ADRIFT ON CHESAPEAKE BAY
"Alfred Thornton, you must do it." Flora Harris spoke under her breath.
Half an hour had passed since she and Alfred Thornton had left the
hotel.
The young man was about to say good night to her at her gate after
having stubbornly refused to execute a certain commission for her.
"I can't do it," he protested. "If I were you, I'd let Madge Morton and
her crowd alone. I did not believe to-night, until the last minute,
that you would do as you had threatened. You didn't distinguish
yourself by it."
Flora Harris shrugged her thin shoulders in the darkness. "Don't
pretend to be shocked," she sneered, "and never mind lecturing me. Are
you going to help me or are you going to play the coward at the last
moment?"
"I have given you my answer. I'm not going to change it, either,"
repeated the youth sullenly, edging away from Miss Harris. "I think
Miss Morton and her friends have had trouble enough. I don't wish to do
anything that might possibly endanger their safety."
"Oh, very well," rejoined Flora angrily. "You know the alternative. If
you won't do what I ask of you, I shall tell my father that you have
been down here as a hired spy to find out about Jimmy Lawton's
invention. I shall tell him that you offered Jimmy thousands of dollars
for his patent, and advised him to sell out to you, and then to tell
the Government that he had failed with his model. It would ruin not
only your reputation, Alfred Thornton, for me to tell this story about
you, it would probably do your father a great deal of harm. It would be
a serious thing for your father if certain persons were to find out
that he was trying to steal a valuable invention from his own country."
"You wouldn't tell, would you, Flora?" Alfred Thornton wiped his
forehead nervously with his handkerchief, though it was a cool night.
"Whew, if only I'd never let you find out what I was after!"
"You couldn't help yourself," retorted Flora airily. "You needed me. I
would have done a great deal more for you, too, if you had not
developed such a liking for Madge Morton. You thought you were managing
so cleverly that I would not notice. Of course, I am not angry with
you, but I think you ought to do something to make amends for being so
deceitful."
Alfred Thornton flushed and hesitated.
"You see, Alfred, it is like this," went on Flora, taking advantage of
his hesitation. "You must help me get the 'Merry Maid' away from our
neighborhood. I believe I told the truth about Madge Morton's father.
But if my father or grandfather ever learn of what happened to-night,
they will be furious with me. I overheard my grandfather telling the
story to my father the other night. When he mentioned the name of
Captain Robert Morton, I remembered hearing Miss Butler telling Mrs.
Curtis when the 'Merry Maid' girls were here before that Miss Morton's
father had been an officer in the Navy, and that his name was Captain
Robert Morton. Miss Butler is Miss Morton's cousin, you know. They live
in the same house. When I heard that I put two and two together and
took a chance on saying what I did. Now that you know the whole story
you can easily see why I am anxious to have the 'Merry Maid' anchored
as far from me as possible. If you will cut the rope of the houseboat
and let the silly old craft drift away somewhere, the girls will be so
busy with getting it back here that by the time they have done that
their vacation will be over, and in the hurry of packing they won't
have much chance to make a scene. I think my scheme is very clever."
Alfred Thornton looked overhead. It was a dark night. The stars had
disappeared. Black clouds were gathering in the east.
The young man realized that he could do as Flora Harris demanded of him
with very little danger of detection. The houseboat was moored along
the beach by means of a heavy anchor tied with a thick rope. As an
additional safeguard the stern hawser had been hitched about a post
several yards up the beach out of the line of the tide. It would take a
very few minutes to cut these ropes. What took place afterward he would
not wait to see. He therefore reluctantly gave Flora the desired
promise.
When the houseboat party boarded Tom's motor launch for the ride to the
"Merry Maid" after Madge's tragic scene in the dining room they were
strangely silent. Even Miss Jenny Ann, who had not been with the girls,
did not know what had happened. A glance at Madge's face was enough to
reveal to her that it had been serious. The little captain sat white
and cold as a statue. She looked like the ghost of the radiant girl who
had crossed the bay a few hours before. She shed no tears, and seemed
rather to resent any expression of sympathy. When Eleanor took her
cousin's cold hand, Madge held it loosely for a minute, then allowed it
slowly to slide from the grasp of her icy fingers.
