receive a guest."

The stranger laughed gently.  "Have you guessed who I am, then?  No?
Well, you see I had the advantage of you from the first.  You are Miss
Redmond, and I followed you here from the house, where your servant
gave me the directions.  I am Miss Reynier, Mélanie Reynier, and I am
staying at the Hillside.  Mr. Van Camp--" and to her own great
surprise, Mélanie blushed crimson at this point--"that is, we, my aunt
and I, were Mr. Van Camp's guests on board the _Sea Gull_.  When he
heard of the wreck of the _Jeanne D'Arc_ we put in to Charlesport;
though he has probably explained all this to you.  It was such a relief
and pleasure to Mr. Van Camp to find his cousin, ill as he was; for he
had feared the worst."

Agatha had not heard Miss Reynier's name before, but she knew vaguely
that Mr. Van Camp had been with a yachting party when he arrived at
Charlesport.  Now that she was face to face with Miss Reynier, a keen
liking and interest, a quick confidence, rose in her heart for her.

"Then perhaps you know Mr. Hambleton," said Agatha impulsively.  "The
fever turned last night.  Were you told that he is better?"

"No, I don't know him," said Mélanie, shaking her head.  "Nevertheless,
I am heartily glad to hear that he is better.  _Much_ better, they said
at the house."

They had been standing at the place where Agatha had first discovered
her visitor, but now they turned back into the clearing.

"Come and try the organ pipes again," she begged.  They walked about
the wood, singing first one strain and then another, testing the
curiously beautiful properties of the pine dome.  They were quickly on
a footing of friendliness.  It was evident that each was capable of
laying aside formality, when she wished to do so, and each was, at
heart, frank and sincere.  Mélanie's talent for song was not small, yet
she recognized in Agatha a superior gift; while, to Agatha, Mélanie
Reynier seemed increasingly mature, polished, full of charm.

They left the wood and wandered back through the pasture and over the
stile, each learning many things in regard to the other.  They spoke of
the place and its beauty, and Agatha told Mélanie of the childhood
memories which, for the first time, she had revived in their living
background.

"How our thoughts change!" she said at last.  "As a child, I never felt
this farm to be lonely; it was the most populous and entertaining place
in all the world.  I much preferred the wood to anything in the city.
I love it now, too; but it seems the essence of solitude to me."

"That is because you have been where the passions and restlessness of
men have centered.  One is never the same after that."

"Strangely enough, the place now belongs to me," went on Agatha.
"Parson Thayer, the former owner and resident, was my mother's guardian
and friend, and left the place to me for her sake."

"Ah, that is well!" cried Mélanie.  "It will be your castle of retreat,
your Sans-Souci, for all your life, I envy you!  It is charming.
Pastor--Parson, do you say?--Parson Thayer was a man of judgment."

"Yes, and a man of strange and dominating personality, in his way.
Everything about the house speaks of him and his tastes.  Even Danny
here follows me, I really believe, because I am beginning to appreciate
his former master."

Agatha stooped and patted the dog's head.  Youth and health, helped by
the sympathy of a friend, were working wonders in Agatha.  She beamed
with happiness.

"Come into the house," she begged Mélanie, "and look at some of his
books with me.  But first we'll find Sallie and get luncheon, and
perhaps Mr. Van Camp will appear by that time.  Poor man, he was quite
worn out.  Then you shall see Parson Thayer's books and flowers, if you
will."

They strolled over the velvet lawn toward the front of the house, where
the door and the long windows stood open.  Down by the road, and close
to the lilac bushes that flanked the gateway, stood a large
silver-white automobile--evidently Miss Reynier's conveyance.  The
driver of the machine had disappeared.

"I mustn't trespass on your kindness for luncheon to-day, thank you,"
Mélanie was saying; "but I'll come again soon, if I may."  Meantime she
was moving slowly down the walk.  But Agatha would not have it so.  She
clung to this woman friend with an unwonted eagerness, begging her to
stay.

"We are quite alone, and we have been so miserable over Mr. Hambleton's
illness," she pleaded quite illogically.  "Do stay and cheer us up!"

And so Mélanie was persuaded; easily, too, except for her compunctions
about abusing the hospitality of a household whose first care must
necessarily be for the sick.

"I want to stay," she said frankly.  "The house breathes the very air
of restfulness itself; and I haven't seen the garden at all!"  She
walked back over the lawn, looked admiringly out toward the garden,
with its purple and yellow flowers, then gazed into the lofty thicket
above her head, where the high elm spread its century-old branches.
Agatha, standing a little apart and looking at Melanie, was again
struck by some haunting familiarity about her face and figure.  She
wondered where she could have seen Miss Reynier before.

Aleck Van Camp, appearing round the corner of the house, made elaborate
bows to the two ladles.

"Good morning, Miss Redmond!"  He greeted her cordially, plainly glad
to see her.  "I slept the sleep of the blest up there in your fragrant
loft.  Good morning, Miss Reynier!"  He walked over and formally took
Mélanie's hand for an instant.  "I knew it was decreed that you two
should be friends," he went on, in his deliberate way.  "In fact, I've
been waiting for the moment when I could have the pleasure of
introducing you myself, and here you have managed to dispense with my
services altogether.  But let me escort you into the house.  Sallie
says her raised biscuits are all ready for luncheon."

Agatha, looking at her new friend's vivid face, saw that Mr. Van Camp
was not an unwelcome addition to their number.  She had a quick
superstitious feeling of happiness at the thought that the old red
house, gathering elements of joy about its roof, was her possession and
her home.

"I've promised to show Miss Reynier some queer old books after
luncheon," she said.

Aleck wrinkled his brow.  "I'll try not to be jealous of them."




CHAPTER XIX

MR. CHAMBERLAIN, SLEUTH

Unbeknown to himself, Mr. Chamberlain possessed the soul of a
conspirator.  Leaving Aleck Van Camp at the crisp edge of the day, he
fell into deep thought as he walked toward the village.  As he reviewed
the information he had received, he came more and more to adopt
Agatha's cause as his own, and his spirit was fanned into the glow
incident to the chase.

He walked briskly over the country road, descended the steep hill,
turning over the facts, as he knew them, in his mind.  By the time he
reached Charlesport, he regarded his honor as a gentleman involved in
the capture of the Frenchman.  His knowledge of the methods of legal
prosecutions, even in his own country, was extremely hazy.  He had
never been in a situation, in his hitherto peaceful career, in which it
had been necessary to appeal to the law, either on his own behalf or on
that of his friends.

Legal processes in America were even less known to him, but he was not
daunted on that account.  He remembered Sherlock Holmes and Raffles; he
recalled Bill Sykes and Dubosc, dodging the operations of justice; and
in that romantic chamber that lurks somewhere in every man's make-up,
he felt that classic tradition had armed him with all the preparation
necessary for heroic achievement.  He, Chamberlain, was unexpectedly
called upon to act as an agent of justice against chicanery and
violence, and it was not in him to shirk the task.  His labors, which,
for the greater part of his life, had been expended in tracing the
evolution of blind fish in inland caves, had not especially fitted him
for dealing with the details of such a case as Agatha's; but they had
left him eminently well equipped for discerning right principles and
embracing them.

Chamberlain's first move was to visit Big Simon, who directed him to
the house of the justice of the peace, Israel Cady.  Squire Cady, in
his shirt-sleeves and wearing an old faded silk hat, was in his side
yard endeavoring to coax the fruit down gently from a flourishing pear
tree.

"You wait just a minute, if you please, until I get these two plump
pears down, and I'll be right there," he called courteously, without
looking away from his long-handled wire scoop.

Mr. Chamberlain strolled into the yard, and after watching Squire
Cady's exertions for a minute or two, offered to wield the pole himself.

"Takes a pru-uty steady hand to get those big ones off without bruising
them," cautioned the squire.

But Chamberlain's hand was steadiness itself, and his eyesight much
keener than the old man's.  The result was highly satisfactory.  No
less than a dozen ripe pears were twitched off, just in the nick of
time, so far as the eater was concerned.

"Well, thank you, sir; thank you," said Squire Cady.  "That just goes
to show what the younger generation can do.  Now then, let's see.  Got
any pockets?"

He picked out six of the best pears and piled them in Chamberlain's
hands, then took off his rusty, old-fashioned hat and filled it with
the rest of the fruit.  Chamberlain carefully stowed his treasures into
the wide pockets of his tweed suit.

"Now, sir," Squire Cady said heartily, "we'll go into my office and
attend to business.  I'm not equal to Cincinnatus, whom they found
plowing his field, but I can take care of my garden.  Come in, sir,
come in."

Chamberlain followed the tall spare old figure into the house.  The
squire disappeared with his pears, leaving his visitor in the narrow
hall; but he returned in a moment and led the way into his office.  It
was a large, rag-carpeted room, filled with all those worsted
knickknacks which women make, and littered comfortably with books and
papers.

Squire Cady put on a flowered dressing-gown, drew a pair of spectacles
out of a pocket, a bandana handkerchief from another, and requested
Chamberlain to sit down and make himself at home.  The two men sat
facing each other near a tall secretary whose pigeonholes were stuffed
with papers in all stages of the yellowing process.  Squire Cady's face
was yellowing, like his papers, and it was wrinkled and careworn; but
his eyes were bright and humorous, and his voice pleasant.  Chamberlain
thought he liked him.

"Come to get a marriage license?" the squire inquired.  Chamberlain
immediately decided that he didn't like him, but he foolishly blushed.

"No, it's another sort of matter," he said stiffly,

"Not a marriage license!  All right, my boy," agreed Squire Cady.
"'Tisn't the fashion to marry young nowadays, I know, though 'twas the
fashion in my day.  Not a wedding!  What then?"

Then Chamberlain set to work to tell his story.  Placed, as it were,
face to face with the law, he realized that he was but poorly equipped
for carrying on actual proceedings, even though they might be against
Belial himself; but he made a good front and persuaded Squire Cady that
there was something to be done.  The squire was visibly affected at the
mention of the old red house, and fell into a revery, looking off
toward the fields and tapping his spectacles on the desk.

"Hercules Thayer and I read Latin together when we were boys," he said,
turning to Chamberlain with a reminiscent smile on his old face.  "And
he licked me for liking Hannibal better than Scipio."  He laughed
heartily.

The faces of the old sometimes become like pictured parchments, and
seem to be lighted from within by a faint, steady gleam, almost more
beautiful than the fire of youth.  As Chamberlain looked, he decided
once more, and finally, that he liked Squire Cady.

"But I got even with Hercules on Horace," the squire went on, chuckling
at his memories.  "However," he sighed, as he turned toward his desk
again, "this isn't getting out that warrant for you.  We don't want any
malefactors loose about Charlesport; but you'll have to be sure you
know what you're doing.  Do you know the man--can you identify him?"

"I think I should know him; but in any case Miss Redmond at the old red
house can identify him."

"We don't want to arrest anybody till we're sure we know what we're
about--that's poor law," said Squire Cady, in a pedagogical and
squire-ish tone, as if Chamberlain were a mere boy.  But the Englishman
didn't mind that.

"I think I can satisfy you that we've got the right man," he answered.
"If I find him and bring him to the old red house this afternoon, so
that Miss Redmond can identify him, will you have a sheriff ready to
serve the warrant?"

"Yes, I can do that."

"Very well, then, and thank you, sir," said Chamberlain, moving toward
the door.  "And I'm keen on hearing how you got even with Mr. Thayer on
the Horace."

The light behind the squire's parchment face gleamed a moment.

"Come back, my boy, when you've done your duty by the law.  Every
citizen should be a protector as well as a keeper of the law.  So come
again; the latch-string is always out."

It was mid-morning before the details connected with the sheriff were
completed.  By this time Chamberlain's heavy but sound temperament had
lifted itself to its task, gaining momentum as the hours went by.  His
next step was to search out the Frenchman.  The meager information
obtained the day before was to the effect that the marooned yacht-owner
had taken refuge in one of the shacks near the granite docks in the
upper part of the village.  He had persuaded the caretaker of the
Sailors' Reading-room to lend him money with which to telegraph to New
York, as the telegraph operator had refused to trust him.

It was not difficult to get on his trade, even though the village
people were constitutionally reluctant to let any unnecessary
information get away from them.  A mile or so farther up the shore,
beyond the road that ran like a scar across the hill to the granite
quarry, Chamberlain came upon a saloon masquerading as a grocery store.
A lodging house, a seaman's Bethel and the Reading-room were grouped
near by; the telegraph office, too, had been placed at this end of the
town; obviously for the convenience of the operators of the granite
quarry.  The settlement had the appearance of easy-going and pleasant
industry peculiar to places where handwork is still the rule.

