The Woman-Haters

by Joseph Crosby Lincoln

  CHAPTER XVI

  THE EBB TIDE

  "John Brown," his long night's vigil over, extinguished the lights inthe two towers, descended the iron stairs, and walked across the yardinto the kitchen. His first move, after entering the house, was toring the telephone bell and endeavor to call Eastboro. He was anxiousconcerning Atkins. Seth had not returned, and the substitute assistantwas certain that some accident must have befallen him. The storm hadbeen severe, but it would take more than weather to keep the lightkeeperfrom his post; if he was all right he would have managed to returnsomehow.

  Brown rang the bell time and time again, but got no response. The stormhad wrecked the wires, that was certain, and that means of communicationwas cut off. He kindled the fire in the range and tried to forget hisanxiety by preparing breakfast. When it was prepared he waited a whileand then sat down to a lonely meal. But he had no appetite, and, afterdallying with the food on his plate, gave it up and went outside to lookabout him.

  The first thing he looked at was the road from the village. No sign oflife in that direction as far as he could see. Then he looked at thebungalow. Early as it was, a thread of blue smoke was ascending from thechimney. Did that mean that the housekeeper had returned? Or had RuthGraham been alone all through the miserable night? Under ordinarycircumstances he would have gone over and asked if all was well. Hewould have done that, even if Seth were at home--he was past the pointwhere the lightkeeper or their compact could have prevented him--but hecould not muster courage to go now. She must have found the note hehad tucked under the door, and he was afraid to hear her answer. If itshould be no, then--well, then he did not care what became of him.

  He watched the bungalow for a time, hoping that she might come out--thathe might at least see her--but the door did not open. Auguring all sortsof dismal things from this, he moped gloomily back to the kitchen. Hewas tired and had not slept for thirty hours, but he felt no desire forbed. He could not go to bed anyway until Atkins returned--and he did notwant to.

  He sat down in a chair and idly picked up one of a pile of newspaperslying in the corner. They were the New York and Boston papers which thegrocery boy had brought over from Eastboro, with the mail, the previousday. Seth had not even looked at them, and Brown, who seldom or neverread newspapers, found that he could not do so now. He tossed them onthe table and once more went out of doors. After another glance at thebungalow, he walked to the edge of the bluff and looked over.

  He was astonished to see how far the tide had risen in the night. Theline of seaweed and drift marking its highest point was well up thebank. Now the ebb was foaming past the end of the wharf. He looked forthe lobster car, which should have been floating at its moorings, butcould not see it. Either it was under the wharf or it had been sweptaway and was gone. And one of the dories was gone, too. No, there itwas, across the cove, high and dry on the beach. If so much damage wasvisible from where he stood, it was probable that a closer examinationmight show even more. He reentered the kitchen, took the boathouse keyfrom its nail--the key to Seth's wonderful purchase, the spring lockwhich was to keep out thieves and had so far been of no use except asa trouble-maker--and started for the wharf. As he passed the table hepicked up the bundle of newspapers and took them with him. The boathousewas the repository for rubbish, old papers and magazines included,and these might as well be added to the heap. Atkins had not read thisparticular lot, but the substitute assistant did not think of this.

  The lobster car was not under the wharf. The ropes which had mooredit were broken, and the car was gone. Splinters and dents in the pilesshowed where it had banged and thumped in the grasp of the tide beforebreaking loose. And, lying flat on the wharf and peering under it, itseemed to him that the piles themselves were a trifle aslant; that thewhole wharf had settled down on the outer side.

  He rose and was about to go further out for another examination, whenhis foot struck the pile of papers he had brought with him. He pickedthem up, and, unlocking the boathouse door--it stuck and requiredconsiderable effort to open it--entered the building, tossed the paperson the floor, and turned to go out. Before he could do so the door swungshut with a bang and a click.

