THE _ALEXANDRA_ SAILS AWAY
Next morning Pen was late, for her, in getting down-stairs, and her
father was before her. He had already been out-of-doors and had heard
the startling news. He was pale with excitement, and his expression
presented a comical mixture of elation and outraged parental authority.
"What is this?" he cried. "Counsell is caught? And caught by you!"
"That pleases you, doesn't it?" said Pen, in a quiet way very
aggravating to an excited man.
"Pleases me?" he cried. "My daughter starting out at night on such an
errand! Wandering around the woods with a gun! Pleases me!" He ended
on a more human note. "You might have told me when you came in,
instead of letting me learn it from strangers!"
"I was all in," said Pen simply. "I couldn't face the added excitement
even of telling you."
"Um! Humph! Ha!" he snorted. "What will become of your reputation?"
"Mr. Riever didn't seemed to think it had suffered," Pen murmured slyly.
"Ha! ... Well, of course he wouldn't say so! ... I sha'n't be able to
sleep quietly for thinking what _might_ have happened!"
Pen saw that the indignant parent only wanted to put himself on record,
and that underneath the man was delighted. She went ahead and gave him
his breakfast. He ate it in a charming humor.
Afterwards she went about her household chores waiting for Riever, sick
with anxiety. Suppose he didn't come? Suppose even then, the yacht
was getting ready to sail? She couldn't go out to see. She simply
could not humiliate her pride to the extent of going down to the wharf
to look for her money.
After all Riever did come, and early, too. It still lacked a few
minutes of nine. But he met Pendleton outside, who brought him in, and
the two men were closeted in the front drawing-room for awhile. Pen
felt by instinct that this interview boded her no good. Afterwards her
father came to her in the kitchen saying:
"Mr. Riever wants to say good-by to you."
He avoided Pen's eye as he said it, and there were complacent little
lines about the corners of his mouth. "Riever has given him more
money!" Pen thought with sinking heart.
Pendleton did not accompany her back to the drawing-room. Riever was
waiting for her, carefully dressed in his admirable, square-cut
yachting suit. He was brisk, and inclined to be effusive, signs in
Pen's eyes that he was secretly uneasy. But perhaps that was natural.
His eyes were as devoid of expression as an animal's; she could not
guess of what he was thinking; his words came merely from his lips.
"How are you?" he asked solicitously. "Ah, pale, I see! Not much
sleep perhaps? Well thank God! this nasty business is about over."
Pen did not feel that this required any answer. She waited.
"I said I'd come to see you before I set sail this morning," Riever
went on briskly--and then came to a somewhat lame pause.
Pen waited in an anxiety that was like a physical pain for him to
produce a check-book or a bundle of notes. But he made no such move.
There was an awkward silence. Finally he said as if at random:
"By the way do you know what became of Keesing's revolver? He's making
a fuss about it."
"I haven't it," said Pen coolly.
"He said you took it from him," Riever said with a light laugh--but his
eyes were tormented.
"He is mistaken," said Pen. "When he fell it flew out of his hand. I
don't know what became of it."
"He said you carried it away in your hand."
"That was the pistol you gave me in the morning ... You saw it," she
added, feeling pretty sure that Riever had been in no condition to
distinguish one pistol from another.
"Why of course!" he said. "It's absurd." But there was no real
conviction in his tones.
"If you'll wait a moment I'll get it for you," said Pen.
"Please don't bother," he said. "Keep it as a souvenir."
There was another silence. Pen saw that he dared not accuse her
openly. The matter _had_ to be threshed out to a conclusion, so she
grasped her nettle firmly.
"What else did Mr. Keesing tell you?" she asked scornfully.
Riever's attempt to carry it off lightly was painful to see. "Oh, I
don't take any stock in it," he said with his laugh.
"But I ought to know, shouldn't I?"
Riever laughed excessively. "Said you had no intention of giving him
up until he surprised you together. Said you were just walking up and
down the beach talking." His eyes were darting ugly, pained glances at
her.
Pen laughed too. "In the full moonlight!" she exclaimed. She was
secretly relieved. If Keesing had overheard their talk he would of
course have repeated it.
"I told you there was nothing in it," said Riever.
"If I was ... friendly with him, do you think I'm the sort of person
to give him up?" demanded Pen.
"Certainly not ... But Keesing said after he had recognized Counsell,
there was nothing else for you to do."
"If I'd wanted to save the other man I could have shot Keesing," said
Pen boldly.