Chamberlain applied first at the grocery store without getting
satisfaction.  The foreign looking boy, who was the only person
visible, could give him no information about anything.  But at the
Reading-room the erstwhile yacht-owner was known.  Borrowing money is a
sure method of impressing one's personality.

The Frenchman had been in the neighborhood two or three days, latterly
becoming very impatient for a reply to his New York telegram.  A good
deal of money had been applied for, was the opinion of the
money-lender.  This person, caretaker and librarian, was a tall,
ineffective individual, with eyes set wide apart.  His slow speech was
a mixture of Doctor Johnson and a judge in chancery.  It was
grandiloquent, and it often took long to reach the point.  He informed
Chamberlain, with some circumlocution, that the Frenchman had been
extremely anxious over the telegram.

"I tried to persuade him that it was useless to be impatient over such
things," said he.  "And I regret to say that the man allowed himself to
become profane."

"I dare say."

"But it would appear that he has received his telegram by this time,"
continued the youth, "for it is now but a short time since he was
summoned to the station."

Chamberlain, thinking that the sooner he got to the telegraph station
the better, was about to depart, when the placid tones of the librarian
again casually broke the silence.

"If I mistake not, the gentleman in question is even now hastening
toward the village."  He waved a vague hand toward the open door
through which, a little distance away, a man's figure could be seen.

"Why don't you run after him and get your money?" asked Chamberlain;
but he didn't know the youth.

"What good would that do?" was the surprising question, which
Chamberlain could not answer.

But the Englishman acted on a different principle.  He thanked the
judge in chancery and made after the Frenchman, who was casting a
furtive eye in this and that direction, as if in doubt which way he
ought to go.  Nevertheless, he seemed bent on going, and not too
slowly, either.

The Englishman swung into the road, but did not endeavor to overtake
the other.  They were traveling toward the main village, along a road
that more or less hugged the shore.  Sometimes it topped a cliff that
dropped precipitately into the water; and again it descended to a sandy
level that was occasionally reached by the higher tides.

Near the main village the road ascended a rather steep bluff, and at
the top made a sudden turn toward the town.  As Chamberlain approached
this point, he yielded more and more to the beauty of the scene.  The
Bay of Charlesport, the rugged, curving outline of the coast beyond,
the green islands, the glistening sea, the blue crystalline sky over
all--it was a sight to remember.

Not far from the land, at the near end of the harbor, was the _Sea
Gull_, pulling at her mooring.  A stone's throw beyond Chamberlain's
feet, a small rocky tongue of land was prolonged by a stone breakwater,
which sheltered the curved beach of the village from the rougher waves.
Close up under the bluff on which he was standing, the waters of the
bay churned and foamed against a steep rock-wall that shot downward to
unknown depths.  It was obviously a dangerous place, though the road
was unguarded by fence or railing.  Only a delicate fringe of goldenrod
and low juniper bushes veiled the treacherous cliff edge.  It was
almost impossible for a traveler, unused to the region, to pass across
the dizzy stretch of highway without a shuddering glance at the
murderous waves below.

On the crest of this cliff, each of the two men paused, one following
the other at a little distance.  The first man, however, paused merely
for a few minutes' rest after the steep climb.  Chamberlain, hardened
to physical exertions, took the hill easily, but stood for a moment
lost in speculative wonder at the scene.  He kept a sharp eye on his
leader, however; and presently the two men took up their Indian file
again toward the village.

Some distance farther on, the road forked, one spur leading up over the
steep rugged hill, another dropping abruptly to the main village street
and the wharves.  A third branch ran low athwart the hill and led,
finally, to the summer hotel where Chamberlain and the Reyniers had
been staying.  At this division of the road Chamberlain saw the other
man ahead of him sitting on a stone.  He approached him leisurely and
assumed an air of business sagacity.

"Good day, sir," said Chamberlain, planting himself solidly before the
man on the stone.  He was rather large, blond, pale and unkempt in
appearance; but nevertheless he carried an air of insolent mockery, it
seemed to Chamberlain.  He glanced disgustedly at the Englishman, but
did not reply.

"Rather warm day," remarked Chamberlain pleasantly.  No answer.  The
man sat with his head propped on his hands, unmistakably in a bad
temper.

"Want to buy some land?" inquired Chamberlain.  "I'm selling off lots
on this hill for summer cottages.  Water front, dock privileges, and a
guaranty that no one shall build where it will shut off your view.
Terms reasonable.  Like to buy?"

"_Non_!" snarled the other.

Chamberlain paused in his imaginative flight, and took two luscious
yellow pears from his bulging pockets.

"Have a pear?" he pleasantly offered.

The man again looked up, as if tempted, but again ejaculated "_Non_!"

Chamberlain leisurely took a satisfying bite.

"I get tired myself," he went on, "tramping over these country roads.
But it's the best way for me to do business.  You don't happen to want
a good hotel, do you?"

Coarse fare and the discomforts of beggars' lodgings had told on the
Frenchman's temper, as Chamberlain had surmised.  He looked up with a
show of human interest.  Chamberlain went on.

"There's a fine hotel, the Hillside, over yonder, only a mile or so
away.  Best place in all the region hereabouts; tip-topping set there,
too.  Count Somebody-or-Other from Germany, and no end of big-wigs; so
of course they have a good cook."

Chamberlain paused and finished his second pear.  The man on the stone
was furtive and uneasy, but masked his disquiet with the insolent
sneering manner that had often served him well.  Chamberlain, having
once adopted the role of a garrulous traveling salesman, followed it up
with zest.

"Of course, a man can get a good meal, for that matter, at the Red
House, a little way up yonder over the hill.  But it wouldn't suit a
man like you--a slow, poky place, with no style."

The man on the stone slowly turned toward Chamberlain, and at last
found voice for more than monosyllabic utterances.

"I was looking for a hotel," he said, in correct English but with a
foreign accent, "and I shall be glad to take your advice.  The
Hillside, you say, is in this direction?" and he pointed along the
lower road.

"Yes," heartily assented Chamberlain, "about two miles through those
woods, and you won't make any mistake going there; it's a very good
place."

The man got up from the stone.

"And the other inn you spoke of--where is that?"

"The Red House?  That's quite a long piece up over the hill--this way.
Straight road; house stands near a church; kept by a country woman
named Sallie.  But the Hillside's the place for you; good style,
everything neat and handsome.  And fine people!"

"Very well, thanks," cut in the other, in his sharp, rasping tones.  "I
shall go to the Hillside."

He slid one hand into a pocket, as if to assure himself that he had not
been robbed by sleight-of-hand during the interview, and then started
on the road leading to the Hillside.  Chamberlain said "Good day, sir,"
without expecting or getting an answer, and turned down the hill toward
the village.

As soon as he had dropped from sight, however, he walked casually into
the thick bushes that lined the road, and from this ambush he took a
careful survey of the hill behind him.  Then he slowly and cautiously
made his way back through the underbrush until he was again in sight of
the cross-roads.  Here, concealed behind a tree, he waited patiently
some five or ten minutes.  At the end of that time, Chamberlain's mild
and kindly face lighted up with unholy joy.  He opened his mouth and
emitted a soundless "haw-haw."

For there was his recent companion also returning to the cross-roads,
taking a discreet look in the direction of the village as he came
along.  Seeing that the coast was clear, he turned and went rapidly up
the road that led over the hill to the old red house.

When Chamberlain saw that the man was well on his way he stepped into
the road and solemnly danced three steps of a hornpipe, and the next
instant started on a run toward the village.  He got little Simon's
horse and buggy, drove into the upper street and picked up the sheriff,
and then trotted at a good rattling pace around by the long road toward
Ilion.




CHAPTER XX

MONSIEUR CHATELARD TAKES THE WHEEL

Sallie Kingsbury would have given up the ghost without more ado, had
she known what secular and unministerial passions were converging about
Parson Thayer's peaceful library.  As it was, she had a distinct
feeling that life wasn't as simple as it had been heretofore, and that
there were puzzling problems to solve.  She was almost certain that she
had caught Mr. Hand using an oath; though when she charged him with it,
he had said that he had been talking Spanish to himself--he always did
when he was alone.  Sallie didn't exactly know the answer to that, but
told him that she hoped he would remember that she was a professor.
"What's that?" inquired Hand.

"It's a Christian in good and regular standing, and it's what you ought
to be," said Sallie.

And now that nice Mr. Chamberlain, whom she had fed in the early
morning, had dashed up to the kitchen door behind Little Simon's best
horse, deposited a man from Charlesport, and then had disappeared.  The
man had also unceremoniously left her kitchen.  He might be a minister
brought there to officiate at the church on the following Sabbath,
Sallie surmised; but on second thought she dismissed the idea.  He
didn't look like any minister she had ever seen, and was very far
indeed from the Parson Thayer type.

Hercules Thayer's business, including his ministerial duties, had
formed the basis and staple of Sallie's affectionate interest for
seventeen years, and it wasn't her nature to give up that interest, now
that the chief actor had stepped from the stage.  So she speculated and
wondered, while she did more than her share of the work.

She picked radishes from the garden for supper, threw white screening
over the imposing loaves of bread still cooling on the side table, and
was sharpening a knife on a whetstone, preparatory to carving thin
slices from a veal loaf that stood near by, when she was accosted by
some one appearing suddenly in the doorway.

"Is this the Red House?"  It was a cool, sharp voice, sounding even
more outlandish than Mr. Hand's.  Sallie turned deliberately toward the
door and surveyed the new-comer.

"Well, yes; I guess so.  But you don't need to scare the daylights
outer me, that way."

The stranger entered the kitchen and pulled out a chair from the table.

"Give me something to eat and drink--the best you have, and be quick
about it, too."

Sallie paused, carving-knife in hand, looking at him with frank
curiosity.  "Well, I snum!  You ain't the new minister either, now, are
you?"

The stranger made no answer.  He had thrown himself into the chair, as
if tired.  Suddenly he sat up and looked around alertly, then at
Sallie, who was returning his gaze with interest.

"Where are you from, anyway?" she inquired.  "We don't see people like
you around these parts very often."

"I dare say," he snarled.  "Are you going to get me a meal, or must I
tramp over these confounded hills all day before I can eat?"

"Oh, I'll get you up a bite, if that's all you want.  I never turned
anybody away hungry from this door yet, and we've had many a worse
looking tramp than you.  I guess Miss Redmond won't mind."

"Miss Redmond!"  The stranger started to his feet, glowering on Sallie.
"Look here!  Is this place a hotel, or isn't it?"

"Well, anybody'd think it was, the way I've been driven from pillar to
post for the last ten days!  But you can stay; I'll get you a meal, and
a good one, too."

Sallie's good nature was rewarded by a convulsion of anger on the part
of the guest.  "Fool!  Idiot!" he screamed.  "You trick me in here!
You lie to me!"

"Oh, set down, set down!" interrupted Sallie.  "You don't need to get
so het up as all that!  I'll get you something to eat.  There ain't any
hotel within five miles of here--and a poor one at that!"  Thus
protesting and attempting to soothe, Sallie saw the stranger make a
grab for his hat and start for the door, only to find it suddenly shut
and locked in his face.  Mr. Chamberlain, moreover, was on the inside,
facing the foreigner.

"If you will step through the house and go out the other way," Mr.
Chamberlain remarked coolly, "it will oblige me.  My horse is loose in
the yard, and I'm afraid you'll scare him off.  He's shy with
strangers."

The two men measured glances.

"I thought you traveled afoot when pursuing your real estate business,"
sneered the stranger.

"I do, when it suits my purposes," replied Chamberlain.

"What game are you up to, anyway, in this disgusting country?" inquired
the other.

"Ridding it of rascals.  This way, please;" and Chamberlain pointed
before him toward the door leading into the hall.  As the stranger
turned, his glance fell on Sallie, still carving her veal loaf.
"Idiot!" he said disgustedly.

"Well, I haven't been caught yet, anyhow," said Sallie grimly.

Chamberlain's voice interrupted her.  "This way, and then the first
door on the right.  Make haste, if you please, Monsieur Chatelard."

At the name, the stranger turned, standing at bay, but Chamberlain was
at his heels.  "You see, I know your name.  It was supplied me at the
Reading-room.  Here--on the right--quickly!"

The hall was dim, almost dark, the only light coming from the open
doorway on the right.  Whether he wished or no, Monsieur Chatelard was
forced to advance into the range of the doorway; and once there, he
found himself pushed unceremoniously into the room.

It was a large, cool room, lined with bookcases.  Near the middle stood
an oblong table covered with green felt and supporting an old brass
lamp.  Four people were in the room, besides the two new-comers.  Aleck
Van Camp was on a low step-ladder, just in the act of handing down a
book from the top shelf.  Near the step-ladder two women were standing,
with their backs toward the door.  Both were in white, both were tall,
and both had abundant dark hair.  One of the French windows leading out
on to the porch was open, and just within the sill stood the man from
Charlesport.

