Martha Idell Fletcher Bellinger - The Stolen Singer

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"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!"

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