A PLEA FOR JUSTICE
Stuart was not surprised to receive notice from Bivens's lawyers that
they would demand sentence on Woodman within two days.
The financier was present with two great lawyers who smilingly assured
him that he need have no fear as to the result. Yet the little man was
uneasy. He fidgeted in his seat and watched Stuart's calm serious face
with dread.
"Don't worry," the senior counsel assured him with confidence. "The old
Recorder is a terror to every criminal in New York. Stuart's plea can
only be a formal request for mercy, which he will not get."
In spite of all assurance, Bivens's nervousness increased as the hour
drew near for the case to be called. He looked at his watch, fuming
over the fact that Nan was late. He wished her to see Stuart and find
out what he had up his sleeve. A woman could do such tricks better than
a man. He looked out the window anxiously, and saw the flash of his big
French limousine rounding the corner. He hurried to the steps to meet
his wife.
"Nan, for heaven's sake see Jim before this case is called and find out
what he's going to say to that judge."
"I'll do my best. I'll send my card in and ask him to see me at once."
"Good. When he returns to the court room wait, and I'll come out."
Bivens went back to his seat beside his lawyers and watched the court
officer speak to Stuart.
He frowned and hesitated, rose and slowly followed the man through the
door.
Nan seized his hand.
"Oh, Jim, I'm so worried. Cal says you are going to make a desperate
fight against him this morning in this disgusting affair. Is it so?"
"I'm going to make the usual plea for mercy for an old broken man--my
friend."
"But will it be the usual plea?"
"I'm not going to mince words. I'm going to fight for his life as I
would for my own."
The woman drew close, so close he could feel her breath on his cheek as
she whispered, earnestly:
"Please, don't do or say anything to-day to cause a break. I couldn't
endure it. You don't know how much your friendship means to me."
"You can never lose that again, Nan," he answered, simply.
"But I must see you. Your visits are the brightest spots in my life. A
break with him now would plunge me into abject misery. What are you
going to say? Are you going to attack Cal? You don't have to do that,
Jim! Promise me you won't, for my sake, if you care nothing for the
brilliant future that is just opening before you. You do care something
for me in spite of all the wrong I have done you in the past."
The young lawyer remained silent.
"Promise me," she pleaded tenderly, a tear stealing into her dark eyes.
"I'm going to do my level best for my old friend, Nan," he answered
with dogged determination. "You needn't worry about your husband. He
has the hide of a rhinoceros and nothing I can say will get under his
skin."
"But that's just the trouble, Jim, it will. If any other man said it,
no; but from you it will cut deeper than you can realize. You are the
one man who can hurt him beyond forgiveness, because you're the one man
on earth for whom he really cares."
"It will be all right, Nan. Men know how to give and take hard knocks
and still be friends. We challenged each other to this duel when there
was no other way."
"I never saw him so bent on any one thing in my life. His hatred of
Woodman is a mania."
"I'm sorry--I'm fighting for my old friend's life. He wouldn't live in
a prison a year. And I'm fighting for the life of his little girl who
loves and believes in him as she believes in the goodness of God. If
her father is branded a felon, it will kill her."
Nan tried to speak again and her voice failed. At last she said:
"Well, I'm going to sit where I can look straight into your face and if
you say or do one thing that will destroy our friendship or ruin your
future I shall scream--I know it!"
Stuart smiled and pressed her hand.
"You've too much good sense and self-control for that. I'll risk it.
Now I must hurry. Our case will be called in a few minutes."
He turned abruptly and left her.
In a moment Bivens came out and led his wife to a seat which had been
reserved near his.
One of the things which had increased Bivens's nervousness was the fact
that the judge ignored his presence in the court room. He had been
accustomed to deference from judges. Here was a new thing under the
sun--a judge in an insignificant city court who coolly sat on the bench
before him for an hour, sentencing criminals, and never even glanced in
his direction. Evidently the man didn't know him. It was amazing, this
ignorance of the average New Yorker.
The truth, of course, was the old-fashioned Recorder had not been
trained as a corporation lawyer. He had fought his own way up in
politics from the ranks of the common people. He was a man with red
blood in his veins, a man of intense personal likes and dislikes and a
fearless dispenser of what he believed to be even-handed justice under
the law.
Stuart had based his plan of battle squarely on his knowledge of this
judge's character.
As Bivens listened to the sharp ring of his voice pronouncing sentence
on evil-doers and saw the officer snap his handcuffs on their wrists
his spirits revived. His lawyers were right, after all. Nothing Stuart
could say would affect the mind of such a man.
The young lawyer sat in silence beside the bowed form, awaiting his
case which the judge, at his request, had placed last. As the moment
drew near for the plea his nerve-tension grew intense. Waves of
passionate emotion swept his heart. His imagination began to blaze with
fires of eloquence that had been his birthright from two generations of
great lawyers in the South. Somehow this morning the scene before him
stirred his spirit with unusual power. Every crime apparently on the
calendar had its origin in the lust for money. Every felon sentenced
could have traced his ruin to this curse--thieves, embezzlers,
burglars, a man who had killed his partner in a dispute over money,
grafters, highwaymen, and last of all, two fallen women who had been
amassing a fortune out of the ruin of their sisters.
The figures in the court room grew dim and faded, and out of the mists
of the spirit world his excited fancy saw a crooked Red Shape rise over
all, stretch forth a long bony hand dripping with blood and filth and
begin to throw gold into a black bag. The face was hideous, but a crowd
of worshipful admirers followed eagerly in the footsteps of the Red
Shape, scrambling and fighting for the coins that slipped through the
dripping fingers.
He waked from his day dream with a start, to hear the clerk read in
quick tones:
"The People against Henry Woodman."
The judge looked at the dazed prisoner and said:
"What have you to say, Henry Woodman, why sentence should not be
imposed upon you for the crime of which you stand convicted by your own
plea?"
With a quick movement of his tall figure Stuart was on his feet, every
nerve and muscle strung to the highest tension. His long sinewy hands
were trembling so violently he could scarcely hold the slip of paper
containing the notes he had scrawled for guidance in his address. And
yet when he spoke it was with apparent calmness. Only the deep
tremulous notes of his voice betrayed his emotion.
"May it please your honour," he slowly began, "I wish to establish to
the court before I say anything in behalf of my client, the important
fact that he offered to make full restitution of the property taken,
that he did this voluntarily before he was even suspected of the crime,
and that his offer was refused."
The judge turned to Bivens's lawyers.
"Is this admitted, gentlemen?"
"Without question, your honour," was the instant answer.
The old Recorder lifted his gray eyebrows in surprise, and settled back
into his seat with a low grunt.
"I make the fair inference therefore in the beginning," Stuart went on
evenly, "that the prosecutor in the case, who appears in this court
to-day with an array of distinguished lawyers, whose presence is
unnecessary to serve the ends of justice, is here actuated solely by a
desire for personal vengeance."
Stuart paused and Bivens moved uneasily in his seat.
"I speak to-day, your honour, in behalf of the man who crouches by my
side overwhelmed with shame and grief and conscious dishonour because
he took a paltry package of jewellery from a man who has never added
one penny to the wealth of the world and yet has somehow gotten
possession of one hundred million dollars from those who could not
defend themselves from his strength and cunning. This man stands before
you now with no shame in his soul, no tears on his cheeks, and with
brazen effrontery demands vengeance on a weaker brother.
"Two men are on trial, not one. The majesty of the law has already been
vindicated in the tear-stained plea that has been entered. Between
these two men the court must decide.
"I am not here to defend the crime of theft. The law of property has
long been omnipotent. But I dare to plead with your honour to-day for
the beginning of a new, nobler, higher law of humanity--the law that
shall place man above his chattel. I shall not ask for the mercy of a
light sentence. I am going to appeal to this court for something
bigger, more divine. I am going to ask for justice under the higher law
of man, whose divine code is yet unwritten, but whose day is surely
dawning."
The judge leaned forward with one hand on his cheek, listening intently
to the young lawyer's quivering words. Bivens's face had grown livid
with excitement, and he sat staring helplessly at the speaker.
