Two swimmers rested for breath at an anchorage buoy and smiled at each other.
"Where did you learn to swim, anyhow?" demanded Pete Stearns. "You never said a word about it until this afternoon."
"I don't tell all I know," said Mary, tucking a wet lock under the scarlet cap.
"I believe you. But there's only one thing I'd criticise; you'd get more out of that trudgeon of yours if you watched your breathing."
"I know it," she answered, with a nod. "But I don't take it so seriously as all that. I've always managed to get along, anyhow."
Pete blinked the salt water out of his eyes and studied the social secretary with new respect.
"You haven't ever been a diving beauty or a movie bathing girl or anything like that, have you?"
Mary laughed. "Not yet, thank you. I never made any money out of swimming."
"Oh, they don't swim," said Pete. "They just dress for it."
"Well, I never did that, either."
"But you could if you wanted to."
"That will do," said Mary.
Even in the democratic embrace of Larchmont Harbor she did not think it advisable for her employer'svalet to venture into the realm of personal compliment. Besides, she was not wholly convinced of the validity of his status as a valet. For one thing, she had never heard of a valet who could swim, and by swimming she meant more than the ordinary paddling about of the average human. For Mary could swim herself and she had discovered that Pete was something more than her equal.
"Well, anyhow," he said, "you're a first-class seagoing secretary. Did you notice Mr. Marshall standing on the bridge? I think he saw us."
"I'm quite sure he did. And I believe we'd better be starting back."
"Is it a race?"
"You never can tell," said Mary, as she slid off the buoy like a seal and shot along under the surface for a dozen feet.
Pete fell in beside her and let her set the pace. It was a smart one and he did not try to take the lead; he was saving himself for the sprint. For several minutes Mary attended strictly to her work. They were reaching mid-harbor when she eased up and raised her head to take a bearing for theSunshine. Then she ceased swimming altogether and began to tread.
"Why, where's the yacht?" she said.
Pete also paused for a survey.
"They've moved it, haven't they? Well, I'll——"
He made a slow and deliberate inspection of the horizon.
"Is that it?" and Mary pointed.
Pete studied a stern view of a somewhat distant craft, shading his eyes from the sun.
"That's it," he announced. "And it's still moving."
"They must be going to anchor in another place. Ithink they might have waited until we reached them. Shall we follow?"
She did not wait for an answer, but fell once more into a steady trudgeon stroke that served her extremely well. Then she paused for another reconnaissance.
"The darn thing is still moving," declared Pete. "It's further off than when we first saw it. Now, what do you make out of that?"
Mary wrinkled her forehead into a moist frown as the water dripped from the tip of her nose.
"It's perfectly silly to try to catch it by swimming," she said. "They must have forgotten all about us. Why didn't they blow a whistle, or something?"
There was no question that the silhouette of theSunshinehad receded since their first observation. Pete tried to judge the distance; it was more than half a mile, he was certain.
"Well, what'll we do? Paddle around here and wait for it to come back?"
"I don't mind admitting that I'm a little bit tired," said Mary. "I'm not going to wait out here in the middle of the bay for Mr. Marshall to turn his yacht around. How far is it over to that shore?"
"It's only a few hundred yards. Shall we go?"
"We'll go there and wait until we see what they're going to do."
Several minutes afterward Pete stood waist deep on a sandy bottom. There was a tiny beach in front of them, where a cove nestled between two rocky horns. He gazed out into the harbor.
"It's still going—the other way," he reported.
Mary was also standing and staring. TheSunshinelooked discouragingly small.
"Oh, well, we'll sit on the beach and get some sun. If Bill—if Mr. Marshall thinks he's having fun with us he's greatly mistaken. I'm having the time of my ecclesiastical life."
He waded ashore and sat down on the sand. But Mary did not follow. She stood immersed to her waist, biting her lip. There was a look of annoyance and a hint of confusion in her eyes.
"You'd better come ashore and rest," called Pete. "You'll get chilled standing half in and half out of the water."
"I—I can't come ashore very well," said Mary.
"What's the matter?"
She was flushing under her freckles.
"When we decided to swim around the harbor," she said, slowly, "I—er—slipped off the skirt of my bathing suit and tossed it up to one of the deck-hands to keep for me until I got back. And it's aboard the yacht now."
Pete stifled a grin.
"It—it wasn't a very big skirt," she added. "But it was a skirt."
"Oh, forget it," he advised. "Don't mind me. Come on out of the water."
But Mary was again studying the retreating yacht. At that instant she would have liked to have laid hands on Bill Marshall. Not only the skirt of her bathing suit, but every stitch she owned was aboard that yacht.
"I'm only a valet," Pete reminded her.
Mary was not at all certain about that, but she decided not to be foolish any longer. She waded ashore. There was something boyish about her as she emerged full length into the picture, yet not too boyish. Not only was she lacking a skirt, but also stockings,for when Mary went swimming she put aside frills. The scarlet bathing cap gave her a charming jauntiness; although she was anything but jaunty in mood.
"My, but the sun is comfortable," she said, as she sat down and dug her toes into the sand.
"It'll warm you up," said Pete, affecting to take no notice of her costume. "Say, what do you make out of that yacht, anyhow?"
"It seems to be still going. It looks awfully small to me."
They watched it for another minute.
"There's another landing down that way, where they're headed," said Pete. "Maybe they want to send somebody up to town for something."
"You've been here before, haven't you?"
"Oh, I've valeted 'round a bit in the summers, miss."
She gave him a swift, sidelong glance. Out in the harbor he had dropped the "miss"; the water seemed to have washed away his surface servility. Now he was falling back into the manner of his calling.
