AN ANOMALOUS SITUATION
The most unexpected and extraordinary thing in the world had happened,
yet Betty Dalrymple asked no questions. Had she done so, it is probable
that Mr. Heatherbloom would have been physically unequal to the
labyrinthine explanation the occasion demanded. For a brief spell the
girl had continued to regard him and she had seemed about to speak
further. Then the blue light of her gaze had slowly turned and her lips
remained mute. He was glad of this; of course he would later have to
tell something, but sufficient unto that unlucky hour were the
perplexities thereof. Sonia Turgeinov had been surprised, too, but it
was Betty Dalrymple's surprise that had most awakened her wonder. "Why,
didn't you know it was he?" the dark eyes seemed to say to the young
girl. "Who else, on earth, did you think it was?" The mystery for her,
as well as for Betty Dalrymple, deepened. Only for Mr. Heatherbloom
there existed no mystery; it was all now clear as day. He had done what
he had set out to do. She would soon be enabled to find her way back to
civilization. His present concern lay with the occupation of the moment.
The tree _was_ a tree; this was the most momentous immediate
consideration; a few more miles had established that fact with
positiveness. But distances on the water are long, and they three would
have to journey together on the sea yet a while. He bethought him of his
duties, as host; these--his two passengers-were in his care.
"You should find biscuits in a basket and water in a cask," he said,
speaking to both of them, and, at the same time, to immeasurable
distance. "If you don't mind looking--I can't very well."
At that, a nervous laugh welled from Sonia Turgeinov's throat; she had
to give way. Possibly the absurd thought seized her that all the
tragedies and comedies might be simmered down to one thing. Were there
biscuits in the basket? But Betty Dalrymple did not laugh; her eyes were
like stars on a wintry night; her face was white as paper. It was turned
now from the steersman--ahead. She saw the blur before them become a
definite line of green; later she made out details, the large heads of
small trees. The former looked like big overflowing cabbages; the
trunks, beneath, sprawled this way and that, as the vagaries of the wind
had directed their growth. In front of them and the vernal strip, a
white line slowly resolved itself into moving foam. She--they all could
hear it now, faintly--they were very near; no thunderous anthem it
pealed forth; its voice seethed in soft cadences.
Mr. Heatherbloom, with sheet taut, ran his craft toward the sands but
the boat grounded some little distance from the shore. It was useless to
attempt to go farther so he let his sail out, got up and stepped
overboard. The water was rather more than knee deep; he tugged at the
boat and attempted to draw her up farther without much success. She was
too heavy, and desisting from his efforts, he approached Miss Dalrymple.
The young girl shrank back slightly, but seeming not to notice that
first instinctive movement, he reached over and lifted her out. It was
done in a businesslike manner and with no more outward concern than a
Kikuji porter might have displayed in meeting the exigencies of a like
situation. The bubbles seethed around Mr. Heatherbloom's legs; unmindful
of them or the shifting sands beneath foot, he strode straight as might
be for the shore. His burden was not a heavy one but it seemed very
still and unyielding. He released her at the earliest possible
opportunity and in the same matter-of-fact way (still that of a human
ferry on the banks of the turbulent Chania) he returned for his other
passenger. Around Sonia Turgeinov's rich lips a mocking smile seemed to
play; she arose at once.
"How charming! How very gallant!" she murmured. "First, you nearly
strangle one, and then--"
Her soft arm stole about his neck, and her warm breath swept his cheek
as, stony-faced, he trudged along. This time his burden was heavier,
although there were men who would not have minded that under the
circumstances. The dark eyes, full of sparkles and enigmas, turned upon
his frosty ones. But she did not see very far into that so-called medium
of the soul; she received only an impression one gets in looking at a
wall.
He put her down--gently. Whereupon, her dark brows lifted ironically.
He, gentle--to her? Did she dream? She felt again that fierce clasp of
the night before, and mentally told herself she would like to label him
an artistic study in contrasts. Really the adventure began to be "worth
while"; she felt almost reconciled to it. He had carried her off as the
rough, old-fashioned pirates bear away feminine prizes from a town they
have looted. From dog-tender to bucaneer--he appealed to her
imagination. She experienced a childlike desire to sit down where he had
left her and play with the shells. But instead she looked toward Betty
Dalrymple. That young girl, however, did not return her regard, though
the golden head, a few moments before, had lifted once, with a swift,
bird-like motion toward Sonia Turgeinov, en route beachward. Now the
girl's features were steadfastly bent away; whatever gladness she may
have felt in thus, after many vicissitudes, reaching land safely, she
kept to herself.