"Crime, your honour, is in the heart of man, not in the act he
performs. If I shoot at a target, and kill a bystander, the act is not
murder. But if I aim at my enemy and kill my friend I have committed
murder. Out of the heart are the issues of life. Under the laws of
to-day the act of this man is called a crime. Yet who can say that when
we shall have slowly emerged from the era of property into the era of
man, his act may not be called heroic? Morals are relative things. They
are based on the experiences and faith of the generations which express
them. Men were once hanged for daring to express an opinion contrary to
that held by their parish priest. Such men are to-day the leaders of
the world. The proud and cruel silence of ancient Europe has been
succeeded by the universal cry for equal justice. And this rising
chorus of the world is fast swelling into the deep soul conviction
which cries: 'I will not make money out of my brother who is hungry. I
refuse to be happy while my sister weeps in shame. I will not caress my
own child while that of my neighbour starves!'
"I am not excusing crime. I am crying for the equality of man before
the law. The English people beheaded their king because he imposed
taxes without the consent of their parliament.
"The millionaire who demands vengeance against this broken man to-day
has an income greater than the combined crowned heads of Europe and
wields a sceptre mightier than tzar or emperor.
"Why?
"He levies each year millions of taxes without consulting this court,
the legislature or any man who walks the earth. He does this by a
machine for printing paper-tokens of value called stocks. The essence
of theft is to take the property of another without giving a return. A
green goods man sells printed paper for money. This mighty man also
sells printed paper for money. What is the difference? Neither the
green goods, nor the bogus capital called watered stock represents a
dollar in real value. Yet we send the green goods man to the
penitentiary and bow down before the other as a captain of industry!
"A burglar breaks into a store and robs the safe. A mighty man of money
breaks into the management of a corporation which owns an iron mill
employing thousands. He shuts down the plant, throws one hundred
thousand people into want, passes the dividend, drives the stock down
to a few cents on the dollar, buys it for a song from the ruined
holders, starts up the mill again and _makes_ five millions! That is to
say, he broke into a mill and robbed the safe of five millions. We send
the burglar to the penitentiary and hail the manipulator of this stock
as a Napoleon of Finance. I am not justifying crime. I demand the
enforcement of equal justice among men.
"An enraged Italian stabs his enemy to death. The act is murder. This
man corners wheat. Puts up the price of bread a cent a loaf and kills
ten thousand children already half-starved from insufficient food. We
electrocute the Italian and print pictures of the wheat speculator in
our magazines as an example of Success.
"In other words, the theft of five thousand dollars is grand larceny.
The theft of five millions, stained with human blood, is a triumph of
business genius.
"But one answer is heard, 'am I my brother's keeper?'
"The man who asks that question will always kill his brother if the
temptation comes at the right moment.
"A loaf of bread in England costs two and one-half cents. The same loaf
here costs five cents. Who voted to levy a tax of one hundred per cent.
on every man's loaf of bread? Kings were beheaded for less than this.
Why has the cost of living increased to the point of crushing the
average consumer? Because the irresponsible rulers of the people have
piled their bogus debts of printed paper on their backs. The lowest
estimate of this bogus capital of green goods stock is five times the
sum of the National debt. And yet not one of these great thieves has
ever been punished.
"Our brutal ancestors lived by raiding their neighbours. Their armed
bands of hired retainers ravaged, burned, pillaged--the strong against
the weak, the shrewd against the simple, the powerful against the
defenseless. The power of those savages was purely physical. The power
we give to their modern prototype is both physical and moral. They kill
the body and poison the souls of the living. The older savage made
raids for the necessities of life. We permit the raiders to play their
murderous game for the sheer sport of the exercise.
"The man who lives to serve his fellow-man, the artist who creates
beauty, the philosopher who inspires the mind, the statesman who adds a
new law to our social structure, the inventor who conquers nature, the
workingman who incarnates the dreams of thinkers into spiritualized
matter--these men all add to the wealth of the world; but this modern
marauder whom we have enthroned as our ruler everywhere, from everyone,
seizes, tears, and despoils the fruits of toil, and has never added a
penny to the wealth of humanity.
"And what do we find him doing? In the midst of poverty that means
hunger and nakedness, disease and death, we have the shameless
flaunting of insane luxury. And to what purpose? To challenge the envy
of the vain and the foolish, to dazzle the minds of the poor and
inflame the lusts of the criminal.
"Do we believe that such things are the decrees of a just and loving
God who created this world? Slavery, Polygamy, Famine, and Plague were
once universal scourges and accepted as the mysterious ways of God. We
have outgrown them all and created a new and nobler God. We find that
these things are not the results of his law, but the results of the
violation of law."
The speaker paused, drew close to the judge and then in low impassioned
tones told as if he were talking to a father the story of Woodman's
life and the events which drove him to madness on the fatal night of
his crime. In flashes of vivid eloquence he described the magnificent
ball and drew in sombre heart-breaking contrast the desolation and
despair of a proud and sensitive man made desperate by want and ruin,
the man who had given his blood to his country and his daily life in an
unselfish ministry to the homeless and friendless.
"I do not ask of your honour," he cried in ringing tones, "the repeal
of the law against theft--thou shalt not steal! This law, old as the
human race, will be as good a thousand years from to-day as it was a
thousand years ago. I only ask the suspension of its penalty on this
heart-broken man until we can extend it to his oppressors as well,
until its thunder shall also echo through the palaces of the rich--_thou_
shalt not steal!
"The prosecution is enforcing the law, I grant. I appeal to this court
to-day for more than man's law. I ask for divine justice. I ask for a
bigger thing than the law itself--the equality of all men before the
law!
"The possession of millions may not constitute true wealth, but it
always means power over men. The thing which seems to be wealth may be,
'tis true, 'but the gilded index of far-reaching ruin, a wrecker's
handful of coin gleaned from a beach whose false light has beguiled an
argosy, a camp follower's bundle of rags from the breast of goodly
soldier dead, the purchase price of potter's fields', but it still
means the power of life and death over men!
"The man who has fallen was weak and poor. The man who demands his life
is rich and powerful. You are the judge between them. The man who fell
stood alone grappling Death and Hell, fought and lost his battle once.
I appeal, your honour, to the higher law of the soul within you, within
me, within this prisoner, within the breast even of his enemy--through
struggle alone we triumph at last! I ask for a heartbroken man another
chance. I ask this court to suspend all sentence against the poor
bruised and bleeding spirit that lies in tears at our feet to-day."
Stuart suddenly sat down amid a silence that was painful. A woman's sob
at last broke the stillness.
The judge wheeled in his armchair, cleared his throat and looked out of
the window to hide from the crowd a tear that had stolen down his
furrowed cheek.
He turned at length to Bivens's lawyers and quietly asked:
"The State insists on the enforcement of sentence without mercy?"
"Absolutely," was the sharp answer.
"This is your desire, Mr. Bivens?" the judge asked with some severity.
"Yes," the financier fiercely replied.
"And yet you say that you are a Christian--well, see to it--your Master
says:
"'He that saith I love God and hateth his brother is a liar.' Henry
Woodman, stand up!"
"The judgment of this court is that sentence in your case be suspended
so long as you obey the law."
A murmur of applause rippled the crowd, and a muttered oath fell from
Bivens's livid lips.
"And I may say to you, Henry Woodman, that my faith is profound that
you will never appear in this court again. And if you ever need the
help of a friend you'll find one if you come to me. You are a free
man."
Stuart hurried the doctor out of the crowd. He had important work yet
to do. He determined that no story of the scene should ever be printed
in a New York paper. He would save Harriet that, too.
As the court adjourned Bivens cursed his lawyers in a paroxysm of
helpless rage.
"Why didn't you appeal?" he stormed.
"There is no appeal. The case is ended."
"Ended!" The financier gasped.
"Ended."
Bivens suddenly threw his hand to his forehead, staggered and sank to
the floor.
A doctor who was near rushed to his side and lifted his head into his
wife's arms.
"What is it? Has he fainted, doctor?" she whispered, glancing toward
the door through which Stuart had just passed.
"He has had a stroke of paralysis, Madam, I fear," was the serious
answer.
Book 3--The Flower
CHAPTER I
THE DEVIL SMILES
Stuart's appeal to the New York papers in behalf of Harriet was
successful. For a week he bought every morning and evening edition and
read them eagerly. Not a line appeared to darken the life of his little
pal.
Bivens's illness shook the financial world. The men who had professed
his friendship most loudly to his face now sharpened their knives for
his wounded body. Every stock with which his name was linked was the
target of the most savage attacks. The tumbling of values in his
securities carried down the whole market from five to six points in a
single day.
