THE CAMP ON THE BEACH
Sunset of the day that had dawned so strangely and wonderfully for
those two wayfarers of earth, James and Agatha, fell on a little camp
near the spit of coast-land toward which they had struggled. The point
lifted itself abruptly into a rocky bank which curved in and out,
yielding to the besieging waves. Just here had been formed a little
sandy cove partly protected by the beetling cliff. At the top was
verdure in abundance. Vines hung down over the face of the wall,
coarse grasses and underbrush grew to its very edge, and sharp-pointed
fir trees etched themselves against the clear blue of the sky. Below,
the white sand formed a sickle-shaped beach, bordered by the rocky
wall, with its sharp point dipping far out to sea. High up on the sand
a small rowboat was beached. There was no path visible up from the
shingle, but it was evident that the ascent would be easy enough.
Nevertheless, the campers did not attempt it. Instead, they had made a
fire of driftwood on the sand out of reach of the highest tide. Near
the fire they had spread fir boughs, and on this fragrant couch James
was lying. He was all unconscious, apparently, of the primitive nature
of his surroundings, the sweetness of his balsam bed, and the watchful
care of his two nurses.
Jim was in a bad way, if one could trust the remarks of his male nurse,
who spoke to an invisible companion as he gathered chips and other bits
of wood from the beach. He was a young, businesslike fellow with a
clean, wholesome face, dressed only in gauze shirt, trousers, and boots
without stockings; this lack, of course, was not immediately apparent.
The tide had just turned after the ebb, and he went far down over the
wet sand, sometimes climbing over the rocks farther along the shore
until he was out of sight of the camp.
Returning from one of these excursions, which had been a bit longer
than he intended, he looked anxiously toward the fire before depositing
his armful of driftwood. The blaze had died down, but a good bed of
coals remained; and upon this the young man expertly built up a new
fire. It crackled and blazed into life, throwing a ruddy glow over the
shingle, the rocks behind, and the figure lying on the balsam couch.
James's face was waxen in its paleness, save for two fiery spots on his
cheeks; and as he lay he stirred constantly in a feverish unrest. His
bare feet were nearest the fire; his blue woollen trousers and shirt
were only partly visible, being somewhat covered by a man's tweed coat.
The fire lighted up, also, the figure of Agatha Redmond. She was
kneeling at the farther end of Jim's couch, laying a white cloth, which
had been wet, over his temples. Her long dark hair was hanging just as
it had dried, except that it was tied together low in the back with a
string of slippery seaweed. Her neck was bare, her feet also; her
loose blouse had lost all semblance of a made-to-order garment, but it
still covered her; while a petticoat that had once been black satin
hung in stiff, salt-dried creases from her waist to a little below her
knees. She had the well-set head and good shoulders, with deep chest,
which make any garb becoming; her face was bonny, even now, clouded as
it was with anxiety and fatigue. She greeted the young man eagerly on
his return.
"If you could only find a little more fresh water, I am sure it would
help. The milk was good, only he would take so little. I think I
shall have to let you go this evening to hunt for the farm-house."
"Yes, Mademoiselle," the young man replied. He had wanted to go
earlier in the day, but the man was too ill and the woman too exhausted
to be left alone. He went on speaking slowly, after a pause. "I can
find the farm-house, I am sure, only it may take a little time.
Following the cattle would have been the quickest way; but I can find
the cowpath soon, even as it is. If you wouldn't be uneasy with me
gone, Mademoiselle!"
"Oh, no, we shall be all right now, till you can get back!" As she
spoke, Agatha's eyes rested questioningly on the youth who, ever since
she had revived from her faint of exhaustion, had teased her memory.
He had seen them struggling in the sea, and had swum out to her aid,
she knew; and after leaving her lying on a slimy, seaweed-covered rock,
he had gone out again and brought in her companion in a far worse
condition than herself. The young man, also, was a survivor of the
_Jeanne D'Arc_, having come from the disabled craft in the tiny rowboat
that was now on the beach. More than this she did not know, yet
something jogged her memory every now and then--something that would
not shape itself definitely. Indeed, she had been too much engrossed
in the serious condition of her companion and the work necessary to
make the camp, to spend any thought on unimportant speculations.
But now, as she listened to the youth's respectful tones, it suddenly
came back to her. She looked at him with awe-struck eyes.
"Oh, now I know! You are the new chauffeur; 'queer name, Hand!' Yes,
I remember--I remember."
"What you say is true, Mademoiselle."
He stood before her, a stubbornly submissive look on his face, as a
servant might stand before his betrayed master. It was as if he had
been waiting for that moment, waiting for her anger to fall on him.
