Martha Idell Fletcher Bellinger - The Stolen Singer

M >> Martha Idell Fletcher Bellinger >> The Stolen Singer

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17

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 Melanie, 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 Melanie 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
Melanie.

"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. Melanie 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 Melanie. "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
Melanie 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.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17