"Here's a wonderful book--a rare one--the record of that famous Latin
controversy," Aleck was saying, when he became conscious of the
entrance of Chamberlain and a stranger.

"Ah, hello, Chamberlain, that you?" he cried.  Agatha and Mélanie,
turning suddenly to greet Chamberlain, simultaneously encountered the
gimlet-gaze of Chatelard.  It was fixed first on Mélanie, then on
Agatha, then returned to Mélanie with an added increment of rage and
bafflement.  But he was first to find tongue.

"So!" he sneered.  "I find you after all, Princess Auguste Stéphanie of
Krolvetz!  Consorting with these--these swine!"

Mélanie looked at him keenly, with hesitating suspicions.  "Ah!  Duke
Stephen's cat's-paw!  I remember you--well!"  But before the words were
fairly out of her mouth, Agatha's voice had cut in:

"Mr. Van Camp, that is he!  That is he!  The man on the _Jeanne D'Arc_!"

"We thought as much," answered Chamberlain.  "That's why he is here."

"We only wanted your confirmation of his identity," said the man who
had been standing by the window, as he came forward.  "Monsieur
Chatelard, you are to come with me.  I am the sheriff of Charlesport
County, and have a warrant for your arrest."

As the sheriff advanced toward Chatelard, the cornered man turned on
him with a sound that was half hiss, half an oath.  He was like a
panther standing at bay.  Aleck turned toward Mélanie.

"It seems that you know this man, Mélanie?"

"Yes, I know him--to my sorrow."

"What do you know of him?"

"He is the paid spy of the Duke Stephen, my cousin.  He does all his
dirty work."  Mélanie laughed a bit nervously as she added, turning to
Chatelard: "But you are the last man I expected to see here.  I suppose
you are come from my excellent cousin to find me, eh?  Is that the
case?"

Chatelard's eyes, resting on her, burned with hate.  "Yes, your
Highness.  I am the humble bearer of a message from Duke Stephen to
yourself."

"And that message is--?"

"A command for your immediate return to Krolvetz.  Matters of
importance await you there."

"And if I refuse to return?"

Chatelard's shoulders went up and his hands spread out in that insolent
gesture affected by certain Europeans.  Chamberlain stepped forward
impatiently.

"Look here, you people," he began, "you told me this chap was a
bloomin' kidnapper, and so I rounded him up--I nabbed him.  And here
you are exchangin' howdy-do.  What's the meaning of it all?"

As he spoke, Chamberlain's eyes rested first on Mélanie, then on
Agatha, whom he had not seen before.  "By Jove!" he ejaculated.

"Whom did he kidnap?" questioned Mélanie.

"Why, _me_, Miss Reynier," cried Agatha.  "He stole my car and drugged
me and got me into his yacht--Heaven knows why!"

"Kidnapped!  You!" cried Mélanie.

"Just so," agreed Aleck.  "And now I see why--you scoundrel!"  He
turned upon Chatelard with contemptuous fury.  "For once you were
caught, eh?  These ladies _are_ much alike--that is true.  So much so
that I myself was taken aback the first time I saw Miss Redmond.  You
thought Miss Redmond was the princess--masquerading as an opera singer."

"Her Highness has always been admired as a singer!" cut in Chatelard.

"No doubt!  And even you were deceived!"  Aleck laughed in derision.
"But when you take so serious a step as an abduction, my dear man, be
sure you get hold of the right victim."

"She was even singing the very song that used to be a favorite of her
Highness!" remarked Chatelard.

"Your memory serves you too well."

But Chatelard turned scoffingly toward Agatha.  "You sang it well,
Mademoiselle, very well.  And, as this gentleman asserts, you deceived
even me.  But you are indiscreet to walk unattended in the park."

Agatha, unnerved and weak, had grown pale with fear.

"Don't talk with him, Mr. Van Camp, he is dangerous.  Get him away,"
she pleaded.

"True, Miss Redmond.  We only waste time.  Sheriff--"

Again the sheriff advanced toward Chatelard, and again he was warned
off with a hissing oath.  At the same moment a shadow fell within the
other doorway.  As Chatelard's glance rested on the figure standing
there, his face gleamed.  He pointed an accusing forefinger.

"There is the abductor, if any such person is present at all," said he.
"That is the man who stole the lady's car and ran it to the dock.  He
is your man, Mister Sheriff, not I."

The accusation came with such a tone of conviction on the part of the
speaker, that for an instant it confused the mind of every one present.
In the pause that followed, Chatelard turned with an insolent shrug
toward Agatha.  "This lady--" and every word had a sneer in it--"this
lady will testify that I am right."

Agatha stared with a face of alarm toward the doorway, where Hand stood
silent.

"If that is true, Miss Redmond," began the sheriff.

"No--no!" cried Agatha.

"He had nothing to do with it?" questioned the sheriff.

As he waited for her answer, Agatha suddenly came to herself.  Her
trembling ceased; she looked about upon them all with her truthful
eyes; looked upon Hand standing unconcernedly in the doorway, upon
Chatelard in the corner gleaming like an oily devil.

"No--he had nothing to do with it," she said.

Chatelard's laugh beat back her words like a bludgeon.

"Liars, all liars!" he cried.  "I might have known!"

But Chamberlain was impatient of all this.  "And now, Monsieur
Kidnapper, you can walk off with this gentleman here.  And you can't go
one minute too soon.  The penitentiary's the place for you."

Chatelard turned on him with another laugh.  "You need not feel obliged
to hold on to me, Mister Land-Agent.  I know when I'm beaten--which you
Englishmen never do.  Got another of those pears you offered me this
morning?"

Before Chamberlain could make reply, or before the sheriff and his
prisoner could get to the door, there was the chug of an automobile.  A
second later urgent and loud voices penetrated the room, first from the
steps, then from the hall.  One was the hearty voice of a man, the
other was Lizzie's.

"Can't see her!  Tell me I can't see her after I've run a hundred miles
a day into the jungle on purpose to see her!  The idea!  Where is she?
In here?"  And in stalked Mr. Straker, with cap, linen duster, and high
gaitered boots.  He was pulling off his goggles.  "Well, what's this?
A family party?  Where's Miss Redmond?"

"Mr. Straker--" cried Agatha.

"That's me!  Oh, there you are!  Why don't you open up and get some
light?  I can't see a thing."

"Wait a minute, Mr. Straker--" Agatha was saying, when suddenly the
attention of everybody in the room was drawn outside.

When Chamberlain had told Chatelard that his horse was loose in the
yard, it happened to be the truth; now, excited by fear of the strange
machine that had just arrived, the horse, with flying bridle-rein, was
snorting and prancing on his way to the vegetable garden.  It was
almost beyond masculine power to resist the impulse of pursuit.  Aleck
and Chamberlain sprang through the window, the sheriff went as far as
the lawn after them, and in that instant Chatelard slipped like an eel
through the open door and out to the gate to Straker's machine, still
chugging.  The sheriff saw him as he jumped in.

"Hey, there!" he shouted, and made a lively run for the gate.  But
before he reached it, Chatelard had jerked open the lever, loosened the
brake, and was passing the church at half speed.

"Hey, there, quick!" called the sheriff.  "He's got away!"

But Mr. Hand had already thought what was best to be done.

"Come on, here's another machine.  We'll chase him!" he cried, as he
went for the white motorcar, standing farther back under the trees.  It
had to be cranked, which required some seconds, but presently they were
off--Hand and the sheriff, in hot pursuit after Straker's car.

Chamberlain and Aleck, triumphantly leading the horse, came back in
time to see the settling cloud of dust.

"Mr. Chamberlain--Mr. Van Camp!" cried Agatha.  "They've gone!  They've
got away!"

"Who's got away?" demanded Chamberlain.

"All of them!" groaned Agatha, as she sank down on the piazza steps.

"Jimminy Christmas!" ejaculated Mr. Straker.  "This beats any
ten-twenty-thirty I ever saw.  Regular Dick Deadwood game!  And he's
run off with my new racer!"

"What!" yelled Chamberlain.  "Did that bloomin' sheriff let that
bloomin' rascal get away?"

"He isn't anybody I'd care to keep!" chuckled Straker.  "But you know
that new racer's worth something."

"Did Chatelard go off in that machine?" again inquired Chamberlain
slowly and distinctly of the two women.

"Precisely," said Mélanie, while Agatha's bowed head nodded.

"By Jove, that sheriff's a duffer!  Here, Van, give me the horse."  And
with the words Chamberlain grabbed Little Simon's best roadster,
mounted him bareback, and turned his head up the road.

"I'll catch him yet!" he yelled back.

But he didn't.  Three miles farther along he came upon the wreck.  The
racer was lying on its side in a ditch which recent rains had converted
into a substantial volume of mire and mud.  The white machine was drawn
cosily up under a spreading hemlock farther on, but Mr. Hand and the
sheriff were nowhere in sight.

As Chamberlain stopped to gaze on the overturned car, he heard the
crashing of underbrush in the woods near by.  The steps came nearer.
It was evident the chase was up; they were off the scent and obliged to
return.

"Humph!" grunted Chamberlain, and for once the clear springs of his
disposition were made turbid with satire.  "We're all a pack of
bloomin' asses--that's what we are.  What in hell's the matter with us!"

While he was tying the horse to a tree, Hand appeared, silent, with an
unfathomable disgust written on his countenance.  As usual, he who was
the least to blame came in for the hottest of the censure; and yet,
there was a sort of fellowship indicated by Chamberlain's extraordinary
arraignment of them both.  He was scarcely known ever to have been
profane, but at this moment he searched for wicked words and
interspersed his speech with them recklessly, if not with skill.  It is
the duty of the historian to expurgate.

"I don't know just how you happen to be in this game," pronounced
Chamberlain hotly, "but all I've got to say is you're an ass--an
infernal ass."

Hand, rolling up his sleeves, remained silent.

"I suppose if you'd had a perfectly good million-dollar bank-note,
you'd have let it blow away--piff! right out of your hands!" he fumed.
"Or the title deed to Mount Olympus--or a ticket to a front seat in the
New Jerusalem.  That's all it amounts to.  Catch an eel, only to let
him slip through your fingers--eh, you!"

Mr. Hand made no answer.  Instead, he waded into the ditch-stream and
placed a shoulder under the racing-car.  Chamberlain's instinct for
doing his share of work caused him to roll up his trousers and wade in,
shoulder to shoulder with Hand, even while he was lecturing on the
feebleness of man's wits.

"Good horse running loose into barb-wire fences had to be caught, but
it didn't need a squadron of men and a forty-acre lot to do it in.
Might have known he'd give us the slip if he could--biggest rascal in
Europe!"  And so on.  Chamberlain, usually rather a silent man, blew
himself empty for once, conscious all the time that he, himself, was
quite as much to blame as Hand could possibly have been.  And Hand knew
that he knew, but kept his counsel.  Hand ought to be prime minister by
this time.

When the racing-car was righted, he went swiftly and skilfully to work
investigating the damage and putting the machine in order, as far as
possible.  Chamberlain presently became impressed with his mechanical
dexterity.

"By Jove, you can see into her, can't you!"  Hand continued silent, and
left it to his companion to put on the finishing verbal touches.

"Tow her home and fill her up and she'll be all right, eh?" said
Chamberlain, but Hand kept on tinkering.  The sudden neighing and
plunging of Little Simon's poor tormented horse gave warning of the
sheriff, crashing from the underbrush directly into the road.

He was voluble with excuses.  The fugitive had escaped, leaving no
traces of his flight.  He might be in the woods, or he might have run
to the railroad track and caught the freight that had just slowly
passed.  He might be in the next township, or he might be--

"Oh, go to thunder!" said Chamberlain.




CHAPTER XXI

JIMMY REDIVIVUS

If the occupants of the old red house felt over-much inclined to draw a
long breath and rest on their oars after their anxiety and recent
excitement, Agatha's manager was able to supply a powerful antidote.
He was restlessness incarnate.

He was combining a belated summer holiday with what he considered to be
good business, "seeing" not only his prima donna secluded at Ilion, but
other important people all the way from Portland to Halifax.  When he
heard that the man who ran off with his racing-car was also responsible
for the mysterious departure of Miss Redmond, his excitement was great.

"You mean to say that you were picked up and drugged in broad daylight
in New York?" he demanded of Agatha.

"Practically that."

"And you escaped?"

"The yacht foundered."

"And that scamp walked right into your hands and you let him go?"

Agatha forced a rueful smile.  "I confess I'm not much used to catching
criminals."