The great palace that had a few nights before blazed with lights and
echoed with music, laughter, song and dance and clinking glasses, stood
dark and silent behind its bristling iron fence.
Of all the fawning crowd that had thronged its portals to drink the
wine and toast the greatness of its master, not one was his friend
to-day. Each sycophant of yesterday was now a wolf prowling in the
shadows, awaiting the chance to tear his wounded body.
Within the darkened palace the doctors were supreme. In his great
library they held consultation after consultation and secretly smiled
when they thought of the figures they would write on his bills. They
disagreed in details, but all agreed on the main conclusion--that the
only hope was that he should quit work and play for several years.
When they made this solemn announcement to Bivens, he smiled for the
first time. It was too good a joke. How could he play? He knew but one
game, the big game of the man-hunt! He told his doctors politely but
firmly that they might go to hell, he would go to Europe and see if
there were doctors over there who knew anything.
The shaking miserable little figure staggered up the gang plank of a
steamer. He made a brave show of strength to the reporters who swarmed
about him for an interview and collapsed in the arms of his wife on
reaching his staterooms.
He had forgotten his resentment on account of Woodman in the presence
of the Great Terror, whose shadow had suddenly darkened the world, and
clung with pathetic eagerness to Stuart's friendship.
The young lawyer had said good-bye to Nan with a sense of profound
relief. From the bottom of his soul he thanked God she was going. It
had been impossible to keep away from her, and each day he had felt the
sheer physical magnetism of her presence more and more resistless.
He returned with renewed energy and enthusiasm to the practice of law.
The wide fame he had achieved as district attorney brought him the best
clients and from them he was able to choose only the cases which
involved principles worth fighting for.
His spare time he gave in a loving effort to restore the doctor to his
old cheerful frame of mind. He had returned Bivens's money in spite of
his protest and made his old friend a loan sufficient for his needs,
taking his personal note for security.
He had no difficulty in learning the progress of Bivens in his search
of Europe for health.
A troop of reporters followed him daily. His doings were chronicled
with more minute details than the movements of kings. If he sneezed, it
was cabled to America. In every capital of the Old World he was
received with what amounted to royal honours. His opinions were eagerly
sought by reigning sovereigns. The daily cabled reports to New York
always gave his condition as better.
But Stuart knew the truth. He received two or three letters a week from
Nan. She had told him in full detail the little man's suffering, and at
last of his homesickness, fast developing into a mania.
He was not surprised at the end of three months to hear her familiar
voice over his telephone.
"Yes, we've returned, Jim--sailed incognito to escape the reporters. He
is very feeble. We haven't been in the house three hours, but he has
asked for you a dozen times. Can you come up at once?"
Stuart hesitated and she went on rapidly.
"Please come without delay. I promised him not to leave the 'phone
until I got you. You will come?"
"Yes, I'll come," he answered slowly.
He hung up the receiver with a groan.
"It's Fate!" he said bitterly. "Every time I feel that I'm fighting my
way to a place of safety, the devil bobs up serenely with an excuse so
perfect it can't be denied. It won't do; I'll tear my tongue out sooner
than speak."
He repeated these resolutions over and over before reaching the Bivens
mansion only to find that he had lost all sense of danger in the warmth
and tenderness of Nan's greeting. He not only forgot his fears but
reproached himself for his low estimate of her character in supposing
that she would allow herself or permit him to cross the line of danger.
Her solicitude for Bivens seemed deep and genuine.
"For Heaven's sake, Jim," she begged, "try to cheer him up. He has
grown to feel that you are the only real friend he has ever known."
"I'll do my best," he answered, soberly.
Bivens's joy at meeting Stuart was pathetic, and moved him deeply. He
was surprised to find him so strong, apparently, in body and yet so
broken in spirit.
"Lord, it's good to look into your face again, Jim! You know I haven't
seen you really since that day in court when you gave me such a
cussin'. But it was all in your day's work. It hurt for the minute, but
I didn't blame you when I thought it over. Now I'm up against the
biggest thing I've ever struck." His voice sank to a half sob. "Death!
I can feel his hand on my throat, but I'm going to fight; I've got to
get well."
The little shrunken hand clung to his friend's.
"You know I felt the thing creeping on me for the past two years, but I
couldn't let up. That's why I tried so hard to put some of the load on
your shoulders. At least you can help me to get well. To the devil with
the doctors! I'm tired, too, of all the sycophants, liars and fools who
hang around. I didn't mind 'em when I was well. But they get on my
nerves now. The doctors kept dinning into my ears that I've got to rest
and play and finally one old duffer over in France put an idea into my
head that brought me back home to see you. He told me to get on a small
boat with a single nurse and a congenial friend, get away from land,
cut every telephone and telegraph line, get no mail, and shoot ducks
all winter and he'd guarantee I'd be a new man next spring. I took to
the idea. He charged me two dollars for the visit. I paid him a hundred
for his advice. He nearly dropped dead in surprise. I thought it was
from gratitude, but found afterward it was from chagrin over not
knowing I was an American millionaire. He had missed the opportunity of
his life. He would undoubtedly have charged me five hundred had he
known who I was."
Stuart laughed.
"Well, the upshot of it is, I'm here, and I've sent for you to accept
the invitation you gave me to shoot ducks with you down in Virginia."
"What invitation?" Stuart asked in surprise.
"Why, the one you used to reproach me for not accepting. Will you go
with me now?"
Stuart shook his head.
"I can't go," he said slowly.
He was looking vaguely into the fire in the grate, but Nan's figure was
within the line of his vision as she stood silently by the window
gazing out on the river. Bivens hadn't said that she must go on that
trip, but in a flash of warning intuition he knew it. The danger of
such a situation on a yacht would be real and only a fool would rush
into it. He wondered if she had played any part in hatching the scheme.
He couldn't believe it possible. It had come about naturally, just as
if the devil had made it to order.
"Can't go? Why?" the financier asked in tones of genuine distress.
"I've important legal business."
"I'll make good all the damages, if you'll let me."
"But I won't let you."
"If I ask it as a special favour?" he pleaded.
"There's no use in my going, Cal," Stuart said persuasively, "I can
tell you exactly where to go, the guides to get, and the kind of boats
you'll need. You'll get along better without than with me."
"I won't go without you," the financier said peevishly.
"But why?"
"Dozens of reasons. You know the place, you know all about the birds,
you can teach me the ins and outs of the business and I can trust you.
I know that you won't try to worm out of me any information my enemies
would like to know. Besides, Jim, you're a friend. It would rest and
help me to be with you on such a trip. I can't offer you money, you
won't let me. All right. I appeal to the boy I used to know at college,
the fellow who fought for me one day. I need you worse now, old man."
Stuart hesitated and looked at Nan who had stood motionless while
Bivens spoke.
"Well, if that's the way you put it, I'll take a vacation and go with
you for a month."
Bivens seized his hand and pressed it gratefully.
"Best medicine I've had in weeks."
Nan walked slowly across the room, looked into his eyes and said, with
emotion:
"Thank you, Jim."
And the devil who was standing in the shadows smiled in anticipation of
interesting events on board that yacht.
CHAPTER II
BESIDE BEAUTIFUL WATERS
In five days the party had completed all preparations and Bivens's big
steamer, the _Buccaneer_, slipped quietly through the Narrows and
headed for the Virginia coast, towing a trim little schooner built for
cruising in the shoal waters of the South.
They had scarcely put to sea when Stuart began to curse himself for
being led into such a situation.
Bivens had insisted with amateurish enthusiasm that they begin the
cruise on the little schooner--with her limited crew and close
quarters--at once, and use the _Buccaneer_ as her tender. The moment
they struck the swell outside Sandy Hook the financier went to bed and
the doctor never left his side until the trip ended.
Nan was in magnificent spirits, her cheeks flushed and her eyes
sparkling with the joy of a child. Stuart watched her with growing
wonder at her eternal youth. She was more beautiful in her stylish
yachting costume than the day she landed in New York, at nineteen.
There was not a line in the smooth surface of her rounded neck and
shoulders.
The night was one of extraordinary springlike air though it was the
fifteenth of December. A gentle breeze was blowing from the south and
the full moon flooded the smooth sea with soft silvery radiance. Nan
insisted that Stuart sit on deck with her. There was no help for it.
