The Strange Proposal

by Grace Livingston Hill

  Farwell tried more money, but the government official remained obdurate, and at last Boothby Farwell shook the dust of Seacrest from his feet and departed at high speed for the city.

  In the early evening, having attired himself for an evening call, he arrived at the Wainwright home. But the butler said Mr. Wainwright had gone to New York and Miss Wainwright was away somewhere. When he pressed the old servant for more explicit directions, the old housekeeper was called upon and vouchsafed her young lady was spending the summer at Seacrest.

  When Farwell said he had been to Seacrest and that she had left there, she shook her head.

  “She’s down in Florida somewhere visiting a sick friend,” she said, “but I don’t know the address. She had her cousin Sammy with her. Mebbe Mr. Robert Wainwright would know.”

  So, growing angrier and angrier, Boothby Farwell drove over to Robert Wainwright’s home and rang the bell with vigor.

  The second maid who answered the bell didn’t know anything about the young master Sam’s whereabouts, and while she went to ask, Farwell lingered in the hall, tramping impatiently up and down. Suddenly his eye was caught by a pile of letters on the hall table, and right on the top was one addressed to Master Samuel Wainwright, care of Dr. John Saxon, with a Florida address.

  Farwell whipped out his notebook and jotted it down before the maid’s tardy return with word that nobody knew anything about young Sam, and got himself out of the house with brief courtesy.

  His car shot out down the street toward his own apartments. Arriving there, he sent for his chauffeur and gave orders that the car should be looked over and conditioned for a long drive, sent for his man, and finding him gone for the evening, himself filled a bag with a few necessities, scribbled a few directions, called up a few people and excused himself from a few engagements, and inside of two hours was on his way on the highway, under a brilliant moon, his car headed toward the south. As he rode he made his plans—definite, detailed, and devilish. Little gadabout! Playing fast and loose with him! She needn’t think she could escape him this way! He would get her, and get her good and fast.

  He thought of her happy eyes with that starry look in them in which he had no part. It galled him to think that she could exist so easily without him. She was playing with a high hand and thinking likely to bring him to her feet in utter subjection at last, but she would never do that! He would conquer her. And when he did, he would take it out of her for every bit of trouble he had taken to find her and bind her.

  Bind her! That’s what he would do! Bind her and show her who was her master!

  In the night, in the moonlight, as he shot southward, his eyes glittered with a baleful light. He was planning how he would woo her with something more deadly than diamonds. He would woo her and make her pay a hundredfold for all she was doing to him now. She had dared to put some other one’s trifling interests above his, running away again from the honor he would have put upon her. No girl in her senses would really intend to do that permanently, of course. She was just enjoying the game of tantalizing him. And this was now the third time she had done it. Once she had run to Paris with her father, once to Egypt with a party of friends. Now she was running to Florida in the summertime on pretense of seeking a friend! A friend in Florida in summertime! How absurd!

  He would catch her and carry her off, and make her pay, pay, pay!

  And so, an Avenger, he rushed on through the night!

  Chapter 19

  A hot, hot morning in Florida with a burning blue, serene sky, relentlessly bright and hot after the blessed coolness of the night.

  The sun looked down unflinchingly upon its ally the white, white sand, which burned back smilingly from every white-hot particle of sharpness and radiated the shimmering heat waves that rose from the earth in visible, quavering wreaths.

  The long gray moss hung straight and limp like an outworn ancient garment, not a quiver of breeze to disturb its ghostly draperies. The orange trees only stood shining and bright in their glossy foliage, a few golden discs left from the winter work, a stray gracious blossom here and there filling the air with heavy musky sweetness, the hot, shimmering, still air.

  Out in the town that in winter had been so energetic and sumptuous, tall palatial buildings with hot red-tiled roofs and picture palms towering above them stood with closed eyes, a dead place, with all its bustling fled. A wide, bright, lonely ocean stretching away to emptiness lay beyond.

