Part 4

"Whew!" he said, as they resumed their jog-trot pace. "She _is_ a queer fish! But, Betty, why tell a tarradiddle, even to get rid of her?"

"I didn't."

"I mean about the telegram you sent me."

"I didn't send you one."

"What! One came--signed by Charles Danton, too, just as we arranged last night."

"I had nothing to do with it. After you went away, I remembered that I didn't know your real name, and I was afraid a telegram for 'Bob White, Esquire,' left in the servants' hands, would go wrong. So I didn't send it. I wondered how you'd get away to meet me, but I knew you would contrive some excuse."

In his mind's eye, he saw the address of the telegram, "Thomas Fessenden," yet it was true that his identity was unknown to his companion--through her own caprice, to be sure.

He gave a long whistle. "Then that wire really was from Danton. By Jove! if he wanted my advice about anything, he ought to have let me know in time. Confound him, it's too late now! It serves him right."

He turned to look for sympathy in Betty's eyes, only to find there a light that baffled him.

"Are you angry with me about anything?"

"I'm not sure whether I am or not. Men are so--so bad, and so presumptuous."

"Good heavens! Have _I_ done anything?"

But in spite of all he could do to solve this new Betty, she set him down at the foot of the lane a very perplexed young man.

VII

At Sandywood, Fessenden was little surprised to learn that Miss Yarnell had been summoned home to Baltimore--on account of sickness in her family.

"I think she must have gotten a telegram at the station," said Polly Cresap. "She'd been out riding, and when she came in she was in quite a flutter, and told us she had to go home immediately. I really didn't understand just who was sick. We're to send her things after her. You didn't see her at Sandywood Station, did you, Tom? She must have taken the same train you came in on."

"No," returned Fessenden, truthfully enough. "She's rather a headlong sort, don't you think?"

"Yes, I suppose so. But, poor girl, she has a good deal on her mind! You know, before this disgraceful affair of Charlie Danton's with----"

"Polly!" said her husband warningly.

"I don't care, Pinck. You know everybody says so."

"But nobody knows anything, my dear."

"At any rate," she rattled on, "before this affair, Madge was quite fond of Charlie Danton, and now I believe she's eating her heart out."

"Remember, Fessenden has just been up to Baltimore to meet Danton," cautioned Cresap. "How do you know it wasn't about this very thing?"

"Oh, goodness, Tom! Am I rushing in where angels fear to tread?"

"Not at all," he assured her. "Danton didn't mention the matter at all."

"Besides, Polly," said Cresap, "no girl eats her heart out nowadays. That sort of thing dates back to hoop-skirts and all that. Madge Yarnell can take care of herself, I'll wager."

The next day was Sunday, and for Fessenden the morning dragged rather wearily. But after luncheon he had the inspiration to suggest a sail in the _Will-o'-the-Wisp_. May Belle and Cleborne announced that they had already arranged to go for a walk together, but the others avowed their willingness to sail.

The wind was fresh, and Mrs. Dick Randall sat beside Fessenden at the wheel, and met the flying spray merrily. Dick himself flirted with Polly Cresap under the protection of the jibsail forward. Cresap drowsed accommodatingly at full length in the lee gangway.

"Harry Cleborne and May Belle think two are company," said Mrs. Dick.

"Are they engaged?"

"Oh, I imagine there's only an understanding."

"Do you think that sort of arrangement is dignified?"

"What a funny way to put it! No, I don't think so, now that you put it that way. Madge Yarnell, now--Charlie Danton and she had only an understanding--everybody took it for granted they'd be married some day--and look how it's turned out."

"But I understood their falling-out was due to outside influence--wasn't it?"

"Partly, of course. But a regular engagement would have had more dignity about it, just as you say, and they would have had to be more careful."

"No doubt."

"Now, there's Roland Cary--" went on Mrs. Dick.

"The handsome cousin Polly spoke of the other day?"

"Yes. There's a dignified person for you. Hum-m! Dignified in some ways, but a perfect dee-vil in others."

"He must be a very interesting sort. I'd like to meet him."

"Oh, he--he _is_ interesting. But I'm worried about Madge and Charlie Danton's case."

"I agree with Cresap--Miss Yarnell will follow her own course, whatever that may be."

"I suppose so."