Bivens would allow no one except the doctor in his room, and so he
resigned himself to the beauty of the glorious scene. Not a sound broke
the stillness save the soft ripple of the water about the bow of the
swan-like yacht.
Nan sat humming a song, when she suddenly stopped and leaned toward
Stuart.
"Jim!" she said, softly.
He looked up with a start.
"I honestly believe you were asleep!" she laughed with a touch of
petulance.
"No," he protested seriously. "I was just drinking in the joy of this
wonderful night."
"Forgetting that I exist?"
Stuart looked at her intently a moment and said, gravely:
"As if any man who ever knew you, could forget!"
"I don't like your attitude, Jim, and I think we'd better fight it out
here and now in the beginning of this trip."
"And what is my offense?"
"Not offense, but defense."
"Why Nan!"
"It's useless to deny it," she said banteringly. "You hesitated to come
on deck with me in the moonlight this evening. You've kept trotting to
Cal's stateroom, when he only begs to be let alone."
"Honestly----"
"It's no use to shuffle. I'm going to be perfectly frank with you. Your
assumption of such chilling virtue is insulting. I wish an apology and
a promise never to do so again."
"Have I really made you feel this?" he asked, contritely.
"You have, and feel it keenly. Let's come to an understanding. You and
I both live in glass houses set on a very high hill. No matter what may
be the secrets of my heart, I'm not a fool and you can trust my good
sense."
Stuart pressed her hand, and said gently:
"I'm awfully sorry if I've made such an ass of myself that you have
received this impression."
"You repent?"
"In sackcloth and ashes."
"Then I forgive you," she cried, with a laugh, releasing her hand and
rising, "but on one condition."
"Name it."
"That from this hour you be your old self, without restraint, and let
me be mine."
"I promise faithfully."
"Then, you can help me down that steep companion-way and I'll go to
bed."
He held her hand with firm grasp as she picked her way down the steps.
Her eyes looked straight into the depths of his as her face almost
touched him. He was sure that she had felt the mad impulse to take her
in his arms that quivered in every nerve and muscle of his body, for
his hand trembled and she smiled.
At her stateroom door she paused, smiled again and said:
"Good night."
His answer was very low.
"Good night."
But he didn't spend a good night. The longer he thought of it the more
sinister and dangerous he felt his position. At last he squarely faced
the fact that his desire for Nan had increased a hundred-fold by the
fact that he had lost her, and that it might become a dangerous mania
under the conditions of physical nearness which this little schooner
made inevitable.
As he sat in the darkness in his stateroom he could hear every sound in
the adjoining one which she occupied as plainly as if the thin
panelling of wood were not between them.
He was a fool to be caught in such a trap! His love had been too big
and serious a tragedy to end in a vulgar intrigue. There was something
painful and stupefying in the spell which she threw over his senses. He
realized, too, that she had put him practically at her mercy by the
promise he had given. And what made it all the more dangerous was that
she was sincere, and apparently sure of herself.
He made up his mind to cut his trip short on some pretext, and in the
meantime he would devote himself faithfully to an attempt to start
Bivens on the road to a recovery of his shattered health.
At eight o'clock the next morning the black nose of the _Buccaneer_
slowly felt her way into Hog Island Inlet on the shores of old Virginia
and dropped her anchor in the deep waters of the channel back of the
sand spit on which the U.S. Life Saving station is built.
As Stuart stepped on deck a great flock of thousands of brant swept in
from sea and pitched on the bar beyond the channel. A cloud of black
ducks circled gracefully overhead and slowly spread out on their
feeding grounds beyond the brant.
His heart gave a throb of primitive joy. He was a boy again, and the
world was young.
"Confound them!" he cried. "I'll show these ducks a trick or two before
this trip is over."
He was glad he came. To the devil with worry and women and all the
problems of the universe! He watched the flight of the birds for half
an hour, entranced with the memories they evoked. He made up his mind
to stay the whole month out and get even with them for a hundred bitter
disappointments they had given him in the past.
The long gleaming sweep of the Broadwater Bay, stretching from the tip
of the Cape Charles peninsula to the mouth of the Delaware, was
literally alive with ducks.
Bivens had put him in command of the little schooner and he gave orders
at once to lower a tender and tow her to an old anchorage he knew in a
little cove behind Gull Marsh.
And then his trouble began with Bivens.
Stuart rushed to his stateroom and described the prospects of a great
day in the blinds with boyish enthusiasm. It didn't move Bivens, except
to rage.
"Let 'em fly if they want to, I'm not going to budge. Go yourself,
Jim."
Stuart was furious, and began to talk to Bivens as if he were a
schoolboy.
"Go myself!" he cried with rage. "What do you suppose I gave up my work
and came down here a month for?"
"To shoot ducks, of course," the financier answered, politely.
"I came to try to teach you how to live, you fool, and I'm not going
without you. Get into your togs! The guides are here and ready. The
tide waits for no man, not even a millionaire; it's ebbing now."
"Well, let it ebb, I don't want to stop it!" the sick man snarled.
Nan came in, pressed Stuart's hand as she passed, nodded good morning
and joined her voice to Stuart's.
"Come, you must go, Cal. It's a glorious day."
The doctor slipped in a word, too.
"By all means, Mr. Bivens, get your hand in the first day."
Bivens lifted himself to a half-sitting posture, glared at his
physician and yelled with fury:
"Get out--all of you--and let me alone!"
The doctor and Nan left on tip-toe, but Stuart folded his arms and
looked at Bivens.
"I'd just like to choke you," he quietly said at last.
Bivens turned on him with rage.
"How dare you speak to me in that manner?"
Stuart broke into a laugh and sat down on the edge of the bed,
deliberately fixing him with a contemptuous look.
"Well, of all the gall I've ever encountered--did you say _dare_ to me?
What do you take me for, one of your servants? If you weren't sick I'd
slap you."
"You'd better not try it," the little man growled.
"Oh, come now. Bivens, this is too ridiculous, a quarrel the first day
of our shooting. But you'll have to get one thing fixed in your head
once for all; you don't run the entire world. The telephone, telegraph
and mail service have been suspended. The _Buccaneer_ has put to sea
for New York. You're on a little eighty-foot schooner, anchored in a
bay ten miles wide and a hundred-miles long and I'm in command. I won't
stand any nonsense from you. Come down off your perch, quick!"
Bivens started to swear, caught the expression of Stuart's face and
suddenly extended his hand.
"I'm sorry, Jim; you must not mind my foolishness. I've had the temper
of the devil the last few months, and I'm used to making everybody hop
when I get mad. I guess I'm spoiled. Forget it, old boy, go ahead and
have a good time by yourself to-day. I'm out of sorts from that
sea-sickness. You don't mind what I said?"
"No," Stuart slowly answered, "but don't do it again."
"I won't. It was awfully nice of you to come. I'll stay in to-day, but
you go and get some ducks for dinner, like a good boy, and say--take
Nan along and teach her to shoot. It's getting to be the rage among the
high-flyers for the women to shoot."
"Please do, Jim!" Nan cried from the door. She had listened outside to
the duel in the stateroom.
"All right," he answered, gaily, "quick about it. You've got a rig?"
"Yes, a half dozen," she cried, with childish glee. "Come into my
stateroom and show me which one to put on to-day."
"Oh, you have one for each day of the week?"
"Yes, of course; why not?"
Stuart stepped gingerly inside and inspected the suits she laid out on
her bed.
He turned them over and laughed.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"They're all wrong. These things were made to hunt butterflies in the
tropics, not ducks in Virginia."
"Can't I wear either of them?" she asked in dismay.
"If you could get all six of them on, one on top of the other and wear
your flannels."
"But I don't wear flannels."
"All right, put on two of these gossamer webs, two heavy sweaters and
wrap yourself in oil skins and maybe you won't freeze."
"Must I?" she sighed; "I'll look like a fright."
"What's the difference? You've got to hide from the ducks, anyhow. No
one else will stroll down these wide avenues to-day."
"You'll be there."
He dropped his voice instinctively.
"Well, you'll always look the same to me whether you are dressed in
silk or cotton bagging."
She looked up quickly with a startled expression, began to say
something, changed her mind and spoke in a matter-of-fact voice:
"Then get out and I'll be ready in fifteen minutes."
When she appeared on deck, Stuart sat down and laughed heartily. She
had managed to dress herself warmly and yet look pretty as a picture.