"They can't go much farther in that direction," he added. "They've either got to anchor, turn around or stand out for the mouth of the harbor. We'll know in a minute or two, miss."
"Please stop calling me 'miss,'" she said, sharply.
"Why?" He turned innocent eyes toward her.
"It annoys me."
"Oh, very well. But I didn't want you to feel that I was forgetting my place. Once you reminded me——"
"Never mind, if you please. I think one of your troubles is that you are too conscious of your 'place,' as you call it. You make other people conscious of it."
"I'm unconscious from now on, Miss Way—Miss Norcross."
She whirled around upon him in fair earnest.
"Excuse me," said Pete. "I get the names mixed. I'm apt to do the same thing when I'm with your friend Miss Wayne."
She studied him with uneasy eyes. How much did he know? Or was he just blundering clumsily around on the brink of a discovery? Last night he had flung a pointed hint at her; it came to her mind now. Well, if there was to be a battle, Mary felt that she was not without her weapons. She knew of a divinity student who followed the prize ring and who kissed the house guests of the master to whom he played valet.
"She's swinging around," said Pete, abruptly, pointing out into the harbor.
TheSunshinewas turning to port and now showed her profile. But she was not turning far enough to cruise back in her own wake. Her new course was almost at a right angle to that she had been following, and she seemed bent upon pursuing it briskly.
Pete gasped and leaped to his feet.
"Come on!" he cried.
The rocky promontory that sheltered one end of their little beach was cutting off a view of the yacht. He raced along the strip of sand, with Mary at his heels, quite unconscious of her missing skirt and certainly a gainer in freedom of movement through the lack of it.
Pete climbed the rocks at reckless speed and she followed him, heedless of the rough places. He was poised rigidly on an eminence as she scrambled up beside him.
"Damnation!"
He said it so fervently that it seemed to Mary the most sincere word he had ever spoken.
"Do you see what they're doing?" he cried, seizing her arm. "Look! They're heading out of the harbor!"
"You mean they're leaving us?"
He shook her arm almost savagely.
"Can't you see? There they go. They're headed out, I tell you. They're going out into the Sound!"
The yacht seemed to be gaining in speed.
"But I just can't believe it," she said, in a stifled voice.
"You'd better, then. Look!"
"But I'm sure that Mr. Marshall wouldn't——"
"Oh, you are, are you? Well, I'll prove to you in about one holy minute that he'll do whatever comes into his crazy head. Take your last look. They're on their way."
Nor had they long to wait in order to be convinced beyond argument. Even at the distance that separated them from theSunshinethey could see the white bone in her teeth as she continued to pick up speed. And then she was gone, beyond a jutting point that barred their vision.
Pete looked at Mary. Mary looked at Pete. Both looked again toward the spot where they caught their last glimpse of the Sunshine. Then, with one accord and without speech, they slowly descended to the beach and sat in the sand. A thin, blue cloud of rage seemed to have descended upon them.
Minutes afterward she flung a handful of sand at an innocent darning needle that was treading air directly in front of her.
"Oh, say something!" she cried.
"You'd censor it, Mlle. Secretary."
"I wouldn't!"
Pete lifted his eyes to the heavens and swore horribly.
"That's better," she said. "But you needn't do it any more. Now what are we going to do?"
"Wait for the commander-in-chief to get over his practical joke, I suppose."
"Then, this is your idea of a joke, is it?"
"Not mine; his," said Pete. "And it's not so bad, at that."
Mary tried to wither him with a look.
"I believe you don't care," she said, stormily.
"Oh, yes, I do. But I'm all over the rage part of it. What's the use?"
"Well, think of something, then."
"I don't think it even requires thinking. What is there to do but sit here and wait?"
Mary gritted her teeth.
"That may be all right for you," she said, coldly. "But it seems absolutely futile to me. We don't know whether they'll ever come back."
"Oh, they're bound to."
"They're not, anything of the kind! He's done it deliberately; I'm sure of it. I wish I had him here for about two minutes."
"I wish you had," said Pete, earnestly. "I'd pay for a grand stand seat."
"I'd tell him what I think of him."
"You sure would."
"I never felt so helpless in my life. All I'm doing is getting sunburned. I'll be a fright."
"If it's freckles you're worrying about, he likes 'em."
"Oh, don't talk about them." She had a suddencraving for a mirror. But beyond that boyish bathing suit and the scarlet rubber cap, Mary did not even possess so much as a hairpin. She would have given a million dollars for a kimono and a vanity bag.
"At a rough guess," mused Pete, "I'd say we're the first persons who were ever shipwrecked on a society coast. Didn't you ever feel a yearning to be marooned?"
"Never—and I never will, after this."
"Well, we're better off than a lot of castaways. We're not on an island. We can walk home, if it comes to that."
"Walk! Dressed like this?"
"Swim, then."
Mary relapsed into a fit of exasperated silence. If Pete's rage had cooled, her own was still at cherry heat. She felt ready to take the whole world by the throat and shake revenge out of it, particularly out of Bill Marshall. But she was helpless even to start upon the warpath. A girl in a bathing suit, the skirt of which had been carried to sea by a ruthless yacht, is not panoplied for a campaign. She felt shamed, outraged, desperate to the point of violence—and futile. It seemed quite possible, as she viewed it then, that she might be compelled to sit on that beach for the remainder of her life. Certainly she did not intend to walk around Larchmont in a costume designed only for the Australian crawl.
Pete was devoting time to a survey of their immediate environment. The beach was not more than ten yards in breadth; it was bounded on either side by the little capes of rock, and behind them by a low stone wall. A well-rolled and clipped lawn came down to the edge of the wall; it was studded with trees andshrubs. The gable of a dwelling was visible through an opening. As Pete studied the landscape a figure appeared from among the trees.