But Agatha was speechless at her growing wonder at the trick fate had
played them. Her steady gaze, serious and earnest now, without a hint
of the laughter that usually came so easily, dwelt on the young man's
eyes for a moment, then she turned away as if she were giving up a
puzzling question. She looked at James, whose stubbly-bearded face was
now quiet against its green pillow, as if seeking a solution there; but
she had to fall back, at last, on the youth.
"Do you know who this man is?" she asked irrelevantly.
"No, Mademoiselle. He was picked up in New York harbor, the night we
weighed anchor. I have not seen him since until to-day."
"'The night we weighed anchor!' What night was that?"
"Last Monday, Mademoiselle; at about six bells."
"And what day is to-day?"
"Saturday, Mademoiselle; and past four bells now."
"Monday--Saturday!" Agatha looked abstractedly down on Jimmy asleep,
while upon her mind crowded the memories of that week. This man who
had dragged her and her rescuer from the water, who had made fire and a
bed for them, who had got milk for their sustenance, had been almost
the last person her conscious eyes had seen in that half-hour of terror
on the hillside. Her next memory, after an untold interval, was the
rocking of the ship, an old woman who treated her obsequiously, a man
who was her servile attendant and yet her jailer--but then, suddenly,
as she knelt there, mind and body refused their service. She crumpled
down on the soft sand, burying her head in her arms.
Hand came nearer and bent awkwardly over her, as if to coax her
confidence.
"It's all right now, Mademoiselle. Whatever you think of me, you can
trust me to do my best for you now."
"Oh, I'm not afraid of you now," Agatha moaned in a muffled voice.
"Only I'm so puzzled by it all--and so tired!"
"'Twas a fearful strain, Mademoiselle. But I can make you a bed here,
so you can sleep."
Agatha shook her head. "I can sleep on the sand, just as well."
"I think, Mademoiselle, I'd better be going above and look for help
from the village, as soon as I've supplied the fire. I'll leave these
few matches, too, in case you need them."
"Yes, you'd better go, Hand; and wait a minute, until I think it out."
Agatha sat up and pressed her palm to her forehead, straining to put
her mind upon the problem at hand. "Go for a doctor first, Hand; then,
if you can, get some food--bread and meat; and, for pity's sake, a
cloak or long coat of some kind. Then find out where we are, what the
nearest town is, and if a telegraph station is near. And stay; have
you any money?"
"A little, Mademoiselle; between nine and ten dollars."
"That is good; it will serve for a little while. Please spend it for
me; I will pay you. As soon as we can get to a telegraph station I can
get more. Get the things, as I have said; and then arrange, if you
can, for a carriage and another man, besides yourself and the doctor,
to come down as near this point as possible. You two can carry
him"--she looked wistfully at James--"to the carriage, wherever it is
able to meet us. But you will need to spend money to get all these
things; especially if you get them to-night, as I hope you may."
"I will try, Mademoiselle." The ex-chauffeur stood hesitating,
however. At last, "I hate to leave you here alone, with only a sick
man, and night coming on," he said.
"You need not be afraid for me," replied Agatha coldly. Her nerves had
given way, now that the need for active exertion was past, and were
almost at the breaking point. It came back to her again, moreover, how
this man and another had made her a prisoner in the motor-car, and at
the moment she felt foolish in trusting to him for further help. It
came into her mind that he was only seeking an excuse to run away, in
fear of being arrested later. A second time she looked up into his
eyes with her serious, questioning gaze.
"I don't know why you were in the plot to do as you did--last Monday
afternoon," she said slowly; "but whatever it was, it was unworthy of
you. You are not by nature a criminal and a stealer of women, I know.
And you have been kind and brave to-day; I shall never forget that. Do
you really mean now to stay by me?"
Hand's gaze was no less earnest than her own; and though he flinched at
"criminal," his eyes met hers steadily.
"As long as I can help you, Mademoiselle, I will do so."
At his words, spoken with sincerity, Agatha's spirit, tired and
overwrought as it was, rose for an instant to its old-time buoyancy.
She smiled at him.
"You mean it?" she asked. "Honest true, cross your heart?"
Hand's businesslike features relaxed a little. "Honest true, cross my
heart!" he repeated.
"All right," said Agatha, almost cheerfully. "And now you must go,
before it gets any darker. Don't try to return in the night, at the
risk of losing your way. But come as soon as you can after daylight;
and remember, I trust to you! Good-by."