Mr. Straker paused, lacking words to express his outraged spirit

"I don't mean you, of course.  This whole outfit here--what are they
doing?  Think they're put on in a walking part, eh?  Don't they know
enough to go in out of the rain?"  Getting no reply to his fuming, he
came down from his high horse, curiosity impelling.  "What'd he kidnap
you for--ransom?"

"No.  It seems that he mistook me for Miss Reynier--the lady out there
on the lawn talking with Mr. Van Camp."

Mr. Straker bent his intent gaze out of the window.

"I don't see any resemblance at all."  His crusty manner implied that
Agatha, or somebody, was to blame for all the coil of trouble, and
should be made to pay for it.

"Even I was puzzled," smiled Agatha.  "I thought she was some one I
knew."

"Nonsense!" growled Mr. Straker.  "Anybody with two eyes could see the
difference.  She's older, and heavier.  What did the scoundrel want
with her?"

"I don't know.  She's a princess or something."

Mr. Straker jumped.  "She is!" he cried.  "Lord, why didn't you tell
me?"

"I'm trying to."

"Advertising!" he shouted joyfully.  "Jimminy Christmas!  We'll make it
up--all this time lost.  Princess who?  Where from?  I guess you do
look like her, after all.  I see it all now--head-lines!  'Strange
confusion of identity!  Which is the princess?'  It'll draw
crowds--thousands."

Agatha escaped, leaving Mr. Straker to collect from others the details
of his advertising story, which he did with surprising speed and
accuracy.  By the next morning he had pumped Sallie, Doctor Thayer and
Aleck Van Camp, and had extracted the promise of an interview from Miss
Reynier herself.

The only really unsatisfactory subject of investigation was Mr. Hand,
whom Straker watched for a day or two with growing suspicion.  Straker
had sputtered, good-naturedly enough, over the "accident" to his
racing-car, and had taken it for granted, in rather a high-handed
manner, that Mr. Hand was to make repairs.  His manner toward the
chauffeur was not pleasant, being a combination of the patron and the
bully.  It was exactly the sort of manner to precipitate civil war,
though diplomacy might serve to cover the breach for a time.

But the racing-car, ignominiously towed home by Miss Reynier's white
machine, stood undisturbed in one of the open carriage sheds by the
church.  Eluded by Hand for the space of twenty-four hours, and finding
that the injury to the car was far beyond his own mechanical skill to
repair, Mr. Straker sent peremptory word to Charlesport and to the
Hillside for the services of a mechanician, without satisfaction.
Little Simon thought the matter was beyond him, but informed Mr.
Straker that perhaps the engineer at the quarry--a native who had "been
to Boston" and qualified as chauffeur--would come and look at it.

"Then for Heaven's sake, Colonel, get him to come and be quick about
it," adjured Mr. Straker.  "And tell him for me that there's a
long-yellow for him if he'll make the thing right."

"He'll charge you two dollars an hour, including time on the road,"
solemnly announced Little Simon, unimpressed by any mention of the
long-yellow.  Had Little Simon "liked," he could probably have mended
the car himself, but Mr. Straker's manner, so effective on Broadway,
was not to the taste of these country people.  He thought of them in
their poverty as "peasants," but without the kindliness of the born
gentleman.  What Aleck Van Camp could have got for love, Mr. Straker
could not buy; and he was at last obliged to appeal to Hand through
Agatha's agency.

"I'll look at it again," Hand replied shortly, when Agatha addressed
him on the subject.

The car being temporarily out of commission, it was necessary for Mr.
Straker to adopt some other means of making himself and everybody about
him extremely busy.  He took a fancy for yachting, and got himself
diligently instructed in an art which, of all arts, must be absorbed
with the mother's milk, taken with the three R's and followed with
enthusiastic devotion.  In Mr. Straker every qualification for
seamanship was lacking save enthusiasm, but as he himself never
discovered this fact, his _amour propre_ did not suffer, and his
companions were partly relieved of the burden of his entertainment.
Presently he made up his mind that it was time for him to see Jimmy.
His nose, trained for scenting news, led him inevitably to the chief
actor in the unusual drama which had indirectly involved his own
fortunes, and he saw no reason why he should not follow it at once.

"You'd better wait a while," cautioned Doctor Thayer.  "That young man
pumped his heart dry as a seed-pod, and got some fever germs on top of
that.  He isn't fit to stand the third degree just yet."

"I'm not going to give him any third degree, not a bit of it.  'Hero!
Saved a Princess!' and all that.  That's what's coming to him as soon
as the newspapers get hold of it.  But I want to know how he did it,
and what he did it for.  Tell him to buck up."

Jimmy did buck up, though Mr. Straker's message still remains to be
delivered.  He gathered his forces and exhibited such recuperative
abilities as to astonish the old red house and all Ilion.  Doctor
Thayer and each of his nurses in turn unconsciously assumed credit for
the good work, and Sallie Kingsbury took a good share of pride in his
satisfactory recovery.

"Two aigs regular," she would say, with all a housekeeper's glory in
her guests' enjoyment of food.

There was enough credit to go round, indeed, and Jimmy presently became
the animated and interesting center of the family.  He might have been
a new baby and his bedroom the sacred nursery.  He was being spoiled
every hour of the day.

"Did he have a good night?" Agatha would anxiously inquire of Mr. Hand.

"Can't tell which is night; he sleeps all the time," would be the tenor
of Mr. Hand's reply.  Or Sallie would ask, as if her fate depended on
the answer, "Did he eat that nice piece er chicken, Aunt Susan?"  And
Mrs. Stoddard would say, "Eat it!  It disappeared so quick I thought
he'd choke.  Wanted three more just like it, but I told him that
invalids were like puppy-dogs--could only have one meal a day."

"Well, how'd he take that?" asked the interested Sallie.

"He said if I thought he was an invalid any longer I had another guess
coming.  Says he'll be up and into his clothes by to-morrow, and is
going to _take care of me_.  Says I'm pale and need a highball,
whatever that is."

"Never heard of it," said Sallie.

"He's a good young man, if he did get pitched overboard," went on Mrs.
Stoddard.  "But he doesn't need me any more, and I guess I'll be going
along home."

"I don't know but what the rest of us need you," complained Sallie.
"It's more of a Sunday-school picnic here than you'd think, what with a
New York press agent and a princess, to say nothing of that Mr. Hand."

"He certainly knows how to manage a sick man," said Susan.

"He don't talk like a Christian," said Sallie.

Mrs. Stoddard made her way to Agatha in the cool chamber at the head of
the stairs.  Agatha, in a dressing-sack, with her hair down, called her
in and sent Lizzie away.

"You're not going, are you, Mrs. Stoddard?"  She took Susan's two hands
and held them lovingly against her cheek.  "It won't seem right here,
without you."

"You've done your duty, Agatha, and I've done mine, as I saw it.  I'm
not needed here any more, but I'll send Angie over to help Sallie with
the work, after I get the crab-apples picked."

Agatha held Mrs. Stoddard's hands closely.  "Ah, you have been good to
us!"

"There is none good but One," quoted Mrs. Stoddard; nevertheless her
eyes were moist with feeling.  "You'll stay on in the old red house?"

"I don't know; probably not for long.  But I almost wish I could."

"I've learned a sight by you, Agatha.  I want you to know that," said
Susan, struggling with her reticence and her impulse toward confession.

"Oh, don't say that to me, Mrs. Stoddard.  I can only remember how good
you've been to us all."

But Susan would not be denied.  "I thought you were proud and vain
and--and worldly, Agatha.  And I treated you harsh, I know."

"No, no.  Whatever you thought, it's all past now, and you are my
friend.  You'll help me to take care of this dear old place--yes?"

"The Lord will establish the work of your hands, my child!"  She
suddenly turned with one of her practical ideas.  "I wouldn't let that
new city man in to see Mr. Hambleton just yet, if I were you."

"Is Mr. Straker trying to get in to see Mr. Hambleton?"

"Knocked at the door twice this morning, and I told him he couldn't
come in.  'Why not?' said he.  'Danger of fever,' said I.  Then Mr.
Hambleton asked me who was there, and I said, 'I don't exactly know,
but it's either Miss Redmond's maid's beau or a press agent,' and then
Mr. Hambleton called out, as quick and strong as anybody, 'Go 'way!  I
think I've got smallpox.'  And he went off, quicker'n a wink, and
hasn't been back since."  Mrs. Stoddard's grim old face wrinkled in a
humorous smile.  "I guess he'll get over his smallpox scare, but Mr.
Hambleton don't want to see him, not yet.  He wants to see you."

"I'm going in to see him soon, anyway," said Agatha.

But still she waited a little before going in for her morning visit
with James.  It meant so much to her!  It wasn't to be taken lightly
and casually, but with a little pomp and ceremony.  Each day since the
night of the crisis she had paid her morning call, and each day she had
seen new lights in Jimmy's eyes.  In vain had she been matter-of-fact
and practical, treating him as an invalid whose vagaries should be
indulged even though they were of no importance.  He would not accept
her on those terms.  Back of his weakness had been a strength, more and
more perceptible each day, touching her with the sweetest flattery
woman ever receives.  It was the strength of a lover's spirit, looking
out at her from his eyes and speaking to her in every inflection of his
voice.  Moreover, while he stoutly and continuously denied his
fever-sickness, he took no trouble to conceal this other malady.  As
soon as he could speak distinctly he proclaimed his spiritual madness,
though nobody but Agatha, and possibly Mrs. Stoddard, quite understood.

"I'm not sick; don't be an idiot, Hand.  And give me a shave, for
Heaven's sake.  Anybody can get knocked on the head--that's all the
matter with me.  Give me some clothes and you'll see."  Even Hand had
to give in quickly.  Jimmy's resilience passed all expectations.  He
came up like a rubber ball; and now, on a fine September morning, he
was getting shaved and clothed in one of Aleck's suits.  Finally he was
propped up in an easy chair by a window overlooking the towering elm
tree and the white church.

"Er--Andy--couldn't you get me some kind of a tie?  This soft shirt
business doesn't look very fit, does it, without a tie?" coaxed Jim.

"If you ask me, I say you look fine."

"Where'd you get all your good clothes, I'd like to know?" inquired Jim
sternly, looking at Hand's immaculate linen.

"Miss Sallie washes 'em after I go to bed in the morning," confessed
Hand.

"Oh, she does, does she!" jeered Jimmy.  "Well, you'll have to go to
bed at night, like other folks, now.  And then what'll you do?"

"I guess Miss Sallie'll have to sit up nights," modestly suggested
Hand, when a slipper struck him in the back.  "Good shot!  What d'you
want now--an opera hat?" he inquired derisively.

"Andy!" ejaculated Jim, dismay settling on his features.  "I've just
thought!  Do you s'pose I'm paying hotel bills all this time at The
Larue?"

Hand grinned unsympathetically.  "If you engaged a room, sir, and
didn't give it up, I believe it's the custom--"

"That'll do for now, Handy Andy, if you can't get up any better answer
than that.  Lord, what's that!" Jim suddenly exclaimed, as if he hadn't
been waiting, all ears, for that very step in the passage.

"I guess likely that'll be Miss Redmond," replied the respectful Hand.
And so it was.

Agatha, fresh as the morning, stood in the doorway for a contemplative
moment, before coming forward to take Jim's outstretched hand.

"Samson--shorn!" she exclaimed gaily.  "I hardly know you, all fixed up
like this."

"Oh, I look much better than this when I'm really dressed up, you
know," Jim asserted.  Agatha patted his knuckles indulgently, looked at
the thinness and whiteness of the hand, and shook her head.

"Not gaining enough yet," she said.  "That isn't the right color for a
hand."

"It needs to be held longer."

"Oh, no, it needs more quiet.  Fewer visitors, no talking, and plenty
of fresh milk and eggs."

Jimmy almost stamped his foot.  "Down with eggs!" he cried.  "And milk,
too.  I'm going to institute a mutiny.  Excuse me, I know I'm visiting
and ought to be polite, but no more invalid's food for me.  Handy Andy
and I are going out to kill a moose and eat it--eh, Andy?"

But Hand was gone.  Agatha sat down in a big rocker at the other
window.  "In that case," she said demurely, "we'll all have to be
thinking of Lynn and New York and work."

Jim shamelessly turned feather.  "Oh, no," he cried.  "I'm very ill.
I'm not able to go to Lynn.  Besides, my time isn't up yet.  This is my
vacation."

He looked up smiling into Agatha's face, ingenuous as a boy of seven.

"Do you always take such--such venturesome holidays?" she asked.

"I never took any before; at least, not what I call holidays," he said.
"If you don't come over here and sit near me, I shall get up and go
over to you.  And Andy says I'm very wobbly on my legs.  I might by
accident drop into your lap."