The bracing air and the dancing yacht, if not the conversation, held Fessenden's interest for an hour or two. As he headed toward home, the glory of the day put a happy idea into his head. He would return Betty's picnic of yesterday by a day's sail on the _Wisp_. Somehow he would manage to elude his Sandywood responsibilities again.

Darkness always fell long before dinner was served at Sandywood. Therefore, Fessenden, going for a stroll in the wilderness of a garden, ostensibly to indulge in an ante-prandial cigar, found in the dusk no difficulty in extending his walk to White Cottage.

A boyish sense of romance always took possession of him when he approached Betty's vicinity. A knock at the cottage door, and a direct inquiry for her, would have been too commonplace. No workaday method of communication would suffice under a sky shot with stars and in an air a-tingle with spring.

Lights shone in a couple of rooms in the upper part of the house, while the lower story was in darkness. Apparently, the farmer's family was already preparing to retire for the night.

Fessenden scouted about the place, smiling to himself at the absurdity of his own action.

There was nothing to indicate which room was Betty's, and at a venture he tossed a handful of gravel against the panes of the corner room--then another.

Betty's head and shoulders were the response, framed in the glow of the lamp gleaming through the white curtain behind her. The face, delicately oval, and the slender throat, seemed wrought of gold.

"'So shines a good deed in a naughty world,'" said Fessenden aloud.

"Who's there?" she called.

"It's I."

"Oh, _you_!"

"Yes. Can you came down a minute?"

"No."

"Please come down, Betty. I want to see you about something."

"No-o, I can't. Is it anything important?"

"Immensely important. You aren't vexed with me still, are you?"

"Of course not. And, Bob White, I didn't tell you yesterday, but I did appreciate it very much."

"Good!--but what?"

"The way you jumped out of the carriage and seized her horse, when she was so belligerent. It was very capable in you."

"If it weren't dark down here, you could see me blushing. Come down and see."

"No. Bob White, you haven't come around here like a Romeo to--to say good-by, have you?"

"Heaven forbid, Betty! I want to ask you to go on a picnic with _me_ to-morrow, in my sailboat."

"Oh, goody! Hum-m! I don't know. For how long?"

"All day. We can sail down to Rincoteague Island and back."

"Who's to go?"

"Only you and I, of course."

"I'm afraid that wouldn't be quite--well, quite--"

"Oh, I see. Then your aunt is invited, too, of course--but reluctantly."

"We'll come," she said, with decision. "Shall we bring the luncheon?"

"No. The sloop has a lot of stuff on board now. Besides, there used to be a hotel on Rincoteague--such as it was. I'll have the _Wisp_ in Piney Cove at nine to-morrow. We must start early, you know."

"We'll be there. Thank you very much."

"Betty, do come out a minute--long enough to shake hands. I haven't seen you all day."

"You funny man!" she said. "If I weren't--a farmer's girl, I should think you were flirting."

He was unable to muster an instant reply. A shade, snapped sharply down, cut the fair hair and laughing face from his view.

There was nothing left for him to do but to make his way back to Sandywood, which he did very thoughtfully.

After dinner the men grouped themselves in easy chairs at a corner of the porch, to enjoy their cigarettes. Harry Cleborne drew his chair to Fessenden's.

"Will you try one of my home-growns, Mr. Fessenden?" he proffered. "That tobacco was raised on my own plantation."

Fessenden accepted a cigar, suddenly conscious that Cleborne's unwonted attentions must have an ulterior motive.

"Thank you. You're a Marylander, then?"

"Virginian," returned the other. "My home's in old Albemarle. I've seen a good deal of Maryland the last year or two, though." His eyes strayed toward the white gowns of the women.

"Maryland has its attractions," said Fessenden.

"Yes, that's so--even for you?"

"Oh, yes, for me, too."

Cleborne folded his arms, crossed one leg over the other, and blew a long cloud of smoke. "Look here, Mr. Fessenden," he said, "that's what I want to speak to you about--Maryland attractions." He spoke with evident embarrassment. "May Belle--Miss Cresap--and I saw you yesterday, sitting on the wall at the end of the lane to White Cottage."

"Hum! You did?"

"Yes. We were out for an early morning walk. Of course, then, we know you didn't go to Baltimore--not on the morning train, at any rate."

"Well?"

Impatience showed in Fessenden's tone, and the other went on quickly: "We were out for a stroll again this evening, and--you may think it's none of my business, but we saw _her_. She was at the window as we passed the house."