  At first he did not realize what the click meant. Not until he tried toopen it did he understand. The settling of the wharf had thrown the doorand its frame out of the perpendicular. That was why it stuck and openedwith such reluctance. When he opened it, he had, so to speak, pushed ituphill. Its own weight had swung it back, and the spring lock--in whichhe had left the key--had worked exactly as the circular of directionsdeclared it would do. He was a prisoner in that boathouse.

  Even then he did not fully grasp the situation. He uttered anexclamation of impatience and tugged at the door; but it was heavy,jammed tight in its frame, and the lock was new and strong. He might aswell have tried to pull up the wharf.

  After a minute of fruitless effort he gave up the attempt on the doorand moved about the little building, seeking other avenues of escape.The only window was a narrow affair, high up at the back, hung on hingesand fastened with a hook and staple. He climbed up on the fish nets andempty boxes, got the window open, and thrust his head and one shoulderthrough the opening. That, however, was as far as he could go. A dwarfmight have squeezed through that window, but not an ex-varsity athletelike Russell Brooks or a husky longshoreman like "John Brown." It wasat the back, facing the mouth of the creek and the sea, and affordeda beautiful marine view, but that was all. He dropped back on the fishnets and audibly expressed his opinion of the lock and the man who hadbought it.

  Then he tried the door again, again gave it up, and sat down on the fishnets to think. Thinking was unsatisfactory and provoking. He gave thatup, also, and, seeing a knothole in one of the boards in the landwardside of his jail, knelt and applied his eye to the aperture. His onlyhope of freedom, apparently, lay in the arrival home of the lightkeeper.If Seth had arrived he could shout through that knothole and possibly beheard.

  The knothole, however, commanded a view, not of the lighthousebuildings, but of the cove and the bungalow. The bungalow! Ruth Graham!Suddenly, and with a shock, flashed to his mind the thought that hisimprisonment, if at all prolonged, was likely to be, not a joke, but themost serious catastrophe of his life.

  For Ruth Graham was going to leave the bungalow and Eastboro that veryday. He had begged to see her once more, and this day was his lastchance. He had written her, pleading to see her and receive his answer.If he did not see her, if Seth did not return before long and heremained where he was, a prisoner and invisible, the last chance wasgone. Ruth would believe he had repented of his declaration as embodiedin the fateful note, and had fled from her. She had intimated that hewas a coward in not seeing his fiancee and telling her the truth. Shedid not like his writing that other girl and running away. Now shewould believe the cowardice was inherent, because he had written her,also--and had run away. Horrible!

  Through the knothole he sent a yell for rescue. Another and another.They were unheard--at least, no one emerged from the bungalow. He sprangto his feet and made another circle of the interior of the boathouse.Then he sank down upon the heap of nets and again tried to think. Hemust get out. He must--somehow!

  The morning sunshine streamed through the little window and felldirectly upon the pile of newspapers he had brought from the kitchen andthrown on the floor. His glance chanced to rest for an instant upon thetopmost paper of the pile. It was a New York journal which devotes twoof its inside pages to happenings in society. When he threw it downit had unfolded so that one of these pages lay uppermost. Absently,scarcely realizing that he was doing so, the substitute assistant readas follows:

  "Engagement in High Life Announced. Another American Girl to Wed aNobleman. Miss Ann Gardner Davidson to become the Baroness Hardacre."

  With a shout he fell upon his knees, seized the paper and read on:

  "Another contemplated matrimonial alliance between one of New York'sfairest daughters and a scion of the English nobility was made publicyeste
rday. Miss Ann Gardner Davidson, of this city, the breaking ofwhose engagement to Russell Agnew Brooks, son of George Agnew Brooks,the wealthy cotton broker, was the sensation of the early spring, is tomarry Herbert Ainsworth-Ainsworth, Baron Hardacre, of Hardacre Towers,Surrey on Kent, England. It was said that the young lady broke off herformer engagement with Young Brooks because of--"

  The prisoner in the boathouse read no further. Ruth Graham had said tohim the day before that, in her opinion, he had treated Ann Davidsonunfairly. He should have gone to her and told her of his quarrel withhis father. Although he did not care for Ann, she might care for him.Might care enough to wait and . . . Wait? Why, she cared so little that,within a few months, she was ready to marry another man. And, if he owedher any debt of honor, no matter how farfetched and fantastic, it wascanceled now. He was absolutely free. And he had been right all thetime. He could prove it. He would show Ruth Graham that paper and . . .

