For a long while, seated on either side of the slumbering puppy, they
remained silent, in fascinated contemplation of what they had rescued.
Finally Gray said slowly: "It may seem odd to you that I should be so
firm and uncompromising concerning my right to a very small dog which
may be duplicated in the North for a few dollars."
She lifted her brown eyes to his, then let them fall again on the dog.
"The reason is this," said Gray. "The native dogs I dislike intensely.
Dogs imported from the North soon die in this region. But this little
pup was evidently born on shipboard and on tropical seas. I think he's
very likely to survive the climate. And as I am obliged to reside here
for a while, and as I am to live all alone, this pup is a godsend to
me."
The girl, still resting her eyes on the sleeping puppy, said very
quietly:
"I do not desire to appear selfish, but a girl is twice as lonely as a
man. And as I fortunately first discovered the dog it seems to me
absolutely right and just that I should keep him."
Gray sat pouring sand through his fingers and casting an occasional
oblique glance at the girl. She was not sunburned, so she must be a
recent arrival. She spoke with a northern accent, which determined her
origin.
_What_ was she doing down here on this absurd island? Why didn't she go
back to St. Augustine where she belonged?
"You know," he said craftily, "I can buy a very nice little dog indeed
for you in St. Augustine."
"I am not stopping in St. Augustine. Besides, there are only horrid
little lap-dogs there."
"Don't you like lap-dogs--Pomms, Pekinese, Maltese?" he inquired
persuasively.
"No."
"You are unlike the majority of girls then. What sort of dog do you
like?"
"Setters," she explained with decision.
And as he bit his lip in annoyed silence she added:
"Setter puppies are what I adore."
"I'm sorry," he said bluntly.
She added, not heeding his observation: "I am mad about setter puppies,
particularly English setter puppies. And when I try to realise that I
discovered a shipwrecked one all by myself, and rescued it, I can
scarcely believe in such an adorable miracle."
It was on the tip of his tongue to offer to purchase the pup, but a
quick glance at the girl checked him. She was evidently perfectly
sincere, and the quality of her was unmistakable.
Already, within these few minutes, her skin had begun to burn a delicate
rose tint from the sun's fierce reflection on the white sands. Her hair
was a splendid golden brown, her eyes darker, or perhaps the long, dark
lashes made them seem so. She was daintily and prettily made, head,
throat, shoulders, and limbs; she wore a summer gown so waistless and
limp that it conformed to the corsetless fashions in vogue, making
evident here and there the contours of her slim and supple figure.
From the tip of her white shoe to the tip of her hat she was the futile
and exquisite essence of Gotham.
Gray realised it because he lived there himself. But he could not
understand where all her determination and obstinacy came from, for she
seemed so young and inexperienced, and there was about her a childish
dewiness of eye and lip that suggested a blossom's fragrance.
She was very lovely; and that was all very well in its way, but Gray had
come down there on stern business, and how long his business might last,
and how long he was to inhabit a palmetto bungalow above the coquina
quarry he did not know. The coquina quarry was as hot as the infernal
pit. Also, snakes frequented it.
No black servant--promised him faithfully in St. Augustine the day
before--had yet arrived. A few supplies had been sent over from St.
Augustine, and he was camping in his little house of logs, along with
wood-ticks, blue lizards, white ants, gophers, hornets, and several
chestnut-colored scorpions.
"I wouldn't mind yielding the dog to you," he admitted, "if I were not
so horribly lonely on this miserable island. When evening comes, _you_
will go back to luxury and comfort somewhere or other, with dinner
awaiting you and servants to do everything, and a nice bed to retire to.
That's a pleasant picture, isn't it?"
"Very," she replied, with a slight shrug.
"Now," he said, "please gaze mentally upon this other picture. _I_ am
obliged to go back to a shack haunted by every species of creature that
this wretched island harbours.
"There will be no dinner for me except what I can scoop out of a tin; no
servants to do one bally thing for me; no bed.
"Listen attentively," he continued, becoming slightly dramatic as he
remembered more clearly the horrors of the preceding night--his first on
Ibis Island. "I shall go into that devilish bungalow and look around
like a scared dog, standing very carefully in the exact centre of the
room. And what will be the first object that my unwilling eyes
encounter? A scorpion! Perhaps two, crawling out from the Spanish moss
with which the chinks of that miserable abode are stuffed. I shall slay
it--or _them_--as the case may be. Then a blue-tailed lizard will frisk
over the ceiling--or perhaps one of those big, heavy ones with blunt,
red heads. Doubtless at that same instant I shall discover a wood-tick
advancing up one of my trousers' legs. Spiders will begin to move across
the walls. Perhaps a snake or two will then develop from some shadowy
corner."
He waved his arm impressively and pointed at the sleeping puppy.
"Under such circumstances," he said pathetically, "would you care to
deprive me of this little companion sent by Providence for me to rescue
out of the sea?"
She, too, had been steadily pouring sand between her white fingers
during the moving recital of his woes. Now she looked up, controlling a
shudder.