It was that of a young man in white flannels. He approached to the top of the stone wall and observed them carefully.
"This is a private beach," said the young man, speaking in a peculiar drawl that Pete immediately identified with the world of exclusive society.
Mary, until then unaware of the presence of a third person, turned quickly, observed the speaker and huddled her knees under her chin.
"Well, we're private citizens," said Pete.
"We do not permit trespassing," said the young man.
"Do you by any chance permit Divine Providence to deposit a pair of shipwrecked castaways on your seacoast?" inquired the valet.
The young man in flannels appeared to be puzzled. He was now studying Mary with particular attention. Then he glanced quickly from side to side, as though searching for something else.
"We never permit motion pictures to be taken here," he said. "Oblige me by going away."
"My dear sir," said Pete, who had risen to his feet, "we are not in the movies. We are not here for fame or for profit. We do not occupy your beach either in the interests of art or health. We are merely here as the result of a contingency, a hazard of fortune, a mischance of fate."
"Well, go away."
The young man stepped down on the beach and approached for a closer view.
Pete turned and whispered to Mary:
"Shall we steal his beautiful clothes and divide 'em up?"
"Hush!" she said.
The owner of the white flannels, which Pete was coveting with envious eyes, studied Mary until she began to blush.
"We do not wish to have this kind of a display on our private waterfront," he remarked. "You must leave at once."
Mary sprang up, her gray eyes dangerous.
"Can't you see that we're in distress?" she cried, hotly.
He surveyed her deliberately—her legs, bare from the knees down, her skirtless trunks, her white, rounded arms.
"I can see very little of anything," was his comment.
"Why, you——"
But even though she choked on her words, there was no need for her to finish them. Pete stepped to within a yard of the stranger.
"I don't like the color of your hair," he said, "and that, of course, leaves me no alternative."
So he tapped the young man on the nose, so unexpectedly and with such speed and virility that the owner of the nose lost his balance and sat in the sand.
Pete turned and seized Mary by the hand.
"Run like hell," he counseled.
"But where?"
"Overboard."
He dragged her across the sand and out into the water. Waist deep they paused and looked back.
The young man in flannels had followed to the edgeof the water, where he stood holding a handkerchief to his nose and shaking a fist.
"You come ashore!" he yelled.
"We can't, sir. It's private," said Pete, with a bland grin.
"Come back here. I'm going to thrash you!"
"We can't come back," said Pete, "but we invite you to join us, dear old thing."
The young man stood irresolute, glaring at them. Then he looked down at his flannels and edged backward a step from the water.
"I'm going to have you arrested!" he cried, as he turned and ran in the direction of the house.
Pete waved him a gay salute.
"Well, come on," he said to Mary.
"Where?"
"To a more friendly coast. We can't use this one any more."
He struck out into the harbor and Mary followed.
They followed the shore for a while and presently a bend in its contour hid their view of the unfriendly harbor. It was an aimless journey. They were safe from the revenge of the young man in white flannels, but they were as far as ever from any project of rescue. Mary swam in a listless, automatic fashion; there was no longer any zest of sport. She was not tired, but her enthusiasm had oozed away. As for Pete, he also felt that there had been enough swimming for a day.
"Shall we try that place in there?" she asked, lifting her arm above the water and pointing.
"I'm for it," he answered, with a nod. "I'm not going to be a poor fish any longer. I don't care if they meet us with a shotgun committee."
Their second landing place was devoid of a beach, but it had shelving, sunwarmed rocks, upon which they climbed out and sat down.
"I never suspected you were a fighter," observed Mary, the recent picture still fresh in memory.
"I'm not. I'm a baseball player, by rights. That was what they call the hit-and-run play."
"Well, I think you did excellently, Peter. I was just getting ready to do something like that myself. Was his nose bleeding?"
"Here's hoping. While I don't claim to be withina mile of Signor Antonio Valentino's class, I have a fixed impression that by this time the young gentleman has a beak like a pelican."
Mary glanced appreciatively at her knight. "I'm glad Mr. Marshall wasn't there," she said.
"Why?"
"If he had hit him the young man would probably be dead, and then we'd have lots of trouble."
"Now, that," said Pete, in an aggrieved tone, "is what I call ungrateful. I hit the bird as hard as I could, didn't I? I don't see any need of dragging the boss into this, by way of comparison. Of course, if you can't get him out of your head——"
"Nonsense! He's not in my head. I said I was glad he wasn't there, didn't I? And I explained why. I didn't mean to take any credit away from you at all. Don't be so sensitive. Are you hungry?"
Pete groaned.
"There! Now you've done it. I've been busy trying to forget it and you've deliberately made me remember it. Of course I'm hungry. If I don't eat I'm going to die."
"So am I."
Pete stood up and looked about him.
"I don't see any cocoanut palms or breadfruit trees," he said. "That's what we're supposed to live on, isn't it? I don't even see a drink of water. It's an awful come-down for a pair of Robinson Crusoes, but it looks as if I'd have to go to somebody's kitchen door and ask for a handout."
"Never," said Mary. "I'll starve first."
"I don't think that's a very clever revenge. I'm still pusillanimous enough to eat. I'll scout around."
"No!"
"But why not?"
"Because I feel ridiculous enough as it is," she declared, frowning at her costume.
"But I might be able to locate some of our society friends. We're supposed to have friends here, aren't we?"
"I wouldn't dream of appealing to them."
Pete shook his head helplessly.
"Do you expect to sit here for the rest of your life?"
"I don't care. I'm not going to humiliate myself any further. We might meet another man and——"
"But I'll soak him for you. Honest."
