Chapter 5

The wind from the northwest had grown several degrees colder since the sun went down, and the heavens were sombre. There was not a star in sight. A yearning to close his eyes and go to sleep came over him, but he remembered how offensive was his presence to this lady, even at his best behavior. He must take no liberties; so he remarked, cheerfully, in a tone indicative of suppressed exuberance of spirit:

"I hope you will not feel nervous in your château to-night."

"No, I think not. It is a weird place to sleep in, however."

"Yes, it is. Wouldn't you like me to sleep just outside, near the door? I am used to camping out, you know."

"No, I thank you. I shall get along very well, I have no doubt."

After that a prolonged silence. At last the lady arose.

"I think I shall go in, Mr. Boyd. I find I am very tired."

While they were groping about the cottage for a lamp, Elinor remembered two candelabra that stood upon a cabinet, stately works of art in bronze and gilt, very heavy, with five candles to each. One of them was taken down.

"Don't light them all," said Elinor. "We must not be extravagant."

But Pats did light them all, saying: "This is a special occasion, and you are the guest of honor."

The guest of honor looked around this ever-surprising interior and experienced a peculiar sense of fear. She kept it to herself, however; but as her eyes moved swiftly from the life-sized figures in the tapestry to the sharply defined busts, and then to the canvas faces, the whole room seemed alive with people.

"Plenty of company here," said Pats, reading her expression. "But in your chamber, there, you will have fewer companions, only the host and his wife." Then, with a smile, "Excuse my suggesting it, if an impertinence, but if you would like to have me take a look under that monumental bed I shall be most happy to do it."

She hesitated, yet she knew she would do it herself, after he had gone. While she was hesitating, Pats drew aside the tapestry and passed with the candelabrum into the chamber. He made a careful survey of the territory beneath the bed and reported it free of robbers. Solomon, also, was investigating; and Pats, who was doing this solely for Elinor's peace of mind, knew well that if a human being were anywhere about the dog would long ago have announced him. But they made a tour of the room, looking behind and under the larger objects, lifting the lids of the marriage chests and opening the doors of the cupboard. Into the cellar, too, they descended, and made a careful search. The five candles produced a weird effect in their promenade along this subterraneous apartment, lighting up an astonishing medley of furniture, garden implements, empty bottles, the posts and side pieces of an extra bed, a broken statue, another wheelbarrow, a lot of kindling wood, and the empty corner where the coffin had awaited its mission. There seemed to be everything except the man they were looking for.

"Fearfully cold down here!" Pats's teeth chattered as he spoke, and he shivered from crown to heel.

"Cold! It doesn't seem so to me," and her tone suggested a somewhat contemptuous surprise.

"To me it is like the chill of death." The candles shook in his hand as he spoke.

"Perhaps you have taken cold," and with stately indifference she moved on toward the stairs.

"Proximity of a Boston iceberg more likely." But this was not spoken aloud.

Upstairs, when about to take his departure, Pats was still shivering. As he stood for a moment before the embers in the big open fireplace at the end of the cottage, his eyes rested upon a chest near by, with a rug and a cushion on the top, evidently used as a lounge by the owner. After hesitating a moment, he asked:

"Would you object to my occupying the top of that chest, just for to-night?"

As she turned toward him he detected a straightening of the figure and the now familiar loftiness of manner which he knew to be unfailing signs of anger--or contempt. Possibly both.

"Certainly not. If you have a cold, it is better you should remain near the fire. I have no objections to sleeping in that other house. You say there _is_ another house."

"Oh, yes! There is another house," he hastened to explain. "And it's plenty good enough. Of course I shall go there. I beg your pardon for suggesting anything else. I forgot my resolve. I didn't realize what I was doing."

"I prefer going there myself," she said, rapidly. "I _much_ prefer it."

And she turned toward the chamber to make arrangements for departure. But Pats stepped forward and said, decisively, and in a tone that surprised her:

"You stay here. I go to the other house myself."