  His jaw set tight, and he rose from the heap of fish nets with thefolded paper clinched like a club in his hand. He was going to get outof that boathouse if he had to butt a hole through its boards with hishead.

  Once more he climbed to the window and made an attempt to squeezethrough. It was futile, of course, but this time it seemed to him thatthe sill and the plank to which it was attached gave a little. He putthe paper between his teeth, seized the sill with both hands, bracedhis feet against a beam below, and jerked with all his strength.Once--twice--three times! It was giving! It was pulling loose! He landedon his back upon the nets, sill and a foot of boarding in his hands.In exactly five seconds, the folded newspaper jammed in his trouserspocket, he swung through the opening and dropped to the narrow spacebetween the building and the end of the wharf.

  The space was a bare six inches wide. As he struck, his ankle turnedunder him, he staggered, tried wildly to regain his balance, and fell.As he fell he caught a glimpse of a blue-clad figure at the top of thebluff before the bungalow. Then he went under with a splash, and theeager tide had him in its grasp.

  When he came to the surface and shook the water from his eyes, he wasalready some distance from the wharf. This, an indication of the forceof the tide, should have caused him to realize his danger instantly. Butit did not. His mind was intent upon the accomplishment of one thing,namely, the proving to Ruth Graham, by means of the item in the paper,that he was no longer under any possible obligation to the Davidsongirl. Therefore, his sole feeling, as he came sputtering to the top ofthe water, was disgust at his own clumsiness. It was when he tried toturn and swim back to the wharf that he grasped the situation as it was.He could not swim against that tide.

  There was no time to consider what was best to do. The breakers wereonly five hundred yards off, and if he wished to live he must keepout of their clutches. He began to swim diagonally across the current,putting all his strength into each stroke. But for every foot ofprogress toward the calmer water he was borne a yard toward thebreakers.

  The tide bubbled and gurgled about him. Miniature whirlpools tuggedat his legs, pulling him under. He fought nobly, setting his teeth andswearing inwardly that he would make it, he would not give up, he wouldnot drown. But the edge of the tide rip was a long way off, and he wasgrowing tired already. Another whirlpool sucked him down, and when herose he shouted for help. It was an instinctive, unreasoning appeal,almost sure to be useless, for who could hear him?--but he shouted,nevertheless.

  And the shout was answered. From somewhere behind him--a long, longdistance, so it seemed to him--came the clear call in a woman's voice.

  "All right! I'm coming. Keep on, just as you are."

  He kept on, or tried to. He swam--and swam--and swam. He went under,rose, went under again, fought his way up, and kept on swimming. Throughthe gurgle and hiss of the water, sounding dully above the humming inhis ears and the roar of the blood in his tired brain, came the clearvoice again:

  "Steady now! Just as you are! one more stroke! Now one more! Quick!Quick! Now! Can you get aboard?"

  The wet, red side of a dory's bow pushed past his laboring shoulder.A hand clutched his shirt collar. He reached up and grasped the boat'sgunwale, hung on with all his weight, threw one leg over the edge, andtumbled into the dory's bottom.

  "Thanks," he panted, his eyes shut. "That--was--about the closest callI--ever had. Hey? Why! RUTH!"

  She was panting, also, but she was not looking at him. She was rowingwith all her might, and gazing fearfully over her shoulder. "Are youstrong enough to help me row?" she asked breathlessly. "We must headher away from here, out of this tide. And I'm afraid that I can't do italone."