"We might meet several."
"It doesn't take you long to collect a crowd, does it?" he said. "You can invent whole armies right out of your head. Be cheerful and take it the other way around; we may not meet anybody at all."
But Mary wiggled her toes in the sun and shook her head.
"You stay here, then, and I'll reconnoiter."
"No! I don't intend to be left alone."
"Let's hoist a signal of distress, then. That's always been done and it's considered perfectly good form."
"No."
"All right. Starve!" Pete made no effort to hide exasperation.
"I don't believe you'd care if I did."
His only answer to that was a gesture of despair. Who was it who claimed to understand woman? Pete would have been glad to submit this one for analysis and report.
He sat with his knees drawn up under his chin, staring out at the harbor. He was hungry. He was thirsty. He wanted a cigarette. He wanted to stretch his legs. He wanted to do anything except remain glued to a rock, like a shellfish. Why did she have to be so fussy on the subject of conventions? He knew that many a martyr had died cheerfully for a cause. But did ever one die for a cause like this?
After half an hour of silence he was about to renew the argument when he discovered that she was asleep. She had curled herself up in a sunny hollow of the rocks, made a pillow out of an arm and become quite oblivious to Larchmont Harbor and all the world beyond and around it.
Pete arose cautiously. He climbed further up on the rocks, then paused to look back. She had not moved. He went still farther inshore, moving noiselessly on all fours, then straightened up and walked as briskly as a man may who is not innured to going barefoot in the rough places.
"If she wakes up, let her holler," he muttered. "I'm going to take a look around."
Half an hour later he was back again, munching an apple. He had several more that he placed on the rock beside Mary, who still slept as dreamlessly as a baby and who had not stirred during his absence. Pete regarded her with severe eyes.
"Shall I wake her? No. Let her sleep the sleep of starvation within arm's reach of food. Never was there any justice more poetic. If she wants to be stubborn let her find out what it is costing her. Perhaps I'd better eat all the apples. No; I won't do that. Then she'd never know what she missed. I might leave a little row of cores for her to look at. That's a goodidea, but—oh, she'd murder me. I think she could be dangerous if she tried."
Mary did not look dangerous. She seemed more like a tired little child. Once she stirred, but did not awaken, although she smiled faintly.
"Dreaming of Bill," was Pete's comment. "Which reminds me: wonder where Bill is?"
Several yachts had entered the harbor; others had left. But although he made systematic survey of the entire anchorage there was no trace of theSunshine. The sun disappeared, and there followed a perceptible cooling of the air. Pete reached mechanically for his watch, then remembered and laughed. The laugh awoke Mary.
She sat up in a daze, staring at him.
"We're in Larchmont, sitting on a rock and trying to be dignified in the midst of preposterous adversity," he reminded her. "Have an apple?"
She seized one and bit into it, then eyed him accusingly.
"You did go away, didn't you?"
"Oh, hear the woman! Certainly I did. I sneaked off as soon as you hit the hay. I'm not cut out for a martyr. But I notice you're not above accepting the fruits of my enterprise. Now, are you ready to be reasonable?"
"I'm always reasonable," she mumbled through a large mouthful.
"So? Well, listen, then: I have made discoveries."
Mary stopped chewing and stared expectantly.
"Those apples come from a toy orchard. The orchard is part of the backyard of a house. This place where we are sitting is part of the waterfront adjoiningthat house. So much I have learned by being cautious as well as intrepid. Do I bore you?"
"Hurry!" she commanded.
"In the other part of that backyard, nearest to the house, is something even more important than food. Can you guess?"
"Clothes?"
"Not exactly the word," said Pete. "It is better to say the week's wash. My dear seagoing secretary, there is wash enough in that backyard not only for you and me, but for the whole crew of theSunshine, if they had happened to be cast away with us."
"Well, if there are clothes there, for Heaven's sake, why didn't you bring some? I'm getting chilly."
"Wash, I said; not clothes. You'll understand when you see. The reason I didn't bring any is simple: it was still broad daylight. Back in the orchard I had partial concealment among the trees, but I took chances, even there. To have invaded the raiment department would have been foolhardiness, for which I have never been celebrated. So I merely located the outfit and provided myself with food."
He glanced out at the harbor.
"In a very short time it will be twilight, and when twilight comes we will see what can be done to remove a rival from the path of Annette Kellerman."
Mary was too deeply interested in these disclosures to pay any attention to this reference to her present costume. He had brought a new hope into her life. Clothes at last! After that—well, clothes came first. Except, of course, the apples. She began to eat another.
Never had a twilight gathered so slowly. Just as she had been immovable before, now it was difficultto restrain her impatience. She was for starting at once.
"I'm getting chillier all the time," she complained.
"Patience," he counseled. "Give us fifteen minutes more. If you're cold you might spend the time doing setting-up exercises."
He took his own advice and began a series of exercises that were highly recommended to the pupils of Kid Whaley's gymnasium. Mary watched for awhile and then emulated him, so that two figures were presently engaged in an occupation that suggested nothing so much as a pair of railroad semaphores gone mad. Eventually they paused breathless.
"I think we'd better go," said Pete. "A man on that nearest yacht seems to be trying to answer us with a pair of wigwag flags. You didn't happen to be telegraphing him anything, did you?"
Mary squealed and began scrambling up the rocks.
"You'd better let me take the lead," he said. "I know the way. Follow close behind me and do whatever I do. If I flop down on my stomach, you flop. If I duck behind a tree, you duck. If I run, run."
"And if we get caught?" she asked.
"That's one thing we won't permit. Don't suggest it. Take to the water again, if it comes to that."