He took his hat, and with Solomon at his heels strode rapidly to the door. There he stopped, and with his hand on the latch said, more gently, in his usual manner:

"Wouldn't you like Solomon to stay here with you? He is lots of company, and a protector."

She made no reply, but looked with glacial indifference from the man to his dog.

"You would feel less lonesome, I know." Patting Solomon on the head and pointing to the haughty figure, "You stay here, old man. That's all right. I'll see you in the morning."

The dog clearly preferred going with his master, but Pats, with a pleasant good-night to the lady, stepped out into the darkness and closed the door behind him.

Solomon, with his nose to the door, stood for several moments in silent protest against this desertion. Later, however, he followed Elinor into the bed-chamber, and although his presence gave her courage and was distinctly a solace, she remained vaguely apprehensive and too ill at ease to undress and go to bed; so, instead, she lay on the outside of it, in a wrapper.

Without, the northeast wind had become a gale. The howling of the storm, together with the ghostly silence of the many-peopled room excited her imagination and quickened her fears.

But weariness and perfect physical relaxation overcame exhausted nerves, and at last the lady slept.

VIII

"WOMEN ARE DEVILS"

So sound was Elinor Marshall's sleep that when she awoke the old clock behind the door was celebrating, with its usual music, the hour of nine. From the fury of the rain upon the roof and the sheets of water coursing down the little panes of the window in her chamber, it seemed as if a deluge had arrived. And upon opening the front door she stepped hastily back to avoid the water from the roof and the spattering from the doorstep. But Solomon was not afraid. He darted out into the rain and disappeared among the pines.

"Mr. Boyd will surely get a soaking when he comes for his breakfast," she thought. And she wondered, casually, if he had a waterproof or an umbrella. He would soon appear, probably, and, as men were always hungry, she turned her attention to hunting up food and coffee for a breakfast. These were easily found. Having started a fire and set the table for two, she got the coffee under way. Crackers, boiled eggs, sardines, marmalade, cold ham, and apples were to appear at this repast.

But at ten o'clock Mr. Boyd had not appeared. At half-past ten she realized the folly of waiting indefinitely for a man who preferred his bed to his breakfast, and she sat down alone. In the midst of her meal, however, she heard Solomon scratching at the door. No sooner had he entered--dripping with rain--than he began the same pantomime of entreaty as that of yesterday when he tried to get somebody to follow him. Now, perhaps his master was in trouble.

But Elinor remembered what Mr. Boyd himself had said, "He has probably found a woodchuck or a squirrel track."

Looking out into the driving rain she decided to take the benefit of the doubt. But Solomon was persistent; so aggressively persistent that in the end he became convincing. At last she put on her waterproof and plunged forth into the tempest, the overjoyed dog capering wildly in front. Straight into the woods he led her.

Only a short distance had they travelled among the pines when she stopped, with a new fear, at the sound of voices. Two men, she thought, were quarrelling. Then a moment later, she heard the fragment of a song. After listening more attentively she decided that the voice of Mr. Boyd was the only one she heard. But was he intoxicated? All she caught was a senseless, almost incoherent flow of language, with laughable attempts at singing. At this, Elinor was on the point of turning back, prompted both by terror and disgust, when Solomon, with increasing vehemence, renewed his exhortations. She yielded, and a few steps farther the sight of Pats lying upon the ground at the foot of a gigantic pine, his valise beside him, its contents, now soaked with rain and scattered about, brought a twinge of remorse.

So he had done this rather than oppose her ideas of propriety! And yesterday, when he spoke of another house, she, in her heart, had not believed him.

All scruples regarding intoxication were dismissed. She hastened forward and knelt beside him. Pats, with feverish face, lay on his back in wild delirium. The pine-needles that formed his bed were soggy with rain, and his clothing was soaked. She laid her hand against his face and found it hot. His eyes met hers with no sign of recognition.

"That's all right," he muttered, rolling his head from side to side, "nobody denies it. Run your own business; but I want my clothes. Damn it, I'm freezing!"

His teeth chattered and he shook his fist in an invisible face. Involuntarily, from a sense of helplessness, she looked vaguely about as if seeking aid.