Agatha pushed her chair over toward James, and before she could sit
down he had drawn it still closer to his own.  "The doctor says my hand
has to be held!" he assured her, as he got firm hold of hers.

"For shame!" she cried.  "Mustn't tell fibs."

"Tell me," he begged, "is this your house, really'n truly?"  It
brought, as he knew it would, her ready smile.

"Yep," she nodded.

"And is that your tree out there?"

"Yep."

"Ah!" he sighed.  "It's great!  It's Paradise.  I've dreamed of just
such a heavenly place.  And Andy says we've been here two weeks."

"Yes--and a little more."

"My holiday half gone!"  His mood suddenly changed from its jocund and
boyish manner, and he turned earnestly toward Agatha.

"I don't know, dear girl, all that has happened since that night--with
you--on the water.  Hand shuts me off most villainously.  But I know
it's Heaven being here, with Aleck and every one so good to me, and
you!  You've come back, somehow, like a reality from my dreams.  I
watch for you.  You're all I think of, whether I'm awake or asleep."

Agatha earnestly regarded his frank face, with its laughing, true eyes.
"Jimmy," she said--he had begged her to call him that--"it seems as if
I, too, had known you a long time.  More than these little two weeks."

"It is more; you said so," put in Jim.

"Yes; a little more.  And if it hadn't been for you, I shouldn't be
here, or anywhere.  I often think of that."

"You see!" he cried.  "I had to have you, even if I followed you
half-way round the globe; even if I had to jump into the sea.
Kismet--you can't escape me!"

But Agatha was only half smiling.  "No," she protested, "it is not
that.  I owe--"

Jim put his fingers on her lips.  "Tut, tut!  Dear girl, you owe
nothing, except to your own courage and good swimming.  But as for me,
why, you know I'm yours."

"James," Agatha could not help preaching a bit, "just because we happen
to be the actors in an adventure is no reason, no real reason, why we
should be silly about each other.  We don't have to end the story that
way."

"Oh, don't we!  We'll see!" shouted Jim.  "And I'm not silly, if some
other people are.  I don't see why I should be cheated out of a
perfectly good climax, if you put it that way, any more than the next
fellow.  Agatha, dearest--"

But she wouldn't listen to him.  "No, no," she protested, slowly but
earnestly.  "Look here, Mr. James Hambleton, of Lynn!  I promise to do
anything, or everything, that you honestly want, after you get well.
I'll listen to you then.  But I'm not going to let a man who is just
out of a delirium make love to me."

"But I'm not just out.  I only had a whack on the head, and that's
nothing.  I'm strong as an ox.  I'm saner than anybody.  Do listen to
me, Agatha."

"No--no, I mustn't."

"But tell me, dear.  You're free?  You're not--" he searched for the
word that suited his mood--"you're not plighted?"

She smiled.  "No, I'm not plighted."

"Ah!" he chortled, and seized both her hands, putting them to his lips.
She stood over him, looking down tenderly.

[Illustration: She stood over him, looking down tenderly.]

"Time for your broth, Mr. Hambleton, and Mr. Straker wants to know if
he can see you," interrupted Mr. Hand.

"Can't see him, Andy.  I'm very busy," began Jim; then added, "By the
way, who is Mr. Straker?"

"Tell him he may come in for a few minutes, Mr. Hand," directed Agatha.
Presently the manager was being introduced in the properest manner to
the invalid.  Agatha, knowing James would need protection from
quizzing, stayed by.

"Now, tell me," wheedled Mr. Straker, "the whole story just exactly as
it happened to you, please.  It's very important that I should know all
the details."

So Jimmy, aided now and then by Agatha, delivered a Straker-ized
version of the wreck and the arrival at Ilion.

"But before that," questioned the manager.  "How did you happen to be
on the _Jeanne D'Arc_?"

For the first time James hesitated.  Not even Agatha knew that part of
the story.  "I was picked up by the _Jeanne D'Arc_ in New York harbor,"
he replied slowly.

Mr. Straker frowned.  "How--picked up?"

"Out of the water."

"What were you in the water for?"

"I had just dropped off a tug."

"What for?"

"Because I wanted the yacht to pick me up."

At this point Mr. Straker directed a commiserating look at Agatha.  It
said "Crazy" as plain as words.

"What were you on the tug for?"

"I had followed the yacht."

"What for?"

The pause before James's next answer was apparent.  When it came, there
came with it that same seven-year-old look of smiling ingenuousness.
"I just wanted to see what they were going to do with Miss Redmond."

"Jimminy Christmas!" exploded Mr. Straker.  "Any more kinks in this
story?  How'd you know they'd stolen Miss Redmond?"

And so Jimmy had to tell it all, with the abominable Straker growing
more and more excited every minute, and Agatha standing mute and
awe-struck, looking at him.  It was plain that Jimmy, for the moment,
had the upper hand.  "And that's about all!" he laughed.

"What on earth, man, is the matter with you?" fumed Straker.  "Didn't
you know there were a hundred chances to one the yacht wouldn't pick
you up?"

Jimmy nodded, unabashed.  "One chance is good enough for me.  Nothing
can kill me this trip, I tell you.  I'm good for anything.  Lucky
star's over me.  I knew it all the time."

Straker turned a disgusted face toward Agatha.  "He's crazy as a loon!
Isn't he?" he questioned glumly.  But Jimmy knew his man.

"No, not crazy, Mr. Straker.  Only a touch o' sun!  And it's glorious,
isn't it, Miss Redmond?"

She loved him for his boyish laughter, for the rollicking spirit in his
voice, but her eyes suddenly filled as she pondered the meaning back of
his extraordinary story.  With Mr. Straker gone at last, it was she who
came to Jim with outstretched hands.

"You mean you heard me call for help, there on the hill?"

"Yep," he answered, suddenly sheepish.

"And you followed to rescue me if you could?"

"Yep--of course."

"Ah, James!  Why did you do it?"

Jim's small-boy expression beamed from his eyes.  "I followed the Voice
and the Face--as I told you once before.  Don't you remember?"

"I remember.  But why?"

His seven-year-old mood was suddenly touched with poetic dignity.  "I
could naught else," he said, looking into her face.  It was all
tenderness; and she did not resist when he drew her gently down, till
her lips touched his.




CHAPTER XXII

A MAN OF NO PRINCIPLE

Monsieur Chatelard's disappearance was as complete as though he had
dropped off the earth.  The sheriff, with his warrant in his pocket,
hid his chagrin behind the sugar and flour barrels whose sale occupied
his time when he wasn't losing malefactors.  Chamberlain, having once
freed his mind to the grave-like Hand, maintained absolute silence on
the subject, so far as the audience at the old red house was concerned.
But he went into consultation with Aleck, and together they laid a
network of police inspection about Ilion and Charlesport.

"It won't do any good," grumbled Chamberlain.  "We'll have to catch him
and choke him with our own hands, if it ever gets done."

Nevertheless, they left nothing to chance.  Telegraph and telephone
were brought into requisition, and within twenty-four hours after the
disappearance every station on the railroad, as well as every village
along the coast, was warned to arrest the fugitive if he came that way.
Mr. Chamberlain took the white motor and went off on long, mysterious
journeys, coming back only to go into secret conclave with Aleck, or
mysteriously to rush off again.

Aleck Van Camp stayed at home, keeping a dog-watch on Mélanie and
Madame Reynier, whether they were at the Hillside or at the old red
house.  Now that the purposes of the Frenchman had been made clear, and
since he was still at large, the world was no safe place for unattended
women.  Aleck pondered deeply over the situation.

"Is your amiable cousin's henchman a man to be scared off by our recent
little encounter, do you think?" he asked of Mélanie.

She considered.  "He might be scared, easily enough.  But I know well
that he has a contempt for the usual machinery of the law.  He has
evaded it so many times that he thinks it an easy matter."

Aleck smiled whimsically.  "I don't wonder at that, if he has had many
experiences like the last."

"He boasts that he can bribe anybody."

"Ah, so!  But how much rope would the duke give him, do you think, on a
pinch?"

"All the rope he cares to take.  Stephen's protection is all-powerful
in Krolvetz; and elsewhere Chatelard depends, as I have said, on his
wits."

"But there must be some limit to the duke's stretch of conscience!"

Mélanie's eyes took on their far-away look.  "Perhaps there is," she
said at last, "but who can guess where that limit is?  Besides, all he
asks of his henchmen is results.  He never inquires as to methods."

"Well, what do you think is the exact result Duke Stephen wants, in
this case?"

"He wants me either to return to Krolvetz and marry his brother, or--"

Mélanie's hesitation was prolonged.

"Or--what?'

"Or to disappear so completely that there will be no question of my
return.  You see, it's a peculiar case.  If I marry without his
consent--"

"Which you are about to do--" cut in Aleck.

"I simply forfeit my estates and they go into the public treasury,
where they will be strictly accounted for.  But if I marry Lorenzo--"

"Which is impossible--"

"Then the money goes into the family, of course, as my dot.  Or--or, if
I should die--in that case Stephen inherits the money.  And there is no
doubt but that Stephen needs money."

Aleck pondered for several minutes, while grave shadows threatened his
face.  But presently his smiling, unquenchable good temper came to the
surface, and he gleefully tucked Mélanie's hand under his arm.

"As I said before, you need a husband very badly."

"Oh, I don't know," she laughed.

The result of Aleck's moment of grave thought came a few days later,
with the arrival of two quietly-dressed, unostentatious men.  He told
Mélanie that one man was her chauffeur for the white machine, and the
other was an extra hand he had engaged for the return trip on the _Sea
Gull_.  The chauffeur, however, for one reason or another, rarely took
the wheel, and could have been seen walking at a distance behind
Mélanie whenever she stirred abroad.  The extra hand for the _Sea Gull_
did just the same as the chauffeur.

From the day of the arrival of the manager, Mr. Hand's rather
mysterious but friendly temper underwent a change for the worse.  He
not only continued silent, which might easily be counted a virtue, but
he became almost sulky, which could only be called a crime.  There was
no bantering with Sallie in the kitchen, scarcely a friendly smile for
Agatha herself.  Mr. Hand was markedly out of sorts.

On the morning following Mr. Straker's request that Hand should repair
the car, the manager found him tinkering in the carriage shed near the
church.  The car was jacked up on a horse-block, while one wheel lay
near the road.  Mr. Hand was as grimy and oily as the law allows,
working over the machinery with a sort of vicious earnestness.  Mr.
Straker hovered around for a few moments, then addressed Hand in that
tone of pseudo-geniality that marks a certain type of politician.

"Look here, Colonel, I understand you were in the employ of that French
anarchist."

It was an unlucky moment for attack, though Mr. Straker did not at once
perceive it.  Hand carefully wiped the oil from a neat ring of metal,
slid down on his back under the car and screwed on a nut.  As Mr.
Straker, hands in pockets and feet wide apart, watched the mechanician,
there came through the silence and the sweet air the sound of thrushes
calling from the wood beyond.  Mr. Straker craned his head to look out
at the church, then at the low stone wall, as if he expected to see the
songsters performing on a stage before a row of footlights.  He turned
back to Mr. Hand.

"That's right, is it?  You worked for the slippery Mounseer?"

"Uh-m," Hand grumbled, with a screw in his mouth.  "Something like
that."

"What'd you do?"

"I've found where she was wrenched in the turn-over.  Got to have a new
pin for this off wheel before she goes much farther."

"All right, I'll order one by telegraph to-day.  What 'd you do, I
asked."

Hand wriggled himself out from under the car and got on his feet.  He
thrust his grimy hands deep into his pockets, stood for a moment
contemplative and belligerent, as if undecided whether to explode or
not, and then silently walked away.

As Mr. Straker watched his figure moving slowly toward the kitchen, he
started a long low whistle, expressive of suspicion and doubt.  Midway,
however, he changed to a lively tune whose title was "I've got him on
the run"--a classic just then spreading up and down Broadway.  He took
a few turns about the car, looked at the gearing with a knowing air,
and then went into the house.

If he had been a small boy, his mother would have punished him for
stamping through the halls; being a grown man and a visitor, he may be
described as walking with firm, bold tread.  Finally he was able to run
down Agatha, who was conferring with Sallie in the library.

Sallie sniffed in scorn of Mr. Straker, whom she disliked far worse
than Mr. Hand; nevertheless, as she left the room she twisted up her
gingham apron and tucked it into its band in a vague attempt at company
manners.  Mr. Straker lost no time in attacking Agatha.

"What d'you know about that chauffeur-nurse and general roustabout
that's taking care of your young gentleman up-stairs?" he inquired
bluntly.

