They had scarcely reached the shore when another small boat came
gliding noiselessly along down toward the cabin. The boat contained
Virginia and Constance. As they approached near, propulsion ceased,
and the boat drifted along. Virginia turned half around on her seat,
listened intently, and looked at the dark cabin, with eyes that fairly
sparkled, in her effort to penetrate its interior. Slowly the boat
drew along the platform. Quietly and cautiously they stepped out, and
after fastening the line which held the boat to an iron ring which had
been driven into one of the logs for that purpose, Virginia took
Constance by the hand, which she felt tremble, and caused her to
whisper: "Courage, dear." Then she tapped gently on the door.
Receiving no response, she tapped again, then tried the knob, and, to
her amazement, the door opened.
For a moment they stood on the threshold, irresolute. A whiff of
tobacco smoke brushed their nostrils.
Virginia timidly stepped within, followed closely by Constance. The
darkness was intense, the stillness profound. "Whew!" Virginia
ejaculated, in a whisper. "The den reeks with tobacco smoke. He must
be asleep."
She softly closed the door and lighted one of the matches which she
had been careful to provide herself with.
"There is no one here," whispered Constance, in tones of terrifying
disappointment.
Up to that time she had religiously kept her promise to observe the
strictest silence, but when in the dim light produced by the match,
her eyes swiftly took in the untenanted room, her heart sank in chilly
numbness.
Virginia noted the famished, haunted look that had crept into her
eyes, and as she turned away with a fresh pang in her heart,
discovered the bottle and tumbler on the table.
It suggested a clue, and she replied, in low tones, and in the most
matter-of-fact manner, that, surprised herself, "He must be
intoxicated, the beast."
The coolness of the utterance had the effect, in a measure, of
reassuring Constance, who then, discovering a closed door directly in
front, breathlessly exclaimed: "That door must open to another room."
It was at that moment that the light died out. Virginia stood stock
still and listened. She pressed her left hand tight against her heart
to still the terrible throbbing.
She heard Constance grope her way to the partition door. She heard the
nervous fingers on the framework. She heard the latch click.
"Be careful, dear. Oh, be careful, dear!" admonished Virginia, in a
whisper of frenzied anxiety--and then she heard the door pushed open.
A moment of profound silence and then followed the sound of a step
within. Constance stood beside Dorothy--with only the deep darkness and
two feet of empty space separating them.
Who shall say that the subtle power which impelled the mother on in
the dense darkness, first to the door, then to open it, and then to
step within beside her child, was not magnetic intuition?
Virginia softly followed her to the door, produced a match and rubbed
it against the casing.
At that moment Constance was standing inside the threshold, her right
hand still on the open door latch; her back to Virginia. She was
looking straight ahead into the darkness.
The scraping of the match caused her to turn her head.
"Oh, Dorothy, darling!" was all that the poor heart-broken mother
could utter.
So sudden and great was the transport called forth by the discovery of
Dorothy quietly sleeping near her elbow, that her senses grew dizzy,
and as she sank to the floor on her trembling knees, convulsively
outstretched her hands to clasp the face of her child.
It was a favor of fate that placed them at that moment alone with the
child, for whom Virginia was prepared to sacrifice her life to rescue.
A decree that paid homage to the act of a heroine.
True, the unhappy cause that impelled her to act was indirectly of her
own making, and a sense of justice and remorse urged her to remedy it.
Nevertheless the act itself, for daring the rescue, was most heroic.
When Constance threw her hands out to clasp Dorothy, the child
awakened with a start, and at the same time the match light became
extinguished.
After her prayer, Dorothy laid down on the bunk without undressing, as
had been her custom, since in the custody of Jack, and almost
immediately fell asleep.
Her guileless little heart, cherishing confidence in his promise,
provoked a smile of spiritual beauty that settled on her sweet young
face--unflect by earthly misgivings. As she slept there came into her
dream a vision of terraces, grown over with lovely flowers, and there
were green, grassy plots and gorgeous colored butterflies darting in
and out among the flowers and golden sunshine. And out from somewhere,
in the serene hazy distance, came the silvery song of her own canary
bird. Where? And as she looked and listened, a butterfly, oh, so large
and beautiful, with semi-transparent rose, pearl wings dotted and
fringed with emerald gems, hovered tantalizingly near her. She was
tempted to catch it, but each time, though perilously near, it evaded
her tiny clutch, and so drew her on over velvety lawns and grassy
slopes to a babbling brook.
The prismatic winged thing fluttered over some pebbles and alighted on
a slender willow twig. She stood on a stone, reached out to clutch the
beauty, and just as her little fingers were about to close on it, the
voice of her mother rang out in frantic warning--"Dorothy! Dorothy!"