  Out in the empty streets where few humans remained to walk, little shadowy lizards slithered, and paused at the approach of any, to turn to background, motionless till the interloper passed. Out beyond the town, to isolated little bungalows among the orange groves, narrow boardwalks, hot and strangely resonant, spanned the sand, and more little lizards scuttled in and out the wide cracks between the narrow boards so much like ladders set on stilts. Little blue chameleons lay basking on hot fences or neatly stacked piles of wood, their little white vests palpitating as they surveyed an interloper with their mild, intelligent, bright eyes, pretending by their very stillness to be only a bit of the fence or the woodpile, changing their color imperceptibly to that of their resting place.

  Not a cloud in the sky, and yet before an hour it might rain a downpour, as if the very floor of heaven were drawn out to let fall a solid chunk of water that would cease as suddenly as it came and cause the steam to rise from all the blazing points of hot, white sand and hurry back to the clouds again, to get ready for the next downpour. It is a game they play, the clouds and the sun, in this hot, bright, intermittent rainy season. Another hot, hot day like those intolerable ones that have preceded it! If it were not for the blessed coolness of night, it would be unbearable.

  John Saxon came to the door and stared out at the bright shimmer of the world. His face looked old with anxiety, worn with weariness. It somehow seemed that, strong and young though he was, he had reached the limit. His eyes were too heavy to stay open. He turned and stepped back into the room and dropped into a chair, his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. Tears stung his eyes. Must he give up the fight with death, give up because he was not able of himself to cope with the disease? He groaned within himself.

  “God, it is not that I will not give her up if You want to take her. It is that I must see her suffer when I know that she could be relieved if I only had the skill. Oh, God! Must she go this way?”

  His soul was filled with anguish! Father, too, suffering deeply and unable to get about and help! It seemed as if everything had come upon them at once. The hard winter and the small crop of oranges, smaller, of course, because they had not had the money to put into fertilizers and cultivation for the grove. His father, working too hard, always! He recalled how he had found his father in the grove, nearly fainting with the pain of his broken ankle; how he discovered that the laborer who had been hired had failed them, and there seemed no other available, so his father had been going out as soon as it was light and working without breakfast because he feared to wake Mother if he stopped to eat. Also, Mother would have protested against his hard work. Mother and Father, saving and scrimping without his knowledge, that he might have the more to pursue his studies! Oh, it was all a confused tangle! Perhaps he ought never to have tried to study medicine. Perhaps he should have stayed at home and cared for them and spent his days in cultivating oranges.

  Yet they had wanted him to go into a profession, had urged and begged him to go! And everything had seemed so well planned. To make good with the great specialist would mean that in another year or so he would be earning enough to give Father and Mother luxuries!

  Ah! But he had not reckoned with sickness and threatened death.

  All night long he had sat by his mother’s bedside, giving her medicine faithfully, watching her pulse, her temperature, seeing the frail, delicate features drawn with terrible pain at increasingly frequent intervals. Frantically, he had telephoned to doctors he knew in the north, not even counting the expense of long distance, searching here and there to
locate someone to advise him, and failure had been written on every attempt but one, and that one a fading hope, a last resort. All the others he had tried had been away where he could not trace them. This one he had little faith in, yet he dared not go another night through without advice. And this doctor had given him little hope, corroborating his own fears, suggesting a remedy that might ease the pain but giving an impression of indifference toward the case, as if he had said, “Oh, well, she’s old. It’s time she died. Why bother?”

  Yet John had telephoned for the medicine, and when it came had given it faithfully, hanging on to the last shred of hope, yet knowing that the frail sweet mother was growing momently weaker. He suspected that the medicine was merely doping the patient, dulling her pain somewhat. He was fearful that she might slip away from them in a stupor at any moment.