The ledge of rock along which they picked their way ended at a grassy bluff, where there was a grove of small evergreens. In among the trees Pete paused to look and listen. Then he beckoned her to follow. Dusk was thicker in the grove, and Mary felt more comfortable in its added security, although she hoped it would not be long before they came to the land ofpromised raiment. Pete moved stealthily and she imitated his caution.
They skirted along close to the edge of the bluff, keeping within the shelter of the evergreens. Through a vista she glimpsed a house, and pointed, but Pete shook his head. Evidently it was not the right one. Presently they arrived at a tall, thickly grown hedge.
He got down on all fours in front of it, thrust his head into an opening and, with a series of cautious wriggles, began to disappear from her sight. When he had completely vanished, Mary undertook to follow him. The hedge was rough and stiff, and the aperture through which he had passed was uncomfortably small. With head and shoulders through, she looked up and found him beckoning.
"It scratches awfully," she whispered.
"S-sh! Never mind the scratches."
She wriggled a few inches farther.
"Ouch! I'm afraid I'll tear——"
"Let it tear."
He seized her hand and dragged her completely through, mindless of her protest that she was being flayed.
"Don't talk so loudly," he warned. "You're in the orchard now. It's only a little way to the raiment. Remember: this is no deserted house. The folks are home. I'm banking on the fact that they're at dinner, and that the servants are busy. Come on."
He now began to advance by a series of short rushes, each rush taking him from the shelter of one tree to the next. Mary followed, establishing herself behind a tree as soon as he had vacated it. It seemed to her that the trees were intolerably meager in girth;she felt as if she were trying to hide behind a series of widely placed lead pencils. But the dusk was continuing to thicken, which was welcome consolation.
They were within easy view of the house now. It was something more than a house; it was a mansion, filled with innumerable windows, it seemed to Mary, and out of each window a pair of accusing eyes probably staring. Where the orchard left off there was an open space, and beyond that a yard full of fluttering garments, suspended from a clothes line. Between the yard and the house was another hedge, and Pete was counting upon that hedge as a screen.
They paused at the edge of the orchard.
"For the next few minutes we are in the hands of Providence," he whispered. "Want to come with me, or will you trust me to pick out a costume?"
"I—I'll trust you," said Mary.
"Stay right here, then. Here goes."
Out into the open, where there was still an ominous amount of daylight, dashed Bill Marshall's valet, bent as low as he could manage without sacrificing speed. Mary held her breath and watched. A few seconds and he vanished behind a white curtain that represented a part of the family wash.
To Mary it seemed that there was an interminable interval. Then, with a spooky flutter, the white curtain that hid him seemed to sink into the ground. Another instant and the flying figure of Pete Stearns was approaching. He seemed to be pursued by a long, white snake, writhing close at his heels. And then he was back in the shelter of the trees.
"Help pull on this!" he panted.
And Mary identified the white snake as a clothes line to which was attached garment after garment ofghostly hue. She seized the line and together they raced back toward the rear of the orchard, the snake following.
"Found a sickle and cut the whole line!" he explained. "Quickest way. Help yourself. I'll begin at the other end."
Mary was pulling clothes-pins as rapidly as she could make her fingers fly.
"Don't stop to choose anything here," he warned. "Take everything. We've got to beat it."
So they took everything. Pete made two hasty bundles, thrust one into her arms, picked up the other and started at a lope through the orchard, in a direction opposite to that from which they had come. They came to another hedge that was as forbidding as the one through which they had passed.
He dropped his bundle, dove half-way through the hedge, made a swift inspection of what lay beyond, and then hauled himself back again.
"It's all right," he said.
Picking up his bundle, he tossed it over the hedge. He seized Mary's and repeated.
"Now for you!"
Before she could protest, even had she been so minded, Pete was wedging her into a dense, prickly obstruction and ordering her to scramble with all her might. She landed head down on the other side of the hedge, and was picking herself up when he joined her.
He seized both bundles and started running again.
They were still among evergreens, but the property was evidently that of a neighbor. Pete had made an observation of it on his previous journey. He knew exactly where he was going. Right on the edge of thebluff, which still followed the line of the shore, stood a summer pavilion. Into its shadowy shelter he dashed, with Mary Wayne close behind.
"There!" he gasped, tossing the bundles to the floor. "Now doll yourself up."
Five minutes later she looked at him in dismay.
"Why, it's nothing but lingerie!" she exclaimed.
Pete was holding out a pair of silk pajamas at arm's length, for better inspection.
"What did you expect? A tailor-made suit?" he demanded. "I'm going to be satisfied with these."
"But lingerie! And it's——"
"Put on plenty of it and it'll keep you warm."
"You don't understand," she said. "Oh, we've done an awful thing!"
She spread out a long, lacy garment and viewed it with awe in her eyes.
"Do you know lingerie when you see it?" she demanded. "Why, this is so beautiful that I'm afraid of it. I never dared buy anything like this for myself."
"Is that's what worrying you?"
"But it's perishable—fragile! And I'm afraid I've torn some of it already. You're not a woman and you can't understand—but what I'm doing is almost a sacrilege. I feel like a vandal."
"Here's some more," said Pete, tossing additional articles out of his pile. "What do you care? Pile it on."
He discovered a second suit of pajamas as he rummaged further, and added them to his collection.
"Give you five minutes to dress," he said, as he stepped outside the summer-house, the pajamas tucked under his arm.
Pete dressed on the edge of the bluff, putting on one suit of pajamas over another, and keeping a wary eye for possible intruders. So concerned was he lest they be discovered that he was unaware, until he had finished dressing, that his outer covering consisted of the coat of one suit and the trousers of another. The coat was striped in purple and green, the trousers in a delicate shade of salmon pink. But the effect did not dismay him; rather, it appealed to his sense of color.