And then her foot slipped, and as she was falling she felt herself
suddenly clasped in strong arms, and borne upward, to awake with the
cry of "Dorothy" ringing in her ears.
For a moment or two the child lay perfectly still, then gradually to
her returning senses, the room smelled of tobacco smoke, and supposing
that it was her captor's hand that clasped her face, said: "Oh, Mr.
Golda, the room is full of smoke!"
"Hush, dear," cautioned Virginia. "Your mother and Aunt Virginia are
here."
"Oh, Mamma and Aunty!" joyfully exclaimed Dorothy, for she recognized
Virginia's well-known voice, and sitting up, said:
"You've come to take me home, haven't you?"
Again the match light faded out.
The voice of Dorothy seemed to thrill Constance with new energy, for,
with a frantic effort, she partially recovered her composure. She
struggled to her feet, and in a rapture of thanksgiving, folded the
child to her heart.
"Oh, my darling, my darling, please God, they shall never take you
from me again. No, never again." And she kissed her with a passionate
joy, such as only a fond mother can feel for her helpless infant.
"Oh, mamma, I am so glad," responded Dorothy, clasping her little arms
about her mother's neck.
"Dorothy, dear, where is he?" questioned Virginia, in a whisper.
"He was in the room when I came to bed, Auntie."
"He is not there now. He must be away." And a prospect of getting the
child away without a struggle nerved her to instant action.
"Come," she exclaimed, "we must go at once. Don't speak, sweetheart.
Silence; come, Constance, quick!"
"Yes, yes; go on," was Constance's almost hysterical reply.
And so, with the child in her arms and Virginia pulling at her sleeves
to guide and hasten her, they groped as cautiously as possible in the
darkness, towards the cabin door.
They had proceeded a few paces when Virginia, in her eagerness, rubbed
against the table; she stepped aside to clear it, and in doing so,
jolted Constance.
It was then, under the strain of the stiffled emotions of the past few
days, and the great excitement attendant on the present enterprise,
together with the sudden reactionary joy of again clasping her child,
that the first symptom of the mother's mental breakdown occurred.
"Oh," she faintly screamed, "the boat rocks," and she would have
fallen to the floor had not a chair, the only one in the cabin,
luckily stood nearby. She stumbled against it and sank upon the seat,
with Dorothy tightly clasped in her arms.
Unable in the darkness to comprehend the pause, Virginia tugged
urgently at Constance's sleeve.
"Come along, dear, we must be quick."
"Very well! Why don't you use the paddles?" replied Constance, in an
altered tone, a strange metallic ring in her voice, and with less
agitation than she had recently displayed.
Still unable, or rather refusing herself to think anything was wrong,
and with a panicky impatience to be gone from the den, Virginia again
urged Constance to hasten.
"Don't sit there, dear! Come along! We have not a moment to lose.
Shall I carry Dorothy?"
The answer startled her; a new terror had appeared.
"Don't you see that I am holding my heart tight. I cannot let go to
help you. Make the boat go faster. Why don't you paddle."
Virginia's heart leaped to her throat. "Her mind is giving away," she
exclaimed, with a gasp.
There, then, the typhoid aftermath, which had been predicted would
develop in time in Constance some strange and serious ailment, had
found a lodgement, and now, bursting into life, lay siege to nature's
most wonderful creation, the human brain. A moment of terrifying
consternation followed.
"What shall I do now?" Virginia distractedly exclaimed.
"Paddle, paddle, paddle," feebly responded Constance.
Unmindful of the reply, Virginia stood as if transfixed with despair.
She racked her brain for a way out. The situation was fast verging on
the tragic.
"I will barricade the door!" she determined. "No, he may smash in the
roof or sink us; I must get them away somehow."
"Oh, Constance, dear, try to be strong. Fight down this weakness. The
boat is waiting. We must escape. Help me! Oh, God, help! Help!"
Her voice began in a subdued, frantic appeal, and ended in a sob of
heart-rending despair for succor.
Like a shaft of sunshine bursting through a rift in the dark, lowering
clouds of dismay, came the answer from Constance:
"I will! I will! Let me think! Oh, yes, we had better go now. Lead on!
Hasten!" And she arose from the seat.
"Thank Heaven. The dark spot has gone," Virginia fervently exclaimed.
"Her brain has cleared again."
How joyfully she struck another match further to accelerate their
passage.
"Keep close to me, dear. Are you tired? Let me help you." And she
placed her right arm about the waist of Constance, the match held
forward in her left hand lighting the way. They had proceeded a few
steps when the door opened. She drew back with a slight, terrified
exclamation: "Oh!"
Jack Shore stood in the doorway.