Here, in the woods, was protection from the wind, but the branches aloft were moving and tossing from the fury of the gale above. The usual murmuring of the pines had become a roar. Great drops of rain, shaken from this surging vault, fell in fitful but copious showers. This constant roar,--not unlike the ocean in a gale,--the sombre light, the helpless and perhaps dying man before her, the chill and mortal dampness of all and everything around, for an instant congealed her courage and took away her strength. But this she fought against. All her powers of persuasion, and all her strength, she employed to get him on his feet. Pats, although wild in speech and reckless in gesture, was docile and willing to obey. The weakness of his own legs, however, threatened to bring his rescuer and himself to the ground. And, all the time, a constant flow of crazy speech and foolish, feeble song.

Half-way to the cottage he stopped, wrenched his arm from her grasp and demanded, with a frown: "I say; you expect decent things of a woman, don't you?"

"Yes, of course." And she nodded assent, trying to lead him on again. But he pushed her away and would have fallen with the effort had she not caught him in time.

"Well, there's this about it," he continued, trying feebly to shake his arm from her hands yet staggering along where she led, "I'm not stuck on that woman or any other. I'm not in that line of business. Do I look like a one-eyed ass?"

"No, no, not at all!" And, gently, she urged him forward.

"Because three or four fools are gone over her, she thinks everybody else--oh! who cares, anyway? Let her think!"

It was a zigzag journey. He reeled and plunged, dragging her in all directions; and so yielding were his knees that she doubted if they could bear him to the house. Once, when seemingly on the point of a collapse, he muttered, in a confidential tone: "This hauling guns under a frying sun does give you a thirst, hey? Say, am I right, or not?"

"Yes, yes, you are right. Come along: just a little farther."

"Did you ever swim in champagne with your mouth open?"

"No."

"What a fool!"

Then he stopped, straightened up and sang, in a die-away, broken voice, with chattering teeth:

"See the Britons, Bloody Britons, Millions of 'em doncherknow, All a swarming up the kopje-- Just to turn about an hopje! O, where in hell to go! Bloody Britons!"

Grasping her roughly by the shoulder, he exclaimed: "Why don't you join in the chorus, you blithering idiot?"

This song, in fragments and with variations, he sang--or rather tried to sing--repeatedly. At the edge of the woods he seemed to shrink from the fury of the storm which drove, in cutting blasts, against their faces. And on the threshold of the cottage he again held back. In the doorway, leaning against the jamb, he said, solemnly:

"Look here, young feller, just mark my words, women are devils. The less you have to do with them the better for you. D--n the whole tribe! That's what I say!"

But she dragged him in and supported him to a chair before the fire. He sat shivering with cold, his chin upon his breast, apparently exhausted by the walk. The water dripping from his saturated garments formed puddles on the floor.

Elinor, for a moment, stood regarding him in heart-stricken silence. Once more she felt of his clothes, then, after an inward struggle, she made a resolve. As she did it the color came into her cheeks.

IX

A SINNER'S RECOMPENSE

After a lapse of time--an unremembered period of whose length he had no conception--Pats awoke.

Was it a little temple of carved wood in which he lay? At each corner stood a column; above him a little dome of silk, ancient and much faded. Gradually--and slowly--he realized that he was reposing on a bed of vast dimensions and in a room whose furnishings belonged to a previous century. A mellow, golden light pervaded the apartment. This light, which gave to all things in the room an air of unreality--as in an ancient painting luminous with age--came from the sunshine entering through a piece of antiquated silk, placed by considerate hands against the window.