Her jaunty little hunting hat was tipped with an eagle's feather. She
wore a brown sweater of the finest heavy wool over her jacket. The
corduroy skirt came to the knees, and she had on the most remarkable
pair of wading boots he had ever seen. They were made of brown
cloth-covered rubber and cut to the shape of the leg like the
old-fashioned leather boots of ancient knights.
Stuart helped her down the gangway and took his seat by her side in the
tender. In five minutes they were towed to the blind the old guide had
selected for the day's shooting.
The blinds are made of cedar bushes stuck into the mud in such a way
that the little gunning boat just fits inside. When the tide ebbs
enough for the ducks to reach bottom they come in to feed on their
favourite wild celery.
The guide took the tender to keep the ducks moving and left them alone.
He had scarcely gone when a pair of black ducks started for the decoys.
Just as they were about to settle, in spite of Stuart's warning, Nan
popped her head over the bushes to see where they were.
Quick as a flash they leaped a hundred feet into the air and left for
parts unknown at the rate of a hundred miles an hour.
"That's great!" Stuart cried, in disgust.
"I'm sorry, Jim," she said, contritely. "I won't do it again. But, you
know, I'm glad they got away after all."
"Yes?"
"Because they were mates; didn't you see the beautiful colours on the
drake's head? And what a yell he gave to his girl when he saw me?
Aren't you really glad they got away?"
"I am not!" he answered, emphatically. "Don't you dare to do that
again."
"I won't, honest. I'll kill the next one myself. Tell me just when to
get up; I'll shoot him just like I do a clay pigeon at the trap,
without sighting, just by instinct."
"Exactly, but please remember you are not shooting clay pigeons. A duck
has an eye that can see the movement of your hand three miles away,
remember that--keep your head down, there comes one now!"
"Where?"
"Sh! keep down, I tell you!"
"I am--but where, which side, where is he?"
Again Nan's big dark eyes slowly peered over the top of the blind and
the eagle's feather in her hat moved.
With a sharp cry the duck swung out of range and was gone.
"Oh, Jim, I didn't do that. I declare I didn't move! He squawked just
for nothing and flew away."
"Yes, of course, he dreamed he saw an eagle after him. Ducks often go
to sleep flying and have nightmares."
"I won't do it again, please don't get cross now." She laid her hand on
his. He smiled and said nothing.
"You're not angry, Jim?" she asked, peeping around shyly. She was
sitting in the front of the boat with her back toward him.
"How could any man get angry at such a wonderful shot. You never
cripple them, they just drop at the crack of your gun. I think,
however, they die of fright. We will know to-night when we eat them for
dinner whether the shot killed them or you just scared them to death."
"Don't be nasty, Jim, I'll let you shoot the very next one. I won't
move."
She had scarcely spoken when Stuart seized her arm with a sudden fierce
grip.
"Sh--now, as still as death!" he whispered. "Don't you dare move or
speak or whisper, or breathe aloud."
"I won't!" Nan groaned, crouching low.
"He's circling the blind, but he's coming in sure," he whispered.
Just then the live decoy goose raised his head, saw his friend in the
air, and broke into a shrill cry that rang like a trumpet over the
smooth waters of the bay.
Nan sprang to her feet crying:
"It's a goose!"
"Yes, two of them; one right here in the blind!" Stuart laughed.
"No, no! There he goes, Jim! Look, isn't he a big one?"
"A very fine goose, but not nearly so plump and nice as the one we have
here."
Nan looked puzzled a moment, blushed and sat down.
"Jim, I think you're awfully mean. He was going the other way when I
saw him. I didn't scare him. You know I didn't."
"Certainly not!" was the scornful answer. "He just turned around and
went back to pick up a feather he dropped. He'll call again some day."
Nan peeped around to see if he were angry, deliberately rose, turned
and sat down on the bow of the boat facing Stuart, smiling at him,
mischievously.
"Let's not shoot to-day, Jim!" she pleaded.
"We won't," he answered, dryly.
"You know I think this blind is such a cute little house, with the blue
sky above and the still, beautiful waters stretching away into the
mists around us; isn't it?"
"Dangerously beautiful to mere mortals, I'm afraid, Nan!" he answered
soberly.
"Not if they are sensible, as you and I. Come, you can't be angry
to-day. I'm too happy. You don't really care about ducks anyhow, do
you? I want to talk. I'm in fairyland alone with the old sweetheart of
my girlish dreams! And you're ten times better looking than you were
then, Jim."
Stuart broke into a boyish laugh, and gave up to the charm of her
chatter.
For hours they sat laughing and joking. The years rolled back, the
fevered life of the great city faded, and they were boy and girl again.
As the sun was sinking in a sea of scarlet they were startled by the
approach of the tender.
The guide took up the decoys, and made fast their boat to tow them back
to the yacht.
His comment on the day's work was brief:
"Great sport!"
He winked at Stuart, grasped the tiller of the tender and signalled to
the man at the engine to let her go.
The old man was unusually quiet in the crew's quarters that night. It
was nine o'clock before he startled the cook with a sudden remark:
"Gee, but she's a beauty!"
"Who's a beauty?"
"Sometimes he called her 'Nan,' sometimes he called her 'Dianner.'"
"Oh!"
"You know what I'd like to do?"
"No, what?"
"She's so purty, I feel that I want to put out one finger--just like
that--and tech her ter see ef she'd fly!"
"Oh, hell!" the cook sneered. "Her wings ain't sprouted yet; wait till
you see her riled."
For five days Bivens stuck to his bed with dogged determination, and
each day Stuart went out with Nan.
Never had she been more resistlessly charming. With tireless fancy he
watched the wind blow the ringlets of black hair across her rosy
cheeks, while her deep eyes sparkled with joy. Sometimes he imagined
her the daughter of Venus suddenly risen from the sea, the dim roar of
whose surf he could hear behind the white sands of the beach. Each day
she grew more and more dependent on him, until her whole life seemed to
move only at his command. Each day their association grew in tender
intimacy and every fear that had stirred his heart at first was lulled
at last to sleep.
CHAPTER III
THE TEMPTER'S VOICE
On the sixth day Bivens rose early and declared that he would try the
ducks. The day before had been, in the local vernacular, a "weather
breeder"--a day of breathless seas, a soft haze hanging from the sky, a
lazy, sensuous, dreamy, alluring tenderness in the air.
The barometer was falling now and dark, snowy-looking clouds were
piling up on the western horizon. A breeze came stealing out of the
cloud-banks with the chill of snow in its breath.
Bivens insisted on going out at once, against the advice of Stuart and
the protest of the guide. He not only insisted on going after the ducks
but, what was worse, swore that he was going to get his mail and
telegrams from the shore.
Stuart protested vigorously.
"I've told you that the guide is the only man who can run that tender
over the crooked course to the mainland, and if he goes away we'll have
no one to take us out."
"What do you need a guide for? It's not a half-mile to those blinds.
I've seen you every day go back and forth in plain view of the yacht.
Nan could row out there and back by herself. Send him ashore. Don't you
know how to put out your own decoys?"
He spoke with the stubbornness of a spoiled child.
"If a bad blow comes we'll need two strong men to handle the boat."
"Rot!" Bivens cried. "We've got two tenders. Send your guide ashore
with one of the sailors to run his engine. The other man can tow us out
and back."
Against his judgment he allowed Bivens to have his way.
The little man clambered on deck and bustled about, giving orders to
the sailor who was stowing the lunch and ammunition.
When Stuart stopped the tender at the first blind, about five hundred
yards away, Bivens protested.
"Here, here! I'm no mollycoddle if I have been sick. I can throw a
stone to this blind. This isn't the one I want. There it is down yonder
toward the end of that marsh. I saw thousands of ducks circling around
it yesterday."
"But they'll come here to-day," Stuart urged. "The wind has shifted and
they shift their course with the wind. This blind is all right."
"I won't have it!" Bivens stormed. "Go to the other!"
"This is all right to-day, I tell you," Stuart replied.
Bivens's face flushed with rage.
"Look here, Jim, I've given in to you every day we've been down here.
I'm going to have my way this time."
He turned to the sailor who was running the tender's engine and spoke
sharply.
"Go to that other blind!"
The sailor sprang to the wheel and the tender shot ahead. Stuart
settled back in his seat with angry disgust, and Bivens laughed.