When Tom Curtis helped her out of his launch he had the courage to
whisper: "Of course, dear girl, we are all with you. Don't you worry.
Just leave matters to me. I'll see that Flora Harris doesn't escape
censure. I am going to inform her father of her conduct to-night."
Madge smiled a faint good night to Tom when he took her limp hand in
his own.
Once the girls were on the deck of their own boat she turned quietly to
their chaperon.
"Miss Jenny Ann," she murmured, "the girls will tell you what happened
to-night. I can't talk of it now. May I lie down on the couch in the
living room? Will every one please leave me alone?"
The three other girls and Miss Jenny Ann sat for a while on the deck of
their pretty boat. Eleanor kept her head buried in her chaperon's lap.
She cried a little, partly from sympathy with Madge and partly from
amazement and horror at the story she had just heard.
Very quietly Lillian told what had happened.
"Madge is right," Miss Jenny Ann concluded at the end of Lillian's
recital. "We must not talk to her of this insult to her father. It is
enough to let her know we do not believe it."
The little party did not linger out on deck after the story had been
told. It was midnight and chilly. The wind was blowing over the water,
lashing the waves to a white foam. As Miss Jenny Ann retired to her
cabin the thought came to her that they had lingered too long aboard
their houseboat. It was getting late in September. Any day they might
be overtaken by an equinoctial storm. She wished that they had brought
more coal and fresh water aboard the houseboat, and that the provisions
in the larder had not run so low. She wondered if the boy who attended
to their marketing, and carried things to and from the shore, would
come down to them in a heavy rain.
Miss Jenny Ann did not attempt to go to sleep. She put on her dressing
gown and lay down in her berth to think over their situation and decide
what had best be done.
The other girls were soon asleep. But in a little while Miss Jones
heard a faint sound. It came from their sitting room. Some one called
her name. It was Madge.
Miss Jenny Ann went softly in, to find Madge still lying on the sofa, a
little leather book clasped in her hands.
"I wish to tell you a story, Miss Jenny Ann," began Madge solemnly. "I
have never told it to any one else, but I have come to the place where
I feel that I ought to talk things over with some one I can trust. I
know of no one else, not even Phil, to whom I would rather tell it.
Would you like to hear it?"
"My dear, my dear," said Miss Jenny Ann tremulously, "I know of no one
else whose confidence I should so prize as yours. But are you sure that
you wish to tell me?"
Madge nodded. The hands of the two met in a strong, steady clasp, then
Madge began the story of her discovery in the attic of the secret
drawer and its contents, and of how the vow she had made that day had
been broken in what promised to be the hour of its fulfillment.
After she had finished she lay back on the couch, staring out the cabin
window. Knowing Madge as she did, the chaperon still sat beside her in
sympathetic silence. She recognized the nobility of Madge's sacrifice.
The girl's words: "He is an old man. I can not bring this humiliation
upon him. My father would not wish it," rang in her ears.
"I think you are right, Madge," Miss Jenny Ann said at last. "In fact,
I am sure you are. But it is very bitter for you."
"But don't you believe my father would wish me to keep his secret?"
asked Madge anxiously.
"Yes, I believe he would," responded the chaperon, after a brief
hesitation.
"And I shall do it," vowed Madge. "But some day, Miss Jenny Ann,
perhaps the man who is really to blame for all my father's suffering
will come to a realization of his own unworthiness and clear my
father's name. I can't believe that Father is dead. I always think of
him as being alive, and that some day I shall see him."
"I hope with all my heart that you will," said Miss Jenny Ann
fervently. "Now you mustn't grieve any more, dear. You must go to
sleep. It is long after midnight."
The chaperon bent down to kiss Madge good night.
"Good night, Miss Jenny Ann," said Madge. "I shall go to see Mrs.
Curtis in the morning and apologize to her for leaving the party so
suddenly. I seem destined always to be making apologies."
But for reasons which she could not foresee, Madge's apology was to be
delayed indefinitely.
* * * * *
The night had grown pitch dark when Alfred Thornton crossed the bay. He
had engaged a fast-going sea launch for his use during the evening of
their play, and as his boat rushed along through the sea, which was
rapidly growing rougher, he debated in his mind as to whether he was
acting wisely.