"You seem to be fond of walking."

"It was entirely an accident both times. But it won't do, Mr. Fessenden."

"May I ask _what_ won't do?"

"I don't want to be impertinent, sir--you're an older man than I--but, of course, it's easy enough to guess that you've been going over to White Cottage because _she's_ there. Isn't that so?"

"Certainly it's so. But is there any harm in that?"

"There may not be any harm _yet_, but won't there be?"

"This is ridiculous. Betty isn't much more than a child--a very charming one, I admit."

"Who?" demanded Cleborne, "Betty?"

"Betty Landis, man. Aren't you talking about her?"

"Never heard of her," returned the other shortly. "I'm talking about you know whom, Mr. Fessenden. I'm sorry I spoke. I wanted to give you a friendly hint that you should let another man look after his--his _own_ himself. I don't care to be laughed at in this way."

"What the devil do you mean?"

Cleborne pushed back his chair savagely. "I'm through," he snapped.

As good as his word, he stalked off to join May Belle.

VIII

Dawn was reddening the leaves of the oak outside the window when Fessenden awoke. From the great bay below the house came the ruffle of water--the wind was freshening. But it was not the mutter along the shore, nor the tang of the salt air, that had aroused him.

What could that idiot, Cleborne, have been driving at in his talk of Betty? No, Cleborne had declared he had never heard of her. Then whom could his dark hints be about? Was the Virginian a subtle joker, acting at the instigation of Polly or Mrs. Dick? It was not unlikely. And did Madge Yarnell's peculiar conduct have any connection with the matter?

While he was still puzzling over Cleborne's words, he fell asleep, and when he awoke again, at a more reasonable hour, his mind instantly became too full of plans for the day's excursion with Betty to hold any conflicting thoughts.

At eight o'clock he ate his eggs, toast, and coffee, solving the problem of presenting a sufficient excuse for his proposed day's absence by the simple process of not attempting it.

At the last moment, the freshening wind suggested the probable need of ample protection from the weather. Accordingly, he carried a double armful of steamer-rugs and rain-coats from the house to the _Wisp_.

In five minutes he was standing for Piney Cove. It took him half an hour or more to reach it, for the wind, blowing steadily from the northwest, held him back. He was rewarded by finding Betty and Aunty Landis awaiting him on the beach.

"Good-morning, Mrs. Landis. Hail, Dryad of the Pines!"

"Hail, Old Man of the Sea!"

Her eyes were as clear as twin pools; her lips were smiling, ready as always to laugh with him or at him, as opportunity might offer. She held her head with that defiant tilt of the chin that was to him one of her always-remembered characteristics. The sunlight flashed from the bay to the shining braid of her hair.

Her white sailor suit was set off by two daring bands of color--a scarlet handkerchief at her throat, and a scarlet sash about her waist. That most effective head-dress, a man-o'-war's-man's white hat, crowned her head. Fessenden's eyes dwelt upon her with such frank delight that she blushed a little as Mrs. Landis followed her on board the _Wisp_.

The course was set southeast for Rincoteague Island. After a dubious phrase or two about the weather, Aunty Landis ensconced herself just within the opened doors of the little cabin. Here she produced an infinite number of gigantic stockings (male) from a work-bag, and proceeded to darn them.

"I hope both you and your aunt are good sailors," said Fessenden. "It promises to be a bit rough before we get back."

"Oh, yes. I hope it does blow. To be wet and cold, and to see the water boiling up ready to drown us--that would be living!"

"You strange child! You have a philosophy all your own. Did you know that?"

She nodded sagely. "Of course. I hate people who haven't. That's one reason I like you."

"Thank you. I'm glad to hear you confess that there's more reasons than one. I like _you_ because--because you seem to me to be all golden. Perhaps the sun dazzles me."

"Perhaps," she smiled.

"You and the day are golden, but remember the song in Cymbeline:

"Golden lads and girls all must As chimney sweepers come to dust."

"Golden lads and girls," she repeated softly. "Oh, they can never come to dust while there are days like this to sail and sail!"

Her arms, extended yearningly, as if she would have plucked the secret of youth from the tossing bay, fell to her side. "I wish we could sail forever--never to go back to the sad land."

He thrilled. "So do I. Let's do it--you and I together."