Innocent of subtlety as Mr. Straker was, he was nevertheless keen
enough to see that Agatha's instincts took alarm at his words.  Indeed,
one skilled in reading her face could have detected the nature of the
uneasiness written there.  She could not lie again, as she had
unhesitatingly lied to the sheriff; neither could she abandon her
position as protector to Mr. Hand.  She wished for cleverness of the
sort that could throw her manager off the scent, but saw no way other
than the direct way.

"Nothing--I know almost nothing about him."

"Comes from N'York?"

"I fancy so."

"Well, take it from me, the sooner you get rid of him the better.
Chances are he's a man of no principle, and he'll do you."

Agatha was silent.  Meantime Mr. Straker got his second wind.

"Of course he knows what he's about when it comes to a machine," the
manager continued, "but mark me, he knows too much for an honest man.
Looks to me as if there wasn't anything on this green earth he can't
do."

"Green ocean, too--he's quite as much at home there," laughed Agatha.

"Humph!" Mr. Straker grunted in disgust.  "Let me assure you, Miss
Redmond, that it's no joking matter."

Tradition to the contrary, Agatha was content to let the man have the
last word.  Mr. Straker turned to some business matters, wrote out
telegraphic material enough to occupy the leisurely Charlesport
operator for some hours, and then disappeared.

Agatha was impressed by the manager's words somewhat more than her
manner implied.  She had no swift and sure judgment of people, and her
experience of the world, short as it was, had taught her that
recklessness is a costly luxury.  She was meditating as to the wisest
course to pursue, when the ex-chauffeur appeared.

Hand wore his accustomed loose shirt and trousers without coat or
waistcoat, and it seemed as if he had never known a hat.  His thick
hair was tumbled back from the forehead.  His hands were now spotless,
and his whole appearance agreeably clean and wholesome.  He even looked
as if he were going to be frank, but Agatha knew that must be a
delusion.  It was impossible, however, not to be somewhat cajoled--he
was so eminently likable.  Agatha took a lesson from his own book, and
waited in silence for him to speak.

"Mademoiselle?"  His voice had an undertone of excitement or
nervousness that was wholly new.

"Well, Mr. Hand?"

He remained standing by the door for a moment, then stepped forward
with the abrupt manner of a stripling who, usually inarticulate, has
suddenly found tongue.

"Why did you do it, Mademoiselle?"

"Do what, my friend?"

"Back me up before the sheriff.  Give me a slick walkout like that."

Agatha laughed good-humoredly.

"Why should I answer your questions, Mr. Hand, when you so persistently
ignore mine?"

Hand made a gesture of impatience.

"Mademoiselle, you may think me all kinds of a scamp, but I'm not idiot
enough to hide behind a woman.  Don't you know me well enough to know
that?" he demanded so earnestly that he seemed very cross.

Agatha looked into his face with a new curiosity.  He was very young,
after all.  Something in the way of experience had been grinding
philosophy, of a sort, into him--or out of him.  Wealth and position
had been his natural enemies, and he had somehow been led to an
attitude of antagonism that was, at bottom, quite foreign to his nature.

So much Agatha could guess at, and for the rest, instinct taught her to
be kind.  But she was not willing now to take him quite so seriously as
he seemed to be taking himself.  She couldn't resist teasing him a bit,
by saying, "Nevertheless, Mr. Hand, you did hide behind me; you had to."

He did not reply to her bantering smile, but, in the pause that
followed, stepped to the bookcase where she had been standing, gingerly
picked up a soft bit of linen and lace from the floor and dropped it
into her lap.  Then he faced her in an attitude of pugnacious
irritation.  For a brief moment his silence fell from him.

"I didn't have to," he contradicted.  "I let it go because I thought
you were a good sport, and you wouldn't catch me backing out of your
game, not by a good deal!  But there's a darned sight,--pardon me,
Mademoiselle!--there's too much company round here to suit me!  _You_
know me, _you_ know you can trust me, Mademoiselle!  But what about
Tom, Dick and Harry all over this place--casting eyes at a man?"

Agatha, almost against her will, was forced to meet his seriousness
half-way.  "I don't know what you mean," she said.

"Tell 'em!" he burst out.  "Tell 'em the whole story.  Tell that blamed
snoopin' manager that I'm a crook and a kidnapper, and then he'll stop
nosing round after me.  I'll have an hour's start, and that's all I
want.  Dogging a man--running him down under his own automobile!"  Hand
permitted himself a dry smile at his own joke, but immediately added,
"It goes against the grain, Mademoiselle!"

Agatha's face brightened, as she grasped the clue to Hand's wrath.
"I've no doubt," she answered gravely.  She knew the manager.  "But why
should I tell him, as you suggest?"

"Why?"  Hand stopped a moment, as if baffled at the difficulty of
putting such obvious philosophy into words.  "Why?  Because that's the
way people are--never satisfied till they uncover and root up every
blamed thing in a man's life.  Yes, Mademoiselle, you know it's true.
They'll always be uneasy with me around."

Agatha was aware that when a man utters what he considers to be a
general truth, it is useless to enter the field of argument.

"Suppose you do have 'an hour's start,' as you express it.  Where would
you go?"

"Oh, I'll look about for a while.  After that I'm going to Mr.
Hambleton in Lynn.  He's going to have a new car."

"Ah!"  Agatha suddenly saw light.  "Then there's only one thing.  Mr.
Hambleton must know the truth.  It can concern no one else.  Will you
tell him?"

Mr. Hand produced his dry smile.  "Nobody has to tell Mr. Hambleton
anything.  He looked straight into my face that day on the hill, as we
were leaving the park."

"And he remembers?"

Something strange in Hand's expression arrested Agatha's attention,
long before he found tongue to answer.  It was a look of happiness and
pride, as if he owned a treasure.  "He remembers very well,
Mademoiselle."

"And what--?"

"You can't help but be square with him, Mademoiselle.  But as for these
gentlemen of style--"

Hand paused in his oratory, his slow anger again burning on the
surface.  Before Agatha knew what he was about, he had picked up the
handkerchief from her lap between thumb and forefinger, and was holding
it at arm's length.

"You can't squeeze a man's history out of him, as you squeeze water out
of a handkerchief, Mademoiselle," he flared out.  "And you can't drop
him and pick him up again, nor throw him down.  You can't do that with
a man, Mademoiselle!"

He tossed the flimsy linen back into her lap.  "And I don't want any
dealings with your Strakers--nor gentlemen of that stamp."

"Nor Chatelards?"

"He's slick--slick as they make 'em.  But he isn't an inquisitive
meddler."

Agatha laughed outright; and somehow, by the blessed alchemy of
amusement, the air was cleared and Mr. Hand's trouble faded out of
importance.  But Agatha could not let him go without one further word.
She met his gaze with a straightforward look, as she asked: "Tell me,
have I failed to treat you as a friend, Mr. Hand?"

"Ah, Mademoiselle!" he cried; and there was a touch of shame and
compunction in his voice.  As he stood before Agatha, she was reminded
of his shamed and cowed appearance in the cove, on the day of their
rescue, when he had waited for her anger to fall on him.  She saw that
he had gained something, some intangible bit of manliness and dignity,
won during these weeks of service in her house.  And she guessed
rightly that it was due to the man whom he had so ungrudgingly nursed.

"I'm glad you are going to Lynn, to be with Mr. Hambleton," she said at
last.  "As long as he is your friend, I shall be your friend, too, and
never uneasy.  You may count on that.  And now will you do me another
kindness?"

"I'll put that old racing-car in order, if that's what you mean.  Of
course."

"As soon as possible.  But it would seem that from now on you are
accountable to no one but Mr. Hambleton."

"I'm his man," said Mr. Hand simply.  "I'd do anything for him."  He
turned away with his old-time puzzling manner, half deferential, half
indifferent.

And so Mr. Straker was ready to depart for New York at last, leaving
Agatha, much against his will, to "complete her recovery" at Ilion.  At
least, that was the way he felt in duty bound to put it.

"You have found a substitute now," Agatha urged.  "It is only fair to
let her have a chance.  A week, more or less, can not make any
difference, now that I've broken so many engagements already.  I'll
come back later and make a fresh start."

"You stay up here and New York'll forget you're living!" growled Mr.
Straker.

"Not if you continue to be my manager," said Agatha.

"If I'm to be your manager, I ought never to let you out of my sight
for a minute.  It's too dangerous."




CHAPTER XXIII

JIMMY MUFFS THE BALL

It will sometimes happen that young gentlemen, skipping confident, even
under their lucky star, will get a fall.  Fortune had been too constant
to Jimmy not to be ready to turn her fickle face away the moment he
wasn't looking.  But such is the rashness born of success and a
bounding heart, that young blood leaps to its doom, smiling, as it
were, on the faithless lady's back.

Jimmy had no forebodings, but rioted gorgeously in returning health, in
a whole pack of new emotions, and in what he supposed to be his lady's
favor.  Aleck, more philosophical, took his happiness with a more quiet
gusto, not provoking the frown of the gods.  But for Jim the day of
reckoning was coming.

One day Aleck joined him, walking up and down the porch.  Jim was in
one of his boyish, cocksure moods.

"I know what you're going to say," he began, before Aleck could spring
his news.  "You're going to marry the princess."

"Just so," said Aleck.  "How'd you know?  Clairvoyance?"

"Nope."

"Well, you needn't look so high and mighty about it, old man.  Why
don't you do the same thing yourself?  Then we'll have a double
wedding."

"I've thought of that," said Jim.

As the two men talked, Agatha and Mélanie, both dressed in white,
strolled side by side down the garden path toward the wall.  They were
deep in conversation, their backs turned toward the veranda.

"I don't see that they look so much alike," announced Jim, who had but
recently learned all the causes and effects of the Chatelard business.
Aleck's eyes gleamed.

"Which one, as they stand there now, do you take to be Miss Redmond?"
he asked.

"One on the left," answered Jim promptly.

Aleck gave a signaling whistle which caused both the women quickly to
turn.  Agatha was on the right.

Aleck grinned broadly.  "So that Yahoo of a Frenchman wasn't so stupid
after all."

"I'd like to get my hands on him!" muttered Jim.

"Frenchman or not, there's going to be a wedding right here in the old
red house on Wednesday," said Aleck.

"Hoopla!  I knew that was it!"

"And then Mélanie and I are going to cruise back to New York.  Awfully
sorry--but you're not invited."

"You couldn't get me aboard any gilt-edged yacht that floats!"

At Jimmy's words--wholly untrue, by the way--Aleck's happy mood
suddenly dimmed, as he thought of the dangers and anxieties of the past
month.  He turned and laid an arm, boy-fashion, over Jim's shoulder,
pulling his hair as his hand went by.

"You're a fool of a kid!" he said, choking.

When Jim looked into his cousin's face, he knew.  "Oh, I say, old man,
it wasn't so bad as all that."

Aleck stiffened up.  "Who said anything about its being bad?  You'd
better get some togs to wear at the wedding.  I'm going to need these
clothes myself."

It turned out, actually enough, that the wedding was to come off on a
certain Wednesday in September.

"Would you like New York and a bishop and a big church better than the
old red house and the Charlesport minister?" Aleck anxiously asked of
Mélanie.

"Oh, no," she protested; and Aleck knew she was sincere.  So they
prepared to terminate their holidays by celebrating the wedding in the
pine grove.  Mélanie spent the intervening days happily with Agatha, or
walking with Aleck, or with the delightful group that foregathered in
Parson Thayer's library.  Jimmy made extravagant and highly colored
verses to the bride-to-be, to Sallie Kingsbury, and even to himself.
His feet were often lame, but he solemnly assured the company that it
was entirely due to circumstances over which he had no control.  A
wedding was a wedding, said he, and should have its bard; also its
dancers and its minstrels.

"We'll have all our friends in Ilion, anyway," said Aleck.  They
counted up the list.  Besides the occupants of the house and those from
the Hillside, there would be Doctor Thayer, Susan Stoddard and Angie,
Big and Little Simon, and the lawyer.

"And they're all going to dance with the bride," announced Jim.  "After
me.  I'm first choice."

"A dance led, so to speak, by the elusive Monsieur Chatelard?"

The name alone made Jimmy wroth.  "It's a dance for which he will pay
the fiddler yet!" he prophesied.

"Oh, he's gone this time.  Scared out of the country for keeps!" was
Aleck's expressed opinion.  But that it might or might not be so, was
what they all secretly thought.

The day before the wedding was a jewel of a day, such as New England at
her best can fling into the lap of early autumn.  A wind from the sea,
flocks of white cloud scudding across the sapphire sky, and a sun all
kindness--such was the day.  It was never a "weather breeder" either;
but steady, promising good for the morrow.

