Hugh, looking much embarrassed, came up early next morning to see Ruth.
"I have an invitation to deliver to you, Ruth, but I am rather ashamed
to do it, for I am afraid you will be angry. Mother told me to come over
and ask Miss Stuart and yourself and the girls--except Barbara--to come
out with us for the day on the yacht."
"Why, Hugh Post!" cried Ruth. "What do you mean?"
"Well, it's like this," Hugh said, desperately; "mother told me to
explain to you exactly how things stand, so you will not think her rude.
You see, mother is visiting Mrs. Erwin, and of course Mrs. Erwin,
Gladys, and her devoted Harry Townsend have to go along on the yacht
with us. Well, Gladys told mother that neither she nor Mr. Townsend
could go if Barbara went. Gladys would not tell mother why, and, as you
told me to keep that scene in the conservatory a secret, I didn't know
what it was wisest for me to do."
"Thank you," Ruth answered; "but tell your mother that none of us can
accept."
"O Ruth!" exclaimed Hugh. "I am fearfully disappointed, and mother I
know will be angry."
"I am afraid I don't care, Hugh," was Ruth's reply. "I don't like your
mother's inviting any of us, if she had to leave Bab out."
As Hugh turned to leave the front porch, where he had found Ruth alone,
she called after him: "Wait a minute, please. I don't know what to tell
Aunt Sallie. Your mother will be sure to speak to her of her invitation,
and Auntie will think I should have let her refuse for herself. Oh, I
know!"
Ruth's face cleared. "I will go tell Aunt Sallie that she and Grace and
Mollie are asked. I'll stay with my dear Bab," she finished a little
defiantly. "If I am also left out of the party, no one will think
anything of it."
"Oh, I say, Ruth," Hugh urged, "please come."
"Sorry," she said, shaking her head decidedly.
"I expect you're right," Hugh replied.
Miss Sallie, Mollie and Grace accepted Mrs. Post's invitation with
pleasure. As Mrs. Post's yacht was small, they did not think it strange
that the other two girls were left out.
How angry Mollie would have been, had she guessed the truth. Not a step
would she have gone. As it was, she begged Barbara to go in her place.
But Bab was too clever. She understood what had happened, and was glad
to be left out of the party. She put her arm around Ruth's waist,
whispering coaxingly: "Do go along with the others, old story-teller.
You know you were asked."
Ruth shook her head decidedly. "Not on your life," she slangily
retorted. Fortunately, Miss Sallie did not hear her.
"What shall we do this afternoon, Bab?" inquired Ruth after luncheon.
"Suppose you and I go for a long walk?"
"Don't think I am a lazy good-for-nothing, Ruth," Barbara begged, "but I
have a little headache, and I must write to mother. Mollie and I have
been neglecting her shamefully of late. I haven't even written her about
the wonderful ball."
"Are you going to tell her what happened, Bab?" Ruth inquired.
"I suppose so," sighed Bab. She was half inclined to discuss the
unfortunate affair with Ruth, but changed her mind.
"Well, Bab," Ruth declared, "I shall go for the walk 'all by my
lonesomes.' I'll be back in time for dinner. The others are to dine on
the yacht, so we need not look for them until bedtime. I think I'll take
the cliff walk, for the sea is so splendid to-day."
Left alone, Barbara got out her writing materials and sat down by the
window, but she did not begin to write.
"I wonder," she asked herself, "why we have been mixed up in burglaries
ever since Ruth began talking about our trip to Newport? First, our poor
little twenty-dollar gold-pieces disappear; then we have that dreadful
robber at New Haven. Now Mrs. Post's emerald necklace is stolen! It
could not all have been Mr. Townsend!" Barbara sat with her hands
clenched.
"If it is true," she went on, "and I saw the necklace disappear with my
own eyes, then we have another Raffles to deal with. Mr. Raffles, the
second! I believe I am the only person that suspects him. Well, Mr.
Harry Townsend!" Barbara's red lips tightened, "you are successful now,
but we shall see whose wits are better, yours or mine!"
Barbara's face turned a deep crimson. "I understood. He wanted to
suggest I was the thief. Only he didn't dare to accuse me openly the
other night. I won't tell mother," Barbara at last decided. "I'll just
watch--and wait!"
Barbara wrote her mother a long, happy letter, without a hint of the
troubles she began to feel closing in on her. Then she straightened her
own and Mollie's bureau drawers and arranged their clothes in the two
closets. Still Ruth did not come.
Twice Barbara went into her room. It was half past five--six--Mrs. Ewing's
early dinner was served at half after six.
"Mrs. Ewing," Barbara said, knocking timidly at her door. "Have you seen
anything of Ruth? She has been gone such a long time that I am worried
about her."
But Mrs. Ewing knew nothing of her.
"I believe I'll go to meet her," said Barbara, "and hurry her along. She
must be on her way home." Ralph was on the yacht with Hugh, or Barbara
would have asked him to accompany her.
For the first half mile along the cliff walk Barbara strolled slowly,
expecting every moment to see Ruth hurrying along. As the walk dipped
down into hollows and rose again in the high places, it was difficult to
see any distance ahead.
The walk was entirely deserted, and Bab's heart commenced to beat faster
as the darkness began to gather.