As he approached the summer-house he saw an apparition in the doorway. Mary Wayne had taken his advice; she had piled it on.
"Jehosaphat!" he exclaimed in a low voice. "You look like something out of Rider Haggard, or grand opera, or—— Why, you're barbaric!"
"Isn't it awful!" she whispered.
"Awful? Why, it's magnificent! You're not dressed—you're arrayed! You're a poem, a ballad—a romance! You're a queen of Egypt; you're something from the next world! You're—oh, baby!"
He spread his hands and salaamed.
"Hush, for Heaven's sake! I just can't wear this. It's impossible!"
"You're a hasheesh dream," he murmured.
Mary shook her head angrily.
"I've no shoes," she said. "And the stockings are not mates."
"You're a vision from heaven," said Pete.
"Shut up! Don't you see I'm no better off than I was before? Neither are you."
"We're warmer, anyhow."
"Oh, be sensible."
"And we're more beautiful," he added, stroking his silken coat.
"But we can't go anywhere in these things!" she cried. "We'll be arrested. We haven't any money. We'll be taken for lunatics. And then they'll find out we're thieves. And then—— Oh, I wish I'd never come on this awful trip!"
Pete shook off the spell of his gorgeous imagination.
"You're a hard lady to please," he said. "But I'll see what I can do. Go back in the summer-house and wait for me. If anybody bothers you, jump at them and do some kind of an incantation. They'll leave you alone, fast enough."
"Where are you going now?" she demanded.
"Well, having stolen a classy outfit of society lingerie for you, I'm now going to see if I can steal you a limousine."
"Peter! Don't you leave me here. Come back! I——"
But he was gone.
Bill Marshall, leaning on the after rail of his yacht and watching the churning, white wake of her twin screws, was not sure but the best way to mend things was to jump overboard and forget how to swim. Jealousy and rage were no longer his chief troubles. Remorse had perched itself on his already burdened shoulders. And then came shame, piling itself on top of remorse. And soon afterward fear, to sit on the shoulders of shame. Truly, his load was great.
To steam his way out of Larchmont Harbor had been a magnificent revenge. But with Bill, vengeance was never a protracted emotion; when its thrill began to fade it left him chilled. Even jealousy did not suffice to warm him. And then came crowding all the other emotions, to thrust him down into a bottomless mire of despondency and irresolution.
The sailing master of theSunshinehad reached the opinion that his owner, in which relation, as charterer, Bill stood for the time being, was either extremely absent-minded or slightly mad. When the yacht cleared the harbor he asked for further orders. Bill told him to stand across the Sound for awhile. When it was no longer possible to hold that course, because of the presence of Long Island, he again asked for a course. Bill advised him to sail east awhile, thenwest awhile, but on no account to bother him about the matter any further. So this was done, while the sailing master and his two officers held whispered consultations on the subject of their owner.
While these somewhat peculiar maneuvers were being carried into execution, Bill endeavored to reach a decision. Should he go back to Larchmont and hunt for the missing ones? No; their punishment was not yet great enough. Even if he went back, was there any chance of finding them? Had they gone ashore? Had they been picked up by a craft? Had—he shivered—anything worse happened to them? Of course nothing had happened to them; of course. He assured himself of that over and over again. And yet—well, things did happen, even to the best of swimmers. And if anything had happened, what could he do now? Would he be responsible? Would he be a murderer? Nonsense; certainly not. Yet he would feel himself a murderer, even if the law demanded nothing of him. Why, if anything happened to that little girl—— He gripped the rail and tried to pull himself together.
Well, even if the worst happened, it would put an end to his society career. There might be consolation in that, he thought; but much as he sought to draw upon this source of comfort, it yielded little.
"Any further orders, sir?" asked the sailing master.
"Not yet; keep on sailing."
"But which way, sir?"
Bill glared.
"Forward, backward, sidewise—suit yourself."
The sailing master went away with deep wrinkles in his forehead and, for a change, theSunshinebegan to describe wide circles. She was still circling, like adestroyer waiting to pounce upon a submarine, when Aunt Caroline, fresh from her nap, came on deck. She found Bill still standing at the stern.
"Have you seen Miss Norcross, William?"
"Not for some time."
"I've been looking for her. I can't imagine where she is."
"Neither can I."
Aunt Caroline looked at him inquiringly.
"You haven't quarreled with her about anything, have you, William?"
"Quarreled? No, indeed; there's been no quarrel."
"I'm glad of that," said Aunt Caroline. "She's too nice a girl to quarrel with."
Now, for the first time since her arrival on deck, she took note of the fact that theSunshinewas moving; also, that their environment had completely changed.
"Why, we're sailing again, William!"
"We're just out in the Sound a ways; I got tired of staying in one place."
The answer seemed to satisfy her immediate curiosity. Bill wished that she would go away, so that he might drown himself in peace, but Aunt Caroline appeared to be taking an interest in things.
"I don't think they keep the yacht quite as tidy as they might," she remarked. "There's a chair lying on its back. The magazines are blowing all over the deck, too. There ought to be paper-weights. Dear me, William; they need a housekeeper."
Suddenly she walked across the deck and bent over to study a dark object that lay near the opposite rail.
"More untidiness," said Aunt Caroline resentfully. "One of the sailors has left a wash-rag here."
She stooped and picked the thing up between thumb and forefinger. As she shook it out drops of water flew from it. Aunt Caroline's eyes became round with amazement.
"Why, William! It's the skirt of her bathing-suit!"