Riever stared. "Well ... I believe you are capable of it," he
muttered. That at least was honest.
Pen followed up her advantage quickly. "Obviously a crude attempt to
get the reward for himself," she said.
"That's what I thought ... But Keesing clearly understood that there
was nothing in it for him, anyway. He didn't bring the man in."
"Then it was just spite," said Pen.
"No doubt," said Riever.
Pen's heart sank. She was making no progress whatever. He would agree
with everything she said, and act according to his own secret motives.
She was determined to drag these out into the light.
"Well, what are you going to do about it?" she asked bluntly.
"Why, nothing!" he said with an air of surprise.
"I mean about the money," said Pen firmly.
He averted his head. "What do you want so much money for?" he muttered.
"What does anybody want money for?" said Pen. "Thousands of things!"
He came towards her eagerly. "Tell me what they are," he stuttered.
"Anything ... anything money will buy! You have only to name it!"
"I can't take gifts from you," said Pen coldly. "I've earned this
money, haven't I? You promised it."
"I don't go back on my promises," he muttered.
"Well then?"
"But just at the moment I haven't it by me."
Pen thought: "It's all over!" And tasted despair.
He went on more glibly: "One's money gets all tied up you know. And
I've been under heavy expenses. Of course I can arrange it when I get
back to town. I'll bring it to you myself. Just as soon as I can get
this ugly business off my hands. It won't take long. Popular opinion
demands that the man be tried speedily. And I can set certain
influences at work. I fancy the trial will be brief. In six weeks you
can expect to see me back again.... And under much happier
circumstances I trust. I'm afraid at present you have certain doubts
of me. Almost a dislike. This has been such a beastly business! When
I come back my whole aim will be to remove your doubts. To show you
what I really am. And what you mean to me. Thank God! time is on my
side!"
Pen kept her eyes down to hide the thought she was sure must be
speaking through them: "If you came back here under such circumstances
I should kill you!"
Her stillness frightened him. He began to hedge. "But what am I
saying? You don't have to wait for your money till I come back. It is
a matter I can arrange with my bankers. You may expect a check within
a week."
Pen was not deceived of course. She foresaw the silky, apologetic
letter she would receive at the end of a week--without any check. She
was silent.
Riever's instinct warned him against making any loverly demonstration
at such a moment. "Good-by," he said.
Pen's generous, open nature imperiously demanded that she avow her true
feelings, and crush him like the worm he was. It cost her a frightful,
silent struggle to keep it in. She kept saying to herself
mechanically: "We haven't convicted him yet. I must go on deceiving
him!"
Without raising her eyes, she offered him her hand. He carried it
lightly to his lips, and quickly left the room.
But how he got out, or what she herself did during the next half hour,
Pen could never have told clearly. When she came back to the
realization of things it was to find herself kneeling at one of the
windows in her room listening to the clank of the yacht's anchor chain.
The sound seemed to be striking on her bare heart. She saw the
mud-hook slowly rise out of the water, and the yacht's screws set up a
churning astern. The graceful vessel began to move. She came about in
a wide circle and swept out of Pen's range of vision behind the trees.
As she passed the lighthouse she saluted with three blasts of her
melodious whistle, and the lighthouse bell tolled in answer.
Somewhere in the bowels of that vessel, in darkness perhaps, and
manacled, sat the bright-haired Don, grinning derisively at misfortune.
He was depending on her; keeping himself up no doubt with the assurance
that she had secured the money to save him ... Pen's head dropped on
her arms.
Upon the departure of the yacht, the crowd at Broome's Point quickly
broke up. Slow-moving ox-carts started up the Neck road, and noisy
motor-boats put off up the river and across the Bay. Before it was
midday the old unbroken peace had descended on the remote estate, and
all that had happened in between seemed like a dream. As of old, the
fish-hawks plunged for their wriggling prey, buzzards circled high in
the blue, hens clucked contentedly at the kitchen door, and the turkeys
set up a sudden gobbling in the fields.
Pen could not long give herself up to despair. She must act if she
wished to save her sanity. With a tormented face she went about the
house in a whirl of activity. Black Aunt Maria's eyes rolled askance
at her mistress. Pendleton remained down on the beach seeing the boats
off. Pen suspected he was purposely keeping out of her way.
When he came in to dinner he was affecting an air of busy abstraction.
When Pen addressed him he would reply, gently:
"Don't interrupt me, my dear, I have an idea just taking shape in my
mind."