Many times during the week James and Chamberlain and Agatha had their
heads together, planning surprises for the bridal pair.  The result was
that on Tuesday Jim and Chamberlain borrowed the white motor-car,
loaded it down with a large variety of junk, such as food from Sallie's
kitchen, flowers and so on, and started for Charlesport.  They ran down
to the wharf, transferred their loot to the rowboat, and pulled out to
the _Sea Gull_, swinging at her mooring in deep water.

A half-hour of work, and the yacht was dressed for festival.  There
were strings of flags to stretch from bow to masthead and to stern;
pennants for topmasts; the Stars and Stripes in beautiful silk for a
standard, and a gorgeous banner with an embroidered A and M
intertwined, for special occasions.  Flowers were placed in the cabins,
and food in the lockers.  The seamen had been aboard, made the yacht
clean and shipshape as a war vessel on parade, and had got permission
to leave for their last night ashore.  Everything was in readiness,
even to the laying of the fire in the engine hold.

The bride and groom were to come aboard the next day about noon, and
cruise down the coast leisurely, as weather permitted.  Hand, in charge
of the white motor-car, with Madame Reynier, Chamberlain, Agatha and
Jimmy, were to start for New York, touring as long as their inclination
lasted.  The sophisticated Lizzie was to travel to what was, for her,
the center of the universe, by the fastest Pullman.

Jimmy and Chamberlain, on the way home from their visit to the _Sea
Gull_, came very near being confidential.

"I want to say, Mr. Hambleton, that I shall never forgive myself for
bungling about that Chatelard business."

"As I understand the matter, it wasn't your bungling, but the
sheriff's."

"It's all the same," conceded Mr. Chamberlain mournfully.  "And in my
opinion, the Frenchman's not done with his tricks yet.  He's a
dangerous character, Mr. Hambleton."

Jim laughed, remembering certain incidents on the _Jeanne D'Arc_.

"Do you know," Chamberlain continued, "I'm convinced the bloomin'
beggar is hiding about here somewhere.  I'm glad Aleck is getting away."

"I thought the evidence favored the theory that Chatelard had made
straight for New York."

"Not a bit of it.  Aleck and I let you all believe that, for the sake
of the ladies.  But the evidence is all the other way.  We would surely
have caught him if he had been on any of the New York trains.  I
believe he's about here and means mischief yet."

"If he's about here, there's no doubt about the mischief."

"I'm going down to-night to bunk on the _Sea Gull_.  Aleck let the men
off, to go to a sailor's dance over on one of the islands.  They'll
probably be at it all night, so I'm going back."

"Why not let me go?  I'm fine as a fiddle.  You've had your full share
of nasty detective work."

"Not at all.  I'm booked to see this thing through."

"All right!" laughed Jimsy.  "But if you change your mind, let me know."

Arriving at the house, the men found it deserted.  Windows were open
and doors unlatched, but no one, not even Danny, responded to Jim's
call.  Chamberlain started for the Hillside in the car, and Jim
wandered about lonesomely, wondering where everybody was.  With Jim, as
in most cases, everybody meant one person; and presently Sallie,
appearing slowly from the upper regions, gave him his clue.  He started
nimbly for the pine wood.

The wagon road stretched alluringly into the sunflecked shade of the
grove.  A hush like that of primeval day threw its uncanny influence
over the world.  Jim felt something tugging at his spirit that was
unfamiliar, disquieting.  He began to whistle just for company, and in
a moment, as if at a signal call, Danny came along the path, sedately
trotting to meet him.

"Hullo, old pardner!  So this is where you are."

Danny said yes, and led Jim into the clearing and up to a pine stump,
where everybody sat, quite alone, chin propped on hand.  No singing, no
book, and--or did Jimmy imagine it?--a spirit decidedly quenched.  Her
eyelids were red and her face was pale.

"So, dear lady, I have found you.  But I was listening for the song."

"There is no song to-day."  Agatha's manner resembled an Arctic breeze.

"May one ask why?"

"One can not always be singing."

"No?  Why not?  I could--_if_ I could."

Agatha was obliged to relax a trifle at Jimmy's foolishness, but only
to reveal, more and more distinctly, a wretchedness of spirit that was
quite baffling.  It was not feminine wretchedness waiting for a
masculine comforter, either, as James observed with regret; it was a
stoical spirit, braced to meet a blow--or to deal one.

Jimmy was not used to being snubbed, and instinctively prepared for
vigorous protest.  He began with a little preliminary diplomacy.

"You haven't inquired what I'm going to do with the remainder of my
holiday," he remarked.

"I supposed you would return soon to Lynn.  Shall we walk back to the
house?"

The unkind words were spoken in a rare-sweet voice, courteously enough.
Jim looked at the speaker a moment, then emphatically said "No!"

"It is quite time I was returning."

"Have you anything there to do that is more important than listening to
me for fifteen minutes?"

Agatha did not pretend not to understand him.  She turned toward him
with unflinching eyes.

"Truth to say, yes, Mr. Hambleton, I have.  I don't wish to listen
to--anything."

"Oh--if you feel like that!  Your 'Mr. Hambleton' is enough to strike
me dumb."

"Believe me, it is the best way."

"Again, may one ask why?"

"You are going back to your own people, to your own work.  And I to
mine."

"But that's the very point.  My idea was to--to combine them."

"I guessed it."

Jimmy smiled his ingenuous smile as he suavely asked, "And don't
you--er--like the idea?"

Agatha turned her wretched white face toward him.  Into it there had
come a grim determination that left Jimmy quite out in the cold.

"I have no choice in liking or disliking it," she said quite evenly.
"But there are plenty of reasons why I can't think of it.  And you
shouldn't think of it any more.  I assure you, you are making a
mistake."

She got up as if ready to walk away, her face averted.

"Agatha!"

At the name she turned to Jim, as much as to say she would be quite
reasonable if he would be.  But her face suddenly flushed gloriously.

"Agatha, dear, hear me.  I did not intend to tell you all my secret
to-day; not until I should be on neutral ground, so to speak.  But I
can't let you leave me this way."

"You will have to.  I am going back to the house."

Up to this point, James had merely been playing tag, as it were.  The
game wasn't really on.  A little skirmishing on either side was in
order.  But Agatha's last words were the call to action.  They roused
the ghost of some old Hambleton ancestor who meant not to be beaten.
Jim squared himself in the middle of the path, touched Agatha's
shoulder with the lightest, most respectful finger, and requested: "But
I would ask you, as a special favor, to stay a few minutes longer."

Jim's tone left Agatha no choice.  She sat down again on the pine
stump, but she could not meet Jimmy's eyes.  He stood a few feet away
from her.  When he spoke, his voice was firm and steady, ringing with
earnestness.  There was no doubt now but that he was in the game for
all he was worth.

"Agatha, you shall not turn me down like this.  Wait until you know me
better, and know yourself better.  You've had no time to think this
matter over, and it involves a good deal, I admit.  But we have lived
through a good deal together in these few weeks.  I'm here; I'm here to
stay.  You can't say now, dear, that you care nothing for me--can you?"

[Illustration: "You shall not turn me down like this."]

"What is the use of all this, I ask!  You will always be my friend, my
rescuer, to whom I am eternally grateful."

Jimmy emitted a sound halfway between "Shucks" and "Damn" and swung
impatiently clean round on his heels.

"Grateful be hanged!  I don't want anybody to be grateful.  I want you
to love me--to marry me.  Why, Agatha," he argued boyishly, his hopes
rising as he saw her face soften a little, "you're mine, for I plucked
you out of the sea.  I had to have you.  I guess I knew it that Sunday,
only it was 'way off, somewhere in the back of my brain.  You're a
dream I've always loved.  Just as this old house is.  You're the woman
I could have prayed for.  I'll do, I'll be, anything you wish; I'll
change myself over, but oh, don't say you won't have me.  Agatha,
Agatha, you don't know how much you mean to me!"

Before this speech was finished, James, according to the good old
fashion, was down on his knees before his lady, and had imprisoned one
of her hands.  Stoic she was, not to yield!  Her eyes had a suspicious
moistness, as she shook her head.

"You will always be the most gallant, unselfish friend I have ever
known.  But--"

"But--what?"

"Marry you I can not."

"Why not?"

"I can not marry anybody."

Then Jimsy said a disgraceful thing.  "You kissed me once.  Will you do
it again?"

At this impudence, she neither got angry nor changed her mind--a bad
sign for Jimmy.  She put his hand away, saying, "You must forgive me
the kiss."

Jimmy jumped to his feet with another inarticulate sound, every whit as
bad as an oath, and stood before her.

"Agatha Redmond, will you marry me?"

"No."

Jim turned in his tracks and left the wood.


Two hours later, at supper, Jim was inquired for.

"Our last supper together, and Mr. Hambleton not here!" mourned
Chamberlain.

Agatha felt guilty, but could scarcely confess it.  "You are all
invited for next year, you know," she said.

"And we're all coming," announced Mélanie.  "But poor Mr. Hambleton
will miss his supper tonight."

The "poor Mr. Hambleton" struck Agatha.  "I think Mr. Hambleton is
doing very well indeed.  I saw him start off for a walk this afternoon."

"Jim's a chump.  Give him a cold potato," jeered Aleck.

But after supper was over, and the twilight deepened into darkness,
Agatha sought Aleck where she could speak with him alone.

"I--I think Mr. Hambleton was troubled when he left here this
afternoon," she said.  "Can you think where he would be likely to go?
He is not strong enough to bear much hard exercise yet."

Aleck looked at her keenly.

"If he went anywhere, I think he'd go straight to the yacht."

"I feel a little anxious, someway," confessed Agatha.

Chamberlain's voice broke in upon them.  "Anybody ready to take me down
to the _Sea Gull_ in the car?"

As Aleck started for the machine, the anxiety in Agatha's face
perceptibly lightened.  "And may I go with you?" she asked eagerly.




CHAPTER XXIV

AFTER YOU, MONSIEUR?

Jim had no desire to create a sensation among his friends at the old
red house; but as he left the pine grove all his instincts led him to
flee in another direction.  He did not fully realize just what had
happened to him, but he was conscious of having received a very hard
jolt, indeed.  The house, full of happy associations as it was, was
just now too tantalizing a place.  Aleck had won out, and he and
Mélanie were radiating that peculiar kind of lover's joy which shines
on the eve of matrimony.  Jim wished them well--none better--but he
also wished they wouldn't make such a fuss over these things.  Get it
done and out of the way, and the less said about it the better.  In
fact, Jim's buoyant and sunny spirit went into eclipse; he lost his
holiday ardor, and trudged over the hill and into the shore road in a
state of extreme dejection.

But he lingered on the way, diverted almost against his will by the
sight of fishing smacks putting into harbor, an island steamer rounding
a distant cliff, and the _Sea Gull_ lying motionless just within the
breakwater.  Women may be unkind, but a ship is a ship, after all.  One
can not nurse the pain even of a shattered heart when running before a
stiff wind with the spinnaker set and an open sea ahead.

The thought decided him.  The sea should be his bride.  Jim did not
stop to arrange, at the moment, just how this should be brought about,
but his determination was none the less firm.  He became sentimental to
the extent of reflecting, vaguely, that this was but philosophic
justice.  The sea had not conquered him--far from it; neither should
She conquer him.  He would follow the sea, the path of glamour, the
home of the winged foot and the vanishing sail, the road to alien and
mysterious lands--

Thus Jimmy, in reaction from the Arctic douche to which his emotional
self had been subjected.  He was, figuratively speaking, blue with the
cold, but trying valiantly to warm himself.

As he gazed at the _Sea Gull_, asleep on the flood tide, cutting a
gallant figure in the glowing sunset, he felt an overmastering longing
to be aboard.  He would stay on the yacht until Chamberlain came, at
least; possibly all night.

Having made up his mind on this point, James persuaded himself that he
felt better.  Philosophy is a friend in need, after all.  Why should
one failure in getting one's desires crush the spirit?  He would make a
right-about-face, travel for a year on a sailing vessel, see the world.
That was it.  Hang the shoe business!

Immersed in mental chaos such as these fragments of thought suggest,
Jim did not perceive that he was being overtaken, until a slow greeting
came to his ears.

"Good evening, friend."  It was the deliberate, wide-eyed youth of the
Reading-room.

"Ah, good evening."

"If you are on your way to the Sailors' Reading-room, I wish to inform
you that I have been obliged to lock up for to-night, on account of an
urgent errand at the village."  Jimmy stared vacantly for a moment at
the pale, washed-out countenance of his interlocutor.  "I thought I'd
tell you," the youth went on in his copy-book style, "so as to save
your taking the long walk.  I am the librarian of the Reading-room."