"I suppose," thought Barbara, "Ruth has gone somewhere to make a visit,
and has stayed late without thinking. She's probably at home, now,
waiting for me, so I'll get the scolding from Mrs. Ewing for being late
to dinner. I believe I'll go on back home." Barbara actually turned and
started in the opposite direction.
Something within her seemed to call: "Bab! Bab!" The voice was so urgent
she was frightened. "Ruth needs you," it seemed to say.
Bab began calling aloud, "Ruth! Ruth!" Her voice sounded high and shrill
in her own ears; but only the echo answered her, and the noise of the
waves pounding against the shore. She could see the distant lights in
the houses along the way, but Barbara dared not stop to ask for help
while that inner voice urged her on.
Barbara was running, now, along the narrow, difficult path. "O Ruth,
dear Ruth!" she cried. "Why don't you answer me? Are you anywhere,
needing me?" She heard a low sound and stopped. Nothing but her own
imagination! There were always queer noises along the cliff shore, where
the water swirled into little eddies and gurgled out again.
Barbara waited. She heard nothing more, so she plunged on. Suddenly she
drew back with a gasp of horror. Part of the cliff walk had disappeared!
Where a bridge of stone had spanned a narrow chasm there was a terrible,
yawning hole. Jutting out their vicious arms were rocks, rocks, forming
a sheer drop of seventy feet to the beach below.
Involuntarily, Barbara had flung herself down on her hands and knees to
keep from falling over into the abyss.
"Ruth couldn't have," she thought. "No, no!" But hark! Was that again
the low moaning sound of the waters? Barbara lay flat on the rocks,
stretching her head over the embankment. There, in a cleft between two
great rocks, fifteen feet below her, a dark object hung!
"Ruth! Ruth!" Bab called, her voice coming from her throat in a hoarse
cry. Again she heard the faint moan. This time she knew the sound. It
was Ruth! What could she do? Run for help? Any second, Bab realized,
Ruth's strength might fail, and she would let go her grasp. Barbara
could not bear to think of the horrible end.
As far as she could see, Ruth's feet rested on a narrow ledge of rock,
while she clung with her hands to a cliff that jutted out overhead.
"Ruth! Ruth!" Barbara called again, but this time her voice was clear
and strong. "It is Bab! Do you understand? Hold on a little longer. I am
coming."
Swiftly a prayer came into Barbara's mind: "Lord, show me the way." Yet
even while she prayed she acted. "Help, help!" Bab called out.
[Illustration: Barbara Lay Flat on the Rocks.]
She tore off the long woolen shawl which she had wrapped round her when
she came out to seek Ruth. With hands that seemed to gain a superhuman
strength Bab tore it into three, four strips. She dared not make the
strips narrower for fear they would not hold. Then she took off her
skirt of light wool and wrenched it into broad bands. How, Barbara never
knew. She felt that the power was given her.
Growing out from a rock between Bab and the moaning figure on the cliff
below was a small tree, its roots deeply imbedded in the hard soil. Ruth
had evidently reached out to grasp this tree as the cliff bridge gave
way beneath her feet; but, missing it, her feet had touched a ledge of
rock and she had flung out her arms and clasped the stone above her. How
much longer would her failing strength serve her?
Bab again lay down and measured the length of her queer rope. She found
that by reaching the tree she could tie the rope to it and it would then
be long enough to extend to Ruth. Removing her shoes, Barbara slowly,
and with infinite caution, crawled down the jagged rocks, clinging with
her hands and toes. Finally she arrived at the tree, and fastened her
rope securely around it, only to find it dangled just above Ruth's head.
Yet what was the use? If Ruth for an instant let go the rock to which
she clung her feet would slip from the ledge, and Bab's poor woolen
strings could never hold her.
But Barbara understood this. She was face to face with the great moment
of her life, and, though she was only a simple country girl, neither her
brains nor her strength failed her.
Did she stop at the tree after the rope was tied? No! Still clinging,
sliding, her hands bruised and bleeding, Barbara was making her way to
where Ruth hung. Bab had said truly that she could climb. Never had a
girl a better opportunity to prove her boast! There were moments when
she believed she could not go on. Then the thought of Ruth renewed her
courage.
Just above Ruth's head, on the left side of her, was a great boulder
with a curved, smooth surface. It was to this rock Bab made her way. She
was so close to Ruth now that she could lean over and touch her.
"Courage, dear," she whispered, and she thought she saw Ruth's pale lips
smile. She had not fainted; for this, Barbara was grateful.
When Barbara was a little girl her mother had been ashamed of her tomboy
ways; but she had given in, with a gentle sigh, when Bab grew and
flourished by playing boys' games, by learning various boyish arts;
among them was the knack of tying a sailor knot.
Edging closer and closer to Ruth she managed to reach out and catch hold
of the rope she had fastened to the tree. With one hand on her own rock,
with the other she drew the cord about Ruth, fastening it firmly under
her arms. The rope was not strong enough to draw Ruth up to safety, but
it would steady her should her hands give way.
Somehow, in some way, Barbara must get further help.
Now that her first duty was over, she began to call loudly: "Help,
help!" Her shouts roused Ruth, who joined feebly in the cry. No sound
answered them. Only the seagulls swept over them, uttering their hoarse
call.
Barbara felt her own strength going. She tried to crawl up the slippery
rock again, but her power was gone. She, too, felt herself--slipping,
slipping! With one wild cry she caught at her rock, and all was still!