Alfred Thornton was not a high-minded youth. He was often dishonorable
and unscrupulous in his dealings with men, but he thoroughly disliked
the hateful task ahead of him. Yet he moved doggedly toward it. He must
save his own and his father's reputation, perhaps his fortune! There
was no reason for him to believe that Flora Harris would spare him
unless he did what she had demanded. He had that evening seen how far
the spirit of revenge could lead her.
While Alfred Thornton was on his way to the houseboat Tom Curtis lay
awake on his camp cot thinking of Madge and of what he could do to
disprove the cruel story that Flora Harris had told. Of course, it must
be false. Yet the girl would hardly have dared to tell such a tale
unless a grain of truth had been hidden in it somewhere. Poor Madge!
Tom wondered how her proud, passionate spirit would bear up under the
shadow of such a sorrow.
In the meantime Alfred Thornton brought his launch in to the shore. He
landed about a mile below the houseboat. The "Merry Maid" was anchored
near a point of land known as Wayside Point. Alfred left his shoes in
his launch, walking up the beach in his stocking feet. He waded in the
water the greater part of the time, so as not to leave the imprint of
his feet in the sand. A storm was blowing in from the ocean. The
singing sound of the wind came over the face of the waters. Alfred knew
that the night was working with him. If he could accomplish his secret
design without being discovered in the act, the houseboat party and
their friends would believe that the houseboat had been torn from her
moorings by the force of the September gale.
He reached the neighborhood of the boat without meeting any one. It was
an ideal night for prowling along the beach. The "Merry Maid" lay
quietly at anchor, although the waves were beginning to lash against
her sides with more than their accustomed energy. The youth was guided
toward her by the golden lights that shone through the yellow lamps
outside her cabin.
There was absolute silence aboard the little boat; not a sight or a
sound of any one stirring inside the cabin. Alfred Thornton pulled a
large clasp knife from his pocket, then sawed savagely at the heavy
rope that secured the anchor. It was the work of a moment to sever it.
Next he pulled the divided ends into strands, hoping that the rope
would look as though it had broken apart. There still remained the
second rope that was twisted around the stake. Alfred crept cautiously
out of the water up the little stretch of beach. This was his moment of
danger. Any one looking through one of the cabin windows might see his
dark figure. Yet Thornton hesitated. The wind was blowing strongly.
Surely the pretty houseboat would not drift out into dangerous waters.
Surely she would come aground a few miles further down the shore. The
minutes were precious. Alfred Thornton quickly cut the second rope.
Then, without glancing behind him to see the result of his deed, he ran
with all speed to his own motor launch.
"I know I am late," Thornton muttered to Tom Curtis as he crept into
the cot alongside of Tom's. "I had to take that Harris girl home. She
kept me talking on her porch for ages. A storm was coming up and it was
hard to get across the bay. I shall be glad when this foolishness is
over and we break camp and get back home again."
When the ropes of the "Merry Maid" were cut she did not drift at once
from the shore and in adventurous fashion, make use of her new freedom.
The way outside was strange and uncertain. The "Merry Maid" had never
traveled from a safe anchorage except when she was under escort and
protection. Now she lingered, drifting uncertainly, but keeping close
to the shore and moving very slowly.
Half an hour after midnight the tide changed. The water ran away from
the shore. The wind rose to a shrieking gale. But the "Merry Maid" was
not unstable. The bottom of the boat was flat, she was broad and roomy.
She did not pitch and roll, as a lighter craft would have done; she
simply moved quietly away from the shore, borne by the wind and the
tide.
The houseboat had been anchored for two weeks along the southwest shore
of Cape Charles, not many miles from where the great Atlantic Ocean
enters the Chesapeake Bay. Slowly but steadily the "Merry Maid" drifted
down the Maryland coast. Once out on the deep waters the pretty toy
boat moved on and on. In the cabin Miss Jenny Ann and the girls slept
peacefully, unconscious of danger.
Soon the lights in the yellow-shaded lamps went out. The boat was in
utter darkness.
If there had been lights aboard the "Merry Maid," if early in her
perilous voyage cries for help had sounded from her deck, the little
boat would soon have been rescued. But with no lights and no sounds
aboard, the houseboat passed on her way, and purely by chance her
course did not cross the line of another craft.