Martha Idell Fletcher Bellinger - The Stolen Singer

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"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 Melanie 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?"

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