PLEASURE BAY
Just before twilight the boat reached a spot that seemed especially
created for the travelers. For two hours they had been silently
drinking in the beauty of the sun-lit bay and the green earth. They
were not in the main body of the great Chesapeake Bay, but in one of
the long arms of the bay that reaches into the Maryland coast.
"Look ahead of you, girls, to the left," called Phyllis Alden, as they
glided slowly along.
Miss Jones and the three girls looked. There, in a curve of the land,
was a low bank, with great clusters of purple iris growing along it,
among the slender, long, green stems of the "cat-tails." An elm tree
stood close to the edge of the water, spreading its branches out over
the miniature sea. It was so strong, so big and enduring that it gave
the home-seeking girls a sense of protection. The elm's branches could
shelter them from the sun by day, and at night their boat could be tied
to its trunk. Farther up the bank the girls could see a comfortable
old, gray, shingled farmhouse. The farm meant water, fresh eggs, milk
and butter.
Madge looked inquiringly at their chaperon, who nodded with an
expression of entire satisfaction. Next, Madge glanced about the
semi-circle of eager faces. "Shall we cast our anchor in Pleasure
Bay?" she asked, and thus the pleasant little inland sea was named.
Madge signaled to the motor boat ahead, and the engineer stopped. He
had several passengers on board his motor boat, but the men had been
inside the saloon most of the time, and no one on board the houseboat
had noticed them.
Before the houseboat anchored Madge and Phil ran up the hill to ask at
the farmhouse for the privilege of making a landing. They had learned
a lesson they were not likely to forget.
Too tired to begin work, the girls ate their supper out of the luncheon
baskets, then sat about on deck, singing and talking until the stars
came out and twinkled down on their little houseboat with a million
friendly eyes; then, urged by their chaperon and their own heavy eyes,
they crept into their berths.
It was still night when Madge awakened with a start. She thought she
heard some one talking. "To whit! to whoo!" It was only the call of a
friendly owl. Yet the night seemed curiously lonely. It was strange
to be asleep on the water instead of on the land! There was another
weird sound, then something stirred outside on the deck of the boat.
From her cabin window Madge could see the line of the shore. It was
quiet and empty.
This time she heard the sound of a voice. Another voice answered it.
Could it be possible that the second voice sounded like that of Miss
Jones! What could have happened? Without pausing to put on her shoes
Madge slipped into the next room. Eleanor lay breathing quietly in the
upper berth and Miss Jones seemed to be asleep in the lower one. But
the cover was drawn up almost to where her ears should be and Madge
could not see her face.
She crept over to the chaperon's berth. It was necessary to waken Miss
Jones and tell her of the mysterious sounds. She slipped her hand
along the pillow in the dark. There was no response. She groped
deeper under the covers. Still no movement or sound. Miss Jones was
not in her berth. She was out on deck, talking to some one. Madge
returned to her room. She did not intend to call the other girls until
she knew what was the trouble. Phyllis was always brave and so were
Lillian and Eleanor, but in this instance they could do nothing.
The girl stole softly to the cabin window and peeped out. She could
just catch the outline of two figures that were standing well up toward
the bow of the boat. One was a woman's figure, with a shawl thrown
over her head, but Madge was sure that she recognized the chaperon.
Hurrying back to her berth she slipped on her steamer coat and
slippers. She was trying every moment to fight down the distrust and
dislike she had felt toward Miss Jones ever since their first
acquaintance. She was trying to tell herself that she had invited
their teacher to act as their chaperon from other motives, as well as
from sympathy. But the finger of suspicion seemed to point plainly
toward the teacher.
Madge walked quietly, and without any fear or hesitation, out on the
deck of the houseboat, straight toward the two shrouded figures in the
bow. Neither of them heard her coming, but she heard Miss Jones's
distressed plea: "Won't you go away, and never come here again. I tell
you, I can not do it. I simply can't----"
"Miss Jones," Madge's voice, clear and cold, sounded almost in her
chaperon's ear.
The young woman turned so white that Madge could see her pallor in the
moonlight.
The figure with her was shrouded in a long, black coat which was pulled
up about its face. At the first sound of Madge's voice it made for the
extreme end of the boat. With a quick turn, Madge ran after the
escaping form. As it poised itself for a leap toward the shore, Madge
caught at the cloak and dragged it away from the face, and for a brief
instant she saw the face of a boy a little older perhaps than she was.
It was a wild and elfish face, while a pair of ears, ending almost in
points, stuck up through the masses of thick, curly hair that covered
his head. But before she could get a distinct impression of his face
the young man was gone, racing up the low embankment with great leaps,
like a hunted deer.
Madge turned to their chaperon, waiting for the latter to offer some
explanation. Miss Jones said nothing, but regarded Madge with
distressed eyes.
"Who was your visitor? I did not know that any one knew we were
anchored here. We did not know, ourselves, that we were to land here
until we spied the place. Was that boy a stranger to you? Why didn't
you call one of us if he frightened you?" Madge's tone was distinctly
unfriendly.
Miss Jones only shook her head. Big tears were rolling down her
cheeks. She was trembling so that Madge, much against her will, took
her by the arm and assisted her across the deck.
"I can tell you nothing, Madge," was the teacher's husky reply. "I am
perfectly aware that you have a right to know. Still, I simply can't
tell you. But I can go away, if you like, and I will, as soon as you
can get some one else to chaperon you. Only I must ask you not to tell
the other girls what has happened to-night, or why I must leave you.
You see, dear," Miss Jones ended wistfully, "the other girls are fond
of me. You never have been. I can not bear to lose their faith and
trust."
There was a significant silence after this remark.
"Did you really see who it was with me?" Miss Jones questioned
anxiously. "Would you know the face if you saw it again?"
"I don't know," was Madge's stiff reply, "but I believe I should."
"Won't you promise me that you will not tell the other girls?" Miss
Jones whispered, as they crossed the deck and came to the door of their
little cabin. "I am not asking you to do anything wrong, only asking
you to trust me and believe that I do not think I am doing a wrong by
not taking you into my confidence."
"Very well, I will keep your secret," returned Madge slowly. "I do not
wish you to leave us, Miss Jones. I wish you to stay and take care of
us, just as you planned to do."
"You are only saying that, dear, because you know I have no other place
to go for my holiday, and you are afraid my health will suffer. You
must not think of my health. I can not stay with you just for my own
sake."
"Then stay for ours," said Madge shortly, and without further words she
went into the cabin and climbed into her berth.
Sleep was far from weighing down her eyelids. She lay awake for some
time, wondering why clouds and distrust should so often spring up among
human beings when everything seemed arranged for their perfect
happiness.
She generously made up her mind, however, never to trouble their
chaperon with questions about her mysterious visitor, but she
determined to discover for herself who that boy was, and whether he had
come aboard the boat to rob them.