"Cheer up, it's no use to give orders for a funeral yet. If we can't
get back to that yacht in fifteen minutes against any wind that blows
to-day, I'll eat my hat. I'm feeling better than I have for months. I'm
in for a good time. Don't be a piker."
Stuart determined to make the best of it.
"All right," he answered cheerfully.
"I'll be responsible for any trouble that comes, so don't you worry."
"You're not in New York now, Cal," Stuart said with a grunt. "You may
own the earth, but the sea still has a way of its own."
"Good Lord, man, I could walk back to the yacht at low water, it all
goes bare."
"Yes, unless the wind hauls in to the northeast and rolls in a big tide
through that inlet."
"All right, let her roll. The tender will come back and pull us in."
By the time the decoys were out it began to spit snow, and the wind had
freshened.
As the sailor was about to start back, Stuart spoke sharply:
"Listen to me now, Niels."
The Norwegian tipped his cap and stood at attention.
"Yes, sir!"
"Keep a sharp watch on this weather. If you see the wind haul to the
north, put a compass in your tender, take your bearing from the yacht
to this blind, in case it should shut in thick, and come after us in
double-quick time. You understand?"
"Yes sir."
"If it looks bad, don't wait too long."
"I'll watch it, sir," was the prompt response, as he stooped to start
his wheel.
"And Niels!" Stuart called again. "If it should be blowing a gale you'd
better bring the cook along to steer while you watch your engine. Have
him fix a light supper before he starts.
"Aye, aye, sir!" he cried, as the little craft shot away, leaving a
streak of white foam in her wake.
Bivens was vastly amused at Stuart's orders.
"Jim, you're as fussy as an old maid. You ought to marry and join the
human race."
Stuart scanned the horizon, watching a flock of ducks working their way
northward. The sign was ominous. Birds know which way the wind is going
to blow before it comes, and if a gale is on the way they always work
into the teeth of it. They are all equipped with barometers somewhere
inside their little brain-cells.
It was useless to tell this to Bivens. He didn't have sense enough to
understand it. But he quietly made up his mind to take up the decoys
and row in as soon as the tide ebbed down to two feet of water.
In the meantime he would make the best of the situation. The ducks
began to come in and decoy like chickens. He killed half a dozen and in
the excitement began to forget the foolhardiness of the trip.
Bivens shot a dozen times, missed, got disgusted and began to fret and
complain.
At first Stuart made no answer to his nagging suggestions until Bivens
got to the one thing that had evidently been rankling in his heart.
"Jim, you're the biggest puzzle I ever struck. Every time I look at you
I have to rub my eyes to see if I'm awake. Would you mind telling me
the mental process by which you rejected my offer?"
"What's the use to discuss it, I've made up my mind--and that's the end
of it."
"But I want to know," Bivens persisted. "Your silence on the subject
makes me furious every time I think of it. How any human being outside
of an insane asylum could be so foolish is beyond my ken."
"I know it is, so let's drop it," Stuart interrupted.
"I won't drop it. You rile me. You're the only man I've struck on this
earth that didn't have his price."
"Perhaps we have different ways of fixing values. To me value is a
thing which gives life. If it brings death is it valuable? You are not
yet fifty years old and a wreck. What's the use? What can you do with
your money now?"
"It brings luxury, ease, indulgence, power, admiration, wonder, and the
envy of the world."
"What's the good of luxury if you can't enjoy it; ease if you never
take it; indulgence when you have lost the capacity to play; power if
you're too busy getting more to stop and wield it?"
"Jim, you're the biggest fool I ever knew, without a single exception,"
Bivens said, petulantly.
Stuart glanced anxiously toward the yacht. It was three o'clock. The
tide had ebbed half out and there was barely enough water on the flats
now for the tender to cross. It was snowing harder and the wind had
begun to inch in toward the north.
"No more ducks to-day, Cal," Stuart said briskly, returning to his tone
of friendly comradeship. "We've got to get away from here. It's getting
colder every minute. It will be freezing before night."
"Well, let it freeze," Bivens cried, peevishly. "What do we care? It's
just ten minutes' run when the tender comes."
To Stuart's joy he saw the men start the tender.
"It's all right, they're coming now!" he exclaimed. "We'll have another
crack or two before they get here."
He crouched low in the blind for five minutes without getting a shot,
rose and looked for the tender. To his horror he saw her drifting
helpless before the wind, her engine stopped and both men waving
frantically their signals of distress.
"My God!" he exclaimed. "The tender's engine is broken down."
Bivens rose and looked in the direction Stuart pointed.
"Why don't the fools use the oars?"
"They can't move her against this wind!"
"Will they go to sea?" Bivens asked, with some anxiety.
"No, they'll bring up somewhere on a mud flat or marsh in the bay on
this low water, but God help them if they can't fight their way back
before flood tide."
"Why?" Bivens asked, incredulously.
"They'd freeze to death in an open boat to-night."
"Norwegian sailors? Bosh! Not on your life! They were born on
icebergs."
Stuart rose and looked anxiously at the receding tide. He determined to
try to reach the yacht at once. He put the guns into their cases,
snapped the lids of the ammunition boxes, stowed the ducks he had
killed under the stern of the boat, and stepped out into the shallow,
swiftly moving water. He decided to ignore Bivens and regard him as so
much junk. He pulled the boat out of the blind, shoved it among the
decoys, and took them up quickly while the little financier sat
muttering peevish, foolish complaints.
"Now if you will lie down on the stern deck, I'll see if I can shove
her."
"Why can't I sit up?" Bivens growled.
"You can, of course, but I can't move this boat against the wind if you
do."
"All right, but it's a rotten position to be in and I'm getting cold."
Stuart made no reply, but began to shove the little boat as rapidly as
possible across the shallow water.
The snow had ceased to fall and the cold was increasing every moment.
He scanned the horizon anxiously, but could see no sign of the disabled
tender.
He had gone perhaps two hundred yards when the boat grounded on the
flats. He saw at once that it was impossible to make the yacht until
flood tide. The safest thing to do was to get out and push to the
island marsh, two or three hundred yards away. There they could take
exercise enough to keep warm until the tide came in again. It would be
a wait of two hours in bitter cold and pitch darkness, but there was no
help for it.
Bivens sat up and growled:
"What the devil's the matter? Can't you hurry up, I'm freezing to
death!"
"We can't make it on this tide. We'll have to go to the marsh."
"Can't we walk over the flats and let the boat go?"
"I could walk it, but you couldn't."
"Why not?" Bivens asked, angrily.
"Because you haven't the strength. This mud is six inches deep and
tough as tar. You'd give out before you'd gone two hundred yards."
"Nothing of the sort!" Bivens protested, viciously. "I'll show you!"
He stepped out of the boat and started wading through the mud. He had
made about ten steps when his boot stuck fast, he reeled and fell. The
water was less than six inches deep but his arms were wet to the skin
as far as the elbows, and the icy water got into his boots and drenched
his feet.
Stuart picked him up without comment and led him back to the boat.
Bivens was about to climb in when the lawyer spoke quickly:
"You can't sit down now. You've got to keep your body in motion or
you'll freeze. Take hold of the stern of the boat and shove her."
Muttering incoherent curses the little man obeyed while his friend
walked in front, pulling on the bow line.
In fifteen minutes they reached the marsh and began the dreary tramp of
two hours until the tide should rise high enough to float their boat
again.
"Why can't we walk along this marsh all the way to where the yacht
lies?" Bivens asked, fretfully. "We can fire a gun and the doctor can
help us on board."
"We can't go without the boat. The marsh is a string of islands cut by
three creeks. The doctor has no way to get to us. Both tenders are
gone."
Stuart kept Bivens moving just fast enough to maintain the warmth of
his body without dangerous exhaustion.
The wait was shorter than expected. The tide suddenly ceased to run ebb
and began to come in. The reason was an ominous one. The wind had
hauled squarely into the north and increased its velocity to forty
miles an hour and each moment the cold grew more terrible. Stuart found
the little boat afloat on the flood tide, jumped in without delay and
began his desperate battle against wind and tide.
It was absolutely necessary for Bivens to keep his body in motion, so
Stuart gave him an oar, and ordered him to get on his knees and help
shove her ahead. He knew it was impossible for him to keep his feet.
Bivens tried to do as he was told and made a mess of it. He merely
succeeded in shoving the boat around in a circle, preventing Stuart
from making any headway.