Pats's wandering eyes encountered a lady in a chair. She sat facing him, a few feet away, her head resting easily against the carved woodwork behind, a hand upon each arm of the seat. She was asleep. In this golden mist she seemed to the half-dreaming man a vision from another world--something too good to be true--a divine presence that might vanish if he moved. Or, perhaps, she might fade back into a frame and prove to be only another of the portraits that hung about the room. So far as he could judge, with his slowly awakening senses, he was gazing upon the most entrancing face he had ever beheld. At first the face was unfamiliar, but soon, with returning memory, he recalled it. But it seemed thinner now. There were dark lines beneath the eyes, and something about the mouth gave an impression of weariness and care; and these were not in the face as he had known it. However, the closed lids, and the head resting calmly against the back of the high chair made a tranquil picture. For a long time he lay immovable, his eyes drinking in the vision. There was nothing to disturb the silence save the solemn ticking of a clock in another part of the cottage. He heard, beyond the big tapestry, the sound of a dog snapping at a fly. Pats smiled and would have whistled to Solomon, but he remembered the weary angel by his bed. With a sort of terror he recalled this lady's capacity for contempt.

Being too warm for comfort he pushed, with exceeding gentleness and caution, the bed-clothes farther from his chin. But the movement, although absolutely noiseless, as he believed, caused the eyes of the sleeper to open. She arose, then stood beside him. A cool hand was laid gently upon his forehead; another drew up the bed-clothes to his chin, as they were before. With anxious eyes he studied her face, and when he found therein neither contempt nor aversion he experienced an overwhelming joy. And she, detecting in the invalid's eyes an unwonted look, bent over and regarded him more intently. As his eyes looked into hers he smiled, faintly, experimentally, in humble adoration. The face above him lit up with pleasure. In a very low tone she exclaimed:

"You are feeling better!"

He undertook to reply but no voice responded. He tried again, and succeeded in whispering:

"Has anything happened?"

"You have been very ill."

"How long?"

"This is the eighth day."

"The eighth day!" He frowned in a mental effort to unravel the past. "Then I must have been--out of my head."

"Yes, most of the time." She was watching him with anxious eyes. "Perhaps you had better not talk much now. Try and sleep again."

"No, I am--full of sleep. Is this the same house--we discovered that first day?"

"Yes."

He closed his eyes, and again she rested a hand upon his brow.

"Who is here besides you?" he asked.

"No one--except Solomon."

"Solomon!" and he smiled. "Is Solomon well?"

"Oh, yes! Very well."

"Then you have taken care of me all this time?"

She turned away and took up a glass of water from a table near the bed.

"Yes; Solomon and I together. Are you thirsty? Would you like anything?"

Pats closed his eyes and took a long breath. There was no use in trying to say what he felt, so he answered in a husky voice, which he found difficult to control:

"Thank you. I _am_ thirsty."

"Would you like tea or a glass of water?"

"Water, please."

"Or, would you prefer grapes?"

"Grapes!"

"Yes, grapes, or oranges, or pears, whichever you prefer."

His look of incredulity seemed to amuse her. "Do you remember the two boxes and the barrel left by the _Maid of the North_ on the beach with our baggage?"

He nodded.

"Well, one of those boxes was filled with fruit."

"Is there plenty for both of us?"

"More than enough."

"Then I will have a glass of water first and then grapes--and all the other things."

He drank the water, and as she took away the empty glass, he said, in a serious tone: "Miss Marshall, I wish I could tell you how mortified I am and how--how--"

"Mortified! At what?"

"All this trouble--this--whole business."

"But you certainly could not help it!"

"That's very kind of you, but it's all wrong--all wrong!"

She smiled and moved away, and as she drew aside the tapestry and disappeared, he turned his face to the wall, and muttered, "Disgraceful! Disgraceful! I must get well fast."

And he carried out this resolve. Every hour brought new strength. In less than a week he was out of bed and sitting up. During this early period of convalescence--the period of tremulous legs and ravenous hunger--the Fourth of July arrived, and they celebrated the occasion by a sumptuous dinner. There was soup, sardines, cold tongue, dried-apple sauce, baked potatoes, fresh bread, and preserved pears, and the last of the grapes. At table, Elinor faced the empty chair that held the miniature, for the absent lady's right to that place was always respected. Pats sat at the end facing the door. They dined at noon. A bottle of claret was opened and they drank to the health of Uncle Sam.