  His father was still asleep, worn out with anxiety and pain. John had come away from his vigil by his mother’s bed to get a breath of air lest he fall asleep at his post, and now here he was sinking down in his chair, too tired for even the tears to heal the smarting of his eyes. Too tired and sore-hearted to even think.

  Into the open doorway stole the sweet spicy odor of the orange blossoms from the trees about the house, just a faint little breeze stirring the hotness of their waxen petals, lifting a burnished leaf or two here and there, rustling the great banana leaves at the back of the house like the sound of silken skirts on ladies near at hand.

  Silken skirts and orange blossoms! How that brought back the sweet, sharp memory of the wedding, and the girl coming with graceful tread up the aisle, looking at him with that glad, clean look in her eyes, the girl of his dreams! And how like a fool he had rushed out to secure her at once, without even lifting a questioning eye to his Guide. He had dared to tell her of his love, without guidance, so sure he knew she was a Christian girl! And now—to find her a woman of the world, the world from which he stood pledged to live a separated life!

  Ah! God! Was all this trouble, this fight with death for the saving of his precious mother, to show him that he must not try to walk alone and guide himself?

  The heavy delicacy of the perfume stole upon his weary senses and brought a dream, flung it about him as if it were her arms, the perfume of her hair, the beauty of her features, her face against his. The thrill of her lips on his came over him with crushing sweetness. In fancy, he let his face lie there against her shoulder an instant, resting from his fearful weariness, drifting unconsciously into momentary sleep.

  Outside, the perfume drifted back, stirred by honey seekers, and the drone of bees mingled with the distant caw of vultures hurrying in search of prey. The gray moss waved majestically, now and then a mockingbird struck a raucous note, the little chameleons skittered under and over the narrow resonant boardwalk, and John Saxon slept.

  Slept and dreamed of walking down a church aisle with a wonderful girl beside him, breathed words of love hot from his heart into her listening ear, felt her small hand tremble on his arm, saw again the starry look she gave him, the breath of the orange blossoms. Oh, how sweet it was, the drone of the bees like a lullaby! Her arms were about him, and he murmured in his sleep, “Mary Elizabeth! My darling!” and that woke him up!

  Startled, he lifted his bloodshot eyes and looked about the familiar, plain little room, so eloquent of home and mother and father. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and tried to get his feet down to earth. Then all his burdens descended upon him again. His mother! How long had he been asleep?

  He sprang to his feet and stepped softly into the bedroom. There was no change! He turned from the precious fragile face, so like a fading flower, and felt again the stab of pain. A glance at his watch showed it to have been but a very few minutes since he had come out to get a breath of air, and yet in that time she seemed to have drifted further away. It was no use! He had tried everything, and nothing helped!

  He glanced over at his father, still asleep, and thought pityingly of how it was going to be for him if Mother went. He, too, was frail. Yet always so gallant! Such a pair of saints for parents! How blessed he had been! What was poverty and sickness beside the loss of these dear souls? And he could do no more! If only there had been time for him to order medicines! His stock was so small and did not contain many drugs that might have at least helped! Oh, why had he run this risk for his precious mother? Why hadn’t he been sure to have everything on hand that might be needed here in this wilderness home, when everything within hailing distance was closed for the summer?

  Ah, that was the trouble with his mother. She had spent too many long, hot summers in this forsaken place. She had been happy, yes, and had never complained, but she ought to have gone north and had a change of climate, at least every other year. This tropical climate invariably got every northerner who did not have a change now and then.

  He had seen it coming. He had noticed her growing frailer, saw how easily she tired, and he had said more than once that she ought to go north for a change, but she had always smiled and shook her head and declared she was all right. She had always said she would wait till he was done with his studies, and then they would save money and go north for a summer together. Lately, just since he had come back from the wedding and had been telling them all about it, she had said, “We’ll go north for your wedding perhaps!”

  And now—and now!