"What's the matter?" Bivens yelled above the howl of the wind. "You're
pushing against me, just spinning around. Why don't you keep her
straight?"
Stuart saw they could never make headway by that method, turned and
shot back into the marsh.
"Get out!" he shouted sternly. "You can walk along the edge--I can
shove her alone."
Bivens grumbled, but did as he was ordered.
"Don't you leave the edge of that marsh ten feet!" Stuart shouted,
cheerfully. "I think we'll make it now."
"All right," was the sullen answer.
It was a question whether one man had the strength to shove the little
boat through the icy, roaring waters and keep her off the shore. He did
it successfully for a hundred yards and the wind and sea became so
fierce he was driven in and could make no headway. He called Bivens,
gave him an oar and made him walk in the edge of the water and hold the
boat off while he placed his oar on the mud bottom and pushed with
might and main to drive her ahead.
Again and again he was on the point of giving up the struggle. It
seemed utterly hopeless.
It took two hours of desperate battling to make half a mile through the
white, blinding, freezing, roaring waters.
The yacht now lay but three hundred feet away from the edge of the
marsh. Stuart could see her snow-white side glistening in the
phosphorescent waves as they swept by her. The lights were gleaming
from her windows and he could see Nan's figure pass in the cabin.
As he stood resting a moment before he made the most difficult effort
of all to row the last hundred yards dead to the windward, he caught
the faint notes of the piano. She was playing, utterly unconscious of
the tragic situation in which the two men stood but a hundred yards
away. The little schooner was still aground resting easily on her flat
bottom in the mud, where the tide had left her as it ebbed. Unless she
went on deck, it was impossible for Nan to realize the pressure of the
wind.
She was playing one of the dreamy waltzes to which she had danced amid
the splendours of her great ball.
The music came over the icy waters accompanied by the moan and shriek
of the wind through the rigging with unearthly weird effect.
"Say, why do we stop so much?" Bivens growled. "I'm freezing to death.
Let's get to that yacht!"
"We'll do our best," Stuart answered gravely, "and if you know how to
pray now's your time."
"Oh, Tommyrot!" Bivens said, contemptuously, "I can throw a stone to
her from here."
"Get in!" Stuart commanded, "And lie down again flat on your back."
Bivens obeyed and the desperate fight began.
He made the first few strokes with his oars successfully and cleared
the shore, only to be driven back against it with a crash. A wave swept
over the little craft dashing its freezing waters into their faces.
Stuart drew his hand across his forehead and found to his horror the
water was freezing before he could wipe it off.
He grasped Bivens's hands and found a cake of ice on his wrist. He
shoved the boat's nose again into the wind and pulled on his oars with
a steady, desperate stroke, and she shot ahead. For five minutes he
held her head into the sea and gained a few yards. He set his feet
firmly against the oak timbers in the boat's side and began to lengthen
his quick, powerful stroke. He found to his joy he was making headway.
He looked over his shoulder and saw that he was half way. He couldn't
be more than a hundred and fifty feet and yet he didn't seem to be
getting any nearer. It was now or never. He bent to his oars with the
last ounce of reserve power in his tall sinewy frame, and the next
moment an oar snapped, the boat spun round like a top and in a minute
was hurled back helpless on the marsh.
As the sea dashed over her again Bivens looked up stupidly and growled:
"Why the devil don't you keep her straight?"
Stuart sprang out and pulled the numbed man to his feet, half dragged
and lifted him ashore.
"Here, here, wake up!" he shouted in his ear. "Get a move on you, or
you're a goner." He began to rub Bivens's ice-clad wrists and hands,
and the little man snatched them away angrily.
"Stop it!" he snarled. "My hands are not cold now."
"No, they're freezing," he answered as he started across the marsh in a
dog trot, pulling Bivens after him. The little man stood it for a
hundred yards, suddenly tore himself loose and angrily faced his
companion.
"Say, suppose you attend to your own hide--I can take care of myself."
"I tell you, you're freezing. You're getting numb. As soon as I can get
your blood a little warm we've got to wade through that water for a
hundred yards and make the yacht."
"I'll do nothing of the sort," Bivens said, with dogged determination.
"I'll stay here till the next tide and walk out when the water's ebbed
off."
Stuart shook him violently and shouted above the shriek of the wind.
"Do you know when that will be, you fool?"
"No, and I don't care. I'm not going to plunge into that icy water
now."
"The tide won't be out again before four o'clock to-morrow morning."
"All right we'll walk around here until four."
"You'll freeze to death, I tell you! Your hands and feet are half
frozen now."
"I'm not half as cold as I was," Bivens whined, fretfully.
"You're losing the power to feel. You've got to plunge into that water
with me now and we can fight our way to safety in five minutes. The
water is only three feet deep, and I can lift you over the big waves.
We'll be there in a jiffy. Come on!"
He seized his arm again and dragged him to the edge of the water.
Bivens stopped short, tore himself from Stuart's grip and kicked his
shins like a vicious, enraged schoolboy.
"I'll see you to the bottomless pit before I'll move another inch!" he
yelled savagely. "Go to the devil and let me alone. I'll take care of
myself, if you'll attend to your own business."
Stuart folded his arms and looked at him a moment, debating the
question as to whether he would wring his neck or just leave him to
freeze.
Bivens rushed up to the lawyer and tried to shake his half-frozen fist
in his face.
"I want you to understand, that I've taken all I'm going to from you
to-day, Jim Stuart!" he fairly screamed. "Put your hand on me again and
I'll kill you if I can get hold of one of these guns. I want you to
remember that I'm the master of millions."
"Yesterday in New York," Stuart answered with contempt, "you were the
master of millions. Here to-night, on this marsh, in this desert of
freezing waters, you're an insect, you're a microbe!"
"I'm man enough to take no more orders from a one-horse lawyer," Bivens
answered, savagely.
"All right, to hell with you!" Stuart said, contemptuously, as he
turned and left him.
He began to walk briskly along the marsh to keep warm.
Nan was playing the soft strains of an old-fashioned song. He stopped
and listened a moment in awe at the strange effects. The sob and moan
of the wind through the yacht's shrouds and halyards came like the
throb of a hidden orchestra, accompanying the singer in the cabin. The
old song stirred his soul. The woman who was singing it was his by
every law of nature. The little shrivelled, whining fool, who would die
if he left him there, had taken her from him; not by the power of
manhood, but by the lure of gold that he had taken from the men who had
earned it.
All he had to do to-night was to apply the law of self-interest by
which this man had lived and waxed mighty, and to-morrow he could take
the woman be loved in his arms, move into his palace its master and
hers. There could be no mistake about Nan's feelings. He had read the
yearning of her heart with unerring insight. Visions of a life of
splendour, beauty and power with her by his side swept his imagination.
A sense of fierce, exultant triumph filled his soul. But most alluring
of all whispered joys was the dream of their love-life. The years of
suffering and denial, of grief and pain, of bitterness and
disappointment would make its final realization all the more wonderful.
She was just reaching the maturity of womanhood, barely thirty-one, and
had yet to know the meaning of love's real glory.
"She's mine and I'll take her!" he cried at last. "Let the little,
scheming, oily, cunning scoundrel die to-night by his own law of
self-interest--I've done my part."
Again the music swept over the white foaming waters. His heart was
suddenly flooded with memories of his boyhood, its dreams of heroic
deeds; his mother's serene face; his father's high sense of honour; and
the traditions of his boyhood that make character noble and worth
while, traditions that created a race of free-men before a dollar
became the measure of American manhood.
"Have I done my part?" he asked himself, with a sudden start. "If he
has his way he will die. Peevish, fretful, spoiled by the flattery of
fools, he is incapable of taking care of himself under the conditions
in which he finds himself. If I consent to his death am I not guilty of
murder? Out of the heart are the issues of life! Have I the right to
apply his own law? Could I save him in spite of himself if I made up my
mind to do it? Pride and ceremony, high words and courtesy cut no
figure in this crucial question. Could I save him if I would? If I can,
and don't, I'm a murderer."
He turned quickly and retraced his steps. Bivens was crouching on his
knees with his back to the fierce, icy wind, feebly striking his hands
together.
"Are you going to fight your way with me back to that yacht, Cal?" he
asked sternly.
"I am not," was the short answer. "I am going to walk the marsh till
four o'clock."