"And Aunty Landis?"

"I'm not so sure about Aunty Landis. The stockings might give out, you know."

They had left Piney Cove not long after nine. With the strong northwester behind them, they made such progress that before two o'clock they were in sight of their destination.

Rincoteague Island lies on the very border-line between ocean and bay. On the eastern side, it is crowned by a straggling forest of pine and oak, and looks almost boldly toward the near waters of the Atlantic. A small hotel, and rows of bath-houses, mark it as a "resort"--a resort sustained by the excursion steamer that makes daily trips thereto from the towns of the mainland.

Although aware that the _Wisp_ had been making extraordinary speed, it was not until Fessenden bore up direct for Rincoteague that he realized how the wind was freshening. He had put his helm down a little carelessly, and instantly a cupful of water took him in the back. He glanced astern, to find quite a sea racing after.

"Positively it's roughing up," he said. "Will you be afraid to face a head sea going home, Betty?"

"No, indeed; not with such a sailor as you, Bob White."

"Good! The sloop could live through a hurricane, 'so let the wild winds blow-ow-ow.'"

They stood in for Rincoteague pier. The excursion steamer had just disgorged its passengers there, and the sight of the horde convinced the party on the _Wisp_ that the inevitable fish-and-oyster dinner at the hotel was not likely to prove a thing of beauty. Accordingly, Betty took the wheel and skilfully put the sloop alongside a smaller pier--rather rotted and insecure, to be sure--on the lee or ocean side of the island.

While Fessenden was making the _Wisp_ fast, Mrs. Landis and Betty explored the larder, with highly satisfactory results. Potted slices of chicken, strawberry jam, boxed crackers, pickles, and aerated waters of several sorts, furnished "eatin' stuff enough for anybody," as Mrs. Landis avowed. She herself had thought to bring half a dozen wooden picnic plates and a complement of knives, forks, and spoons.

"Did you stock the _Wisp_ for a polar expedition, Bob White?" asked Betty.

"Oh, all this stuff was left in her by the man I bought her from. I suppose it would have been more trouble to move the stores than they were worth. Have you everything you want? Then 'all ashore that's going ashore!'"

They ate their luncheon in a sheltered hollow at the lower end of the islet. A projecting clay bank, a huge stranded log, and an overhanging holly-tree made almost a cave of it. Aunty Landis was a highly satisfactory chaperon. After luncheon, when she was not darning, she was perusing a pamphlet of Sunday School lessons. And when this was finished, she brought a leather-bound memorandum-book from the bottomless work-bag, and entered upon an intricate calculation of household accounts.

Fessenden chatted with Betty. He had not yet begun to analyze the reasons for the pleasure he felt in her company, or hardly to understand that the farmer's daughter who could hold a man of his experience by her side for the better part of three days must possess extraordinary charm.

"Now we are in the pirates' den," said Betty, "and that log is a treasure-chest full of--of what?"

"Of doubloons and pieces of eight. I'm the pirate chief, and you are my captured bride."

"Oh, goodness!"

"Do you know, I made a remark something like that to Miss Yarnell the other day, and she took it quite seriously?"

"Was she afraid of the pirate chief?"

"She eyed me in that brooding, blazing way of hers--you remember how she looked when she tried to ride over us on the road the other day?"

"Remember!"

"Exactly. She eyed me in that fashion, then thanked me for the suggestion."

"What did she mean?"

"I haven't the least idea. Betty, what do you know about her?"

The girl put her hand suddenly on his arm. "What was that? A drop of water? I do believe it's going to rain. And hear the surf! It's fairly roaring. It must be blowing hard. I wonder if the yacht is all right."

The thought brought them to their feet, and out of their sheltered hollow. They found a changed world.

While they ate, clouds had been gathering west and north, and now seemed to fill the whole space from bay to sky. A mile or two beyond the island, a white line advancing over the churning waters gave promise of a furious squall. Worst of all, the wind had risen until, even on their leeward side of the island, the swell was momentarily growing heavier.

"By George!" said Fessenden. "It looks as if we were in for it. Betty, we'd better have a look at the _Wisp_. That rotten old wharf!"

"I'll race you to it!" she cried.

He overtook her in half a dozen strides, and throwing his arm about her shoulders, fairly swept her along with himself. She came no higher than his shoulders as she ran. Her eyes laughed up at him, and her shining hair brushed his lips. Aunty Landis was left hopelessly in the rear.