"Your circumstances, with all their attendant horrors, are my own," she
began. "I, also, since last night, inhabit a picturesque but most horrid
bungalow not very far from here; and every one of the creatures you
describe, and several others also, inhabit it with me. Do you wonder I
want _some_ companionship? Do you wonder that I am inclined to cling to
this little dog--whether or not it may seem ill bred and selfish to
you?"
He said: "I suppose all the houses in this latitude harbour tarantulas,
centipedes, and similar things, but you must remember that you do not
live alone as I do----"
"Yes, I do!"
"What?"
"Certainly. I engaged two black servants in St. Augustine, but they have
not arrived, and I was obliged to remain all alone in that frightful
place last night."
"That's very odd," he said uneasily. "Where _is_ this bungalow of
yours?"
She started to speak, checked herself as at a sudden and unpleasant
thought, looked up at him searchingly; and found his steel-grey eyes as
searchingly fixed on her.
"Where is _your_ bungalow?" she asked, watching him intently.
"Mine is situated at the west end of a coquina quarry. Where is yours?"
"Mine," she answered unsteadily but defiantly, "is situated on the
eastern edge of a coquina quarry."
"Why did _you_ choose a quarry bungalow?"
"Why did _you_ choose one?"
"Because the coquina quarry happens to belong to me."
"The quarry," she retorted, "belongs to _me_."
He was almost too disgusted to speak, but he contrived to say, quietly
and civilly:
"You are Constance Leslie, are you not?"
"Yes.... You are Johnson Gray?"
"Yes, I am," he answered, checking his exasperation and forcing a smile.
"It's rather odd, isn't it--rather unfortunate, I'm afraid."
"It _is_ unfortunate for you, Mr. Gray," she returned firmly. "I'm
sorry--really sorry that this long journey is in vain."
"So am I," he said, with lips compressed.
For a few moments they sat very still, not looking at each other.
Presently he said: "It was a fool of a will. He was a most disagreeable
old man."
"_I_ never saw him."
"Nor I. They say he was a terror. But he had a sense of humour--a grim
and acrid one--the cynic's idea of wit. No doubt he enjoyed it. No doubt
he is enjoying this very scene between you and me--if he's anywhere
within sight or hearing----"
"Don't say that!" she exclaimed, almost violently. "It is horrible
enough on this island without hinting of ghosts."
"Ghosts? Of course there are ghosts. But I'd rather have my bungalow
full of 'em than full of scorpions."
"We differ," she said coldly.
Silence fell again, and again was broken by Gray.
"Certainly the old fellow had a sense of humour," he insisted; "the will
he left was one huge joke on every relative who had expectations.
Imagine all that buzzard family of his who got nothing to amount to
anything; and all those distant relatives who expected nothing and got
almost everything!"
"Do you think that was humourous?"
"Yes; don't you? And I think what he did about you and me was really
very funny. Don't you?"
"Why is it funny for a very horrid old man to make a will full of grim
jokes and jests, and take that occasion to tell everybody exactly what
he thinks of everybody?"
"He said nothing disagreeable about _us_ that I recollect," remarked
Gray, laughing.
Pouring sand between her fingers, she said:
"I remember very well how he mentioned us. He said that he had never
seen either one of us, and was glad of it. He said that as I was an
orphan with no money, and that as you were similarly situated, and that
as neither you nor I had brains enough to ever make any, he would leave
his coquina quarry to that one of us who had brains enough to get here
first and stake the claim. Do you call that an agreeable manner of
making a bequest?"
Gray laughed easily: "_I_ don't care what he thought about my
intellectual capacity."
"I suppose that I don't either. And anyway the bequest may be valuable."
"There is no doubt about that," said Gray.
She let her brown eyes rest thoughtfully on the ocean.
"I think," she said, "that I shall dispose of it at once."
"The dog?" he asked politely.
Her pretty, hostile eyes met his:
"The quarry," she replied calmly.
"Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "Do you think also that _you_ arrived at the
quarry before I arrived?"
"You will find my stake with its written notice sticking in the sand on
the eastern edge of the quarry, about a hundred yards south of my
bungalow!"
"_My_ notice is very carefully staked on the western edge of the quarry
about the same distance from my bungalow," he said. "I placed it there
yesterday evening."
"I also placed my notice there yesterday evening!"
"By what train did you come?"
"By the Verbena Special. It arrived at St. Augustine yesterday at four
o'clock in the afternoon."
"_I_ also came on that train."
"I," she said, "waited in St. Augustine only long enough to telephone
for servants, and then I jumped into a victoria and drove over the
causeway to the eastern end of the quarry."
"I did exactly the same," he insisted, "only I drove to the western end
of the quarry. What time did you set your notice?"
"I don't know exactly. It was just about dusk."
"It was just about dusk when I drove in _my_ stake!"
After a moment's idling in the sand with her slim fingers, she looked up
at him a trifle pale.
"I suppose this means a lawsuit."
"I'm afraid it does."