Toward the end of the dinner, Pats arose, and with one hand on the table to reinforce his treacherous legs, held aloft his glass. Looking over to the dog, who lay by the open door, his head upon his paws, he said:

"Solomon, here's to a certain woman; of all women on earth the most unselfish and forgiving, the most perfect in spirit and far and away the most beautiful--the Ministering Angel of the Pines. God bless her!"

At these words Solomon, as if in recognition of the sentiment, arose from his position near the door, walked to Elinor's side and, with his habitual solemnity, looked up into her eyes.

"Solomon," said Pats, "you have the soul of a gentleman."

In Elinor's pale face there was a warmer color as she bent over and caressed the dog.

After the dinner all three walked out into the pines, Pats leaning on the lady's arm. The day was warm. But the gentle, southerly breeze came full of life across the Gulf. And the water itself, this day, was the same deep, vivid blue as the water that lies between Naples and Vesuvius. The convalescent and his nurse stopped once or twice to drink in the air--and the scene.

Pats filled his lungs with a long, deep breath. "I feel very light. Hold me fast, or I may float away."

Both his head and his legs seemed flighty and precarious. Those two glasses of claret were proving a little too much--they had set his brain a-dancing. But this he kept to himself. She noticed the high spirits, but supposed them merely an invalid's delight in getting out of doors.

Under the big trees they rested for a time, in silence, Elinor gazing out across the point, over the glistening sea beyond. The shade of the pines they found refreshing. The convalescent lay at full length, upon his back, looking up with drowsy eyes into the cool, dark canopy, high above. Soothing to the senses was the sighing of the wind among the branches.

"This is good!" he murmured. "I could stay here forever."

"That may be your fate," and her eyes moved sadly over the distant, sailless sea. "It is a month to-day that we have been here."

"So it is, a whole month!"

Elinor sighed. "There is something wrong, somewhere. It seems to me the natural--the only thing--would be for somebody to hunt us up."

"Certainly."

"Could they have sailed by this bay and missed us?"

"Not unless they were idiots. Everybody on the steamer knew we sailed into a bay to get here."

"Still, they may have missed us."

"Well, suppose they did go by us, once or twice, or several times; people don't abandon their best friends and brothers in that off-hand fashion."

After a pause he added, "Something may have happened to Father Burke or to Louise."

"But even then," said Elinor, turning toward him, "wouldn't they try and discover why I had not arrived? And wouldn't they hunt _you_ up?"

"No, I was to be a surprise. None of them knew I was coming. They think I am still in South Africa."

There was a long silence, broken at last by Pats. "What a hideous practical joke I have turned out! In the first place I strand you here and--"

"No! I was very unjust that day and have repented--and tried to atone."

"Atone! You! Angels defend us! If atonement was due from you, where am I? Instead of getting you away, I go out of my head and have a fever--and am fed--like a baby."

She smiled. "That is hardly your fault."

"Yes, it is. No _man_ would do it. Pugs and Persian cats do that sort of thing. For men there are proper times for giving out. But there is one thing I should like to say--that is, that my life is yours. This skeleton belongs to you, and the soul that goes with it. Henceforth I shall be your slave. I do not aspire to be treated as your equal; just an abject, reverent, willing slave."

She smiled and played with the ears of the sleeping Solomon.

"I am serious," and Pats raised himself on one elbow. "Just from plain, unvarnished gratitude--if from nothing else--I shall always do whatever you command--live, die, steal, commit murder, scrub floors, anything--I don't care what."

"Do you really mean it?"

"I do."

"Then stop talking."

With closed eyes he fell back into his former position. But again, partially raising himself, he asked, "May I say just one thing more?"

"No."

Again he fell back, and there was silence.

For a time Elinor sat with folded hands gazing dreamily beyond the point over the distant gulf, a dazzling, vivid blue beneath the July sun. When at last she turned with a question upon her lips and saw the closed eyes and tranquil breathing of the convalescent, she held her peace. Then came a drowsy sense of her own fatigue. Cautiously, that the sleeper might not awake, she also reclined, at full length, and closed her eyes. Delicious was the soft air: restful the carpet of pine-needles. No cradle-song could be more soothing than the muffled voices of the pines: and the lady slept.