This was an old dodge of his, when he wished to escape something
unpleasant. Pen smiled to herself without mirth, and quietly bided her
time.
When he was finished eating he attempted to slide out of the room, but
Pen was on the watch for that.
"One moment, father."
"Another time, my dear. I must get this down on paper before it
escapes me."
Pen put herself determinedly between him and the door. "Sorry," she
said. "But I have some rights as well as your ideas."
"Only an ignorant person sneers at ideas," he said loftily.
Pen refused to be drawn aside. She began mildly: "Now that this
business is over, I hope there's no objection to my going away for a
little while."
His eyes narrowed and hardened as a weak and stubborn man's must. "Why
should you go away now?" he demanded. "The trouble is over. This is
the best place to rest."
"Just the same I must go," said Pen. "Will you give me the money?"
"I'll take you for a visit to Cousin Laura Lee at Frederick," he said.
"The trip will do us both good."
"I must have more of a change than that," said Pen patiently. "I need
six hundred dollars."
"Preposterous!" he cried. "You know I have no such sum to fritter
away!"
"I have worked for you six years," said Pen wistfully. "A hundred
dollars a year does not seem much!"
"Oh, if you're going to measure your duty towards me in dollars and
cents!"
"But I'm not! I..."
"That's enough. I am your father. I am the best judge of what is
right for you."
Pen was too sore at heart to be very patient. "You got more money from
Mr. Riever this morning," she said at a venture.
There was a significant exchange of glances, startled on his part,
quietly assured on hers. He saw that it was useless to deny it.
"Well, if I did," he said with dignity, "you may be sure it wasn't a
gift. I gave a fair return for it ... Anyway, that's my capital. I
can't spend it."
"Did you undertake to keep me here for him?" Pen asked quietly.
By the way he puffed out his cheeks and wagged his head she saw that
she had guessed somewhere near the truth. She was unspeakably
saddened. Her father! What was the use?
Meanwhile he was noisy in his aggrieved protestations. "How can you
say such a thing! Am I not your father? You must know that every act
of mine is solely directed by a concern for your good. My life is
devoted to that end."
Pen struggled on, though she was convinced of the hopelessness of it.
"I grant that," she said. "Willingly! But you might be mistaken ..."
"Never!" he cried, without any notion of his absurdity.
"Well, we mustn't quarrel," said Pen. "I appeal to your affection for
me. I seldom ask you for anything. I am not one of the flighty kind.
You must see that I am in deadly earnest. I _must_ go away! If I were
kept here I should go out of my mind!"
But cupidity had for the moment overcome his natural affections--as it
has a way of doing. "Pooh! you're talking like a flighty girl now," he
said loftily. "Permit me to be the judge of what is best for you."
"Oh, all right," said Pen with a sudden change of tone. "Let's say no
more about it."
Pendleton was a little astonished by his victory, for his case was bad.
"Well, that's my own girl!" he said, approaching her full of fine,
fatherly approval.
Pen cast an odd, cold glance at him and passed out into the pantry.
Pendleton went up-stairs feeling acutely uncomfortable.
During the afternoon they pursued the usual routine. Pen's first act
was to let Doug out of the barn. The good dog was wild with delight.
Pendleton went for the mail.
When he came into the house for supper, his eyes sought Pen's face with
a furtive anxiety. All was serene there, and his spirits rose
mightily. In all these years Pendleton had learned little about his
daughter's nature. He persisted in believing what he wished to
believe. During the meal he was affable and discursive. Pen listened
with a sufficient smile, and was as attentive as ever to his wants.
They spent their usual quiet evening under the dining-room lamp, Pen
with her mending, Pendleton with his newspaper. An instinct of caution
warned him not to read aloud any of the comment on the Counsell case.
The news of the grand dénouement had not reached Baltimore in time for
that morning's paper. They retired early, Pen offering her cheek for
the usual good-night kiss.
As soon as the sounds of Pendleton's snores began to issue through the
transom over his door, Pen came out of her room again. She was dressed
in hat and suit, and carried a small valise. She also had a note
addressed to Aunt Maria, giving certain directions for breakfast. As
Aunt Maria could not read, Pen knew that it would be brought to
Pendleton's attention early.
She slipped out of the house by the back door. Doug in his kennel
whined with pleasure. She unfastened him with an admonition to
silence. Doug was too experienced a dog to waste much energy in
unnecessary noise. Pen walked swiftly back through the paddock, and
through the stable yard gate to the road. Doug ran ahead with his tail
high. It was a fair night with a pale sky, and dim stars.