Bill stared at the thing, fascinated.
"How on earth did it ever come to be lying here on the deck?" exclaimed Aunt Caroline.
"She must have taken it off," he mumbled.
"And came on board without it? William, she is not that kind of a girl."
What was the use of hiding things any longer? Bill looked Aunt Caroline in the eye.
"She didn't come on board," he said.
It required several seconds for that to sink in.
"Not on board?" she repeated. "Why, what do you mean? Where is she?"
He waved his hand in the direction of Larchmont Harbor.
"Having a swim, I guess," he said, with an effort at nonchalance.
"William Marshall! You mean to say she didn't come back to the yacht?"
"She hadn't at the time we left."
"Or Peter?"
"Nope. Peter didn't come back, either."
"Then what in the world is this boat doing out here?" demanded Aunt Caroline.
"It got tired of waiting."
"You don't mean to tell me that you left them back there in the water?"
"That's about it."
Aunt Caroline was puffing out.
"Why, William! Are you insane? To leave that girl back there with nothing——" She looked down at the little wet skirt and shuddered. "Oh, I can't believe it!"
"Well, it's true, all right," said Bill sullenly. "They didn't seem in any hurry to come back, and I didn't think it was up to me to wait all day."
"It's unheard of. It's shocking! Why, she isn't dressed to go anywhere. She isn't even properly dressed for—for bathing." Aunt Caroline for an instant was trying to put herself in the place of any fish who might chance to swim in the vicinity of Mary Wayne. "William Marshall, there ought to be some terrible way to punish you!"
Bill thought a way had been discovered; he had been punishing himself for the last two hours.
"You turn this yacht right around and go back to Larchmont and find them," she commanded.
In one respect, Bill found a slight measure of relief in his aunt's view of the situation. Evidently it did not occur to her that Mary and Pete might be drowned, and if such a possibility had not occurred to her very likely it was extremely remote.
"What's the sense of going back now?" he asked. "It'll be dark in half an hour."
"Nevertheless, you turn this boat around."
"Oh, they're all right by this time," he said carelessly.
"Well, if they are, it's not because of anything you've done, William Marshall." Aunt Caroline's eyes were beginning to blaze. "You've done your best to disgrace the girl. Oh, that poor child! I don't approveof her taking off her skirt, understand me; I never could bring myself to that. I never did it myself, when I was a young woman, and I wouldn't do it now. But that doesn't excuse you. It simply makes it worse that you should have gone away and left her. You did quarrel with her, of course; I can understand, now. You let that childish temper of yours govern you. Oh, that I should ever have had such a nephew. I'm ashamed of you!"
Bill felt that he was on the verge of disinheritance, but Aunt Caroline abruptly changed her line of thought.
"Thank goodness she's in charge of a responsible person!" she exclaimed.
"Who? My valet?"
"Certainly. If it were not for that I should be dreadfully frightened. But he'll take care of her, of course. He's just the kind of young man she ought to be with in such an awful predicament. If she were my own daughter I wouldn't ask anything better, under the circumstances."
Bill sneered elaborately.
"He's so absolutely safe," declared Aunt Caroline. "He has such fine, high principles."
"Oh, bunk, Aunt Caroline."
"William, don't you try to disparage that young man. I only wish you had his pure ideals. That's what makes me feel safe about Miss Norcross. He's so sound, and religious, and upright. Why, his very character is sufficient to save the girl's reputation."
Bill was growing restive under the panegyric.
"Her reputation doesn't need any saving," he declared.
"Not with you or me; no. That's perfectly understood.But with the world—that is different. The world will never understand. That is, it would not understand if her companion were anybody but Peter. But when it is known that it was he who guarded her and watched over her——"
"Aunt Caroline, lay off."
She stopped in sheer amazement and stared at her nephew. Bill was in a mood to throw caution to the winds.
"I'll agree with you she's safe enough," he said, "but for the love of Mike cut out that bull about Pete. He hasn't got any more principles than I have. I'm sick and tired of hearing you singing psalms about him."
Aunt Caroline gasped.
"Why, confound him, he hasn't any more religion than a fish. He never studied theology in his life."
"William, I don't believe a word you say."
"You might as well," said Bill scornfully. "Why, Aunt Caroline, he doesn't know any more about theology than you do about dancing the shimmy."
"But he talked to Bishop Wrangell——"
"Oh, he talked, all right. He's a bird at that. But it was just words, I tell you, words. He got it all out of the encyclopedia home. He's been stringing you—you and the bishop. That's just where he lives—stringing people."
"I—don't—believe—it!" But there was a trace of alarm in Aunt Caroline's voice, despite her brave insistence.
"Oh, all right; don't. But if you'd ever known that wild aborigine in college you wouldn't swallow that theology stuff, hook, line and sinker."
"It simply cannot be true, William Marshall."
Bill laughed recklessly.
"Why, if you'd ever seen Pete Stearns——"
"Peter who?"
"Stearns."
Aunt Caroline was sniffing, as though she scented danger.
"What Stearns?" she demanded.
"Oh, you know 'em, all right, Aunt Caroline."
She seized Bill by the arm and backed him against the rail.
"Of the Eliphalet Stearns family?" she demanded.
"That's the bunch," affirmed Bill, wickedly.
She put her hand to her throat and retreated a pace, staring at Bill through horrified eyes.
"You stand there and tell me he is a Stearns?" she whispered. "And you say it without shame, William Marshall? You have brought a Stearns to my house, when you knew—— Oh, William!"
"As a matter of fact," said Bill with sudden generosity, "Pete's all right in his own way, but he's no divinity student. As for his being a Stearns——"
Aunt Caroline stopped him with a gesture.