  His thoughts trailed off into sorrow, and tears filled his eyes again. He was all in! He must get another wink of sleep somehow or he wouldn’t be fit to go on nursing. A glance at his watch showed there was still fifteen minutes before he must give the medicine again. Now, while they were both sleeping, he would just stretch out for a minute.

  The couch had been put in the bedroom for his father, so that he and his dear companion need not be separated. John’s own room was on the second floor. He would not go so far away. He flung the cushion from a chair on the floor and lay down there. The perfume of the orange blossoms drifted in and wove their spell again, and the droning of the bees in the blossoms hummed with the music of his dreams. He slept instantly and profoundly, tired brain and weary body refusing even the golden walk down the aisle with Mary Elizabeth. Some severe subconscious conscience told him this was not time to dream dreams, while his mother lay dying! He had need for every faculty, and he must rest, if only for a minute.

  Yet perhaps the perfume and the memories were still at work within the sleeping mind, for sharply he came to himself a little later, aware that the bees’ humming was extraordinarily loud, they seemed to be coming toward the house in a body, they were almost at the door.

  He sprang into action. It was time to give that medicine! Alert, he paused to listen. Those bees! He had never heard such humming! Was he still dreaming? He must not go to the sickroom until he was wide awake. He might make some mistake.

  He stepped to the door, and the humming increased and drew nearer. Lifting his heavy eyes, he stared in amazement. Was he seeing things? Was he losing his mind? Surely just loss of sleep wouldn’t do that!

  He pressed his hands on his eyes and looked again. It seemed a great bird was flying low and coming straight toward him, and the sound was like the droning of millions of great bees.

  And then all at once he was thoroughly awake and saw what it was, a great plane, flying low and evidently going to land on that big open space across the road that he had just finished clearing of stumps for his new grove before he went north to the wedding.

  What in the world were they trying to land there for? Were they in trouble; had something gone wrong with the motor? He frowned. He couldn’t go out and help them now. He couldn’t leave the house. And they would make a noise and disturb his mother! Even just coming to the door to telephone for help, they would make noise. What should he do? He couldn’t refuse help, yet he couldn’t have his patient disturbed. There was scarcely a shred of hope left, yet he couldn’t give up that shred!

  Mutely, anxiously, he watched the plane, hoping against hope that it would go on. There really wasn
’t any place nearby where they could get a mechanic, if they didn’t have one of their own. There were no supply shops. There wasn’t even a gas station if they were out of gas.

  Yet against his wish the plane came on, nearer and nearer, lower and lower, and now he could see that it was as big as the passenger planes that went overhead in the winter when the town was full of tourists. What could such a plane be doing here? Surely a man who could operate a plane like that would realize this time of year that this locality was as barren of help as a wilderness! He must be in terrible straits to land here! Yes, he was unmistakably trying to land, circling about, reconnoitering, and the roar of the powerful engine was terrible in the hot, bright stillness. It might frighten his mother if she woke from her stupor! If there were only some signal he could give them to go on! If he could only prevent them from landing there! He was frantic and helpless! It was not like the calm strength of John Saxon to be so unnerved, but the truth was he had had only snatches of sleep for the last four days, and he was appalled at the new danger that seemed threatening to his patient.

  Suddenly the engine was shut off, and the plane drifted to a standstill exactly opposite the little house in the orange grove, in a direct line with the front door and the neat path of Bermuda grass that went down like a carpet to the white wooden gate. And then, as he watched, a person detached himself from the plane and came on a run toward the house, and he had a dim impression of others disembarking. He must do something about this at once. They must not be allowed to come to the house and make a lot of noise. Several people talking! It must not be! He would tell them there was critical illness here, and they must go on, even if he had to lend them his old jalopy to go in.

  He tried to think where to send them. It was five miles to a garage where any sort of mechanic could be found, or even makeshift parts of machinery. There was a new man over at the lake, but he knew nothing of his ability. Still it was only a mile and a half away. Perhaps they could telephone for help. No, he must not let a lot of people come in to telephone. His mother would be startled.