  He raised his head and looked over the rail. The breakers werealarmingly close. He scrambled to the thwart, pushed her aside andseized the oars. She resisted.

  "Only one," she gasped. "I can manage the other."

  So, each with an oar, they fought the tide, and won--but by thenarrowest of margins. The dory edged into stiller and shoaler water,crept out of the eddying channel over the flat where the depth was buta scant four feet, turned almost by inches, and, at last, slid up on thesandy beach below the bungalow. The girl sat bowed over the handle ofher oar, her breast heaving. She said nothing. Her companion likewisesaid nothing. Staggering, he stepped over the side, walked a few feet upthe beach, and then tumbled in an unconscious heap on the sand.

  He was not unconscious long, being a healthy and robust young fellow.His first thought, upon opening his eyes, was that he must close themagain as quickly as possible because he wanted the dream to continue.To lie with one's head in the lap of an angel, while that angel strokesyour forehead and cries over you and begs you for her sake not to die,is too precious a delusion to lose. But the opening of one's eyes is amistake under such circumstances, and he had made it. The angel's nextremark was entirely unromantic and practical.

  "Are you better?" she asked. "You're all right now, aren't you?"

  Her patient's reply was also a question, and irrelevant.

  "DO you care?" he asked faintly.

  "Are you better?" she asked in return.

  "Did you get my note? The note I put under the door?"

  "Answer me. Are you all right again?"

  "You answer ME. Did you get my note?"

  "Yes. . . . Don't try to get up. You're not strong enough yet. You mustwait here while I go and get you some--"

  "Don't go!" He almost shouted it. "If--if you do I'll--I'll--I think I'mgoing to faint again."

  "Oh, no, you're not. And I must go and get you some brandy or something.Stay just where you are."

  "Ruth Graham, if you go away now, I'll go with you, if I have to crawl.Maybe I can't walk, but I swear I'll crawl after you on my hands andknees unless you answer my question. DO you care enough for me to wait?"

  She looked out at the little bay, at the narrow, wicked tide race, atthe breakers beyond. Then she looked down again at him.

  "Yes," she said. . . . "OH, are you going to faint again? Don't! Pleasedon't!"

  Russell Agnew Brooks, the late "John Brown," opened his eyes. "I am notgoing to faint," he observed. "I was merely trying to realize that I wasfully conscious."

  Some time after this--hours and minutes do not count in paradise--heremembered the item in the paper.

  "By George!" he exclaimed, "I had something to show you. I'm afraid I'velost it. Oh, no I here it is."

  He extracted from his trousers pocket the water soaked lump thathad been the New York newspaper. The page containing the sensationalannouncement of the engagement in high life was quite undecipherable.Being on the outside of the folded paper, it had rubbed to a pulpy blur.However, he told her about it, and she agreed that his judgment of thecharacter of the future Baroness Hardacre had been absolutely correct.

  "You were very wise," she said sagely.

  "Not so wise as I've become since," he asserted with decision. Then headded, with a rather rueful smile, "I'm afraid, dear, people won't sayas much for you, when they know."

  "I'm satisfied."

  "You may
have to wait all those years--and years--you spoke of."

  "I will."

  But she did not have to. For, at that moment, the miracle of wisdombeside her sat up and pointed to the wet newspaper lying on the sand ather feet.

  "Has my happiness affected my wits?" he demanded. "Or does salt waterbring on delusions? Aren't those my initials?"

  He was pointing to a paragraph in the "Personals" column of the New Yorkpaper. This, being on one of the inner pages, had remained comparativelydry and could be read. The particular "Personal" to which he pointed wasthis:

  "R. A. B." Wherever you are. This is to certify that I herebyacknowledge that you have been absolutely correct in the A. D. matter;witness news elsewhere. I was a fool, and I apologize publicly.Incidentally I need a head like yours in my business. Come back.Partnership awaiting you. Come back; and marry anybody or nobody as yousee fit.

  "FATHER."