At the old pier, the waves, running far in beneath the flooring, were breaking against the ancient piles, while the structure complained in every joint. The _Wisp_, tied stem and stern to a string-piece, was plunging furiously.

"She seems to be all right," said Fessenden, "but I think I'll put an extra half-hitch in each of those lines." He still steadied Betty against the wind as he spoke. "It wouldn't be pleasant to be forced to go home in that excursion boat."

Releasing his companion, reluctantly enough, he made his way out on the wharf. She promptly followed.

"Go back, child. The wind will blow you away."

"I'm--all--right," she gasped as he bent over the stern-line. "The rain will be here in a minute, and we'll need the rain-coats." She sprang aboard gaily.

"Come back!" he ordered. "I don't believe it's safe, Betty."

"Only a minute," she called. She waved a careless hand and dived into the cabin.

At that instant, a wave struck the _Wisp_ on the inboard quarter and heaved her strongly outward. The stern-line held staunchly, but under the tremendous strain the string-piece gave way like the rotted punk it was, not a foot in front of Fessenden.

"Betty!" he roared. "Betty!"

His cry stirred the heart of the girl within the cabin, and brought her instantly onto the floor of the cockpit. Before she could realize the danger of the situation, the worst had occurred.

He was already kneeling at the forward line, heaving hand over hand to haul the bow of the _Wisp_ alongside. The sloop was almost within reach when another wave struck her. The line was snatched from his fingers, and the yacht, flung to the full length of the rope, carried away the string-piece as before. The _Wisp_ was adrift!

As the timber sank under his feet, Fessenden clutched at a wharf stanchion. By a miracle, he saved himself from going overboard.

As if recoiling from the freedom so suddenly won, the _Wisp_ took a slight sheer toward the pier. The tide, running like a mill-race, swept her broadside past Fessenden.

"Betty!"

The girl, her body lithe and alert, had been steadying herself by the safety-rail of the cabin roof. Her face had whitened at the sight of Fessenden's peril, but it was only now, in response to his hoarse shout, that a sound escaped her.

"Bob White!" she cried, her arms suddenly extended in piteous appeal. "Oh, Bob White!"

The watery space between the wharf and the sloop was hopelessly wide, but, uttering an inarticulate and despairing oath, he took two running steps and leaped.

He struck fair on his feet on the very rail of the _Wisp_, stood tottering, fought wildly for his balance--and then Betty's firm little hand plucked him safely inboard.

"Thank you, Bob White," she said.

There was no time to return even a smile in answer. He gripped the wheel and gave the sloop a sheer with the hope of beaching her outright. But wind and wave caught her.

"Close the hatch!" he roared.

As it happened, the forward hatch-cover was already in place. Betty snapped to the sliding storm-door of the cabin barely in time. A sea swept the Wisp from end to end, flattening Betty against the side of the cabin, and nearly swamping the yacht at a blow.

Fessenden was glad to escape by putting the craft dead before the wind. Bare-poled as she was, the Wisp fled southeastward like a frightened thing. The rain, the clouds, and the night overtook them together.

With a thrill, Fessenden felt a long, regular swell suddenly begin to lift the battling yacht. There was still enough of daylight to permit him a sight of Betty's pale little face.

"Betty," he said, "don't be frightened, but I'm afraid we're clear of the Capes. This feels like the Atlantic."

She made a staggering rush and reached the lockers. There she sat down beside him as he struggled with the wheel. The spray flew clear over them again and again.

She laid her wet cheek an instant against his arm. "The ocean?" she said. "I hope you won't be seasick, Bob White. I know _I_ won't."

"You're a trump," he said.

IX

Now and then the sloop yawed alarmingly as they ran before the wind.

"This won't do," said Fessenden. "I must get some sail on to steady her. Do you think you're strong enough to hold the wheel, Betty?"

She gripped the spokes, her hands beneath his. The quiet strength of his clasp comforted her mind no less than her body,--in a moment she nodded confidently.

Leaving the helm in her charge, Fessenden literally crawled forward. Ordinarily, the jib was handled by means of the sheet led aft through a couple of small blocks to the helmsman, so that one man could both sail and steer without moving from his place. Now, however, the fierceness of the wind impelled Fessenden to extra precautions in his endeavor to make sail.