She was too early. She loafed along the road. At the gate to the
distant field where the sheep were pastured, she leaned her elbows on
the bars waiting for the moon, while Doug pursued his canine
investigations far and near. He had all the lost time of his
imprisonment to make up. Finally when the silver rim appeared, Pen let
down the bars and whistled for him.
"Fetch them out, sir!" she said. Doug knew his business thoroughly.
Half an hour later the huddled little flock was striking into the
woods, with Pen at its heels and Doug, all intent now upon his charges.
Pen paused to let them drink their fill in the little stream that
flowed across the road. They plodded on through clogging sand and
around mudholes that never dried up from one year's end to another.
There was no regular beat to the thudding little hoofs, for those in
the van were always hanging back, and those in the rear running to
catch up. They passed along in little gusts of sound, like nervous
fingers drumming on a window pane. Pen was choked with dust. "What
will I look like in the morning?" she thought.
Little owls mourned far off, this way and that, and occasionally the
bark of a fox brought Doug to a stand with raised ruff and murmured
growl. Through openings in the branches, stray shafts of moonlight
fell on the backs of the sheep making them look like little gray ghosts
creeping along with bowed shoulders. There was a place miles deep in
the woods where they passed a squatter's shack close beside the road.
The nervous patter of hoofs brought a figure to the open door. In a
curiously tense pose he watched them pass; transfixed; without a sound.
It was ten miles through the woods to the fork in the road where you
took the right-hand-turn down to the wharf at Hungerford's Run, three
miles further. Endless it seemed to Pen, the way the road twisted
aimlessly first off in one direction, then back in the other. It was
level for the most part except for once or twice when it precipitated
them into a gully with a branch over which Pen had to jump. In spite
of scurrying hoofs their net progress was slow. Dawn had broken before
they came out on the open road. Pen dreading curious eyes urged them
on as fast as she could.
She had one encounter. A farmer early at the plow, turned his team at
the end of his furrow, just as Pen with her convoy passed in the road
below. His jaw dropped; he all but rubbed his eyes at the strange
spectacle of a modishly-dressed (to him) young lady covered with dust,
driving a flock of sheep miles from anywhere. Pen did not know him,
but he, by a process of elimination guessed who she must be. His face
expressed a sort of agony of curiosity until the obvious explanation
occurred to him, when it cleared.
"Driving your sheep to the steamboat?" he said.
"Yes," said Pen, blushing, and looking straight ahead.
He clambered over the fence, and slid down the bank to her side. "I
just put up my clover last week," he said in friendly fashion. "Next
field on the left. Drive 'em in and let 'em crop awhile. You got
plenty time."
Pen thanked him. He walked beside her, glancing at her from the
corners of his eyes. He opened a gate for her, and the grateful sheep
scattered inside to their breakfast.
"You come far?" he ventured.
Pen nodded.
"Come through the woods at night alone!"
"I had my dog."
"Well it's more than I would have done. Why didn't you ride a hoss?"
"I'm going up on the boat," said Pen. "Had no way of getting the horse
back. The dog can find his own way of course."
"Well, you're a good plucky young lady, I'll say ... You'll find a good
spring down at the foot of the slope, yonder. How about some
breakfast, I'll be going home to mine, directly."
"I brought it with me, thank you," said Pen, indicating the valise.
With many a backward look he returned to his horses, and Pen was free
to wash at the spring, and brush her clothes.
Arriving at the dilapidated wharf a mile or so farther, she had to run
a gauntlet of curious stares. Everybody wished to help her, and the
sheep were quickly penned and tagged. Pen could see in the men's eyes
what a storm of gossip would break loose once her back was turned, but
she cared little about that.
The steamboat on her up trip was due at eight o'clock. Pen's chief
anxiety was lest it should be delayed long enough to allow her father
to reach Hungerford's Run on horseback. Pendleton had no right to stop
her of course, and nothing he might say could shake her determination;
but she shuddered at the idea of washing the family linen there on the
beach before strangers.
However the _Princess Anne_ arrived before her father, and the sheep
were driven aboard. Pen put her arms around the good dog's neck,
careless of who might witness her emotion.
"I can't take you! I can't take you!" she murmured. "Do not blame me
for it!"
They had to lock Doug in the little warehouse before she could go
aboard. Pen listened to him flinging himself against the door, and
heard his sharp, anguished barks, feeling like a traitress.
The steamboat proceeded on her leisurely course from wharf to wharf up
the bay.