"You haven't the strength. You can't walk fast enough to keep from
freezing. You'll have to keep it up eight hours. You're cold and wet
and exhausted. It's certain death if you stay. That water is rising
fast. In ten minutes more it will be dangerous to try it. Will you come
with me?"
"I've told you I'll take my chances here and I want you----"
He never finished the sentence, Stuart suddenly gripped his throat,
threw him flat on his back, and while he kicked and squirmed and swore,
drew a cord from his pocket and tied his hands and feet securely.
Paying no further attention to his groans and curses, he threw his
little, helpless form across his shoulders, plunged into the water and
began his struggle to reach the yacht. It was a difficult and dangerous
task. The weight of Bivens's inert form drove his boots deep into the
mud, and the wind's gusts of increasing fury threatened at almost every
step to hurl them down. Again and again the waves broke on his face and
submerged them both. Bivens had ceased to move or make a sound. Stuart
couldn't tell whether he had been strangled by the freezing water or
choked into silence by his helpless rage.
At last he struggled up the gangway, tore the cabin door open,
staggered down the steps into the warm, bright saloon, and fell in a
faint at Nan's feet.
The doctor came in answer to her scream and lifted Bivens to his
stateroom, while Nan bent low over the prostrate form, holding his hand
to her breast in a close, agonising clasp, while she whispered:
"Jim, speak to me! You can't die yet, we haven't lived!"
He sighed and gasped:
"Is he alive?"
"Yes, in his stateroom there, cursing you with every breath."
The young lawyer closed his eyes, blinded with tears, murmuring over
and over again:
"Thank God!--Thank God!"
CHAPTER IV
THE MOCKERY OF THE SUN
Stuart refused to talk to Nan, went abruptly to his stateroom, and
spent a night of feverish dreams. His exhaustion was so acute, restful
sleep was impossible. Through the night his mind went over and over the
horror of the moment on that marsh when he had looked into the depths
of his own soul and seen the flames of hell.
Between the times of dozing unconsciousness, which came at intervals,
he wondered what had become of the two men in that disabled tender. He
waited with dread the revelation the dawn would bring. He rose with the
sun and looked out of his stateroom window. The bay was a solid sheet
of glistening ice. The sun was shining from a cloudless sky and the
great white field sparkled and flashed like a sea of diamonds.
What a mockery that sunshine! Somewhere out on one of those lonely
marshes it was shining perhaps on the stark bodies of the two men who
were eating and drinking and laughing the day before. What did Nature
care for man's joys or sorrows, hopes or fears? Beneath that
treacherous ice the tide was ebbing and flowing to the throb of her
even, pulsing heart. To-morrow the south wind would come and sweep it
all into the sea again.
He wondered dimly if the God, from whose hands this planet and all the
shining worlds in space had fallen, knew or cared? And then a flood of
gratitude filled his soul at the thought of his deliverance from the
shadow of crime. Instinctively his eyes closed and his lips moved in
prayer:
"Thank God, for the sunlight that shines in my soul this morning and
for the life that is still clean; help me to keep it so!"
Nothing now could disturb the serenity of his temper. He dressed
hurriedly, went into the galley, made a fire and called Nan.
He rapped gently on the panelled partition which separated their
staterooms. He could hear her low, softly spoken answer as if there
were nothing between them.
"Yes, Jim, what is it? Are you ill?"
"No, hungry. You will have to help me get some breakfast."
"The cook hasn't come?" she asked in surprise.
There was a moment's hesitation and his voice sounded queer when he
quietly answered:
"No."
She felt the shock of the thought back of his answer and he heard her
spring out of bed and begin to dress hurriedly.
In ten minutes she appeared at the door of the galley, her hair hanging
in glorious confusion about her face and the dark eyes sparkling with
excitement.
"What on earth does it mean, Jim?" she asked breathlessly. "Cal could
tell me nothing last night except that he had gotten wet and chilled
and you had carried him on board against his protest. When the doctor
put him to sleep with a lot of whiskey he was muttering incoherently
about a quarrel he had with you. I thought you sent both tenders to the
shore for mail and provisions. Why hasn't the cook returned?"
"He may never come, Nan."
"Why--Jim!" she gasped.
"They started to tow us in, the engine broke down. I think the
carbureter probably froze and they were driven before the wind,
helpless. There's a chance in a thousand that they reached an oyster
shanty and found shelter. We'll hope for the best. In the meantime you
and I will have to learn to cook again, for a few days."
"A few days!" Nan exclaimed.
"Yes. The bay is frozen. Our old guide is a good cook, but he's safe in
harbor ashore. He had too much sense to venture out last night. He
can't get here now until the ice breaks up."
Nan accepted the situation with girlish enthusiasm, became Stuart's
assistant and did her work with a smile. It was a picnic. She laughed
at the comical picture his tall figure made in a cook's apron and he
made her wear a waitress' cap which he improvised from a Japanese paper
napkin.
The doctor pronounced the meals better than he had tasted on the trip.
Bivens was still in an ugly mood and refused to leave his stateroom or
allow any one but the doctor to enter. He was suffering intense pain
from his frost-bitten fingers and toes and ears, and still cherished
his grudge against Stuart. He refused to believe there was the
slightest necessity for such high-handed measures as he had dared to
use. He had carefully concealed from both the doctor and Nan just what
had occurred between them on the trip that day.
On the second morning after the freeze a light dawned on the little
man's sulking spirits. During the night the ice softened and a strong
southerly breeze had swept every piece of it to sea.
Again the bay was a blue, shimmering mirror, reflecting the white
flying clouds, and the marshes rang with the resounding cries of
chattering wild fowl.
It was just nine o'clock, and Nan was busy humming a song and setting
the table for breakfast, when Stuart heard the distant drum-beat of a
tender's engine. The guide was returning from the shore, or the lost
tender had come. If it were the guide he would probably bring news of
the other men. His course lay over their trail. He threw off his cook's
apron, put on his coat, sprang out of the galley, and called below:
"A tender is coming, Nan. Don't come on deck until I tell you."
The smile died from her beautiful face as she answered slowly:
"All right, Jim."
In a moment he came back down the companion-way and spoke in quiet
tones:
"It's just as I expected. They are both dead. The guide found them on
the marsh over there, frozen."
"The marsh you and Cal were on?" she asked breathlessly.
"Yes. Both of them were kneeling. They died with their hands clasped in
prayer."
"And you saved Cal from that?" she gasped, and turning, fled into her
stateroom.
He went in to change his clothes and help lift the bodies on deck.
Through the panelled wall he heard Nan softly sobbing.
Bivens refused at first to believe the doctor's startling announcement.
He hurriedly dressed, came on deck, and for five minutes stood staring
into the white, dead faces.
Without a word he went below and asked the doctor to call Stuart.
When his old friend entered, he took his hand quietly and for once in
his life the little, black, piercing eyes were swimming in tears as he
spoke.
"You're a great man, Jim, and what's bigger, you're a good one. If God
will forgive me for the foolish things I said and did yesterday, I'll
try to make it up to you, old boy. Is it all right?"
Stuart's answer was a nod, a smile and a pressure of the hand.
CHAPTER V
A TRUMP CARD
The stirring scenes of Virginia brought Stuart more and more into
intimate personal relations with Bivens and he had taken advantage of
the fact to draw away from his wife. The fierce temptation through
which he had fought had left its scar, sobered his imagination, and
brought him up sharply against the realization of danger. He had ceased
to see Nan alone. Bivens's increasing devotion had made this easy and
on Harriet's return from Europe with an engagement as understudy in
grand opera his life settled down once more to the steady development
of his ideal of service to the common people.
Scarcely a day passed without bringing to the young lawyer some
reminder of Bivens's friendship. Two great lawsuits involving the
principles on which the structure of the modern business world rested
were begun in the Federal courts. At the financier's secret suggestion
the more important of these was placed in Stuart's hands. Bivens hoped
to beat the Government in this suit, but in case the people should win
he wanted the personal satisfaction of knowing that he had helped to
make the fame of his best friend.
Stuart could scarcely credit his ears when Bivens said to him with a
chuckle:
"How's your big suit to dissolve the American Chemical Company coming
on, Jim?"
"We're going to win, beyond the shadow of a doubt!" was the
enthusiastic reply.
"If you do, I want you to know, old boy, that I threw that job into
your hands."
"What?"