Hand already, earlier in the day, had made a path for himself up the
steep bank through the underbrush, and now Agatha went with him to the
edge of the thicket. She watched and listened until the faint rustling
of his footsteps ceased, then turned back to the camp on the beach.
She went to the fire and stirred up its coals once more before
returning to James. He was sleeping, but his flushed face and
unnatural breathing were signs of ill. Now and then he moved
restlessly, or seemed to try to speak, but no coherent words came. She
sat down to watch by him.
After Agatha and James had been brought ashore by the capable Mr. Hand,
it had needed only time to bring Agatha back to consciousness. Both
she and James had practically fainted from exhaustion, and James had
been nearly drowned, at the last minute. Agatha had been left on the
rocks to come to herself as she would, while Hand had rubbed and
pummeled and shaken James until the blood flowed again. It had flowed
too freely, indeed, at some time during his ordeal; and tiny trickles
of blood showed on his lips. Agatha, dazed and aching, was trying to
crawl up to the sand when Hand came back to her, running lightly over
the slippery rocks. They had come in on the flowing tide, which had
aided them greatly; and now Hand helped her the short distance to the
cove and mercifully let her lie, while he went back to his work for
James.
Later he had got a little bucket, used for bailing out the rowboat, and
dashed hurriedly into the thicket above after some tinkling cowbells.
Though she was too tired to question him, Agatha supposed he had tied
one of the cows to a tree, since he returned three or four times to
fill the pail. What a wonderful life-giver the milk was! She had
drunk her fill and had tried to feed it to James, who at first tasted
eagerly, but had, on the whole, taken very little. He was only partly
awake, but he shivered and weakly murmured that he was cold. Agatha
quickly grew stronger; and she and Hand set to work to prepare the fire
and the bed. Almost while they were at this labor, the sun had gone
down.
Sitting by Jim's couch, Agatha grew sleepy and cold, but there were no
more coverings. Hand's coat was over Jim, and as Agatha herself felt
the cold more keenly she tucked it closer about him. Alone as she was
now, in solitude with this man who had saved her from the waters, with
darkness and the night again coming on, her spirit shrank; not so much
from fear, as from that premonition of the future which now and then
assails the human heart.
As she knelt by Jim's side, covering his feet with the coat and heaping
the fir boughs over him, she paused to look at his unconscious face.
She knew now that he did not belong to the crew of the _Jeanne D'Arc_;
but of his outward circumstances she knew nothing more. Thirty she
guessed him to be, thereby coming within four years of the truth. His
short mustache concealed his mouth, and his eyes were closed. It was
almost like looking at the mask of a face. The rough beard of a week's
growth made a deep shadow over the lower part of his face; and yet,
behind the mask, she thought she could see some token of the real man,
not without his attributes of divinity. In the ordeal of the night
before he had shown the highest order of patience, endurance and
courage, together with a sweetness of temper that was itself lovable.
But beyond this, what sort of man was he? Agatha could not tell. She
had seen many men of many types, and perhaps she recognized James as
belonging to a type; but if so, it was the type that stands for the
best of New England stock. In the centuries back it may have brought
forth fanatics and extremists; at times it may have built up its narrow
walls of prejudice and pride; but at the core it was sound and manly,
and responsive to the call of the spirit.
Something of all this passed through Agatha's mind, as she tried to
read Jim's face; then, as he stirred uneasily and tried to throw off
the light boughs that she had spread over him, she got up and went to
the edge of the water to moisten afresh the bandage for his forehead.
Involuntarily she shuddered at sight of the dark water, though the
lapping waves, pushing up farther and farther with the incoming tide,
were gentle enough to soothe a child.
She hurried back to Jim's couch and laid the cooling compress across
his forehead. The balsam boughs about them breathed their fragrance on
the night air, and the pleasant gloom rested their tired eyes.
Gradually he quieted down again; his restlessness ceased. The long
twilight deepened into darkness, or rather into that thin luminous blue
shade which is the darkness of starlit summer nights. The sea washed
the beach with its murmuring caress; somewhere in the thicket above a
night-bird called.
In a cranny of the rocks Agatha hollowed out the sand, still warm
beneath the surface here where the sun had lain on it through long
summer days, and made for herself a bed and coverlet and pillow all at
once. With the sand piled around and over her, she could not really
suffer; and she was mortally tired.
She looked up toward the clear stars, Vega and the jeweled cross almost
in the zenith, and ruddy Antares in the body of the shining Scorpion.
They were watching her, she thought, to-night in her peace as they had
watched her last night in her struggle, and as they would watch after
all her days and nights were done. And then she thought no more.
Sleep, blessed gift, descended upon her.