Mr. Heatherbloom resumed the task of porter; his next burden--the
water-cask--was the heaviest of all. He struggled with it and once
nearly went down, so tired was he, but he got it ashore, and the basket
of biscuits, too, and some other things. The boat, floating more
lightly, he now pulled to the strand; then he took out the spar and the
sail. This done, he gazed around; the place was deserted by man, though
of birds and crabs and other crawling objects there were a-plenty. Mr.
Heatherbloom stood with knitted brow; it was a time for contemplation,
visual and mental. For the latter he did not feel very fit as he strove
to think what was best to do next. The other two--he still forced
himself to keep to the purely impersonal aspect of the case--were his
charges. Being women, they were mutually and equally (the mockery of
it!) dependent on him. He was responsible for their welfare and
well-being. In the sail-boat he had been captain; ashore, he became
commandant, an answerable factor. He began to plan.
What kind of place had they come to?--was it big or small?--inhabited,
or deserted? All this would have to be ascertained, later. Meanwhile,
temporary headquarters were needed; he would erect a tent. The spar and
boom served for the ridge and front poles, the sail for the canvas
covering, the sheet and halyards for the restraining lines. Sonia
Turgeinov again watched him; her interest was now of that vague kind she
had sometimes experienced when the manager appeared on a darkened stage,
with a fresh crackling manuscript. Then she had lolled back and listened
to the first reading. She would have lolled back now--for the air was
soporific--but, instead, she started suddenly. The old wound on Mr.
Heatherbloom's head, heretofore concealed by the cap Francois had
procured for him, had reopened as he exerted himself; he raised his hand
quickly and seemed a little at a loss. She stepped to him at once.
"The scarf, Monsieur?"
"Thank you." He took it absently.
"It serves divers purposes," she murmured. And Mr. Heatherbloom,
remembering the more violent employment he had found for it the night
before, flushed slightly.
She added delicate emphasis to her remark by assisting him. With her own
fingers she tied a knot, and rather painstakingly spread out the ends.
He endured grimly. Miss Dalrymple appeared not to have observed the
episode but, of course, it had in reality been all quite fully revealed
to her. It was in keeping with certain circumstances of the past that
the Russian woman should not be unmindful of him, her confrère in the
conspiracy. That much was patent; but other happenings were not so
easily reconciled. What had taken place on the deck of the _Nevski_ in
those breathless last few moments as they were escaping, was in ill
conformity with those amicable relations which should have existed
between the two. This man's presence in the boat, in the place of
Francois, could be explained by no logical process with the premises she
had at her command.
The bandage possessed a subtly weird and bizarre interest for the young
girl. He had been injured. How? For what reason? Betty Dalrymple's mind
swept, seemingly without very definite cause, to another scene, one of
violence. Again she heard the crashing of glass and saw forms leaping
into the cabin. Her thoughts reverted, on the instant, to the unknown
helper she had been obliged to leave behind. Somehow, real as he had
been, he seemed at this moment strangely apart, something in the
abstract. Then all illusive speculations merged abruptly into a
realization that needed no demonstration. Sonia Turgeinov possessed a
certain outré attractiveness the young girl had never noted before. The
violet eyes, shining through the long shading lashes, rested a moment on
her; then passed steadily beyond.
"I'm off for a look around." Mr. Heatherbloom, having transferred their
meager possessions to the tent, now addressed Miss Dalrymple, or Sonia
Turgeinov, or an indefinite space between them. "Better stay right here
while I'm gone." His tones had a firm accent. "Sorry there are only
biscuits for breakfast, but perhaps there'll be better fare before long.
If you should move around"--his eye lingered authoritatively on Betty
Dalrymple--"keep to the beach."
"How very solicitous!" laughed Sonia Turgeinov as the young man strode
off. "That was intended especially for you, Mademoiselle. As for me, it
does not matter." With a shrug. "I might stroll into the wood, be
devoured by wild beasts, and who would care?"
Betty Dalrymple did not answer.
"A truce, Mademoiselle!" said the other in the same gay tone. "I know
very well what you think of me. You told me very clearly on the
_Nevski_, and before that, on shore. In this instance, however, since it
is through no fault or choice of mine that we are thrown thus closely
together, would it not be well to make the best of the situation?"
"There seems, indeed, no choice in the matter," answered the young girl
coldly.