"Answer my question," she said sharply. "Is he a grandson of Eliphalet Stearns?"
"Uh huh."
"A son of Grosvenor Stearns?"
"That's Pete."
She seemed to grow suddenly in stature.
"Then," she said, "you have disgraced the house of Marshall. You have brought under my roof, in disguise, the son of an enemy. A Stearns! You have done this thing with the deliberate purpose of deceiving me. Had I known, had I even suspected, that you had ever associated with such a person, I should have disowned you, William Marshall."
"But his name is Pete, all right, Aunt Caroline. And you never asked me for his last name."
"You would have lied if I had," she said, in a voice that trembled despite its sternness. "You did all this knowing full well my opinion of the Stearns family. Eliphalet Stearns! He was your grandfather's worst enemy. Grosvenor Stearns! Your father and Grosvenor Stearns never spoke to each other from the days when they were boys. And now—now it remains for you to bring into my house another generation of a people who are beneath the notice or the contempt of a true Marshall. It is unspeakable!"
And yet she found herself able to speak with much freedom on the matter.
"Oh, what's the use of all this medieval history?" demanded Bill. "Just because my grandfather and old man Stearns had a blow-up, I don't see why I've got to go on hating the family for the rest of my days. That old row isn't any of my funeral, Aunt Caroline."
"Have you no regard for your family honor and pride, William Marshall? Have you no loyalty to the memory of your ancestors? Have you no thought of me? Must you insult the living as well as the dead?"
"I should think," grumbled Bill, "that if you believed in theology you'd go in for that business of forgiving your enemies."
"But not a Stearns," she said vehemently. "And as for believing in theology—oh, how can I believe in anything after this?"
"Well, if you hadn't gone so daffy over him I wouldn't have said anything about it."
"Daffy?" echoed Aunt Caroline. "Are you insinuating——"
"You've been throwing him up to me as a model of holy innocence ever since he came into the house," said Bill angrily. "Just now you've been preaching about how safe she was with Pete, and all that sort of poppycock. I tell you, I'm sick of it, Aunt Caroline."
Aunt Caroline suddenly remembered. She groaned.
"Oh, that poor girl! Heaven knows what will become of her now. Out there——" She gestured wildly. "With a Stearns!"
"Oh, he'll do as well by her as any sanctimonious guy."
"The child's reputation is gone! Gone!"
"That's nonsense," said Bill sharply. "If it comes to that, she can take care of herself."
"No girl can take care of herself, William Marshall. No proper girl would think of attempting it." Aunt Caroline bridled afresh at the very suggestion of feminine independence. "This is the end of the poor child. And you are responsible."
"Oh, piffle."
"A Stearns!" murmured Aunt Caroline.
"Bunk!"
"AStearns!"
"But suppose he was really trying to live down the family name and lead a better life?" suggested Bill.
"Not a Stearns, William Marshall. There are some things in this world that cannot be done. Oh, that unfortunate girl!"
Bill sighed irritably.
"All right; we'll go back and hunt her up," he said. He was, in fact, rather pleased to have an excuse.
"And see to it that she is properly married to him," added Aunt Caroline.
Bill looked like a man about to choke.
"What!" he shouted.
"Certainly," said his aunt. "He's a Stearns, I know; but what else is there to do? Even a bad name is better than none."
"Aunt Caroline, you're crazy!"
"I was never more sane in my life. William. The poor childmustmarry him. I'm sorry, of course; but it is better than not marrying him at all."
"Marry Pete Stearns?" Bill resembled a large and ferocious animal, perhaps a lion. "Marryhim? Not in a million years will she marry him!"
Aunt Caroline studied her nephew in astonishment.
"Would you deny her the poor consolation of a name?" she demanded. "Of course she will marry him. I shall personally attend to it."
"You'll do nothing of the kind," said Bill savagely. "You'll keep out of it."
"Order the boat back to Larchmont at once," was Aunt Caroline's answer.
"Not for that purpose."
"To Larchmont!"
Had she been taller, Aunt Caroline at that moment would have been imperious. She gestured with a sweep of the arm worthy of a queen. The gesture, it happened, was not in the direction of Larchmont at all, but she did not know that.
Bill shook his head grimly.
"William Marshall, I propose to be obeyed."
Ordinarily, when Aunt Caroline reached that point, Bill yielded the field to her. But this was no ordinary occasion. She proposed to marry her social secretary to Pete Stearns—hissecretary! Where was ever such an outrageous idea conceived? Again he shook hishead. He could find no words to voice his scornful defiance.
Suddenly Aunt Caroline wilted into a deck chair.
"I wish to go to my stateroom," she said, in a weak voice. "I feel faint. Send for my maid."
Bill departed on a run. The maid brought smelling salts, and after a minute of sniffing Aunt Caroline arose and walked slowly toward the saloon entrance, through which she disappeared. She ignored Bill's offer of an arm.
The boss of the yachtSunshine, having satisfied his lust for defiance, ran forward and mounted the bridge two steps at a time.
"Back to Larchmont!" he commanded.
He was still standing on the bridge as they entered the harbor. By the time they were well inside, darkness had fallen.
"Are we to anchor, sir?" inquired the sailing master.
"I don't know," said Bill shortly. "Take a turn up where we were moored a while ago."
But before they had proceeded very far up the harbor he realized the futility of it. No sane persons would be swimming about after dark looking for a yacht whose return was purely conjectural.
"Head her outside again," ordered Bill.
The sailing master shrugged, gave a command, and theSunshinebegan swinging in a circle.
"After we get outside, sir, which way?"
"I don't know. I haven't decided. I'll tell you later. Damn it, don't ask so many questions."