"Ah, thank you.  But I wasn't going to the Reading-room to-night.  I am
on my way to the village."

"Well, there's a large majority of people do go to the Reading-room,
first and last," the youth explained with pride.  "And some of them are
not worthy of its privileges.  I am on my way now to prevent what may
be a frightful accident to one who has enjoyed the benefits of our
work."

Jim gazed at the youth.  "A frightful accident!  Then why in Heaven's
name don't you hurry?"

The youth exhibited a slightly injured air, but did not hasten.

"I was just about to continue on my way," he said, "when it occurred to
me that you might be interested to know."

"That's good of you.  But what is it all about?"

"Some time ago, a very profane and impatient gentleman, waiting for
money to be telegraphed to him from New York--"

"Well, man, go on!  Where is he?"

"I know nothing about the movements of this ungodly person, but it
appears that to-day, for the first time in its history, the quarry up
yonder has been robbed.  Circumstances lead the manager to suspect that
this same gentleman was the perpetrator of the theft, and I am on my
way to further the ends of justice."

"No need to be so particular about calling him a gentleman.  But what
is the 'accident' likely to be?"

"It is feared that the thief may not be aware of the nature of the
article he has stolen, and it is very dangerous."

"What on earth is it?"

"It is a fairly large-sized stick of dynamite."

The youth might have been discussing a fancy dance, so suave and polite
was he.  Jim interrupted rudely.

"Dynamite, is it?  Good.  If it's old Chatelard, he ought to blow up.
Serve him right."

"I'm surprised and pained at your words, my dear friend.  No soul is
utterly--"

"Yes, it is.  Which way did he go?  Where is he?"

"I don't know.  The manager sent me to inform the sheriff."

"It won't do any good.  But you'd better go, all the same."

The judge in chancery went on his dignified way.  He would not have
hurried if he had heard Angel Gabriel's trump.  The news he had brought
was in the class to be considered important if true, but there was
nothing in it to alter Jimmy's plans.  He took the shortest cut to the
shore, found a fiat-bottomed punt that was regarded by the village as
general property, and pushed off.

The _Sea Gull_ was a tidy craft, and looked very gay with even the half
of her festival flags on view.  But the gaiety did not beguile Jim's
dampened spirits.  He went aboard feeling that he'd like to rip the
idiotic things down; but the yacht, at least, offered a place where he
could think.  The sunset light on the water blazed vermilion--just the
color that Jim all at once discovered he hated.  He looked down the
companionway, but finally he decided to stretch out on deck for a few
minutes' rest.  He was very tired.

Off in the stern was a vague mass which proved to be a few yards of
canvas carefully tented on the floor.  Some gimcrack belonging to the
ship's ornamentation had been freshly gilded and left to dry, protected
by an old sail-cloth.  This, weighted down by a rusty marlinespike,
spread couchwise along the taffrail, and offered to Jim just the bed he
longed for.

He lay down, face to the sky, and gave himself up to thoughts that were
very dark indeed.  He had been thrown down, unexpectedly and quite
hard, and that was all there was to it.  Agatha, lovely but
inexplicable maid, was not for him.  She had been deceptive--yes, that
was the word; and he had been a fool--that was the plain truth.  He
might as well face it at once.  He had been idiot enough to think he
might win the girl.  Just because they had been tossed together in
mid-ocean and she had clung to him.  The world wasn't an ocean; it was
a spiritual stock-exchange, where he who would win must bid very high
indeed for the prizes of life.  And he had so little to bid!

Communing thus with his unhappiness, Jim utterly lost the sense of
time.  The shameless vermilion sunset went into second mourning and
thence to nun's gray, before the figure on the sail-cloth moved.  Then,
through senses only half awake, Jim heard a light sound, like a
scratch-scratch on the hull of the yacht.  Chamberlain, no doubt, just
rubbing the nose of his tender against the _Sea Gull_.  Jim was in no
hurry to see Chamberlain, and remained where he was.  The Englishman
would heave in sight soon enough.

But though Jim waited several minutes, with half an eye cocked on the
stairway, nobody appeared.  The wind was still, the sea like glass; not
a sound anywhere.  Struck by something of strangeness in the uncanny
silence, Jim sat up and called "Ahoy, Chamberlain!"  There was no
answer.  But in the tense stillness there was a sound, and it came from
below--the sound of a man's stealthy tread.

Jim sprang to his feet and made the companionway at a bound.  He
listened an instant to make sure that he heard true, cleared the steps,
and landed in the darkness of the ship's saloon.  As he groped along,
reaching for the door of the principal cabin, the blackness suddenly
lighted a little, and a dim shadow shot out and up the stairway.  Jim's
physical senses were scarcely cognizant of the soft, quick passing, but
his thumbs pricked.  He dashed after the shadow, up the stairs, out on
deck, and aft.  There he was--Chatelard, armed, facing his enemy once
more, cool but not smiling, desperately at bay.  Below him, riding just
under the stern of the yacht, was the tender whose scratch-scratch had
awakened Jim.  A man, oars in hand, was holding the boat close to the
_Sea Gull_.

Jim saw all this during the seconds between his turning at the
stair-top and his throwing himself plump against the figure by the
railing.  He was quick enough to pass the range of the weapon, whose
shot rang out in the clear air, but he was not quick enough to get
under the man's guard.  Chatelard was ready for him, holding his weapon
high.

As he pressed forward, Jim felt something under his foot.  He ducked
quickly, as if to dodge Chatelard's hand, and on the downward swing he
picked up the rusty marlinespike.  It was a weapon of might, indeed.
Jim's blow caused Chatelard's arm to drop, limp and nerveless.  But in
gaining his enemy's weapon, Jim was forced to drop his own.  He put a
firm foot upon the spike, however, while he held Chatelard at arm's
length and looked into his face.

"So we meet once more, after all!" he cried.  "And once more I have the
pistol."  Even as Jim spoke, his adversary made a spring that almost
enabled him to seize the weapon again.  Jim eluded his clutch, and
quick as thought threw the gun overboard.  It struck far out on the
smooth water.

It was a sorry thing to do, as it proved, for Chatelard, watching his
chance, stooped, wrenched the spike from under Jim's foot, and once
more stood defiantly at bay.  And at this point, he opened his thin
lips for one remark.

"You'll go to hell now, you pig of an American!"

"But after you, Monsieur!" Jim cried, and with the words, his arms were
about the other in a paralyzing grip.

Had Jim been as strong as when the two men measured forces weeks
before, in the fo'cas'le of the _Jeanne D'Arc_, the result might have
been different.  But the struggle was too long, and Jim's strength
insufficient.  Chatelard freed himself from his antagonist sufficiently
to wield the spike somewhere about Jim's head, and there came over him
a sickening consciousness that he was going down.  He dropped, hanging
like a bulldog to Chatelard's knees, but he knew he had lost the game.
He gathered himself momentarily, determined to get on his feet once
more, and had almost done it, when sounds of approaching voices mingled
with the scuffle of their feet and their quick breathing.  Before Jim
could see what new thing was happening, Chatelard had turned for one
alert instant toward the port side, whence the invading voices came.
He was cut off from the stairway, caught in the stern of the yacht, his
weapon gone.  He gave a quick call in a low voice to the boat below,
stepped over the taffrail and then leaped overboard.

Propped up on an elbow, dazed and half blinded, blood flowing down his
cheek, Jim stretched forward dizzily, as if to follow his disappearing
enemy.  He heard the splash of the water, and saw the rowboat move out
from under the stern, but he saw no more.  He thought it must have
grown very dark.

"Blest if he didn't jump overboard hanging on to that marlinespike!"
said Jim stupidly to himself.  And then it became quite dark.


When Jimsy regained sight and consciousness, which happened not more
than three minutes after he lost them, he found himself supported
affectionately against somebody's shoulder, and a voice--the Voice of
all voices he most loved--was in his ears.

"Here I am, dear.  Do not die!  I have come--come to stay, if you want
me, James, dearest!"  And bending over him was a face--the very Vision
of his dream.  "Look at me, speak to me, James, dear!"

The voice was a bit hysterical, but the face was eloquent, loving,
adoring.  It was too good to be true, though Jim was disposed to let
the illusion prolong itself as far as possible.  He put up his hand and
smoothed her face gently, in gratitude at seeing it kind once more.
Then he smiled foolishly.

"It's great, isn't it!" he remarked inanely, before thinking it
necessary to remove his head.  Her face was still the face of
tenderness, full of yearning.  It did not change.  She took a
handkerchief from her pocket and carefully pressed it to his cheek and
chin.  When she took it away, he saw that it was red.

"Lord, what a mess I'm making!" he exclaimed, trying at last to sit up.
As he did so, it all came back to him--the flying shadow, the gun, the
struggle.  He leaned over to peer again through the crossed wires of
the deck railing, down into the water.  He turned back with an amazed
expression.

"_Did_ he jump overboard, honest-true, hanging on to that spike?"

Neither Aleck nor Agatha could say, nor yet Mr. Chamberlain, who had
been searching the yacht.  Wherever it was, the rusty marlinespike had
disappeared.  The rowboat, too, had gone into the darkness.  Jim got
up, dazedly thinking for a moment that it was necessary for him to give
chase, but he quickly sat down on the sail-cloth again, overcome with
faintness and a dark pall before his eyes.

"You are not hurt badly?"  The voice was still tender, and it was all
for him!  As Jim heard it, the pall lifted, and his buoyant spirit came
back to its own.  He laughed ringingly.

"Lord, no, not hurt.  But--"

"But what?  What did you wish to say?"

"Is it true?  Are you here, by me, to stay?"

For answer she pressed his hand to her lips.

Aleck and Chamberlain, once assured that Jim was safe, went below to
make a search, and Jim and Agatha were left together on the sail-cloth.
As they sat there, a young moon shone out delicately in the west, and
dropped quickly down after the lost sun.

"It's the first moon we've seen together!" said Jim.

"But we've watched the dawn."

"Ah, yes; and such a dawn!"

Little by little, as they sat together, the story of the fight came
out.  Jim told it bit by bit, not eager.  When it was done, Agatha was
still puzzled.  "Why should he come here?  What could he do here?"

"I don't know, though we shall probably find out soon enough.  But I
don't care, now that you are here."

"James, dear, will you forgive me for this afternoon?"

"I'll forgive you if you'll take it all back, hide, hoofs and horns,
for ever 'n ever, amen."

"I take it back.  I never meant it."

"Then may one ask why--"

"Oh, James, I don't know why."

Anybody could have told them that it was only a phase of feminine panic
in the face of the unknown, necessary as sneezing.  But, as Jim said,
it didn't matter.

"Never mind.  Only I don't want you to marry me because you found me
here all bluggy and pitied me."

"James!  To talk like that!  You know it wasn't--"

"Then, what was it?"  Jim, suddenly grown serpent-like in craft, turned
his well-known ingenuous and innocent expression upon her.

"The moment you left me, up there in the pine grove, I knew I couldn't
do without you."

"How did you know?"

"Because--"

"Yes, because--" Jim prompted her.

"Oh, Jimsy, you know."

"No, I don't."

Agatha, loving his teasing, but too deeply moved, too generous and
sincere to play the coquette, turned to him again a face shining with
tenderness.  Her eyes, like stars; her lips, all sweetness.

"Only love, James, dear--"

Something rose again in Jimmy's soft heart, choking him.  As he had
thrilled to the unknown ecstasy in Agatha's song, many days before, so
now he thrilled to her voice and face, eloquent for him alone.  Love
and its power, life and its meaning, the long, long thoughts of youth
and hope and desire--these held him in thrall.  Agatha was in his arms.
Time was lost to him, and earth.




EPILOGUE

No one ever knew whether the accomplished Frenchman reached shore,
ultimately, in the rowboat, or descended to Sabrina beneath the waves.
If that last hasty exit from the deck of the _Sea Gull_ was also his
final exit from life, certain it is that his departure into the realm
of shades was unwept and unsung.  The stick of dynamite was found,
after a gingerly search, lying on one of the berths in the large cabin,
where it had been dropped by the Frenchman in his flight.


Jimmy Hambleton did not let the shoe business entirely go to
destruction, though his taste for holidays grew markedly after he
brought his bride home with him to Lynn.  One year, when the babies
were growing up, he ordered a trim little yacht to be built and put
into her berth at Charlesport.  She was named the _Sea Gull_.  Jimmy's
chauffeur, called Hand, was her captain.

Sometimes, when James and Agatha were alone, in the zone of stillness
that hung over the listening water, there would rise a song, clear and
birdlike:

  "Free of my pain, free of my burden of sorrow,
  At last I shall see thee--"

and again Jimmy's heart would rise buoyant, free, happy--the heart of
unquenchable youth.



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