"None, unless like those in the admirable play, we elect to pitch our
respective camps at different parts of the beach. But that would be
absurd, wouldn't it? Besides, I have my punishment--no light one for
Sonia Turgeinov who herself has been accustomed to a little adulation in
the past. I am _de trop_."
"_De trop_?" There was a faint uplifting of the brow. "_You_ should not
be altogether that."
"You mean I should be very friendly with him, my colleague and
confidant, _n'est ce pas_?" Sonia's dark eyes swept swiftly the proud
lovely face. "In truth he proved an able assistant." Her voice was a
little mocking. "What if I should tell you it was he who planned it all
--devised the ways and means?" A statue could, not have been more
immovable than Betty Dalrymple. "Or," suddenly, "what if I should say
quite--_au contraire_." The girl stirred. Sonia Turgeinov seemed to
ruminate. "Should I be so forgiving--after last night?" she murmured.
"It would be inconsistent, wouldn't it?--or angelic? And I am no angel."
The girl's lips started to form a question but she did not speak. Afar,
Mr. Heatherbloom's figure could be seen, almost at the vanishing point.
He was toiling up an incline. Then the green foliage swallowed him.
Sonia Turgeinov smiled at vacancy. "Though I do owe him a little," she
went on, half meditative. "He _was_ kind to me in the park. He was sorry
for me. Think of it, and without admiring me. Other men have professed
for poor Sonia Turgeinov a little interest or solicitude at divers times
and places, but it has always been accompanied with something else. Is
that beyond the understanding of your pure soul, nourished in a
hothouse, Mademoiselle?" There was a sudden hard ring of rebellion in
her tones. "Am I handsome? Your eyes said it not long ago. _Ma foi_!"
Her voice becoming light again. "It was Parsifal himself who talked with
me in the park--that place for rendezvous and romances." Her thoughts
leaped over time and space. "The first light of the sun revealed to you
this day the last face you expected to see. It was as if a bit of
miracle, or a little diablerie had happened. I, too, was in a haze, not
so great--though on the deck the night before I little expected to
encounter one I had last seen in chains, a prisoner--"
"A prisoner--in chains--he--" Betty Dalrymple stared.
"You did not know? What on earth did you expect? That the prince would
give him the _suite de luxe_ after the beating his excellency
received--"
"The beating?" half-stammered the girl. "Then the man in the salon who
claimed to be a detective was--"
"What? He claimed that?" laughed Sonia Turgeinov. "_Très drôle!"_
But Betty Dalrymple did not laugh. Her eyes, bent seaward, saw nothing
now of the leaping waves; her face was fixed as a cameo's. Only her hair
stirred, wind-tossed, all in motion like her thoughts. And regarding
her, Sonia Turgeinov's eyes began to harden a little. Did the woman
regret for the moment what she had said, divining again some play within
a play? Yet what could there be in common between this beautiful heiress
and the _gardeurde chiens_? No! it was absurd to conceive anything of
the kind. Nevertheless Sonia Turgeinov unaccountably began to experience
a vague hostility for the young girl; this she might partly attribute to
the great gaps of convention separating them. Her own life, in confused
pictures, surged panorama-like before her mental vision: The garret
beginning; the cold and hunger hardships; the beatings, when a child;
the girl problems--so hard; the woman's--Faugh! what a life! Would that
the flame of the artist had burned more brightly or not at all. She
tried to imagine what she would have been, if she, too, had been born to
a golden cradle.
A great ennui swept over her. How old she felt on a sudden! And how
homesick, too. Yes; that was it--homesickness. She could have stretched
out her arms toward her much beloved and, sometimes, a little hated,
Russia. The bright domes of her native city seemed to shine now in her
eyes. She walked in spirit the stony pavement of the Kremlin. Cruelty,
intolerance, suffering--all these reigned in the city of extremes, but
she would have kissed even the cold marble at the feet of dead tyrants,
the way the people did, if she could have stood at that moment in one of
the old, old sacred places. Her brief flight into the new world had led
her to no pots of gold at rainbow end. The little honorarium from his
excellency for her part in this adventure, she did not want now. She
regretted that she had ever embarked upon it. What penalty might she not
have to pay yet? The law, with dragon fingers would reach out--no doubt
was reaching out now--to grip her. Well, let it.
A crisp, matter-of-fact voice--concealing any agitation the speaker may
have felt--broke in upon these varied reflections. Mr. Heatherbloom,
rather out of breath but quiet and determined, stood before them.
"Miss Dalrymple!--Mademoiselle! There is no occasion for alarm but it
will be necessary; for us to leave here at once!"