"I'm sorry. If I wasn't in such desperate need of money----" But she
said no more, and he also remained silent for a while. Then:
"I shall write to my attorney to come down," he said soberly. "You had
better do the same this evening."
She nodded.
"It's got to be settled, of course," he continued; "because I'm too poor
to concede the quarry to you."
"It is that way with me also. I do not like to appear so selfish to
you, but what am I to do, Mr. Gray?"
"What am _I_ to do? I honestly believe that I staked the quarry before
you did.... And my financial situation does not permit me to relinquish
my claim on the quarry."
"What a horrid will that was!" she exclaimed, the quick tears of
vexation springing into her brown eyes. "If you knew how hard I've
worked, Mr. Gray--all these years having nothing that other girls
have--being obliged to work my way through college, and then take a
position as governess--and just as it seemed that relief was in
sight--_you_ come into sight!--you!--and you even try to take away my
little dog--the only thing I--I ever really cared for since I have--have
been alone in the world----"
Gray sprang up nervously: "I'm sorry--terribly sorry for you! You may
keep the dog anyway."
She had turned away her face sharply as the quick tears started. Now she
looked around at him in unfeigned surprise.
"But--what will _you_ do?"
"Oh, I can stand being alone. I don't mind. There's no doubt about it;
you must have the dog----" He glanced down at the little creature and
caught his breath sharply as the puppy opened one eye and wagged its
absurd tail feebly.
The girl rose lightly and gracefully from the sand, refusing his
assistance, and stood looking down at the puppy. The little thing was on
its clumsy feet, wagging and wriggling with happiness, and gazing up
adoringly from Gray to Constance Leslie.
The girl looked at the dog, then at Gray.
"It--it seems too cruel," she said. "I can't bear to take him away from
you."
"Oh, that's all right. I'll get on very well alone."
"You are generous. You are very generous. But after the way you
expressed yourself concerning the dog, I don't feel that I can possibly
take him."
"You really must. I don't blame you at all for falling in love with him.
Besides, one adores what one rescues, above everything in the world."
"But--but I thought that you thought _you_ had rescued him?" she
faltered.
"It was a close call. I think perhaps that you arrived just a fraction
of a second sooner than I did."
"Do you really? Or do you say that to be kind? Besides, I am not at all
sure. It is perfectly possible--even, perhaps, probable that you saw
him before I did."
"No, I don't think so. I think he's your dog, Miss Leslie. I surrender
all claim to him----"
"No! I can not permit you to do such a thing! Forgive me. I was excited
and a little vexed.... I know you would be very unhappy if I took the
little thing----"
"Please take him. I do love him already, but that is why it gives me a
p-p-peculiar pleasure to relinquish all claims in y-your favour."
"Thank you. It is--is charming of you--exceedingly nice of you--but how
can I accept such a real sacrifice?... You would be perfectly wretched
to-night without him."
"So would you, Miss Leslie."
"I shall be wretched anyway. So it doesn't really matter."
"It _does_ matter! If this little dog can alleviate your unhappiness in
the slightest degree, I insist most firmly that you take him!"
The girl stood irresolute, lifted her brown eyes to his, lowered them,
and gazed longingly at the puppy.
"Do you suppose he will follow me?"
"Try!"
So she walked one way and Gray started in the opposite direction, and
the bewildered puppy, who at first supposed it was all in play, dashed
from one back to the other, until the widening distance between them
perplexed and finally began to trouble him.
Nevertheless, he continued to run back and forth from Gray to Constance
Leslie as long as his rather wavering legs held out. Then, unable to
decide, he stood panting midway between them, whining at moments, until,
unable to understand or endure the spectacle of his two best beloveds
vanishing in opposite directions, he put up his nose and howled.
Then both best beloveds came back running, and Constance snatched him to
her breast and covered him with caresses.
"What on earth are we to do?" she said in consternation. "We nearly
broke his heart that time."
"_I_ don't know what to do," he admitted, much perplexed. "This pup
seems to be impartial in his new-born affections."
"I thought," she said, with an admirable effort at self-denial, "that he
rather showed a preference for _you_!"
"Why?"
"Because when he was sitting there howling his little heart out, he
seemed to look toward you a little oftener than he gazed in my
direction."
Gray rose nobly to the self-effacing level of his generous adversary:
"No, the balance was, if anything, in your favour. I'm very certain that
he will be happier with you. T-take him!"
The girl buried her pretty face in the puppy's coat as though it had
been a fluffy muff.
"What a pity," she said, in a muffled voice, "that he is compelled to
make a choice. It will break his heart; I know it will. He is too
young."
"He'll very soon forget me, once he is alone with you in your bungalow."
The girl shook her head and stood caressing the puppy. The soft, white
hand, resting on the dog's head, fascinated Gray.
"Perhaps," he ventured, "I had better walk as far as your bungalow with
you.... It may spare the dog a certain amount of superficial anguish."
She nodded, dreamy-eyed there in the sunshine. And of what she might be
thinking he could form no idea.